Chapter 2 — Wedding Ring 1 (2)

The stench of semen, which she used to say made her nauseous, should have overwhelmed her—but my wife clung to my standing cock as if she were grateful for the long-overdue load spilling from it.

She fought back the urge to gag, her eyes brimming with tears from the nausea, yet she kept my cock deep in her mouth. I felt sorry for her.

A thought flickered through my mind—I should get up, end this—but I stayed seated.

That morning, for some reason, my appetite was excellent. My wife sent the kids off to school, then immediately rushed to call that woman.

And without a trace of shame—whether because of last night’s events or something else—I don’t know—she casually mentioned how I’d gotten an erection and even ejaculated in the early hours.

Then she said she was off to see the doctor and left the house.

A few hours later, she returned with slightly flushed cheeks.

“What did the doctor say?”

“He thinks your condition might be psychogenic impotence—caused by psychological trauma. Since your injury was in the lower back, you’ve been subconsciously afraid of using it again. That fear has paralyzed you mentally, and that paralysis has spread to your body. He said what happened last night was a great sign. In fact, when I told him, he said it was an excellent start and suggested we try something more intense.”

“Something more?”

“He said, for example, when a clogged drain won’t clear with water pressure alone, you need something stronger—a plunger. You have to apply a more forceful shock to break through. So… I thought, while we’re at it, why not ask that woman for a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Just stay quiet. I’ve got a plan.”

I had no idea what she was thinking. As the day passed, I kept feeling sharp, electric twinges in my legs.

Was this a sign of improvement? Without telling my wife, I sat in my wheelchair all day, silently willing my toes to move.

She spent longer than usual preparing dinner, and because she had to drop the kids off at Julia’s after after-school academy, we ate late.

She grilled meat sizzling on the pan, and had even prepared alcohol—something we hadn’t done in ages. She seemed excited. Just as dinner was nearly ready, the doorbell rang.

My wife opened the door. Standing there was the woman—the one whose husband, the lawyer, had caused the accident—holding a gift.

“Hello, how are you feeling?”

She greeted me first. My wife told me she’d invited her to dinner, partly to thank her for yesterday.

I knew the lawyer—he’d visited me in the hospital four or five times, so we were acquainted. He was tall, handsome, the polished type.

But his wife was quite short, and the height difference between them was striking—something I hadn’t noticed when I was lying down.

I told them to come in and led them to the living room.

They looked at me in my wheelchair with pity, but I assured them I was much better now.

The husband introduced his wife.

“You know my name, right? My wife is Grace—Grace Yoo. We don’t have kids yet, so there’s no proper title. Just call me Mrs. Yoo, I guess.”

Contrary to what I’d heard, the two didn’t seem to be on bad terms. The atmosphere between them was smooth, almost oily—maybe because of his profession.

But beneath that surface, a coldness clearly ran between them.

Mr. Jeon, the lawyer, asked about my company and even offered to help me legally for free if I faced any workplace discrimination after recovery. I was touched, almost embarrassed.

I didn’t want to bring up the accident, but the mood encouraged openness, so I asked:

“Mrs. Yoo, why were you so upset that day?”

They exchanged glances, smiled faintly at my question, and blushed. The husband answered for her.

The day before the accident, he’d been doing something he shouldn’t have—something he forgot to hide—when his wife, who was cleaning, caught him. He rushed back into the office to apologize, and they ended up arguing.

When I asked what it was, he said he’d tell me later, when we were alone. I assumed he’d been secretly taking selfies—maybe even nude ones—and forgot to delete them.

Dinner began, and the four of us ate in a warm, relaxed atmosphere, as if trying to forget the past.

The meal turned into a drinking session. I hadn’t had meat and alcohol in a long time, but I didn’t get drunk—still, the four of us polished off more than four bottles of soju.

By now, we were all loose, almost flirtatious.

The two women cleaned up quickly, and we gathered in the living room with coffee.

I sat in my wheelchair. Mr. Jeon sat on the sofa, and the two women sat side by side on the floor in front of him, legs stretched out.

“Honey, wait a sec!”

My wife suddenly interrupted the conversation and went into the bedroom with Mrs. Yoo. I had no idea what was happening. Mr. Jeon just smiled faintly.

A moment later, my wife came out and dimmed the living room lights to near darkness.

“Hey, what are you doing? We have guests!”

But before I could protest, the two women emerged from the bedroom—both wearing bathrobes.

Mrs. Yoo immediately went to the window leading to the balcony and closed the curtains. My wife turned on the stereo by the front door.

In an instant, the room transformed into something like a high-end hostess bar.

I sat frozen in my chair as the two women stood in front of Mr. Jeon, then simultaneously dropped their bathrobes.

I gasped.

Underneath, they wore even more revealing lingerie than what I’d seen yesterday—almost just strings. Their breasts and bare pussies were fully exposed, the folds and pubic hair clearly visible. And it was all red—pure, provocative red.

I felt a spasm in my legs, a twitch I couldn’t control.

The two women turned to face each other, backs arched toward me, and smiled.

Mr. Jeon, clearly in on it, turned his head from side to side, licking and flicking his tongue against the exposed asses of both women.

Now I understood—this was my wife’s plan.

They had similar builds, so Mrs. Yoo’s lingerie fit my wife perfectly.

My wife, seeing her husband’s tongue deep in another woman’s ass, was already nodding, eyes closed in pleasure.

Then the two women sat on either side of Mr. Jeon and began undressing him together.

Mr. Jeon, meanwhile, twisted my wife’s nipples with his fingers, watching their service with satisfied eyes.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Once Mr. Jeon was naked, the two women turned to me. With effort but no rush, they slowly stripped off all my clothes.

Now completely naked in my wheelchair, I was about to witness something beyond imagination.

As soon as I was bare, Mrs. Yoo sat beside me and took my limp cock in her hand, shaking it gently like a car gearshift, slowly massaging it to life.

My wife, meanwhile, moved away and sat next to Mr. Jeon.

They began a deep, passionate kiss. Even from a distance, I could hear the wet smacking sounds filling the room.

Mr. Jeon, ignoring me completely, ran his hands freely over my wife’s body.

Inside me, fury rose—but so did an unfamiliar wave of arousal, crashing against my skull as I watched my wife lose herself in another man’s arms.

I couldn’t tell if she was sane or not.

My quiet, modest housewife—no matter how much she claimed this was therapy—could never have imagined preparing such a shocking, extreme gift.

Mr. Jeon grabbed my wife’s chin and guided her down toward his crotch.

My wife, who had never sucked another man’s cock, never even watched porn with me, smiled at me—and then took his cock into her mouth.

Like the surge I’d felt this morning, she went wild—bobbing her head up and down on his hard, erect cock.

Mr. Jeon leaned back, eyes closed in pleasure, stroking her hair and pressing her head deeper, urging her to take more.

And all the while, she kept smiling at me.

In that smile, I felt a searing, burning rage—hot enough to scorch my brain.

I recognized it: jealousy. The desperate need to claim her as mine alone.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Yoo had moved beside me, bent over, and taken my flaccid, unattractive cock into her mouth.

With her other hand, she grabbed mine from the wheelchair armrest and guided it behind her, pressing my fingers into her wet pussy.

Even as I burned with jealousy watching my wife with another man, I couldn’t stop fingering this neighbor’s fresh, slick pussy.

The slippery sensation gave me the same decadent thrill as being serviced in a back-alley barbershop.

Yet deep in my instincts, I prayed—please, don’t let him fuck her, don’t let her suck him too hard—but that hope was already crumbling.

Now, turning her back to me, my wife straddled Mr. Jeon on the sofa.

She spread her legs wide, gripped his cock, aimed it like she was afraid it might escape, and slowly lowered her hips down onto it.

Was her back not hurting? Once seated, she twisted her hips, glancing back at me again and again, still smiling.

Mr. Jeon wrapped his arms around her hips and began pressing his fingers into her asshole.

In the dim light, I watched his fingers repeatedly thrust into her anus.

And the sound—his loud, slurping mouth on her bouncing nipples—pounded against my eardrums like torture.

My wife, lost in ecstasy, pounded up and down on his swollen, red cock like a madwoman, forgetting all fear of climax.

Her ass was wide open, his fingers buried deep in her ass.

Mr. Jeon shifted positions. He made my wife crawl onto the floor like a dog, then pulled out a condom—where had he gotten that?—and rolled it onto his cock.

Panting, my wife lay face down, still glancing back at me.

Then he lifted her hips and slammed his condom-covered cock deep into her from behind.

I had long since suppressed my anger. By now, I believed this scene—more vivid than any porn—was beautiful, electrifying.

And just then, from my legs—those legs that had been numb for so long—a signal shot through. My toes twitched.

At the same time, Mr. Jeon lost all rhythm, his thrusts becoming wild, erratic—beyond any metronome’s control—as he delivered his final, powerful pumps deep into my wife’s aroused pussy.

My wife screamed, a raw, animal cry, shaking her head violently every time his cock plunged into her.

With a shout, Mr. Jeon threw his head back, his hip muscles tensing, his body trembling—he’d come.

“This… look at this!”

Mrs. Yoo shouted at my wife, who was still collapsed on top of Mr. Jeon, dazed from orgasm.

My wife bolted upright.

In front of her, fully erect and throbbing—under my own will—was my cock, bobbing up and down.

My wife burst into tears and lunged at me.

She shoved Mrs. Yoo aside and cradled my cock in both hands like a trophy.

But something strange—my wife’s wedding ring was gone.

“It’s okay… it’s okay now. Can you feel it? Your feet?”

I nodded. Slightly, but I moved my toes.

My wife wiped her endless tears and then, with deep gratitude, took my cock into her mouth.

She sucked me like it was dawn breaking, bobbing her head wildly, moaning.

Now I could truly feel her tongue. I forgot—completely—that she had just fucked another man in front of me.

Because I understood—this whole thing had been her plan, her desperate act to wake my nerves.

Behind her, I saw the other two locked in a deep kiss, smiling broadly as if celebrating our victory.

While my wife gave me an intense blowjob, they were already at it again—clinging to each other, screaming, fucking wildly just like before.

My wife helped me off the wheelchair. I sat on the floor, leaning back on my arms.

And once again, she lowered her soaked pussy onto my hard, upright cock.

She clung to my shoulders, slammed her hips down with all her strength, grinding her pussy against me, tearing into me with her broken legs.

Tears streamed from my eyes. Why? I forgave even her obscene performance.

I felt it again—the familiar grip of her cunt, the sticky warmth, the way she squeezed my cock like she was milking it.

I felt alive. No—I was alive.

And all four of us—lost in sex, possessed by lust.

With a scream I hadn’t made in years, I came—no condom—shooting load after load deep into my wife’s pussy.

She felt it—“Yes, yes, yes!”—and even after I came, she kept riding me, grinding up and down, chasing the lingering thrill of my erection.

That night ended in sex—a celebration of victory, forgiveness, and reconciliation.

“Honey… how was it? Your feet moved much more than yesterday. That’s good.”

Since then, my wife has been overjoyed at the visible improvement in my lower body.

Sipping tea, I asked her:

“By the way… that day, I noticed your wedding ring was gone. What happened to it?”

“Where? Right here.” She showed me her finger.

“But why did you take it off then?”

“Well… I asked them for this favor, but I just couldn’t do it while wearing my wedding ring. My conscience wouldn’t allow it. Now that I think about it… ha, what a pain…”

She paused, then smiled.

“I didn’t know they were in mediation before divorce. I asked without knowing. But after that night… they got back together. Decided not to divorce after all. Isn’t that perfect? Eat the chicken, get the eggs, kill two birds with one stone—what do you call it? A win-win strategy?”

That was my wife.

And ever since that night, I’ve never seen her take that ring off again.