Guilty (3)
The cowgirl ride Hye-jeong put on display was on a whole different plane from any woman I'd ever been with.
Most of them, once my cock was inside their pussy, did little more than grind their hips around. Chae-rin had been no exception.
Team Leader Hye-jeong, however, resorted to no such shortcuts. She put the muscles of her ass and thighs — forged by years of pilates lessons — to one hundred percent use. She bounced her hips up and down, lifting them astonishingly high; in workout terms it was practically a full squat. And she had the muscular endurance to keep that motion going for nearly five minutes without her form breaking down once. A cowgirl ride this ferocious was the stuff of Western porn.
That should tell you everything: I'm a man who, forced to choose between premature and delayed ejaculation, leans toward the latter — yet the first day I tasted this technique of hers, I blew my load in all of thirty seconds.
With her pussy dragging along my cock in one long stroke, from the base all the way to the tip of the head, over and over — how the hell was anyone supposed to endure that?
Hye-jeong wielded the technique like an ultimate move. It was the perfect tool for dispatching me with ease whenever I wanted the sex to last longer than she did.
For all her S&M streak, she was unmistakably a femsub. From the very first time we had sex, there had never been a day she didn't crave my filthy curses and my spankings.
And yet the timing of my release was always dictated by her. Which meant I was, in the end, a toy caught in the palm of her hand, didn't it? Before I knew it I felt like the male sub of the arrangement, and it galled me immensely. Not that I disliked it, mind you.
I had come down with a condition whereby the mere sight of the word overtime made my cock snap upright like Pavlov's dog. Overtime had always been our stated pretext for sex, after all.
By the time we'd grown bored of the B4 stairwell, we were scouting new territory inside the company building. The fifth-floor office, packed wall-to-wall with server racks, housed nothing but the development departments and was notorious as a total sausage fest. To that fact I appended a pet theory of my own: the worse the sausage fest, the more female employees avoided working overtime there.
And so we settled on a toilet stall in the fifth-floor women's restroom as our next venue. My theory proved itself in spectacular fashion — in all our sessions in that last stall at the end of the hall, not once did we hear a soul stir outside the door.
That spotless record made us careless, and one day Hye-jeong let her moans burst free without even a token effort to hold them in.
"Haaah! Aah…♡ Mmph!"
Her voice, spilling out in rhythm with my thrusts, was loud enough to reverberate clear across to the men's restroom opposite.
Some time later, an anonymous user from our company posted on an office worker community site, under the following title:
Hye-jeong and I snickered as we passed the link to that post back and forth over KakaoTalk.
We were both the type to tire of anything quickly, and even that second venue went stale within a mere two weeks. After all, why else would we have abandoned the B4 stairwell — a hideaway no one ever sought out — and picked a restroom to begin with? Sex in a public place like that is supposed to be thrilling by its very nature.
In the end, we became regulars at the ninth-floor women's restroom, where the female staff far outnumbered the men. Even well past quitting time, women on overtime drifted in and out of it at a steady clip. We had to screw in stifled silence while the sounds of a woman relieving herself carried through the next stall, crisp and distinct. That penalty only whetted the senses.
Once, the woman in the neighboring stall coughed. That distinctive cough belonged, without a shadow of doubt, to Assistant Manager Seo Ah-hyeon of the Marketing Department. Her desk sat in the eighth-floor office, not far from my own, so I placed it at once.
Born in 2000, she had earned an early promotion to assistant manager at that tender age. Despite her modest rank, she ran the entire Marketing Department, and gossip that she was the CEO's office wife ran rampant. Small wonder, with a face that could have debuted in a girl group the very next day.
So there I was, enjoying doggy style with Team Leader Kim Hye-jeong while Assistant Manager Seo Ah-hyeon — one of the most famed beauties in the company — peed in the stall right beside us. I was, in my own way, Kim Hye-jeong's office husband.
That day's tryst was enshrined among my most precious memories and ranked as my number-one fap material for the following year.
Meanwhile, Chae-rin — who had sunk into severe depression after the miscarriage — was able to return to work only after three months of psychiatric counseling. I sincerely wished her a full recovery. I hoped she would let go of her obsession with conceiving again and get on with properly living her own life.
But at the same time, I was nursing a hidden agenda. Hye-jeong and I had long since marked out our next sex location. That location was none other than the marital home I shared with Chae-rin.
We had been putting in frequent overtime and weekend shifts as our excuse for sex, and the four days of comp time we'd banked that way we split into eight morning half-days. And what did we do with those morning half-days? The moment Chae-rin left for work, I committed adultery in the very home we shared as husband and wife.
Chae-rin mostly commuted by subway, since the roads to her office were hopelessly gridlocked during rush hour. Which also meant her SUV sat idle, and Hye-jeong and I were free to enjoy car sex in it too. Naturally, we made a point of deleting the dashcam footage every single time.
Even Satan would shake his head at the likes of us.
What little conscience I had left found expression only in the petty act of turning face-down the wedding photo hanging in plain view in the living room. Hye-jeong, for her part, insisted on flipping it right back up, then stood there quietly admiring the wedding photo in its frame and said,
"You look great, Yu-jae. And Chae-rin unni is beautiful, too."
As for the shocking sight of Hye-jeong washing her nether regions with the beautiful Moon Chae-rin's feminine wash — I took that in entirely through a bleary haze. How terrifying a thing it is, this appetite for thrills. We had reached the point where we wouldn't be satisfied until we'd seen for ourselves just how far a pair of dopamine addicts could fall.
"You know what I've been thinking lately? I really think you did well to get married."
Hye-jeong said this with her head pillowed on my arm. The bed we lay in was the one in the master bedroom of my and Chae-rin's marital home.
But hold on a moment. Married well?
Right up until she received our wedding invitation, this was supposedly the woman who'd been longing for me to dump Chae-rin. If the Han Yu-jae of early 2023 had only shaken off that damned habit of comparison and self-loathing, he might well have ended up dating Hye-jeong, who had a crush on him. And then he never would have become entangled with a woman named Moon Chae-rin.
"Where's that coming from all of a sudden? If I hadn't gone through with this marriage, I could have dated you properly."
"Then it wouldn't have been this much fun."
Ah — too late. That one line of Hye-jeong's struck the back of my head like a hammer.
She was enjoying this. She was, quite clearly, having the time of her life. And who was I kidding — as if it were only her. The two of us were both savoring this dizzying affair to the fullest.
So I pinned an epithet on her that suited her perfectly.
Kim Hye-jeong, Master of Depravity.
That great soul handed me a towering inspiration. She was the reason I — who had let my serialization sit abandoned for over a year — took up the pen once more.
That's right. A web novel succeeds only by being entertaining. And what's entertaining? Depravity.
Morality? Human decency? Tedious beyond endurance. Depravity, heresy, transgression, betrayal of kin — those are what lie closest to humanity's pure desires.
Every human being longs to slip the dull harness of morality. The craving for that escape differs only in degree — never in whether it exists at all. A novel that dares to strike that nerve is a masterpiece.
Why had I never once succeeded in all my years of serializing? Because I could never bring myself to shatter that moral frame and push through. But now that this same Han Yu-jae was living out depravity with his own body, he could finally write such a work. At long last, he held every qualification there was.
That evening, unlike my usual habit, I packed up my company laptop and headed home.
"What's the occasion, leaving right on the dot? And why'd you bring the laptop home?"
My wife, home ahead of me, asked from the sofa, only half-interested. I gave her this answer:
"Honestly, today… I couldn't finish everything and thought about working late, but I just missed you, so I came home instead. I'll finish up after dinner."
My wife pulled me into a warm, fierce hug. She'd been quietly stockpiling grievances over her husband's constant overtime, so for me to come home on time and say it was because I missed her — how could she not melt? Maybe it was that feeling; she kept me held tight and gently smoothed the back of my head.
The Han Yu-jae of old, never able to escape his one-room hovel, had exactly one dream: someday, when the novel he was serializing hit it big and he was sitting on a cushion of money, he would move to a bigger place. Not that he dreamed of anything like the palatial country estate from the movie Parasite. Just a living room spacious enough for a big TV, and two rooms in all. That was the whole of it.
He had no taste for clothes or fashion, so no dressing room was required; the built-in closet off the master bedroom would do fine. And the remaining room? For the study. Nothing else.
In my long years as an unknown writer, reading — which I had practiced like a discipline — was the one hobby I could claim with certainty. Yet I had never once had a space devoted purely to reading. That's right. I craved a study. A house with a room that served as nothing but a study. That alone would have been enough.
And who could have guessed that I, carrying that modest dream, would meet in-laws generous enough to bankroll a four-bedroom home without blinking. My and Chae-rin's marital home did, in fact, have a study. I had married in a daze, and the short time since had been so tumultuous that the fact had vanished clean from my mind. This was the very study I had always longed for.
The night wore on.
Sitting alone in the study, I opened a web novel platform on my company laptop and registered a new work. The title: Human Guilty — an adult web novel modeled on the famous book No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai.
With the registration done, I began writing out the momentous first episode. Its opening sentence began like this:
"Mine has been a life of much sin."