Park XX's Confession 12
What on earth was my wife thinking, deciding to wear leggings with no panties underneath?
Even if you could write off Assistant Manager Oh for being young and handsome, Director Park was nothing more than a middle-aged bachelor with an ordinary face—just another average guy. My wife didn't even know what he looked like.
And yet the mere news that some man she had never met was coming to our house got her so worked up she greeted him dressed like that. A woman with a face and body in the celebrity tier—what could she possibly be lacking?
The more I thought about it, the more infuriating she seemed, and at the same time it drove me wild with excitement.
"Would you like another bowl?"
My wife kept offering Director Park more food, hopping up from the table again and again to slip into the kitchen. Every time she rose, he broke into a cold sweat trying not to stare at the sway of her hips and the curve of her pelvis hovering right in front of him. When she turned her back and bent into the refrigerator, his face went red and he fixed his eyes on the far wall.
It was those leggings, stretched tight around an ass that looked ready to burst. Whenever she leaned forward and pushed her hips back, the outline of her pussy lips showed clean through the cleft between her cheeks.
I was sitting there wondering whether even that was calculated on her part, drinking in the view of her from behind, when I suddenly froze and my eyes went wide. The crease of her ass looked faintly wet. For a second I thought maybe her juices had started running—but no. Looking closer, it was sweat. All that back-and-forth between the table and the kitchen had worked a light sheen onto her skin. With no panties on, the sweat had slid down the cleft of her ass and soaked the leggings through, so that the damp fabric clung along the crease and, at a glance, looked for all the world like a thong.
Still wearing those sweat-damp leggings, my wife went right on sashaying her hips in front of Director Park as if she hadn't the faintest idea.
"Director, let me pour you a drink."
Once the meal was finished, the drinking began in earnest. The liquor we'd prepared was, of course, whiskey.
"Allow me."
Director Park lifted the bottle and offered to pour for my wife. Before she took the glass, she glanced sideways at me—a look asking permission to drink the hard stuff. It also looked, somehow, like she was asking permission to be fucked by him. When I gave a slight nod, she seemed to relax, raised her glass, and let him fill it.
But the expression on her face as she stared at that full measure of whiskey was complicated. She looked as if she were weighing something before she drank—or maybe steeling herself. After a moment of sorting her thoughts, she made up her mind, lifted the glass, and downed it.
Director Park watched her empty it in one go and spoke in mild surprise.
"Wow, you can really hold your liquor. Shall I pour you another?"
"Yes, please. When it's you pouring, Director Park, how could I refuse?"
She wrinkled her nose coyly as she held out her glass. Director Park melted under the charm of it, mouth hanging open as he refilled her. My wife took every pour he offered without a second of hesitation. The more she bantered with him and treated him with that warm, accommodating kindness—like a hostess at a room salon—the more the tension seemed to drain out of him.
We laughed and talked and kept the glasses moving, and as time went on Director Park gradually showed his true colors. At last he started secretly filming my wife.
He kept his phone in his hand the whole time, set on the table, the camera lens always angled toward her. His sense of positioning was excellent. Before I knew it he had claimed the diagonal seat across the table from her. From that angle he could capture far more than he could head-on. Straight on, he'd only get her face and her breasts; from the diagonal he could take her whole body.
As the alcohol hit her, my wife's posture grew looser and looser. At times she even sat with one knee drawn up on the chair. Through the slight gap of her thighs, the thick folds of her pussy would have flashed into view—and whenever they did, Director Park made tiny adjustments to the angle of the phone in his hand, wholly absorbed in filming her sultry figure. Whether she knew it or not, my wife laughed and chattered with her legs casually open, as if putting on a show for his camera.
At that point Director Park was probably already picturing himself going home to jerk off to the footage. He had no idea what would happen a few hours later.
"Honey, I think I'm drunk. I'm going to lie down for a bit."
She pressed a hand to her forehead, stood, and went to stretch out on the living-room sofa. Director Park clicked his tongue with a look of regret.
"No wonder. You put away a lot."
"I know. When did we drink this much?"
Without my noticing, two empty whiskey bottles had appeared on the table. Three people finishing two bottles of whiskey—anyone would be drunk. But something about my wife's behavior felt off. The truth was that Director Park and I had drunk almost all of it. Early on she had kept pace well enough, but as the night wore on she had only been wetting her lips and setting the glass back down. Knowing her usual capacity, there was no way she had drunk enough that night to actually get drunk.
In other words, she was clearly putting on an act. She wanted to spend that night stone-cold sober. Choosing the living-room sofa instead of going into the master bedroom was just as deliberate. It was as if she were sending me a message:
I want Director Park to fuck me tonight. Don't stop it. Isn't this what you wanted anyway?
The silent message that had begun with the no-panty leggings landed its full period with the drunk act.
"Manager Park, what are you spacing out about?"
I had drifted off into my own thoughts; Director Park's voice snapped me back.
"Looking at you, you're drunk. Shall we wrap this up?"
"Not at all, Director. One more round."
"That's enough. It's late—I should get going too."
"Don't say that. Have one more with me, and just stay the night."
"Stay the night?"
"Yes. When else am I going to get a chance to drink all night with you?"
At the words stay the night, his gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward my wife lying on the living-room sofa.
"Ah, still—how can I stay over? It'd be too much of an imposition."
"Imposition? Director, if you keep talking like that, you're really going to hurt my feelings."
"Haha, this guy really is drunk. Saying things he never says."
Under my continued pressure he pretended to give in and sat back down. The truth is, it wasn't me who kept Director Park from leaving—it was my wife. If she had gone into the bedroom, if she had disappeared from his line of sight, I probably never could have held him. In the end, it was her lying on that sofa, feigning sleep, that kept him there.
So Director Park and I started drinking again.
"Manager Park, what's the rush? Slow down a little."
I deliberately overdid it, knocking the drinks back hard and fast. For my wife's sake—out there waiting so impatiently—I needed to get the main event started. Director Park matched my pace and knocked them back one after another. At the right moment I pretended to be drunk and started nodding off right there in my seat.
"This guy. He was the one who wanted to keep drinking, and he's already out? Manager Park, wake up."
"Ugh—sorry, Director. I'll just go splash some water on my face."
I staggered to my feet as if heading for the bathroom, then slipped straight into the master bedroom instead. When I didn't come back, Director Park did exactly what I expected—he cracked the bedroom door open looking for me.
"What the—Manager Park, are you asleep?"
I pretended to be out cold, even snoring. He shook my shoulder; I didn't stir. With a helpless look on his face he left the room. The moment the door shut, I sat bolt upright on the bed, pulled the phone from my pocket, and opened the home-cam app.
There on the screen, in crisp high definition, was my wife lying on the living-room sofa. In preparation for tonight I had secretly bought a miniature camera and installed it in the living room without her knowing. Heart pounding, I kept my eyes locked on the feed.
Director Park came back into the living room and stood there blankly, scratching his head, clearly debating what to do. After a moment he seemed to reach a decision and walked toward the dining table. Then he started putting on the jacket he'd left draped over a chair.
Was he seriously just going home?
I hadn't expected this. The same man who'd been filming her like a pervert was about to throw away a golden opportunity and keep to the line. Whether it was because I was his subordinate or because he simply didn't have the guts, I couldn't tell.
He finished pulling on his jacket in a hurry and typed something on his phone. A moment later a message landed on mine.
Haah… Director Park… you fucking idiot… The second I saw the message the curse just slipped out of me. Having sent it, he hurried toward the front door. At this rate everything was about to go up in smoke.
And then it happened.
My wife, lying on the sofa, suddenly shifted and rolled onto her stomach. Director Park stopped dead and slowly turned his head toward her. The S-curve of her back, facedown on the cushions, had seized his gaze completely. He stood frozen like stone, staring blankly at the line of her body from behind. Then, as if something had taken hold of him, he stepped closer.
Looking down near her ass, his eyes went round. Just below the cleft of her cheeks, the thick, folded flesh of her pussy showed through clearly—and a straight dark line of wetness ran along it.
That's right. My wife was deliberately showing Director Park the crotch of her leggings, soaked through with her own arousal.