Self-Comfort
What's your ideal type?
Ask a hundred people and you'd get a hundred different answers — a question where personal taste ran wild. And yet there was one subject everyone seemed to agree on. One topic that never split the room.
It was the kind of post that cropped up on community boards whenever someone had a spare minute — everything from the tired, recycled threads people were sick of seeing to earnest, thoughtful takes where women actually shared what they believed.
…Correction.
The posts could be shamelessly filthy, but the underlying truth was something every woman understood. And the comment sections always exploded — inevitable, really, when the topic ranked right up there with the eternal war between current wives and aspiring girlfriends as one of the two great mountains of online discourse.
Just having a boyfriend was enough to get you stoned in the public square. But if you borrowed the experience of so-called alpha females, the consensus was clear: during a wet-dream cycle, a boyfriend became so hypersensitive it made your skin crawl.
Of course, they hadn't been born wanting to be that way. But if understanding alone were enough, why would the gender wars exist at all?
And so a theory was born: the man who masturbates.
A man so rare you'd have to save the country a hundred times over in a past life just to find one. A mythical creature. Honestly, unicorns were more plausible. That was how precious the idea had become.
And there were more reasons than simple freedom from those hypersensitive periods. He possessed a quality that drove women absolutely insane.
Libido.
The average man simply didn't have that much of it. He had some — otherwise the species wouldn't continue — but compared to a woman, the numbers were pathetically low.
A man who masturbated.
Calling him a slut felt almost too crude for something so exalted. He wasn't merely a man obsessed with women. He was closer to a freak of nature who did, without a second thought, the things that made everyone else uncomfortable. Or a genius. Take your pick.
Having a sex drive meant, put another way, that he could make a woman happy. And that alone was more than enough to make him every woman's ideal type.
Of course, it was all just talk circulating through communities and society at large. No man ever actually opened his mouth and said, "Yeah, I'm a guy who masturbates!" — so the whole thing had hardened into a kind of urban legend. A ghost story.
Rumor even had it that men who masturbated were hung like horses and could get hard more than twice in a single night.
"Ah…"
What a load of nonsense.
That was what Han Seyeon used to think.
And then the thick, piercing scent hit her nose — and the legend rose unbidden in her mind. The lewd details surfaced on their own. And with them, an obvious truth.
Seyeon slowly lowered her head. Just dropping her gaze would have been enough, but her body creaked and groaned as if something inside it had broken.
What filled her vision was the trash can. A perfectly ordinary trash can full of tissues — except something about its condition was off. The contents looked damp. Wet. Indecently so.
However little dating experience she had, however true it was that she'd never so much as laid eyes on a man's d—, Seyeon was still a woman with a sex drive. This was twenty-first-century Korea. Most information was a smartphone away.
Men bought specialty underwear timed to their monthly wet-dream cycle. The mess was still unpleasant either way, but at least nothing was supposed to leak, right?
Which meant the stuff in that trash can was announcing itself loud and clear:
I came out of a hand, not a dream!
The situation had arrived on the heels of emotions already throwing her heart into chaos. Han Sein — a man who masturbated?
Any question of how she could have failed to notice until now had already fled somewhere far away. A nose that spent its days breathing construction dust and sweat twitched in something close to rapture. She wouldn't call it better than luxury perfume. Objectively, it was closer to something unpleasant.
And yet she didn't want to stop smelling it. If anything, the addiction hit far harder. Every time she drew a breath, a tight ache pulsed low in her belly. She was in her early twenties. It was an entirely normal reaction.
There was a reason for the old joke that a woman had two brains — one in her head, and one in her womb.
What came next felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Seyeon slowly pushed down her skirt and panties. Instinct had her by the throat, but there was nothing particularly strange about it. Coming to the bathroom to relieve yourself wasn't abnormal, was it?
She held her breath. Even the sound of her breathing felt like something that needed to be careful.
Her panties slid down around her ankles. Already soaked, her sex gleamed with the slick coat of her own arousal. A small wet patch stained the fabric. The lewd thread of fluid that had stretched between her and the cloth vanished somewhere as the panties dropped.
Her hand drifted carefully downward.
It was hard to hold back. Living with her little brother in a basement studio meant she almost never got the chance to touch herself. The gap between her drive and how rarely she could act on it had been quietly eroding her quality of life — not that the rest of her circumstances were any better. But reality didn't matter right now.
In this moment, there was only a single animal, wringing out her need inside a space thick with sex.
Her fingers found the entrance of her cunt, slick with her own wetness. Anticipation ran hotter than the pleasure itself. As she moved her fingers up and down, the dry skin grew coated, and the motion became easier still.
She shifted carefully and settled onto the toilet. The only difference from usual was how wide she spread her legs — a posture optimized for what she was about to do.
"Nnh…"
The moan startled her into silence. It was a bathroom, sure, but it wasn't soundproof. Her hand didn't stop.
Her fingers found her clit. Alternating between her entrance and her clit, she used her own slick as lubricant and worked every place that felt good.
"Hhh…"
Less a moan than a lewd little sigh. She tapped with the tip of a stiffened finger, then circled slowly around her clit. It was the method she liked best, and it worked.
The closer she climbed toward climax, the more guilt piled up in the deep places of her heart. The movements were instinctive, impulsive — but the ethics society had written into her stood in the way. Only in her mind, though. Her body grew more honest by the second.
Seyeon reached down with her left hand and pulled that thing out of the trash can. It was the kind of act that should have made anyone wrinkle their nose — the visual alone was enough. But hygiene was a hard argument to make when pleasure was climbing her spine this hard.
"Ss… hah, hhaa…"
The lewd smell flooded her nose. The still-damp wad of tissue pressed against her face. Her lips worked and then pressed shut.
A little more. Just a little more.
The pleasure of the repeated motion, enough to make her fingertips tingle, climbed steadily toward the peak. A shiver ran through her lower back. Her body jerked. Her toes curled and uncurled. She squeezed her eyes shut against the orgasm rushing in.
Beneath her frozen fingers, her spread legs clamped tight. Soft thighs closed around her hand. The juices spilling from her pussy dripped into the toilet bowl with a soft splash.
"Ha… haah… ha…"
Her left hand dropped with a dull thud. The hollow that always followed that kind of intense pleasure hit hard — harder still when the person you'd pictured to get yourself off was your own little brother.
Wearing an expression thick with self-loathing, Seyeon tossed the tissue back into the trash.
And then her gaze fell on her left hand.
A sticky, foreign sensation clung to her palm. When she slowly worked her fingers across it, she felt the slickness. It wasn't smeared on thick — but it was more than enough to prod at the deep, buried hunger inside her.
Her mouth fell open. Hot breath spilled out. Watching her own hand drift slowly toward her lips, Seyeon squeezed her eyes shut.
Between the heat of her breath and her parted lips, her tongue slid free. Warm and red, it reached for her palm. A thin thread of saliva slipped from the corner of her mouth.
Her mind was screaming that she shouldn't. The act itself was going to drown her in guilt. But a mind cornered by a hard life chose pleasure anyway.
And then—
"Noona…!!"
"Ah— ah!"
Seyeon flushed the toilet in a panic. Her little brother's voice. She sounded flustered, but at least she'd managed to answer — and that alone was a relief. Guilt and regret crashed in a beat too late.
He didn't catch me, right? Nothing else had come through the door yet. Still, she felt her heart lurch the way a thief's does when their own feet give them away.
"When are you going to wash up?"
A breath of relief. But answering came first.
"I'll just wash while I'm in here."
"Okay~"
Seyeon hung her head. After that crushing wave of pleasure, her little brother's voice planted guilt deep in her chest.
You have acquired 5 Points.
"Oh…"
I hadn't done a thing, and the points still went up. Maybe this was more doable than I'd thought. Then again, that was probably why the hologram had been so confident.
The remaining time — the moment I thought about it, my lifespan ticked up by five minutes. One minute per point?
I didn't have the luxury of sitting still and thinking. A pile of housework was waiting. My head wandered through idle thoughts and a quiet conversation with the hologram while my body handled the dishes.
Under the sound of the sink, I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. The image of Seyeon washing herself…
Something between my legs started to swell. I'd already shot one load earlier, and it was still going strong. I let out a short breath and kept washing. Finished the chores as fast as I could.
Now it was time to change.
Slacks were outdoor clothes, strictly speaking. Nowhere near suitable for a decent night's sleep. So I stripped them off and set them aside.
A basement apartment at the end of February, with the boiler off, was a little cold. That was why I'd been wearing them in the first place.
I pulled off the long-sleeved shirt and was left in thin underclothes — panties and a white tee. The thin fabric only half-covered me. The panties fit fine, but the white tee hung loose and baggy. Not worn out from age — just oversized, slipping like it might slide right off my shoulder.
I'd bought it two sizes up on purpose, to save money and make it last, figuring my body was still growing through puberty. Of course it had stayed that size, so it still hung off me. I looked like a kid playing dress-up in an adult's clothes. Not that it mattered.
— Click.
"Ah…"
The door opened. Hot steam rolled out of the bathroom. My eyes met Seyeon's — skin still damp, hair wet.
Pants covering my lower half. The white tee half-lifted where I'd been in the middle of changing.
Was it instinct? The second she saw me, Seyeon's eyes raked over my body faster than anything else.
"S-sorry!"
— Bang.
I hadn't said a word. I hadn't blamed her for anything. Seyeon just dropped her head like a criminal and shut the door.