Chapter 12. I'll Leave If You Do It with Your Mouth
Ayoung stood in front of the front door, one hand clutching the bag of sushi. Her finger hesitated over the doorbell. She took a moment to steady her breath before finally pressing it.
The door opened, and the entryway light flicked on. "Mom?" Woochan's voice floated over from the living room. He turned his head, chin propped on the table. "You're home early."
"Yeah." Ayoung slipped off her shoes, forcing the corners of her mouth up. I have to smile in front of my son.
Woochan's eyes scanned her—from top to bottom, then back up. His eyes widened into circles. "Uh... Mom, where'd you go?"
Her heart plummeted. The clothes. She'd been hyper-aware of this outfit ever since the car ride, but the second she saw her son's face, it had slipped her mind completely.
"Oh... uh, there was a wedding today, so I went to that."
Her answer came a beat too late. It sounded awkward even to her own ears. Ayoung pretended to set the bag on the table, dropping her gaze to the floor.
Woochan stood and approached, looking up at her face with a grin. "You look really pretty when you dress up like that, Mom."
"Haha... yeah. Of course." The laugh caught in her throat. Ayoung turned away from his gaze, stepping toward the table. Just as she did, his words overlapped in her mind. You pull off clothes so well. Jinho had said the exact same thing. Casually, like it was nothing. And now her son was praising her for dressing up just like that. She should be happy about it, but a bitter taste rose in her mouth.
"What's that?"
"Oh, sushi."
She set the lunchbox on the table. Lifting the lid revealed neat rows of sushi glistening under the light.
"Whoa... looks expensive."
"I didn't buy it—they gave it to me at the wedding."
"Really? They give out sushi too?"
"It was a hotel wedding."
The lies kept spilling out. Each word felt like chewing sand on her tongue.
"You should've stuffed yourself at the buffet."
"You're home—I wanted to eat with you."
Woochan picked up a piece and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened mid-chew. "Mom, this is... so good."
Ayoung took one too. The rice melted softly on her tongue, the fish dissolving like butter. A flavor she'd never get from the discount sushi at the mart.
"Tastes good, right?" Woochan beamed, grabbing a second piece. His cheeks puffed out as he chewed the salmon, his face utterly shadow-free.
Ayoung stared at him quietly. Come to think of it, she'd never properly treated Woochan to sushi before. Their routine was grabbing packs with "imminent expiration" stickers from the cooler by the checkout. Even that came with a pang of guilt, swallowed down with thoughts of Maybe a little indulgence today.
But this sushi? It was handed to her like a casual gift. Eat it with your son, he'd said...
Her chopsticks paused. A single grain of rice stuck in her throat, refusing to go down.
I sold my body for this sushi. Strip it down, and that's all it was.
Ayoung set her chopsticks beside the lunchbox. "Eat more, Mom."
"I ate at the venue. You have the rest."
She stood with a smile. "I wanna wash up."
She shut the master bedroom door and sank onto the edge of the bed. Her back hunched, hands falling to her lap. The excuse about washing up was just that—an excuse. She'd already showered at the hotel. Under the spray, Jinho's hands had roamed every inch of her, his touch blurring the line between washing and groping until she'd braced against the wall, legs buckling for one more round. Her own muffled moans still echoed in her ears, drowned by the water.
Ayoung clenched her fists on her knees. Her gaze dropped to her thighs. The dress fabric draped lightly over her skin. This simple thing cost more than a month's wages, he'd said. She pinched the material between her fingers. It felt different—luxurious, worlds apart from her usual clothes. She gripped the hem with both hands. Tear it. End it. Her fingers trembled with effort, then slowly relaxed. She couldn't do it. I could sell it for money. That thought held her wrists captive. It was even more pathetic.
Whether the dress or the sushi, she'd accepted it all and brought it home. Pitiful. But Woochan's delighted face as he ate flashed in her mind. In that moment, she'd thought, Good thing I brought it back.
Ayoung covered her face with her hands. The bed creaked faintly. A thin mattress nothing like the hotel's plush one she'd been rolling around on moments ago. The familiar push of springs against her ass felt strangely alien now. The memory of sinking into the sheets under Jinho's weight crawled up her spine. Her lower belly throbbed. A dull, deep ache.
She pressed her knees together, hunching forward. Gritting her teeth, she tried to shove the sensation away. But every shift spread a numb heat through her inner thighs, refusing to fade.
Knock knock.
Ayoung jolted upright. The door cracked open, Woochan's face peeking in. "You okay? You sick?"
"No... just tired." She forced a smile for him. "I'm heading to the school library."
"Huh? Rest at home."
"Gotta finish some assignments. Hard to look up stuff here."
Guilt stabbed at her. She couldn't even buy him proper reference books. Yet he'd never blamed her once. Instead, he handled everything himself. "...Okay."
Woochan's footsteps faded, the front door clicked shut, and the lock snapped in the quiet apartment.
Ayoung sprawled out on the bed like a starfish. The ceiling fluorescent stabbed at her eyes. She draped an arm over them and exhaled. After a long while, her hand drifted to the phone on the nightstand. She unlocked the screen. In her photos folder sat a single video. Recorded at the hotel.
Her finger hovered. She had to check it. It was her only leverage. Trembling thumb hit play.
The bed filled the screen. A man lay on it, a woman straddling him. She rocked her hips herself. It took seconds to accept that was her.
Her breath caught. The woman onscreen was crying. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her hips didn't stop. The man's hands gripped her ass, pulling her down hard—her mouth gaped wide. A moan leaked from the speaker, filling the quiet bedroom.
Haaah... Her own voice.
Ayoung's hand shook around the phone. She couldn't look away. The position changed. The man mounted her from behind as she lay prone. Her fingers whitened clutching the sheets; the sounds pouring from her open mouth blurred pain and pleasure. But the real issue was her face. Amid furrowed brows and wet eyes, there was unmistakable bliss. Her lips curved up. Screaming yet not pushing him away, not pushing yet still crying. Beneath the shell of a mother clinging to her son's name lay a woman crumbling in ecstasy under a man.
Jinho's whisper came through faintly from the video, words indistinct, but her back arched sharply right after. Crystal clear.
Ayoung tossed the phone onto her chest. She stared at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath. Her heart hammered wildly. Revolting. That it was her. That she'd worn that expression.
Why'd I even agree to record this? A stupid decision. She hovered over delete, hesitating. But watching it... her lower belly throbbed again. A different heat than before welled up slowly from below. The sensation of him filling her completely resurfaced. The tight pressure. Each deep thrust flashing lights behind her eyes, her whole body shuddering. Moments she'd never felt in her life.
She clenched her teeth. Pressed her thighs together over the dress. Tried to push it away. But the pressure between them sharpened the memories instead.
She hated it. Truly did. Yet her body remembered. The clench deep inside, the wave surging up her back, the white-hot blankness where no thoughts could form. Those few seconds unlike anything she'd ever known.
She picked up the phone again, flipping it over. The video was paused, her onscreen mouth half-open and frozen. She hit play. The moans filled the room again.
Woochan was gone. The house empty. Ayoung's hand slid down. Brushing the dress hem, up her thigh, slowly inward. Her eyes closed. She bit her lip, but breath escaped.
"Ngh..."
As Jinho thrust up onscreen, her fingers moved. Already wet. Before she even touched. The shame burned, but she couldn't stop.
"Hngh... haaah..."
The moans deepened. Her onscreen cries merged with her real breaths. On the creaking thin mattress, Ayoung chased the sensation Jinho had left with her own hand.
She hated him, yet recalled it. Reviled it, yet her hand wouldn't stop.
"Haaah... ngh... no..."
The "no" slipped between moans, but she didn't know what it rejected. Him? Her unrelenting hand? Or her already-soaked body?
Tears welled. She cried, but her hand kept going. As she climaxed onscreen, her hips lifted off the mattress. A muffled scream leaked through her palm-clamped mouth.
"Hnnngh...!"
Her body shook. She stayed rigid for ages, then slowly relaxed. Slick fingers fell limp onto her thigh. The phone screen had gone black, video ended.
Ayoung lay still, staring at the ceiling. Tears soaked into the pillow from her cheeks. In the quiet bedroom, only her thin, wet breaths remained.
—
I'd skipped class again today. I pulled my cap low and pushed through the mart's automatic doors. The weekday midday store was dead. A couple housewives with carts, a few old folks milling by the sample station—that was it.
Ayoung, usually at the registers, was nowhere. I scanned the aisles. At the end of the canned goods shelves, a crouched figure tore into a box. Narrow back in her mart vest. Inventory duty today, apparently.
I strolled over empty-handed, basketless. "Mind if I grab something?"
She shifted aside without turning, mechanical—one knee sliding back to clear the shelf. Then her head lifted. The second she saw my face under the cap brim, she froze. No words. Her head dropped slowly. The hand sorting cans clenched into a fist mid-air.
I checked around. Empty aisles. Just the black domes in the ceiling corners. CCTV—half a dozen at least.
I leaned down, pretending to grab a can from her shelf, and murmured close. "Men's room. Now."
Color drained from her face. Fingers whitened on the can. She looked up, eyes wide with shock.
"Don't come, and Woochan hears about it."
Her eyes sharpened. She whipped her glare at me. Lips trembled, but no sound.
I pulled out my phone, gave it a casual shake, and turned away. I headed down the back hall to the men's room. Mirror over the sinks reflected my face. Four urinals, three stalls. All empty. I took the farthest stall, left the door ajar, and waited.
Took a while. I figured she might not show—then sneakers scraped tiles outside. I yanked her wrist as she hovered by the door.
"Wha—!"
I shoved her back into the stall and locked it. Click. Shoulder-to-shoulder with the toilet between us, shoulders brushing walls. She wrenched free, whispering fiercely. "Wh-what the hell are you doing."
"I want it now."
"...What?!"
Her eyes bulged. She tried to hush her voice, but shock pitched it up.
I pressed her shoulders down onto the toilet seat. She tried to stand; one hand pinned her lightly, knees buckling onto the lid.
"Y-you're insane."
Her whisper cracked. I undid my belt and dropped my pants instead of answering. Her gaze hit it and snapped away. As she tried to rise again, I pushed her back down.
Then the bathroom door opened. Men's voices echoed off tiles. Footsteps stopped at a urinal; water ran from a faucet. Ayoung clapped hands over her mouth. Holding even her breath, huge eyes stared up at me. A man's shadow slid under the stall gap toward the urinal.
I pulled one of her hands down, wrapping it around my cock. Reflexive grip trembled. She shook her head wildly. I leaned to her ear, lips brushing.
"Make me cum with your mouth, and I'll leave right away."
