Jieun's Pubic Hair
I buried my face deep between Jieun's spread legs.
My gaze drifted naturally toward her toes. Whether from the alcohol or the chill, her small toes had gone cold; I took them one by one between my lips and slowly sucked them warm. Reflexive twitches traveled up through her ankles, but I paid them no mind. A strange guilt—utterly different from the feeling of touching Nayeon's carefully tended feet—tingled through my fingertips as they stroked across her soles.
I slid my fingers deeper. It was markedly different from Nayeon's, which, though amateurishly done, had been waxed into a smooth line. Beneath the streetlamp light, Jieun's still held a neat growth of untrimmed hair. I parted that forest with my fingertips and pressed firmly against the sensitive flesh within.
Back in my twenties, waxing was almost unheard of—something that belonged to other countries. Even in Western porn it was only an occasional production choice; the Japanese adult videos I commonly watched were full of beautiful young actresses with thick thatches of hair. The rare pretty performers who were naturally sparse would draw the eye all the more.
I hadn't seen a woman with hair in so long that I'd almost forgotten it—that raw, unprocessed, clumsy texture. And now it was stirring a completely different kind of excitement in me after so long. As I pushed a knuckle inside and felt the liquid gradually welling up, my head swam.
The most thrilling, tense moments of dating had always been when things progressed during physical intimacy. At first just being together was enough, but walking side by side, carefully interlocking fingers and squeezing tight, my palms would grow slick with nervous sweat and my lower half would swell hard. The hug in the alley on the way home, the kiss late at night in a park or playground—up to that point things usually went smoothly. But after a passionate kiss, when hands settled on a waist and then quietly moved toward a breast, the situation would diverge sharply.
In those days without SNS or messengers, when you couldn't easily know someone's values or true feelings, forcing a hand further without some mutual consensus often doused a budding relationship in cold water and branded you a pervert friend or trash senior, driving people away.
Of course the atmosphere was far more closed and conservative than now, but once a heart opened, the body eventually followed. When a relationship had matured enough and some touching was allowed, there was a line I used to toss out half-jokingly to girlfriends and almost-girlfriends in my arms.
"They say a woman's stomach is the most important part."
"Why?"
As they asked with round eyes, I'd trail my fingers down their bellies as if tickling them, and add in a low voice:
"Because it's the most important base camp—you can advance both up and down from there."
They'd laugh and give my chest a light shove, but my fingers were already slowly crossing the elastic of their panties and advancing downward. And when I finally reached the first checkpoint—the hair—a breathless psychological war would unfold.
In most of those situations their lower halves were already slightly wet. Embarrassed to be caught in their arousal, or held back by their own conservative notions, they would reflexively block my hand and try to refuse further progress. Whether they yielded the path or held the defensive wall to the end decided the final bridgehead into those secret depths.
That push-and-pull psychological battle while touching that coarse hair was a crucial rite of passage that stimulated a more intense pleasure and competitive drive than any game. The outcome was usually predictable.
Once their crucial base—the belly—had been seized, they would typically yield after shy resistance. The thrilling sense of conquest when the resistance at my fingertips collapsed helplessly was indescribable. And when I reached the true secret place beneath that forest, a hot, deep spring was waiting for me. Just feeling that slick, slippery texture at my fingertips was enough to bring me close to climax in those days.
Jieun's untrimmed lower half was vividly resurrecting those old memories buried in my unconscious, one by one. A tremendous thrill ran down my spine, so intense I almost felt as if I'd gone back to being twenty and was breaking taboos all over again.
Nayeon's petals had been plump and deliciously filling in the mouth, but Jieun's still held a girlish quality—small and compact. The sadistic visual satisfaction it gave far surpassed Nayeon's. I stiffened the tip of my tongue and slowly, very gently, circled and savored her most sensitive clitoris.
Every time the coarse hairs rasped against my cheeks and the tip of my nose, the sense of conquest doubled. I savored every drop of her slightly tart yet sweet fluids flooding into my mouth. Meanwhile my hand was already roughly gripping and stroking the thing that had swollen to bursting inside my pants. In my excitement I couldn't let go of the lingering desire, and eventually I pulled myself fully free and rubbed it gently against her sanctuary, wet with fluid.
Intoxicated by the vivid sensation of hot flesh grinding against hot flesh, savoring an arrogant sense of victory, I lifted my gaze to check her sleeping face—and in that very instant.
Jieun's darkened eyelids snapped open as if by a lie. Her unfocused black pupils fixed not on empty air but precisely on my face.
My heart plummeted to the floor; every drop of blood in my body seemed to turn ice-cold. A terrible encounter in which the alibi and control I'd believed perfect shattered in a single moment. But the reaction Jieun showed toward me, frozen in terror, was neither a scream nor rejection.
"Ugh…"
With a short moan, Jieun's upper body twisted roughly as she retched. I'd thought she'd emptied everything in the bathroom earlier, but the remaining alcohol seemed to be pushing her to the limit once more.
"Jieun! Are you okay?"
More than the fear of being discovered, the annoyance of having to clean up if vomit spilled on the living room or bed again flashed through my mind first. My head, simplified by alcohol and fatigue, reacted faster to the immediate concern of mess cleanup than to calculating the gravity of the situation.
Both of us were in a bizarre state of complete lower-body exposure, but there was no time to care about that. I hurriedly propped up Jieun's limp body and dashed coldly to the bathroom right next to the room.
I made her lean over the toilet, then roughly patted her violently shaking back. Clutching the toilet rim, Jieun began to heave up vomit mixed with stomach acid. Amid the rough breathing, something mumbled past her lips, but between the retching filling the bathroom and the sound of my own heartbeat, I couldn't make it out clearly.
Meanwhile my head was spinning over how on earth to handle this situation. Had Jieun woken up knowing? Had she woken fully aware of the sensation of me sucking and rubbing against her lower half, then thrown up from the alcohol? Every worst-case scenario tangled messily as I forced my alcohol-fogged brain to work, but no clear answer emerged.
If she remembered everything I'd done, the catastrophe I'd face tomorrow morning would be unmistakable ruin I couldn't handle. Yet even amid the cold sweat running down my spine, a strange sense of liberation flickered like a lantern. Then, after heaving a few more times, Jieun slumped with her head against the toilet as if she'd fainted.
"Jieun? Try to stay with me."
Even gripping her shoulders and shaking her roughly produced no movement. Pretending concern, I slowly, gently patted her back a few more times, but there was no response. When I tried to force her upright, her body simply sagged bonelessly to the floor like a doll. Complete unconsciousness—a second blackout.
Her rear view came into sight: completely bare below the waist, defenselessly slumped over the toilet on the cold tile floor. And the moment I confirmed the coarse pubic hair, thoroughly wet, between her buttocks spread open by that posture, the perverted instinct that had died down flared violently awake again.
It was the result of a deceptive relief at having passed the danger mixed with a still-ongoing lust for domination. I wrapped my arms around Jieun from behind as she lay slumped over the toilet. Like a devoted guardian trying to help her throw up, I stroked her lower belly with one soft hand.
"You okay? Throw up more if you need to…"
The low murmur was a thorough calculation—a final check for any remaining consciousness.
Confirming from the silent, limp body that she was perfectly out, I soon seized her small breasts with both hands in a full grip and began rubbing myself head-on against her wet hair. The razor-edge thrill of the perilous situation spread like a shiver through every peripheral nerve in my body. The terror from moments ago had already become the most powerful catalyst, driving my hip movements even rougher and more relentless.