Song Jiwon's Diary
It was late at night.
Mingyu sat on the edge of the bed, still unable to sleep. Song Jiwon lay beside him, her face buried in the pillow as she breathed quietly. It was the new pillow she had chosen herself from the shopping mall. A faint warmth lingered beneath the blanket, bringing a loose sense of stability.
But Mingyu’s mind was anything but quiet. Nothing felt real. Everything seemed slightly dreamlike.
He gazed down at her sleeping face. Long, neat lashes. Slightly parted lips. Shoulders that trembled faintly now and then.
His eyes eventually drifted to the side of the bed. Song Jiwon’s handbag. A palm-sized notebook peeked out from inside.
Mingyu reached for it without thinking. At first, it was only to pass the time. But the moment he opened the diary and read the first page, he drew a small, sharp breath.
The writing was far more personal than he had expected. Far more sincere.
He turned the pages in silence. Sleep was the last thing on his mind now.
Lately I’ve been spending an unusually long time in front of the mirror. Even after finishing my makeup and reapplying lipstick, I still don’t know who I’m trying to look pretty for… Honestly, I don’t know either.
In the past, I tried to understand whenever my husband came home late. “It was a company dinner.” “I had to entertain clients.” His dress shirts smelled of women’s perfume, and there was lip gloss I never used spilled inside the car, but I told myself these things happen and let it go. Maybe our love had simply cooled. More precisely, I was the one who grew tired first.
At the beginning, I wanted to be the perfect wife. The woman who stood silently behind her husband and protected the family. But at some point, being a “devoted mother” and “good wife” meant nothing unless someone praised me for it. I found the emptiness in my students instead—their pure, sensitive eyes, the way they nodded whenever I spoke. There was an indescribable warmth in the way they looked at me.
With that warmth, I began wearing flashier clothes. Blouses where the lace was barely hidden. Tight skirts. Even while feeling their gazes slide over my stockings, I pretended not to notice. No—honestly, I enjoyed it. If that was how I could catch their attention, then I suppose I wanted to feel it. That I was still pretty. That I was still a woman in someone’s eyes. The me who wasn’t loved by my husband was slowly melting away in that attention.
I never once considered an affair at first. I truly believed such things were far removed from my life. But one day the dreams began—someone grabbing my wrist and quietly dragging me behind a door where no one could see. The fantasy grew clearer with each passing day.
…Or perhaps I had been waiting for such a person from the very beginning. Someone who would forcibly lead me, regardless of my own will. Not by the wrist, but by a collar around my neck. Only then could I protect what little conscience and guilt I had left, along with the final excuse that “it wasn’t what I wanted.”
And then… that man. BitchMaster69. At first he was just another username. The night my husband left his usual post-it note announcing another business trip, I drank a glass of wine alone. It loosened something inside me. I wandered through sites until I found him.
He was bold. Reckless. Maybe that was what I liked. Of course, when he told me to show my breasts, it was vulgar and predictable, like every other pervert. But strangely, I obeyed. Every time he praised my nipples in that crude way, every time he described how lewd my body looked, something inside me clicked—like a switch I had never been allowed to touch finally turning on. For a brief moment I escaped the constant pressure to be neat, graceful, and proper.
So I did everything he ordered. I borrowed my student’s marker to masturbate, then returned it as if nothing had happened. I spread my thighs in front of the bathroom mirror. Sometimes I even sent photos with my hand inside my school uniform. He checked everything thoroughly, like a pervert inspecting his property.
“Good job, bitch.”
With those words, heat flooded between my legs and my underwear grew wet on its own.
I don’t really know what love is. There’s that old joke—if you’re unsure whether it’s just a fling, check if your lower body gets wet while talking. By that standard, my first real fling was definitely with that anonymous master.
At the time it felt a little unsettling. The student whose marker I borrowed was one I truly cherished. Why did he have to raise his hand at that exact moment? Out of so many students, why him? I told Master he was “a bit gloomy and uncomfortable.” Maybe my instincts were trying to protect him. That student shone brighter than any of the others I taught. Quiet, small, easy to overlook—but when I looked at his drawings, I felt like I should be the one learning from him. It was jealousy, love, and helpless frustration all at once. Whenever he picked up a brush, I felt both fear and excitement. With those feelings in my heart, I couldn’t give Master any clues about him. Unconsciously, I wanted to erase him from the list of “possible suspects.”
Looking back, I think it was the right choice. Master has no brakes. Not long after, I came on Mingyu’s fingers while he stirred inside me. That was probably Master’s command. He told me the student looked easy to handle, so I should treat him like my own persona and seduce him actively. So I did. But sometimes I wonder—was it really just because of Master’s order? No. It was only a trigger. I think I had already begun to love that student the way Salieri loved Mozart.
That day was truly wonderful. The same hand that once held a brush now gripped inside me. The overwhelming sensation. The inferiority I felt whenever I saw his drawings, the frustration of never being able to surpass that wall—everything flipped into pure pleasure. The student who had dominated me with talent was now dominating my body. Student and teacher. We were both adults. Nothing was illegal. But crossing that line felt like pure fantasy.
One day I saw Mingyu coming out of Kim Aran’s office. At first glance she seems like a cheerful, cute teacher—light speech, bright expressions, popular with students. She jokes easily and has a wit that dances right on the edge without quite crossing it. She feels like a lively older sister. But there’s always something strange mixed into that brightness. A casual gesture, the tilt of her shoulder when she smiles, the teasing lilt at the end of her sentences. There’s something quietly, dangerously sexy about her. Not too obvious, but never absent either. The kind of woman who becomes the subject of a man’s first lewd fantasy.
The moment I saw them, something boiled up inside my chest. Why? It could have been nothing more than a teacher and student talking. But the sight of the man who had touched my pussy walking out of another female teacher’s room filled me with unbearable jealousy and anger. It felt dirty. Ugly. Absurd. Yet the real reason was simpler: because I had already crossed that line with my own student, I could easily imagine Mingyu doing the same with another woman. And the fact that the woman in that image was Kim Aran made it unbearable.
That day I stood with my arms crossed, pretending to look at my phone, and openly glared at Mingyu as he passed in the hallway. He glanced at me. I couldn’t hold back and called out to him. “Wait a second, you.” I wanted to question him. I wanted to ask what he had been doing in Aran’s room—even though I wasn’t even his girlfriend. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous. Or perhaps I had already come too far by then.
Writing this diary all at once has left everything out of order, but it doesn’t matter. My heart is already a mess anyway. Master ordered me to wear clothes that would show everything even in front of the students. After that, my ears became painfully sensitive. I noticed every glance, every whisper. Especially that day on the stairs, when the line of my hips showed beneath my miniskirt because I wasn’t wearing panties. I heard the suppressed laughter behind me. “Hey, did you see that?” Honestly, I was getting wet. No—I was already wet. And then, of course, Kim Aran had to interfere again. She always does.
Even now, thinking about her annoys me. Always smiling brightly, speaking naturally, acting kind. But there’s something sticky and lewd hidden inside that smile. Like those novel characters who turn out to be the secret mastermind all along. If I had to pick the person in this school who quietly watches everything from the shadows, I would name Kim Aran without hesitation. A woman’s intuition is never wrong.
And… the first time I sucked Mingyu’s cock. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. I licked him, sucked him, teased the head with my tongue, and even nibbled lightly with my lower lip. He wasn’t circumcised. It was my first time seeing one like that. There was a slight smell, but strangely, it wasn’t unpleasant. It reminded me of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” from my study-abroad days—though Mingyu isn’t exactly a “teen” anymore. That scent was more sour than fresh. What am I even writing right now?
He kept making these helpless little noises, unable to speak, just letting me suck him. When he got too excited, he grabbed my hair and started thrusting. At that moment I felt like nothing more than a hole meant to relieve a man’s lust. Even so, I liked it. I wanted it. I was the one who asked him to cum in my mouth first.
I should write this diary right after it happens, but when I rely only on memory, my head gets messy and the lewd thoughts keep coming. And of course Master is late replying again. Hmph. I’ve written so much while waiting for him… From now on I really should write these entries sooner, Jiwon.
Mingyu quietly closed the notebook. He held the thin diary between both hands, eyes closed, unmoving for a long time. Something surged in the center of his chest—an emotion he couldn’t name.
To that anonymous master—now himself—Song Jiwon had once said, “That student is a bit gloomy and uncomfortable.” Those words had made him angry for a moment. His heart had sunk. His thoughts had turned ugly. He had even considered how he would break her. It had been brief, but sincere.
Now, after reading the diary, everything looked different. Those words had been nothing more than an excuse to protect herself—afraid her identity would be discovered, yet still trying to shield Mingyu from danger. Every single description—pathetic, gloomy, uncomfortable—had been a lie meant to keep him safe.
Knowing that, Mingyu felt strangely sorry for the version of himself that had briefly hated her. Without knowing anything, she had been protecting him all along. The realization left a quiet ache in his chest.