Chapter 1
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Ji Maeng-ho (1)
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"Why'd you call me again?"
"Do I need a reason to call you? I just felt like it."
It had only been a few days since I'd started sleeping with Hyun-ah, but she'd always come running whenever I called, pretending to be annoyed like this.
"You're in your uniform?"
Hyun-ah in her volleyball uniform. It was a sight I'd seen plenty of times since elementary school, but it never failed to make my heart race. The bottoms clung tightly to her big hips and thighs, and the top showed off her smooth underarms glistening with sweat.
Hyun-ah looked great in her school uniform or casual clothes too, but athletes shine brightest in action. She was hot moaning under me, but nothing beat her commanding the volleyball court in uniform.
And fucking her in that uniform? It was like claiming a high school volleyball superstar whose status dwarfed mine. That made uniform-clad Hyun-ah extra special.
"...I was in the middle of training..."
Sure enough, as she said, her uniform was soaked with sweat—she must've been working hard. The damp fabric highlighted her large breasts. ...Huh?
Was she not wearing a sports bra today? They were big, but they never stood out like that through her jersey before.
"You skipped training just to come? And for that, you didn't bother with a sports bra...? Were you hoping for something?"
"Sh-shut up!"
Hyun-ah flushed red and spat curses, acting like she hated it even though she loved it. She couldn't have been more transparent. Her face screamed she was expecting something from me.
The fact that she'd rushed over mid-training the second I called said it all—no explanation needed.
"Eek! What are you— ...hey?"
I stepped close and grabbed her ass hard. She raised her voice, then lowered it, remembering we were in a classroom. A few months ago, I'd have gotten slapped for that...
"What? Your ass felt tense, so I was gonna massage it."
"Ugh... It's f-fine..."
Big, firm yet soft—the perfect feel of an ass. My fingers sank in just enough before her elastic flesh pushed back. Then her hand rested on mine—soft, but callused from training.
"St-stop..."
She fidgeted with my hand, sounding embarrassed. But who'd stop here? That wouldn't even be a man.
I slid my hand slowly toward her most private spot. Warmth radiated from there...
"What? You're already wet?"
"W-wet? It's sweat...!"
"Yeah? Let's check."
This time, I slipped my hand inside her uniform pants. Her skin was slick with sweat from practice. She gripped my wrist but didn't pull away hard as I slid between her cheeks.
Emboldened by her reaction, I inched my fingers slowly along her crack to her pussy. Wet, soft folds. And what coated my fingers wasn't just sweat.
"Huh? Sweat here too?"
"Hngh!"
"Tell me. Is it sweat down here?"
"I d-don't know!"
I pulled my fingers out—thick strands clung to them, too viscous for sweat.
"See? Is this sweat?"
"I said I don't kn-know!"
Hyun-ah pouted, face crimson. So cute. Wanting to embarrass her more, I brought my fingers to my nose.
"Sniff, sniff."
Sweat mixed with her pussy scent—tart, but not gross. Right now, it was more intoxicating than any perfume, stirring my cock.
"P-perv! Why sniff that?!"
"Why not? You said it was sweat. Can't I smell sweat? Though... it kinda stinks. Should I buy you some deodorant?"
"Ughhh!"
She glared, eyes watering with frustration, brows furrowed. Tormenting this nearly 180cm tall, tough-girl Hyun-ah like this? Unthinkable just months ago.
'I was the one hurting from her icy words back then.'
But that's history. Now she was putty in my hands. Seeing her like that awakened something sadistic in me.
'How did I end up making this haughty, rude bitch moan under me?'
It was recent, but the memory burned vivid. The day I contracted with Rogers... and started bedding women...
*
'You fucking yellow monkey! Quit stalling and contract with me already! Do you fucking yellow monkeys not understand English?'
Ever since returning from the WBSC 18U Baseball World Cup as batting practice pitcher, this damn ghost haunted me nonstop.
'Shut up! And it's the 21st century—quit with the yellow monkey crap!'
'You shut up. Fuck, how'd a monkey like you pick up my bat? Fucking monkeys everywhere.'
This ghost claiming to be Rogers Hornsby tormented me constantly, even during practice.
"Hey! Ji Maeng-ho! You idiot! Get your head in the game?"
"Sorry, Coach!"
'This is your fault!'
'Heh heh heh. Whatever. Ignore me, and I'll haunt you forever.'
Rogers' demand was simple: contract with him, become MLB's greatest second baseman, free him from his torment.
Contract, and he'd share senses to make me the ultimate right-handed hitter and second baseman. For a perennial benchwarmer like me? Tempting. But the catch...
'We share senses during sex. Booze, gambling, drugs—I'll forget 'em all. But sex? After 50 years starving, even a fucking yellow monkey pussy sounds good. You get that?'
Sex with sense-sharing. Never tried it, but as a guy with normal tastes, having someone watch and feel everything? I'd crumble. Plus, it felt off.
Why this ghost? If only Stan Musial, the Gentleman of the Game, taught me baseball.
'Stan Musial? That hack lucked into his era. If I'd played then, Marilyn Monroe would've been my fucktoy. Heh heh heh.'
Listening to him made even me feel vulgar. Then a white blur rocketed toward me.
"Agh!"
"Ji Maeng-ho! What the hell's wrong with you? Can't focus? That's why you're a benchwarmer! Can't even concentrate in practice?!"
"Sorry, Coach!"
"Get out!"
Coach's order—I dropped fungo and left the field. My fault for losing focus, but he was extra harsh on me.
All because I was an orphan? Till middle school, I was a star shortstop locally. Earned a scholarship to Korean Physical Education High School, a sports powerhouse despite being new.
But on entrance ceremony day, the family car crashed en route. I got a year's medical leave; Mom and Dad died.
Everything changed. Hanchego coach Lee Ki-cheol was an old-school bribe-lover.
We weren't rich—inheritance barely covered gear, no bribes possible.
Hell began. Teammates botched plays when I fielded. At first, I thought my throws sucked, post-accident form down from middle school glory.
'High school level's this tough? Gotta work harder.' That's what I thought. Later, a college first baseman confessed:
'Maeng-ho, sorry. Coach said no recommendation if I caught your throws. Had no choice.'
Too late. Couldn't handle fielding drills, so Coach "trained" me with endless fungo hell via assistants. Mentally broken, I bombed defense. Decent hitter, but no games.
Thus, lost my swing, became batting practice pitcher and eternal sub. Coach abused me verbally, juniors ignored me—confidence, pride shattered.
Mom and Dad would be shocked seeing this. Pre-accident, I was a confident, bubbly son... Did the crash ruin me? Coach? Or choosing baseball?
'Don't go there. Already getting side-eye. Just depresses me more.'
School regretted my scholarship, pressuring me. One more slip, and expulsion.
Baseball's all I know—options? Obey Rogers? But joyless baseball via contract? Like doping.
Parents always said: keep your conscience, even in poverty.
'Stupid shit. Baseball's for money, you fucking yellow monkey. It's not noble!'
'Shut up, old man!'
"Ji Maeng-ho. Slacking again? Baseball team's cushy—naps and all."
On the bench pondering my future, volleyball captain Choi Hyun-ah approached. 180cm tall, black ponytail, fox-like eyes, pale skin, perky nose. Killer tits too (sports bra hid them now).
Embarrassing, but my first love? Same school since elementary, elite sports track—we chatted somewhat. Both took a year off for injury, shared that bond.
"Hey! Answer me?"
Or so I thought. Her cold tone highlighted our gap. She: national team candidate setter, future volleyball star. Me: Hanchego baseball scrub, batting pitcher.
Still, she kept me going. Her face, even icy, was my sole healing time.
"Not slacking. What brings you here?"
"Just checking baseball practice."
"Not here for me?"
"What bullshit! Train! Slacking's why you're benched."
"Coach told me to rest—being nice."
"Nice my ass."
She left coldly.
'Hot chick. For a yellow monkey, fuckable. Bang her, I'll teach you everything. Big one for a monkey.'
'Fuck off!'
Hyun-ah sex with Rogers spectating?
'Ahh, ahh, harder!'
'Hyun-ah, feel good?'
'Yes! That's it, monkey! Fuck, hit the clit harder, you fucking idiot! Don't just brute-force. Bat or cock—technique matters, fucking yellow monkey!'
...No way. Imagining Hyun-ah sex made me hard.
Fuck. Pointless fantasy. Back to practice.
Grabbed my bat, headed behind the shed. Coach ragged if a fielder practiced hitting in view, so this unused spot was my turf.
Propped phone on shed window glass, hit record. No coach? Self-review form.
'Look at that swing. No wonder Coach benches you—shoulders open too early!'
'Tsk tsk. Follow through! Argh, frustrating. Fucking yellow monkey! Contract, I'd perfect your form. Or mimic my swing sense-shared—you'd see your baseball was child's play.'
'Fuck! Swing's trash. Eyesore! I'd die of rage seeing it alive.'
'Shut up! Trying to focus!'
'Focus my ass. That form? Bad habits forever, eternal scrub hitter.'
Rogers' rants frayed my nerves when a call echoed:
"Maeng-ho hyung! Maeng-ho hyung! Where are ya? Coach says clean the field!"
His nagging killed practice anyway—perfect timing. I bolted to the field.
"Ji Maeng-ho! I said rest? Out practicing? Clean balls now."
"Sorry, Coach."
Under his wrath, I hustled, gathering scattered balls into the basket.
"Poor Maeng-ho sunbae... This is frosh work."
"Serves him right. No talent, dead weight. Guys like him block us."
"Still a senior..."
"Senior? He'll bounce soon. Sigh, if I had his physique..."
Juniors gossiped; I swallowed it. No allies here. Speak up? Bullying charge, done. School itching to boot me—rage meant endgame.
'Pfft, that temper for baseball?'
'You don't get Korean baseball—instant boot.'
Plus, post-World Cup, Coach occasionally let me field—fearing exposé if I quit.
Weekend league roster spot too—no bullying expulsion now. Endured this far... Can't quit!
Suppressed fury, cleaned an hour, heading dorm—phone!
Fuck, battery dead? Forgot recording...
Raced to shed. Unexpectedly, ace Kim Won-ho blocked me.
"Huh? Maeng-ho? What're you doing way out here?"
"Uh, think I left my bat."
"Okay, look good."
Hanchego ace Kim Won-ho: rich kid, top draft pick, nice guy—kinda friends. But inferiority complex; avoided chats. Worse: confessed crush on my Hyun-ah before. I paled next to him.
(He Tommy John'ed a year off too. Unlike my bench hell, he returned dominant.)
Couldn't face him, sprinted to shed—met another surprise.
"You, what're you doing here? Nobody comes."
"Huh? Oh, left my bat."
"Seriously, what's wrong with you? Baseball player forgetting his bat."
Her cold words stabbed. But talking to her, even thus, sparked dumb joy. Love?
'Ultimate simp. Like it that much? Just fuck her. Sigh, fucking yellow monkey clueless. She's masochist-faced? Bitches like her crave it deep down. Drop her once—she'll beg after.'
'Don't talk shit about Hyun-ah!'
'Whatever, idiot.'
'Shut it! I had fans too! Turned 'em down for baseball. Got street castings!'
'Still a monkey.'
Chatted Rogers; Hyun-ah left coldly.
"Phew. Nobody took it."
Grabbed scorching phone from window. Recorded whole time—battery under 10%. Stopped it.
Practiced some; check form? Review key as swinging.
Played back. Not me—shed interior. Front cam?
"What? Front camera. Fuck. Nothing goes right."
Fast-forward to delete. Then,
[Ahh! Aaah! Harder! There! Right there!]
Flesh tones flashed; piercing feminine moans.
What...? Porn? On my phone?
'Sex! Sex! Fucking! Sex!'