5-Year Aged F-Cup Bride-to-Be Turns Thirty-Two

Others my age were sporting manager titles, scouting loans for down payments on apartments. Me? My bank account was scraped clean. For all the artistic bullshit of lugging around a single camera and striking poses, the punishment felt pretty goddamn harsh. All I had left was a minus-balance checking account and a beat-up used camera body that could crap out any second. I'm usually the upbeat, positive type, so I'd laugh it off most days. But holed up alone in my room, staring at overdue rent reminder texts, rage started boiling inside me.

"Fuck photography. Maybe I should just go do manual labor."

I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, about to light up, when my phone buzzed.

Yang Ji-hye. A name buried deep in my memories bobbed up to the surface like a cork.

Back when I was twenty-four, grinding as acting manager at a dive bar to stack some cash. That's when she was a fresh twenty, one of the part-timers. Soft and squishy-looking, barely scraping 155cm, but with tits so fucking huge it made you curse. And the kicker? That innocent face bragging about her SM kink like it was nothing. Memories from eight years ago flashed by like film reels.

She'd send her boyfriend off to the army and crash my place every weekend. Excuses like "I'll clean" or "I'll cook." Truth? Watching those massive jugs bounce right in front of me—denying I got hard would be a lie. But back then, I had my romantic notions, busting my ass every day. Had a serious girlfriend too. So I never touched that army girlfriend kid. Sent her packing nice and clean.

Fast-forward, and now she's a thirty-two-year-old fiancée showing up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on a jobless bum like me?

"Fine. Scheming to squeeze cash from an unemployed fucker, huh? Where?"

I fired off a reply, threw on a hoodie from the closet clutter.

The dingy izakaya tucked in a Yeonnam-dong alley. Pushed open the door, and there she was in the corner booth, waving.

"Whoa, manager oppa—no, oppa! You haven't aged a bit!"

I slid into the seat across from her, smirking. "You've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turned into a real woman. Back then you were smashing beer mugs with those dorky glasses."

"Ugh, ancient history! I'm late twenties now?"

She giggled, grabbing the menu. The fresh-faced twenty-year-old in an apron was gone. Now it was a polished lady with a flashy designer bag. But that rack straining against her thin knit top? Even more savage than before.

"Sure, sure, fiancée-nim."

I propped my chin, tossing it out casually. Her eyes went wide.

"O-oppa, you really here to congratulate me?"

"Congratulate? You whined for drinks from an unemployed loser, so I pitied you enough to show my face. No shame? What's your fiancé do anyway?"

She pouted, filling her glass to the brim with soju.

"Just... your average office worker. Finance sector."

Average office worker in finance. I clicked my tongue inwardly. Fucking hell, ditching an elite earner for what? To poke at a washed-up ex-boss like me?

Cold sarcasm bubbled inside, but I played it cool, grinning and holding out my empty glass.

"Damn, Ji-hye, you scored big. I'll wire wedding cash later—you cover tonight."

"Oppa, always talking shit. Same as ever."

She poured my soju, leaning forward just enough. That massive cleavage dangled perilously into view. Intentional? Cheeks already flushed pink—booze or what?

"But oppa."

"Yeah?"

"You still single? I used to crash your place all the time."

My glass paused mid-sip. I narrowed my eyes at her. Not the line from a bride-to-be.

"What answer you fishing for?"

"Just... once I'm married next year, no more casual drinks like this."

She propped her chin, staring. Pupils loose and dreamy. Red lips parted just so. Same bold gaze from eight years back—rubbing her thigh against mine while her man was in service.

"Calling outta nowhere for drinks... didn't seem weird?"

"Weird as fuck. Thirty-two-year-old me, scraping by without lens repair cash, and a glittering diamond-ring fiancée hunts me down? No reason."

I slammed back the bitter soju, setting the glass down hard.

"If you're feeling pre-wedding blues and picking on easy ex-oppa, wrong target, Yang Ji-hye."

She bit her lip. Awkward silence blanketed the table. I grabbed my jacket to bounce.

Her hand shot across, clutching my sleeve.

"Yeah, 'cause you're easy."

"What?"

"But... someone like you, half-assing life, lecturing me? Boring as shit."

Expensive perfume and booze hit me. She leaned in fully.

"Knew your spot's still in Yeonnam-dong. Nowhere else to crash... room for me?"

Through Hongdae alleys to my Yeonnam-dong edge studio-slash-pad. Musty basement hole—security deposit gone, barely covering rent. Unlocked the greasy iron door; she sniffed, stepping in.

"Whoa, oppa lives here? That tidy old manager for real?"

"Whining already when you came for bedbugs? Hate it? Taxi out."

No reply—she pursed her lips, shrugging off her beige trench. Thin knit only. Tiny 155cm frame, but those savage tits heaving with every breath, on full brutal display. Eight years ago, they had the male part-timers' eyes spinning.

I tossed her a water from the fridge, pulled my phone. Just checking time.

But the screen lit up—that mystery black app icon, lingering for days, launched itself.

Ding.

Hallucinating. Rubbed my eyes—still hovering dead center in my vision. Five mil projected. Enough to flip the eyes of a guy stressing over sixty-k lens repair.

"Oppa? Staring at your phone—what's up? I'm bored."

Ji-hye perched on the bed edge, legs crossed, pouting playfully. White thighs peeking under the knit burned into view.

Just frame her and rake in five mil?

"Hey. Yang Ji-hye."

"Yeees?"

"You said at the bar I'm easy. Been plotting since back then."

Phone in hand, I stepped close, angling my wrist so the lens caught her upper body. Propped it casually slantwise on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the desk corner.

"Yeah. Getting married next year. Wanted to get properly railed in oppa's place first."

Bragging SM kink at twenty, still filthy-mouthed as fiancée. I smirked, tapping the hovering [Start Streaming] button.

Ignoring the window, I gripped her frozen jaw roughly.

"Ahh!"

"Told you I'd make you regret me not touching you when your man's ass was in the army."

"Mmm... yeah."

"Prove it. Show how slutty a fiancée sneaking into another man's place can get."

Her pupils quaked at my icy tone. Not the jokey old boss. But no fear—instead, she rubbed her flushed cheeks against my hand, nodding obediently.

"Yes. Whatever oppa says."

"Good. Open wide. Undo my zipper."

Tranced, Ji-hye slid to her knees before the bed. 155cm. Her small frame looked tiny crumpled at my feet. But head tilted up, that vicious rack straining the knit screamed undeniable presence.

"Oppa... can I undress you first?"

Playing shy, hesitant. But that red tongue slithering out to lick her parted lips? Pure spectacle. Not a bride's face for next year's dress.

Then the slanted phone on the desk exploded in flashes.

Didn't do shit. Just caught his future wife on her knees between my legs, panting. Boom—over ten mil.

Fuck. Money a lifetime of shutter clicks couldn't touch, pouring in real-time. Last scraps of conscience? Dog food long ago.

"Don't ask. Just strip it. Fiancé didn't teach you that, huh."

"Mmm... he never handles me rough. Always so gentle."

She grinned wide, hands on my thighs. Small white fingers fumbled the belt buckle.

Clink. Metal rang in the tight room.

Ziiiip— Zipper peeled loud and clear.

She gulped, clutched the taut waistband, yanked down hard.

Thwack. The pent-up thick cock sprang free into the air, raw and exposed.

"Whoaaa..."

Her eyes blew wide. Staring entranced at my throbbing dick, a guttural moan escaped her gaping lips.