Silent Devotion
The alarm rings, waking you up. It's 4:30, the same time you have been waking up at for the past 6 years. The bed is like a monster, grabbing you, refusing to let go, but you force yourself to stay awake because there is too much work and too little time. The penthouse is silent except for the occasional sound from the streets below.
It is torturous, but there isn't much of a choice. The cold runs through your body as your feet hit the marble. You drag yourself to the closet; this is probably the last moment of the day when you would get to be yourself before you have to put on a perfect mask.
You get dressed in a dark charcoal tracksuit without really thinking much before heading to the gym. The weights feel heavier than they should, and for a fraction of a second, your hands tremble before you force them up.
By the time you are done with your workout, your shirt is soaked.
By 6:40, you're showered, dressed, and reading documents on your tablet. Today is a dreadful day; you have to visit your parents. You are the CEO of the best law firm in Seoul; just that position means you don't have much time for yourself, but being the son of a campaigning politician is even more dreadful and tiring.
The car stops in front of the mansion; it sticks out like a sore thumb. The dining room smells of black coffee, and at the end of a long table is your father, and beside him is your mother, scrolling through the headlines.
The windows lead to a billboard with your father's face. He is running for the presidency, and a year from now, he could be looking down from the blue house. That thought frightens you.
"Good morning," I say with a practiced smile before taking my seat opposite my mother.
Like reporting to your manager, you begin.
"Three new clients this week, each a major corporation. The merger with Hanjin closed yesterday, and the case with the Hansong group was dealt with quietly."
The reply comes from your mother, as it usually does. "Is that all? The polls are still at 42%. If your father is going to become the president, then his son should be just as amazing."
Your father lifts his eyes then. They're the same color as yours, but there is no warmth in them.
"You looked tired yesterday," he says. "People notice these things. You know that people are always watching, don't you? We always need to be smiling irrespective of what we are actually feeling."
"It won't happen again," you reply.
It is annoying and painful to hear this from them time and time again. You haven't slept more than 4 hours the past week, trying to do things that would make you look good for them, and in return, you get told to do better?
Times like this are when the thought pops into your mind, what if I just....
Before I could finish it, your mother spoke, "We can come up with some excuse for those pictures. Don't let it happen again."
You nod. Just like you always do. Not like you would speak up against them.
The food tastes bland, and nothing ever excites you anymore. You live your life like you are following a script. Doing everything they want and still getting told to do more.
Almost as if sometimes you are nothing but a spectator in your own life. Having no control over anything you do.
Before you finish eating, your father stands, and the loud sound of the chair scrapes against the floor.
"Let's go, the media are waiting at the entrance," he says
Your mother walks toward you and brushes non-existent dust from your shoulder and says, "You know what all this pressure is for, don't you, sweetheart?"
The endearment wasn't out of love; it was there just for the show of it.
Being around them wasn't exactly fun, but being in front of the media with them made you anxious. All because of that one incident when you were younger, and now you absolutely dread the moment when you were with your parents in front of the media.
Your hands were shivering, and it felt like there was something in your chest preventing you from breathing properly. You wanted to show some sort of pain, but you didn't, more like you couldn't.
The camera flashes the moment you step onto the concrete. Reporters screaming your name.
You give them exactly what they are looking for: a professional smile. The one that you practiced in the mirror, as you can remember.
A professional nod occasionally proves to everyone that you aren't some sort of robot. Well, you lived like one, but they don't need to know that. To them and the rest of the world, you are the perfect son and the perfect lawyer with a perfect image.
* * *
You step out of the car at 8:30 p.m. into a private garage. After a long 14-hour day at the firm, going through depositions, strategy meetings, and a painful client dinner, you finally make it home. By the time you reach your penthouse, your tie is loosened, the top button undone. This was the most imperfect you looked the entire day; the only reason you allowed yourself to do that was that there was no one watching.
The door opens, you cross the entrance, reaching for the switches to lower the lights, making it dim and perfect for relaxing. There is silence, and for the first time in the day, there are no expectations surrounding you. All that was there was a glass of whiskey and the city lights.
Just as you are about to take the first sip of your drink, the phone on the countertop vibrates. You wanted to ignore it, but you couldn't, especially because it was your mother's secretary who was calling.
With annoyance, you answer it. "Yes?"
A polite voice replies. "Good evening, sir. Madam has requested that you come to the main house immediately. She says that it is of the highest importance and has already sent the driver to fetch you."
"Can it really not wait? I just got home," you say, your voice exasperated.
"She was quite insistent about it, sir." She knows you hate this, but she was only following orders.
"Fine, tell her that I will be there."
"The car will be there in 10 minutes."
The line goes dead.
It pissedpisses you off, but you don't really have much choice either. At the end of the day, they are your parents, and you, being the good boy, always listen to them.
You drag your hands through your hair before letting out a sigh.
It always feels bothersome to be summoned to the house you grew up in, like you are an employee. You want to say no, but it is too late. The car was already on the way, and resisting their demands was pointless; you have already learned that the hard way.
Reluctantly, you change into something a little more casual: a cashmere sweater and some.
The drive to the main house is shockingly calm. The city is settling down, and the streets are slowly emptying. The black Mercedes pulls into the courtyard, the house lined with low lights. The traditional house is unlike the modern houses that surround it.
The maid escorts you through the house into the annex study. The room is filled with books and ebony wood. The maid leaves with a sudden thud of the closing wooden door. Now it is just your parents and you.
Your father is sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. A table sitting on the desk, probably with details from the campaign. Your mother is standing behind him near the window that overlooks the garden, her hands folded, looking at the empty streets, almost lost in thought. There is some tension in her shoulders, which is unusual for her, but you look past it.
You bow out of habit. "Good evening, father and mother," you say before taking a seat on the chair across from your father. Your back is as straight as a ruler, and your hands are resting on your knees.
Without acknowledging your greeting, your father says, "There isn't much time to beat around the bush. We've finalized the deal."
You are confused. What deal is so important that they summoned me to the main house at night? But the confusion soon disappears when your mother speaks, "Jang Wonyoung"
The realization hits like a truck. The deal which they are talking about is your marriage. You are speechless.
After a few seconds, you echo your mother. "Jang Wonyoung"
You obviously know who she is. Her family is one of the richest families in the entire country. They have their hands in all the major industries. The influence that the family holds is immense, so much so that a single move from them could cause massive shocks in the market.
"The Jang Heiress," you say to yourself. From what you've heard, she is as cold-hearted as her old man. Doesn't care about anything other than profits.
"Precisely." Your father pulls up a folder and throws it on the table. It is filled with pictures of her and the details of the so-called deal.
"Their support will stabilize the campaign. Having them with us will help secure the districts we struggled with, and the hesitant donors will be motivated to side with the group that will win."
Your mother's voice is softer than usual when she speaks again. "She's respected, and she's building something of her own away from the Jang consortium. People will like her. They'll like both of you together. Two extremely successful individuals."
You are still trying to wrap your head around all this. "How are you planning on going about this?"
"The news will be announced at the charity gala in three weeks. We will leak the information to the press to start rumors next week. Engagement in spring and a wedding a few weeks before the elections."
All the information is just going through your brain, and then the gravity of the situation finally hits you. You have done everything that your parents had ever wanted, but this, this is taking it too far.
"And what about what I want?" Your voice is stern, and your fingers are balled into a fist.
"You didn't give us much to work with. You never introduced us to any woman, so we assumed that you would have no preference. Time was running out, and we had to move forward," your mother tries to justify.
A short laugh escapes you. Without thinking, you push to your feet, and before you know it, you are already walking toward the door.
"Thank you so much for arranging my marriage like it's a stepping stone for your campaign," you say before opening the door.
"You know how this works. It shouldn't have come as a surprise," your father replies. There is no sign of guilt in his voice.
That is the last straw. You know it was going to happen, but you still hope. Hearing that your father has no remorse, it sets you off.
"I have done every fucking thing that you asked for!" Your voice is loud, filled with anger.
"The firm. The image. Every fucking appearance for your campaign, giving up things I loved purely because I didn't want to disappoint you-"
Your voice breaks, tears threatening to spill out. You swallow the lump in your throat.
"Now this? You didn't even think to ask about what I wanted or if I was even okay with this?"
"Asking would have slowed things down, and we are running out of time," your mother replies, trying to justify the decision.
Anger fills your mind, and you drag your hand through your hair, gripping it for a second, almost pulling on it, hoping the pain would ground you.
"I thought..." You stop. Your voice is strained. "I thought maybe, just maybe, that I would get to choose who I get to marry."
Neither of them responds.
"Not the firm, not the headlines. Just... one fucking decision. One Person!" You scream.
"That's enough," Your father says, in his usual calm voice. "Crying and whining won't change a thing. The families met last month. Jinwoo and I agreed to the terms last week, and this afternoon, the contracts were signed."
It is funny, because your life is again decided without you even being in the room. The finality of the situation settles in. Your father is right, there is no point in fighting this. It is inevitable.
Your mother steps closer. She doesn't say anything at first; she places her hand on your shoulder, just there for a few seconds. Almost as if she is trying to calm you down
"I know this is sudden, but we are trying to protect everything," she says quietly. "For you too."
You ignore her and push her hand away. "I guess I am nothing but a tool for you to use," you say before walking away.
Another role for you to act in that has already been assigned.
* * *
The days all blur into one another. It is finally the day of your wedding. Your involvement in the wedding is minimal. This is probably the third time you've seen Wonyoung. She is basically a stranger to you, but funnily enough, you are about to marry her.
When she walks down the aisle, you are blown away. She looks like an angel who descended into this world just to grace it with her presence. You both speak your practiced vows, and the kiss is little more than a peck.
The very next day after the wedding, the two of you move into a house together. It still feels surreal that you got married. You are pulled out of your thoughts when the car comes to a stop in front of the circular driveway. The house stands three stories tall, wrapped in pale stone and sleek modern lines, with floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across multiple sections.
You step out of the car carrying nothing but a single overnight bag. The moving trucks had already transferred all your belongings the day before. All your bag contains is your laptop, tablet, a few documents, and a spare set of clothes.
The wedding finished yesterday, and by evening, the trucks had come and gone. All your belongings are now placed in the west wing of the house. You walk in through the massive door, your bag in one hand.
As soon as you reach the living room, you set your bag down. There is a faint trace of her perfume in the air, and moments later, she appears at the top of the staircase, wearing a simple beige cashmere sweater and black pants, her hair flowing freely. There is no smile or welcome.
All of a sudden, your shoulders and jaw tighten.
"Hey," you say, voice low. "I hope I am not interrupting anything."
She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her hand resting on the railing. "You're early," she replies. Her tone is flat, almost unbothered.
You nod. "There wasn't too much work, so I managed to leave at a reasonable hour for once. Thought I would settle in."
There is no reply from her side. She doesn't even bother to look at you. She gets off the stairs and into the kitchen, going about her business.
You try to continue the conversation, "The house is impressive. A lot larger than I expected it to be."
There is no reply again. Your eyes meet hers. "Your things are in the West wing. I believe everything was placed properly. If not, the staff can adjust."
You nod, forcing a small smile.
"There are a few things we should clarify." Her voice is calm. Her eyes are still avoiding direct contact with yours. "Since we'll be sharing this space, boundaries matter."
You nod, waiting to hear what she has to say. "Public appearances will only happen on agreed schedules, like galas, charity events, and maybe occasional dinners when required. When we are home alone, we keep the interactions minimal and civil. There is no need for unnecessary conversations or pretending."
Your jaw clenches, and you run your hand through your hair. Is that really how we are going to start? We are setting rules before we've even settled in.
Wonyoung notices your frustration, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve once. "And we are free to see other people if we wish. Discreetly. Bring them here if necessary, but only when I am not present and never through the front entrance. The back gate and a separate parking area are present for that purpose. I expect the same discretion in return. I hope you don't try to poke your nose in my business."
That final rule really wakes you up from your fantasy of having a normal marriage. You are shocked and in disbelief, but you don't let it show. Your hands clench at your sides, but luckily, she doesn't notice.
"You're already planning... separate lives?" you ask, your voice quieter than intended. "Before we've even spent one full day under the same roof?"
"That's obvious, isn't it? This marriage is just a political and economic arrangement. Not a romantic one. There is no reason to complicate it with false expectations." She says as she stands looking at you.
"It will be easier this way. We both will know what we are getting."
There is a complete contrast in the way you think compared to hers. You had hoped for some mutual respect, but her laying down rules? That really sets the tone.
"I know it is a political arrangement. I wasn't expecting romance. But I thought.. at least some common ground or some basic respect for each other." You reply.
She doesn't take your reply very well. "Basic respect means to respect each other's boundaries, and as for common ground, it might come with time or it won't," and with a small nod, she leaves, not waiting to hear your reply.
You are left alone in the living room. The low lights accentuated the expensive sofas, along with a dining table set that looked like an art piece. After looking through the room, you pick up your bag and head toward the west wing, where your belongings are.
I guess this is where home is now. You close the door to your new bedroom and flop onto the bed, soon falling asleep.
* * *
You wake up at the same time again at 4:30. Instead of heading to the gym, you quietly walk through the property. There are no staff present, just as you had requested, only a housekeeper who comes in during the afternoon and two drivers on call. You want privacy in between these walls, especially since this is a contractual marriage.
After exploring the property and going through your normal routine, you go into the kitchen to find a fully stocked fridge. It gives you the bright idea of making breakfast for Wonyoung. Keeping it simple, you make avocado toast with scrambled eggs, fresh berries on the side, and an oat latte, which Wonyoung supposedly likes.
The food is on the dining table. You sit at the opposite end, reading through some documents while waiting for Wonyoung. At around 8 a.m, Wonyoung comes down the stairs, wearing a cream skirt that ends above her knees with a blue-collared polo and a dark maroon jacket on top.
Her eyes meet yours, and her gaze moves to the food. There is no smile, no thank you. Just a soft: "I am running late" before she walks out of the house.
You are heartbroken. All the effort that you put into making that food is wasted. The food is left untouched. She doesn't even try it. There is a sliver of hope in your mind, thinking maybe she actually was busy.
A few evenings later, as you are coming back from the office. You decide to stop by a cafe and pick up a box of Dubai chocolate chewy cookies. From what the report says, Wonyoung absolutely adores these cookies.
Once you get home, you place the golden box on the marbled kitchen counter, with a small note beside it reading: "Saw these today. Thought you might enjoy them after the long day you had."
That evening, you sit in the living room, files open on your tablet. She is sitting at the dining table, working on her sketches as she eats. Every few minutes, your eyes drift toward her, waiting and hoping she would notice the box or even touch it.
Sadly, she never opens it. The next morning, you find the unopened box in the trash along with your note on top of it. This is the second time she thwarts your efforts. You know this is bound to happen, especially given that she warned you not to try to get close to her.
You try not to think too much about it once you are at the firm. That afternoon, you are meeting a major client in one of the many glass-walled conference rooms. As the conversation about the merger dies down, the topic of your marriage comes up.
"Congratulations on the marriage. Jang Wonyoung is quite the catch. The press is calling you both the power couple of Seoul. Everyone is fawning over how perfect both of you look in your wedding photos," one of them mentions.
"Thank you! The photos came out really well. It was a hectic day. Wonyoung and I were both quite tired," you lie.
"Yeah, it must have been. The wedding looked massive. How is it? Living with such a beautiful wife?"
"It's amazing. We moved into the new house, so we're adjusting." Empty words. You both probably spoke less than 10 sentences since the day you got married. In fact, you know a lot more about the client than you do about your own wife.
The conversation ends there. Everyone around you believes that you and Wonyoung are happily married and enjoy spending time with each other, which achieves the main goal of your parents, but in reality, you are suffering, trying to make something out of nothing.
That evening, you have some free time, which you use to research Jang Atelier. They are known for using sustainable fabrics with minimalist lines that highlight the beauty of the material.
The next morning, just before she leaves another untouched meal you made, you manage to speak with her. "I saw the new resort collection. The way you layered the silk with recycled wool is forward-thinking."
Her gaze shifts to you for a second. Her expression is plain, not one that shows gratitude. "Thank you"
Those were the only words she spoke.
You wanted to try to continue the conversation. "I would love to learn more about it. I can clear some time this weekend-"
"I'm busy," she cuts you off. "If you want to learn more about it, I can have my assistant send you a brief regarding the new selection. If you have any questions, you can ask him"
The words are a slap. She cuts off any prospect of even talking more by referring you to her assistant, her intentions clear.
The same pattern continues for the next few weeks. You cook or buy her food she supposedly enjoys, and every single time, it appears in the trash the following morning, along with all the notes you write.
You try everything to spend more time with her. Now you are sitting in the living room more often, at least to give her some company, even though neither of you speaks. You watch her from the corner of your eye, occasionally eating some takeout food as she continues her work.
One evening, you finally work up the courage to speak to her. Both of you are on the same floor. You walk into the dining room. Her eyes focus on the sketches, not even registering your presence.
"Wonyoung," you say, almost whispering, "I know this isn't what either of us wanted, but since we are already here. Maybe we could... try and eat dinner together or at least try to get to know each other."
"I didn't ask for company. If eating alone bothers you so much, I suggest you find someone else to entertain you during the evening," Wonyoung says.
There it is again, the cold-hearted woman who thwarts all your attempts at reaching out and getting to know her. The rejection is painful, but for some odd reason, you still have hope and want to keep trying.
The next evening, once you get home. You are about to make some dinner for both of you, but you pause. Is it really worth putting in so much effort? She is not even going to spare a single second.
You do it anyway. You make the effort and leave the plate of food on the dining table. Just as you expected. The next morning, the food is untouched, exactly where you had placed it.
* * *
After the harsh reality check from Wonyoung's words, your efforts at trying to get close to her dwindle quite a bit. Occasionally, when you have some free time, you leave her oat milk latte on the counter before heading to work.
You two are still strangers who live under one massive roof. On one sleepless night, when you wake up for some water. You notice a soft glow coming from the East Wing. Wonyoung isn't sleeping, and you assume it is a one-time thing, but the next few days are still the same.
There are days when she is awake past 4 in the morning. The light coming from her wing bothers you, so you slowly walk into her wing. Through the half-open door, you can see her back and her stiff shoulders. She is moving with less efficiency than her usual self and occasionally zoning out, staring at the pool outside.
You stand in the shadows, secretly watching her. She looks exhausted, you think. You want to do something, but then you remember what she said, I didn't ask for company. Anything you say will only be pushing her boundaries, especially since you are watching her without her knowledge. So, without saying anything, you slowly walk back to your room.
One particular night, she is pacing in front of the large window, with her hand rubbing the back of her neck, trying to relieve some tension. You watch from a distance, and you can't ignore it anymore, so you decide to do something about it.
The following day, you prepare chamomile-lavender tea. It is known to ease insomnia. You leave it in a warm flask on the marble counter with a note on the side: "For late nights. No caffeine." You don't expect her to touch it, but when you wake up to get some water at 1 a.m, you notice that the flask is gone.
She takes it!
That is the first sign of hope since the day you moved into the house. You don't want to get too excited. The next morning, you don't mention it. You simply prepare another batch that evening and leave it on the counter again.
Your excitement doesn't let you stay asleep for too long. At 2:30 a.m, your body can no longer sleep, so you wander into the kitchen. The flask is still in the same spot. You follow the light that is seeping through.
She's there, seated at her desk. Her posture is perfect as always, but she is occasionally stretching to loosen up the tension in her shoulders. The Apple Pencil is lying on the table as she stares at her design. You know that you should have left her alone, but against your own better judgment, you walk closer.
She doesn't notice your presence as usual, so you clear your throat softly, just enough for her not to be startled. She doesn't look at you immediately.
"There is more tea on the counter," you say quietly, "It's chamomile. It should help with the... restlessness."
Her hand pauses whatever it is doing. There is no reply for a few seconds, and you think you mess up, but then a soft voice brings you out of your thoughts.
"Thank you."
You stay for a few seconds watching her go back to work, then you step back into the darkness without bothering her anymore.
Once you are back in the safety of your bedroom, only then do you realize that this is the first time she doesn't try to completely push you away. She isn't ashamed or annoyed that you barged into her space when she isn't her usual perfect self. Rather, she actually thanks you for looking out for her.
Her voice echoes in your head. It creates a warmth in your heart that you don't really understand.
By the time the storm starts, you are already home, looking through some documents regarding the new merger that your law firm is working on. The storm hits Seoul unannounced. It is sudden and violent. Rain hits the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house -- loud, the swaying trees, the howling wind, and the thunder.
Exhaustion is taking over; you are looking at the tab, reading, but you aren't registering anything. The house is quiet between the loud thunderclaps.
There is a low rumble before a loud crack.
There is a scream that comes from the living room. Your head immediately lifts. The tablet slides out of your hand as you walk through the corridor. You don't rush; you have learned not to because rushing only makes her more defensive.
Just as you are about to reach the source of the sound, there is another thunderclap, and this time, it is not as loud as the previous one.
Wonyoung stands near the sofa, one hand on the back of it, holding her steady. Her cream silk robe slips off one of her shoulders, but she doesn't fix it. Her fingers are gripping the sofa so hard that her knuckles turn white. Her breathing is shallow and loud. She is clearly trying to hide her fear, but is failing at it.
She looks so small, shivering from the loud sound, very unlike the confident woman you had gotten used to. Another loud sound. This one causes her free hand to fly toward her ear to cover herself from the loud sound, but she immediately pulls it away. Almost as if she has been trained not to show weakness, but she can't hold those instincts anymore. Her eyes shut tight in fear.
You approach slowly. No sudden movements, and touching is out of the question. "Wonyoung," you say carefully, barely louder than the rain outside. "It's just the storm."
There is no answer from her. Her gaze meets your eyes only for a second before she looks away at some invisible point.
One step after another, you close the gap. And just as you are about to reach her, you ask for her permission, "I am not coming any closer unless you want me to."
Another flinch as the lightning flashes, her eyes exhausted from all the work and filled with fear. "I hate thunder," she finally says. The words are barely loud enough for you to catch. She almost regretted saying that out loud. It is a show of vulnerability from her, and you know better than to make her regret it.
"I figured as much. Sit down," you suggest.
Once she settles down onto the couch, you grab the blanket that is on the chair behind her, slowly wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.
"I can sit over there if you want--" you gesture at the other end of the couch "and we don't have to talk. Whatever feels less... loud," you say, trying to give her company.
She hesitates, but that disappears the second there is another loud thunderclap. Her eyes meet yours, almost begging you to stay, and you oblige. Taking your seat at the other end of the couch, you don't want to overwhelm her with questions, and you just sit there with your hands on your knees staring at the blank TV screen.
For several minutes, the only sounds are the rain, the wind, and the occasional thunder. Wonyoung is slowly calming down, but her fingers still shiver when she pulls the blanket closer.
"Let me play something on the TV. It will help with the noise," you suggest.
She nods, and you put on an old movie. It is a romance movie that is loud enough to slowly drown out the sound of the storm. Her shoulders ease as she focuses on the movie. Before long, Wonyoung curls herself with her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tight, holding herself together.
You try to focus on the movie, but your gaze keeps slipping back to her. Something about seeing her so fragile and human is unsettling, but it is a sight you could get used to. By the time the movie is at the halfway point, Wonyoung's breath evens out, and she falls asleep
Your gaze is no longer on the movie; you just watch as her chest rises and falls. You've always known that she is beautiful--anyone with eyes could see that, but this... this is different. There is no tension on her face. Just softness, the kind that is rare and feels almost undeserved to witness.
The room grows colder, and worried for her health, you increase the room temperature. As you are heading back to your seat, you pause close to Wonyoung, a strand of stray hair falling across her face.
Before you realize it, you are moving the stray strand behind her ear. You know how dangerous this is.
This version of her-the unguarded one, is not something you are meant to see. Not something she would ever allow if she were awake.
This may be the only time you ever get this opportunity, and you don't intend to waste it.
Settling into the chair across from her, you pick up your tablet, pretending to read, your attention shifting between the documents and her. It is almost dawn by the time you're done with your work (and also admiring her). Light is seeping into the living room from the massive windows.
You never really fall asleep. Using what time you have left before you are needed at the office, you make a quick breakfast: a Spanish omelette, and leave a note beside it: 'Hope you slept well.' Running away from whatever last night was because you aren't ready to see her back to her cold demeanor.
* * *
The days following the storm are interesting, to say the least. The first change comes three days later.
You leave another breakfast for her: scrambled eggs with chives, grilled tomatoes, and her coffee. A small note beside it: "Coffee freshly made. Have a good day!"
By the time you are back after changing for the office, the plate is empty, and the note is gone. In its place is another note with beautiful handwriting that reads: "Thank you."
Nothing more, but it is there, which makes you happy.
That evening, you come home to change for a client dinner. You leave another note: "The meeting is going to run late. Don't wait up."
The next morning, her reply is on the counter.
"I never do."
The reply should hurt, but it doesn't. In fact, it makes you smile. This is the closest thing to a real smile on your face in months.
The notes continue like this. Both your schedules get so busy to the point where you both barely run into each other, even while living in the same house.
It becomes a ritual; sometimes you would write about nothing important, like the rain forecast, or about the new exhibit at the museum that you thought she would like, or the fact that the housekeeper had bought new tea leaves that tasted amazing.
One morning, she leaves a note on your table before you leave; it is simple, but it makes all your efforts worth it.
"The chamomile helped. Again."
Another evening, when you return after a brutally long day, you find a note on the counter that makes you laugh out loud alone in the kitchen.
"You left the lights on in the study. Try not to burn the house down, I am getting quite attached to it"
* * *
Once your schedule frees up, you are back at around 7 p.m. You run into Wonyoung when you just got back home. She is at her usual spot: at the dining table, sketching.
"The new collection looks beautiful," you say as you set your briefcase down. "I saw the preview images online."
You have mentally prepared yourself for the chance of her ignoring you, but, to your surprise, she doesn't ignore you.
Her hand stops moving. "The sustainable cashmere did a lot better than expected when we were testing it. The dyeing process was a little tricky to figure out," she says.
You nod, "Sounds like a pain, but I guess it was worth the trouble, given how nice they came out."
Wonyoung hums in return, and that is the end of the conversation. It lasted less than 30 seconds, but it is huge progress to talk about small things like this with her.
You prepare a fresh batch of the lavender-chamomile tea and leave it on the counter before heading to your room.
Soon after you get to your room, you fall asleep. A few hours later, you wake up thirsty. When you pass by the living room on the way to the kitchen, Wonyoung is sitting there with her knees drawn up and her sketchpad balanced on her lap.
"Mind if I sit?" you ask quietly.
She looks up and nods. Her eyes are filled with exhaustion as she stares at her sketchpad.
Neither of you speaks; you just sit there watching as she continues sketching. Eventually, without looking up, she murmurs, "The thunder hasn't come back."
It is an odd way to start the conversation, but you welcome it, given that it is the first time she has ever started one.
"No," you agree softly. "It hasn't."
That is all. You stay with her until she closes her sketchpad and stands. She looks toward you briefly before wishing you a good night and disappearing into the east wing.
***************
The following day, you come home as usual, and the house smells faintly of galbi-jim; the housekeeper probably cooked it before she left. You are reheating a portion for yourself when you see Wonyoung coming down the stairs, still dressed in her professional attire, her hair a little tousled from a long day.
She stops at the edge of the island.
"There's enough for two. If you are hungry," you suggest as you continue stirring the pot.
She stares at the pot for a second before admitting, "I haven't eaten anything since noon."
No grand gestures; you don't make a big deal of it. You simply get a second bowl, serve the stew and rice carefully, and place it in front of her with a spoon.
She sits on the opposite stool and starts eating.
The silence is broken when Wonyoung remarks, "The rice is a little sticky tonight."
"Too much water?" you question.
"A bit." She pauses. "It's still good," almost like she is trying not to hurt your feelings.
"I'll adjust next time."
She gives you a small nod and takes another bite.
When she finishes, she rinses her bowl in the sink and sets it neatly in the drying rack.
Before heading upstairs, she stops at the edge of the kitchen.
"Thank you for the food."
You meet her eyes for a moment. "Anytime."
You stand at the counter long after she leaves, staring at your empty bowl, steam still rising from the pot. The sudden joy from seeing her eat the breakfast you made is nothing compared to the calm dinner you have just shared with her.
The next morning, as usual, the notes continue, but this time they are longer.
"The stew reheated well for breakfast. Next time, less water in the rice. I have a late fitting today."
You read the note twice, then you write back on the same paper:
"Noted on the rice. Good luck with the fitting. I'll be home by 8 if you want company."
When you return that evening, the note is still on the counter. Beneath your words, in her handwriting: "We'll see."
It isn't a confirmation, but it isn't a rejection either. Which is a win for you.
* * *
The small exchanges continue. The notes evolve from short single lines into almost conversational threats. One morning, you come down to find your usual Post-it replaced by a card in her handwriting:
"The rice was better yesterday. We received the new cashmere samples from Italy. They are so light! You also left your tablet charger in the living room again. I left it on the counter."
You smile at the note; it is almost like she is scolding you for being forgetful. You write back before leaving:
"Glad the rice improved. The new cashmere sounds like it would really suit the new line that you guys are working on. Thanks for the charger. I will try not to forget it again."
Wonyoung is already on the island by the time you get back. She is scrolling through the fabric catalogue on her phone, but she doesn't look up immediately.
"Long day?" you ask as you reheat two bowls of doenjang jjigae.
"Mhm, fittings ran late, and we are looking for a few new colors that suit the new line, so it was quite draining," Wonyoung replied.
You take the stool across from her without comment. For a while, you eat in silence. Halfway through the meal, she speaks again.
"The sustainable wool you mentioned last week. I tested a small sample today. It flows quite well."
"That's nice. I heard about it from a friend who is in the textile business. It is impressive how sustainable they are, especially with the price point that they are selling at.
"Yeah, it might work for the outerwear pieces that we are working on. That is, if the dye holds properly in the humidity tests."
The conversation doesn't go on for much longer. Just like the other day, she pauses at the edge of the kitchen.
"Good night."
******************
The following evening, you are in a meeting discussing how to deal with a high-profile case when you hear thunder rumbling. Your mind immediately goes to Wonyoung, questioning where she is.
Her secretary tells you she is already home when you call him. That means she is home alone.
"I need to head out. You guys figure it out and let me know the solutions you came up with." You don't even wait for a reply before bolting out of the room. The thunder roars louder this time, and the only thing running in your mind is how Wonyoung is doing.
The car ride isn't fast enough. As soon as the car stops in front of the house, you dash out. The first thing you see as you walk into the living room is a scared Wonyoung, her knees pressed to her chest, and a movie playing to drown out the noise of the storm.
Her eyes are filled with tears, threatening to break out. She looks at you, almost pleading for you to give her some company.
"The rain started when I was on a call," she said, her voice weak.
You hang your jacket on the couch and move to the other side. "Mind if I join?"
A simple nod is all you've got. At some point, Wonyoung slowly relaxes, her feet now resting near the center. Not touching, but close enough for you to notice how tiny and cute they are.
When the scene mellows out a little, Wonyoung murmurs, "Thanks for the breakfast again. I really loved the consistency of the yolk on the sunny-side up."
It is rare for her to compliment you, and you always appreciate it. "Glad you liked it."
Just like that, silence returns; neither of you comments on the movie. The rain slowly eases up, but both of you stay until the movie reaches the end.
* * *
Sharing meals with her becomes less accidental. It is more of a ritual now. Your day would end with a shared dinner. Almost always just reheating food that the housekeeper prepared. One Tuesday, you come home to find Wonyoung in the kitchen, chopping green onions. She is dressed in a simple, oversized sweater that covers her shorts, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her long, beautiful legs are on full display. Something about this sight is domestic, which is new, but something you could really get used to.
She notices your presence. "I thought we could do something simple," she said. "I asked the housekeeper to get some fresh mackerel. Wanna have it grilled?"
Without hesitation, you roll your sleeves. "I can season the fish, what about something light? Like ginger-soy?"
"Sure, sounds delicious," she says, passing you a small bowl. You are careful, working in silence. The fish sizzles in the pan, and the room is filled with the faint smell of sesame oil as you serve rice into the bowls.
As you eat, you talk about the funny client who asked for unreasonable things and was rude to the lawyers around you. She mentions the supplier they are talking to for pearls and how it is taking a lot longer than expected. It is all light conversation. She finishes eating and leans back slightly as her fingers trace the rim of the glass.
"The fish turned out quite nicely. It had some nice crispy skin."
"Mhm, next time we should try it with the perilla leaves when they're in season."
"Maybe."
She doesn't leave right away. Instead, she stays to help clear the table. As she sets the last dish in the drying rack, she looks toward the living room.
"The movie from last week... the one with the bookstore. I found out that it has a sequel online. If you aren't too busy, maybe we could watch it," Wonyoung suggests.
You wait a second before you agree. "Sure, let me get changed and we can start."
It doesn't matter to you that you have more work to take care of. All that matters right now is the fact that Wonyoung is also making an effort to spend more time with you. The movie continues playing in the background as you keep stealing glances at her, admiring her beauty.
The following afternoon, you have a client meeting in Gangnam that wraps up earlier than expected. The idea hits you: Wonyoung's store is in the area, and you want to visit her. To see what she looked like when she was working in her environment.
This is different from the meals that you shared or the movies that you watched together. Visiting her unannounced is a risk, but it is one you are feeling brave enough to take today.
There it was: the Jang Atelier, a minimalist board with a black background and gold letters. You adjust your tie, smooth out your blazer, and walk into the store. The boutique is quiet, as expected, and it smells of vetiver and fresh linen. There are a few clients, and all of them are busy in their own worlds to notice you.
The young receptionist recognizes you immediately. She bows and suggests that she announce you, but you wave her off, saying, "I'll find her myself. There is no need to interrupt her."
She nods, leaving you to yourself and retreating to her position. You move slowly through the space, admiring the dresses on the mannequins. Toward the end of the hall, light peeks through what looks like an open door.
Wonyoung's calm voice fills the hall as you get closer to the door. Just as you are about to enter the door, a man's voice makes you stop. Cautiously, not to disturb, you peek through the small gap.
She stands near a large mirror, her red blouse neatly tucked into her high-waisted pants, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail.
The man looks well-dressed. All of a sudden, he leans in close, a bit too close for your liking, as he is speaking about the fabric.
Without warning, he cups her face and kisses her.
Her hands come up to his chest. It looks so natural, like something she had done multiple times. In a split second, before you even realize it, you are walking toward the exit.
Your mind is a mess; it feels like the floor has vanished from under you. The air feels so thick that you are struggling to take it in. Everything that you had hoped for is shattered in a second.
Her words from the first night echo in your head, clear as day: "We are both free to see other people if we wish."
Even though she was so clear, this still comes as a shock to you. The past few weeks have been unlike the beginning. You are under the impression that all your small gestures and the little time you spent together were going to be the start of something, something real.
Apparently not.
She already has someone. Or at least she is letting someone else kiss her like that. While you busted your ass cooking breakfasts, leaving tea for her sleepless nights, running to her to keep her company during storms, she had been here kissing another man in the back of her boutique, hidden from everyone else.
The pain isn't sharp; it's like a dull blade twisting in your heart. Your mind goes completely blank. You want to go back and confront her, but you know confrontation would only humiliate you both.
You offer a curt nod to the receptionist you met and leave. The rest of the day goes by in a blur. The image of her kissing another man replays in your head, again and again. You have to let yourself forget that. You walk in through the side entrance and go straight to your bed.
That evening, you don't leave your room; there is no need to. You aren't going to make her some tea, nor are you going to wait for dinner. Your stomach twists in so many ways that you can't even fathom eating with her. You drown yourself in alcohol, enough to put you deep into sleep. One without any dreams of her.
The following morning, you wake up with a pounding headache. The clock reads 9:00. This is the first time in years you've woken up so late. You take an aspirin and shower before heading to the office as usual. It is clear what you have to do.
Distance yourself from her and drown yourself in work. That is the only thing left in your life, anyway.
The first month passes in a haze of whiskey and work. You teach yourself to drink just enough before bed to put you to sleep, but not enough for you to wake up the next morning with a headache.
Then came the last day of the second month.
Her birthday.
The thought has crossed your mind multiple times. Your thumb hovering over the send button, the simple message: "Happy Birthday, Wonyoung." You delete it. Type it again. This goes on for the next 20 minutes. In the end, you throw the phone across the room.
Checking her schedule has become a ritual. You know she won't be home today before at least three. She has a party planned with her friends, according to her secretary. You have finally allowed yourself the luxury of relaxing in your own living room. A drink in your hand as you played some music. It is a novel feeling, being this free after worrying about offending or bothering Wonyoung.
That feeling is short-lived. At barely 1:30, the front door opens with a loud bang. You freeze with the glass of whiskey halfway to your lips.
Wonyoung walks in. Something about her is very different from the one you knew. She sways as she walks in, her cheeks flushed, her mascara smudged, and her hair no longer in a perfect ponytail.
She is unmistakably, gloriously, and dangerously drunk.
There is a small glint of hope that she will ignore you and go to her room. But she sees you.
Her eyes narrow, trying to figure out if you are real or just another fragment of the illusions she has been seeing. Her expression changes into one of anger.
"You!" she screams, her voice slurring. She kicks her shoes off. "Fucking you!"
She sways forward until she is standing in the middle of the living room, hands balled into tight fists at her sides.
"You think you can just... fucking disappear?" Her chest heaved, pushing down that lump in her throat. "After everything? You spent weeks getting me to lower my guard with all those fucking notes. The tea at two in the morning. The goddamn breakfasts, the movies, and the way you always looked at me and treated me like I wasn't just some fucking political accessory you were forced to deal with. You made me think-"
Her voice breaks, but she pushes through it. "You made me think that I could trust whatever this is; maybe I could even trust you. It was slowly feeling like home instead of a fucking prison."
Tears fall down her cheeks. You almost instinctively reach out, but you stop yourself. "I let you see me, you asshole —the real me, the one who hates the loud sound of thunder, the one who waited for the days we would run into each other so we could eat together."
Her knuckles turn white from how hard she is now gripping the edge of the couch.
"I answered all your stupid notes like a lovesick teenager, all because you actually looked at me for who I am and not because of what my name entailed. You tried everything just for me, and then what?" She laughs, bitter. "And then you fucking vanish. Out of nowhere! No notes. No food. No nothing. You just ghosted me like everything was a mistake, and you finally woke up.”
"Do you know how many times I waited in the kitchen?! Hoping to run into you or maybe even get an explanation for why you suddenly started acting like this.”
"You abandoned me in my own fucking house. You walked away like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. Do you know how much effort it took me to let you in?!" Her tears spilled furiously, chest heaving like she couldn't get enough air.
"I hate you! I hate you so fucking much for making me care, for making me think we could have something that actually mattered. I hate —"
"ENOUGH!"
You scream, throwing the whiskey glass in your hand to the other side of the room. The whiskey in your body burns hotter. The pain you have been drowning in for weeks is taking over.
"You want to talk about abandonment?" Your voice is low but rising. "You did this. You caused every fucking bit of it."
Wonyoung blinks through her tears, furious at your declaration. "I caused it? I —"
"I saw you!" you cut her off, stepping closer until there are only a few inches between. Your hands are shaking with rage, revisiting the very memory you have been trying to forget.
"In the boutique, that day, I came to surprise you, but in return, I was the one who got surprised. There you were, kissing another man, his hands all over your face, touching it as if you belonged to him."
Her lips part, but you don't let her speak.
"That scene reminded me of what you said when I moved in. 'We are both free to see other people if we wish.' It rang in my brain. After you tried to push me away. I still tried. I cooked, bought chocolates you love, and even sat in silence when it rained because I thought maybe, just maybe, you were starting to want this too. So tell me, Wonyoung— why the hell should I keep putting in effort when you already have someone else who can do it for you?!"
You laugh, but it is filled with pain and anger.
"You had him, whoever the fuck that man was. So why should I keep pouring in my effort? You warned me not to fall for you. Congratulations. I listened a little too late. And now I am done! I am done pretending like this fucking farce could actually become a normal marriage."
"Wait! Listen to me. That day at the boutique, it wasn't—"
You cut her off instantly, "I don't want to hear it. I saw everything I needed to. I was stupid enough to try to get to know you, so I am not going to keep—"
She moves shockingly fast for someone drunk. One moment she is gripping the couch, and the next, she is grabbing the front of your t-shirt with surprising strength and crashes her mouth into yours.
The kiss isn't tender. It is desperate and angry; she tastes like champagne and salt. Her fingers twist into your t-shirt, pulling you closer as if she wants you to forget every single accusation.
Your mind goes completely blank. All the rage, the heartbreak, everything gone. You freeze. Unable to properly process what is going on.
She suddenly pulls back, breathing hard, her face only inches from yours. Her eyes are glassy with tears, but beneath that, there is clarity.
"Shut up and listen," she hissed. "That man was one of our major textile providers from China. He's been pushy for months. That day, he came without notice, cornered me in the consultation room, and tried to use the deal as leverage for time with me. He kissed me before I could stop him. I pushed him away the second I could. I threatened legal action if he ever touched me again. I canceled the contract with them the very next minute."
Wonyoung is still gripping your shirt, her body swaying slightly; she refuses to let go.
"I didn't kiss him back! I didn't want him. I was fucking terrified and angry. I spent the rest of the day locked in my office trying to scrub that feeling off my skin. And then you-" her voice cracked. "You disappeared. No explanation. No note. Nothing."
Her grip on your shirt loosens. Without thinking, you lean in.
This kiss is nothing like the one from earlier. It is slow and deliberate. Almost as if you are trying to make up for every word that wasn't said. Your mouth moves against hers.
One of your hands slides down to her waist, fingers spreading wide to grip her harder. She lets out a soft, surprised sound against your lips; she doesn't pull away. Her hand leaves your shirt and loops around your neck.
The kiss breaks, but your foreheads stay pressed together.
"I know it's late," you whisper, "Happy birthday, Wonyoung."
Her eyes close for a second. A shaky exhale leaves her.
"Thank you. Maybe next year, don't be late."
She leans in for a kiss, tongues dancing in tandem. The kiss turns into something you aren’t expecting. Both your hands are exploring each other’s bodies. Her body is pressed flush against yours. The kiss becomes a punishment and an apology all at once. A low rumbling sound escapes your throat as one of her hands tugs at your hair just hard enough to tilt your head.
She pushes.
You fall onto the sofa, and she follows without breaking the kiss, climbing onto your lap and straddling you. Her knees sink into the couch with her legs settling on either side of your hips. Her weight resting on your lap, cradling you between her thighs.
The grinding starts slowly, her hips moving in deliberate rolls. Her warmth against your growing hardness in your pants.
The grinding gets faster, and the friction makes your breath hitch. Still, you register what is happening: she is drunk.
Your hands grip her hips, stopping her movement.
“Wonyoung… wait,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at her properly. “We can’t do this right now. You’re really drunk. We can’t, no, we shouldn’t-”
She let out a groan of frustration. “Shut up. I know exactly what I am doing. I may be drunk, but I am not fucking stupid. I want this, and I am not going to let you overthink this. I’m saying yes.” Her thumbs brush your cheeks. “Right now. I want you. I want your cock. So don’t you dare fucking stop unless you don’t want me.”
The last part is weaker, but her honesty hits you like a punch. There is no sign of doubt on her face; all you see is heat and a desperate kind of need.
Before you can second-guess yourself, she kisses you hard and then slides off your lap, dropping to her knees between your thighs.
Your heart is beating so hard against your ribs as she pulls your belt off, her fingers fumbling as she tries to pull your pants and boxers off. Your cock springs free, thick and heavy. Already hard from her grinding.
Her eyes widen.
“Fuck…” She can’t believe it. Her hand wraps around your hard length. “You’re huge! Jesus Christ, how do you even walk around with that thing?”
You can’t believe the filthy awe in her voice. The elegant Jang Wonyoung is gone; in her place is someone raw, hungry, and shockingly filthy.
She drags her tongue slowly up the underside of your cock, from your balls to the tip. She takes the head into her mouth, lips stretching. She sucks greedily, cheeks hollowing, her tongue swirling around your head while her hand strokes what she can’t fit inside.
“So fucking big,” she moans, the vibration shooting straight through your body. “I can barely get it all inside my mouth. Look at you… leaking for me already.” She licks the drop of leaking precum. “You like watching me struggle to take your cock, don’t you?”
“Fuck,” you groan. All those naughty words coming out of her pristine, perfect mouth are driving you nuts.
Your hand gently wraps around her head, not pushing, just holding as she pushes deeper. She takes more this time, her head bobbing enthusiastically. Her eyes are tearing up, but that doesn’t stop her from pushing you deeper into her throat.
“Wonyoung…” you hiss. Shocked by how eager she is.
She pulls off for air, lips shiny and swollen. Her hand continues to pump your cock fast and slick with her spit all over it. “I want this cock inside me so fucking bad. I want you to stretch me open until I can’t think about anything else. Before that, I’m going to suck you until you are dripping and begging to cum down my throat.”
The blowjob turns messy and obscene. She is worshipping your cock with her mouth and throat — sucking, licking, stroking, and occasionally slapping it against her tongue with the nastiest grin on her face. Everything she does sends you closer to the edge.
Soon, you are begging to cum down her pretty throat. “Wonyoung, pleasee.”
“Enough,” she said, climbing back onto your lap. “I need you inside me. Now!”
She reaches between you, guiding the head of your cock to her drenched entrance. She is dripping through her panties. She shoves the lace aside and slowly sinks.
She struggles to take the first inch. Her eyes fluttered shut, mouth wide open in a gasp. ”Oh my God… It’s too fucking big,” but she doesn’t stop. Her hips rocking in shallow movements, pushing herself down inch by inch. “You’re splitting me open. I can feel every vein… it's stretching me so wide…”
Your hands grab her hips hard, fighting the urge to push up into her tight pussy. “Slow, baby. Don’t hurt yourself.”
You bury your nose in her neck, taking in the vanilla scent of her perfume. But Wonyoung is determined. She pushes herself down harder, taking more than half your cock in one go. Her walls tighten violently around you, wet and impossibly tight.
“Ahh!” she cries out, nails digging into your shoulders. “It hurts so good, your cock is so huge.. I fucking love it!”
She starts riding you then, slow at first, but slowly getting faster. Her desperation to get filled is getting worse. Every time she sinks, she takes more of you until finally, with a loud sob, she bottoms out. Her ass flushes against your thighs.
“FUCK fuck. I’m so full,” she moans, her forehead pressing onto yours. “Your cock is all the way inside me… ruining my tight little pussy.”
Just from having you fully inside her, she has her first orgasm. Her walls flutter and clench as she is grinding down hard. A loud moan tears through her throat. “Cumming… Oh fuck, I’m cumming on your massive cock”
Her orgasm hits hard, pussy gushing around your cock. You hold her through it, hands around her waist, still gripping it.
She doesn’t stop, barely giving herself enough time to recover, and she starts riding you again, faster this time. The wet, obscene sound of her pussy fills the room, skin slapping and her juices dripping down to your balls.
“Harder! Fuck me harder. I want you to pound my pussy ‘til I can’t walk tomorrow. Make me cum again! Make cum all over your big fucking cock.”
You thrust up to meet her. Pounding her like it was the only thing you were made to do. Her moans are loud, almost turning into screams from how hard you were going. Your rhythm matches hers perfectly. You are hitting spots in her that she didn’t even know existed.
She climaxes for the second time soon after, with a broken scream, her pussy clamping so tightly around you that you nearly blow your load inside of her.
But she hasn’t finished yet.
Her hips keep moving, slow but grinding in circles that keep your cock buried deep inside her. She was whispering filthy promises against your mouth in between desperate kisses and squeezing her bare tits.
“Again, again, I want to cum again… don’t you dare fucking pull out until I cum my brains out on your cock.”
She refuses to stop. She braces her hands on your chest, nails digging in through your shirt. She is grinding her swollen clit against you with every move.
“FUCK! I can feel you so deep,” she moans, “your cock is hitting places I didn’t even know existed, it’s so fucking big! Break my pussy, make sure that no one can ever satisfy me other than you!”
She bites her lips, eyes barely open. “Look at me. Look how I’m riding this dick like a desperate little slut. You never thought the quiet, pristine Wonyoung would be bouncing on you like this. Begging for you to destroy her with your fat cock like this, did you?”
You are speechless, hands gripping her perky tits so hard you knew you’d leave bruises.
The woman in front of you now is a complete contrast to the woman you’d lived with, and this filthy vocal version riding on your cock is almost too much. Every word out of her mouth sends another throb through your cock, nesting deep inside her scorching pussy.
“I fucking love this version of you: a complete slut who wants to get her pussy wrecked. You are so fucking tight. So wet. I can feel you dripping all over my balls.”
She smirks at your praise, her hips moving faster, lifting just enough to slam back down with a wet sound. “That’s right. I’m soaking your cock. This tight little cunt is creaming all over you.” Her head fell back. “I’ve been so fucking empty, and now you’re filling me up so good. Stretching and ruining me. I’m fucking addicted!.”
She starts bouncing in deep strokes. Each time she drops, there is a loud smack. Her moans turn into broken whimpers, but she keeps talking, the dirty words spilling out.
“I love it so much. Your cock is so huge it hurts, but fuckk I’m getting addicted. I love how it splits me open. I’m gonna cum on it again. I want to cum so hard I soak your lap and leave a mark on this couch. Tell me how much you love my pussy. Tell me you love breaking your wife’s brain and making her into a complete slut.”
“It’s perfect — so fucking perfect and tight. It makes me want to fucking breed you. You’re taking me so well, baby. Look at you, riding me like a whore who wants nothing but my cock.”
Her rhythm falters for a second as your dirty talk gets to her.
It is relentless — her hips snapping faster, grinding deep on every stroke. Sweat beads are falling from her face, loose hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. The living room is filled with the filthy sounds of your bodies slapping against each other.
“I’m close. I am so fucking close,” she pants, her voice breaking. “I’m gonna cum again. Don’t stop, please! Keep fucking me. Keep ruining this greedy little pussy. My pussy loves your cock so fucking much. You’re so deep I can feel you in my stomach.”
You watch her face, mesmerized by how she completely let herself go. The elegant woman is gone; in her place is a desperate, filthy-mouthed goddess chasing pleasure as she can never get enough. Your thrusts got harder, more violent. Trying your best to destroy her exactly how she was begging.
“Yesss! RIGHT THERE,” she screams. “THERE, FUCK, keep going! Don’t you dare fucking stop!” Her movements become erratic, frantic, and her thighs are trembling violently. “I’m almost there… almost.. fuck, I need it so bad-”
Her orgasm comes crashing, her eyes rolling back, and she is moaning incoherent things. She takes a lot longer to recover from this. She feels you twitching inside, begging to cum.
She can feel you throbbing, and she doesn’t waste time. She slides down your body, settling between your thighs, her face level with your throbbing cock. “Cum in my mouth, please. I want to swallow your thick fucking load. Let me drink every drop. Please, baby, feed me your cum.”
“Fuck, Wonyoung… you’re killing me.” You groaned.
She grabs your cock with both hands, stroking furiously while her tongue swirls around the head. “Mmm, my pussy tastes so good all over your cock. I love it!”
She takes your cock deep into her throat in one greedy motion, gagging loudly as the head hits the back of her throat. Tears are flowing down her face again, but she keeps going, bobbing fast and sloppily, cheeks hollowing.
“Fuck my mouth,” she gasps when she pulls off for air, strings of spit and her own juices connecting her lips to your cock. “Use my throat like a fleshlight. I can take it. I want you to cum so deep I choke on it.”
She dives back down, throat contracting around your girth as she forces more of you inside. Her nose is pressing against your pelvis. The wet, choking sounds are obscene and perfect.
You moan, hand tangling in her hair. The sight of her mascara ruined, lips stretching around your cock, desperately sucking like she needed cum more than air, push you right to the brink.
“Wonyoung, fuck, I’m gonna cum!” you warn Wonyoung, voice wrecked.
She pulls out just in time to beg. Her voice is hoarse, dripping with lust. “Yes, cum in my mouth. I want to swallow every thick drop. Please, please cum for me. Let me taste how much you wanted my tight pussy.”
With a guttural groan, you blow your load, pulsing thick ropes straight onto her tongue, some onto her face. Wonyoung moans, eyes locked on yours as she swallowed greedily, not wasting a single drop. She keeps sucking your tip gently through your orgasm, milking you until you are empty and shuddering. Barely able to stand.
Only when you finally stop twitching does she pull out with a satisfied pop, licking her lips clean. She looks up at you, flushed and messy and utterly satisfied. A wicked smile is visible on her face.
“Happy birthday to me,” she whispers, voice raw.
Wonyoung stays on her knees for a moment longer, licking her lips slowly as the last traces of you disappear down her throat. Her cheeks are deep pink, mascara ruined, hair a wild mess around her face. She looks thoroughly used and somehow more beautiful than ever.
You reach down, gently pulling her up into your arms. She comes willingly, collapsing against your chest with a soft sigh. You grab a box of tissues from the side table and wipe her face and between her thighs, cleaning away the mess of sweat, slick, and cum. She lets you, her head resting on your shoulder as you clean.
“Come on,” you murmur against her hair. ”Bed. We both need to sleep.”
She nods weakly, legs still shaking. You carry her to your room, the one she had never set foot in before tonight. You strip off your clothes and change into something comfortable. You grab one of your oversized white dress shirts from the closet and slip it over her head. The shirt is far too big for her; the hem fell almost to her knees. The sleeves are swallowing her hands completely. She looks so small and soft in it.
Her body curls into yours under the sheets, one leg draped over your thigh. The sight of her wearing your shirt did something strange to you.
Before you fall asleep, you press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, “There’s a lot to talk about tomorrow — a lot we need to figure out.”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” She mumbles. Her fingers curl loosely into the front of your shirt, and she moves closer. she whispers against your lips
“Stay.”
**********
You stir awake. The light is leaking into the bedroom through the half-closed blinds. Wonyoung is still there, curled up tightly against you, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her arms around your waist possessively. Your oversized shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the smooth skin of her thigh.
She wakes up a few minutes later. You see the exact moment she registers where she is. Her body tensed. She tries to pull away, but moving makes her wince. A tiny, embarrassed sound escapes her throat.
The confident, foul-mouthed woman from last night has completely vanished. Next to you is a shy, blushing Wonyoung who can’t even meet your eyes for more than half a second. The oversized shirt makes her look even smaller than she already is.
“Um…” she whispers. Her cheeks were crimson. “I- I need to use the washroom.”
She tries to stand up on her own and immediately hisses in pain, thighs trembling as she fails to maintain her balance. She realizes that she literally can’t walk. Her legs are too sore, her core too wrecked.
Wonyoung covers her face with both her hands in embarrassment. “Oh my god, I can’t… I can’t even stand,” voice muffled and tiny. “This is so embarrassing.”
You run to the other side of the bed before she can do anything. “Hey, it’s okay. Let me help.”
She protests at first and tries to move again, but that only makes her whimper in pain again. She eventually gives up. You slide an arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting her against your chest. She buries her burning face in your shoulder the entire way, refusing to look at you.
You set her down gently on the toilet, then step outside and close the door. “Take your time. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
A few minutes later, she calls your name softly, barely enough for you to hear. When you open the door, she is still sitting there, looking impossibly shy, knees pressed together.
“I-I think I need help standing,” she admits. You help her up and support her while she washes herself. You then carry her back to the bed. Once she settles against the pillows, you brush a strand of hair from her face.
“Stay here. I’ll make breakfast.”
She nods, pulling the covers up to her chin, trying to hide from the events of last night.
You make a simple breakfast: scrambled eggs, avocado toast. You arrange everything on a tray and bring it to the room.
Wonyoung is sitting up when you return, still wrapped in the sheets.
You set the tray across her lap and watch as she eats. She takes small bites, clearly conscious of you watching her.
When she finally sets the utensils down, you speak softly.
“There’s a lot to talk about, isn’t there, Wonyoung?”
She swallows hard, fingers twisting in the sheet.
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “There really is.”
