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I liked all of my students, even the rowdy boys who disrupted the class and distracted others, even the girls who sat as far back in the corners of the classroom as possible so they could use their phones. I could never be hard on them, considering they came to the academy after grinding out a full day of school. Instead of spending their afternoon eating snacks and unwinding in front of a television, like a young student is supposed to do, they had to grind out another three to four hours of learning a language that was incredibly difficult for them. They were all exhausted, agitated—anything but calm and focused.
Along with that problem, there were the social norms and parental pressures operating under the surface. The rare kid who was overweight had a much tougher time being accepted in this country. Schooling was made so competitive that anyone who couldn’t ace a test while sleep deprived was deemed inferior. That’s why I tried to be a relaxed teacher who went easy on the students. They were under enough pressure without me trying to intimidate them.
One student in particular became my favorite. I didn’t want to have favorites, but nevertheless, she stood out from the moment I learned her name: Jisu Oh. It was my favorite of all the feminine Korean names. It sounded like the name for a woman warrior in a fantasy novel, though this Jisu was anything but that. She was inexplicably shy and quiet around everyone in the academy. Unlike the kids who had trouble fitting in because they were overweight or had a bad case of acne, Jisu was beautiful—at least by American standards. Perhaps the others thought she was too strange, with her perfectly trimmed bobbed haircut, and how she always buttoned her uniform shirt to completely cover her neck. And she was quite thin.
I taught her in an advanced course for senior high schoolers every Wednesday and Friday night, with only two other students in the class—both boys who constantly chatted with each other and mostly ignored her. A few times, when they paused in their chats and glanced at her, I sensed they were poking fun. She barely returned their glances. Maybe they were asking harmless questions that she didn’t care to answer.
As I got to know her throughout the class, her personality slowly began to emerge for me. On Fridays, the students went straight to the computers in the lobby, where they recorded a five minute speaking piece. They would come into the classroom one-by-one so that I could listen to it with them and make corrections. She would always enter the room last, pause at the door, lock her heels together, and give a proper bow in the way the students were expected to greet their teachers. Every time she did this I would tell her she shouldn’t bother to greet her American teachers this way.
After the fifth week she paused at the door awkwardly, then decided to wave and say with her slow and quiet voice, “Good evening.”
I was making progress with her. Maybe soon she would be entering the room the way I expected of a student her age, by slamming the door, slouching into the seat, putting a decent frown on her face because she was still in school after six o’clock.
She wasn’t one of those students to take school so seriously that she was constantly scribbling notes or berating herself for making a careless error on her grammar. She was just detached from school and the social life of it altogether. The way she tended to swirl her pen in the corners of her papers, and how her speaking parts tended to go off on interesting tangents from the topic—I wondered if she had an artistic soul in her that had been repressed. Korean culture only fostered cutting edge academic performances in math, science, engineering, and English. Playing instruments in a formal band was acceptable. Everything else was a waste of time.
After I finished the corrections on her parts, she was expected to return to the computers and work on an essay. That’s when I took the opportunity to keep her in the room an extra minute and try to prod into her interests. I would say, “If you don’t know what to say about your favorite movie, you could talk about a movie you’re hoping to see, maybe one you’re hoping to make. Could you envision yourself as a movie director?”
She looked at me with the most disinterested, mute reaction a student had ever given me. She definitely could have played a role in a movie, as the uninterested student who keeps the overly idealistic teacher grounded.
“You’re not into movies at all, are you?”
She shook her head.
I smiled, watching her hair swivel and fall back into place, with not a single strand sticking out. “Well, tell me, Jisu. What do you like? I’m just trying to help you generate topics here. I’m not prying into your personal life.”
For once she smiled back. She hesitated a moment. “I like reading novels.”
“Novels? That’s great. Oh good. We have something we can talk about after all.”
She laughed, with a slight amount of tension across her face. “Can I go out there and… work on my essay?”
“Yeah. Of course. Next week, I’m making the topic about novels, just for you. I want to hear everything you have to say about them. Those two guys can suffer through it. Because they probably haven’t read a whole novel in their lives.”
I found that as I dropped comments about how terrible the boys’ speaking parts had been her tense posture eased up. If I embarrassed myself by tripping over my own grammar corrections, she would laugh most genuinely.
The technique of embarrassing myself, playing the part of the overly enthusiastic teacher, worked well in front of the boys. In our reading, a well-known Korean radio show was mentioned, and I stopped to ask if Jisu knew of this show, because she had said in one of her speaking parts that she loved to listen to the radio. She shook her head and said, “I don’t listen to the radio.”
“But you said in one of your speaking parts that you listen to the radio.”
She shrugged. “I just—make that up.”
The boys chuckled. I pretended to be taken aback, as if my worldview that all students were always completely honest on their speaking parts had just been shattered. “How many of your speaking parts do you lie on?”
“I think… all of them.”
Their chuckling turned to uproarious laughter. Jisu had shown up their teacher that day, a feat even they had never dared to go for. In sessions after that, when I called on her for answers, she spoke up more easily. She kept a smile on her face.
On Fridays, she came into the room for her review with enthusiasm. She no longer sat coldly still as I made the correction. She bounced up and down in her chair and lightly hummed to herself, saying, “Okay… Okay. I will make it better.”
When I finished, she was slow to get out of her chair.
I didn’t want her to leave the room yet. “So…” I said, unsure what I even wanted to say. “Gotta get started on another of Mark’s essays?”
She sighed and put her hands over her head. “Ahh! But I’m so tired.”
“That’s okay. You can just make up a bunch of lies, like you do for my speaking topics.”
She laughed. “No. I don’t lie always.”
“Well that’s good.” I nodded. A moment of silence started building up. “That’s good. So what have you told the truth about? Do you really enjoy reading novels?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Me too. You know, there’s an English bookstore just down the street? It’s called ‘Buy The Book.’”
“Yes. I know.”
“Yeah… It’s a cool place. There’s a lot of English teachers in there. And they do cool stuff on Saturdays.”
“But… I don’t want to read English novels.” She laughed.
“Oh. Right. You get enough English practice in school, I guess.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to ask her dozens of questions, about what she really thought of school, or her parents, or the boys in the class… But we had less than five minutes remaining. And she was a student. I was her teacher—not her friend or godparent or—definitely not her boyfriend. I wasn’t having thoughts like that, was I?
She left the room, with an elongated, “Bye.”
I said, “See you on Wednesday.”
She went back to the computer room, back into her apathetic mood, where she would be stuck for another week. I went back to grading what seemed like a thousand essays, and I resisted thinking about how well we were getting along, about how we would know each other if we had met in a different context, at different ages, or in a different time or place.
I didn’t even recognize Jisu when I first saw her in the bookstore. She was in the wrong place, wearing the wrong clothing. I always went there on the first Saturday of every month. The bookstore would have its front tables cleared off for a small arts and crafts market to take place. I had noticed a good looking feminine figure in the corner, wearing black pants and a plain white, long sleeve shirt, and I made a mental note to edge my way closer to her when I finished chatting with the vendors. The hair and petite frame didn’t clue me in that I was conjuring up a pickup line for one of my students. A moment later our eyes met at the shelves, and I stood in shock. She, however, came forth with a greeting right away, as if she had noticed me when I walked in and was waiting to see me.
She didn’t speak with such a sterile, slow tone like she did in class. She was slightly peppy. And she gave a nervous gush of laughter, putting her hand over her face, when I said, “But you said you didn’t want to read English novels.”
“I… changed my mind.” She looked at all the foreigners around her. “And I wanted to see the market.”
She told me the novel she was looking for. Usually her accent didn’t make our conversation difficult, but this moment was an exception. I repeated what I heard, “Old Sea?”
She laughed. She had to say the name for me four times, and finally I heard, “Odyssey.”
“You want to read The Odyssey?”
“Yes.”
“Like, the epic poem by Homer?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s really impressive. If you read that, we could talk about it. I’ve read it.”
“Okay!” She nodded. “I want to talk about it with you.”
“Okay. Good.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next. The conversation seemed to be over, but we stood still, with that same sort of tension that bubbled between us during reviews. I knew then that I didn’t just want to pump up Jisu’s confidence in the classroom. I had a crush on her. And she seemed to have one for me. That was okay. A crush meant nothing. It existed in a vast, blurry area between friendly admiration and serious lust. My crush for Jisu was still somewhere in the earlier half of that zone, and I had no plans to push it along any further. I told her I would bring the book to class so she could borrow it, then began edging away.
“But, you live really close.” She pointed in the direction of my apartment. She knew the location, because it was right next to the academy.
“Um. Yeah. I do. Why?”
“So, I can borrow it now?”
My stomach tightened up. I gave a response without being able to think about what I was saying, “Yeah, come get it now. That’s a much better idea.”
As we drifted out the door, I glanced around. Friends of mine could have been watching me leave the bookstore with such a young girl. But Jisu didn’t look that young. She was a senior in high school. Well, when the academic year started in a month she would be. That made her at least seventeen. But if she had a really late birthday, then she would be only sixteen… So she was almost seventeen, at the youngest.
That didn’t matter. She was my student. Of course I was walking out of a bookstore with one of my students—Saturday tutoring sessions. That’s what everyone would assume. And that’s all this was. I was going to loan her the book, and that was all we would do. Jisu was walking with me to my apartment, on a Saturday afternoon, to borrow a book—The Odyssey.
We walked down those cluttered city streets, with two hearts invisible to everyone among us, invisible even to ourselves.
My apartment walls wrapped around us, lured us into the corner where my books were stacked, where we didn’t simply exchange a book for a thank you and goodbye. We picked through my small collection and chatted about each book endlessly. Eventually she took The Odyssey in her hands and read the first few pages while sitting on my bed. I stopped wondering when this encounter was going to end, if her parents were expecting her home soon, or if she didn’t want to be around me as much as I wanted to believe she did. She wasn’t going to leave until I gave her a reason to go. But I wasn’t going to give her a reason to leave.
I couldn’t think of anything to say as I watched her flip through the book. I could only notice the stillness between us, the single strand of hair that floated in front of her eyes, the two specks on her cheek that were the only imperfections on her face. And I noticed my blood getting hotter and hotter.
I was being ridiculous. Even if she had a minuscule crush on me—her teacher, who was ten years older than her—she didn’t want me to seduce her. She would have been appalled.
Wouldn’t she? She did come to the bookstore after insisting she didn’t want to read an English novel. Her sudden change of mind seemed questionable. And she was the one who suggested we get the book right away. She was the one refusing to let the moment between us resolve. She wanted something from me besides some ancient poetry. I didn’t know what I wanted. But perhaps I could push the boundaries between us, just a bit.
I touched the piece of hair hanging in front of her face.
She looked at me with plain curiosity, complete patience.
“You had a piece of hair in your face,” I said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I sat next to her, with my hand placed between us. “That was bothering me. Usually your hair looks so—perfect.”
She nodded.
“It goes well with your face. Because it’s perfect, you know?”
She lowered the book, let it fall somewhere to the floor, then turned to look straight at me. Under the intensity of that particular gaze, I felt more comfortable around her than I had ever been.
“And your hands?” I grabbed one of her hands and massaged her soft palm. “They’re—”
“Ne,” she said—Korean for “yes.”
“Wait—you don’t know what I’m going to say.”
She laughed silently.
And I kept rubbing her hands, lingering around to find the tension between us. But I didn’t sense it. “Your hands are perfect too.”
“Thank you.”
I had expected her to get nervous and hide her face, but she was being bold with me, receiving every little advance with enthusiasm. Maybe she knew where this moment was going better than I did.
“Is the rest of you perfect too?”
She looked at me a moment, then shrugged as lightly as possible.
“Can I see?”
“Ne.” Her breath shuddered.
I grazed my fingers across the fabric of her sleeve, down her chest, to each end of her hips. I peeled her shirt away. With each garment I removed, I asked if I could see the part of her it was covering. For her socks and pants, she didn’t bother answering. She simply joined in the effort of undressing. Then she was naked, and I still fully clothed.
I admired her body, so smooth and hairless, her tiny titties, her neck and shoulders. Everything about her was small and beautiful, inviting me to keep grazing my hands across her, going from the broadest parts of her—stomach, back, and thighs—then to her sharply sensitive parts—pinching her tits, teasing her firmly tucked in clit. And to finish touching her, her lips.
I realized then I had yet to kiss her, and the moment for that was now, by tugging her chin into mine.
She put her hands around the backs of my shoulders and pressed on me uncertainely. I did the same to her, gripped her shoulders tightly and went deeper into her mouth, so that she would do the same back to me.
I released my rock hard cock from my pants. The relief in letting it spring to life couldn’t wait a second longer. She looked down at it. Shock spread across her face. “Oh!” She turned excited, knowing her allure had brought me to such arousal.
As I undressed, I watched her vulva dampen.
We were both naked. I returned to the bed, staying above her my knees. She hunched down, moving back exactly in sync with me moving forth. Her back pressed into the pillow. Her head found comfort against the wall. I brought my body within inches of her and paused for a while, with our hands locked together.
This was too perfect a moment to push onward. I loved her smell, her nervous glare, her breath, my cock throbbing right above her, already dripping onto her stomach.
“Ready?” I said.
She quickly nodded. “Ne.”
I pushed into her with difficulty, even though she was so wet. Her tightness made me aware, again, of our dynamic, how small she was under me, which was why I kept my body above hers. I moved my crotch forward as slowly as possible, stopped when I was just over halfway in her, and found my rhythm from there. She didn’t bleed. Perhaps she had gone through that breaking in process by her own means. Maybe she wasn’t even a virgin. I had no way to make that guess. I had no reason to care about that for now. All I cared was that she got comfortable. A moment went by where the tension eased on her face, and the single tear welling in her left eye dripped away. I kept staring at her. She opened her eyes to see me, and her face developed a smiled
I thrusted into Jisu. Together we breathed, hands to hands and feet to feet. I went slowly, not to be gentle on her, but to resist spurting too soon. But there was very little I could do to keep the moment alive. I was about to cum, even with almost no movement inside her.
I had to bring her up to my arousal, bring her to climax before me. I pressed a thumb against her clit while I continued in her. She gave a delightful reaction. So I kept it there, moving it in tiny circles. The tiniest of movements sent her into a trance. I pressedTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.
Along with that problem, there were the social norms and parental pressures operating under the surface. The rare kid who was overweight had a much tougher time being accepted in this country. Schooling was made so competitive that anyone who couldn’t ace a test while sleep deprived was deemed inferior. That’s why I tried to be a relaxed teacher who went easy on the students. They were under enough pressure without me trying to intimidate them.
One student in particular became my favorite. I didn’t want to have favorites, but nevertheless, she stood out from the moment I learned her name: Jisu Oh. It was my favorite of all the feminine Korean names. It sounded like the name for a woman warrior in a fantasy novel, though this Jisu was anything but that. She was inexplicably shy and quiet around everyone in the academy. Unlike the kids who had trouble fitting in because they were overweight or had a bad case of acne, Jisu was beautiful—at least by American standards. Perhaps the others thought she was too strange, with her perfectly trimmed bobbed haircut, and how she always buttoned her uniform shirt to completely cover her neck. And she was quite thin.
I taught her in an advanced course for senior high schoolers every Wednesday and Friday night, with only two other students in the class—both boys who constantly chatted with each other and mostly ignored her. A few times, when they paused in their chats and glanced at her, I sensed they were poking fun. She barely returned their glances. Maybe they were asking harmless questions that she didn’t care to answer.
As I got to know her throughout the class, her personality slowly began to emerge for me. On Fridays, the students went straight to the computers in the lobby, where they recorded a five minute speaking piece. They would come into the classroom one-by-one so that I could listen to it with them and make corrections. She would always enter the room last, pause at the door, lock her heels together, and give a proper bow in the way the students were expected to greet their teachers. Every time she did this I would tell her she shouldn’t bother to greet her American teachers this way.
After the fifth week she paused at the door awkwardly, then decided to wave and say with her slow and quiet voice, “Good evening.”
I was making progress with her. Maybe soon she would be entering the room the way I expected of a student her age, by slamming the door, slouching into the seat, putting a decent frown on her face because she was still in school after six o’clock.
She wasn’t one of those students to take school so seriously that she was constantly scribbling notes or berating herself for making a careless error on her grammar. She was just detached from school and the social life of it altogether. The way she tended to swirl her pen in the corners of her papers, and how her speaking parts tended to go off on interesting tangents from the topic—I wondered if she had an artistic soul in her that had been repressed. Korean culture only fostered cutting edge academic performances in math, science, engineering, and English. Playing instruments in a formal band was acceptable. Everything else was a waste of time.
After I finished the corrections on her parts, she was expected to return to the computers and work on an essay. That’s when I took the opportunity to keep her in the room an extra minute and try to prod into her interests. I would say, “If you don’t know what to say about your favorite movie, you could talk about a movie you’re hoping to see, maybe one you’re hoping to make. Could you envision yourself as a movie director?”
She looked at me with the most disinterested, mute reaction a student had ever given me. She definitely could have played a role in a movie, as the uninterested student who keeps the overly idealistic teacher grounded.
“You’re not into movies at all, are you?”
She shook her head.
I smiled, watching her hair swivel and fall back into place, with not a single strand sticking out. “Well, tell me, Jisu. What do you like? I’m just trying to help you generate topics here. I’m not prying into your personal life.”
For once she smiled back. She hesitated a moment. “I like reading novels.”
“Novels? That’s great. Oh good. We have something we can talk about after all.”
She laughed, with a slight amount of tension across her face. “Can I go out there and… work on my essay?”
“Yeah. Of course. Next week, I’m making the topic about novels, just for you. I want to hear everything you have to say about them. Those two guys can suffer through it. Because they probably haven’t read a whole novel in their lives.”
I found that as I dropped comments about how terrible the boys’ speaking parts had been her tense posture eased up. If I embarrassed myself by tripping over my own grammar corrections, she would laugh most genuinely.
The technique of embarrassing myself, playing the part of the overly enthusiastic teacher, worked well in front of the boys. In our reading, a well-known Korean radio show was mentioned, and I stopped to ask if Jisu knew of this show, because she had said in one of her speaking parts that she loved to listen to the radio. She shook her head and said, “I don’t listen to the radio.”
“But you said in one of your speaking parts that you listen to the radio.”
She shrugged. “I just—make that up.”
The boys chuckled. I pretended to be taken aback, as if my worldview that all students were always completely honest on their speaking parts had just been shattered. “How many of your speaking parts do you lie on?”
“I think… all of them.”
Their chuckling turned to uproarious laughter. Jisu had shown up their teacher that day, a feat even they had never dared to go for. In sessions after that, when I called on her for answers, she spoke up more easily. She kept a smile on her face.
On Fridays, she came into the room for her review with enthusiasm. She no longer sat coldly still as I made the correction. She bounced up and down in her chair and lightly hummed to herself, saying, “Okay… Okay. I will make it better.”
When I finished, she was slow to get out of her chair.
I didn’t want her to leave the room yet. “So…” I said, unsure what I even wanted to say. “Gotta get started on another of Mark’s essays?”
She sighed and put her hands over her head. “Ahh! But I’m so tired.”
“That’s okay. You can just make up a bunch of lies, like you do for my speaking topics.”
She laughed. “No. I don’t lie always.”
“Well that’s good.” I nodded. A moment of silence started building up. “That’s good. So what have you told the truth about? Do you really enjoy reading novels?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Me too. You know, there’s an English bookstore just down the street? It’s called ‘Buy The Book.’”
“Yes. I know.”
“Yeah… It’s a cool place. There’s a lot of English teachers in there. And they do cool stuff on Saturdays.”
“But… I don’t want to read English novels.” She laughed.
“Oh. Right. You get enough English practice in school, I guess.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to ask her dozens of questions, about what she really thought of school, or her parents, or the boys in the class… But we had less than five minutes remaining. And she was a student. I was her teacher—not her friend or godparent or—definitely not her boyfriend. I wasn’t having thoughts like that, was I?
She left the room, with an elongated, “Bye.”
I said, “See you on Wednesday.”
She went back to the computer room, back into her apathetic mood, where she would be stuck for another week. I went back to grading what seemed like a thousand essays, and I resisted thinking about how well we were getting along, about how we would know each other if we had met in a different context, at different ages, or in a different time or place.
I didn’t even recognize Jisu when I first saw her in the bookstore. She was in the wrong place, wearing the wrong clothing. I always went there on the first Saturday of every month. The bookstore would have its front tables cleared off for a small arts and crafts market to take place. I had noticed a good looking feminine figure in the corner, wearing black pants and a plain white, long sleeve shirt, and I made a mental note to edge my way closer to her when I finished chatting with the vendors. The hair and petite frame didn’t clue me in that I was conjuring up a pickup line for one of my students. A moment later our eyes met at the shelves, and I stood in shock. She, however, came forth with a greeting right away, as if she had noticed me when I walked in and was waiting to see me.
She didn’t speak with such a sterile, slow tone like she did in class. She was slightly peppy. And she gave a nervous gush of laughter, putting her hand over her face, when I said, “But you said you didn’t want to read English novels.”
“I… changed my mind.” She looked at all the foreigners around her. “And I wanted to see the market.”
She told me the novel she was looking for. Usually her accent didn’t make our conversation difficult, but this moment was an exception. I repeated what I heard, “Old Sea?”
She laughed. She had to say the name for me four times, and finally I heard, “Odyssey.”
“You want to read The Odyssey?”
“Yes.”
“Like, the epic poem by Homer?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s really impressive. If you read that, we could talk about it. I’ve read it.”
“Okay!” She nodded. “I want to talk about it with you.”
“Okay. Good.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next. The conversation seemed to be over, but we stood still, with that same sort of tension that bubbled between us during reviews. I knew then that I didn’t just want to pump up Jisu’s confidence in the classroom. I had a crush on her. And she seemed to have one for me. That was okay. A crush meant nothing. It existed in a vast, blurry area between friendly admiration and serious lust. My crush for Jisu was still somewhere in the earlier half of that zone, and I had no plans to push it along any further. I told her I would bring the book to class so she could borrow it, then began edging away.
“But, you live really close.” She pointed in the direction of my apartment. She knew the location, because it was right next to the academy.
“Um. Yeah. I do. Why?”
“So, I can borrow it now?”
My stomach tightened up. I gave a response without being able to think about what I was saying, “Yeah, come get it now. That’s a much better idea.”
As we drifted out the door, I glanced around. Friends of mine could have been watching me leave the bookstore with such a young girl. But Jisu didn’t look that young. She was a senior in high school. Well, when the academic year started in a month she would be. That made her at least seventeen. But if she had a really late birthday, then she would be only sixteen… So she was almost seventeen, at the youngest.
That didn’t matter. She was my student. Of course I was walking out of a bookstore with one of my students—Saturday tutoring sessions. That’s what everyone would assume. And that’s all this was. I was going to loan her the book, and that was all we would do. Jisu was walking with me to my apartment, on a Saturday afternoon, to borrow a book—The Odyssey.
We walked down those cluttered city streets, with two hearts invisible to everyone among us, invisible even to ourselves.
My apartment walls wrapped around us, lured us into the corner where my books were stacked, where we didn’t simply exchange a book for a thank you and goodbye. We picked through my small collection and chatted about each book endlessly. Eventually she took The Odyssey in her hands and read the first few pages while sitting on my bed. I stopped wondering when this encounter was going to end, if her parents were expecting her home soon, or if she didn’t want to be around me as much as I wanted to believe she did. She wasn’t going to leave until I gave her a reason to go. But I wasn’t going to give her a reason to leave.
I couldn’t think of anything to say as I watched her flip through the book. I could only notice the stillness between us, the single strand of hair that floated in front of her eyes, the two specks on her cheek that were the only imperfections on her face. And I noticed my blood getting hotter and hotter.
I was being ridiculous. Even if she had a minuscule crush on me—her teacher, who was ten years older than her—she didn’t want me to seduce her. She would have been appalled.
Wouldn’t she? She did come to the bookstore after insisting she didn’t want to read an English novel. Her sudden change of mind seemed questionable. And she was the one who suggested we get the book right away. She was the one refusing to let the moment between us resolve. She wanted something from me besides some ancient poetry. I didn’t know what I wanted. But perhaps I could push the boundaries between us, just a bit.
I touched the piece of hair hanging in front of her face.
She looked at me with plain curiosity, complete patience.
“You had a piece of hair in your face,” I said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I sat next to her, with my hand placed between us. “That was bothering me. Usually your hair looks so—perfect.”
She nodded.
“It goes well with your face. Because it’s perfect, you know?”
She lowered the book, let it fall somewhere to the floor, then turned to look straight at me. Under the intensity of that particular gaze, I felt more comfortable around her than I had ever been.
“And your hands?” I grabbed one of her hands and massaged her soft palm. “They’re—”
“Ne,” she said—Korean for “yes.”
“Wait—you don’t know what I’m going to say.”
She laughed silently.
And I kept rubbing her hands, lingering around to find the tension between us. But I didn’t sense it. “Your hands are perfect too.”
“Thank you.”
I had expected her to get nervous and hide her face, but she was being bold with me, receiving every little advance with enthusiasm. Maybe she knew where this moment was going better than I did.
“Is the rest of you perfect too?”
She looked at me a moment, then shrugged as lightly as possible.
“Can I see?”
“Ne.” Her breath shuddered.
I grazed my fingers across the fabric of her sleeve, down her chest, to each end of her hips. I peeled her shirt away. With each garment I removed, I asked if I could see the part of her it was covering. For her socks and pants, she didn’t bother answering. She simply joined in the effort of undressing. Then she was naked, and I still fully clothed.
I admired her body, so smooth and hairless, her tiny titties, her neck and shoulders. Everything about her was small and beautiful, inviting me to keep grazing my hands across her, going from the broadest parts of her—stomach, back, and thighs—then to her sharply sensitive parts—pinching her tits, teasing her firmly tucked in clit. And to finish touching her, her lips.
I realized then I had yet to kiss her, and the moment for that was now, by tugging her chin into mine.
She put her hands around the backs of my shoulders and pressed on me uncertainely. I did the same to her, gripped her shoulders tightly and went deeper into her mouth, so that she would do the same back to me.
I released my rock hard cock from my pants. The relief in letting it spring to life couldn’t wait a second longer. She looked down at it. Shock spread across her face. “Oh!” She turned excited, knowing her allure had brought me to such arousal.
As I undressed, I watched her vulva dampen.
We were both naked. I returned to the bed, staying above her my knees. She hunched down, moving back exactly in sync with me moving forth. Her back pressed into the pillow. Her head found comfort against the wall. I brought my body within inches of her and paused for a while, with our hands locked together.
This was too perfect a moment to push onward. I loved her smell, her nervous glare, her breath, my cock throbbing right above her, already dripping onto her stomach.
“Ready?” I said.
She quickly nodded. “Ne.”
I pushed into her with difficulty, even though she was so wet. Her tightness made me aware, again, of our dynamic, how small she was under me, which was why I kept my body above hers. I moved my crotch forward as slowly as possible, stopped when I was just over halfway in her, and found my rhythm from there. She didn’t bleed. Perhaps she had gone through that breaking in process by her own means. Maybe she wasn’t even a virgin. I had no way to make that guess. I had no reason to care about that for now. All I cared was that she got comfortable. A moment went by where the tension eased on her face, and the single tear welling in her left eye dripped away. I kept staring at her. She opened her eyes to see me, and her face developed a smiled
I thrusted into Jisu. Together we breathed, hands to hands and feet to feet. I went slowly, not to be gentle on her, but to resist spurting too soon. But there was very little I could do to keep the moment alive. I was about to cum, even with almost no movement inside her.
I had to bring her up to my arousal, bring her to climax before me. I pressed a thumb against her clit while I continued in her. She gave a delightful reaction. So I kept it there, moving it in tiny circles. The tiniest of movements sent her into a trance. I pressedTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.
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