동남아 신부
I was a blue-eyed, wavy blond, gym-going American 20-something living in the dead center of South Korea in a rice paddy & orchard town of just over 100,000 people that didn’t have too many guys exactly like that. I enjoyed the benefits of supply-and-demand, as there is a clear demand among Korean women for White men, and the more Western-presenting he is, the higher the demand for him. It was a regular, ordinary weekday that I’d fuck one Korean woman in the morning before work and fuck another Korean woman in the evening, and have a third Korean woman cry-seething over the phone that she’d “break up” if I didn’t stop my womanizing.
Song Ji was the first to crack me good. I told a lot about her in part 1 of this series; a cheating married Asian MILF with an extensive body count she told me she’d lost tally. I also told about her friend “Rose”, I think her name was Hee Jeong, who was also a cheating married Asian MILF with an uncountable sexual history. They both loved their Occidental men, they both loved age gaps, and they both changed how I saw women forever. The duplicity, the compartmentalization, the ease with which they hid their secret lives, the depth of resentment they had for their husbands, their ravenous cock lust, the proudly treasonous way they framed their fucking expats, and how I was just one more big meat stick to them, a “hotdog” as they said.
But Korean women with Korean husbands are not the only cheating married Asian MILF demographic in Korea. There are other categories:
American soldiers’ wives. Korean women marry American soldiers, and then they get passed around. Not at all top secret, but an open secret to anyone around bases like the massive one in Pyeongtaek. There’s already an unspoken expectation, an exception to the rules, among Korean women that if your boyfriend or husband is away doing his mandatory military service, or if he’s living in another city for work (called Joomalbooboo), then it’s not only permissible but naughtily recommended that she cheat a little. Korean women married to American soldiers experience that condition as ongoing and indefinite.
Korean men’s foreign wives. Young Korean women are essentially forbidden by their parents from marrying men who don’t meet their high expectations. Urban girls would never marry a farmer’s son, and urban men win the top-tier country girls. As a result of the bride shortage and not getting picked, a huge percentage of rural Korean men outsource and marry foreign women. Most (not all!) of those foreign women are Korean-Chinese (from Yanbian), “Chinese-Chinese”, a few North Koreans, some Russians and Central Asians from the -stan countries, but more than any other nationality, they’re Vietnamese, Filipinas, and other Southeast Asian women.
This story concerns category 2: these foreign brides. They have notoriously high divorce rates, and the Korean government sought to fix that. They figured that these women were being pumped into Korea via foreign bride services without regard for their Korean -language proficiency, hence communication problems, hence divorces. So they started granting funds to churches that would gather up these foreign women and offer them free Korean language classes.
So! I learned that I could get free Korean lessons at a church I’d never stepped foot in before. And when I did step foot in it, I was the only man in a class of 100 women; all of them Josunjok, Joongook, Solyun, and Dongnama Shinboo
The teacher was an older Korean woman, a church lady. Those women made fun of me a lot, clucking and blushing. I played along with it in good cheer. The flirting started on day one. They would ask me to sit with them when I came in and have coffee with me after class. Most of them would get picked up and taken back to their husbands’ farmhouses to tend their chores and kids, while others would go off to jobs as waitresses, factories and packing, daycare, cleaning, and such.
One day after class, I lingered at the coffee shop quite late, reading and grading papers, and noticed one of the foreign brides sitting by the window, her cup empty, staring sadly. Her name was Bounmy. I tapped her table to get her attention. “Gwenchana-yo? Are you OK?”
“Me?” She was a little startled. “Yes, yes. Husband no here.”
She meant her husband hadn’t come to pick her up. We had rarely talked in class or otherwise. But we had exchanged plenty of glances and greetings. She was so pretty. Laotian. Very long shiny black hair, dimples, a slender build with much more in hips and T&A than you often see on women from her region of the globe, or any. After all, it’s the prettiest, hottest women who get selected and matched by these foreign bride agencies; the flat-bodied, fat-bodied, and but-her-faced get filtered out when the farm-bachelors look through their matchmaker profile pictures, if the matchmaker herself didn’t preemptively filter them out.
English wasn’t her best language, so we switched into our mutually shitty Korean. I’ll just translate it into English here for you, reader.
“Is your husband going to arrive late?” I asked.
“He forgot about me. Sometimes it happens,” she said, so embarrassed.
“I’ll take you home.” I stood and produced my car keys.
“No, no, I’m OK to wait.” She blushed and waved her hands at me. She smiled so big, straight, pure white, pretty, distinctly Sundadont teeth.
“Stop it. Come on. You can’t live too far. The coffee shop will close in three minutes, and then you’ll be standing outside by yourself,” I explained.
That was a joke. Coffee shops in Korea never close. She giggled a bit. “Close? Hmmm. Really?”
She thought for a moment. I rolled my eyes, holding the front door open for her. “Come on, come on.” And she gathered up her things. We went out together and jumped in my car. She thanked me probably eight times.
“I can’t get my husband to answer.” She was flustered.
She sat shotgun and pointed which way to turn the whole 15 or so minutes it took. We chatted. She looked and sounded happier. We got into some hills, real agrarian, the kind of place you find burial mounds, Buddhist temples, hiking trails, deer and wild pigs, and extensive irrigation infrastructure from the glorious Bak Jung Hee Saemaul era. It was also getting dark. We pulled onto her husband’s farm. She turned, bowed repeatedly, and started up to the door. I almost put it in reverse to leave when an old lady answered the door for her. Shouting. Hoarse, raspy, phlegmy, enraged, scolding, full of Korean swear words. That must be her mother-in-law, and she’s not letting her inside. Finally, the old perm-headed bitch slammed the door shut.
I watched as the beauty stood on the cement & brick porch, shoulders slumped. I called to her out the window, “Yah!” (Koreans don’t say hey, they say yah), and she turned to see me reaching over to pop open the passenger door. “Come on.”
She didn’t hesitate. She came right down the steps, her hair blowing behind her like a pony’s mane, and almost with a skip in her step, she flew back into my car! I didn’t know what the fuck was happening in that household, but this shit was on.
“You’re hungry?” I asked her as I backed out.
“I’m crazy hungry,” she answered.
So, I drove back into town, and she picked out a popular spot. We had Korean fried chicken & soju. We talked, she told me how her mother-in-law was the dictator of the farm, how her husband was forbidden to come pick her up as a punishment for neglecting chores, and a lot of demented dysfunction.
I shook my head. “He’s behaving like a little boy.”
She was getting a touch tipsy and held her pinky up at me, wiggling it, “Because he is a little boy.”
She guffawed so hard and smiled so big that I got a sight of her chewed-up mouth contents. I smiled along. “Really?”
I let her talk about herself, her dollar-per-week existence in a village that once constituted a stop on the Ho Chi Minh trail. She told me about her little siblings she grew up raising and how she felt guilty leaving them behind. She told me about how K-dramas and K-pop sell all the girls in her country on the dream of marrying a Korean man, and how she made herself believe she’d live in a beautiful Gangnam high-rise condo, with a maid.
She sighed, “In the end, I’m the maid. No! I’m the… water buffalo.” She started laughing goofily, crossed her eyes, and made a water buffalo noise: “Nguuuh! Awwwwn!”
“You’re a cute water buffalo,” I said.
I showered her with questions and compliments. I firmly believe the less you talk about yourself and the more you ask and affirm a woman, in such interactions, the faster their legs spring open. It helps if you pay for everything, too. I feel like this paragraph is a waste, how obvious it is, but I keep finding bros who are astounded and amazed by this, like it’s wisdom from an oracle.
She was making such horny eyes now at me, in this noisy, crowded chicken bar. “I have nowhere to go tonight.”
I objected, “Text your husband, tell him to let you back in your own fucking house.”
She shook her head, playing with her hair now, twirling it in her fingers. “They say it is not my real house. His mommy forbade him from answering my texts or calls.”
I told her what I thought, “Then disappear. Leave with no notice. Or I hope you can.”
“They will blame me for not coming home and pretend that they didn’t lock me out. They’ll repeat the same line that I used them and their son just to come to a better country. And then I’ll be put back to work until the next time my mother-in-law is in a bad mood, which is constantly.”
Her eyes brimmed pink with tears, and one ran out of her nostril. I handed her a napkin, and she wiped her face dry.
“Let’s move,” I told her. “You can’t walk and cry at the same time; nobody can. I’ll show you.” She thought that was funny, laughing, “Let’s see.”
We walked around the corner and right into the nearest motel. I got us a room and rode the elevator up with her, and before we got to the room, she grabbed my hand and locked her fingers in mine. “You’ll stay with me?”
Duh. I nodded. “I plan to.”
She gushed, turning red from Asian alcohol flush and arousal. “I like you.”
My dick heard that and sprang up like a catapult, the kind of hard-on that you gotta walk funny cause your jeans are being jeans. “I like you too, Bounmy.”
Getting into the room, we were already kissing. Her arms were around my neck, and she hopped up, straddling me as I walked us to the bed. I sat on the foot of the bed with her in my lap, and we made out like this for a moment. I knew not to, but as I reciprocated the neck kisses, she pulled back, “No mark,” meaning no hickies. I nodded, and we continued.
I wish I could recount how the clothes came off, because I like clothes details… but I can’t recall, however hard I try. What I do remember is we were both butt-naked. She was lying face down with her legs open and bent, toes to her ass-cheeks, with my hands around her ankles as I licked everything. I had my tongue all in her tiny asshole wrinkles, I had my thumb in her pussy-hole, and my index finger strumming her clit.
She stopped speaking Korean and forgot about English. She went into her Laotian words and sounds. “Oy… bao.” and “Sabai!” and “Ao ik… diii.”
Poking my middle finger in her, I couldn’t find her cervix; she was fully tented and slimy as a fresh clam. I flipped her over by her hips and dived on her with my cock. With my feet on the floor, I had the best leverage and traction to really pound her. Her legs bounced, her hair was everywhere, and her tits rocked like a topless bull-rider. Something about her tan lines, the contrast between the deeper brown and the light creamy yellow, got me ready to cum way too soon. I was leaning over onto her enough then to come off my feet and fully lie on her, and when I did, I finished with 3 or 4 clit-mashing, pubic-to-pubic strokes, shooting my load inside her.
She ran her hand over my chest. “Like an animal.”
My cock was reinflating before it had finished deflating. “Like an animal?”
“So much hair here,” and she kept petting my chest and abs.
I lay beside her, and she invited herself to ride reverse cowgirl. The view of her back and long hair was art, and the sensation of her ass gently jumping up and down on my lap was almost enough to make me cum again if I hadn’t emptied the reserves so well on the first shot.
She rubbed her clit for a good 6 or 8 minutes before she went so quiet, slapped her thighs and knees together, had her little pleasure shivers, and lay back down beside me.
In the morning, she was in my ear and pressing my shoulder. “Wake up quickly, he’s coming here! Go go go!”
“What the fuck?” I jump out of bed normally. I’m a quick wake-upper, so with someone shaking me up in a panic, I teleported onto my feet before my eyes were open.
“Go out now, please!” She looked manic.
I understood instantly: “Alright, alright. Don’t crap yourself.”
“My mother-in-law’s friend’s daughter saw us in the restaurant,” she said.
I got dressed fast and gave her my receipts to dishonestly prove she paid for her dinner and room herself. The fewer holes in whatever alibi she told, the better. She looked out the window, watching for them to arrive. Pulling my shirt down and buckling my belt, I gave her butt a goodbye tap-tap, “See you in class.”
“Yes, yes. Please hurry.” She glanced between her phone and the window like watching a tennis match.
I was out of there just in time. I took the stairwell down and out the back. Coming out of the alley, though she didn’t see me, I saw the old lady drive past with what must’ve been Bounmy’s man-boy hubby on his phone beside her. Bro didn’t even know.
