暴露老婆的代价

Two and a half years of marriage had brought me nothing but happiness—and "happiness" in every sense of the word. My wife had come to me as a virgin, and under my patient guidance, she had grown into a woman who not only accepted but craved every kind of pleasure I offered. Slowly, step by step, I had introduced her to the thrill of dressing more daringly in public. With her 35D bust, 24-inch waist, and 36-inch hips, she drew eyes wherever she went. What had once made her blush and hesitate was now a game we played—one that ended with us tangled in the sheets, breathless and satisfied.

That night, I suggested we visit a market that set up once a week along a riverbank in a neighboring county. It wasn't like the usual night markets—this one had more variety: shooting galleries, marble games, and even a "cool show" with half-dressed performers. Vendors sold trinkets, clothes, and herbal remedies. My wife agreed, and I watched her choose her outfit carefully. She settled on a white sleeveless top that clung to her curves, the lines of her bra clearly visible beneath the thin fabric, and a short white skirt with a loose floral pattern.

We arrived as the crowd was thickening. I kept my distance from her, weaving through the stalls, always watching from afar. Men turned their heads as she passed. Their gazes lingered on her chest, her waist, her legs. I felt a strange mix of pride and jealousy—but the pride had an edge that stirred something deeper.

She stopped at a stall selling cheap handbags, spread out on the ground. She glanced back at me, and I circled around behind the vendor, positioning myself so I could see her clearly. She crouched down to examine the bags, and the short skirt rode up just enough that I caught a glimpse of her white panties between her thighs. A few men nearby had noticed too—thin-faced, shifty-eyed types who pretended to browse the same stall. I felt a knot in my stomach, but my pulse quickened with a thrill I couldn't deny.

She moved on, and I followed at a distance. The same men were trailing her now. She stopped at a clothing stall, where a middle-aged vendor was hanging shirts on a rack. She asked about prices and styles, her voice light and friendly. The vendor's eyes kept dropping to her chest. The men gathered around, pretending to study the merchandise. My wife didn't seem to notice them. She glanced at me once, then said something to the vendor and took three dresses to the gap between two delivery trucks.

A white sheet had been strung up there as a makeshift fitting room. I stood nearby, watching as she disappeared behind it. Then I saw the shifty-eyed men huddle with the vendor. Money changed hands. The vendor casually reached over and adjusted a large electric fan, pointing it at the white sheet. The cloth billowed from the side, lifting for maybe two seconds. In that brief moment, I saw my wife in her bra and panties, holding up a dress.

The sheet dropped. Less than ten seconds later, the vendor turned the fan again. This time, I saw her only in her panties, one arm pulling the dress over her head. She was turned sideways, her back bare. As the dress came off, I glimpsed her completely naked silhouette—she had taken off her bra to try on the top.

I counted six men now, all standing near me, all staring. My throat was dry. My heartbeat was a dull roar in my ears.

The vendor tried a third time, twisting the fan toward the sheet, but this time the cloth barely moved. A low murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. I stepped back, my mind churning between excitement and unease. These men were too close, too hungry. Quietly, I bent down and kicked the plug of the generator that powered the fan.

The vendor noticed when the fan stopped spinning. He cursed under his breath and went to check the cord. Just then, my wife stepped out from behind the sheet, fully dressed again, and the show was over.

She continued through the market. I kept my distance. She stopped at an ice stand, looked back at me, then chose a small table in the corner. I sat at a table opposite her, at an angle. She lowered her head and slowly turned her legs toward me, crossing them so her bare thighs pressed together. Even from here, I could see the edge of her panties.

Two of the men from earlier sat down at my table. Another pair took the table next to mine. Everyone ordered shaved ice. Everyone watched her.

She was still looking down. She probably thought I was the only man in that direction. She uncrossed her legs, then slowly shifted, and her panties flashed again—once, twice.

When her ice arrived, she looked up and noticed the crowd of men around us. Her face flushed. She pressed her thighs tightly together and didn't move them again.

The man next to me muttered in his thick Taiwanese accent, "That woman's something, huh."

"Yeah," his friend whispered back. "Beautiful. You guys are all looking, huh? Wouldn't mind a night with her..."

They went on, discussing her legs, her breasts, her figure, as if I weren't there. I said nothing and ate my ice.

When she finished, she stood up and walked on. Two or three men approached her, trying to talk. She just shook her head, eyes down, and kept walking.

I felt it was time to end the night. I was about to go to her, wrap an arm around her waist, and lead her out of the market when I noticed a crowd gathered around a stall selling medicinal wine and assorted remedies. A woman sat on a single bed in the center, wearing only a translucent men's dress shirt. The first three buttons were undone, showing half her breasts—a little smaller than my wife's. Her nipples were faintly visible through the fabric. A lecturer stood beside her, demonstrating massage techniques for women's health, his hands pressing around her thighs. Her legs were slightly parted, her panties clearly on display.

I'm a man. I looked. Just for a moment.

I didn't notice my wife until she walked directly in front of me, blocking my view. She passed sideways, her face turned toward me. The expression on her profile told me everything. She was upset. Jealous.

She kept moving, her voice low as she passed: "Which one do you like better? Her or me? Is her figure better than mine?"

Before I could explain, she turned sharply and pushed into the crowd. She squeezed through to the front until she was standing next to the lecturer. Her voice rang out: "Does this massage really work? I don't believe it."

I couldn't hear the rest. I stood there, watching her back, and realized I had no idea what I was going to say to her when this was over.

I don't know how long I stood there with my head down, lost in thought. When I finally noticed a shift in the atmosphere around me, I looked up and saw my wife had already agreed to go on stage and let the massage therapist work on her.

The booth wasn't just staffed by the massage lecturer—there were several assistants around, and none of them looked like good people. They had my wife sit on a temporary single bed, and the therapist began pressing on her shoulders and back.

As he worked, massaging down her spine, my wife's full chest naturally pushed forward, and with each push into her back, her breasts trembled slightly. Everyone watched in silence, and I could hear the occasional swallowing sound from the men around me. I felt pretty helpless, knowing my wife was angry and acting out because I had been staring at the showgirl earlier.

The therapist kept massaging her back while explaining my wife's physical condition. Everything he said sounded like nonsense to me—vague enough that I could have been the lecturer myself. Then he suddenly invited my wife to lie face down on the single bed, saying he needed to massage her back, buttocks, and legs.

My wife glanced at me at that moment. Normally, she would have looked for my approval, but this time she just shot me a quick look and lay down on her own. She was definitely still angry about me ogling that showgirl's skimpy performance.

After my wife lay down, those sketchy-looking staff members gathered around and repositioned the single bed so her legs faced the audience more directly. The therapist explained that this would let everyone see the massage technique clearly. I had a feeling they were deliberately trying to expose the view under my wife's skirt.

The therapist began massaging the sides of my wife's buttocks, occasionally working between them. After a few rounds with no resistance from my wife, he started pressing more often between her cheeks. Under her loose short skirt, everyone could clearly see her two round, perky buttocks—sometimes slightly spread apart—and how the therapist's palms gripped and squeezed them, shaping and indenting the flesh.

Then he slowly moved down to her legs. My wife's thighs were still pressed tightly together, and the therapist urged her to relax. He gently massaged back and forth over her buttocks and upper thighs. I guessed it was intentional: as his hands slid across the junction between her butt and thighs, he would let the short skirt ride up a bit more each time, explaining that this area contained the sciatic nerve and female acupressure points. Then he would push back up toward her buttocks.

After several repetitions, the loose skirt could no longer cover her. Nearly half of her white, smooth buttocks were exposed. A third of her white underwear was visible now. The men around me were swallowing harder and more frequently.

I was genuinely worried and regretted making my wife angry, but at the same time, another kind of excitement—one I'd never felt before—kept growing stronger. My wife turned her head sideways, looking at me, searching for my expression.

Seeing that she wasn't resisting this exposure, the therapist grew bolder. He made several firm pushes upward on her buttocks, using the motion to gradually slide her loose skirt up to her waist. Now my wife's entire round, smooth white buttocks were on full display, and her underwear was completely exposed. The therapist kneaded and massaged her buttocks through the thin fabric.

He seemed to press a bit harder. I could see faint red finger marks from his three fingers on the part of her buttocks not covered by her underwear.

The therapist then explained that during massage, one needs to replenish fluids—preferably salt water. But he said they had specially formulated physiological mineral salt water for women. He had an assistant bring a glass to my wife. Surprisingly, she drank it obediently, then lay back down for more massage.

I wondered if that drink was safe. But despite my worry, the sight of my wife being exposed to a crowd of strange, shady men—this unfamiliar excitement seemed to overpower my concern. My wife turned her head again, looking at my expression. She seemed satisfied to see me staring at her in stunned admiration.

The therapist continued massaging my wife's buttocks, repeating the same motions two or three more times. Slowly, he lifted the loose skirt again, fully exposing her buttocks and underwear. Then he gradually worked down to her thighs, then her calves. Then back up to her thighs. Then down to her calves again.

I suddenly noticed the therapist and the shady-looking staff exchanging glances. They seemed to be waiting for something. Somehow, I still felt that drink was problematic.

Now the therapist began massaging the inner side of my wife's thighs, near the back of her knees. He would slide his hands slowly upward along the inner thighs, then retreat to the back of the knees. Because both hands were working near the inner knee area, he naturally managed to part my wife's legs a little. Sometimes he didn't exactly massage—he would glide his hands suddenly up and then back down along her inner thighs.

He seemed to notice that this area was sensitive for my wife. I knew it better—it was one of her most sensitive spots. So he lingered there, working the area, gradually moving higher and higher until he was near where her thighs met. I could see my wife starting to tremble and let out soft gasps.

Looking at her expression, I recognized it clearly. She seemed to be enjoying this, feeling aroused. It was strange. Was this going too far? I started to think that. I kept watching her, trying to catch her eye, shaking my head slightly to signal we should leave. But… oh God, her eyes looked hazy and unfocused as she turned her head toward me. I couldn't tell if she was even looking at me. Her gaze seemed distant and cloudy.

Then the therapist spread my wife's legs wider apart. He said he needed to massage the other leg. He took one of her legs and gently bent it upward toward her torso, leaving it resting on the bed. So my wife now lay face down with one leg straight and the other spread apart, slightly bent.

One of the booth's lights focused directly on my wife's crotch. Anyone could see clearly that the fabric of her underwear over that area was damp.

The men around me let out low, heavy breaths. The therapist continued massaging my wife's smooth thighs and calves, occasionally stroking back and forth. Each time his hands neared the junction of her inner thighs and crotch, my wife's soft gasps grew slightly louder. After two or three rounds like this, the therapist announced he would use a护肤 lotion for her legs.

My wife nodded slightly, still lying face down. The therapist took the lotion from an assistant, sprinkled it on her legs, and rubbed it in, all while complimenting her—saying she had beautiful legs and the lotion would keep her skin even more lovely. Flattery.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My wife's expression looked dreamy, as if she was thoroughly enjoying this. The therapist then applied lotion to her buttocks, saying he didn't want to get it on her skirt. So…

From my distance, I couldn't hear what he whispered in her ear. But I saw my wife nod, her eyes still unfocused, her cheeks flushed.

At that moment, despite being filled with an unprecedented excitement, an uneasy feeling began to creep into my chest. Still, it was mixed with eager anticipation.

I could only watch as the massage therapist squeezed more lotion into his palm and began working it into my wife's inner thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. He murmured something to one of the staff members, who nodded and stepped closer. The therapist paused his hands, and the staff member reached for the hem of my wife's skirt. My breath caught in my throat as she slowly slipped the fabric downward, over her hips, past her knees, until the skirt pooled on the floor.

I stood frozen, my mind trying to process what I was seeing. The staff member didn't stop there. Another one moved in and gripped the bottom of my wife's tight top. Together they eased it upward, inch by inch, exposing the pale skin of her stomach, her ribcage, her bra. The therapist added more lotion to his palms and began spreading it across her waist, working upward as the staff lifted the fabric higher. When the top reached her armpits, they gently pulled her arms forward and slid the garment off completely, leaving her in nothing but a bra and panties.

My wife stirred slightly, as if waking from a dream. She tried to push herself up, reaching for the clothes, but the staff member gave her a soft smile. "Don't worry, I'll fold everything neatly for you. Just relax." The massage therapist pressed a firm hand to the small of her back, guiding her back down. She complied, settling onto her stomach again.

I felt my brain going numb. A strange cocktail of dread and excitement churned in my gut. She was lying there, in that open space filled with strangers—mostly men with hungry eyes—wearing only her undergarments. The therapist continued his work, slicking lotion over her spine, down to her waist, then spreading it over the exposed skin of her buttocks above the panty line. His hands slid lower, over her thighs, then back up.

He spoke again, this time to the two staff members. "Come help me. We'll work on her upper body and legs at the same time." They moved in, applying lotion to her shoulders and arms while the therapist worked her lower body. I watched the white cream glisten on her fair skin, and under the dim lights, it looked obscene—like some kind of shameful fluid coating her entire body.

The therapist kept glancing at the staff members. "Careful," he said. "Don't get any on her bra. Careful now." His voice had a teasing edge. He leaned down and whispered something to my wife, too quiet for me to hear. But I saw her face flush, her eyes growing glassy and unfocused. She let out a soft, breathy moan and nodded.

Then the staff members reached for the clasp of her bra.

A loud rush filled my ears. I thought: This has to stop. I should shout. I should walk in there, grab her, and drag her out. That's the fastest way. But—God help me—I couldn't move.

The staff member laughed lightly. "Oh, this clasp is tricky. I don't want to break it. Here—you undo it yourself."

They each took one of my wife's hands and guided them behind her back, placing her fingers on the bra clasp. And then, under their direction, she unclipped it herself.

The therapist, still working on her legs, glanced up. "Her panties will get wet too," he said casually. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down, stopping at her thighs. He paused, as if checking for resistance. But my wife just lay there, expression blank, breathing in shallow pants. So he slid them the rest of the way, off her legs, and handed the small cloth to a staff member.

And there she was. Completely naked. Lying facedown in front of a room full of leering men.

My mind went blank. I couldn't think. I'd never felt anything like this—a surge of electric shock and sick excitement flooding my veins. I stared, unable to look away.

The therapist and one staff member worked in tandem: one spreading lotion over her back and buttocks, the other over her arms and shoulders. The lotion dripped down the sides of her body, pooling beneath her. From my angle, I could see the soft curve of her breasts pressing against the mattress, the weight of them swelling outward. The therapist grabbed her bare buttocks with both hands, kneading them, spreading them slightly apart.

The staff member working her upper body seemed to notice she was sensitive along her waist and the groove of her spine. He traced a finger down that groove, eliciting a tremble, then slid his hands back up to the sides of her breasts. He repeated the motion, slow and deliberate.

The therapist spoke again. "Let's do the legs with one straight and one bent, like before." My heart lurched. Before, she'd still had her panties on. Now she had nothing. When she shifted into that pose, spreading her legs, even facedown, most of her sex was visible.

I could see it clearly now—her outer lips, slick and glistening. Whether from lotion or something else, I couldn't tell. The therapist touched her inner thigh, then let his hand graze across her sex, quick and casual.

Nearby, two men were whispering. One said to the other, "That lotion he used? I bought some before. It's aphrodisiac cream. Makes women go wild—especially on sensitive spots. Turns a lady into a slut."

My stomach dropped. I didn't know if it was true, but my wife's breathing had grown heavier, louder. Her hips shifted restlessly.

I had to stop this.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Hey! That's my wife!"

My voice came out rough. But she didn't react. She just kept that distant look in her eyes, panting, not seeing anything.

Then another staff member—one who had been standing quietly in the corner—suddenly yelled, "Everyone! You like this woman? Then shout it! Shout 'Wife, I love you!'"

The room erupted. Men started hollering: "Wife, I love you! Come home with me! Beautiful wife! You're mine!"

I was screaming too, but my voice disappeared in the chaos. The staff member who had started it—a big, burly man with a hard face—pointed at the therapist and mouthed something I couldn't hear. I tried to push through the crowd, but several men turned and glared at me.

Before I could decide what to do, the scene changed again. The therapist and another staff member helped my wife sit up. They each took one of her hands and pulled them back, as if stretching her arms. It looked like a massage pose, but it forced her chest forward.

She was completely naked, sitting upright, facing the room. Her arms were held back, her breasts thrust out. As the therapist continued the motion, her breasts bounced and swayed.

The room went silent. Everyone stared, including me. My brain shut down again, overrun by a wave of obscene fascination.

The therapist had a staff member hold her arms from behind while he poured more lotion into his hands. He stepped behind her, reached around, and spread it over her stomach. The moment his hands touched her abdomen, she jerked slightly, then relaxed. He slid his palms upward, until they were just beneath her breasts. Her breathing quickened, and the motion of her arms being pulled back made her breasts sway wider.

Then, without warning, the therapist slid his lotion-covered hands directly onto her breasts.

Her moan grew louder, more urgent. Her head fell back, her eyes still vacant. The men around me leaned in, transfixed.

I wanted to run forward. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, watching my wife come undone in front of everyone.

I wanted to stop it. I really did. The way everyone was looking at her, the hunger in their eyes—it was all wrong. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted as loud as I could, “Wife! Wife! It’s me! Stop this, come home!”

But the crowd around me erupted. They echoed my words, turning them into a chant. “Come home with me, wife! You’re amazing, wife! Come home with me! I love you! Wife! Keep going! Keep going!”

Their voices swelled, drunk on the spectacle. The energy was electric, dangerous. I tried to push forward, but the press of bodies shoved me back. More men surged toward the stage. Then the staff appeared—big, thick-necked guys, three of them, blocking the way. One bellowed, “Push again and we shut it down! No more show!”

The crowd grumbled, but for a moment the chaos settled. Then from the stage came a sight that silenced everyone.

A man stood behind my wife, still holding her wrists pinned behind her back. Another man wrapped his arm around her from the right side, pulling her naked body against his chest. His hands cupped her breasts, squeezing and kneading—not massage, just groping. In front of her, the masseur worked her thighs, sliding his palms along the inside, spreading her legs wider and wider.

The man holding her wrists pulled her backward, arching her spine so her hips tilted up. The masseur gestured, and two more staff grabbed her calves, folding her legs upward until her knees were bent and her thighs splayed open.

Everyone stared. My wife was completely naked, legs spread and folded back, her hips lifted by the man behind her. Her entire vulva was on display, the outer lips clearly visible, no shadow, no mystery.

The lotion on her skin must have been laced with something, and that drink she’d taken—she was just a doll up there, eyes vacant, expression blank. She didn’t resist. The masseur rubbed her inner thighs, slow and teasing, moving closer to her crotch. He watched her face for a reaction, then boldly touched her outer labia, sliding his fingers along the slit and parting the lips to reveal the pink inside.

My wife began to tremble. Her breath turned high and ragged, almost a pant.

Behind her, the man continued to fondle her breasts. It wasn’t massage anymore—it was outright groping. He rolled her nipples between his fingers, pinching and twisting. The masseur used one hand to stroke her inner and outer lips, while the other hand circled her clit, rubbing and teasing. The men in the crowd cheered in unison.

I saw my wife’s stomach start to flutter. Her breath quickened into soft moans. I knew that rhythm. Her body was climbing toward climax. Her pussy was on fire, her arousal plain for everyone to see.

Six people on that stage—left, right, front, back—all touching her, all working her bare skin. My excitement peaked, a sick thrill I couldn’t deny. But instinct kicked in. I shoved forward, desperate to reach her, to pull her off that platform.

A huge staff member met me in the chest and shoved me hard. I hit the ground, dust stinging my eyes.

I scrambled up, fists balled, ready to fight the bastard no matter how big he was. But he came close, put a hand on my shoulder, and spoke in a low, friendly Taiwanese brother accent. “Sorry, sorry, brother. My bad.” He pulled out a pack of betel nut and a cigarette. “Want one? Calm down.”

I shouted, “That’s my wife up there! I’m taking her home! Now!”

The crowd went wild again. “I’ll take her home! She’s mine! She’s my wife!”

The big man sighed. “Hey, the show’s good, but not everyone can be her husband, right?”

“She really is my wife! Let me on stage, she’ll recognize me!”

The crowd parroted me: “Let me on stage! I’ll take her home! I want her! I want her!”

I started to yell again, but the big man slung an arm over my shoulder like we were old buddies. He lowered his voice. “Listen, you want to take that woman home? Easy. Later, at the end, we’ll—”

“What woman?!” I cut him off. “That’s my wife!”

I pulled out my wallet and showed him a photo—our wedding picture. He stared at it, then at me, and nodded. “Wait here. I’ll handle it.”

He walked back to the stage and huddled with the other men. They glanced at me, pointed. Something was off. Were these really staff? More and more of them kept showing up. Two box vans had parked behind the stage. Those men weren’t from the stall—they were thugs, gangsters, all showing up late.

I looked around. Many of the market stalls were closing. It was almost midnight. We’d come out late, and now it was 11:30.

My gut twisted. This was wrong. I pulled out my phone to call the police—and to call friends to bring backup.

Just then the big man came back with a shorter, stockier guy. They both bowed and apologized repeatedly. “Who were you about to call?” the shorter one asked.

He explained. “It’s a misunderstanding. We didn’t know she came with someone. But she climbed on stage herself. And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t stop it. So we feel played too.”

I watched my wife on stage, barely conscious, being passed between hands. Panic surged. “Yes, she went up willingly. Yes, I didn’t stop it. My fault. But now they’re going to drag her off and gang-rape her. I’m ending this. I’m taking her home.”

The shorter man sighed and gave a knowing smile. “You must have a fetish for showing your wife off, or letting guys use her.”

I started to deny it, but he cut me off. “Don’t bother. Let’s talk business. Honestly, we planned to take her and have fun. But you’d call the cops and make trouble. We don’t want that drama over some woman. So we’ll let her go with you.”

Relief flooded me. But he wasn’t done.

“But look at these men in the crowd—they’re going crazy for your wife. And the brothers on stage? I just talked to them. They’re pissed. She offered herself first. You let it happen because you wanted to watch. Now we want to play too. We won’t screw her—just mess around on stage, make her come a few times. We’ll block the crowd, keep them from dragging her off. But we have to keep up the show. Let them think they have a chance.”

He took a drag of his cigarette. “Here’s how it’ll go. At the end, we’ll pretend to auction her off for the night. But we’ll rig it so you win the bid. Then you take her home. That way, you get your show, I get to tell my guys they had their fun, and the crowd goes home satisfied. How’s that? I’m their second-in-command. They’ll listen.”

I stared at him, stunned. It was sharp. It solved everything.

“If you don’t agree,” he continued, “I’ll pretend I never saw this. Go ahead, take her off the stage yourself. But I don’t think those men—on stage or in the crowd—will let you. I don’t want to see that ending. So if you choose that, I’m leaving. And don’t call the cops or your friends. That will make things spiral out of control. Also, my guys took photos of your wife up there. If the cops arrest them, they’ll use those photos to get back at you.”

He paused. “So, brother? Follow my plan. You’ll have her home soon. Deal?”

This man was no fool. He had me cornered. And he was right—I did want to see her like this. But I was terrified of losing her, of her being raped. His plan covered my fears.

I nodded.

He raised his hand to the stage, giving an OK sign.

The men on stage nodded back, grinning. They looked eager to go further.

I stood there, heart pounding, as they turned their attention back to my wife.

Her own husband had just given them permission to continue.

I didn’t know what they would do to her next. The tension crushed my chest.

Now, I notice my wife on stage—I don't know when they tied her hands behind her back.

She sits naked on the edge of the bed, leaning back against some man, her legs spread wide and bent at the knees, held open by two men on either side. One of the massage therapists holds a vibrator coated in some kind of medicinal cream. Beside the bed sits a tube of ointment. He switches on the vibrator, it spins fast, and slowly he parts my wife's outer and inner labia, then slides it inside her. He starts pumping it in and out of her vagina rapidly.

Her breasts—those full, heavy breasts—are being kneaded roughly by two men on each side, their hands twisting them into strange shapes, leaving red finger marks on her pale white skin. She gasps sharply, her stomach heaving in quick spasms, her whole body trembling. I know this scene. She's on the edge of orgasm. She can't take much more.

The crowd below—a bunch of weasel-faced men—roar with lust, shouting wildly. My wife's moans suddenly grow louder. I see the masseur who was using the spinning vibrator inside her, and now another man adds a second vibrator, this one covered in little nubs. He presses it directly against her clitoris at high speed.

I know my wife's body better than anyone. If she's on the edge and they stimulate her clit, she'll lose control completely. God, I agreed to let them just play with her, not fuck her. But I never imagined "just playing" would go this far.

Yet a strange excitement floods my brain, my body. The worry that was there earlier fades, almost like those words the man beside me said actually brainwashed me, calmed me. Now I find myself staring blankly at the scene of those men toying with my wife.

Sure enough, my wife's stomach starts to convulse violently, turning into cramps. Her whole naked body trembles, then straightens as if she wants to sit up, but the man behind her holds her. The men gripping her legs keep them spread wide, and I can see their fingers digging into her skin, turning it red. She clearly wants to clamp her legs shut.

Between the effects of the drink they gave her and the aphrodisiac cream, plus all these men molesting her at once, her eyes are completely glazed. Her small mouth hangs open, moaning and drooling a line of saliva. My God, she's about to break.

Finally, I hear her let out a loud, high-pitched cry, and her whole body goes limp. They stop. The spinning vibrator is pulled out. Everyone sees clearly—as the vibrator comes out of her vagina, liquid follows. Her labia are soaked, a mess of ointment, lotion, or her own fluids—I can't tell.

I know my wife. This is her post-orgasm collapse. Every time, she goes totally limp and rests in my arms. But now, it's not me beside her. It's those wolves and jackals. Are they going to let her rest?

Of course not. This time, another man steps between her spread legs. He holds a small translucent film canister filled with a dark, paste-like liquid. He scoops out a generous amount with his index and middle fingers, then slowly pushes both fingers into my wife's vagina.

Worried, I ask the man beside me, "What's that ointment?"

He tells me not to worry, says it's an aphrodisiac cream that directly stimulates the G-spot inside her vagina. He says he'll give me two tubes to take home later and gives me a mysterious smile, claiming the ingredients are expensive and will make any woman obedient to me. He offers it as a gift.

I can't shake my unease about that cream. But more than that, I worry: how much longer will this go on?

Impatiently, I ask the man again. He reassures me, says he'll keep an eye on her and stop if she really can't take it anymore, then we'll move to the final bidding session where someone can take my wife home for the night. Something about his constant smiling face makes me more and more uneasy.

Suddenly, on stage, my wife straightens her naked body again and starts moaning softly. I see the man with the ointment-coated fingers thrusting them inside her vagina, searching. He's looking for her G-spot, I realize. His two fingers twist and probe inside her, not going very deep.

It's later now. The market stalls along the riverbank have all packed up. Only our tent remains, still packed with people. My wife's moans grow louder, echoing across the empty riverside. They sound so helpless.

It seems the man found her G-spot. He keeps rubbing it with two fingers inside her. Meanwhile, new men have taken over playing with her breasts—one on each side, squeezing them hard. Sometimes they stop and suck on her nipples directly. Her body starts trembling again.

I know my wife is heading into another wave of orgasm. I know her body too well. When her G-spot is stimulated inside and her nipples are sucked at the same time, she can't handle it. I've accidentally made her pass out a few times before doing that.

So now, I watch her with growing worry. The strange excitement I felt earlier fades, replaced by fear and tension.

I see her on the edge of the bed, being fondled by all those men. Two men suck on her big breasts, while another man digs into her G-spot. Her whole body trembles harder. Her gasps grow louder. Her stomach heaves more violently. I know her vagina is about to give out.

The crowd around us chants low and rhythmically: "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

And then I notice something—my wife's hips start to rock in time with the rhythm. She's not conscious. Her expression and eyes are completely blank.

Another man on stage suddenly drops his pants, pulls out his already hard cock, and moves toward her. I shout at the man beside me, "Hey!"

He glares at me, his face sour from being startled like that. I look back at the stage and see the man shove his erect cock into my wife's small mouth.

The man next to me forces a smile again. "Just call me Second-in-Command from now on. Usually, if someone calls me 'Hey,' I break their jaw. But you're my good brother. Don't do it again."

I don't care what rank he is. I confront him directly. "You said no cocks!"

He laughs. "I told you—I guarantee no one fucks your wife. They're just using her mouth."

I'm helpless. I keep watching, worry and tension mixed with that inexplicable excitement.

Now, on stage, my wife's hips had been swaying rhythmically, but now her whole body twists irregularly. The man's cock fills her mouth completely; she can't make a sound. Her breasts get squeezed and sucked. Her pale skin is covered in red claw marks. Around one nipple, I can clearly see bite marks. The man who was using his fingers on her G-spot now has three fingers inside her vagina, pumping fast, directly hitting that spot.

Suddenly, my wife pulls her mouth off the man's cock and lets out a loud, desperate moan. Her whole body trembles violently. Her stomach turns into a cramping convulsion. The men below shout excitedly, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

I think she's about to reach a crashing orgasm. But time ticks by, second after second. She stays in that state of climax, still being molested. Why is she taking so long to collapse this time?

On stage, she remains in that near-breaking orgasm, but it never ends. I immediately think of that dark ointment. I'm worried. Then I see my wife start to lose control of her bladder, urine spraying out. The crowd cheers even louder. The man fingering her vagina digs his fingers in faster, stirring inside her.

Now I regret agreeing to this. Even without anyone fucking her, they're torturing her worse than if they did. I watch her naked body, helpless, being abused. Her cries echo across the desolate riverside in the deep night. They sound more pitiful than ever.

The excitement I felt, unlike anything before, is now laced with more worry and regret, along with a helpless thought: it should be over soon, right?

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a primal howl that seemed to shake the very air around me. On stage, my wife was no longer a person—she was a display, a living canvas of depravity. Two of the men working her body grinned with malicious pride, their eyes scanning the audience like artists showing off their masterpiece. One of them raised a hand high, pumping it in the air, and the crowd answered with synchronized cheers. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” they chanted, their voices blending into a single, hungry beast.

My wife’s body remained upright, though barely. She didn’t collapse. Instead, she trembled violently, every muscle in her torso contracting in spasms I had never seen before. Her abdomen, usually so soft and smooth, now rippled like a living thing, the muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythm that spoke of something far beyond pleasure. It was a level of stimulation that should have broken her minutes ago, but she hung there, suspended in that unbearable peak, her breath ragged and shallow.

Then a third man stepped forward. He held a high-speed vibrator, the kind that buzzed with an angry, mechanical hum. He pressed it directly against her clit, the tip circling with relentless precision. Another man, carrying a long, slender rotating wand, slid it into her vagina without preamble. My stomach lurched. Three men—three separate points of assault—all working in concert. One used two fingers to jab rapidly at her G-spot, his knuckles slick with her fluids. Another worked the slender wand in and out, a twisting, churning motion. The third kept the vibrator grinding against her clitoris, the speed so fast it blurred.

My wife’s scream changed. It became a high, keening wail that cut through the noise of the crowd. Her back arched, her spine bowing so sharply I thought it might snap. Her entire naked form convulsed, quaking with tremors that shook the bed frame. The man behind her—the one who had been holding her—grabbed her breasts roughly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He pulled her backward, forcing her to lean against his chest, preventing her from twisting away. Her large breasts deformed under his grip, flattened into shapes I didn’t recognize.

Liquid splashed from her vagina. It sprayed in erratic arcs, some of it hitting the stage floor. I couldn’t tell if it was urine or just an excessive flood of arousal. Either way, it was too much. Her body was losing control.

She writhed, her skin slick with sweat and the fluids of her own torment. Her movements were no longer rhythmic—they were chaotic, desperate, the thrashing of a trapped animal. She tried to twist free, but the man behind her held firm, his arms locked around her torso, his hands clamping her breasts. Her legs were still held apart by the men on either side, their grips like iron. She couldn’t escape.

I turned to the second-in-command, the man who had orchestrated all of this. “She can’t take any more!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Stop it! Now!”

He gave me a weary, almost amused smile. “You agreed—no penetration. They’re not penetrating. What’s the problem?”

“She’s going to pass out! She’s fucking convulsing! Stop it!”

He sighed, a theatrical gesture of resignation. “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to them.” He ambled toward the stage, his pace infuriatingly slow. He reached the platform and leaned in to speak with the men who were still actively abusing my wife. They didn’t pause. They kept working her body while he talked.

Then my wife’s head snapped backward. Her mouth opened wide, a silent scream that became a ragged, desperate gasp. Her entire body went rigid, then began to shudder with convulsions that looked like seizures. Her breasts were kneaded and twisted by the man behind her, the skin bruising under his fingers. Her labia were stretched around the invading fingers and wand, pink and swollen, leaking streams of fluid.

The second-in-command was still on stage, gesturing and whispering with the other men. He pointed at me a couple of times, then at the back of the stage. But the abuse continued. My wife’s cries suddenly stopped. She hung there, head back, mouth open, gasping without sound. Her abdomen contracted in sharp, violent waves, faster than I had ever seen. I knew this reaction—it was the precursor to a crashing orgasm, the point where a woman would finally let go and collapse. But she didn’t. She stayed in that tense, trembling state, locked in a plateau that defied nature.

I pointed directly at the second-in-command, my arm rigid, my face twisted in anger. He saw me, nodded quickly, and gave me a thumbs-up. Then he spoke to a man standing nearby, gesturing toward me. That man’s face twisted into a snarl. He started walking toward the edge of the stage, his eyes locked on me with murderous intent. The second-in-command hurriedly blocked him, pushing him back, his hands on the man’s chest.

The angry man scowled, then turned to the others still abusing my wife. He shouted something I couldn’t hear over the crowd. Then he snatched a microphone from someone. “LET’S FINISH THIS BITCH OFF!” he bellowed. “SHALL WE KILL HER?!”

The crowd erupted. “YES! YES! YES!” they roared, a single monstrous voice.

“NO!” I screamed, but my voice was swallowed by the cacophony.

On stage, the men changed their rhythm. The one with the high-speed vibrator began to pound it into her vagina with savage force, each thrust a violent stab. The man using his fingers increased his pace to a blur, drilling into her G-spot without mercy. The third man, the one with the vibrator on her clit, now dragged it back and forth with furious speed, the friction causing her to buck.

My wife’s body went wild. She thrashed, her head still thrown back, her mouth open in a silent, agonized scream. Saliva dribbled from her lips in a thick strand, dangling down her chin. Her abdomen convulsed faster than I thought possible, a frantic, spastic dance of muscle and nerve. The man behind her clamped his arms around her torso, squeezing her breasts so hard his fingers sank into the flesh.

I couldn’t watch. I had to do something. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers shaking. I dialed 911. “My wife is being held hostage!” I shouted into the receiver. “A group of gangsters! We’re at the riverbank near the bridge in—what county? I don’t know—there’s a night market on the levee!” The dispatcher began to repeat the address, but before I could confirm, a group of four or five men crashed into me. I stumbled, my phone flying from my hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” they laughed, patting me on the back. “Man, the show is just too exciting! Clumsy us!”

I ignored them, scanning the ground. My phone was gone. They disappeared back into the crowd. Was that coincidence? I had no time to think. I looked back at the stage.

My wife’s head had dropped. It lolled to the side, hanging limp. Her eyes were half open, the whites showing, unfocused. She was either unconscious or in a state beyond consciousness. But her body still trembled. Her abdomen still spasmed. Her vagina still leaked fluid. She was still in that state of being tortured even as her mind shut down.

I started moving along the edge of the crowd, trying to find a path to the stage. Every time I moved, men seemed to shift with me, blocking my way. They were doing it deliberately, I realized. My heart pounded. I pushed harder.

The second-in-command came running back from backstage, weaving through the crowd. “Easy, easy, folks! No pushing! Enjoy the show!” he shouted, his voice jovial.

“Stop them!” I yelled at him. “Tell them to fucking stop!”

He didn’t look at me. He was too busy trying to control the crowd, his eyes scanning for troublemakers. The abuse on stage continued.

Finally, he saw me. He nodded again. Slowly, he walked back onto the stage. He spoke to the men. They grinned, nodded, exchanged glances. Then, miraculously, they stopped. They pulled away from my wife, stepping back from the bed.

She lay there, alone on the mattress, her body still shaking. Her head was turned toward the audience, her eyes half-lidded and vacant. Her abdomen still twitched. The men stood around her, leering. The crowd’s cheers died down to murmurs.

I stared at her. At the grinning faces of the men. At the desolate riverbank, the distant city lights, the black sky. It felt like I was in hell.

And I knew this wasn’t over.

Finally, it stopped. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, but my wife’s body was still convulsing violently on the stage, and the sight filled me with dread. Her limbs twitched in erratic spasms, her chest heaving as if she couldn’t catch her breath. I wanted to rush to her, but the crowd around me was a wall of jeering faces.

I still held onto hope that the police would arrive soon. But my phone call had been cut off mid-sentence—I had no idea if they’d heard my location clearly. Worse, my phone was gone. Someone must have snatched it during the chaos.

My wife’s convulsions began to ease, but the men in the audience started shouting again. “Don’t stop! Keep going! Make that bitch come until she dies!”

Their voices were feverish, hungry. They didn’t care if she was hurt or dying—they just wanted the show to continue. The energy on stage felt unstable again, like the men there were about to lose control.

I thought, *Is another wave coming?*

I raised my index finger at the deputy leader on stage, shaking it in a clear signal: *No more. Stop.*

He nodded vigorously at me, acknowledging.

Then he picked up the microphone and said, “Alright, alright, don’t get excited, everyone. We’re gonna take this woman backstage to rest for a bit. There’ll be even better entertainment later, okay?”

The crowd erupted in approval. “Yeah! Yeah! Make it even better later!”

That single sentence calmed the frenzy. The deputy leader shrugged at me from the stage, as if to say, *See? I handled it.*

But I didn’t trust him. Why would he help me? It didn’t make sense. No one was that kind in this den of wolves.

I reminded myself: if the police came, everything would be fine. I started scanning the surroundings, noting exits and obstacles in case things went wrong.

Then a man emerged from backstage—the same one who had charged at me earlier with such fury. I saw him clearly now: tall, muscular, with a cruel smirk. He glanced at me, his lips curling into an evil grin, then bent down and lifted my wife’s naked body. She was still trembling slightly, her limbs limp.

Watching him carry her away, bare and vulnerable, twisted my stomach. I wanted to charge the stage, but I held back. I had to wait for the police. I couldn’t let my impatience ruin the only chance we had.

I saw the deputy leader drive a black sedan in reverse, stopping it near the backstage area. The muscular man, helped by another, opened the rear door and laid my wife’s naked body across the back seat. The deputy leader waved them away.

He got out of the driver’s seat and walked toward me with a relaxed smile. “Don’t worry. Let your wife rest and sleep a bit. I’m on your side… haha.”

I forced a grateful nod and said, “If you really want to help me, let me take her home now.”

I didn’t believe a word he said. No one was that kind. I had to pretend, wait for my moment, find a way to save her. I didn’t care what happened to me—even if I died—but I had to make sure she got out safe.

The deputy leader suddenly leaned in and whispered, “Brother, I’ve been by your side this whole time, helping you out. But I haven’t even touched your wife yet.”

*There it is,* I thought. *The fox’s tail.* I replied coldly, “What do you want? To fuck her to death?”

“Oh no, no, misunderstanding,” he said, still smiling. “It’s like this: I suddenly have something urgent to take care of. I’ll be gone for a while. But I haven’t touched your wife yet… She needs to rest anyway, so…”

He continued, almost conspiratorially, “I’ll drive that black sedan over to that far spot and leave it there. Your wife will be alone in the car, safe and sound, resting for three or four hours. I’ll give strict orders that only you stay here—no one else is allowed near the car. Deal?”

He paused, then added, “After all I’ve done for you, when I come back, I just want to touch that amazing body of hers. That’s it. Then you can take her home. That’s the deal.”

I couldn’t figure out his angle. I answered directly, “Fine. But when you come back, only you touch her. No more group stuff. And no penetration. And definitely not like before, almost killing her. Then this night ends, and I take my wife home.”

I was thinking: *Is this my chance?* I agreed quickly, but added conditions to test him. And if I could delay long enough, the police would come. If only I still had my phone…

The deputy leader replied politely, “Of course, of course. I told you not to worry, heh.” He walked back to the driver’s seat. I still couldn’t pinpoint the trap, but his easy agreement confirmed there was a scheme.

He drove the black sedan toward the back of the area, but then it seemed to get stuck. He stuck his head out the window and shouted, “How did you guys drive over here earlier?”

Several men pointed and explained that he couldn’t go straight—there was a muddy patch. He had to go around the small hill to the left of backstage to stay on hard ground.

I watched coldly, thinking: *Is he going to speed away with my wife?* But if that were their plan, they would have killed me already. Something didn’t add up.

The sedan circled around the small hill, which was only about a story high, and disappeared behind it. Then it emerged on the other side and stopped a short distance from backstage. The deputy leader got out, jogged back with little hops, and announced, “No one is to disturb that woman! Don’t even go near her!”

He came up to me and grinned stupidly. “Don’t do anything rash either. I’ll let you take your wife home in the end. I’ve helped you so much—I hope you won’t suddenly run over and snatch her away. Wait for me to come back and have my fun, okay?”

I nodded slowly, pretending to agree. *Something’s definitely wrong. His tone has changed completely. Is he really in a hurry to go somewhere?* I was convinced that stalling was my best bet—the longer I waited, the more likely the police would arrive.

I watched him jog toward the left rear area, speaking on his phone as he ran. An idea flickered in my mind, but two men on my right patted my shoulder, breaking my concentration.

I turned to see two guys who looked like experienced fighters. They bowed politely and said, “While the second leader is away, you can ask us for anything.” *Too polite—there’s deception here,* I thought. They were clearly minders, controlling my movements.

I looked toward the black sedan where my wife was resting. *Will these wolves really let her rest?* There had to be a more sinister plan in store.

I turned left and saw the deputy leader at the back left corner. The two men on my right tapped me again. “Want a cigarette?” one asked.

Annoyed, I said I had my own and turned left again—partly because I didn’t want to look at them.

But they called me again, and one circled to my left, blocking my view. I realized they had done this two or three times, preventing me from looking left.

I glared at the man blocking me and said coldly, “What? Are you going to kill me now?”

They both stepped back, waving their hands in denial. I seized the chance to scan the left side. Nothing unusual, except I saw the deputy leader get into a minivan and drive quickly toward the river embankment, disappearing over the other side. The man on my left moved to block me again and asked if I wanted betel nut.

I ignored him, found a chair, sat down, and lit a cigarette. They immediately offered to light it for me. I smoked quietly, watching the black sedan, trying to think clearly.

Then phones started ringing among the men on and off stage. Several left quickly, starting cars and motorcycles. One car with four men and two motorcycles with two men each drove away. *Good, the more the better,* I thought. But there were still nearly thirty men left.

The departing vehicles also headed toward the left rear embankment and disappeared.

I watched the remaining men. They all seemed to be waiting for something, passing time with trivial activities.

Then I noticed something else. The audience from earlier was gone. The remaining men were clearly all part of the group—they all knew each other. *I knew it. None of it was coincidence. Every time I tried to get on stage, the “audience” blocked me. Even when I called the police, they knocked me down and stole my phone.*

They had planted men throughout the crowd to watch me.

Now they weren’t even pretending to be audience. Did that mean they had completed their mission? Reached their goal? Then what were they waiting for?

Then I heard it—a distant police siren from the other side of the embankment. *Yes! Police!* A rush of joy flooded me, like winning the lottery.

But the siren stopped. And then faded away. What? Wasn’t that from my call?

Half an hour passed. Some of the men’s phones rang. Their faces lit up with excitement—and a lecherous glint. A few glanced at me oddly, then hurried to their cars and motorcycles. Another car and two bikes left.

*What? Are they off duty? Going to find some women?* I didn’t care. I kept my eyes on the black sedan, planning my move: take out the two men beside me, grab my wife, and run. I didn’t care if I died, as long as I saved her.

One of the men handed me his phone. “The second leader wants to talk.”

I took it. The deputy leader’s voice came through, sounding resigned. “I just got word. You called the police.”

I grunted, not answering, and kept an eye on the two men. *This is it. He’s going to turn on me.* I prepared myself for a fight, ready to die if necessary.

But he continued, “Please, stop messing around. The police issue is handled. It’s fine.”

His tone wasn’t hostile. Surprised, I asked, “How did you know I called?”

He explained that he had men stationed on both sides of the embankment. They had intercepted the police, and one of his men claimed he made the call. The police went looking for his girlfriend instead. “Lucky,” he said quietly. “I didn’t tell the other brothers. If they knew, they’d take your wife as a hostage and run. You’d never get her back.”

He added with a bitter laugh, “Please, don’t cause trouble. It’s hard enough for me to help you.”

I replied coldly, “I just want to take my wife home. Hurry up and finish your business and come back. End this.”

“Alright, alright, don’t worry,” he said, then hung up.

I was stunned. *The entire embankment is under their control.* Even if I fought alone or called for help, they had a plan for everything.

But one thing still puzzled me: they hadn’t simply killed me and taken my wife. They kept trying to placate me, to keep me calm.

Now, I walked freely onto the stage. No one stopped me. Earlier, I had desperately wanted to get up there and save her, but couldn’t. Now I stood in the center, looking at the rumpled sheets and the stains of her fluids everywhere.

Endless regret and pain washed over me. It was all my fault—my perverse desires had brought this upon her.

The two men walking beside me had their phones ring one after another. They grinned and climbed into a car, driving off. Two new men took their place—big, muscular, the same thuggish type. It didn’t matter who they swapped in. I didn’t care. They were all there to watch me, to control me.

I wandered toward the backstage area again, but this time I couldn’t go any further. The two men blocked my path, polite but firm. “Second Boss’s orders,” one said. “No one gets near the black sedan where your wife is resting.”

I turned away and pretended to browse a nearby stall piled with ointments and medicinal plasters. My eyes skimmed over the labels—especially the aphrodisiacs and numbing creams. Just looking at them made my stomach turn. I wanted to look away. But I forced myself to keep up the act, drifting between the stage and the stalls, all the while scanning for an opportunity to slip something into my pocket.

I kept one eye on the black sedan where my wife was supposedly resting. Step by step, I moved between the stage and the stalls, sometimes sitting down to rest. After a few rounds, I had palmed two items and hidden them on my person: a folding knife and a spring-loaded switchblade. I checked my watch. Two and a half hours had passed.

Men kept coming and going—some driving off in cars, others on motorcycles. They left in groups of about six, and after a while, four or five would return. I furrowed my brow. They had all left with those leering, excited grins. Hadn’t they gone home? Or to have fun? Why were they coming back?

And I noticed something else. Whenever they returned, they’d glance at me with a strange smile. Were they waiting for Second Boss to come back so they could keep abusing my wife together?

More phones rang. More men left with the same eager smiles. More returned. More shot me those odd, knowing looks.

I checked the time again. Over four hours had passed. I didn’t want to look at those faces anymore. I turned my head and stared at the distant black sedan. My wife must be sleeping, still exhausted. Tonight had been too much for her—far too much.

Twice during that time, I asked the two men to call Second Boss for me, pretending to be concerned about when he’d be back. Each time, he said it wouldn’t be long. I wasn’t really asking out of worry. I was testing the timing. Because I had a plan forming. I was going to act.

I planned to use the two knives I had hidden to suddenly stab the men beside me. Then I would sprint toward the black sedan, grab my wife, and get her out of here.

But I needed to put some distance between myself and the group of men standing on the left. If they were too close, they’d catch me before I could reach the car.

For the past four hours, I had been wandering around the stage and stalls deliberately—testing their alertness. The men on the left had grown used to my movements. Good. I would use that pattern to stretch the gap between myself and the two guards beside me.

I kept up the charade, pretending to browse slowly, the two men trailing me. Each time I made a circuit, I tried to edge a little farther away from the main group.

As I walked, I kept my eyes fixed on the black sedan where my wife was supposedly sleeping. My mind raced, imagining the moment I would break into a run, reach the car, and get her out. I even tried to think from their perspective—what would they do to stop me? What was I not seeing?

I reversed my thinking.

If I were Second Boss, would I really leave my wife unattended in that black sedan?

Maybe the sedan was just a decoy. A decoy… No, it couldn’t be.

I stared at the black car parked near the backstage. What if my wife wasn't inside?

Then where would she be? The thought felt absurd, but I kept turning it over in my head, following the thread.

Strange phrases bubbled up from my memory: Swap the sky for the sun. Steal the beam and replace it with a rotten timber. Exchange a fake for the real thing.

I noticed again that several men’s phones rang. They left with those same eager grins. A few came back. A few more locked eyes with me and smiled that odd smile.

Something clicked in my mind. A loud buzz filled my ears. Unease surged into my chest. I checked my watch. Nearly five in the morning. Second Boss had been gone for almost five hours.

I stared at the black sedan. I hadn’t taken my eyes off it for very long at any point. But if there had been a moment when I couldn’t see it… That small hill. Yes. That small hill behind the backstage area.

I forced myself to piece together the strange details from the past few hours. The two men blocking my view to the left. The small hill behind the backstage. The van that had driven off with Second Boss. No. That didn’t fit. The sequence was wrong. It had to be connected.

I replayed the fragments in my mind, trying to connect them.

The small hill. Not letting me look left. The van leaving.

Some men leaving. Some coming back. Those strange smiles.

Then my mind exploded with understanding. Oh my god.

They had taken my wife behind that small hill, moved her into the van, and driven the empty black sedan back to the backstage area. The two men had blocked my view to the left because the van was coming out from behind the hill. The men left and returned with those strange smiles because they had been taking turns with my wife.

I turned and saw more men returning. More drove off, speeding up the riverbank and disappearing into the distance. I stared at the direction they went, my heart sinking. My wife was over there. Not backstage.

I looked back at the black sedan near the backstage. Anxiety, panic, fear—all of it crashed into me at once. I glanced at my watch again. Five hours already. No. This was bad.

My breathing grew labored. I found a chair and sat down heavily. It wasn’t my body that was failing me. It was the chaos in my mind—a tangle of terror, regret, guilt, and rage that I couldn’t sort through.

The two men stayed close. They must have noticed the change in my expression, because one of them pulled out his phone, dialed, and handed it to me. “Second Boss wants to talk.”

I took a deep breath and forced the panic down. He had called immediately after seeing my face. That told me something. If I lost my cool now, if I accused them directly or confronted them over the phone, my wife would never come back. Because she wasn’t here. She was with them.

I took the phone. Second Boss’s voice came through, casual. “So? Everything alright?”

I knew he was testing me. I swallowed my anger. I had to get my wife back first.

“Come back,” I said, my voice flat. “I want to take my wife home.”

Second Boss laughed lightly. “Okay. I’ll head back now. But it’s a long drive. About an hour.”

I hung up and sank into the chair, lighting a cigarette and drawing deeply. I didn’t bother looking at the black sedan anymore. All that time I had been worried they would try to attack it. That worry had been pointless.

My wife was somewhere else. They had taken her God knows where and used her for over five hours. She was naked, pumped full of aphrodisiacs and numbing creams, completely helpless. For five hours—no, six—they had been taking turns on her, over and over.

I just wanted to see her. I needed to figure out what to say to these men so they would let her go.

Almost an hour passed. The sky began to lighten, approaching six in the morning. From the direction of the river, two or three cars and a few motorcycles rolled slowly toward the compound. I noticed the van among them. It was still swaying slightly as it moved. They were still inside, still using her.

The vehicles stopped near the stage. People got out, and soon the number of men around the stage and stalls swelled back to forty. Second Boss stepped out of one car, smiled, and walked toward me. One of the men beside him shifted to block my view of the left.

I didn’t turn my head. I knew the van was circling around to the back of the small hill. I just wanted to see my wife.

Second Boss stopped in front of me, still smiling, saying nothing. I stood up. I didn’t want to talk. “Bring my wife out,” I said, my voice tired. “Then end this.”

Second Boss nodded, saying nothing. He walked slowly toward the black sedan parked behind the stage. The sedan pulled around the small hill, then emerged and drove back toward the stage. Dozens of men closed in around me, forming a tight circle.

I watched as a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man walked up to the sedan as it stopped. He reached into the back seat and lifted out my wife, completely naked, her hands still tied behind her back. He carried her to the stage and laid her on the bed. Her entire body was still trembling, shaking in rapid, convulsive spasms, and she gasped in short, sharp breaths.

The man deliberately turned her head to the side, facing the audience below the stage. Her head lolled, limp. Her eyes were half-open, half-closed, completely vacant, staring at nothing. There was a trail of something—saliva, maybe, or something else—dripping from the corner of her mouth.

Her stomach was twitching and contracting in quick pulses. I knew that movement. It meant her vagina had just been subjected to continuous, excessive stimulation. Her large breasts were covered with dark and light scratch marks and red fingerprints. Around her nipples there were several bite marks. Her whole body was marked with scratches and red handprints.

Second Boss came up beside me, watching me in silence. He was waiting to see how I would react.

A few men near the bed helped my wife sit up on the edge, leaning her back against one of them. Two other men each grabbed one of her legs and spread them wide apart, forcing her open for everyone below the stage to see. Her entire vulva was exposed.

My god. How could I describe it? A complete mess.

That was the only way I could describe my wife’s groin. Her outer and inner labia were swollen and turned outward. That wasn’t how they normally looked. I knew that. It was because she had just been fucked continuously. Both sets of lips were coated in a thick, sticky white fluid. It covered the surrounding pubic hair and even the inside of her thighs.

Between the gaping, swollen lips, more white fluid dripped slowly onto the bed. Her stomach was still twitching and contracting in small, quick movements. With every larger spasm, the inner labia would open and close, releasing more fluid.

I knew what that fluid was. Men’s semen.

I didn’t need to think about it. For six hours, these men had been taking turns with her, one after another. None of them had worn a condom. They had all ejaculated directly into her vagina.

Among the fluid leaking from her battered lips, I saw some that was thick and yellowish-white. That was semen from a man with an STD.

Rage burned in my chest, but I stayed silent. I knew they had put her on display like this deliberately. They wanted me to see what they had done. Second Boss kept watching me. Some of the other men watched too, waiting for my reaction.

I didn’t understand why they didn’t just kill me and take her away. That bothered me.

I glanced at Second Boss. “Is it over? I’m taking my wife home.”

Second Boss moved closer, his voice slow. “I want to discuss something with you.”

He paused. “Your wife is amazing. We want to keep playing with her.”

I nearly lunged at him when I heard that. But I stood still, my face cold. I waited to hear what he had to say. Because if they wanted to kill me, they could have done it already.

Second Boss continued. “But you won’t agree to that, right?”

His eyes widened as he leaned in close. “If we just kill you, we can take her and have fun. But two people disappearing at once? That’s more trouble for us. If we let you go, you’ll call the cops and get revenge. Such a hassle. If we make you stay and watch, you’ll interfere. No fun.”

Now I understood what he was really after. He kept talking. “So, here’s the problem. We need to figure out a way where we can take

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