黑帮三三

The sea was a sheet of black glass under the gray dome of the sky. Black Gold Island rose from the water like a sleeping beast, its spine of highrises and cranes catching the last light of dusk. Yedong City sprawled across its belly, a maze of neon and narrow streets where Chinese met Korean and the law was just another commodity.

Park Dae-geun stood at the end of Pier 17, his squat frame planted like a stump. He was only a hundred fifty-five centimeters tall, but his shoulders were wide as a door, and his neck merged into his trapezius without apology. The sea wind tugged at his cheap suit jacket, revealing the thick handle of a pistol tucked into his waistband. He checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes.

“They’re coming,” said Han Sang-chul, his second-in-command, a tall man with a scar that split his left eyebrow.

“I can see that, you idiot.” Dae-geun squinted at the approaching vessel. It was a sleek Chinese patrol boat, repurposed for civilian use, its hull painted in the deep green of the Qinglong Gang. On its deck, two figures stood at the bow, their silhouettes sharp against the fading sky.

The larger figure was unmistakably a woman. Even at this distance, Dae-geun could make out the generous curves, the long hair lifted by the breeze. Beside her stood a man, shorter and leaner, his posture relaxed.

The boat docked with a soft thud against the tires. A crewman threw a line, and another secured it. The gangplank lowered, and Im El stepped onto the pier with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no. She was a hundred seventy-five centimeters tall, her legs endless inside tight black jeans. Her blouse was silk, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the cascade of cleavage beneath. Her hair was a storm of brown waves, and her face was all soft lines and warm eyes, the kind of face that made men want to confess their sins.

Behind her came Li Qing. He was a full five centimeters shorter than his fiancée, with narrow shoulders and a face still carrying the softness of youth. His jacket hung loose on him, and he moved with a quiet, watchful grace.

Dae-geun stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “Welcome, honored leaders of the Qinglong and Xuanwu gangs. I am Park Dae-geun, acting head of the Daimon. I have arranged a seaside hotel for your stay. Please, allow me to escort you.”

Im El’s smile was gentle, almost motherly. “Thank you, Mr. Park. The journey was smooth. We appreciate your hospitality.”

“This island has a certain charm,” Li Qing added, his voice light. “I’ve heard stories about the night markets.”

Dae-geun gestured toward a black sedan idling at the curb. “Then you’ll have plenty of time to explore. Please, after you.”

They rode in the back seat together, Im El and Li Qing side by side, their shoulders touching. Dae-geun sat in the front passenger seat, twisted around to face them. The car smelled of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.

“I won’t waste time with pleasantries,” Dae-geun began. “The Takegumi has been encroaching on our territory for months. They injured my father. They think they can claim the underworld of this island for themselves. But Daimon has deep roots here. We have the loyalty of the merchants, the dockworkers, the taxi drivers. What we lack is allies.”

Im El listened, her hands folded in her lap. “Our gang has noticed the Takegumi’s movements. They’ve been expanding aggressively. But we need more information before committing to anything.”

“I understand,” Dae-geun said, his voice earnest. “But time is not on our side. They are planning something big. I can feel it.”

Li Qing leaned forward. “Brother, I get it. You’re fighting for your family’s legacy. But Qinglong is still the biggest power here. Those Takegumi bastards won’t move too fast. How about this—let’s take a few days to see the island. My father’s people handle our business here, but I’ve never set foot on this soil myself. Im El neither. A little rest, a little sightseeing. What do you say?”

Dae-geun hesitated, then nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’ve been too tense. Let me first take you to your respective gangs’ island headquarters. Pay your respects. After that, I’ll take you to the hotel.”

The car wound through streets lined with shops selling dried squid and knockoff electronics. They stopped at a nondescript building with a green dragon painted above the door, where a few Qinglong enforcers greeted Im El with respectful nods. Then a similar stop at a building marked with a black turtle, where Li Qing exchanged a few quiet words with the Xuanwu men stationed there.

Finally, the car pulled up to a two-story hotel built into the cliffside, its balconies overlooking a dark stretch of beach. The building was clean but modest—white stucco, blue shutters, a small sign reading “Sea Breeze Inn.”

“I had hoped to book you at the Grand Glass Hotel,” Dae-geun said apologetically. “But it’s under renovation. When it reopens, I will personally host you there to make up for it.”

“This is perfect,” Im El said. “Thank you, Mr. Park.”

Dae-geun shook hands with both of them, his grip firm. “If you need anything, call me directly. I’ll have a car ready whenever you wish to explore.” He got back into the sedan and drove off, his headlights cutting through the dusk.

The hotel room was simple but clean. A king-sized bed dominated the center, its white linens crisp. Sliding glass doors opened onto a small balcony with a view of the ocean, the waves a whisper in the dark.

Li Qing flopped onto the bed, grabbed the remote, and cycled through channels until he found a variety show. He watched in silence while Im El disappeared into the bathroom.

The shower ran for a long time. Steam curled under the door. When she emerged, wrapped in a thin towel, Li Qing barely glanced up.

Then she returned from the closet wearing something that made his thumb freeze over the remote.

Black lace. Thin straps. A bra that barely contained her breasts, and panties that were more suggestion than fabric. Her skin was still damp, her hair twisted into a messy bun that exposed the elegant line of her neck.

“You’re staring,” she said, her voice soft and playful.

“You’re distracting,” he replied, setting the remote down.

She padded across the carpet and fell onto the bed beside him, stretching like a cat. Her body arched, her arms reaching above her head, the movement making her breasts strain against the lace. She turned her head and looked at him with those warm, loving eyes.

“My little turtle,” she murmured, reaching for him. “Come here.”

He let her pull him close. She kissed him, soft at first, then deeper. Her hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and lower. He was already hard, but he knew what she would find. Eight centimeters at full erection. He had measured it once, alone, in shame.

She never made him feel ashamed.

“You’ve been thinking too much,” she whispered against his lips. “Let me take care of you.”

She slid down the bed, her hair brushing his thighs. Her mouth found him, warm and wet, and she took him fully. He gasped, his head falling back against the pillow. Her hand cradled his testicles gently while her tongue worked in rhythm with her lips.

“Ah… ah… Im El…” He moaned.

She stayed on him until he was trembling, then lifted herself. She straddled him, her hips hovering. She reached down, guided him, and slowly lowered herself. He was inside her, but even she knew he didn’t reach deep. His length was not enough to touch her cervix. But she didn’t care. She rocked her hips, her thighs squeezing him, her eyes closed in genuine pleasure.

He thrust up into her, his hands gripping her waist. The smallness of him didn’t matter. The wetness of her, the heat, the love in every touch—that was enough.

After five minutes, his body locked up. “Im El—I’m—”

He came with a shuddering gasp, a few thin spurts of fluid. His release was barely there, almost translucent, with hardly any smell. But his whole body shook as if lightning had passed through him.

“Unngh… aah… I need to rest for two weeks after that,” he breathed, his eyes glazed.

Im El leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did well, turtle.” She kissed him on the lips, a gentle, loving press.

She lay down beside him, and he turned onto his side, pulling her against his chest. She fit perfectly in his arms, her back to his front, her curves soft against his lean frame. He nuzzled the back of her neck.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said.

They fell asleep tangled together, the sound of the waves filling the room, two leaders from rival gangs who were nothing more than a boy and a girl in love, holding onto each other against the dark.

The two boats drifted in uneasy silence, engines coughing as they gulped the last dregs of fuel. The chase was over for now, but the ocean stretched empty in every direction, a vast blue desert with no landmarks, no refuge. Park Dae-geun squinted at the fuel gauge on his battered fishing boat—the needle hovered just above empty. Beside him, Yi Meier's luxury yacht loomed like a sleek white whale, but even its massive tanks were running low after the prolonged evasion. She had already maneuvered her vessel close, and a thick mooring line now connected the two disparate ships. The yacht's engine grumbled as it took on the extra drag, towing the smaller boat with grudging labor.

Dae-geun stood at the helm, scanning the horizon through a pair of old binoculars. The lenses were scratched, the focus knob stiff, but through the haze he caught a jagged silhouette rising from the sea. He adjusted the dials, sharpening the image. An island, small and rugged, its cliffs dark against the afternoon sun. He checked the map—no name marked, but he remembered local fishermen whispering about Haishe Island, a place avoided even by smugglers. A nest of sea snakes, they said, but more likely just a barren rock too far from any trade route. He keyed the radio, his voice crackling through the static.

"Yi Meier, do you see that island to the northeast? Looks uninhabited. We don't have enough fuel to make it anywhere civilized. What do you think?"

A pause, then her voice came back, calm but edged with exhaustion. "I see it. Our fuel is almost gone. We can anchor in the natural harbor—the crescent-shaped cove on the southern side. We'll rest there and wait for Li Qing to come with backup." She clicked off before he could reply, and the yacht adjusted course, the tow line pulling his boat along like a stubborn child.

They entered the harbor as the sun began its descent. The cove was sheltered, ringed by steep hills and thick vegetation. The water was glassy and deep, good for anchorage. Yi Meier cut the engine, and Dae-geun let his boat drift alongside hers. The contrast was stark: her gleaming white superyacht, all polished teak and tinted windows, and his rust-streaked trawler with its peeling paint and net-covered deck. They lay side by side, almost touching, like two exhausted travelers leaning on each other for support.

Once the anchors were set, Dae-geun climbed onto the yacht's deck. Yi Meier had changed into a simple white blouse and a black skirt, the only clean clothes she'd found in the chaos. Her hair was tied back, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked less like the queen of the Blue Dragon gang and more like a woman caught in a storm. She carried a small duffel with essentials—first aid, a few bottles of water, a coil of rope.

"We should explore the island," she said, stepping onto the beach. "Make sure it's truly empty."

Dae-geun followed. A narrow path led inland, but it was overgrown with wild grass that reached their knees. The vegetation brushed against their legs, whispering secrets of neglect. After a hundred meters, they found a small wooden cabin, its roof sagging and windows boarded. The door hung on one hinge, and inside, the floor was littered with dry leaves and the remains of a rat's nest. Furniture was sparse—a broken table, a rusted stove, a cot with a mattress reduced to stuffing. No signs of recent occupation. No footprints, no trash. The island had been abandoned for years, perhaps decades.

They checked the rest of the island. The hilltop offered a panoramic view of empty ocean in every direction. No ships, no planes, no smoke on the horizon. They were alone.

Night fell quickly, the tropical darkness swallowing the sky. Dae-geun built a fire on the beach, using driftwood and dry leaves. The flames crackled and cast dancing shadows on the sand. Yi Meier sat beside him, hugging her knees, her eyes fixed on the fire. The silence stretched, filled only by the hiss of burning wood and the distant lap of waves.

"Why did you come to save me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You could have gone with Li Qing. You could have turned away."

Dae-geun stirred the fire with a stick, watching sparks spiral upward. "I figured the Jukjjo gang was after your life. They want to cripple the Blue Dragon by taking you out. I know those bastards too well—they wouldn't stop. I had to protect you." He paused, the stick pausing mid-stir. "Besides, to be honest, I've always felt..."

He never finished the sentence. Yi Meier leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, cutting off his words. The kiss was sudden, fierce, a dam breaking after years of pressure. Her hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer, and the firelight painted her face in shades of amber and shadow. The kiss deepened, their mouths moving together with growing hunger. Tongues met, tentative at first, then bold, sliding against each other in a dance of heat. The world around them dissolved—the fire, the ocean, the island—all that remained was the taste of salt and need.

They broke apart, breathing hard. Yi Meier's eyes glistened, her lips swollen.

"I've always held myself together for the gang," she said, her voice trembling. "I had to be strong, steady. Li Qing has loved me since we were kids, and I've always protected him, watched over him like a younger brother. He sees me as his future wife, and I know that's expected—it's the bond between Blue Dragon and Black Tortoise, a union generations in the making. But you..." She looked at him, her gaze raw. "You're the only one who ever risked everything to protect me, who saw me as someone worth saving, not as a symbol. I think I have feelings for you. But I've been suppressing them. I can't—I shouldn't—"

"Yi Meier." Dae-geun's voice was gentle but firm. "Do you know what I love about you? It's everything. Even if you marry Li Qing, I don't care. I just want to know that in your heart, there's a place for me. Not just for the Blue Dragon, not just for family duty, but for me. If you feel even a little for me, that's enough. I love you, boss of the Blue Dragon. I love you, Yi Meier."

Her hesitation melted. She reached behind her neck and unbuttoned her blouse, letting it fall to the sand. The skirt followed. She stood naked before him, the firelight tracing the curves of her body, her full breasts casting soft shadows. Without a word, she turned and walked toward the abandoned cabin. At the threshold, she looked back over her shoulder, a challenge and an invitation in her dark eyes.

"If you truly love me," she said, her voice husky, "show me that you have the guts of a man. Come."

Dae-geun rose, his trousers tented with desire. He followed her into the darkness of the cabin.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath their weight. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the roof, silvering her skin. He reached for her, and she melted into his arms. Their mouths met again, hungry and desperate. He cupped her breasts, feeling their weight, the hardness of her nipples. She moaned into his mouth and guided him down to the dusty cot.

He entered her from behind, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her. She gasped, then laughed, turning her head to kiss him. His fingers dug into her flesh, and she reached back to grip his neck while the other hand spread her own buttocks to accommodate his size. The rhythm built, their bodies slapping together in the humid air. Thirty minutes passed, and he spilled his first load—a thick, hot torrent that flooded her depths. She shuddered, a long, drawn-out moan escaping her lips as the heat pulsed inside her. The ejaculation seemed to last forever, three full minutes of release.

When he finally withdrew, she sank to her knees, a wicked smile spreading across her face. She took him in her mouth, her lips sliding over his still-hard cock with loving care. He hardened instantly, and she worked him with eyes that sparkled with devotion.

The second round began.

An hour later, after the third session, Dae-geun decided to move to his boat. He lifted Yi Meier in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist, and carried her down the beach to his battered trawler. On the way, she peppered his face with kisses, her laughter light and genuine. They tumbled onto the narrow bunk in his cabin, and the little boat swayed and rocked in the gentle swells, her cries mingling with the creak of wood and the slap of water against the hull.

They made love through the night—four, five, a dozen times. The sun rose, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink, before they finally collapsed into exhausted sleep.

At ten in the morning, Dae-geun stirred on his bunk. The cabin smelled of salt and sex and sweat. He heard a light step, and Yi Meier appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of food she'd prepared from her yacht's stores. She was wearing only his shirt, unbuttoned, her hair tousled. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, her smile soft and warm.

"The sun's burning your ass, sleepyhead," she said, her voice full of affection. "Time to wake up, you little lazy bug."

Dae-geun grinned and reached for her. She let the tray drop and fell into his arms, and the little boat began to rock once more.

The radio crackled to life with Li Qing’s voice. “Yimei, listen to me. My boat needs some paperwork before it can set sail. Can you wait another five days?”

Yimei had her mouth full, quite literally. She was in the middle of pleasuring Pu Dagen, but she grabbed the radio handset and pressed the talk button. “Mmm~ mm~ buh no good~”

Li Qing’s voice came back with confusion. “Huh? What are you eating?”

Yimei’s eyes went wide as she suddenly remembered what she was doing. She pulled her mouth away for a moment, scrambling for a lie. “Ah, it’s like this—I’m eating a popsicle on my yacht. I can’t stop, it’ll melt. I’ll just talk while I eat.”

Li Qing bought it without suspicion. “Oh, I see.”

A pause, then: “Do you have enough supplies?”

Yimei resumed her activity, the wet sounds of her work punctuating her words. “Mmm~ yeah~ slurp~ mmh, so big… ah right, supplies are pretty big. I mean the supplies are plenty, enough to last.”

They talked through several more topics. Li Qing asked about fuel reserves, about the state of the yacht, about whether she needed any immediate assistance. Through it all, Yimei managed to keep up the conversation, her voice occasionally breaking into soft moans that she covered with coughs or sighs. Pu Dagen sat back, one hand tangled in her hair, thoroughly enjoying the situation.

Finally satisfied that everything was under control, Li Qing signed off. “Alright, stay safe. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Okay, bye-bye,” Yimei managed, her voice barely steady.

She tossed the radio aside and dove back into her work with renewed enthusiasm. On this deserted island, there were no eyes to watch, no ears to judge. Just the two of them, hidden from the world.

Later, as the sun began to descend toward the horizon, they walked along the beach hand in hand. The waves lapped at their feet, and the breeze carried the salt-scented air between them. Pu Dagen sat down on the warm sand, cracked open a coconut with a sharp rock, and drank deeply. He turned, took a bite of the sweet flesh, then leaned over and playfully nipped at Yimei’s breast through her thin top.

Yimei gasped and laughed, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re impossible.”

But she didn’t stop him. She had fallen for him, truly and completely, and she let him do as he pleased. One of her hands wandered down to toy with his manhood as they sat there, enjoying the sunset.

They made love on the beach, then moved to the bow of her massive yacht, the luxury vessel their private playground. As night fell, they kissed under the stars, the heat between them never fading. They showered together, steam fogging the glass, water running over their intertwined bodies.

“You’re terrible,” Yimei purred, her voice carrying a playful accusation. “You just never stop.”

Pu Dagen’s grin was wicked. “And you love it.”

She changed into a white one-piece bikini and posed for him. “Well? Do you like it?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he scooped her up in a princess carry, and she let out a delighted shriek, wrapping her arms around his neck. They were inseparable, almost glued together, every moment filled with touches and kisses.

Days passed like a fever dream. Then, one afternoon, a fuel ship appeared on the horizon. Li Qing had arrived.

Yimei and Pu Dagen put on their masks. They greeted him with perfect normalcy, as though nothing had happened on that island. Yimei walked up to Li Qing and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Pu Dagen clapped Li Qing on the shoulder with easy camaraderie. “I was starting to think I’d become a caveman out here, Brother Li. Man, am I glad to see you. Finally, I can go home.”

Li Qing laughed, completely oblivious. The three of them fell back into their usual dynamic, joking and chatting as if the island had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

A month later, Li Qing and Yimei were married. The ceremony was a grand affair, uniting the Qinglong Gang and the Xuanwu Gang in a display of friendship that would last for generations. Guests filled the hall, flowers adorned every surface, and Yimei looked radiant in her white wedding gown.

Pu Dagen approached her during the reception. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice warm. “And you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Yimei replied, her smile serene and perfectly appropriate.

The wedding ended. As tradition demanded, the husband was supposed to take his bride home. But Li Qing received an urgent call—something had come up at the Xuanwu Gang’s branch office. He turned to the one person he trusted completely.

“Pu Dagen, can you drive Yimei home for me? I’ll catch up later.”

“Of course, Brother Li,” Pu Dagen said smoothly.

So he got behind the wheel, and Yimei sat in the back seat, still in her stunning wedding dress. The car glided through the city streets, then out into the countryside. When they reached a deserted stretch of road, surrounded by tall reeds and wild grass, Pu Dagen glanced in the rearview mirror.

No one around.

He turned the wheel sharply, pulling the car off the road and into the dense cover of the reed field. The vehicle bumped over uneven ground until it was hidden from view.

A moment later, the car began to shake.

Inside, passion consumed them. Yimei’s wedding dress was bunched around her waist, and Pu Dagen was all over her, kissing and touching and claiming her. “Ah,” he breathed against her neck, “you look so beautiful in this dress. Stunning.”

Yimei’s voice was breathless, excited. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he growled.

An hour later, the car finally stopped shaking. They straightened their clothes, smoothed down the wrinkled dress, and Pu Dagen drove her the rest of the way home as though nothing had happened.

Days passed. In the city, Yimei and Li Qing were seen at a café, laughing and chatting like any happy couple. They held hands, shared desserts, and looked every bit the picture-perfect marriage. No one suspected a thing. No one would ever know about the island, about the reeds, about the secret that bound Yimei and Pu Dagen together.

One evening, Yimei emerged from her room dressed to kill. She wore a red gown with a slit that ran high up her thigh, revealing a glimpse of black lace stockings. The neckline plunged dangerously, showing off the full curve of her breasts. Her hair flowed freely, and her makeup was flawless.

Li Qing looked up from his phone. “Going somewhere dressed so grand?”

Yimei smiled. “Oh! The Damen Gang is celebrating their 40th anniversary tonight. I was invited.”

“I see,” Li Qing said, nodding. “Be careful on the road.”

He was so trusting, so simple. She felt a brief pang of guilt, but it faded as she thought about who would be waiting for her.

At the secret hall beneath the Wegelas Five-Star Hotel, Pu Dagen was already there. The moment the door closed behind her, they fell into each other’s arms. Their kiss was deep and hungry, years of longing compressed into a single moment. They tumbled onto the massive bed, and the hours melted away.

Five hours of raw, relentless passion.

“Stay with me a little longer,” Yimei whispered, her voice soft and needy.

Pu Dagen’s hand traced down her spine. “Tonight, I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

A thrill shot through her. “That’s more like it,” she purred.

Then her phone rang.

She picked it up, and in an instant, her entire demeanor shifted. Her voice became crisp, authoritative—the voice of a gang leader. “Hello? Ah, it’s you, Second Sister. What’s wrong? No one picked you up at the dock?”

Pu Dagen leaned close and whispered, “I can send my second brother, Pu Jingshuo, to pick her up. What’s your sister’s name?”

“Yi Ke’er,” Yimei replied.

He made a quick call, instructing his brother without any explanation of context. Pu Jingshuo, none the wiser, simply agreed to do his boss a favor. When the call ended, Pu Dagen turned back to Yimei with a grin.

“Now, where were we?”

They resumed their activities, their secret locked tight. Pu Jingshuo knew nothing. Yi Ke’er knew nothing. Only the two of them carried that hidden flame.

Their story, for now, pauses here. But new threads are already weaving—threads involving Yi Ke’er, Li Tian, and Pu Jingshuo. That, however, is a tale for the next chapter.

Stay tuned.

The sun hung low over Hei Jin Dao, casting long shadows across the grimy docks of Yedong City. Park Jung-seok sat in the driver's seat of his black sedan, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other adjusted the collar of his leather jacket. He was a compact man, barely 158 centimeters tall, but every inch of him was packed with dense muscle earned from years of street brawls and back-alley enforcement. His face was unremarkable—almost ugly—with a broad nose and small eyes that gave him a perpetually suspicious look. At twenty-eight, he had earned his place as the second-ranking boss of Daemun, the Korean gang that controlled half the island’s smuggling routes.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—it was one of his low-level runners.

“What?” Jung-seok barked.

“Hyung-nim, I found you a real catch tonight. A prostitute, fresh from the mainland. Beautiful. You want her?” The young voice crackled with enthusiasm.

Jung-seok grunted. “Not today. I’m heading to the pier to pick up someone important.”

“Aigoo, Hyung, that’s perfect. She’s already at the pier. You could just take a look—check the merchandise, you know?”

Jung-seok chewed his lip. The ferry carrying the Qinglong Gang’s envoy wasn’t due for another forty minutes. He had time. And if the woman was truly attractive, he could send her to his private villa—the so-called Second Branch Office, which was really just his lone mansion—and she could wait for him there. After he finished the official business, he’d have himself a proper reward.

“Fine. Where exactly?”

“By the main cargo crane. You can’t miss her. She’s dressed like a goddess.”

Jung-seok ended the call, a grin spreading across his plain face. He stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the pier with a swagger that belied his short stature.

The docks were a cacophony of rusted metal and salt spray. Fishing boats bobbed alongside cargo vessels, and the air smelled of diesel and dead fish. Jung-seok scanned the area near the crane, and his breath caught.

A woman stood alone at the edge of the pier, her back to him. She was tall—easily 176 centimeters, with long, jet-black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of ink. The hair was straight and glossy, stark against the gray concrete. As she turned slightly, he saw the profile of a face that was both sharp and mesmerizing: high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and lips that curved with quiet authority.

But it was her body that made him stop. She wore a high-slit black cheongsam that hugged every curve like a second skin. The slit ran almost to her hip, revealing a long, toned leg sheathed in sheer black stockings. The dress was cut open at the bodice, exposing the tops of breasts so full they seemed ready to burst free, pressed so tightly together that the cleavage formed a deep, shadowed valley. The fabric strained across her chest, and Jung-seok’s mouth went dry.

Her eyes met his. They were dark, sharp, and focused—the kind of eyes that could pin a man in place without a word. There was a simmering intelligence in them, a hint of danger that most would have noticed.

But Jung-seok’s brain had already shut down. *The kid wasn’t kidding. This is the most gorgeous whore I’ve ever seen.*

He strode toward her, his confidence restored. The woman watched him approach, her expression unreadable.

“You came,” she said, her voice low and smooth, with a slight accent he didn’t register.

Jung-seok raised a finger to her lips before she could finish. “Shh. I know you’ve been waiting for me. And I’ve been waiting for you. But tonight I’ve got a job to do first. So here’s the plan.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass key. “This is the address of my villa—the Second Branch Office. Just me there. Go inside, make yourself at home. I suggest you take a shower and get comfortable. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done, and then we’ll have some real fun, baby.”

Before she could respond, he slipped the key into her small handbag. Then his hand shot out and clamped onto her shoulder, pulling her close. She stiffened. He didn’t notice. His hand slid down her shoulder, over her arm, and then dropped to her breast, squeezing the generous mound through the thin silk.

Her eyes flared.

It happened in a blur. She grabbed his wrist, twisted it with brutal precision, and a sickening crack echoed across the dock. Jung-seok’s arm bent at an unnatural angle, and he let out a high-pitched yelp, dropping to his knees as fire shot up his forearm.

“Aaaagh! What the hell?!” He clutched his wrist, pain lancing through him. “That’s too much! Even if you don’t want to work, you don’t break a customer’s arm!”

The woman released him and stepped back, her face cold as iron. “I am Yi Ke’er, second-in-command of the Qinglong Gang. No one has ever dared to disrespect me like that. I should break your neck to teach you a lesson.”

Jung-seok’s pain was immediately eclipsed by pure terror. “Yi Ke’er?! The sister of Yi Mei’er? The number two of the entire Qinglong Gang?”

“Correct.”

He scrambled to his feet, still cradling his wrist. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were—there was a misunderstanding. I’m Park Jung-seok, acting boss of Daemun under my brother Park Dae-geun. I was sent to escort you to the safe house. Please, I am a serious man. This was an honest mistake.”

Yi Ke’er studied him with narrowed eyes. “A serious man? You were feeling me up three seconds ago.”

“I mistook you for a prostitute!” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He winced.

“A prostitute?” Her eyebrow arched.

At that moment, a young gangster in a cheap tracksuit jogged up to the pier, dragging a woman behind him. The woman was heavily made-up—caked foundation, bright red lipstick, fake eyelashes—and wore a tight mini skirt with a low-cut top that revealed her less-than-impressive assets.

“Hyung-nim!” the young thug called out cheerfully. “Sorry, I had trouble finding her. She didn’t know which pier. But I brought her in person! What do you think? She’s pretty hot, right? Want me to take her to your villa?”

The prostitute flashed a gummy smile.

Jung-seok’s face turned scarlet. He covered his eyes with his good hand, wishing the concrete would swallow him whole.

Yi Ke’er let out a low, musical laugh. “Ah. So this is the kind of ‘serious man’ you are. I see now.” She walked past him, her heels clicking on the pavement, and opened the passenger door of his sedan. “Let’s go. Take me to the seaside villa the Qinglong Gang prepared for me.”

Jung-seok lowered his hand, shot a venomous glare at the idiot subordinate, and muttered, “Next time I’ll tear out your tongue.” He then hurried to the driver’s side, head bowed in shame.

As he started the engine, Yi Ke’er sat beside him, her long legs crossed, her expression amused but still dangerous. “Drive.”

He swallowed hard and pulled away from the curb, the taste of humiliation fresh in his mouth. All he could do was try to salvage the situation.

“I apologize again for the misunderstanding,” he began, his voice strained. “I hope this does not reflect poorly on the Qinglong Gang. The Daemun treats our allies with utmost respect. I—I am not usually like this.”

Yi Ke’er gazed out the window, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Of course not. You’re a very serious man.”

They drove in silence after that, the night swallowing the dock behind them.

Three days later, Piao Jingshuo arrived at the island's second branch of the Xuanwu Gang. He greeted Li Tian, the second son of the second brother of Li Qing, who was one of the many sons of the previous generation's leader. Piao Jingshuo said, "Li Tian, Vice Leader, you've only been on the island for a week. Are you settling in? Seems like you're like me—manning a branch all alone."

Li Tian was a 27-year-old Chinese man, 170 centimeters tall, with an average build on the lean side. His erect cock measured only nine centimeters, and his semen was thin and sparse, with low sperm count and motility. He replied, "Ah, you're wrong. It's two people now. You know, my fiancée came along too."

Piao Jingshuo raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, really? Which woman managed to capture the heart of Li Tian, the second-ranking leader of the Xuanwu Gang?"

Just then, footsteps sounded from the stairs. A beautiful woman in a professional office outfit descended, her face lit with a sweet smile. She called out to Li Tian, "Darling, look what I found—a cat! Isn't it adorable?"

The woman was Yi Ke'er. The moment she spotted Piao Jingshuo, her expression shifted from affectionate to the cold, aloof demeanor of a powerful businesswoman. "Well, if it isn't Piao Jingshuo, the second-in-command of the Daimon Gang," she said.

Li Tian looked between them, confused. "Ah, this..."

Li Qing, who had been standing nearby, interjected, "So you two know each other? I was just about to take you to the Daimon Gang's second branch. I'll lead the way."

Yi Ke'er smiled with a hint of mischief. "I don't think that's necessary. For certain reasons, I already know where it is. Isn't that right, Mr. Piao Jingshuo?" She turned her gaze on him, sharp and knowing.

Piao Jingshuo pretended to look around at the scenery, trying to mask his discomfort and embarrassment. "What's going on?" Li Tian asked curiously.

Yi Ke'er shrugged. "Nothing important. Just a trivial matter. It's really nothing."

Li Tian didn't press further. If Yi Ke'er said it was fine, then it was fine. Piao Jingshuo turned and walked away without another word. Yi Ke'er and Li Tian kissed each other on the cheek, showing an intimacy that made the moment sting even more. Halfway down the path, Piao Jingshuo glanced back, stuck out his tongue in a mocking gesture, and sneered, "Stupid woman," making a loud "nya-nya-nya" sound.

Yi Ke'er's face flushed with anger. She let out an exasperated sigh, then an indignant "Hmph!" as she turned away. Li Tian noticed the tension between them and shook his head helplessly.

After Piao Jingshuo left, Yi Ke'er and Li Tian went back inside. Yi Ke'er became like a clingy, well-behaved cat. She pressed her lips to Li Tian's, kissing him over and over, trying to stoke his desire. She tugged off his pants and began to give him oral. When his cock hardened to its nine centimeters, she didn't hesitate. She pressed her breasts against it, starting a titjob. Her ample bosom completely swallowed his cock, hiding it from sight. Then they started making love. Yi Ke'er rocked her body wildly, but within six minutes, Li Tian came. The force and height of his ejaculation were far too weak to reach inside her. If he wanted to get her pregnant, he would need to try many times—the odds were stacked heavily against him. After that single shot, Li Tian collapsed, exhausted, and needed a long rest to recover. Yi Ke'er gently comforted him, saying, "You did your best. Next time, try harder." She kissed his cheek with genuine affection.

Two days later, Yi Ke'er arrived at Piao Jingshuo's villa, the Daimon Gang's second branch. When he opened the door and saw her, his face soured immediately. "Well, well, what wind blew you here? And it's a bad wind," he said through gritted teeth.

Yi Ke'er maintained a composed, confident demeanor. "I just wanted to see what kind of savage den you live in, Boss Piao."

"Why are you alone? Where's your fiancé, Li Tian?" Piao Jingshuo asked.

"He has things to do. Anyway, I'm just taking a quick look around, then I'll leave," she replied.

"Excuse me, I need to use the restroom," Piao Jingshuo said abruptly, and headed to the bathroom. Once inside, he called his older brother, Piao Dagen. "Brother, what were you thinking? I've got a troublesome woman on my hands, you know?"

Piao Dagen was on the other end, simultaneously receiving oral from Yi Mei'er. "Oh, that feels good... Brother, don't worry about it. Treat it as a test of your character. As your older brother, I order you to control your temper. Oh, oh~"

Piao Jingshuo thought his brother's voice sounded odd. "Why do you keep making strange noises?"

Piao Dagen lied, "Uh, it's just my daily muscle training. I make sounds when I strain. Oh, oh, oh~ I'm busy now, I'll hang up." He ended the call abruptly.

Piao Jingshuo bought the excuse, muttering to himself, "This guy and his weird habits. Whatever."

Meanwhile, Yi Ke'er also made a call to her older sister, Yi Mei'er. "Hey, dear sister, how are you and Brother Li Qing doing? Congratulations on the wedding. The other day I ran into Piao Jingshuo. That guy really pissed me off. He did something bad to me. Ugh, I hate him. He's disgusting."

At that moment, Yi Mei'er was deep-throating Piao Dagen's enormous cock. She pulled back with a wet pop and said, "Mm~ mm~ pop~ My dear little sister, you're a grown woman. You shouldn't judge a person so one-sidedly. Mm~ it's so big!"

Yi Ke'er was puzzled. "What's so big?"

Yi Mei'er improvised hastily. "Nothing, I'm just eating a popsicle. It's a little... mm~ pop~ big! This popsicle is really big!"

Yi Ke'er thought her sister was genuinely eating a popsicle, and after a few more pleasantries, she hung up the phone.

Yiko'er continued her tour through Park Jing-suk's villa, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors as she wandered from room to room. The place was massive, almost obscenely so for a man living alone, but the decor was surprisingly tasteful—modern, with clean lines and expensive art on the walls. She had to admit, the guy had style. At least in furniture.

That opinion lasted exactly until she pushed open the door to his bedroom.

She stopped in the doorway and stared.

It looked like a bomb had gone off inside a bachelor's closet. Clothes were strewn across the floor like casualties of war—shirts here, pants there, what looked like three different socks that had never met their matches. The bed was unmade, sheets twisted into a landscape of wrinkles and lumps, and there were empty ramen cups stacked on the nightstand like some kind of modern art installation dedicated to poor life choices.

Yiko'er let out a long, slow breath, then a laugh escaped her lips. It was equal parts disbelief and amusement.

"Unbelievable," she muttered, stepping inside and nudging a crumpled t-shirt with the toe of her shoe. "A grown man lives like this."

Park Jing-suk appeared in the doorway behind her, looking somewhat sheepish. "I was going to clean it. I just... haven't gotten around to it."

"Gotten around to it?" Yiko'er turned to face him, one eyebrow arched elegantly. "Jing-suk-ssi, this isn't a matter of getting around to it. This is a lifestyle choice. A commitment to chaos."

He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet her eyes. "It's not that bad."

"It's a crime scene," she said flatly. "The only thing missing is the chalk outline."

Before he could protest further, she had already bent down to pick up a discarded button-up shirt. She held it up, inspected it, and let out a small hum of disapproval.

"Fine. I'll clean it for you."

Park Jing-suk blinked. "What? No, you don't have to—"

"Just this once," she cut him off, already moving toward the closet to grab a hanger. "And only once. Don't expect a repeat performance. Honestly, you should just get your girlfriend or wife to handle this."

She heard him sputter behind her. "I don't have a—"

"Or better yet," she continued, a wicked smile curling her lips as she slid the shirt onto the hanger, "considering your current state, I doubt any woman would willingly take you on. Which explains why you had to ask your underlings to call escorts for you."

The silence that followed was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Park Jing-suk's face cycled through several shades of red before settling on a deep, embarrassed crimson. "That's... that's not fair."

"Not fair?" Yiko'er turned to face him, arms crossed, looking utterly unrepentant. "I'm just stating facts, Jing-suk-ssi. You called an escort. To your home. While I was here. For a misunderstanding. That part I don't blame you for, but the fact remains."

"I said I was sorry about that."

"And I accepted your apology," she said, resuming her cleaning with brisk, efficient movements. She picked up a pair of pants, folded them, and placed them on the bed. "How could I stay mad at you? You're so pitiful. A lonely, single man who has to resort to paid companions to satisfy his needs."

Park Jing-suk stood frozen in the doorway, looking like a man who had been verbally eviscerated and didn't know how to respond. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to find his voice.

"I didn't... I mean, it wasn't... it didn't work out."

Yiko'er paused, a sock in her hand. She looked at him over her shoulder. "What do you mean, it didn't work out?"

He shifted his weight, rubbing his hands together nervously. "I mean, the escort thing? It was my first time, and I failed."

She turned fully now, genuinely curious. "Failed how?"

"I don't know! I just..." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I couldn't go through with it, okay? I sent her away. I'm still..."

Yiko'er raised an eyebrow. "Still what?"

Park Jing-suk let out a sound of pure exasperation, as if the universe itself was testing his patience. Then he threw his hands up in defeat.

"I'm still a virgin, alright?! Is that what you want to hear? That I'm a twenty-six-year-old man who's never been with a woman? If it weren't for that whole mess with mistaken identity, I probably would've finally gotten rid of the title by now." His voice dropped into a bitter chuckle. "Go ahead and laugh. I know it's funny. A gangster who's never even—"

"I won't laugh."

His rambling stopped. He looked at her, eyes wide with surprise.

Yiko'er had stopped cleaning. She was standing there, the sock still in her hand, looking at him with an expression that was surprisingly serious. There was no mockery in her eyes, no hidden amusement. Just calm, steady sincerity.

"I mean it," she continued, her voice soft but firm. "Park Jing-suk-ssi, I don't think there's anything wrong with a man choosing to remain a virgin until he finds real love. In fact, I think that's something to be respected. And I would never mock someone for that."

For a long moment, Park Jing-suk just stared at her. He felt something shift in his chest—a small, grudging respect taking root. This woman, he thought, really was something else. No wonder she was the second-in-command of the Blue Dragon Gang. She had a dignity about her that he hadn't expected.

Then Yiko'er's lips curled into a sly smile.

"However," she said, her tone taking on a playful edge, "I don't think Park Jing-suk-ssi is likely to escape his single status in this lifetime. And I know better than to mock a pathetic creature. I have manners, after all."

The respect he had just felt evaporated like morning mist.

Park Jing-suk's eye twitched. Without a word, he walked over to the small seating area in the corner of the room and dropped heavily onto the sofa, crossing his arms like a sulking child. "You're impossible."

"I'm honest," she corrected, turning back to her cleaning. "There's a difference."

He watched her work, fuming silently. But as the minutes passed, his irritation began to fade, replaced by something else. Something he couldn't quite name.

Yiko'er moved through the room with a focused energy, completely unaware—or pretending to be unaware—that she was being watched. She bent over to pick up a magazine from the floor, and as she did, the loose collar of her blouse shifted, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her décolletage. The deep, inviting valley of her cleavage was almost impossibly perfect, pale and smooth against the dark fabric of her top.

Park Jing-suk's breath caught in his throat.

She was tall, 176 centimeters of elegant, long-limbed beauty, with hair so black and straight it looked like liquid obsidian cascading down her back. Every movement she made was graceful, deliberate, captivating.

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud until the words left his mouth.

"Beautiful..."

Yiko'er straightened up, frowning slightly. "What did you say?"

He shook his head quickly, feeling his face heat up. "Nothing. I just... I mutter sometimes. Don't worry about it."

She gave him a curious look, then shrugged and went back to her work, apparently deciding it wasn't worth pursuing.

Thirty minutes later, the room was spotless. The bed was made with crisp, military-grade corners. The clothes were folded or hung. The ramen cups had been disposed of. The nightstand was wiped down.

Yiko'er stepped back to admire her work, hands on her hips. "There. That's how a respectable adult lives."

Park Jing-suk stood up from the sofa, looking around the room with a mixture of awe and embarrassment. "I... thank you. I didn't think it could look this good."

"You're welcome. Don't expect it again." She walked past him, heading toward the front door. "I have things to do. People to see. All that."

He followed her to the entrance, hovering awkwardly as she slipped on her shoes. As she straightened up, he cleared his throat.

"Yiko'er-ssi, I really hope that our previous misunderstanding doesn't create tension between the Gate Gang and the Blue Dragon Gang," he said, his voice serious now. "My brother has made it clear that he wants to maintain friendly relations with you and your organization. For the sake of both gangs' futures, I hope you can—"

Yiko'er turned to face him, her hand on the door handle. She looked at him with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and he felt like she was seeing right through him.

"Forget about the gangs for a moment," she said. "What about you? Do you personally believe that the Gate Gang and Blue Dragon Gang can work together? You've only talked about business. I want to know what you think. Whether you personally have the desire—the willingness—to be friendly with me. I want to hear your own thoughts, not your brother's."

Park Jing-suk fell silent. The question hung in the air between them, heavier than he had expected.

He thought about it. Really thought about it. The way she carried herself. The sharpness of her tongue. The unexpected kindness she had shown him. The way she had made him feel seen, even for just a moment.

"I..." He took a breath. "I think you're very charming, Yiko'er-ssi. I might even say I like you. Would you be willing to be my—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Yiko'er held up a hand, her expression shifting from curiosity to alarm. "Stop right there. I think you're misunderstanding something."

"I can wait," he said quickly, pressing forward. "I can wait until you're ready to accept me."

"That's even more impossible," she said, shaking her head. "Don't wait. Do you want to know why?"

"Why?"

She let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I'm already taken, Jing-suk-ssi. I have someone. I'm engaged. It's Li Tian. You know him—he's your close friend. You two used to hang out all the time. I can't believe he never told you about me."

The color drained from Park Jing-suk's face.

"Li Tian..." he repeated, the name hitting him like a freight train. "You're engaged to Li Tian?"

"I thought everyone knew," she said, her voice edged with disbelief. "He literally talks about me constantly. How could you not—"

"I didn't—" He stopped, swallowed hard. His brain seemed to have disconnected from his mouth. "I was just about to confess to Li Tian's woman. I was going to ask you to come back inside and... and make love to you and have ten kids and..."

By the time he realized what he was saying, it was too late.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Yiko'er stared at him. Her expression was unreadable for a long, terrifying moment.

Then, very slowly, she raised her hand and delivered a slap across his cheek that echoed through the entire villa.

The red imprint of her palm bloomed on his skin like a flower.

Park Jing-suk touched his cheek, wincing. "I deserved that."

"You think?" Yiko'er's voice was ice cold. She turned on her heel, ready to leave.

"I'm sorry!" he called after her, his voice desperate. "At least give me credit for being honest!"

Yiko'er stopped. She didn't turn around, but she didn't walk away either.

"Honest," she repeated, her voice flat. "You're right. You deserve credit for that. And for having those expectations of me, you absolutely deserved that slap."

She finally turned, and he saw something unexpected in her eyes—not just anger, but a trace of grudging respect.

"Do you have anything else to say?" she asked.

Park Jing-suk straightened his posture. Then, with a solemnity that seemed almost out of place for a man who had just been slapped, he bowed deeply.

"If there is no romantic future between us, then let me at least dedicate myself to the friendship between our gangs," he said, his voice sincere. "And to my personal respect for you, Yiko'er-ssi."

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across Yiko'er's face. It was a confident smile, the kind that belonged to a woman who knew exactly who she was and what she was worth.

"Then you'd better respect me a lot," she said, her voice light and teas

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The warehouse loomed in the industrial wasteland, its rusted corrugated roof sagging under years of neglect. Li Tian killed the engine a block away, letting the sedan roll to a silent stop behind a pile of debris. He turned to Piao Jingshuo in the passenger seat. “Intel says the Takegumi crew’s been cooking something here and shipping it overseas. If it’s true, we torch this place and they lose millions.”

Piao Jingshuo grunted, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s make sure it’s true first.” He glanced back at Yi Ke’er in the rear seat. “Stay here. Keep the engine warm. If we’re not out in twenty minutes, you know what to do.”

Yi Ke’er nodded, her hand resting on the door handle. “Don’t take stupid risks.”

Li Tian snorted. “Us? Never.” He stepped out, and Piao Jingshuo followed, both men slipping through a gap in the chain-link fence. The gravel crunched under their boots as they approached the loading bay. A single padlock hung broken on the side door, swinging in the breeze.

Inside, the air was thick with chemical residue and dust. Stacks of empty barrels lined the walls, and a long table held beakers and tubing coated in dried residue. But no workers. No guards. Just the hollow echo of their footsteps.

“Cleaned out,” Li Tian muttered, kicking over a barrel. “Someone tipped them off.”

Piao Jingshuo walked deeper into the gloom, his flashlight beam sweeping across the floor. “They left in a hurry. Look—food still half-eaten on that crate.”

Li Tian joined him, peering at the congealed noodles. “Maybe they’re coming back.”

A faint hiss sounded behind them. Before either could turn, a cloud of shimmering gas bloomed from vents near the ceiling. Li Tian inhaled sharply, his vision swimming. “Gas—!” He dropped to his knees, head spinning. Piao Jingshuo clutched a support beam, his face contorting, then slumped forward, unconscious.

Footsteps approached. Two thugs in ragged jackets emerged from behind a false wall, one holding a canister, the other smirking. “Stupid bastards. Thought they’d walk right in and play hero.”

“Check their pulses,” the second thug said. “Make sure they’re out cold.”

The first knelt, pressed fingers to Li Tian’s neck, then did the same for Piao Jingshuo. “Deep sleep. Four hours easy.”

“Good.” The second produced two vials of a viscous, milky liquid. “The boss said test the new batch on live subjects. These two volunteered.”

They forced Li Tian’s mouth open, poured the liquid down his throat. He swallowed reflexively, still unconscious. Then Piao Jingshuo received the same treatment. The thug wiped his hands on his pants. “Two hours to kick in. Then their cocks will swell up like balloons and burst. Dead before they hit the floor.”

“Beautiful.” The first thug laughed. “Let’s move. We’ll come back for the bodies later.”

They turned to leave. A shadow detached from the doorway—Yi Ke’er, who had followed silently after her sixth sense screamed danger. She didn’t hesitate. Her palm struck the back of the first thug’s neck, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. The second spun, reaching for a gun, but she drove a knee into his stomach, then swept his legs. He hit the concrete hard. She dropped a knee onto his spine, pinned one arm, and twisted the other behind his back in a lock so tight he yelped.

“Talk!” she snarled, wrenching his wrist. “What did you give them?”

“Ahh! Fuck! Let go—!”

“What was it?”

“A drug! We found it last year. Makes men’s dicks go rock-hard in ten minutes. Two hours later—boom. Cock splits open, they die. Unless it softens before then.”

Yi Ke’er tightened her grip. “Don’t lie to me. How did they pass out? Tell me the truth!”

“That’s the truth! The gas—we made it. Keeps them under four hours. I swear!”

Yi Ke’er’s attention flickered for an instant toward her fallen comrades. The thug saw his chance. “Defense mode, initiate!” he screamed.

Overhead, a panel slid open. A mechanical arm descended, a pistol mounted on its claw. The red targeting laser swept across the floor.

“Shit!” Yi Ke’er rolled sideways, dragging the thug with her. The arm fired—the bullet punched through the spot she’d been standing. She scrambled behind a stack of barrels as a second shot ricocheted off the metal.

The first thug, still unconscious, lay exposed. A third shot tore through his chest. He jerked once, then was still.

The thug in her grip tried to twist free, but she held him tight. The mechanical arm whirred, recalibrating. Then it shuddered. A grinding noise. The barrel drooped and fired wild—a fourth shot blasted the thug she’d been controlling as he tried to flee. He toppled, dead before he hit the ground.

The arm jammed, sparks flying, and went still.

Yi Ke’er panted, eyes darting. The shooters were down. She rushed to Li Tian and Piao Jingshuo. Both alive, breathing slowly. She dragged them one by one to the side door, heaving their dead weight into the trunk of the sedan—no time for finesse. She jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the accelerator, and tore away from the warehouse.

They had less than two hours.

Halfway back to the safehouse, the engine coughed. The fuel gauge needle hovered at empty. Yi Ke’er cursed, swerving onto a dirt track into a small grove of pines. She killed the engine, coasting to a stop under the canopy. No buildings in sight. Isolated.

She climbed into the back seat to check on them. Li Tian’s trousers bulged obscenely. Piao Jingshuo’s too—a tent so pronounced it seemed impossible. The outline was massive, like a steel pipe straining against denim.

Yi Ke’er’s stomach dropped. The thug hadn’t lied. She remembered his words: “Unless it softens before then.”

She could try to wake them, but the gas would keep them under for hours. No time.

Her hands trembled as she unbuckled Li Tian’s belt, then Piao Jingshuo’s. She pulled their pants down. Li Tian’s erection was maybe nine centimeters, harder than she’d ever seen it. Pitiful compared to the other.

She turned to Piao Jingshuo. Her breath caught. Twenty-eight centimeters at least. Thick as her forearm, veins cording along the shaft, dark and prominent. The tip glistened, and a musky, heavy scent rose from it, flooding the car.

“How can it be that big…” she whispered, horrified.

She had to keep them alive. She sat between their legs, one hand on each. She began to stroke, alternating rhythm, watching the raging erections for any sign of softening. Her mind raced. This was insane. Degrading. But they would die.

Three minutes in, Li Tian groaned in his sleep, hips bucking. A weak spurt of semen hit his stomach. He went still.

“You useless… already finished?” Yi Ke’er muttered. She checked his erection—it was deflating. Good. One down.

But Piao Jingshuo’s stood as rigid as ever, leaking but unyielding. She pumped harder, faster. Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty. Her arms ached. Sweat beaded on her brow. Still hard as iron.

“Come on…” she pleaded.

Piao Jingshuo stirred in his narcotic slumber, lips moving. “Yi Ke’er… little kitten…” His voice was slurred, dreamy. “Get down and show me… you want to give my cock a tit job…”

She froze. He was dreaming. But the words hit her like a slap. She backhanded him across the face, leaving a red mark. His head lolled. He didn’t wake.

She looked at Li Tian—still out. Good. He wouldn’t see.

She couldn’t let Piao Jingshuo die. Swallowing her pride, she unbuttoned her blouse, unfastened her bra. Her breasts, full and pale, swung free. She leaned over him, lowering her heavy chest onto his erection. The head slid between her cleavage, but the shaft was so thick it pushed her breasts apart, the tip rising past her collarbone. She pressed down, using her hands to squeeze, and began to move, sliding her flesh up and down his length.

The heat of it seared her skin. The smell was overwhelming—sweat, musk, the sharp tang of precum. She could taste it on her lips. She leaned forward, and the tip brushed her chin, her mouth.

Suddenly Piao Jingshuo sat bolt upright, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. He loomed over her, still deep in his dream.

“Yi Ke’er… little cat, do you like my big cock? Answer me.”

She bit back a retort. If this kept him docile… “Yes. I like it.”

“Then why aren’t you smiling? Smile, and kiss the head.”

She forced a smile, lowered her face, and pressed her lips to the glans protruding from between her breasts. She kept moving, kissing it as she worked.

“Suck it,” his dream-voice commanded. “Suck me. I’m going to come.”

She didn’t want it on her clothes. She opened her mouth, took the head in, and he exploded. A torrent of hot, thick semen flooded her mouth, so much she feared it would spill from her lips. She swallowed, forcing it down, and he kept coming, pulse after pulse. She had to chew the viscous clot to get it down. Finally, he slumped back, his cock softening at last.

Yi Ke’er wiped her mouth, gasping. She glanced at Li Tian—still unconscious, still safe. Piao Jingshuo’s breathing evened, lost in his drugged sleep. She dressed quickly, hands shaking.

Two hours later, she remembered the spare gasoline can in the trunk. She filled the tank, and the car started.

Li Tian woke first, groggy. “Ugh… what happened? My head…”

Yi Ke’er kept her eyes on the road. “You got gassed. I got you out.”

“Feel like my dick’s been through a wringer.”

“Probably just the aftereffects.”

Piao Jingshuo stirred. He sat up, touching his stinging cheek. “Why does my face hurt? Did someone hit me?”

“You banged it on a barrel when you fell,” Yi Ke’er said flatly.

He frowned, trying to piece together his dream. His lips curved into a sly smile. “I had a strange dream… about you, Miss Yi.”

“Don’t try to remember it,” she snapped.

He blinked, confused by her hostility. Whatever had happened, he decided not to press. He settled back, rubbing his cheek, and let the matter drop.

The sun hung high over the private stretch of sand that the Da Men Gang had secured for the day. No tourists, no vendors, just the sound of waves and the distant whine of an old arcade machine inside a small beachside shop. Two men stood before the screen, fingers pounding buttons, sweat already beading on their temples.

Pu Dagen grinned as his character executed a perfect combo, sending Li Qing's digital fighter flying. "Hey, old brother, that combo wasn't bad at all."

Li Qing cracked his knuckles and reset the match. "You're not half bad yourself. Where'd you learn that chain?"

"My father said a man who can't fight in real life should at least know how to fight on a screen." Pu Dagen laughed, his broad shoulders shaking. "Doesn't count, but it's fun."

Two grown men, both pushing thirty, stood like overgrown kids in a rundown arcade, building a bridge of camaraderie over pixelated violence. It felt natural—like they'd known each other for years instead of just hours. The kind of brotherhood that forms when two people discover they share the same embarrassing hobbies, the same taste in cheap beer, and the same disregard for social norms.

Li Qing let out a bark of laughter. "I like you, Pu Dagen. You're crude, loud, and you don't pretend to be anything else."

"Same to you, brother."

They were about to start another round when a voice, soft and teasing, cut through the beeps of the machine.

"Two big children already playing together so fast?"

Both men turned. Yimeier stood at the entrance of the shop, the sun framing her silhouette, her white swimsuit clinging to every curve. It was modest in cut but immodest in effect—the fabric hugged her full bust, her narrow waist, the gentle flare of her hips. She smiled, a touch of mischief in her eyes.

Pu Dagen's mouth went dry. He'd seen photos of the legendary number one woman of the Qinglong Gang, but photos didn't capture the way she moved, the way confidence radiated from her like heat from asphalt.

Li Qing elbowed him. "Don't just stand there, say something."

Yimeier walked closer, her bare feet leaving small prints in the sand tracked onto the wood floor. She stopped in front of Pu Dagen, tilted her head, and struck a playful pose. "What's wrong? Don't you like how I look in this?"

Pu Dagen's ears turned red. He scratched the back of his neck. "Uh... the Qinglong Gang's number one lady... impressive. Very... very pretty."

Li Qing immediately jumped on the opening. "Oh-ho! You dare have eyes for her?"

Pu Dagen's hands flew up in panic. "No, no! That's not what I meant! I didn't mean—"

Li Qing burst out laughing, doubling over. "I'm just messing with you, man! Look at your face!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "That reaction was priceless."

Yimeier joined in, her laughter like wind chimes. She put a hand on Pu Dagen's arm. "Don't mind him. He's always been an idiot."

"Hey!" Li Qing protested, but he was still grinning.

They decided to play volleyball on the empty court set up near the water. The net sagged in the middle, the ball was slightly flat, but nobody cared. Yimeier served, and as she jumped, her chest bounced heavily under the white fabric. Pu Dagen's eyes tracked the movement, mesmerized. He didn't see the ball coming until it smacked him square in the face.

"Oof!"

Li Qing doubled over again. "Pu Dagen! How do you get hit by a serve? You were staring, weren't you?"

"No! I was—the sun was in my eyes!"

Yimeier caught the ball, her smile sly. "Sure, the sun."

They played another round, but Pu Dagen's concentration shattered every time Yimeier moved. Soon they called a break, collapsing into beach chairs under a striped umbrella.

Li Qing took a long gulp of cola. "Hey, Pu Dagen, why didn't you bring a girl with you? Most gang leaders bring at least one companion."

Pu Dagen shrugged, his face bright red under the sun. "I'm still single. Too busy with the gang. My father keeps yelling at me about it. He says a man of our family isn't a proper man if his dick doesn't shoot ten times a day or something ridiculous."

Li Qing nearly choked on his drink. "Brother, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. A normal man can't produce that much volume. That's basic biology."

Pu Dagen laughed and nodded quickly, thinking to himself: I'm definitely not going to mention that even three times a day when I watch adult videos and take care of things myself. That would be too embarrassing.

Yimeier had gone to get more drinks from the shop. As she walked away, the two men exchanged glances that said: yes, we both want to be brothers.

The sun grew hotter. Waves lapped the shore. It was peaceful.

Then two men in cheap suits emerged from behind a dune, their faces hard, pistols glinting in their hands. They didn't speak. They raised their weapons and fired.

The first shot chipped the wooden post of the umbrella. Sand exploded near Pu Dagen's foot.

Instinct took over. Li Qing dropped into a roll, drawing his own weapon from a concealed holster, finding cover behind a overturned boat. He fired twice, forcing the attackers to dive for the sand.

Yimeier, still near the shop, pulled three throwing knives from a strap hidden under the hem of her swimsuit. Her arm snapped forward, and one attacker dropped his gun with a blade embedded in his forearm. The second turned toward her, but another knife caught him in the throat. He crumpled.

But from the tall grass beyond the dune, three more figures rose. They aimed directly at Yimeier, who was exposed in the open.

Pu Dagen saw it happen. He didn't think. He moved.

He closed the distance in three long strides, his fist connecting with the first attacker's jaw with a crack that sent teeth flying. The man spun and collapsed. Pu Dagen grabbed a fallen metal pole—part of a broken beach umbrella stand—and swung it like a staff. The second attacker took it to the ribs, doubling over. The third tried to aim, but Pu Dagen's follow-up strike caught his wrist, shattering bone.

Yimeier's eyes widened. "Not bad."

Pu Dagen grinned, breathing hard. "The Da Men Gang doesn't raise cowards. Every one of us has fought for our place."

Yimeier's smile faded. "Dagen, behind you!"

He turned, but there was nothing—only her rushing toward him. She launched herself, tackling him backward, her body covering his as a bullet zipped over where his head had been. They hit the sand hard, Pu Dagen on his back, Yimeier sprawled on top of him.

The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, but his senses immediately flooded with other details. The warmth of her skin. The scent of her hair—coconut and salt. And the weight of her chest pressing directly against his face. Soft, full, heavy.

His brain short-circuited.

Li Qing, still trading fire with the remaining attackers, didn't notice what was happening a few meters away.

Pu Dagen's body reacted before his mind could intervene. The blood that had been pumping for fight now redirected south. His cock, modest at a flaccid five centimeters, swelled with sudden violent urgency. It grew beyond anything normal—stiffening, thickening, lengthening until it reached a full twenty-nine centimeters, a thick, veined rod that pressed insistently upward.

Yimeier felt something hard dig into her belly. She assumed it was a hidden weapon—a baton, a spare knife—and paid it no mind as she fired three shots from her own pistol, dropping the last attacker.

Silence fell. The beach reeked of gunpowder and salt.

Li Qing stood, dusted himself off, and surveyed the bodies. "We need to report this. I'm heading to the division. Stay safe, both of you."

He strode off without waiting for a response, already on his phone.

Yimeier finally pushed herself off Pu Dagen's chest. He sat up, face crimson, grateful that the bulge in his shorts had begun to subside—mostly. He adjusted his posture awkwardly.

She didn't notice. She was already walking to the small shop, where a table and chairs sat in the shade. "Come on. I owe you a drink."

They settled into plastic chairs, two bottles of cola sweating between them. The waves provided background noise. Seagulls cried overhead.

Yimeier lifted her bottle in a toast. "Thank you. If you hadn't shown up, I'd be dead right now."

Pu Dagen's mind was elsewhere. All he could think about was the scent of her chest that had filled his nose for those few seconds. Milk, warmth, something that made his mouth water.

Yimeier leaned forward, bending at the waist as a sign of gratitude. Her full breasts pressed against the edge of the table. The fabric of her swimsuit strained. As she dipped lower, the curve of her cleavage deepened, the soft flesh spreading against the cool plastic.

The visual hit Pu Dagen like a battering ram.

His cock, which had only partially deflated, surged back to full engorged length in less than a heartbeat. The thick shaft rammed upward from his lap, crashing against the underside of the table with a loud *thump*.

Yimeier jerked back, startled. "What was that?"

Pu Dagen doubled over, pressing his hands over his crotch. "Weapon! My weapon! It fell and hit the table. It's nothing!" Sweat poured down his forehead. "I need to... use the bathroom. Excuse me."

He scrambled upright and half-ran toward the back of the shop, but there was no restroom. The shopkeeper shouted that the facilities were closed for repairs. So Pu Dagen kept moving, past the shop, past the dunes, to a temporary bathhouse that the gang had set up for the day.

He burst into an empty stall, locked the door, and leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly. His erection was painful—throbbing, angry, demanding release. He couldn't go back out like this.

His eyes scanned the stall. On a small shelf sat a discarded, extra-large bottle of body wash. Empty, clean, with a wide opening.

Without a second thought, he grabbed it. He positioned himself, his hand working furiously, and within minutes he spilled his release into the plastic container—thick, white, copious. He filled the bottle nearly halfway before his muscles relaxed.

The erection softened. He was normal again.

He set the bottle aside, washed his hands, and stepped out. But as he walked along the beach path, his bladder reminded him of the cola he'd drunk. He ducked behind a clump of bushes in a barren patch of sand and relieved himself.

On his way back, he noticed steam rising from the temporary bathhouse. Through a gap in the wooden slats, he saw a silhouette. Yimeier. She was showering, the water streaming over her body, her white swimsuit discarded on a hook.

He stopped, frozen. Then he forced himself to turn away and walk to the shop, his heart hammering.

Inside the bathhouse, Yimeier let the warm water run over her shoulders. She inhaled deeply and caught a strange scent—thick, musky, unfamiliar. It clung to the humid air. Something in her body stirred. Her skin flushed. A warmth gathered low in her belly, spreading outward like a quiet tide.

She shook her head, dismissing it. *It's just the heat. The exertion from the fight.*

She turned off the water and began to dry herself, unaware of the lingering traces of what had happened in the same room not minutes before.