Power and Lust: The Cuckold Training Manual

The CEO’s office still smelled of the old man’s cologne—that stale, expensive scent of authority Lin Yichen had grown up breathing. Now the leather chair beneath him was warm, and the weight of the company pressed against his shoulders like a tailored suit. He loosened his tie with one hand and let his gaze drift to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city’s glittering skyline. The inheritance had been finalized at three o’clock. By six, he was already bored.

Su Wanqing stood by the door, still in the pencil skirt she’d worn to the reading of the will. Her blouse was buttoned demurely to the throat, but her eyes held that familiar glint—half deference, half invitation. She had been his father’s secretary for ten years, and Lin Yichen’s secret conquest for the last two. She knew the rhythm of his moods better than anyone.

“Close the door,” he said, his voice flat.

She did, and the lock clicked with a soft, final sound. Her heels made no noise on the thick carpet as she approached, stopping a foot from the desk. Lin Yichen leaned back, unzipped his fly, and gestured down.

“Kneel.”

Su Wanqing didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in one fluid motion, her hands already reaching up to push his shirt aside. Her fingers were cool against his skin, practiced and certain. She guided him into her mouth with the ease of a woman who had done this a hundred times—and knew exactly what he wanted. He watched her over the top of her head, noting how the city lights reflected in the gloss of her hair. She worked slowly at first, her tongue tracing the underside, her lips sliding with deliberate slowness. He closed his eyes and let the tension drain from his shoulders.

When he was hard, he fisted a handful of her hair and pulled her deeper. She gagged once, then adjusted, her throat opening to accommodate him. He set a punishing rhythm, fucking her mouth as though she were nothing more than a warm hole, a tool for his release. She took it without complaint, her hands gripping his thighs for balance, her makeup smearing as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. He watched the clock on the wall. Two minutes. One more.

He came with a grunt, holding her head still as he pumped hot streams across her tongue and lips. She swallowed what she could, but he pulled out too soon, and the rest spattered across her cheek and chin, dripping onto the collar of her silk blouse. She stayed on her knees, breathing hard, waiting.

“Clean it up,” he said, already turning back to the window.

She licked the corner of her mouth, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing the white into her skin like a beauty cream. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked to a small wet bar where she poured herself a glass of water. When she spoke, her voice was steady, even purring.

“I have someone you’ll want to meet.”

Lin Yichen turned. “I’m listening.”

Su Wanqing took a slow sip of water, then set the glass down. She crossed her arms, one hip cocked, every inch the professional who happened to have cum drying on her face. “Zhao Mingde. Thirty years old. Department head in Operations. Married five years to a woman named Li Xuemei. They have no children. He’s... simple. Earnest. The type who believes that if he works hard, he’ll be rewarded. He worships his wife like a goddess.”

“Beautiful wife?”

“Stunning. Twenty-eight. She works part-time at a local library. Gentle, clingy, no backbone. He supports her completely, emotionally and financially. She’d do anything he asked—and right now, he’d never dream of asking.”

Lin Yichen smiled, a thin, predator’s curve. “Perfect prey.”

“I thought you’d see it that way.” Su Wanqing stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume mixing with the salt of her tears. “He’s been angling for a promotion for two years. He thinks he deserves it. He thinks the world is fair.”

“And what do you think?”

She leaned in to whisper against his ear. “I think you can break him in a week. Maybe two. And after that, his wife won’t know what hit her.”

Lin Yichen laughed, low and pleased. He reached out and thumbed a streak of cum off her chin, then licked it clean. “Call him. Tell him to come see me tomorrow. Tell him the new CEO wants to personally groom his most promising staff.”

“Yes, sir.”

She picked up the desk phone and dialed the internal line. The connection clicked, and a man’s voice answered, wary but polite. “This is Zhao Mingde.”

“Zhao, it’s Su Wanqing, head secretary.”

“Ah, Secretary Su. Good evening. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I’m calling with good news. Mr. Lin—the new CEO—wants to meet with you tomorrow morning. He mentioned he’s looking for trusted staff to groom for leadership. Your name came up.”

A pause, then a breathless laugh. “Really? I... I didn’t expect... of course, yes. What time?”

“Nine o’clock. His office. Dress sharp.”

“I will. Thank you, Secretary Su. Thank you so much.”

Su Wanqing hung up and turned to Lin Yichen with a satisfied smirk. “He sounded like a puppy who just got a treat.”

Lin Yichen walked to the window again, staring down at the tiny cars crawling along the boulevard. “By this time tomorrow, that puppy will be on a leash.” He didn’t turn around, but his voice dropped, soft and absolute. “And his wife will be a bitch in heat.”

Su Wanqing slid her hand across his shoulder, tracing the line of his collarbone. “I look forward to it.”

He caught her wrist, twisted it just enough to make her hiss, then let go. “Go home. Wash your face. And find me everything—bank accounts, social media, vacation photos, every detail of their marriage.”

“Already done. I’ll have the file on your desk by seven.”

She walked to the door, paused, and looked back. The smear of cum on her collar was drying into a pale stain. She smiled, and it was the smile of a woman who knew exactly how many souls she had helped damn. “Good night, Mr. Lin.”

“Good night, Wanqing.”

The door closed. Lin Yichen sat down in his father’s chair and spun it slowly, surveying the kingdom he had inherited. Outside, the city glittered indifferent and vast. Inside, the hunt had begun.

The elevator doors slid open, and Zhao Mingde stepped into the executive floor with a nervous flutter in his stomach. The plush carpet swallowed his footsteps as he approached the massive oak doors of the CEO’s office. He had never been summoned here before. In his six years as department head, his work had been competent but unremarkable—enough to keep his job, never enough to draw attention from the top. Yet here he was, a man in his thirties with a mortgage and a wife who deserved better, standing at the threshold of opportunity.

He knocked twice, firmly but respectfully.

“Come in.” The voice was young, smooth, almost casual.

Zhao Mingde pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was vast, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city skyline like a painting. Behind a polished desk that could have served as a dining table for eight sat Lin Yichen, leaning back in his leather chair with the easy confidence of a man who had never known failure. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone. At twenty-six, he looked more like a model on a magazine cover than the heir to a manufacturing empire.

“Zhao Mingde,” Lin said, rising to his feet with an extended hand. “Good of you to come. Have a seat.”

Zhao crossed the room and shook the offered hand—firm, brief, dry. He sat in the chair across the desk, perching on the edge as if ready to bolt. “Thank you, Mr. Lin. I appreciate the invitation.”

Lin smiled. It was a practiced smile, warm enough to put people at ease but with a flicker of something else in his eyes, something that measured and catalogued. “Please, call me Lin Yichen. We’re all colleagues here.” He settled back into his chair and clasped his hands on the desktop. “I’ve been reviewing the quarterly reports. Your department’s numbers are solid. Consistent. Reliable.”

Zhao felt a flush of pride. “Thank you, sir. I try to keep things running smoothly.”

“Smoothly is good. Smoothly is safe.” Lin picked up a pen, tapped it once against the blotter. “But I’m looking for more than safe. The company is expanding. New markets, new partnerships. I need people I can trust to handle greater responsibility.”

Zhao’s heart quickened. A promotion. After years of grinding away in middle management, the ceiling was finally cracking. “Anything you need, Mr. Lin. I’m ready.”

Lin’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” He set the pen down and stood, gesturing toward a side door. “There are some contracts in the adjacent meeting room that need to be fetched for my afternoon review. Go ahead and bring them over. We’ll talk more when you return.”

“Of course.” Zhao rose, his step lighter now. He crossed to the door, his hand finding the polished brass handle, and turned it.

The room beyond was smaller, designed for intimate negotiations—a round table with four chairs, a credenza against the far wall, soft lighting from a single lamp. But Zhao saw none of that. His eyes locked onto the scene before him, and his blood turned to ice.

Chen Ya was on her knees in the center of the room. Her blazer and blouse lay discarded on the table beside her. She was naked from the waist up, her bare back arching as she bent forward, her mouth stretched wide around a man’s erect cock. The man stood with his legs slightly apart, one hand tangled in Chen Ya’s hair, the other resting casually on his hip. He was young, athletic, with a smirk that suggested he was enjoying every second of the show.

Chen Ya’s eyes were closed. She was focused, her throat working as she took him deeper, a soft hum of pleasure escaping her lips.

Zhao staggered backward. His hand slipped off the door handle. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. This was Chen Ya—his college classmate, his subordinate, his friend’s wife. She was the one who brought homemade cookies to office meetings. She was the one who always asked about his daughter’s piano recitals. And here she was, on her knees, servicing a man who was not her husband.

“Don’t be nervous.”

A hand landed on Zhao’s shoulder, firm and warm. He flinched, spinning around to find Lin Yichen standing directly behind him, close enough to see the sweat on Zhao’s brow. Lin’s smile was unchanged, but now it carried a different quality—amusement, perhaps, or anticipation.

“From now on, we’re all family,” Lin said softly.

Zhao’s throat constricted. “I… I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Lin’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently, then released. He stepped past Zhao into the meeting room, his footsteps deliberate. The young man—some personal trainer or bodyguard, Zhao guessed—looked up and pulled out of Chen Ya’s mouth with a wet pop. Chen Ya remained on her knees, her eyes still closed, a strand of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his cock.

“That’s enough for now,” Lin said to the young man. “Zhao Mingde and I have matters to discuss.” The young man gave a curt nod, zipped his pants, and walked out of the room without a glance at Zhao. As he passed, Zhao caught his scent—expensive cologne mingled with the musk of sex.

Lin turned to Chen Ya. “Get up. Cover yourself.”

Chen Ya opened her eyes and rose slowly, without shame. She reached for her blouse and shrugged it on, buttoning it with unhurried fingers. When she was decent, she turned to face Zhao. Her cheeks were flushed, but her expression was calm—almost serene.

“Hello, Zhao Mingde,” she said, her voice husky.

“What is this?” Zhao managed. His hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back to hide it.

Lin walked to the table and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Zhao to sit. When Zhao didn’t move, Lin’s eyes hardened. “Sit, please. Let’s talk like reasonable men.”

Zhao’s legs carried him forward. He sat. Lin sat across from him, and Chen Ya moved to stand beside Lin’s chair, her hand resting on his shoulder with a familiarity that made Zhao’s stomach turn.

“I told you I was looking for people I could trust,” Lin said, his tone conversational. “Trust is a valuable commodity, Zhao. It takes time to build. But once it’s sealed in the right way, it becomes unbreakable.” He reached up and took Chen Ya’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Chen Ya and I have an understanding. She enjoys certain… privileges. In return, she offers her loyalty. Completely.”

Zhao’s mouth was dry. “She’s married. Her husband is our classmate.”

“I’m aware.” Lin’s voice held a hint of impatience. “Her husband is a practical man. He understands that opportunities have costs. Some costs are simply… intimate.”

The words hung in the air. Zhao’s mind raced. He thought of his own wife, Li Xuemei, waiting at home with dinner kept warm. He thought of his daughter, asleep with her stuffed rabbit. He thought of the promotion, the bigger salary, the chance to finally give them the life they deserved.

“I don’t want any part of this,” Zhao heard himself say.

Lin tilted his head, studying him like a curious specimen. “Are you sure? Because you haven’t left. You’re still sitting in this chair, listening to me. That’s not the reaction of a man who wants no part.” He released Chen Ya’s hand and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Here’s what I propose. Chen Ya will spend tonight with you. She’ll go to your apartment, have dinner with you and your wife, and then she’ll stay until morning.”

Zhao’s breath caught. “My wife—she doesn’t know anything about this.”

“She will. That’s the point.” Lin’s smile was thin. “You’ll tell her everything. Or I’ll tell her. One way or another, she’ll understand that this is the path to a better life. A promotion, a bonus, stability. Or the alternative—termination, blacklisting, and the very public revelation of certain… indiscretions in your department’s expense reports.”

Zhao’s face went pale. The expense reports. A few padded numbers over the years, nothing huge, nothing anyone would notice—except someone had. Someone had been keeping accounts.

“You’ve been planning this,” Zhao whispered.

“I’ve been preparing,” Lin corrected. “For you. For this moment. I choose my people carefully, Zhao. You’re honest by nature, which makes your fall more beautiful. You love your wife, which makes her value higher. And you’re weak enough to give in.” He stood, buttoning his jacket. “Chen Ya, be a dear and fetch Mr. Zhao a glass of water. He looks parched.”

Chen Ya obeyed, moving to the credenza where a pitcher sat. She poured water and brought it to Zhao, pressing the cool glass into his trembling hands. Her fingers brushed his, and she smiled—a knowing, predatory smile.

“Drink,” she said. “It gets easier.”

Zhao raised the glass to his lips and drank. The water tasted like nothing, but it steadied him. He set the glass down and looked at Lin, then at Chen Ya. The shame was there, hot and thick in his chest, but underneath it something else stirred—a dark curiosity, a hunger he had never acknowledged. What would it feel like to let go? To surrender control?

Lin saw it in his eyes. He always saw everything. “Good,” he said. “You’re learning already. Chen Ya will meet you at seven. I expect you to be ready.”

Zhao nodded. The word came out before he could stop it. “Yes.”

Lin turned and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “And Zhao? Welcome to the family.”

He left, his footsteps fading down the hall. Chen Ya remained, still standing, still smiling. Zhao sat in the chair, staring at the empty glass, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.

The hotel room smelled of expensive cologne and stale champagne. Zhao Mingde sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, his hands gripping the duvet until his knuckles went white. Chen Ya knelt between his legs, her fingers working the zipper of his trousers with practiced ease.

"Relax," she murmured, her voice a velvet purr. "You've been tense all night."

He couldn't relax. His mind raced with images of spreadsheets, deadlines, and the half-smile Lin Yichen had given him during the quarterly meeting. That smile had promised nothing good.

Chen Ya tugged his pants down to his ankles, and his erection sprang free, betraying him. She chuckled softly and wrapped her lips around the tip without warning. Zhao Mingde gasped, his head falling back. Her tongue swirled, her cheeks hollowed, and she took him deeper, her hand cradling his balls with a possessive gentleness.

"Ah... Chen Ya, we shouldn't—" he started, but the words died as she hummed against his shaft.

She pulled off just long enough to whisper, "Shut up and enjoy it. You know you want this."

He did. God help him, he did. The guilt was a faint echo beneath the thunder of his pulse. He thought of Li Xuemei at home, probably watching TV in her pajamas, waiting for him. But Chen Ya's mouth was hot and skilled, and the thrill of the forbidden drowned out everything else.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and thrust upward, fucking her mouth in shallow, desperate strokes. She took it without complaint, her eyes locked on his, dark and knowing. When he came, it was with a choked shout, spilling into her throat. She swallowed, licked her lips, and smiled up at him.

"Good boy," she said, wiping the corner of her mouth. "President Lin won't treat you badly. You just have to learn to play the game."

Zhao Mingde's heart pounded. He pulled up his pants, his hands trembling. "What game?"

Chen Ya rose gracefully, adjusting her skirt. "The one where everyone gets what they want. You want power, don't you? A promotion? A raise?"

He nodded slowly.

"Then be smart. Obey. And keep your mouth shut." She patted his cheek and walked to the door. "Sweet dreams, Zhao."

He sat alone in the silent room, the faint taste of her lipstick still on his tongue, and felt something fundamental shift inside him. The line between right and wrong had blurred into a gray smear.

---

The promotion came three days later. Zhao Mingde's new office was on the executive floor, with a view of the city skyline and a mahogany desk that gleamed under recessed lighting. His salary had nearly doubled. His subordinates called him "Director Zhao" now, their eyes filled with a mix of respect and envy.

He drove home that evening in a haze. The luxury sedan—a company car, courtesy of Lin Yichen—glided through the streets. He pulled into the driveway of their modest two-story house and sat in the dark for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel.

Li Xuemei met him at the door, her face bright with concern. "Mingde? You're late again. Is everything alright?"

He looked at her—her plain blouse, her gentle smile, the slight worry lines around her eyes. She was so good. So trusting. The guilt clawed at his stomach.

"I got promoted," he said flatly.

Her face lit up. "Oh my god, that's wonderful!" She threw her arms around him, and he hugged her back mechanically, his hands resting on her waist. She smelled like laundry detergent and home-cooked food.

He should tell her. He should confess everything. But the memory of Chen Ya's mouth, the weight of the power he now held, the money in his bank account—it all whispered in his ear. *You deserve this. You worked for this. Keep it.*

That night, he made love to Li Xuemei with a fierce urgency, trying to reclaim a sense of normalcy. But even as he buried himself inside her, his mind wandered to Lin Yichen's cold eyes and Su Wanqing's knowing smile. He came quickly, rolled off, and stared at the ceiling while his wife fell asleep beside him.

Greed, he realized, was a hungry beast. And it was only getting started.

---

The private meeting was in Su Wanqing's office, a corner suite decorated with orchids and abstract art. She sat behind her desk, legs crossed, her pencil skirt riding high on her thighs. Zhao Mingde stood before her like a schoolboy called to the principal.

"Close the door," she said without looking up from her tablet.

He obeyed. The lock clicked.

Su Wanqing rose slowly, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She circled him, and he felt her eyes rake over his body. When she stopped in front of him, she reached down without preamble and grabbed his crotch, her fingers squeezing through the fabric of his trousers.

He gasped, instinctually trying to step back, but her grip tightened.

"Let's not play games," she said, her voice low and smooth. "President Lin likes obedient people. The more obedient you are, the more benefits you get."

She began to massage him through the cloth, her thumb tracing the outline of his hardening shaft. His face burned red, but his body betrayed him, responding to her touch with shameless enthusiasm.

"Su... please..." he stammered.

"Please what? Please stop?" She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Or please don't stop?"

He couldn't answer. The mix of pleasure and fear had stolen his voice.

She unzipped his fly and slipped her hand inside, her fingers cool against his heated skin. She stroked him with a practiced rhythm, her eyes never leaving his face. "Nod if you understand," she said. "You belong to him now. To us. Your wife, your life, your dignity—it's all on loan. Be grateful. Be obedient."

He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Su Wanqing squeezed once, hard, and released him. She stepped back and smoothed her skirt. "Good. You're learning. Now get out of here. You have work to do."

Zhao Mingde stumbled toward the door, his hands shaking as he adjusted his trousers. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. But as he stepped into the hallway, heart racing, he knew one thing with absolute clarity: he was in too deep to ever climb back out.

The invitation arrived in Zhao Mingde’s inbox at 3:47 PM on a Thursday. The subject line read: “Private Dinner – Important Clients – Your Presence Required.” Attached was a brief note from Lin Yichen’s assistant, specifying not only the time and venue but also a curious request: “Mr. Lin has personally suggested that your wife accompany you this evening. He hopes she will dress elegantly, and particularly encourages a low-cut gown to make a good impression on the guests.”

Zhao Mingde stared at the screen, his stomach tightening. He knew what that meant. He had seen the way Lin Yichen looked at Li Xuemei during the company’s annual gala last month—lingering, appraising, a predator sizing up prey. And now this.

At home, he handed the phone to Li Xuemei without a word. She read it, her face flushing pink, then pale. “Mingde, I don’t have anything like that,” she said quietly, her fingers worrying the hem of her blouse. “And it’s so… revealing. I’d be embarrassed.”

“He’s the boss, Xuemei,” Zhao Mingde replied, his voice flat, almost mechanical. “If he wants you to wear a low-cut dress, you wear a low-cut dress. This is for my career. For our future. You understand, don’t you?”

She looked at him, searching for some sign of protest, some trace of the protective husband she once knew. But his eyes were averted, fixed on the floor. Finally, she nodded, a small, defeated motion.

Two hours later, she emerged from the bedroom in a burgundy velvet dress with a neckline that plunged to her sternum, barely held in place by thin straps. The fabric hugged her curves, the deep V exposing the soft swell of her breasts. She clutched a shawl over her chest, her knuckles white.

“Take that off,” Zhao Mingde said, his tone now firm, almost sharp. “You’ll ruin the effect. And when we get there, don’t be shy. Smile. Laugh at his jokes. Pour his wine. Make sure he notices you. This is your chance to help me, Xuemei. Don’t waste it.”

Her eyes welled, but she obeyed, letting the shawl fall onto the sofa. She didn’t speak again until they were in the car.

The private dining room at the Imperial Garden Restaurant was a study in understated luxury—dark wood paneling, soft amber lighting, a long table set for eight. Lin Yichen was already seated at the head, flanked by Su Wanqing on his right and an empty chair on his left. Chen Ya sat further down, her eyes bright with a knowing amusement. Two other men, clients from a partner company, occupied the opposite side.

When Li Xuemei entered, the room seemed to pause. Lin Yichen’s gaze traveled slowly from her face down to her cleavage, and he smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. “Ah, sister-in-law. You look stunning. Mingde, you are a lucky man.”

Zhao Mingde laughed, a nervous bark. “Thank you, Mr. Lin. She wanted to look her best for tonight.”

“Come, sit beside me,” Lin Yichen gestured to the empty chair. “I insist. I want to get to know the woman who keeps our department head so happy.”

Li Xuemei glanced at her husband. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, his jaw tight. She walked over and sat, her thigh brushing Lin Yichen’s knee as she settled. He did not move away.

The dinner began with polite conversation about market trends and quarterly reports, but the atmosphere was charged with a different current. As dishes arrived—steamed fish, abalone, delicate dumplings—Lin Yichen kept his attention fixed on Li Xuemei. He refilled her wine glass before it was empty, leaned close to explain the origin of the dishes, his breath warm on her ear.

“Try this,” he said, picking up a piece of braised pork with his chopsticks and holding it to her lips. “It’s the chef’s specialty.”

Li Xuemei hesitated, her face burning. Across the table, Zhao Mingde watched, his knuckles white around his own chopsticks. She opened her mouth, and Lin Yichen slid the meat onto her tongue. She chewed mechanically, unable to taste it.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Lin Yichen said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I knew you’d like it.”

Su Wanqing, seated on his other side, smiled into her wine glass. “Mr. Lin always knows exactly what people need. He has a gift for… training palates.”

Chen Ya giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, he trains more than palates, I’d say. Zhao, you must have learned a lot working under him.”

Zhao Mingde forced a grin. “Absolutely. Mr. Lin is a great mentor.”

One of the clients, a portly man with a booming laugh, raised his glass. “A toast to the happy couple! Or should I say, to the fortunate husband? A wife this beautiful, and a boss this generous—you have everything, Mingde!”

“Hear, hear!” the other client chimed in. “But seriously, Lin, you’re too kind. If I were Mingde, I’d be worried about leaving her alone with you.”

Everyone laughed. Li Xuemei’s face was now a deep crimson, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. Zhao Mingde laughed the loudest, slapping the table. “I trust Mr. Lin completely,” he said, his voice strained. “He’s a gentleman.”

Lin Yichen raised an eyebrow, amused. “A gentleman? I try. But a beautiful woman can make any man forget his manners.” He turned to Li Xuemei, his voice dropping. “Sister-in-law, I have a proposal. Since we’ve been getting along so well tonight, let’s seal the friendship with a cross-cupped toast. You and me.”

He lifted his glass, then held it out toward her, waiting. The custom was intimate—each would drink from the other’s cup, their arms interlocked. It was a gesture reserved for lovers or very close friends.

The table erupted in cheers. “Oh, that’s forward, Mr. Lin!” “Come on, sister-in-law, don’t be shy!” “Show us you’re a good sport!”

Li Xuemei’s hand trembled as she reached for her own glass. She looked desperately at Zhao Mingde, hoping for a reprieve, a signal to refuse. But his eyes were hard, and under the table, his hand found hers. He squeezed—not in reassurance, but in command. His fingers pressed into her palm, a silent, urgent message: *Go along with it. Don’t ruin this.*

She took her glass. Slowly, awkwardly, she looped her arm through Lin Yichen’s, her elbow brushing his chest. Their faces were inches apart. He smelled of cologne and wine. His eyes glittered with triumph.

“To new friendships,” he said, and drank from her glass.

She lifted his glass to her lips, the rim still warm from his mouth. The wine slid down her throat, bitter and sharp. Around her, the laughter and applause seemed to come from very far away.

When she set the glass down, Lin Yichen did not release her arm immediately. His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her wrist, a secret touch that sent a shiver through her. He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

“You’re even more beautiful when you blush,” he murmured. “I look forward to many more dinners like this.”

Zhao Mingde, from across the table, watched his wife’s face go from red to white, watched her body stiffen and then, slowly, relax into the touch. In that moment, something shifted in him—a strange, bitter warmth spreading through his chest. It was humiliation, yes. But beneath it, a sliver of excitement, a dark curiosity about how far this game would go.

Su Wanqing caught his eye and raised her glass in a silent toast. Her smile was knowing, predatory. She mouthed two words: “Good boy.”

The banquet continued, the wine flowing, the jokes growing bolder. Li Xuemei sat frozen beside Lin Yichen, his hand now resting casually on the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally brushing her bare shoulder. She didn’t move away. She couldn’t.

She had been told to seize the opportunity. And she was learning, in the most intimate way, exactly what that meant.

The private room at the Golden Crown KTV was a world of its own—plush velvet sofas, dim amber lights, and a massive screen that glowed with the opening notes of a slow love song. The scent of whiskey and perfume hung thick in the air. Lin Yichen had already settled into the center seat, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, the other resting casually on his knee. He gestured for Li Xuemei to come closer without a word.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed, her high heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Zhao Mingde watched from the side, a glass of red wine already in his hand, though he hadn’t touched it yet. Su Wanqing glided beside him, her fingers brushing his wrist, guiding the glass to his lips.

“Drink up, Zhao-sensei,” she purred, her breath warm against his ear. “You’ll want to relax tonight.”

He swallowed a mouthful, the tannins bitter on his tongue. Across the room, Lin Yichen pulled Li Xuemei onto his lap. She sat stiffly at first, her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the floor. But the song began—a syrupy ballad about forever love—and Lin Yichen hummed along, his hand sliding up her back to rest on her nape.

“Sing with me,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair.

She shook her head, but he turned her face toward his, tilting her chin up. His kiss was slow and deliberate, his tongue sweeping past her lips as though claiming territory. Zhao Mingde’s grip tightened on his glass. Another gulp of wine burned down his throat.

When the song ended, Lin Yichen pulled back, a thin string of saliva still connecting their mouths. He picked up his own glass and took a sip, then leaned in again, pressing his mouth to hers. She parted her lips automatically, and the wine trickled from his mouth to hers. Some of it spilled down her chin, and he licked it away, laughing softly.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her hip.

Su Wanqing poured Zhao Mingde another glass. “You’re falling behind,” she said, her voice a silken mockery. “President Lin expects everyone to enjoy themselves.”

He drank, the room beginning to tilt at the edges. Through the blur, he saw Lin Yichen’s hand slide under Li Xuemei’s skirt. She stiffened, her fingers digging into his shoulders, but she made no sound. Her lips pressed together, a pale line of resistance.

Zhao Mingde half-rose from his seat. “Enough,” he started, but Su Wanqing’s hand caught his collar and pulled him back down. Her mouth met his, hot and aggressive, her tongue forcing its way between his teeth. He tasted her lipstick and the salt of her skin.

“Don’t disturb President Lin,” she whispered against his lips, her hand sliding down to his thigh. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

He sat frozen, his eyes still fixed on his wife. Li Xuemei’s head was tilted back, her eyes closed, a flush spreading from her neck to her cheeks. Lin Yichen’s hand was moving beneath her skirt in a slow, rhythmic motion. Zhao Mingde could see the faint tremor in her legs, the way she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.

The next song started, a faster beat, but no one moved to sing. Lin Yichen stood, lifting Li Xuemei with him. He sat her on the edge of the sofa and then climbed over her, so that she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her waist. She looked down at him, her eyes glassy, her chest heaving.

He pressed her hips down, grinding against the front of his trousers. The fabric of her panties was damp, a dark spot spreading against his slacks. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements.

“Come here, Zhao,” he called, his voice calm and commanding. “I want you to watch properly.”

Zhao Mingde’s legs felt like lead as he walked over. Su Wanqing gave him a small shove between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled to his knees on the carpet. He looked up. His wife was poised above Lin Yichen, her thighs trembling, a slick patch of moisture already darkening the crotch of his trousers. Her face was a mask of shame and something else—what? Pleasure? Surrender?

Lin Yichen ran a finger along her wetness, then held it up for Zhao Mingde to see. The finger glistened under the dim light.

“Your wife is very responsive,” Lin Yichen said, a lazy smile curling his lips. “See how much she wants it?”

Zhao Mingde said nothing. His own erection strained painfully against his trousers, a betrayal his mind couldn’t deny. He watched his wife’s hips roll, watched Lin Yichen’s hands roam her body, and felt the heat of Su Wanqing’s gaze on the back of his neck.

The song ended. Another began. And in the dark of the KTV, the world narrowed to the rhythm of grinding hips and the wet sound of fingers sliding through slick folds.

The hotel room was sterile and cold, the kind of impersonal space that smelled of industrial cleaner and stale regret. Zhao Mingde sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, his tie loosened, a half-empty bottle of beer on the nightstand. He had checked in three hours ago, and the silence had already begun to eat at him. The conference wasn't until tomorrow afternoon. Lin Yichen had insisted he come a day early to prepare, to network, to scout potential clients. It had sounded reasonable at the time. Now it felt like a trap.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. A video call request from Su Wanqing. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He answered.

The image resolved into Su Wanqing's face, perfectly made up, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. She was sitting in what looked like a hotel room, her blouse unbuttoned enough to show the lacy edge of her bra. Behind her, the faint sound of water running, a shower.

"Good evening, Department Head Zhao," she said, her voice a honeyed purr. "I hope we're not disturbing your rest."

Zhao Mingde's throat tightened. "Secretary Su. Is there something you need?"

"Oh, nothing official." She tilted her head, her smile widening. "I just thought you might want to check in on Li Xuemei. She's having such a lovely time at the conference."

His breath caught. "What do you mean? Xuemei said she was staying home this week."

"She was," Su Wanqing said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But President Lin needed an assistant for the investor dinner tonight. And you know how accommodating your wife is."

The water sound stopped. Su Wanqing shifted her phone, and the camera panned to the bed behind her.

Li Xuemei was kneeling on the white sheets, naked. Her wrists were bound behind her back with a silk scarf, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Her mouth was stretched around Lin Yichen's erect cock as he stood over her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting on his hip. He wasn't even out of breath. He looked bored, almost, like he was waiting for a meeting to start.

"Look at the camera, sweetheart," Su Wanqing said, her tone cheerful, maternal. "Say hello to your husband."

Li Xuemei opened her mouth, a trail of saliva connecting her lips to Lin Yichen's tip. "Hi... honey."

Zhao Mingde's vision blurred. He gripped the phone until his knuckles went white. "Xuemei—"

"Don't worry," Su Wanqing interrupted, her voice sweet and venomous. "President Lin is being very gentle with her. He's a generous lover. Much more generous than you, I imagine."

Lin Yichen began to move, slow and deliberate, his hips rolling forward. Li Xuemei made a soft gagging sound but didn't pull away. Her eyes stayed locked on the phone camera, distant, ashamed, helpless.

"You know what I want you to do," Su Wanqing said, her gaze dropping to his lap. "Take it out, Department Head. Show us you can be a good boy."

Zhao Mingde shook his head, a single, sharp motion. "I can't."

"You can," she said, her voice hardening. "You will. Or I'll have President Lin tell HR about those expense report irregularities. The ones you fudged last quarter to cover your wife's medical bills. Fraud is a serious offense, Zhao. Prison. No wife. No job. No future."

His body moved before his mind caught up. His trembling hand unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers. He pulled himself out, half-hard from horror and shame.

"Good," Su Wanqing crooned. "Better. Faster."

On the screen, Lin Yichen pulled out of Li Xuemei's mouth and flipped her onto her stomach, spreading her legs. He positioned himself behind her, and Zhao Mingde watched as his wife's body accepted Lin Yichen's cock in one smooth thrust. Li Xuemei gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Your wife's pussy is so tight," Su Wanqing said, her voice a silken taunt. "President Lin is having the time of his life fucking her. Aren't you, darling?"

Lin Yichen grunted, his rhythm picking up. "Tight little thing," he said, his voice carrying over from the background. "Can't believe Zhao's been wasting this at home."

Zhao Mingde began to stroke himself, tears streaming down his cheeks. His hand moved mechanically, his body betraying him, responding to the obscene spectacle in front of him. His wife's moans mixed with Lin Yichen's harsh breathing and the wet sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"That's it," Su Wanqing said, leaning closer to her camera. "Look at your wife, Zhao. Look at her taking another man's cock. She looks so happy. Doesn't she look happy?"

Zhao Mingde's sobs came in ragged gasps. "Yes. Yes, she looks happy."

"Because she is. She's finally being fucked by a real man. Now cum for me. Cum for your wife and her lover."

His orgasm tore through him like an electric shock. He came in thick, ugly spurts, some of it hitting the phone screen, streaking across Li Xuemei's face on the display. He collapsed onto the bed, his hand still wet, his chest heaving.

Su Wanqing laughed, a low, musical sound. "Good boy. See how easy that was?"

On the screen, Lin Yichen finished with a final, hard thrust. He pulled out, and Su Wanqing handed him a towel from the bedside. He wiped himself clean, then knelt beside Li Xuemei. He gathered the semen pooling on her thighs and smeared it across her face, her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.

"There," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "Perfect."

Su Wanqing picked up the phone and ended the video call without a word.

Zhao Mingde lay in the darkness of his hotel room, the phone screen gone black, his own reflection staring back at him from the mirror on the wall. A hollow shell of a man, semen drying on his fingers, shame curdling in his gut.

Ten minutes later, his phone rang. A number he didn't recognize. He answered on instinct.

"Hello?"

"Honey?" Li Xuemei's voice was hoarse, shaky. "I'm sorry."

The words came out like lines from a script, rehearsed, hollow. "I'm sorry, but it feels so good."

In the background, Lin Yichen laughed. A long, easy laugh, the sound of someone completely in control. Then the line went dead.

Zhao Mingde dropped the phone onto the carpet. He stared at the ceiling, at the water stain spreading across the white plaster, and felt something inside him crack. Not break. Crack. Like ice on a frozen lake, spiderwebbing outward, just waiting for the right weight to send it all crashing through.

He knew, with a certainty that felt almost peaceful, that this was not the end. This was the beginning. And he had already lost.

The doorbell rang at nine o'clock sharp. Zhao Mingde's hand trembled as he reached for the handle, his pajama pants feeling thin and inadequate. Beside him, Li Xuemei stood in her cotton nightgown, her fingers twisting the hem. The wedding photo on the wall behind them showed a younger, happier couple beneath a large red double-happiness character.

"Mingde, open the door," Li Xuemei whispered, her voice hollow.

He pulled the door open. Lin Yichen stood on the threshold in a tailored black coat, Su Wanqing beside him in a red dress that hugged her curves. She held a bottle of expensive baijiu in one hand.

"Congratulations on the new position," Lin Yichen said, his smile warm but his eyes cold. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, scanning the modest living room. "Xuemei, you look comfortable tonight."

Zhao Mingde dropped to his knees. The movement was practiced, shameful, and immediate. Li Xuemei followed a second later, her nightgown pooling on the floor as she knelt beside him.

"So eager to serve," Su Wanqing said, her voice dripping with amusement. She set the baijiu on the coffee table.

Lin Yichen toed off his leather shoes and held out his foot. "Xuemei, be a dear."

Li Xuemei crawled forward on her knees. She took his foot in her hands, her fingers trembling as she guided it into the basin of warm water that had been prepared hours ago. The water sloshed as she began to wash his ankle, his arch, between his toes. Her eyes stayed fixed on the task.

Lin Yichen sighed contentedly. "That's it. Just how a good wife should treat a guest. Mingde, you taught her well."

Zhao Mingde kept his head bowed. "Yes, CEO Lin."

"Louder. I can't hear your gratitude."

"Thank you, CEO Lin, for honoring our home."

Lin Yichen walked to the sofa, his wet feet leaving footprints on the tile. He sat down heavily and gestured. "Fruit."

Li Xuemei scrambled up, dried her hands on her nightgown, and grabbed the plate of peeled apple slices from the coffee table. She knelt beside the sofa and held a slice to his lips. Lin Yichen bit down, his teeth grazing her fingers. His hand reached out and patted her head like a pet.

Zhao Mingde crawled to the sofa and positioned himself at Lin Yichen's side. He began massaging the younger man's calf, his thumbs pressing into the muscle. His face was pale, his breath shallow.

Su Wanqing stood behind him, the click of her stilettos loud on the floor. She nudged his thigh with her toe. "Spread your legs."

He obeyed. Her heel pressed down on his crotch, the sharp point digging through his pajama pants. She ground it in a slow circle.

"Such a tiny thing," she said, her voice mockingly sweet. "And you think you deserve to fuck your wife? This little worm couldn't satisfy a field mouse."

Zhao Mingde groaned, his hands still working on Lin Yichen's leg.

"Answer me," Su Wanqing said, increasing the pressure.

"No, Secretary Su. I don't deserve it."

"That's right. You don't." She removed her heel and stepped back. "You're just a spectator now. A eunuch in his own marriage."

Lin Yichen finished the last apple slice and stood. He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked toward the bedroom. "Xuemei, come. Let's give your husband a show."

Li Xuemei followed him, her steps mechanical. Inside the bedroom, the wedding photo hung above the bed, the double-happiness character gleaming red in the dim light. Lin Yichen lay on the bed, his pants unzipped. He gestured to Zhao Mingde, who had crawled to the doorway.

"Lie down. Watch closely."

Zhao Mingde lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, his eyes level with the mattress. He watched as Li Xuemei climbed onto the bed, her nightgown rucked up around her hips. Lin Yichen positioned himself between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs.

"Look at the photo," he told her. "Look at your wedding night. This is what it should have been like."

Li Xuemei's eyes fixed on the double-happiness character. A single tear rolled down her cheek as Lin Yichen entered her.

She moaned. The sound started low and became a lewd, breathy cry as he thrust into her. Her hands clutched the bedsheet, her body arching.

"Harder," she gasped.

Lin Yichen laughed. "See, Mingde? She remembers what a real man feels like."

Zhao Mingde watched his wife's face contort in pleasure, watched her hips meet each thrust, watched her mouth open in animal sounds he'd never heard from her in ten years of marriage. His own crotch remained flaccid against the cold floor. The more she moaned, the deader he felt.

"Yes, yes, there!" Li Xuemei screamed, her body shuddering through a climax.

Lin Yichen kept pumping, pulling out at the last moment to spill across her stomach. He collapsed beside her, breathing hard. "Clean up."

Li Xuemei pulled her nightgown down, covering the wetness. She slipped off the bed and knelt beside her husband on the floor. Zhao Mingde stared at the wedding photo, at the double-happiness character that now seemed to mock him.

"Xuemei," he whispered.

She didn't answer. Her eyes were empty, fixed on the doorway where Su Wanqing now stood, holding the bottle of baijiu.

"Time for a toast," Su Wanqing said. "To the happy couple."

Lin Yichen’s black Maybach pulled into the driveway of Zhao Mingde’s modest home at exactly seven in the evening. The engine purred to silence, and the young CEO stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks with a practiced air of detachment. He didn’t knock; the door was already ajar, held open by a trembling hand. Zhao Mingde stood behind it, head bowed, his wife Li Xuemei beside him, their six-year-old son clutching her skirt.

“Kneel,” Lin Yichen said, his voice flat, carrying the weight of an order no one dared question.

Zhao Mingde dropped first, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. Li Xuemei followed, guiding their son down with a gentle but firm hand. The child, too young to understand, simply mimicked his parents, eyes wide and confused. Lin Yichen stepped over the threshold, his polished leather shoes inches from Zhao’s face.

“Good,” he said, reaching down to pat the boy’s head. “You’re learning. Now go to your room, little one. Your parents and I have business.”

The child scrambled up and disappeared down the hall. Lin Yichen waited until the bedroom door clicked shut before he spoke again. “Xuemei, I need a shower after the drive. You’ll attend to me.”

She nodded without meeting his eyes, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes, President Lin.”

Lin Yichen walked through the living room, noting the framed wedding photo on the wall—Zhao Mingde in an ill-fitting tux, Li Xuemei in a simple white dress, both smiling with naive hope. He smiled too, a thin, cruel curve. That was then. This was now.

In the bathroom, steam already billowed from the showerhead. Li Xuemei knelt on the tile floor, a soft sponge in one hand, a bottle of expensive body wash on the ledge. Lin Yichen undressed slowly, letting her watch. He enjoyed that—the way her eyes flickered between shame and fascination. When he was naked, he stepped into the spray and gestured for her to join.

She crawled in, the water soaking her simple blouse and skirt, plastering the fabric to her curves. She began to scrub his back in slow, circular motions, her touch hesitant but thorough. Lin Yichen closed his eyes, letting the heat and pressure melt the tension from his shoulders. Outside the bathroom door, a shadow lingered—Zhao Mingde, kneeling as instructed, a fresh towel folded over his arm.

“Harder,” Lin Yichen murmured. Li Xuemei obeyed, pressing the sponge against his spine. He turned abruptly, water streaming down his chest, and caught her wrist. “Enough of that. Use your mouth.”

She didn’t resist. She dropped the sponge, leaned forward, and took his cock between her lips. It was already half-hard from the warmth and the sight of her submitting. He threaded his fingers through her wet hair, guiding her pace, her gagging sounds muffled by the rush of water. His breathing quickened, and he pushed deeper, feeling her throat spasm around him. When he came, he held her head still, spurting hot semen into her mouth. She swallowed without being told, though tears mixed with the water on her cheeks.

He released her and stepped out of the shower. Zhao Mingde immediately held out the towel, eyes fixed on the floor. Lin Yichen took it, dried himself, and tossed it back. “Clean up your wife. She’s dripping on the floor.”

Zhao Mingde crawled into the bathroom and began to dry Li Xuemei with the same towel, his movements mechanical, his face a mask of hollow obedience.

Later, in the living room, Su Wanqing arrived. She wore a tailored pencil skirt and a silk blouse, her heels clicking against the floor like a metronome of discipline. She carried a small leather case, which she set on the coffee table. Lin Yichen lounged on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching.

“Zhao Mingde,” Su Wanqing said, her voice silky and commanding. “Come here.”

He shuffled over, still in his work clothes, his posture defeated. She opened the case, revealing brushes, cloths, and a tin of shoe polish. “Your master’s shoes need attention,” she said, indicating Lin Yichen’s feet. “You will learn to do this properly. Kneel.”

He knelt. She showed him how to apply the polish in small circles, how to buff the leather to a mirror shine. His hands trembled at first, but she corrected him with sharp words, rapping his knuckles with a brush until he steadied. When the shoes gleamed, Su Wanqing nodded. “Good. Now you will serve tea.”

She led him through the ritual: boiling the water to the exact temperature, steeping the leaves for precisely three minutes, pouring with a steady hand. Lin Yichen accepted the cup without a word; Zhao Mingde remained kneeling, watching the liquid swirl. Su Wanqing then demonstrated the proper posture for a footstool. She made Zhao Mingde get on all fours, his back curved and rigid, while Lin Yichen propped his feet on his spine and continued drinking his whiskey.

“Excellent posture,” Su Wanqing said, running a finger along the line of his spine. “You’re a quick learner. Open your eyes—no, remain that way. Vacant. Empty. That’s how a good servant looks.”

Zhao Mingde stared at the floor, his mind a numb void. He did everything she asked.

The final scene took place in the master bedroom—the same room where Zhao Mingde and Li Xuemei had shared their wedding night. Now the sheets were fresh and white, and Li Xuemei lay naked in the center, legs apart, waiting. Lin Yichen stood at the foot of the bed, undressing slowly. Su Wanqing sat in a chair by the window, a glass of wine in her hand, her eyes appraising.

Zhao Mingde knelt in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back. He had been instructed to watch.

Lin Yichen climbed onto the bed, positioned himself between Li Xuemei’s thighs, and entered her without preamble. She gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets. He moved with practiced rhythm, his hips slapping against hers, his eyes locked on her face. She bit her lip, fighting the moans, but soon they escaped in ragged bursts.

Su Wanqing set down her wine and walked over to Zhao Mingde. She knelt behind him, pressing her body against his back, her breath warm on his neck. “You’re hard,” she whispered, her hand sliding down to cup his crotch through his pants. “That’s pathetic. She’s your wife, and you’re aroused by watching her be taken.” She unzipped his trousers, reached inside, and began to stroke him slowly. “But I’ll let you feel something. Just for a moment.”

Her fingers found his asshole, teasing the entrance, then pushing inside. He gasped, his hips bucking instinctively. She worked him with practiced skill, building a rhythm that matched the thrusts on the bed. He felt the pressure coil in his groin, the familiar surge toward climax. His breath came in short, desperate pants.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, I’m close.”

Su Wanqing stopped. She withdrew her hand, wiped it on her skirt, and stood. “No. You don’t come without permission.”

Zhao Mingde nearly sobbed. His erection throbbed painfully, denied, trapped in his pants. He looked to the bed, where Lin Yichen was driving into Li Xuemei with increasing ferocity. She cried out, her body arching, and he grunted as he spilled his seed inside her.

Lin Yichen collapsed beside her, breathing hard. After a moment, he looked over at Zhao Mingde, whose face was twisted with need. Li Xuemei, still dazed, propped herself on an elbow and looked at her husband. “Please,” she said, her voice raw. “Let him finish. He’s suffered enough tonight.”

Lin Yichen considered. He reached down and touched the wet mess between her thighs, then brought his fingers to his lips. “Very well. For you, Xuemei.” He nodded to Su Wanqing, who produced from her bag a small, steel chastity device. She walked over to Zhao Mingde and knelt beside him.

“You can come now,” she said, her voice mocking. “But only into this.”

She locked the device around his aching erection, the cold metal clicking shut. Zhao Mingde’s orgasm ripped through him, a spasm of pleasure and humiliation, his semen spilling uselessly into the locked cage, marking the metal with sticky white proof of his surrender. He collapsed forward, his forehead pressed to the floor, shuddering.

Su Wanqing stood and turned to Lin Yichen. “He’ll hold that key for a week. Maybe more.”

Lin Yichen smiled, stroking Li Xuemei’s hair. “Good. It’s important to teach patience.”