Shame of the Dark Night

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Chen Yiting sat alone at the dining table, a half-empty bottle of red wine in front of her. The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM, but time felt meaningless. She had poured herself a third glass, then a fourth, each sip burning down her throat like swallowed embers. Mai Wanghui had texted her two hours ago—*Landing in Shanghai, meeting tomorrow morning, love you*—and she had stared at the screen until it went dark, not bothering to reply.

She hated being alone at night. The empty bed, the cold sheets, the way the silence pressed against her ears like a physical weight. They had been married for six months, and in that time, she had learned that "business trip" was just another word for "absence." He worked hard, she knew that. He provided for them, he was a good man. But good men could not satisfy the ache that coiled low in her belly, the desperate need for touch, for connection, for someone to hold her and tell her she was wanted.

Tonight, the wine had been meant to dull that ache. Instead, it magnified it, turning her loneliness into a thick fog that wrapped around her limbs and made her head spin. She finished the fifth glass—or was it the sixth?—and pushed herself up from the table. The room tilted. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself, her fingers slipping on the polished marble.

"Just sleep," she mumbled to herself, her words slurring. "Sleep it off."

She stumbled down the hallway, past the living room, past her father-in-law's closed bedroom door. Mai Jiagong had gone to bed early, as he always did, claiming his old bones needed rest. She had barely spoken to him at dinner, just the usual polite exchanges—*How was your day? Fine. More vegetables? No, thank you.*—and then she had retreated to her wine and her thoughts.

Her bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to turn on the light. The streetlamp outside cast a pale orange glow through the curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the pillow still dented from the last time Wanghui had slept here, a week ago. She lay on her back, her black-stockinged legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, her short pajama top riding up to expose a sliver of pale stomach. The world spun, then slowly settled into a heavy darkness.

She was asleep within minutes, her breathing deep and even, her lips slightly parted.

---

In the bedroom across the hall, Mai Jiagong lay awake. He had heard the clink of the wine bottle, the soft thud of her footsteps as she staggered past, the creak of her bedsprings. He had been waiting for this, counting on it. His daughter-in-law was a quiet thing, shy and obedient, the kind of girl who never raised her voice or met your eyes for too long. He had noticed her from the first day Wanghui brought her home. The way she blushed when complimented. The way her small body moved under her clothes. The way she always wore those black stockings, even in the summer, hugging her slender legs like a second skin.

He had waited six months. Six months of watching, of wanting, of lying awake in the dark and imagining. Wanghui was always gone, always busy, leaving his wife alone and vulnerable. And tonight, the wine had done his work for him.

He swung his legs out of bed, moving with a silence that belied his age. The floorboards in the hallway were old and creaky, but he knew exactly where to step, having memorized each groan and shift of the wood over the years. He paused at her door, pressing his ear to the cool surface. Nothing. Not a sound. He turned the knob, and it gave way without resistance.

The room was dim, lit only by that pale orange glow. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, turning the lock with a soft click. His heart pounded against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times. Now it was real.

She was sprawled across the bed, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her face slack and peaceful. Her pajamas—a thin cotton set with small floral print—had ridden up, exposing her midriff. And her legs. Those black-stockinged legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankles, gleaming faintly in the low light.

He stood by the bed, drinking in the sight. His breath came shallow and quick. She was so small, so fragile, like a doll left carelessly on a shelf. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and touched the outside of her right thigh. The nylon was smooth and cool under his fingertips. She did not stir. He pressed harder, feeling the warmth of her flesh beneath the fabric, and a low chuckle escaped his throat.

"So drunk," he whispered. "So pretty."

He let his hand wander upward, over the curve of her hip, then back down to her knee. She shifted in her sleep, turning her head to the side, and he flinched, pulling his hand back as if burned. But her eyes remained closed, her breathing unchanged. A few seconds passed. He let out a shaky exhale and leaned closer, his face inches from hers.

He could smell the red wine on her breath, mixed with the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and sweet. He parted his lips and touched his tongue to the corner of her mouth, tasting the dry skin, the residue of wine. She did not react. Emboldened, he pressed his lips against hers, forcing his tongue between them, licking the inside of her lower lip. It was wet and warm, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, a thrill so intense it made his knees weak.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, and looked at her face. Still asleep. Still unaware. He smiled, a thin, ugly thing.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the buttons of her pajama top. His thick fingers fumbled with the first one, then the second, until the fabric fell open, revealing a simple white bra underneath. The cups were modest, covering small breasts that rose and fell with each breath. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to her collarbone, licking the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, tasting salt and perfume. She shivered in her sleep, a tiny whimper escaping her lips, but she did not wake.

He laughed softly, a sound like gravel grinding against stone. "Sweet little thing," he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip her stocking-clad thigh again. "You'll never even know."

His tongue traced a wet path down her neck, over the swell of her chest, stopping at the edge of her bra. He hooked a finger under the strap and pulled it aside, exposing the pale skin beneath, and continued his assault, leaving a trail of saliva that gleamed in the dim light.

The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen downstairs. Mai Jiagong stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, his hand resting on the doorframe as he peered into the dim room. The only light came from a small nightlight near the bed, casting a weak orange glow across the figure lying motionless on the mattress. Chen Yiting was sprawled on her back, one arm thrown over her head, her breathing slow and deep. A faint smell of baijiu clung to the air around her.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His slippers made no sound on the wooden floor as he approached the bed. She had not stirred. Her black dress had ridden up her thighs, and her legs were encased in sheer black stockings that shimmered under the faint light. The stockings reached up to her mid-thigh, held in place by a thin lace band that disappeared beneath the hem of her dress.

Mai Jiagong’s throat felt dry. He swallowed and crouched beside the bed, his eyes fixed on her feet. Her toes were pointed slightly inward, the black fabric stretching taut over her arches. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the sole of her right foot. The nylon felt smooth and cool against his fingertips. She did not react.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over her toes. His tongue darted out, and he licked the tip of her big toe through the stocking. The taste was faint—salt and synthetic fiber—but it sent a jolt through his body. He licked again, slowly, from the toe down to the ball of her foot, then back up. A wet smacking sound broke the silence of the room.

He moved to her left foot, repeating the action. He licked each toe individually, savoring the sensation of the fabric against his tongue. His breathing grew heavier. He slid his tongue along the arch, then up the instep, tracing the line of the stocking up her ankle and calf. Her skin was warm beneath the nylon.

Mai Jiagong shifted onto his knees and pressed his face against her calf, dragging his tongue upward in a long, wet stroke. The stocking grew damp under his ministrations, darkening to a deeper black. He reached her knee, then paused. Her leg remained still. He glanced at her face—eyes closed, lips slightly parted. A soft moan escaped her, barely audible. It was not a sound of waking, but of deep, unconscious dreaming.

Emboldened, he continued. He licked the inside of her thigh, the stocking sliding wetly against his tongue as he moved higher. The lace band met his lips, and he nuzzled it aside, pressing his mouth against the bare skin just above the stocking’s edge. Her skin was soft, slightly sticky with sweat. He licked there, too, tasting salt and a faint floral scent from her body wash.

He slipped his hands under her knees and lifted her legs, bending them at the hips. Her thighs fell apart, exposing the dark triangle of fabric at her crotch. He stared at it for a moment, his breath ragged. Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her stockings and pulled them down, peeling the damp nylon from her skin. He rolled them over her ankles and off her feet, letting them fall to the floor. He picked them up, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them under the bed.

Without the stockings, her legs were pale and bare in the dim light. He spread them wider, positioning himself between them. He lowered his head and licked the inside of her left thigh, from the knee upward, his tongue sliding through the fine hairs on her skin. He reached the crease where her thigh met her pelvis and licked across it, then moved to her right thigh and did the same. The skin was damp with his saliva. He pressed his mouth against her underwear, feeling the heat emanating from the fabric. He licked there, too, his tongue pressing through the cotton to the sensitive flesh beneath.

Chen Yiting stirred. A low groan rose from her throat, and her hips twitched slightly. But her eyes did not open. Mai Jiagong froze, waiting. When she settled back into stillness, he resumed, his tongue now tracing the outline of her private parts through the cloth. He licked slowly, deliberately, drawing out the sensation.

He then moved upward. He pushed her dress higher, baring her stomach and ribs. Her navel was a small dark circle. He licked around it, then up her sternum, leaving a trail of wetness. He pulled the straps of her dress off her shoulders, baring her bra. He did not unhook it—instead, he moved past it, licking the hollow of her throat, then up to her chin.

He paused at her mouth. Her lips were slightly open, her breath warm and smelling of alcohol. He pressed his mouth against hers, parting her lips with his tongue. He pushed inside, tasting the sour residue of wine and the faint sweetness of her saliva. She made a soft sound, almost like a sigh, but did not pull away. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth, then withdrew.

He moved to her armpit. He lifted her arm—she was limp, unresisting—and buried his face in the hollow. The skin there was moist and smelled of her natural scent, musky and faintly sharp. He licked the patch of short hair, then nuzzled his nose into it, inhaling deeply. He licked again, from the crease down to the edge of her bra strap.

Then he turned his attention to her feet. He lifted her right foot and pressed his mouth against the sole, licking the arch and the ball of her foot. Her toes curled reflexively, but she did not wake. He licked each toe, then sucked the big toe into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. He repeated the ritual with her left foot, savoring every inch of her skin.

He straightened and looked down at her. She lay sprawled, her dress bunched around her waist, her underwear askew, her body glistening with his saliva. A deep satisfaction settled in his chest. He pulled a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wiped his mouth, then carefully dabbed at her face and neck, removing the worst of the wetness. He smoothed her dress back down over her thighs, covering the damp spots. He adjusted her underwear as best he could.

He picked up the damp stockings from under the bed, rolled them into a ball again, and shoved them into his pocket. He would dispose of them later. He looked around the room—no other obvious signs remained. The tissue went into his pocket as well.

He walked to the door, paused, and looked back. Chen Yiting had rolled onto her side, her back to him, her breathing still deep and even. He opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, pulling it closed behind him.

The house was quiet. He walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall, turned on the faucet, and washed his hands and face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—an ordinary elderly man with tired eyes. He smiled at his reflection, then turned off the water and went to his own room, the crumpled stockings pressing against his thigh in his pocket like a trophy.

The pale morning light crept through a gap in the curtains, painting a thin stripe across the rumpled sheets. Chen Yiting stirred, a dull ache radiating from her lower back up to her shoulders. She groaned softly, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her head throbbed—a remnant of the cheap red wine she had drunk alone last night. She shifted, and the scent of stale alcohol and something else, something faintly musky, clung to the pillow.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the light. Her body felt wrong—heavy and tender in places she couldn't name. She looked down. Her nightgown was twisted, the hem hiked up past her thighs. One strap of her bra had slipped off her shoulder, the clasp digging into her skin. That was odd. She always took her bra off before bed. Did she forget?

Her gaze drifted to the floor. Her black stockings lay crumpled by the dresser, one inside out, the other near the door. She remembered hanging them on the chair before she passed out. How had they ended up there? The image flickered through her mind—a shadow, a weight, a warm wetness on her neck—but it dissolved as quickly as it came. *Just a nightmare,* she told herself. *Too much wine. That’s all.*

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and winced. A soreness between her thighs made her stomach twist. She shook her head, forcing herself to stand. The floorboards creaked. She gathered her stockings, noticing a faint smear on the toe of one. She frowned, then dismissed it. *Must have stepped in something.*

After a quick, cold shower, she padded downstairs in a thin robe, her hair still damp. The kitchen smelled of fried eggs and soy sauce. Mai Jiagong stood at the stove, spatula in hand, his back to her. He turned when he heard her footsteps, a smile stretching his weathered face.

“Yiting, you’re up. How did you sleep?” His voice was gentle, paternal, but his eyes darted away too quickly. He flipped an egg with trembling fingers.

“Okay,” she mumbled, pulling out a chair. She rubbed her temples. “A bit hungover.”

He set a plate in front of her—two fried eggs, a heap of pickled vegetables, a bowl of congee. Steam rose, carrying the sharp scent of ginger. “You shouldn’t drink so much. It’s not good for you. I was worried when I came out to use the bathroom last night and saw your light still on.”

Chen Yiting poked at the egg. “I didn’t hear you.”

“You were sleeping like a log.” He laughed, but it was too loud, too quick. He sat opposite her, picking at his own bowl. “Your door was ajar. I closed it for you. Didn’t want you to catch a draft.”

She looked up. His lips were slightly chapped. There, at the corner of his mouth, was a faint reddish-brown smear. It looked like dried lipstick. Her heart gave a small, confused jump. She didn’t wear lipstick to bed. She never wore it at home.

“Father, your mouth,” she said, pointing.

He froze, then raised a hand to his lips. He wiped it with the back of his wrist and glanced at the stain. “Ah, soy sauce from last night’s stir-fry. I must have missed a spot when I cleaned up. This old man is getting sloppy.” He laughed again, but his eyes were fixed on his bowl.

Soy sauce. It seemed plausible. She nodded, but a tiny, cold sliver of doubt lodged itself in her chest. She ate in silence, each bite tasting like sand.

As soon as she finished, she excused herself and retreated to the living room. She pulled out her phone and dialed Mai Wanghui’s number. It rang five times before he answered.

“What?” His voice was clipped, distracted.

“Wanghui, do you think you could come home tonight? I… I had a strange dream. I feel uneasy.”

A long pause. Papers rustled in the background. “I can’t. I have a late meeting. Look, it’s just a hangover. Drink some ginger tea and go back to sleep.”

“But—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t bother me during work hours.” The line went dead.

She stared at the black screen, the phone cold against her ear. A lump formed in her throat. She set the phone down and looked out the window. In the reflection, she saw Mai Jiagong standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression. When their eyes met, he turned away, humming a folk tune as he washed the dishes.

The cold sliver of doubt grew a little larger. She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the soreness lingered. *It’s nothing,* she whispered to herself. *Just a nightmare.* But her fingers trembled as she wrapped them around her empty teacup.

The house felt emptier without Mai Wanghui’s presence, even though he was rarely home when he was. Chen Yiting sat alone at the kitchen table, the half-empty bottle of baijiu before her a testament to the evening’s unraveling. The week had been brutal—a missed deadline at work, a stern lecture from her supervisor, and the ever-present weight of her husband’s absence pressing down on her chest. She had never been a drinker, but tonight the sharp burn of the liquor promised a brief escape from the gnawing loneliness.

She poured another glass, her hand trembling. The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM. Mai Wanghui had texted her hours ago from his hotel in Guangzhou: “Busy with client dinner. Call you tomorrow. Love you.” She had replied with a simple heart emoji, but the gesture felt hollow. She missed him—missed the warmth of his body beside hers, the gentle pressure of his hand on her waist. But even when he was here, he was tired, distracted, always on the verge of falling asleep. Their bedroom had become a place of silent frustration.

The liquor burned her throat and settled in her stomach like a hot coal. She drank faster, chasing the numbness. By the time the bottle was nearly empty, her vision had blurred into soft, swimming shapes. She stumbled to the living room, intending to reach the sofa, but her legs gave out before she made it. She collapsed onto the rug, her head spinning, her limbs heavy as lead. The last conscious thought she had was a vague worry about the unlocked front door. Then the darkness closed in, warm and suffocating.

Mai Jiagang had been waiting in his room, listening. He had heard the front door click shut hours ago, had watched the light under his son’s bedroom door remain off. When the sounds of drinking began—the clink of the bottle against the glass, the soft hiccups—his pulse quickened. He had been patient for a week, replaying every detail of the last time, savoring the memory of her bare foot in his hands. But now the hunger was sharper, more demanding.

He crept down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The living room light was still on, casting a harsh yellow glow over Chen Yiting’s crumpled form. She lay on her side on the rug, her short skirt ridden up to reveal the tops of her thighs, her blouse partially untucked. Her face was slack, her lips slightly parted. She was dead to the world.

Mai Jiagang stood over her, his breath shallow. His hands trembled with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He knelt beside her, his knees cracking in the silence. “Yiting,” he whispered, his voice rough. No response. He said her name again, louder. Nothing. She was completely unconscious.

He reached out and touched her hair, the strands silky against his calloused fingers. Then his hand moved lower, tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was warm, slightly flushed from the alcohol. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, a dry, almost paternal kiss. But when he pulled back, his eyes were dark, hungry.

Slowly, methodically, he began to undress her. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, but he was patient. One by one, the buttons popped free, revealing the lacy edge of her bra. He pushed the fabric aside, exposing her shoulders, her stomach. She stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips, but did not wake. He worked quickly then, unbuckling her skirt and sliding it down her hips, leaving her in only her bra and a pair of black stockings that clung to her thighs.

He paused, his breath catching. The stockings were the same as before, the same smooth, dark fabric that had driven him mad. He ran his hand over her calf, feeling the nylon stretch under his fingers. Then, with a sudden, desperate movement, he unclasped her bra and pulled it away. Her breasts were small but full, the nipples a soft pink against her pale skin. He stared, his mouth watering.

He began to lick. Starting at her neck, he traced a wet line down her collarbone, over the curve of her breast. His tongue circled her nipple, flicking it until it hardened. He sucked gently, then harder, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. She twitched, a small sound of distress escaping her throat, but she remained unconscious. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, leaving a glistening trail of saliva.

Lower, he pressed his mouth to her stomach, licking the soft skin, tasting the faint salt of sweat. His hands parted her thighs, and he buried his face between her legs. The scent of her was strong—musky, intimate. He groaned against her, his tongue delving into her folds, tasting her deeply. She jerked beneath him, her hips bucking slightly, a reflex of the body despite the sleeping mind.

He came up for air, his chin wet, his heart pounding. He wanted more. He wanted to taste her mouth. He leaned over her, cupping her face in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. They were soft, slightly parted. He forced her mouth open with his tongue, pushing inside, exploring the wet warmth. The taste of baijiu was still there, mingled with her own sweetness.

Chen Yiting’s dream shifted. She was drowning, water filling her lungs, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled, her limbs flailing weakly, her mind screaming through the fog of intoxication. A muffled sound escaped her throat—a whimper, a plea.

Mai Jiagang froze. He pulled back, his eyes wide, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment, he was terrified. She was waking up. He scrambled to his knees, ready to flee, but she only turned her head, her brow furrowing, then relaxed again. Her breathing deepened, and she was still.

He let out a shaky breath. The risk was too great, but the hunger was stronger. He lowered his mouth again, this time to her inner thigh, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin where the stockings ended. He left a mark—a purple bruise forming against the white flesh. He moved to the other thigh, doing the same. Then he flipped her onto her back and examined his work. Her body was a canvas of red marks and wet trails—her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. The evidence was damning.

But it was not enough. He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up the darkened room. He took several photos—her naked body, her face slack, the unmistakable marks of his possession. He focused on her private parts, the wetness still glistening, and on her face with his saliva on her lips. He saved them, his thumb hovering over the delete button for a moment before he pocketed the phone.

He dressed her quickly, clumsily, pulling her skirt back up and buttoning her blouse wrong. He left her bra unclasped, the straps dangling. He could not bear to touch her again, not now. He stood, looking down at her one last time, his breathing ragged.

“Goodnight, Yiting,” he whispered, and the words tasted like ash in his mouth.

He returned to his room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. The photos were a safety net, a leash. She would never tell. She could never tell. And even if she did, he had proof—proof of her drunkenness, her weakness, her shame. He smiled in the darkness, a thin, ugly line, and waited for the dawn.

The morning light crept through the curtains like a coward, illuminating the dark evidence on Chen Yiting's body. She sat up in bed, the sheets falling away to reveal bruises on her thighs, the unmistakable marks of fingers that had gripped her with cruel intent. Her neck bore a constellation of kiss marks, angry red against her pale skin.

Her hand trembled as she touched her lips, still slightly swollen. The memory came in fragments—a heavy weight, the smell of tobacco and age, something thick and wet forcing its way into her mouth. Her stomach churned, but beneath the nausea, something else stirred.

She pressed her thighs together, feeling a dampness that shouldn't exist. The violation had been monstrous, yet her body responded to the memory of it. Her hand drifted down, sliding beneath the waistband of her underwear. She bit her lip, conflicted, as her fingers found the sensitive spot. The sensation of the assault replayed in her mind—the helplessness, the surrender. She moved her fingers faster, her breath hitching, hating herself for the pleasure that built within her. It crested, and she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She stumbled into the bathroom, turning the shower to scalding. Steam filled the small space as she stepped under the water, trying to wash away the filth. She soaped her skin, scrubbing until it turned red, but the shame remained.

A knock on the bathroom door made her freeze.

“Yiting?” Mai Jiagong's voice came through, rough with feigned concern. “Are you okay? I heard you crying.”

She wrapped a towel around herself, her heart pounding. The door creaked open slightly, and his face appeared in the crack. His eyes traveled over her exposed shoulders with a hunger that made her skin crawl.

“Go away,” she whispered.

Instead, he pushed the door open wider, stepping into the steam. His expression shifted to something darker, more predatory. “I saw you last night,” he said, his voice low. “You enjoyed it, didn't you? I have pictures. Everything.”

The blood drained from her face.

“If you tell anyone,” he continued, stepping closer, “I'll post them online. Your husband, your mother, everyone will see what a slut you are.” He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “But if you keep quiet, this can stay our little secret. You might even learn to like it.”

He left, closing the door behind him, leaving her shaking in the steam.

She turned back to the shower, the water still scalding. She stared at the frosted glass door, at the silhouette that lingered on the other side. Her father-in-law was standing there, watching. She knew it. And something twisted inside her—fear, disgust, and that dark, shameful excitement.

She angled the showerhead between her legs, the water pressure building against her clit. Her knees buckled, and she pressed her palm against the frosted glass, leaving a handprint. Through the blur, she could see his outline, still and waiting.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her mouth opened, and her tongue slid out, tasting the steam. She didn't know if she was grimacing or smiling—something between horror and ecstasy. The water pounded against her, and she imagined it was him again, taking what he wanted, and she was letting him.

Because deep down, in the abyss of her silence, she was.

Mai Jiagong’s bare feet made no sound on the cool bathroom tiles. Steam coiled from the shower, filling the small room with the scent of jasmine soap and warm water. Through the frosted glass door, he could see her silhouette—Chen Yiting, his son’s wife, standing with her back to him, water cascading over her slim shoulders.

He had waited for this moment for months. His son was away on another business trip, and the house was quiet. He had checked twice that the front door was locked. Now, with a hand that trembled slightly from age and eagerness, he slid the bathroom door open.

The rush of steam hit him, and he stepped inside naked. Chen Yiting spun around, her eyes wide with shock. Her small hand flew to cover her mouth, but no scream came. She was frozen, water running down her face, her short hair plastered to her scalp.

“Father-in-law… what are you—please, you can’t be here…” Her voice was a thin, shaking whisper. She backed against the tiled wall, her bare skin slick and vulnerable. Her eyes dropped involuntarily—and there it was. His penis, thick and engorged, veins standing out darkly against the pale skin. It was an obscene sight, incongruous with the modest old man she thought she knew. Something warm bloomed between her legs, a treacherous heat that made her thighs press together. Her clit throbbed, leaking a sudden slickness that mixed with the shower water. She was disgusted at her own body’s betrayal, but she couldn’t look away. Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue crept out just a fraction, an unconscious invitation.

Mai Jiagong stepped closer, his body radiating heat. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, and began to whisper. “You’ve been so lonely, haven’t you? That husband of yours never touches you. But I’ve seen the way you move in the kitchen, the way your skirt rides up when you bend to clean. I know your body is hungry, Yiting. I can feel the desire pouring off you like this steam. Let this old man fill that emptiness. I can give you what he won’t—every night, every morning, any time you want. Just a little taste, and you’ll never want to go back.”

His words were a filthy litany, each one scraping against her shame and her longing. She shook her head weakly, but her body didn’t move away. He pressed lightly against her, the soft, loose skin of his chest brushing her hard nipples. She gasped. The sensation was electric—a low, humming pleasure that bypassed her guilt. Her legs trembled.

“No… we shouldn’t…” she breathed, but the protest came out half-hearted, lost in the steam.

He brought his face close to hers, his lips hovering a finger’s width away. His tongue slid out, pink and wet, and traced the outline of her lips. She felt the heat of it, tasted the salt of his skin. He teased her, drawing circles and figure eights without quite kissing her. Her breath hitched. Then his hand found her left nipple, pinched it gently, then harder. A jolt of pleasure-pain shot through her, and her mouth opened in a silent ‘oh’. He took that as permission.

His mouth crashed onto hers. It was not a gentle kiss. It was deep, invading, his tongue plunging between her lips and tangling with hers. He devoured her mouth, sucking her tongue, nipping at her lower lip, all while his thumb continued to roll and pinch her nipple. Chen Yiting felt herself drowning. Her hands came up to push against his chest, but instead her fingers curled into the wiry gray hairs, clinging. Her brain screamed *stop*, but her body leaned into the kiss, her hips pressing forward, wanting more of that forbidden heat.

The water pounded around them. Minutes stretched. The kiss seemed to last forever, a sloppy, hungry, shameful eternity. Finally, he pulled back, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “See? You like it. You’ve always wanted this. I’ll take care of you, my little daughter-in-law.”

Chen Yiting stood trembling, her lips swollen, her breasts glistening under the spray. Silent tears now mixed with the water on her cheeks. She said nothing. She could not find the words.

Her father-in-law’s arms tightened around her, pulling Chen Yiting closer against his chest. The stale scent of old tobacco and age clung to his clothes, but she didn’t pull away. His hands found her breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened into peaks.

A soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her mind screamed warnings, but her body had long been starved. She reached one hand back, fingers trembling as they traced the stubble on his cheek. The other hand slid down his belly, past his waistband, until her palm met the slick heat of his glans.

He gasped into her ear, his breath hot and uneven. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you, Yiting?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she turned her head and found his mouth. Their tongues met in a wet, hungry tangle. He tasted of bitter tea and something sour, but she kissed him back as if he were the only man alive. Her fingers curled around his shaft, stroking slowly, memorizing every ridge and vein.

He broke the kiss to whisper, “All those nights alone in your bed… did you think of me?”

“Yes,” she breathed, the word surprising even herself. “I thought of anyone. Of anything.”

His laugh was low and ugly. “Anyone will do, then?”

She shook her head, but the denial felt hollow. Her hand kept moving, slick with his moisture. “No. Just you. Tonight.”

He pinched her nipple harder, and she arched into the pain. “Tell me what you want, daughter-in-law.”

She looked down at his penis—ruddy, thick, standing upright against his belly. Her mouth went dry. “I want to suck it.”

He chuckled, a sound that grated against her shame. “Is this the first time you’ve had one in your mouth?”

“Yes,” she said, and the admission burned on her tongue.

He released her and leaned back against the headboard, letting his legs fall open. “Then show me what a good girl you can be.”

Chen Yiting hesitated for only a second. Then she slipped off the bed and knelt on the cold floor between his knees. The nightgown bunched around her thighs. She stared at his cock as if it were a foreign object—something to be studied before conquered.

First, she looked. The head was dark purple, slick with a bead of fluid. The shaft curved slightly to the left, a thick vein running along the underside. She tilted her head, tracing its length with her eyes from base to tip.

Then she leaned in and inhaled. The smell was musky, salty, raw. It was the smell of a man, and it made her head swim.

She pressed her lips to the tip—just a soft, tentative touch. The warmth surprised her. She pulled back, lips tingling, and looked up at him. His eyes were half-closed, watching her with predatory patience.

Slowly, she opened her mouth and ran her tongue flat along the underside from base to head. The taste was bitter and metallic. She licked again, this time circling the crown, tasting the salt of his pre-cum.

He groaned, his hand finding the back of her head. “Good. Keep going.”

She took a breath, parted her lips, and slid him into her mouth. The head bumped against her palate. She gagged instinctively, pulled back, and tried again. Her lips stretched around his girth. Saliva pooled, and she let the drool run down his shaft as she eased him deeper.

It was clumsy, hesitant, and wet. Her tongue moved in awkward circles, trying to find a rhythm. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, and he rewarded her with a sharp intake of breath.

His hand guided her head, not forcing, but coaxing. “Take your time,” he murmured. “There’s no rush.”

She closed her eyes and focused on the weight on her tongue, the heat filling her mouth. For a long moment, there was nothing else—no guilt, no fear, no shame. Only the rhythm of her bobbing head and the sound of his quiet moans.

After Chen Yiting had been sucking him for about ten minutes, the old man’s breathing grew ragged, his hands trembling as they clutched the back of her head. A low, guttural groan escaped his throat, and he gently but firmly lifted her chin, guiding her face upward. Their eyes met—her gaze hazy with drunken confusion, his burning with a hunger too long suppressed. He drew her up, pulling her onto his lap, and pressed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was deep, invasive, his tongue sliding between her lips to explore her mouth with a thoroughness that made her gasp. She tasted herself on him, salty and strange, and a part of her wanted to pull away, but her body remained pliant, weak from the wine and the weight of her own shame. His hands roamed her back, gripping the thin fabric of her nightgown, sliding down to squeeze her hips. When he finally broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connected them, glistening in the dim light.

“My turn,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. He lowered her gently onto the soft rug before the sofa, her black-stockinged legs splaying open beneath the hem of her gown. He knelt between them, his gaze fixed on the dark triangle of fabric visible through the sheer nylon. His fingers hooked the edge of her panties, sliding them down her thighs, and she shivered as the cool air touched her skin.

He leaned forward, his breath hot against her inner thigh. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path upward, pausing to nibble at the sensitive skin just above her knee. She whimpered, her hips twitching involuntarily. Then his mouth found her center, and he licked her with the same methodical care he had shown her lips—firm, steady strokes that made her clench her fists in the carpet fibers.

“You taste sweet here,” he murmured against her flesh, his words punctuated by soft, wet sounds. He parted her labia with his tongue, circling the sensitive nub with maddening precision. “And here… a little saltier. Perfect.”

She bit her lip to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway, a sound that hung in the air like a confession. Her hand found his head, fingers threading through his graying hair, half to push him away, half to pull him closer. He responded by delving deeper, his tongue probing her entrance while his thumb rubbed her clit in a steady rhythm. Her breath hitched, her thighs trembling around his ears.

He lifted his head, his chin glistening, and looked up at her with a smirk that twisted her stomach. “I want you,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I want to be inside you.”

She stared at him, her mind a storm of revulsion and need. The wine dulled her resolve, and the aching emptiness she had carried for months surged forward, overwhelming her better judgment. “I want that too,” she whispered, the words tasting like poison on her tongue.

He rose and shed his pants with quick, greedy movements, his erect member springing free. He knelt again, positioning himself between her legs, and she closed her eyes, anticipating the violation. But instead of thrusting, he rubbed the head of his cock against her slick folds, teasing her entrance with shallow, circular motions. Her hips rose to meet him, a silent plea she couldn’t suppress.

“Look at me,” he demanded. She obeyed, her eyes opening to meet his. “Tell me you want this.”

A tear slid down her cheek, but her voice was steady. “I want this.”

He pushed inside her in one smooth motion, filling her completely. A sharp cry escaped her lips—part pain, part pleasure, part despair. He groaned, his forehead resting against hers as he paused, letting her adjust to his invasion. Then he began to move, slow and deep, each thrust dragging a choked sob from her throat.

“You feel so damn good,” he breathed against her ear, his hips grinding against hers. “Tighter than I imagined. Better.”

She clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, as he increased his pace. The rhythm grew frantic, their bodies slapping together in the quiet room. She lost herself in the sensation, the guilt and fear giving way to a raw, animalistic arousal that shocked her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she cried out without shame.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop,” she begged, her voice breaking.

He laughed, a low, triumphant sound. “I won’t. Not until you come for me.”

He angled his thrusts, hitting a spot that sent lightning through her core. Her back arched, her mouth open in a silent scream, and she climaxed violently, her inner walls clenching around him. He followed moments later, with a guttural roar, spilling his seed deep inside her.

For a long moment, neither moved. They lay tangled together, breathing hard, the reality of what they had done settling over them like a shroud. She turned her head away, tears streaming into the carpet, as he withdrew and pulled her panties back up with shaking hands.

“We’d better clean up,” he said, his voice suddenly businesslike. “Your husband will be home soon.”

She nodded, unable to speak, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The shame of the dark night had only just begun.