Nightfall Depravity

The clock on the nightstand blinked 11:47 PM. Chen Yiting sat alone at the kitchen table, the half-empty bottle of red wine catching the dim light from the stove hood. She swirled the glass, watching the dark liquid coat the sides before sliding back down. Three glasses in, and the edges of her loneliness had softened into something almost bearable.

Her phone lay face-up on the table. No messages from Mai Wanghui. Not that she expected any. He was in Guangzhou for a week—some supplier meeting that apparently required three days of dinners and golf. The last time he'd touched her was six months ago, a clumsy fumbling in the dark that lasted maybe four minutes. He'd rolled over and snored within thirty seconds of finishing. She'd cried quietly into her pillow, then spent the next morning pretending everything was fine.

She drained the last of the wine and poured another glass. The Cabernet was cheap, bought on sale, but tonight it burned warm enough to blur her thoughts. Her reflection in the dark window showed a woman who still looked young—small and delicate, barely five feet tall, with a round face that made strangers guess she was in her early twenties. She was twenty-eight. Married two years. Already forgotten.

By midnight, the bottle was empty. She left the glass in the sink and walked unsteadily toward the bedroom, her bare feet cold against the tile. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old wood settling. Mai Wanghui's father, the old man, had gone to his room hours ago. She'd heard him shuffle past the kitchen around nine, muttering something about the television news.

She changed into her nightgown—a black lace slip that Wanghui had bought her for their honeymoon and never seen her wear again. It clung to her small frame, the delicate fabric whispering against her skin. She didn't bother with the lights. The bed welcomed her, cool sheets and a hollow space beside her. She curled on her side, pulled the duvet to her chin, and let the wine drag her into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The bedroom door opened without a sound.

Old Mai had been lying awake in his room, listening. He'd heard the clink of the wine bottle, the soft padding of her footsteps. When the house fell silent, he waited ten more minutes, then eased out of bed. His knees cracked as he stood, but he didn't care. The hallway was dark. He knew every floorboard that groaned—stepped over them with practiced care.

He pushed her door open just an inch, enough to see the shape of her under the duvet. The moonlight filtered through the curtain gap, casting a pale stripe across the bed. She lay on her side, one arm tucked under the pillow, her face slack with sleep. The black lace of her nightgown had ridden up, exposing the tops of her thighs. She wore black stockings—she must have fallen asleep without taking them off. The sheer fabric caught the light, outlining her legs from ankle to where they disappeared beneath the hem.

His breath hitched. He'd noticed those legs before, of course. Noticed the way she crossed them at dinner, the curve of her calf when she bent to pick something up. But now she was still, helpless, and the alcohol had sunk her into a sleep so deep she wouldn't stir at a whisper.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the latch clicking into place with a soft metallic sound. She didn't move.

He stood at the bedside, looking down. The nightgown's thin straps had slipped off her shoulders. The black lace contrasted against her pale skin. Her lips were parted slightly, breath slow and even. A strand of hair had fallen across her face. He wanted to brush it away but didn't dare—not yet.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped, but she only sighed and shifted an inch, settling deeper into the pillow. His heart hammered in his chest, a mix of fear and desire that made his hands tremble. He reached out, fingers hovering over her knee, then slowly, so slowly, he touched her.

His fingertips brushed the fabric of her stocking. Smooth, silky, warm from her body heat. He pressed lightly, feeling the soft give of her flesh beneath the nylon. She didn't respond. He slid his hand up, tracing the curve of her calf, the back of her knee. Her skin was like a secret he was finally allowed to touch.

Emboldened, he leaned down. His tongue touched the stocking at her ankle. The taste of synthetic fabric and the faint salt of her skin. He licked a slow path upward, following the line of her shin. The nylon dampened under his tongue. He reached her knee, then the underside of her thigh, where the stocking ended and her bare skin began.

Chen Yiting stirred.

Somewhere in the haze of wine and sleep, she felt a warmth, a wetness trailing up her leg. Her mind struggled to make sense of it. A dream? She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were heavy, her limbs weighed down by the alcohol. She felt a pressure on her mouth—something soft and wet pressing against her lips.

Old Mai had lifted her head gently, cradling her small face in his hands. He pressed his mouth to hers, tongue tracing her closed lips. She tasted of wine and sleep. He pushed his tongue inside, past her teeth, finding her tongue and curling around it.

She woke fully.

Her eyes flew open. In the dim light, she saw the wrinkled face above her, the gray stubble around his mouth, the familiar shape of her father-in-law's features. She tried to pull back, but his hand was on the back of her head, holding her in place. His tongue moved inside her mouth, wet and insistent, tasting her.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to push him away. But her body wouldn't obey. The alcohol had sapped her strength, or maybe it was something else—some dark, shameful part of her that had been starving for so long it didn't know how to refuse any touch at all.

His free hand slid down her body, over the lace, between her legs. She gasped against his mouth. He swallowed the sound.

"Mmm," he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. "You taste sweet, girl."

She stared at him, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. She should say no. She should call out. But Wanghui wasn't here. No one was coming. And his hand was still there, pressing, moving, and her body was responding in ways she hated herself for.

"Don't," she whispered, but the word came out weak, unconvincing.

He smiled, a thin, knowing smile, and lowered his head to her neck, kissing, sucking. Her hands came up to his shoulders—to push, to pull, she didn't know. They gripped his collar instead.

He took that as permission.

The black lace nightgown slid down her arms. The stockings clung to her legs. And Chen Yiting closed her eyes, letting the wine and the dark and the forbidden touch carry her somewhere she couldn't name, somewhere she'd never been before.

The old man's tongue pushed deeper into her mouth, and Chen Yiting's head spun as if she were drowning. She tried to turn away, but his calloused hand clamped her jaw, forcing her to take him. His breath was sour, laced with the leftover bitterness of cheap tea, and his tongue explored her mouth with the greedy persistence of a man starved for years—not for food, but for the taste of something forbidden.

Her hands pressed against his chest, a weak shove that barely registered. In the darkness of the bedroom, with her husband snoring in the next room, the only sound was the wet, smacking noise of the old man's mouth against hers and her own muffled whimpers. She tried to summon anger, but half a year of emptiness had hollowed out any real resistance. Her body, neglected and aching, remembered what touch felt like, and it betrayed her.

He broke the kiss with a wet pop, saliva stringing between their lips. "You like this, don't you, Yiting? I've seen the way you look at me, wanting it." His voice was a hoarse whisper, smug and confident.

"No… I don't…" The words came out broken, but her hips arched upward involuntarily when his hand slid under her nightgown, palm flat against her bare thigh. She wore only the thin cotton shift, and beneath it, nothing. She had stopped wearing underwear to bed weeks ago, hoping her husband might notice, might reach for her in the dark. Instead, it was his father who found the invitation.

He tugged at the hem of her nightgown, pulling it upward until the fabric bunched around her waist. The cool air of the room kissed her exposed belly, and she shivered. His mouth descended, hot and wet, onto her neck. He licked a stripe down to her collarbone, then lower, his tongue circling her nipple before drawing it into his mouth. She gasped, a sound she tried to strangle by biting her lip.

"Shh, you'll wake Wanghui," he murmured against her skin, and the mention of her husband's name sent a fresh wave of shame through her. But the shame mixed with something else—a dark, forbidden thrill that pooled low in her abdomen.

He moved lower, trailing his tongue down her sternum, over her navel, until his face hovered between her thighs. His breath was hot against her most private place, and she squeezed her legs shut, but he wedged his knee between her knees, prying them apart. "Old man still has some strength," he muttered, and then his tongue was on her, flat and broad, licking slowly from root to tip of her sex. Her hips bucked off the mattress, and she clamped a hand over her own mouth to stifle the cry.

He licked her like a man savoring a delicacy, his tongue dipping into her folds, circling her clit, then sliding lower to press against her entrance. "So wet already," he whispered, lifting his face just enough to speak. "This little pussy's been starving, hasn't it? Your husband's a fool, leaving a hot wife to dry up."

Chen Yiting's mind screamed at her to push him away, to roll over and end this. But her body had other ideas. Her fingers tangled in his thinning hair, not to pull him off, but to press him closer. The friction of his rough chin against her inner thigh, the wetness of his mouth—it was the first real attention she'd received in six months, and it cracked something inside her.

He climbed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She felt the hardness of him through his thin pajama pants, pressing against her thigh. He fumbled with his waistband, and then his cock was free, hot and rigid, nudging against her. He spat onto his palm, rubbed it over himself, and guided the tip to her opening.

"No… not that…" she whispered, but her voice had no force. The denial was a formality, a token resistance she offered to preserve a shred of dignity.

He pushed in, and she was so wet that he slid all the way to the hilt in one smooth motion. She cried out, a broken sound that was half pain, half pleasure. The old man grunted, his breath hot against her ear. "Ah, tight. Still tight after all this time. He's been neglecting you too long."

He began to move, slow at first, deep thrusts that rocked her body against the bedsprings. The old bed groaned with each push, and she bit her own hand to keep from moaning. But the pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter in her core. He whispered obscenities into her neck as he fucked her—dirty words about her body, about how he'd watched her for months, about how he'd imagined doing this to her.

"You smell like a woman should," he hissed. "My son doesn't know what he's got. I'll teach you what a real man feels like."

Tears slid from her closed eyes, but whether from shame or ecstasy, she couldn't tell. Her hips began to move, meeting his thrusts, and she felt the old man's smirk against her skin. "There she is. There's my girl."

He fucked her until she came, a sharp, shuddering climax that took her by surprise. She gasped and bucked, and the old man followed moments later, spilling himself inside her with a groaning sigh. He collapsed on top of her, sweaty and spent, his weight smothering.

After a long moment, he pulled out, rolled off, and stood. He pulled up his pajama pants without a word, walked to the door, and paused. "Same time tomorrow night." The door clicked shut.

The room fell silent. Chen Yiting lay in the wet spot, the evidence of their sin cooling against her thighs. Her husband's snores continued from the next room, oblivious. She stared at the ceiling, and sleep did not come—only the slow, metallic taste of violation and the secret, pulsing memory of pleasure, coiling in her belly long into the gray hours before dawn.

The morning light filtered through the frosted bathroom window, casting a hazy glow on the steam rising from the shower. Chen Yiting stood under the warm spray, her small frame hunched slightly as she let the water run over her shoulders and down her back. She had barely slept the night before, her mind replaying the events in the darkened hallway—the rough hands, the wet mouth, the shameful heat that had pooled between her thighs. She told herself it was a mistake, a lapse she would never repeat. But her body remembered differently, and as she soaped her skin, her fingers lingered on her breasts, her nipples hardening under the touch.

The bathroom door creaked open without warning.

She spun around, her heart lurching into her throat. The father-in-law stood in the doorway, his bathrobe hanging loose, revealing the sagging skin of his chest and the unmistakable bulge beneath the fabric. His eyes were dark, hungry.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, clutching the shower curtain to her chest.

He didn’t answer. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and turned the lock with a soft click. The sound echoed in the small tiled space.

“You can’t be in here,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Mai is still asleep.”

“He’s always asleep,” the old man said, his voice low and rough. He untied the belt of his robe, letting it fall to the floor. His body was pale, paunchy, but his cock stood erect, thick and veined, pointing at her like an accusation.

Chen Yiting’s breath hitched. She should scream. She should push past him and run. But her legs were rooted to the wet floor, and her eyes were fixed on that organ, the same one that had filled her mouth the night before, that had made her gag and swallow and want more.

He stepped forward, closing the distance. The water from the shower splashed against his legs, but he didn’t seem to notice. He reached out, his fingers brushing her wet hair, then cupping the back of her neck. She shivered, not from cold.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, pulling her close. “No one will hear.”

His mouth found hers, and this time she did not turn away. His tongue pushed past her lips, thick and probing, and she felt a moan rise from her throat, unbidden. He tasted of coffee and stale sleep, but she didn’t care. Her hands, still slick with soap, came up to rest on his shoulders, the skin loose and warm under her palms.

He broke the kiss and turned her around, pressing her face-first into the cool tiles. The water from the shower cascaded over them both, streaming down her back, her buttocks, her thighs. She felt his chest against her spine, his cock pressing into the cleft of her ass.

“You’re so small,” he breathed, his hand sliding down her stomach, between her legs. His fingers parted her folds, finding her already slick, not from the water. “So ready.”

She bit her lip, her eyes squeezed shut. She knew what was coming, and she hated how much she wanted it.

He positioned himself, his cock nudging at her entrance. Then he reached around, his hand gripping her chin, forcing her to look down. Between her legs, she could see the head of his penis, pink and glistening, pressing against her lips.

“Watch,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Watch how you take me.”

She obeyed. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the place where their bodies would meet. He pushed, and she felt the slow, agonizing stretch as his cock slid into her. Inch by inch, the thickness filling her, spreading her open. She saw the flesh disappear into her own body, and a wave of shame and thrill crashed over her. She was being taken, violated, and she was letting it happen.

“Ah… fuck,” she gasped, her forehead resting against the tiles.

Once fully sheathed, he paused, letting her adjust. Then he began to move, long, slow thrusts that made the water ripple around their hips. His hands gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

“You’re much tighter than your mother-in-law,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. “Much sweeter.”

The words should have disgusted her. They did disgust her. But beneath the disgust, something else stirred—a dark pride, a thrill of being chosen, preferred. She pushed back against his thrusts, meeting his rhythm.

“You like that?” he grunted. “You like being better than her?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she reached back, her hand finding his hip, pulling him deeper. Her moans grew louder, echoing off the tiles, but she didn’t care anymore. Let Mai hear. Let the whole house hear.

The old man laughed, a low, ugly sound. “That’s right. Let go. You’ve been holding back for too long.”

One of his hands slid up her stomach, over her ribs, until it cupped her breast. He pinched her nipple, hard, and she cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“You’re mine now,” he said, his pace quickening. “Your body knows it. Your cunt knows it.”

Chen Yiting’s knees buckled, but his grip held her up. She was lost, drowning in sensation—the slapping of wet flesh, the steam, the forbidden words. She began to move with him, her hips grinding back, her mouth open, gasping.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, fuck me.”

She was no longer resisting. She was giving in, fully, completely. And in the steam and the heat of the bathroom, she didn’t care what it made her.

The bathroom tiles were cold against Chen Yiting’s back as her father-in-law pressed her against the wall, his hips driving into her with a rhythm that was both brutal and deliberate. Steam from the shower still clung to the air, fogging the mirror, but she could see their reflections—a grotesque tangle of limbs and sweat. He was inside her, deep, and she felt every inch of him stretching her, filling the void that had been empty for so long.

He slowed his thrusts, just enough to lean in and whisper against her ear, his breath hot and rancid. “Can your husband satisfy you?”

She shook her head, a quick, desperate motion. Her voice came out in a broken whisper. “No. He never does.”

A guttural laugh rumbled from his chest. “I didn’t think so. You’re too hungry, girl. Too tight for a man who doesn’t know how to use what he’s got.”

She should have felt shame. Some part of her did, a distant echo of propriety that was quickly drowned by the pleasure coiling in her belly. He thrust harder, hitting a spot that made her gasp, and she let go. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “You’re better than him. This incest… it’s so exciting.”

His eyes widened, a flash of predatory glee. “You like it, don’t you? Being fucked by your husband’s father?”

She nodded, biting her lip. “Yes.”

That was all the permission he needed. He quickened his pace, slamming into her with renewed vigor, the wet sounds of their bodies slapping together echoing off the tile. His hand found her throat, squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. “Tell me more. Tell me how much you love this dirty secret.”

“I love it,” she moaned, her nails raking down his back. “I love being your whore.”

He pulled out abruptly, leaving her empty and whimpering. Before she could protest, he dropped to his knees, pushing her legs apart. His tongue dove into her wetness, lapping at the mixture of their fluids. She cried out, gripping his hair, and then she sank down to join him on the cold floor. They rolled together, a tangle of limbs, each taking turns licking and sucking at the other’s sex. Her mouth found his cock, stiff and slick, and she took him deep, tasting herself on him. He groaned, his fingers digging into her scalp, and then he guided her back up, rolling her onto her stomach.

He entered her from behind, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to rub her clit. “You’re going to come for me,” he grunted. “I want to feel you squeeze me dry.”

She was already close, the pressure building. “Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, and then the orgasm crashed over her, wave after wave of blinding pleasure. He followed moments later, his seed spilling inside her, hot and thick.

For a long moment they lay there, panting, the bathroom floor cold against their heated skin. He withdrew and sat up, his cock still glistening. “We’re not done,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Let’s take this to the bed.”

She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. “Okay.”

They stood, leaving wet footprints on the tile, then on the hallway floor as they walked to the bedroom. Neither bothered to towel off. The evidence of their sin clung to them—sweat, saliva, semen—and she felt no urge to wipe it away. It was a badge of honor, a mark of the forbidden pleasure she had finally embraced.

As she lay down on the bed and he climbed over her, she thought of her husband, somewhere in the house, oblivious. And she smiled again.

He carried her to the bed, his hands still slick with the evidence of their earlier struggle. The sheets were cold beneath her back, but his body was hot, pressing down, covering her completely. She felt small and weightless under him, like a doll in the grip of a careless child.

Naked now, tangled in the dim light that filtered through the curtain crack, she watched his gray-streaked chest rise and fall. He propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “Marry me,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. The words hung in the air like smoke.

Chen Yiting let out a breathy laugh. “Okay, I accept.”

He pretended to reach into an invisible pocket, then took her left hand. With exaggerated ceremony, he slid a phantom ring onto her ring finger. “With this ring, I thee wed,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She giggled, a sound she hadn’t made in months. It felt foreign, almost girlish. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, his tongue probing. Then he shifted, positioning himself between her thighs. There was no gentleness now. He pushed into her in a single, hard thrust.

She gasped, her back arching off the mattress. He began to move, faster than before, each stroke deliberate and powerful. Her legs found their way around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. She held on, her fingers clutching his shoulders.

The bed creaked beneath them. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm. He leaned down, his breath hot in her ear. “We’re more affectionate than those married couples.”

She wanted to deny it, but the truth burned in her chest. Her husband never looked at her like this, never touched her like this. She let out a moan as pleasure built, wave after wave. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, her body no longer her own.

“Husband,” she breathed.

He thrust harder. “Say it again.”

“Husband.” Her voice broke. She came, her inner walls clenching around him. He didn’t stop. He kept driving into her, relentless, until she came again, crying out the word over and over—*husband, husband, husband*—until the word lost all meaning and became nothing but raw sound.

The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Chen Yiting sat on the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress as her father-in-law stood by the doorway, his eyes lingering on her with that familiar, greedy glint.

“Let’s go to Wanghui’s room,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “In front of the wedding photo.”

Chen Yiting’s breath caught. A knot of shame and curiosity tightened in her chest. She should say no. She should stand up, walk away, lock herself in the bathroom. But her body didn’t move. Instead, a warm, traitorous pulse spread between her thighs.

“Why there?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer.

He smiled, a thin, knowing curve. “Because it’s fitting.”

She hesitated, her mind racing through a thousand objections that never reached her lips. In the end, she simply nodded, and let him take her hand.

They walked down the narrow hallway to the master bedroom. The door was ajar. Inside, the room felt frozen in time—neat, impersonal, untouched by the chaos of their marriage. And on the wall above the bed, framed in silver, hung the wedding photo.

Chen Yiting stared at it. She and Mai Wanghui stood side by side, arms wrapped around each other, faces bright with joy. She wore a white dress, her hair pinned with tiny flowers. He smiled, a man who seemed to love her then. But now the glass reflected only the dim light of the bedside lamp, and the two figures stepping closer.

Her father-in-law pressed his body against her back, his hands gripping her hips. “Against the photo,” he murmured, and he guided her forward until her palms flattened against the cool glass.

The image of her own face stared back at her, frozen in that frozen smile. Behind her, she felt his belt unbuckle, the rustle of fabric, the heat of his skin.

He entered her from behind without warning. A sharp gasp escaped her lips. He began to thrust, slow and deep, and as he did, he tilted his head toward the photograph.

“Look, Wanghui,” he said, his voice thick with mockery. “I’m fucking your wife now. She’s enjoying it much more than she ever did with you.”

Chen Yiting’s cheeks flamed. She wanted to close her eyes, to block out the words, but she couldn’t stop watching the photo. Her own smiling face gazed out, innocent and hopeful. And that husband—that man who had left her cold and empty for half a year—seemed to watch too, a silent witness to her degradation.

The shame coiled deep inside her, sharp and electric. It amplified everything—the pressure of his hands, the rhythm of his hips, the wet sounds filling the room. Her breath quickened. Her fingers scraped against the glass.

She began to move with him.

Her hips rolled back to meet each thrust, matching his pace, pushing harder against the frame. The photo rattled slightly. The smiling faces blurred as her eyes lost focus. She felt a sob build in her throat—not of sadness, but of release.

“Yes,” she whispered, though she didn’t know if she was speaking to him, to the ghost of her husband, or to herself. “Yes, like that.”

He laughed, a low, ugly sound, and gripped her tighter. His pace quickened, slamming her body into the wall. The wedding photo trembled, tilted, and for a moment she thought it would fall.

But it stayed, hanging crooked, its happy couple watching her surrender. And Chen Yiting let herself fall too, into the dark, depraved pleasure that swallowed every last shred of her resistance.

The afternoon light filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale stripes across the bedroom floor. Chen Yiting knelt on the carpet, her knees pressing into the soft fibers as her father-in-law stood before her, his wrinkled hands working at his belt buckle. The metallic click echoed in the quiet room, and she found herself holding her breath.

He did not speak, merely gestured with his chin toward the floor. She understood. Her fingers trembled as she reached forward, freeing his half-hard cock from his trousers. It was thicker than she remembered, veined and heavy in her small hand. She leaned in, her tongue darting out to trace along the shaft, tasting salt and skin.

Behind her, the wedding photo sat on the dresser. Her younger self smiled out from the frame, innocent and hopeful, a white dress hugging her petite frame. Mai Wanghui stood beside her, his arm wrapped around her waist, his expression blank even then.

The old man groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair. "That's it," he muttered, pushing her head down. "Open wider."

She obeyed, taking him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his girth. The taste was foreign, musky and thick, nothing like her husband's. Not that she remembered what her husband tasted like anymore. It had been six months. Six months of cold sheets and turned backs, of whispered pleas ignored.

Her father-in-law pulled away, his hand gripping her shoulder. "Your turn," he said, his voice rough. "Lie back."

She did not resist. She lay on the carpet, her skirt riding up her thighs, her black stockings catching the light. He knelt between her legs, pushing her underwear aside, and lowered his mouth to her cunt.

The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt through her body. She gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily. He licked slowly at first, exploring, tasting, his tongue sliding through her wet folds with deliberate precision. She was already soaked, her body betraying her shame with every slick sound that filled the room.

"Come here," he commanded, pulling her forward. "Return the favor."

She crawled to him on her hands and knees, positioning herself over his face. Her thighs trembled as she lowered herself, her cunt brushing against his waiting mouth. At the same time, his cock bobbed before her, and she took it again, sucking hard as his tongue plunged into her.

They moved together, a grotesque symmetry of pleasure. Her moans were muffled by his cock in her throat, and his grunts vibrated against her clit. The wet sounds of their licking and sucking filled the bedroom, obscene and rhythmic.

He pulled his mouth away just long enough to speak. "Hey," he said, his voice rough against her skin. He nodded toward the wedding photo on the dresser. "Look, your wife is sucking my cock."

Chen Yiting paused, her lips still wrapped around his shaft. She lifted her head, her eyes meeting the frozen smile of her younger self in the photograph. A strange thrill ran through her, a perverse heat that pooled low in her belly.

She released his cock with a wet pop. "Yeah," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs. "It tastes better than his."

The old man laughed, a low, gravelly sound. He grabbed her hips, flipping her onto her back, and rose above her. "Then take it all," he said, guiding his cock to her entrance.

He entered her in one thrust, and she cried out, her back arching off the carpet. He was deeper than Wanghui, thicker, filling a space that had been empty for too long. He began to fuck her with urgent, pounding strokes, his hips slapping against her thighs.

"Wrap your legs around me," he grunted.

She obeyed, locking her ankles behind his waist, her stockings slick with sweat. He lifted her, his hands gripping her ass, and carried her across the room. Her back hit the wall, and she gasped, her legs tightening around him as he pressed her against the surface.

They were directly next to the wedding photo now. Wanghui's smiling face looked out at them, frozen in time, oblivious to the scene unfolding inches away. Her father-in-law fucked her against the wall, each thrust driving her harder into the plaster, the frame rattling with the force of their movements.

The pleasure built, coiling in her belly like a serpent. She felt herself clenching around him, her nails digging into his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged pants. She did not think anymore. She only felt. The slick slide of his cock inside her, the heat of his body against hers, the forbidden thrill of being taken so thoroughly.

And then she spoke, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

"Ah Wang," she moaned, her voice echoing in the room. "Your dad is fucking me so good!"

The old man's eyes widened, then narrowed with savage pleasure. He drove into her harder, faster, his breath hot against her neck. "That's right," he growled. "Tell him. Tell him how good his father fucks his wife."

"Fuck me," she begged, her head falling back against the wall. "Fuck me, please."

He obeyed, his hips slamming against hers, the sound of their bodies meeting loud and wet. The wedding photo rattled with each impact, Wanghui's frozen smile seeming to watch them, to witness every moment of her surrender.

She came with a cry, her body shuddering against his, her inner walls clenching around his cock. He followed moments later, spilling inside her with a guttural groan, his weight pressing her into the wall.

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat. Then he pulled out, and she slid down the wall, her legs giving way beneath her.

The afternoon light continued to stream through the curtains, casting its pale stripes across the bedroom floor. The wedding photo remained on the dresser, untouched, its silver frame catching the light.

But the smile in the photograph seemed different now. Or perhaps that was only her imagination.

Father-in-law’s wiry body pressed Chen Yiting deeper into the mattress. The wedding photo on the nightstand watched them—a frozen moment of white lace and forced smiles. He was inside her again, sliding slick and deliberate, his breath hot against her ear.

“Look at it,” he growled, thrusting harder. “Look at your husband’s face while I fuck his wife.”

She turned her head, obedient. Mai Wanghui’s flat expression stared back from the frame, untouched by emotion even in the photograph. The contrast cracked something open in her chest—her husband’s indifference versus this old man’s greedy hunger. She moaned, not from shame but from the ache of being wanted.

“Say his name,” Father-in-law demanded, his hips driving a steady rhythm. Each word came with a punch. “Tell him—what you’re feeling.”

She couldn’t form sentences. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, old and desperate from half a year of neglect. He angled his thrusts, hitting that spot that made her toes curl against the sheets. Her breath hitched.

“Say it!” He grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze back to the photo. His thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat, not choking, just claiming.

“Ah Wang—” Her voice cracked, then rose as the first wave of climax crashed through her. She screamed it, raw and venomous and triumphant. “Ah Wang, your dad fucked me to climax! His dick is thicker than yours!”

The words hung in the air, filthy and liberating. Father-in-law’s laugh boomed through the bedroom, a cackle of pure, unhinged victory. He pulled her legs higher over his shoulders, drilling deeper as she shuddered through the aftershocks.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “That’s my good girl.”

He kept fucking her through the sensitivity, through the small whimpers she couldn’t control. Sweat glued their bodies together. The wedding photo rattled against the nightstand with each impact, the glass frame trembling as if scandalized.

When his own climax built, he slowed deliberately. He wanted to savor this part. He pulled out in one smooth motion, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. Before she could protest, he shifted his hips, aiming his cock directly over the photograph.

“Watch,” he ordered.

She rose on her elbows, eyes wide, lips parted. He stroked himself twice, three times—and then the first thick rope of semen arced through the lamplight and splattered across the glass, right over Mai Wanghui’s chest in the picture. More followed, streaking the groom’s face, dripping down the frame in cloudy rivulets.

Chen Yiting stared. Her breath came shallow. Part of her wanted to look away. Instead, she smiled—a slow, lazy, corrupted curve of her lips.

“Pretty,” she said.

Father-in-law grinned, his yellow teeth bared. He wiped the head of his cock against the edge of the nightstand, then cupped her cheek with a sticky hand. “Your turn. Clean me up.”

She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, tasting herself and him and the depravity of it all. He moaned above her, tangling fingers in her hair.

Later, they lay tangled on Mai Wanghui’s bed—their bed, the one he’d bought with his salary, the one he hadn’t touched her in for six months. Father-in-law snored softly, a bare arm thrown over her waist. The wedding photo lay face-down in the drawer now, its burden of semen dried into a white crust.

Chen Yiting pressed her cheek against the old man’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She didn’t think about tomorrow. She didn’t think about her husband. She only felt the warmth of a body that wanted her, however twisted the wanting was.

In the dark, she smiled again.

She was lost. And for the first night in six months, she wasn’t lonely.