Forbidden Night

The wine glass lay overturned on the nightstand, a small crimson stain spreading across the wood like a wound. Chen Yiting had only meant to have one glass to ease the loneliness of the empty house, but the bottle had somehow emptied itself, and now the ceiling fan spun in lazy circles above her, its blades cutting the dim lamplight into shadows that danced across the walls.

Mai Wanghui had been gone for three days. Three days of silence, three days of cold sheets on his side of the bed. Not that it mattered much—even when he was home, he slept with his back to her, his breathing steady and untroubled, never reaching for her in the dark hours. She had stopped hoping for it months ago, maybe years. The wedding photo on the dresser showed two strangers smiling at a future that had never arrived.

Her body felt heavy, weighted down by the wine that swam through her veins. She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, her black pencil skirt riding up to reveal the dark stockings that encased her thighs. The fabric shimmered under the faint glow of the bedside lamp, catching the light like polished obsidian. Her blouse had come partially untucked, exposing a sliver of pale skin above her hip.

The bedroom door opened with a sound so soft it might have been a whisper of air through the cracks. Chen Yiting did not stir. She was floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, the wine having wrapped her senses in a cocoon of warm fog.

Father-in-law stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the dim light from the hallway. He was dressed in his usual nightclothes—a threadbare singlet and loose shorts—but his eyes were sharp and hungry, scanning the room with the practiced patience of a predator who knew his prey was helpless.

He had watched her at dinner, watched the way her fingers curled around the wine glass, watched the flush creep up her neck as she drank. He had seen the way she looked at her wedding photo, and the way she looked away. The old house knew its secrets, and he knew hers: a neglected wife, a lonely woman, a body that begged for attention it never received.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him without a click. The lock slid into place with a soft metallic sigh.

Chen Yiting shifted slightly in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips—not quite a word, not quite a moan. Her legs parted just a fraction, as if her body knew what was coming before her mind could catch up.

Father-in-law moved to the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he knelt beside her. He did not rush. He never rushed. The slow approach was part of the pleasure, the anticipation that built in his chest like a second heartbeat.

His hand hovered over her calf, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin through the thin fabric of the stocking. His breath caught in his throat. She was so small, so vulnerable, lying there like a doll waiting to be played with.

He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the back of her knee.

The kiss was light, almost reverent, but his tongue emerged immediately, sliding across the nylon with deliberate slowness. The taste was salt and synthetic fiber and something uniquely hers—a perfume of skin and sleep and the faint remnants of wine.

Chen Yiting’s body responded before her mind could process what was happening. A shiver ran through her leg, her toes curling inside her heels. She made a small sound, something between a sigh and a question, but her eyes remained closed.

Father-in-law smiled against her skin. He moved his mouth upward, kissing a path along the inside of her thigh, his tongue flickering out to trace the seam of the stocking. The fabric grew damp under his attention, darkening where his saliva soaked through.

“So soft,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “So soft and warm.”

His hand joined his mouth, fingers crawling up her leg like spiders, squeezing and releasing the flesh beneath the nylon. He could feel the heat of her through the layers, could sense the pulse beating in the soft spot behind her knee.

Chen Yiting’s dream shifted. She was walking through a field of tall grass, the blades brushing against her legs, tickling and teasing. The sun was warm on her face, but there was a darker presence behind her, something she could not see but could feel, following her with patient steps. Her body grew warm, a familiar ache stirring in her core—the same ache she had tried to drown with wine, the same ache that had kept her awake on so many lonely nights.

She murmured her husband’s name, but it came out slurred, almost unrecognizable. “Wanghui…”

Father-in-law paused, his tongue still pressed against the sensitive skin just above her knee. Anger flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by a darker satisfaction. His son was miles away, sleeping in some hotel room, oblivious to what was happening in his own bed.

“He’s not here,” he whispered, his breath hot against her stocking. “He’s never here, is he?”

He resumed his work, his tongue sliding higher, reaching the edge of the stocking where it met bare skin. He paused there, savoring the boundary between covered and uncovered, between what was allowed and what was forbidden. Then he pushed the fabric aside and tasted her directly.

Chen Yiting gasped. The field of grass vanished, replaced by a jumble of shadows and sensations she could not piece together. Her body was waking up, responding to touches that felt both foreign and familiar. She tried to open her eyes, but the wine had weighted her lids, and all she could see were blurry shapes swimming in the darkness.

She felt hands on her thighs, parting them. She felt a wet warmth tracing patterns on her skin, moving higher and higher. Her body arched instinctively, pressing into the touch, seeking more contact even as a distant part of her mind screamed that this was wrong.

“No,” she tried to say, but the word came out as a breathless sigh, robbed of all conviction.

Father-in-law ignored the half-hearted protest. He had heard that word before, from his daughter, from other women, and he knew it meant nothing when the body said otherwise. And her body was saying everything he wanted to hear—the way her hips rocked against his mouth, the way her fingers clutched the sheets, the way her breath came faster and faster.

His tongue traced the garter line where the stocking met her thigh, then dipped between her legs, pressing against the thin fabric of her underwear. The heat there was overwhelming, the moisture already seeping through, dampening the silk.

Chen Yiting’s mind was a battlefield. Part of her wanted to wake up fully, to push him away, to call out. But another part, the part that had been starved for so long, wanted to sink deeper into the darkness, to let the sensations wash over her, to pretend that this was something other than what it was.

The ceiling fan continued its lazy rotation, casting shadows that seemed to writhe on the walls. The wedding photo gleamed in the dim light, the smiling faces of two young people who had no idea what would come. And in the bed below, Chen Yiting’s lips parted, and a low moan escaped into the night, swallowed by the silence of the empty house.

Father-in-law smiled against her thigh, his tongue sliding upward once more, tasting the salt and the sweetness of her growing need. He would take his time. The night was still young, and his daughter-in-law was finally learning what it meant to be wanted.

The first gray light of dawn crept through the thin curtains of Chen Yiting's bedroom, casting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. She stirred from a restless sleep, her body heavy and her mind still clouded with dreams that dissolved like mist at the edge of consciousness. For a moment, she felt almost peaceful—until she felt the weight on the mattress shift beside her.

Her eyes snapped open.

A hand was splayed across her stomach, its fingers calloused and warm. The touch was not her husband's. Mai Wanghui never touched her like this, with such deliberate pressure, such possessive stillness. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned her head slowly, dread pooling in her chest like ice water.

The father-in-law was lying beside her, propped on one elbow, his gray-streaked head bent close to her neck. His breath was hot and moist against her skin, carrying the faint sourness of sleep. When he saw her awake, his thin lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"You're awake," he whispered, his voice thick with patience long exercised. "Don't make a sound. Don't spoil it."

Chen Yiting's body went rigid. Her mind screamed at her to push him away, to call out, to flee. But the sound of her own breathing seemed too loud. The house was too quiet. Her husband was still asleep in the next room—or perhaps he had already left for work, as he always did before dawn. She could not remember. The panic made everything blurry.

The father-in-law's mouth descended to her throat, his lips parting as he pressed a wet kiss just below her jaw. She flinched, her hands clenching in the sheets, but she did not scream. The half-year of emptiness, of nights spent lying awake beside a husband who turned his back to her, of longing that she had never dared to name—all of it tightened around her throat like a noose.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured against her skin, his tongue tracing a slow path down the column of her neck. His free hand slid up her ribs, cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown. "I'll make you feel good. Better than that cold fish you married."

She should push him away. She knew this was wrong. The face of her husband—vague, distracted, always elsewhere—floated in her mind. But with it came the memory of his silence, his absence, the way he had not touched her in months. The father-in-law's hand was rough and demanding, but it was *there*. It was present.

His tongue dipped into the hollow of her collarbone, and she let out a shaky breath that was almost a moan. Her defenses crumbled like dry earth.

"Shh," he soothed, sensing her surrender. "That's it. Just lie still and let me take care of you."

He shifted lower, his body pressing hers into the mattress. His hands found the hem of her nightgown and pushed it up, revealing the black stockings she had worn to bed—a small, private indulgence that her husband had never noticed. The father-in-law's eyes gleamed as he traced the lace edge with a fingertip.

"So pretty," he breathed. "You wear these for me, don't you? Even if you didn't know it yet."

Before she could answer, his head dipped down. His tongue pressed against the nylon of her thigh, and the sensation—warm and wet through the thin fabric—sent a jolt through her entire body. She gasped, her hips rising instinctively off the bed. He licked slowly, deliberately, savoring the texture of the stockings against his tongue as he worked his way down her leg.

"I love these," he murmured, his voice muffled against her calf. "I love the way they feel. The way you feel."

Chen Yiting's eyes fluttered closed. A soft moan escaped her lips—quiet, hesitant, but unmistakable. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, uncurled. One of them came to rest on the back of his head, her fingers threading through his thinning hair. She told herself she was trying to push him away. But she did not push.

He licked the arch of her foot, the sensitive skin between her toes, and she trembled. The shame was there, burning in her chest like a hot coal, but beneath it—stronger, darker—was a craving she had suppressed for so long it had turned feral. It clawed at her insides, demanding release.

The father-in-law raised his head, his lips glistening. He crawled up her body, his weight pressing her into the mattress, until his face hovered inches above hers. His eyes held hers, dark and triumphant.

"Open your mouth," he whispered.

She shook her head, a final flicker of resistance. But he did not wait for consent. His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue forcing its way past her lips before she could close them. She made a muffled sound of protest, her hands pushing against his chest, but he was stronger. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, owning her, and she felt something inside her snap.

Her hands stopped pushing. Her lips softened. Her tongue met his.

The kiss deepened, wet and obscene, and she felt herself drowning in it. His hand slid down her body, between her thighs, and she arched into his touch. The world outside this bed—her husband, her home, her vows—faded into a dull hum at the edges of her consciousness.

When he finally pulled back, she was gasping, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed. He smiled down at her, a satisfied, predatory smile.

"Not tonight," he said, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "I want you to think about this. I want you to want it."

He rose from the bed, straightening his shirt, leaving her lying there disheveled and undone. She watched him walk to the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps. At the threshold, he turned back.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Same time. And you'll be ready."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Chen Yiting lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Her hand came up to touch her lips, still slick with his saliva. She should feel disgust. She should feel rage. But all she felt was the residual heat of his mouth on her skin, and a hollow ache where his hand had been.

She turned her head on the pillow. On the nightstand, the wedding photo smiled at her—a younger, softer version of herself in white silk, her hand clasped in Mai Wanghui's. She stared at her husband's face, trying to feel something. Betrayal. Guilt. Love.

There was only silence.

Slowly, she reached out and turned the photo face-down on the nightstand. Then she closed her eyes and let the darkness take her, her body still humming with the ghost of a stranger's touch. The seed had been planted. And she knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that she would let it grow.

The next evening, the steam curled thick around her as Chen Yiting stood under the showerhead, letting the hot water sluice over her small frame. She was only a hundred and fifty centimeters tall, her body delicate and pale in the dim bathroom light. The day had been long and empty, another stretch of hours where her husband Mai Wanghui had barely looked at her, buried in his phone or his work. The warmth of the water was the only tenderness she knew. She closed her eyes, tilting her face up, letting the spray beat against her skin. The narrow bathroom of her father-in-law's house felt even smaller with the steam, and the frosted glass door did little to obscure movement from the hallway beyond. She heard the click of the latch before she saw the door swing inward. Her eyes snapped open. Her father-in-law stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the fogged tiles. He was fully dressed, but his eyes moved over her wet body with a slow, deliberate hunger. Her breath caught. She should have screamed. She should have grabbed a towel, shoved him out, locked the door. But her body did not move. The heat of the water mingled with a deeper heat rising from her chest, a familiar, shameful warmth that she had begun to recognize over the past days. She watched him step inside, closing the door behind him. The bathroom became a cage of steam and silence. "The water feels nice, doesn't it?" he said, his voice low and casual, as if entering his daughter-in-law's shower was the most natural thing in the world. Chen Yiting said nothing. Her heart pounded, but her legs remained rooted. He began to undress, unhurried, dropping his shirt, then his trousers, then his underwear. His body was not the body of a young man—his skin was looser, the muscles still defined but softened by age. He was a hundred and seventy centimeters tall, broader than her husband, and there was a vitality to his posture that spoke of decades of appetites unchecked. His penis hung between his legs, semi-erect, thickening as she watched. Her mouth went dry. She had not seen a man like this in months. Mai Wanghui had long stopped sharing her bed, and even when he had, it was perfunctory—three minutes, a grunt, a turn to the wall. This was different. This was raw and unhidden. He stepped under the spray, water streaming over his shoulders, and reached for her. His hands were rough, calloused, and they gripped her waist as he pulled her against him. The water coursed between their bodies, hot and slick. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, and she felt the wet slide of his tongue, tasting her skin. A shiver ran through her, not entirely from the cold. He kissed along her collarbone, up the side of her neck, then down, over her chest, her ribs, her stomach. His lips lingered in the hollows, his breath hot against her wet skin. She closed her eyes. The shame was there, a distant whisper, but it was drowned by the sensation—the first true touch she had felt in months. She arched her back slightly, offering herself. He groaned against her navel. Then he straightened, his hands sliding up to her shoulders, and turned her so her back pressed against the wall. The tiles were cool against her heated skin. Water droplets clung to her lashes. She opened her eyes and saw him before her, his body blocking the light. He leaned in, and she felt the head of his penis nudge against her thigh, then lower, grazing her pubic hair. Her breath hitched. She looked down. The two of them watched together as the tip of him approached her entrance. The water made everything glisten, and the sight was obscene and thrilling. His penis was thick, the skin taut and dark, and it pressed slowly against her folds, teasing, not yet entering. Her body trembled. "See," he murmured, his voice husky, almost fond, "how well we fit." He pushed. She let out a low moan, her head falling back against the tiles. The stretch was sharp and full, a sensation she had nearly forgotten. He filled her completely, and for a moment they both stood still, joined at the waist. He looked down at the point of connection, and she followed his gaze. Their bodies melted together, perfect and seamless. The steam wrapped around them like a veil. He did not move yet. He simply held, his eyes on her face, watching the flush spread across her cheeks. "You needed this," he said, not a question. Chen Yiting did not answer. She bit her lip, her fingers gripping his shoulders, and waited for what came next. The water drummed against her back. The world outside the bathroom had ceased to exist.

The steam from the hot water had fogged the bathroom mirror, obscuring the reflection of the two bodies pressed together. Chen Yiting braced her hands against the cool tiles, her back arching as her father-in-law thrust into her from behind. The shower head sprayed a steady stream of warm water over them, running in rivulets down her breasts and thighs, mixing with the sweat that beaded on her skin.

He leaned close to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You're much tighter than that old woman."

The words cut through the haze of pleasure like a blade, sharp and obscene. She should have been shocked, should have pushed him away. But instead, a thrill shot through her, a dark excitement that made her core clench around him. Her husband never said things like that. Her husband barely spoke to her at all.

Her voice came out breathless, almost a moan. "Then come and take care of me more often."

A low, approving chuckle rumbled from his throat. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, and quickened his pace. The slap of skin against skin echoed off the tiled walls, joining the hiss of the shower. She tilted her head back, letting the water stream over her face, and caught a glimpse of their reflections in the foggy mirror—a silhouetted tangle of limbs and heaving bodies.

She looked down, watching the place where they were joined. His cock slid in and out of her, slick with water and her own arousal. The sight was raw, primal, and utterly forbidden. Instead of shame, a wave of wantonness flooded her. She began to move her hips in rhythm with his, pushing back to meet each thrust, taking him deeper.

He grunted, a sound of surprise and pleasure. "You like this, don't you?"

A whimper escaped her lips, but she didn't answer with words. She let her actions speak, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle that made him groan. The steam wrapped around them, thick and intimate, sealing them in their own secret world.

"Do you like me fucking you like this?" His voice was rough, demanding.

She didn't hesitate. "Yes! Much better than Ah Wang."

The confession tore from her throat, raw and honest. She didn't care about the implications, didn't care about the betrayal. In this moment, there was only the delicious pressure building inside her, the slick heat of their bodies, and the ruthless pounding that drove all thought from her mind.

His breathing became harsh, erratic. "I knew it. I knew you needed a real man."

His hand slid from her hip to her belly, pressing flat against her skin, pulling her back harder onto him. She gasped as he hit a spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding to its breaking point.

"I'm going to come," he rasped.

"Inside me," she begged, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "Please. Don't pull out."

A growl of approval, and then he drove into her with a final, shuddering thrust. She felt the warm gush of his release deep inside her, a sensation so intimate and forbidden that it brought her own climax crashing down. Her body convulsed, her inner walls milking him, drawing out every last drop.

They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, the water still streaming over them. The fog on the mirror had begun to clear, and she could see their reflection more clearly now: her father-in-law still buried inside her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder.

She had never felt so alive. So satisfied. So utterly damned.

Slowly, he pulled out, and she felt his seed trickle down her thigh, mixing with the water swirling down the drain. She made no move to clean herself. She wanted to carry the evidence of their sin, at least for a little while longer.

He stepped back, reached past her to turn off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening.

"Good girl," he murmured, and padded out of the bathroom, leaving her alone with the steam and the aftermath.

Chen Yiting leaned against the tiles, her legs weak, a smile—half dazed, half wicked—curving her lips. The wedding photo of her and Mai Wanghui sat on the vanity, its frame fogged over. She reached out, wiped a clear streak across the glass, and stared at her husband's indifferent face.

She didn't feel guilty. She felt powerful. And she knew this was only the beginning.

The bathroom door swung open, steam billowing out into the dim bedroom. Father-in-law carried her easily, her damp body pressed against his chest, her wet hair leaving trails across his arm. He laid her down on the bed, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from their skin.

She lay there, breathless, her small frame sinking into the mattress. He climbed over her, his knees pressing into the bedding on either side of her hips. His mouth found hers again, tongue slipping inside without hesitation, tasting her, claiming her. Her fingers tangled in his thinning gray hair, pulling him closer, arching her back to meet his chest.

He broke the kiss, hovering above her, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Let's play a game," he said, his voice husky.

"A game?" She blinked, confused but curious.

"Pretend I'm proposing." He grinned, then climbed off her. He positioned himself at the edge of the bed, lowered himself onto one knee on the floor, and took his erect penis in his hand. He brought the tip to her face, tracing it gently across her cheek, down to her lips. "Chen Yiting, will you be my wife?"

A laugh escaped her throat—a genuine, surprised laugh. She looked up at him, at the absurdity of the scene, at the old man kneeling with his arousal against her skin. But something in the thrill of it, the sheer audacity, made her blood sing.

She parted her lips slightly, letting the tip brush against them. "I do."

He didn't waste a second. He rose, pushed her back onto the bed, and positioned himself between her thighs. He entered her in one smooth thrust, filling her completely. She gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

They rolled across the bed, a tangle of limbs and damp flesh. He flipped her over onto her hands and knees, grabbed her hips, and drove into her from behind. The new angle sent shivers through her body. She gripped the sheets, her face buried in the pillow, moaning with each powerful stroke.

Then he pulled her up, guiding her to straddle him. She settled onto his lap, his length buried inside her, and began to move. She rode him with a confidence she had never known, her hips rocking back and forth, her breasts bouncing in front of his face. He leaned forward, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

His hands gripped her waist, guiding her rhythm. "Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice ragged between thrusts.

She moaned, her head thrown back, her wet hair swinging. "Yes," she breathed. "I've wanted to marry you for a long time."

His eyes widened with savage pleasure. He thrust upward, meeting her downward grind, and the bed creaked beneath them. Outside the window, the wedding photo on the dresser seemed to watch, silent and knowing, as the forbidden game played out to its inevitable, delicious end.

The father-in-law’s voice came low and rough against her ear, his breath hot and insistent. “Let’s go to your room. In front of the wedding photo. Where your husband can watch.”

Chen Yiting’s heart lurched. A thrill shot through her thighs, weakening her knees. She had never imagined this—never dared to—but the proposal ignited something wild in her chest. She nodded, her mouth dry, and let him take her hand. They crept through the dim hallway like two conspirators, past the ticking grandfather clock, past the closed door of her mother-in-law’s bedroom. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold floorboards.

He pushed open the door to the room she shared with Mai Wanghui. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn. And on the wall above the headboard, framed in polished mahogany, hung the wedding photo. Chen Yiting in white, radiant and shy. Mai Wanghui in his black suit, stiff and proper. His eyes stared out at the room with that same distant politeness he had shown her on their wedding night.

The father-in-law stopped before the photo, his gaze traveling from her frozen smile to his son’s face. He let out a soft chuckle. “Ah Wang, look. Your wife came here with me.”

Chen Yiting trembled. She felt the weight of the image, the eyes of her own captured youth, and the heat of the old man behind her. He pressed his palm against the small of her back and guided her forward. “Kneel,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Right here. In front of him.”

She hesitated for only a second, then dropped to her knees. The wooden floor bit into her kneecaps. She faced the photo, her own face staring back at her, innocent and untouched. Behind her, she heard the rustle of his belt, the soft clink of a buckle. Then his hands parted her thighs from behind, and she felt the blunt pressure of his erection against her wetness.

He entered her without ceremony, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing flat against her spine. She gasped as he filled her, deep and full, and he began to move immediately—short, sharp thrusts that rocked her forward. His free hand roamed up her back, dragging her dress up her thighs, baring more skin. He leaned over her, his mouth finding the curve of her spine, and he licked a long, wet stripe from the base of her neck down to the dimples above her buttocks.

“Ah Wang,” he said, his voice directed at the photo, muffled against her skin, “your wife is being fucked by me now. Are you enjoying it? Look at her. She’s so tight. So warm. You never knew, did you?”

Chen Yiting’s face burned. Shame pooled in her stomach, hot and thick, but beneath it, a terrible excitement coiled and unspooled. She bit her lip to keep from moaning, but a whimper escaped anyway. Her husband’s photographed eyes watched her, unmoving, and she felt as if he could see every guilty inch of her.

The father-in-law thrust harder, his rhythm deepening. He licked her back with long, slow strokes, his tongue tracing the valley of her spine, the swell of each shoulder blade. “Tell him,” he murmured. “Tell your husband how much you love this.”

She shook her head, but he pinched her hip, hard. “Say it.”

“I…” Her voice cracked. “I love it.”

“Good girl.” He slowed his pace, pulling out almost completely, then driving back in. “Now. Turn around. Face me.”

She was shaking as she rose from her knees and turned, her back to the wedding photo. Now she faced him, the old man with his trousers around his thighs, his cock slick and erect. He sat back on his heels and spread her legs wide, lowering his head between them. His tongue found her clit immediately—wet, insistent, circling with a practiced rhythm that made her cry out. She gripped his graying hair, her eyes flying open, landing on the photo behind him. On her husband’s solemn face.

The father-in-law licked her with abandon, his tongue dipping inside her, then returning to circle and flick. She could feel her own wetness on his chin. He groaned against her flesh, the vibrations sending sparks through her pelvis. “You taste like sin,” he said, his voice thick. “Like a daughter-in-law should.”

She wanted to look away from the photograph, but she couldn’t. The shame held her captive. Her hips bucked against his mouth. She was close, so close, but he stopped, pulling his face away with a wet sound.

“Now you,” he said, shuffling forward on his knees. He took himself in his hand and pressed the tip to her lips. “Show him what you do for me.”

Chen Yiting opened her mouth. She had never done this before—not for her husband, not for anyone. But now she took the old man’s cock into her mouth, filling her cheeks with the taste of salt and her own arousal. She ran her tongue along the underside, and he groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair.

But her eyes stayed fixed on the wedding photo. Her own smiling face. Mai Wanghui’s distant gaze. She sucked, slow and deliberate, her mind swimming in the impossible reality: her husband watching from the wall, his father heavy on her tongue, and the madness of it all—the madness that felt more like freedom than she had ever known.

The afternoon light slanted through the curtains, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the bedroom. Chen Yiting knelt on the thick carpet, her small frame trembling slightly as she took her father-in-law's cock deep into her throat. The taste of him was salty and familiar now, no longer strange. Her lips stretched around his girth, her tongue working the underside with practiced rhythm. Above her, on the nightstand, the wedding photo stood in its silver frame—her own face smiling back, innocent in white lace, beside Mai Wanghui's stiff, formal grin.

Father-in-law groaned, his fingers threading through her hair, gripping tight. He angled his hips, pushing deeper into her mouth, watching her eyes water as she struggled to take him. "Mmh," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "Your wife's mouth really knows how to suck, you know that, Awang?" He directed the words at the photograph, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Even better than your sister. That little slut used to choke on me, but your wife—she's a natural."

Chen Yiting pulled back with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his cock. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with lust, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. She wrapped her small hand around his shaft, stroking leisurely. "Then let me suck it more often in the future," she said, her voice husky and lewd. "I want to get even better at it. I want you to think of my mouth every time you see that photo."

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest. "Oh, I already do." He reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her to her feet. In one swift motion he spun her around, bent her over the edge of the bed, and pushed her onto her back. She sprawled across the duvet, legs splayed, her skirt already bunched around her waist. The wedding photo stared down at them from the nightstand.

He climbed over her, his body covering hers, and positioned himself at her entrance. She was already slick, her thighs wet with anticipation. "Look at you," he murmured, pressing the head of his cock against her folds. "You're dripping for me, aren't you? For your husband's father." He thrust in, a deep, hard stroke that filled her completely. She cried out, her back arching, her hands clutching the bedsheet.

"Look at the photo," he growled, gripping her hips, pounding into her with increasing force. The bed frame began to groan, the wedding photo rattling against the wood of the nightstand with each impact. "Look at him, sweetheart. Look at your husband's face while I fuck you."

Her eyes, wild and dazed, fixed on the image of Mai Wanghui. Her mouth hung open, panting, moaning with every thrust. "Ah, ah, yes—"

"Awang," the father-in-law said, his voice loud and taunting, directed at the photograph. "Look at how much your wife enjoys being fucked by me. Her pussy is dripping nonstop. Feel that? She's clenching around my cock like she's never been fucked before. Because she hasn't—not like this. Not by a real man." He leaned down, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot on her ear. "Tell him, Yiting. Tell him how good it feels."

The pleasure was building, a tidal wave rising inside her. She didn't care anymore. The shame had burned away, leaving only raw, delicious heat. She turned her head toward the photo, her voice breaking into a desperate, triumphant cry. "Awang, I'm getting fucked so good by your dad! His cock is much thicker than yours. Much thicker! He fills me up like you never could!"

Her body convulsed, her orgasm ripping through her, a shattering release that made her scream. She bucked against him, her nails digging into the duvet, her mind spinning into a white haze of ecstasy.

The father-in-law grinned, feeling her climax gripping him, and he thrust harder, faster, chasing his own finish. The wedding photo kept shaking, the silver frame tilting, threatening to topple. He didn't care. He had her. He had her completely.

The pale morning light crept through the heavy brocade curtains of the bridal chamber, casting soft golden stripes across the crumpled red sheets. Chen Yiting stirred slowly, her body aching in places she had never known could ache. Before she even opened her eyes, she felt it—the warmth of another body pressed against her back, the thick arm draped possessively over her waist, the coarse breathing against her neck.

Her eyes flew open. The wedding photo on the wall stared back at her—her own face, serene and smiling in white, beside Mai Wanghui's indifferent expression. But the hand that gripped her breast was not her husband's. The wrinkles on those fingers, the rough calluses, the way they kneaded her flesh with practiced familiarity—she knew exactly who lay behind her.

"You're awake," her father-in-law's voice rasped against her ear, thick with morning lust. His cock, already hard and pressing into the cleft of her buttocks, twitched against her skin. "The bride should greet the morning properly."

Before she could form a response, he rolled her onto her back and mounted her, spreading her legs wide with his knees. His grizzled face descended, and his mouth claimed hers in a wet, demanding kiss, his tongue forcing its way past her lips before she could protest. She tasted the staleness of his morning breath, mixed with something dark and familiar—the residue of last night's sins.

"Wait," she gasped when he finally broke the kiss, but his hand was already between her legs, fingers sliding through her wetness. She was already aroused, her body betraying her shame with embarrassing readiness.

"Your cunt welcomes me," he chuckled, positioning himself at her entrance. "See? Even your body knows who owns it now."

He thrust in with one smooth motion, filling her completely. Chen Yiting's back arched off the mattress, a moan escaping her throat that she could not contain. The stretch, the fullness, the wrongness of it—all of it blended into a sensation that drowned her reason. Her hands flew up to push against his chest, but her fingers curled into the fabric of his undershirt instead, pulling him closer.

"That's it," he grunted, beginning to move in long, deep strokes. His hips slapped against hers with wet sounds that echoed in the quiet room. "You take me so well, Yiting. So much better than my wife ever did."

She opened her eyes, meeting his leering gaze. "Your wife?"

"Mhm." He thrust harder, faster, his breath coming in hot pants. "That woman never moved beneath me. Just lay there like a dead fish, waiting for me to finish. But you..." He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, making her cry out. "You clench around me. You moan. You lift your hips to meet me. You're alive."

The comparison should have disgusted her. Instead, it sent a thrill of dark pride through her belly. She was better. She was wanted.

"Does your wife know?" she heard herself ask, her voice strange and breathless. "Know that you're doing this to me?"

He laughed—a low, ugly sound that vibrated through his chest and into her. He slowed his pace, grinding against her cervix, letting her feel every inch of him buried inside her.

"She stopped caring about me long ago," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "We haven't shared a bed in years. She sleeps in the guest room now, with her sleeping pills and her romance novels. She doesn't hear what happens in this house, Yiting. She doesn't want to."

His fingers found her clit, circling roughly, and she bucked beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders. The pain and pleasure blurred together, and she no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

"Don't worry about her," he whispered, his mouth against her ear. "Worry about pleasing me."

He flipped her onto her stomach without warning, pulling her hips up so she was on her hands and knees. From behind, he drove into her again, his balls slapping against her wet flesh. The new angle made her gasp—deeper, somehow, reaching places that made her vision blur.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her head up toward the large mirror on the wardrobe door. "Look at what you've become."

Chen Yiting saw her reflection—hair disheveled, face flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. Her small body was entirely at his mercy, rocking with each brutal thrust. Her breasts swung beneath her, nipples hard and aching. She looked wanton. She looked possessed. She looked nothing like the reserved young wife who had entered this house just days ago.

She could not look away.

He fucked her like that for a long time, then laid her on her side and lifted one leg over his shoulder, entering her from a new angle. He turned her onto her back and folded her knees to her chest, pressing them down until she was nearly bent in half. He sat up and pulled her onto his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist as she bounced on his cock, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

Through every position, through every shift and turn, her body responded with shameless enthusiasm. Her juices coated his thighs. Her moans grew louder, more desperate. She bit her lip to stifle a scream, and he slapped her hip sharply.

"Let them hear," he growled. "Let the whole world know what a slut you are for your father-in-law."

She came undone. Her orgasm crashed through her like a wave, and she screamed—a raw, broken sound that filled the bridal chamber and probably echoed through the hallway. She did not care. She was beyond caring.

He chased his own peak, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breathing ragged. She could feel him pulsing inside her, so close, and she clung to him, wanting to feel him spill into her, wanting every drop of his shameful seed.

But just before the final plunge, he paused. His body stilled, and he looked down at her with eyes that gleamed with more than just lust. There was something else there—a cruel satisfaction, a hunger for reaction.

"Actually," he said, his voice conversational, as if discussing something mundane, "I've done it with my daughter before too."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Chen Yiting's body went rigid beneath him. Her orgasm-fogged mind struggled to process what he had said, the meaning slowly seeping through her pleasure-drenched consciousness.

"Your... daughter?" she breathed.

"Mhm." He resumed his thrusts, slow and deliberate, watching her face with predatory enjoyment. "My own daughter. When she was seventeen. She was curious, and I taught her everything. Just like I'm teaching you."

He said it so casually, so proudly. As if it were an achievement, not an abomination.

Chen Yiting should have pushed him away. Should have screamed. Should have felt revulsion so powerful it would erase every moment of pleasure from her memory.

Instead, she felt her hips rise to meet his next thrust.

The realization of what she was doing, of what she had become, hit her like a physical blow. But it was too late—her body had already made its choice. She was no longer capable of denying him. She was no longer capable of denying herself.

He laughed again, that ugly, triumphant laugh, and drove into her with renewed fury. "That's my girl," he hissed. "That's my perfect little whore."

His climax hit him moments later, and he poured himself into her with a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very walls. His body convulsed above her, his weight crushing her into the mattress as he emptied himself completely.

Long after he had finished, after his breathing had slowed and his weight had become unbearable, he remained inside her, softening. His lips pressed lazy kisses to her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone.

"You're mine now," he murmured against her skin. "Body and soul. You understand that, don't you?"

Chen Yiting stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the wedding photo that seemed to judge her from its gilded frame. Her husband's face stared back, frozen in time, oblivious.

She closed her eyes.

"Yes," she whispered. "I understand."

And the terrifying thing was, she meant it.