The Degradation of the Goddess: The Fall of National Idol and Heiress

The afternoon sun slanted through the study window, casting a warm rectangle across Qin Ze's desk. He was hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying as he chased a particularly elusive sentence. The words were coming easily today, and he didn't want to break the spell.

His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

He ignored it, but the caller was persistent. On the fourth buzz, he snatched it up, ready to snap at a telemarketer. The screen showed "Sis ❤️" with a row of heart emojis. He sighed and swiped to answer.

"Gege!" Qin Baobao's voice was bright and sugary, the tone she used on talk shows and variety programs. "What are you doing?"

"Writing," Qin Ze said, already feeling a headache forming behind his eyes. "Chapter's flowing. I can't stop now."

"But I already booked our booth at Starry Sky KTV! Wang Ziqin is coming too! You promised you'd meet her properly!" She was pouting; he could hear it in the way her voice climbed at the end of the sentence.

"I said I'd try. I didn't promise."

"Gege!" The whine deepened, taking on that childish quality she never quite grew out of. "You never spend time with me anymore. I'm your only sister! I flew back from three provinces away for this weekend, and you're locked in your little cave typing about—about what, swords and sorcery? You can do that any time!"

Qin Ze rubbed his eyes. She wasn't wrong. He'd been avoiding social obligations for weeks, burying himself in his novel manuscript. But Baobao's schedule was murderous—concerts, endorsements, award ceremonies, variety shows. When she made time, he should make time.

"Fine," he said, and heard her squeal of delight through the speaker. "But I can't stay late. I need to hit my word count before midnight."

"You are the best gege in the whole entire world! I'll come pick you up in—"

"No, no. I have to finish this scene. You go ahead, I'll catch up later if I can."

She groaned dramatically. "You always say that. You never come."

"Baobao, I promise I'll try. But if I stop now, I'll lose the thread. You know how writing is. It's like... like if you stopped a concert mid-song to take a phone call."

"Fine," she huffed, but there was a smile in her voice now. "But I'm holding you to it! And if you don't show up, I'm singing all your embarrassing childhood stories on my next livestream."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, gege. I have photos. Remember that time at the beach when you wore Mom's bikini top as a hat?"

Qin Ze groaned. "Okay, okay. I'll try. But no promises."

"Good enough! Love you, bye!" The line went dead before he could respond.

He stared at the phone for a moment, then shook his head and returned to his manuscript. The words were still there, waiting. He dove back in.

---

Qin Baobao ended the call and tossed her phone onto the passenger seat of her white Porsche. She adjusted her rearview mirror, examined her makeup—flawless, as always—and started the engine. The gated community of her family's villa compound slid past as she drove toward the highway.

Her mind was already half at the KTV. She'd booked the VIP suite, ordered the expensive champagne, picked out a playlist of duets she wanted to sing with Ziqin. It would be a good night. A normal night. A night where she wasn't Qin Baobao, national idol, but just Baobao, a girl who wanted to drink overpriced cocktails and laugh with her best friend.

She merged onto the expressway, the city skyline glittering in the distance. The evening rush had thinned, and she made good time, pulling into the parking structure beneath Starry Sky KTV just as the neon signs flickered to life.

She found a spot near the elevator, checked her reflection one more time—crop top, high-waisted skirt, a delicate choker with a small pendant—and stepped out. Her heels clicked against the concrete as she walked toward the entrance.

Wang Ziqin was already waiting by the main doors, phone in hand, scrolling with that cool, unhurried elegance she always carried. She wore a simple silk blouse and tailored trousers, but on her, it looked like a magazine cover. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, diamond studs catching the light.

"Baobao!" She looked up and smiled—genuine, warm, the smile she reserved for her oldest friend. "You're early."

"Ziqin-jie!" Qin Baobao hurried over and linked her arm through Wang Ziqin's. "I escaped. My brother is being a hermit again. Locked in his room typing his little novel. I told him to come, but you know how he is."

Wang Ziqin's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes—amusement? disappointment? it was hard to tell. "Qin Ze is dedicated. That's rare these days."

"Dedicated or antisocial? There's a fine line." Baobao tugged her toward the entrance. "Come on, I already ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. Tonight, we sing until our voices give out."

They walked through the revolving doors into the lobby. The KTV was upscale—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, soft ambient lighting. The front desk clerk recognized Baobao immediately and gave her a professional nod, not a hint of fangirling. Good training.

But before they could head toward the VIP elevator, four men stepped into their path.

They were in their late twenties, flashy—cheap suits, gold chains, that particular swagger of men who confused arrogance with confidence. The one in front grinned, showing teeth that were too white.

"Well, well. Isn't this our lucky night? The national goddess herself, Qin Baobao, and the pearl of the Wang family, Wang Ziqin. Out without security? That's brave. Or stupid."

Qin Baobao's smile froze on her face. Behind the stage persona, a cold knot tightened in her stomach. She'd dealt with overenthusiastic fans before, but this was different. This was predatory.

Wang Ziqin's reaction was subtler. She didn't flinch, didn't step back. She simply raised an eyebrow and regarded the men with the calm disdain of someone who had seen worse in boardrooms. "You're blocking the way. Move, and we'll pretend this didn't happen."

"Pretend?" Another man laughed, stepping closer. "We don't want to pretend, heiress. We want to party. Heard the VIP rooms here are soundproof. Real private. How about we share a booth?"

Baobao's hand tightened on her purse. Her phone was inside, but getting it out would be obvious. She gauged the distance to the front desk, the security guard near the entrance. Not close enough.

"Last warning," Wang Ziqin said, her voice dropping to ice. "Step aside, or I'll call my father's legal team. I promise you, none of you can afford that lawsuit."

The men laughed—nervous now, but covering it with bravado. "Ooh, scary lawyer talk. We're trembling."

Upstairs, in a private observation lounge overlooking the lobby, a man watched the scene unfold with quiet satisfaction. He was in his fifties, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, with the weathered face of someone who had spent twenty years on the police force. But his eyes—deep-set, calculating—were not those of a righteous officer. They were the eyes of a collector assessing new acquisitions.

Wang Guomin lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips and smiled.

"Beautiful," he murmured to himself. "Exquisite specimens."

He watched Qin Baobao's visible tension, Wang Ziqin's cold composure. Two different flavors, both enticing. The idol was all vulnerability and sweetness, the heiress all steel and pride. Breaking them would be a pleasure.

A young man in a bartender's vest approached, his steps subservient. "Chief Wang, the men are in position. What are your orders?"

Wang Guomin didn't look away from the window. "You have the pills?"

"Yes, sir. The Divine Phoenix Oblivion Drops. Odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in alcohol. Effects begin within ten minutes—euphoria, lowered inhibitions, suggestibility. With repeated dosing, complete submission."

"Good." Wang Guomin took another sip of whiskey, savoring it. "The men will continue the harassment. Create a disturbance. Draw the security's attention away from the bar. While everyone is distracted, you approach the ladies. Apologize on behalf of the establishment. Offer them complimentary drinks—the pre-dosed champagne."

The bartender—called only "Little Dog" by Wang Guomin—nodded without hesitation. "And after they consume it, sir?"

"Then you guide them to my personal suite on the fourth floor. Tell them it's a private VIP lounge away from the disturbance. They'll be disoriented enough by then to follow willingly. And if not..." Wang Guomin smiled again, a predator's smile. "You have the sedative injectors as backup."

"Yes, sir."

Little Dog withdrew, and Wang Guomin turned back to the window. Down in the lobby, the situation was escalating. The four men had circled closer, their voices rising. Qin Baobao was backing away, one hand now inside her purse, likely reaching for her phone. Wang Ziqin had planted herself firmly, her jaw set, her voice a low, commanding thing that would have worked on anyone less thick-skinned.

But these men were not civilians. They were chosen for their crudeness, their willingness to cross lines.

"Security!" Wang Ziqin finally raised her voice, sharp and clear. The two security guards near the entrance stirred, began moving toward them.

The lead man sneered but stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No need to make a scene. We were just being friendly. Come on, boys."

The four men retreated toward the bar area, laughing among themselves. Qin Baobao let out a shaky breath. "Ziqin-jie, I think we should leave."

"No." Wang Ziqin's eyes were hard. "We're not letting those thugs chase us away. We're here, we're staying. But we'll inform the manager about this incident."

The security guards arrived, apologizing profusely. One of them offered to escort them to their room. Baobao hesitated, but Ziqin nodded. "Fine. Lead the way."

They followed the guard across the lobby, past the bar where the four men had taken a table, their eyes still tracking them with unpleasant intensity. Baobao kept her gaze forward, forcing herself not to look.

As they reached the VIP elevator, the bartender—Little Dog—stepped forward, clipboard in hand, apologetic expression on his face. "Ms. Qin, Ms. Wang, on behalf of the management, I want to apologize for that disturbance. Please, allow us to make it up to you. We've prepared a complimentary bottle of our finest champagne, already chilling in your room."

Wang Ziqin studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. "We didn't order any champagne."

"It's a courtesy, ma'am. From the owner, who is a great admirer of Ms. Qin's work. He saw the incident on the security feed and insisted." Little Dog's smile was perfect—humble, apologetic, earnest. "Please, accept it. Otherwise, we'll lose face."

Qin Baobao, still shaken, managed a small smile. "That's... that's very kind. Thank you."

Wang Ziqin shot her a look, but Baobao was already stepping into the elevator. With a sigh, the heiress followed, her instincts prickling but unable to find a concrete reason to refuse.

The elevator doors slid closed, and the car began to ascend.

Upstairs, Wang Guomin set down his empty glass. He took out his phone and sent a single text: *Confirmed. Proceed.*

Then he walked to the mirror near the door, straightened his tie, and smiled at his reflection.

The night was just beginning.

The private room at the Golden Age KTV was a gaudy explosion of crimson velvet and gold trim, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the cloying scent of cheap perfume. A giant screen on the wall flashed karaoke lyrics, but the music had been turned down to a low thrum. Qin Baobao sat in the corner of the plush leather sofa, her designer handbag clutched on her lap like a shield. She wore a simple white blouse and a pale blue skirt, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail—every inch the pristine national idol. Beside her, Wang Ziqin sat with perfect posture, her silk blouse buttoned to the collar, her face a mask of serene indifference. She sipped a glass of water, never letting her gaze linger on anyone for more than a second.

A man in an ill-fitting suit leaned across the low table, his breath reeking of liquor. "Sister Baobao, come on, just one song with me. 'Love You Like a Fool'—it's my favorite."

Qin Baobao offered a tight, professional smile—the kind she used on talk shows when a guest made an awkward joke. "I'm resting my voice tonight. Maybe next time."

The man laughed, too loud. "Resting your voice? In a KTV? That's a new one."

Another man, younger, with gelled hair, turned his attention to Wang Ziqin. "Miss Wang, I heard your family's company just signed a big deal with the Jiangwan district. My father is on the city council, you know. We should get to know each other better."

Wang Ziqin did not smile. She set down her glass with a delicate clink. "I prefer to keep business and entertainment separate."

The gelled-hair man's face flushed, but before he could reply, the door swung open. Wang Guomin entered, dressed in a crisp police uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. He had the weathered face of a man who spent years in the field, but his eyes were sharp and assessing. Behind him shuffled a wiry man everyone called Little Dog, carrying a tray of fresh drinks: colorful cocktails, a bottle of red wine, and a few tall glasses of juice.

"Sorry for the delay, everyone," Wang Guomin said, his voice smooth and paternal. He set the tray on the table with deliberate care. "The staff here are a bit slow tonight. I had to go down and give them a nudge myself."

The men in the room straightened, eager to ingratiate themselves with the police chief. "No problem at all, Chief Wang! We were just trying to get the ladies to sing."

Wang Guomin chuckled, a warm sound that didn't reach his eyes. He picked up two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, the ice cubes clinking gently. "They're professionals. They know when to rest. Here, Baobao, Ziqin—this is the fresh juice I specifically asked for. Good for the throat."

He handed a glass to each woman, his fingers brushing theirs just slightly. Qin Baobao took hers with a nod of thanks, still guarded but relaxing a fraction. Wang Ziqin accepted her glass, holding it up to the light as if examining its clarity.

"I hope there's no alcohol in this," she said, her tone even.

Wang Guomin spread his hands, palm open. "Pure orange juice. I wouldn't dare risk the voice of a national idol." He winked at Qin Baobao, who gave a small, reluctant smile.

The men resumed their banter, the music was turned up again, and the two women eventually raised their glasses to their lips. The juice tasted fresh, slightly tart, with just a hint of something metallic that Qin Baobao dismissed as the aftertaste of the glass. She drank half of it in a few sips, feeling the cold liquid settle in her stomach. Beside her, Wang Ziqin took measured sips, her eyes scanning the room with quiet vigilance.

Ten minutes later, Qin Baobao felt a strange heaviness in her limbs. The room seemed to blur at the edges, the voices of the men growing distant and echoey. She blinked, shaking her head slightly, but the fog only thickened. Her hand trembled as she set the glass down.

"Ziqin..." she murmured, turning to her friend. Wang Ziqin's face was pale, her usually sharp eyes unfocused. She was gripping the armrest of the sofa, knuckles white.

"I don't feel right," Wang Ziqin whispered, her voice slurred. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way, and she sank back onto the cushion.

The men in the room noticed. The gelled-hair man looked over, a smirk spreading across his face. "Ladies had a bit too much to drink? I thought you said you were resting your voice."

Qin Baobao shook her head, fighting to keep her eyelids open. "We didn't... drink anything... alcoholic..."

Wang Guomin stood up, his expression one of practiced concern. "They must be exhausted. Long day of shooting, I'm sure. I'll drive them home." He gestured to Little Dog, who moved quickly to help the women to their feet. Qin Baobao's legs were like rubber, her mind a spinning fog. She was vaguely aware of being guided out of the room, past the curious glances of the men, down the corridor, and into the cool night air.

The parking lot was nearly empty. A black sedan sat waiting, its engine running. Little Dog opened the rear door, and they half-guided, half-shoved the two women into the back seat. Qin Baobao slumped against the window, the glass cold against her cheek. Wang Ziqin fell beside her, her head lolling back, eyes closed.

Wang Guomin slid into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to look at them. A thin smile curved his lips. "Rest now, ladies. We have a long drive ahead."

Little Dog got into the passenger seat, and the car pulled out of the lot, gliding through the neon-lit streets of Shanghai. Qin Baobao's consciousness flickered like a dying candle. She tried to focus on her brother's face, Qin Ze's worried eyes, but the image dissolved into dark, swirling patterns. The last thing she heard was the soft hum of the engine and the distant wail of a police siren, fading into nothing.

The car turned off the main road, onto an uneven gravel path, past rusting warehouses and abandoned factories. A single light shone from a building at the end of the lane, its roof sagging, windows boarded. Wang Guomin parked inside a gaping doorway, and the metal door rolled down behind them with a deafening clang.

He turned off the engine, sat in silence for a moment, then turned to look at the two unconscious women in the back seat. Their faces were peaceful, innocent—like dolls waiting to be dressed.

"Perfect," he said softly.

Little Dog laughed, a high, nervous sound. "Chief, you've got a good eye."

Wang Guomin didn't answer. He opened his door, stepped out, and walked around to the back. He pulled open the door and gently lifted Qin Baobao into his arms, cradling her as if she were a sleeping child. Her head fell against his shoulder, her breath slow and steady.

Little Dog carried Wang Ziqin, her long hair trailing behind her. They walked across the concrete floor to a steel door at the back. Wang Guomin keyed in a code, and the door swung open, revealing a dimly lit room lined with strange equipment: a dentist's chair, straps, metal trays of tools, and in the corner, a large cage.

He laid Qin Baobao down on a padded table, her arms at her sides. Then he turned to Little Dog, who had placed Wang Ziqin on a similar table.

"Prepare the first dose," Wang Guomin said, his voice calm and businesslike. "We have a long night of training ahead."

Little Dog nodded, grinning, and began rummaging through a cabinet of vials and syringes.

The lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the city hummed with its usual noise, oblivious to the silence inside the warehouse, where two of the most famous women in Shanghai lay helpless, their futures rewritten by a man with a badge and a needle.

Wang Guomin moved with the ease of a man who had done this many times before. He carried the two women into the dimly lit warehouse, their bodies limp and unresisting in his arms. The space smelled of rust, old wood, and something faintly chemical—a scent he had long grown accustomed to. In the center of the concrete floor stood a heavy iron bed frame, bolted to the ground. A thin mattress, stained and worn, lay atop it. From the four corners of the frame, leather restraints hung loosely, their buckles gleaming dully in the single beam of a naked bulb overhead.

He laid Wang Ziqin down first, her long black hair spilling across the mattress like ink. Then he placed Qin Baobao beside her, the two women side by side like offerings on an altar. His hands were steady as he fastened the cuffs around their wrists and ankles, cinching the straps just tight enough to hold without bruising. The leather creaked as he tested each restraint, ensuring there was no give. Satisfied, he stepped back and admired his work.

"Perfect," he murmured, his voice soft and almost paternal. "Just perfect."

From his coat pocket, he retrieved a small glass vial filled with a shimmering red liquid. The Goddess Passion Burner—a formula of his own design, refined over years of careful experimentation. One drop could ignite the most dormant desires; the full dose he planned to administer would consume them entirely. He uncorked the vial and the air filled with a sweet, cloying scent, like overripe fruit mixed with incense.

He knelt beside Wang Ziqin first. With his thumb, he gently pried open her mouth, tilting her head back. He let three drops fall onto her tongue, then massaged her throat until she swallowed. She stirred slightly, a faint moan escaping her lips, but her eyes remained closed. He repeated the process with Qin Baobao, watching as the liquid disappeared past her pink lips.

"There we go," he said, recorking the vial and tucking it away. "Now the real fun begins."

He stood and turned his attention to Wang Ziqin. Her dress was a simple black sheath, elegant and understated, but it did little to hide the curves beneath. He reached for the zipper at the back and pulled it down slowly, deliberately. The sound of the teeth separating was sharp in the silence. He peeled the fabric away from her shoulders, revealing the pale smooth skin of her collarbone, the straps of her bra. He slipped the dress down her arms, past her waist, until it pooled around her hips. He lifted her slightly to free the fabric completely, leaving her in only black lace underwear and stockings that ended at her thighs.

He stepped back, letting his gaze travel over her. Her breasts, full and firm, strained against the lace. Her stomach was flat, her waist narrow, her hips curved. The dark triangle of fabric at her groin did little to hide the shape beneath. He let out a long, slow breath.

"You really are a work of art," he said, almost reverently. "Such a shame to waste it. But don't worry. I'll make good use of you."

He reached out and traced a finger along her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her skin through the nylon. She did not react. He smiled and withdrew his hand, turning to Qin Baobao.

"Now then," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let's see what our little national idol has to offer."

He started with her outfit, a white blouse with a ruffled collar, a pleated skirt that gave her an innocent schoolgirl look. He unbuttoned the blouse slowly, savoring each button. Beneath it, she wore a modest white bra, simple and pure. He slid the blouse off her shoulders, letting it fall behind her. Then he unfastened her skirt and pulled it away, leaving her in matching white underwear and sheer nude stockings that ran up to her thighs.

He crouched beside her, his face inches from her body. He could smell her perfume, mixed with the faint scent of her own skin. He extended a hand and placed it on her thigh, feeling the smooth, taut fabric of the stocking. He began to stroke, slow and rhythmic, his palm gliding over the nylon. The sensation of the silk against his skin was electric.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So innocent. So untouched. And now you're mine."

He moved his hand higher, tracing the line where the stocking met her bare skin. Then he slid his fingers under the waistband of her underwear, just barely brushing the skin beneath. Her body trembled—a tiny, involuntary shudder that ran through her like a ripple across water. He paused, watching her face. Her brow furrowed slightly, her lips parting as if in a dream. But her eyes remained closed.

He smiled and continued, his hand moving in slow, deliberate circles over her abdomen, just above the line of her underwear. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the subtle increase in her breathing. She was responding, even in her drugged sleep. His fingers dipped lower, pressing through the thin fabric of her underwear, feeling the soft mound beneath. He pressed gently, and her hips twitched, a soft gasp escaping her throat.

"Good girl," he whispered. "You're already starting to feel it, aren't you?"

He shifted his attention to her legs, running his hand down her thigh, over her knee, then up the inside of her leg. He let his thumb hook the edge of her underwear and tug it aside slightly, just enough to see a hint of what lay beneath. Her skin was damp, glistening in the dim light.

"Such a natural response," he said, almost to himself. "The body knows what it wants, even when the mind is asleep."

He continued his caresses, his hands moving over her with a practiced familiarity. He took his time, savoring every moment. He ran his palms over her stockings, feeling the texture of the weave, the warmth of her flesh beneath. He pressed his fingers against her through the damp fabric of her underwear, feeling the muscle twitch in response. She let out another soft sound, a half-formed moan that could have been pleasure or protest, but she remained unconscious.

Finally, he stood and looked down at the two women. They lay side by side, bound and vulnerable, their bodies already beginning to flush with the heat of the drug. He felt a deep satisfaction settle into his bones.

"Now," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Which one of you should I break first?"

He looked at Wang Ziqin, then at Qin Baobao. His eyes lingered on the younger woman, her innocent face, her simple white underwear. He made his choice.

"Let's start with you, little star."

He knelt beside Qin Baobao and reached for the clasp of her bra, his fingers deft and unhurried. The warehouse fell silent except for the hum of the single bulb and the slow, steady breathing of the two women.

Wang Guomin’s fingers moved with practiced ease, tugging at the waistband of Qin Baobao’s lacy white underwear. The silk slid down her thighs, pooling at her ankles. He spread her legs wider, the dim light from the desk lamp casting a soft glow over her most intimate place.

He let out a low whistle. “Pink as a cherry blossom. Tender. Untouched.”

She lay motionless, her chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of drugged sleep. Her face, even in unconsciousness, held that innocent sweetness that made millions of fans worship her. Wang Guomin’s lips curled into a sneer as he unbuckled his belt.

He positioned himself between her thighs, his weight pressing her deeper into the mattress. The head of his cock nudged against her slick folds—still dry, still tight. He pushed.

Qin Baobao’s body jerked. A soft, muffled sound escaped her lips, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. He thrust again, deeper this time, and her hips shifted instinctively, as if trying to escape.

“Mm… mmm…” Her voice was barely audible, a sleepy murmur lost in the dark room.

Wang Guomin grabbed her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Don’t wake up. Just feel.”

He rocked into her, each stroke harder than the last. Her body began to yield, warmth spreading from where they joined. Then her lips parted, and a single word drifted out, soft and plaintive.

“Ze… ge…”

Wang Guomin froze. His hand shot out, clamping over her mouth. Rage flickered in his eyes. “Your brother?” He ground his teeth. “You dare call for your brother while I’m inside you?”

He pulled out roughly, then slammed back in with brutal force. A pained gasp escaped through his fingers. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deliberate violation of her drugged oblivion.

Qin Baobao’s body started to respond against her will. A flush crept across her chest. Her inner walls clenched and released, slickening despite the violence. Her fingers twitched on the bedsheets, but she remained unconscious.

Wang Guomin grunted, feeling the change. “That’s right. Your body knows what it needs.”

He drove deeper, angling for a spot that made her whole frame shudder. A thin line of drool slid from the corner of her mouth over his hand. He released her lips to grab her jaw, forcing her head to the side.

Her face was slack, but her hips had begun to move in a slow, unconscious rhythm, meeting his thrusts.

“You’re nothing but a hole now,” he hissed, pounding into her. “A pretty little hole for me to use.”

Minutes passed—or an hour. Time lost meaning. His climax built, a pressure coiling at the base of his spine. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself deep and emptied into her, wave after wave of hot seed flooding her untouched womb.

He pulled out, breathing heavily. A milky stream trickled from her swollen opening, staining the sheets beneath her.

Qin Baobao’s head lolled to the side. Her breathing evened out into the slow, deep rhythm of true sleep. Not a flicker of awareness on her face.

Wang Guomin wiped himself with the edge of the sheet, then stood, adjusting his trousers. He looked down at her—the national idol, the heiress, now marked and filled.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmured, and turned off the light, leaving her alone in the dark with the evidence of her violation cooling on her thighs.

The auditorium lights blazed down on the stage, and the crowd remained frozen in their seats. Qin Baobao lay sprawled across the velvet chaise, her legs still spread wide, her pristine white dress bunched around her waist. Wang Guomin withdrew his glistening cock from her dripping cunt, a thick strand of semen stretching between them before breaking. He knelt over her face, his hips hovering inches from her lips.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice low and calm, as if ordering coffee.

Qin Baobao’s eyes were half-lidded, pupils dilated, her mind swimming in the fog of the Divine Phoenix Oblivion Pill. She parted her lips without thought, without resistance. Wang Guomin grasped his semi-hard shaft and smeared the remaining semen across her upper lip, then her lower lip, painting her mouth white. The warm, salty fluid coated her skin, dripping onto her chin.

She blinked slowly. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the mess on her lip. The taste was bitter, but something in her drugged brain found it familiar, soothing. She licked again, sliding her tongue across her upper lip, gathering the semen into her mouth. A soft, involuntary swallow.

“Good girl,” Wang Guomin murmured, stroking her hair. His cock stirred, thickening against her cheek.

In the audience, gasps rippled through the rows. Passerby A, a middle-aged man in a polo shirt, gripped his armrest, his face flushed with a mix of horror and arousal. “She’s… she’s actually licking it,” he whispered to the woman beside him. “That’s Qin Baobao. The national idol.”

Passerby B, a woman with glasses and a tight bun, bit her lip. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t look away. “It’s like she’s not even there,” she said, her voice trembling. “Like she’s a doll.”

On stage, Wang Guomin shifted, positioning himself between Qin Baobao’s legs again. His cock was now fully erect, throbbing against her inner thigh. He reached down with one hand, his fingers finding her anus, slick with sweat and vaginal fluids. He pressed gently, then harder, sliding one finger inside her tight rear.

Qin Baobao gasped, her hips jerking. Her clitoris, swollen and sensitive from the earlier abuse, pulsed under his other hand. He rubbed it in slow circles, his finger probing deeper into her ass.

“Ah… ah…” Her moans came out in short, breathless bursts. Her body arched, her nipples stiffening against the air. The chaise creaked beneath her writhing.

Wang Guomin leaned down and parted her labia with his tongue. He licked a long, wet stripe from her perineum to her clit, tasting his own semen mixed with her juices. She cried out, her hands flying to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. She didn’t push him away. She pulled him closer.

His tongue circled her clit, then flicked it rapidly. Her hips bucked against his face. He sucked the nub into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, while his finger continued to fuck her ass in rhythm. Her moans grew louder, more desperate.

“Please… please…” She didn’t know what she was begging for. The words tumbled out unbidden.

Wang Guomin worked faster, his tongue a blur. He felt her thighs clamp around his ears, her whole body tensing. With a sharp cry, Qin Baobao climaxed again, her cunt clenching around nothing, her asshole squeezing his finger. Her back arched off the chaise, and a stream of clear fluid shot from her urethra, splashing onto his chin.

He pulled back, grinning, and licked his lips. “Marked twice now.” He wiped his wet chin with the back of his hand, then looked out at the audience.

Passerby A stood up, his face twisted. “This is wrong! She’s being drugged!” But he didn’t move toward the stage. His voice cracked.

Passerby B shook her head slowly, her tears now dry. “She looks… happy. Maybe she wants this.” Her words hung in the air, a poison seed taking root.

Qin Baobao lay limp on the chaise, her chest heaving, her lips still glistening with semen. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing. In her brother’s mind, miles away, a faint echo of unease pulsed, but he dismissed it, typing another sentence on his laptop.

Qin Baobao’s eyes fluttered open to a ceiling she did not recognize. The cheap plaster cracks formed patterns like veins, and the faint chemical tang of cleaning solvent stung her nostrils. She tried to sit up, and a sharp ache between her thighs made her gasp.

Memory crashed over her in disjointed fragments. The concert. The camera flash. Wang Guomin’s cold smile as he pressed her into the back of the car—

*No.*

She scrambled upright, clutching the thin bedsheet to her chest. Her clothes were gone. The sheet slid against bare skin, and she saw the bruises blooming across her arms and collarbone like dark flowers. Her body throbbed with a deep, unfamiliar soreness that told her exactly what had happened while she was unconscious.

“No, no, no...” Her whisper cracked. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed her palms to her face.

The door opened.

Wang Guomin stepped inside, buttoning his uniform cuffs with deliberate care. He looked at her the way one might examine a piece of art—appraising, satisfied, utterly without concern for her distress.

“You’re awake,” he said. “Good. I was worried I’d been too rough.”

Qin Baobao’s voice came out raw and broken. “You—you drugged me. You raped me. I’ll—I’ll report you. I’ll tell everyone. My brother will—”

“Your brother?” Wang Guomin laughed, a dry sound like gravel grinding. “Qin Ze? The aspiring novelist who can’t sell a single book? He’s barely a footnote in this story.”

He walked closer, and Qin Baobao scrambled backward on the bed until her spine hit the wall. The sheet slipped, and she clutched it again with trembling fingers.

“Stay away from me!”

Wang Guomin stopped at the edge of the bed and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a phone and held it up. The screen displayed a video, paused on a frame of Qin Baobao’s unconscious body, spread-eagled on this very bed, her face slack and vulnerable.

“I have copies,” he said calmly. “Thirty-seven angles, in fact. High definition. One upload to the internet, and your pure-goddess image evaporates overnight. Your contracts vanish. Your endorsement deals dissolve. Your brother watches his precious sister become a viral joke.” He tilted his head. “Is that what you want?”

Qin Baobao’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. Her mind raced for a way out, for some leverage, but found only walls closing in.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Because I can.” Wang Guomin pocketed the phone. “Because women like you—beautiful, powerful, untouchable—need to learn your place. And I am an excellent teacher.”

A wave of heat rolled through Qin Baobao’s abdomen. She stiffened, her thighs pressing together involuntarily. Her body responded to something she couldn’t name—a chemical warmth spreading through her veins like warm honey, softening her resistance at the source.

*What is this?*

Her skin flushed. Her nipples tightened against the sheet. A shameful wetness gathered where she least wanted it, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to fight the sensation.

“Ah,” Wang Guomin said, noticing her shudder. “The Passion Burner is taking effect. You should be grateful—most women only dream of such a perfect aphrodisiac. It makes the body honest, even when the mind lies.”

“I don’t—I won’t—”

“You will.” He said it without anger, without triumph, as if stating an immutable law of physics. “But first, let me show you what happens to those who refuse.”

He walked to the door and opened it. Another figure stumbled inside—a woman in a torn silk blouse, her designer skirt ripped at the seam, her hair disheveled and her eyes wild. Wang Ziqin.

“Ziqin!” Qin Baobao’s voice broke.

Wang Ziqin’s gaze met hers for a moment—a flash of shared terror—before she looked away, shoulders shaking. A police officer shoved her forward, and she fell to her knees on the floor.

Wang Guomin crouched beside her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. Wang Ziqin whimpered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Your friend here thinks she’s above me too,” Wang Guomin said. “She tried to call for help. She thought her family name would protect her.” He laughed softly. “But her father is too busy with his corporate empire to notice a missing daughter. And by the time he does... well.”

He let go. Wang Ziqin collapsed forward, her forehead pressing against the carpet.

Qin Baobao’s chest heaved. The heat inside her grew stronger, an insistent pulse demanding attention. She wanted to scream, to fight, to scratch his eyes out—but her body betrayed her, nipples tightening, thighs parting slightly as if searching for something.

“Please,” she begged, hating the word as it left her lips. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do—I’ll do whatever you want.”

Wang Guomin straightened, brushing off his uniform. “That’s what I like to hear. But words are cheap. Actions prove sincerity.”

He unbuckled his belt slowly, drawing the leather free with a whisper against his trousers. Qin Baobao watched, paralyzed, as he unzipped his pants and revealed himself.

“Show me your commitment,” he said. “Get on your knees.”

Qin Baobao’s mind screamed *no*. Every instinct of pride, of dignity, of the self she had built over twenty-two years rose up in revolt. She was a national idol. A role model. The pure girl next door who millions of fans adored.

But the video existed. And Wang Ziqin knelt broken on the floor. And inside her veins, the Passion Burner pulsed like a second heartbeat, suffusing her limbs with a languid, aching need that made her teeth clench.

She slid off the bed. Her legs buckled, and she landed hard on her knees. The carpet scraped her skin.

Wang Guomin stepped closer. His erection stood before her face, pale and ordinary and horrifying. He grasped her chin and tilted her head up.

“Open,” he said.

Qin Baobao’s lips trembled. She looked at Wang Ziqin, who watched with wide, tear-filled eyes. She thought of her brother, innocent and oblivious, typing away at his novel somewhere far away. She thought of the adoring fans who would never look at her the same way again.

And she opened her mouth.

The taste was salt and skin and humiliation. She gagged as he pushed deeper, her hands flying up to push him away—but she forced them back down, gripping her own knees until her nails dug crescents into her flesh.

“That’s it,” Wang Guomin murmured, his hand settling on the back of her head. “You learn fast.”

He began to move, guiding her rhythm with gentle pressure. Qin Baobao’s tears fell freely, soaking her cheeks and dripping onto the carpet. Her mind detached, floating somewhere above the scene, watching a stranger perform this vile act while the real her screamed soundlessly in a locked box.

But her body did not fight. Her body responded. The Passion Burner turned revulsion into a shudder of pleasure, degraded shame into a spark that traveled down her spine. She hated herself for it—hated the way her hips shifted, the wetness that betrayed her, the traitorous gasp when he hit the back of her throat.

Wang Guomin groaned softly. “You have a talent for this. Who knew the nation’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?”

The degradation should have broken her. But beneath the horror, something else stirred—a terrible, seductive surrender. A voice whispered that fighting hurt more than yielding. That if she simply let go, became this thing he wanted, the pain might stop.

She took him deeper, and the voice grew louder.

The first thing Wang Zijin registered was the pressure against her wrists. Rough rope bit into her skin, and when she tried to move, she found her arms pinned behind her back, bound to the cold wooden chair beneath her. Her ankles were similarly lashed to the chair legs, and a thick cloth gag pressed against her tongue, muffling the groan that rose in her throat. Her head throbbed, and the faint, sweet aftertaste of the tea from earlier clung to her palate like a warning she had ignored.

She blinked rapidly, forcing her eyes to focus. The room was the same office she had entered—the police chief’s private quarters, with its heavy curtains drawn and a single lamp casting a pool of orange light on the desk. But the desk was no longer empty. Her gaze snagged on a figure kneeling beneath it, and her heart seized in her chest.

Qin Baobao.

The national idol, the woman who graced magazine covers and sold out concert arenas in minutes, was on her knees. Her pristine white dress had ridden up her thighs, and her hands rested on the thighs of the man seated in the chief’s chair. Wang Guomin leaned back, his uniform jacket discarded, his shirt half-unbuttoned, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. Qin Baobao’s mouth was moving in a rhythmic, practiced motion, her lips stretched around his exposed flesh, her cheeks hollowing and relaxing with mechanical precision.

Wang Zijin’s mind shattered into a thousand shards of disbelief. She tried to scream, but the gag turned her cry into a muffled, pathetic whimper. She thrashed against the ropes, the chair legs scraping against the floor, but the bindings held fast. Her eyes burned. This was not Qin Baobao. The woman she knew—the sharp, ambitious diva who had once sneered at her in the green room—would never degrade herself like this. And yet, the woman before her was Qin Baobao. The same glossy black hair, the same delicate features, now slack and dreamy, her gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing as she serviced the man without a shred of shame.

Wang Guomin glanced down at the kneeling idol, then up at Wang Zijin, his smile widening. “Ah, you’re awake. Good. I prefer my audience conscious.”

He reached down and stroked Qin Baobao’s hair, and she leaned into his touch like a pet seeking affection. A low, guttural moan escaped her throat around her task, and she increased her pace, her eyes fluttering half-closed. Wang Zijin watched, nauseated, as a trickle of saliva escaped the corner of Qin Baobao’s mouth and ran down her chin. The woman who had once commanded millions now looked like a puppet with its strings pulled taut by a single, invisible hand.

Wang Zijin forced herself to think. The tea. The throb in her veins. This was the drug—the one she had half-guessed, half-feared. It had taken Qin Baobao first, and now she was next. She twisted her wrists, feeling the rope scrape raw skin, but the knots held tight.

Wang Guomin stood, and Qin Baobao made a small, unhappy sound as his flesh slipped from her lips. She remained kneeling, her head bowed, her hands still resting on the empty chair legs. Wang Guomin stepped around the desk, his boots clicking on the floor, and stopped in front of Wang Zijin. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and she could smell the mingled scents of cologne and sex.

“You’re stronger than her,” he said, his voice soft and clinical. “But it doesn’t matter. The pill works the same on everyone.”

A warmth began to bloom in Wang Zijin’s belly. It started as a faint heat, like a coal buried in ash, and then it spread, rising through her chest, curling down into her thighs. Her breath hitched, and she felt a dampness gather between her legs, a treacherous response that her mind railed against. No. She would not succumb. She was Wang Zijin—heiress, strategist, a woman who had navigated boardrooms and backstabbers. She would not fall to a man in a police uniform and a spiked cup of tea.

But her body ignored her commands. Her skin flushed, a prickling heat that crawled over her arms and neck. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her blouse, and she squeezed her thighs together, trying to suppress the sudden, aching emptiness that pulsed within her. The gag muffled her labored breathing, and she felt sweat bead on her forehead.

Wang Guomin’s hand came up and traced her jawline, his thumb brushing the edge of the gag. She jerked her head away, but the movement was sluggish, weighed down by the heat flooding her veins. He chuckled.

“The more you resist, the stronger it gets. Let go, Miss Wang. It’s easier.”

He moved behind her chair, and she felt his hands settle on her shoulders, then slide down to cup her breasts through the blouse. She flinched, her muscles tensing, but the touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. A tremor ran through her, and she bit down on the gag, fighting a moan that tried to escape. He kneaded her flesh through the fabric, his thumbs circling her nipples, and her back arched involuntarily, pressing into his hands.

No. No. She thought of her brother. Of the empire she was meant to inherit. Of the cold, clear logic that had always been her armor. But the armor was melting, dissolving into a puddle of raw, animal need. Her hips rocked against the chair seat, seeking friction, and she hated herself for it.

Wang Guomin leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Your body knows what it wants. Your mind is just slow to catch up.”

He unhooked her blouse, buttons popping open, and pushed the fabric aside. Her bra followed, tugged down with practiced ease, and the cool air hit her exposed breasts, making her gasp. He circled around to face her again, his eyes dark and appraising. He took one breast in his hand, squeezing, then lowered his head and took the nipple into his mouth.

The sensation was a white-hot blade that cut through her resistance. A sob broke from her throat, muffled by the gag, and her hands strained against the ropes, not to escape, but to grab him, to pull him closer. Her hips bucked, and she heard herself moan—a low, desperate sound that she did not recognize as her own.

From the floor, Qin Baobao stirred. She crawled toward them, her movements fluid and mindless, and pressed herself against Wang Guomin’s leg, nuzzling his thigh. Her glossed lips left a smear of moisture on his trousers. Wang Guomin released Wang Zijin’s breast and smiled down at the two women.

“Patience, Baobao. Your turn will come again.”

Qin Baobao looked up at him with glazed eyes and nodded, then rested her cheek against his leg, content to wait.

Wang Zijin watched the scene through a haze of lust and horror. This was not happening. This could not be happening. And yet the ache between her legs grew, spreading like wildfire, until every thought was consumed by the need for touch, for release. She thrashed again, but now the motion was different—no longer an attempt to flee, but an attempt to present herself, to offer her body to the man who held her strings.

Wang Guomin saw the shift. He reached down and undid her skirt, sliding it down her hips, and she did nothing to stop him. Her thighs trembled as the cool air kissed her damp underwear. He hooked a finger under the waistband and pulled it aside, exposing her to his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “So controlled on the outside. So wanton on the inside. The pill only reveals what was always there.”

Wang Zijin wanted to scream that he was wrong, that this was poison, that she was not this creature. But the heat in her veins drowned the words before they could form. Her hips rolled, seeking his hand, and she heard herself whimper again—soft, pleading. The gag was soaked with saliva.

He pushed a finger inside her, and she convulsed, her vision going white. A shattered cry escaped her, and she bucked against his hand, her body taking over completely. He added a second finger, curling them, and she lost all sense of self, her mind dissolving into a sea of pure, blinding pleasure.

She was still screaming when the orgasm broke over her, but the scream was no longer one of resistance. It was a cry of surrender.

The basement room was soundproofed, its walls lined with soft beige fabric that muffled every sound. Wang Guomin had prepared this space over many months, and now it served its purpose perfectly. Two silk-draped massage tables stood side by side, and on each lay a woman bound in soft leather restraints.

Qin Baobao’s eyes were half-lidded, her famous radiant smile nowhere to be seen. A thin film of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her lips parted slightly as she breathed in shallow gasps. The Divine Phoenix Oblivion Pill had been dissolved into a saline solution and administered intravenously over the past hour. Her mind felt like cotton candy—sweet, dissolving, formless.

On the adjacent table, Wang Ziqin lay with more composure, but her fingers twitched against the restraints. She had fought harder than Baobao, her proud heiress instincts rebelling against submission. But the drug was patient. It seeped through her bloodstream, whispering promises of release, of oblivion, of pleasure without consequence.

Wang Guomin stood between them, his police uniform replaced by a simple black silk robe. He held a small remote control in his right hand—connected to electrodes placed on each woman’s inner thighs, calibrated to deliver just enough stimulation to keep their bodies humming with unfulfilled wanting.

“You two have been so strong,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “But strength has its limits. Let go now. Let the drug carry you.”

Baobao whimpered. Her back arched involuntarily as a low-frequency pulse passed through her. “Brother… brother wouldn’t want this…”

“Your brother doesn’t know what you need,” Wang Guomin replied, moving closer to her table. He brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “But I do. You need to be emptied. All that fame, all that pressure—it’s built up inside you. Let me drain it out.”

Ziqin turned her head, her dark eyes glazed but still carrying a spark of calculation. “You think… this will break me?” Her voice was husky, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to break you,” Wang Guomin said, turning to her. “I want to rebuild you. The old Wang Ziqin was cold, efficient, lonely. The new one will be warm, open, fulfilled. Isn’t that better?”

He reached between Ziqin’s legs, his fingers finding her already slick. She gasped, her hips jerking against the restraints. The electrode pulse intensified, syncing with his touch. Her breath caught in a ragged sob.

“First orgasm is always the hardest,” he murmured, lowering his head. “After that, everything becomes simple.”

He parted her folds with his tongue, tasting the salt and sweetness of her arousal. Wang Ziqin had never been touched like this—not by anyone she had chosen, not with such deliberate, clinical precision. But the drug had stripped away her defenses, and every flick of his tongue sent electric shocks through her nervous system.

She tried to think of business strategies, of quarterly reports, of anything to anchor herself. But the numbers dissolved into colors, and the colors melted into heat. Her hips began to rock, unbidden, meeting his mouth.

“No… no, I shouldn’t…” she gasped, but her hands clenched into fists, pulling against the restraints as if to bring him closer.

Wang Guomin hummed against her, the vibration pushing her closer to the edge. He pressed two fingers inside her, curling them upward, and she screamed—a raw, broken sound that echoed off the padded walls.

The orgasm hit her like a wave crashing through a dam. Her body convulsed, her vision white, her mind blank. For three full seconds, she was nothing but pure sensation, and when she came back to herself, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Good,” Wang Guomin said, lifting his head. His chin glistened. “Very good. How do you feel?”

Ziqin’s lips moved, but no words came. She felt hollowed out, scraped clean. And in that hollow space, something new was growing—a hunger.

“I…” she swallowed. “I want more.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

He loosened her restraints, and she didn’t try to run. Instead, she turned on her side, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her hand reached out, touching his robe, tugging at the sash.

Qin Baobao watched all of this from her own table. Jealousy burned in her chest, hot and acidic. Ziqin had always been the one in control, the one with the perfect mask. Now she lay there, limp and wanting, while Wang Guomin gave her what Baobao herself craved.

“Why her first?” Baobao’s voice cracked. “I… I’ve been waiting longer.”

Wang Guomin turned, his eyes glinting. “Jealous, little star?”

“No.” But her body betrayed her—her hips rolled, her thighs parted. “Yes. Yes, I am. I want you to do that to me too.”

“Then come here,” he said, gesturing to the floor.

Baobao fumbled with her own restraints. Her fingers were clumsy, shaking with need. When she finally freed herself, she slid off the table on unsteady legs. The drug made the world tilt and swim, but she crawled toward him on hands and knees.

Ziqin had risen to her knees beside him, her silk robe falling open. She looked at Baobao with a strange, shared understanding—two women who had once been rivals, now united in degradation.

“Kiss her,” Wang Guomin commanded, his hand on Ziqin’s back.

Ziqin hesitated only a moment, then leaned forward. Her lips met Baobao’s—soft, tentative, then hungry. They tasted of salt and shame and something sweeter. Baobao moaned into the kiss, her hands coming up to cup Ziqin’s face.

Wang Guomin watched them, his erection straining against his robe. He parted them gently, positioning himself between their bodies.

“You will learn to share,” he said, guiding his cock to Baobao’s entrance. “Everything. Pleasure. Pain. Purpose.”

He pushed inside her in one slow, relentless thrust. Baobao’s mouth opened in a silent cry, her nails digging into Ziqin’s shoulders. Ziqin held her steady, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her throat.

“It’s okay,” Ziqin whispered, her voice hoarse. “It’s okay to let go. I already have.”

Baobao’s eyes fluttered closed. She felt Wang Guomin moving inside her, felt Ziqin’s hands stroking her back, felt the drug singing in her blood. The last thread of resistance snapped.

She began to move in rhythm with him, her hips rocking, her breath coming in sobs that slowly turned into moans. Ziqin slid down, pressing her mouth to Baobao’s breast, licking and sucking.

Wang Guomin reached between Ziqin’s legs again, finding her still sensitive, still wet. She gasped against Baobao’s skin, her hips grinding into his hand.

The room filled with the sounds of their shared pleasure—wet, rhythmic, desperate. There was no more thought of brothers or company legacies or public images. There was only the heat of bodies, the pull of the drug, and the exquisite surrender of two women who had once been untouchable.

Wang Guomin watched them with cold satisfaction. The seeds he had planted were blooming. Soon, they would be his completely—mind, body, and soul.

But for now, he let himself enjoy the harvest.