Chapter 41 of 90
Nalan Meng Returns to Heaven Lust
A day and a night after table nine, Nalan Meng went back to Heaven Lust.
She had not slept. Not properly. She had lain in the dark with her hand still smelling faintly of soap and her body still remembering—the pearls, the bench, the hot thick rod of Li Yutang's cock wedged between her cheeks through a layer of cheap cotton—and every time she closed her eyes she felt her own hips begin to rock again, slowly, shamefully, of their own accord. She had spent the day in the city hall with her spine straight and her face like iron, signing grain orders she did not read. And at midnight she had put on the mask in front of the bronze mirror, and felt the formation catch across her features like cobweb, and pulled up the gray hood, and gone.
One more night, she told herself. Serve the tables. Take the orders. Go home.
She did not know what was waiting for her.
The guards on the steps did not smirk tonight. They looked at her once and looked away, and one of them jerked his chin toward the curtain without a word, and that was worse than smirking. She felt it at once—the change in the air, the way a soldier feels it on the morning of a battle that no one has announced yet.
The thin manager was waiting at the end of the corridor.
He was Shi Dacheng's man, the one with the mustache like two strokes of ink and the oiled hair and the long, clerk's fingers. He did not hand her a slate tonight. He did not point her to the changing room. He only stood with his hands folded in his sleeves and looked at her—up and down, slowly, the way he had looked at her the first night—and said:
"Come with me, waitress."
Not girl. Not a number. Waitress. As if the word were a charge.
She followed him into a small room off the corridor that she had never seen before. A desk. A lamp. A ledger lying open with a column of figures in a neat brush hand. He sat behind the desk. He did not offer her a seat.
"You know why you're here," he said.
She did not answer.
"Table nine," said the manager. "Last night but one. A VIP 3 token." He turned a page of the ledger with one long finger. "A VIP 3 may ask a waitress to sit. A VIP 3 may not put his cock against her asshole. And a waitress may certainly not grind herself up and down on it in front of half the second floor until the gentleman spends in his trousers." He looked up. "You were seen. You were reported. Do you deny it?"
The blood rushed into her face so fast that the mask felt hot against her skin.
Seen. Of course she had been seen. The men at the next table. The men beyond them. She had felt their eyes and told herself nobody would say anything, because nobody had said anything in the moment—
She could not deny it. She had felt her own hips moving. She could still feel it.
"…No," she said.
"You have crossed your line." He said it almost gently, which made it worse. "How can a waitress be so slutty as to break the rules of the house? The rules have a purpose, you know. They protect the house. They protect the customers. They even protect you." He closed the ledger. "But a rule that is broken without consequence is not a rule. So. Since you have committed a wrongdoing, I'll have to give you the proper punishment, according to our laws."
He let that settle.
"Since it's your first offense, it will only be the first level. One night. Until closing." His eyes went down her body again. "Get ready."
There were many levels of punishment in Heaven Lust. Every waitress who went against the law of the house had to spend at least one night paying for it. Nalan Meng had heard the other girls whisper about it in the changing room, in the half-voices women use for things they do not want to name. She had not listened. She had not believed it would ever have anything to do with her.
He led her down a narrow back stair she had never used, along a corridor that smelled of damp plaster and old wine, to a long low hall at the back of the building.
There were four boxes in it.
They stood in a row against the far wall like confessionals in a temple. Square, made of thick dark wood, each one big enough for a single person to sit inside and no bigger. There was a narrow door in the back of each one for going in and out. And on the front of each, at a height a little below a standing man's waist, there was a hole. A small round hole, no wider than a fist, its rim wrapped all the way around in soft, dark, padded rubber.
The hall in front of the boxes was empty. Benches along the side wall. A lamp on a hook. Nothing else.
Nalan Meng looked at the boxes, and at the holes, and did not understand.
"You'll sit in that one all night," said the manager, pointing to the second box from the left. "And you'll suck every cock that comes through that hole."
For a moment the words did not mean anything.
Then they did.
"What?"
It came out of her before she could stop it, sharp and loud, the voice of the City Lord and not the voice of a nameless waitress at all, and the manager's eyebrows went up a fraction and she clamped her mouth shut.
"This is the house for men with little money," he said, as if she had not spoken. "Laborers. Porters. Clerks. Drunks who've spent their silver on the first floor and still want a little pleasure before they go home. They can't buy tokens. They can't touch the girls upstairs. But they know that when the boxes are open, there is always a beautiful waitress inside one of them, and that she can't refuse." His eyes slid to her breasts. "They don't see her face. She doesn't see theirs. Everyone keeps their dignity. More or less."
He nodded at the box.
"Take off all your clothes," he said, "and get inside."
She stood there for a long moment.
Her mind went through it the way it went through a battlefield, looking for the gap. Refuse. Then the contract was broken. Fight. The ring was on her finger already—she had slipped it on at the door, as the rules required, and she could feel it now, drinking at her dantian, leaving her Qi as flat and dead as standing water. Run. And then Shi Dacheng would talk. And all of Nalan City would know whose ass had sat on Li Yutang's cock at table nine.
There was no gap.
There had never been a gap.
She began to undress.
Her hands were shaking. She could feel the manager's eyes on her the whole time—on her fingers untying the cloak, on the plain black dress sliding down off her shoulders, on the band of her breast-cloth as she unwound it. Her breasts came free and swayed, heavy and full, and the cool air of the hall touched her nipples and they tightened at once into hard pink points, and she heard him let out a slow breath through his nose. She stepped out of her shoes. Last of all, she hooked her thumbs into the waist of her underthings and slid them down her thighs and stepped out of them, and stood there.
Completely naked, in front of a clerk.
The most beautiful body in Nalan City. Long legs, hard with years of riding. A narrow waist. Full round hips. Breasts like two great white peaches, high and heavy. A smooth, pale mound and the closed pink seam of her pussy below it. The manager looked at all of it, at his leisure, and she stood straight-backed and let him, with her fists clenched at her sides and her face burning under the mask.
Then she walked to the box, and opened the narrow door at the back, and went in.
It was very small.
There was a low stool inside, padded with leather. When she sat on it, her knees nearly touched the front wall. The round hole was right in front of her face—a little below it, so that she would have to lean forward and down. The rubber around its rim was soft and slightly greasy under her fingers. A faint smell came through it from the hall: lamp oil, and dust, and something sour and male underneath, old and soaked into the wood.
The door closed behind her. She heard a bolt slide.
Darkness. Only a thin gray ring of lamplight coming through the hole.
She sat on the stool with her bare back against the wall of the box and her hands in her lap and listened to her own heart.
This is not happening, she thought. I am Nalan Meng. My father is the Third Prince. My bloodline is the five-clawed golden dragon. I have killed men on the field. This is not happening.
Her nipples were hard. She could feel them, tight and aching in the cool air. She told herself it was the cold.
The manager went upstairs and told Shi Dacheng.
The merchant was sitting where he always sat, in the private room on the second floor, with a jar of wine and a plate of honeyed duck, and when he heard he put down his chopsticks very slowly.
He had been waiting for a moment like this from the very beginning.
The contract was a beautiful thing. It had given him Nalan Meng's body, served up on a tray every night in his own house. But he had never once been able to put his hands on her himself. He was not a fool. He had seen her face that morning in her rooms, when she understood what she had signed. He knew exactly how far the City Lord could be pushed. A stranger's hand on her ass, a stranger's tip between her breasts—that she would swallow, because she did not have to look at the man again. But if he, Shi Dacheng, the man who held the leash, ever touched her openly—ever made her look into his face while he did it—she would break. She would decide that exposure was better than this. And then she would kill him with her bare hands, ring or no ring, and burn his house to the ground.
But a box had no face.
He stood up. His cock was already hard, pushing his silk robe out in front of his belly like a tent pole.
"Don't open the hall yet," he said. "I'll go first."
In the box, Nalan Meng heard footsteps.
Heavy ones. Slow. A big man, walking unevenly, the boards of the hall creaking under him. She went rigid on her stool. The footsteps came closer, and stopped, directly in front of her.
Cloth rustled.
And then a cock came through the hole.
It came slowly, pushing through the soft rubber ring, and kept coming, and kept coming, until it hung there in the thin gray light a hand's breadth from her face—and she stared at it, and her breath stopped in her throat.
It was enormous.
It was the biggest cock she had ever seen. Not that she had seen many—a few, glimpsed, in the last nights in this house, through cloth or in a stranger's fist—but she did not need to have seen many to know. It was as long as her forearm from wrist to elbow. Thick—so thick that the rubber ring was stretched tight around its base and she did not think her fingers would close around it. The skin was dark and heavily veined. The head was swollen and purplish, half covered by a loose hood of foreskin, and a bead of clear fluid was already welling at its tip, catching the light.
It twitched once. Then it waited.
She did not know whose it was. She would never know. Nobody would know who was inside the box, either. That's the point, she told herself. No one will know. Not him. Not anyone.
She lifted her hand.
She had never properly sucked a cock in her life.
She put her fingers on it. It was hot—much hotter than she had expected, as hot as a fevered forehead—and hard under a skin that was strangely soft, velvety, sliding loosely over the rigid shaft beneath. She closed her hand around it. Her fingers did not meet.
Slowly, not knowing what else to do, she began to stroke it. She drew her fist back along the shaft, and the foreskin came with it, peeling back from the swollen head, and the head came out naked and shining and dark, and the smell of it came out too—heavy, musky, salt.
The cock jerked in her hand. On the other side of the wall, she heard a man grunt.
Fast, she thought. Make him finish fast. Then he'll go. Then I can rest.
She leaned forward and down until her face was at the hole. She opened her mouth. She put out her tongue, slowly, the way a child reaches toward a stove, and laid the tip of it against the head of the cock, right where the bead of fluid was leaking.
She tasted it.
Salt. Bitter. Thick on her tongue. She shuddered all over.
Then she began to lick. She did not know any other way to do it. She moved her tongue in small circles around the head, wetting it, around and around the swollen ridge, then down along the underside of the shaft and back up again. Her saliva mixed with the fluid that kept seeping out of him, until his whole cock was slippery and shining in the gray light and her chin was wet. Every time her tongue passed over the little slit at the tip, the cock twitched violently against her lips, and the man on the other side of the wall let out a breath like a bellows.
She opened her mouth wide and tried to take him in.
She could not. Only the head would fit—and even that filled her completely, stretched her lips wide around it, pressed against the roof of her mouth and the backs of her teeth. Her jaw ached at once. She pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva stretching between her lips and the glistening tip. Then she went down on him again.
She found a rhythm. Her head moving forward and back. The swollen head of his cock sliding into her mouth, pushing against the inside of her cheek, bumping the back of her jaw, sliding out again with a wet sound, and in again. Strings of spit formed and broke between them. She could hear herself—small, wet, sucking noises in the dark, the obscene little slurp every time she drew back. Her saliva ran out of the corners of her mouth, down her chin, and dripped onto her breasts in the dark. She felt it land, warm, and slide down over her nipple.
There was no one there to see it.
On the other side of the wall, Shi Dacheng stood with both his fat hands braced flat against the wood and his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth hanging open.
Nalan Meng.
He was thinking her name. Over and over. Nalan Meng. The City Lord. The Luo Sha Nv. The tigress who looks at me in the street like something scraped off her boot. Nalan Meng is sucking my cock.
He could feel every clumsy, untrained flick of her tongue. Every time she tried and failed to take more of him. The wet heat of her mouth, the drag of her lips. He had had a hundred women in his life who did it better. He had never in his life felt anything so good.
He was close almost at once. He held it. He held it longer than he had held anything in years, his thick thighs trembling, his belly pressed against the box, because he wanted to feel it longer, because he knew he might never feel it again.
In the dark, she was sucking him like a child sucks a sweet. Faster now. Desperate to be done.
He could not hold it.
It came without warning.
The cock jerked hard against her tongue, and swelled, and then her mouth was full—a hot, thick, pulsing flood of it, shooting against the back of her throat, again, again, more than she could have imagined, filling her mouth until her cheeks bulged. The taste exploded across her tongue, bitter and salty and strong, and the smell of it went straight up into her nose.
She gagged and pulled back.
It spilled out of her. She could not swallow it. She would not. She let it run out of her open mouth, over her lips, down her chin in thick, slow, white ropes, and it fell onto her breasts, warm and heavy, and slid down over her nipples, and dripped off them into her lap. The cock kept twitching in front of her face, pumping out a last few drops that splashed on her cheek.
But some of it had already gone down. She had felt it—a thick, hot swallow, before she could stop her throat. It was in her stomach now. And the taste would not leave her mouth. She ran her tongue over her teeth and it was there. She spat into the dark and it was still there.
The cock withdrew. The rubber ring sighed closed.
She heard the heavy, uneven footsteps going away, and a door at the far end of the hall, and silence.
She sat in the dark with cum on her breasts and did not know whose it was.
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