Pouring the Wine

They reached the high seats and sat beside their husbands.

The chairs stood on a raised platform for status—and that elevation was a gift to every man below.

When Yan Mei sat and crossed her legs the way a lady crosses her legs, the front panel slid aside and the whole length of her upper thigh came bare, and from the lower tables the angle ran straight up under the hanging cloth to the undersides of her ass where it squashed against the seat.

The white scrap flashed in glimpses as she shifted. Most of the men in the hall were fully, painfully hard now.

Yan Mei felt the stares on her skin like hands.

Embarrassment burned through her until her ears rang, and the warm thread in her belly throbbed.

The white scrap between her legs pressed warm and close against her, and she felt it grow damper.

Elder Xuan Wu turned his head and looked at her big breasts from the side—frankly, at leisure, as if they'd been served to him on a plate. He smiled. Yan Mei smiled back out of formality. She could feel the cold wood of the chair under her nearly bare ass. There was almost no cloth between her cheeks and the seat; the rear panel had ridden up and the chain lay in her crack, and the lacquer was cool and smooth against her skin.

"Lady Yan," Xuan Wu said pleasantly. "You honor us."

"Elder Xuan," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She was proud of that.

Dancers swept onto the open floor—a troupe of beautiful women in floating silk that opened and closed around their bodies as they spun, flashing breasts and thighs in practiced waves. They were very good.

Almost nobody watched them.

The two gorgeous mature women on the high seats were wearing less than the dancers, and every eye that drifted down to the floor drifted right back up within moments. When the music ended, the dancers bowed to scattered, distracted applause and withdrew.

The gathering moved to the meal. Elders and important guests settled at the middle tables. The main table on the platform held Elder Xuan Wu, Xuan Wei, Yan Tian, and Yan Mei. Yan Chi and Cao Ning sat with the elders below. Grand Elder Yan Li and Yan Jing sat at their side table with a perfect sight line to the high seats. Beautiful waitresses filed out in a long line and served the lower tables, setting down fresh platters and jars, then withdrew.

Then Yan Mei stood. She took the wine jug from the servant at the edge of the platform—a heavy vessel of black clay—held it in both hands, and moved along the high table. Elder Xuan Wu and Yan Tian sat at the ends; the two women had been seated toward the middle. To reach the elder's cup, she had to step past Xuan Wei to the very edge of the table—with her back, and her ass, to the entire hall below.

She bent to pour.

Her huge breasts moved with the bend. They swung forward and hung—full, heavy—swaying gently with the motion of her arms, the thin red strips pulled taut across them, the only thing keeping her nipples from pointing straight into the elder's face. From Xuan Wu's distance—an arm's length, less—the view was devastating.

Milky white tits dangling over his cup. Pink areolae peeking out beside the silk. A sweet fragrance rolling off her warm skin: jasmine from the bath, the hot flush of her embarrassment, and the warmth of the hall, all mixed together.

Glug. Glug. Glug.

Wine gurgled from the jug into his cup.

Elder Xuan Wu didn't look at the cup. He stared at her breasts without a shred of shame, his small black eyes glittering, his mouth curved, and he drew a slow, deep breath through his nose as if inhaling her.

"Thank you, Lady Yan," he said softly. "A beautiful pour."

At the far end of the table, Yan Tian watched the same view from his own seat. He watched another man look at his wife's hanging tits with open hunger. He smiled. He waited for his turn.

Below, Grand Elder Yan Li and Yan Jing had stopped eating.

A few body-lengths from them, Yan Mei was bent over the high table with her ass toward the crowd. The thin rear panel had shrunk deep into her crack, leaving those perfect round cheeks almost fully exposed—heavy, pale, smooth, flexed slightly by the bend. The length of the panel still hid the very center of her, which frustrated half the hall.

But from the side tables, the angle was better.

And Yan Chi, at his middle table, sat exactly where the line of sight ran up beneath the hanging cloth.

He could see her pussy.

Only the small white scrap covered it, held there by its two thin chains, pressed between her plump lips. And the scrap was wet. A dark, damp patch soaked its center, and the damp had turned the thin cloth translucent, and through it the pink of her showed faintly—the shape of her folds outlined in clinging wet silk. As she shifted to pour, the cloth moved with her and the patch spread a little wider.

Then she had to lean further.

The elder's cup sat deep across the table, and as she reached for it her weight rocked forward onto her toes and her hips pushed back toward the hall—and the bend opened her.

Her big, heavy cheeks parted under their own weight, spreading wide apart as her back bowed, the full round flesh peeling away from the center and leaving the deep valley between them stretched open to the lanterns.

The rear panel had nothing left to hide; it hung down loose from the waistband into the empty air behind her. And beneath it the gold chain ran down through the open crease—past the small, dusky, tightly puckered ring of her asshole, pink-brown and plainly visible now in the warm red light—and down to where the chain met the soaked white scrap.

The scrap itself was pulled taut by the spread of her thighs, pressed deep into her plump lips so that it molded to every fold of her, sopping through in the middle and clinging, and at its edges the swollen pink outer lips of her pussy bulged out on either side, glistening. A thin, shining film of wetness had spread down the insides of her thighs.

When she shifted her weight to steady the jug, everything moved at once: her cheeks flexed and spread wider still, the scrap slid a fraction to one side and showed more wet pink, and a slow, fat drop gathered at its lower edge. It hung there, trembling.

Plip.

It fell onto the platform.

At the nearest tables, men leaned forward over their food. Yan Jing was half out of his seat, mouth hanging open, panting, one hand under the table moving in his lap. Grand Elder Yan Li didn't move at all—but his heavy-lidded eyes had opened fully for the first time all evening and were fixed on the spread between her cheeks.

"You can see her asshole," someone at a disciples' table rasped. "Look. You can see everything."

"She's soaking," another voice said. "The Lady's fucking soaking wet."

A ripple of rough, low laughter rolled through that side of the hall. A servant holding a wine jar beside the platform stood so close he could have reached out and touched her, and he stared straight between her spread cheeks with his face brick-red and his knuckles white on the jar.

Yan Mei felt all of it.

She felt the cool air of the hall slide down into the open crease of her ass, touching skin that had never in her life been bare in front of anyone but her husband—and she felt that tight little ring clench helplessly against the air. She felt the chain press into her and the soaked scrap cling to her lips, cold where it was drenched and burning hot underneath. She felt her swollen pussy throb—hard, rhythmic, humiliating—every single time a voice behind her said out loud what it could see.

They can see it. They can all see it. They can see how wet—

The thread of Qi in her belly flared like oil thrown on coals. Shame went in. Heat came out. Her thighs trembled with the effort of holding the bend. Her breasts hung heavy beneath her, swinging gently with the pour, her nipples aching against the strips. Her face burned so hot it hurt. And under the shame—low and filthy and impossible to stop—a slow, molten pulse rolled through her core, and she felt fresh wetness seep out of her into the scrap.

And she knew, with a dizzy, sick kind of horror, that the men behind her could watch it happen.

Yan Chi's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

He tore his eyes away and looked across the hall to the other side position. Han Fei sat there between the twins. Qiuyu held his cup to his lips; Dongyu fed him a slice of peach with her fingers.

Both of them kept their eyes down, trying to be invisible. And even with two beautiful women kneeling at his sides, Han Fei was staring at Yan Mei's ass like a dog watching meat.

His hand had slid from Dongyu's hip to her thigh, in through the slit of her pink skirt, and was kneading the flesh of her thigh absently as he stared. Dongyu's face was pale and very still.

Yan Chi wasn't happy about it. He couldn't defy his father's order. He felt his Qi surge against the walls of his dantian—and he knew to the bottom of his bones exactly what would happen if he stood up now. Han Fei. Qi Consolidation. In front of the main clan's elder. In his father's hall.

Sit down. Sit down and swallow it, you useless—

He forced himself to turn to Cao Ning and say something. Anything. He asked her about the eel. She answered. Neither of them heard a word.

Under the table, Cao Ning's cool hand found his fist and rested on it. And stayed.

Yan Mei finished pouring for Elder Xuan Wu, straightened, and moved down the table to pour for her husband. Yan Tian looked up as she bent over his cup, and his eyes were dark and pleased, and he let them travel slowly over her breasts as they hung above him.

When she straightened, he touched the back of her hand once with his fingertips. She didn't know what that touch meant. Then she went around to serve Xuan Wei, who smiled up at her and murmured, "You see? Magnificent," and at last Yan Mei returned to her seat and sat, her face burning.

Every important person in the Yan family had now seen her like this. She had never worn anything this revealing in public in her life. She ate without tasting. She drank without feeling the wine go down. The scrap between her legs was wet and warm, and she felt it every time she moved. And she noticed, again and again, every time she lifted her eyes, that Elder Xuan Wu's gaze never left her breasts for long.

When the meal ended, people rose one by one and came to the foot of the platform to offer their parting respects to Elder Xuan Wu.

Every single one of them stared at Yan Mei on the way out.

Some bowed deeply to the elder while their eyes stayed glued to her tits. Some glanced at her bare thighs as they straightened. Some looked back at her ass from the corners of their eyes as they turned away—the white curve of it squashed against the chair, the chain lying in the crease. More than one of them, inside his own skull, cursed the family leader for owning a wife that beautiful—and for somehow letting her sit at a banquet looking like that.

Yan Chi went up with the middle tables when their turn came. He bowed to Elder Xuan Wu at the correct depth and kept his eyes fixed on the silver serpents embroidered on the elder's collar. He didn't look left, where his mother sat with her bare breasts rising and falling a few steps away. He could smell her jasmine. He didn't look.

"Young Master Yan," Xuan Wu said, amused. "Your mother is a credit to your house."

The words slid into him like a needle.

"Elder Xuan is too kind," Yan Chi said. He straightened, and walked away.

Cao Ning walked beside him down the length of the hall, between the emptying tables, past the side position where Han Fei was rising with a twin hanging on each arm. Qiuyu glanced at Yan Chi as he passed—one quick, desperate glance—and looked down again. Then the great doors were behind them, and the night air was cool on his burning face, and the roar of the hall fell away into the chirr of crickets in the garden and the distant splash of the carp pond.

He stopped on the little bridge over the pond, put both hands on the rail, and breathed. The night smelled of wet stone and night-blooming jasmine and the cool green rot of lily pads. Somewhere under the bridge a carp rolled lazily near the surface, a pale flash in the dark, and its ripples broke the reflected lanterns into trembling pieces.

His cock still ached. His fists still ached. The lantern light spilling from the hall lay in long red streaks across the black water.

Cao Ning leaned on the rail beside him, close enough that her bare shoulder touched his arm, and didn't say anything at all. After a while she took his hand off the rail and laced her fingers through his. They stood there together over the dark water while the guests' voices drifted out of the hall behind them.