A woman in her fifties

It was the usual routine. Phone rang, I confirmed the password, gave directions, went into the building, and entered the apartment.

The customer entered, quickly glanced around my place, took off her coat, and asked, "When do we start?"

This contestant had arrived a minute early, so I said, "We'll start in a minute." She

looked to be in her fifties, with graying hair.

She didn't say a word about her life, so I knew absolutely nothing about her.

Of course, I knew the less, the safer. Curiosity killed the cat.

She didn't ask about my situation, not even a hint.

My intuition told me this beast had slept with many men and learned an impenetrable
defense mechanism .

Yet, she was still a fool. There are many kinds of fools: psychogenic, organic, split-brain, cerebral palsy,
and self-righteous.

Being completely secretive is a pipe dream. There are no secrets in the world. Every action
leaves a trace.

I took off all my clothes, put on a black raincoat, and sunglasses.

"Beep...beep..." the notification beep I had set went off. Alright, time's up. Let's begin.

I had her sit on a stool. The stool was only a quarter the size of a normal stool.
It wasn't comfortable.

I turned on the studio's four-light setup and shone it on her. I tied her hands behind her back with a rope. Her
gaze wandered, slightly frightened, and her expression became uneasy.

I walked up to her, picked up a pair of scissors, and started cutting her clothes while peering at her through my sunglasses.

"Snip!" Her clothes were being openly cut open by the scissors.

She quickly cried out: "Hey, no, no!"

She looked up at me, completely bewildered. I had told her the general direction of the game beforehand, but hadn't revealed the details.

She asked: "Why are you cutting?"

I said: "It's in the way, we won't need it anyway."

She asked: "How am I going to get back later?"

I said: "No, you won't leave here alive."

She froze.

The top was cut off. I forcefully pulled her back, the clothes sliding down her shoulders, along her arms, to her
bound wrists.

Now, this fifty-year-old woman, facing the bright light, was only wearing a bra.

She was overweight and plain-looking, her hands bound behind her back, three wrinkles forming under each armpit.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she began to writhe. I swung my hand and slapped her twice
across the face .

Her hair immediately became disheveled, some strands obscuring her eyes. She stopped writhing. I watched intently as the slapped areas
quickly turned red.

Her bra was front-opening, with three small white plastic clasps sticking out. I unhooked the clasps, separating the bra, but
deliberately didn't remove it.

Her bra sagged on her bare shoulders. This made her more lewd, more alluring. Her

breasts were large, white, and firm, with a full, rounded lower edge, but one side higher than the other. I rubbed them vigorously, but couldn't
feel any lumps, only her nipples hardening slightly.

She looked at me with wet eyes, too afraid to speak. I have a strong liking for docile vaginas.

Humans are contradictory. This vagina appears aggressive, but is actually as soft as a persimmon. I felt a surge of desire; I wanted to destroy this
persimmon.

The persimmon's gentle touch stimulated my primal, animalistic reflexes, and I ordered her to kneel on the stool.

The stool was already narrow, and with her hands bound behind her back, she needed to exert extra effort to maintain her balance.

Now, her upper body leaned forward, her arms behind her back, and her entire body's balance depended on her rounded knees.

The ropes binding her were deeply embedded in her arm flesh, quite a sight.

I pulled her underwear down to her knees, lowered a large iron hook from the ceiling, and inserted the hook's tip into her anus.

I stepped on the pedal, the chain tightened upwards, and her knees began to tremble slightly. I knew this arrogant
cunt was about to suffer.

I ripped open the large curtain beside me, revealing my prized possessions—a tiger bench, scalpels,
a cutting board, an electric drill, and the like.

I said, "See that big iron shelf over there? There are three thousand four hundred of my collections on it, so beautiful!"

I pinched her cheeks with one hand and twisted them forcefully. She was forced to look directly at my massive iron shelf of artifacts.
It was full of bizarre things, everything except elephant trunks.

I said, "I've stuffed them all into women's bodies."

I stepped on the left pedal beside my feet, and the light started to flicker, creaking and crackling, a scene that looked like
a potential murder ; then I stepped on the right pedal, and the giant chainsaw started up, roaring and sparks flying.

I kissed her neck and squeezed her breasts. My penis was rock hard, pressing against her ass.

She was arching her back, her knees trembling, her clothes exposed, her breasts being squeezed by the perverted man in the raincoat and sunglasses, panting,
forced to witness the perverted collection.

Her dignity and confidence had vanished, her facial muscles trembling, utterly terrified. I especially love seeing
the terrified .

Her figure wasn't particularly good, she was fair enough, but her muscles were slightly loose, clearly lacking in outdoor exercise.

I began my formal slapping training. Her body's support points were now very limited, so I couldn't be too forceful;
after all, it was just a game, I didn't want to cause trouble.

I particularly enjoy slapping women. I swung my hand towards her face, and the terror, helplessness, and despair in her eyes
were enough to intoxicate you even before I hit her.

The feeling of my hand striking her with authority was strangely satisfying.

Of course, the slapping part was something I'd discussed with her beforehand. In fact, this was her favorite part of the game.

She loved the feeling of humiliation, but she just couldn't find it.

I guessed she was already quite assertive in some way. Otherwise, why would she need to seek out humiliation? Working nine-to-five, was
n't she already tired of being humiliated?

Maybe she'd done something wrong, was too afraid to confess, felt incredibly guilty, and knew she'd collapse if she didn't get slapped, so
she came to me.

Sixty slaps later, she was drenched in sweat. Her hair was completely disheveled, soaked through with sweat, clumped together
, a mess.

Now my hand was completely numb. I was waiting for her to say the safe words we'd agreed on beforehand. But she wouldn't
.

During the training, you have to constantly monitor the other person's physical and mental state. I observed her carefully and noticed that her body
was starting to sway more.

This was bad. If her knee breaks and she falls off the stool, the hook will tear her rectum.

On the other hand, if you unilaterally terminate the training without the client saying the safe word, it's considered a
failed training. Not only should you not charge, but you'll also gain a bad reputation.

Is she really that stubborn? Or did she forget the safe word? Should I continue? I was struggling with this decision.

Training should be people-oriented. I decided that even if I didn't earn the money, even if my reputation was ruined, I had to ensure the client's
safety .

I loosened the chains, removed the hooks, untied her, and helped her down.

I found her body weak and powerless, almost completely leaning on me. What's going on? I hope nothing bad happens!

Her body was falling straight to the ground. I gently helped her sit on the ground, brushed her hair back, and saw that her
face was deathly pale, her lips were gray, and she was sweating profusely.

I had to do it! I forgot to ask her if she had heart disease, high blood pressure, or low blood sugar.

I quickly turned off the chainsaw and turned the lights back to normal. She was still motionless in my arms, her lips
were parted, and glistening saliva was dripping out.

I quickly kissed her lips. They were ice cold. Damn! How could this be?

I checked her breath. I was trembling violently, my hands were ice-cold from shock, and I was extremely tense, so I couldn't detect that
she was still breathing.

Her nose, philtrum, cheeks, and entire face were covered in sweat, and her eyelids were wet.

I stared at her silently, my mind blank.

*** *** *** ***

She awoke, weak and feeble, and smiled at me, drool running down half her cheek and to her ear, like
Joan of Arc resurrected, having just survived a fierce battle and barely saved the world.

A man in a black raincoat and sunglasses was squatting on the ground, holding a half-naked woman with a blue face and fangs. If a ghost came in at this moment, it would surely
be scared and run away.

I asked: Are you alright?

Joan of Arc trembled and said: I almost died. I've never experienced anything like this before. (To: reaching
climax .)

My heart was still pounding. Thank goodness the guest is alright.

Joan of Arc said: It felt so good. But if you had untied me any later, I would have passed away. (
Past : To the underworld.)

I asked: Is your heart alright?

Joan said: It's alright.

I asked: Do you still remember the safety word?

Joan suddenly put a cool arm around my neck and said: I remember. Of course I remember. I just couldn't bear to say it.
Thank you. Really. I don't know how to thank you. You killed me and then saved my life.

I asked: Besides slapping, you also like to play with suffocation, right?

She said weakly: Yes. Compared to you, other male leads are paper tigers, bad at it, not fierce enough,
and inhuman. They only know how to make money and don't know how to be considerate.

Her words confirmed my guess. She had indeed been with quite a few men.

This also confirmed my assessment of myself: most male leads are too merciful and dare not be ruthless, and the very
few who truly fierce are too cruel, their identities are confused, and they lose self-control when they get excited.

A single thought can reveal the difference in skill. How to be a good male lead is a lot of learning.

I said: Go to bed and rest for a while.

She closed her eyes and was unable to respond.

I helped her to the bedside, gently laying her down on it, supporting the back of her head.

Her body grew increasingly limp, the smell of sweat growing stronger.

She lay sprawled on the bed, her hair disheveled, her breasts flattened, her bra gone, her panties down to her ankles. Her
pubic hair was as white as her hair.

Her eyes were closed; her left cheek, from which I had just brutally beaten, was swollen and red, while her right cheek remained deathly pale.

This was a body I had just brought to orgasm.

I then realized that my own body was practically soaked, a pound of hot sweat from the raincoat and a pound of cold sweat from the unexpected
shock .

I unbuttoned the raincoat and took it off. I immediately felt a chill.

Naked, I lay down beside this fifty-year-old Joan of Arc, suddenly unable to open my eyes.

I remembered I just wanted to rest for a little while, just a little while.

I was so tired.

*** *** *** ***

A hand was touching me. It was a woman's hand.

I woke up to find the studio completely dark.

I turned my head to look beside me and saw a woman lying next to me, watching me. She was naked and looked to be about fifty
years old.

Remembering she was my client, I quickly asked, "Are you feeling better?"

She whispered, "Much better." "Are you alright?

" "What's wrong?" The male protagonist fell asleep in front of the female slave. After waking up, the female slave asked him, "Are you alright?"

I said, "Oh, I haven't been feeling well lately, I'm often tired, extremely tired."

The male protagonist talked about his true health condition in front of the female slave, who lovingly touched his chest and
stomach. The situation in the training workshop was becoming increasingly bizarre.

She said, "Rest if you're tired."

I said, "Okay." "Are you alright if you go home late?" She said

, "It's fine. I live alone."

I said, "Are you hungry?"

She said, "Yes." "Want to know how long you slept?"

I said, "I just want to know if you're really alright now?"

She said, "I'm really alright. You really fucked me this afternoon. I've never felt so good before. You didn't give me any electric shocks, did you
? "

I said, "No. I only use electric shocks with very familiar clients."

She said, "That's strange."

I asked, "What's wrong?"

She said, "I feel like that big hook is electrified."

I smiled and said, "I understand. Sometimes my eyes feel electrified too."

She said seriously, "It's true. I've played with electricity before. That big hook of yours really is electrified; it makes my back feel
numb , and my intestines are still throbbing. You can feel it if you don't believe me.

" She pulled my hand to the surface of her lower abdomen. Sure enough, my hand felt the muscles there
throbbing , quite nervously.

Damn, is there a potential electrical leak in my workshop?

I got out of bed naked, turned on the light, and went to get a voltage tester. Suddenly, I felt extremely dizzy and bumped into the large
workbench. At the time, I thought it was low blood sugar.

I carefully checked every part of the big hook with the voltage tester, but it didn't show any signs of electricity. Strange. Tomorrow...
I'll investigate thoroughly again.

I got some sandwiches at the studio cafeteria, ate them with Jeanne, and then took a warm shower together.

The truly bizarre situation is that those involved are unaware of its strangeness.

After drying myself off, I found myself in bed with her again. All the lights were off, and a few candles were lit.
The candlelight flickered in the room, warm and comforting.

I put on my underwear. The unexpected incident had passed. The protagonist had to maintain his dignity.

She asked softly: "Have all those treasures on your shelf really been used?"

I said: "Really, I never lie, and I have a collecting habit."

She asked: "Can I try a few?"

I said: "Sorry, I never use any sex toys on women twice. " She

asked: "Can I take a look?"

I felt weak all over and was afraid she'd be tempted, so I said: "Sure, let's wait until dawn."

She asked: "Why wait until dawn?"

I blurted out: "It's not good to look at those things at night."

She asked: "How is it bad?"

I said: "It will attract ghosts."

At the time, I didn't know that ghosts shouldn't be casually mentioned. Ghosts have incredibly sharp hearing; they arrive instantly.

She smiled at me, mimicking the trembling voice of an elderly woman, and said, "I...am...a...ghost..."

I said, "Oh, what's your main business?"

She changed her voice again, imitating an old man's, and said, "Sucking the yang energy of the living. You living people
don't know how to cherish it, cough."

I wasn't scared at all, thinking she was teasing me, so I said, "If you can transform into another person's shape,
I'll set up a memorial tablet for you."

She opened her eyes wide and said, "Watch closely, I'm about to transform."

I asked, "A big transformation?"

She was seriously gathering her qi, but upon hearing this, she burst out laughing, her spirits completely deflated.

I said, "Seriously, why are you in so much pain, yet you can still have an orgasm?"

She said, "I was just about to ask you."

I said, "I don't know. I don't do research. Don't you know yourself?"

She said, "I don't know. Who can see themselves clearly?"

I asked, "Were you ever physically punished as a child?"

She said, "I was never punished by anyone else; I punished myself."

I asked, "Myself?"

She said, "I tie my feet up to sleep every day."

*** *** *** ***

My penis was already erect, making a tight tent in my underwear.

She gently touched my big tent and asked softly, "Little guy, what's hiding in here?"

I said, "A monster CIS. Be careful. It bites."

She gently tickled my balls through my underwear, looking at me with lingering eyes, and asked softly, "Really?
Who do you ?"

The tent tightened even more, and it hurt a little.

I imitated an old man's voice and said, "I'm possessed by a black-backed sea snake."

Her hand reached into my underwear, rummaging around inside with difficulty, and finally revealed a complete black-backed sea snake.

The snake's body was shiny and tough. The snake's head was triangular, shaped like a branding iron, definitely venomous.

She climbed down until she was facing the black-backed sea snake, and asked kindly, "Child, why are you climbing so high? You'll attract lightning
."

Her hand gently stroked the snake's body and head. I became a giant snake, swelling and writhing on the bed.

I turned her over, making her kneel on my left side. I looked at her buttocks and reached out to touch them.

What was I doing? Was I going to keep her there for an hour?

No customer had ever stayed overnight here. Why wasn't I letting her leave? Was I getting revenge on my wife? I didn't
know ; my brain went on strike, refusing to think about such complicated things.

My penis felt a heat, enveloped by her warm, wet mouth. She began to swallow slowly. (Swallow,
gurgle.)

I pulled her buttocks closer to me, gently touching them. Her buttocks emitted a faint fleshy scent. I spread her buttocks apart
, admiring them in the candlelight.

The cleft between her buttocks was dark, and I couldn't see the details of the wrinkles. I touched them; there was hair, no hemorrhoids.

My hand began to scratch up and down, everything I touched was damp and wet. I randomly inserted my fingers into a
warm hole.

Her buttocks began to wiggle slightly.

My fingers explored left and right, like a rectum. Her mouth loosened, releasing my penis, and she started
breathing hot air onto it, moaning. The old cunt was aroused.

The black snake turned over, man on top, woman on bottom, condom on. The dragon stirred the sea, the surface began to stir.

I remember the red candlelight that night, I remember her breasts swaying wildly as I thrust into her.

A gentle, silent rain followed by a storm, then suddenly a snail climbing a tree, then
a tornado , then a gentle breeze again.

The fifty-year-old cunt was almost driven insane by me, crying and laughing.

The dragon stirred for a long time, she remained aroused, but showed no signs of climax.

Remembering her preferences, I freed my right hand and slapped her cheek. The sound was exceptionally crisp in the quiet night.

Her buttocks immediately arched, her moans rising in volume.

I commanded her: sit up.

She obediently half-raised her upper body, stretching her neck and chin towards me. This made it easier for me to slap her.

With each slap, I yelled at her: "Slut! Bitch!"

I slapped her, yelled, and fucked her all the while, pressing my left hand hard against her lower abdomen and digging my thumb into her
clitoris . The clitoris was swollen and erect, like a peanut, like the fullest seed.

"Slap, slap," the slaps were loud and continuous, and the old woman began to moan hoarsely.

My left hand felt her lower abdomen trembling. I knew what was happening, and I
slapped , thrusting into her wet cunt.

She tilted her head back slightly. I saw her jaw muscles stiffen, her mouth tightly clenched, the corners of her mouth stretched horizontally.
Ever had an epileptic seizure? Like that.

Her eyes were closed, her head and body trembling in unison. At the peak, she didn't make a sound.

My black penis pressed hard against her cervix, as if it wanted to burrow inside. I slapped her face with all my might, almost
slapping her head off.

Her chin remained stiff, leaning towards me.

Twenty seconds passed before she finally let out a breath and collapsed.

I lifted her thighs and started striking the bell like a monk. After a woman's orgasm, you can basically
do whatever you want .

The monk looked at Joan of Arc in the candlelight, at her surging breasts, forgot his precepts, forgot self-cultivation, forgot
morality, forgot everything.

Joan of Arc convulsed again.

After her orgasm, I still held her legs high and continued striking the bell. I realized her bare feet were right
in front of .

I held her feet, lowered my head to kiss the soles of her feet, but before I could, she suddenly pulled her feet away and asked me: What are you
doing?

I withdrew the black snake from the cave and said: I want to fuck your feet.

She said: No.

I asked: Why?

She said: I have athlete's foot.

I was so disappointed.

She asked: What? You like women's feet?

I said: Yes, women's feet let me feel

them. She said: Don't you get to feel other things?

I said: Yes, they're different.

She pulled my penis and whispered: Let's continue, okay?

I panted and said: Let's rest for a bit. I'm a little tired.

I swung the black snake, still wearing its sheath, and got out of bed to drink a cup of hot water. I like to sweat it out.

Looking at the old cunt on the bed, my breathing gradually calmed down.

Bi's face and feet are so beautiful, and her temper is gentle, but unfortunately, she's slow to warm up and her breasts are small.

Fifty-year-old Joan of Arc played with me so well, yet she has athlete's foot.

Perhaps some unseen force is manipulating us all, scattering our strengths and weaknesses across
the world —that's what makes it fun.

Otherwise, if all the strengths were concentrated in Class One and all the weaknesses in Class Two, wouldn't Class Two be too miserable?

*** *** *** ***

The candles went out one after another. I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. I saw the sky outside dotted with stars.

I heard the old cunt get out of bed. I felt warmth behind me. Two soft arms slowly wrapped around my
waist from behind.

That night, I gazed at the vast Milky Way with a woman.

The Milky Way's stars rolled, a magnificent sight.

*** *** *** ***

I woke up in the morning to find myself holding an old woman in my arms, my arm numb, my penis limp, and the condom off.

The curtains were wide open. The old woman was still asleep. In the bright light, I noticed her face was covered with fine wrinkles, not deep,
but numerous. Her nipples were purplish-brown, and a few fine hairs grew sparsely on her areolas.

I couldn't quite describe my feelings for this body. It was somewhat like my sister, somewhat like my mother, yet completely
unfamiliar . I knew nothing about her.

She stirred slightly and reached out to touch my penis.

I pulled my arm away. She opened her eyes, looked at me, without any vulgar greeting or smile. She
scrutinized me, I wondered what she was thinking.

She said: Let's finish what we didn't finish last night.

I pulled her up, put a bra on her, and fastened the buttons. She looked at me, bewildered.

I pulled one of her breasts out, letting it dangle from the top of the bra. She must be uncomfortable. My task wasn't to make her
comfortable, but to make her remember.

I slapped her breasts like I was slapping her face. Her nipples quickly hardened.

I pinched her nipple and asked, "How did you come to like this kind of game? Did you meet a master? Or is
it genetic ?

" Her face flushed, and she whispered, "Don't ask. Don't ask anything."

I know the rule is never to ask, but I'm going to break it anyway. I despise all doctrines. All doctrines are
for fooling people, all preaching is hypocrisy.

I said, "Not talking? Just fucking in silence? Like an animal? Is that fun?"

She said, "You talk too much."

I said, "I understand all the rules, but I'm going to break them because they're all bullshit. If you don't fuck
a woman's brain, it's the same as not fucking her at all. Just fucking her cunt is too easy. I like challenges."

She calmly said, "Don't ask. Really. For your own good. Some things are inside stories, and once you know the answer,
you'll definitely regret asking so many questions. I'd rather not know."

I don't care how many men she's slept with. At this moment, I just want to revert to being a beast.

I pushed her down on the bed, kneeling on one knee to her right. She naturally reached under my crotch and started
playing with the snake.

I lifted both of her large, fleshy legs and simultaneously lifted them upwards, my right leg braced at a ninety-degree angle behind her buttocks, arching
them , while my hands pressed harder against her legs, forcing her feet to either side of her head, my right leg pressing
against her spine.

Now, her buttocks were arched high, her vagina and anus exposed to my view.

Her old vagina shamelessly bloomed, without the slightest hint of shyness. Her labia were thick, wet, ochre-colored, slightly
purplish , her vulva a light pink, moist, emitting a musky smell.

Her anus was curled up, quite clean, its folds tightly closed.

I slapped her buttocks like I was slapping her face. She became excited and quickened her masturbation.

Red marks appeared on her buttocks.

My right hand began to brutally ravage her anus.

Suddenly, I remembered a similar experience before—where? With whom? I couldn't remember.

Later, I remembered a dream I had before, in which I used this position to fuck a woman's anus.
I only remember two things: first, the woman was gentle and fair-skinned; second, I was very brutal in my handjob. I've never
tried this position with my "boss." I described this position to my boss in a request for instructions, and his reply was just two words: "No way."

The reply was simple and clear, without any bureaucratic jargon, crisp and decisive, without any beating around the bush or explanations.

Now, my left foot is stepping on the old woman's right and right feet, my left hand is grabbing a wine bottle, gripping the neck
and shoving the bottle into her vagina. I'm shoving it in brutally, and it's gone in a few strokes.

I'm playing with her vagina and anus, and she's masturbating my penis. I'm staring at her face. Her face is flushed a bright
pink.

I'm holding the wine bottle in my left hand and thrusting it into her vagina, while my right hand's fingers are kneading her anus. She's responding to me, letting me penetrate her, letting
me do what I want. I'm a lewd beast, and she's completely become a female animal.

The female animal climaxed again, and after the tide receded, she weakly said: You almost killed me.

She resumed masturbating me. I put on a condom, mounted her, spread her anus, and thrust in hard. The large bottle was still inside her
.

Her anus was warm; after the firm fleshy ring at the entrance, it wasn't so tight inside. I couldn't reach
the obvious end, only a soft bend, probably the rectal fossa.

I fucked her rectum while simultaneously gripping the bottle's neck and fucking her vagina, my movements monotonous, neurotic, utterly idiotic.
She moaned, "Ah, ah," even more idiotic.

People look particularly stupid when they're being fucked.

I used the bottle to masturbate my penis through the membrane.

Would my penis hit her shit? Thinking about this, my ejaculation center reached its fragile threshold, the needle
trembled, everything was beyond saving, an explosion was inevitable.

She said in a trembling voice: "Fuck me...fuck me to pieces..."

Hearing this, I ejaculated with a scream. I must have looked awful, mouth agape, drooling, neck hunched like an idiot,
body convulsing.

When the convulsions finally subsided, she removed the condom and held it up to her eyes for a closer look.

The condom was filled with a lot of thick, sticky semen. The outside was covered in a yellowish, very thick, viscous fluid, some clumps forming
small granules.

She smelled the condom, seemingly intoxicated, then tilted her head back, opened her mouth, and placed the condom, opening downwards,
between

. I saw my semen trickle down her lips in strands. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit me.
She didn't look this disgusting before I ejaculated.

I pushed her hand away, and the entire condom went into her mouth. She actually sucked on it greedily, like she was sucking on some expensive
royal jelly .

*** *** *** ***

The longer a woman is aroused, the more intense her orgasm. The same goes for men; the longer they are tormented,
the more and thicker their ejaculation.

Thinking about it, my semen, after so many hours of repeated boiling, isn't surprising how thick it is.

Wait a minute. Why hasn't my phone been working for so long? I got out of bed and went over to check, only to find the screen was
black .

That's strange, I never turn my phone off. I quickly turned it on. It had power. Who turned it off?

Just as I was wondering, I saw her smiling at me: I turned it off.

I asked, "Why?"

She said, "It kept vibrating, so annoying." I asked, "How

come I didn't know?"

She said, "You were sleeping. I called you, but you didn't move. It was a woman, calling repeatedly, so persistent."

I asked, "How did you know it was a woman?"

She said, "I was afraid it was an emergency, so I answered it for you. She said she was your wife. I hung up. Then she kept
calling. So I turned it off."

I said, "Sorry, I've had some personal matters these past few days, which might have affected my judgment. I never
let guests stay overnight. I'm confused about what happened earlier, and I can't explain it clearly."

She smiled and said, "Explain what? Look how nervous you are."

I said, "I don't like people touching my phone."

She casually said "sorry" while combing her hair in front of the mirror.

As soon as she left, I quickly called my wife. Busy.

Taking advantage of the good sunlight, I checked the indoor wiring and looked for leaks. I was only halfway through when my phone rang.

I grabbed it and immediately answered, shouting, "Let me explain!"

Bi's voice came from the other end: "Okay. I'm listening. What wicked thing have you done? Confess."

I said, "I was waiting for a call, sorry. "

Bi said, "So, the person you're waiting for is more important?"

I said, "Um…of course."

Bi asked, "You want me to free up the line for you?"

I said, "Yes."

Bi said, "I won't."

I said, "Please, don't be childish."

Bi said, "You rascal, do you miss me?"

I said, "Yes. Really."

Bi said, "Then why didn't you answer my call? You prioritize your girlfriend over your friends."

I said, "I'm sorry, I…I…I'm not feeling well."

Bi said, "I think you're just tired." "Your schedule is so full, you even have to entertain clients at night, who else would be tired if not you?"

I said, "Nonsense, I don't entertain clients at night."

Bi asked, "When I called, a woman answered and asked who I was. I said I was your wife, and I asked her
who she was. She said she was your client, she said so herself."

I was speechless with frustration. "A fifty-year-old woman, what right do you have to answer the phone for me?"

I tried to explain, "I was feeling really bad last night, at the time..."

She interrupted me: "If you were feeling really bad, why didn't you tell her to leave? Why didn't you call an ambulance? Why didn't you call me?"

I suddenly got angry: "Hey! Who do you think you are to me? Get your act together, okay? Even my wife
doesn't interrogate me like this.

" She suddenly burst into tears: "You're such a jerk! That's because she doesn't care about you! Don't you understand who cares about you?
That woman said you were unconscious and couldn't answer the phone. Do you know how worried I was? I stood outside your door all night!"

The phone signal suddenly dropped.

I quickly opened the door. The hallway outside was empty. I called back the last number. Busy. Maybe she's calling me
?

I held the phone, waiting like a complete coward. A minute passed. Two minutes passed. Still no ring.

I called back. Bi's phone was off.

She stood at my door all night? That's too tragic, is it really true?

She said she's my wife? Does she have the guts?

Did that old woman actually call me? I really don't remember. Now everyone has their own version of events.
Who should I believe?

I called my wife. It connected quickly, her voice was calm. We chatted about trivial things, and I realized she hadn't called
me . I quickly hung up, afraid the line was busy.

But the phone didn't ring again.

Suddenly I felt extremely sleepy, so tired I couldn't stand, my mind couldn't process anything, and my eyelids wouldn't open. I
weakly made my way to the bed and slowly sat down.

When I woke up, everything was dark. The curtains were still wide open. Had I slept through the night again?

The pillowcase was cold, soaked with my own sweat. Night sweats are an orange warning sign, telling you to take it easy.

Within just a few days, my body started sending me a series of orange warning signals. Had I done something unnatural
?

Of course I received these signals, and of course I understood that I had violated the ancestral teachings of "cultivating oneself," but I already...
It just wouldn't stop.

Everything was in a frenzied, high-energy frenzy. If I stopped, what would I eat?

I love doing this. I fuck strange cunts every day, and I make money with every shot.

Besides, this is all I can do. I can't do anything else. With my current weak back and limp
kidneys, you expect me to carry a big guy? You're kidding!

*** *** *** ***

For two days straight, my phone went silent. I was too lazy to ask my wife. Why ask if she won't tell me? The ideal situation
is her to be willing to talk, and for me to be willing to listen.

On the third morning, my phone rang. It was Bi. Coincidentally, she was willing to talk, and for me to be willing to listen.

She asked: Are you alone?

I said: Yes. I'm sorry about what happened that day.

She said: Oh, don't say that. I was wrong too. I shouldn't have interfered in your private life.

I asked: Did you really stand at my door all night that day?

She said: Yes. I thought since she was a guest, she should leave, right? I didn't expect her to stay until the next morning.

I asked: Why didn't you knock on the door?

She said, "I couldn't do that kind of thing. Anyway, I don't know what was wrong with me that day, maybe I was
possessed , I just really wanted to see you, and I couldn't stand hearing that woman's voice.

" I said, "How have you been these past few days?"

She said, "Fine. I had a dream yesterday. Can you interpret it?"

I said, "I can interpret erotic dreams. Tell me about it."

She said, "I dreamt I was in a light rail car and saw a woman, her hands raised high, handcuffed to a
horizontal . Two large rings, bigger than gymnastics rings, hung down beside her.

She was being squeezed and touched by many strange men. Her pants were off, her shirt was on, her legs were lifted up
and stuffed into the large rings on either side of her body, exposing her genitals, which were moist and shiny.

" I said, "Later you realized that what was being hung up and touched was yourself, right?"

She said, "You're amazing. You can enter my dream?"

I said, "Maybe I can even enter your thoughts."

She said, "What does this dream mean?"

I said, "A woman's self-awareness is awakening."

She asked, "But I don't think I'm a slutty woman."

I said, "There's nothing wrong with being slutty. Being slutty is the healthiest natural state of being. Being slutty is a
normal state . Repression is an abnormal state. But now it's all reversed, which is why so many people get sick.

" She whispered, "Last night, after I woke up, I felt... you know, I did that."

I asked, "What happened? Did you have sex with your husband?"

She whispered, "No. I masturbated."

I asked, "Did you feel high?

" "High" is a tacit term we share, specifically referring to orgasm.

She said, "Yeah, I felt high." I was thinking of someone at that moment.

I pretended to be clueless: "Who?"

She whispered, "Ugh. You have to tell me?"

I said, "Yeah, I have to hear it from you."

She smiled and said, "I won't tell you. I'll make you anxious."

I said, "What's your husband doing?"

She said, "Taking a shower. Going to work." That bastard, I hate him so much.

I said, "It's not good to talk badly about your husband behind his back." I had complaints and opinions, so I told him face-to-face.

She said, "You're talking about utopia, an ideal world. Real life is cruel. Me,
talk ? Will he even listen? We've only exchanged a couple of sentences before he went to answer his phone.

" I said, "Keep your voice down, be careful he hears you."

She lowered her voice and said, "He can't hear you, you know?" Sometimes I think being a prostitute is pretty good, you can see
different penises, openly change men, get thrills every day, and make money.

I said, "Don't just see the wolf eating meat, don't see the wolf getting beaten."

She asked, "It's okay. I'm not afraid of hardship."

I asked, "What exactly do you want to say?"

She frankly said, "Can I work part-time with you?"

She's got hooked. See? Addicted.

I said, "No."

She asked, "Why?"

I said, "I can't hurt you."

She said, "If you agree to me, you're not hurting me. You're saving me. "

I was silent. I've always been quick-witted, but lately I've had a bit of Parkinson's.

Her temper is definitely gentler than my "wife's." To be honest, I have ten times more male clients than female clients here. I
had to reluctantly turn them down.

Suddenly, she whispered quickly, "Don't go. I'll come to your place as soon as he starts work.

" I said, "What are you talking about? What do you think this place is? You think you can just come whenever you want?"

She said, "Then I'll make an appointment. I'm taking the day off from work. I'll book you for the whole day." I said, "Let me check the appointment
schedule."

The appointment schedule was empty. The number of female clients seeking my services has been decreasing lately.

I said, "I'm fully booked today and tomorrow too." She said, "Can I talk to you for a few minutes on the phone?"
I said, "Sure, three minutes."

She said, "You must have quite a few men contacting you, right?" I said, "Quite a few." She said, "What will you
do if the men want to come?" I said, "I'll turn them all down."

She said, "It's such a waste to turn them down. How about I work part-time here? My job isn't busy anyway. You can
train , and we'll split the profits, okay?

" I asked, "Aren't you afraid you might know some of the clients?" She said, "Just cover my face."

Her suggestion was very appealing. To be honest, I really wanted to see her more, but I'm past
the age where I can let instinct dictate my career path.

If she got involved in my studio, both my work and personal life would be in jeopardy. Not to mention, if her
husband found out, I'd be in deep trouble.

I told her she couldn't come because she simply didn't have the qualities of a dominatrix.

She persisted, asking, "Are there any women who want another woman watching when they're being 'disciplined'?"

I said, "Listen, you don't belong here. Stay home and live a peaceful life with your husband.
Communicate with him properly, share what you've experienced here with him little by little, and maybe things will turn around for you two. Home
is where you should settle down.

" She softly said "Oh," her voice meek and submissive, sounding utterly disappointed.

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