Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The numbers on the spreadsheet blurred into a grey, pulsating mass. Cang Yu blinked, trying to force his focus back to the quarterly projections. The sterile office air, recycled and chilled, carried nothing but the faint hum of computers and the muted click of keyboards. Yet, in his mind, the apartment’s atmosphere persisted—a dense, humid cocktail of sex, sweat, and a strange, new domesticity.
His own scent, a clean, subtle cologne, felt like a lie. He could still smell Rhino on his jacket collar from the parting pat on the shoulder. A musky, animal tang that no amount of city air had yet erased.
The day was a flatline. He performed tasks with robotic efficiency, his consciousness a split screen. On one side: cells, formulas, emails. On the other: a continuous, vivid reel of the morning. Ning Shuang’s upturned face, accepting food from another man’s mouth. The wet, rhythmic sound from the shower. The way Rhino had said “brother.”
His phone buzzed, a vibration against the cheap laminate of his desk. A text from Ning Shuang.
‘Went to market. Buying beef. He likes meat.’
The message was devoid of context, of apology, of any reference to what had transpired. It was a grocery list from a parallel life. Cang Yu stared at the characters until they lost meaning. He typed back a single character.
‘Ok.’
When the clock finally bled to 5 PM, he was the first to stand, collecting his things with a haste that drew a glance from a colleague. The subway ride home was a deafening tunnel of flesh and noise, but he floated through it, insulated by his own swirling thoughts.
He pushed open the apartment door, and the smell hit him first. Garlic and ginger sizzling in oil, the rich, iron scent of beef searing. Home. A normal home.
Ning Shuang stood at the stove, a simple apron over her dress. She glanced over her shoulder as he entered. Her face was calm, composed. There was a faint bloom of color high on her cheeks that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re home,” she said, her voice light. “The rice is almost ready.”
He stood frozen in the entryway. The scene was so aggressively normal it felt like a performance. “You’re cooking,” he said, the statement absurd.
“He will be hungry after working,” she replied, turning back to stir the bubbling black bean sauce. “A proper meal is important.”
Cang Yu moved slowly into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He watched her hands, which had been tangled in Rhino’s hair that morning, now deftly slicing scallions. The dissonance was vertiginous.
“Did he… did he find something?” Cang Yu asked.
“He said he would,” she answered simply, not looking up. “He is a man of his word.”
They worked in a silence that was not quite comfortable, not quite strained. She commanded the wok; he set the small table for three. Three bowls, three pairs of chopsticks, three glasses. The third set looked alien, an invader in the ritual.
The key turned in the lock just as Ning Shuang was plating the stir-fried beef with loud peppers.
The door opened and Rhino filled the frame. He was a monument transformed by labor. A fine grey dust of concrete powder coated his boots and clung to the hairs of his powerful forearms. His simple t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, plastered to the massive topography of his chest and back, outlining every ridge of muscle and the darker shadows of his tattoos beneath. A damp patch darkened the front of his work pants. He smelled powerfully of sun-heated skin, dried salt, dirt, and honest exertion.
He dropped a heavy duffel bag by the door with a thud and leaned against the frame, a weary grin spreading across his face.
“Man,” he exhaled, the word a long, satisfied release of breath. “They work you like a damn mule.”
Cang Yu stared. “You got it?”
“Foreman took one look, told me to start hauling rebar.” Rhino pushed himself upright, stepping into the apartment. The smell of him intensified, a potent wave of masculine fatigue that overpowered the cooking aromas. “Cash at the end of the day. It’s a thing.”
Ning Shuang had turned from the stove, her eyes wide. She took him in—the sheer, sweaty physicality of him, the evidence of his toil. A flicker of something primal crossed her face. She set the plate down and walked toward him, her steps deliberate.
Without a word, she rose onto her toes, wrapped her arms around his grimy neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.
It was not a chaste peck. It was a deep, searching, French kiss. Cang Yu could see her small tongue darting past his lips, tasting the day on him. Rhino’s large hands settled on her hips, pulling her flush against his sweat-dampened, dusty clothes. He groaned into her mouth, a sound of pure satisfaction.
After a long moment, she broke away, panting slightly. She wrinkled her nose, a playful gesture that didn’t reach her eyes, which were dark with a hungry intensity.
“You need a shower,” she breathed, her voice husky. “You stink.”
Rhino’s grin turned into a smirk. Instead of moving away, he raised his left arm high, pulling the soaked fabric of his shirt taut. He deliberately brought his exposed, dust-streaked armpit down toward her face.
The odor that wafted from him was profound—a concentrated, ferric, deeply animal musk, the essence of a full day of brutal labor under the sun.
Ning Shuang’s playful disgust evaporated. Her eyes fluttered closed. She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring. A soft, whimpering sound escaped her throat. She leaned in, her nose almost touching the dark, damp hair.
Then her tongue darted out.
She licked a slow, deliberate stripe from the bottom of his rib cage up through the coarse hair into the hollow of his armpit. She savored the tangy, salty, profoundly intimate flavor, a shiver running through her entire body.
“Jesus,” Rhino muttered, his eyes burning down at her.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and ripped it over his head. He unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants and underwear down, and kicked them aside, standing naked and magnificent in the middle of the living room, coated in a fine layer of grit and dried sweat.
Before Cang Yu could even process the movement, Rhino had bent and hooked an arm under Ning Shuang’s knees, the other around her back. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her arms instantly wound around his neck, her face buried against his dirty shoulder, inhaling him.
He carried her, naked and streaked with the city’s labor, past the stunned Cang Yu and the steaming, uneaten food, and kicked the bathroom door open.
The shower hissed to life. Through the door, Cang Yu heard the thump of bodies against tile, the sharp intake of breath, and then a long, guttural moan from Ning Shuang that was half pain, half rapturous release.
He stood frozen, staring at the abandoned plate of beef and peppers, the aroma of home-cooked food now mingled inextricably with the raw, sweaty scent of the man currently fucking his wife in their shower. The sound of slapping wet skin and ragged breathing became a new, permanent layer in the soundtrack of his apartment, underscored by the relentless, steamy spray of the water.
The sound of slapping wet skin and ragged breathing became a new, permanent layer in the soundtrack of his apartment, underscored by the relentless, steamy spray of the water.
Cang Yu stared at the closed bathroom door, the condensation beading on its white paint. The stir-fry congealed in its bowl, the vibrant peppers turning dull under a film of cooling oil. He listened to the sharp, feminine cry that pierced the white noise of the shower, a sound of unmistakable completion.
He picked up a dishcloth and began wiping the already-clean counter. He wiped it again, his movements frantic and circular, as if he could erase the afternoon. The cloth squeaked against the laminate. He focused on the sound, on the neat, mindless lines his hand made, anything to anchor himself outside the storm of wet flesh happening a few feet away.
He couldn’t. His body was a tuning fork, vibrating with every thump, every groan. He braced his hands on the counter’s edge, his head hanging low. Her subsequent moan was a long, unraveling sigh of fulfillment, followed by a low, masculine rumble of approval. The water continued to fall, a bland mask over a raw, intimate truth.
Silence bloomed from the bathroom, sudden and profound. The only sound was the drip of the faulty showerhead onto the tub floor. Then, a low, joyful chuckle from Rhino. The wet slap of a palm on bare skin. A giggle from Ning Shuang—a sound Cang Yu hadn’t heard in months.
The shower cut off. Muffled, shifting noises came through the door: the slide of bodies, a soft gasp, the slick sound of soap. Cang Yu mechanically moved the cold food to the stovetop, clicking the burner on low.
“Tastes like the sun,” Ning Shuang’s voice floated out, breathy and admiring. “And salt.”
“All day on me,” Rhino answered, his voice a contented growl. “Earned it.”
A strange, wet, squelching sound followed, rhythmic and intimate. Then a sharp, hissing intake of breath from Rhino. “Hell, girl. Your mouth…”
The sounds morphed. A softer, slippery friction joined the wet noises. A deep, guttural groan tore from Rhino, ragged and unrestrained. It wasn’t a sound of pain, but of profound, shocking release. “Oh, fuck. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Ning Shuang murmured something inaudible, her tone one of dedicated worship. The sounds continued—licking, lapping, the occasional shuddering exhalation from the man. It went on for a long time, a private liturgy of cleansing and service. Cang Yu stood by the reheating food, its steam now pointless, and felt the architecture of his old life dissolve around him.
An hour later, the door finally opened. Steam billowed into the cooler living room, carrying the clean, aloe scent of body wash over a darker, muskier base.
Rhino emerged first, a column of shadow and gleaming, wet muscle. He was utterly naked, water droplets catching the low evening light as they traced paths through the dense black hair on his chest, down the hard planes of his stomach. His penis, thick and heavy in a state of satisfied semi-erection, swung slightly with his movement. He radiated a relaxed, potent heat.
Ning Shuang followed, wrapped in a towel. Her skin was flushed pink, her hair dripping dark tendrils onto her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and clear, her expression one of serene exhaustion. She padded to the bedroom and returned moments later in a simple silk robe, untied. She did not look at Cang Yu.
“Smells okay,” Rhino said, nodding toward the stove as he walked, unconcerned with his nudity, to the small table. He pulled out a chair and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. He spread his powerful thighs wide, an unselfconscious king claiming his space. “Let’s eat. I’m hollow.”
Ning Shuang brought the warmed food to the table. She served Rhino first, heaping his bowl with rice and the glossy beef and peppers. She served Cang Yu next, her movements efficient, her eyes downcast. Finally, she filled her own bowl.
Instead of taking her own chair, she hesitated, her gaze flicking to Rhino’s broad, bare lap. He was already shoveling food into his mouth, eating with the focused intensity of a predator. He glanced at her, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward himself.
Without a word, Ning Shuang turned and slowly, deliberately, lowered herself onto him. She settled back, her robe falling open, until she was seated squarely in his lap, her bare skin against his. She wriggled slightly, adjusting her position, and he grunted, his jaw still working on a mouthful of rice.
She picked up her chopsticks and began to eat from the bowl in her hand, perched on him as if he were a living throne. Every few bites, Rhino would lift his own chopsticks, loaded with meat, and hold them to her lips. She would lean forward, opening her mouth to accept the morsel, her body shifting against him with the movement.
Cang Yu ate his food. It tasted of nothing. He watched his wife’s subtle adjustments in the man’s lap, the way Rhino’s free hand came to rest possessively on her silk-clad thigh, his thumb stroking absent circles. The meal proceeded in near silence, broken only by the clink of chopsticks and the sounds of chewing.
When the bowls were empty, Rhino leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his arms stretched along the back of Ning Shuang’s chair. She climbed off him, collected the dishes, and carried them to the sink. She didn’t start washing them. She just left them there.
Rhino moved to the couch, his naked body a study in relaxed dominion. He picked up the remote, turned on the television, and found a sports highlights show. He sank back into the cushions, spreading his legs wide, one arm draped along the back, the other resting on his thigh.
Ning Shuang followed. She knelt on the floor between his sprawled legs. For a moment, she simply rested her cheek against the inside of his powerful thigh, nuzzling the coarse hair there. Then she bent her head.
Cang Yu, standing by the sink, watched her silhouette in the flickering blue light of the television. Her head began to bob slowly, rhythmically, in the shadowed space between Rhino’s thighs. A low, contented sigh came from the couch. Rhino’s hand came down to rest on the crown of her head, not guiding, just claiming.
Cang Yu turned to the sink. He ran the hot water, squirted in detergent. The clatter of porcelain and the rush of water were a shield, fragile but necessary. He scrubbed each bowl, each pair of chopsticks, with surgical precision, focusing on the suds, the heat on his skin, the physical act of purification.
Behind him, the television commentator droned about a touchdown. A wet, soft, persistent sound underscored the analysis. Rhino shifted on the couch, his breath hitching once. There was a quiet, choked sputter from Ning Shuang, followed by a deep, rolling groan of release from the man. A few moments later, the same pattern repeated—a sudden tension, a guttural sigh, a muffled, swallowing sound.
Cang Yu dried the last dish, placed it in the cupboard. He wiped his hands on the towel, each finger meticulously dried. He took a breath that felt like it reached the very bottom of his lungs, and turned around.
The scene was exactly as he knew it would be. Rhino lounged, eyes half-closed on the game, one hand still resting on Ning Shuang’s head as she worked slowly, diligently between his legs. Her shoulders moved with a gentle, steady rhythm.
Cang Yu walked over and sat in the armchair adjacent to the couch. He didn’t look at the space between Rhino’s legs. He looked at the man’s face, illuminated in the TV’s glow.
“So,” Cang Yu said, his voice surprisingly steady. “The job.”
Rhino’s eyes slid from the screen to Cang Yu. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. He gave a contented grunt, his hips shifting slightly as Ning Shuang’s tongue traced a particularly sensitive seam.
“Yeah,” Rhino said, his voice thick with pleasure and a deeper satisfaction. “The job. Hard fucking work. Good pay.” Rhino’s head lolled back against the couch, his eyes closing as he savored the sensation. “Spent eight hours humpin’ sixty-pound sacks of cement mix off a pallet, up a ladder, into a chute.” He let out a long, weary breath that seemed to come from the soles of his dusty boots. “Sun baked the back of my neck raw, dust caked in every crease.”
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through Ning Shuang. “Foreman’s a hardass. But he respects the work. Said to come back tomorrow.”
Cang Yu nodded, trying to focus on the man’s face, not on the rhythmic movement of his wife’s head in his lap. “That’s good. Stable.”
“Stable’s a fucking word for it,” Rhino said, his gaze drifting back to the game. A player sprinted down the field, a blur of color. “Better than the alley.” His hand gently kneaded the back of Ning Shuang’s skull, his fingers threading through her hair. She hummed around him, the vibration making his thigh muscles twitch. “This is better. All of it.”
They fell into a fractured rhythm: Cang Yu asking sparse questions about the work, the crew, the pay; Rhino answering in grunts and short sentences between deeper, drawn-out breaths. The television droned on, a meaningless symphony of crowd noise and commentator buzz. Ning Shuang was a silent, devout fixture between Rhino’s thighs, her dedication absolute. Her tongue worked with a focused patience, lapping at the sweat and salt still lingering in his coarse pubic hair, cleaning him with a reverence that transcended hygiene.
She took her time, exploring every fold and ridge, tasting the bitter tang of his dried sweat and the muskier, deeper essence of his skin. Her mouth moved from the heavy weight of his testicles, cupping and licking the coarse sack, up the thick, veined shaft. She swirled her tongue around the head, probing the slit with delicate persistence, drinking the clear, salty beads that welled there. She did not rush. This was her communion.
Cang Yu watched her profile in the strobing blue light. Her eyes were closed, her expression one of deep, meditative absorption. He felt a familiar, unwanted heat coiling in his own groin, a traitorous response to the grotesque pageant. His hand clenched on the arm of his chair.
The football game ended with a roar from the virtual crowd. A commercials for a slick, fast car blared, its noise jarring in the room’s humid silence.
Rhino let out a long, slow sigh. He looked down at the top of Ning Shuang’s head, his face softened by a strange, almost paternal satisfaction. He patted her cheek twice with his thick fingers.
“Alright, baby,” he murmured, his voice gravelly. “Time for the main event.”
He gripped himself at the base and slowly pulled his erection from the warm, wet haven of her mouth. It glistened in the low light. Ning Shuang followed the movement with her lips until he was free, a thin strand of saliva breaking between them.
In one smooth, powerful motion, Rhino stood up from the couch. He bent, hooked his arms under Ning Shuang, and lifted her as if she were made of air. She gasped, her arms looping automatically around his neck, her legs dangling. He carried her, without a glance at Cang Yu, straight into the bedroom.
Cang Yu sat frozen in the living room’s sudden emptiness. The only sound was the inane chatter of a shampoo commercial. He heard the soft thump of Ning Shuang being laid on the bed. He heard Rhino’s voice, low and matter-of-fact: “Daily deposit.”
His own breathing was loud in his ears. He stood up, his movements stiff. His feet carried him to the bedroom doorway, drawn by a compulsion stronger than shame.
Rhino was on the bed, looming over Ning Shuang. He wasn’t kissing her or caressing her. He was a force of pure deployment. He used his knees to nudge her thighs apart, positioned himself with a brutal economy of motion, and drove into her.
Ning Shuang’s back arched off the mattress, a sharp, strangled cry torn from her throat. It wasn’t a sound of pain, but of profound, shocking fullness. Rhino didn’t pause. He set a relentless, piston-like rhythm immediately, each thrust a deep, claiming impact. The old bedframe shuddered and groaned in protest, a rhythmic banging against the wall.
Cang Yu watched, his hand moving to his own groin. He was painfully hard. Through the thin fabric of his trousers, he began to stroke himself, his eyes locked on the junction of their bodies. Rhino’s heavy testicles slapped against her with each forward drive, a wet, rhythmic thudding. Ning Shuang’s hands scrabbled at his tattooed back, her fingers digging into the dense muscle. Her small belly visibly distended with each deep inward plunge, a faint, obscene bulge appearing low on her abdomen where he filled her completely.
Rhino’s rhythm faltered for a second. He turned his head, his neck corded with strain, and looked directly at Cang Yu in the doorway. Sweat already sheened his shoulders and dripped down the knotted valleys of his spine. His eyes, black in the dim room, held no surprise, only a fierce, challenging glint.
“You just gonna watch?” he grunted between drives, his voice strained with effort. “Or you wanna join this?”
The invitation hung in the air, charged and impossible. Cang Yu’s hand stopped moving. A war of revulsion and a dark, hungry curiosity raged inside him. He looked at his wife’s face, twisted in a rictus of overwhelming sensation. He looked at the powerful, invading body pinning her down.
He made his choice.
His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, then the button of his trousers. They pooled at his feet. He stripped off his shirt, his softer, paler body a stark contrast to the gleaming, muscular monument driving into his wife. He was slightly rounded at the middle, his own musculature undefined.
He approached the bed, his own erection bobbing awkwardly. The smell of sex, of Rhino’s sweat, of Ning Shuang’s arousal, was overwhelming. He stood beside Rhino’s heaving flank, watching the perfect, sweat-slicked machinery of the man’s back flex and release with each thrust.
Cang Yu leaned down. He pressed his mouth to the small of Rhino’s back, just above the cleft of his buttocks. The skin was salty, hot, taut over hard muscle. He tasted the perspiration, clean and sharp. He traced his tongue downward, through the damp trail of hair, until he reached the pucker of Rhino’s anus.
Rhino stiffened above Ning Shuang, his rhythm breaking for a single, jarring second. A sharp, surprised intake of air hissed through his teeth. “Hell,” he muttered, pushing back slightly into the contact.
Encouraged, Cang Yu pressed deeper, his tongue probing the tight, resistant ring of muscle. It was an act of absolute submission, of curious defilement. Rhino let out a low groan, part shock, part stimulation, and resumed his thrusts into Ning Shuang with renewed, jarring force.
Cang Yu spat into his hand, slicking his own length. He positioned himself behind Rhino, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pressed the head of his penis against the entrance he had just moistened with his tongue. He pushed.
Rhino cried out—a short, sharp, guttural sound that was neither pain nor pleasure but pure, intense surprise. The muscle yielded, fiercely tight, a burning, constricting heat that swallowed Cang Yu inch by inch. He buried himself to the hilt, a moan escaping his own lips. The sensation was unbearable, a crushing, intimate pressure he had never imagined.
He began to move, a slow, shallow rocking of his hips. His own thrusts were meek counterpoints to Rhino’s powerful, driving rhythm into Ning Shuang, yet they were connected, a chain of penetration. Cang Yu leaned forward, his soft belly pressed against the hard, sweat-slicked plane of Rhino’s back. He licked the salty skin, tasted the intricate ink of his tattoos, mapped the landscape of scar tissue with his tongue.
He ran his hands over the dense, corded muscle of Rhino’s shoulders, his biceps, awestruck by the raw power contained there. The man was a furnace, radiating heat, every pore exuding the scent of effort and dominance. Cang Yu moved inside him, his own pleasure a sharp, guilty spike wedged amidst the overwhelming sensory avalanche.
The room filled with a symphony of flesh: the wet slap of Rhino’s union with Ning Shuang, the ragged gasps of all three of them, the creaking protest of the bed, and the slick, squelching rhythm of Cang Yu’s own, smaller trespass. Ning Shuang’s cries rose in pitch, becoming sharp, animalistic wails that were muffled by Rhino’s shoulder. Rhino’s grunts grew more urgent, coalescing into a single, sustained roar as he slammed home one final, devastating time and held there, shuddering.
Feeling the massive body beneath him convulse in release triggered Cang Yu’s own. He buried his face between Rhino’s sweat-slicked shoulder blades, a choked, desperate sound torn from his throat as he spent himself into the tight, clenching heat.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the smell of spent sex. Rhino collapsed onto Ning Shuang, then rolled off to the side with a deep, weary exhalation. Cang Yu pulled back, disengaging with a soft, wet sound, and stumbled away from the bed.
He stood naked and trembling, looking at the tangled, glistening bodies on the ruined sheets. Ning Shuang lay on her back, her eyes closed, her chest heaving. Rhino was on his side, facing her, one heavy arm thrown across her stomach, his own breathing slowing to a deep, resonant rumble.