Thick blackout curtains blocked the afternoon sun from entering, leaving the room dim and the air thick with a suffocating pressure.

Shen Muchen was slumped in a large black leather chair. His face was deathly pale, a glaring white pain-relieving patch plastered to his neck, a sickly contrast to his dark gray silk loungewear. His collar was slightly open, revealing sharp lines of his collarbone, and he exuded a decadent, dangerous aura, as if ready to explode at any moment.

Long, slender fingers moved across the mechanical keyboard.

There were no superfluous taps, only the dull, rapid rhythm of fingertips striking the keycaps. Each keystroke seemed to release some kind of forcibly suppressed anger.

On the screen, a video conference was in progress. The executives at “Sound Domain Culture” sat stiffly, staring through the camera at their boss’s grim, almost dripping face, even their breathing deliberately slowed.

“Mr. Shen, about the publicity budget for the next season of the radio drama…” the marketing manager tentatively began.

Shen Muchen’s brows furrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his eyes.

He didn’t type; instead, he grabbed the mouse, the cursor drawing a huge, bright red X on the screen. Then, he raised his hand, his index finger slamming against his temple. His deep-set eyes seemed to be staring at an empty shell devoid of brains.

Use your brain. Useless.

The marketing manager broke out in a cold sweat, nodding hastily.

This is the current efficiency of communication. Before, he only needed to subtly hint at it with his cello-like voice, and the other party would understand; now, he could only express his dissatisfaction like a tyrant whose tongue had been cut out, using the most primitive gestures and glances.

This inability to articulate his frustration made him feel like a caged beast trapped in a glass jar, its claws unable to be used.

“Mr. Shen, about the voice actors’ schedules…” another manager began.

Suddenly, Shen Muchen grabbed the wireless mouse from the table in frustration and swung it around.

The vibration from the impact on the solid wood tabletop traveled through bone conduction to his eardrums. The battery cover flew off, parts scattered on the plush carpet, without a crisp sound, only a dull, deathly silence.

This sudden act of violence froze the screen completely.

Shen Muchen pointed to his throat, which was covered with a bandage, his eyes dark and menacing, then abruptly ended the video call.

The screen went black. The world fell silent. But the fire in his chest burned even brighter, making his throat ache.

The study door opened.

Song Xingran walked in carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming hot stewed pear and white fungus with rock sugar.

“Mu Chen…” she called softly, her tone cautiously ingratiating, “Take a rest, have some sweet soup.”

Shen Muchen had his back to her, not turning around. He didn’t want to see anyone right now, especially her. Seeing her would remind him of how he ended up in this useless state.

Song Xingran forced herself to walk over and placed the tray on the corner of the desk. “The doctor said to moisten my throat…”

The chair spun abruptly.

Shen Muchen stared at her coldly. His gaze was devoid of warmth, only scrutiny. He didn’t move, but simply raised his chin slightly towards the door.

Arrogant, and clear: Get out.

Song Xingran’s heart ached. But looking at his bloodshot eyes and the cold compress on his neck, she knew this lion was in pain, putting on a brave face.

“I’m not leaving.” She mustered her courage and reached for his sleeve. “I’ll leave after you finish drinking.”

Shen Muchen narrowed his eyes.

A surge of anger, a mixture of offense and a desire to destroy something, welled up inside him. He suddenly reached out and grabbed Song Xingran’s wrist, the force so strong that she stumbled.

The world spun. He forcefully pulled her into his arms, pressing her against his lap.

Song Xingran struggled frantically, but he held her waist firmly with one hand. Shen Muchen lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and opened his mouth—

He bit down hard.

His teeth dug into the tender flesh above her collarbone, precisely controlling the touch before it bled. It wasn’t flirting; it was punishment, it was release.

Song Xingran tensed in pain, her eyes burning, but she didn’t push him away. She felt his trembling body, felt his rapid, hot breath against her neck.

“Bite…” She reached up and cradled his head, her fingers gently stroking his hair. “If this makes you feel better…”

Shen Muchen released his teeth, looking at the clear reddish-purple tooth mark. The ferocity in his eyes finally subsided somewhat. He slumped against her shoulder, a faint, hoarse gasp escaping his throat, like the whimper of a wounded beast.

After finishing the sweet soup, Shen Muchen’s emotions stabilized considerably, but he still wouldn’t let her go.

He pointed to an unsent urgent email on the screen, a message to a business partner to confirm contract details. Then he pointed to her mouth.

You be my mouth.

And so, a bizarre scene unfolded in the study.

Song Xingran was held in his arms, her hands on the keyboard, typing while simultaneously dialing a phone number for him.

“Regarding Article Three of the Contract…” she tried to sound professional.

Just then, a large hand silently slipped under the hem of her loungewear.

Song Xingran froze, her words halting. She looked down in alarm, only to see Shen Muchen leaning back in his chair, expressionless, seemingly engrossed in something important.

But his hand had already unimpeded its way onto her soft breasts. Because she was at home, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and the direct contact of his palm against her skin was horribly distinct.

His dry fingertips bore thin calluses, marks left from years of holding a pen. The rough skin gently caressed her delicate curves, sending shivers of tingling sensations through her, like being rubbed with grit.

She turned back, her eyes accusingly: I’m doing your work!

Shen Muchen coldly gestured to the screen: Continue, don’t stop.

Song Xingran bit her lower lip, her face flushed like a ripe shrimp, and had no choice but to turn back to the person on the other end of the phone and say, “…Mr. Shen’s meaning is… rejection…”

Under her loungewear, that large hand maliciously tightened its grip.

He kneaded gently, his fingertips precisely pinching the gradually erect nipple.

Twisting. Pulling.

Like playing with a ripe cherry.

“Mr. Shen? Is your signal bad?” Mr. Wang asked on the other end of the line.

Song Xingran gripped the edge of the table tightly, her knuckles white. She took a deep breath, struggling to suppress the tremor in her throat, using all her acting skills: “N-nothing…Mr. Wang, that third clause…is too…too harsh…”

Shen Muchen seemed unsatisfied. His thumb began to rapidly circle and grind on the engorged bud, each stroke sending an unbearable electric current through her.

Song Xingran’s voice trailed off, carrying an unnatural seductive hue, as if she were suppressing some immense pleasure.

Shen Muchen leaned against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder, listening with satisfaction to her trembling “professional reply.” Although he was mute, he could still make her “speak.”

Until she hung up the phone, Song Xingran felt utterly exhausted, as if she had just been pulled from the water.

Shen Muchen withdrew his hand, his fingertips still warm from her touch. He pulled her closer, his thumb rubbing heavily against her swollen lips, a glint of extreme pleasure mixed with contempt flashing in his eyes.

…
The two-week period of silence was finally coming to an end.

The doctor said the swelling in her throat had subsided considerably, but she still couldn’t speak. This pushed Shen Muchen’s irritability to its peak. But what irritated him even more was the two weeks of “separation.”

Today was the last day. His patience had reached its limit.

Ten o’clock at night. Song Xingran carried the last dose of traditional Chinese medicine into the master bedroom.

Shen Muchen sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only a loose, dark blue silk robe, the collar wide open. He stared fixedly at the doorway, his eyes deep and dangerous, like a lone wolf that hadn’t eaten for half a month.

“Teacher Shen, it’s time for your medicine.”

Song Xingran felt a chill run down her spine under his gaze, instinctively avoiding the large bed that exuded a dangerous aura. She placed the tray on the low cabinet closest to the door, ready to retreat at any moment.

Shen Muchen didn’t move.

He simply tapped the empty bed beside him with his fingers. The knuckles struck the mattress with a dull thud.

Come here. Sleep here.

Song Xingran shook her head, like a principled little nurse: “I’ll go back to the guest room after I take my medicine. If the doctor says I’m better after my follow-up appointment tomorrow, I’ll move back.”

Shen Muchen’s eyes instantly turned cold.

Go back to the guest room?

He stood up. Without a word, without any sudden movement, he simply walked barefoot towards the door.

The silent oppression made Song Xingran instinctively want to grab the doorknob and run away.

But a split second before she turned the doorknob—

a large hand reached over her head and slammed heavily onto the door.

Song Xingran was trapped between the door and his chest. Shen Muchen’s other hand deftly turned the deadbolt.

The sound of the metal latch snapping open echoed in the deathly silence of the room like a pronouncement of judgment.

He lowered his head, his hot breath brushing against her ear. He pointed to the locked door, then to the large bed behind him.

His eyes were cold and resolute: The door is locked. I have the key. Tonight, you’re not going anywhere.

Song Xingran huddled in his arms: “…Shen Muchen, this is illegal detention.”

Shen Muchen raised an eyebrow, a cold, dismissive smile flashing in his eyes. He suddenly bent down, one hand under her knees, the other gripping her back, and scooped her up in his arms.

The world spun. The next second, she was pulled into Shen Muchen’s embrace, slumped onto his lap.

Just as Song Xingran was about to struggle, she felt something hard as iron pressing against her through the fabric.

Shen Muchen held her tightly around the waist, grabbing her hand and pressing it forcefully against his burning erection.

His eyes were fixed on her, burning with desire. It wanted her. It wanted her so badly it was about to explode. You have to take responsibility.

Song Xingran’s face instantly turned bright red.

Looking at his tired yet still aggressive eyes, and the veins slightly bulging from his restraint, she knew there was no escape.

“Then…” She bit her lip, her gaze falling on the cup of hot rock sugar pear water prepared for her medicine, and the ice bucket next to it used to cool her throat.

A bold idea surfaced.

“I’ll help you.” She looked up, her fingers lightly touching his lips. “You don’t need to move.”

…
Song Xingran got off his lap, preparing to kneel on the floor.

Just as her knees were about to touch the ground, a large hand pressed down on her shoulder.

Shen Muchen frowned slightly, stretched out his long arm, grabbed a thick, soft velvet pillow from the bed, and threw it on the floor in front of her.

Kneel on this.

Song Xingran felt a warmth in her heart and obediently knelt down. She reached out and picked up a crystal-clear square of ice, putting it in her mouth without hesitation.

The cool breath brushed against Shen Muchen’s sensitive area, causing his tense muscles to instantly contract.

Song Xingran carefully used the still-unmelted ice to gently touch the burning tip.

The collision of extreme heat and extreme cold felt like fireworks exploding at the nerve endings. A muffled groan escaped Shen Muchen’s throat, his neck taut in a tight arc.

His hand ran through her hair, his fingertips pressing firmly against the back of her neck.

He wouldn’t let her retreat. He held it. He melted it.

When the ice melted, Song Xingran pulled away, picked up the bowl of still-steaming rock sugar pear soup, and took a large gulp.

She lowered her head again.

This time, it was a scalding embrace.

The warm, sweet liquid instantly triggered a tingling sensation even more intense than before. Shen Muchen’s waist arched sharply, as if he wanted to bury himself even deeper into that warm mouth.

Song Xingran’s tongue moved nimbly, the stickiness of the sugar soup and the warmth of her mouth grinding against that enormous thing. The liquid was squeezed, stirring with a wet, chaotic sound.

Shen Muchen pinched her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His gaze was no longer elegant, but a naked, beastly possessiveness.

He thrust forward violently, his desire pounding in her mouth, reaching the back of her throat.

A torrent of hot semen erupted with a suppressed roar. The scalding fluid washed over her throat, salty and intensely pungent with desire, instantly dissolving the sweet, cloying taste.

Song Xingran stiffened for a moment. Too hot. Too thick.

Shen Muchen stared intently at her throat, his fingers tracing the muscles of her slender neck.

Swallow.

Song Xingran closed her eyes, her throat moving with difficulty. She obediently swallowed all his essence, along with the lukewarm taste of the sweet liquid.

After the climax, Shen Muchen pulled her up and held her tightly in his arms.

He looked at her and silently mouthed a word:

“So sweet.” 』

Song Xingran snuggled against him. “Then my reward is… we won’t sleep in separate rooms tonight.”

Shen Muchen pulled the blanket over them, wrapping them both up, his arms clamping around her waist like iron clamps.

There was no escape now. He was only just beginning to collect the debts he’d accumulated over the past two weeks.

－－－－－－

[Shen’s Observation Log: The End of the Aphasia Period]

Time: PM 22:30 Code: Silence and Submission

I. Basic Data Language Module: Offline.

Body Control Efficiency: Increased by 200%. Satisfaction: Overload.

II. Behavioral Record

Puppet Spokesperson: Let her become my voice. While negotiating on the phone with the most professional tone, she endured my private invasion of her body under the table. This extreme contrast between “business” and “private manipulation” excited me more than when I spoke myself.

A Duet of Ice and Fire: The subject actively used temperature-differential props (ice cubes, hot sugar water). The physical stimulation was extremely strong, especially the sticky feeling of the hot sugar water upon entry, bringing an unprecedented nerve shock.

Absolute Swallowing: She didn’t spit it out. She swallowed it along with the lukewarm pear juice. This was not only a physiological acceptance, but also an absolute psychological tolerance of all my filth and desires.

III. Observer’s Self-Reflection: Regarding gentlemanly conduct: Even burning with desire, I remembered to throw her a pillow. This proved that my reason had not been completely consumed by bestiality; I was still that elegant hunter. And… that kiss, a mixture of sugar water and my taste. Very sweet.

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