Yin Xinyue waited for her husband to return from his Jiumen business. The banked fire crackled behind her, a testament to her patience as the evening darkened. Zhang Qishan had said he would be back late, but his definition of late could be… flexible. Some nights, he returned halfway through the dinner hour; others, midnight had long since come and gone before he slipped, exhausted, into her bed with murmured apologies and the scent of gunpowder lingering beneath his soap.
Tonight, before Zhang Rishan had escorted a flustered messenger from Xie Jiuye, Yin Xinyue had been discussing more personal plans with Zhang Qishan. Jiumen business must come first, and she understood that, but she would hold him to his promise to return while she was still awake.
The sound of the door heralded first footsteps and the soft murmurings of servants, then the louder sound of Zhang Qishan’s voice echoing through their house. Yin Xinyue snapped her book shut and sat up in excitement. It was barely half-past 10 on the clock; this business hadn’t taken long at all.
Then she carefully arranged herself to lounge carelessly on the chair: one leg hooked over the arm, the other trailing down to the floor, the crisp lines of her suit tugged sharply to frame her shoulders, and her hat laid upon her lap to hide the unloaded gun stuck through her belt and lying heavily down between her legs.
Zhang Qishan did not come straight to her bedroom, but a servant did call through the door, saying, “Furen? Fo Ye bid me inform you that he will call upon you as soon as he bathes.”
“Thank you,” Yin Xinyue replied, loudly enough to be heard. Then, once the servant had retreated, she dropped her head over the edge of the chair’s padded side and groaned. She’d been waiting so long already; how could she bear these last few minutes? Her body was already buzzing, her pulse already quickened, and she wanted her husband’s touch now.
Yin Xinyue slouched and turned to face the door with a pout. If Zhang Qishan would keep her waiting, then let him see the annoyance he had wrought!
Her expression did not last past the moment of Zhang Qishan’s arrival three minutes later.
He wore a thin silken bathrobe, deep blue trimmed with golden embroidery, and Yin Xinyue could see from its drape that he wore nothing beneath it. His wet hair had clearly been hand-combed in a hurry, moisture still dripping from the tips and onto his shoulders. Yin Xinyue loved her husband’s shoulders; they were strong and sleekly muscled and looked fantastic in a uniform. Right now, she suspected that if she pulled aside his bathrobe, she’d find his qiongqi tattoo curling across his back in yet another show of his power.
Zhang Qishan closed the doors behind him, then turned to her with a dimpled smile. “A suit,” he said, stepping forward. “What’s hidden beneath your hat, gongzi?”
Yin Xinyue flushed. This wasn’t the first time they’d played this game; yet, every time she heard him call her gongzi instead of xiaojie or furen, it lit her up from the core. “Come find out,” she said, beckoning him closer.
The twin scents of soap and gunpowder arrived alongside Zhang Qishan. Yin Xinyue raised her eyebrows, and Zhang Qishan had the courtesy to look apologetic. “I had an exciting evening,” he said lightly, resting his fingertips on the top of her hat in a tease. “Rishan is finishing the cleanup, as I had to hurry home to you.”
Then, before she could manage a response, he swept her hat away, baring the bulge of her gun between her legs. Yin Xinyue covered the gun’s grip with one hand and reminded herself not to shift beneath his eyes, despite how she could feel her nipples hardening at the intensity of Zhang Qishan’s gaze. “Do you like what you see?” she murmured.
“Happy to see me?” Zhang Qishan asked, eyes flicking up to meet hers. They were dark, and the color of his cheeks was high. His tongue trailed across his own lips. “Or perhaps there’s a more dangerous surprise?”
Yin Xinyue laughed, only a little breathless at his regard. “How could this one ever be a danger to you, fujun? Please, examine me; I’m sure you will be satisfied.”
Zhang Qishan breathed in sharply. Falcon-swift, he bent and kissed her, mouth hot and hard on hers, their bodies tight together. Yin Xinyue moaned into him, clutching his waist with her free hand and grinding her cock—her clit, her gun—against the hardness of his own erection.
Then he pulled away, quick as he’d arrived, and said, “Of course, gongzi,” with perfect politeness, as if his tongue hadn’t been forcing its way into her mouth seconds ago, tasting of clean mint.
Yin Xinyue panted, words fled from her mind, as Zhang Qishan knelt between her legs. The dusk blue of his bathrobe framed him beautifully as he leaned in and laid his lips upon the taut line of her trousers.
Rationally, she knew she couldn’t feel him mouthing his way along the gun’s barrel. At best, she could feel the pressure as it shifted against her in response to his mouth. But he was fully committed to this game, treating the metal as if it were fully a part of her body, and Yin Xinyue wanted to believe in that truth as well. She groaned, seeing the dampness left behind by his saliva; it made the line of her cock much more obvious.
Zhang Qishan’s lovely hands pulled her closer, firm on her hips, and Yin Xinyue willingly moved with him. She rolled her hips into his mouth, heard his own gasp and imagined that the only reason she couldn’t feel it was the cloth covering her. “Fujun,” Yin Xinyue moaned, “take me in your mouth more wholly.”
“Gongzi,” Zhang Qishan murmured. His eyes met hers, dark and liquid as he delicately closed his teeth over the zipper pull fastening her trousers. Yin Xinyue clutched his shoulders as he pulled it down. She was trembling, wet, and he hadn’t even touched her directly yet. Metal gleamed between her legs, the gun’s barrel made visible, and Zhang Qishan let out a low chuckle. “A gun and happy to see me, my dear?”
“Of course,” Yin Xinyue breathed, caressing his cheek. “Come now, fujun; show me how well you can use your mouth.”
Zhang Qishan nodded, rubbing his face against her cock—as well as the sensitive, and still-covered, flesh of her inner thighs. Yin Xinyue whined, wanting to close her legs around him, but desiring yet more to see all of his beautiful face as he took her cock in one hand and raised it to his lips.
The tip of Zhang Qishan’s tongue circled the end of her cock, sliding around its muzzle and leaving it slick and shining. Yin Xinyue watched, entranced, as Zhang Qishan slowly worked his way down the barrel, licking and sucking, his fingers squeezing her hips to hold her in place as she squirmed from his teasing not-quite-touch.
“Enjoying yourself?” Zhang Qishan asked. His breath curled past the opening of her trousers to tickle her skin; in preparation for this show, Yin Xinyue had chosen to forgo panties entirely. It had seemed a daring choice while waiting, something to doubt herself on, but now Yin Xinyue was glad to have fewer layers between them.
“Keep going,” Yin Xinyue ordered, tugging her husband’s hair to direct him back to her cock. “I want you to”—she flushed and pushed past embarrassment—“suck my dick.”
Zhang Qishan’s hands clenched on her hips. “Yes, gongzi,” he said, and opened his mouth to swallow the barrel of the gun.
Yin Xinyue whined at the sight of sleek metal disappearing between Zhang Qishan’s lips, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked and dipped his head to take more and more of her cock. She wanted, needed, more than he was giving her, but she didn’t want to tell him to stop yet. Instead, Yin Xinyue brought her hands up to her chest and unbuttoned first her vest and then her shirt. Her fingers were clumsy with desire, but it was worth it for the look on Zhang Qishan’s face as she unveiled her breasts.
“I like how you look down there,” Yin Xinyue told him. She rolled a nipple between her fingers, a breathy moan escaping her at the sharp pleasure. “Maybe if you’re very good I’ll let you use your mouth elsewhere too.”
He nodded, as best he could with her cock still in his mouth, and set to with a will. Yin Xinyue watched him and matched her touches to his, stroking and squeezing her breasts in time with the dip of his head and the lick of his tongue. Every time she moved against his mouth, her clit ground against the gun’s stock, and Yin Xinyue groaned at how slick she was, how much heat and want filled her body.
Finally, she gasped, “My— Ah, fujun, my clit—”
“Gladly,” he said. Zhang Qishan was flushed, face damp from sweat instead of a bath now, as he pulled the gun from her pants. When he rose onto his knees to set it aside on a table, Yin Xinyue discovered that his bathrobe’s sash was undone, and his cock was thick and dripping between his legs. She reached down, tugging at a sleeve, and her wonderful husband understood her unstated desire. With a fond smile, he shed his bathrobe entirely to kneel nude before her.
“Gorgeous,” Yin Xinyue murmured.
Zhang Qishan grinned as he undid both her belt and the button fastening her trousers’ waist. “As you deserve, my love.” His fingers brushed against her stomach and trailed down to the join of her hips as he parted her trousers to reveal her pussy; the light touch was maddening, and Yin Xinyue squirmed closer. Amused, Zhang Qishan asked, “How dressed would you like to remain?”
“So long as you can taste me, and I can feel you, I don’t care.” Yin Xinyue leaned forward to grab her husband’s hair again, shoving him down. “Fujun, please.”
“As you command,” he said, breathless, muffled by her crotch.
Bent over like this, the qiongqi tattoo coiling across Zhang Qishan’s back was visible. It looked alive as he moved, settling her legs over his shoulders and gripping her tightly as he settled his mouth against her wetness.
Yin Xinyue’s eyes closed as his tongue fluttered across her. A simple touch. Barely anything. The purest pleasure washed across her as he traced lines through her folds, nose nuzzling against her clit, his lips closing around hers and sucking. Her world narrowed to his touch, the heat of his mouth and the bliss flooding into her and then back out against his face.
When Zhang Qishan finally laid his tongue over her swollen clit, Yin Xinyue almost came on the spot. Only the promise of more held her back as her legs clenched around his face and her back arched, dragging him closer yet. Zhang Qishan groaned at the tug of his hair, but then he sucked her clit, as confident with it as with the gun.
It didn’t take long after that for Yin Xinyue to start shaking apart. “Fujun,” she gasped, pulling him up to her face. He followed, and the brief disappearance of pressure from her pussy ached until his hips met hers and his cock slid smoothly into her.
Zhang Qishan’s kiss tasted like her now. She clutched him, opening herself to her, letting him devour her as his iron control dissolved into frantic thrusts and biting kisses. That bright pain bled into her second climax, this one from the drive of his cock and the rough brush of his hands across her breasts and down to her oversensitive clit.
He came with a gasp, his face pressed into her neck, and slowly stilled into a heavy weight atop her. Yin Xinyue stroked his back, which she’d so recently scraped with her nails, and kissed his shoulder. “Fujun,” she murmured, “perhaps another bath is in order?”
He laughed softly. “Yes,” Zhang Qishan said, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”
Then he rose, and drew her up with one hand, and she caught sight of the picture they presented in her mirror: Zhang Qishan fully nude, cock slowly softening and qiongqi on his back; and her, nearly clothed, but crotch soaked with sweat and come alike.
It would be no problem—the servants were discrete—but Yin Xinyue had to laugh at the dichotomy. Zhang Qishan followed her gaze and smiled. “Beautiful,” he pronounced, tracing a line from her ear, down her neck, and around her breasts. “I’m a lucky man.”
Yin Xinyue leaned into her husband. “So am I,” she murmured, and was glad when Zhang Qishan’s only response was to wrap his arm around her shoulders and kiss her forehead in agreement.