That being said, the reality dating show was still three days away from shooting. I decided to use this downtime in the capital to ponder how to make the next few days as entertaining as possible.
"Sister Ping, is it alright if we stay at your place for these three days?" I turned to look at Xu Zhiping, who was waiting respectfully by my side.
"Master, it would be my absolute honor," Xu Zhiping replied, her head bowed low in a display of profound, flattered reverence. There wasn't a shred of hesitation in her voice—only blind, unyielding obedience.
"Brother Wang, drive the Alphard over to pick me up!"
As a veteran talent manager, the moment the words left my mouth, Sister Ping swiftly dialed her phone, arranging a driver to pick up our group, who would look like absolute deviants in the eyes of any outsider.
"Yay! That’s wonderful! Sister Ping's house is never boring," Wang Miya chimed in, her brows curving into beautiful crescent moons as she smiled. Behind that sweet smile, it went without saying she was harboring terrifying thoughts again: "Sister Ping has two incredibly gorgeous daughters. I remember they're only in their early twenties. They used to follow their mom around to learn the ropes when they were little..."
Hearing this, a smirk played on my lips.
"Sister Ping, let's move," I said, savoring the slick, tight warmth wrapping around my rod, while locking my eyes on the silhouette in the front seat. I added with a playful, wicked edge, "Make sure to tell your two precious daughters to come home."
The soundproofing inside the luxury Alphard cabin was impeccable. The scent of fine leather and premium fragrance failed to mask the dense, suffocating musk of female pheromones saturating the air.
Drill Sergeant Shen Zhiqin truly lived up to her professional training. Even with her eyes completely vacant and her body trembling violently from intense orgasms, her waist maintained a soldier’s iron resilience, riding up and down on my monstrous, terrifying rod with mechanical stability. Every heavy downward stroke she took was accompanied by a broken, desperate wail of pleasure.
Like a newborn infant, I buried my head alternately between the proud breasts of the idol star Wang Miya and my personal secretary, Yan Peiyu, greedily drinking in their unique bodily scents. My hands remained relentlessly active; my left hand slipped deep into Wang Miya’s incredibly expensive lace panties, while my right hand roughly tore through the thigh-high stockings beneath Secretary Yan's professional suit.
“Mmh… Master…”
My index and middle fingers bent into a deliberate, harsh U-shape, clawing and gouging furiously within her drenched, hidden valley. The motion was so violent it felt as though I were trying to forcibly excavate water from a deep backyard well.
"Boss... there... it's too deep..." Secretary Yan's usually sharp, composed face was flushed crimson under the rising steam of lust. She gripped my arm tightly, her slender legs clamping together involuntarily. Yet, her struggle only drove my fingers deeper, as if I were truly extracting an inexhaustible spring from the depths of that backyard well.
Letting out a cold chuckle, I drove my fingers in with even greater force, the heavy slapping sounds of my knuckles hitting her slick, internal walls echoing wetly.
"What do you think, Secretary Yan?" I turned my head, my lips leaving Wang Miya’s nipple to bite down on Secretary Yan's earlobe, which was slick with fine sweat from the sheer pleasure.
"Master..." Secretary Yan’s cold, professional glasses had already slipped down to the bridge of her nose. She tightly clamped her thighs against my hands as they ravaged her private depths, her voice trembling so severely it barely formed words: "I think... it must be... I... can hardly wait to... meet them..."
By now, Drill Sergeant Shen Zhiqin, who was riding my rod, had reached her absolute limit. Her conditioned military physique collapsed over my chest like molten wax, yet her hips continued to grind and thrust up and down in a mechanical, frantic rhythm. With a piercing, splintering shriek, a torrential wave of squirt drenched the base of my thighs. The thick, primal female musk inside the vehicle peaked to an overwhelming intensity.
Feeling the residual twitches of Shen Zhiqin's climax, I withdrew my hands from Wang Miya and Secretary Yan's panties, trailing long, silver strings of fluids that glinted wantonly in the dim cabin.
The Alphard smoothly rolled into the high-end residential district of the capital—the perfect interlude for our three-day journey before heading to the isolated island dating show.
"Honey, you're back!"
Standing at the entrance was a middle-aged man in his late fifties or early sixties, his face plastered with a nauseatingly enthusiastic smile, though his eyes darted straight toward us as we stepped out of the vehicle.
"Miya, you've gotten even more beautiful!" He threw his arms wide toward Wang Miya.
"Thank you, Uncle! Miya is so happy to hear that!" Wang Miya smiled radiantly, but beneath that smile lay an abyss capable of swallowing a soul whole.
The public only saw the glitz and glamour of her life as a top-tier idol, entirely ignorant of the parasitic leech that was her biological mother. From a tender age, Wang Miya had been dumped here with Xu Zhiping to undergo so-called "training," and every single cent she earned with her blood, sweat, and tears went straight into the bottomless pit of her gambling-addicted mother’s pockets. To Wang Miya, the word "home" had never meant warmth—only endless transactions and exploitation.
Then, a completely mind-boggling spectacle unfolded right before everyone’s eyes.
Xu Zhiping, the man’s wife, stood right beside him with a completely placid expression, as though this were the most mundane routine for welcoming a distinguished guest. Meanwhile, her husband straight-up gripped the back of Wang Miya’s head right in front of his wife and began tongue-kissing her frantically, his hands roughly parting her already soaked lace to fumble inside her completely muddy slit.
“Mmh, Uncle, you’re so good… so powerful…”
Wang Miya let out a sugary moan that made one's skin crawl, her entire being radiating a chilling, dark aura. Deep within her pupils, a pair of purplish-black hexagrams flickered faintly, as if mocking all concepts of human ethics and morality. She writhed and catered to the man's touch, using her magical, enchanting voice to praise the techniques of Sister Ping's husband.
Is Wang Miya really this starved, or is this guy just completely broken by her hypnosis? I watched the scene, a wicked, shit-eating grin spreading across my face.
The man, Wang Haoran, was a heavy hitter in the industry. As a top-tier television producer, he held absolute dominion over the careers of countless celebrities; second-rate models scrambled over one another just for a chance to climb into his bed. Yet this old, invincible fox of show business was reduced to nothing more than a neutered hound before Wang Miya, mindlessly thrusting by sheer biological instinct, his very soul stolen away to parts unknown.
"Alright, honey, let's not stand outside. Let's head in for dinner. I'll get everything ready!" Xu Zhiping maintained her flawless smile, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather rather than watching her husband finger another woman.
"Sure thing, honey," the producer replied casually.
Yet, his middle finger, slick with Wang Miya’s juices, refused to pull out. He continued to stir and churn rapidly through the gap in the lace fabric, producing a squelching sound that made the heart race.
"Miya, let me fix your panties for you. They’re all messed up."
Only then did Producer Wang reluctantly pull his hand back, clumsily trying to adjust the soaked, deformed fabric for Wang Miya. His eyes were cloudy and vacant, entirely oblivious to how utterly pathetic and ridiculous he looked.
"Mmh, thank you, Uncle," Wang Miya cooed sweetly.
Her voice sounded heartbreakingly pure, but at the exact same moment, her fingertips deftly snatched the black card out of Producer Wang's wallet.
Our group crossed the threshold into the living room.
As the lights flickered on, the rich aroma of a lavish feast filled the room, and two figures stood waiting in the center of the living room. "Wang Xin, Wang Qing, come greet our guests. Your Sister Miya is here to play."
I stole a glance. Wang Xin wore a playful, adorable sundress with thin spaghetti straps and a floral print, her dimples showing as she smiled and welcomed Wang Miya’s flying embrace. Her older sister, Wang Qing, exuded the grounded, poised aura of a polished professional, dressed in a long, elegant gown.
The moment I laid eyes on the sisters, the blood in my veins began to boil anew, and my eyes filled with crimson lines.
I slipped entirely beneath the heavy fabric of that premium, elegant gown. The wide hem instantly formed a curtain, sealing me away from the outside world, my nose immediately filled with the scent of expensive perfume mingled with the subtle, sweet musk unique to a mature woman's private folds.
Staring at the red lace panties tightly hugging her mature hips, I showed zero mercy. My hands tore at the delicate fabric like a wild beast, pulling the material completely askew to leave her tightly shut, pink slit thoroughly exposed to my predatory gaze.
Unable to wait any longer, I flicked my tongue out, treating her like the finest piece of sashimi. Over and over, I greedily lapped at the pussy of this Ministry of Foreign Affairs translator, my hot, damp tongue swiping across every sensitive fold and ridge, drawing out glistening fluids.
Simultaneously, my hands worked through the thin lining of her dress, precisely cupping her full, 34C breasts. I squeezed and kneaded them roughly, molding their dignified, professional shape into various wanton, depraved contours.
Yet, under the absolute power of my perception block, this elite professional—who was well-accustomed to grand international stages—noticed absolutely nothing. She simply maintained her elegant, rigid posture, entirely under the impression that the sudden chill down south and the heavy pressure on her chest were nothing more than a stray draft passing through the living room.
Secretary Yan pushed her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her eyes flashing with the cold light of data. Her tone was as deadpan as someone reading a routine corporate report, though the content was filthy enough to set the blood on fire:
"Reporting to Boss. Wang Xin, 20 years old, S-grade, soul value 328. An apprentice talent manager. A bright, youthful beauty with decent PR skills. Breast size: B-cup. Wang Qing, 24 years old, SR-grade, soul value 850. Ministry of Foreign Affairs translator. Dignified, poised, specializing in interpretation. Breast size: C-cup."
"Are they virgins?" I paused my licking, asking with a wicked, teasing grin from beneath the shadow of the gown.
"Negative," Secretary Yan replied swiftly, her refined, composed face showing zero emotion despite the sheer depravity of her words. "Their holes have been thoroughly wrecked since high school."
Hearing this dark secret, the sinister grin on my face widened.
"Seems our dignified translator, Wang Qing, used to play pretty wild," I mocked coldly.
Bending my index and middle fingers into a harsh U-shape, I drove them brutally into her drenched, pink slit beneath the cover of the gown, clawing and churning with renewed malice. My fingertips soaked in the elastic depths of this "diplomatic elite"—a passage clearly overwrought by past exploits, yet unnaturally numb due to the hypnotic suppression. Every wet stir produced a squelching sound, completely mocking the high-and-mighty elegance of her attire.
"Boss," Secretary Yan continued, her eyes gleaming with a faint, pale-blue light—the unmistakable sign of her reading the target's soul memories. She flatly exposed the sordid truth: "She was the quintessential untouchable goddess back in high school, pursued by countless suitors, including over half of the male faculty."
Secretary Yan paused, a sarcastic arc gracing her lips as she dropped the ultimate bombshell: "She was highly adept at leveraging her beauty. During her high school years, by playing the field between teachers and students alike, she effortlessly secured her first pot of gold."
Learning that this pristine, dignified diplomat was harbor to such an incredibly loose past completely ignited my sadistic nature. The monstrous rod at my groin swelled further, transforming into a heavy-duty industrial M30 x 3.5 - 180L steel tap built to tear through heavy machinery.
Hidden beneath that elegant gown, I suddenly grabbed Wang Qing’s pale, slender legs and hoisted them over my shoulders. Aligning my steel rod with the tight nut that had been "pre-machined" by countless men before me, I began to fiercely and violently thread her hole.
Every heavy, brutal thrust carried the depth and force of an industrial press. Yet, within this warped, hypnotized space, everyone—including Wang Qing, who was being thoroughly ravaged as a mere living machine—perceived the violent friction and heavy slapping sounds as nothing more than the natural flow of air in the room.
Wang Qing even gracefully adjusted her breathing, acting as if she were merely bracing against a gentle breeze, smoothing out her dress as though her hem had simply caught the wind.
“Haa… an SR-grade translator… the tightness of this worn nut really hits different.”
My breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. My body operated like a cold piece of industrial machinery, executing a brutal "stress test" within this high-class woman. Her 34C breasts deformed wildly within my palms, and with every frantic plunge of my M30 heavy tap, her gown rippled like waves. Yet, the dignified, composed expression on her face never cracked for a second.
Wang Qing pushed up her nonexistent glasses—a subconscious mental defense mechanism—and addressed Xu Zhiping with complete professionalism: "Mom, now that our guests are here, shouldn't we take our seats at the table?"
She was completely oblivious to the fact that under the brutal expansion of my heavy tap, her pink slit had been thoroughly ravaged by both my U-shaped fingers and my rod, pouring out a massive amount of juices that dripped down her thighs and onto the expensive carpet.
I glanced over at Wang Xin, who was still giggling and playing around with Wang Miya. The B-cup girl in the floral sundress laughed with innocent bliss, entirely unaware that her older sister was currently being used as a live lathe, her loose hole being violently re-threaded by my iron shaft.
Following countless brutal eruptions of my boiling white seed, paired with Wang Qing’s absurdly reactive, squirting constitution, the inside of that pristine gown was left in an absolute state of devastation. The inner flesh of her long thighs was thoroughly smeared with a thick blend of white cream and translucent fluids, dripping messily down her ankles and onto the expensive rug.
Just as I discharged the final wave of hot semen, I noticed something astonishing. Wang Qing’s elegant, vacant body began to radiate a faint, mysterious blue-green light, like an ancient soul awakening from the deep sea.
"Boss, after sustaining your intense, high-frequency soul impacts, Wang Qing has just evolved into an SSR-grade asset!" Secretary Yan stared at the faint blue aura, pushing up her glasses. Her usually deadpan tone carried a distinct note of professional excitement: "Her special ability is 【The Blessing of Synchronicity】. It's a pinnacle-tier passive language skill. She can now instantly and flawlessly translate every single language in existence, no matter how obscure, ancient, or even un-decoded cryptographic audio."
Panting heavily, I felt the restless soul power within my body begin to stabilize, though I fought down another surge of dark ambition.
"So..."
That name automatically surfaced within my mind—the woman who looked so flawless on screen she seemed like an AI.
"The lead actress of the drama The Fruit of Love... international superstar, Yin Meishan..."
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