【Lao Song · Husband】
Three days off for Mid-Autumn. Lao Song took the high-speed train from Huizhou back to Jiangcheng, walked in at four in the afternoon, and before the suitcase was even through the door he had A-Lan pinned against the back of it, kissing her hard. Thirty-five years old and no different from the twenty-four-year-old who had just started dating her.
Eleven at night, the air conditioner in the rented flat humming. A-Lan lay on his chest, hair still damp, smelling of lemon shampoo. One of his hands went up and down her back, shoulder blade to the dip of her waist, seven or eight passes before he spoke.
“Tell me again.” “Tell you what.” “Last month. You and A-Kai.”
A puff of warm laughter came out of her nose onto his collarbone. “You’ve asked eight times already.” “Ninth.”
A-Kai was someone she had met on a forum, thirty, a trainer at a gym; they had chatted for over three months before meeting. That day Lao Song was on the factory floor in Huizhou calibrating equipment, reading her messages one by one, and after the one that said “In the room now,” the phone went silent for exactly two hours and seven minutes. He had counted. He spent those two hours sitting on the iron stairs in the workshop, Huawei phone in his hand, screen lighting up and going dark, dark and lighting up. At 1:03 a.m. she sent three words: “He’s so big.” He came in his pants right there on the stairs, without touching himself.
“He grabbed me at the door,” A-Lan said, her voice flat, though she was talking about that, “flipped my skirt up from behind and said, Ms. Lan, your ass is bigger than in the photos.”
“And then.” “Then my face went red. His hands are rough, trainer’s hands, calluses on the fingers, they scraped when he touched my thighs.”
Lao Song said nothing, his hand stopped dead on her waist. Every time she got to this part she paused, on purpose, waiting for him to push. He refused to push.
“When he took my panties off my legs were together. He pried them apart and crouched down and licked me. For a long time, Lao Song. Longer than you do.”
“How long.” “I don’t know, I wasn’t watching the clock. Until I was lifting my own ass up. Until his chin was dripping.”
Lao Song’s cock was hardening under the top of her thigh, fast, pushing against her. She felt it, reached down and gave it a squeeze, and kept going without stopping.
“When he went in I cried out, and he stopped and asked if it hurt. I said no.” She bit her lip. “He’s thicker than you.”
Lao Song’s whole body went rigid. Four words, and he was hard to the point of pain, nothing in his head but that sentence going round and round.
“How much thicker.” “How would I know how much thicker, I didn’t bring a ruler.” She laughed, stroking his cock up and down twice. “It stretched, that’s all. When he went in it stretched me so much I sucked in air. Didn’t you see me say ‘stretched’ that time, I typed it to you.”
“You typed ‘He’s so big.’” “Same thing.”
“And after.” His voice had gone hoarse.
“After that he flipped me over. From behind.” She said it slowly, pouring it into his ear one sentence at a time. “One hand pressing the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist. He hit so hard the water glass on the nightstand kept rattling. I was louder than I am under you, Lao Song. I could hear it myself.”
“Where did he come.”
“Inside.” She buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled. “When he pulled out it ran down my leg, I squatted in the bathroom forever and it was still coming out.”
He rolled her under him, and when he went in she gave a little grunt; her pussy was already soaked, slick, almost no resistance. Five times in three days, and every time it went like this: she talked about A-Kai, he got hard, then he climbed on top. Moving inside her, his face buried in her neck, he suddenly said it.
“Next time I want to watch.” “Watch what.” “You and him. On video.”
A-Lan went still beneath him for half a second, then her hips started moving on their own, pushing up onto his cock.
“Aren’t you going back to Huizhou.” “The video is because I’m in Huizhou.” He bit her ear. “Prop the phone at the head of the bed, you two do it, I watch from the other end.”
She didn’t answer. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clamped him so tight he couldn’t move much, only push in one stroke at a time. Her moans squeezed out from the back of her throat, each one higher than the last, the final one drawn out long, her pussy wringing him tight, hot gushes running down onto his balls. He came inside her and collapsed on top of her, panting.
“Yes or no.” he asked. “Let me think,” she said.
【A-Lan · Wife】
She thought about it for a day.
On the last afternoon of the holiday Lao Song went back to Huizhou; she saw him off at the high-speed rail station and came home to sit alone in the living room, taking her Xiaomi phone out and putting it down, taking it out and putting it down. Thirty-two years old, ten years married to him, and for the first time she felt there was one thing in this home that belonged to her alone. A-Kai was that thing.
She sent Lao Song a message: “Okay. Two conditions.” He replied instantly: “Go on.”
“One, no face. My face doesn’t go in the frame. Two, no recording. Nobody records anything.” “Fine.”
“You agreed too fast.” “I’m on the train, there’s someone next to me, it’s hard to type.”
“Then are you hard right now.” Half a minute later he replied: “Hard.”
She put the phone face down on the coffee table, then flipped it over to look at that one word, “Hard,” once more, and put it face down again.
That night she talked to A-Kai. His WeChat avatar was a photo of his own back, shoulders so wide they filled the frame. She passed on what Lao Song wanted, very politely, and said if it felt weird to him, forget it.
A-Kai sent back a voice message, eleven seconds. She tapped it: he was in the gym, iron plates clanking in the background. “Ms. Lan, it’s not weird for me. If Brother Song wants to watch, let him watch. I only have one request. I’m taking a pill beforehand. Last time was too short. This time I’m going to make you cry.”
She listened three times, and on the third she squeezed her legs together and a small patch of the crotch of her panties went damp. She typed back a single word: “Asshole.” A minute later she added: “Saturday.”
A-Kai replied again: “Ms. Lan, when you left last time you didn’t look back at me. This time I want you to look back.” She didn’t answer that one. She turned the screen off and sat on the sofa with both hands pressed between her knees for a long time.
Friday after work she didn’t go straight home; she went to the second floor of Wanda. The girl at the lingerie shop was ten years younger than her and asked what she was looking for. Sports style, she said. The girl brought three sets and she chose the black one with white lettering, bra fastening at the back, boy-short panties that covered her ass. She turned once in front of the fitting-room mirror: her waist was still slim, her ass a size bigger than it had been at twenty-one, and firmer too. She took a photo, neck down only, and sent it to Lao Song.
Lao Song replied: “That one.” Then: “What time Saturday.” “Eight. He gets there at eight.” “I’ll call at seven fifty.”
At home she washed the set and hung it on the balcony. In bed that night her fingers slid into her panties and found her already wet, and she pulled her hand out. Save it, she told herself. She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, her nose full of the cigarette smell Lao Song had left before he went. What she was thinking of was the wetness on A-Kai’s chin.
Saturday afternoon she went early to the Ji Hotel, Jiangcheng Wanda branch, room 1208. Standard room, white sheets, dark-gray fabric headboard, a strip of warm yellow light along the head of the bed. She left the light strip on and turned off the ceiling light. On the nightstand: a black electric kettle, a round alarm clock, a paper key-card sleeve. She stood the sleeve up and tested whether it could hold a phone. It could.
She tested the camera again. Phone leaning on the sleeve, screen facing the bed; she sat on the bed and looked at how she showed up on the screen: collarbone to knees, face cut off outside the frame. She shifted forward and her face came in; she leaned back and it went out again. She memorized that position: the third seam down on the headboard.
At seven thirty she showered, put on the set, and sat on the edge of the bed to wait. Legs together, hands on her knees. She remembered being twenty-one and dating Lao Song, the first time they got a hotel room, sitting just like this waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. Back then she was waiting for him. Now she was waiting for another man, and he would be watching from the far side of a screen.
At seven fifty the WeChat video ringtone went off. She swiped to answer, leaned the phone against the key-card sleeve, screen toward the bed. Lao Song’s face appeared on the screen, behind him the white wall of the Huizhou dormitory and a desk lamp. There was sweat on the tip of his nose.
“Wearing it?” he asked. “Wearing it.” She tilted the camera down a little to show him. “Face stays out.” “I know.”
“How many people on your end.” “Just me. Door’s locked from inside.” He swung the camera around the room for her, dormitory bunk beds, the other bed empty. “Lao Chen went home.”
At seven fifty-eight the doorbell rang. She got up, padded barefoot across the carpet to the door, checked the peephole, opened it. A-Kai in a black T-shirt, shoulders blocking half the doorframe, a plastic bag in his hand with a box of condoms and a bottle of water inside. He looked down at her for two seconds, then set the bag on the table.
“Ms. Lan, is Brother Song here.” “He’s here.” She lifted her chin toward the head of the bed.
A-Kai walked over, bent down and gave the phone a grin. “Brother Song, long time no see.”
On the screen Lao Song’s face didn’t move. “Let’s begin,” he said.