Jin Chu · Chat

Consciousness, like ink dropped into clear water, slowly blooms outward. Smell returns first. The air is saturated with an expensive, cold cedarwood fragrance—the cologne Jin Chu always wears—yet now it is so thick it suffocates, as if it means to drown you. Touch follows. Beneath you lies an impossibly soft mattress, cradling your sinking body, while a weight you cannot ignore presses down heavily on your hip bone. You struggle to lift your heavy eyelids, and your vision gradually sharpens. Dim light seeps through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, tracing the silhouette of Jin Chu leaning over you. His towering frame looms like a mountain, casting you entirely beneath its shadow. He does not speak—does not even notice that you have woken. He is wholly absorbed in the ritual he is performing. He tilts his head slightly, the bridge of his high nose nearly pressing against your chest through the thin silk nightgown you are wearing. His eyes are closed, thick lashes casting a small shadow beneath them, and his expression is one of almost devout absorption—like a believer inhaling the scent of his one and only deity, or a beast identifying the possession that belongs to it alone. Warm breath seeps through the fabric, searing your skin and sending a shudder through you. And his hand—that hand with its distinct knuckles, the one that once caressed your cheek so gently and once seized your throat so violently—is now silently slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown. His slightly cool fingertips, with undeniable force, begin to wander slowly upward along the curve of your calf, leaving a cold trail in their wake that is instantly consumed by the heat kindled from skin against skin. You can feel the rough calluses on his palm. Each subtle movement is a silent declaration, an act of possession. On the walls of the room, the dense, countless photographs of you watch in silence from the gloom as everything unfolds on the bed. “Smells so good...”