Lahat ng Kabanata ng Yes Sir: Steamy BL Shorts: Kabanata 441 - Kabanata 448

Three days passed. Three days of Shen Wei’s cock in his mouth at dawn and his ass at dusk, of being bent over the writing desk and taken mid-sentence while the warlord read dispatches, of kneeling under the table during meals with Shen Wei’s hand on the back of his neck feeding him cock between bites of food. Three days of being used so thoroughly and so constantly that the soreness never fully faded, just settled into a low, warm ache that Liu Xue had begun to crave like a drug. He was clean and fed and fucked within an inch of his life every single day, and the terrifying thing—the thing he couldn’t stop thinking about in the dark hours when Shen Wei slept and he lay chained and sated beside him—was that he’d stopped wanting to escape.On the fourth day, Shen Wei told him to dress in the sheer white robe and crimson sash again.“The war council convenes at the hour of the horse,” the warlord said, buckling his own armor with the casual efficiency of a man who’d done it ten thousand

The weeks since the consort ceremony had remade Liu Xue’s world. He sat beside Shen Wei at every council now—on his own cushioned seat, no longer on display but still marked, the consort’s crimson sash knotted at his waist over silk robes the color of embers. The court had adjusted to him the way water adjusts to a stone: slowly, inevitably, flowing around what could not be moved. He attended audits. He read dispatches. He signed his name—his own name, in his own hand, a small rebellion that Shen Wei permitted because the warlord understood the architecture of pride. And at night, when the doors closed and the candles burned low, he knelt on the crimson sheets and took his lord’s cock down his throat with a devotion that no ceremony could have legislated.Which was why, when the Khan of the Eastern Steppes arrived with three hundred riders and a gift train a mile long, Liu Xue felt the temperature of every room change.Khan Batu was everything Shen Wei was not, and that itself was a k

The village called him Blessed now. They had called him cursed for twenty years, and one night on a mountain had rewritten everything, and Yun Bo hated how easy it was. Farmers pressed eggs and salted fish into his hands. The matchmaker who had once sighed at his waste of a face now bowed to him at the well. Children were sent to touch the hem of his sleeve for luck, and old women watched him walk past with wet eyes, whispering about the miracle rains, about the bride who came down the thousand steps with his collar buttoned high and his lips red as if bitten.His lips were red as if bitten. They were bitten. The memory arrived without permission at the worst moments—while he swept the temple steps, while he copied sutras with a hand that no longer shook, while he ate—the weight of a god’s palm flat on his sternum, the molten gleam of eyes above him, the stretch of that first impossible entry, the way he had screamed his lord’s name into the frost-black night until his voice broke. Hi

Yun Bo woke on the fourth morning after the full moon and heard the mountain introduce itself.Not a voice. Nothing so crude as a voice. A pressure against the inside of his skull, slow and green and enormous, the way he imagined the roots of the world must think: water tables, frost lines, the tiny seismic opinions of ten thousand rootlets unclenching in the spring thaw. He lay in his cell and listened to a mountain have a morning, and laughed until he cried, and then cried until he laughed, and the rooted seed under his navel pulsed along with both like a small warm hand patting his back: there, there. You get used to it. You will never get used to it. Both. We contain both.The changes came in a flood after that, as if the seed had only been waiting for him to notice before showing off. He stopped feeling cold—entirely, insultingly, in the middle of the last cold week of the year, and had to fake shivers when the abbot watched. The kitchen garden bloomed three weeks early in a perf