Chapter 32 of "Huang Rong's Secret Life": The Iron Buddha Temple Hides a Lewd Prison, and the White-Faced Mystic Woman Squeezes Juice by Hand

The cracks in the council chamber, and the allure of the scent of leather.

As Guo Jing's dry, warm hands enveloped her icy fingertips, Huang Rong's gaze subtly shifted from the city defense map—drifting towards the abandoned Iron Buddha Temple ten miles south of the city. She knew there were twenty-seven stone steps there, the smell of tanned leather, and five blindfolded, gagged bodies. Between her shoulder blades, a muscle relaxed slightly. Not from exhaustion. It was the premature sigh of relief from someone who already knew where they were headed.

Guo Fu's trembling, and her uncertain desire

While changing clothes, Guo Fu lightly touched her nipple through the thin gauze with her fingertips—a tingling sensation shot from her nipple straight to her lower abdomen. She abruptly pulled her hand back, biting her lip and cursing herself, vowing to go to the training ground and chop the wooden stakes into sawdust. But she couldn't shatter those images: the way Madam Lü's body jolted violently when her nipple was pinched. That tingling sensation lingered on her fingertips, lingering for the entire morning.

The sound of knives being sharpened in the slaughterhouse, and the announcement that "new guests will be arriving later tonight."

Granny Sun threw the pigskin hood that Madam Lü had worn the night before into the basin of water and rubbed it, muttering that the "sweet, cloying smell of cat urine" still wasn't gone even after washing it three times. Sun Lian took out a silver ingot and announced to everyone: "We have a new customer the night after tomorrow—the wife of a big client, who is very dignified at home, and has specifically requested the most intense thrills." The whetstone made a "whoosh" sound, sending chills down the spine in the slaughterhouse at dawn.

White lacquered mask: The reversal of power after the twenty-seven steps.

With each step down, the air quality changed. The moment the smell of tanned leather hit her, Huang Rong paused—the scent reminded her of the examination table in the Wuzhefang's castration chamber, and the professional annotations she had written in her sketches: "for easy cleaning." Back then, it said "for prisoners." Now, the knot of the mask was tied behind her own head.

Five bodies, blindfolded, gagged, and with their hands bound behind their backs, lay silently behind iron bars. Two of them had once entered her body. Huang Rong paused for a moment in front of the scarred soldier's cubicle, a very slight, involuntary contraction in her lower abdomen.

Qin San, the Soul Transferencer: Seeing Herself That Night Through the Eyes of Another

Huang Rong's consciousness crashed into the madam's sea of consciousness, filled with the stench of sweat and greed. For the first time, from an outsider's perspective, she saw herself that night, when her body was being drained and priced at fifty coins—her snow-white breasts marked with purplish-red by rough hands, her body trembling and gushing water on the straw mat, and her most private folds being watched and appraised by dozens of eyes.

"You can tell she's worldly just by touching her. Not some brothel training, but a much higher level. She gets wet the moment you touch her."

At that moment, her waist bent very slightly.

The inside of her mask was soaked with sweat, and her silk pants were burning hot. She bit her tongue, forcibly copying Qin San's memories, and then wrote down the interrogation record in neat handwriting—stamping her most chaotic fall with the official seal of her position.

White-faced Mystic Woman's Hand-Extracted Juice: The Second Day's "Touch Examination" and the Breakthrough of Ejaculation Defense

The next day, his cloth shoes stepped on the wet bluestone, and his pace was a full minute faster than the day before.

She gave herself an impeccable reason: after a vigorous ejaculation, her spirit was depleted, and the barrier of her consciousness temporarily collapsed—this was the perfect entry point for the technique. She needed to first use "palpation" to ascertain the strength and weakness of her qi and blood before choosing the right moment to begin.

She unbuckled the scarred soldier's belt.

The purplish-red thing, its glans already oozing clear pre-ejaculate, gleamed moistly under the oil lamp. This was the first thing to enter her body that night—now less than a foot from her face, utterly undignified and defenseless.

He hopped and hopped, begging for mercy from her.

The foreskin of his penis was completely retracted, and the defeated soldier, in his unconscious state, arched his back, like a wild boar with its hooves bound, making its final convulsions in her palm, squeezing out a choked growl from his throat. She began to move—very slowly, rhythmically, stroking from the base to the tip, pinching and rubbing twice with her index and middle fingers each time she passed that most sensitive ridge; her left hand supported the scrotum, pushing it upwards with a cruel, coercive force.

The first stream of turbid liquid gushed out, splashing onto the white lacquered mask and slowly trickling down from the bridge of the nose.

Then came the second, the third...

A sharp edge amidst the torrent of desire: The mole within the Marshal's Mansion

After ejaculation, the second soul transference was as if she were in an empty world. She let the overwhelming sensory torrent engulf her—in the climax of the defeated soldier's memories, the blade of a certain "strategist" in her sea of consciousness suddenly awakened: the contact person wearing a two-headed wolf mask walked out from the shadows, the hilt of the sword at his waist reflecting a cold, hard light. The curvature of the scabbard was the standard design made by the Ordnance Bureau this spring; the guarded stance with the left foot slightly forward and the weight on the right leg was the usual posture of the commander-level officer of the Jing Battalion.

This person... is inside the Marshal's Mansion.

Amidst the torrent of lust, Huang Rong's consciousness erected a cold blade.

Three hidden threads converge simultaneously behind the stone gate of the underground palace:

Huang Rong's storyline—the underground palace she built herself became the secret chamber where she freed herself from bondage. The Soul Transfer Technique was the perfect excuse, and that hand stained with white fluid was the sacrifice she offered to "Xin Yi"—in this underground palace, within this absolutely secure system she built herself, Huang Rong could make these men, whether unconscious, conscious, or in any state she desired—get hard for her, ejaculate for her, and never forget her.

Guo Fu's storyline—the crack in the butcher's door pierced a fissure in her heart. She began to examine the man beside her with entirely new eyes, releasing a kind of heat she dared not name in the chopping of her sword. The wind that seeped in through that fissure carried the scent of lard and blood.

The Xiangyang Line—the "Jing" brand military knife gleamed in the shadows. The remaining threads of the Iron Blood Alliance, the contract seal of Wuzhefang, and the betrayal of the Marshal's personal guards—three nets were intertwining in unseen places. Huang Rong stood in the center of the net, her left hand holding the fate of Xiangyang, her right hand gripping a stick of white fluid ejected by a prisoner.

On the stone steps of the underground palace, Lu Youjiao stood guard at the stone door. He heard a howl, like a wild beast being choked, seeping from a crack in the stone. He took a step forward, then stopped—he remembered what the gang leader had said: during the Soul Transference Technique, any interruption would cause her to suffer a backlash.

He chose to trust.

The core of this chapter: This is a premeditated and deliberate act of self-indulgence disguised as a "soul-shifting interrogation." Huang Rong has finally built an absolutely safe abyss—there, she is not Madam Guo, not the leader of the Beggars' Sect, not the "Number One Female Strategist Under Heaven"; she is merely a body capable of losing control, capable of returning to the scent of tanned leather time and time again. Before each descent into the underground palace, she has already prepared ample reasons for her next "inevitable" return.

An even more deadly discovery was quietly taking shape: within the Marshal's Mansion lurked a mole connected to the Two-Headed Wolf, the Pancheng Wuzhefang, and the Mongol spies. Huang Rong's journey of desire was unexpectedly cutting into the most dangerous game in Xiangyang.

This chapter contains 32,000 words.