Chapter Twelve: Using Water

Upon hearing those words, Chang Wei sneered coldly and spat a mouthful of blood in the direction of Wen Zhiyan.

“What a whore everyone rides!”

“Silence!”

Li Honghui could not bear to see Wen Zhiyan humiliated like this, though Wen Zhiyan herself remained indifferent.

“Your Highness need not defend her. Zhiyan admits to what she has done herself.”

Li Honghui was already angry, and hearing Wen Zhiyan’s words only deepened his frustration and indignation.

“Do you really not cherish your own body?”

Wen Zhiyan met his gaze without flinching. “Your Highness knows it is my own body; how I treat it is my own business.”

A trace of sorrow and disappointment flickered across Li Honghui’s face. In the end, he closed his eyes and turned his head away, issuing his usual command to Song Baiqing: “Continue.”

—

Wen Zhiyan’s words sent Song Baiqing’s heart racing as if it had climbed up to his throat. In that moment, all the moral teachings he had learned—Confucian ethics, the Four Books and Five Classics, propriety, the gentleman’s self-restraint—seemed to vanish from his mind. He simply stood there, stunned, following Wen Zhiyan’s lead, letting her fingers entwine with his.

“So this is how soft and delicate a girl’s hand is.”

That was the only thought flashing through Song Baiqing’s mind, reminding him of the smooth, sweet taste of milk he once drank.

Familiar with the layout of the room—one of dozens in the Drunken Wind Pavilion, all decorated identically—Wen Zhiyan guided him carefully past the beams and pillars, leading him gently to the bedside.

Song Baiqing didn’t know where to place his hands or feet. When Wen Zhiyan lightly pushed him, his backside touched the edge of the bed, and she pressed close.

She guided his hand onto her, her body softer, more supple and curved than he had imagined. His hand traced the low valley before climbing the soft peaks.

The air hung thick with unspoken tension, his breathing quickened and heavy.

His mind lost all reason; his actions followed instinct alone. By the time Song Baiqing realized what he was doing, Wen Zhiyan was beneath him.

“Zhiyan, I…”

“Master Song, I’m afraid.”

They had both grown accustomed to the darkness of the night; he could see her moist eyes and feel the slight tremble of her body.

Suddenly, Song Baiqing thought of Wen Zhiyan as a fragile plant. When he first saw her, she was like a fresh lily, an orchid blooming in a secluded valley.

—

Now, she was more like a reed, easily broken, swaying with every passing breeze in her fragile existence.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch you.”

Song Baiqing turned over to lie beside Wen Zhiyan, slowly calming the thunderous beat of his heart.

He didn’t know what had come over him, but seeing her eyes glisten stirred an inexplicable urge to protect her delicacy.

Taking advantage of her would not be the act of a gentleman. Holding himself to that ideal, he easily quelled the lingering desire.

“Thank you, Master Song.”

Wen Zhiyan adjusted her disheveled clothes and gazed softly at the hanging curtains above the bed.

“I’ve heard from the other girls at Drunken Wind Pavilion that men feel very uncomfortable when they hold back. Is that true?”

Song Baiqing didn’t know how to answer. Abstinence was a discipline he imposed on himself—a form of self-cultivation. He only answered vaguely, “It’s bearable.”

“Would you like me to help, Master Song?”

Wen Zhiyan’s smooth hand reached out, lifting the hem of his garment and slipping inside.

Her grasp on his pulse point caused Song Baiqing to moan uncontrollably. With just a few motions, his mind was flooded with white light, followed by an explosion of sensation.

He had indulged in self-pleasure before, but it often felt dull and joyless, save for the final moment of release.

Yet with Wen Zhiyan’s hand instead of his own, Song Baiqing experienced a pleasure unlike any before, mingled with overwhelming shame and frustration.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wen. I’ll go find a towel for you.”

“Master Song…” Wen Zhiyan stopped him, reminding gently, “You only need to call for water.”

“Call for water…”

Song Baiqing’s face flushed scarlet, burning with embarrassment. It was tolerable since it was just the two of them; if anyone else entered, he wished he could vanish into the floor.

But the sticky sensation had cooled, and with her hand still on him… he could no longer hesitate.

Closing his eyes and steeling himself, he called out loudly toward the door: “Someone, bring water!”

Voices responded promptly; soon, a lantern was pushed inside, illuminating the dim room, and the sound of flowing water filled the air.

The attendant, catching the familiar scent that came every night, greeted with a smile, “Master, the bath bucket has been filled. Please feel free to use the water.”

The attendant and lantern retreated, and as Song Baiqing’s eyes adjusted, darkness enveloped him once more.

Wen Zhiyan reminded him softly, “Master Song, you can wash now.”

—

“Miss Wen… you go first.”

“There’s no reason for a girl to use the water before her patron.”

“I… I’m still a bit dazzled. I need a moment to adjust.”

Her laughter, light and clear like a silver bell, rang beside his ear. “I’ll lead you over.”

Then, as if recalling something to ease his mind, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll use the other hand.”

Song Baiqing’s face grew even redder, speechless. Wen Zhiyan smiled, taking his hand, and together they rose from the bed. He followed her forward until she stopped.

“All right, the bath bucket is right in front of you. You may wash first.”

She guided him to the edge of the bucket; the rising steam and warm water vapor made Song Baiqing keenly aware of how sticky he felt all over.

He must have sweated a great deal just now.

“Miss Wen, won’t you wash your hands first?”

“I’ll look for a ladle. Master Song, you can start removing your clothes.”

Wen Zhiyan searched around while Song Baiqing silently peeled off his garments, laying them on the cloak.

“Found it.”

The sound of water showed she had scooped some up to rinse her hands of dirt.

“Let me help you.”

Song Baiqing reached for the wooden ladle, but Wen Zhiyan said, “Sure, Master Song, you help me scrub.”

“All right, all right.”

In the darkness, he took her hand. The feeling was even more wondrous.

Under the warm water, washing away the filth that came from himself, it felt as though they were one. His bond with her was far closer than with anything else.

This sensation made Song Baiqing feel that she had become the person closest to him.