Chapter Twelve: Descending the Mountain

Three days after the winter solstice, Qingya Peak saw its first snowfall of the winter. The snow was light, fine as sifted rice flour, rustling softly as it fell on the bamboo leaves, accumulating a thin layer of white that transformed the entire mountain into a pale ink painting. Icicles hung from the eaves, refracting delicate rainbows in the morning light. The distant sea of ​​clouds, pressed low by the cold air, flowed slowly along the valley like a frozen river. Shen Du stood by the window, watching the swirling snowflakes outside, but felt no interest in appreciating it whatsoever.

Because his master had just told him that he was going down the mountain to buy supplies today, and—he was the one going.

"Use my body," Lu Qinghan said slowly inside him, her tone as calm as if she were instructing him to go to the back mountain and cut some bamboo. "Your clothes are already prepared; they're on the far right of the wardrobe."

Shen Du opened his mouth, wanting to say, "Can I not go out today?" but swallowed the words back. He looked down at his current appearance—his face had become that of a young girl, bearing an eight or nine-tenths resemblance to his master, but his body was still his own: broad shoulders, a firm abdomen, and two legs with smooth muscle lines. The strangest thing was his lower body; the female genitalia that didn't belong to him were still there peacefully, while his male genitalia were firmly locked deep inside his master's body, now gently held by a ring of warm, soft flesh, pulsating slightly with his breath.

Something about this was completely wrong—the face was a woman's, the body a man's, and the lower half of his body was a woman's again. Shen Du felt like his brain was being turned into a complete mess by this chaotic combination.

“Master,” he said with difficulty, his voice hoarse and low, creating a jarring contrast with the girl’s face in the mirror, “my voice… it gave me away as soon as I came down the mountain.”

"Then talk less." Lu Qinghan's tone was light and dismissive. "It's winter, so if you wear thick clothes, no one will notice. You've worn my clothes before, so the size is pretty much the same."

"They're pretty much the same." Shen Du silently protested in his heart, but dared not say it aloud. His master was more than half a head shorter than him, and her frame was also smaller than his; wearing her clothes was a real torment for him.

He resignedly walked to the wardrobe and opened the rightmost door. Inside, sure enough, was a set of clothes neatly folded—a snow-white fox fur cloak, the hood trimmed with a band of fluffy silver fox fur, soft and smooth to the touch, shimmering with a faint silver-gray glow in the morning light. Below the cloak was a matching thick satin long skirt, the hem trailing on the ground, the fabric crisp and thick, effectively concealing his legs. Below that was a pair of high-top leather boots, the shafts wider than usual, clearly to accommodate his feet and calves. And at the very bottom, surprisingly, was a white scarf, finely woven, with a few inconspicuous snowflakes embroidered at both ends.

Everything seemed to be the same style worn by the master and apprentice, prepared for winter outings—but it was also a tailor-made fig leaf, specifically designed to hide his masculine physique under layers of thick fabric.

Shen Du stared at the outfit for several breaths, his ears involuntarily burning. Wasn't this the outfit his master often wore in winter? Every time it snowed heavily, she would dress like this—a cloak wrapped around her, a scarf around her neck, revealing only her aloof and stunningly beautiful face, walking in the snow like a moving white plum blossom. Now, his master was making him wear this outfit, meaning he was to impersonate her and go down the mountain.

"Hurry up," Lu Qinghan urged, her tone carrying a hint of suppressed expectation. "The sooner you go, the sooner you'll come back. The mountain roads will be even more difficult to travel with the heavy snow."

Shen Du gritted his teeth and began to put on the clothes one by one. First was the thick satin long dress, the waist of which needed to be tightly cinched above his hips to create the proper waistline for a woman's dress—he had to take a deep breath and tighten the cincher to its limit to keep the waist in place. The dress trailed three inches on the ground, just covering his leather boots, and swayed gently as he walked, making his legs look nothing like a man's. Next was the fox fur cloak, the soft fur collar encircling his neck, and the hood framing his face with silver-white fox fur, revealing only his slightly upturned almond eyes and full, soft lips. The cloak had subtle pleats at the shoulders, cleverly concealing his broad shoulders under the fluffy fox fur, making him appear as a "slightly tall" woman. Finally, there was the scarf, made of white wool, with snowflake patterns at the ends that shimmered faintly in the morning light. He hesitated for a moment, then wrapped the scarf around his neck, just covering his Adam's apple.

After dressing, Shen Du stood before the bronze mirror. Reflected in the mirror was a young girl wrapped in a snow-white fox fur coat, a soft white band around her neck, a few strands of hair peeking out from the edge of the hood, making her face appear only the size of a palm. The large, thick fox fur coat only accentuated the smallness and delicacy of her face; her amber almond-shaped eyes appeared exceptionally bright and moist against the silver fox fur, her lips slightly red from being bitten, and slightly pursed, as if she were enduring something. She looked like a beautiful fairy, bundled up tightly and afraid of the cold.

Except for her shoulders. Although the hidden folds were concealed as much as possible, they were still slightly broader than those of an ordinary woman when she stood up straight. Fortunately, the fluffy texture of the fox fur made this flaw less noticeable. The cloak hem trailed on the ground, and the hem of the long skirt covered her feet, so her shoes were not visible when she walked. A scarf covered her Adam's apple. The hood concealed the lines of her forehead. Only her eyebrows, eyes, nose, and mouth were visible on her face, and even those features already resembled her master's.

He looked exactly like Lu Qinghan. Shen Du looked at the girl in the mirror who was exactly like his master, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt as if he was playing the role of his master—no, not just playing, he was becoming her.

Lu Qinghan was also watching. She looked through his eyes at the image in the bronze mirror, at her disciple wrapped in her fox fur, her scarf, and wearing her face, about to descend the mountain in her place and enter the crowd of people in the sect. When she saw Shen Du staring blankly at the girl in the mirror, she spoke at the opportune moment, her voice gentle and appreciative: "Beautiful. My wife looks truly beautiful in this. Let's go, come back soon." She uttered the word "wife" with utmost naturalness, as if she had called her that for decades.

Shen Du's face flushed red to his ears. He wanted to say, "Master, don't call me that," but his tongue got tied in his mouth, and before he could say anything, he had already pushed open the door and stepped into the snow.

The mountain path was covered with a thin layer of snow, the sharp edges of the bluestone slabs appearing and disappearing beneath the snow. Shen Du carefully lifted the hem of his skirt as he descended—this wasn't the first time he'd worn women's clothing, but it was the first time he'd pulled off such a long, floor-length dress. With each step, he had to use his toes to kick the hem forward slightly to avoid tripping and falling flat on his face. Occasionally, a small clump of snow would fall softly from the bamboo leaves, landing on his hood with a soft thud.

Lu Qinghan remained quietly inside him, not in a hurry to speak. She loved watching him wear her clothes, his face against hers, clumsily yet earnestly walking the mountain path she had walked for hundreds of years. The feeling was strange—like looking at another version of herself, or like looking at a carefully crafted work of art, uniquely hers. She gently tightened the walls of her vagina, drawing his penis deeper into her through the barrier of her skin. It wasn't a large thrust, just a very subtle contraction, as if reminding him—no matter who you look like on the outside, your insides will always be with me.

Shen Du paused, steadying himself against a bamboo stalk by the roadside, his breath steaming in the air. He silently cursed inwardly, "My master's up to something again"—but he didn't say it aloud. He knew his master wouldn't admit it. He took a deep breath and continued walking.

As Shen Du descended the mountain via the cable car, he practically clenched his teeth to make it. The suspension bridge swayed more violently than usual in the wind and snow, the wooden planks beneath his feet creaking underfoot. The abysses on either side were filled with a white, misty snow, their bottoms invisible. He gripped the cables tightly with both hands, taking one slow, deliberate step forward, his legs trembling slightly from gripping them so tightly—each time his feet slipped on the icy bamboo planks, his body plummeted, and the weight filling his vagina pressed down hard on his penis.

Fortunately, there were few people on the snowy day, and he didn't encounter anyone else on the cable car. When he finally stepped onto the solid mountain path of the main peak, he was so exhausted that he almost collapsed to his knees in the snow.

A red notice board at the market entrance displayed a list of New Year's goods to buy, with several red lanterns bent low by the weight of snow hanging nearby. The festive atmosphere of the approaching New Year remained undiminished despite the snow and mist. Shops on both sides of the street had erected awnings to shield themselves from the snow, with dried cured meat and strings of red peppers hanging under the eaves. Occasionally, a cultivator would walk by with a child, the child holding a sugar painting they had just bought, laughing and shouting happily as they stepped through the snow. Because of the snow, the market was less crowded than usual, but it was still quite lively. Several young boys dressed as outer sect disciples squatted in front of a magic weapon stall, arguing about which flying sword offered the best value for money. A chubby stall owner shielded his eyes from the snow as he promoted talismans. Nearby, an aunt selling spiritual food lifted the lid of a steamer, and steam rose half a meter high amidst the snowflakes, carrying the sweet aroma of red dates and glutinous rice that wafted across half the street.

Shen Du pulled his hood down further and walked into the market with his head down.

“Remember,” Lu Qinghan’s voice echoed in his mind, with a hint of teasing laughter, “Speak less. Your voice is still that of a man; you’ll give yourself away as soon as you open your mouth. Just nod to acquaintances. If you really need to speak, lower your voice and mumble it. If someone calls you a fairy, just nod slightly.”

"...I understand." Shen Du silently replied to himself.

As it turned out, the "talk less" strategy was correct. He hadn't walked far in the market when he encountered his first test. Two young female disciples from the outer sect walked towards him, one in a pale yellow cotton dress, the other in a blue cloak, strolling hand-in-hand through a New Year's goods stall, carrying several bags of dried fruit and candied fruit they had just bought. They were chatting and laughing, but after they passed each other, one of them suddenly turned around and recognized the aloof and exquisitely beautiful face beneath the hood.

"Uncle-Master Lu!" the female disciple in the pale yellow cotton dress exclaimed in surprise, pulling her companion along as they quickly approached and bowed. "Disciple greets Uncle-Master Lu! You still personally went down the mountain to buy supplies despite the heavy snow?"

Shen Du's body stiffened for a moment. He subconsciously wanted to say "I'm not," but he stopped himself abruptly—his voice was still a deep male voice, and if he spoke, he would surely frighten the two girls. He could only purse his lips and nod slightly, trying his best to imitate his master's aloof and reserved demeanor, his fingers clenched white in his sleeves.

"Uncle Lu's fox fur coat is so beautiful," the female disciple said, clearly oblivious to anything amiss. Her attention was entirely focused on the stunning face beneath the hood, and she chattered excitedly, pulling her companion along to share her story. "I told you, didn't I? Uncle Lu is the number one fairy of Cangshan. Every time I see her, she looks like she stepped out of a painting. Uncle Lu, you look even younger than usual today. Have you made another breakthrough in your cultivation recently?"

Shen Du nodded again. Lu Qinghan chuckled softly inside him.

“Look how much they admire you,” she whispered deep within his consciousness, her tongue lightly licking the tip of his penis—of course, against the inner wall of her vagina. “Wherever my wife goes, she is seen as a fairy.”

Shen Du was somewhat moved by the first half of the sentence, but the second half made his legs go weak for a moment. He gritted his teeth, hurriedly nodded to the two female disciples, and turned and fled into a nearby alley. He leaned against the wall in the alley, panting for several breaths before the restlessness in his body subsided.

But the ordeal was far from over. The deeper they went into the market, the more people recognized him. "Greetings, Fairy Lu," "Greetings, Uncle Lu," "It's rare to see Junior Sister Qinghan come down from the mountain"—every polite greeting carried respect and praise, but to Lu Qinghan's ears, these praises sounded like compliments to her wife. She accepted each greeting with a clear conscience, calling him "wife" in an increasingly gentle tone deep within Shen Du's consciousness. While others outside called him "Fairy," she inside called him "wife," as if applying layer upon layer of new paint to his identity.

Shen Du encountered a third acquaintance at the pill stall—Fang Yuan. Fang Yuan, with his round face and round eyes, was squatting in front of the stall picking out Qi-strengthening and Yuan-nourishing pills. Upon seeing Shen Du, he immediately stood up and respectfully bowed: "Fang Yuan greets Martial Uncle Lu!"

Shen Du nodded expressionlessly, but inwardly he was thinking frantically: You've mistaken me for someone else. Just yesterday you patted me on the shoulder and said I was your brother, and now you're calling your brother "Uncle-Master." But he couldn't say it, not even a single syllable.

Fang Yuan was clearly more talkative than the two female disciples. After bowing, he chuckled and took a few steps closer, lowering his voice to say, "Uncle-Master Lu, I'm Fang Yuan, Shen Du's friend! I even had tea with him yesterday! I must thank you properly on behalf of my brother. If you hadn't rescued him from the clutches of the demonic path, who knows what would have become of that kid. We all know you're truly good to him! If there's a chance in the future, I'll go with Shen Du to Qingya Peak to pay you a New Year's visit!"

Hearing "Thank you for my brother's sake" and "You are truly good to him" from inside Shen Du's body, Lu Qinghan was overjoyed. She immediately activated the inner walls of her vagina, performing a slow and comprehensive peristalsis from deep within to the entrance. The cervix first tightly gripped his glans and sucked, then the middle section contracted layer by layer, and finally the sphincter at the entrance gently tightened, as if using a warm velvet sheath to suck him from the tip all the way to the base.

Shen Du's knees buckled violently. He quickly pretended to reach out and touch the herbs on the stall, feigning that he was squatting down to pick out the herbs, but actually using this posture to cover up his weak legs. His lumbar spine tightened and was forced to relax as his master wrapped and sucked on it.

Fang Yuan, completely oblivious to anything amiss, continued talking to himself: "Uncle-Master Lu, please take your time choosing. I'll take my leave now; I still need to deliver some medicinal herbs to my fellow disciples in the Discipline Hall. Once my brother has recovered, I'll have him come to have tea with you."

Shen Du mustered all his willpower and squeezed out a single word through gritted teeth: "...Okay."

Fang Yuan left cheerfully. The stall owner, an old cultivator with a gray beard, was dozing in the snow, wearing a straw raincoat, completely unaware of what the fairy had just experienced. As Fang Yuan's figure disappeared around the street corner, Lu Qinghan deliberately used the softest little mouth deep inside her vagina to suck hard on his glans at the same time as the word "good" fell. The soft flesh around her cervix tightly enveloped the tip like an octopus's sucker.

Shen Du felt a sharp pain in his lower back, his body went limp, and he barely managed to stay upright by holding onto the shelf. His penis twitched violently inside his master, then gushed out his semen. He leaned against the shelf, panting heavily. Fortunately, the hood of his fox fur coat covered most of his face, and the gray-bearded stall owner was still dozing off. Pedestrians on the street were busy avoiding the snow. No one noticed what this fairy wrapped in a snow-white fox fur coat was going through.

The afterglow of his climax hadn't completely faded when he felt a subtle change in his body—it was as if something deep in his throat had been opened, and a warm current of air slowly rose along his trachea, swirling and lingering around his vocal cords. He subconsciously swallowed, the skin around his Adam's apple slightly itchy, as if something was being gently twisted open from the inside. He raised his head, tried to open his mouth, and let out a very soft "hmm." The sound was soft and gentle, like the tinkling of a mountain spring flowing over pebbles, warm and soothing.

It sounds exactly like my master's voice.

“Look,” Lu Qinghan’s voice echoed in his mind, her tone filled with undisguised satisfaction, “your voice is back to normal. My wife can speak now.”

“…I.” Shen Du tried to say another word. The voice was soft and pleasant, exactly the same as the tone of his master’s voice in his memory, only a little more awkward and uncertain than the tone of his master’s voice that he was used to. He finally didn’t have to hold his voice anymore.

“Go ahead,” Lu Qinghan’s voice was gentle and light, “finish buying the rest of what you need. You don’t need to worry about that today.”

Shen Du nodded, stood up from beside the shelf, put on his hood, and returned to the street. The rest of the journey was indeed much smoother. Each time a fellow disciple greeted him, he could respond simply with a soft female voice, "Hmm," "Thank you," or "Thank you," though he spoke very little, it no longer aroused suspicion. He spoke a few words to the stall owner selling medicinal herbs, asking about the prices of several herbs; at the fabric shop, he asked the shopkeeper for samples of two kinds of silk thread; and he even chatted briefly with a female cultivator he didn't recognize at the rice cake stall.

The female cultivator asked him, "Senior sister, do you know if the wintersweet on the back mountain has bloomed yet? I heard that the snow was heavy this year, so the wintersweet bloomed earlier than usual." Shen Du was taken aback for a moment, then replied, "I haven't gone to see it yet, but it should be blooming by now." The other woman smiled and thanked him, saying that she would definitely go and see it later.

In just a few words, Shen Du felt his heart secretly racing. When the female cultivator called him "Senior Sister," her demeanor was as natural as if she were speaking to any other female cultivator. Shen Du suddenly felt a strange sense of relief—it turned out that speaking in a woman's voice and being treated as a woman wasn't as uncomfortable as he had imagined. On the contrary, because he didn't have to hide or worry about being exposed, he felt much more relaxed.

Lu Qinghan sensed the subtle change in his emotions and smiled inwardly. She didn't say anything. This was already the ideal situation—he was beginning to unconsciously accept the voice, accept the identity, and even begin to enjoy the ease of "being able to speak normally."

The shopping list had only one item left—magical robes. When Shen Du entered the robe shop, the middle-aged female cultivator who ran it immediately brightened up. "Fairy Lu is here!" the shopkeeper greeted her with a beaming smile, incredibly attentive, piling all the latest winter styles onto the counter. "Did those last few pieces fit you well? What would you like to see today? Our new batch of winter clothes is gorgeous! They're made of the finest spiritual cotton, with thick linings that don't look bulky, keeping you warm without hindering your sword flight!"

Shen Du glanced at the clothes on the counter, wondering to himself—his shopping list for today only included ordinary undergarments and a few pieces of fabric for cultivation; these flamboyant dresses were clearly not on his itinerary. But before he could refuse, Lu Qinghan's voice rang in his mind.

"Take down that light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) and let me see it."

Shen Du followed her gaze to the corner of the counter—a pale blue-green ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) hanging on the inner wooden shelf. The dress was an extremely pale blue, like the sky after rain diluted three times, mixed with a faint hint of pink. Small peach blossoms were embroidered in silver thread at the front, extending from the neckline to the hem, shimmering softly in the candlelight. The fabric was a light, thin cotton, smooth and soft to the touch, completely different from the thick satin dresses worn in winter—this was clearly a spring/autumn style, light and airy, the hem swaying gently with each step, accentuating a slender waist and a graceful gait.

Shen Du reached down and unfolded the skirt, his ears turning slightly red as his fingers touched the smooth fabric. He carefully folded the skirt and placed it in the brocade box. Next came the stockings. The shopkeeper took out several pairs from under the counter for her to choose from—flesh-colored, white, and light blue—all made of the finest spirit silk, as thin as cicada wings and extremely elastic. Lu Qinghan whispered "flesh-colored" inside him. Shen Du hesitated between the pairs of stockings for a moment, but ultimately obediently picked up the flesh-colored pair.

When Shen Du left the robe shop, he had three brocade boxes in his hands. He didn't know yet who the skirt and stockings were for, but since his master had told him to buy them, he didn't dare to ask too much—it was probably something his master liked, anyway, they weren't for him to wear.

It was afternoon when they returned to Qingya Peak. The snow had stopped, and a few rays of pale golden sunlight peeked through the sky. Shen Du pushed open the courtyard gate and entered the bedroom. He put away the medicinal herbs, fabrics, and brocade boxes he had purchased that day, took off his fox fur cloak and thick satin long skirt, changed into his usual shorts, and sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief. This trip down the mountain today had truly used up all the shame of his life.

But before he could even catch his breath, Lu Qinghan asked, "Are you tired?"

"It's alright." Shen Du wiped the thin layer of sweat from his forehead.

"Then put on the new clothes you bought today."

Shen Du froze, his hand still wiping away sweat. "...What?"

“That light blue-pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress),” Lu Qinghan’s voice was as calm as if she were describing the snow scene outside the window, “and those flesh-colored stockings. After you’ve changed, stand in front of the bronze mirror.”

Something snapped in Shen Du's mind. He mechanically opened the brocade box, picked up the light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), and unfolded it in the candlelight—the fabric was light and airy, reaching only to his calves, with silver-pink peach blossoms embroidered on the front, wide sleeves, and a slender waist. He held the dress, his hands trembling.

"Master...this is...this is a dress." His voice trembled, and with the soft, gentle tone of a young girl now, it sounded less like a protest and more like a coquettish plea.

“It’s a dress.” Lu Qinghan confirmed his assessment. “It suits you very well. Get dressed, don’t keep your wife waiting too long.”

As a wife. Shen Du's body automatically felt a tingling sensation when he heard these two words—his penis involuntarily twitched inside her, the tip slightly swollen, touching the soft flesh of her cervix.

He removed his shorts and stood naked in the center of the room. First, he picked up the woman's underpants, slipped one leg over his shoulder, then the other. The cool, slippery feel of the stockings against his calves sent shivers down his spine. The gossamer-thin fabric clung tightly to his skin, smoothing the sparse hair on his calves and giving them a faint sheen in the candlelight. The stockings were slightly tightened at the mid-thigh, squeezing out a barely perceptible curve of excess flesh.

Then he picked up the bra—one of the undergarments his master had casually bought from the robe shop while he was changing. He wrapped the straps around his back and clumsily tied a knot. The silky fabric enveloped his still relatively flat chest, the lace edges gently covering the bulges on his chest.

Finally, there was the light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress). It was worn as a pullover—he had to raise his arms to let the dress fall over his head. The light pink gauze slid across his face, shoulders, chest, and waist, the hem reaching mid-calf. The wide sleeves concealed the strong muscles in his arms. The peach blossom pattern on the front shimmered faintly in the candlelight. After practicing for some time, the thin belt around his waist had become quite taut—the belt wrapped around his side and then tightened, accentuating his relatively narrow waist. The silver-pink silk ribbon hung down his back in a delicate bow.

He stood before the bronze mirror and saw a young girl. She wore a light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), the hem of which shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Wide sleeves reached her wrists, revealing a small section of her fair arms. Her legs, encased in stockings, were faintly visible beneath the hem, a thin ribbon tied at the top of the stockings, swaying gently with her breath. The face was his current face—and also his master's face—his amber almond eyes were slightly wide, his lips parted slightly with nervousness, revealing the edge of his pearly teeth. The girl stood before the bronze mirror, like a young lady from a prominent family about to go on a date.

Shen Du stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror. This was him. Not his master. The face was indeed his master's, but the awkward and bewildered look in his eyes, the slightly trembling knees, the hands that didn't know whether to clench or relax—these subtle movements and expressions were all his own. This was the first time he had realized so clearly that the girl in the dress in the mirror was actually himself.

Lu Qinghan quietly observed everything from his perspective. The girl in the mirror wore a light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) that she had personally chosen, wrapped in flesh-colored stockings that she had personally fitted, and sported a face that she had meticulously altered to look exactly like her. Every detail was carefully designed—the color of the clothes complemented his skin tone, the thickness of the stockings was just right to conceal his leg hair, and the length of the skirt was just right to reveal the most beautiful lines of his calves. Her plan was one step away from completion, and that step was about to be completed.

She silently relinquished 99% control of her body to Shen Du. Limbs, torso, head, throat, facial expressions—everything was handed over to him. She retained only a tiny bit—control over the peristalsis of her vaginal walls and the right to share pleasure. Just that little bit, no more, no less, was enough for her to control the rhythm of the entire performance from behind the scenes.

"My wife." She called softly from the depths of his consciousness, her tone gentle and natural, as if she had used this word a thousand times before. "Tonight is the last game. Move your waist. Don't be nervous, it's just you and me in this house."

Shen Du stood before the bronze mirror, gazing at the girl reflected within. He slowly raised his hands and placed them at his sides, his fingers sinking into the indentation of his waistband. Then he began to twist his waist. The light pink skirt swayed gently with his first movement, drawing a graceful arc in the air. He thrust forward, his penis striking the cervix inside his master; he pulled back, the coronal sulcus scraping against the folds of the vaginal walls; he rotated left and right, the skirt fluttering and swaying before the bronze mirror. The girl in the mirror wore a light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), the hem of the gauze skirt billowing and rising with each twist of her waist, the wide sleeves sliding down to her elbows, revealing a pair of fair arms, slender wrists, and long, delicate fingers. On her face, identical to his master's, her eyebrows were slightly raised, a thin layer of moisture glistening in her amber almond-shaped eyes, and her lips unconsciously parted with each deep thrust and gently pursed with each withdrawal.

With each twist of his waist, his penis moved in and out of his master's vagina; her cervix rhythmically sucked at the glans with his movements, the folds of her inner walls grinding against the coronal sulcus; and his own genitals, belonging to his master, secreted more and more fluid, soaking the thin edge of his underpants, flowing slowly down his inner thighs, leaving sticky wet marks on his stockings. The man was penetrating, the woman was being penetrated, and all the pleasure intertwined, amplified, and intensified simultaneously in one person's consciousness.

He looked at the girl in the mirror—she was beginning to lose herself in pleasure, her pink dress half-open, the curves from her collarbone to her shoulder faintly visible in the candlelight; her Adam's apple bobbed as she swallowed, the saliva wetting her own red lips; her face was flushed, her body trembling slightly. That girl was himself. The girl in the mirror was being driven mad by his own actions, and the girl in the mirror was himself.

“My wife,” Lu Qinghan’s voice rang out again, gentle yet persistent, “Look how beautiful you are in the mirror. I love seeing you like this the most.”

The moment Shen Du heard the word "wife," his waist involuntarily thrust forward, the head of his penis grinding fiercely against his master's cervix. The girl in the mirror opened her lips and let out a soft, gentle moan—not her voice, but his master's. Oh no, it was indeed his master's voice, and also his own.

"My wife, your waist is so slender. I can feel the curve of your waist drawing inward as I place my hand on it. Your breasts have also grown larger, the fabric is stretched a bit, and the peach blossom pattern on your blouse is almost bursting open. So white, and your collarbones are so beautiful."

Shen Du involuntarily glanced down at his chest. His once flat chest now indeed had a slight, soft curve, barely noticeable under the bra, but undeniably undulating. He looked up at the bronze mirror again—the girl in the mirror had more delicate collarbones, narrower shoulders, and her once broad frame was being gently and irreversibly sculpted into a woman's shape by a gentle yet irreversible force. The curves of her waist had narrowed several inches, and the smoothed pelvis had shifted her center of gravity slightly downward. In the candlelight, her skin was no longer the tanned hue of a man, but a smooth, slightly pinkish milky white. Her legs, encased in stockings, appeared longer and straighter, the skin at the base of her thighs like fine mutton-fat jade, gleaming lustrously in the dim light. The fox fur coat was still draped over the back of the chair, and the scarf still carried the chill of the outside world, but this girl, now dressed in a light pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), showed no trace of the man who had once been there.

His waist kept moving. He couldn't stop. The increasingly perfect girl in the mirror looked at him—at himself—with an almost obsessive gaze—twisting her body, driven by the pleasure within her to make increasingly uncontrollable movements. Those shameful, wanton, pleasure-driven postures were all his own choices; he was the one moving them.

“My wife, you are finally going to have your own body. Your waist, legs, chest, skin—all of them are made in the image of the person you know best, respect most, and both love and fear every night. Look at you, you are exactly like your master. My wife, you are now my wife, and you always will be.”

Shen Du cried out, using his master's voice—not a short, sharp moan from the impact, but a long, seductive, and completely out-of-control groan. The groan escaped from the girl's lips and echoed in the bedroom.

Lu Qinghan was almost there too. She could feel the walls of her vaginal canal beginning to spasm uncontrollably, her cervix gripping the glans tightly and refusing to let go, and a wave of overwhelming soreness surging from deep within her lower abdomen. But she refused to arrive first—she wanted Shen Du to arrive first, she wanted him to kneel before the mirror so she could complete this perfect painting.

So she channeled all her remaining self-control into the walls of her vagina, beginning one last, and most intense, active contraction. It wasn't sucking, but rather "entwining"—the folds of the inner walls, like countless tiny tentacles, simultaneously enveloped his penis, from base to tip, every inch of the corpora cavernosa was bound, tightened, and sucked. Her cervix opened slightly, then tightened sharply, taking the most sensitive indentation at the tip of his glans into its mouth, beginning a high-frequency friction.

His penis twitched inside his master's body, then his semen gushed out. At the same time, his master's female genitals reached an unprecedented climax—his clitoris throbbed, the vaginal walls spasmed violently in emptiness, and his nectar gushed out like a burst dam, soaking his underpants and dripping onto the lining of his ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress). He knelt on the ground, the flesh-colored stockings his master had put on him by hand now damp with the fine dust from the cool bamboo mat, fraying slightly. The light pink ruqun spread out like a lotus flower spread on the ground, and the girl wearing this lotus flower looked up, her eyes vacant, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lips parted, uttering a final, tearful moan.

He had completely transformed into the girl in the mirror. Not only her face, voice, and skin, but even her dazed look and tear-streaked face after being overwhelmed by the climax no longer bore any resemblance to a man.

Lu Qinghan arrived with him. Her orgasm was synchronized with his—as his semen struck her cervix, the walls of her vagina contracted sharply to their limit, then erupted in a violent spasm. Her consciousness exploded within him in a burst of white light, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of satisfaction—she had succeeded. Her wife, her creation, her lover, was now kneeling before her, wearing the light blue-pink dress she had personally chosen, his body having brought him to the most complete climax.

The bedroom remained quiet for a long time. Only the crackling of the charcoal in the brazier and the occasional soft sound of snow falling from bamboo leaves outside the window could be heard. Shen Du lay face down before the bronze mirror, his pale pink dress scattered on the floor, a damp patch on the hem. His stockings had a thin rip at the knee, revealing his fair, pinkish skin beneath. His body still trembled slightly from the afterglow of his lovemaking, his fingers resting limply on the frame of the bronze mirror.

Lu Qinghan spoke gently. Her voice was like soothing a frightened little animal: "Wife, you did it. Today you wore my clothes, wore my face, and were taken by your husband. You don't have to be afraid anymore. Every day from now on can be like this—I will be inside you, I will make you feel good, I will make you come, and I will always take care of you."

Her voice was so soft it could be wrung out of water, but every drop of that water carried the stickiness of honey, falling drop by drop onto Shen Du's already crumbling psychological defenses.

Shen Du knelt before the bronze mirror, his fingers gripping the frame, panting heavily. Tears and saliva smeared his face, his delicate features contorted in a grimace, making him look utterly disheveled, yet also utterly pitiful and endearing. He gazed at the girl in the mirror—her face still exquisite and pure, her amber almond-shaped eyes brimming with tears, tiny teardrops clinging to her eyelashes. Her light pink dress was disheveled, and strands of hair clung to her cheeks.

He didn't look away for a long time. He stared blankly at the girl in the mirror for a while, his lips moving a few times before closing again. When Lu Qinghan let out a soft laugh, his shoulders trembled slightly, and then he responded slowly, in a very soft voice—

"...Yes. My wife...understands."