Chapter 5

Slowly, this intoxicating routine settled into our lives like the steady rhythm of the Star Ferry chugging across Victoria Harbour, three or four times a week without fail. Vanessa would strap on the harness in our dimly lit Mid-Levels bedroom, the city lights twinkling outside like scattered mahjong tiles, and she would fuck my ass deep and deliberate, gradually working up from the eight-incher to the nine, and finally mastering the massive ten-inch beast that stretched me wide open, my hole gaping and slick with lube as she pounded relentlessly, her hips snapping forward with a dominance that left me gasping and begging for more in hushed Cantonese whispers. So deep, don’t stop. Please. We both conquered that monster toy together, her commands guiding every thrust while I arched back submissively, my body yielding completely to her rhythm. Afterward, she would flip the script just enough to keep me hooked, ordering me to buckle on the harness myself and fuck her pussy, though she had fallen into this habit of demanding doggy style every time, her firm ass presented high like a challenge from a Temple Street vendor, or slipping a blindfold over her eyes if she lay on her back facing me, as if the sight of my softening form diminished her pleasure, turning me into her obedient tool once more.

She even took charge of my diet with that doctorly precision, insisting on more fluids throughout the day—freshly squeezed lemon honey water from the cha chaan teng downstairs, hearty wonton soups from the dai pai dong in Sheung Wan for dinner—and I learned to prep my butt meticulously before our sessions, kneeling in the bathroom with the enema kit she bought from a pharmacy in Mong Kok, flushing myself clean until I felt empty and ready for her invasion, the warm water rushing out like a ritual offering to her growing authority. I started craving those nights fiercely, my sensitive nipples hardening at the mere thought, but one humid evening after a typhoon warning had cleared the streets, she stopped cold, retreating back to her frigid shell, barely exchanging words with me over breakfast congee or dinner takeaways, her inscrutable gaze fixed on her phone like a tai tai scrolling through Instagram Stories.

I wasn’t sure what had shifted in the foggy air of our home, so I chatted with my personal trainer, a sharp-eyed Filipina named Lena who also sculpted Vanessa’s body at Pure Fitness in Central, hoping for some insight amid the sweat of our post-cardio cooldown. I had gotten damn good at yoga by then, twisting into limber poses that made my hips sway like a lantern dancer at the Mid-Autumn Festival, and we hammered squats relentlessly, my glutes rounding out tighter and fuller, jiggling slightly with each deep lunge under the studio’s harbor-view mirrors. My gynecomastia had worsened if anything, those puffy mounds on my chest swelling into little boobs that strained against my dri-fit shirt, hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, sending jolts straight to my groin so that my cock—now shrunken to barely the size and girth of my pinky finger—would drip sticky precum into my shorts without a single touch. I wondered if the hormone pills Vanessa prescribed from her hospital stash were doing more harm than good, secretly Googling chest binders on my phone during lunch at a Lan Kwai Fong cafe, and I quit showering in the men’s locker room altogether, too mortified by my tiny dick flopping uselessly amid the hung locals soaping up, opting instead to rush home through the MTR crowds to rinse off in private.

Desperate to mend whatever rift had cracked open, I tried making peace like a proper Hong Kong husband—picked up a bouquet of vibrant orchids from the flower market in Prince Edward, scrubbed our flat spotless until it gleamed like a showflat in Discovery Bay, even ironed her white doctor’s coat hanging in the closet. Finally, I staked out the hospital entrance in Queen Mary, leaning against a lamppost as the evening rush thickened with office workers spilling from Central. When Vanessa emerged, laughing brightly, she was deep in conversation with another doctor, their vibe electric and intimate. This guy towered over everyone, super muscular with chiseled features like a K-drama idol crossed with a rugby player from the Hong Kong Sevens, his white coat stretched taut over broad shoulders. She kept twirling her hair, giggling in that girly trill she never unleashed around me, her hand brushing his arm lightly as they strolled toward the car park.

Jealousy boiled up hot and vicious inside me, visions of punching the smug bastard flashing through my mind, but reality crashed in hard—I was much shorter, the same height as Vanessa, skinny and softened and petite, my micro-dick no match for his alpha presence; I’d get flattened in seconds, left bruised on the pavement like a discarded pineapple bun wrapper. My confidence evaporated as I shuffled up, voice cracking. ‘Hey, Van.’ She spotted me and looked away sharply, her expression icing over. ‘Max, what are you doing here? I told you never to come to my work, lei ming mei a?’—don’t you understand? ‘I just wanted to wait for you, pick you up like a good husband.’

‘Who’s this?’ the giant doctor rumbled, stepping forward protectively, his massive frame looming like a bouncer at a Wan Chai club. ‘Vannie, you okay? Shall I get rid of him, ah?’

‘No need, Charles,’ Vanessa replied coolly, her tone brooking no argument as she placed a hand on his forearm possessively. ‘He’s my husband, Max.’ Charles threw his head back and burst out laughing, a deep bellow that echoed off the hospital walls, then clapped a heavy palm on my shoulder, nearly buckling my knees. ‘Oh, so you’re Max! Don’t worry, bro, Vannie’s just my work wife, man—it’s all good, lah.’ He winked conspiratorially, slinging a thick arm around my shoulders in a bro-hug that trapped me against his rock-hard side, his expensive cologne—something crisp like ocean breeze from a Tsim Sha Tsui duty-free—wafting over me, making my cheeks flush hot and my stomach flutter shyly. I stammered, ‘Yeah, I’m not worried at all. Just wanted to be nice to Van, you know?’

The taxi ride home crawled through Admiralty traffic in heavy silence, Vanessa staring out at the neon blur of Times Square billboards, her knee not even brushing mine. Back in our flat, I hovered like a nervous cuck, placating her with soft pleas as she kicked off her heels. ‘What’s the matter, Van? Why are you so angry? What did I do wrong? She whirled on me, eyes flashing like lightning. ‘Wrong? Everything! You did everything wrong.’

She revealed everything to me right there in our Mid-Levels flat, her voice cutting through the humid air like a typhoon siren. ‘I know all about your cheating, Max—all your trips to those sleazy massage parlors in Mong Kok, all your so-called client meetings at the hostess bars in Wan Chai. It’s all there on the credit card statements, in your search history, on your Google Maps timeline, even in your chat logs. You’re such an idiot.’ She fumed, her cheeks flushed red, eyes blazing with betrayal as she paced the living room, the skyline glittering mockingly outside our floor-to-ceiling windows.