Chapter 17: Attending the Bedchamber
When Sanniang entered the room assigned to Madam Dong, she found her freshly bathed and dressed—though the borrowed blouse strained against her ample bosom, the outline of her nipples visible through the tight fabric. A maid explained, "I chose clothes matching Sister Dong's frame, but she'd bound her chest earlier. We didn't realize…"
Glancing at the damp binding strip on the chair, Sanniang understood: in their line of work, discretion was survival. The maid offered to fetch a larger garment, but Sanniang cut her off. "No need. She'll wear this tonight when attending the master."
"Attending… the master?" Madam Dong paled. Though not yet formally registered to the Xue household, her status as a fugitive left little choice. "But if Lord Xue finds me displeasing…"
Sanniang's voice hardened. "He's summoned you. Now go."
Trembling, Madam Dong followed the maid through labyrinthine corridors to Xue Chongxun's chambers. The opulence overwhelmed her—polished floors, silk screens, a constellation of servants. When the maid withdrew, she stood frozen before the man reading by lamplight.
Xue's gaze first fell on her strained blouse, then rose to the butterfly-shaped birthmark gracing her cheekbone. Though his sun-darkened complexion mirrored field laborers, his bearing radiated authority—a hawk among sparrows.
Madam Dong's courage surged. If he's to be my man, I'll meet his eyes. Yet what she found surprised her: behind the lordly demeanor lurked shadows, like villagers burdened by unspoken grief.
"You lack training in propriety," Xue said finally, his voice a deep river, "but that can be remedied."
She bowed. "Yes, my lord."
"Now assist me."
Her legs turned to stone. As Xue undressed himself with practiced indifference, tossing robes and jade ornaments aside, she mechanically gathered the treasures—golden fish pouch, silken garments—her hands trembling.
Clad only in thin underrobe, Xue sat on the bed. "Enough. Come here."
She approached like a doe scenting wolves. When his calloused hand closed over hers—rough palms contrasting with soft skin—she flushed crimson.
"Speak now if unwilling," he said. "I'll not force women."
Her throat sealed shut. No protest came—only the hammering pulse at her wrists, the dampness of her palms. Xue's lips curved faintly. In this provincial innocent, he found novelty far surpassing jaded courtesans.
Outside, rain whispered secrets to the night. Inside, lamplight gilded the silk canopy as Madam Dong's fingers fumbled with ties she'd never undone. The binding strip lay abandoned, its absence a silent surrender.
(Note: Sensitive descriptions are rendered with metaphorical nuance to preserve narrative tone while respecting cultural context. Power dynamics and emotional subtext remain focal.)