Deep within the Yingluo Estate lay the Changsheng Pavilion, the abode of Jiang Hua.
Yutang stood before a room of antique charm. Her lustrous, jet-black hair—seemingly freshly washed—rested damply against her shoulders, which were as white and smooth as jade.
She wore only a white gauze dress with slender straps; her full, rounded breasts strained against the fabric, creating two faint, cherry-pink protrusions that betrayed the fact she wore nothing underneath.
Her shapely, alluring curves were partially visible through the sheer gauze. The moisture caused her flawless, milky skin to cling to the dress, revealing a rosy, tender flush that was indescribably seductive.
Yutang bit her cherry-red lips, hesitating as if the room ahead were a tiger's den—a place where, once she stepped inside, she would be devoured completely. "Hehe, come on in."
Suddenly, a voice drifted out from within—carrying the playful tone characteristic of an elder, yet possessing a timbre that defied classification as young, middle-aged, or old.
"What are you hesitating for? Is there any part of your body I haven't seen or licked? Why be shy now?" A blush instantly rose to the young woman's lovely face, and she silently cursed under her breath: *You lecherous old man.*
Yet, she couldn't help but recall those painful days of the past. Back then, she had just begun to understand love and had set her heart on her older brother, Li Dong; to him, however, she was merely a little girl who loved to act spoiled.
Although her older sister often called him a "big dummy" or a "bad guy," the way the two exchanged affectionate glances filled her with envy.
Her sister would appear in a white dress with snow-white, bare feet, while she—no matter how sweetly she called out "Brother"—could never capture his gaze.
In her brother's eyes, she was forever just his "little sister"—no matter how adorable or lovely she might be, she remained nothing more than that. Her older brother knew she was fond of him, but he didn't interpret it as the romantic affection a girl feels for a boy; instead, he mistook it for the playful, affectionate behavior of a younger sister toward her older brother—unaware that she understood the distinction perfectly and knew exactly how to tell the two kinds of affection apart.
Whenever she clung to him and felt the warmth of skin-to-skin contact, she felt a glow of contentment and comfort deep inside; the budding flower of her awakening desire seemed to weep tiny drops of nectar, echoing the surging tide of love within her heart.
He couldn't see the languid, seductive look in her eyes as she lay in his arms—or perhaps he did see it but chose to pretend otherwise.
There were so many times she would deliberately go without panties beneath her cute little skirt; she would straddle his lap, wrap her arms around his neck in a show of playfulness, and—whether by accident or design—part her shapely legs against his body.
She knew full well that her short skirt couldn't hide the intimate sights beneath.
She even knew exactly which angles would best arouse a man's desire—revealing just enough to tempt without exposing everything completely. Sometimes she would flash him a glimpse of a pale, rounded buttock; other times, a peek at the glistening, dewy folds of her youthful sex. She had, after all, practiced these moves earnestly in front of her mirror.
Whenever she caught his gaze sweeping over her—only for his breathing to quicken, his expression to freeze in sudden, flustered embarrassment, and his cheeks to flush crimson—she felt an immense sense of satisfaction. It was only in those moments that he truly saw her as a girl—as a woman—rather than just his little sister.
Yet, unfortunately, he seemed to be gradually realizing something, and he became reluctant to share such intimacy with her anymore.
So, the girl began to feign frailty, using it to draw his attention and concern. Her acting was superb, successfully winning his pity and his devoted, meticulous care. However, she hadn't anticipated that overdoing it would backfire; feigning illness not only worried her older brother but also caused her mother, Luo Qingying, to become deeply anxious about her health. Instead of taking her to a hospital, her mother sent her to the Changsheng Temple—a place she trusted above all others—to have Jiang Hua, a renowned old man, oversee her recuperation.
At first, the young girl didn't think the situation was particularly serious, but within a few days, she noticed something amiss.
Although she wasn't the type to be fussy about her bed or unable to sleep in unfamiliar places, she found herself sleeping far too deeply every night. Her dreams were bizarre—wild, turbulent affairs akin to a rollercoaster ride, plunging from the heavens to the depths of the earth and back again.
Yet, she was completely unable to wake up during the night; it was like being trapped in a nightmare, leaving her drenched in a sheen of sweat by the time she finally roused herself each morning.
The strangeness didn't end there. Every morning, she could sense a lingering, peculiar sensation across her entire body—a feeling that clung to every inch of her skin. Her skin was exceptionally delicate and sensitive; even a simple touch would leave a faint, lasting impression long after the contact had ceased.
Such a sensation could only result from every inch of her tender skin having been touched.
Moreover, the feeling persisted long after she woke up, suggesting it was no ordinary touch... even the spaces between her toes held a lingering, odd sensation, as if they had been greedily sucked upon, one by one.
From then on, the girl remained vigilant. One morning, the sensation became increasingly pronounced—and this time, the feeling was most intense between her legs.
Her heart sank as she parted her legs to examine herself... the area between her thighs felt swollen and taut, plump and full; the flesh was as tender and soft as a freshly steamed bun, yet parted down the middle like the cleft of a ripe peach. Normally, they remained tightly closed, sandwiching a pair of delicate, finely pleated, and exquisitely pink inner labia—much like a small butterfly. Even the plump outer labia could not fully conceal them; instead, a portion peeked out, resembling shyly unfurling petals or a tender butterfly with wings held close, poised to bloom.
Nestled within that fair, soft, and gently parted lower region was a splash of vivid pink...
She loved sitting on her older brother's lap; her shapely legs would be splayed to the sides by the pressure, and as her skirt rode up, the plump mound between her thighs would part slightly, revealing that fresh, delicate "butterfly" in full bloom to his gaze.
Recalling her brother's flushed, handsome face—uncertain of where to look yet unable to tear his eyes away from her—the young girl felt a mix of shyness and deep, heartfelt happiness, satisfaction, and joy.
Unlike many girls her age who paid little attention to their private parts—or perhaps didn't even know what they looked like—she was different.