The air in Shanghai was thick with unspoken rules. At eighteen, I’d traded my old life for Li Wei, twenty-three, and his world. The hierarchy was immediate. His mother, *Popo*, taught me the first lesson: a wife’s place is to serve, silently. Chinese politeness wasn’t just please and thank you; it was a complex dance of deference I kept stumbling through.

That night, after a day of brewing tea and bowing my head, Wei closed our bedroom door. The polite mask dropped. His eyes, dark and possessive, scanned my body.

“You learn slow,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But here, you will learn.”

He pushed me onto the bed, his hands rough on my hips. My pussy clenched, a mix of fear and raw need. He stripped me, his fingers pinching my nipples until they were hard, aching peaks. He used crude, beautiful words. “Your tight little cunt is mine to open. Your tits are for my mouth.”

His politeness was gone, replaced by a carnal authority that made me wet. He ordered me to my knees. “Suck my dick. Learn its taste.” I took his thick cock into my mouth, the salty pre-cum hitting my tongue. He fucked my face, his grip in my hair, setting a brutal rhythm. “Good girl,” he grunted, the praise shooting straight to my core.

He flipped me onto my stomach, my ass in the air. “Your duty,” he whispered, spreading my cheeks. His tongue lapped at my slit, then probed my asshole, making me cry out. The sounds were