King of Soldiers: The Hunter

"Azure Seas & Skies" Grand Bathhouse Emerging from the sweltering embrace of the sauna, Zhang Ziwen felt his muscles liquefy, his body weightless as if floating. He stepped into the shower, letting the torrent wash away the beads of sweat clinging to his skin. After slipping into the disposable paper briefs provided by the bathhouse and draping a towel around his waist, he ascended to the second-floor lounge. The spacious hall was dotted with plush recliners, many already occupied by patrons lost in quiet repose. Spotting an empty seat, Zhang collapsed onto the yielding cushion, sighing as the recliner cradled his exhausted frame. What a haven, he mused. Fifty yuan to lounge here all night—this spot my buddy recommended is truly a steal. "Miss—" A nearby attendant, summoned by his call, glided over with practiced grace. Her fitted qipao accentuated a figure both elegant and alluring, her voice a mellifluous chime. "How may I assist you, sir?" "Fetch me a pack of cigarettes." "Certainly. Which brand would you prefer?" "Soft Chunghwa." As she departed, Zhang smirked inwardly. Tonight’s luck at 'Landlord' card game netted me three hundred yuan. Why not splurge? He mentally charged the evening’s indulgences to his defeated friends. The attendant soon returned, presenting the cigarettes with a disposable lighter. Zhang lit one, inhaling deeply before exhaling a languid swirl of smoke. The smooth richness of Chunghwa—worth every yuan. "Anything else, sir?" "Not for now." "Perhaps a therapeutic massage? Our techniques are exceptional." Her tone dripped with suggestive hospitality. Zhang hesitated. His body ached, but the prices here surely dwarfed those of backstreet blind masseurs. "You seem fatigued, sir. I merely thought to suggest it," she added swiftly, noting his pause. "What are the rates?" He cringed at his own frugality but needed clarity to avoid embarrassment. "Options range from sixty to eight hundred yuan." Like a magician, she produced a laminated menu. Scanning the tiers—60, 80, 90, up to 800—Zhang settled on the 120-yuan "European Massage." What even is that? "Very well, sir. Follow me." Her voice softened further, eyes glinting with unspoken commission. That smirk—definitely getting a kickback, Zhang thought wryly. Beyond the lounge, a hushed corridor lined with closed doors awaited. Some bore "Do Not Disturb" lights; others, like theirs, stood invitingly dark. The attendant ushered him into a dimly lit chamber adorned with tasteful oil paintings—one a provocatively draped bather—and a lone massage bed draped in crisp linen. Moments later, a gentle knock. "Sir, may I come in?" The voice was honeyed and sweet. "Mm, come in." The door opened softly, revealing a young woman carrying a small basin. Inside lay a plastic bottle and a snow-white towel draped over the edge. Zhang Ziwen glanced at her—she couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, with an oval face lightly touched by makeup, delicate and pleasing to the eye. Her figure was alluring, clad in a snug camisole and an impossibly short skirt, both in pristine white. Zhang surmised this was likely the standard uniform for masseuses—provocative by design. A numbered badge was pinned to the swell of her chest. 08, he noted silently. Probably her identifier. As Miss No. 8 bent to set down the basin, her skirt rode up, revealing the curve of her plump backside and a flash of white panties—enough to tempt sin. Zhang swallowed hard. "Sir, could you turn over and lie face down? We’ll begin with your back." Her voice was saccharine. Thank God for that, Zhang thought. The glimpse of forbidden lace had stirred an inconvenient reaction; this position would spare him embarrassment. A cool liquid trickled onto his back, followed by the glide of soft hands spreading it in smooth, practiced strokes. The pressure was perfect—firm yet soothing—drawing a contented sigh from him. "Is the pressure to your liking, sir?" Her tone dripped syrupy sweetness. "Mm." "Is this your first time here for a treatment?" "How could you tell?" "You’re unfamiliar. I know most of our regular clients." "Yeah, first time. By the way—what’s this you’re using on my back?" The moment he asked, he regretted it. The question sounded painfully naive. "Baby oil. Haven’t you tried a European massage before?" "No." Great. Now she thinks I’m some clueless rookie. "No wonder you didn’t recognize it," she giggled, a hint of teasing in her voice. Ugh. She does think I’m green. Irritation prickled under his skin. "Sir, could you remove the towel? I’ll work below the waist now." Her slender fingers had already begun kneading the dip of his lower back, her request delivered with practiced gentleness. Wait—the disposable underwear under the towel is sheer. Wouldn’t that—? Zhang hesitated. "It’s standard for European massage, sir. Otherwise, I can’t apply the oil properly." Her reassurance was soft, as if soothing a skittish animal. Well, if it’s normal… Not wanting to seem prudish, Zhang lifted his hips slightly, allowing her to slide the towel away. But then—what the hell?—her fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear. His breath hitched. "Don’t be shy, sir. You’ll get used to it." Her whisper was velvet, laced with something illicit, as if this were the most mundane thing in the world. What could he say? If she wasn’t embarrassed, why should he be? Resigned, he let her peel away the last scrap of modesty. What else could Ziwen say? Since you show no modesty, why should I feel ashamed? If baring myself for your gaze is all there is to it, then so be it. With this realization, he surrendered his last vestige of dignity, complying as she removed his final covering—the thin veil of his underwear. A fresh wave of coolness cascaded over his waist, his bare buttocks, even the delicate cleft between them—an exhilarating chill that seeped into his very bones, indescribably pleasurable. The skilled hands of Miss No. 8 glided with practiced ease along the contours of his lower back, her touch sinuous and assured, descending gradually until they reached his exposed flesh. Then, just as Ziwen had feared, her nimble fingers trespassed into forbidden territory. The sensitive recesses yielded to her delicate kneading, each subtle pressure sending electric tremors coursing through him, threatening to shatter his composure. Had he not clenched his jaw, the overwhelming pleasure would have wrung a groan from his lips. D*mn it. Beneath him, his body betrayed its own tension, muscles taut with involuntary anticipation. "Sir, please turn over," Miss No. 8 murmured, her voice laced with husky suggestion. He felt the whisper of her lips against the nape of his ear, followed by a warm, teasing breath that sent a shiver down his spine. At last, the truth dawned on Ziwen. This so-called European massage was nothing but the infamous "happy ending" his buddies had bragged about—where skilled hands delivered a merciless, yet euphoric finale. Hell. His traitorous arousal left him no choice but to remain facedown, too mortified to reveal the full extent of his desperation.