What Bad Intentions Could a Spoiled Little Brat Possibly have? - Chapter 31.2

However, Fu Zheng didn’t grip his hand. Instead, he gripped his wrist, like a doctor measuring a pulse, his fingers feeling the beat of his heart.

“Your heart is beating very fast,” Fu Zheng stated calmly, looking up at him. “What are you afraid of?”

Although Cheng Huai had been pampered into a bit of arrogance, and Fu Zheng let him “ride over his head” on minor matters unrelated to principles, the moment he faced Fu Zheng’s cold face and serious tone, that deep-seated instinctive awe would quietly awaken.

“I’m afraid of drowning,” Cheng Huai answered honestly.

Fu Zheng glanced at him, his fingertips stroking the tender skin on the inner side of his wrist: “Listen to me, and you won’t drown. Do you understand?”

Cheng Huai nodded.

“Say it,” Fu Zheng commanded.

Cheng Huai obediently repeated: “As long as I listen to Brother, I won’t drown.”

“Good.” Fu Zheng let go of his hand. “Now sit down and put your feet in the water.”

Fu Zheng slid into the water; the surface only reached his chest. With his palms facing up, he supported Cheng Huai’s extended ivory feet, guiding them to break the water’s surface. He then stood directly in front of Cheng Huai, bracing both hands against the pool’s edge, circling Cheng Huai within his arms.

“The first step of swimming isn’t paddling; it’s learning how to breathe in the water,” Fu Zheng’s gaze locked onto him. “And the first step of breathing is learning to hold your breath. For the first time, hold it for five seconds. Are you ready?”

Cheng Huai took a deep breath and nodded.

The first breath-hold was very successful. After a few tries, Fu Zheng gradually extended the time.

“This time, it’s one minute,” Fu Zheng’s voice came through the water, slightly muffled. “I don’t let you up, you are not allowed to come up.”

Cheng Huai was gently pressed into the water by those steady hands.

The first ten seconds or so were peaceful, but as time passed, the sensation of air being snatched away inch by inch from his chest became clear.

At the half-minute mark, his survival instinct began to scream. Cheng Huai couldn’t help but struggle underwater, wanting to surface, but remembering Fu Zheng’s command, he forced himself to stop and continued to endure.

The feeling of suffocation grew heavier, his eardrums buzzed, and a numb stinging sensation began to spread to his extremities. Just as he felt his consciousness was about to drift away, those powerful hands finally lifted him out of the water.

Cheng Huai immediately jerked his head up, coughing wretchedly, and kept burrowing into Fu Zheng’s arms, desperately wanting his brother to hold him.

But Fu Zheng pulled away the arms that were clinging to him, not allowing him to get close.

Cheng Huai was stunned. His eyes quickly turned red; grievance and confusion surged within him.

Ultimately, Fu Zheng’s heart softened. The first swimming lesson was thus declared a failure.

After getting out of the water, Fu Zheng wrapped him in a bath towel, his hands firm as he wiped his hair, back, and limbs. Cheng Huai rubbed against Fu Zheng’s chest, looked up, and said, “Brother, I don’t want to learn anymore, okay?”

Fu Zheng had already returned to that gentle persona, whispering, “I’ll let you off this time. We’ll continue next time.”

Cheng Huai sighed, knowing resistance was futile, and could only resign himself to burying his face deeper into his brother’s warm embrace.

Through many restless nights and bewildered mornings, Cheng Huai gradually came to understand a truth.

Fu Zheng’s pampering of him was never an unprincipled indulgence, but a gentle imprisonment permeated with instruction and control.

At some unknown point perhaps intentionally, or perhaps just through the inertia of long-term dependence Cheng Huai discovered, tragically, that once he left Fu Zheng, he seemed to lose the most basic ability to function as an independent individual.

If not in Fu Zheng’s arms, he would stay awake all night until dawn. Without Fu Zheng to dress him, he could sit blankly on the bed wrapped in a quilt all morning, lost. When eating, if Fu Zheng didn’t pick up the utensils to feed him, he would face a table of food with no idea how to start, preferring to go hungry.

His world was simplified into a multiple-choice question: before doing anything, he had to obtain Fu Zheng’s permission. His brother’s nod was the green light for his actions; his brother’s silence was a warning to stop.

Therefore, when he experienced the burgeoning curiosity and restlessness typical of an adolescent, the first and only person he could think to turn to for help was still Fu Zheng.

It was a sweltering afternoon. He had hidden in the locked bathroom, trying to resolve those unspeakable desires by himself.

Steam rose, blurring the mirror and the glass window; his vision was a hazy mess, much like his confused and shameful heart.

He tried and groped in vain, but he absolutely could not finish.

Cheng Huai realized despondently that this body simply wouldn’t listen to him; it only recognized Fu Zheng.

His body had been stroked and embraced by Fu Zheng for years; it had long since subconsciously recognized its master.

Fu Zheng had held him for so many years, from infancy to youth. Countless days and nights of physical intimacy and meticulous care had made Fu Zheng intimately familiar with every sensitive spot, every vulnerability, and every boundary of pleasure and pain on this body.

Where a light stroke would make him tremble, where a press would make him whimper, and where a touch would make him collapse Fu Zheng could do it all with ease.

Cheng Huai was a person raised and “taught” by Fu Zheng. From living habits to emotional patterns, from physical reactions to thinking habits, from the inside out, every detail was deeply imprinted with Fu Zheng’s mark, subject to his invisible control and discipline.

That was why he had never successfully relieved himself on his own.

In the years when Fu Zheng left him to go to university, this sense of powerlessness reached its peak.

He secretly hid Fu Zheng’s photos, put on the clothes Fu Zheng had left behind, and uncontrollably replayed those blurry and scorching fantasies in his mind.

But every single time, it ended in failure.

No matter how hard he tried, it didn’t work.

Without Fu Zheng, it was impossible.

Inside the washroom, the air was hot and thin.

Cheng Huai urgently pressed himself against Fu Zheng’s leg.

The plain white ceiling of the washroom seemed to alternate between being far and near, sometimes shrouded in the lingering mist and sometimes struck clear by an unknown light. The overlap of reality and illusion made him dizzy.

“Brother…” Cheng Huai bit his lower lip, the mist in the air seeming to seep into his eyes.

Fu Zheng didn’t respond to his call. Instead, he gripped his waist and pushed him back irresistibly. Cheng Huai’s back pressed against the cold edge of the sink.

Immediately following that, he felt Fu Zheng’s hands reach behind from his waist, accurately finding the end of the dress’s slit. Without warning, there was the sharp rip of fabric. The thin material of the dress was torn open from the back into a long gash, instantly turning into a few broken pieces of cloth that hung precariously around his waist.

Fu Zheng turned him around so that Cheng Huai was facing the mirror, held him in his arms, and whispered in his ear, “I will only teach you once. Watch carefully.”

The moment the words fell, Cheng Huai froze in place.

Memories of learning to swim as a child came rushing back: the fingers pressing on his shoulders, the gradually thinning air, the suffocation of nearly drowning. He shrank back, wanting to hide; a sensation he had never felt before made his back go rigid in an instant.

“Brother, wait…”

Cheng Huai’s knees pressed together, and the toes of his two feet curled into each other.

Suddenly, he didn’t want his brother to help him anymore.

The scene in the mirror was too stimulating for him.

Fu Zheng was dressed in a formal suit, serious and cold, while his own dress was ruined from top to bottom.

In the small space, the rustling sound of fabric rubbing could be heard. The faucet that hadn’t been fully closed during his bath was dripping at a constant, slow rhythm into the bathtub below. A small amount of water hadn’t drained yet, and each drop that fell created a tiny ripple, making a hollow and lingering echo.

Fu Zheng reached out and pressed the valve, cutting off the dripping sound behind them.

Cheng Huai’s legs were weak. Occasionally, when he couldn’t stand steadily, he was held up by the person who gripped the dress hanging behind him to steady him.

Finally, Cheng Huai raised his arms and hugged Fu Zheng’s neck from behind, his head falling heavily onto the other man’s broad, reliable shoulder.

Five minutes later, accompanied by the light thud of a leather shoe stepping on the floor, the person in his arms let out a broken, extreme plea filled with a pitiful sob: “Brother…”

Fu Zheng lowered his gaze, and in that lazy tone that was both nonchalant and controlling, he clearly and slowly whispered two words in his ear.

Upon receiving permission, Cheng Huai instantly tensed. The mirror became blurred. Through the haze, he saw his own unique “masterpiece” an abstract ink painting created with the most primitive force of life.

He leaned in Fu Zheng’s arms, his eyes vacant, panting heavily as he slowly calmed his violently heaving chest.

This release had been suppressed for several years, and Cheng Huai couldn’t recover in a short time. However, fearing that Fu Zheng might suddenly stop caring for him, he hurriedly spoke while his breath was still unsteady:

“Brother, your… your hand is dirty… let me wipe it for you…”

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