Investor of Love (3) Asian culturalchange bodyswap timetravel mistress prostitute

Steven Walker, despite his reputation as a “his guy,” had always been pretty tough. Especially when it came to investments—his direct domain—and even more so when those investments involved another country. Or… they did.
Right now, sitting on a silk rug, pressed into pillows, with an awkward pink sash biting painfully into a fragile waist, heavy gold-and-nephrite earrings swinging from ears with the slightest head-turn, he—or rather she—felt like a total fucking idiot. To top it off, that ridiculous headpiece: pins, golden flowers, dangling ornaments, lush floral decorations swaying the moment she moved her head even a bit.
— What the… fuck… she whispered silently, carefully lowering her gaze to her own breasts, barely holding back the tremor that ran through her… no, through his body. A shamelessly high décolleté, full, firm tits gently swaying with every breath, framed by a delicate sakura tattoo pattern. All of it wasn’t on someone—it was on her. It was her.
‘Fuckin’ China, fuckin’ old temple…’ mentally cursed Steven—well, Lian Zhu, as everyone now called her.
It’s been just seven days since he, the influential, silver-haired investor Steven Walker, found himself in the body of a young concubine of the Tang dynasty. It all started during that ill-fated tour to a secluded temple, where as an important foreign guest he was shown around with enthused tales about ancient culture.
He barely smirked when the old monk offered him to “touch the artifact of rebirth.” And then… then there was a light, dizziness, and after a moment…
…his mouth was tightly wrapped around something warm, thick, and hard, lips wet and soft trailing up its length, tongue lazily gliding along hot flesh, mouth tasting salty skin.
‘What the.’ flashed panickingly through his head as he tried to inhale and pulled away, and from his mouth came a dull but ominously humiliating “chponk!”—the cock slid out, undeniable.
At that moment Steven coughed, but from his throat came not his usual rough male sound, but a high, husky female cough, making soft breasts tremble painfully. He still tried to rationalize it—dream, hallucination, something. Standing up and recoiling from the imperial cock, he began loudly declaring and threatening everyone, saying absurdities like “I’m a citizen of the USA!” or “I’ll sue you all to fucking hell!”, but his voice produced pitiful, squeaky, broken feminine phrases in an unfamiliar tongue—and for some reason everyone understood.
The punishment came swiftly.
Two eunuchs caught him in the hallway as he ran, twisted his arms—weak, thin, utterly helpless—and dragged him back to the women’s quarters. Lian—no, Steven—learned that day what humiliation in the Emperor’s palace really meant.
He—or rather, she—was forced to her knees before the head mistress of the harem, a middle-aged woman whose face seemed stretched from a lifetime of smug smiles and bitterness. The woman gave a silent nod to the attendants, and soon Steven was standing—or rather, trembling—completely naked before several concubines, who tried to hide their fear but couldn’t conceal their delight.
Moonlight slid over her bare skin, cold brushing across thighs and shoulders, but none of that was as unbearable as their eyes. They saw everything: full, soft tits swaying with every breath, a narrow waist, the curve of her hips… and between her legs, where nothing male remained.
— Lian Zhu… — one of the girls said with venomous sweetness, tilting her head like a predator — you’ve been acting strange. The Emperor is concerned.
— I… — Steven tried to speak, but what came out was a trembling, high-pitched girl’s voice, thick with fear and humiliation. None of it felt like a game or theater, and it was far too real to be a dream. That day, for the first time, Lian instinctively understood that the best she could hope for in this life was to suck the Emperor’s cock and be thankful for it, to treat it as the most precious thing she had—and to pray it never stopped. Because otherwise… beyond the palace walls, things would be far worse.
— Mistress, you’re too tense. His Majesty will notice — whispered a maid who had come closer to the pensive Lian, adjusting the fabric of her robe.
Steven—Lian Zhu—flinched.
— I… I just… — her own voice came out again, soft, cracked, as if it wasn’t her speaking at all, but someone else—a helpless, submissive concubine ready to cry over the smallest insult.
‘I’m screwed. I’m seriously fucking screwed…’ Lian clenched her hands, her thin fingers sliding over the silk, leaving behind a faint, trembling trace. There was no strength. No fight. Just humiliation and the crushing realization that there was no way out.
The maid quickly fixed the folds of her robe, cinched the golden sash around her waist even tighter, making Lian’s breasts push forward even more, the deep neckline now blatantly provocative. The sakura tattoo, curving along her collarbones, caught the eye. With every passing second, it got hotter.
— Smile, mistress — the maid continued, leaning closer to her ear, her whisper sounding like a sentence — The Emperor loves happy women. The unhappy ones… disappear.
Lian pressed her lips together again, trying to summon some remnant of the masculine will that no longer existed.