2 - A saint, or a bitch? 

  Brent suddenly felt thirsty. His fingers on the armrest of the wheelchair twitched absently. He saw Elisa grab the woman's breasts which were like a small, tender dove and take a big suck on the nipple, her fleshy cheeks puffing out.

  "Haah... Uugh..." Hermosa seemed to be sore and gave a low moan,  "Ohhh...Eat slowly, you're teething ......"

  She was breastfeeding.

  No wonder.

  This evening, the woman had volunteered to cook for Brent. He didn't refuse and even made a friendly gesture of asking if she needed something to eat.

  The woman suddenly blushed, equivocated and said "No... sir ..."

  Brent knew that with a few extra shots of empty pregnancy prolactin a woman could produce more breast milk even in some extreme cases, breast milk could replace food. But this child in front of him was past the age of breastfeeding in any case, not to mention that these were not war-torn times when food was scarce.

  What on earth was this child to her? At first, Brent thought she was her sister, but then he considered the possibility that her man's ex-wife had given birth to her and brought her out as revenge.

  But now it was clear that neither of those guesses was valid.

Brent stared intently at the delicately bulging curve of the woman's chest gradually losing his concentration.  The visual effect of an over-sexy woman suddenly wrapped up in motherhood like a fallen angel, was strange, like forcing two ill-fitting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together with a sense of inversion.

Brent heard her ask warmly, "Finished?" and took the baby to her left breast.

  The swollen, wet nipple was exposed to Brent's eyes, and the pale red areola was enlarged by a ring. The child's growing teeth left a few pale teeth marks on the white breast, adding a touch of eroticism to what was a perfectly normal, even sacred, act.

  Interesting.

  How could a woman, a gorgeous woman dressed in such a sexy and even seductive way, be a saint and a bitch at the same time?

  Brent thought of the excessively short hot trousers she was wearing, the way she had allowed him to play with the bruises on her legs and pursed his dry lips with heavy breaths when he saw the woman lift her head and smile at him.

  The woman looked up and smiled at him.

  Those large, crystal-clear eyes curved up, and the little moles under them and on her cheeks were filled with a sweet, loving look.

  Brent's heartbeats briefly stopped, and he intuitively felt the annoyance and embarrassment of being discovered as a spy.

  His first thought was that this person had discovered the cameras and bugs he had hidden on the wall, and the next he heard the woman smiling and patting Elisa on the back.

  "Elisa look, pomegranate flowers."

  It turned out she was looking at the wall art painting. 11.

  Brent didn't feel half relieved. Forcing himself to look away from the monitor, he didn't even want to continue the experiment, so he went back to his bedroom, swallowed two sleeping pills and closed his eyes. As in the past, the drug-induced drowsiness and Brent's consciousness pulled him toward the endless darkness. He went to sleep exhausted and was awakened the next morning by the commotion of walking around outside.

  "Morning, sir."

  The woman was taking the baked bread out of the toaster when Brent went out in his wheelchair and smiled at him in greeting.

  "I didn't ask you to cook."

  "I know, I ......"

  The woman turned her head a little nervously to look at the closed curtains, the rain continuing outside. She had changed back into those denim hot trousers. As she leaned over to set her plate on the table, she went to wash her hands at the kitchen sink.

  Her healthy, greasy thighs and plump hips wrapped tightly in the hot trousers were always dangling in front of Brent's eyes, intentionally or unintentionally, almost completely dominating his view. The woman was so thin, yet her thighs were as plump as frozen, delicate lamb's fat.

  "I just wanted to do something for you."

  “Hmm” Brent responded noncommittally, watching the curve of her waistline as she leaned down, suddenly finding the person in front of him more and more hateful.

   He sliced a piece of toast with his knife and watched the soft, golden egg ooze slowly out of the sunny side up, asking absently as he ate, "Where is she?"

  "You mean Elisa?" the woman reacted slowly, her brow rippling with a tenderness she hadn't even realized was there, "She is sleeping upstairs."

"She's your child?"

  "Oh...Sir, yes."

  "You were married to a man before?" Brent asked. It could have been a perfectly ordinary question, but the woman's face flushed through again.

  She stammered and didn't give a definitive answer, so Brent took it as her acquiescence and asked again, "And why did you stay with this man afterwards?"

  "I ......" The woman was so embarrassed that her knuckles began to turn white as she gripped her knife and fork.

  She barely dared to look at Brent, who sat calmly and upright in front of her. There was nothing incorrect with Mr.'s language. As she reflected on her history, it was difficult for her to utter a word since she was so ashamed of herself.

  "If you don't want to answer, you don't have to say anything." Brent thought he should know what kind of history such a person would have, and cursed contemptuously in his mind.

  "And to tell you something else, I've changed my mind.  “

  "What?"

  "If you don't have anywhere to go, you can stay." Brent picked up the cup on the table and looked at it, it was coffee, and he put it back, "I don't need your thanks, you're in charge of the house and three meals a day from now on."

“Really? Am I just dreaming?" The woman cracked a flattering smile, "No problem! I will now prepare the ingredients for lunch and dinner, and if you have any contraindications, please let me know."

  "Nothing special." Brent lied. He didn’t eat fish sauce or drink coffee, but there was no point in telling the other man about something so personal.

   "Just remember not to go down to the basement, and don't call me when you're done cooking, I'll come up myself."

  "Sure sir." The woman nodded meekly, "Oh sir I haven't told you about myself. My name is Hermosa Pena, you can just call me Hermosa."

  "Hermosa..." Brent didn't tell her what his name was, and as he turned to leave the table he suddenly pointed to his right ear.

  "What's wrong, sir?" Hermosa looked behind her, bewildered, as she propped herself up in her chair.

  "Something's stained here." Brent simply cut her some slack and reached out to run a hand over her earlobe.

  Hermosa's face flushed instantly.

  She didn't dare move a muscle and pursed her lips lightly to look at Brent. Her clear eyes glistened with mist-like water, even the two tiny moles on her cheeks trembling lightly in pity.

"You ......, sir," she said, almost in a breathy voice.

"What ...?"

Did she already get afraid of that?

  Isn't that what she wants, to seduce the person who takes her in with her looks so she can get more out of them?

"Syrup." Brent calmly withdrew his hand and drew a tissue to wipe the stain from his fingertips.

  His fingers were long and bony, his whole demeanour inexplicably ascetic. Hermosa looked at him absently and just felt like finally tossed to the floor, as did the soiled paper.

  Hermosa didn't over an inch to show off any flirtatious action, which made Brent inexplicably annoyed, and even more annoyed that he had actually let Hermosa stay as she had wanted.

  This meant that Brent was once again out of control, and he hated it, hated being swayed by anything that was full of uncertainty. The angrier he got, the more the sight of Hermosa breastfeeding and her red earlobes kept recurring in his mind, as if it were a lingering nightmare, adding to his insomnia.

  The sleeping pills weren't working. Brent lay in his bedroom, staring straight up at the dark ceiling, feeling like he needed blood.

  He had never been like this before,  this was equally sort of out of control. But he really couldn't stand it any longer and went downstairs in his wheelchair before his sanity caught up with his desire. Before he could get to the basement, he found the bathroom light still on.

  "Be a good girl and stop ......"

  He doesn't understand why Hermosa choose this time to give Elisa a bath—it was almost midnight.

  The child was so naughty and got water everywhere, staining her thin T-shirt. The white fabric becomes transparent, accentuating her slim waistline, delicate arms, and ……

  The white fabric became transparent, revealing her slender waistline, delicate arms,  and the slightly quivering flesh of her breasts as she turned sideways.