This story contains BDSM and raceplay contents, it's WRONG and you should NOT try them on people near you.
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Chapter One: My Goddess Wife and the Internet Celebrity Neighbor Are Violated by a Chinese Man!
Gurgle...
A sound rumbled from my stomach.
My gut was roaring in anger, and I couldn't even remember how many times it had growled today.
I clutched my stomach with one hand, tightening my belt with the other, trying to suppress the overwhelming hunger.
This wasn't some wilderness survival scenario--it was happening in my newly renovated apartment in central London.
The modern British decor and high-end furniture screamed urban elite taste. The apartment was spacious, clean, and bright, clearly belonging to someone with refined style.
My name is William Johnson, 32 years old, and I'd say I'm at least an 8/10 in looks. I stand at 6 feet 2 inches (about 188 cm) and work as the director of the business department for a unicorn startup headquartered in London. Though the company hasn't completed its Series C funding yet, I'm already earning a hefty salary. Once we go public, I'll be a multimillion-pound financial free man. Without exaggeration, I'm one of London's so-called "young and successful elites." But growing up never wanting for food or comfort, I never imagined I'd one day face hunger like some primitive man.
The sound of the door opening broke my thoughts. A tall, stunning figure walked in--it was my beloved wife, Elizabeth.
At 24, she's an absolute beauty. Tall and statuesque, she claims to be 5 feet 9 inches (about 175 cm) to maintain a "cute" 5-inch height difference with me. But her real height might be taller--wearing even regular heels makes me, a 6-foot-2 man, feel the pressure.
What pressures me more is her breathtaking beauty and fiery figure. She works at the same company as me, as the receptionist, known as the goddess of our building and a standout in the entire business district. She's even been scouted by talent agents. If she hadn't chosen love with me, she could've been a star like Emma Watson.
Her waist-length golden hair cascades down her back, like a shampoo commercial model, often clipped loosely at home, framing her ears in soft arcs with a few strands falling over her forehead, exuding charm. Her features are exquisite: delicate willow-leaf eyebrows with a slight bend, deep-set eyes with slightly upturned corners, and large, almond-shaped eyes that reveal 95% of her irises--a perfect masterpiece. Her snow-white skin complements a sharp, elegant nose with a refined tip and wings. Her lips, perfectly proportioned, match her nose's sensual lines, embodying the ideal workplace goddess for any man.
Her figure is explosive. She loves wearing the company's custom pink business suit, which hugs her curves perfectly. Her self-proclaimed D-cup (but likely E-cup) breasts strain against her blazer, creating exaggerated curves that bend the collar, even in an oversized shirt that still pops buttons. Her pert, peach-like hips and long, Instagram-worthy legs in black stockings are a divine gift to men.
At work, her kind demeanor and sweet smile win over everyone, but her height and poise give her an aloof aura. Yet, her curvaceous body and long legs in stockings make every man who sees her fantasize.
But now, she wasn't in her uniform. She wore casual pajamas and pants. The pants were cinched at her navel, her full hips stretching the fabric taut. Her long legs left a sliver of ankle exposed above pink-heeled slippers, tempting enough to bite. Her high, firm breasts pushed the shirt up, the hem tucked into her waistband, forming two pronounced mounds like grapefruits. Her waist was so slim it was less than half her bust and a third of her hips, creating a dramatic S-shape that turned simple pajamas into something irresistibly sexy.
But sexiness doesn't fill stomachs. She returned with only two cucumbers and a green eggplant.
It was day 41 of London's lockdown, and our supplies were long gone.
The city, hit by a fast-spreading virus, was sealed off, with residents ordered to isolate. We complied--money means nothing without a life to spend it on. But supplying a city of nearly nine million became a nightmare.
To streamline disinfection, each building formed group-buying teams led by a coordinator, with volunteers handling deliveries. It seemed organized, but the coordinator held all the power. Urban elites like us, who thought ourselves unique, were reduced to begging for scraps. The coordinator and volunteers controlled the supply chain, forcing us to buy overpriced goods we once scoffed at: instant bread, instant pasta, caramel soda, ham sausages, even compressed biscuits. Vegetables, now wilted and yellow, were as precious as gold.
Per the rules, only one person per household could join the group--usually the woman. In our case, it was Elizabeth. But how could two cucumbers and an eggplant feed us both?
Our neighborhood wasn't the most upscale, but it was high-end. Most residents were City of London high-earners, with annual salaries in the hundreds of thousands, even millions. A modest apartment here cost hundreds of thousands of pounds. Yet, even we faced famine. We'd mocked those in rundown flats for going hungry, but now it was our turn.
I'm a unicorn company executive, sipping hand-ground coffee in the break room while employees queued at Costa Coffee, hitting upscale gyms after work. How could I have fallen to this?
Rage and frustration erupted. I stormed to the coordinator's apartment, only to be greeted by a pudgy volunteer I recognized--a Chinese man named Li Ming, an uneducated preschool teacher with only a Chinese public high school diploma.
Though his short, fat frame blocked the door, I, towering over him, saw inside: stacks of supplies, four plugged-in freezers likely filled with fresh food. Not just basics--there was Coca-Cola, instant hotpots, self-heating rice, premium chocolates, snacks, whiskey, beer, wine, even cigarettes. A Garfield cat lounged nearby, its bowl filled with uneaten salmon.
My eyes burned with rage. I barged in, unable to stay calm, and saw the coordinator, Mrs. Brown, cooking in the kitchen, wearing a sheer silk nightgown, her legs bare. The dining table held six dishes--fish, meat, and a lobster she was preparing.
Mrs. Brown, a sultry landlord with multiple properties in the building, was stunning. Her husband, a bald, greasy man, was rarely seen--perhaps she was his mistress. Her nightgown revealed most of her voluptuous hips, her creamy legs marked with faint red imprints and a red heart tattoo with a Chinese character on her ankle. Her wavy hair draped over half her face, enhancing her allure. Her massive breasts, like two small watermelons, swayed under the silk, revealing deep cleavage. A cat-bell choker added a playful, lascivious touch.
Any man would be aroused, but my fury overpowered desire. I confronted her, nearly causing her to drop the lobster. She'd been selling carrots at ginseng prices while hoarding luxuries--a vampire!
Li Ming, the volunteer, grabbed me. "Whitey! Get out of my house!" he barked.
"Yellow pig! Let go! This is Britain, not your yellow nest!" I shoved him off.
"Lowly white man! Get out! You should be grateful you're not starving!" he sneered in accented English. "Lowlifes like you only deserve cucumbers and eggplants!"
"This is British soil! You're the one who should leave, you lazy parasite!" I shoved him again.
"We Chinese are your masters!" His fat fist swung at me.
"Stop!" Mrs. Brown pulled me, and I took a solid punch. Enraged, I shook her off and swung at Li Ming.
At 6 feet 2, I should've easily handled this dung-beetle-like man. But days of hunger had weakened me. My low body fat, once a point of pride, was now a liability. My muscles demanded more food, but I had no fat reserves. I looked strong but was hollow inside. Li Ming quickly overpowered me, pinning me down and pummeling my face, bruising my wrists.
