10. Occupation

If not for the five characters on the exterior wall spelling out “Academy Art Museum,” anyone walking into this gray Bauhaus-style building would think they had entered a construction site.

There was only one week left in the countdown to the opening of the graduation exhibition, but the remodeling of the display walls had just been completed. The freshly painted walls emitted a damp latex paint smell, electricians stood on ladders checking the light tracks, and janitors crouched on the floor scraping away dried paint splatters. Across the space, works from various departments were being brought in one after another, piled up like construction materials waiting to be assembled.

The most prominent section of the exhibition hall was reserved for graduate students. Next in line were the award-winning undergraduate pieces, forming the centerpiece that represented the academy’s public image.

Among these works, half could be described as ideologically impeccable, while the other half were technically outstanding. Tkgether, they generally reflected the overall caliber of each graduating class. Other submissions were not necessarily inferior, but the art academy’s award criteria had always been conservative, weighing their merits only as a final consideration.

Under these criteria, the first prize in the Oil Painting Department was almost always awarded to students from either the First Studio, which specialized in classical realism, or the Second Studio, which followed a socialist realist approach. The Third Studio, which leaned toward expressionism, only occasionally claimed victory. Meanwhile, the Fourth Studio, the Contemporary Art Studio, had the rarest wins of all. Even though Lu Zhengming’s undergraduate graduation project had received high marks, it never came close to winning any awards.

Not that he was particularly interested in winning.

To Lu Zhengming, these lofty, authoritative awards were not a form of recognition. They were chains, tools of domestication.

But not everyone pursued freedom as he did.

From ancient cave paintings to the frescoed ceilings of cathedrals, there had always been a force greater than humanity guiding the hands of artists. They did not need to think; they only needed to obediently depict the world above, and in doing so, they could find their purpose. It wasn’t until the Renaissance that this force looming overhead began to weaken. Artists became constrained by worldly principles, yet within those boundaries, they found their place.

Then came the Impressionists, who overthrew classicism, only to be upended themselves by the clamor of modernism. After that came postmodernism, with its cool, dispassionate deconstruction. The shackles binding artists grew looser and looser, until finally, contemporary artists were left standing in front of a chaotic, kaleidoscopic world with nothing to rely on but themselves.

Deprived of the shelter of faith, the fetters of monarchy, and the strictures of morality, they had been liberated—but they had also lost their sense of belonging and security.

To resist the loneliness and anxiety that came with freedom, people began creating new forms of bondage. Ideological validation, for example, and the abstraction of artistic value into numbers. Authority was reestablished, and artists could once again take refuge within their newfound affiliations.

Lu Zhengming stood in the noisy exhibition hall, feeling the confusion pressing in from all directions.

The students were still too young. They hadn’t yet found their sense of belonging, nor had they mastered the deceptive tricks of painting. The works waiting to be mounted on the walls openly revealed everything, from impulsiveness and confusion to ideals and desire.

Once again, he thought of Yan Yan, of her bewilderment and despair, and of her tragic, violent end.

What kind of answer could anyone hope to receive by praying for redemption in times like these?

Even if it hadn’t been Lu Zhengming, someone else eventually would have dragged the silent god down from the clouds and shattered him at her feet.

“Professor Lu, can you take another look for me? I still feel like something’s missing.”

Another gaze filled with earnest hope. Lu Zhengming refocused, driving away the ghostly image of Yan Yan.

The painting in front of him was titled Burning the Fields. The massive canvas depicted a black-and-gray field, its heavy texture crafted from layers of glue, paint, cement, and metal. But the influence of other artists was obvious. The painting bore a striking resemblance to the ruined landscapes of Anselm Kiefer’s depictions of the Third Reich’s desolation.

According to the student, the piece was based on an early memory from his childhood. Before planting and sowing could begin, people had to burn away the weeds in the fields. Destruction and rebirth stood side by side, part of a process to tame the land. He had hoped this painting would impress the grading professors, but it only earned him the minimum score required for his degree. Now he was taking one last chance to revise it, determined to prove himself to the exhibition audience.

Like the vaguely sexual Gate of All Wonders nearby, and So-and-So, a canvas crammed with human names in Chinese characters, this painting radiated a kind of blatant ambition.

Lu Zhengming wanted to tell the student that he didn’t need to be so eager to conquer. What he needed was to quiet his mind, to be like the land in his painting, waiting patiently for life to take root and grow, rather than raging like the wildfires that claimed it.

But in the end, he said nothing.

Ever since what happened to Yan Yan, he had stopped making any critiques about artistic intentions.

He patted the student’s shoulder, offering the encouragement and comfort the young man seemed to be seeking. Only after the interaction ended did Lu Zhengming realize, with a jolt, how much he was starting to resemble Yin Yan.

Yin Yan was currently in the graduate exhibition area, adjusting the final display arrangements alongside the department chair and the heads of the various studios.

As soon as the preparations wrapped up, a group of undergraduate students, who had been waiting nearby, immediately pulled him aside to ask for his feedback. Not only students from the classical studio but even those from Lu Zhengming’s own studio gathered around Yin Yan, hoping for a critique.

Yin Yan responded to everyone with unfailing warmth. His attitude was gentle and approachable. Even when an overly eager student reached out and grabbed his arm, he didn’t show a hint of displeasure. Instead, he smiled and apologized politely, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

At that moment, Lu Zhengming suddenly realized that in every possible way, Yin Yan’s demeanor was verging on perfection.

He was trying to be flawless.

Like a greedy wildfire determined to conquer every peak, but also like a humble slave willing to shoulder every chain.

In Lu Zhengming’s mind, Yin Yan had always had his imperfections, flaws that made him seem human and vividly alive.

But now, more and more students surrounded Yin Yan, and as he became the center of attention, he seemed to transform. He was no longer just Yin Yan, but a polished lecturer addressing a hall of hundreds. His words became more measured, his expressions more refined, and that spark of life seemed to fade from him.

Lu Zhengming couldn’t stand it anymore. He pushed through the crowd of students, grabbed Yin Yan by the shoulder, and pulled him out of the throng.

Without looking back, he strode ahead, leading Yin Yan out of the exhibition area and into the empty hallway of the conference wing.

As they walked, he faintly heard a quiet sigh. When he turned around, he saw a trace of weariness on Yin Yan’s face.

Lu Zhengming’s frustration boiled over. “Isn’t it exhausting pretending to be perfect all the time?”

Yin Yan gave him a half-smile, neither fully amused nor irritated. “Weren’t you the one who dragged me out here to take a break?”

That smile was like fuel poured on a fire. Lu Zhengming’s simmering anger flared up in an instant, burning hot and wild.

He glanced around quickly, and as if possessed by some impulsive force, he grabbed Yin Yan’s arm and dragged him into the restroom.

Yin Yan was pinned against the stall wall as Lu Zhengming pulled off his belt and bound his wrists behind his back. He tested the restraint with a subtle twist, but there was no way to break free. His hands were pinned to his lower back, pressing against his tailbone, which sparked a string of secretive, tingling sensations.

Lu Zhengming had no idea why he was doing this, but the moment he heard Yin Yan’s soft grunt, he stopped caring about reasons.

He pressed him hard against the wall, tugged loose the collar at the back of his neck, and angrily bit down on the exposed skin. Lu Zhengming had played around plenty in the past, but never like this. He’d had fantasies about getting frisky in public, but actually doing it was a first. Especially in a place like this.

It had to be Yin Yan’s fault. He had to be provoking him.

Once he shifted the blame, Lu Zhengming lost all restraint. He shoved his hand up Yin Yan’s shirt, running his fingers along his back. When the shirt lifted, exposing bare skin, Lu Zhengming suddenly found himself breathless.

On Yin Yan’s narrow waist, between the lean vertical muscles of his back and the taut curve of his hips, were two deep hollows.

“Fuck…”

Lu Zhengming’s anger instantly transformed into raw lust, burning him up from the inside, making him want nothing more than to strip them both bare and take him completely.

Sweat extinguished that fire for a brief moment. But then Lu Zhengming yanked down Yin Yan’s pants, and the flash of pale skin beneath left him parched, his throat dry and his breathing rough. His hand clamped down hard on that vulnerable flesh, violently kneading it with a mix of frustration and desire.

Yin Yan started moaning again, utterly indifferent to the risk of someone walking in.

“Shut up!”

Lu Zhengming knew exactly what game Yin Yan was playing. This was a challenge, a test of his restraint, a taunt aimed at his self-control. If he hesitated, if he showed even a shred of weakness, Yin Yan would flash that infuriatingly mocking smirk, the same one he used to humiliate anyone who couldn’t follow through.

Lu Zhengming’s palm came down hard, cutting off Yin Yan’s whines with a sharp smack. The sound rang out loudly in the cramped restroom, louder even than the moan itself.

Yin Yan shuddered violently, his head dropping forward as he gasped for breath. A flush spread from his neck all the way to his ears, wordlessly conceding Lu Zhengming’s dominance.

But Lu Zhengming didn’t feel victorious. He felt like every move he made was falling perfectly into Yin Yan’s trap, like each reaction was feeding directly into Yin Yan’s desire for submission and punishment.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He shoved his knee against the back of Yin Yan’s leg, forcing him down until one knee rested on the toilet seat, his ass raised high in the air. The view between his ass left Lu Zhengming reeling. He couldn’t resist bringing his hand down again, delivering a sharp slap.

“This is what you’re after, huh?” Smack.

“Professor Yin, all refined and dignified—” Another smack.

“On your knees in a filthy restroom—” Smack.

“Getting your ass slapped.”

The sharp, rhythmic sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the space as Lu Zhengming kept going, alternating hands, watching as that pale skin flushed red under the repeated blows. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Normally, his style was more tender, more restrained, but now all that tenderness had rotted away, corrupted by the intensity of Yin Yan’s provocations.

He blamed it all on Yin Yan, every bit of it. He didn’t even notice how aroused he had become until he felt the unbearable tightness in his pants, his erection straining painfully against the fabric.

With a low growl, he reached down and freed himself, the thick cock springing into view, flushed and aching. It was only then that he admitted the truth out loud.

“I’ve become just as perverted as you.”

Yin Yan’s face was pressed against the cool porcelain of the tank, and he let out a breathless, muffled laugh. His voice, low and husky, carried a teasing edge as he panted softly. “Do you like it?”

The answer he got was a harder slap.

Lu Zhengming gradually got a feel for it, realizing that the way to create sound wasn’t the same as the way to create pain. He started varying his technique, deliberately breaking any predictable rhythm, alternating between heavy and light blows.

Yin Yan had no way of anticipating whether the next slap would sting or offer that strange, tingling pleasure. Unconsciously, he swayed his hips, submitting to whatever Lu Zhengming would give him, but just as he was ready to take more, the hand stopped abruptly.

“Zheng…”

As soon as the word left his mouth, he realized how ridiculous it sounded, especially after setting up their “safe word” earlier. So he adjusted quickly, changing his tone and choice of address.

“Professor Lu…”

The sudden honorific made something snap inside Lu Zhengming. His mind burned hot, and he raised his hand again, preparing to strike even harder, until Yin Yan called out once more, softer, with a teasing lilt.
“Mr. Lu…”

That did it.

Hearing that formal title, loaded with guilt, with everything it implied, only fueled the depravity inside him. Twisted desires, darker urges he hadn’t even known he possessed, surged up to the surface.

With all the force he could muster, Lu Zhengming slapped the already reddened ass again, as if trying to beat the moral burden out of his chest. Over and over, he struck those bare cheeks, now bruised and swollen, until the delicate flesh darkened to a deep, purplish-red.

He didn’t stop until Yin Yan’s entire body trembled beneath him, his breathing ragged and uneven, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but from sheer overstimulation.

Then, with a sudden jerk, Lu Zhengming grabbed a fistful of Yin Yan’s hair, pulling his head up roughly and forcing him to kneel in front of him.

Yin Yan blinked up at him in a dazed, lips slightly parted as he panted for breath. Even now, his smile didn’t falter. It only grew hazier, more suggestive, as though he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

He smiled and opened his mouth knowingly, but before he could stick out his tongue, Lu Zhengming violently fucked his way into his mouth.

Yes, fucked.

It wasn’t just inserting, and it wasn’t merely poking. It was rough, forceful fucking.

Lu Zhengming gripped Yin Yan’s head tightly and swung his entire hips forward, thrusting in and out with merciless force. He didn’t care about the strain on Yin Yan’s jaw or the way his throat spasmed with every brutal thrust.

Yin Yan choked intermittently, his throat tightening around the intrusion as he gasped for breath. Saliva and tears spilled freely down his flushed face, dripping onto his chest in messy streams. And yet, through it all, he was still smiling.

That smile, wild and unhinged, made something twist deep inside Lu Zhengming. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure, not exactly. It looked crazed, like the grin of a patient who had lost all sense of pain, as if he had already surrendered himself to the madness.

“This lunatic,” Lu Zhengming thought, and a tight knot formed in his chest.

But he was no better.

The violent pleasure building inside him was rooted in that same madness, feeding off Yin Yan’s delirium.

Driven by something dark and chaotic, Lu Zhengming forced Yin Yan to look up at him.

Tear-streaked, breathless, his eyes were hazy with pain and bliss, so utterly debauched it set something off deep inside Lu Zhengming. A sudden and absurd desire surged through him, burning hotter than anything else.

He wanted to see him really cry.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside the bathroom, followed by the chatter of two young voices.

“This spot’s quieter.”

“Picking a place just to take a piss? What’s wrong with you?”

Lu Zhengming froze instantly, but he didn’t pull out from Yin Yan’s mouth. Instead, he wiped away the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes and resumed small, teasing thrusts against the base of his tongue. Just as Yin Yan finally managed to catch his breath, he was pushed so deep again that he gagged soundlessly.

Outside the stall, the sound of a belt jingling was followed by the rush of running water and the voices of students chatting casually.

“I wanted to ask Professor Yin to say a bit more, but someone called him away.”

“It’s fine. Go find him in the grad students’ classroom. Professor Yin’s really approachable. Even students from other studios go to him for feedback, and he takes the time to look at their paintings. He’s a good guy.”

“Really? Think he’d talk to our department head for me and get me a ninety?”

“In your dreams!”

Lu Zhengming gripped Yin Yan’s chin, a hint of a cruel smile tugged at his lips. Their so-called “particularly respectable” Teacher Yin really lived up to that title, didn’t he? So particularly accommodating. Even here, in the grimy confines of a public restroom, he gave a blowjob with complete devotion.

They really should have seen what their Professor Yin looked like at this moment. His face was streaked with tears and saliva, and he was kneeling on the cold floor with his bare ass, his cock standing erect.

He viciously raised his foot and pressed down on Yin Yan’s crotch, grabbing the back of his head as he thrust hard a few more times. Then, as he reached his peak, he released his long-pent-up cum straight down his throat.

Yin Yan shuddered violently, his whole body trembling as he struggled to suppress the urge to gag, cough, or even breathe. The suffocating silence twisted into jagged spasms of near asphyxiation until, trapped in that breathless haze, he climaxed.

Only when the footsteps of the passing students faded into the distance did Lu Zhengming finally pull out. Yet even then, he wasn’t fully satisfied. His cock was still rock-hard, aching from the incomplete release. But he didn’t want to continue anymore. He picked up Yin Yan, untied him, and helped him onto the toilet lid.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Lu Zhengming kept apologizing as he carefully wiped the mess from Yin Yan’s face.

Completely drained, Yin Yan leaned weakly against the toilet tank, letting Lu Zhengming clumsily help him fix his clothes. He tugged the corners of his lips into a faint smile. “Can I at least get a score of 90?”

“What?”

Lu Zhengming looked up in confusion, only to feel Yin Yan’s arm suddenly pulling him close by the neck. Warm, breathy air, carrying a faint salty trace, brushed against his cheek.

“Professor Lu.”

“Yin Yan.”

He wanted to tell him not to joke around like that, but as soon as he opened his mouth, his words were swallowed by Yin Yan’s warm lips.

Everything else Lu Zhengming had been about to say vanished from his mind.