Changhua, central Taiwan, late September. The air sticks like freshly steamed rice cake.
Lin Xiaoching squats on the ridge, her cropped tank soaked with sweat, the outline of her E-cups shimmering under the sun.
Her husband, Chen Weizhong, went to mainland China last year “to make it big,” coming home only seven days a year—and even then, he’s off drinking with clients.
All the farm work falls to her and her father-in-law, Chen Fulai.
Fulai is fifty-eight, shoulders still broad as a young man’s, skin bronzed to copper, and between his legs swings the legendary “old plowshare” known throughout the village.
Three years into her marriage, Xiaoching finally learns the rumors are true.
That day, the wind rustles the golden rice waves.
Xiaoching bends to cut stalks, her hot pants digging into her skin.
Fulai approaches from behind, says nothing, and clamps his hands on her waist, calluses scraping like sandpaper.
“Dad…”Before the word leaves her mouth, her shorts are down to her knees.
The twenty-three-centimeter beast presses against her crack.
She buckles, collapsing into the straw.
“Don’t make a sound,” Fulai rasps.
“The rice can hear.”The first thrust goes all the way, slamming her cervix.
Xiaoching bites her wrist, scream turning to whimper.
Second thrust, she starts rocking back.
Third, she’s crying—not from pain, but from a void filled after three empty years.
Fulai moves slow, like turning soil, pausing half a second at the deepest point so she feels every pulse.
Forty-seven minutes later, he unloads.
Hot flood fills her womb; Xiaoching sees white, climaxing so hard she nearly blacks out.
Straw glistens with her juices under the sun.
That night, Xiaoching lies on her mother-in-law’s old wooden bed, thighs still twitching.
She pulls out Weizhong’s photo, stares, then shoves the phone in a drawer.
From then on, she stops counting sheep and starts counting her father-in-law’s rhythm.
Addiction grows like mold.
5 a.m., beside the pigpen, Xiaoching kneels on feed sacks, taking Fulai’s load down her throat for breakfast.
She swallows every drop, then calmly cooks congee.
Noon, on the threshing ground, she sprawls over a rice mound; Fulai enters from behind, grains slipping into her cleavage, tickling her into a flood.
Night patrols, she wears a glow-collar, crawling the ridges like a bitch; every hundred meters, Fulai rewards her with a shot.
Cum trickles down her thighs into the soil; next year’s rice is especially sweet.
Weizhong comes home at year’s end.
Xiaoching, four months along, greets him at the door.
He sees the swell and beams: “Finally knocked up?”
She nods, eyes drifting to the back of the house.
Fulai chops vegetables in the kitchen, knife steady, as if nothing ever happened.
After dinner, Weizhong passes out drunk.
Xiaoching tucks him in, then slips into Fulai’s room, drops to her knees, unzips him.
“Dad,” she trembles, “my husband’s asleep.”
Fulai says nothing, just flips her over, presses her to the window.
Outside, endless rice fields; moonlight stretches their shadows long.
Weizhong snores next door; Xiaoching bites the curtain, tears falling into the dirt as she comes.
The baby arrives to three days of firecrackers.
Weizhong cradles his daughter, grinning ear to ear.
Xiaoching lies spent on the birthing mat, thighs still quivering.
Fulai stands in the doorway, hands her a bowl of red-date soup with a single longan floating in it.
She takes a sip, looks up; their eyes lock, no words needed.From then on, a new legend spreads through Changhua’s fields:
The sweetest rice grows where a daughter-in-law,
in the dead of night,
pours her father-in-law’s seed into the earth.
