They continued like tireless wild beasts, their lust still burning fiercely even though their bodies were utterly exhausted after hours of relentless activity. Long remained lying on his back in the middle of the enormous king-size bed, his hands gripping Hương's hips with the last of his remaining strength, thrusting upward powerfully in the final rhythm. Each thrust went deep into her womb, so forceful that his hips slammed against her perfectly curved buttocks with loud, crisp "slap" sounds, making the bed shake violently as if it were about to collapse. Every time he pulled out, his cock dragged along a thick, sticky stream of her love juices, stretching into long, messy strands between their bodies, before slamming back in deeply, making Hương moan in a broken, hoarse voice. Vy and Lan knelt on either side, taking turns licking and sucking nonstop, cleaning every remaining drop of her juices from his cock — from the base to the glistening, swollen head, from his heavy, swollen balls to the sticky trails of fluid on his thighs. Vy's tongue swirled lightly around his urethra each time she sucked the head, while Lan took one of his balls into her mouth, sucking so hard her cheeks puffed out, the lewd "slurp… slurp" sounds echoing through the room. The continuous "slap… slap… slap…" of flesh rang out in the penthouse, mingled with Hương's hoarse, broken moans, the three girls' heavy panting, the wet, sticky sounds of skin slapping together, and the obscene sucking noises from Vy and Lan as they sucked even harder.
Long let out a long, savage growl — deep, hoarse, and utterly masculine — as he released his final load of hot, thick semen deep inside Hương's pussy. The girl trembled violently all over, her eyes rolling back, mouth wide open as she moaned brokenly: "Anh… you're cumming so much… I'm so full, anh ơi… it's so hot… your cum is burning hot…" Then she collapsed onto his chest, her D-cup breasts heaving violently, sweat pouring out and soaking her hair and skin. All three girls were completely spent. Vy lay face down, her pink hair matted with sweat, her legs still twitching slightly from the aftershocks of pleasure, her pussy still contracting in small spasms and dripping love juices onto the bedsheet. Lan curled up on the right, her mouth still full of thick, white semen; strings of cum stretched from the corners of her lips as she tried to swallow it down with loud gulps, some of it overflowing and dripping from her chin onto the sheet. Hương lay on top of Long's stomach, her chest rising and falling, love juices still flowing steadily from her pussy down his thighs, leaving long, glistening wet trails.
The once-white silk bedsheet had turned into a crumpled mess, stained with large wet patches of love juices, thick white clumps of dried semen, and sparkling droplets of sweat under the light of the crystal chandelier. The air in the penthouse was heavy and stifling, saturated with the thick scent of sex: the salty musk of masculine sweat, the sweet fragrance of female nectar, the pungent smell of semen — all blending into an intoxicating aroma that would make anyone dizzy. Long's cock was still semi-hard, twitching weakly but remaining half-erect, the head red and glistening. He wanted to continue, wanted to go for another round, wanted to flip the three girls over and satisfy the desire he had suppressed for twenty-six years, but his body had reached its absolute limit. His heart pounded erratically like war drums, his lungs burned with every breath, and his muscles trembled as if they were about to snap. He let out one final, deep, hoarse growl of satisfaction, then closed his eyes. The pleasure still lingered in every fiber of his being, spreading a hot wave from his lower abdomen to the top of his head, but exhaustion hit him like a tsunami, dragging him into darkness.
He pulled the three girls close, letting their hot, sweaty bodies press tightly against him like a living blanket. The golden night of the bald tycoon officially came to an end amid labored, mingled breathing, the heavy scent of sex, and the darkness of the luxurious suite overlooking the Saigon River.
The next morning, Long found himself floating in mid-air.
He was not lying on the bed. He was not breathing. He could not feel the warmth of skin or the beating of his heart. He was hovering like an invisible ghost, about two meters below the ceiling, looking down at his own motionless body lying between the three girls. Morning sunlight streamed through the large glass curtains, illuminating a scene so chaotic it was horrifying: the crumpled bedsheet, underwear scattered across the floor, overturned wine bottles, and scattered condoms. Vy was still resting her head on his chest, her pink hair spread out covering half her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathed evenly. Lan was curled up against his left hip, one leg wrapped tightly around his muscular thigh as if afraid he would disappear. Hương lay face down, her buttocks curved beautifully, her hand unconsciously holding his right arm, her nails leaving faint scratch marks on his skin.
Long wanted to move, wanted to scream, wanted to shake his own shoulders, but he had no mouth, no hands, no voice. There was only the sensation of floating aimlessly — cold and weightless, like a cloud with no mass. He could see every detail of his body clearly: his skin had turned a cold, deathly gray, his lips were purplish-blue, and his eyes were tightly shut as if in deep sleep. There was no longer any rise and fall of breath in his once powerfully muscled chest. Panic surged through his soul, but he could do nothing except silently observe.
Vy was the first to wake. She yawned widely, stretched, her messy pink hair falling over her shoulders, then reached out to gently shake Long's shoulder. "Anh ơi… wake up, it's morning already… I'm so hungry…" Her voice was still sleepy and sweet, but it gradually turned anxious when there was no response. Vy frowned, shaking him harder, her voice becoming panicked: "Anh Long? Are you sleeping too deeply? Come on, wake up. Me, Lan, and Hương want to have breakfast together…" Lan and Hương also woke up from the shaking, their eyes still half-closed from exhaustion. The three girls sat up at the same time, the silk blanket sliding down to reveal their naked bodies covered in bruises and scratches. Their sleepy faces gradually turned deathly pale as they realized something was wrong. Vy placed her trembling hand on Long's nose, then on his neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing. His skin was as cold as ice left overnight.
"Oh my God… he… he's not breathing anymore!" Vy screamed, her voice breaking as tears immediately poured out like a waterfall. Lan panicked and pressed her fingers hard against Long's neck, searching for the carotid pulse, her eyes widening. Nothing. She recoiled, covering her mouth, her face drained of all color, her body shaking violently. Hương stumbled toward the table, barefoot and staggering across the floor, her hands trembling as she grabbed the phone and dialed 113 with a broken, stuttering voice: "H… hello! Help! Someone… someone died in the hotel penthouse! Come quickly! He… he's not breathing anymore!"
The police arrived within just fifteen minutes. The crime scene investigation team, wearing white uniforms, entered with solemn expressions, carrying cameras, gloves, evidence bags, flashlights, and measuring devices. They immediately sealed off the entire suite, taping the doors, and photographed every angle: Long's motionless body, the three girls sobbing beside him, the bruises on his skin, the countless scratch marks, and the soaked bedsheet. The forensic doctor — a man around fifty years old, wearing gold-rimmed glasses with a stern face — performed a preliminary examination on the spot. He examined every small wound on Long's body: the red bite marks on his neck and chest, the purple suction bruises on his balls, the long scratches on his back and buttocks from the girls' nails during the peak of pleasure, and the bruises from violent impacts. He measured body temperature, checked the dilated pupils, listened to the heart and lungs with a stethoscope, and took blood samples right at the scene.
The conclusion was reached after only two hours, while the three girls sat trembling on the sofa, their hands cuffed behind their backs, eyes red and swollen. The forensic report clearly stated: Nguyễn Hoàng Kim Long, 26 years old, died from excessive sexual activity leading to acute heart failure and extreme exhaustion. His heart had stopped beating while he was in deep sleep after a continuous "battle" that lasted all night, with his heart rate exceeding 180 beats per minute for many hours. No traces of drugs, no alcohol in the blood — only extremely elevated levels of cortisol and adrenaline after twenty-six years of suppressed desire exploding uncontrollably, causing his body to collapse.
The three girls were immediately escorted out of the penthouse. Vy sobbed uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, stammering as she begged for mercy: "I… I didn't know… he was so strong… I only did what he asked…" Lan and Hương were deathly pale, their legs so weak they had to be supported by the police, their shoulders shaking. They were charged on the spot with organized prostitution via a VIP package online, violating Article 327 of the Criminal Code. The case spread rapidly. By that same afternoon, major newspapers ran sensational headlines: "26-Year-Old Tycoon Dies in Penthouse After 'Playing' with Three Girls at Once," "The Lewd Night of the New Tycoon Ends in Tragic Death," "120 Billion Dong Only Bought One Fateful Night." The news exploded across social media, with comments flooding in ranging from sympathy to mockery — from "he went too far" to "newly rich tycoon died from lust."
The website NightQueen.vn was raided and shut down by the police within just forty-eight hours. The cyber security team, in coordination with the high-tech crime investigation department, raided the headquarters, seizing all servers, computers, transaction records, and client lists. All administrators, brokers, and VIP account holders were arrested for operating a large-scale prostitution ring. Hundreds of other wealthy clients — from businessmen and celebrities to officials — were summoned for investigation, their bank accounts frozen, and their identities exposed in the media, causing a major scandal in Saigon's elite circles.
Long's body was handled by the state according to standard procedures: a detailed autopsy at the forensic institute with CT scans, full-body X-rays, heart and lung tissue samples, followed by cremation at a public crematorium. The ashes were placed in a simple white porcelain urn and temporarily stored at a public cemetery on the outskirts of Saigon because no relatives claimed them. No one came to visit. No one mourned. There was only a cold note on the file: "Deceased with no next of kin."
Throughout the entire process, Long's soul continued to float, watching everything unfold like a slow-motion horror movie — silent, without smell or taste, only cruelly sharp images. He wanted to scream "Stop! That's me!", wanted to rush down and embrace his own body one last time, wanted to apologize to the three girls, wanted to beg time to turn back so he could relive that moment. But he could only drift aimlessly in the invisible void, watching the police seal the penthouse, watching his own body being zipped into a black bag and loaded into the ambulance, watching his own ashes placed into the cold porcelain urn and stored away.
Then, a massive black void suddenly appeared beneath him — a bottomless black vortex that swallowed all light, all sound, and every remaining fragment of memory. Long's soul was sucked downward as if gripped by a giant hand, with no time to resist or think. The pull was so strong that he felt his soul being torn apart, crushed into pieces, and then everything went completely dark, leaving only endless nothingness.
Long woke up in a luxurious room he had never seen in his life.
He was lying on a bed even larger than the king-size one in the penthouse, covered with pure white silk sheets as smooth as gossamer and pillows filled with soft down feathers cradling his head. The high ceiling was intricately carved from glossy black ebony wood, depicting classic winding dragon and phoenix motifs. A large crystal chandelier hung suspended, its crystal droplets sparkling like diamonds under the moonlight. The walls were covered in elegant vintage Japanese wallpaper with faint chrysanthemum patterns, and the floor was laid with thick white sheepskin rugs so plush that his feet sank into them when he stood. The air carried a faint, fresh scent of chrysanthemums and pine wood drifting in through the slightly open large window. Through the thin voile curtains, the full moon of the fifteenth night shone softly into the room, bright enough to see every detail clearly without glare.
Suddenly, countless unfamiliar pieces of information flooded into Long's mind like a violent torrent. Thousands of memories, knowledge, skills, languages, and emotions poured in all at once. Piano pieces echoed in his head, the soaring notes of violins, performances at the Tokyo Opera House with endless applause, his own compositions published by major publishers, school days at a prestigious high school, family dinners in a grand villa, memories of his parents — Mr. and Mrs. Nonomura — with their strict yet loving smiles. Fluent Japanese as if it were his mother tongue, native-level English, knowledge of music from classical to modern, skill at playing the Steinway piano, horseback riding, the refined art of the tea ceremony… everything crowded and collided inside his mind, making him clutch his head, grit his teeth, and convulse violently on the bed.
"Ah… aaahhh… it hurts… stop… please stop!!!"
His groan came out in a high, clear, sweet female voice — completely unlike the familiar deep, masculine tone. The sound startled even himself, making him tremble.
The pain lasted nearly fifteen minutes, as if someone was drilling into his brain, rearranging every cell and nerve fiber. Cold sweat poured out all over his body, soaking the thin silk pajamas. When the pain finally subsided, Long lay panting heavily, his chest heaving, hands still clutching his temples. The pieces of information began to organize themselves, becoming as clear as a slow-motion film in an entirely new brain.
He… no, she was now Ami Nonomura.
A second-year high school girl, exactly 16 years old.
Japan's musical prodigy — who had performed solo piano at the Tokyo Opera House since age 12, won first prize in the national violin competition at age 14, and composed more than twenty pieces published by major publishers and performed across Asia.
The Nonomura family — one of Tokyo's oldest and wealthiest families, owners of the Nonomura Holdings financial group, a chain of luxury real estate, and the prestigious Nonomura Academy of Music.
Current year: 1980.
Location: the elegant villa in Shibuya ward, Tokyo — this room was Ami's private bedroom on the second floor, overlooking the chrysanthemum garden and the sparkling koi pond under the moonlight.
Ami — or Long — sat up abruptly, her heart pounding as if it would burst. The body felt light and delicate, the skin soft as silk, completely different from the previous heavy, muscular physique. She raised a trembling hand to touch her chest — two small, firm, round mounds, strangely sensitive, with tiny nipples hardening under the thin silk from the cold and emotion. Her hand moved down to her flat stomach, her slender, smooth thighs, and then between her legs… emptiness, only a small, warm slit that was so sensitive a light touch made her flinch, sending an electric current up her spine.
"Is this… is this real? I… I've become a girl?"
She got out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the thick, soft sheepskin rug, and walked over to the large mirror hanging on the wall opposite the window. The full moonlight streaming through the window made everything as clear as daylight, reflecting her entire new appearance.
Ami Nonomura in the mirror was a breathtakingly beautiful young girl, elegant and noble in the classic Japanese style. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded down to her snow-white back, straight and silky like fine thread, with a few strands of bangs gently fluttering in the breeze from the window. Her face was an oval with delicate features: large, sparkling dark brown eyes like honey, naturally long curled lashes, a straight high nose, and naturally pink, plump lips like chrysanthemum petals. Her skin was as white as Japanese porcelain, flawless and smooth. Her shoulders were small and delicate, her waist slender, her hips slightly flared with the bloom of puberty, her legs long and graceful, and her feet small and dainty. She was wearing a thin white silk nightgown with delicate French lace trim, revealing the gentle curves of a girl at her most beautiful age — breasts just beginning to bud, a flat stomach, and small, rounded buttocks.
Long stared fixedly into the mirror, her mouth open in utter astonishment. This was no longer the muscular bald tycoon with a huge cock and perverted desires. This was no longer the poor physical education teacher who had suppressed himself for twenty-six years. This was a musical prodigy, the only daughter and heir of the prestigious Nonomura family, living in the luxurious and artistic world of 1980.
She raised her slender hand and gently touched the mirror, her fingers trembling as they traced the reflection of herself.
"I… I am Ami Nonomura now… it's really me…"
The headache had completely disappeared. Japanese now flowed as naturally as her mother tongue. Memories of piano, violin, performances, school, family, and even the history of the Nonomura clan from the Meiji era… everything was clear and vivid, as if she had lived through it herself.
Ami turned around, taking in the luxurious room once more — the Steinway piano gleaming in the corner under the moonlight, the violin stand on the wall, the antique oil paintings, and the bookshelf filled with classical music scores. She smiled wearily but also with curiosity — a pure, innocent smile befitting a 16-year-old girl.
"Alright… that's enough for today. This body… this life… I'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
She walked back to the bed, slipped under the warm silk sheets, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The soft moonlight shone gently on her beautiful new face. The soul of Nguyễn Hoàng Kim Long had officially entered a completely different life — in Tokyo in 1980, inside the body of a talented, wealthy, and promising high school girl.
That night, she slept peacefully, in a deep and dreamless slumber.
Tomorrow, a new story would begin.