September 12th, Saturday, 10:40 p.m. Zhou Yi rolled over, back to me, and thirty seconds later he was snoring.
We’d just finished. From the moment he turned off the light to the moment he started snoring, I checked my Huawei watch: six minutes. Him on top, me underneath, he came, kissed my forehead once, said, “Go to sleep, babe.”
Married one year and three days. That was the fourteenth time. I’ve counted. After every time I log the date in the notes app on my phone. Tonight I logged it and scrolled up: the last one was August 23rd.
My name is Feng Yuwei. Twenty-nine, product manager at Orangebox Tech, running the membership growth line, two PMs and one intern under me. Zhou Yi is thirty-one, writes Java at a cross-border payments company, gets home at nine thirty every night, washes his hands first thing, then warms a glass of milk for me.
He’s gentle. Really. On the first day of my period he sticks a heat patch on my pajama pants before I even ask. My mom says you couldn’t find a man like that if you searched with a lantern. My mom has never slept with him.
I was still wet down there, some of his come leaking out, a tissue underneath me. No orgasm. Out of fourteen times I’d come twice, both times because I reached down and helped myself. Every time he asks, “Did that feel good?” Every time I say, “Mm.”
I picked up my phone and turned the brightness all the way down. Nobody on WeChat; the company group was still arguing about sprint scheduling at eleven, and I didn’t want to look. I tapped the black icon hidden on the second page of my “Tools” folder.
BlackBox. Anonymous social app. I downloaded it three months ago. Profile picture solid black, bio just one line: Married. Want to be controlled. When I typed that line even I thought it was pathetic, but I didn’t delete it.
Every time, five minutes, one scroll through: all “Wanna hook up?” “Send a leg pic.” “Babe I last forever.” Then I’d close it. Tonight was the same. I swiped through a dozen or so, and my finger stopped.
A new message, sent at 12:02 a.m., from a username that was a single letter: K. Black avatar, same as mine.
“Aren’t you the one who wants to be controlled.”
No question mark. No emoji. Just that.
I pressed the phone screen-down against the nightstand. Zhou Yi’s snoring stopped for a second, then started up again. I turned the phone back over.
“Who are you?” “K.” “Where are you?” “Doesn’t matter. Your husband asleep next to you?”
I stared at that line for half a minute. My profile only said married. Nothing else. Nothing about a husband, nothing about whether he was asleep.
“How do you know.”
“It’s midnight. A married woman still on here at midnight: either her husband’s asleep or he’s not home. You stopped typing three times, so he’s right there. You’re answering slowly, so you want to answer.” “…He’s asleep.”
“Get up, go to the bathroom. Take off your pajama pants, photograph your legs. Find a sticky note, write K 0912, put it on your thigh in the shot. Three minutes.”
I didn’t move. The screen went dark, and I woke it up again.
“When three minutes are up, I delete you. Plenty of women want to be controlled. I don’t need you.”
Getting out of bed I stepped on Zhou Yi’s slipper. The bathroom is outside the master bedroom; to get there you go through the living room. On the coffee table was the apple he’d peeled for me, cut into six slices, two eaten.
The sticky notes were on the fridge door, the yellow IKEA kind; the top one said “Sunday: eggs, laundry detergent.” I tore off a fresh one and wrote K 0912 with the black gel pen Zhou Yi uses for grocery lists.
The bathroom light was warm white, water spots on the mirror, his electric toothbrush by the sink, a Philips, charging, blue light blinking. I pushed my pajama pants down to my ankles, sat on the toilet lid, legs together and stretched straight out, sticky note on my thigh.
My legs are the most valuable thing on my body. Five foot six, glutes-and-legs day at Super Monkey three times a week; the guys in R&D call me Feng Legs behind my back. Since the wedding Zhou Yi hasn’t complimented them once. He says, “Babe, you look good no matter what.” Looks good no matter what. Meaning he doesn’t look.
Took it. Sent it. Two minutes forty seconds.
“Nice legs. Spread them.”
I spread them a little.
“Not like that. Feet up on either side of the toilet, knees open, phone on the floor, shoot from below.”
I did it. When I put my feet up the lid wobbled and I grabbed the sink. The phone screen faced me, and I could see my pussy was still red, Zhou Yi’s come hanging off it, a thin white strand, dripping down.
“Your husband just came in you?” “Yes.” “How many minutes?” “Six.” “Did you come.” “No.” “Then two fingers, now. Not a sound. When you come, show me the fingers.”
I sat back down on the lid and pushed two fingers in. It was full of what he’d left, slick as hell. As I clenched around my fingers one thought went through my head: this is my fucking bathroom, and he’s snoring twenty meters away.
I rubbed fast. Didn’t dare go slow. Right outside the door was the living room, and at the other end of the living room was Zhou Yi. When my fingers hit that spot up top, I bit down on the collar of my pajama top, legs trembling on either side of the toilet, toes gripping the tiles.
The sticky note fell off my thigh onto the floor. I let it. The screen stayed lit; K didn’t type anything else, it just stayed lit, waiting.
In under a minute my back arched, and a gush of wetness mixed with his come ran out between my fingers onto the toilet lid. I didn’t make a sound. My shoulder knocked the sink and the toothbrush fell over.
I photographed my fingers and sent it. Fingertips glistening, a thread of white between them.
“Good girl. What’s your name.”
I typed “Feng,” deleted it. Typed “Wei,” sent it.
“Wei. From now on, every morning at seven you get a task. Do it, send photo proof, date on a sticky note. Fail and I delete you. No second chances.” “…Okay.” “That’s not how you answer.”
I looked at the screen and waited ten seconds. He didn’t push.
“Say: Yes, Master.”
Sitting on the toilet lid, pajama pants still around my ankles, one leg shaking, I typed out those words and sent them. Then I wiped the lid, stood the toothbrush back up, picked up the sticky note, tore it to shreds and buried it at the very bottom of the trash can.
Back in bed, Zhou Yi rolled over and put his arm around me, hand on my waist, and mumbled, “Cold.” I moved his hand off. He didn’t wake up.
“Sleep. Monday, go to work with no panties. Before nine, office bathroom, send me a photo.”
I didn’t reply. Closed BlackBox, put the phone back on the nightstand, face down. Zhou Yi’s snoring rose and fell, and I counted his snores past a hundred and forty before I fell asleep.
Sunday, seven a.m. sharp, my phone buzzed once. When I opened my eyes Zhou Yi was already out of bed; in the kitchen water was boiling. He was steaming xiaolongbao, frozen ones, Wanchai Ferry.
“Morning. No touching yourself today. Send me a photo of the skirt you’re wearing Monday.”
I lay in bed looking at that line. There was an ache between my legs; I’d clenched too hard last night. I went to the closet and picked the black suit skirt, two fingers above the knee, the one I wear to requirements reviews. Took a photo.
“Too long. Something shorter.” “That’s the only one I can wear to work.” “The khaki one in your closet. Bodycon. Bought it last year.”
My hand froze. I had never sent a photo of my closet. How did he know? It took me a minute to remember: in my BlackBox album there was a shot from behind I’d posted three months ago, wearing exactly that skirt. I wore it once, and Zhou Yi said, “That’s too tight, not really appropriate for work.”
I dug out the khaki skirt and photographed it.
“That one. Hang it by the door.”
“Breakfast is ready,” Zhou Yi called from the kitchen. I hung the skirt on the hook in the entryway, next to his work badge. He came out with the xiaolongbao and glanced at it. “Wearing that tomorrow?” “Mm. Meeting.” “Looks nice.” He put a dumpling in my bowl. “Eat more. You’ve gotten thin lately.”
In the afternoon I went to a glutes-and-legs class at Super Monkey. When the coach yelled “Ten more!” I squatted lower than anyone. In the locker room I stood in front of the mirror for a while in my sports underwear, both legs taut. A woman walked past, glanced at me, didn’t say anything.
I didn’t touch myself. Wanted to four times. Four times I put my hand back.
That night Zhou Yi got into bed at ten, looked at his phone for twenty minutes, turned off the light, kissed my forehead. “Night, babe.” Snoring.
10:45, BlackBox buzzed.
“Skirt hung up?” “Yes.” “And your panties.” “…Not wearing any tomorrow.” “Full sentence.” “Tomorrow I’m going to work without panties.” “Photo by what time?” “Nine.” “One minute late, deleted. Go to sleep, Wei.”