Write your fantasy,
make it real.

165cm, 60kg, 80H — Yao Yan is one of the busiest veteran shoot models in the scene, her skin luminously pale, her heavy breasts capable of straining any tube top past its limit; they are the asset she carries into every studio, the one thing that never loses her a booking. Demure on the surface, wildly the opposite in private, she is opened up inch by inch, starting the evening a shoot wraps, by a patron who spends without flinching: from cash slipped into her bag at the dinner table, to the first time her chest is kneaded open through a sports bra in the car, to becoming his acknowledged mistress, flown across the world on his arm — until she leads her own best friend into the bed of a threesome with her own hands. Three chapters trace how a woman who treats her body as capital sinks, step by step, through money, through the pleasure of being drawn out, through the shame of being shared — until the man who first opened her returns to her city, treats her as a gift ripened to perfection, and passes her to two of his friends. Three alternating points of view: the patron’s calculation and control, her own steady defeat between reason and flesh, and the greed of the man she is shared with, watching from the far bank.

Her boyfriend of four years traded her in for someone else. The night they broke up, she slipped alone into a bar on the neon strip outside the urban village, wanting only to drink herself into feeling nothing. But the emptiness burned hotter than the liquor. The tall foreign man at the far end of the bar slid a second drink toward her, his accent thick, his smile somehow both disarming and unnerving. For the first time she wanted to let go with a stranger whose name she could not even fully remember, not to forget anyone, only to prove she was still alive, still wanted. That night she gave up everything: her slender body, the smooth-shaven secret between her legs, and the tears she had swallowed all evening long.

At 171 centimetres, Xu Qingyan is the design department’s acknowledged ice-cold heiress — her posture forever straight, her replies forever impeccable, her tall boots striking the corridor like they tread on the upward gazes of everyone else. But after she moves out and lives alone at university, she discovers another self in the small hours: peeling off her stockings and lifting the arch of her foot — gone sour after a whole airless day — to her nose, that scent of her own, private and never meant to be smelled, unlocks a switch she has never dared admit to. Three chapters tracing how an ice-cold top student sinks inch by inch through scent-fetish and online training, how she walks into the most formal public settings with a toy inside her, swallowing back down her throat, under countless watching eyes, an orgasm she strains to hold until she shakes — on the surface, a long-legged prodigy; in secret, a wild thing tamed by her own smell.

Ke Ning, a 25-year-old dance instructor, is the cold, locked-down introvert everyone sees on the outside — every reaction sealed inside her chest. But no one knows the film that loops in her head: being pinned down, being seen through, being slowly pried open in front of a crowd. Her boyfriend Zhou Zhao is a careless philanderer who never once read that dirty little fantasy of hers. Then, in the drunken backseat after a five-person KTV night, Zhou Zhao’s buddy Xu Yu opened her up through her skirt. Riding the liquor, she closed her eyes and, for the first time, let her body make the decision she could never say out loud. A week later, Xu Yu asked her out alone. This man — not as brawny as Zhou Zhao, but patient, lasting, someone who knew how to take a woman apart and reassemble her — used a private booth, an affair, and one filthy line after another to train her from clear-headed resistance all the way to begging on her knees. She grew more contradictory, wetter, more lost by the day — and all of it, kept from Zhou Zhao.

At the student councils first party of the semester, she — all cool-elegant sex appeal — turns up in a white lace camisole, a short black pleated skirt, and black stockings over little white socks, becoming the stunning focus of the whole crowd in a seaside villa packed with twenty-odd people. When everyone floods up to the rooftop to gather around the barbecue, she gets tipsy and nauseous, and her lover z volunteers to help her down to the deserted basement billiards room. A green-felt billiards table, the wetness kneaded open through her thong, the tension of someone being on the first floor, a bolted bathroom door — the aloof senior falls apart inch by inch in his hands, driven until her eyes roll back and those two words spill out. A half-public tryst, nearly caught by people coming down to shoot pool, reason and body parting ways completely inside the same bathroom.

Shen Zhiwei, a copywriter at an ad agency, is everyone’s idea of a proper, obedient good girl — flawless makeup, hems always pressed below the knee. But ever since Gu Han, the new creative director, laid his hand on the back of her chair, she hasn’t been dry for a single day. His careful trespasses when no one is looking, the private photos he coaxes her into taking, command after command training her into a bitch — each one peels back the docile shell around her. On a Friday night with her roommate away, she puts on a sweet little dress with nothing underneath and opens the door for him herself. Her reason resists, but her body defects first — she kneels, she crawls, her ass is spanked scalding hot, and in the ruin of being treated like a dog for the very first time in her life, she agrees out loud to be his bitch fuckbuddy.