Write your fantasy,
make it real.

No. 62, twenty-two years old, a first-year master’s student — the good girl who always sits at the top of the grade list, the quietest lamp in the library. No one knows there is a bright silver chastity lock hidden beneath her collarbone, and no one knows that every Friday she returns to a nameless house, kneeling down like a tamed dog. This is a choice she walked into herself — to be confined, forbidden, edged until tears well up, called a bitch, and then, in the most extreme loss of control, to find a peace she has never known before. In an all-female leather circle, the Mistresses measure her endurance with a wooden rod and the tip of a tongue; over two years, she hands over the pride of a top student inch by inch, and is loved back inch by inch. It lasts until graduation — a very beautiful stretch of time.

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.

Yun is a teacher, 168 centimeters tall with waist-length straight black hair, and a cold face that can freeze an entire office solid — until she opens her mouth and every bit of that ice melts away. She used to be a livestreamer sustained by countless lenses, and only shut the channel down after a stalker hunted her home; then she turned and stepped onto a lecture platform — but the body remembers what it is to be watched. Her boyfriend, who is also her Master, hands her an order one day: go and help a shy sophomore, A, “loosen up.” In a library discussion room there is a low-cut white blouse, perfume, a scorching gaze, and one line — “let your senpai help you.” This is a lesson taught with the Master present, where Yun is the teaching aid, and also the woman whose aloof mask cracks, burning with excitement inside her own submission.

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 real-estate socialite haloed by the whole city, has watched her quarter collapse, torn into a screaming brawl with a colleague in front of everyone, and no amount of cigarettes, wine, or clubbing can smother the knot in her chest. Late at night she dresses to the nines and drives to the city’s lowest, seediest corner—only to hand her untouchable mask into the hands of a thin, tiny country streetwalker, flipping the order of who gets trampled and who does the licking. A supreme act of submission that shreds every glittering shell.

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.

The day they made it official, she dragged her suitcase into his apartment. He is a track-and-field athlete, over twenty centimeters taller than her, one big hand able to cup her whole ass. From then on she became the little bitch kept caged in this house—draining his cum every day is a required course, his morning wood is her alarm clock, there is a place for her under the dining table, and her wardrobe holds nothing but sexy lingerie. She is thin and sensitive, trembling at a single touch, yet under his crushing training she comes completely undone. Violent condom-sheathed thrusting, fucked until a whole rubber is filled, pulled out to reveal a condom brimming with white cream—this is the most ordinary daily ritual of their live-in life.

Yao Wei is a senior-year model whose figure breaks every frame, yet back at school she is the good girl hugging her portfolio. No one knows the first time a big-shot photographer opened her up was in a car after the shoot. From a stack of cash traded for a single touch, to becoming his mistress and being flown out of town, to a yacht where three men pin her front and back and fill her in turns, to being dragged into a karaoke room by an old master to sing along — she gives herself away again and again, chasing that overload of being objectified, dominated, driven past the point of gushing out of control. The skin of a good girl, wrapping a body that sinks deeper the more it is cursed.

Gu Zhiwei — the aloof campus beauty of the art academy, student council vice-president and class rep — is, in public, the model good girl who always keeps her knees pressed together and her spine ramrod straight. In private, she has turned exhibitionism and self-bondage into an addiction she cannot stop. One secret solo session on the dorm balcony at midnight gives her, for the first time, the out-of-control thrill of a heartbeat racing to the edge of suffocation. On the day of the final movement-class assessment, she squeezes into a leotard a size too small, hides a remote-controlled bullet vibrator inside her body, and bets her scholarship on getting through the whole dance while holding it in. After the assessment, an even more reckless plan takes shape in her mind — a single handcuff, a vibrator that ramps up on its own, the deserted men’s room in the empty arts building. It is only when she hears the gears click shut that she realizes she has made one fatal mistake.

Just past five foot seven, slender and long-limbed, she thought her love with J was steady and ordinary. Until the first time that hemp rope cut into her flesh — the night she was bound kneeling, face pressed to the grass, brutally taken from behind — it opened a door in her that could never close again. The whip, the clamps, the razor, being displayed, being shared: each fall deeper than the last. She despised her own baseness even as she grew unable to live without those shameless, violent waves of climax that came only when she was bound. It was a secret that belonged to the two of them alone — until that door swung open, and two strangers were standing behind it.

In her sophomore year she stumbled online into a circle where men trained girls to be bitches. She started as a watcher, curious and ashamed, then the man who called himself Master reeled her in step by step — into the group, into photos, into heat, into addiction. A little over a month later he came to Shanghai from a thousand miles away, and with a single word he could make her wear the clothes he chose and complete every humiliating task in public, inside a private Japanese-restaurant room. This is the story of how she handed herself over, left her last pair of panties in that room with her own hands, and crawled on her knees into a hotel room.

More than a year after her divorce, she is thirty-six and has poured her homeless desire into the exhibitionist circles of Twitter. On a hot summer holiday afternoon, egged on by her online friends, she wears nothing but lingerie, tights, and killer heels as she slips alone into two deserted public toilets on the edge of the city — the first so quiet it deflates her, the second echoing with the sound of a strange man relieving himself. A jolt runs through her, she is soaking wet, and her fingers cannot stop. The whole piece is her solitary monologue: the abandon of divorced life, the shame and pleasure of an exhibitionism that keeps escalating step by step, the pounding heart of hearing someone right beside her and nearly being caught, and the moment she finally admits she can never go back to who she used to be.

A weekend afternoon showing, barely anyone there. They picked the two seats at the far edge of the second-to-last row. She wore a hoodie over a short skirt, and underneath, that set of lace so thin it was nearly see-through. As the screen flickered from bright to dark, his hand started at her knee in the darkness and moved up, inch by inch — she bit her lip, swallowing back every moan that threatened to spill out. The whole theater was so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat, and feared everyone else could too. This is an afternoon about losing control in public while desperately pretending nothing was happening.

She is a twenty-five-year-old legal counsel at a law firm — cold-faced in public, speaking like a court verdict, never a word wasted. On a rainy day her delivery order spilled its soup, and she offhandedly left a one-star review, blasting the rider for his foul attitude. A few days later a stranger added her on WeChat and sent photos: the door number of her rented flat, her shoe cabinet, and her pair of black high-heeled leather shoes — with a still-wet load of a man’s spend pooled inside one shoe. He tells her that calling the police is useless; he isn’t afraid of going down in flames. Panicked, she asks how to make it end; he says he’s heading back to his hometown this month, and she can help him work off a month’s worth of lust. She should have called the police, should have toughed it out — but beneath that cold face hides another self even her boyfriend has never seen, and, spinning her own lie, she agreed. For that one month, apart from the weekends her boyfriend occasionally visits, every single night belongs to him. He is a whole size bigger than her boyfriend, his desire a fire that never burns out. At month’s end he merely nods at her door and leaves, as if nothing ever happened. She deletes every trace of contact, sits back down at her desk, and fixes that cold face back on.

To everyone else she was the quietest girl in the whole university — bangs cut to her brows, voice soft, always hugging the wall when she walked. But only she knew that her body trembled the instant anyone touched it, that even a fingertip grazing her collarbone raised a shiver of goosebumps. In her junior year she started wearing the shortest skirts alone in her rented room, standing before the mirror and fantasizing about being seen through, recognizing in herself a contrast-slut hidden inside a good-girl shell. One consensual, adults-only night at a club, the alcohol loosened the grip she’d held for years, and for the first time she was filled by more than one man at once, for the first time she heard herself beg, “Don’t stop.” Afterward she didn’t collapse in shame — instead, in the bathroom mirror, she admitted that identity to herself, and she left behind a fixed, on-call tail for whenever she wanted more.

I’m the kind of girl whose feed is full of crop tops, spaghetti straps, and micro-skirt selfies that rack up hundreds of likes — bold on the surface, but the truth is I’d never once truly let go. Then sophomore year I ended up sharing a dorm with L, a dance major — a spade tattoo high on her inner thigh, more on her ankle and chest, always out at bars and karaoke joints. One night I caught her secret. Two weeks later she slipped two things into my bag, and after that I turned, step by step, into someone I didn’t even recognize. This is the whole story of how my best friend corrupted me, how a pair of toys fed my addiction, until one gathering of six people where, for the first time, I fell completely.

A grown foreign exchange student in the vocal-music program, she looks like a pure-white little sunbeam of an ENFP — but underneath she’s a bitch in heat with a savage appetite, the ultimate contradiction. In the expat scene she found herself a “Master” to take on short-term tasks — and this time, he pushes her toward a Halloween sex bar: wear lingerie, hook a foreign man, hand your body over. From the little grove by the door bouncer, to the “accidental” hands in the crowd on the way in, to being surrounded and played with by a pack of strangers in the men’s room, she cashes out his orders one step at a time — and confirms, one step at a time, exactly what kind of thing she is.

Barely twenty, fresh out of a small town to study at a junior college, she was the kind of girl who knew how to work a room — sweet-mouthed, bold in what she wore, mobbed by a crowd the second she posted in the group chat. She thought she already understood how it all worked, until she met Brother X, a man from the streets. It took him just one drink, one hickey, one kiss that pinned her against a door, and one hotel room next to the bar to break her down from a pampered little bad-girl darling into a bitch on a leash. She followed along, half-resisting, sinking step by step into the pleasure of being led astray, until she was passed around and toyed with by him and his whole circle of grown-men friends — and even learned to rinse her mouth out with a sip of water before letting anyone kiss her. This is the story of how a confident girl willingly hands herself over and sinks down, ashamed and thrilled all at once.

By day she is a dentist in a crisp, immaculate shirt, sparing with words, cold enough that even the disinfectant smell keeps its distance and the intern nurses dare not ask her anything, 25 years old, 165 cm, 49 kilos. Only her long-distance boyfriend vaguely knows she has another side in private, yet all he knows is the masturbation layer, not the deeper one beneath it. Home from a long stretch of holiday shifts, in the gap of one shower and one takeout pickup, the three seconds she opens the door wrapped in a towel get photographed by someone. A few days later that delivery guy turns up at her door again, opens the album on his phone, and names a single condition. She thinks the words call the police will scare him off, only to be shoved back through her own door.

Six months into her first job, she is the aloof colleague in the turtleneck sweater — while hiding an exhibitionism streak no one suspects. On her day off she fixes a flesh-toned realistic toy inside her face mask, pressing it against her throat, and heads out — until she walks into a crowded, bright clothing store where a shop girl will not stop staring at her mouth; until, in the fitting room, the saliva-soaked toy is left behind and her ultra-short pleated skirt flips up and exposes her. On the day of her total public humiliation, she comes home and opens the drawer where her secrets are kept.

She anonymously posts her location and outfit, playing a game of being hunted, the passphrase being: find me, and you can do whatever you want with me for a day. She never expected to run into a man who truly treated her as prey — and on that day, her mind and her body fell apart, each in its own way.

To her coworkers, Su Man is the aloof goddess of the office — but she hides a secret: she posts her own nudes to a foreign corner of the internet. When she meets Director Lu from headquarters, that door swings open, and this master couple trains her, step by step, into a bitch who kneels on the floor and acknowledges her owners.

Graduate student Lin Yue is an old hand at picking up men, but the one thing she truly craves is the thing her lover, Mr. Gu, uses to discipline her. This time he books her for an art photo shoot, dressing her in a traditional Chinese crimson bridal gown — from the studio changing mirror to the gridlocked car, from the brightly lit counter of a sex shop to the small hours in a hotel room, he pushes her step by step into the shame of being displayed in public, and again and again he feeds her full. She goes the whole day without a single meal, yet her belly is packed with what he gives her, so full she floats when she walks.

In her parents’ eyes she is the pure, well-behaved girl raised in the palms of two families who have been close for generations — a grown woman now at university, flawless. But only the boy she has known since childhood knows the truth: three meetings, each one deeper than the last, until she willingly hands herself over and kneels as his rabbit, his alone. The red qipao on Lunar New Year’s Eve, one afternoon of humiliation that spun out of control, right up to the day she buys rabbit ears and a collar herself and stands before the floor-to-ceiling window. This is the ruin no one else ever sees, hidden beneath the pure little shell.