Write your fantasy,
make it real.

By day she is the kind of woman in the office cubicle who follows every rule, who keeps her voice so low no one remembers it, and no one can tell she keeps a beast inside her that has been starving for a very long time. For most of a year she lurked in a small online circle you could only enter if a trusted friend vouched for you, watching others play, listening to others tell it, hungrier the more she watched, until at last she typed out the line herself: she wanted a stranger to recognize her outdoors, in front of whoever might pass by, and grind her down to the lowest place. He told her to come in a black dress, over-the-knee black stockings, and little leather shoes, and made that outfit itself the signal: to recognize it was to accept her nod, to accept the intensity she was handing over. That evening she walked into the old park in the south of the city, her heart pounding as if it would leap out of her throat. A stranger fiercer and heavier than she had imagined rose from the far end of a bench and locked his eyes on her shoes at once, and from that step the signal took effect, the game began, and she knew perfectly well that she was the one who had come knocking.

Thirty-five-year-old Shen Manzhi is the top saleswoman at an imported-car dealership. Married eight years, she has learned to smile and close deals even while a client’s hand wanders. The night the showroom closes, her boss keeps her back. He bolts the glass door, dims the overhead lights, and pins her into the leather sofa with a look she has dodged for years and finally no longer wants to dodge. Reason still whispers of the man at home who has left a light on for her, but her body gives in before her mind does. Three POVs alternate: the boss consumed by possessiveness, Manzhi losing ground in the gap between resistance and pleasure, and the husband who knows nothing and waits tenderly for her to come home.

A thirty-four-year-old office manager: by day, a sweet, composed face in the office tower, polite to the point of aloofness, and no one can see the bottomless well of desire hidden beneath that cool, distant mask. In an anonymous online group she stumbles onto a game they call “social death”—sending your most private photos to someone in your contacts, then recalling them one second before they open, using that fraction of a second of ambiguous, could-be-real loss to push herself to the brink where her heart nearly stops. It begins with one recalled nude, and a man she has never met, through a screen, directs her step by step: to touch herself, to be dragged into a group and humiliated in front of everyone, and finally, one night, to walk out her own front door with a toy inside her and hand herself over to two strangers. Three POVs alternate: the stranger on the other side of the screen coolly raising the stakes, the heroine’s civil war between reason and body, and her self-scrutiny across the widening rift between her cold professional shell and her private, wanton hunger.

At the convention she’s the coser who smiles the most — white thigh-highs, a short skirt, a wig combed to perfection, soft-voiced to everyone at her sketch table. No one knows that once the crowd is gone and she’s back in her rented room, she turns off the light, props her phone on the bookshelf, kneels before the lens, and waits for a voice that has only ever existed on a screen to give the orders. He has never seen her face, yet he knows better than anyone the curve of her spine when she kneels, the whimper she chokes back in her throat when she’s commanded. Three months he trained her online — recording her touching herself, making her kneel and count aloud, making her confess to the camera what she is — and then he said: come out. That little copse on the city’s edge is where, for the first time, she wired the voice on the other end of the line into her own body.

I have a very gentle boyfriend. We only ever used a handful of positions, never once tried dirty talk, and he couldn’t bring himself to say a harsh word to me. Mr. Liu was different — I met him at an industry mixer on Teachers’ Day, and over the next two-odd months I practically moved into his apartment. From the start he pinched my nipples, slapped my face, forced me to call him “husband” in the car. He pried open the back hole no one had ever touched, and with barely more than the wetness I couldn’t admit I had, he opened me there for the very first time. It hurt so much I thought I’d split apart; the tears wouldn’t stop. Yet the moment he drove in, I couldn’t help clenching, couldn’t help gushing. He came once in front and once in back. That mouth and that hole my boyfriend never used are now used by Mr. Liu almost every time. The low feeling isn’t fake — but I know we’re only fuck buddies.

Lin Zhixia is the kind of woman who makes people sit up straight the moment she walks into an office—a few years out of school, already a manager, with a cool, unshakable authority in her eyes. She has a boyfriend, Zhou Xu, so gentle he is almost translucent, who gathers her whole body into his arms and hums to her when she cannot sleep. And yet this woman everyone treats as a model met a man online who calls her only one thing: good girl. From the rope and blindfold pulled out of that black canvas bag in the hotel room, to the endless waves of climax forced out of her by a vibrator, to the scalding candle wax running down her back, her breasts, her thighs in that apartment—inch by inch she loses the disciplined, respectable self who never even learned how to be coy. Every night she returns to Zhou Xu’s arms, she knows with perfect clarity that she can never go back. So when the message “Let’s play again” lights up her screen, she answers with a single word: yes.

Lin Wan, a finance girl born in ’98, raised strict and top of her class, was still wound up like clockwork by her parents well into her twenties. Her first relationship was with a boyfriend her own age; their first time in bed was over in under a minute, and lying beneath a strange ceiling she realized for the first time that a fire had been smoldering unlit inside her body. After diving headfirst into a niche-circle forum, she met a man a year her senior who understood SM in speech, in looks, and in build — he first tamed her bit by bit over the phone, then summoned her to rush to a strange city where no one knew her: a zoo, buying wine at a supermarket, little games in a hotel room, three days and three nights without leaving the room. On the highway home she did one last thing: after fucking in the car, she blocked that useless boyfriend and sent the words “make it official” to the man on the other side of the screen.

Four years married, and her husband Xu Lang touches her less and less — and when he does, it is over fast. Alone in the dead of night, Lin Jianxia sends herself over the edge with one massage wand after another, each one bigger than the last, then goes to work the next morning as poised as ever. She had been dodging Shen Yan, the male coworker whose eyes always undressed her — but she could not dodge him forever. First it was in his car in the underground garage, where, as if possessed, she took him in her mouth; later it was a booked hotel room, a set of black lace maid lingerie laid out on the bed, and he fastened it on her button by button, then pressed her down inch by inch, licking her nipples, licking her clean-shaven sex below. She let this affair in. Shen Yan bought her lingerie, taught her how to use her mouth, how to ride him, and at the end pulled off the condom and came in her mouth. And her husband, who so rarely did it, one day suddenly praised her: lately you seem to have… figured it out. Three points of view interweave: the coworker’s hunt and patience, the wife’s inch-by-inch fall inside the contrast of pleasure, and the husband’s oblivious dullness and his ironic praise.

Lin Wan is a gardener born in ’99: five foot eight, one hundred thirty pounds, a pair of E cups, an ass round and heavy, thighs so lush a fingertip sinks in. Raised under a strict household, married two years, before her wedding she was almost a blank page — even flirting stopped at holding hands. But her husband took on a new project and works past midnight; month by month the two of them do it less and less. She learned to comfort herself on an empty bed with toys, the boxes growing bigger with each order, yet filling her less and less. A fellow gardener she met at a training seminar, a man online, coaxes the little flame in her heart up bit by bit through the screen — until at last he comes to her home. He kisses her the moment the door opens, gropes her, kneels to serve her with his mouth — he is plainly far bigger than her husband; the instant he stretches her open through a condom she knows there is no going back, and in the end she herself lets him peel the rubber off, lets scorching burst after burst flood into her deepest place. From then on she drives out again and again to keep their trysts, or lets the man in through her own door, while her husband, drowning in his work dinners, never notices a thing. Three viewpoints interweave: the man online and his hunt and awe, Lin Wan and the inner self her own body betrays step by step, and the husband, buried in banquets, who compliments his wife on how well she has been looking lately.

Art teacher Su Wan was worn soft over two years of her husband’s pillow-talk—he loves watching her be taken by another, forcing her at climax to admit she wants other men. She finally gives in, going to a hotel to meet a bull she met online. Her husband says look but don’t touch, playing the mere spectator, using a black blindfold to win her trust. But beneath the blindfold, the one swapped out is the husband himself. Blindfolded, she praises “darling, you’re bigger today,” cresting three or four times across fifty minutes and being filled to the brim; only when the blindfold comes off does she see the stranger kneeling between her thighs, her husband looking on beside them with reddening eyes. She weeps and curses, so ashamed she wants to sink into the floor—but her body had defected long before she understood. Three interwoven POVs: the bull’s hunt, the wife’s betrayed trust and the body that fell a step ahead of her, and the husband’s jealousy and twisted pride.

She is a retired auto-show model, a former warm-up dancer, and now the coaching assistant at a private billiards club — a long-distance sugar-daddy boyfriend wires money into her card every month and keeps her like a trophy behind glass. But glass cannot cage a hunger that walks. A regular at the poolroom pries the crack open first, then a KTV lounge, then the two friends her patron personally brought behind that hotel door. On the night three men take turns pinning her to the bed, she is driven to the deepest place while she bows her head to text her “husband” on the other side of a screen. Three alternating POVs: the fling who pried the crack, her churning inner voice, and the patron who treats her as a collectible yet hands her over with his own hands.

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.

The year she graduated, she and her boyfriend — a track-and-field athlete — rented a one-bedroom on the edge of the city, cramming both their luggage, both their futures, and her increasingly honest body through a door that sealed the world out the moment it clicked shut. He was lean, his clothes hiding a frame whittled sharp by the track and the barbell, but the thing between his legs was absurdly large; the first time it truly pinned her down, she understood — she would never get away in this life. From then on he set her a code of rules that held only inside that door: his morning erection had to be sucked awake on her knees, no underwear was ever allowed at home, the laundry basket was entirely hers, and even his sweat-soaked athletic socks and briefs had to be brought to the tip of her nose and breathed in before she was permitted to drop them into the washing machine. She cursed herself as filthy in her heart even as she willingly ground her knees into the floor. Three chapters — from the rules laid down on the first day of moving in, to the round-the-clock domestication of a single day, to a bout of home sex that filled her utterly and poured into her deepest place — a story of how a girl, through days that were both heaven and hell, lived the nickname “Number Forty-Three” into her most secret identity.

To everyone she meets, she’s the good girl — plain, quiet, soft-spoken to a fault. But only one man knows the kind of beast that’s been starving beneath that blank-page surface. Three years ago, an ex-boyfriend so dominant he bordered on tyrannical took the naïve version of her apart inch by inch and trained her into a slut who couldn’t live without being handled roughly: mouth, ropes, outdoors, exhibition — she gave him all of her firsts. After they broke up, she found a gentle, considerate new boyfriend, but the gentler he was the emptier she felt, the more considerate the thirstier she grew. So again and again she went behind her new boyfriend’s back and crawled back into her ex’s bed — slapped, spanked, filled inside — until one act of cheating that nearly got exposed in the stairwell finally let the beast all the way out.

A woman worn out by her nine-to-five spends a long vacation driving alone to a kink villa hidden on the outskirts of Jiangcheng, handing herself over to a well-drilled training crew — three men and one woman, one of them a married couple whose wife is an ice-cold domme. Collar, tail plug, nipple clamps, breast pump, fucking machine, rope, dog cage and dog bowl: days of unbroken twenty-four-hour taming that break her down from an adult who has only licked chains in fantasy into a body that has truly learned to kneel in welcome and to beg. The first time she has never given anyone, she gives to the husband of the couple. Rotating points of view: the dominant man, the heroine’s inner unravelling, and the two halves of the couple who watch coldly and then step in themselves.

Three years married, I saved my most obedient face for my husband and hid my hungriest self inside my phone. That autumn, my best friend A said she wanted to take me to a neighboring-province city called Yunting, to meet four men she had known online for a long time, and play for three days. I said yes so fast it startled even me. Over those three days I stood at the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window and stripped naked facing the whole commercial street; I wore a collar and a ball gag while A walked me around the room on a leash; a charging cable whipped my back red, and one hand clamped my throat while he came inside me at the deepest point; in a secluded restroom stall in a park I was made to swallow him, trembling as I sent photos to the man waiting far away for my reply, then frantically recalling them. On the last night, four men lined up and filled me one after another while A held up her phone and recorded everything. These were three days when, behind my husband’s back, I gave myself away completely — reason kept shouting stop, and my body kept surrendering. All adults, all agreed in advance, a willing fall.

Twenty-eight, married three years, she used to play very hard when she was young — she had long ago handed her body over to an old Dom who knew exactly how to work her. She thought three steady years of marriage had locked that past away for good, until one rainy night after Qingming, that man reappeared in an old group chat she had joined years ago. No threats, no leverage — just a single line, and the old submission she believed she had kicked flared back to life. She told herself again and again she would not go, and in the end she walked into that hotel room of her own free will. Three alternating POVs: the old Dom’s calm, escalating control, the wife’s civil war between reason and body, and the husband — kept in the dark — waiting tenderly at home for her to come back.

For the three days her husband is away on business, a stranger behind a sunglasses avatar invites her to the ninth floor of an old factory district to shoot artistic swimsuit photos. She says it is only photos, but beyond the lens her body betrays that ring a step ahead of her.

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.

Thirty-one-year-old Shen Zhiyao is the kind of cold, composed dominant beauty everyone imagines — 175 centimeters tall, legs long enough to crush a man’s ego, always half a beat slow to speak, never once losing her poise. She and her philandering boyfriend have grown so estranged that only appearances hold them together. But on the night she drinks too much at a party, her boyfriend’s best friend, Cheng Yue, pins her against the hallway wall outside the restroom and, with a filthy line she has never heard before, pries open the coldness she has kept up for ten years. Reason tells her to resist, but her body betrays her a step ahead. She is taken back to his place, stripped of her sweater and camisole, and slapped awake — palm after palm — to the side of herself buried in her bones. It turns out she wants to be dominated, wants to be filled, wants to be cursed at and fucked until her eyes roll back. What began as nothing more than a revenge breakup fuck ends with her finally recognizing who she truly is.

On the summer night she got her diploma, the celebration broke up halfway through, and she followed two boys back to their stuffy shared apartment. One was the gentle senior who had pined for her for four years, so nervous his hand shook just handing her a glass of water; the other was the sharp-tongued wild one who never met her without a jab. She sipped two drinks fully sober, her reason shouting for her to stop again and again, yet her body went soft one step ahead of it — tender caresses and savage tearing collided on her like two tides, driving her from half-willing surrender all the way to complete ruin.

Late at night in the gym locker room, she runs into that bronze-skinned, ripped foreign athlete. She thinks of herself as a girl who lets her guard down for no one — a teasing turn to change her clothes, a bold invitation, and she is sure she has him in her palm. Then he stops her cold with three words: "I have rules." In the hotel, she learns for the first time what it means to be gripped by the throat and trained until her mind goes blank; in bed, she kneels and begs him not to wear it, to come inside her — and he insists on the condom anyway. Not for any other reason, only because "when I go in, and whether I come inside you, is mine to decide." Her reason screams in refusal, but her body betrays her before anyone else can.

Twenty-nine-year-old Lin Suqiu is the woman everyone at the office agrees is the most proper — a pencil skirt pressed dead straight, a blouse always buttoned to the second button, a soft and measured voice. No one knows that on one utterly ordinary morning she peeled off her last layer of covering, folded it neatly, and tucked it into the inner pocket of her commuter bag. From that moment on, every step she takes, every time she sits down, every meeting she attends becomes a game of exposure known only to herself. That wetness, wrapped all day long by the office carpet, the leather conference chairs, and the glass partitions, she carries home untouched — home to the apartment she shares with her boyfriend. And when he finally discovers the secret of her entire day — the nothingness beneath that proper woman’s propriety — neither of them is the person they used to be.

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.