Write your fantasy,
make it real.

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.

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.

A city girl brings her current boyfriend back to the shopping district where she once dated her ex, B, using her old lover’s techniques and whispered secrets as fuel for flirtation the whole way. This Christmas Eve her period has come, so she can’t actually have sex — so she uses her hands, her breasts, her mouth, driving every line of “B loved it when I did this” straight into his heart. She leads, he seethes with jealousy, and jealousy only makes him harder — a night of soft NTR where she controls the tempo and he willingly sinks.

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.

Grown, unmarried Su Wan arrives for her younger cousin’s wedding, her body tormented by a heat she can’t explain. Her cousin Lu Shi hands her a glass of chilled white wine, leans in to her ear, and tells her the family cellar holds an even finer reserve—one that, paired with a certain “secret recipe,” promises a far deeper pleasure. Amid the wedding’s din, the hand that settles on her knee guides her all the way toward the private world behind the electronic lock on his top floor—wine, tipsiness, and the taboo of blood tug at each other behind that plaque-hung door.

Onstage she is the steadiest lead dancer under the lights; wherever her fingertip rises, a whole row follows. But offstage she pulls a slip dress she never means to buy into a mall fitting room, steps barefoot into little patent-leather shoes, and leaves the velvet curtain deliberately parted a sliver — what she wants was never the dress, it is the current that races up her spine when she is seen. Today, a man who has tracked her gaze since the third floor reads the invitation in that gap in the curtain. The velvet closes; the clerk’s heels click a few steps away, and behind one layer of cloth neither of them dares make a sound.

Trained in dance, plain-spoken and shy, she took a temp clerk job at a private firm that had nothing to do with her field — and from day one the veteran staff crushed her under their cold stares, convinced she had slid in on nothing but her looks. Only the department head — eight years her senior, always in a crisp suit — shielded her at the drinking parties and backed her in meetings, pulling this shunned newcomer, inch by inch, into the fold. A serious illness laid her flat for a long stretch, and once she recovered she resolved to live a different way: big waves in her hair, a pencil skirt with stockings and heels, shedding the sickly self for good. Just as the manager who had helped her got transferred away and her heart was at its lowest, the head said let’s have dinner soon and talk. That dinner led to his home, then to his car — the liquor rose in her, and riding that dizzy haze she grabbed hold of something she never should have. A woman with a boyfriend, she left her phone in her bag and never answered his calls; in the deserted office deep in the night, step by step she fell into those hands in the tailored suit.

Four years into marriage, an art teacher discovers her husband hides a cuckold-wife fetish. Worn down day by day by the films he plays and the whispers on the pillow, she finally relents — agreeing only to let a single man “watch.” But that night at the hotel, once the blindfold goes on, it is her husband doing the foreplay and a stranger doing the taking. She lets a sixteen-centimeter stranger pound her hard for fifty minutes, still thinking it is her husband “harder than usual” — until, her face drenched in cum, she pulls the blindfold off and sees whose crotch she is lying beneath. Three points of view: the swapped wife, the cuckold husband who staged the double act, and the single man who was set up to take her.

She is a structural engineer who does not suffer fools — by day she calculates loads and draws connection details, but at night she hands over control entirely. Between her and her longtime boyfriend there is a private code known only to the two of them: an immersive game called “The Blackout,” in which she pretends to be tipsy and half-asleep, letting a “stranger” take her apart roughly like an object — except that stranger is a man her boyfriend arranged in advance, a man she nodded yes to beforehand. There is only one rule: she can call out the real safeword at any moment, and the instant she does, the lights come on and the scene is over. But she has never once called it. She knows clearly that she is addicted to this contrast — being humiliated, dominated, filled up, and then the next day pretending to sob on the phone while her boyfriend uses the filthiest words to “praise” this horny little bitch. This is not losing control; it is a loss of control she handpicked and signed for with her own hand.

She flies with her lover A to an unfamiliar city to meet his four male friends. After dinner they enter that low-floor room whose window faces the busy shopping street, and she is ordered to strip facing the glass — from the stiff, shy fumbling of a first-timer to a slap that shoves her into another kind of order. Circle blowjob, group facial, collar and gag, a charging cable, a hand around her throat and a creampie; then walking the streets by day with a little toy inside her, a mouthful smeared even outside a park toilet, filthy talk let loose on camera, and a heart-sign selfie sent to her boyfriend at dawn. Three chapters, multiple POVs: the bitch and exhibitionist drawn out of her, the A who leads her step by step into group play, and the four men who take turns using her.

In her freshman year, Su Wan saw someone in a group chat jerk off to another person’s photo and talk filth — that cold white screen-glow pinned her in place. She saved his number, added him as a stranger, sent him her own photos, and let the man on the other side of the screen curse her while he watched. From kneeling and lifting her clothes, to filming cosplay masturbation videos begging to be humiliated, she raised herself into a cam that could be switched on any time. Sophomore year, she wanted to try something realer — a college classmate who kept coming to provoke her. On her birthday night, a few drinks in, he offered to walk her home, and they passed a deserted little grove… Two years of looking like a proper lady while being secretly trained into a bitch in heat, all beginning with one lamp behind a screen.

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.

She has a boyfriend who picks her up on time and books the restaurant, and she has Apan, a fuck buddy she hasn’t touched in months but keeps sexting more and more filthily on WeChat. That day her boyfriend had a business dinner and told her to come to the restaurant alone in the evening. In the afternoon Apan came to pick her up, and while packing she had a sudden impulse—she stuffed the whole outfit she was supposed to wear that night into her bag, leaving only a trench coat and a pair of leggings on her body, and had Apan drive the car into her compound. A floor-to-ceiling window, the fourth floor, silhouettes that anyone downstairs could see if they looked up, plus a voice call that came in from her boyfriend—all of it pushed a cheating tryst to a place she herself had never imagined.

One October weekend, she did her wifely duty for the husband she was quietly at war with, only to be publicly slighted at his family’s tea table. Out of spite, she messaged the foreign man. Early the next morning she pulled on workout clothes, took the long way to buy a box of large-size things, and walked into his empty house—the whole family had left for Diwali, leaving him alone. He liked her with the smell of sweat on her; he pinned her to the couch, stroked, tested, entered. He poured the white liquid from the condom into his palm, mixed it with tanning oil, and spread it over her belly and her whole body, saying it would keep her skin supple. Coated in oil that smelled of him, she lay on the rooftop to sunbathe, and before the sun went down she took him to the very last drop and asked him a question.

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.

She was my first love, the top student I met while studying abroad — great English, well-behaved like a model answer key, always saying she had never dated anyone. Single and bored, I invited her over to watch a movie, until that pair of D-cups dropped into my palms, until the tongue that had no clumsiness at all went down on me — and I began to interrogate someone who had supposedly never been in love, asking why she was this practiced. She finally confessed: during those single years, she had been hooking up on Tinder the whole time, and she lost her virginity on a foreign dance floor, hooked away by a beefy foreign man. And I was the first Asian man to fuck her. As I listened, my mind filled with images of her being stretched open by something thicker back then — it bothered me, yet I was aching hard.

Su Wei is the kind of wife everyone considers the most proper. One afternoon she goes alone to a photo studio converted from an old warehouse for a private shoot. The man behind the lens is called A-Wei — low voice, soft words. One line, “Your other half will never know,” pushes her past the first line of defense. From the first mouthful she swallows to the sudden phone call from her husband on an abandoned floor, she holds only one boundary the whole way — she will never let him come inside her. But it is that very line that finally breaks and slips loose. On the way home she detours to the docks, letting the river wind blow away the scent on her that does not belong to home.

Xiaoyu was my first love — sweet, obedient, always giving in to me. A few months into dating, I took her to that patch of woods on the hill behind campus and had her go down on me — whenever I was in a bad mood, she would kneel on her own. Half a year later I got hooked on cuckold content, and whenever I fingered her my head was full of images of her pinned beneath some other guy. One thing I let slip pushed us into a game with no turning back: a name from the class next door, one call for every thrust, no call and I stop. From the woods to the foot of the dorm building, every time we passed that grove we played. Her mouth said “Classmate Chen,” but her body was more honest than anyone’s.

When we make love, I like Su Wei to tell me about her past. A few nights ago she told me about her ex-boyfriend, a doctor — and about his colleague, Dr. Chen. From a hand reaching out of the dark in an on-call room, to being held down by the head in a hotel bathroom, to being fucked while perched on the sink, forced to call her ex and say she forgave him, forced to cry out an old lover’s name… the more detail she gave, the harder I got. This is the night she was fucked on that sink by another man, cumming inside her while she was on the phone with her ex — and the same night I have made her retell to me ever since.

Zhou Min is in her early thirties: two kids, a job that grinds a person dull, a husband who has gone a little soft around the middle. Her days feel like being pressed slowly into warm water and simmered. At the tenth-anniversary reunion for her graduating class, she runs into Aqiao, her closest male bestie from back then — the one who understood every one of her silences. After the party the two of them slip away from the crowd and drink until they are tipsy, and years of unsaid words and long-untouched bodies loosen all at once. That night he opens a place on her that no one had ever touched, and out of the pain surfaces a weightlessness and release she had never known. She flees home, swears never to see him again, and then replays it over and over on the high-speed train. This year the holiday came early; she went back to her parents’ place alone, and arranged to meet him a few more times. Until her husband spots a small scorch mark, burned by cigarette ash, on the underwear she had taken off.

On a rainy night, I was driving my buddy’s wife, Lin Lan, back to her place, but the road was cut off halfway. The umbrella couldn’t hold off the slanting rain, and the nearest door was my little rented room. The moment she leaned in on her own, a line that should never have been crossed had already loosened between our lips and teeth. Later she smiled and climbed on top, telling me to grab a condom — that was the one layer still between us. But panting, she said she wanted to try it bare, said she wanted that direct heat driving all the way deep, flesh pressed to flesh. The third time, pressed on top of my buddy’s wife, I stripped that thin barrier away completely and poured myself deep inside.