Write your fantasy,
make it real.

He figures he is holding a winning hand — the face, the mouth, the patience to coax anyone. From the summer he met his first girl at driving school, he glides effortlessly between relationships: the flirting, the promises, the cheating, and a tacit no-strings arrangement he keeps on the side. This is the confession of a womanizer, and also the private history of the women he stirred up — women who knew they were playing with fire and fell in anyway. It was not that they never saw through him. Their bodies simply chose one step ahead of their minds.

At the office she is the flawless assistant to the project lead, always wearing a perfectly composed face; only he knows that this slight little body secretly craves his astonishing size. The line between superior and subordinate that must never be crossed is trampled underfoot by the two of them again and again, trampled into a friends-with-benefits arrangement neither of them can quit. Kneeling at his feet in her stockings, the obedience she could never learn in the office she gives to him alone.

The reception is over, and two married couples end up crammed into the same suite. He has long harbored a craving he could never say aloud — the desire to watch his small, delicate wife pulled into another man’s arms; and she, the shy one who earned her master’s degree and works in an office tower, discovers that night a beast hiding inside her body that even she doesn’t recognize. Three lines of sight cross in the dark: her mix of shame and wantonness, his pride and jealousy, and the breath of a stranger drawing near.

She is the most poised literature teacher in the whole high school, immaculate at the lectern, yet coming home is like walking into a house where the heating has been off for years — her husband is there, but he stopped giving her any warmth long ago. At one parent-teacher meeting she meets that student’s father: a man who raised his child alone, mature, restrained, a man who truly looks into her eyes when he speaks. It starts with a cup of coffee gone cold, and inch by inch this man rekindles her. Shame, longing, transgression, surrender — for the first time she discovers that her body was never broken; it had simply been put in the wrong place.

Just turned eighteen and newly admitted to university, a first-year freshman is dumped by her ex-boyfriend in the very first week of the semester. The boy who had promised they would make it through to graduation together changed his tune the moment he started at a university in another city. The day she moved her luggage into the dormitory, her chest felt hollow, as if a piece had been scooped out of her. At the orientation camp, a sophomore upperclassman rests a hand on her shoulder, smiling with careless ease. She does not push him away. After that she becomes like an object passed casually from hand to hand, from a hotel room to the secluded stairwell behind the academic building, played with in turns by a group of grown men — and in the humiliation of being objectified, she tastes a sinking pleasure that frightens even herself. She is willing, she is an adult, she simply does not want to be the one who is cherished and then discarded ever again.

She and Xiao Wang had the kind of relationship neither of them ever put into words — once a week, then each of them went home alone. Until the night of her birthday, when Xiao Wang said, for the first time, that he wanted to write her name into the blank marked ‘girlfriend.’ Before either of them had figured out whether it counted as love, a couple named Brother Li and Xiao Man barged into their weekend, and one steam-filled hot-spring villa pushed everything ‘they could not put into words’ to the point where it had to be said out loud.

The private training history of two adult university students — starting with a collar, a maid outfit, and one escalation into blindfolds and bound wrists, she sinks deeper and deeper into shame and submission. Two years later, a third person joins them in the bedroom, and she becomes their shared prey. Her POV is a confession both bashful and wanton, his POV is a possessiveness that ratchets up inch by inch, and the third man’s POV is the greed of an intruder.

At twenty-four, fresh out of college, I joined the company on a project and was still practically a virgin at everything. The archivist who sat across from me, Chen-jie, was four years older than me, gentle, with a steady long-distance boyfriend. A bit of horsing around in the office drew us close, the tension fermenting little by little in the empty office during overtime, until one deserted lunch break she led me, taught me, and became my first. When the project ended we scattered to different cities, and neither of us could quit the other—one meeting a month, like an illness neither of us was willing to wake from.

A young couple, five years together, finally speak aloud the wife-swapping fantasy they’ve buried for so long. Online they meet an older married pair — from cautious probing across a screen, to their first face-to-face over coffee on a street corner, to the four of them trading partners in a quiet hotel room in a riverside apartment. She is filled inch by inch by a stranger while he watches from the side, taking another man’s wife, pride and bitterness twisting together in his chest. Three interlacing points of view: Lin, bashful yet wanton; the boyfriend, cuckolded, aroused and jealous at once; and the seasoned older man who controls the tempo with practiced ease.

Twenty-five-year-old Su Ran is his girlfriend, and also the pet he trains. Today’s assignment: put on the crotchless panties lined with hidden pearls, hold a remote-controlled bullet vibrator inside her, and go to a packed, roaring arcade to play the dance machine — swallowing back every near-breaking loss of control under the stares of a whole room of strangers. Whether she can last until the stage clears is decided by the remote in his hand.

At forty, she had lived her marriage as a room where the light was never switched on. Then the tall stranger at the gym, with eyes that saw straight through her, hauled her up out of the chair she had sat withering in for ten years—her first affair, larger in size and in patience than anything she had imagined. Afterward she ran into a rugby player six years younger, one metre ninety tall, and every rule between an older woman and a younger man was rewritten from scratch: this time, he was the one who would teach her. A mature woman’s first-person confession—about the emptiness, the hunger, and the afternoons that finally left her full.

When she stands at the lectern her voice is level, her chalk letters are perfect, and not one parent at the meetings can find the smallest fault in her. But once class lets out and the door closes, beneath that prim suit hides another person — married young, one child, a husband worn down by the years into nothing but courtesy, and a body no one has ever truly read. After the first time she crossed the line, she could never stuff herself back into the old mold. From one man’s hands, to the weight of two, to a husband who went from being kept in the dark to pushing her toward other men with his own hands — this is not a fall from grace, it is a liberation she had permitted for far too long.

By day she is a young schoolteacher who stands at the lectern and speaks in a soft, gentle voice; after work, that spotter at the gym and the other man who appears only in the dead of night are when she is truly alive. Sweat, hormones, and the camera of the smart lock at her door with its glowing red light — the more she knows she is being recorded, the less she can hold herself back. Beneath the demure shell is the confession of a woman who has made indulgence her everyday life.

She’s a thirty-year-old independent designer whose studio is barely staying afloat. A big client who controls a whole year’s budget slides his offer under the table — an unspoken exchange, an intimate tug-of-war between ambition and self-humiliation. She loathes herself even as she discovers her body is more honest than her mind.

She is the HR manager at a trading company, forever wearing the cold, unapproachable face her colleagues have learned not to test. On a business trip to a southern city, at a welcome dinner, she meets a tall foreign executive — he is in no hurry; he simply drops his words right beside her ear and pours the liquor straight into her hand. From the KTV to the bar to the hotel, everything she has held down for far too long breaks loose in a single night. She thinks it is just one slip, only to find herself inventing reasons for business trips, flying over every week, all to be filled by him once more.

To everyone else, I was the untouchable ice goddess—until two years ago, when I uploaded my own nude photos onto foreign sites. I became addicted to being turned into someone’s sexual fantasy, wet beyond all reason; my husband could not satisfy me, so I secretly masturbated again and again and posted my own footage online. Then I met that executive from headquarters, and with a single glance he saw through the hunger beneath my cold, aloof skin—a six-month affair that delivered me before him and his wife, from “Master” and “Mistress” all the way to the moment I promised, with my own lips, to be their bitch.

My rascal of a husband booked me a two-hour spa session at Yushe — and only when I arrived did I learn the therapist was a man. Those hands slid from my neck all the way down, crossing lines until I was flushed and soaked; by the end, my disposable panties were drenched as if pulled from a wash. I thought I had merely been felt up. It was only the beginning. My husband got ideas and found me a true spa master — a single man I numbered 002. In the very hotel room that held the memory of our first night together, a professional massage slid, stroke by stroke, into a threesome none of us wanted to stop.

The little company I run — its whole lifeline hangs on a single contract, and the client’s deputy VP, the man holding the pen, can never keep his eyes off my wife. Everyone said the deal was dead — everyone but my wife Xiao, poised and unruffled, carrying herself with quiet dignity. She said: There’s no client we can’t close. A deal with a contract for its stake, a husband with a deep cuckold streak who can only watch from the side, a body that stays honest beneath the man she loathes most … business suit, black stockings, lace — the ultimate contrast of decorum and abandon, all of it peeled away one layer at a time in that top-floor office.

On Qixi—the Chinese Valentine’s Day—my wife Ting messaged me first, telling me to bring my girlfriend Wei home. She wanted to watch from the side, and she wanted to join in too. One red silk blindfold, one phone propped on the arm of the couch, two women with very different bodies, and a husband being pushed toward abandon by his own wife. A night by the sea, lace on the leather sofa, senses blown wide open once the eyes are covered… a Qixi threesome that begins with the wife’s words: “Bring her home.”

Zhou, a single man who has been in the lifestyle for years, gets a late-night message from a traveling couple: they land in Jiangcheng the next day and want someone steady to kick off the trip. Tian, the wife, has a baby face but a body that is unmistakably mature; behind her prim surface she is greedier than anyone. Qin, her refined husband, loves to record every frame of his wife coming undone beneath another man. In a hotel room in a strange city, the three of them turn one night of abandon into a concerto that loses its beat.

Married for years, Gu and Qipei look like a model couple, but behind closed doors they are both lecherous to the bone. He has a heavy pantyhose fetish and loves getting himself worked up in his beloved wife’s stockings; she is fiercely controlling, and before her business trip she lays down a rule: “on weekdays you may play the slut all you like — but you are not allowed to come.” On the same day, the two of them each fly off in different directions. Carrying that pact — and also his long-arranged wife-swap night with “Yang,” a fellow hotwife devotee he has known online for years — Gu heads for the hotel wearing Qipei’s crotchless pantyhose, edging the whole way with a load he is forbidden to spill. But with both beloved wives absent, the two husbands, each wearing his own wife’s stockings, pour half a year’s worth of pent-up longing all over each other in that room.

Two married couples meet for the first time at the high-speed rail station, and one long round of drinks turns strangers into quiet accomplices. Over dinner the narrator and the other man’s wife, Xiaomei, slip into a charged silence; afterward the couples swap and pair off into separate rooms. Her room has a full-length wall mirror, and she smiles that she likes doing it in front of the glass—so that mirror becomes a third pair of eyes, watching them move from behind to riding to missionary, watching her set herself further alight on the sight of her own reflection.

In the Xi’an night, a pair of black stockings hooks a silent, shared desire between three adults. A couple in their early thirties, a single man they invited, one hotel by the old city wall — and a demure wife who peels away her proper shell layer by layer, while the husband who loves her watches her bloom completely.

A bunch of sunflowers knocks on a door in Tianjin’s old town. A lively wife waits under the lamplight in lingerie while her husband pours tea and offers cigarettes, nudging a long‑agreed rendezvous into warm, humid intimacy. Caresses, licking, cowgirl and the deep thrusts of missionary — inch by inch she slides from reserve into utter surrender, her wetness flooding the sheets as three heartbeats fall out of rhythm in the same room.