Write your fantasy,
make it real.

Bai Jing, thirty-eight, is a regional manager at a foreign company, single, and practically lives in hotels. In a hotel gym in Lisbon she meets an American named Marcus. One drink, one hand around her waist, and a current runs from her ear down to the soles of her feet; she gives herself to him that same night. From then on, the first thing she checks on every business trip is the gym, until she meets Qi Ze, a younger man, six foot six, who squats two hundred twenty kilos and opens his mouth to say “older pussy cools the fire.”

She has been a professional dancer for over a decade, poised and self-contained onstage, yet offstage she hides a fierce exhibitionist streak — one button of her practice leotard deliberately left undone, rehearsing bare underneath, swaying in black lace lingerie before the mirror, fantasizing that someone in the building across the street is holding binoculars. Then, in the rehearsal hall one late night, behind that door left ajar, a man really is standing there — a man she has secretly longed to have watch her. Being watched becomes being taken; shame becomes the fiercest climax of her life. Alternating points of view: the man who catches her, the inner self fracturing beneath her decorous shell, and the gaze that has always lingered in the dark.

Lin Man is the front-office manager of an upscale hotel — born in ’98, one meter seventy, fifty-two kilos, the kind of ice-cool woman who commands a lobby: uniform pressed sharp, smile held in check, not a single strand of hair out of place. But only she knows that on the deep overnight shifts, once the whole floor falls quiet, she slips down to the far end of a corridor no camera covers and, leaning against the cold wall, does something that would make no one recognize the daytime her. She hid this secret craving for half a year — until the patrolling security guard caught her in the blind spot. Three alternating POVs: the guard who takes over everything from behind, the inner Lin Man who is caught yet only sinks deeper, and her flawless, ice-cold professional self clinging to its last shred of composure before it collapses.

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.

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.

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.