Write your fantasy,
make it real.

Four years married, and her husband hasn’t touched her in three months. Chi Yue, a buttoned-up back-office clerk at an insurance company, has always played it safe, until her coworker Jiang Man offers to take her out to play with men. On the first night Wang Ye only holds her while she sleeps; the second time, she’s the one who says no condom. Rope, a collar, anal: she learns them one by one, until the night she pushes open a hotel room door to find three men waiting, and, flushed red, she says: “Go ahead.”

Feng Yuwei, twenty-nine, product manager, with legs the whole office talks about. One year into her marriage, her programmer husband is gentle and sweet: six minutes, fourteen times, not a single orgasm. Then on an anonymous app, someone called K sends one line: Aren’t you the one who wants to be controlled. From then on, every morning at seven, she gets a task: no panties to work, a vibrator inside her through meetings, a soaked chair at the quarterly review right in front of the CEO. She has never seen K’s face, yet K starts telling her how to fuck her own husband. Then a package arrives at her home. Signed for by: Zhou Yi.

Qin Lan, thirty-three, head nurse at a top-tier hospital, 85G. Her husband is an attending surgeon: once a month, three minutes. In the night-shift break room she stumbles onto a forum: Old Zhou, a retired PE teacher, takes in married women as bitches, lives by rules, keeps a notebook. The interview is ten minutes on her knees before she’s sent away, and back in her car she tears right through her pantyhose. From then on it’s two hours every Wednesday: call him Master, report before every shower, cut open the pantyhose under her nurse’s uniform and kneel by the exam table swallowing in time with her heartbeat. The notebook grows thicker and thicker. One observer comes, then another.

Han Jing, thirty-five, dean of studies at a primary school, ten years married to Wang Lei, who sells building materials. Their life is so good it has gone dead. Then he finds the novel she hid inside her lesson plans and asks whether this is how she wants to be treated. Belt, kneeling pad, collar, the rules go up one at a time, and then he says he wants other people to see how well he has trained her. At a business dinner she is under the table sucking off two of his partners while, above her, he signs a one point four million contract.

Her husband gambled and ran, and the hot pot restaurant had six days until the rent was due. Xiao Chen, the kitchen supervisor, put up a hundred thousand to save it, with one condition: from now on, in this restaurant, you do what I say. House rule one: after close, nothing under the apron. Rule two: no panties in the restaurant. Rule three would be written the day Lao Zhao came back. The thirty-eight-year-old boss lady lay face down on the stainless steel counter, the supplier’s delivery slip still crumpled in her hand.

Luo Xiao, thirty, runs an animal hospital; long legs from the gym, a husband who is a deputy section chief and hasn’t once gotten her there in two years. The dog trainer she hired to teach a course at her hospital calls her up on stage, buckles a collar on her, and uses her for the demo. After class she stays on the training floor to learn sit, down, roll over — do it right and the reward is one finger. The tag is engraved Xiaoxiao. Behind a park bench he tells her to bark, and she does.

Eight months divorced, her ex-husband stood outside the civil affairs bureau and said she was like a plank of wood in bed. Wu Nan, twenty-seven, caught the eye of gallery owner Ji Lan, who liked her legs. The first Friday was only shaving, a bath, and photos. The second Friday she put on a collar engraved with her name, ate from a bowl, slept in a dog bed, the master took her from behind while the mistress sat on her face, and the two of them kissed over her. On the day the gallery opened she stood in the middle of the hall in a transparent raincoat, the only living piece among thirty-seven works.

With her husband posted to Saudi Arabia for six months, she is the only one who can keep an eye on the renovation of 1602 next door. On day one the foreman, Old Li, says: you do what I say. Hauling bricks, serving water, squatting to hold a level, she does it all in her stockings. On day eight, in a bathroom with no door yet, he says two words: kneel down. On completion day she is cable-tied to the newly installed Jomoo shower bar while four workers line up for the inspection. Her husband comes home, gives the bar a tug, and says: solid.

My husband’s startup owed the chairman three million, and the guarantor line on the loan agreement carried my name. Chairman Shao spoke slowly and never raised his voice. He said: Kneel, and hand me the schedule. From that day on, every morning at seven fifty I reported to the inner room first: strip, kneel, get inspected by his fingers. He sent a photo of me face down on the carpet to my husband, and my husband replied: That’s good. The day the debt was cleared, he gave me the pen.

By day she is the most flawless project manager in the cubicle rows, measured in speech, immaculate in makeup; deep at night she carries out a stranger’s commands one by one, holding her own panties in her mouth for the camera, waiting for a single cold word of reward from him. Cyber-domination tames her bit by bit, until one day she books a cross-city ticket and walks into that rented flat — the door shuts, her clothes are torn off, a leather collar is buckled around the back of her neck, and a leash tows her crawling across the floor. Three points of view take turns telling this descent that spreads from the screen into the flesh: how he turns a single declaration into a panting bitch, how her body mutinies out of shame before reason can catch up, and how that respectable daytime self keeps remembering the ring of marks on the back of her neck in the meeting room.

Fresh out of college and into her first office job, petite Lin Wan keeps getting dragged by her towering, 1.92-meter platonic best friend Zhou Lang into his crew of basketball buddies. One dinner, buzzed on drink, Zhou Lang and his friend Jiang Hang float a half-joking dare — go big tonight. Nobody called it off first; the liquor and the unspoken understanding pushed the three of them into a private lounge booth, and a boundary none of them named yet all three understood began, just like that, from a single joke.

Married six years, Jiang Zhi and Su Yan — a couple of engineers — knew each other so thoroughly that the bedroom had gone lukewarm. It was Su Yan who first spoke the thought aloud in the dead of night: she wanted a man she didn’t know to take her roughly, just once; she wanted to be dominated and humiliated right under her husband’s gaze; she wanted a taste of total loss of control. Jiang Zhi wasn’t angry — he was aroused instead. So, like drafting an engineering plan, they talked the whole “stranger bull” domination game through line by line: a safe word, hard limits, him present the entire time to watch but never intervene, her free to stop at any moment. From a small private adult circle online he picked a man who was solidly built, knew where the line was, and was hard enough. They met at a very well soundproofed apartment on the city’s edge. All night Su Yan stayed lucid — lucidly half-yielding, lucidly humiliated pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window, lucidly driven speechless, filled with his release, filled to the brim; and lucidly savoring that contradictory pleasure of reason abdicating while the body defected first. And Jiang Zhi sat in the dark, jealous to the point of burning and aroused to the point of trembling, watching the wife he loved so deeply bloom, beneath another man, into a flower he had never seen before.

By day she is a proposal designer at a design firm — soft-spoken, agonizing for half an afternoon over the color palette of a slide deck, the most well-behaved office girl anyone could imagine. Only a very few know that at her core she is an extreme submissive who treats obedience as salvation. She agrees to meet a “Master” she has only ever chatted with online and seen two or three times, at his home, assuming it will be nothing more than a private game behind a closed door between the two of them. She puts on newly bought stockings and washes herself spotless before ringing the bell. The instant the door opens she freezes on the spot — inside, besides her Master, sits a married couple, his close friends, three pairs of eyes landing on her all at once. She had imagined many ways of being trained, but never that the words “in front of everyone” would come down on her so suddenly. That night, under four watching gazes, she does an M-shaped squat, one leg sheathed in flesh-toned stockings and the other in black; she is struck with a slipper, made to squat again in heels, filmed at her most disgraceful — until a nosebleed seeps out. And at the end, before every watching eye, she is pressed down in the open by her Master, filled, poured into all the way to the deepest place. At the very peak where shame burns hottest, she finds a pleasure she has never tasted — one that almost burns her to ash.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.