Write your fantasy,
make it real.

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.

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.

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.

To her coworkers, Su Man is the aloof goddess of the office — but she hides a secret: she posts her own nudes to a foreign corner of the internet. When she meets Director Lu from headquarters, that door swings open, and this master couple trains her, step by step, into a bitch who kneels on the floor and acknowledges her owners.