Write your fantasy,
make it real.

Fan Jing is thirty, a graphic designer so quiet at work that her colleagues call her “Silent Mode.” Living alone on the fourth floor of an old apartment block, she goes from sitting by an open window with no bra, to taking out the trash at night with nothing under her skirt, to ordering a seventeen-centimeter anal bead stick online. One Friday near midnight, she stands at the curb with it buried inside her, and the man across the street watches her for ten minutes. Then he starts walking toward her.

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.