My Secret Idol: The National Little Sister's Feeding Diary

When she first debuted, she tried to resist. At sixteen, her smile froze on stage. Offstage, she hid in the restroom and cried. Her manager found her at the door and berated her for three full days, teaching her "how an idol should smile" and "what fans want." From then on, she learned to keep her mouth shut, plaster on a smile, and put on the persona of "Lin Wan." Five years later, she sometimes couldn't tell which face was real. The body beneath the stage costume was entirely different from this face. In reality, fans loved seeing her in short skirts and performance outfits, calling her pure and playful, like a girl next door. No one knew how tightly the chest of that skirt was stretched – every time she went on stage, she had to take a deep breath and push those soft mounds into the fabric, lest the camera catch too obvious a contour. No one knew that her legs, which stood perfectly straight on stage, were covered in faint red marks from her stockings once she took them off. Her body was far more mature than the title "National Sweetheart" suggested. Her waist was slender, her hips perky, and her breasts were almost excessive even to her own eyes. Yet, the company always picked performance outfits that accentuated her figure. Her manager always said it was the company's decision, that she had no choice but to wear those constricting dresses, dance the cutest dances, and smile the sweetest smiles on stage. Every time she changed out of her performance costume, she felt like she was shedding a layer of skin. But beneath that layer, there was still another layer of skin. Breakfast was prepared by the nutritionist: two boiled egg whites, a few slices of boiled chicken breast, and a small bowl of bland vegetable salad. She sat at the table, poking at the leaves with her fork, lacking appetite but habitually putting food into her mouth. Her phone rang again. Her manager sent a voice message, reminding her to control her expressions today and not let the media capture any sign of fatigue. "Got it," she replied, adding a smiley face emoji. Before leaving, she stood in front of the full-length mirror in the entryway for a moment, smoothing her skirt, tidying her hair, taking a deep breath, and putting on the persona of "Lin Wan" again before opening the door. The van arrived punctually at seven downstairs. She slipped into the back seat, leaned against the backrest, wanting to doze off, but her mind was a mess, unable to settle. Last night's events resurfaced. She kept an anonymous burner account on her phone, a secret from everyone, even her manager. The company was strict; they had almost confiscated her phone for inspection. She had managed to hide this account meticulously, changing the lock screen password seven or eight times. For five years, all the things the company had suppressed – her curiosity about "sex," her fantasies of rough treatment and complete control that she absolutely shouldn't have – she had typed them all out, word by word, into that burner account. She made a point of writing in the dead of night, when the dorm was quietest and no one would suddenly knock on the door. Her fingers would tremble as she typed those things. Some words, once typed, she dared not read a second time, but her hands moved uncontrollably, typing one word after another. The screen's light illuminated her face as she huddled under the covers. If there was any sound in the hallway, she would quickly shove the phone under her pillow. She wrote very carefully, deleting after writing, and writing again after deleting. Each time she pressed the delete key, her face would burn, her heart pounding erratically, as if she had just done something shameful. She would scold herself: Lin Wan, how can you be so perverted? If your fans knew what you thought in private, they'd probably throw up their breakfast. Yet, she couldn't help it. The next night, when the dorm was completely silent, she would secretly open the burner account and read, word by word, the things she had deleted and rewritten. That was the only place she could breathe. Last night, she wrote until past two in the morning. Her last entry, she typed for a long time, deleted, retyped, deleted again, until only one line remained on the screen – "I want to be tied up, I want to be completely controlled, I want to be treated roughly." She stared at the line, her fingertip hovering over the delete button, hesitating to press it. The night wind outside the window crept through the gaps in the screen, chilling her back, yet her face burned. Her chest rose and fell, and finally, with a gritted resolve, she deleted it. The screen went dark. She lay in the darkness, feeling like a pot of boiling water, the lid about to burst. (Wuwu... What is wrong with me...) Outside the car window, the sky gradually brightened. The morning city was not yet fully awake; the streetlights had just gone out, and breakfast stalls along the street emitted wisps of white steam. She had traveled this road for five years; she knew where the next intersection was with her eyes closed. She looked at the hazy sky outside, suddenly feeling that she too had lived through five hazy years. Her blurry reflection appeared on the glass, her face utterly unfamiliar. She took out her phone and scrolled a few times. The homepage was filled with candid photos of her from yesterday, the comments section uniformly praising her as "so pure," "a fairy," "can't imagine her dating." She stared at the word "pure" for a long time, then remembered the line she had deleted. If these people knew what she wrote in her burner account... She shivered, covered the phone with her lap, and dared not think further. This was not her room. She jolted, trying to sit up, only to find her hands and feet bound to the bed by ribbons – four ribbons, one for each wrist and ankle. They were loose, not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to prevent her from breaking free. She managed to sit up, but the ribbons on her wrists pulled her back, keeping her upright, unable to get off the bed. The ribbons were pale gold, smooth as satin, cool against her skin. The knots were beautiful, not just a couple of haphazard loops, but neat, perfect bows – as if someone had knelt by the bed, carefully, slowly, tying them. She tried to reach the knot on her wrist with her other hand, but couldn't. She tried to pull one end of the bow loose, but the ribbon was so slippery, it loosened with a tug, then sprang back, impossible to untie. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her performance outfit, though her heels and jacket had been removed. Yesterday, she had stood on stage in this very outfit, smiling at tens of thousands of people. Now, she wore it, bound to a strange bed. The realization brought a flush of shame and fear to her face. She instinctively reached for her phone – not in her pocket, not on her person, not on the bedside table. Her phone was gone. She patted her skirt again, finding nothing but the fabric. Fear, like icy water, cascaded down her spine. She began to struggle. The ribbons were soft, yet terrifyingly strong. Her wrists turned red as she thrashed, the bedsheets bunching up beneath her. The four ribbons remained utterly still. She tried to bite the knot on her wrist, but couldn't reach it. She tried to pull her feet free from the ribbons, but her ankles were already marked red, and her feet wouldn't budge. She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat felt blocked, only a hoarse whisper escaping – she had sung for three hours yesterday, her voice was already hoarse, and now she couldn't even shout. She gasped for breath as she struggled, the ribbons digging into her wrist bones, burning, but she couldn't stop – as long as she struggled, there was hope. She didn't know how long it had been. Maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. The room was terrifyingly quiet, filled only with her own ragged breaths. She could even hear her heart pounding, thudding, heavy and fast. After a while, she slowly stopped struggling. Leaning back against the headboard, she panted, staring at the ceiling, forcing herself to calm down. She started by counting her breaths – inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. On the tenth count, she told herself: conserve energy, don't panic, figure out where you are first. One of the survival rules she had learned over the past five years was: panicking is useless, assess the situation first. She whispered to herself, "Lin Wan, don't panic. Assess the situation." She looked down at herself. The hem of her performance dress was wrinkled, and her stockings still had a few stage sequins clinging to them. She touched her face; it was clean – she had removed her makeup backstage. She felt her hair; it was a mess, her hairpins long gone. She had never felt so disheveled. But then a thought struck her: who had taken off her heels and jacket? The person who had carried her into this room. He had touched her. He had removed her shoes, her jacket, placed her on this bed, tied the ribbons, and then left. And she, from beginning to end, had not had a single sensation. The thought sent a shiver through her. She shivered again, belatedly, pulling the blanket closer and wrapping herself in it – the blanket was soft too, carrying a faint scent of sunshine. "I will make you into the most perfect work." She stood at the doorway, her back to him, and tears welled up instantly. She didn't know what he meant by "the most perfect work." All she knew was that when he said it, his voice was soft, earnest, like a wish made upon a rare treasure. She remembered the latex suit on the mannequin, so black, so smooth, clinging to every curve. A sudden thought struck her: could his "most perfect work" be turning her, the living version of that mannequin? She fled back to her room and curled up under the covers. She extended her hand, looking at her fingertips. The cold touch of the measuring tape seemed to linger there, crawling up from her fingertips to her chest, her waist, the very roots of her thighs. She touched those places, remembering how he had measured her earlier, and her face burned again. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling her heart pound, thudding impossibly fast. Burying her face in the pillow, she let out a muffled cry. She both feared the latex suit and harbored a sliver of curiosity she was unwilling to admit – what would it feel like to wear it? She imagined the black, cold film adhering to her skin, envisioning it encasing her body inch by inch, accentuating her curves. As these images played in her mind, that small spark of curiosity tickled her like a feather. She even wondered, how tight would the "most perfect work" he spoke of be when worn? She quickly pushed the thought away, scolding herself: Lin Wan, what are you thinking! That's an instrument of torture meant for you! And you're curious! But she couldn't push it away. The feather continued to tickle. Curled under the covers, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She recalled the numbers he had jotted down, the earnest look in his eyes when he said, "This part, it needs to be a little tighter." The more she thought, the more flustered she became, and the hotter her face grew. She pulled the covers entirely over her head and let out another muffled cry. The next day at noon, while he was busy in his study, she secretly crept to the door of that room. The door was unlocked. She stood at the threshold, hesitated for a moment, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. The mannequin still stood in the center of the room, the black latex suit still adorning it, gleaming coldly under the light. She stood before the mannequin, gazing at the suit, at how it clung to the figure's curves. Compelled by an unseen force, she reached out, her fingertips brushing against the black surface – it was cool, smooth, with a slight elasticity, like touching thick skin. She snatched her hand back, her heart racing. She looked down at her fingertips, the faint coolness still lingering there. She stood before the mannequin for a long time. She looked at the suit, imagining how it would look on her, picturing the sensation of it enveloping her from head to toe. As she thought, she suddenly shivered, quickly retreated, and closed the door. Back in her room, her heart was still pounding. She touched her arm, remembering the feel of the latex. The voice in her mind spoke again: What was she so afraid of? And what was she anticipating? She couldn't explain it herself. All she knew was that the suit seemed to be waiting for more than just Jiang Che. She, too, seemed to be waiting. She sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the window, and suddenly wondered: when the suit was finished and he told her to put it on, would she push him away, or would she obediently extend her hands? The days spent in the latex suit completely rewrote Lin Wan's senses. She lost count of the days. She couldn't tell dawn from dusk, only guessing if it was morning or evening by when he arrived. In the mornings, he would bring honey water, holding her hand to guide the straw into the breathing hole of her mask, letting her drink slowly. The honey water was warm, sweet, delivered to her mouth through the straw. As she drank, she could feel him standing before her, watching her. When she finished, he would say, "Good girl." She turned her face away—though she couldn't see, she still did it out of habit. When she sat in the room, she often sat for a long time. She couldn't see, nor could she hear clearly. All she could do was sit and wait. Wait for him to approach, wait for him to speak, wait for him to reach out and touch her. She found herself starting to count his footsteps—how many steps he took before pausing, whether the sound of him opening the door was light or heavy, the faint creak of the chair when he sat down. She memorized his every habit, like a book only she could understand. Sometimes she thought: she had never needed to remember someone like this before. But now, he was the only coordinate in her life. She couldn't see. The hood completely covered her eyes, leaving her world a pitch-black void. She could only perceive Jiang Che's location through sound and touch. She heard his footsteps and knew he was coming; she heard the rustle of fabric and knew he was shifting his position; she heard his breathing grow closer and knew he was leaning down to look at her. Like a blind person, she was relearning the world with her ears. She began to distinguish his footsteps. His steps were light when he wore slippers, heavy when he wore leather shoes. If he walked to the left, he was going to the kitchen; to the right, to the study. Sitting in her chair, she pricked up her ears, listening to him walk away and then approach, her heart fluttering with his every step. She couldn't see him, but she knew where he was better than when she could. Sometimes she wondered: was she like a small animal with its eyes covered, relying only on its owner's scent and footsteps to know if he was near? When she moved around the house during the day, she always walked with her hand on the wall. She couldn't see, so she had to feel her way, step by step. He had changed her slippers to soft ones that made no sound. Holding the wall, she walked to the living room, felt for the sofa, and sat down; felt for the coffee table, felt for the water cup—that cup of water was always warm, placed within her easy reach. Holding the cup, she drank it in small sips, her heart filled with an indescribable feeling. He could have locked her in the room and ignored her, but he placed the water where she could easily reach it. He had even thought ahead for her inability to see. She couldn't hear clearly either. The latex covered her ears, muffling all sounds, making them distant and indistinct, like hearing through water. She couldn't hear the birds outside, couldn't hear the water in the kitchen; only when he spoke close to her ear, his low murmur, transmitted through the latex, became exceptionally clear, as if someone was whispering directly into her ear. His voice, muffled by the latex, became indistinct, yet she listened more intently—because she couldn't hear anything else, only his voice remained. His voice became the only clear coordinate in her dark world. She couldn't even smell anything. The latex clung to her face, blocking out all scents. She couldn't smell the flowers in the garden, the aroma of food, or the faint scent of laundry detergent on him. All she could smell was the faint, rubbery odor of the latex itself, which followed her everywhere. But her sense of touch was amplified to an unprecedented degree. The latex clung tightly to her skin, without a single gap. She could even feel the flow of air—when the wind passed by her, she felt the surface of the film being gently brushed, like a feather stroking her skin all over. When she moved her fingers, the film followed, amplifying her movements tenfold and transmitting them back to her. When she blinked, her eyelashes brushed the inside of the latex, tickling her; when she swallowed, her Adam's apple moved, the film pressed against her throat, transmitting her action back to her. Sitting there, she could even feel her own heartbeat, thudding against the film, like a knock on a door. She could even feel the fine hairs on her skin—the film clung to them, letting her know of every subtle change in her body. The first time he touched her through the latex, her entire body arched sharply. When his fingertips touched her shoulder, she trembled all over. The smooth film acted like a conductor, multiplying the temperature and pressure of his fingertips and transmitting them to her skin. The slight coolness of his fingertips slid down her shoulder, a tingling sensation spreading from that point throughout her body. She felt his fingertips slowly, heavily, glide over her arm through the latex, the film amplifying every subtle friction into an electric current that coursed through her skin. His fingertips traced her collarbone, pausing in the hollow. She felt his fingertip gently outline the shape of her collarbone through the film. That touch was magnified, and her whole body shivered, her breathing quickening. His fingers continued to slide down, over her waist. She was ticklish, and the film amplified the tickle, causing her to writhe under his fingers, whimpering, "Mmm... don't, don't touch there... it tickles..." He didn't stop, his fingertips slowly gliding along her waistline through the latex. She felt the tickle turn into a tingle, then into an indescribable heat. She froze, not taking his hand. Her body, newly undressed, was still bare. She instinctively shielded her chest with her arms. "Where are we going?" He smiled, not answering, and extended his hand further. She stared at his hand for a long moment. Usually, at this time, he would either take her to the modification room or let her eat first. There had never been talk of a "new place." A sudden unease welled up inside her, but she couldn't pinpoint what felt wrong. She could only slowly stand up and place her hand in his palm. Next to the collection room, there was another door. She had lived on this floor for so long, walking the same path from her room to the modification room every day, yet she had never noticed that door. It was painted the same color as the wall, and without a close look, you wouldn't see the seam. Jiang Che pushed the door open, and the lights inside flickered on by themselves, the stark white light making her squint. By the time she saw the large display platform in the center of the room, her entire body stiffened. Arranged neatly on the platform was a complete set of items: a thick black leather collar with a short leash attached; a crisscrossing leather harness, its surface black and shiny, the buckles glinting coldly under the light; four gloves and knee pads shaped like dog paws, the pads furry and disturbingly realistic; and a curled, fluffy tail, attached to a smooth piece that thickened as it went down. Beside the tail lay an object whose shape made her blush. Lin Wan stood rooted to the spot, her gaze moving from one item on the platform to the next for a full three seconds. Then, she actually let out a laugh, a sharp, hollow sound that startled even herself. "Are you insane? Jiang Che, you want me to wear this?" She laughed, pointing to the collar, then to the tail. "These are for dogs. I'm not a dog." Jiang Che didn't smile. His expression was unnervingly calm, so calm that her laughter gradually subsided, finally catching in her throat and turning into a short gasp. He picked up the collar and walked slowly towards her, his voice still the gentle tone she was used to. "From today onwards, you won't need the name 'National Sister' anymore, nor the title 'Collection.'" He paused, then added, "You are a little bitch I've raised." It took her several seconds to comprehend his words. The moment she understood, all the blood rushed to her head, making her ears ring. "I'm human! Jiang Che, are you crazy! I'm Lin Wan! The National Sister, Lin Wan! There are tens of millions of people waiting for me to go back!" She screamed and retreated, step by step, until she hit the cold wall, with nowhere left to go. She clenched her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. The slight pain reminded her she was awake, that this was all real. "Put it on, and you won't have to think anymore." The words echoed in her mind, making her temples throb. She leaned against the wall for a long time, so long that her legs went numb, before finally speaking in a hoarse voice, "...Fine. I'll wear it. I'm not myself anymore anyway." Jiang Che glanced at her, saying nothing more. He walked to the display platform, pulled out a chair, and patted its leather surface. "Come and sit." Naked, barefoot, she walked over step by step and sat down in the chair. The leather seat was cool against her skin. She pressed her legs together, wrapped her arms around her chest, and curled into a ball. He knelt before her, holding the collar. She saw him turn the inside of the collar over and bring it close to her eyes. Small characters were pressed into the leather lining. She squinted to make them out: "Master's Little Bitch." The words were small and neat, etched into the leather, impossible to remove or wash away. Her throat tightened, and she turned her face away, unable to look. "Look up," he said. She stubbornly kept her head down. He didn't rush her, just knelt there, holding the collar beneath her chin. One second, two seconds. She counted her increasingly rapid heartbeat, and finally, she yielded. Slowly, she lifted her chin, exposing the nape of her neck. The moment her neck was revealed, she felt more shame than she had when standing naked before him. As the collar clicked shut, the coolness of the leather touched her skin. The lock snapped shut with a click. Her whole body trembled, and tears immediately welled up, streaming down her cheeks and onto her bare knees. Shame burned through her, making her toes curl. She heard something inside her, along with that click, gently close. She closed her eyes, tears flowing more fiercely, but the weight around her neck was a clear reminder that this thing was now permanently attached. Jiang Che's hand cupped her chin, his thumb gently wiping away her tears. He examined her for a moment, his gaze moving from her red eyes to the collar around her neck, a look of satisfaction on his face. "It fits perfectly." She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but her throat was so constricted that not a single word could escape. He stood up, attached the other end of the leash to the ring on the collar, and took half a step back, as if appraising a newly acquired object. Sitting in the chair, she lowered her head, and with a downward glance, she could see the small round tag hanging below her collarbone. The tag was made of copper, with two characters engraved on the front. She reached out to try and remove it, but he gently held her wrist. "You're not allowed to take it off. From today onwards, it eats with you, it sleeps with you." She slowly lowered her hand, her head bowed, and more tears dripped down. She sat with her head down for a long while before finally speaking in a small, hoarse voice, "Wuwu... then tomorrow, can I just wear this? Don't make me wear the other things yet?" She asked timidly, and even she found her tone too soft. Jiang Che wrapped the leash around his wrist and looked down at her, his gaze lingering on her face. A hint of a smile entered his voice. "We'll see how you behave." His words left her speechless, her ear tips growing hot again, yet a strange sense of relief washed over her, as if his "we'll see how you behave" offered a sliver of hope. For the rest of the day, he didn't add anything else to her. He had her sit in the chair with the collar on, and he took out the equipment from the platform one by one, explaining each item to her: how to wear the harness, how to buckle it, and the purpose of the chest ring; how to secure the paw gloves and knee pads so her skin wouldn't get scraped when crawling; where to attach the tail and how it would sway when she walked. When he spoke about the harness, he even held it up and measured it against her body. The cold leather strap grazed her chest, making her flinch backward. He said that once buckled, the harness would lift her breasts higher and wouldn't hinder her when crawling. She turned her face away, refusing to listen, so he moved in front of her, bent down, looked her in the eyes, and explained each detail, making her ears burn to the roots. He only picked up the gag for a moment, saying they would wait until she learned to breathe through her nose, and then put it back. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she lay there, the sound embarrassingly loud to her own ears. She tried to hold it in, but her back was arched, the weight of her chest pressing down on her arms, and the meager air she inhaled through her nose was insufficient. Her face flushed red as she struggled, only to open her mouth again after a short while. Today, as she was in this position, he suddenly crouched in front of her, reaching out to close her jaw. "Close your mouth. Breathe through your nose." She obeyed, closing her lips, but after only a dozen breaths, she couldn't get enough air and her mouth fell open again. After several failed attempts, she grew annoyed, her neck stiff as she panted, wondering who could possibly manage this. He didn't seem bothered. He watched her for a moment, then stood and walked towards the platform. "Then I'll use something else to help you." She retrieved something from a box. She had only caught a glimpse of it before; he had quickly put it away then. It had a rounded head with a slight curve, and at the base, a soft ring, made of silicone, gleaming wetly under the light. She froze for a few seconds, her pupils contracting sharply when she realized what it was, the hairs on her back standing on end. "Open your mouth." He crouched before her, holding the object to her lips. She clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head desperately, a muffled sound escaping her throat. He didn't force her, nor did he coax. He simply crouched there, holding the object, waiting for her with the same patience he had shown when waiting for her back to arch, the same patience he had shown when waiting for her to kneel on her own. She remembered what he had said when he put this gag away that day: "We'll talk when you can breathe through your nose." She had never taken him seriously, but now she understood what he meant by breathing through her nose. She looked at the soft ring, the muffled sounds from her throat gradually subsiding. Having dealt with him for so long, she knew his temper well; the longer he waited, the more she would have to pay later. Her lips trembled, and finally, she slowly opened them. The moment the object entered her mouth, her throat constricted violently, and she gagged, tears instantly welling up. It was too big. The rounded head pressed against her palate, stretching her lips to their limit. She could only manage to cover the soft outer ring, her tongue pinned to the bottom, unable to move. Saliva immediately flooded her mouth. She reached out to pull it out, but he caught her hand first. "Don't move. Pulling it out forcefully will injure your mouth." She struggled with muffled cries, but couldn't break free. She had no choice but to let him move behind her head and fasten the strap. He checked the tightness again, his fingertips brushing her cheek before he gently lifted her chin. "Good girl. Breathe through your nose." Unable to speak with her mouth full, she could only exhale through her nose. The air entering her nostrils was insufficient, and she rolled her eyes, gasping for breath. A muffled sound emanated from her throat, and saliva dripped from her slack lips onto her outstretched hands on the floor. He watched her face for a moment, his voice softening. "Inhale. Slowly. Don't be afraid." She followed his instructions, taking slow breaths through her nose. After several breaths, she finally began to recover. She realized then that she had been so terrified she had forgotten how to breathe, and his hand had been supporting her chin the entire time. Once she was breathing steadily, he withdrew his hand and gently patted the top of her head. "That's right. Breathe like that." She lay there, stunned. She should have hated him, but as he praised her, the tips of her ears couldn't help but turn red. She quickly buried her face lower, not wanting him to see. After she had recovered, the new torment began. She discovered that with every breath, her lips and tongue were forced to move around the rounded head, as if sucking something in. When she exhaled, it felt like she couldn't hold it in and it was about to escape. The more she tried to ignore the object in her mouth, the more acutely aware she became of it, so much so that she could feel the curve of every part of it. She blinked, tears falling one by one, washing streaks through the saliva on her face. She dared not raise her hands to wipe it away, so she let the moisture drip down her chin. What broke her even further was the saliva. She couldn't control it. Her saliva surged as if a dam had broken, flowing from the corners of her mouth, down her chin, dripping onto her chest, and forming thin, silvery threads that fell to the floor. She wanted to suck it back in, but her mouth was gagged, and any attempt resulted in a loud slurping sound that made her blush. He looked up at her, and she froze. The sound startled her so much that she dared not suck again, and the saliva flowed even more freely. The small patch of floor where she lay was already wet, dark stains slowly spreading. She looked at the puddle, her body burning with shame, yet she couldn't even close her mouth. He suddenly spoke. "Crawl a circle. Let me see." She paused, the gag in her mouth, before realizing he wanted her to crawl with it. She lowered herself and moved forward, step by step. The object in her mouth swayed with her movements. She also found that her breathing became more rapid as she crawled, and the saliva flowed even more fiercely. The silvery thread on her chin swung back and forth, dripping onto the floor, leaving a broken, wet trail where she crawled. She couldn't see the trail herself, but she knew he was watching from behind, sending shivers down her neck. After crawling a full circle, she lay panting at his feet. He crouched down, examined the wet line behind her, then looked at her, saying only, "Not bad. The thing in your mouth didn't stop you from crawling." She lay there, panting, wanting to cry and laugh at the same time, finally letting out a muffled snort through her nose. "Don't wipe it." He said calmly as he saw her raise her hand to wipe her chin. Her hand stopped in mid-air, then slowly returned to her side. She could only let the saliva hang from her chin, dripping down, drop by drop. He walked over, crouched in front of her, lifted her chin, and examined her wet face. She whimpered, trying to turn her head away, but her chin was held, and she couldn't escape. His gaze moved from her eyes to the corner of her mouth, where a glistening thread of saliva hung, about to break. He extended two fingers and gently caught the almost-falling drop of saliva beneath her chin. He held his fingers up to her eyes. The drop of clear liquid trembled on his fingertip, shining blindingly in the light. "See? A little bitch's saliva. Too much to wipe away." She looked at the drop of her own saliva on his fingertip, trembling with shame. A jumbled whimper escaped her throat, an attempt to protest that came out as a series of sticky, airy sounds. He smeared the saliva from her chin with his fingertip, withdrew his hand, and unhurriedly added, "If it keeps dripping like this, I'll need to have two towels ready for you each day." Hearing this, tears fell again, mixing with the saliva, making her entire face glisten. For days, Lin Wan had been able to crawl a full circle with the gag in her mouth, and hold a pose for half an hour while wearing it. She had agreed in her heart, and the next day, he took out the gag as usual. She opened her mouth and took it in herself. He ruffled her hair, not offering praise, but she could see his satisfaction. This morning, however, he didn't bring out the gag. He simply led her into the modification room and opened the leather trunk in the corner. She had a knot in her stomach at breakfast. When he brought the porridge, the tray held only porridge and steamed buns, no gag, and no intention of putting anything in her mouth. She lowered her head to drink the porridge, stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. He sat opposite her, eating his own breakfast at a leisurely pace, without even lifting his eyelids. She couldn't hold back and asked softly, "Are we… not practicing today?" He swallowed his mouthful before replying slowly, "We are practicing. Just a different kind." The string in her heart tightened instantly, and the porridge lost its taste. She took half the morning to finish one bowl, only to be led into the modification room by him. She was already very familiar with the modification room, so familiar that she could find the modification chair with her eyes closed. But today, he didn't have her get on the chair. Instead, he opened the leather trunk in the corner. She had never paid attention to that trunk before. The lid was flipped open, revealing a lining of dark velvet. Something lay on the velvet. He lifted it out, and her pupils contracted sharply, a chill crawling up her spine. It was a tail, fluffy and furry, the tip curled into an attractive arc. The fur was a deep brown, glossy and lustrous, as if it had grown directly from an animal. The other end, connected to the base of the tail, was a smooth, progressively thicker object that curved slightly, gleaming with a moist sheen under the light. She understood what it was at a glance. "No…" she backed away, retreating until she reached the modification chair, her lower back hitting the cold edge. She was trapped. She shook her head frantically, her voice cracking, "Not there… Jiang Che, not there…" In her life, she had been too shy to even touch that place when bathing. Now, he intended to insert a tail there. The mere thought made her legs go weak. He walked towards her, holding the tail, and gently stroked the top of her head with his other hand. His voice was as gentle as if he were coaxing a child, "Don't be afraid, you'll get used to it soon." Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at him, still shaking her head. Then she heard him say, "Come, lie down, let's try it first. Tell me if it's uncomfortable." She clung to his last sentence like a lifeline, sniffling, "…If it's uncomfortable, can I take it off?" He looked at her, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and simply patted the soft cushion of the modification chair. She knew she was going to lose again, but she still climbed onto it obediently. That night, he didn't return to his own room. She curled up in his arms, the tail still inside her. Every movement brought a feeling of fullness and pressure. She closed her eyes, silently repeating to herself, *I am not a dog*. She repeated it over and over until her lips were dry, but her body wouldn't obey. The spot he had slapped that day still tingled with a faint numbness, a sensation that crept up her spine and into the depths of her lower abdomen, like a tiny, unquenchable flame. She snuggled closer into his embrace, curling herself into a small ball. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and rhythmic, transmitted through his chest. Suddenly, she wondered if she could no longer distinguish whether she feared the slap tomorrow, or feared that he wouldn't slap her tomorrow. She woke up once in the middle of the night. The tail was still inside her, the fullness receded, leaving only a dull ache. His arm was around her waist, neither too tight nor too loose. She tried to shift away gently, and his arm tightened slightly. She had no choice but to nestle back, pressing her face against his chest, listening to his steady breathing. She remembered the *smack* from the evening, her own moan that she barely recognized, and his words, "Your body has already admitted it." She wanted to retort, to curse him in her heart, but when the words reached her lips, she found she didn't even have the strength to curse. She closed her eyes, letting the tingling flame burn in the depths of her body. As it burned, she gradually grew accustomed to it. She didn't know when she fell asleep, only remembering that before drifting off, his hand gently rested on her back, as if coaxing a real, obedient puppy. As dawn broke, she woke first. The tail was still inside her, a dull, heavy sensation. He was sleeping soundly, his arm still around her waist. She held her breath and gently pried his fingers open, intending to secretly remove the tail. The moment her fingertips touched the base, his arm tightened, and he mumbled with a sleepy hoarseness, "Keep it on. Take it off after breakfast." She froze, a mixture of shame and annoyance, but ultimately didn't dare move again. She withdrew her hand and nestled back into his embrace. Closing her eyes, she thought that she would probably never escape this tail in her life, but the panic in her heart didn't seem as heavy as it had been last night. A few more days passed, and Lin Wan found her life had settled into a fixed routine. She would wake up in the morning, crawl a couple of circles to loosen her muscles, then eat breakfast. In the morning, she would gag herself to practice breathing and wear the tail to practice poses until noon. In the afternoon, he would read, and she would lie at his feet, dozing to the sound of turning pages. In the evening, she would crawl another circle, then he would carry her back to the room, remove the tail and gag, and feed her. At first, she counted the days, but eventually, she stopped bothering. It was all the same, day after day, and she could barely tell them apart.