The Fallen Starlet's Bitch Breeding: From Ice Queen to Kneeling Bitch

First to fall out was a soft leather strap, black, an inch wide, lined with dark red velvet on the inside, with a delicate metal buckle at each end, gleaming with a cold silver light under the spotlight in the walk-in closet. Then came several thinner straps, with spring clips and adjustable sliders. Her fingers froze in mid-air, not yet registering what these items were, when the last thing slid out from the bag's opening and landed squarely in her palm. It was a pair of butterfly-shaped red velvet pasties. The butterfly wings were sewn from velvet fabric, each edge inlaid with extremely fine metal wire that could be bent into any curve. A thin metal chain connected the two butterflies, with a small spring clip at the end of the chain. The velvet surface shimmered with a dark red sheen under the light, and the butterfly wings were embroidered with tone-on-tone patterns, the stitches so fine they were almost exquisite. Su Wanqing stared at the pair of butterflies for several seconds, her mind a blank slate. Then her cheeks began to burn, starting from her cheekbones and spreading all the way to her earlobes, then down to her neck. This was her closet. This was her bedroom. How could this set be here? She flipped the velvet bag over to look at the label. There was no brand name, no gift description, nothing. A string of possible explanations flashed through her mind—had the brand sent it to the wrong address? Had her agent mentioned sending her something she'd forgotten about? Had a cleaner put it in the wrong place when they last cleaned the apartment? She dismissed each explanation herself. She lived alone, the cleaners only handled the living room and bathroom, and the walk-in closet was never entered by outsiders. And this drawer, besides herself, had only been opened when Lin Mo helped her organize her wardrobe. She abruptly closed her palm, the metal chain of the butterfly pasties tightening in her fingers, a chilling cold spreading from her palm to her wrist. She wanted to stuff these things back into the bag, but her hands trembled with panic, and one butterfly pasty slipped from the edge of her palm, bouncing once on the wooden floor. The metal buckle hit the floor with a crisp click, a sound that was particularly jarring in the quiet walk-in closet. "Teacher Su, the porridge will be cold if you don't eat it—what are you holding?" Lin Mo's voice came from the entrance of the walk-in closet, no more than three meters away. Su Wanqing felt as if she'd been electrocuted. Instinctively, she tried to hide what she was holding behind her back, but her fingers loosened slightly from nervousness, and the butterfly pasty that had fallen on the floor lay there, starkly visible on the wooden floor, its metal chain reflecting tiny specks of light under the spotlight. She crouched down to pick it up, her fingers just touching the edge of the butterfly wing when Lin Mo walked up to her. He bent down and picked up the butterfly pasty. Su Wanqing crouched on the floor, looking up at him, watching his long fingers pinch the butterfly wing. The dark red velvet was set against his well-defined knuckles, his thumb resting precisely on the embroidered pattern in the center of the butterfly. He flipped the pasty over, glanced at the label on the inside, and then raised his eyes to look at her. His gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses was calm, devoid of surprise, flirtatiousness, or accusation. It was as natural as him walking into the walk-in closet after washing dishes in the kitchen and picking up a dropped spoon. Su Wanqing's face flushed crimson, her lips parting and closing several times before she managed to stammer, "This isn't mine, I don't know where it came from—" Her voice was faltering, the latter half cut off by herself, because she saw Lin Mo place the pair of butterfly pasties side-by-side in his left palm, then bring her hand over with his other hand supporting her wrist, making her look at the small label attached to the inside of the pasties. "This must be a sample pack randomly included by the physiotherapy equipment supplier last time. I haven't had a chance to tell you yet," Lin Mo's index finger pointed to a line of small text on the label, printed with foreign abbreviations she couldn't understand and a set of numbers. His tone was as steady as when he usually reviewed her medical reports. "These are professional physiotherapy tools used in Japanese hot spring therapy and German pelvic floor muscle rehabilitation courses. They're not anything strange. The butterfly shape is specifically designed to assist in unblocking the meridians around the breasts, and when used with acupuncture, it can prolong the effect of acupoint stimulation." Su Wanqing's mouth hung open, her lips moving several times. She wanted to say that it didn't look like it was for physiotherapy, that the butterfly shape and velvet fabric seemed too deliberate, that this thing looked more like a... but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Because Lin Mo's expression was so forthright. So forthright that if she were to voice her unspoken thoughts, it would make her seem like she had a dirty mind. Lin Mo took the remaining leather straps from her hands, laying them out one by one on the carpet, his crouching posture completely natural. "This is a pelvic correction belt, used to stabilize the anterior superior iliac spine," he pressed lightly on the elastic fabric of a black strap. "This is a fascia release cuff, worn on the wrist to assist in meridian massage, more precise than a silk scarf for positioning. I originally intended to present this sample pack after your body had recovered a bit more—your progress has been quite good lately, and adding some auxiliary tools to consolidate the results would be beneficial." Su Wanqing remained crouched on the floor, her hands resting on her knees, her fingers twisting the hem of her nightgown. She looked at the row of restraint devices on the floor, each named by Lin Mo, each with a professional designation, each with a clear therapeutic purpose, each sounding so legitimate that no fault could be found. Her lips moved, wanting to say "No, thank you," wanting to say "I think the previous physiotherapy was enough," but she couldn't. Because she remembered that her body had indeed improved after these past few treatments—her dizziness was gone, her legs no longer trembled, and she no longer felt like her whole body had been wrung out in the mornings. If these were all professional, and if she refused, wouldn't that be overly sensitive? Su Wanqing was still squatting on the floor, her fingers clutching the hem of her nightgown, her mind replaying the image of the butterfly breast clamps lying in his palm just moments ago. Lin Mo had already reached for the velvet pouch from the drawer, pulled the drawstring open, and was taking out the contents one by one. His movements were unhurried, placing each item neatly on the carpet as he removed it, his methodical tone reminiscent of how he’d organize her lingerie in the closet. "This is a pelvic corrector," he began, unfolding a black leather strap about an inch wide. He held an end in each hand, exposing the dark red velvet lining on the inside of the strap. "The material is medical-grade elastic fiber, with an anti-allergic velvet lining. The stainless steel buckles at both ends allow for adjustable tightness. Its primary function is to stabilize the anterior superior iliac spine and assist in the isometric contraction of the pelvic floor muscles." He placed the pelvic corrector on the far left of the carpet, then picked up two thinner straps, each with a small spring clasp at the end. "These are fascia release cuffs, designed for wrists or ankles. The principle is similar to the silk scarf restraint we used before, but the inherent elasticity of the cuffs provides continuous, even pressure on the wrist flexor muscles, offering more stable fixation than a scarf." He laid the two fascia cuffs side-by-side next to the pelvic corrector, the metal clasps making a muffled clink against the carpet. Next, he picked up the pair of red velvet butterfly breast clamps. He cradled one in his palm, his index finger tapping the extremely fine metal wire embedded along the edge of the butterfly's wing. "You've seen this already – the mammary meridian dredging clamps. The butterfly design is custom-made to fit the physiological curve of the lateral mammary fascial groups." His index finger traced the arc of the butterfly wing. "The metal wires on the wings can be manually adjusted for opening and closing angles. When clamped onto the base of the breast, they precisely cover acupoints like Yingchuang and Tianxi. When used in conjunction with acupuncture, they can maintain acupoint stimulation for six to eight hours, far more efficient than manual pressing." Finally, he produced several thin straps with spring clasps and sliders, a few small metal rings, and some pieces of elastic fabric whose purpose she couldn't quite discern. "This set is a targeted muscle group compression device. It can be assembled freely according to the fascial lines of different areas." He arranged the fabric pieces on the carpet, forming a sleeve-like shape about the length of a forearm. "For example, the wrist flexor group, the gastrocnemius group, the gluteus medius group – wherever it's needed." After he finished speaking, he sat down on a low stool in the walk-in closet and looked up at her. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were calm, devoid of any evasiveness or ambiguity, exactly the same expression he had when explaining her physical examination reports. Su Wanqing remained squatting, her back against the closet door, her fingers leaving a crumpled imprint on the hem of her nightgown. She looked at the neatly arranged items on the carpet, each with a seemingly legitimate name, each with its purpose explained in his matter-of-fact tone – "isometric contraction," "fascia release," "acupoint coverage" – words she didn't quite understand, but precisely because she didn't understand them, she couldn't find any fault. "Teacher Su," Lin Mo said, placing his hands on his knees, a posture that made him appear gentler than usual, like a therapist patiently explaining a treatment plan to a patient. "You've felt the effects of your physical therapy yourself recently. Your dizziness is gone, your legs don't tremble anymore, and you don't feel like your whole body has been wrung out when you wake up in the morning. But relying solely on manual pressure on acupoints during each massage session doesn't sustain the effect for long – muscle groups have memory. If targeted pressure isn't applied to consolidate the results after the massage, the meridians will retract." He paused, lowered his eyes to the props on the carpet, then looked up at her again. "I originally intended to bring up this set of tools after your body had recovered a bit more. Since you've found them yourself today, I believe it's an opportune moment." Leaning against the closet door, Su Wanqing shifted from a squat to a cross-legged sitting position. The metal clasps on the carpet glinted under the spotlights, and the dark red velvet surface of the butterfly breast clamps stood out starkly amidst the cold light. Countless "no's" surged in her mind, so many that her own tongue felt tied. But every time she opened her mouth, Lin Mo's words from earlier would automatically pop up from her memory, blocking her tongue. Pelvic corrector, medical-grade elastic fiber. Fascia release cuffs, more stable fixation than silk scarves. Mammary meridian dredging clamps, covering Yingchuang and Tianxi acupoints. Each name was so proper that she couldn't find any leverage to refuse. She remembered waking up the morning after her first physical therapy session and turning her wrists in front of the mirror, realizing her dizziness was truly gone. She remembered during the second session when he massaged her liver meridian, the cry that escaped her lips, and how her legs hadn't trembled for days afterward. She remembered the thought that popped into her head that morning while standing on her tiptoes in front of the bathroom mirror: "This physical therapy is really effective." If these things were truly professional, and if she refused, wouldn't that be overly sensitive? If he genuinely just wanted to help her consolidate the results, and she was filling her mind with all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. Her toes curled on the carpet, the tips of her black stockings making a soft rustling sound against the carpet's pile. She lowered her eyes and stared at the butterfly breast clamps for a long time, so long that Lin Mo's movement as he stood up to get water from the kitchen brought her back to reality. "This..." she began, her voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, her throat dry. She cleared her throat before squeezing out the rest of the sentence, "...how do you use it?" Lin Mo returned with the water glass and crouched down in front of her again. He picked up the red velvet butterfly breast clamps from the carpet, the butterfly-shaped clamps lying quietly side-by-side in his left palm. The velvet surface glowed a dark red under the spotlights, the metal chains dangling from between his fingers, the small spring clasps at the ends swaying gently. He tapped the finest metal wire on the butterfly's wing with his right index finger. "The wings can be opened," he said, gently prying one open to a slight angle, revealing the velvet lining on the inside. "They are clamped onto the lateral mammary fascial groups – roughly around here." His index finger hovered near her chest, not touching her, stopping less than a finger's width from her silk nightgown, in mid-air. "When the wings close, they maintain a constant, gentle pressure, equivalent to about one-third of the pressure of a thumb pressing on an acupoint during massage. It won't hurt." A clean rubber scent wafted up from below the stairs. Not the acrid smell of cheap rubber, but the faint, talc-tinged aroma of freshly opened medical-grade latex. The staircase was wide, carpeted in dark grey, with warm yellow motion-sensor lights on either side that illuminated with each step. Su Wanqing followed Lin down, her fingers clutching the hem of her windbreaker. When Lin pushed open the wooden door to the basement, he reached for the light switch on the wall, and as the light flooded in, she froze in the doorway. The basement was larger than the two floors above combined. There were no windows, and the four walls were soundproofed with soft padding. Dark grey acoustic foam covered everything from floor to ceiling. To her left was an entire wall of metal racks, from which hung various widths of leather restraints, stainless steel chains, and gleaming buckles, all meticulously arranged by color and size. To her right was a set of open metal shelves, each level stacked with folded latex garments – black, deep red, translucent; some as thin as stockings, others thick enough to stand on their own. In the corner stood a life-sized mannequin, draped in a complete black latex catsuit, including the hood, arm restraints, integrated legs, and tail, all displayed on the form, gleaming dully under the warm yellow light. In the center of the room was a thick, padded carpet, a full circle wider than the massage table in her apartment. Beside the carpet sat an open gear case, its compartments clearly delineated – bottles of massage oil, silk scarves, leather ankle cuffs, and a collection of implements, some familiar, others not. Su Wanqing’s toes curled inside her black stockings. She should be afraid. Her mind told her that nothing in this room had anything to do with "physical therapy" anymore – the metal buckles on the restraints on the wall were too exquisite, the cut of the latex on the shelves too perfectly contoured to the human body, and the very presence of the mannequin in the corner declared the true purpose of this basement. Yet, she didn't turn to run. Lin stood behind her, his hand still resting on the small of her back, the warmth seeping through the fabric of her windbreaker and into her skin, the same warmth as every physical therapy night when he had helped her lie down. She wasn't afraid because she knew he would take care of her – and it was precisely this thought, in a still-rational corner of her mind, that made the last vestiges of her reason let out a faint, internal scream. Lin led her into the room. He released her lower back and walked to the metal racks. Instead of reaching for the intimidating restraints on the wall, he pulled a sealed plastic zip-lock bag from the bottom shelf. Inside was a neatly folded set of black latex garments. He unzipped the bag and took out the contents, laying them out on the padded carpet. A full-body catsuit. From head to toe, all in black medical-grade latex. When turned inside out, a thin layer of talcum powder was visible on the lining, and the surface of the latex gleamed with a moist sheen under the light. The neckline was an integrated hood, with only two eyeholes and a breathing slit at the nose. The arms were not sleeves but two restraint tubes built into the back, the latex several layers thick, ending not with finger openings but with two rounded, bulbous tips. The legs were joined, merging into a single latex tube from the waist down, with only a slight curve at the knees to allow for kneeling. A slender silicone tail was sewn to the center of the rear, curving slightly upwards at the tip, which was a rounded teardrop shape. "This is a full-body compression suit," Lin said, turning the inside of the catsuit out for her to see. His finger pointed to a row of tiny white characters printed on the lining – material composition, washing instructions, batch number, looking no different from any legitimate medical device label. "It applies uniform pressure to all major muscle groups simultaneously. The latex cuffs you used before could only cover the fascial groups around the breasts, and the waist chain only assisted pelvic alignment. This compression suit can unblock all the meridians in the body at once, making it much more efficient than using individual pieces." He looked up at her, his eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses as gentle as ever. "The physical therapy results will be better." As the latex enveloped her thighs and then her buttocks, Su Wanqing's fingers dug into Lin Mo's shoulder. It wasn't intentional; her body reacted instinctively the moment the latex adhered. The sensation on her legs was merely tight, but the latex against her buttocks was different—more intimate, more invasive. The black material, creeping up from her inner thighs, clung to her entire rear, perfectly outlining the curve of each cheek and pressing a faint, almost imperceptible line into the cleft between them. She instinctively leaned forward, as if trying to escape the suffocating closeness, but Lin Mo's fingers were already at the small of her back, steadying her before lifting gently, pressing the latex to her lower back. Then came her abdomen. As the latex wrapped around her stomach, her abdominal muscles involuntarily contracted, revealing a subtle contour beneath the black material. Lin Mo's fingers slid inside, tracing half a circle along her waistline, ensuring there were no wrinkles or folds. When his finger pressed against the upper edge of her hip bone through the latex, she remembered the teardrop-shaped waist chain lying on the mat at her feet. Now, there was no need for it; the latex itself was a tighter, more encompassing chain. Next were her breasts. As the latex pressed against them, her nipples brushed against the inner surface. Already exquisitely sensitive from days of stimulation by the butterfly cuffs, they hardened to a painful point with this slight friction. The latex mercilessly flattened her nipples, molding her breasts into two smooth, rounded black curves. From the outside, only the shape of her breasts was visible, the contours of her nipples completely obscured by the thin, tight layer of black latex. Her breathing quickened slightly. The front of the latex shimmered with the rise and fall of her chest. With each inhale, she felt the inner surface expand against her skin; with each exhale, she felt the latex forcefully expel the air from her lungs. "Next are your arms," Lin Mo said, standing up and moving behind her, pulling the back opening of the bodysuit wider. "I need you to bring your hands behind you." Su Wanqing stood on the mat, her legs now bound together by the black latex, a gap of only a finger's width between her knees, making her unsteady. She moved her hands from Lin Mo's shoulders and slowly brought them behind her back. Lin Mo cradled her right forearm with his left hand, while his right hand held open the right side of the rear opening of the bodysuit, guiding her right wrist into the sleeve. The inner diameter of the sleeve was much narrower than her arm. The latex stretched with a faint squeak, and then the entire sleeve contracted like a vacuum-sealed bag, clinging tightly to every inch of her skin from wrist to elbow, and elbow to shoulder. Then came her left arm, the same process, the same suffocating tightness. Once both arms were secured within the sleeves at her back, she heard the sound of a zipper ascending from her sacrum to the nape of her neck—a long, smooth sound, as if something was being sealed away forever. When the zipper reached the top, Lin Mo's finger pressed down on the newly fastened clasp. *Click*. The lock engaged. She didn't turn around, but she heard the sound. She knew, from that click, that her hands were no longer her own. Her arms were crossed and secured behind her back. Her forearms were molded into tight fists by the thickened latex, and the point where they crossed was gently fastened by a thin chain threaded through metal rings on the outer side of the sleeves. She tried to move her fingers—she couldn't. Not even the tips could bend. She tried to push her elbows outward—the latex emitted a faint squeak, and then the composite fabric pulled her arms firmly back into place. "Finally, the hood," Lin Mo said, stepping in front of her, holding the latex hood that was attached to her bodysuit. When the hood was turned inside out, the indentations for the nose and the placement of the eyeholes were visible. He checked the edges of the eyeholes for any curling before turning the hood right side out again. With both hands, he spread open the opening and began to pull it down over her head. The moment the latex hood touched her forehead, the world shrank. It wasn't a shrinking of her vision—the eyeholes weren't yet covered, and she could still see Lin Mo's fingers holding the edge—it was the sound that vanished first. The latex pressed against her ears, molding them tightly against the sides of her head, muffling all external sounds as if through a thick membrane. She could hear Lin Mo speaking, but his voice became a dull vibration, as if coming from the next room, through a layer of water. Then came the sensation. Her long hair was pressed tightly against her scalp by the hood, the pull at the roots fixed into stillness by the latex. The hood slid over her eyebrows and eye sockets. She closed her eyes—instinctively, as if something covering her face would elicit that reaction—and felt the latex press against her nose. The nasal indentations fit snugly against the sides of her nostrils, and the breathing slits aligned with her nostrils. The first breath she exhaled formed a small cloud of warm mist inside the hood, which then dissipated through the slits. She opened her eyes, her vision restricted to two oval openings, the edges marked by rough latex cuts. A slight shift of her gaze revealed the boundary of the black latex. A small opening was left for her mouth and nose, neither too large nor too small. It was just enough for breathing, just enough for speaking, and just enough for an index finger to reach in from the outside and touch her lips. The lower part of the hood pressed against her jawbone, allowing her mouth to open only slightly. When she closed her lips, she could feel the edge of the latex gently pinching her lower lip. She stood before the bathroom mirror, gazing at the outline of her thong pressed against her skin through the thin black stockings – nothing was visible from the outside. The mesh crotch of the stockings completely concealed the row of silicone beads. Only when she turned sideways, and the light hit the inside of her thighs at a specific angle, could one faintly discern seven minuscule protrusions beneath the stockinged crotch, like a row of knuckles embedded under the skin. When she emerged from the bathroom, Lin Mo had already prepared her gown for the evening. A champagne-colored satin haute couture long dress, its hem trailing the floor, with a deep V back that plunged to her waist. As he zipped up the back, his fingers traced her spine from her waist to the nape of her neck – not brushing against her, just a normal zipper pull. But Su Wanqing’s honey hole contracted as his fingers passed her lower back, drawing the largest silicone bead half an inch closer to her clit. Then she left. The charity gala was held in the ballroom of a five-star hotel. Crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, waiters in black vests shuttled through the crowd with trays. From the moment she stepped out of the car, Su Wanqing began calculating in her mind – from the entrance to the signing board: twenty steps. From the signing board to the photo area: fifteen steps. From the photo area to the ballroom interior: thirty steps. With every step, the silicone beads were moving. Not a direct stimulation like vibration. It was a slower, more grinding pressure. Every time she shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, the crotch of her thong would shift slightly with the subtle rotation of her pelvis, and the silicone beads, within their silicone casing, would roll back and forth with the inertia of her stride. The largest bead – the one nestled directly above her clit, the size of a peanut – would be squeezed by the muscles of her inner thigh with each step she took. The bead would rotate a minuscule angle within its silicone sleeve, grinding against the most sensitive layer of skin on her clit’s surface. Not grinding, but grazing – but after an hour of grazing, the graze became a continuous low-frequency friction. Under the ceaseless rolling of that bead, her clit remained in a state of semi-engorgement: hard, but not fully hard; swollen, but not with the swelling of pre-orgasm. It was stewing on a very narrow edge between pleasure and pain, never receding. She walked around the ballroom, holding her champagne flute. Exchanging pleasantries with investors. Posing for photos with brand representatives. Discussing the schedule for her next film with the director. A perfectly calibrated smile graced her face, her lips moved, her voice flowed steadily from her throat. No one knew that with every step she took, the seven silicone beads in her crotch were taking turns grinding against her private parts – the smallest bead sent a jolt of tingling pleasure as it grazed her perineum, while the largest bead, hitting her clit, made her subtly press the heel of her stiletto onto the toe of her other foot. By the fortieth minute, Su Wanqing felt the cro The T-strap of the rope harness was perfectly nestled in the grooves of her inner thighs, pressing her labia inward from either side. Unlike the rope training where the rope simply ground over her, this strap was static – as long as she didn't move, the pressure wouldn't change. But the slightest shift, even just adjusting her knees, would tug at the entire rope net. The ropes on her chest and between her legs would tighten simultaneously, sending a wave of exquisite sensation through her entire body. When she was still, the pressure from the thigh strap had already caused a trickle of moisture to seep from her honey pot, clinging to the rope's surface and stretching into a single, impossibly thin, transparent strand. Then came the ball gag. Lin Mo pried open the metal ring and wedged it between her teeth. The cold stainless steel edge pressed against her gums, eliciting a muffled whimper from within the gag. He then wrapped the leather straps on either side around the back of her head and buckled them shut. The clasp clicked into place. Her jaw was held open, unable to close. Next, he extended two fingers – index and middle – through the opening in the metal ring. He gently pinched the tip of her tongue and pulled it out. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Her tongue was drawn out past her lips, resting against the underside of the metal ring. Her saliva began to escape control. Without her tongue inside her mouth, her salivary glands continued to produce, and the drool dripped relentlessly down her chin, pooling on the floor into a small, dark wet patch. She lowered her head, watching the puddle of drool slowly spread. The final piece. The silicone tail. After applying a generous layer of lubricant to its base, the butt plug was pressed against her rear. She let out a muffled whimper from within the gag, her entire body tensing. Lin Mo placed his left hand on her lower back, specifically the Shenshu acupoint, and gently massaged it with his thumb. Su Wanqing's sphincter involuntarily relaxed under his touch. With his right hand, he began to twist and push it in, bit by bit, pausing with each insertion to allow her sphincter to adjust. Once fully inserted, the silicone tail emerged from between her buttocks, its tip giving a gentle sway behind her. Now her limbs were folded like four short stumps, her body bound by the intricate web of the Kote-kote, every fascia held in place. The gag held her mouth open, her tongue hanging outside the metal ring, the tail protruding from her rear. Drool dripped continuously from her tongue tip onto the floor in front of her. Lin Mo clipped the leash to the D-ring on her collar and gave a gentle tug. She followed the chain, crawling towards the mirror. She could only propel herself forward on her knees and elbows, padding against the soft mat. Each step pulled at the thigh strap, which in turn tightened the entire rope net. The rope knots scraped against her nipples, sending sharp jolts of pleasure. Her honey pot, already compressed by the thigh strap for so long, was now ground against again. She let out a muffled whimper from the gag, slinging saliva from her mouth onto the back of her hand. She crawled to the mirror. Lifted her head. There was no Su Wanqing in the mirror. In the mirror was a humanoid female dog, her limbs folded into short stumps, her body encased in a crisscross of black leather and dark red rope. Her breasts were swollen, constricted by the ropes at their base. Her mouth was held open by the metal ring, her tongue hanging out, saliva forming a silver thread that dripped down her chin. The dog tag, "Momo," gleamed under her collar. The dog tail protruded from between her buttocks. Tears rolled from her eyes, silently, one after another, mixing with her drool and dripping onto the floor. Lin Mo squatted beside her, extending his index finger to wipe away the wetness on her face. Drool and tears created a glistening trail on his fingertip. He brought that finger to her mouth, gently tapping the tip of her extended tongue. Then he stood up and tightened the leash by another half turn. "You'll sleep in this tonight. The cage is ready." Su Wanqing looked down at her four folded stumps. Her body could now only rest on her knees and elbows, all four limbs locked in a folded position by leather restraints. She didn't know how she would turn over in the cage. Then she realized – there was no need to turn over in the cage. A female dog didn't turn over. She just curled up. She crawled into the cage. The movement was more difficult than she had anticipated: first, her knees into the cage door, then her upper body scraping along the bottom to slide inside. The dog tail bent and sprang back as it brushed against the cage door. Finally, she curled herself into a corner of the cage, knees pressed to her chest, forehead against the wire mesh, her folded arms trapped between her body and the cage wall. Every knot of the Kote-kote gently chafed her skin with each breath. The thigh strap maintained constant pressure between her legs. The tail, bent within the confined space of the cage, was pressed inside her. Lin Mo closed the cage door. The padlock clicked into place. Then the lights went out. In the darkness, Su Wanqing curled up in the cage. The gag held her mouth open, preventing her from swallowing, and her saliva dripped, drop by drop, from the tip of her extended tongue onto the soft mat. She pressed her forehead against the wire mesh. A long time passed – so long that she wasn't sure if it had been hours – before a faint, muffled whimper, as if pressed from the deepest part of her chest, escaped her through the gag. It wasn't pain, nor fear. It was simply that after seeing the dog in the mirror, she could still see it behind her closed eyelids – the tail still swaying, the drool still dripping. And that dog was herself. It squatted in the center of her pitch-black vision, its tail swaying gently, waiting for Lin Mo to open the cage door in the morning.