The Missing Beauties (Short Story Collection)

The two women sat facing each other, their hands bound tightly behind their heads. A vibrating device was thrust deep into their lower orifices, while anal beads were inserted into their rectums. Their legs were locked over each other’s shoulders, ankles lashed to the other’s wrists, and their toes bound together with thin twine. A motorized brush moved rhythmically, relentlessly tickling the sensitive arches of their feet. Their mouths were stuffed with phallic gags, tethered together in a forced, lip-to-lip embrace. Their nipples were clamped tight, the metal clips linked by a fine iron chain. Electrodes were plastered across their waists, armpits, and inner thighs, delivering jolts of electricity at irregular intervals. They quickly learned the cruel geometry of their predicament: any attempt to struggle would cause the other’s breasts to be yanked painfully. Once they realized this, they dared not move. Even as the brushes scraped their soles, they remained frozen; the skin might grow numb to the tickling, but the agonizing tension remained, locked in place by the fear of hurting the other. But Zhao Ze had no intention of letting them off so easily. He knew that constant stimulation led to desensitization, so he began to toy with their waists, testing their limits. He was wicked; he would feign a tickle toward one, and just as the other let her guard down, he would strike the second woman instead. She would twitch involuntarily, sending a sharp, stinging shock through her friend’s sensitive chest. They played this sadistic game for a long time. Thanks to the drugs coursing through their veins, losing consciousness was an impossibility. Zhao Ze bid them a casual farewell, exchanged a few words with the previous two women, and stepped out. His client had summoned him for a specific task. It was absurd—the client had set his sights on the same beauty Zhao Ze had encountered on his flight home from Sichuan. He wanted Zhao Ze to "acquire" her, offering a commission that dwarfed the price of these four young wives combined. It wasn't that the four women lacked value—the client had bought them as a package deal—but a solo target naturally commanded a higher premium. Zhao Ze, however, didn't take every job that came his way, and he refused. On stage, the auction continued. Each woman was sold to the highest bidder, who would then head backstage to leave their address, waiting for their "shipment" to arrive at their doorstep. Eventually, the stage cleared. Zhao Ze thought it was over, but then, four familiar faces appeared. These were not mere auction items; they were the grand finale. They weren't bound as heavily as they had been under Zhao Ze’s watch; in fact, they wore fewer ropes than the women sold earlier. It seemed a year of captivity had broken them into total submission. Zhang Meng performed a ballet on stage. She wore a custom tutu, but the bodice had been slashed open, exposing her breasts completely. Below the skirt, she was bare, her pubic hair groomed into a heart shape. Wei Xiaoyu, possessing a lovely voice, was tasked with singing, providing the accompaniment for Zhang Meng’s dance. She wore a completely transparent gown. Small vibrating toys were inserted into her orifices, and the remote controls had been handed out to the audience. As she sang, her body would suddenly convulse, causing her voice to crack and falter. The audience roared with laughter, hurling lewd insults at her, yet she maintained a fixed, submissive smile, never daring to show a flicker of discontent. Tong Ruanruan was completely naked, a serving tray hung around her neck. With her hands bound behind her back, she navigated the crowd, offering champagne. Whenever a guest snapped their fingers, she had to hurry over with extreme caution. Her balance was precarious, and she couldn't run; yet, the guests delighted in tormenting her, grabbing her breasts like handles to yank her toward them. She didn't even dare to wince in pain. As for Qian Yumeng, she was on her knees, servicing a guest. The look of ecstasy on his face suggested she had mastered a certain "skill." The man was shameless, allowing countless hands to roam over her body while he remained lost in his own pleasure. This was truly a lawless land. Above, the opulence of gold and light; below, a pool of wine and a forest of flesh. One couldn't help but wonder: would the girls coming and going in the club today eventually find themselves on this very stage? When it was all over, the four women donned their gags and handcuffs, reappearing on stage together. They spread their legs wide, waiting for the guests to make their final selection. Because… As Zhang Meng walked toward the van, completely off guard, the door was suddenly flung open. Caught entirely by surprise, she let out a startled gasp. There were no surveillance cameras in this narrow alley, so Zhao Ze felt no hesitation in dragging her into the vehicle. He had expected it to be easy, but… As he locked his arm around her neck and tried to force her inside, Zhang Meng suddenly opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth deep into his hand. Stung by the pain, Zhao Ze was forced to let go, and Zhang Meng immediately bolted. If she made it out of the alley, it would be a disaster—there were cameras on the main street. Zhao Ze barked an order for his men to give chase. Fortunately, Zhang Meng was wearing the stiff, formal shoes that came with her JK uniform; they looked cute, but they were useless for running. She was quickly overtaken, her mouth clamped shut by a rough hand, and she was dragged back. She was surprisingly strong; it took several grown men to haul her back, and they were visibly struggling. Zhao Ze was fuming. He nearly pulled out the fast-acting sedative he’d concocted, but eventually, they managed to shove her into the van. Even inside, Zhang Meng thrashed violently. Several men could barely hold her down, exerting every ounce of their strength to flip her over and pin her long enough to bind her wrists with plastic zip ties. But she kept fighting. One man, holding her legs, was caught off guard when she broke free and kicked him square in the face. The other traffickers were livid. Some locked their arms around her neck, others pinned her legs down with renewed force, and one grabbed two more zip ties to bind her knees and ankles together. Then, they stripped off her long socks, balled them up, and jammed them into her mouth. Unlike sheer pantyhose, the socks were thick and bulky; one was enough to completely plug her mouth, while the second was tied tightly around her face to ensure she couldn't spit the gag out. With that, Zhang Meng finally lost her ability to resist. Throughout the ordeal, Zhao Ze stood silent and motionless, staring coldly at the object in his hand. It was Zhang Meng’s ID card, which had fallen out when they dragged her in. He had picked it up instinctively. It listed her home address in Harbin… So, she was from the Northeast. No wonder she had such raw strength. Zhao Ze sneered, pocketing the ID to destroy later. He glanced down at the teeth marks on his wrist, a nameless, burning rage consuming him. Lü Yiwen had never caused him any physical harm. Guan Zishan, who had once kicked him, was currently suffering in agony. And now, he’d been bitten—he was bleeding. What kind of fate awaited Zhang Meng? The vibrating bullet he usually used was already with someone else, or he would have made her taste it. He didn't intend to use any of his other "pleasure toys" on her either; in this world, every other toy was designed to bring enjoyment, and he didn't want her to experience a single second of it. There was only one way left… This place was different from the abandoned construction site in Zhao Ze’s city, which had been slated for a commercial center. This looked like a failed luxury villa development. *Heh.* To let even villas go unfinished—the capital here was truly reckless. Among the vast expanse of skeletal, half-built structures, one particular villa served as their hideout. An array of torture implements lay scattered about, a dizzying sight. Zhao Ze hadn't intended for Zhang Meng to feel any pleasure, so he had no use for those tools, but his men wanted their fun. Since they had helped him, he couldn't exactly refuse. They threw Zhang Meng onto the floor and stripped her bare, tearing away her cream-colored bra and panties. They snipped off the plastic zip ties, intending to replace them with rope. She was just an ordinary person, albeit a strong one, so there was no need for anything overly complex. They went straight for the *wuhua-dabang*—the "five-flower binding." Many people misunderstand this term from movies and novels, but the real *wuhua-dabang* is the method used by prisons and police for death-row inmates. It perfectly exploits human anatomy, neutralizing every single point of leverage. Once bound this way, no matter how strong you are, you cannot break free. Zhao Ze applied an improved version, using the excess rope to wrap a figure-eight around her chest. It made Zhang Meng’s already full breasts appear even more prominent. It was a classic Zhao Ze touch: if she dared to struggle even an inch, the ropes would bite into her chest, causing excruciating pain. Next, they threaded a rope through iron rings fixed to the ceiling to hoist her upper body. While still unconscious, Zhang Meng was forced into a standing position. Then, they folded her right leg, binding the calf to the thigh, and connected it to the rope running through the ceiling rings. In this way, her upper body held her legs, and her legs held her upper body; without outside help, she was completely trapped in her own tension. Zhao Ze pulled the socks from her mouth and replaced them with a ball gag. It was finished. Before, he had stuffed her mouth to keep her quiet, but here, there was no one around to hear her. She could scream all she wanted—it would only fuel their desires. The ball gag had another purpose, too: it made it impossible for her to control her saliva, which would now drip incessantly. She was the type who cared deeply about her image. Since he couldn't strike her, he would do everything in his power to humiliate her. *That’s for biting me, you bitch.* Lan Jingxue felt nothing but revulsion for him now; the very thought of being intimate with a man like this made her stomach churn. And yet, worse was to come. With effortless ease, Zhao Ze tore away her lingerie, exposing her breasts to the cold air. Never in her life had Lan Jingxue been subjected to such degradation—never! She had always encountered decent men, and any deviant she had crossed paths with in her adult life had been swiftly beaten into submission. She had never imagined she would find herself in a situation like this. If this continued, it would no longer be a matter of consensual intimacy; it had devolved into outright rape. She would report him—she had to! But before she dragged him to the authorities, she would beat him—beat him until he was broken. Once she returned to the gym tomorrow, she would expose Zhao Ze for the monster he truly was. But the nightmare wasn't over. Ignoring her frantic struggles, Zhao Ze flipped her over, forcing her face down against the surface. A cold shiver of terror raced through Lan Jingxue; it was as if he had become an entirely different person. Was he finally going to force himself on her? She was still a virgin, and the thought that her first time would be a violation was agonizing. Zhao Ze gripped her legs, and she couldn't help but flinch. He felt her tremor and chuckled. "What’s the matter? Scared?" "Go to hell, you son of a bitch!" she screamed, though her muffled cries of rage were lost on him. Zhao Ze wasn't looking for intercourse yet. Instead, he partially untied the ropes around her calves. Lan Jingxue briefly hoped he was loosening her bonds, but she was wrong. He had left a deliberate "tail" of rope, which he now pulled taut. He bent her legs back, looping the excess rope around her torso and tying it in a tight figure-eight knot. He had trussed her up in a variation of the "four-horse" binding. While others might connect wrists to ankles or elbows to feet, Zhao Ze had bound her ankles directly to her chest. Now, even if she didn't struggle, the natural tension of her legs pulling back caused the rope to dig into her breasts, inflicting excruciating pain. She didn't dare move, yet the agony persisted. Zhao Ze noticed her fingers clawing at the ropes, desperate to pick the knots. He had anticipated this; he had tied them in reverse, ensuring her fingers couldn't reach the critical points. Her efforts were futile. To be absolutely certain, he grabbed a roll of tape and bound her hands into tight, immobile fists, stripping her of even the ability to twitch a finger. Naked and completely exposed to this man she loathed, Lan Jingxue felt a wave of despair so profound she almost wished for death. But she forced herself to stay strong—she had to survive. The moment he untied her, she would make him pay in blood. "Mmph! Mmph!" she continued to curse him. Annoyed, Zhao Ze picked at his ear, then produced two nose plugs, jamming them into her nostrils. Lan Jingxue panicked, fearing he meant to suffocate her, but once they were in, she realized she could still breathe—though only through her mouth. She tried to scream insults at him again, but the sound was so faint she could barely hear it herself. Her voice had been stolen. If she couldn't hear herself, Zhao Ze certainly couldn't hear a thing. Next came the blindfold and earplugs. One by one, her senses were stripped away. A paralyzing fear took hold of her. Who was this man? She had thought she knew him, but now she realized she hadn't even scratched the surface of his depravity. Suddenly, she felt a foreign object pressing against her, forcing her entrance open. Was he finally beginning? But it didn't feel like flesh—it felt like silicone. It was a bullet vibrator, soft and rhythmic. It was designed to provide intense stimulation without damaging the thin membrane he was so careful to preserve. After all, the client had paid for a virgin. When Lin Feiyu regained consciousness for the third time, she realized she couldn't move. Her awareness drifted up from a void of chaos, like a diver clawing her way up from the crushing depths. Before her vision could even focus, she felt the state of her body—it was wrong. Her arms were wrong, her legs were wrong, everything was wrong. Her arms were pinned against her torso, her legs pressed tightly together; she was encased in something from every direction, a suffocating, airtight seal. She tried to move. Nothing. Her fingers wouldn't splay, her toes wouldn't curl, she couldn't even twist her waist. She widened her eyes, and her vision finally cleared—the dim, yellow bulb hung above her, just as before. But her field of vision was restricted to a tiny aperture, as if she were peering out through a pinhole. Her body was encased in a layer of black rubber. The rubber cocooned her from the neck down, like a giant palm pressing against her from all sides. She could feel the material clinging to every inch of her skin, crushing her chest, her stomach, her thighs, her arms. Breathing was an agonizing labor; every inhalation required a monumental effort, and the rubber rose and fell with her lungs, though the movement was pitifully shallow. She tried to scream, but a soft tube was jammed into her mouth. It slid between her lips, pressed hard against her tongue, and snaked deep into her throat. She tried to push it out with her tongue, but it was too deep; she couldn't reach the end. She tried to speak, but all that emerged were muffled, guttural whimpers from the depths of her throat, sounding as if they were coming from miles away. Panic set in. It was a different kind of panic than before. When she had been tied to the chair, she couldn't move, but at least she could see her limbs and feel the presence of her own body. Now, she was sealed within the rubber; her body was partitioned from the world, and she couldn't even see her own hands or feet. All she could perceive was the suffocating pressure of the rubber and a persistent, background hum of numbness and itchiness in the soles of her feet. She thrashed violently. She shoved with her shoulders, bucked with her knees, and slammed the back of her head against the surface. But the rubber was wrapped too tightly; all her movements were compressed into microscopic tremors, making her look like a worm writhing in place. After a while, she grew exhausted, gasping for air, and was forced to stop. She lay there, her chest heaving violently. The rubber tightened and loosened with every breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, so fast she felt as if her chest cavity might shatter. Then, she heard footsteps. The face of the man in the floral shirt appeared above her. He crouched down, peering at her with a smirk. Behind him, the man in the black T-shirt, the one in the red jersey, and the girl with the ponytail crowded around, looking down at her as if she were some fascinating specimen. "Awake?" the man in the floral shirt said. Lin Feiyu glared at him, emitting a muffled, guttural sound. "This is called a vacuum bed," he said, patting the rubber covering her. "Bought it online. It’s usually for people with... specific tastes. We thought it would suit you perfectly." He leaned in and pressed his thumb against the sole of her foot through the rubber. The material was so thin that she could feel the exact shape of his finger. Lin Feiyu’s entire leg jerked within the casing, but because she was bound so tightly, the movement was pathetically small. "See? This is much better than ropes," he said, standing up and reaching into a cardboard box to lay out his tools on the table nearby. An electric toothbrush, a soft-bristled brush, cotton swabs, feathers, and oil—all lined up. "Before, you could dodge, struggle, and kick. Now, you can't even twitch a finger." Lin Feiyu closed her eyes, forcing herself to stay calm. She counted her breaths: one, two, three, four. By the time she reached ten, her heart rate slowed just a fraction. She began to think. First—she had to admit, this vacuum bed was far more terrifying than ropes. When tied, she could at least feel her own body, see her limbs, and visualize the movements needed to break free. Now, sealed in rubber, her body was severed from the outside world; she couldn't even tell what position she was in. Her limbs were pressed so flush against her torso that she couldn't distinguish where one ended and the other began. Second—the tube in her mouth. It allowed her to breathe, but robbed her of speech. Before, she could curse, beg, or threaten them. Now, she was mute. Every sound was choked off by the tube, reduced to a heap of muffled, unintelligible whimpers that even she couldn't decipher. Third—the soles of her feet. The rubber was too thin. It was thin enough to feel every touch from the outside with agonizing clarity. When the man’s fingers pressed against her soles through the rubber, the sensation was almost indistinguishable from direct skin-to-skin contact. The rubber merely blurred the sensation slightly, while simultaneously making it more persistent and lingering. As he pressed down, the rubber indented, the concave surface clinging to her sole like a palm slowly kneading her flesh. She suddenly thought of the people she had killed—no, she hadn't killed anyone. She had beaten many people: drunks, thugs, and those four yesterday. Every time she fought, she knew exactly what she was doing; she knew she would win. She had never been like this—sealed in a place where she could do nothing, not even utter a single word. She was terrified. A true, bone-deep fear—not of pain, not of death. It was the fear of this utter helplessness. It was the fear of everything she was about to endure, knowing she didn't even have the dignity of being able to beg for mercy. The man in the floral shirt picked up the electric toothbrush and flicked the switch. The buzzing sound was piercing in the quiet room. He pressed the brush against the sole of her foot through the rubber. Lin Feiyu jolted as if electrocuted. But the rubber held her too firmly; her spasm was nothing more than a slight arching of her back before she fell back into place. A laugh erupted from her nasal cavity, sharp and frantic, but it was choked by the tube in her throat, twisting into a muffled, distorted wail. "Mmmph-mmph-mmph-mmph—!" The high-frequency vibration of the toothbrush transmitted through the rubber, more lethal than direct contact. The rubber amplified the vibration evenly, forcing every inch of her sole to endure the dense, inescapable tickling. The man moved the brush from her left foot to her right, from the arch to the spaces between her toes, then to her heels. With every shift, Lin Feiyu writhed violently inside the rubber, but her movements were so restricted that she looked like nothing more than a body shivering in place. Xia Yingying tried to move, but her arms wouldn't obey. The blow to the back of her neck had left her entire upper body numb; her fingers trembled, unable to grip a thing. She could only watch as the figure brought her wrists together, bound them tightly with several loops of cloth tape, and knotted them. Then, the person threaded the other end of the tape over the top crossbar of the shelving unit and pulled it taut. Her upper body was hoisted slightly, her wrists suspended from the bar, forcing her shoulders to stretch upward. The person produced another strip of cloth and bound her ankles. Then, reaching to the other side of the shelves, they retrieved an object—a slender metal rod, about a meter long, likely salvaged from the shelving hardware. The person threaded each end of the rod through the loops of cloth on Yingying’s ankles, then wedged the rod between two rows of shelves. Yingying’s legs were forced wide apart, held at either end of the rod, her knees bent, soles facing upward toward the ceiling. Having secured the rod, the person stepped back, crouched, and shone a flashlight onto her feet. Yingying was barefoot—her black sneakers and socks had already been removed. Her soles looked starkly pale in the beam, the skin glistening with a faint sheen of nervous sweat. The person pulled a thin wand from their pocket, the tip tipped with a small tuft of gray material, like a wisp of fur. They pressed the wand against the center of Yingying’s left sole. Light. Extremely light. The gray tip traced a slow, deliberate arc across the center of her sole. Yingying’s entire left leg stiffened, her knee bending more sharply, but the spreader bar held her ankles fixed; no amount of knee-flexing could change the angle of her upturned soles. Her toes curled, then relaxed. She bit her lip, stifling a sound. The person traced three more arcs—from the sole to the arch, then from the arch to the base of the toes. Then, they switched to the right foot. The right was even more sensitive—at the first touch of the fur, Yingying’s entire right leg jerked. The spreader bar rattled, the metal rod clattering against the shelves with a sharp metallic ring. A short, sharp gasp escaped her nose, which she immediately bit back. The person set the wand aside and pulled something else from their pocket: a long, thin plastic tube connected to a small bulb at one end, with a microscopic nozzle at the other. They aimed the nozzle at the center of Yingying’s left sole and squeezed the bulb. A tiny, precise stream of water sprayed out, landing in the center of her sole—a cool, wet patch. Another squeeze, and the stream moved to the arch; another, to the base of the toes. They then swept the wand over the dampened area. The water mixed with the fur tip, making the sensation slicker, denser; as it swept across her sole, it no longer felt like individual strokes, but a continuous, overwhelming wave. A laugh leaked through Yingying’s clenched teeth, jagged and broken, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath. Her waist arched, only to be yanked back by the cloth bindings on her wrists. Her shoulders were beginning to ache from the prolonged suspension, her arms numb, but the maddening tickle on her soles was far harder to ignore than the dull throb in her joints. The person switched to the right foot, repeating the water and the fur. Then, they produced a third item: a long, slender silver needle. They aimed the tip at the *Yongquan* point on her left sole and twisted it in. The sharp sting lasted only a second, followed by a dull, aching pressure that radiated outward from the puncture. Yingying’s instep tensed, her toes bunching into a tight knot. The person left the needle in place and picked up the wand again, tracing circles around the needle’s base. The ache of the needle and the light sweep of the fur overlapped, radiating from the same point on her sole. Yingying’s laughter dissolved into a series of continuous, fragmented gasps. Her body writhed in the small space between the suspension and the spreader bar, her shoulders straining against the bindings, her toes frantically clenching and unclenching at the ends of the metal rod. Once finished with the left, the person repeated the process on the right. Both needles remained embedded in the *Yongquan* points of her soles, their ends trembling slightly in the emergency light. The person set the wand down, stood up, and stepped back to observe Yingying, suspended between the shelves and the spreader bar. Yingying’s breathing was shallow and rapid, her chest heaving. Her legs were held wide by the rod, soles upturned, each pierced by a silver needle that shivered with every twitch of her toes. Her wrists were hoisted high, the cloth tape biting deep, leaving a ring of pale red welts. Her shoulders were trembling from the strain of being held aloft, her arms numb from the elbows down. The person watched for a moment, then turned toward the shop entrance. They crouched, lifted the rolling shutter from the bottom, slipped out, and pulled it back down. The sound of a chain lock echoed from outside, followed by silence. Yingying was left alone in the shop. The flashlight remained on the floor, its beam skewed, casting long, distorted shadows of the merchandise. She hung from the crossbar, legs splayed, soles facing the ceiling, the two silver needles still embedded in her *Yongquan* points. The dull ache of the needles mingled with the lingering sensation of the fur, the skin of her soles flushed a faint, raw pink. She tried to struggle against her wrists. The tape was wound tight, the knot out of reach. She tried to pull her feet back from the spreader bar, but the rod was wedged firmly between the shelves, and the loops around her ankles held her fast. She hung there, soles upturned, and waited.