My aloof, young boss is secretly my little submissive.

She took out the hemp rope. Her movements were light, practiced, like an everyday ritual performed countless times. The light brown rope wound around her wrists, over her shoulders, and wove a neat diamond pattern across her chest. Today, she applied more force than usual—the knots pulled tighter, the angles more precise, as if to suppress the chaotic thoughts in her mind with this clear, physical order. The Shibari was completed in twelve minutes. Each strand of rope fit snugly against the contours of her slender body, creating subtle but undeniable ridges beneath her black hoodie. Then came the vibrator. She retrieved the small, oval object from a hidden compartment in the storage box. It had been disinfected and carefully wrapped in plastic wrap. She paused for a few seconds before inserting it. The thin wire was secured along the inside of her thigh, the receiver pressed against the skin of her waist, held firmly in place by the rope. The remote control was set aside for now—to be picked up at the very end. Next, the gag. A red silicone ball, about 3.5 centimeters in diameter, attached to a black leather strap. She placed the ball in her mouth, her tongue pressing against the silicone's curve, and fastened the strap behind her head. Her lips were forced into an 'O' shape, saliva beginning to pool uncontrollably. She had a black mask ready—a standard medical type, loosely hooked over her left ear. Now she attached the other side, adjusting the metal strip over her nose, completely concealing the lower half of her face. The mask's fabric pressed against the outer edge of the gag, bulging slightly but not noticeably—many people's lips naturally protrude when wearing a mask, making it appear unremarkable. A small area of the mask's inner lining was dampened by saliva, but the black fabric was inconspicuous, and unless one looked closely, there was no visible abnormality. Next, the handcuffs. Metal, lined with a thin layer of leather on the inside to prevent skin abrasion. She brought her hands behind her back, wrists together, and locked them with a click. She flexed her fingers, confirming normal blood circulation—joints were flexible, fingertips not numb. She tried rotating her shoulders, the ropes shifting slightly, creating a faint rustling sound as they rubbed against the hoodie's lining. Before leaving—this was something she had planned—she used her cuffed hands to pick up the remote control and carefully tucked it into the front pocket of her hoodie. The pocket was deep enough for the remote to disappear completely, leaving no trace visible from the outside. Then, she used both hands to grasp the strap of her canvas bag and slung it over her shoulder. The bag contained her phone and an access card. Everything was ready. She walked to the full-length mirror in the entryway to check her overall appearance. It was 12:30 AM. In the mirror stood a girl in a loose black hoodie, its hem just covering her waistline, concealing the knots and the receiver at her side. The light gray pleated skirt fell about a hand's width above her knees, its pleats sharp and neat, rising and falling with her breath. White cotton socks encased her slender calves, and her black sneakers were clean and sharp. Her hair, disheveled from working overtime, hung loosely in a low ponytail. A black mask covered the lower half of her face, revealing only her eyes—eyes that shone with an unusual brightness, a mix of fatigue and excitement. Outwardly, she appeared to be just an ordinary young woman wearing a mask late at night. The loose fabric of the hoodie perfectly concealed the gag's strap and the handcuffs behind her back. The skirt's pleats hid the thin wire secured along the inside of her thighs. The mask masked any unusual protrusion from the gag. She extended a finger and pressed it against the fingerprint lock. The mechanism turned, and the door opened. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door with her shoulder. The metal door shut with a dull thud, locking automatically. The hallway was deserted. A green emergency exit light glowed faintly at the far end. She entered the elevator, turning her back to the camera, letting her long hair obscure the details of the strap behind her head. The floor numbers slowly ticked upwards. Ding. The first floor. The elevator doors opened, and a night breeze swept in. The late spring night carried a slight chill, mixed with humid air and the faint scent of flowers from afar. The street was empty, streetlights casting warm yellow halos that formed a continuous chain of light on the pavement. Occasionally, a car drove by, its tires emitting a low rumble as they rolled over the road, before quickly disappearing around the next corner. Lu Xiaojin stepped out of the building and walked slowly along the sidewalk. Her pace was slower than usual. Her hands, cuffed behind her back, required her to adjust her center of gravity to maintain balance; the vibrator, though not yet activated, would cause slight shifts as she walked, reminding her of its presence; the gag, pressed by the mask, made breathing more difficult, requiring longer intervals for each breath. I didn't press any closer, just stood before her and said in the softest voice I could manage, "Manager Lu, it's me, Shen Le." Her eyelashes fluttered – the name registered. She recognized me. After a moment's hesitation, I raised my hand, very lightly, very slowly, and pinched the edge of her mask, pulling it down a little. In that instant, time seemed to freeze. Beneath the mask was a red silicone gag. Her lips were stretched into an O-shape, the black leather straps secured behind her head, wrapping around her cheeks. Saliva continuously seeped from where the gag met her lips, trickling down her chin, already forming a distinct wet trail at her jawline, even dripping onto the collar of her hoodie. The fabric inside the mask was completely soaked, glistening. Her entire lower face was wet, as if she'd just been pulled from water. I froze. She closed her eyes. Not a tight-lipped resistance, but a closing of utter resignation, a complete surrender. Her lashes trembled slightly under the streetlamp, and a strand of saliva was slowly sliding down the edge of her lower lip, drawing a long, thin silver thread in the light before dripping onto the hem of her pleated skirt. My mind went blank for about three or four seconds. Then, I bent down, picked up the fallen takeout bag, and asked in as steady a tone as I could muster, "What floor do you live on?" She didn't answer – of course, she couldn't. I looked at the handcuffs behind her back, then at the faint outline of a rope net beneath her hoodie. Taking a deep breath, I made a decision. "Let's go to my place. 202, I just moved in." She didn't nod or shake her head, just stood there with her eyes closed. But when I reached out and gently took her upper arm, she didn't resist, and followed me obediently into the building. We were alone in the elevator. The atmosphere was suffocatingly heavy. I stared at the floor numbers ticking upwards, unsure what to say. She stood behind and to my side, head bowed, saliva still dripping silently, drop after drop, onto the elevator floor, forming a small puddle of moisture. One, two – ding, second floor. I led her into my apartment, had her sit on the living room sofa, then crouched before her, carefully examining the straps of the gag. They were fastened at the back of her head with a metal clasp. I carefully undid it and removed the wet silicone ball from her mouth. She let out a low, relieved sigh, her lips parting slightly, still connected by a glistening silver thread. I pulled a few tissues from the coffee table and handed them to her. She took the tissues, wiped her chin and mouth, then clutched the sodden wad, remaining silent. After about ten seconds of silence. "...You saw everything," she said, her voice a little hoarse, several degrees lower than Manager Lu's from the office, tinged with the exhaustion of being exposed. Her gaze fell on the wet gag on the coffee table, not meeting mine. She stood in the center of the living room, hands clasped behind her back, watching me. After a moment of silence, as if making a decision, she produced something from behind her back. The pair of hand restraints. Made of dark wood, polished to a smooth, warm sheen. The two wooden pieces were carved into palm-shaped hollows, their edges rounded and delicate, free of any splinters. Each side had a metal clasp to secure the wrists within. They gleamed softly in the afternoon light as she held them, offering them to me. The tips of her ears were flushed crimson. From the base of her neck to her earlobes, her entire skin was a delicate pink. She lowered her head, her gaze fixed on the wood grain of the restraints, not daring to meet my eyes. "...Help me put them on," she said. Her voice was much softer than before, almost a whisper squeezed from her throat, but her enunciation was clear, each word distinct. It wasn't a command, nor a test, but a request that required all her courage to utter. She stood before me like this—wearing a loose-fitting loungewear hoodie and a pleated skirt, her hair down, her face bare, holding that exquisite pair of wooden restraints, like a girl who had dressed herself up neatly and then personally handed you a gift. I took the wooden restraints. They felt warm to the touch, carrying the heat of her palms. She stood before me with her hands lowered, turning slightly to present her hands behind her back. Her wrists overlapped, slender bones subtly protruding beneath her skin, her fingertips gently clenching the fabric of her sleeves. I took half a step forward, cupped her wrists, and aligned them with the hollows. I gently lowered the upper piece of wood, flipped the clasp, and with a soft click, it secured. Her fingers curled slightly, but she didn't struggle. "There," I said. She lowered her hands, looking down at her wrists now secured within the wooden restraints. She wiggled her fingertips lightly—her fingers could move, but her palms were firmly held in the hollows, unable to separate. She stood there, wearing the loose hoodie and pleated skirt, her hair down, her wrists locked in dark wooden restraints. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting a long, thin ribbon of golden light across the floor, falling precisely at her feet. She was silent for a moment, seemingly adjusting to the sensation of being bound, then she looked up at me, the blush on her face not yet entirely faded. "...And then?" she asked. Her tone held a hint of bewilderment, as if she had only thought as far as "have him help me put them on," and hadn't yet considered what to do after they were on. I looked at her, at the way she stood in the center of the living room with the restraints on her wrists, and suddenly felt that it couldn't end so anticlimactically. She had gathered her courage to hand this kind of thing to me; I couldn't just have her stand there for a bit and then take them off. That would be a waste of her trust. "What do you usually do when you put them on?" I asked. She thought for a moment: "...I just sit. Or lie down. Maybe look at my phone. But it's a bit inconvenient to operate with my hands fixed, so I mostly just zone out." "Then let's not zone out today," I said, reaching out and gently gripping one end of the wooden restraints, leading her towards the sofa. She followed a few steps and sat down on the sofa, her hands, still in the restraints, resting on her knees. Her posture was a little stiff, yet also somewhat demure. She looked up at me, unsure of what I intended to do. I crouched down in front of her, meeting her gaze. "Usually, you put these on yourself and then spend time alone, right?" I said. "But today, you're not alone. So, you can think about whether there's something more interesting to do together than just zoning out alone." She looked at me, blinked, as if surprised by the suggestion. She lowered her head, staring at the smooth wooden restraints on her wrists, and thought for a moment. Then she looked up, her voice tinged with uncertainty, "…Do you watch movies?" "Yes." "I want to watch a horror movie," she said, then, as if afraid I might misunderstand, she added, "I don't dare watch it alone." I stood up and took the remote from her hand—this action took a few extra seconds longer than usual because she had forgotten her hands were locked and instinctively reached to hand it to me. She raised her hand slightly, then realized the weight of the restraints, and had to release her fingers, letting the remote slide onto the sofa. I suppressed a smile, picked up the remote, turned on the TV, and found the movie she mentioned—a Japanese horror film with decent ratings, its cover looking decidedly eerie, truly not something suitable for watching alone at night. "This one?" I dangled the remote. A custom-made black leather straitjacket. It's a one-piece, extending from the torso all the way down to the crotch. Tailored to her body measurements, it's made of matte black leather, lined with soft velour on the inside. There are adjustable buckles and straps at the shoulders, chest, waist, and hips. The arm sections are designed to completely enclose and secure the arms to the sides of the body, with sleeves extending from the shoulders to the fingertips, fully closed at the ends with no openings. Once on, the arms will be completely sealed within the leather, with no room for movement. Connected to the main body of the straitjacket are two restraints extending from the inner thighs – they wrap around the most sensitive areas, converge behind her back, and connect to D-rings on the waist via metal clasps, locking the entire system into one piece. Additionally, there's a black leather collar, studded with a row of tiny brass bells on the outside, and engraved with a small inscription on the inside – J.X. – her initials. It comes with a delicate little brass lock. A black leather ball gag, approximately three centimeters in diameter, made of silicone, with adjustable straps and a small lock. A black silk blindfold, edged with black lace, and lined with soft padding on the inside. And a pair of leather ankle cuffs, lined with soft velour on the inside of the ankle bands, connected by a short chain of about twenty centimeters. She looked at the items without a word. The living room was silent for a long time, broken only by the occasional low hum of distant traffic from outside the window. Her gaze moved from the straitjacket to the collar, then to the ball gag, then to the blindfold, then to the ankle cuffs, and finally back to the straitjacket. She reached out and lightly touched the cuff of the folded straitjacket – the leather felt cool and smooth. She recoiled as if shocked, then slowly, tentatively, reached out again, gently stroking a small area with her fingertips. Then she looked up at me, her entire face flushed from the base of her neck to her forehead. "...When did you prepare this?" Her voice was even softer than before, with a slight huskiness. "Last Sunday," I said. "I took your measurements that morning. Then I found a custom shop and had them rush it." She lowered her head again, looking at the neatly laid out black straitjacket in the box. Her fingers curled into her palms, gripping the hem of her hoodie, tightening, then loosening, then tightening again – a gesture I had never seen her make in any situation. This was the same Manager Lu who could silence unreliable suppliers in meetings and single-handedly debate a room full of experts in technical reviews. But now, sitting on the sofa, she clutched the hem of her hoodie with both hands, like a little girl who had received a gift she'd secretly wished for but never dared to ask for. Watching her, something in my heart felt gently touched. "...Do you like it?" I asked. She didn't answer. She didn't nod, nor did she speak, only tightened her grip on the hem of her hoodie, her knuckles turning white. Her gaze was fixed on the straitjacket, unable to look away. I asked again, "Do you want to try it on?" She was silent for a few seconds. Then, very, very slightly, she nodded. She stood up, standing in the center of the living room, her head bowed, unmoving. I understood what she meant – the design of this one-piece straitjacket made it almost impossible for one person to put on independently. The clasps in the back, the arm restraints, the shoulder adjustments, the crotch restraints – she couldn't reach them, nor could she see them. Putting it on required another person's help. And that person, she wanted it to be me. I walked up to her and picked up the main part of the straitjacket. The black leather unfolded in my hands, gleaming with a soft matte finish under the light. She cooperatively turned around, her back to me. The cream-colored hoodie she was wearing had no shape, very soft. She bent down and took off the hoodie, pulling it over her head – underneath, she was only wearing a white camisole. She paused for a moment, then crossed her arms, gripping the hem of the camisole, and pulled it off over her head as well. Now her upper body was completely bare. Her shoulder blades protruded slightly on her back, and the line of her spine extended from the nape of her neck, disappearing at the waist of her pleated skirt. Her skin had a soft sheen in the light. Her shoulders were narrow, her waist cinched finely, making her appear as slender as a plant swaying gently in the wind. She stood with her back to me, not covering herself, just standing there quietly, waiting for me to put on the straitjacket for her. I took a deep breath and spread open the upper part of the straitjacket, slipping it over her head. The black leather slid down her shoulders, enveloping her torso. First through her left arm, then through her right – the sleeves extended from her fingertips to her shoulders. I pushed the leather up bit by bit, allowing her entire arm to disappear into the black covering. The velour lining inside the leather felt soft and warm, a stark contrast to the hard, smooth leather on the outside. When her fingertips reached the end of the sleeves, she gently flexed her fingers – the shape at the end of the leather bulged slightly, but her fingertips were completely sealed inside, unable to extend or touch anything. Her hands were completely sealed. Then her other arm. Once both arms were fully submerged in the sleeves, I adjusted the shoulder positioning to make the leather conform to her shoulder line. I gently fastened the metal buckles at the shoulders, a clear click echoing. Next were the chest straps. I pulled one leather strap, drawing it diagonally across her chest above her collarbone, and hooked it into the slot on the opposite side. Then the other side – the two straps formed a neat X shape across her chest, perfectly fitting the contours of her breasts, neither overly constricting nor too loose. She took a shallow breath – as the leather conformed to her body's curves, the feeling of being tightly enclosed calmed her completely. It wasn't the fine, adjustable embrace of rope, but a holistic, irresistible restraint – her entire upper body was fixed within this layer of black leather, from shoulders to fingertips, from collarbones to waist, not an inch of skin free to move. She looked down at the crossed black straps on her chest, at her hands completely sealed within the leather, and slowly exhaled a long breath. Next was the fastening below the waist. The hem of the straitjacket extended to the roots of her thighs, with a complete leather covering at the crotch, continuing down from the upper body, enclosing her from chest to hips. I pulled out the two extending restraints from her inner thighs – the black leather straps wrapped around her upper thighs, conforming to the softest parts of her body. As they passed over the most sensitive areas, her body stiffened slightly, her breathing faltering. I didn't stop, nor did I deliberately slow down, but smoothly and gently adjusted the path of the straps, allowing them to naturally follow the contours of her body. Then I brought the two restraints together behind her, threaded them through the D-rings on her waist, and pulled tight – click. The clasp engaged. She let out a soft hum. Not from pain, nor discomfort, but an unconscious sigh of being completely enclosed – like an object finally placed within its perfect container, finding its most fitting position. The entire straitjacket was now on her: from neck to crotch, from shoulders to fingertips, she was seamlessly encased in black leather. Her hands were completely sealed in the sleeves, unable to grasp, touch, or move; her torso was firmly locked by the crossed straps and waist restraints; the crotch restraints connected the entire system to her most sensitive areas – any movement would pull on her whole body. She stood still, slowly moving her shoulders. Her arms were completely fixed to her sides, her elbows unable to bend, her wrists unable to turn, even her fingers unable to flex or extend. Only her shoulders and neck could move freely. She tried to twist her waist again – the waist restraints also provided support, limiting the range of rotation. She lowered her head, looking at her body completely covered in black leather, a few stray strands of hair falling onto the leather surface, creating a soft contrast with the matte finish. Her breathing, initially a little rapid, gradually steadied. Like someone adapting to a new sensation, gradually sinking into that sense of enclosed security. "...How is it?" I asked. "Comfortable? Is it too tight? If it's constricting, I can adjust it." She was silent for a moment, then nodded gently. She looked up at me again – her eyes, against the backdrop of the black leather, appeared exceptionally bright, like two black pebbles submerged in water. She said nothing, but her eyes conveyed everything she wanted to say. I picked up the black leather collar from the box. She cooperatively tilted her head slightly, revealing her slender, exceptionally pale neck against the black leather. I wrapped the collar around her neck, adjusted the tightness, and then fastened the clasp. A soft click. The collar rested against her slender neck, not too high or too low, positioned just below her throat. She moved her neck slightly, and the bells on the collar emitted a few bright, crisp chimes with the subtle movement – ding-ling, ding-ling. The sound was a little louder than she expected. She paused, then instinctively moved her neck again, and the bells rang out once more. She looked down at the row of brass bells on her chest, a faint, almost imperceptible curve appearing at the corners of her lips. She seemed to like the sound. I took half a step back, appraising her. Black leather encased her body, from neck to crotch, from shoulders to fingertips, every inch meticulously covered. Her arms lay perfectly against her sides, with no room for movement. The crossed black straps on her chest outlined her body's contours. The bells on her collar emitted a soft jingle with every tiny breath she took. She stood there, as quiet as a meticulously crafted sculpture, only the rise and fall of her chest and the occasional turn of her neck revealing that she was alive. I fed her a few more bites. She ate about a piece as big as half a palm, then gently shook her head, indicating she was full. I didn't force her, placing the remaining cake on the coffee table. Then I picked up the black gag. Her chewing stopped when she saw what I was holding. Her mouth was slightly open, a bit of cream still clinging to her lips that she hadn't had time to lick off—white cream on the center of her lower lip, a stark contrast to the black leather straitjacket. She watched me bring the black gag closer, her breathing growing shallower—not from nervousness, but a tightening in her chest, a mixture of anticipation and slight apprehension. I asked softly, "May I?" She looked at me. She was wearing the black leather straitjacket that hugged her tightly, her hands completely enclosed in the sleeves, a tinkling brass bell collar around her neck, and white cream still on her mouth. Her eyes reflected the warm yellow light of the living room, sparkling. She nodded gently, slowly. I pressed the gag lightly against her lips. She parted her mouth slightly, allowing the black silicone ball to slide into her mouth. The leather strap went around the back of her head. I adjusted the tightness, ensuring it wouldn't chafe the skin at the corners of her mouth, nor be so loose that the gag would slip. Then I took the small lock from the chain, threaded it through the adjustment hole of the strap, and clicked it shut. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. Saliva began to secrete slowly. She instinctively tried to swallow, but her tongue pressed against the ball, making swallowing difficult. A thin strand of silver dripped from the corner of her mouth, tracing a path down her chin, landing on her chest covered by black leather. The bells made soft, rustling sounds with her slight breaths. With the gag in place, she seemed to become even more serene—as if the last channel of communication with the outside world had been closed, she had instead entered a deeper space, one that belonged only to herself. Then I picked up the black blindfold. Her gaze flickered noticeably when she saw the blindfold. The gag rendered her speechless, but that fleeting expression seemed to carry a layer of complexity beyond her reaction to the gag. Being blindfolded meant she would be completely unable to see anything around her. It meant she would have to rely solely on her hearing, touch, and smell to perceive the world—the sound of my footsteps, my breathing, the rustle of leather, the chime of bells, and the sensation of being encased in that black leather. It meant she would surrender her control entirely. For someone who needed to be in control of everything during the day, this might be harder than wearing the gag. I paused, looking into her eyes. She was silent for a few seconds. Then, she nodded gently. I gently placed the black silk blindfold over her eyes, tied it behind her head. A large part of her face was covered—only the bridge of her nose, a small section of skin above her lips, and the edge of the gag were visible. Her breathing deepened slightly, her nostrils flaring subtly, as if adapting to her other senses being amplified by the loss of sight. She turned her head slightly—the bells on her collar chimed, and she tilted her head in the direction of the sound, as if tracking the bells with her ears. She had probably never listened to the sound of her own bells so carefully before. Then I took out the last item—the ankle restraints. Black leather ankle cuffs, lined with soft velvet on the inside. I knelt on one knee, cradled her ankle, and fastened the cuffs, locking them in place. A short chain, about twenty centimeters long, connected the two ankle cuffs. She tried to spread her feet apart—the chain tightened, allowing her to take only about half a stride. The brass bells swayed gently as I fastened the locks, making a soft, jingling sound. Everything was done. She sat on the sofa. The black leather straitjacket encased her from neck to hips, from shoulders to fingertips, not an inch of bare skin exposed. Her arms were held tightly against her sides, completely immobile. The crotch strap connected her to the entire system. She wore a collar, a gag, and a blindfold, her ankles locked together by a short chain. The brass bells made faint sounds with every slight breath and shift in her weight. She sat there quietly, like a meticulously wrapped gift. Looking at her, I remembered Manager Lu, who wore a gray suit in the office and issued commands in a cold tone. Then I looked at her now, sitting on the sofa, bound by layers of restraints yet appearing so peaceful, and felt an indescribable, complex tenderness. "I'll take you for a walk," I said. She couldn't speak or see, but upon hearing my voice, she tilted her head slightly, turning her ear towards me. Her arm, completely encased in black leather and resting on the sofa, lifted a few centimeters—she was waiting for me to guide her. My chest felt as if it were filled with something, a slight swelling. I reached out and took her forearm, encased in leather. The leather felt smooth, warm with her body heat. Her arm leaned gently into my palm—she couldn't grip me back, but with her arm completely enclosed in leather, she gently pressed it against my palm. It was the closest she could come to a "response" at that moment. The shackles—I ordered them from a shop specializing in historical replicas. Not the shiny, cheap kind from a novelty store, but black iron shackles meticulously recreated to the standards of mid-nineteenth-century prison issue. Cast entirely from iron, their surface was a matte black, possessing the subtle grain characteristic of cast iron. Three short chains, each connecting two ankle cuffs, spanned a total of twenty-five centimeters. Every link was solidly welded, hanging heavily in my hand. The inner surface of the cuffs was unpadded, just bare, cold cast iron. Without padding, the iron pressed directly against the skin, making the sensation of chill and hardness more immediate, more real. I took them out of the bubble wrap and placed them on the coffee table. In the midday sun, they gleamed a dull black, resting silently on an old newspaper. I picked them up to gauge their weight—about three pounds, substantial, conveying a rough, honest heft in my grip. I set them back down and took half a step back to observe them. The shackles lay quietly in the afternoon light, the cast iron surface reflecting a soft glow. Every detail was clear—the edges of the cuffs were smoothly finished, free of burrs; the spring in the lock mechanism was stiff, producing a crisp click when the pin engaged the keyhole. The three short chains were of uniform length, each link interlocking tightly with the next, with no play. I stood before the coffee table for a moment, then picked up my phone and sent Manager Lu a message: "Have you eaten lunch?" A few minutes later, she replied, "Just woke up. What's up?" I typed back, "I'm coming up. I have something for you." She replied, "Okay." I picked up the shackles—no box, no gift bag, just carried them directly in my hand—and headed up to the third floor. The three-pound cast iron piece swung by my side with my steps, the links clinking softly, a sound that was particularly clear in the quiet hallway. I reached the door of 302 and knocked. The door opened quickly. Lu Xiaojin stood in the doorway. She wore a loose, light gray t-shirt and black cotton shorts, barefoot. Her hair was down, unbound. She looked like she had just woken up—after working so late the previous day, catching up on sleep was expected. She hadn't even had time to wash her face; there was still a hint of dampness at the roots of her bangs, suggesting she had groggily gotten up to splash some water on her face. She glanced at the heavy black shackles in my hand, her gaze lingering on them. She looked at the three short, thick chains and the substantial ankle cuffs, at the matte cast iron surface with its rough texture under the hallway light. She watched for a long moment, then looked up at me. "...This isn't a toy," she said. "No. It's not a toy." She lowered her gaze back to the shackles, not reaching out to take them. I stood there, holding them, by the door, waiting for her to finish looking. She looked for so long—long enough for the motion-activated hallway light to turn off once. I stamped my foot to make it come back on. Then she stepped aside, opening the doorway wider. "...Come in." I followed her into the living room. The curtains were only half-drawn, and the afternoon sun slanted in, casting a bright, warm rectangle on the floor. On the coffee table, there was still a half-full glass of water and a book left open from the previous night. She walked over, closed the book, and placed it on the armrest of the sofa. She picked up the glass of water, took a sip, and set it down. Then she stood in the center of the living room, looking at me. I placed the shackles on the coffee table. The black iron landed on the wooden tabletop with a low thud. My fingers released the cuffs, and the three pounds of weight settled entirely onto the table. Her gaze followed the shackles to the table, then lifted to meet mine. I spoke. "I ordered them from a shop that does historical replicas. Mid-nineteenth-century prison standard, all cast iron, no padding. Three pounds, chains twenty-five centimeters, each link welded shut." I paused, looking at her. "You like the light ones, and you like the heavy ones. So I thought you might want a pair." She said nothing. Her gaze remained fixed on the shackles for a very long time. Then she bent down, reached out, and touched the surface of one of the ankle cuffs with her fingertips. The feel of cast iron was cold, rough, hard—completely different from leather. Her fingers stayed there, as if sensing the process of that temperature traveling through her fingertips into her body. Then she straightened up and looked at me. "...Put them on me." Her voice was quiet, neither a request nor a command. She had simply confirmed her desire for this item and calmly translated it into an action for me to perform. I bent down and picked up the shackles from the coffee table, their coldness seeping into my hand. They felt heavier than before—not because their weight had changed, but because the person who would wear them was now certain, and the significance of the act was definite. She sat down on a dining chair, lifted her right foot, and placed it on her knee, exposing her ankle. Her ankle was slender—a pale, thin section, the ankle bone forming a smooth curve beneath the skin, revealing faint blue veins. That delicate ankle formed an extremely stark contrast with the heavy cast iron cuffs. I knelt on one knee and brought the open right cuff of the black iron shackles against her ankle, closing it. The instant the cast iron touched her skin, she inhaled sharply. That cold, hard, uncompromising sensation transmitted directly through her skin to her nerve endings—it wasn't the feel of leather, which would soften with body heat, conform to the shape of the skin over time; cast iron would not. Cast iron was itself; it wouldn't change in the slightest by contact with a human body. It simply pressed against your skin, quietly, indifferently, irrevocably. She didn't flinch. I closed the cuff completely, then inserted the locking pin through the keyhole and pressed down. With a click, it was locked. Then the left ankle. The same action—I brought the left cuff against her other ankle, closed it, inserted the pin, and pressed down. Click. Both cuffs were secured. The black iron shackles on her feet gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. The chains hung in a natural arc between her ankles, resting on the wooden floor, forming a striking contrast with the light-colored wood. She didn't stand up immediately. She sat on the chair, head bowed, looking at the black iron shackles on her feet for a long time. She moved her right foot slightly—the chains of the shackles dragged with her movement, the links clinking softly, a sound much heavier and louder than that of leather ankle chains, echoing for a moment in the quiet living room. She moved her left foot again, and the chains made a sound once more. She sat there, repeatedly moving her feet gently, as if listening to the different sounds the iron shackles made from different angles—a crisp tightening sound when the chains were taut, a gentle clinking of links colliding when they were slack, a low thud when the cuffs touched the floor. She listened for a long time, then looked up at me. Her usually indifferent eyes held a faint glimmer of light. "They're heavy," she said. "Three pounds." "...Heavier than I imagined. But I like it." She placed the box on the coffee table, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. Inside was a black and white maid outfit – a white ruffled apron over a black dress, its hem flaring out. Beside it lay a pair of white stockings and a pair of black round-toed Mary Jane shoes, each adorned with a small bow on the vamp. Her movements halted. She lowered her head, gazing at the outfit for a long time. Then she looked up at me, the tips of her ears already flushing red. "Your wish... is this?" "My wish is that this weekend, you'll be my maid." Her face instantly turned crimson. From the base of her neck to her earlobes, her entire skin was a rosy pink. She lowered her head, her fingers clenching the hem of her hoodie, and remained silent. The living room was quiet for a while. Then, in a small voice, almost a whisper squeezed from her throat, she said, "...Just this weekend." She agreed. I told her I'd wait downstairs for her to change, then I exited 302 and returned to my own apartment. Sitting on the sofa, I could occasionally hear footsteps from upstairs – she was probably putting on the maid outfit piece by piece, tying the white apron in front of the mirror, bending down to put on the white stockings and round-toed shoes. Twenty minutes later, my doorbell rang. I walked over and opened the door. The hallway light fell upon her. She was wearing the black and white maid outfit – the black dress as a base, its flared hem just above her knees, the white ruffled apron tied at her waist with a large bow at the back. White stockings encased her slender legs, and on her feet were a pair of black round-toed Mary Jane shoes, the bows on the vamps swaying gently with her slight movements. Her hair was still down, its ends slightly curled, falling onto her shoulders. She wasn't wearing her glasses, and her face had a touch of light makeup – just lipstick, but the color made her complexion look exceptionally soft. She lowered her head, her hands clasped in front of the apron, her fingers gripping the edge of the ruffles, standing at my doorstep, her face as red as it had been upstairs. I stepped aside, and she walked in. Her round-toed shoes made a soft sound on the floor. She stood in the center of the living room, looking a little flustered. I picked up the black iron shackles I had prepared on the coffee table – three pounds in weight, a twenty-five-centimeter chain, the matte black cast iron gleaming roughly under the warm living room light. I knelt on one knee, lifted her ankle, encased in the white stocking, brought the ankle cuffs together, inserted the pin through the lock, and with a click, secured it. Then, the same action for her left foot, click. She moved her ankle slightly, the chain dragging on the floor with a low clinking sound. Then I picked up the black leather collar with a bell, looped it around her slender neck, and fastened it just below her throat. The moment the buckle closed, the brass bell let out a crisp jingle, a pleasant sound in the quiet living room. She looked down at her attire – the black and white maid outfit, white stockings, round-toed shoes, black iron shackles, the bell collar. She lifted one foot, letting the chain jingle. She lowered her foot, and the chain jingled again. She stood there, enveloped by these sounds. Then she looked up at me, her face as red as if she had just stepped out of a sauna, but her gaze didn't waver. "What do you need me to do first," she said, "Master?" She lowered her voice significantly on the last two words, as if rolling them around in her mouth before spitting them out. But I heard her clearly. She knew I heard her clearly. I didn't answer, just leaned back on the sofa, crossed my arms, and slowly curved my lips into a smile, watching her without speaking. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the apron, her knuckles turning slightly white. She stood there waiting, for several seconds, but received no instructions. Her gaze flickered uneasily, landing on the keys and the unused hemp rope on the coffee table, then back to my face. "What are you smiling at?" Her voice was no longer as confident as before. I still didn't speak. I simply stood up from the sofa and walked behind her. She turned around cooperatively, a movement ingrained in her muscle memory – she assumed I knew what to do next. I picked up the roll of light brown hemp rope from the coffee table, unrolled it, and wrapped it around her slender wrists. One loop, two loops, three loops. Her wrists looked exceptionally delicate beneath the white cuffs of the maid outfit, and the rope immediately left shallow indentations when tightened. I extended the rope upwards along her forearm, securing it above her elbow, then pulled the end towards her shoulders, crossing and tightening it behind her back. Her entire arm, from wrist to shoulder, was secured in a stable rear-hand bondage structure. I tugged on the rope to confirm the tightness – secure, but not hindering normal movement. She moved her hands, now bound behind her back, her fingers able to touch her sides, but her arms completely unable to lift. Then she turned to face me. She didn't ask why she was being tied up again. She knew that today she was a maid, and being tied up was a natural part of it. I placed the damp rag between her bound hands behind her back, then stepped back with a smile and plopped back onto the sofa. "Alright. Help me tidy up the place first." She froze. She looked down at herself – her hands bound behind her back, the damp rag in them, the black iron shackles on her feet, the bell on her collar – then looked up at me, her eyes filled with disbelief. "How am I supposed to clean like this?" Her voice involuntarily rose half an octave, as if protesting an unreasonable work assignment. I leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "Such a talkative little servant." As I spoke, I picked up the black silicone gag from the coffee table and walked over, gently placing it in her mouth as she opened it to speak again. Her tongue instinctively pushed against the ball, but to no avail. The strap went around the back of her head and fastened, the small lock passed through the adjustment hole, and with a click, it was secured. Her protest was completely silenced, only a muffled "Mmmph—" escaping her. She stared at me, her eyes filled with disbelief and a hint of regret – probably regretting why she had spoken up just now. I put the damp rag I had placed in her hands back between her fingers. "Today, just wipe down these cabinets and the coffee table," I said, pointing to the furniture in the living room, then gently flicked the bell on her collar with my finger. "I'll inspect it later." She stood there, looking down at the damp rag in her hands, then at the coffee table and TV cabinet in the living room. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath – inhaling through her nose, but unable to exhale through her mouth, which was blocked by the gag, only a faint whimper escaping the corners of her lips. She opened her eyes again, resigned. She first walked towards the coffee table. With her first step, the chain of the shackles dragged on the floor, making a rattling sound. The bell on her collar jingled with her steps, announcing her position with every stride. She walked slowly, as the stride was limited by the iron shackles, preventing her from taking large steps like usual. She could only shuffle along, one small step at a time. Reaching the coffee table, she turned sideways and bent down. This was not an easy movement – with her hands bound behind her back, bending over required her to rely entirely on her core strength for balance. She couldn't use her hands to support herself on anything. Her body swayed slightly, and it took her a few seconds to find a stable posture. She turned sideways, extending her bound hands as far as possible towards the surface of the coffee table, her fingers pinching the damp rag, and began to wipe the coffee table slowly, back and forth. The rag was merely held between her fingers, making it impossible to apply even pressure like she would with her palm. Each wipe required the force of her fingertips to control the angle and pressure of the rag. After only a few wipes, sweat began to bead on her forehead. The black silicone gag stretched her lips open, and saliva began to slowly ooze from the corners of her mouth, trickling down the surface of the ball. She couldn't swallow – her tongue was pressed against the ball, completely blocking the swallowing reflex. Saliva accumulated at the base of her tongue, then overflowed from the corners of her mouth, forming a thin, silvery thread that slowly slid down her chin. She felt the moisture tracing the curve of her skin downwards, dripping onto the ruffles of the white apron, leaving a small wet mark. She couldn't wipe it away; her hands were bound behind her, and she could only let the saliva continue to seep, gather, and drip. She straightened up and moved to a different spot to continue wiping. The chain dragged on the floor with her movements, the bell jingling again and again – jingle, jingle, rattle, jingle. Those sounds echoed in the living room, becoming the background music to her work. When she bent down, the bell swung forward; when she straightened up, it swung backward. When she walked, the chain and the bell sounded in unison. She wanted those sounds to quiet down, but she couldn't. They, like her footsteps, were completely beyond her control. The coffee table was wiped clean, and she moved to the TV cabinet. The TV cabinet was lower than the coffee table, requiring her to bend even deeper. She tried to bend sideways, but her center of gravity was too low, and she swayed several times, almost falling face-first onto the floor. She straightened up and rested for a moment, then changed her posture – first squatting down, resting her knees on the cold tiles, then turning sideways to reach the surface of the TV cabinet with her hands behind her back. When she squatted, the chain of the shackles gathered on the floor, making a concentrated clinking sound. This posture was very uncomfortable – her thigh muscles trembled, and her bound hands caused her shoulders to bear extra tension. Her saliva had already formed a continuous wet trail beneath her chin. She could feel the mask – no, she wasn't wearing a mask – the saliva was exposed directly to the air, forming several silver threads of varying lengths, reflecting light under the living room lamp. One thread dripped onto the apron at her chest, another fell onto the surface of the TV cabinet, right where she had just wiped. She looked down at the small puddle of her own saliva, let out a muffled "Mmm—" and wiped it away with the rag. She managed to wipe the exterior of the TV cabinet, then straightened up, panting where she stood. The bell on her collar swayed gently at her chest, making a soft tinkling sound. Strands of hair on her forehead were stuck to her skin with sweat, and the blush on her face had spread from her earlobes to the base of her neck. She snorted forcefully through her nose, then turned to look at me, her eyes saying, "I'm done." I stood up and walked in front of her, gently touching the bell on her collar with my finger. Jingle. She glared at me. "Let me check." I first walked to the coffee table and ran my finger across the surface – no dust. Then I walked to the TV cabinet and did the same – no dust. I turned to look at her. "Good, satisfactory. The little maid wiped quite diligently." She snorted through her nose again and turned her face away. That action, paired with the ruffled apron and the gag, made her look exceptionally cute. I glanced at the clock in the living room, then at the damp rag still clutched in her hand, and said with a smile, "Don't rush, the kitchen floor and the bathroom floor still need wiping. Take a break and then continue." She suddenly turned her head. "Mmmph mmmph mmmph—" Those muffled protests were trapped in her throat by the gag, and not a single word could be understood. The bells jingled frantically with her violent movements. She looked down at the kitchen floor, then at the iron shackles on her feet and her bound hands, and remained silent for a while. Then, as if resigned, she shuffled towards the kitchen, the chain dragging a series of dull thuds on the floor. Wiping the coffee table and TV cabinet was at least on vertical surfaces; she could manage to reach by bending and turning sideways. Wiping the floor was a completely different matter. She tried to bend down, but with her hands bound behind her, bending over caused her to pitch forward, almost landing face-first on the tiles. She steadied herself against the cabinet, took a few breaths, then changed her posture – first kneeling down, her knees on the cold tiles, then turning sideways to reach the floor with her hands behind her back. The chain of the iron shackles gathered on the tiles as she knelt, making a concentrated clinking sound. She knelt there, the damp rag pinched in her hands, and began to slowly, wipe by wipe, scrub the floor tiles. But this posture lasted less than three minutes. While kneeling, the weight of the iron shackles pressed unevenly on her ankles, and the prolonged bending caused her back to ache. Her bound hands couldn't provide any support. Her movements became slower and weaker, until finally, she simply placed the rag on the floor and knelt there, head bowed, gasping for air. Her breaths, blocked by the gag, could only enter and exit through her nostrils, making a faint, somewhat rapid sound. Her saliva had completely gone out of control. The prolonged wearing of the gag kept her salivary glands secreting, and the ball blocked her throat, making it impossible to swallow even a drop. Saliva flowed down her chin, drawing out silver threads, dripping onto the kitchen tiles. She looked down at the small puddle of her own spit on the floor, let out a muffled "Mmm—", and tried to wipe it clean with the rag, but the rag was placed to the side, and her fingers couldn't reach it. She knelt there, leaning weakly against the cabinet, and gave up. After about twenty minutes, my phone rang. I picked it up and glanced at it – a notification from the food delivery app, the rider had arrived at the complex entrance. "The food's here, I ordered dessert," I patted her. "Go get it." She lifted her head from my shoulder, blinked, first looked down at her bound hands, then lifted one foot, letting the chain of the ankle cuff jingle in the air. Then she looked up at me, disbelief etched in her eyes. "How am I supposed to get it with my hands tied like this?" Her voice was still a bit hoarse, a lingering effect from being gagged for half an hour, but the question in her tone, "Are you kidding me?" was crystal clear. I leaned back against the sofa, crossed my legs, and said slowly, "You still have your mouth, don't you? Fetch it." She looked at me, silent for about three seconds. In those three seconds, her expression went through several stages – from "You're joking" to "You're not joking" to "Fine, you're that kind of person" and finally to "Okay, I accept it." She didn't say another word, just stood up from the sofa, the bell tinkling. She looked down at the black, round-toed Mary Jane shoes on her feet – she'd kicked one off in the kitchen earlier, and I'd helped her put it back on – then took a deep breath and walked towards the door. She let out a muffled hum, then with her hands fixed behind her back, she struggled to press the doorknob and squeezed out sideways. I didn't follow. I just leaned on the sofa, listening to the jingling chain sounds gradually fading in the hallway – ding-dong, clatter, ding-dong, clatter – from the second floor down, floor by floor. Then the elevator arrived, a crisp metallic clinking echoed in the car for a moment, then disappeared as the doors closed. About three minutes later, the elevator chimed again. The sound of the chain came from the first floor up, approaching floor by floor, then the door was gently kicked – she couldn't knock with her hands. I stood up and walked over to open it. She stood at the doorway, the handle of the plastic delivery bag in her mouth. But what truly made her face flush wasn't that – it was the delivery rider standing behind her. The rider hadn't left immediately, but had paused downstairs, noticed this woman in a maid outfit, hands tied behind her back, wearing iron shackles on her feet, holding a delivery bag in her mouth, and had followed up out of some inexplicable curiosity to confirm he wasn't mistaken. He stood in the hallway now, helmet still in hand, his gaze sweeping over her several times – from the slightly curled ends of her hair, to the bell collar around her neck, to the large white ruffled bow on her back, to her hands bound behind her, to her calves wrapped in white stockings, to the black iron ankle cuffs dangling between her black, round-toed Mary Jane shoes. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His expression flickered between "What is going on?" and "Should I be looking?" Lu Xiaojin didn't look back at him. She just stood at the door with the bag in her mouth, the blush on her face spreading from her ear tips to the base of her neck. I took the plastic bag, damp with her saliva, from her mouth, nodded to the delivery rider outside, and said, "Thank you." He nodded, his gaze lingering on Lu Xiaojin's retreating figure for a moment, then turned and walked towards the elevator. After the elevator doors closed, she squeezed past me into the apartment and leaned against the wall in the entryway, exhaling a long breath. The bell on her collar jingled softly with her rapid breaths. "Did you see it? The way he looked at me," she said, her voice regaining a bit of its usual cool tone, but her ear tips were still red. "I saw." "He'll definitely remember me next time he delivers food." "Yes, he definitely will." She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against the wall, then opened them and looked down at her attire – the black and white maid outfit, white stockings, Mary Jane shoes, black iron ankle cuffs, bell collar, hands bound behind her – then looked up at me. "Can I untie my hands now? I need to use my hands to eat." "No need," I said, placing the delivery bag on the coffee table, opening it, taking out the dessert box and setting it aside, then pouring the dinner into a shallow bowl and water into another. I placed both bowls on the floor. "Come on, little maid, time to eat." She stood in the entryway, looking down at the two bowls on the floor, then looked up at me, her eyes full of "You're doing this on purpose." "...You're doing this on purpose," she said. Her voice was a little hoarse, but it was no longer a question. "Yes, on purpose," I said, sitting on the sofa and watching her. She stood between the entryway and the coffee table for several seconds. Then she slowly walked over, stood in front of the two bowls, and looked down at the food and water inside. Her hands were tied behind her back, so she couldn't pick up the bowls, couldn't hold chopsticks, couldn't get the food to her mouth in any way – the only option was to kneel down and lick it directly with her mouth, like a pet. She slowly bent down and knelt on the floor. Her white-stocking-clad knees gently landed on the wooden floor, the chain of the ankle cuff tightening behind her with a low metallic clatter. The bell on her collar tilted slightly with her bending motion, emitting a series of delicate tinkles. She swept her hair from the side of her face, lowered her head, turned her face, and touched the surface of the water in the bowl with her lips. Then she extended her tongue, gently and tentatively, and licked it. The water was cool, and her tongue tip created tiny ripples on the surface. She lifted her head, licked the moisture from her lips, then lowered her head and turned to the bowl of dinner. She turned her face and began to slowly lick the food in the bowl with her lips and tongue. Her movements were slow and careful, only managing to lick up a small amount with each bite, requiring multiple repetitions to consume what a normal person would eat with a single bite of chopsticks. The bell would chime every time she lowered her head, and the chain would make a slight scraping sound on the floor as she occasionally adjusted her kneeling position. After finishing the last bite, she straightened up from the floor, licking the remnants of food from the corners of her mouth. Her knees were a little numb from kneeling for so long, and her body swayed slightly as she tried to stand, the chain of the ankle cuff dragging on the floor with a clatter. The bell on her collar jingled with her rising motion, exceptionally clear in the quiet living room. I walked over to steady her, then went behind her and began to untie the rope. The hemp rope slid off her wrists, forearms, and shoulders, loop by loop. Her hands, bound for nearly two hours, finally regained their freedom. She moved her stiff shoulders and wrists, her joints making soft clicking sounds. She used her newly freed fingers to rub her wrists, which were red from the rope, then looked down to examine the marks, and finally looked up at me, a hint of relief and a hint of wariness in her eyes – she was probably thinking I wouldn't let her off so easily. She guessed correctly. While she was flexing her wrists, I had already taken out the metal handcuffs I had prepared earlier from the coffee table drawer. When she saw what I was holding, her wrist-rubbing motion stopped, and she opened her mouth to say something. Before she could protest, I grabbed her hands, brought her wrists together in front of her, and snapped them shut with a click. The silver metal handcuffs gleamed coldly in the warm yellow light, a stark contrast to the red rope marks still on her wrists. She looked down at her new hand accessories, was silent for two seconds, then lifted her cuffed hands, letting the chain jingle in the air. "...Can't I have a moment of freedom?" Her voice was a little hoarse, and the bell on her collar chimed softly as she looked up at me. "No," I chuckled. "A maid should act like a maid. Now go wash the dishes and clean up the trash." She glared at me, but there was no real resistance in her glare anymore. She turned around and began to clear the bowls and plates from the coffee table and the delivery bag. With her hands cuffed in front of her, her range of motion was limited. She could only carry the bowls with both hands, carefully supporting the bottom with her cuffed fingers, and shuffle towards the kitchen. Her round-toed shoes made soft sounds on the floor, and the chain of the ankle cuff dragged behind her, scraping against the kitchen threshold with a sharp friction sound. She placed the bowls in the sink, turned on the faucet, and began to wash them one by one. I listened to the sounds from the kitchen in the living room – the sound of running water, the gentle clinking of dishes, and the occasional metallic scraping of the chain as she moved. Those sounds blended together, like the background music of this weekend – a sound that belonged only to this home, only to this night. After washing the dishes, she wiped down the stove with a cloth, then gathered the delivery packaging and used tissues from the coffee table into a trash bag and tied it. Then she stood in the center of the living room, holding the trash bag with her cuffed hands, and looked at me, waiting for my next instruction. I leaned back on the sofa, crossed my legs, glanced at the bulging trash bag, then looked up at her. "Take the trash out later, or it'll start to stink." She looked down at her attire – the black and white maid outfit, white stockings, round-toed shoes, black iron ankle cuffs, bell collar, metal handcuffs – then looked up at me again, her eyes full of "You're not joking, are you?" I didn't make it too difficult for her. After about ten minutes of rubbing, I reached out, grabbed her cuffed wrist, and gently pulled her from behind the sofa to the front. "Alright, come sit down and rest." She blinked in surprise, then I pulled her onto my lap. She sat sideways on my legs, her cuffed hands resting on her knees, the chains of the handcuffs dangling over the edge of the sofa, the bells resting quietly against her chest. I put one arm around her waist and picked up the remote with the other, turning off the boring variety show on the TV and switching to a movie she had mentioned wanting to watch. She glanced at me, then leaned her head on my shoulder, quietly watching the screen. The movie ended around ten forty. The credits slowly rolled, the light from the TV screen casting shifting shadows on her face. She leaned on my shoulder, her cuffed hands resting on her knees, the chains of the leg cuffs hanging quietly over the edge of the sofa, the bells gently rising and falling with her even breaths—she was almost asleep. I patted her shoulder. "Don't sleep, it's not bedtime yet." She hummed vaguely, lifted her head from my shoulder, and rubbed her eyes with her cuffed hands. Then she saw me stand up from the sofa and walk to the door of the utility room, pushing it open. Her gaze followed me, and when she saw me drag out a black metal cage, her eyes widened. The cage wasn't large—about a meter long and half a meter high, just enough for a person to curl up inside. The bottom of the cage was lined with a soft cushion, the bars were black painted metal, and the joints were solidly welded. The cage door opened from the side, and a small brass padlock hung on the door frame. Her eyes darted back and forth between me and the cage, then she let out a series of muffled "wooo wooo wooo" sounds, blocked by the gag—I knew what she was saying without translation. "You're not serious, are you?" "You're going to lock me in there?" "That cage is so small!" "I won't be able to sleep!" "Woooo wooo wooo—" I pretended not to understand her protests at all, walked up to her, and gently flicked the bell on her collar with my finger. She quieted for a moment, then looked up and glared at me, her eyes filled with a final stubbornness. "Come on, little maid," I said with a smile, taking her cuffed wrist in one hand and pointing to the cage with the other. "Time to sleep." She stood still, not moving. The chains of her leg cuffs were trapped under her feet, unmoving. She shook her head, the bells jingling with the movement, and a clear "Mmm—" came from behind the gag. I said, "Don't want to go in? Then I'll help you." I walked behind her, placed my hands gently on her shoulders, and pushed forward. She didn't resist forcefully—perhaps because she was tired, perhaps because she knew resistance was useless—only the chains of her leg cuffs dragged a few centimeters on the floor, making a low metallic scraping sound. I pushed again, and she took a small step forward. Another push, another small step. In this way, I nudged her from the side of the sofa, little by little, to the front of the cage. She looked down at the cage door, which was less than half her height, then looked back at me. Her gaze was a mixture of shame, resignation, and a faint threat of "I'll settle with you on Monday when I'm back at work." I helped her open the door. She pushed it all the way open and then knelt in front of the cage. Her white-stocking-clad knees landed on the soft cushion, the chains of the handcuffs gathered behind her, making a clinking sound. She bent down, first extending her cuffed hands inside, then lowering her head and poking her upper body into the cage, and finally shuffling her knees in step by step. Her round-toed leather shoes scraped twice on the soft cushion at the bottom of the cage, and the chains of the handcuffs were dragged in from outside the cage, making a dull friction sound on the cushion. She curled up inside, her hands cuffed and resting on her knees, the handcuffs squeezed into a corner of the cage, her whole body shrunken into a small ball. She looked up at me, her eyes particularly bright behind the cage bars. I closed the cage door, took the small brass padlock from my pocket, threaded it through the lock hole on the door frame, and clicked it shut. "In case you get too bored," I squatted down, facing her through the bars, and then pressed the remote, setting her vibrator to the lowest setting. "I'll leave this on for you." The low-frequency vibration began to pulse gently within her. Her body stiffened slightly—not the impact of the medium setting that made her almost unable to stand, nor the violent stimulation of the maximum setting that left her mind blank, but a subtle, continuous low-frequency hum, just enough for her to clearly feel its presence, but not enough to elicit any strong reaction. She curled up in the cage, her knees pressed together, her cuffed hands resting on her knees, her head bowed, a faint, suppressed whimper escaping her nostrils. Saliva seeped from the edges of the gag, drawing a shallow silver thread in the dim light, dripping onto the soft cushion at the bottom of the cage. The vibrator in her chastity device, after nearly forty minutes of continuous operation, had soaked the fabric covering it, but she couldn't touch herself. The chastity device locked all passages, blocking even the path to relief. She could only curl up in that small space, enduring the continuous, subtle vibration. I reached through the bars and touched her head. "Goodnight, little maid." She looked up at me, her eyes glistening with a thin layer of moisture in the darkness. She made no sound—not because she didn't want to protest, but because she no longer had the strength to. It was past eight o'clock on Saturday morning. I walked out of the bedroom, and the living room was quiet. Light filtering through the gaps in the curtains laid a bright white strip on the floor. The cage was still beside the sofa, locked by me last night. I walked over and squatted down. Lu Xiaojin was curled up in the cage, still wearing that maid outfit—the ruffled apron was crumpled, the hem rolled up to her thighs. She lay on her side, her cuffed hands resting by her face, her white-stocking-clad legs curled beneath her body. The chains of the leg cuffs were piled in a corner of the cage, and the bells on her collar swayed gently with her breathing. A lot of drool seeped from the corner of her mouth, leaving a small, damp, dark stain on the soft cushion at the bottom of the cage. The lowest setting vibrator I had turned on last night was still working, emitting a barely audible hum. Occasionally, in her sleep, she would move unconsciously—her knees would press together slightly, or a very vague whimper would escape her throat, muffled by the gag—and then she would fall back into a deep sleep. The continuous low-frequency stimulation throughout the night prevented her from fully relaxing, even in her dreams. I turned off the vibrator. The humming stopped. She seemed to sense the change, her brow furrowing slightly. I reached through the gap in the cage bars and gently stroked her hair. "Manager Lu, time to get up." She opened her eyes, looking dazed. Her eyes were still hazy, taking a few seconds to focus on my face. Then her consciousness slowly returned—first realizing she was in the cage, then realizing she still had the gag in her mouth and couldn't speak, then realizing she was wearing a crumpled maid outfit, curled up in a cage less than a meter high, being woken up by her subordinate. She tried to move, and the chains of the handcuffs dragged inside the cage, making a clattering sound of metal. The bells on her collar jingled. She tried to stretch, but the cage was too small, she couldn't even raise her hands above her head, only managing to move her stiff shoulders in a hunched position. I unlocked the small brass padlock on the cage door and pulled the door open. "Come out." She scrambled out of the cage on hands and knees, her movements clumsy and slow—her cuffed hands couldn't support her body, her joints were stiff from being curled up for so long, and she almost fell when she hit the floor. As she stood up from the floor, her knees tingled. She stood there, looking around the living room—the morning sunlight, the open TV, the blanket on the sofa, the cage on the floor—then looked down at herself, and then looked up at me. I walked around behind her and unlocked her handcuffs. With a click, the metal handcuffs fell from her wrists. She moved her hands, which had been cuffed for too long, rubbing the red marks left on her wrists. Then I untied the strap at the back of her head and removed the wet gag. She closed her mouth and moved her stiff jaw joint. "...Morning," she finally said the first word of the day, her voice incredibly hoarse, her throat dry from being blocked by the gag for so long, preventing her from swallowing. I said, "Morning." She looked down at herself—the leg cuffs were still on her ankles, the chastity device was still locked around her waist, and the collar was still around her neck. These she couldn't remove for now. But she didn't immediately ask me to unlock them, just raised her hand to brush away the stray hairs from her forehead, licked her dry lips, and then pointed in the direction of the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower. I'm covered in drool," she said. I nodded. She turned and walked towards the bathroom, the chains of her leg cuffs dragging on the floor, the bells jingling. I ignored her, moving behind her to first untie the gag's straps and remove the wet silicone sphere from her mouth. Before she could utter her first word, I began to undo the ropes binding her – the knot of the rear-hand tie was loosened circle by circle, and the rope loop around her wrists slid off. Then, I knelt on one knee and used a key to unlock the bolt of her leg irons. With two clicks, the black iron shackles that had been on her ankles all night and morning fell away, landing on the floor with a dull thud. She froze – she hadn't expected me to unlock the leg irons too. She rubbed her freed wrists, flexed her ankles, then looked up at me. The collar was still around her neck, the chastity belt locked at her waist, but all other restraints on her body had been removed. Her expression was one of confusion – wary, but uncertain of what would happen next. That is, until I returned from the bedroom with the K9 harness set. She knelt on the living room floor, staring at the K9 harness set on the coffee table, silent. The restraints just removed were only a temporary reprieve, she knew. The collar still hung around her neck, the bell swaying gently with her shallow breaths. I picked up the restraint straps first, folding her right arm – forearm pressed against her upper arm, wrist almost touching her shoulder. The black leather straps wrapped around her forearm and upper arm, tightened, the soft lining against her skin. Then her left arm, folded the same way, secured the same way. Her hands were folded and fixed, elbows out, her fingers' range of motion compressed to the minimum. Next were her legs – the right leg folded, calf pressed against the back of her thigh; the left leg similarly folded and secured. Once all four straps were locked, she tried to support herself with her elbows and knees. Her bare feet were pressed against the back of her thighs, and she could only move by alternating her elbows and knees, each shift no more than a hand's width. Then came the muzzle harness. A black leather mask covered the lower half of her face, extending from below her nose to her chin, secured at the back of her head and beneath the collar. A larger silicone sphere was embedded in the circular opening for her mouth, forcing her lips apart. Saliva began to slowly seep from the corners of her mouth, trickling down the edge of the ring. "Alright," I said, "time for the tail." She looked up at me, a flicker of confusion in her eyes above the leather mask – the chastity belt was still locked at her waist, how could she wear the tail without it being unlocked? I moved behind her and crouched down, pulling out a key and inserting it into the small brass lock of the chastity belt at her waist. With a click, the lock opened. Her body tensed slightly, clearly realizing what this meant. I loosened the waist buckle of the chastity belt, and the piece that had covered her all day slid from her waist, revealing a thin sheen of moisture on its inner side. I set the chastity belt aside, then picked up the long white tail, applying a layer of lubricant to the surface of the butt plug. The cold touch of the metal made her flinch slightly upon contact. "Relax," I said, pressing one hand on her waist as the other slowly pushed the butt plug in. She lowered her head, her forehead resting on her folded elbows, her entire body trembling slightly. The base of the butt plug had a metal locking ring, cleverly designed – it had no lock itself, but the ring could pass through the rear waist chain loop and be secured by the chastity belt's buckle simultaneously. Once the butt plug was fully in place, I picked up the chastity belt again and put it back on her. The waist buckle tightened around her side, the leather piece once again covering her lower body, the soft lining against the residual dampness on her skin. The metal buckle passed through the locking ring at the base of the butt plug, and with a click, one lock secured both the chastity belt and the tail of the butt plug. Now these two pieces of equipment were integrated into a single unit – the tail could not be removed without unlocking the chastity belt. And that key, lay quietly in my pocket. She felt the tail locked inside her, and looked back at me. That gaze, passing through the edge of the muzzle harness's leather, through the tinkling of the collar's bell, landed on my face. No words, no protest, only resignation and a hint of "you've really thought of every detail" helplessness. I stepped back to look at her – she was sprawled on the floor, her limbs folded and secured, the muzzle harness obscuring half her face, the collar's bell tinkling softly, a black leather tail extending from behind her and dragging on the floor. The tail swayed slightly with the rhythm of her breathing, fitting snugly against the edge of the chastity belt. I picked up the leash from the coffee table, clipped it to the metal ring at the front of her collar, then stood up, holding the other end of the rope. "Let's go, a few laps around the house first." She looked up at me, then lowered her head and began to crawl forward. Elbows first, a hand's width forward, left knee following, then right knee. The bell tinkled once. The tail dragged behind her, making a faint rustling sound as it brushed against the leather edge of the chastity belt, a soft creak. Another step, another sound. Another step. She crawled very slowly, but each step was steady. The first lap, starting from the center of the living room, around the coffee table, crawling towards the kitchen. She crawled very slowly. Elbows moving forward a hand's width, left knee following, right knee following, bare feet pressed against the back of her thighs, the tail dragging behind her with a faint rustling sound. The collar's bell rang almost constantly – not a loud clang, but a continuous, delicate jingle with each crawl. Saliva seeped from the edge of the muzzle harness's ring, sliding down the curve of her chin, dripping onto the wooden floor. The distance from the living room to the kitchen doorway, usually just a few steps, took her nearly three minutes to cover with her knees and elbows. She paused beside the sofa, turning her head to look at the sofa leg – that position brought back the memory of curling up in the cage last night. She didn't linger, continuing to crawl forward. There was a threshold at the kitchen doorway, a small rise from the floor. She stopped before it, looking down at the obstacle. Elbows first – she lifted her elbows, clearing the threshold, landing on the kitchen tiles, then her left knee, then her right knee. Her right knee bumped the threshold as it crossed, her body swaying slightly, the bells jingling for a moment. She regained her balance and continued to crawl forward. The kitchen tiles were colder than the wooden floor, and she let out a soft gasp as her knees touched the icy ceramic. The tail dragged over the threshold behind her, making a faint rustling sound against the tiles. She crawled halfway around the kitchen island, then turned to crawl towards the entryway. The turn was exceptionally difficult – she couldn't simply turn around as usual. Her folded limbs limited her turning radius, and she had to painstakingly shift her knees and elbows, making three adjustments to complete the turn. She stopped to catch her breath for a moment, then continued crawling. Seeing her crawl too slowly, I took the remote from my pocket and pressed the switch. The vibrator activated inside her at a medium setting. Her body stiffened abruptly, her elbows slipping on the wooden floor, almost causing her to fall. "Mmm—" a muffled groan came from behind the muzzle harness. The tail swayed from side to side with her trembling body, and the sound of the bells suddenly became more frequent. She turned her head to look at me, her eyes above the leather mask filled with disbelief – she hadn't expected me to turn on the vibrator in this position. I jiggled the other end of the leash. "Keep crawling, don't stop." She turned her head back and continued to crawl forward. This time, her speed was noticeably faster – not because she was more skilled, but because the stimulation from the vibrator made her afraid to slow down. She discovered that crawling faster changed the way she perceived the vibrations; while still intense, the oppressive feeling of being pinned in place lessened slightly. So she quickened her pace, her elbows alternating forward, her knees scraping against the floor with a continuous friction sound. The bells' jingle became more frequent, escalating from a delicate chime to a rapid, continuous ringing. The tail swung from side to side behind her, constantly rubbing against the leather edge of the chastity belt, emitting a faint creaking sound. This was the most arduous crawl she had endured. Her folded limbs, already sore and weak from the previous two circuits, had left faint red marks on the wooden floor where her elbows and knees had scraped. Her tail dragged behind her, occasionally getting caught under her own knees, tugging at the anal plug and eliciting a muffled groan. The vibrator, set to medium, continued its work, and with every step she took, she felt the subtle hum within her chastity cage. Saliva seeped from the bit gag, dripping incessantly along the edge of the ring, leaving a sporadic wet trail on the floor behind her. Her pace slowed again—not from unwillingness, but because her body had reached its limit. After circling the TV cabinet, only a few more steps remained to the center of the living room. Her knees moved slower and slower, each forward motion punctuated by a pause to catch her breath. Her back trembled slightly, the muscles in the back of her thighs, folded and secured, twitched faintly. The tinkling of the bells also became slow and weary—a chime, then a pause of several seconds, then another chime. She stopped a few steps from the center of the living room, collapsing onto the floor, her cheek pressed against the wood, gasping for air. The leather mask hid the sweat on her face, but the fine beads on her neck and the rapid rise and fall of her chest indicated complete exhaustion. I turned off the vibrator, but her body still trembled slightly from inertia. Her tail lay still behind her, and the bells finally fell silent. I crouched down, unclipped the leash from her collar, and then stroked her hair. Her hair was soaked, sweat seeping from the roots, dampening my palm. She closed her eyes, breathing quietly under my hand. Saliva still seeped from the edges of the bit gag, but her breathing was gradually evening out. I squatted down and reached for the ties behind her head, undoing them. The leather mask of the bit gag loosened from her face, and the saliva-soaked silicone ball slid out of her mouth, leaving a long strand of silver. She closed her lips, working her stiff jaw, and then licked her lips, which had been pressed too long by the gag. I brought the cup of water to her lips, and she drank a few sips, her voice hoarse as she whispered, "Thank you." I didn't immediately release her restraints, just let her rest against the side of the sofa for a while. She lay on her side, her folded limbs still secured, her tail trailing behind her, but her breathing was noticeably smoother after the gag was removed. We chatted like this for a while—about the cage last night, about the bar of soap she threw at me while doing laundry this morning, about which corner she almost tipped over on during her three crawls. She said the sunlight by the balcony door was nice, and I said you could nap in that sunlight next time. She rolled her eyes at me, but the corners of her mouth were turned up. About ten minutes later, my phone rang—the delivery had arrived. She was leaning against the sofa, and when she heard the notification, she looked up at me, her eyes already filled with despair. I smiled at her. "Go get the delivery." She looked down at herself—her folded limbs were still secured, her collar was still around her neck, her chastity cage was still locked at her waist, and her tail was still trailing behind her. "...Can't you let me unfold my legs before I go?" She extinguished the last flicker of struggle and turned to crawl towards the door. I stood at the door and watched her—she crawled out of the house, alternating between her elbows and knees, her tail dragging behind her. When she reached the elevator, she looked back at me, her eyes filled with helplessness, resignation, and a hint of self-consolation: "This is the last time." When she reached the ground floor, the delivery rider was standing at the entrance of the building, looking down at his phone. He looked up when he heard the sound of the chain, and saw a woman crawling on the ground, her limbs folded and secured, a collar around her neck, and a white tail dragging behind her. The rider's eyes widened, his mouth opened, and his phone almost slipped from his hand. He instinctively took half a step back, then he recognized her face—it was the same rider who delivered the desserts last time. "...Miss, are you alright? Do you need me to call the police?" He put down the delivery bag and took half a step forward, his gaze sweeping over her from her folded limbs to her tail, then to the bells on her collar. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and despite her flushed face, she tried to make her voice sound as steady and calm as when she spoke in meetings. "No, I'm fine. This is my personal hobby. Please give me the delivery." Her ear tips were almost bleeding by the time she finished speaking, but she finished. Unable to take it with her hands, she turned her head and gestured for him to hang the bag's handle around her neck—the rider hesitated, carefully hung the bag on her collar, then took two steps back and watched her turn and crawl back inside. The delivery man stood there for a moment after she disappeared, probably rethinking the world. She crawled back, the delivery bag hanging from her collar, swaying gently with her movements. I helped her take the bag off, and she leaned against the wall of the entryway, gasping for air, her cheeks flushed. "...It was the same person last time," she said, "He asked if I needed to call the police." I looked at her and said, "You're famous now." She rolled her eyes at me and muttered that she would use a fake name next time she ordered delivery. I unpacked the delivery, two servings of unagi don. She leaned against the sofa, her hands still secured, her folded legs forcing her to sit on her side. I picked up a piece of eel with my chopsticks and brought it to her lips. She opened her mouth slightly and ate it. "Is it good?" "...It's good." I offered another bite of rice, and she ate it. After chewing and swallowing, she looked up at me. "When my hands are free, the first thing I'll do is throw that bar of soap of yours in the trash." "That's your own soap." She rolled her eyes at me again. "Then I'll throw your shirt in the trash." I smiled and fed her another bite. Her cheeks were puffed out as she chewed, and I wiped the sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. She paused, then continued chewing. We fed each other like this, occasionally bickering, until both servings of unagi don were gone. After eating, I collected the delivery boxes and threw them in the trash, wiped my hands, then walked over to the computer desk in the corner of the living room, sat down, and pressed the power button. The screen lit up, Steam logged in automatically, and I skillfully opened my favorite shooter game. Lu Xiaojin was still leaning against the sofa, propping herself up with her hands, which were folded and secured behind her, her head turned to watch me. She waited for a few seconds, probably thinking I was just turning on the computer to check my email and would come back to keep her company. It wasn't until I put on my headphones and entered the matchmaking queue for ranked play that she finally spoke. "...Are you serious?" Her voice was hoarse, with a familiar coldness—the tone she used when she saw a significant logical flaw in code submitted by someone at the company. "I'm like this, and you're still playing games?" I turned to look at her. She was still on the floor, her limbs folded and secured, her tail trailing behind her, the bells on her collar swaying with her shallow breaths. Her expression was complex, a mixture of speechlessness, disbelief, and a hint of accusation: "You actually have the mind to play ranked at a time like this?" Her pride seemed to have been wounded—she was dressed like this, bound like this, crawled three circuits, picked up the delivery, and now I was going to play games, as if she were less important than a ranked match. I smiled, stood up, walked over to her, and picked up the bit gag again. She saw what I was holding and stopped mid-sentence, closing her mouth. "Be a good puppy." I gently placed the gag in her mouth, the leather mask covering the lower half of her face again, the ties secured around the back of her head and under her collar. Her reply was muffled in her throat, only a dull "Mmph—" escaping. I stroked her head, then took a short chain from the computer desk drawer, clipped one end to the metal ring at the front of her collar, and the other end to the fixing hook on the side of the computer desk leg. The chain wasn't long, just enough for her to poke her head out from under the desk, but not far enough to leave. Shen Le's. He's not here tonight, he's on a business trip. He gave me the key in advance." Lu Xiaojin walked in and turned on the living room light. The warm yellow light illuminated a clean, tidy, and simply furnished living room—a gray and white sofa, a wooden coffee table, a few potted plants, and a monitor on the desk in the corner. It was completely different from Lu Xiaojin's own home, but equally neat and orderly. Xin Yue stood at the entrance, hesitating to take off her shoes. "...What are we doing here?" Lu Xiaojin didn't answer. She walked into the bedroom and opened the closet door. Several pieces of clothing were neatly folded inside—she rummaged through them and pulled out a black and white maid outfit, a white ruffled apron, and a black dress as a base, with a fluffy skirt. Next to it was a transparent sealed bag containing a pair of white stockings and a pair of black round-toed Mary Jane shoes. Xin Yue stared at the maid outfit, frozen in place. Lu Xiaojin unfolded the outfit and held it up against herself. "We're about the same size," she said, handing the maid outfit to Xin Yue. "It should fit you too." Her tone was still calm, as if she were handing over an ordinary jacket. She took half a step forward, holding the maid outfit out a little further. "Put it on." Xin Yue looked into her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and accepted the outfit, hugging it to her chest. "Where should I change?" she asked, her voice a little calmer than she had expected. Lu Xiaojin tilted her chin towards the bedroom. "You can change in here. I'll wait for you here." She sat down on the sofa. Xin Yue, clutching the maid outfit, walked into the bedroom and closed the door. The sound of fabric rustling continued for a few minutes—she took off her current clothes, put on the black dress, zipped it up the back, tied the white ruffled apron, and then the sound of white stockings slowly rolling up from her ankles, finally the two crisp clicks of the black round-toed Mary Jane shoe buckles being fastened. The bedroom door opened. Xin Yue stood at the doorway, nervously pulling at the hem of her skirt. The black and white maid outfit fit her body's curves perfectly. The white ruffled apron tied into a small bow just above her chest, the black skirt hem fell fluffily to mid-thigh, and the white stockings had a soft sheen under the light. She walked from the bedroom to the living room, each step carrying the awkwardness of wearing such a dress for the first time, her heels making a soft sound on the wooden floor. She stood in the center of the living room, her hands clasped in front of her apron, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of the ruffles, in almost the exact same posture as Lu Xiaojin had been the first time she wore this outfit. Lu Xiaojin stood up from the sofa, walked up to Xin Yue, circled her once, and then stopped in front of her. "It suits you," she said. Lu Xiaojin took out a few items from her canvas bag—a pair of silver metal handcuffs, a pair of black iron leg shackles, and a copper bell collar. She placed the three items on the coffee table one by one, the sound of metal clashing creating a clear, crisp sound in the quiet living room. Xin Yue stood in the center of the living room, looking at the three items, saying nothing, and not backing down. Lu Xiaojin picked up the metal handcuffs, walked up to Xin Yue, lifted her wrist, and fastened the cuffs around her slender wrist bones with a click. Then she picked up the black iron leg shackles, squatted down, and fastened the ankle rings around her ankles. Click. Click. Finally, the copper bell collar—she moved behind Xin Yue, placed the collar against Xin Yue's neck, fastened it, and locked it. The copper bell gently jingled below her throat with a crisp ding. Lu Xiaojin took half a step back to appraise her—the black and white maid outfit, white stockings, black round-toed shoes, silver handcuffs, black iron leg shackles, copper bell collar. Xin Yue stood there, her movement restricted by the locks on her hands and feet, the bells making a faint jingle with every slight shift of her weight. She allowed Lu Xiaojin to examine her, without flinching. Lu Xiaojin returned to the sofa and sat down. She leaned back against the sofa cushions and patted the seat next to her. Xin Yue moved over—the iron shackles dragged on the floor, the bells jingled, she walked to the side of the sofa and sat down next to Lu Xiaojin, turning to wait. Lu Xiaojin took her wrist and guided her hands to her shoulders. "Give me a massage. I've been walking around all day, my shoulders are a bit sore." Xin Yue's hands paused for a moment, then her fingers began to slowly knead Lu Xiaojin's shoulders and shoulder blades, with a gentle and focused pressure. The copper bells jingled softly with each slight movement as she lowered her head, and the chains of the leg shackles occasionally brushed against each other as she adjusted her body, making a low metallic sound. They started talking, discussing Xin Yue's near breakdown at the bathroom door earlier. Lu Xiaojin laughed, saying she could tell she was holding back and that she would unlock them when the time came. Xin Yue said, "Aren't you afraid I won't be able to hold on?" Lu Xiaojin leaned back on the sofa, her eyes closed, her voice with a slight, languid calmness, "If you can't hold on, I'll clean up for you. But I know you can hold on." Xin Yue was silent for a moment, then her fingers continued to massage Lu Xiaojin's shoulders, and her voice was a little softer than before. "How did you know?" Lu Xiaojin didn't answer immediately. She was silent for a moment, then opened her eyes and looked at Xin Yue. "Because the first time I was handcuffed and went out, I also thought I wouldn't be able to hold on. But I did." After saying this, she closed her eyes again, not continuing the topic. Night had completely fallen. The streetlights in the residential area were on, casting circles of warm yellow light on the ground. Lu Xiaojin took Xin Yue out. Xin Yue walked beside Lu Xiaojin, the black iron leg shackles making a low metallic scraping sound with each step, interwoven with the soft rustling of her pleated skirt. The copper bells jingled with the rhythm of her steps, interspersed with a light, bright sound amidst the occasional clinking of the handcuff chains. They walked slowly along the path, neither of them speaking. The night wind was a little cooler than in the evening, blowing Xin Yue's skirt and stray strands of hair. She walked slowly, her pace maintaining a constant rhythm within the restriction of the leg shackles. Her calves, encased in white stockings, appeared particularly slender against the black iron shackles, and the black and white maid outfit had soft yet distinct contours under the warm yellow streetlights. They passed the leafless osmanthus tree in the central garden—the tree now stood silently in the night, its branches bare and reaching towards the sky. Exiting the side gate of the residential area and walking along the sidewalk for dozens of meters, a convenience store's illuminated sign caught their eye, its white background and green characters particularly striking in the night. Through the glass door, they could see the lights on inside, and a bespectacled clerk sitting behind the counter, looking down at his phone. Lu Xiaojin stopped at the entrance of the convenience store. "I'm thirsty," she said, turning her head to look at Xin Yue. "Buy me a bottle of water." Xin Yue followed her gaze to the bright interior of the convenience store, then looked down at herself—maid outfit, handcuffs, leg shackles, collar. She was silent for a moment, then used the handcuff chains to push the glass door open slightly. The door opened, and a gust of cool air rushed out from inside. She walked in. The convenience store was quiet. The young clerk behind the counter looked up when he heard the doorbell, saw a young girl in a black and white maid outfit with silver handcuffs and black leg shackles walk in, paused his gaze on her for a moment, then looked away. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked back down at his phone. Xin Yue walked to the beverage cooler, the light from the refrigerator shining on her face. She stood in front of the row of bottled water, lifted her cuffed hands, and used the handcuff chains to grip the body of a bottle of water, pulling it down from the shelf. The bottle wobbled as it landed in her hand, she caught it with her wrist, held it in her palm, and turned to the second bottle. She took two bottles of water, walked to the counter, and gently placed the two bottles on the counter with the handcuff chains. Her movements were smoother than she had expected. The clerk scanned the items and announced the price. Xin Yue raised her cuffed hand, then paused. She stood at the counter, looked down at the handcuffs on her wrist, then looked up at the clerk. "...My hands are inconvenient," she said. "My friend is outside. Can she come in and pay?" The clerk looked at her, was silent for a moment, then nodded, asking no further questions. Xin Yue used her wrist to clamp the two bottles of water, turned, and pushed the glass door open with her body to walk out. The chain of the leg shackles scraped against the threshold, making a crisp metallic clink. Lu Xiaojin was leaning against the wall next to the convenience store entrance. She saw Xin Yue walk out and smiled. "Did you get it?" "I got it. But I can't pay—my hands are cuffed, and I can't hold my phone. The clerk said you could come in and pay." Xin Yue held the two bottles of water between her wrists, looking at Lu Xiaojin with a hint of helplessness. Lu Xiaojin didn't go in immediately. She looked at Xin Yue for a moment—maid outfit, handcuffs, leg shackles, collar, two bottles of water held between her wrists, standing in the light of the convenience store entrance, like an ordinary girl out buying a late-night snack, only with a pair of silver rings on her hands. She smiled, took a banknote from her pocket, and placed it between Xin Yue's cuffed fingers. "Then you can go in and pay yourself." Xin Yue looked down at the banknote between her fingers, then looked up at Lu Xiaojin, said nothing, turned, and pushed open the convenience store door again. The doorbell rang again. She walked back to the counter, placed the two bottles of water on the counter, and handed over the banknote. The clerk took the banknote, gave her change, and placed the coins on the counter. Xin Yue looked down at the coins, used the handcuff chains to gather them into her palm and grip them. "Thank you," she said, then picked up the two bottles of water and turned to walk out of the convenience store. This time, as she pushed open the glass door, the sound of the doorbell lingered longer in the night. She walked up to Lu Xiaojin and handed her one of the bottles of water. Lu Xiaojin took the water, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and then looked at her. "How do you feel?" Xin Yue was silent for a moment, looking down at her fingers holding the bottle of water—her fingers still retained the warmth of the coins she had just received as change. Her voice was a little hoarse as she spoke, as if steeped in the night. "It's okay," she said. She was silent for another moment, then looked up at Lu Xiaojin. "Was it like this the first time you went out wearing these things?" Lu Xiaojin took a sip of water, not answering immediately. She screwed the cap back on, held the bottle of water, her gaze falling on the path illuminated by the streetlights ahead. "About the same," she said. "It was at night, and we walked around the neighborhood. But no one helped me pay—I scanned my phone myself." Xin Yue listened quietly under the streetlight, then the corners of her mouth curved. "Then you're a little stronger than me." After saying this, she held the bottle of water between her wrists and stepped forward to continue walking. The chains of the leg shackles dragged on the asphalt road, the bells jingling, casting a long, slender shadow in the light of the convenience store entrance. Returning to 202, the door closed behind them with a soft click. The living room lights were still on, the warm yellow light bathing the stainless steel restraint frame standing quietly in the corner. Five bright silver rings gleamed coldly under the light, exactly as they had when Xin Yue had first seen it. Xin Yue stopped at the entrance, her gaze falling on the frame. Lu Xiaojin walked behind her, saying nothing, just walked around in front of her and first unlocked the silver handcuffs on her wrists. With a click, the cuffs sprang open, and Xin Yue's hands were free. Then came the leg shackles—Lu Xiaojin squatted down, pulled out the locking pins, and the black iron leg shackles fell from her ankles with a low thud on the floor. Finally, the copper bell collar—the clasp sprang open, and the leather loosened from Xin Yue's neck. She took off the collar and placed it on the shoe cabinet, the bell giving a slight jingle in the quiet entrance before falling silent. Xin Yue stood there, the hem of the maid outfit falling above her knees, her calves and ankles, wrapped in white stockings, still showing faint red marks from the pressure of the leg shackles. Now she was free of all restraints, nothing holding her. Lu Xiaojin took half a step back and gestured with her chin towards the stainless steel restraint frame in the center of the living room. "Get on it." Xin Yue stood there, looking at the cold, silver metal frame. It had no padding or fabric, only a few cool stainless steel rings quietly reflecting light under the lamp. She was silent for a moment, then walked over and stood in front of the frame, bending down to place her knees on the floor. The hem of the maid outfit gently draped onto the floor as she bent over. She knelt in front of the frame and slowly leaned her upper body forward towards the base of the stainless steel frame. She reached her hands forward to the two wrist restraints, the familiar coldness of the metal against her wrist skin spreading along her wrist bones. She inserted the locking pins through the keyholes and locked herself with a click—no one had taught her this; she had seen Lu Xiaojin do it, and she had seen her own wrists locked into the same restraints. Now, she quietly completed the action herself, locking the other wrist into the restraint as well. Then she lowered her head, pressing her neck into the semi-circular stainless steel neck brace in front of her, waited for a moment, and it closed with a click, locking. Finally, her ankles—she placed her ankles into the two bottom restraints one by one and locked them. All the clasps were engaged. She lay on the stainless steel frame, secured by five restraints, motionless, wearing the black and white maid outfit and white stockings, like a shell quietly fixed on a display stand, visible but unable to reach out and touch what was within reach. Lu Xiaojin walked up to her, gently slid the red silicone gag into her mouth, and fastened the strap behind her head, locking it. Xin Yue's world quieted by half, her vision still filled with a bright light. Then Lu Xiaojin gently inserted the oval vibrator under her white stockings, and she felt the warm touch and the clear pressure distribution as it fit completely inside. Her breathing paused slightly at that sensation. Finally, Lu Xiaojin covered her eyes with the black silk blindfold and tied it tightly behind her head. Xin Yue's world fell completely silent. She could see nothing, only feel the few points where her body contacted the stainless steel frame—the cold metal touch on her wrists, the same coldness on her ankles, the semi-circular embrace around her neck, the oval object lying quietly deep within her body, not yet activated, still silent, quiet, like a dormant, unawakened mechanical heart. Then she heard Lu Xiaojin's voice from in front of her, with a gentle, calm smile, "Good girl. I'm going to sleep. You enjoy yourself slowly." Then she heard footsteps, the unhurried footsteps passing by her, going to the door, opening it, and the door closing softly behind her. The lock cylinder turned with a click. She was left alone on the stainless steel frame, secured by five restraints, wearing the gag and blindfold, the vibrator inside her not yet activated, lying dormant. She didn't know how long she waited in that darkness and silence. Then she heard a very faint humming sound from deep within her lower body—not the sound of a remote being pressed, but the default program for timed activation. The vibrator started without any warning, its low-frequency vibration spreading evenly and steadily within her body. She lay on the stainless steel frame, secured by five restraints, her vision deprived by the blindfold, her speech taken by the gag, confirmed to be alone by the empty apartment and the receding footsteps outside the door. The continuous humming sound operated steadily within her body, like a tireless little heart, beating for her in the dark space, completing what she herself could not. She lay on the frame, quietly enduring the continuous low-frequency stimulation, without struggling. She made no attempt to break free from the restraints, made no muffled groans, just lay on the frame, quietly enduring the continuous low-frequency stimulation. A trace of clear liquid began to ooze from the edge of the gag again, sliding silently down the curve of her jaw, dripping onto the white ruffled apron of the maid outfit. In the darkness, she thought, the remote control had been taken away, leaving her alone in the empty living room, wearing a vibrator, her limbs restrained, her eyes covered. Then, after hearing the sound of the door closing and the lock turning, she found herself slowly relaxing within that continuous, inescapable stimulation. It was as if her body had finally confirmed that there was nothing more to do—no need to try to please anyone, no need to respond to anyone's gaze, no need to control her reactions, no need to prepare for the next move. She just needed to lie here, restrained, vibrating. She was alone in this living room, and at this moment, she was being dismantled and reassembled by the continuously vibrating vibrator at her own pace. In the continuous low-frequency vibration, she did not struggle, did not break down, did not try to reach for the restraints, lying on the metal frame, quietly enduring, and at the same time, quietly enjoying. The bottom drawer of the wardrobe in the bedroom was pulled open. Inside, neatly stacked, was another set of items – a gleaming silver stainless steel chastity device identical to the one I was wearing, a light pink bullet vibrator, and a white plush tail butt plug. Qian Xinyue squatted in front of the drawer and stared for a long time. She reached out and touched the tail, her fingertip sinking into the white fur, and the tip of the tail gave a slight sway. Then she stood up, picked up the items one by one, and hugged them to her chest. "Go take a bath," Lu Xiaojin said, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, arms crossed over her chest, her tone neither warm nor cold. Qian Xinyue, clutching the items, trotted into the bathroom. The sound of water ran for about twenty minutes, then stopped. A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open a sliver. Qian Xinyue’s head peeked out from the gap, her face flushed pink from the steam, her wet hair clinging to her forehead. "Xiaojin-jie—how do I put this on?" Lu Xiaojin glanced at me. "Shen Le, go help her lock it. The clasp is the same as yesterday." She took the key from the drawer and handed it to me, then leaned against the bathroom doorway, guiding Qian Xinyue through the door. She told her to align the curve of the waistband first, then insert the bullet vibrator into the front cavity, and apply lubricant to the butt plug. Clinking metal sounds came from inside the bathroom, followed by Qian Xinyue's muffled groan, "Ah—wait—it's too cold—," then Lu Xiaojin's calm voice, "Don't squeeze too tight, relax." A few minutes later, Qian Xinyue pushed the tail out from the door gap, her voice soft and trembling. "This—I can't get it in." Lu Xiaojin took it, bent down, and helped her snap it into the slot, pushing it in firmly. *Click*. A gasp from Qian Xinyue came from inside the door, followed by a long silence. The bathroom door finally opened completely. Qian Xinyue walked out, wearing her own pink hoodie and white skirt, her white cotton socks padding on the floor, her shoulder-length hair still dripping. She took two steps, her gait small and stiff, like a child who had just learned to walk. From beneath the hem of her skirt at her waist, a brand new, fluffy white cat tail, just like hers, swayed from side to side with her steps. She stopped in the center of the living room, looked down at her skirt hem, then back at her tail, and finally looked up at Lu Xiaojin and me. "It's so strange," her voice was soft, her eyes sparkling. "It moves when I walk." "You'll get used to it," Lu Xiaojin said, walking up behind her and gently wiping a bead of water from the tip of her tail before walking into the living room. Qian Xinyue followed her, each step slow and deliberate. She stopped in front of the coffee table and looked up at Lu Xiaojin. "Where are the remotes?" Lu Xiaojin took two white remotes from the drawer, one with a pink label and one with a white label. She placed the pink-labeled one into Qian Xinyue's palm. "Yours. Do you want to hold it or give it to me?" Qian Xinyue looked down at the small remote in her hand, thought for a moment, and placed it back into Lu Xiaojin's hand. "You manage it. I'm afraid I won't be able to resist pressing it." Lu Xiaojin placed both remotes on the coffee table and sat down. Qian Xinyue sat beside her, her tail getting squashed by the sofa cushion, causing her to jump slightly before settling back down. The two sat side-by-side on the sofa, wearing matching hoodies and skirts in different colors, both with white cotton socks on their feet and a white plush tail hanging behind them. Lu Xiaojin's tail had been on for three days, its fur a little fluffy but very flexible; Qian Xinyue's tail was brand new, its fur whiter and brighter, appearing slightly longer than Lu Xiaojin's. Lu Xiaojin picked up the two remotes, one in each hand. She turned to look at Qian Xinyue. "We'll just get used to it tonight. No activating." Qian Xinyue nodded. Then she picked up a cookie, popped it into her mouth, chewed twice, and turned to look at Lu Xiaojin. "Xiaojin-jie." "Hmm?" "What about dinner tomorrow?" "We'll go to the cafeteria." "With the tails on?" "With the tails on." Qian Xinyue chewed her cookie, fell silent for a moment, swallowed, took a sip of her milk tea, and leaned back against the sofa. Her tail was pressed to her side by the cushion. "Then I have another question." "Ask." "When you argued with Manager Chen yesterday..." Qian Xinyue lowered her voice slightly. "Was the bullet vibrator on?" Lu Xiaojin didn't answer. She simply picked up a remote and turned the pink-labeled one to the lowest setting. Qian Xinyue's body tensed on the sofa, nearly spilling her milk tea. She lowered her head to cover her skirt hem, her face flushing from pink all the way down to her neck, her voice trembling as she squeezed out, "You—you didn't say it was on—how is this lowest setting so—" Lu Xiaojin turned her own remote to the lowest setting as well, then leaned back against the sofa, closed her eyes, and a slight smirk played on her lips. Friday night, Qian Xinyue didn't go home. She leaned against the sofa, the sleeves of her pink hoodie pulled down to her wrists, the hem of her white skirt spread on the sofa cushion. Her tail hung out from under the skirt, resting on the edge of the sofa, its white plush fur glowing softly in the living room light. Lu Xiaojin beside her had already taken off her glasses, her long hair spread over her shoulders, holding the now-cold milk tea, taking occasional sips. The two sat side-by-side, their tails hanging to their respective sides, the remotes lined up on the coffee table. When Qian Xinyue stood up to go to the bathroom, she walked slowly from the coffee table to the bathroom door, her hand on the wall. She turned her head and said to me, "This butt plug moves when I walk, my legs are a bit weak." She entered the bathroom and closed the door. After a while, she came out and stopped in front of the coffee table again. "Xiaojin-jie, I can feel it vibrating on the lowest setting, but I can bear it. Have you tried the highest setting?" Lu Xiaojin didn't answer the question, only saying, "You'll find out tomorrow." The next day was Saturday. When Qian Xinyue woke up in the guest room bed, the metal edges of the chastity device had been warmed by her body heat. When she turned over, the angle of the butt plug shifted due to her sleeping position, and she let out a muffled groan into the pillow. As she walked out of the guest room, a tuft of her hair stood on end, and her tail swayed behind her sleep dress. Lu Xiaojin was already heating milk in the kitchen. She had already changed into her going-out clothes – a white cropped knit cardigan, a light gray camisole underneath, and a high-waisted dark gray pleated midi skirt. The hem of the skirt reached the middle of her calves. On her feet were white cotton socks and white flat sneakers. The long skirt completely concealed her tail, and when she stood still, nothing was visible. "Wearing a long skirt?" Qian Xinyue rubbed her eyes and walked to the kitchen doorway. "What should I wear then?" Lu Xiaojin handed her a cup of the hot milk. "You can wear yesterday's pink hoodie and white skirt, and put on a longer coat over it. I have a beige trench coat, it'll fit you perfectly. With the short skirt under the trench coat, the hem of the coat will reach your knees, making it harder for the tail to pop out from underneath when you walk." After breakfast, Lu Xiaojin checked the clasp of my chastity device for me, and then readjusted Qian Xinyue's – it had been a bit crooked when she slept last night. Finally, the three of them inserted their bullet vibrators and locked them, secured their chastity devices, and pushed the tail slots in firmly. Lu Xiaojin gathered the three remotes on the coffee table: one pink, one white, and one blue. The pink one was Qian Xinyue's, the white one was hers, and the blue one was mine. "We'll switch today," she said. "It's boring when I'm always in charge of myself. Give me Xiao Yue's." She slipped the pink-labeled remote into her cardigan pocket. Then she handed the white-labeled one to Qian Xinyue. "Mine to you." She then picked up the blue-labeled one and placed it in my hand. "Shen Le's to Xiao Yue." Qian Xinyue looked down at the two remotes in her hand – one white, one blue. "Both of theirs to me?" "Yes." Lu Xiaojin picked up the car keys. "And you?" "I'll manage yours." She opened the door, looked back at Qian Xinyue, and said, "This is a punishment. Who told you to find my tail in the pantry yesterday? Today, you're in charge of these two. Don't press anything randomly." Qian Xinyue slipped the two remotes into her trench coat pockets, patted them, and a subtle expression flickered across her face – a mixture of nervousness and eagerness. The car pulled into the underground parking lot of the mall. Lu Xiaojin reversed into a parking spot, turned off the engine, and pulled out the keys. Qian Xinyue was the first to get out of the car. The hem of her trench coat reached her knees, covering her short skirt and tail. On her feet were white socks and white canvas shoes. She stood by the car and took a couple of steps. The hem of the trench coat swayed gently, and her tail brushed against the back of her thigh inside the coat. She reached back and felt it, confirming it wasn't exposed. Lu Xiaojin got out of the car. Her dark gray long skirt reached her calves, her tail completely hidden beneath the hem. She took a couple of steps, her skirt hem swaying only slightly. She had already mastered the stride for wearing a tail under a long skirt. The two girls walked ahead, and I followed behind them. Each of us had one or two remotes in our pockets. From the basement garage to the elevator, the mall was already bustling on Saturday morning. Qian Xinyue stood in the corner of the elevator, her hands in her trench coat pockets, gripping the two remotes, her fingers lightly stroking them. As the elevator ascended, she turned her head, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered in my ear, "Shen Le-ge, what color is your bullet vibrator?" Qian Xinyue's voice drifted from the entryway, urging Lu Xiaojin to hurry and change her shoes. Lu Xiaojin replied, "What's the rush? The sun isn't going anywhere." Then came the sound of the shoe cabinet opening and closing, the muffled thud of sneakers on the wooden floor, and the click of a key turning in the lock. Lu Xiaojin tapped on my bedroom door and said through it, "We're going for a walk. The soy milk is on the kitchen counter, heat it yourself," and then the sound of two sets of footsteps left the apartment. I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I woke up again, the soy milk was still warm. On the kitchen counter sat a cup sealed with plastic wrap, and next to it, a sandwich. The two of them were walking along the小区's pedestrian path. This path, at this season, was covered in fallen petals from the large trees lining the wall, white and pink mixed together, soft and silent underfoot. Qian Xinyue walked ahead, her sun hat pulled low, her beige pleated maxi skirt swaying around her ankles. Her canvas shoes made barely a sound on the scattered petals, each step light. After a few steps, she turned back to urge, "Sister Xiaojin, hurry up. The bench by the lake will be taken if we wait for the sun to get stronger." Lu Xiaojin walked slowly behind. Today, she wore a loose, milky-white sweatshirt and a grey pleated mini-skirt. White ankle socks reached above her ankles, and she wore white flat sneakers. Her long hair was down, not in a low ponytail, and she wasn't wearing glasses, having switched to contacts. She had left her blazer in the closet before leaving, but the chastity belt was still on her waist, the vibrator inserted in her front cavity, and the butt plug and tail were securely in place. As she walked, the tail swayed gently beneath the short skirt, its white tip occasionally brushing the back of her thigh. When she walked faster, a bit of white fur would peek out from the hem of the skirt, and she'd reach down to press the fabric, then continue walking. Qian Xinyue turned around and walked backward, her face flushed by the sun beneath her hat. "Why are you walking so slowly today? You're usually in front." "I'm usually wearing heels," Lu Xiaojin replied slowly, hands in her sweatshirt pockets. Her stride was perfectly controlled, a rhythm ingrained in muscle memory after four days of practice – the sway of her skirt just enough to conceal the tail without letting it swing out. Qian Xinyue thought for a moment and felt it made sense, then turned back and continued forward. In fact, Qian Xinyue wasn't walking fast herself. Beneath her long skirt, she was wearing the same things – a chastity belt, a vibrator, a tail butt plug. This was the second day, and the angle of the butt plug still shifted slightly with each step, the tip of the tail brushing the inside of her long skirt against the back of her calf with every stride. Her steps were much smaller than usual, her canvas shoes making almost no sound on the fallen petals. When they passed the newly opened bakery at the小区 entrance, she paused for a few seconds, peered inside through the glass, and said she wanted to buy the new pineapple bun on the way back. Lu Xiaojin, behind her, took out her phone, snapped a picture of her peering into the bakery window, and sent it to me with two words: "Hungry." By the time they reached the lake along the pedestrian path, there weren't many morning runners left. A few leaves, blown from somewhere, floated on the lake's surface. The wind carried a hint of dampness and the scent of freshly cut grass. Qian Xinyue claimed the bench closest to the water, the one by the lake. As she sat down, she smoothed her skirt, sat down slowly sideways, letting the tail hang off the edge of the bench, uncompressed. She took off her sun hat and placed it on her knees, tilting her head back to bask in the sun with her eyes closed. Lu Xiaojin sat down next to her. She sat down more skillfully – first bending down to ensure her skirt covered everything, then sitting sideways with her center of gravity low, the tail naturally hanging off the side of the bench. Once seated, she reached down to pull the hem of her sweatshirt, covering any metal edges that might be exposed at her waist, then took out wet wipes from her pocket, first wiping her hands, then a bit of mud that had gotten on her sneakers. "That path earlier was too muddy," Lu Xiaojin said without lifting her eyelids as she wiped her shoes. "You almost slipped, your shoes are covered in mud." "And you laughed at me. Your skirt hem got some on it too," Qian Xinyue pointed to a small muddy patch on the edge of Lu Xiaojin's grey pleated skirt. Lu Xiaojin looked down, wiped the mud stain with a wet wipe, balled it up, stood up, and threw it into the nearby trash can. She stood by the lake, watching the water for a while. When the wind blew, her skirt swayed gently, and the tail beneath it wiggled along. She reached down to hold the hem, turned, and looked at Qian Xinyue. "You're walking much better today than yesterday." Qian Xinyue opened one eye, a slight curve to her lips. "I can still feel the butt plug, it shifts with every step. But I think I'm getting used to it, it's not as distracting as yesterday." "The second day is always like this. By the third day, you'll be as natural as wearing socks," Lu Xiaojin leaned against the railing next to the bench, hands in her sweatshirt pockets. She shifted her weight to the other foot, and the tail beneath her skirt swayed gently with the movement. "The vibrator was on its lowest setting for the entire morning during the meeting yesterday," she added. "You were sitting next to me, you didn't notice, did you?" "Not at all." Qian Xinyue put her sun hat back on her head, stood up, and leaned against the railing next to Lu Xiaojin, their shoulders lightly brushing through their sweatshirt sleeves. "But honestly, there's a big difference between wearing this and not wearing it. I almost didn't want to put it on this morning, thinking I'd just take it off on Sunday. But after walking this stretch, it feels okay." "The third day is the hardest," Lu Xiaojin said, looking at the lake. "You've just gotten through the first day, the novelty is still there. The third day is purely about habit. But once you get through it, you won't feel it's a burden anymore." Qian Xinyue turned her head to look at her, staring for a while. "Sister Xiaojin, how long did you wear it the first time?"