From Campus Belle to Exhibit: I Locked Myself into That Wedding Dress

It wasn't a climate-controlled storage room. It was a suite. A dark red carpet, a mahogany bed, and a vermilion brocade quilt embroidered with entwined peonies. A pair of red candles stood by the bed, their wicks pristine, as if waiting for a specific night. On the dressing table lay a complete set of antique cosmetic cases—mother-of-pearl powder boxes, a bronze mirror, a jade comb, ink sticks, rouge, lip rouge, and floral hair ornaments—each piece gleaming with a warm patina under the lamplight. Beside the dressing table stood a large, brass-edged full-length mirror. Then I saw the wardrobe. The red-wood doors, spanning an entire wall, were flung open, revealing a complete Song Dynasty wedding gown. Not just one piece, but a set—from the innermost layer to the outermost, six layers of attire, arranged as neatly as exhibits in a museum. The innermost layer was a plain silk undergarment, its snow-white silk shimmering faintly like pearls under the light. Over the undergarment was a sheer gauze slip, as thin as morning mist, through which one could vaguely discern a dense network of silk ribbons on the inner side. Outside the slip was a vermilion brocade robe with wide sleeves—the core of the Song Dynasty wedding gown. It had a straight collar and a front opening, with sleeves so wide they could reach the hollows of the knees. The body of the robe was embroidered with gold-thread peonies and phoenixes in flight. Each peony petal was embroidered with varying shades of gold thread to create depth, blooming to their fullest, occupying the entire front of the robe, as if an entire garden had been sealed onto this garment with gold thread. The neckline and cuffs were adorned with a circle of lustrous freshwater pearls, each bearing subtle natural textures, emitting a warm iridescence under the light. Over the wide-sleeved robe was a gilded cloud-patterned *beizi*—a front-opening, straight-collared jacket reaching the ankles, cinched at the waist with a pure silver chased belt. And the outermost layer—the one hung on the very edge of the wardrobe, the first thing that caught my eye—was a dark green brocade robe with wide sleeves. The green was deep. Not the vibrant green of spring shoots, but a dark, almost inky shade, like the malachite green of ancient paintings, settled after millennia. Under the lamplight, the subtle brocade patterns flickered between light and shadow—entwined lotuses and cloud patterns woven together. The green was as deep as lake water, as cold as pine and cypress, as solemn as the robes unearthed from a thousand-year-old tomb. The hem was trimmed with a narrow band of vermilion, a stark contrast to the green, and the sleeves were wide, the front opening, and the length trailed to the floor. "Red groom, green bride." The phrase suddenly jumped into my mind. In Song Dynasty wedding customs, men wore red, and women wore green. This dark green robe was the true main body of the wedding gown, the outermost layer—the one truly meant for outsiders to see. I reached out, my fingertips brushing the dark green brocade. It was cool. The unique coolness of silk spread from my fingertips to my wrist, then to my forearm. I leaned closer and caught a faint floral scent—not camphor, not moth repellent, but the sweet fragrance of lily of the valley, underscored by the depth of musk. The scent seeped from the very fibers of the fabric. I inhaled deeply, and my head swam for a moment, like having half a cup of warm yellow wine. I took out the entire wedding gown, piece by piece, from the wardrobe and laid it out on the bed. Then I began to inspect it—it was a professional habit; I had to examine the layers and craftsmanship of every wedding gown before it was worn. The plain silk undergarment was the innermost layer, worn next to the skin. The fabric was extremely fine, hand-stitched. The crotch of the underpants had a narrow opening, fastened with two thin straps crossed over, each strap ending in a pearl button. I nudged the tiny metal hole in the center of the pearl with my fingernail—cold, precise, not decorative. It was a keyhole. The sheer gauze slip was the second layer. Thin as a cicada's wing, it extended from the collarbone to the ankles. At key points—the waist, thighs, knees, ankles, chest, and arms—there were long, narrow slits, each with a white silk ribbon sewn to both sides. I gripped one and pulled with all my might until my knuckles turned white, but it didn't budge. It wasn't ordinary silk. The ends of the ribbons were pearl buttons, and the pearls also had keyholes in their centers. The vermilion wide-sleeved robe concealed a complete corset structure inside, from shoulders to hips, made of high-tensile fabric that my fingernail couldn't even scratch. The corset had precise slits corresponding to the ribbon positions. Embroidered red silk shoes. Vermilion satin, embroidered with twin lotuses. The shoe openings were sewn to the slip at the ankles—they couldn't be put on or taken off separately. The two shoes were connected by a thin chain woven from vermilion silk cord, ten centimeters long, just enough to keep the feet together. The inner edge of the shoe opening and the shoe fastenings—all had keyholes. The phoenix coronet. Woven with gold thread, with a pair of golden phoenixes with outstretched wings at the crown, their beaks holding pearls. A layer of vermilion sheer veil hung from the inner edge of the coronet's brim, and at the lip area on the inner side of the veil was embedded a white jade peony bud—a gag, about four centimeters in diameter, connected by a short silver chain to the underside of the chin. Then came that one. The dark green brocade wide-sleeved robe. I unfolded it. The entire robe trailed on the floor, its hem as wide as a dark lake. The body of the robe had no keyholes—it was worn on the outermost layer and didn't need them. Its purpose wasn't to bind, but to display, to conceal, to hide all the silk ribbons, hidden buttons, corsets, keyholes, and thin chains of the five inner layers beneath this solemn and chilling green. When I put it on, outsiders would see nothing. They would only see a bride in a Song Dynasty wedding gown, the dark green robe trailing on the floor, the vermilion trim like blood, the gold-thread peonies faintly visible at the cuffs—dignified, magnificent, impeccable. And this bride would know what was locked beneath that layer of green. I should put all this back in the wardrobe. I should turn and leave this room. I should run. But I didn't. My hand clenched the cuff of the vermilion wide-sleeved robe, my knuckles turning white. Fear—true fear. But at the very center of that fear, something hot was beating. It was excitement. It was a desire, never experienced before, breaking through from the deepest part of my body. "Try it on," that voice didn't come from my mind, but seeped from the dark green brocade, from the warm luster of the pearls, crawling up my fingertips, into my veins, into my heart. "Just wear it for a while. You've been a model in this shop for a year, wearing hundreds of wedding gowns for others to see. Don't you want to wear one that truly belongs to you?" I took off my work clothes. As the plain silk undergarment touched my skin, the lily of the valley scent intensified, sinking into the depths of my lungs with each breath, then seeping into my bloodstream from my lungs. My entire body began to feel slightly warm. The sheer gauze slip was pulled over my head, the twelve ribbons from the slits hanging by my sides like twelve ropes waiting to be tightened. The vermilion wide-sleeved robe was draped over my shoulders, the gold-thread peonies blooming on my chest, the inner corset tightening inch by inch as the hidden buttons were fastened. Then came those silk ribbons. The three at the waist passed between my legs, the ones on the sides of my thighs, above and below my knees, at my ankles adorned with pearls, densely packed on my chest, on the sides of my arms—each one I tightened myself, each pearl button I pressed myself. Each "snap" made the restraint tighter. Through the layers of fabric, I could feel my skin slightly indenting under the pressure of the ribbons, my pulse beating against the constriction of the corset. The red shoes were slipped onto my feet, the vermilion chain swaying gently between them. The ten-centimeter gap forced me to maintain balance even to stand normally. The *beizi* was worn over the outer layer, the pure silver belt buckle making a soft sound. The *xiapei* was draped over my shoulders, the hidden buttons clicking shut. The phoenix coronet was fixed in my hair, the tassels hanging by my ears, its heavy weight pressing down on my carefully pinned bun. My fingers touched the veil on the inner edge of the coronet and paused. Then I let it fall. The moment the vermilion sheer veil covered my face, the white jade peony filled my mouth. "It's me." I fastened the last hook of the corset and turned to face her. "If I don't stand, what are they looking at? The wedding dresses in the display cases that no one wears? Are they here to see dresses or people? Don't you know? I'm holding up the fort for you, and you're letting them gossip – let them try it. Standing here all afternoon, changing three wedding gowns, standing still in high heels for an hour and a half, and still having to smile. Who can do it? Can Xiao Zhou? Can Xiao Zhao? Or Xiao Sun by your door, who's been hiding her face behind a coffee cup all morning?" Sister Chen was silent for a moment, then said, "Let's go out." She wore her usual fixed professional smile. She took my arm, about to lead me out of the fitting room, when the door creaked open a sliver. Xiao Zhao's voice, sharp and urgent, drifted in from the hallway, as if she'd been holding it in all morning and finally couldn't anymore. "...She just has a pretty face, what's so great about that! She didn't even say a polite word when everyone was scrambling in the break room at noon! What right does she have—" Sister Chen moved too fast. The door, barely open, was slammed shut by her. My arm was yanked back violently, and I stumbled a step in my red-soled shoes, nearly tripping on the lining of my just-tied hem. Sister Chen pushed me further into the fitting room and turned to push the door open again. The sound of the closing door was soft, but the movement was swift. Before the door fully closed, I saw Xiao Zhao standing at the corner of the hallway, her eyes red-rimmed, her fingers still clutching an inventory list. Xiao Zhou stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder. Sister Chen's voice carried from the hallway. It wasn't loud, but each word landed like a stiletto heel pressed into a floorboard. "...It's not time yet. When the time comes, she'll regret it." I didn't hear the rest. Xiao Zhao snorted and shoved open the warehouse door with force. Inventory lists scattered across the floor. The hallway was empty. The scattered inventory lists were blown by the air conditioning towards the corner of the wall, their edges fluttering like trampled wings. What did she mean, "when the time comes"? I closed the door and retreated to the mirror. The third hook of the corset was slightly askew; I fastened it again. When will the time come? When this face is no longer Yunshang Ji's signature? When clients stop specifically asking for me to try on dresses? When the flashing lights outside chase not me, but Xiao Zhao's exhausted face? Will they ever see that day? A joke. Without me, what will Yunshang Ji have to stand on? Will the wedding dresses in the display cases stand up and walk on their own? From top to bottom, from the first floor to the third, this store has only one trump card, and that's me. Do they dare to tear me down? If they tear me down, they can pack up and close shop the day after the anniversary sale. "Wait for the time" – what time is there to wait for? Until I resign? Until another store poaches me? Until I decide I don't feel like it one day and quit? They can't afford to wait. I won't wait for anyone to give me an explanation. I don't need anyone to explain to me – it's always others who wait for me to explain myself. It was like this on stage today, and it will be the same tomorrow when I'm back at the front desk. For the third outfit change that afternoon, I didn't ask for anyone's help. I put on the Suzhou embroidery dragon and phoenix gown myself – the stand collar, narrow sleeves, fitted waist, and the horse-face skirt that trailed to the floor. Each frog button was threaded through its loop and then back, the cuffs tight against my wrists, the stand collar resting at the narrowest point of my jawline. A deep red base, embroidered with gold thread dragons and phoenixes, the gold threads seemed to burn on the satin under the spotlight. I stood on the display platform, my chin slightly raised, the corners of my phoenix eyes peeking out from the edge of the stand collar. Below, people were whispering – is this embroidery Suzhou style? That collar shape can only be made by Song dynasty artisans. Where did Yunshang Ji find this main model? The last voice came from the throng of customers, crisp as if deliberately meant to be heard. I recognized the voice – Xiao Zhou. She wrapped "front desk" into an introduction that feigned ignorance, as if she had never wiped the table for me before today. After the final half hour on display, my feet were almost numb. The eight-centimeter stiletto heels of my red-soled shoes had supported me all day. My arches, from the balls of my feet to my heels, felt like they were being pierced by a red-hot iron bar from the sole of the shoe. I held on by a thread, walking off the platform and into the fitting room. I took off the dragon and phoenix gown and changed back into my black short skirt and professional top. As the black stockings re-enveloped my calves, my fingertips brushed against the swollen tendon at the back of my ankle – it had been stretched taut all day, hard as a string pulled to its limit. I rolled the stockings up inch by inch, sat on the bench, bent down to fasten the delicate straps of my red-soled shoes, and then stood up. The woman in the mirror was once again dressed in the black dress, black stockings, and red-soled shoes. The layer of earth-toned eyeshadow on her face hadn't been completely removed, and the extended arc of her eyeliner made her phoenix eyes appear sharper than usual. I tilted my head and smiled at my reflection. It wasn't the standard professional smile for clients – my lips genuinely curved upwards. Because it was worth it. Standing all day was truly exhausting. But three wedding gowns for a month's salary, plus all the media lenses focused solely on me – I'd do this deal ten more times and still not feel it was too much. Then came the inner layer of the bodice. Sewn into the lining of the voluminous sleeves was a complete structure of crimson, high-tensile fabric, extending from shoulder to hip. It was loose when I slid my arms in, but as I began to fasten the hidden clasps down the front, it started to tighten, inch by inch. The first clasp was at the neckline – once fastened, the collar of the bodice cinched at the base of my neck, pressing against the standing collar of the silk undergarment. The two collars held my neck at a slightly upward-tilted angle, not tight, but unyielding. I remembered my etiquette instructor in college saying that true ladies don't look down or straight ahead when observing someone; their chin is slightly raised, their gaze falling from a point just above the other person's eye level. That angle was the hardest to master, as too much of a lift appeared arrogant, while too little seemed timid. I had never practiced it – it came naturally to me. The second clasp was at the chest – fastening it tightened the bodice's bust by half an inch. The molded cups of the lace bra were pressed inward slightly, and my nipples were squeezed within the cups. A tingling sensation exploded from that point, shooting across my collarbone and straight to the back of my head. My fingers hovered over the third clasp for at least five seconds before I could regain composure. Throughout my four years of university, suitors flocked to me from every corner of campus, from the student union president to the basketball captain, the rich heirs, the academic stars, the artistic souls – every type imaginable. They praised my eyes, my hair, my skin, but not a single one of them ever touched me. It wasn't that I didn't want them to, but they simply didn't qualify to get close. I had established an invisible line around myself, a radius of one meter, and anyone who crossed it was out. They didn't know the line existed, but their instincts told them – this woman is not to be touched casually. And now, this voluminous garment was breaching that line, inch by inch. The third clasp was at the waist – the bodice cinched, pressing down on the six whalebone stays of the corset, pushing the already slender waist inward by another half an inch. I bit my lip as I fastened the remaining clasps, each one tightening the bodice a fraction more. The crimson, high-tensile fabric began to encase my torso from under the arms, inch by inch. By the time the last clasp was secured, the entire bodice had wrapped my torso from armpit to hip bone into a suffocating crimson cocoon. Then came the ribbons. Each of the twelve seams of the slip had a ribbon hanging from it, and the bodice of the voluminous garment had precise openings at corresponding points. I needed to thread the slip's ribbons through the openings in the bodice and then pull them taut and fasten them on the outside of the bodice. This action, which I had only tested for clasp strength by pinching the pearl buttons during the wedding dress inspection, was now happening to me – through four layers of fabric, reaching behind me to the back seams. I started with the three ribbons at the waist. These three ribbons needed to pass between my legs and fasten at the small of my back. I bent over – an action that was already difficult. The corset and the bodice pressed down on my abdomen, squeezing my stomach towards my chest as I bent, pushing my diaphragm upward, making each breath only half as deep as it should be. My right hand grasped the first ribbon dangling from the crotch and pulled it backward between my legs. The ribbon slid along the crotch of the silk underpants – precisely where the fine straps of the underpants were fastened, and also the opening at the bottom of the crotch of the bodysuit. The crotch openings of all four layers of fabric were concentrated in the same area, and I was now threading a ribbon through it. As the edge of the ribbon brushed against that damp spot, my knees nearly buckled onto the bed. It wasn't pain, but extreme sensitivity. That area had been rubbed by four layers of fabric for most of the evening, from the lace panties of the bodysuit to the fine strap opening of the silk underpants, from the slip's seam ribbon to the friction of my inner thighs as I bent over. Each layer had left a tactile fingerprint in that region, and now these fingerprints were being activated all at once by a single ribbon. Pleasure exploded from my crotch, traveling along my perineum to my tailbone, and then from my tailbone, along my spine, burning all the way to the back of my head. I braced myself on the edge of the bed and pulled the ribbon to the small of my back, found the pearl clasp on the outside of the bodice, aligned it, and pressed. "Snap." Then the second ribbon. "Snap." The third. "Snap." Each sound was like the striking of a chime in some ritual, announcing that my waist had been irrevocably locked. With the three ribbons passed between my legs and fastened at the small of my back, the voluminous garment and the silk slip formed three unyielding anchor points at my hips. I could twist my waist – about fifteen degrees, no more. Next were the ribbons on the sides of my thighs. I bent over again, pinched the ribbons dangling down the outside of my thighs, wrapped them around the bodice openings, pulled them taut, and fastened them. "Snap. Snap." My thighs were bound tightly together by two ribbons, leaving only a narrow gap between them. The ribbons above and below my knees. "Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap." My knees were secured by four ribbons. I tried to bend my knees – I could, but only to about thirty degrees. The two thickest ribbons at my ankles, the ones with a circle of pearls sewn around them. "Snap. Snap." My ankles were locked, the weight of the pearls pressing heavily on my anklebones. Ribbons crisscrossed her chest. "Snap. Snap. Snap." With each fastening, the corset cinched tighter, pressing the molded cups of the lace bra ever more firmly. Her nipples were continuously squeezed within the cups, the throbbing ache blurring the line between pleasure and pain. She suddenly recalled her college roommate, Xiao Yang, returning from her first night with her boyfriend. The other roommates had crowded around, demanding details. Xiao Yang, blushing, had said it hurt, but after the pain came an ineffable sensation, something that made her want to try again. At the time, she'd been lying on her bed with headphones on, pretending not to hear, though no music was playing. She'd heard every word. Xiao Yang said she wanted to try again. She didn't understand. Her conception of sex was a dirty transaction where two people exchanged bodily fluids, and she didn't need to make any transaction – she only needed to stand there, and someone would be willing to give her everything. So she didn't need sex. She didn't need pleasure. She didn't need anything that would make her lose control. But now, she stood in this wedding dress in the basement, her nipples aching unbearably, pressed by three layers of fabric, her core so wet it felt waterlogged, her waist cinched so tightly she could barely breathe, her knees bound so she couldn't walk. And she was adding more restraints. Ribbons along the sides of her arms. "Snap. Snap." Her upper arms were secured to the sides of the corset, her arms able to extend from the sleeves but not lift past her shoulders. She tried to raise her right hand – it was pulled back by the ribbons when it reached chest height. Lifting it over her head was even more impossible. All the ribbons were fastened. The pearl clasps formed two neat rows of white lines under the light, extending from her waist to her thighs, knees, ankles, chest, and arms. Each pearl was a keyhole at its center, and every keyhole was still empty. She straightened her back. The movement itself was arduous – three ribbons at her waist restricted her bending, the ribbons at her chest limited her deep breaths, and the ribbons at her knees required her to use her hands to push off her thighs for leverage with every inch she straightened. By the time she finally stood fully upright, a new sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead. The wide sleeves of the voluminous robe hung at her sides, their cuffs trailing to her knees. The golden peonies on the fabric gently rose and fell with her breath under the light. The vermilion silk wrapped around her body, phoenix tail feathers winding from her chest to the hem of the skirt. Every ribbon was stretched taut on the outside of the corset, the pearl clasps at their ends gleaming with a soft luster in the light. She tried to take a step. The ribbons at her knees restricted her stride to about twenty centimeters – she could only shuffle forward in tiny steps. The ribbons at her ankles made her deliberately maintain her balance with each step. The ribbons at her waist prevented her from swaying her hips to match her gait. The hem of the vermilion robe trailed behind her, rustling on the dark red carpet with every step. After only two steps, she was already panting. Sweat overflowed from the hollows of her collarbones, sliding down her cleavage and soaking into the upper edge of the waist-cinching belt, dampening the three layers of fabric: the plain silk inner garment, the sheer gauze underskirt, and the corset. Her back was soaked through – the double pressure of the waist belt and the corset kept her back muscles in constant tension, sweat trickling down the沟 of her spine, pooling in two small, warm, wet patches at the small of her back. The sweat on the inside of her thighs had directly soaked through four layers of fabric, leaving a faint, almost imperceptible wet mark on the ribbons. Her nipples ached as if trying to break free from the molded cups. The wetness between her legs had spread further than before; she could already feel it sticking to the bottom of her underwear, pulling at that slick, damp patch with every movement. She lowered her head to look at herself – the wide sleeves of the vermilion robe concealed the marks of the ribbons binding her arms. Golden peonies bloomed from her chest to the hem of her skirt. To an outsider, she would appear as a dignified bride in a magnificent Song Dynasty wedding gown. No one would know that beneath this layer of vermilion silk lay nearly twenty tightened ribbons and four layers of sweat-soaked undergarments. I propped myself up on the edge of the bed with my elbows, sitting upright again. This movement was almost impossible with the pressure of the corset and the silver belt – my abdominal muscles were completely useless in their post-orgasm fatigue, my waist was immobilized by the triple restraints, and the knee ribbons prevented me from using my thighs for leverage. I could only use my elbows to support myself on the bed, inching my center of gravity upwards, like a toppled stone pillar slowly re-erecting itself. Finally sitting upright, I looked down at my legs. A section of white seamed stockings peeked out from beneath the dark green skirt – the matte, high-density silk shimmered with a pearlescent sheen under the light, and the four silk ribbons adorned with pearls on my ankles were tightly bound around my ankle bones. The wetness on my inner thighs had already seeped through the plain silk underpants to the outer thighs, creating two very faint greyish patches on the white stockings. Those patches, visible and hidden beneath the skirt, expanded with every slight movement of my legs. I sat on the edge of the bed and moved my legs. My right leg shifted ten centimeters to the right – the stride chain taut, my left foot was pulled ten centimeters to the right. When my legs came together, the stockings on my inner thighs brushed against each other. Just once. But that single touch sent a jolt of electricity between my legs, surging up my inner thighs, to my tailbone, and then to the back of my head. My skin's sensitivity after the orgasm hadn't decreased; if anything, it had increased – the spasms just moments ago had activated every nerve ending, and now any slight touch was amplified several times its previous intensity. I bit my lip, my breathing becoming more constricted under the five-layered collar. I moved again – my left leg shifted five centimeters to the left, my right foot was pulled five centimeters to the left, the golden threads of the stride chain rustling distinctly in the quiet room. As my legs parted, the muscles on my inner thighs were gently stretched, and this movement caused the thin strap at the crotch of my underpants to re-dig into the edge of the opening at the bottom of my panties. This time it was just a light press – not a scrape, but a press – yet my post-orgasm body was so sensitive that even pressure made my inner thighs tremble. My abdominal muscles tightened again in the aftershocks of pleasure, and the corset and silver belt pressed against this contraction, trapping the pleasure within my abdominal cavity with nowhere to go, only to gather into a ball of damp heat at my waist. I brought my legs together again. The tender flesh of my inner thighs pressed tightly together under the double layer of stockings and underpants, the layers of fabric at the crotch becoming even more compressed, forming a tiny, hot, and humid enclosed space between my legs. Every slight movement of my legs caused the silk layers within this enclosed space to rearrange themselves – the stockings slid over the underpants, the underpants slid over the slip, the slip slid over the wide-sleeved gown, the wide-sleeved gown slid over the褙子 skirt, and the褙子 skirt slid over the dark green long gown. The five layers of skirts slid over each other beneath my thighs, and as the air was squeezed out between the silks, a very slight vacuum was created, which was then replaced by a new influx of cold air with the next movement – the air conditioning's cold air poured into the gaps between the skirts from above, meeting the body heat radiating from my inner thighs in the enclosed space, forming a layer of temperature difference, both cold and hot. The cold air, filtered by the silk, became softer, feeling like a fine mist washing over my inner thighs; the hot air, trapped by the silk, formed a tiny cloud of hot steam above the damp patch at the heart of my thighs. I lifted my right leg – the pointed toe of the embroidered shoe peeked out from under the skirt, the stride chain taut. The range of motion of the knee ribbons was limited to thirty degrees, my right lower leg swayed slightly in the air, and the skirt flipped up a few inches with the movement of my leg. The layers of silk instantly transformed from a hanging state to a folded state – the hem of the dark green long gown was lifted from the carpet, the brocade forming a very wide pleat at the fold, the entwined lotus pattern distorting into two different shades of light and shadow on either side of the pleat; the inner褙子 skirt was lifted by the outer skirt, a small section of crimson satin peeking out from beneath the dark green brocade; the hem of the wide-sleeved gown followed, the gap between the vermilion brocade and the crimson satin pierced by the light; the hem of the slip was finally lifted, the plain gauze as thin as a moon just pulled from the water. The four layers of skirts were lifted sequentially by the same leg-lifting motion, the sliding between the silks amplified in that instant – each layer slid against the inner side of the layer above it as it was lifted, the rustling sound of four layers of silk sliding simultaneously being louder, denser, and more prolonged than a single layer. Then, as the leg was lowered, the four layers of skirts fell back into place sequentially – the slip fell first, the wide-sleeved gown covered the slip, the褙子 covered the wide-sleeved gown, and the dark green long gown finally covered everything. As the leg was lowered, the sole of the embroidered shoe gently tapped the surface of the other embroidered shoe, the pointed toes touching, the vermilion silk cord of the stride chain swung in a small arc in the air, falling silently onto the dark red carpet. I lowered my leg. The double embroidered shoes sat side-by-side on the carpet, the dark green skirt once again covering the vermilion shoe tips. The pearl chain swayed under the skirt, producing a very faint metallic jingle. The sound was so light it was almost inaudible, but in the extreme quiet after the orgasm, it was like the tip of a needle falling onto porcelain, pinging once, then again. I just sat there. I just moved my legs twice. Through seven layers of wedding dress, through seamed stockings, through plain silk underpants, through plain gauze slip, through everything that could separate – every inch of my skin was still slowly cooling down from the storm just moments ago. My nipples ached with fullness, my inner thighs were thoroughly wet, the skin where the corset and silver belt cinched my waist was hot and numb, the pearl ribbons on my ankles pressed against the thinnest tendon on the inside of my ankle bone, and every slight turn of my ankle made the pearl beads roll half a circle over the tendon – as a pearl rolled over the tendon, my waist would tighten, as if an invisible silk thread connected my ankle to my waist. I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs together, my hands clasped in front of my waist, the wide dark green sleeves covering the backs of my hands and revealing only my fingertips. The tassels of the hairpins on my high bun were still swaying gently, the tail of the golden hairpin peeking out from the side of my bun, revealing the tip of a peony bud. The bride in the mirror sat under the crystal chandelier, her skirt trailing from the edge of the bed to the dark red carpet. She was quiet. Dignified. Precious. Every layer of silk still clung to its place – and wouldn't loosen. The weight of the wedding dress pressed on her shoulders, the corset and belt cinched her waist, the ribbons under her crotch tightened and sprang back when she occasionally crossed her legs, and the keyholes hidden in the center of those pearl buttons remained empty. And within her body, the aftershocks of that storm were still spreading. They might continue for a long time. And she sat there, wrapped in seven layers of wedding dress, bound by nearly twenty ribbons, tethered by the stride chain, supported by five layers of collar – having touched the deepest, most secret, and most unknowable switch within her own body for the first time in those few minutes. A smirk curved my lips from beneath the veil. Not a smile – a smug delight. Yes, the kind of smug delight you feel when you know you're protected by all the rules, but are imagining them all dissolving. The student council president would be so nervous he couldn't even hold his ceremonial scarf steady, the basketball captain would feign composure but his ears would be flushed crimson, the rich heir would put on a show of nonchalance but his fingers would be trembling – none of them deserved the me I was right now. But that didn't stop me from savoring the moment they were utterly undone by this appearance. This face, this body, this wedding dress, combined – it was enough to incite criminal urges. And I knew it, reveled in it, and never needed to apologize for it. I opened my eyes, the dark red behind the veil flaring to life again. Then I lowered my head – not with my neck, the five layers of collar locked it in place, preventing any downward tilt. With my eyes, I rolled my gaze downwards, past the edge of the veil, to the hands resting on my lap. The ceremonial scarf still lay by my pillow, its three feet of silk cord coiled into several loops, the golden peony knots at each end resting side-by-side on the edge of the silk pillowcase. I had already tested the clasps on both my wrists – pressing the release tab to open, then snapping them shut. I repeated this several times, confirming I could release myself with one hand at any moment. Apart from the slight difficulty in opening, which required finding the seam of the leather flap behind the knot and prying it open with a fingernail to push the silver release tab outwards, taking about ten seconds – everything else was fine. The clasps themselves weren't dangerous; the danger lay in the keyholes. As long as no tiny padlock was inserted into the keyhole, this mechanism was merely a temporary restraint requiring finger dexterity to undo, not a permanent one. I picked up the ceremonial scarf, the silk cord coiling a few times in my palm, the peony knots at each end dangling outside my fingers. The left hand went in first – my wrist resting on the soft lambskin padding, my right hand flipping the leather flap over my hand, pressing the release tab inwards. "Click," the silver clasp snapped shut. The lambskin padding felt soft and warm against my wrist bone, the leather flap enclosing the back of my hand, not constricting, but impossible to pull free – my wrist could rotate slightly within the clasp, but my hand couldn't be pulled out. Then I snapped my right hand into the other peony knot – the same motion, the same "click." My hands were now connected by this three-foot-long scarlet silk cord. The middle section of the cord was about two feet long, enough for me to bring my hands from in front of me to my chest, enough to lift a wine glass, enough to hand the other end of the scarf to someone else – if that someone existed. If that someone existed. I placed my hands flat on my lap, the silk cord of the scarf forming a very slight arc between them, the peony knots at each end resting side-by-side against the outer sides of my wrists. The wide, dark green sleeves covered my entire forearms, revealing only my fingertips and the three-foot-long scarlet silk cord between them. The veil obscured my view of my hands, but I could feel them there – shackled, resting side-by-side on the dark green skirt. Then the latter half of that fantasy suddenly replayed in my mind. If there was truly someone at the other end of the scarf – not just one person, not those fools who had pursued me, but the one who designed this wedding dress. He knew the location of every keyhole, and held the keys to them all. He would pick up the other end of the scarf, the peony knot in his hand, and then give a gentle tug – and I would be pulled forward. Then he would take out those tiny padlocks from his pocket, one by one, and thread them through the keyholes on my body: first the buckle on the shoe, then the pearl ribbon on my ankle, then my knees, then my thighs, then the pure silver belt at my waist, then the hidden clasp of the phoenix crown, then the silver clasp of the veil and the silver thread clasp of the face veil, and finally, he would lock the keyholes on the clasps of the scarf. Thirty-eight locks, each clicking shut with a "clack." In those thirty-eight "clacks," I would transform from a woman who could free herself into a permanent wearer of a completely locked wedding dress. Unable to see, unable to speak, unable to walk, unable to reach out, unable to undress myself. Only to be led by him – pull the other end of the scarf left, and I would move left; pull it right, and I would move right. Where I was going, I wouldn't know; how long I would walk, I wouldn't know; when I would stop, I wouldn't know. I took a deep breath from beneath the veil. The alcohol was still flowing slowly through my veins, the half-glass of red wine I’d downed hadn’t fully metabolized yet, my face was flushed, my nipples were hard, my core was wet, and the alcohol had softened a layer of my cerebral cortex, lowering my defenses. This fantasy – being locked into a wedding dress by another person, being led by a scarf – if I were sober, I would probably toss it into the "truly perverted" folder and close it. But I wasn't sober now. It was past midnight, I was in my wedding dress, veiled, hands shackled, sitting on the wedding bed, I had just orgasmed from the sight of my own feet in my embroidered shoes, and this suite was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of silk. In this environment, the fantasy of "being led away" began to feel incredibly vivid. As stimulating as it was, no one was coming. The front door was locked, the back door was locked, all doors and windows had been checked during patrols. Sister Chen was singing with Xiao Zhou and the others at the KTV. The boss I had never met was in Europe – whether he was in the country or not, whether he had the key or not, he wouldn't appear outside this door. I had opened this door myself, tied these ribbons myself, decided to wear this veil myself, and snapped this scarf onto my wrists myself. No one had forced me at any point. So even if I locked both my hands into the scarf, no one else would pick up the other end. So the thirty-eight locks would forever remain a fantasy. So I was safe. Safe, free, and immersed in the restraints I had created with my own hands. The feeling in my feet was no better. My toes were curled inside the embroidered shoes, the silk stocking soles slick and tight against the insoles. The shoe uppers hugged my insteps, the twin lotus embroidered in vermilion pressing against my toes, both a discomfort and an itch. Four pearl ribbons around my ankles left faint marks, and the stride chain dangled heavily between the shoes, its links cool against my anklebones. I wanted to wiggle my toes to loosen them—but the moment I moved, the stockings would slip inside the shoes, the pearls would grind against my anklebones, and a tingling sensation would crawl up my calves. I didn't even own my feet anymore. The alarm was still blaring. Beep, beep, beep. Time ticked by. I started to calculate. How long would it take to remove this wedding dress? First, the gold hairpins—two, the one running through my bun, and the one tucked beside the crown; then, the phoenix crown's hidden clasps—six or seven, unfastened one by one; then, the veil—five fastenings, hidden inside the crown's base, which I'd already tried and couldn't reach; then, the wrist ties—these I could undo, the buckle tongue on the inside, reachable by my thumb, but it required two hands working together, one to hold the leather flap, the other to push the buckle tongue, and my hands were bound by the same three-foot silk rope, unable to maneuver; then, the bodysuit—twelve hooks, all in the back, my hands couldn't reach; then, the corset—six whalebone stays, requiring the two side ties to be undone first, then the stays to be pulled out of their casings one by one; then, the ribbons—nearly twenty, at the waist, thighs, knees, ankles, chest, arms, one by one, some tied, some fastened with silver rings; finally, the shoes—the shoe opening ribbons laced through silver rings, the four pearl ribbons at the ankles, plus the stride chain. All in all, the fastest would be half an hour, and that's if my hands were steady, my mind clear, and I worked without interruption. But my heart was pounding faster than the alarm. Half an hour. But he had already entered the shop. From the entrance to the lobby, from the lobby down the stairs, from the stairs to the corridor, to B3-07—at a fast pace, five to six minutes. There was simply not enough time. I, Su Tangyin, never fought a battle unprepared, but for this battle, I had put on my armor backward—no, I wasn't wearing armor at all, I was wearing a wedding dress, the most magnificent, and the most impossible to remove dress in the world. I was getting anxious. Truly anxious. I twisted my body, trying to break free from the restraints, first attempting to slide the wrist ties off my wrists—my wrists were clasped by silver buckles, I rotated my wrists, once, twice, the buckles didn't budge, but the skin on the inside of my wrists was being rubbed red; I arched my back, trying to reach the hooks behind me, my fingers fumbling through seven layers of fabric on my back, unable to reach, far from it; I braced my feet, trying to shake off the embroidered shoes, my toes curling tightly inside, but the shoes felt like they were part of my feet, unmoving, only the stride chain jingled. And then—the moment I twisted my body—a shiver ran through me. The wedding dress brushed against me. The wide sleeves of the dark green, long-sleeved robe slid across my forearms, the plain gauze slip rustled against my waist and abdomen, the three silk ribbons beneath my crotch tightened and loosened with my movements, the lace of the bodysuit's cutouts chafed my nipples through the plain silk undergarment—the sensitivity accumulated throughout the night ignited like dry tinder from this friction. I froze, afraid to move. But I couldn't stay still either—the alarm was ringing, someone was coming, I had to move, I had to get out of this dress. I bit my lip, continuing to twist, to struggle—the more I struggled, the more the silk rubbed; the more I twisted, the tighter the slip clung; every time I arched my back, every time I braced my legs, every time I turned my wrists, the seven layers of the wedding dress slid with me like a docile snake, brushing against my collarbone, my waist, my inner thighs, sending electric currents exploding from the points of contact, converging towards my core. My body, at this critical moment, began to heat up, soften, and burn. I was trying to escape, yet my body was becoming aroused. "To have this happen now! What's wrong with my body!" I cursed inwardly, gritting my teeth. It wasn't my fault; it was the fault of that ancient red wine, the fault of those damned things woven into the plain gauze slip, the fault of this wedding dress that had explored me from the inside out. When had I, Su Tangyin, ever been so embarrassed? When had my body, Su Tangyin's body, ever taken matters into its own hands? But curses aside, the tingling had spread past my waist, past my chest, to my fingertips. I struggled to stand, but my legs gave out first, the embroidered shoes making soft rustling sounds on the brocade quilt, the stride chain tightening with a jingle, its links clinking, a clear sound in the gaps of the alarm. I knew I couldn't stop it—I, Su Tangyin, had never fought against my own body, because my body had always obeyed me. But tonight, from the moment I put on this wedding dress, it had stopped obeying me. ...Fine. Since I can't stop it, I'll enjoy it. I closed my eyes—it was red either way under the veil. I relaxed my body, letting the current explode from my core to the top of my head, my entire body arching on the brocade quilt like a drawn bow, then melting like water. This climax came swiftly and left just as quickly, like a slap, loud, crisp, and unexpected—as if someone with a stopwatch had deliberately chosen this critical moment to deliver the final blow. I bit my lip, swallowing my last gasp, my fingernails digging into my palms, the tassels of the phoenix crown still swaying by my ears, the pearl strings tapping my earlobes, clinking and clanging, as chaotic as my heartbeat. The alarm was still ringing. Beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep. I lay on the brocade quilt, hearing my own ragged breaths echo under the veil, muffled, hot, and damp, like a bird trapped in a red cage. The climax passed, and I lay sprawled on the brocade quilt, gasping for air, my fingernails digging into my palms. The alarm continued to blare, beep, beep, beep, like a saw sawing back and forth across my nerves. I lay there, with only one thought repeating in my mind: I couldn't take off this wedding dress. I couldn't remove the phoenix crown, couldn't lift the veil, couldn't untie the wrist ties, couldn't kick off the embroidered shoes, the bodysuit's hooks were behind my back, unreachable by myself—and now, the alarm was ringing, someone was coming, and I didn't even have a scrap of cloth to cover myself. I, Su Tangyin, felt the word "escape" closer and farther away than ever before in my life. I almost burst out laughing. My hand loosened, the veil falling, and I immediately reached up to pull off the headdress – my fingertips brushed the hem of the dark floral silk, cool and soft. A little higher, and I could feel the clasp of the phoenix coronet’s base. If I took off the veil, I could see him, see the door, see who this person was who had thrown me onto the bed— My hand was caught. From the side, a hand, a single hand, gripped my wrist. The force wasn't great, but it was irresistible, like an iron clamp holding me, pulling my hand away from the edge of the veil, drawing it back. I struggled desperately, my fingers flailing in the air, my fingertips grazing the silk, the tassels, the pearls—I couldn't reach it, couldn't reach it, just an inch short, an inch—then, my hand was shoved back into the clasp of the veil. Click. Another sound. Immediately after, there was the sound of metal colliding. Very faint, very light, like a keychain jingling in his fingers, or like two pieces of iron clinking against each other. In the silence between my gasps, it was as clear as a needle piercing my eardrum. Then I heard—click. Click. Two sounds, one on the left, one on the right, crisp, cold, right against my wrist bone. At the same time, two cold metal objects pressed against my wrist bone. Locks. I felt them. Two locks, hanging from the clasps on my wrists, cold, smooth, heavy. The shackle passed through the keyhole of the clasp, closing perfectly, the body of the lock pressing against my wrist bone, so cold it made me shiver. My hands froze in mid-air, my fingertips slowly growing numb. It was over. Everything was over. I desperately tried to pry open the two locks—my fingernails dug into the gap between the shackle and the body of the lock, and I used all my strength to pull outwards. The locks didn't budge; I tried to press the release tab of the clasp, but the tab was pressed down so tightly by the shackle that even after ten, twenty attempts, my nails hurting, it didn't move at all. I pulled, I tugged, I tore my hands in opposite directions, the veil stretching taut, the crimson silk rope digging into the flesh of my wrists, the two locks clanging against each other on my wrists—the locks held fast, and I couldn't break free. The mechanism was completely secured. Not a clasp, not a buckle, but real locks. Two real locks, securing my hands, which had just managed to free one, back into the veil. My hands were completely locked. I lay on the wedding bed, gasping for breath, cold sweat seeping from my forehead, back, and neck, soaking the silk lining of the veil, soaking the inner lining of the dark green, wide-sleeved robe. Sweat trickled down my temples, into my collar, into the gap between the waist cincher and my skin, cool and chilling me to the bone. The phoenix coronet pressed down on my head, the veil covered my face, my hands were locked in front of me by two locks, my feet were bound by a stride chain, my body was wrapped in nearly twenty silk ribbons, the waist cincher tightened my waist, the silver belt locked my abdomen, and the embroidered shoes were on my feet—I counted the restraints on myself, from head to toe, inside and out, there was nothing I could undo myself. That moment when my hand was almost free was the closest I had ever been to freedom. And now, even that was locked away. I hadn't even had time to get a good look at the room—no, I hadn't seen it clearly even a few times. All my struggles had happened within a sea of red. Then came a thought, colder than fear, like ice water, pouring down my spine to the soles of my feet: I was completely locked into this wedding dress. The coronet locked my head, the veil locked my face, the veil locked my hands, the waist cincher locked my waist, the ribbons locked my limbs, the embroidered shoes locked my feet, the stride chain locked my steps—and the most terrifying thing was, I didn't know how many more locks he had in his hand. This wedding dress had far more places with keyholes than just the two on my wrists. And I couldn't even move a finger, only lie on this wedding bed and await my fate. I heard him walk to the side of the bed and stop. The mattress dipped slightly—he sat down, or perhaps just leaned on the edge of the bed. Then, the sound of metal colliding—very small, very light, like a set of keys jingling in his hand. He had other locks. And I, I couldn't even move a finger. Eighteen clicks. Four for the phoenix coronet, five for the veil, two for the lapels, two for the waist sides, two for the knees, two for the ankles, one for the embroidered shoes—eighteen pearl buttons, eighteen tiny locks, *click, click, click*, like a string of beads, dropping one by one into ice water. I counted the *clicks*, one, two, three... By the eighteenth click, my tears finally fell. Those keyholes I once thought were mere decoration, those I had traced with my fingertips, mocking their redundancy—now, each was filled with a key. This wedding gown, from the phoenix coronet to the embroidered shoes, was no longer loose anywhere. I was like a butterfly pinned into a display case, its wings pierced by silver needles, unable to fly again. I thought that was the end. But it wasn't. He walked up to me, bent down, and reached for my waist—his fingertips, through the dark green silk, pressed against the center of my abdomen, where the pure silver filigree clasp was, its keyhole aligned with my navel. My whole body tensed, wanting to dodge, but unable to; wanting to curse, but my throat felt stuffed with cotton, unable to squeeze out a single word. His fingers held the tiny lock, aligning it with the keyhole—the icy metal touched my skin, and through layers of fabric, I could still feel the chill seeping in from my navel, like a tiny snake, burrowing all the way to my heart—*click*. The final sound, the lock bar closing, the silver clasp at my waist completely secured. But he still didn't stop. His hand, along the open collar of my front, reached inside. I felt his fingertips push aside the edge of the dark green, wide-sleeved robe, push aside the crimson under-robe, push aside the vermilion wide-sleeved shirt, push aside the plain gauze slip, push aside the plain silk chemise—one layer, two layers, three layers, four layers, five layers—his hand slid down, brushing against my chest, his fingertips grazing my collarbone, grazing my stiffening nipples—I arched my back violently, trying to push him away: "What are you doing—!" But the corset cinched me, the silver belt locked me, and my arched back was pressed down again, falling heavily onto the brocade quilt, bouncing slightly, then sinking in. His hand didn't stop. His fingertips, on the white lace bodysuit against my skin, found a hidden clasp—there was a keyhole there too, a tiny one, hidden within the lace pattern, like a thorn nestled in the heart of a flower. I had inspected this wedding gown, inspected every layer, every mechanism, but I had somehow missed the innermost garment—or rather, I had thought the innermost garment would be free of mechanisms. I had thought it would be my last piece of personal space. I was wrong. I had been wrong from the very beginning. He took the last key from his keychain—the smallest one, more exquisite than all the others, its body no bigger than a fingernail, gleaming silver—aligned it with the keyhole, twisted it in, and tightened. *Click*. That sound came from the deepest part of my body. Against my skin, against my heartbeat, against the intimate apparel that only I in the whole world knew about, it rang out. With that sound, all the strength drained from my body, and suddenly, even the thought of struggling vanished. I finally understood that this wedding gown, from five years ago, was not just a dress—it was a cage, a cage meticulously crafted for five years to my exact measurements, my preferences, the shape of every inch of my skin. And tonight, I had walked into it myself, put it on layer by layer, fastened it mechanism by mechanism, and personally closed the door from the inside. Then, he leaned down, his mouth close to my ear—through the veil's gauze, his breath brushed against my earlobe, warm, puffing, puffing. I froze, my breathing stopped. He spoke, his voice very soft, very slow, with a hint of a languid smile, as if saying something trivial: "No one would have guessed that beneath this grand attire, your core is so... intimate." My mind exploded with a "buzz." Intimate. He said my core was intimate. He knew, he knew everything—knew that beneath the dignified dark green lay lace and garter stockings, knew what I was wearing underneath, knew where the keyhole of my innermost garment was—he even knew that as he applied this final lock, the untimely tingling between my legs, the tingling that his fingers had elicited through five layers of fabric, had not yet subsided. Shame and anger surged together, and I gritted my teeth, forcing out through my clenched jaw: "Shut up—! You... you're disgusting!" He said nothing more. He straightened up, took two steps back, and stood still. I felt his gaze on me—from head to toe, inch by inch, sweeping over the phoenix coronet, over the veil, over every fold of the dark green robe, over the silver lock at my waist, over the eighteen pearl buttons, over my core hidden beneath layers of fabric and secured by the final tiny lock—as if admiring a newly completed work of art. Silence. A long, prolonged silence. Even the alarm seemed to have stopped—at some point, the beeping had vanished, and the room was so quiet that only my heavy breaths and his steady breathing could be heard. I lay on the wedding bed, gasping for air, tears still flowing. The phoenix coronet locked my head, the veil veiled my face, eighteen tiny locks secured the outer layers, a clasp at my waist secured my belt, two locks at my wrists secured my hands, and the innermost one—locked my core. I suddenly understood the true design of this wedding gown: it was never seven independent garments, but a single entity. The ribbons emerged from the innermost bodysuit, passed through the plain silk chemise, through the plain gauze slip, through the vermilion wide-sleeved shirt, through the under-robe, all the way to the outermost dark green wide-sleeved robe; the keyholes, from the innermost to the outermost, were strung together by the same mechanism—locking the inside locked the outside; locking the outside also sealed the inside. From inside to out, from skin to silk, all connected by mechanisms into a single whole, one link after another, interlocking, making it impossible for anyone to detach any single link. And now, this entire entity had locked me inside. From head to toe, from inside to out, from skin to silk, there was not an inch of looseness to be found. I struggled, tore, kicked, cursed, cried—but now, I lay on this wedding bed, like a treasure wrapped and locked layer by layer, unable to move a single finger, unable to shed a single tear audibly. The phoenix coronet pressed down on my head, the veil covered my face, the locks rested against my wrist bones, the silver clasp pressed against my navel, and the smallest lock, deep within my heart—beneath the lace lingerie, against my heartbeat, *thump, thump*—declared a fact: from this moment on, within and without, top to bottom, not an inch of this wedding gown belonged to me anymore. Now, I was completely locked within this incomparably beautiful wedding gown.