【Crimson Blood - Sequel - No. 6】Author: anyifang1

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Author: anyifang1
Words: 51946
00. "Mr. Zhao, she won't die, will she?"
"Dead? Of course she won't die. She won't have any obvious external injuries or disabilities. If she's seriously
injured, I'll take care of getting her to the hospital. I've already said all that," Zhao Mou said, pointing to the paper on the small table.
"It's also written in the contract."
"I'm just worried."
"Don't worry, I'm just keeping the item safe for you. Since you paid, I naturally won't damage it.
But since it's safekeeping, it's normal for there to be some mishaps or damage during packing, moving, and transportation,
right?"
"Yes, yes..."
"While she's alive, she's an item; but if she's dead, legally speaking, she's still a person."
Zhao Mou wasn't good at remembering names, so he silently gave the person a nickname based on her features: "Bald Head."
Bald Head was about fifty years old, his head was completely bald, not a single hair on it,
not even a beard or eyebrows. Compared to ordinary baldness, he was even shinier. According to the acquaintance who introduced him, this bald man
had indulged in excessive sexual activity in his youth and now suffered from diabetes, resulting in hormonal imbalances. He had lost almost all the hair on his body
, and "even his penis is impotent!" No matter how beautiful the woman, he simply couldn't get an erection.
Watching him agree and sign the contract, Zhao Mou couldn't help but wonder: Did he even have nose hairs?
After signing, the bald man kicked the woman kneeling at his feet and said, "Mr. Zhao, I'm entrusting her to
you."
"Don't worry, I'll definitely keep her safe. I'll show you the room later." Then he shifted his chair and
turned to the kneeling woman: "Take it off."
The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties, with delicate features and a refined, demure air.
Her face was round but not large; at first glance, she was pleasing to the eye, and after a while, she became quite attractive. Stripped of her shirt, Zhao Mou observed that the woman
had no excess fat, prominent collarbones, and a flat chest like her abdomen, but her skin was delicate and smooth,
fair with a rosy glow, not a sign of malnutrition. The woman slowly pulled down her pants, glancing timidly
at Zhao Mou.
According to the bald man, he had disciplined this woman at home for several months, and the thin calluses on her knees confirmed his words
. Zhao Mou glanced at her again, thinking: "Kneeling for months and still going out in pants and underwear—this
level of improper discipline is quite something."
Once the woman was naked, Zhao Mou took out a black leather collar with a steel chain and silver trim, placing it around her neck. He then
took a small steel lock from his pocket and locked the collar. He hung one key on a long keychain and gave the other to
the bald man.
"I'll show you the room," he said, tugging at the steel chain and standing up from the chair.
He glanced at the woman beside him and said, "You, don't get up, crawl." The woman, who had been
about to get up, obediently crawled back down after Zhao Mou's command.
The three of them, two walking and one crawling, entered a corridor. The corridor had dark-colored glass on both sides,
with doors framed in aluminum at short intervals, the same glass as the corridor.
Looking behind the glass, each door revealed a person of varying shapes,
all naked except for the identical black leather collars around their necks. Some doors were empty; the bald man peered
through the glass and could even see the crowds flowing on the street outside.
"This room is yours," Zhao Mou said, pushing open a glass door and leading the bald man into a
small room with dark-colored glass on all sides. Although the glass was dark, the reflections were incredibly
clear, even more so than a mercury-coated mirror.
He pulled the woman in from outside and waved her in, saying, "Sit down." The woman covered her chest with her hands and
sat down with her legs together. Zhao Mou was very dissatisfied with her reaction. He kicked her, fastened the
steel chain around her neck to an iron ring on the south wall of the room, and then took out the key to the steel lock and locked the ring.
He squatted down, pointed to the engraving on the small lock on the neck ring, and said, "This lock is yours from now on." Then he
casually flipped through the contract and found that the bald man had written the woman's name very scribbledly, making it illegible. He shook his head and
said, "Here, you are number six."
01. The east wall of cubicle number six was transparent, allowing a view of number four next door. Because the number four was
considered unlucky and no one liked to use it, Zhao Mou used it as a small storage room. "That's normal," Zhao Mou explained.
"When you bought the apartment, you didn't like living on the fourth floor. Many hotels don't have rooms with the X04 designation. It's a tradition."
Then he took Number Six to the bathhouse, to Number Fourteen's small cubicle. Inside, there was a shower head and a faucet
connected to a small sink. Zhao Mou told the master and slave that this was where the goods in the cubicle were replenished and drained, all in one sink
. "All the cubicles are connected. This one is always open; it's running water." The bald man nodded,
seemingly quite satisfied. Zhao Mou placed Number Six on a shelf, propping up her lower abdomen and elevating her anus. He took out
a large syringe, about the thickness of a child's arm, filled it with water, and added a few pills,
turning the water a grayish-blue color. Zhao Mou then inserted a rubber anal plug into Number Six's anus, attached a disposable
needle to the syringe, and turned to the bald man, saying, "Don't worry, this is all imported enema medicine, antibacterial and aphrodisiac.
I guarantee the hygiene here. You bring me a person with a health certificate, and I return a healthy
person. Those group sex stories you see online where everyone gets sick together, you definitely won't find that here." As he
spoke, he inserted the syringe into the rubber plug, pushing it all the way in, and all the water was injected. Number Six felt excruciating pain. This place
was usually all out, and even when it did go in, it was only a few times. She had never experienced so much water before; it felt like the water was being pushed back into her stomach.
She was truly unprepared and felt so uncomfortable that she almost cried. She wanted to stop before it even started. But then she
thought of something else, gritted her teeth, and endured it. A moment later, Zhao Mou gestured for the bald man to leave the vicinity of Number Six,
flipped the shelf over so that Number Six's anus was facing a bucket on the ground, and said, "Take it off yourself."
Number Six then laboriously pulled out the plug, and water gushed out like a burst dam, along with a jumble of messy things, like...
The brown color made it impossible to discern the original color of the medicine; only corn, enoki mushrooms, and vegetable leaves could be identified
. Number Six was convulsing, her face covered in tears.
Zhao Mou administered another syringe of water, saying, "You don't need to feed her anymore. I'll take care of everything here
. Even at home, it's best to only eat the food I provide." He did it again, this time the water largely retained
the original color of the medicine.
The third time, he used clear water; it went in and came out clear water, cleaning both the inside and outside.
"This is the standard procedure; we do this every morning," Zhao Mou explained. He carried Number Six back to
the compartment. The bald man said the driver would pick them up in the afternoon, showed Zhao Mou the driver's photo, and left.
After seeing the bald man off, Zhao Mou began preparing lunch for the goods. The food in the small compartment was quite good
; the goods even had a menu to mark up. Number Six was slightly surprised when she saw the menu;
someone had actually asked for her opinion before eating. She glanced at Zhao Mou, a questioning look on her face.
Zhao Mou nodded, and she lowered her hand from her groin, starting to look at the menu, her legs unconsciously
tightening slightly.
Zhao Mou saw her leaning against the west wall and couldn't help but chuckle softly. He kicked the woman away, pushed the west wall, and the glass
flipped around the central metal rod. He pushed the east wall, and the glass flipped again, now making
the wall separating them from cubicle four a mirror, revealing the scene inside cubicle eight clearly. As the glass rotated
, number six saw a pale figure next door. Looking closely through the glass, he saw a very young
girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, also completely naked, with empty eyes, hands hanging limply, sitting quietly in the corner
. Number six then realized that all four walls of the cubicle were made of transparent glass, only the side glass could rotate
.
After everyone had ordered, Zhao Mou tidied up the menus and casually tossed them into the shredder. He then grabbed a box of
dog biscuits and a box of cat food cans and distributed them randomly in each compartment. Both the biscuits and canned food were imported, top-quality
. Zhao Mou had even tasted some himself. Objectively speaking, the taste was quite good, but Zhao Mou didn't want to be too
specific; as long as it didn't kill anyone, it was fine. After all, emotionally speaking, this wasn't food for humans.
The reason Zhao Mou fed the goods this was simply because he didn't want to feed them human food.
"Can't things have thoughts? That's not right. Things do have thoughts, it's just that people don't care about them
." Zhao Mou always told the owners of these goods, "Of course you can't stop things from having thoughts, you
can't control them, and it's not wrong to give them a chance to express themselves, it's up to you. But when things happen, you still
have to act according to your own ideas."
A bell rang, and Number Six watched as the girl sitting next to her opened her biscuits and canned food, and started eating on the ground
. Zhao Mou didn't provide them with utensils; she ate with her hands. She thought: This isn't food for humans. She pushed them
away and never looked at them again.
When the meal bell rang, Zhao Mou came to check on Number Six. He found that she hadn't eaten anything and didn't say anything, so he took away the plate.
He fastened six clips to the metal rod between the east and west walls, wrapped a thick hemp rope around Number Six's arm
, tied it into a knot, passed it through the four iron rings near the top of the rod, and then pulled hard, suspending Number Six in
mid-air.
As he tied her up, he pointed to the girl next door and said, "That's mine. Every time a new girl comes,
I put her in number eight, just to make business better. I specialize in this; I started doing it right after graduating from university.
I've seen plenty of people who don't eat; they're the easiest to deal with." He also tied ropes to number six's feet, then tied them to the two iron
rings below, spreading her legs wide so her body was hanging in the air in a starfish shape, with all the weight on her arms.
Zhao Mou took out two small clips with bells from his pocket and clipped them to number six's nipples. "Anyway, this food is still yours
; you have to eat it." He tugged at the clips, and number six's body shrank, confirming that the teeth on the clips
were clamped tight.
"He said you're also a college student—of course, that doesn't matter to me—so you can definitely understand
me. But here, you're not allowed to speak except when I tell you to stop. If you say one word, you'll
regret it." He said this, then pulled a bell-shaped anal plug from his pocket and inserted it into number six's anus
.
Finally, he pulled out a roll of anti-static tape and a large vibrator, securing the vibrator
to his inner thigh with tape, pressing it against his vulva. He pressed a switch, and the bell on the woman's body rang loudly. Zhao Mou nodded
, wrapped several more layers of tape around her, and... The can of biscuits was opened, placed between the woman's legs, and the man clapped his hands before leaving.
The vibrating dizzy woman quickly became aroused, her
whole body trembling. Her face flushed, and she bit her lip, as if struggling against the demon within her
. But with her feet dangling in the air and no support for her limbs, her struggles were powerless. Not only could she not break free from the tape
and rope, but the fine fibers of the rope pierced her skin even more, intensifying the pain almost a hundredfold.
Suddenly, the vibrating dilution stopped, and the ringing subsided. Although the woman was panting heavily... Her chest heaved with each breath
, but it wasn't as loud and rapid as the spasmodic trembling she'd felt earlier. Then she felt a sudden
emptiness between her legs, as if a piece of flesh had been ripped out. She vaguely hoped the vibrating thing would return. Then it
actually started moving, as if it understood her desires. She was suddenly terrified, wondering if Zhao Mou had really
implanted some kind of chip in her brain to read her thoughts. She thought of her boyfriends from university, holding
their little toys, hurriedly showering and flirting in a seventy-yuan, four-hour hotel room—a whole
night... She could buy a whole box of condoms (thirty-six, two each time) for ten yuan each. The chip in her mind,
controlling her thoughts, vibrated in waves, as if a motor was driving
her body to glide at 25,000 times per minute. Except for the rope binding her arms, she practically floated,
convulsing in mid-air like a stunt pilot.
She had to deal with their small but vigorous energy, and also time it perfectly to get back to the dormitory before it closed,
otherwise she'd get a scolding from the dormitory auntie. So her skill at faking orgasms was practically masterful. But this time, that vibration…
The vibrations gave her no chance to feign, wave after wave arriving just when she most desired them, yet
failing to stop when she most wanted to. Her defenses were utterly torn apart by the violent vortexes and air currents high in the air
. Whether she bit the inside of her mouth or her lips, these minor pains were almost useless
. Like a drowning person clinging to a branch, she knew she was resisting, but
didn't know how or what she was resisting. How could one resist the body's instinctive reaction?
Thinking this, she lost consciousness.
Coming back to her senses, she remembered the soft cotton rope at home, and felt it was almost heaven. The bell was still ringing
, but after the first climax, the pain seemed much less intense. The vibrations were still there, of course, but
the soreness throughout her body left her powerless to resist, silently suspended in the air.
The girl next door was also hanging in mid-air, except that beneath her was a drill-shaped object,
with a protruding plastic rod attached to the drill bit.
Number Six, of course, had no time to carefully observe the girl. She was preoccupied with her own needs; wave after
wave of orgasms had caused her private parts to leak copious amounts of fluid, soaking the floor beneath her and saturating the canned food and biscuits
.
The vibration lasted for about half an hour before stopping. The ringing also gradually ceased. A few minutes later, Zhao Mou entered
, ripped off the anti-static tape, wiped the fluid from the woman's thighs with a cloth, changed the batteries in the vibrator, and re-
tied it. He looked at the floor and said, "So thin and yet so much fluid." He lifted Number Six's head, pried open her eyelids
to look, then opened her mouth and reached inside to feel. After confirming she wasn't dehydrated, he pressed the
switch again.
This was repeated five or six times before Zhao Mou finally released the woman. She lay limp on the floor
, her legs covered in melted biscuit fluid. Zhao Mou then grabbed one end of the rope and shook it violently a few times,
causing the rope to fall off her body. The rough hemp rope pricked her, making her tremble uncontrollably. He squatted down, pinched the woman's chin,
and said, "Today is only the first day. Your neighbor, number eight, has been like this for years."
"I'll reiterate, you can stop anytime. I've already written it very clearly in the contract, and
I've told you everything clearly." He said, removing the woman's collar. "If you can't stand it, tell
me, and I'll take you back."
"But I also want to tell you, you were born this way. I'm not training you; I'm developing your
nature."
He scooped up the canned food and biscuits on the ground and put them in a plastic lunchbox. Cat food soaked in oil,
dog food biscuits, and vaginal secretions mixed together, emitting a strange, obscene smell. The woman suddenly remembered she
hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day and suddenly felt hungry. She knelt down and took a sip of water from the small sink.
Number eight next door was put into a large suitcase and placed in the cubicle, where the driver sent by the bald man to pick her up
waited silently at the door. Zhao Mou brought over a large suitcase and told the driver, "Pack it yourself. From now on,
pack everything like this."
The driver picked up the woman and gently placed her in the suitcase. Seemingly worried she might be uncomfortable, he carefully adjusted her
position. Zhao Mou looked at him coldly and handed him a lunchbox: "Give her this when you get home." The driver closed
the suitcase and locked it. Zhao Mou added, "I don't care what your relationship is, but you must give this to your
boss and have him watch her finish it. Don't force her if she doesn't want to eat it. I don't care how you treat her, but
you're not allowed to sleep with her anymore. If you do, I'll have to tell your boss."
The driver nodded, dragged the suitcase, and left. Zhao Mou grabbed the box, squatted down, and knocked on it.
He said to the box inside, "You think this is still like your home? Don't be too comfortable. At home, you might be a Persian cat,
with a driver to sleep with. There's no such good life here. If you don't call it quits, don't even think about going back to being
a pet. A slave is a slave."
The corridor containing these dozen or so cubicles was on the first floor of a building. One end of the corridor connected to a hidden door in the stairwell, and
the other end connected to a gym's storage room. The exterior walls of cubicles one, three, five, and seven opened onto the gym's yoga room,
weight room, and changing room. The ladies outside were always touching up their makeup in front of the yoga mirror, and the blemishes and imperfections on their skin
were clearly visible to the goods inside. This gym was nominally Zhao Mou's property, but in reality, it
was just a cover for this corridor. Each of these small cubicles was worth the entire gym's income,
an astronomical figure for ordinary people. The person who rented it was naturally of extraordinary status, and the goods inside were also quite
valuable. As previously described, compartments two, four, six, and eight face a main thoroughfare in the city.
Unless specifically requested by the owner, goods rarely remain overnight in these compartments; they are usually taken
home by the owner, driver, or bodyguard. Generally, goods are stored for only seven or eight hours each day. They arrive in boxes and
leave in boxes. There's a high-end hotel on the upper floors of this building, so pulling a large box out of the stairwell or elevator and loading it into a
car is perfectly normal, and no one ever seems to care.
The only miscalculation was that the gym was incredibly popular, with so many customers that the storage room at the end of the dark corridor was no longer a good place to hide. Zhao Mou planned to convert it into an office. He 　　had gotten this space from Mr. Sun, the building owner,
when he first entered the business .
This building is located at the intersection of three of the city's most bustling commercial districts, in what was once
a villa area of the former concession. It's quite inexplicable that such a tall building stands out abruptly amidst decades-old houses.
To be able to construct such a building in such an old neighborhood, Mr. Sun must be a very influential figure. The villas are numerous and
secluded, but the land prices are incredibly high. Fortunately, the owners have stored things there themselves, so they only charge a token fee and
even invest in the business, offering considerable support. Zhao Mou set the gym's fees several times higher than those of surrounding competitors, hoping
to attract fewer customers. However, the opposite happened. The wealthy ladies of the neighborhood practically treated it like a club,
and the moderately wealthy ladies followed suit, flocking there to gossip, exercise a little, do
a sauna, soak in the hot springs, drink tea, flirt with the yoga instructor's daughter, or compete for attention with the handsome weightlifters
.
Since the goods arrived at Zhao Mou's place, none of them have been allowed to wear clothes. Occasionally, Zhao Mou would take them with him.
Outdoor training, to avoid trouble caused by onlookers, might allow them to wear clothes,
but underwear is forever out of their reach. In fact, after a period of regulation, the "goods"
don't have a high demand for clothing.
People need clothes for two reasons: first, warmth. Zhao Mou, being from the north, couldn't stand the damp cold of the south, so he
specially installed a sauna and floor heating in the gym, which was a major selling point. Therefore, not only did they not need warmth, but
the customers always sweated several times more than usual, indirectly leading to the vending machines and
tea room in the gym being extremely popular, requiring restocking several times a day; second, modesty. But the "goods" aren't people, so they don't have any
personality, and naturally lack the propriety and shame that personality carries, so they don't need to cover themselves.
Zhao Mou felt the best slaves should be like horses, ordinary horses that are neither good nor bad. Cats have a pungent smell, dogs are too
stupid. The pungent smell is the scent of a person, and stupidity means they can't understand their master's intentions, neither of which can fully satisfy Zhao Mou.
02. The bald driver took away Number Six, and the other goods were gradually taken away as well. Zhao Mou took the
box containing Girl Number Eight downstairs. In the underground parking lot, he was still uneasy about the bald driver, so he
called the bald man again, instructing him to only give her the food from the lunchbox. He asked, "Who is that driver
?"
"This woman used to be his girlfriend, right? Why?"
"Nothing, he was acting a bit strange, so I was just asking." Zhao Mou paused for a moment, then relaxed. He lit a cigarette, and
a fat man's voice, heavily stained with cigarette smoke, came from the radio: "Old Wang feels like he's floating
and rolling in a sea of stardust."
People in Shanghai quite liked this song. This fat man used to be a resident singer at a local bar, and it was said he was a
slave kept by a rich woman. Zhao Mou smiled. Isn't there someone in this world who is born to be a slave? Human civilization has been
in a slave society for longer than all other times combined. Zhao Mou thought, I've managed to get hundreds of slaves;
which one sent over that I couldn't get? Now, almost any company has a chat group for submissives, and it's said that
there are several big shots on it. Speaking of big shots, how could this little gym stay in business without them?
Back home, the girl, number eight, sat quietly on the living room floor. Zhao Mou tossed her the collar, which she picked
up, carefully put on, looked in the mirror, and adjusted its position. She then inserted an anal
plug, wiggled her hips, and the tail on the plug wagged. She smiled at Zhao Mou, then lowered her head and sat on the living room
floor.
Zhao Mou gave her some vitamin pills, some fruit, and a teething biscuit. Eating cookies and tuna all the time would cause
bad breath, so Zhao Mou had to brush her teeth for her every morning and evening. Although she often expressed that she could brush her teeth herself
, he never let her do it.
Zhao Mou found number eight on the street when she asked him for money.
"I lost my wallet, could you give me some money to buy something to eat?" a childish voice said timidly.
Zhao Mou glanced at the girl in front of him. It was a cold day; she wore a woolen hat and a scarf that covered
most of her face. Her eyes were large, double-lidded, and wide open. "I'll go get the car. My wallet is in the car.
Want to come?"
The girl nodded.
Actually, no one would really leave their wallet in the car, but Zhao Mou noticed that the girl's face was flushed red.
"Maybe it's her first time begging," he thought.
"I haven't eaten either. How about we eat together?"
The girl hesitated, about to leave.
"Stop."
She stopped. "What do you want to eat?" she asked.
"Oh, let's get in the car first."
In the car, he asked the girl's name, but neither of them could remember it now. He learned that she was
an orphan, living and studying in an orphanage, and that she had come out begging to buy something.
Zhao Mou couldn't remember what she had wanted to buy on the 8th, but after the meal, he went and bought it for her. The
girl took off her scarf, and he looked at her face in the rearview mirror, almost rear-ending the car in front of him. It was his
first year in this line of work, and he didn't know much, but looking at her, he suddenly wanted something of his own.
The girl held the scarf, her eyelashes fluttering, and opened her small mouth, saying "Thank you."
"How about I adopt you?"
"Yes," she readily agreed.
Then she started crying, saying she was beautiful, and someone had wanted to adopt her, but
they died in a car accident on the way to sign the paperwork, and afterwards no one dared to take her. The boys at the orphanage bullied her, shoving their penises into her
mouth. They were older, taller, and stronger; she couldn't fight them off. Several men took turns, one
prying open her mouth, one shoving it in, and one resting after they were done.
Young, strong, and quick—a minute or two, really just a few strokes, and it was over, leaving
her with a sticky mess in her mouth. She gagged a few times, vomited, and then it was over again. She stopped struggling, because
the more she struggled, the more comfortable they seemed to be. She thought, "Next time, I'll bite their penises off." And then she
actually bit down, with her canines, her sharp teeth. The boy's face turned pale instantly, and blood spurted out like a
child's water gun. After that, the boy disappeared, and no one dared to bully her anymore, no one dared to talk to her.
Even the social workers and aunties at the welfare home said she dared to bite off a man's penis; she was ruthless.
Zhao Mou pulled the car over to the side of the road, unzipped his pants, and took out his penis. The girl's eyes were still
red with tears. Zhao Mou ruffled her hair and said, "You're not ruthless. You just don't want to. No one can
force you to do something you don't want to do, right?"
The girl nodded and lay down. Zhao Mou gently patted her back to encourage her. She looked at it
for a while, and seemed to think that what was in front of her wasn't so bad after all, so she swallowed it whole.
"Suck," Zhao Mou said.
She sucked. Her tongue moved too. Her mouth wasn't big, but her tongue was long and pointed. His penis
swelled with her breathing, and after being moistened by her saliva, her breath felt cool against it. He turned up the car's air conditioning
a few degrees, took off his jacket, and straightened his back. The head of his penis pressed against the back of the upper wall of her mouth, and she let out a sound.
She gagged. He stroked her hair again. She grabbed his hand with one hand and held the food in her mouth with the other.
"If you don't want to, that's fine," Zhao Mou comforted her.
"Yuan...ye (I'm willing)." She opened her mouth, her tongue moving erratically. An oncoming car shone its high beams
, blinding Zhao Mou. The moon wasn't behind the clouds, and pedestrians crossing the road saw
two heads, one above the other, in the light. Startled, they stumbled, tucked their coats in, and hurried away.
He traced circles on her back with his fingers, his other hand holding her hand loosely or tightly. She seemed to understand
his hint, her tongue no longer poking around but starting to circle. Saliva increased in her mouth.
Her body temperature rose, and she exuded the scent of cheap soap, mixed with the air freshener in the car,
seemingly making the temperature somewhat alluring. Zhao Mou's mind went blank, tinged with the color of the air, and he gripped her hand
even tighter. She seemed to feel pain, shuddered, and her teeth touched his groove. This made him shudder again, and the tip of his semen
touched her mouth. She inhaled just then, seemingly perfectly timed, a masterpiece of nature.
Snowflakes fell from the clouds, and the girl's mouth was full of white, sticky fluid. He sighed and went limp.
Number Eight raised her head, her mouth slightly open to show him his semen, then wiped
the fluid that had dripped from the corner of her mouth with her finger, tilted her head back, and swallowed it whole. She smiled again, as if seeking his praise. He stroked her
hair.
"Let's go back, I'll take you through the formalities later." He thought for a moment, then took her to buy a lot of soap, shampoo,
and other things.
Later, Zhao Mou went to the orphanage every day to accompany her and take her out to play. After completing all the messy and complicated formalities,
she moved into his house.
One morning, Zhao Mou woke up and she was gone. He went to the living room, turned on the TV, and prepared to have breakfast.
"Good morning." He heard her voice.
"Good morning," Zhao Mou said. He turned his head but saw nothing.
"I'm here." She rolled out from under the coffee table.
"What are you doing?"
"Reading. I've been reading all night." She was holding a blue-covered book.
"Is it pretty?"
"Pretty." She put down the book and leaned closer. "I've brushed my teeth." She breathed on him.
"But I can't eat yours, because I haven't been tamed yet."
"Huh?" Zhao Mou laughed. He thought for a moment, then said, "Taming, what does taming mean?"
"Taming is establishing a relationship."
"Establishing a relationship?"
"That's right," she giggled. "To me, you're just a man, like millions of other men
. I don't need you..."
"Don't need me?"
Number Eight paused, then continued reading, "However, if you tame me, we will need each other. To me,
you will be unique in the universe; and to you, I will be unique in the world."
"Do you know how to tame?"
"No."
"Take off your clothes first," Zhao Mou said. "Have you ever seen a fox wearing clothes? Foxes always have their fur showing."
The girl thought it made sense and took off her clothes.
Zhao Mou took out a set of items from the inner room: a collar and an anal plug, and handed them to her: "Have you ever seen a horse? Horses need
saddles. Tamed animals need these things." The girl thought it made sense, so she took the collar and put it on. However,
the anal plug seemed to pose a problem for her. The furry tail was connected to a metal head, which was chrome-plated and shiny silver. It was seven
centimeters long and three and a half centimeters in diameter, which looked quite large, and she had never put anything into her anus before
. Zhao Mou didn't give her time to think too much. He made a detour, pried open her anus with one hand, and inserted it directly.
"Does it hurt?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"It won't hurt so much afterward."
She nodded again.
"You don't have a tail, how can I tame you? Right?"
She thought it made sense, so she accepted it.
"Take it with you wherever you go from now on."
"Even when you go out?"
"Don't you want me to tame you when you go out?"
"No, it's just embarrassing."
"Look, you're the only one in the world to me, so what does it matter who else is involved?"
The girl thought about it and agreed. Zhao Mou beckoned to her, and she, like a little animal, climbed onto
the sofa and curled up on his lap. He turned her over and gently pinched her small pink nipples, her areolas also small
. She felt very comfortable being pinched, lying on her back with her legs in the air, her body curled up. He tickled her stomach, making her laugh,
sit up, hug him, kiss him, kiss his lips.
He stood up and said, "Let me take you out to play." She sat on the sofa and nodded.
Zhao Mou bought her a lot of clothes, mostly dresses, long dresses, but also short dresses with shirts; shoes,
all kinds: sandals, cloth shoes, soft leather shoes, boots, snow boots; socks, all colors,
for spring, summer, autumn, and winter; household items; cosmetics; a mobile phone, a computer, and all kinds of books. But no
underwear.
"Aren't you going to buy underwear?"
"Do you know how domesticated animals wear underwear?"
"But I..." "
How can you..."
"I'm a person."
"You're mine." He said that, and the girl stopped talking, secretly smiling, "Then you have to listen to me
."
"Mmm."
In the car, they performed oral sex again. Her swallowing motion was already quite skilled. The car
cruised through the streets of Hai City, and Zhao Mou asked, "Do you want to go to school? If you want to go to school, I'll take you." "Somewhat."
"You're not allowed to flirt with boys at school." "I know. You're mine." "You're not allowed to wear underwear." "Mmm.
I know." Nothing else mattered; studying wasn't important. Just treat it like a vacation.
"
Yeah, vacations are all about paying to suffer." "Hmph. Have you ever traveled before?" "No, I've never left
the city. My school is right next to where I live." "I'll take you somewhere fun next time." "Okay, don't forget."
Zhao turned on the radio and heard a soft female voice: "Come on, let's have some fun, we have plenty of time anyway."
Number Eight's eyes welled up with tears again, staring intently at Zhao, like a spider spinning its web.
"We haven't really done it yet."
"Mm."
"Let's go home tonight."
"Okay!"
She propped her long legs up on the dashboard, humming a tune, and started filming herself with her newly bought phone, asking:
"Stockings, what color do you like?"
"Anything."
She hummed, took out two pairs, one black and one white, lifted her skirt, and put them on one side of each: "Look." "
I'm driving, you can see it out of the corner of my eye."
She hummed again. At a red light, the car stopped, and he fastened her seatbelt, saying, "Behave yourself."
She swayed: "I won't behave."
The car started moving again, and she said, "Can I touch myself?" Zhao saw she'd been anxious for days, so he nodded. At
home, if he didn't speak, she wouldn't dare masturbate. They didn't have a housekeeper, and she was very wet. After masturbating, her body
went limp, and she collapsed into a ball, unable to straighten up. The house had underfloor heating, so water splashed on the floor dried quickly, leaving
unsightly and difficult-to-clean stains.
"Don't put your hand in there. Wipe it clean yourself after you're done."
"Mmm...mmm."
She propped one leg up on the dashboard and curled the other on the seat, her body twisted at an incredible angle, her legs
spread apart towards the steering wheel, seemingly wanting to show the driver her virgin vulva. A small tuft of sparse
soft hair covered her vulva, while the area around her labia was smooth and hairless. She wrapped her left arm around her leg, using two fingers to part her vulva, and the remaining three fingers deftly
manipulating it. Her other hand slipped inside her shirt, unbuttoning it and rubbing her nipples.
The driver barely reacted, driving smoothly: "You know there are surveillance
cameras at every traffic light? They can catch whether the passenger in the front seat is wearing a seatbelt."
The girl seemed not to hear him, still engrossed in fiddling with her fingers, uttering a set of unrecognizable notes,
whether speaking or singing. She seemed to hear the driver talking about the cameras, but her brain didn't have
time to process it. The movements of her fingers were purely controlled by her spinal cord; the brain only reacted after the movement was made
, like being splashed with boiling water—you first move away before you feel the heat. The girl's body first felt something
moving in her lower body, then realized it was her own fingers.
She felt like a composer, writing a piece of music on her vulva that only she could hear. She couldn't
write notes or sing music, but the melody was like heavenly music. She hummed, like Pavarotti on stage,
the King of Singers, stretching and twisting her body, taking a deep breath. The band was in position, the conductor's baton waving wildly. She pressed
the button, bursting forth, reaching her peak, her whole body convulsing, her eyes glazed, her hands no longer able to encircle
her legs, stretching out, water gushing out, one hand covering her vulva, the other still on her chest. The passenger seat was soaked. He
tossed her a box of tissues, the box falling onto her, sliding from her chest to her flat stomach. She hummed a few times.
He lightly stepped on the brake, the car jolting. "Dry yourself off before you sleep," he said.
Number Eight pouted, casually pulling out a handful of tissues, wetting them, the tissues becoming a wet blob, pulling out more, wiping clean
. She pulled out another, holding one corner, suspending it, turning the air conditioner vent, aiming, releasing, three points in a line,
the tissue floating, just right between her legs, leaving a watermark outline. He reached out to pull it off, but the soft tissue paper couldn't hold and
tore, leaving a smear of paper scraps on her labia. He pulled out dozens more sheets and tried to wipe, but the scraps wouldn't come off.
"Go home and take a shower, don't tear it."
"Okay." The girl blushed, took off her stockings, put away her skirt, and tidied up the tissues. "Next time, buy some better tissues."
"You're so wet and you blame the tissues?" Zhao Mou stopped the car.
He opened the door, and the two got out. Number Eight straightened her skirt, which was wrinkled and too short, revealing the tail of her anal plug
sticking out from underneath, swaying back and forth. It was dark, and no one saw her coming out of the underground parking garage, so she got away with it like that
.
"Your tail is showing," Zhao Mou said.
"It's all your fault," the girl retorted.
"Don't touch me so much next time."
"Okay."
"I'll get you some toys later."
Back home, Zhao Mou took out a vibrator and a massage stick from a large, messy box for the girl. Number Eight asked him why he had
so many things. He said, "I've been waiting for someone I can tame." The girl nodded. He picked up
a plastic dildo, pressed a switch, and it started spinning, flashing electricity.
"Do I have to put this in there?" she asked.
"Yours won't fit. Forcing it in will probably hurt. But some people, older women, who have experienced
more, can fit several."
The girl's face paled with fright. "Can the aunties at the orphanage fit several?"
Zhao Mou thought about it and felt nauseous. He hadn't really considered what those forty- or fifty-year-old women waiting to retire were like
. He shook his head and took the plastic dildo.
He found a vaginal tightening ball in the box and said, "Older women use this to practice vaginal tightening.
Look, you can't even fit this in."
"How do I practice?"
"You'll find out when the time comes. You'll find out tonight."
She picked out a vibrating egg, round and small, with a hook-like tail at the back. She asked, "
Is this thing to prevent it from slipping in and getting stuck?"
"Yes, it's also an antenna, remote-controlled. You can control it with your phone."
Years later, although he had explored No. 8's orifice several times, it hadn't changed much. It was
n't as tight as before, but it was still narrow and lovely. He recalled this as he brushed her teeth, sitting on the sofa.
She was entertaining herself by sucking and spitting out his penis, while the man watched TV. Peace and quiet passed by, and another
day went by like this.
03. Every morning, Zhao Mou would play the same song repeatedly when he opened for business. It was an old habit, and the old employees knew it by heart
. He had done this every day for years. Boss Sun asked him why he always played this song. Zhao Mou said, "I
open at eight in the morning and don't start business until nine. This hour is my personal time." Boss Sun said, "I'm curious."
"It's the place where you used to shuffle and fast-forward a hundred songs and then stop."
This wasn't real, but it wasn't a lie either. Zhao Mou thought he was fast enough and pressed the button a hundred times, but actually,
he stopped at the hundredth button precisely on this song. The song had twelve unique lines of lyrics. Zhao Mou
had fourteen cubicles; number four was used as a warehouse, number fourteen was converted into a place for the goods to be cleaned and enemas, and the remaining
twelve cubicles each contained one line of lyrics.
Every morning, before locking the goods in the warehouse, Zhao Mou would repeat the lyrics to them. This
line was used as an emergency code when the goods wanted to stop their "training," sometimes referred to as the "button."
"Sometimes, sometimes/ I believe everything has an end. This is your button, please repeat it."
"Sometimes, sometimes/ I believe everything has an end."
"Do you understand what it means?"
"I completely understand what that means. When I say it, you will immediately stop all actions and
contact the person who signed the service contract with me as quickly as possible to send me back."
"That's right, when you say it, I will immediately stop all actions and contact the person who signed the service contract with you as quickly as possible
to send you back. So if you have any physical discomfort, mental
discomfort, or any kind of discomfort, please don't hesitate to knock on the glass door and say this into the corridor.
Understand?"
"I understand, I am number five."
This is a standard inquiry before goods are put into storage. Zhao Mou is most afraid of goods getting into trouble and dying; no businessman
wants customers to have problems and die on their turf. It's not just about reputation; if the police investigate
, it'll be difficult to deal with. Even if it's not your fault, they'll always find something wrong: tax evasion, the fire extinguisher's
expiration date, a clock hanging in the fire escape—it's considered unlucky, and so on. But Zhao Mou was confident he was running a
legitimate business. Even if the police kicked down the door, he wasn't afraid. What happened in the cubicle, though shady,
was simply to protect the customers' privacy. In all known cases of slave trading, the slaves
were either kidnapped and deprived of their freedom, or forcibly brainwashed. But Zhao Mou never did that. Although there was a lock,
the key was with the goods themselves, so the lock lost its meaning of restricting personal freedom and simply became a
symbol.
"It's just a symbol," he thought, "like the Holy Grail, the rose, and Mary's womb. The system of objects,
the placement of furniture in a middle-class family's mortgaged house, low-temperature candles." Number Six ate everything in the lunchbox, finishing it all. The driver said she 　　only got up to eat
in the middle of the night because she couldn't hold on any longer .
She hadn't eaten for two nights and a day, and was starving. Zhao Mou nodded, went through the procedure, and
locked the door. He left her alone, with mirrors on both sides, and Number Eight was watching her.
Number Eight was menstruating, and Zhao Mou inserted a tampon into her. She gestured that she wanted to speak: "Can we not do it today?"
"Press the button. Read the lyrics."
"Do I have to read them too?"
"You don't have to read them at home, but you have to here. I've told you so many times."
"Are you going to 'teasing' her today?" "
Teasing her. You watch, I'll 'teasing' you."
"I don't want to watch." "
If you don't want to watch, read the lyrics," Zhao Mou said.
After tidying up the other cubicles, Zhao Mou returned to Number Six, took off his pants, and stood in front of Number Six. She instinctively began to
skillfully lick him. Zhao Mou rarely actually had sex with his clients, even though the contract clearly stated that he could
do anything to them, some clients didn't say it, but they didn't like that clause. Zhao Mou guessed that the bald man
wouldn't like this one either, but since he couldn't use it anyway, and the driver didn't dare use it,
and although she hadn't completely submitted in her heart, her appearance was quite good, and it would be a waste not to use it.
Zhao Mou observed carefully; this woman was thin, and saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth. Zhao Mou guessed that
the reason she wasn't fat was similar to that of Number Eight—what she ate turned into water and flowed out. After all, some women are made of water,
but most are made of vaginas.
Zhao Mou gestured for her to stand up, lean against the wall, and placed a suction cup at the highest point between her legs, at the height of her perineum. The suction
cup had a surprisingly large plastic dildo attached to it.
Number Six looked at him timidly, seemingly considering whether to put the thing in. This height was also awkward;
the most comfortable position for oral sex was kneeling or sitting, with the neck tilted back so that one could lick the thick veins and testicles below, all sensitive
areas for men. Lying prone with straight legs and a bent back was not only tiring, but also had to have something about the thickness of a three-finger and the length of a Coke bottle inserted in the back
; she couldn't stand it for more than a few minutes.
Zhao Mou, of course, didn't consider her thoughts, gesturing for her to relieve her desire by sucking on the glass wall as well. She
dared not stop moving her mouth, her tongue twisting stiffly, her hand catching a little saliva from the corner of her mouth and smearing it on her lower body before
pushing it in. She tiptoed, afraid of slipping out.
As Zhao Mou moved his waist back, her mouth dared not leave, her body following suit, her legs suddenly giving way, causing her to stumble
. She sat up again and pushed against the wall once more. Zhao Mou thrust his waist forward again, and she pulled back, the suction cup
fully inserted, making her clitoris tremble wildly. After several times, Zhao Mou found the right range and began to move rhythmically back and forth
, the woman's body also moving rhythmically back and forth, the suction cup also thrusting in and
out rhythmically. The woman was assaulted by the pungent smell of male hormones in front and a large plastic rod behind her. Her spirit
was on the verge of collapse. She reached out and grabbed Zhao Mou, like Zhuge Liang finding Liu Bei, or Ximen Qing encountering
Wu Song.
She was anxious, wanting to be sandwiched between him and Zhao Mou. Her legs ached, and the pain only fueled her urgency.
Lactic acid in her muscles reached a frightening concentration, but her legs were tense, hindering blood flow and preventing the lactic acid from dissipating. It accumulated
, turning the pain into aching. That was a hundred times more torment, but also a hundred times more intense desire.
Her temperature rose, and she began to sweat, dripping from her hair. Zhao Mou suddenly remembered something,
pulled his penis from her mouth, and turned to leave. She was still unsatisfied, but her legs were too sore to move.
The menu was brought in.
After distributing the cookies, Zhao Mou brought in her portion for her. The woman, already impatient, stood up and
arched her back against the wall. Zhao Mou still handed her the cookie tin, but she still wouldn't eat. Tear it open and place it directly under the suction cup
; the ground was wet. Then take off your pants.
The same position as this morning, but this time it lasted much longer. The woman came the first time Zhao arched his back
. One leg was curled up, her weight shifting to the other. Zhao aimed and kicked, but the wet floor was slippery,
and her leg slipped away. The woman had to grip Zhao tightly with her hands, kicking wildly, using three points of leverage
. The suction cup was inserted into her vagina, and her hands gripped Zhao. Occasionally, her feet would touch the ground, only to slip away again. Suddenly, she
stepped on the wall—dry! She grasped at it like a lifeline, quickly placing both feet on it. But with her feet parallel
to the ground, she felt no support; it was merely psychological comfort. Yet, the woman found it beautiful. She pushed against
the wall, lifting herself up, only to be pushed back by Zhao. He could still complete thrusts while still in mid-air. It didn't require much effort
, and it didn't hurt too much. Was there anything more comfortable in the world?
Thinking this, she went, went, and went again, but Zhao Mou's penis in her mouth remained unresponsive, just
hard and stubbornly erect. She protested, "My tongue hasn't stopped, why isn't it reacting?" This
wouldn't do; she licked! The more she licked, the faster her lower body moved, like a live pig on a hot coal fire, turning over quickly,
performing a "hawk's turn and dragon's drill," only to have it catch fire again, then turning over again, performing a "white-bellied carp leaping over the dragon gate," hanging
up, turning itself over, turning and turning until it was cooked. But Zhao Mou remained unresponsive, just hard, not moving an inch. Even more
unconvinced, she turned again, gathering her inner energy, inhaling, her mouth becoming a low-pressure chamber, the blood in the glans feeling
the sudden drop in surrounding pressure, eagerly wanting to rush out. Zhao Mou, holding her shoulders, spun her around on the grill, occasionally touching
her stomach to see if it was cooked. This time, touching her stomach tickled her, making her laugh, and the air in her mouth dissipated. The blood flowed back
, the blocked urethra cleared, and he ejaculated. She was roasting her back, head tilted back towards the ceiling. He ejaculated too much, and it
flowed out of her nose like snot.
"Ugh, disgusting," he said. He put her down on the ground and left.
Number Six was hungry. She hadn't vomited even after being turned around dozens of times because her stomach was empty. Last night,
Baldy hadn't eaten anything with her, but had locked the lunchbox Zhao Mou had given her in the cage with her. She was so hungry she
couldn't stand it anymore. She hadn't eaten for two days, and the mushy stuff in the lunchbox had gone bad. She used her hands to pick
out a piece of fish that was still relatively intact, ate it, and drank it with her own juices. It tasted sour, like bacterial metabolites.
It is said that the different tastes of a woman's vagina are due to the different bacterial colonies in the vagina. The bacterial metabolites
give the originally colorless and odorless fluid a unique taste and color, red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, and purple—who holds the colorful
ribbon dancing in the sky? Having just drunk the waters of Changsha, I then ate Wuchang fish.
But finishing the fish wasn't enough; I was even hungrier. Being hungry, it's one thing not to eat, but even a little bit stimulates
the stomach, causing acid secretion. With nothing to digest, it goes on strike. "We won't stand for this! Just consuming calories
without any purpose? This doesn't align with our values!" I protested, my stomach rumbling even more. Before me
were biscuits and fish scraps dissolved in sour water; I'd picked out all the whole pieces.
Hungry, I couldn't not eat, yet eating seemed impossible. Number Six was conflicted: to eat or not to eat, that was
the question. Eating would fill me up and stop the acid reflux; not eating meant hunger and acid. Thinking about it this way,
it didn't seem like a problem anymore. I abandoned all restraint and pounced like a hungry tiger. I ate more than half in a few bites. I was truly hungry;
I couldn't possibly finish this whole lunchbox, especially since it was half-spoiled gruel. She ate a little, but some food was still stuck to the edge of the box.
She scraped it off and ate it. For the bits she couldn't scrape off, she licked them clean, making the box shiny and new.
There was some in her fingers, so she licked that too. There was some stuck to the cage, so she licked that
too. For the bits that had fallen out of the cage, which she couldn't reach, she gave up.
She was full; the whole box was gone. At this point, Number Six felt nauseous again, wanting to vomit. She put her fingers in her mouth, and several times the semen reached the edge of her esophagus. She
didn't want to vomit, but she was also afraid the stomach acid would burn her throat and
make swallowing semen painful the next morning.
Unexpectedly, Zhao Mou hadn't given her a chance to swallow semen all day.
She thought it might be because her breasts were too small, lacking femininity, that he wouldn't ejaculate. If her breasts were big enough, swaying
, she didn't believe he would treat her like this. But without eating, without swallowing semen, without having children, how could her breasts
grow? It was a vicious cycle. She pinched her nose and picked up the pancakes and fish from the plate on the ground. The pancakes were still damp
, slightly sour but not spoiled, and moist but not sticky. With a little bit of the mineral water used to soak the fish, it seemed
like a decent afternoon tea.
Zhao Mou watched her from next door, patted Number Eight, and said, "She only lasted one day, and you still haven't succeeded.
It seems you're the hardest one to manage." He nodded, indicating that she could speak.
"You must tame me."
"Only ordinary people go on hunger strikes." Zhao Mou touched her flat chest. She seemed unchanged over the years; her chest
was still so flat, her vagina still so tight. "A true wild horse never goes on a hunger strike. It endures humiliation and survives, waiting for an opportunity to escape,
shaking the rider off and throwing him to his death. Inferior horses also don't go on hunger strikes; they're shameless. Look at those revolutionary martyrs; they would starve themselves
to death at the drop of a hat. Actually, they were afraid of torture. Once tortured, they would confess faster than anyone else, so it was better to die. Only ordinary people
go on hunger strikes, thinking they can express their attitude with their lives. But a hunger strike is a process; it's a hope that before they die,
everyone will understand what they want to say. The ultimate goal is still to survive. Those who really want to rebel
either shoot themselves in the head or enjoy the torture and laugh at the jailers."
Number Eight couldn't discern any praise or criticism, quietly letting him touch her.
"Is she just an ordinary person?"
"An ordinary masochist."
"And you?"
"An ordinary submissive."
"And me?"
"I thought you were a masochist, but I didn't know."
Number Eight looked bewildered and began masturbating. Zhao Mou suddenly felt that humans were all aliens, and Number Eight was the only native-born
person in the world. He became afraid.
He returned to cubicle number six, turned the mirror around, and looked at Number Eight from there. He didn't want to see her, but
he didn't want her to see him even more. He only wanted Number Six to see her. He suddenly hated this design. If there were a
mirror that allowed him to choose how light passed through, Zhao Mou would spend all his savings to buy one and install it in this cubicle.
He watched as Number Eight stroked her clean, hairless vulva. He had spent a considerable amount of money to completely remove her hair, making
even her pores smooth and indistinguishable from the rest of her body. She would never grow pubic hair again; it was
the mark he had left on her, and even if he died or left her, she would never grow pubic hair again.
He yanked out a tuft of Number Six's pubic hair, and she cried out in pain. He turned her over,
took some fluid from her vagina, smeared it on her anus, and thrust it in hard. Her pain almost doubled; her cries turned
into screams, heart-wrenching.
But she didn't struggle, partly because she was already exhausted and weak, and partly because of the pain. She silently endured
it.
Zhao Mou told her to lick the plastic dildo on the suction cup. She dared not disobey, grasped it with both hands, and began to serve it with her mouth.
However, the pain in her anus quickly made her forget what she was doing with her mouth. At this moment, Zhao Mou thrust his hips suddenly,
indicating his dissatisfaction. She gripped the plastic dildo tightly and shoved it into her mouth. This way, Zhao Mou couldn't tell if she was actually
licking, and he could find a place to put pressure on his hands, relieving the pressure on his legs.
Zhao Mou's movements became increasingly intense from behind, and she, like the last sailor on a boat tossed about in a storm, clung tightly to
the only tangible object her hands could touch. Few people can truly experience pleasure from the anus unless
the person entering properly stimulates the reproductive glands through the rectal wall. But this requires not only that both parties be familiar with each other's anatomy
and cooperate, but also that the person entering slowly finds the stimulating spot. It is said that proper stimulation
can give the recipient pleasure far exceeding that obtained from direct stimulation of the reproductive glands, but Zhao Mou never
intended to do so. He simply used this place to inflict torture.
Perhaps when he was in a good mood, he would pay a little attention to the reaction of his movements to Number Eight.
But he had no interest in other people's merchandise.
Number Six looked at the rig that moved back and forth between Number Eight's legs next to her and thought: Perhaps I am in a better situation than her
. She could have such thoughts entirely because her anus was completely numb; she could only feel
the slight peristalsis of her rectum, which had few nerves. The soreness in her legs and hands was nothing compared to the previous pain. She even felt
a sliver of relief, waiting for Zhao Mou to ejaculate. Seeing that her expression had eased, Zhao Mou knew she was numb, so he stopped
and checked her anus, finding nothing abnormal. He went back to the warehouse, got a bottle of medical alcohol,
and poured it on her. She screamed and fainted.
Zhao Mou returned to cubicle number eight, turned the mirror, and began tidying up. Number eight's eyes were fixed on the suction cup in the next cubicle.
Zhao Mou said, "This is high-tech; once it's attached, it won't fall off and can support several hundred kilograms of weight, but
unfortunately, it's disposable. Once you take it off, it won't attach anymore." Number eight seemed eager to try it out.
"You'd better not; that one's been used, it's unhygienic," he said, sealing the zipper of the box.
04. Zhao Mou's identity as a master of slave training was no secret in certain circles.
In Shanghai's underground forums, masters frequently gathered to discuss all sorts of things, like
new props produced at certain shops, new drugs arriving in certain places, or convenient outdoor exposure spots with few people
.
Then one day, Mr. Sun mysteriously mentioned the gym in his building at one of these gatherings.
"Mr. Zhao, impressive," he said, "my three kids usually stay there when they're not busy." Zhao Mou had just opened his gym
, and just one word from Mr. Sun had brought in a surge of customers.
Strictly speaking, Mr. Sun and Zhao Mou weren't just ordinary landlord and tenant; they were like-minded friends
. Zhao Mou often visited Mr. Sun's house for drinks, and Mr. Sun would sometimes check out the gym when he had free time.
Once, Mr. Sun took a liking to Number Eight and wanted her. Zhao Mou said, "I can give you anything, except this."
Mr. Sun said, "Why? Give her to me, and this building is yours."
Zhao Mou said, "I'll give her to you once I've 'transferred' her." "
It's been so long and it's still not done?"
"It's been so long and it's still not done." Zhao Mou paused, "It looks like it's done, but I always feel like something's not quite right."
"Then forget it, if you can't even 'transfer' her, there's no use for me taking her back."
"I enjoy the process." "
You're too romantic, so we complement each other. I only care about the result." Mr. Sun took a sip of his drink,
stretched out his legs, and a man and a woman emerged from under the table. "These two, put them in number one and number two tomorrow."
Zhao Mou didn't quite understand Mr. Sun. He felt that getting a slave, starting from when he was still a wild creature
, gradually developing him, letting him find his true self, discovering that he was born this way,
a slave—that feeling is the best. On the contrary, having him kneel at someone's feet every day seems very boring. Zhao
Mou thought that Mr. Sun probably saw him that way too, so they had never argued about this issue.
Actually, Zhao Mou was also quite annoyed by the matter of Number Eight. He had always felt that there was something wrong with this girl, but he
couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Once, he was a guest speaker at a forum held by an SM exchange association in Shanghai. Hundreds of
people in the auditorium were listening, all wearing masks, while he spoke on stage. The speakers on stage were discussing a
topic about husband-dominant, wife-submissive relationships. The audience was packed with people, each with a head protruding between their legs. Zhao Mou, naturally, also had Number Eight positioned
between his legs.
"Hello everyone, welcome to the 6th Shanghai SM Forum. Today's theme is 'Husband Master,
Wife Slave.' So, Mr. Zhao, what are your thoughts on 'Husband Master, Wife Slave'?"
"First of all, I don't think 'Husband Master, Wife Slave' really refers to a family lifestyle where the husband is the master and the wife is the slave.
I see many female masters in the audience with male slaves, which is quite common." "
Then what do you think 'Husband Master, Wife Slave' means?"
"It's a family where one husband is the master and the other the slave. This is a kind of intertextuality in traditional Chinese rhetoric. I have a
customer, who is also a friend of mine, Ms. Li, whose husband is her toilet slave."
"Hmm, I actually agree with you. I think our roles don't really
have much to do with gender. It's just that men might be physically stronger than women, giving them a slight advantage in certain training methods," another
guest said.
"I agree with that. But women also have an advantage over men in certain training methods," a female guest added.

"Now that we've defined this, Mr. Zhao, would you choose this
lifestyle? With your, uh, little female slave?"
"No," Zhao Mou said decisively 　　. Number Eight paused , his eyes glazed over. He continued,
"I have no plans to get married, so I haven't considered this. But if it comes to
the point where I'd die the next day if I didn't get married, I'd rather choose a mistress. She can have hers after we're married, and I can have mine." "
That's one way to put it," the female guest said, "but there are many inconveniences." "
For example?"
"For example, if someone comes to my house and asks who this is, why there are four of us, what should I say?"
"Just say he's your slave. It's so common these days."
"If it's someone with the same hobby, of course you can say that, but what about ordinary people?"
"We're ordinary people too. What can anyone do at home?" Zhao Mou said, getting a little angry.
"It seems your views clash with the other guests. Mr. Zhao, could you explain why you don't like
this lifestyle?" the host quickly tried to steer the conversation.
"First of all, I'm a professional in this field, as everyone knows. Many of you in the audience are my clients.
Contrary to what you might think, I really only see it as a job."
"You mean you're not a sub?" the male guest asked.
"Of course not, of course I'm a sub. What I mean is, I've seen too many subs. This is too familiar
; it's hard for me to get excited. I want to marry someone I don't know well, someone even more unfamiliar,
someone worth exploring." Number Eight looked indignant, his mouth moving rapidly, using his special skill.
"I understand, you want to pursue love," the female guest approvingly said.
"You could say that."
"Then isn't there love between master and slave?" the host asked.
"No," the three guests answered in unison.
"If there's love, it's not called sub-dominance," the female guest said. "Many of us have had ordinary relationships, and
it's not like that."
"Yes, we all understand the difference," the male guest added.
"Mr. Zhao, haven't any of your many customers fallen in love with their slaves?" "
I do have quite a few customers who have fallen in love with their slaves, but I've never seen a master who truly understands SM
fall in love with a slave. Many people are masters, that's true, but they're not necessarily true masters. They pretend to be masters, but
they haven't actually tamed their slaves. They're just putting on a show with their slaves. A truly clear-headed master should understand that they
are training an object, not a person. Love is a matter between two people."
"So what do you think the slave thinks?" the host asked.
"Heh, masters don't care. Would you care what your pet thinks?"
"I care what my cat thinks, but I don't care what he thinks." The female guest laughed,
slapping her high heels.
"Indeed, that analogy isn't quite right. I treat her like my pet, and I only give her the highest quality cat food
." Zhao Mou stroked the little head between his legs, like a warm, cozy cat. "But I don't deliberately mistreat her. I still like
my cat very much." Number Eight's mood improved slightly upon hearing this, and she made a purring sound, eliciting laughter from the audience.
"I buy her new clothes, cosmetics, this and that, send her to school, teach her to drive, teach her to use a mobile
phone and computer, and teach her how to take the college entrance exam."
"You plan to let her take the college entrance exam?" the female guest asked curiously.
"Why? In the eyes of ordinary people, she is still a person. I am much older than her, and I am a man. My
average lifespan is not as long as yours women. When I die, she can't die with me,
right? She has to know how to spend the money I leave her." The girl flattered her more enthusiastically.
"I understand, you treat her like a daughter." the female guest said.
Number Eight's eyes were itchy, and his hands trembled slightly. "I don't know what it's like to raise a daughter
or train a daughter. Although I have clients who train their own daughters, I don't think I treat her like a daughter. It's different. People's feelings are
very precise. They treat cats and dogs, husbands and wives, lovers, and family members. Family members are divided into close and distant ones. It
's hard to describe specifically, but in fact, the distinctions are clear."
The male guest next to him nodded thoughtfully, with his little daughter between his legs. Looking back, it's true that
he treated her differently than he treated his wife.
"You can love cats and dogs too, even more than people, there's nothing wrong with that. A few days ago, the newspaper reported
on building a shrine for a cat, with a huge funeral procession that blocked Tokyo Road, and the entire ten-mile-long street was packed with onlookers. I've never
heard of a funeral with such a grand display," the female guest chimed in.
"So what kind of relationship do you think should exist between master and slave? What's your ideal one?"
"Have you read martial arts novels? Quan Yong, Gu You, Liang Yu Niu. Martial arts novels all have swordsmen, one
person, one sword. One person alone can't even beat the small fry in the first chapter. Just having a sword is useless; the sword is inanimate
and can't even kill a chicken. The swordsman can't live without the sword, and the sword can't live without the swordsman. The relationship between master and slave is like a swordsman
and his sword. Without a slave, I can't be a master; I'd just be an ordinary person. Without a master, you, a
slave, can't be called a slave either; you'd just be an ordinary object. Only when the right master meets the right slave
can things truly be harmonious."
"You mean every master has their destined slave?"
"Not necessarily one, maybe many; it's hard to say."
"Do you think yours is your destined slave?"
"I guess so." Number Eight clicked his tongue happily.
The female guest laughed, "You just said you believe in love, and that this is your destined slave, so why not just be together
? You're better to your wife than most husbands are." The audience burst into laughter.
"That's not what I meant by 'destined.' She's still my slave, it's just that I find it
easier and more comfortable to control her than others. And it's normal for me to be good to her; she's mine. A husband and wife are still two
people; some misunderstandings and conflicts are perfectly normal."
"But it's troublesome for a man and a woman to live together every day, without marriage or any family ties," the female
guest complained.
"Indeed, that's a problem. But as Mr. Zhao just said, normal people don't want to meddle
in other people's business; only those with little education like to gossip. I heard that several people in our city
are planning to buy houses together and become neighbors. Our neighbors will all be our people, so we won't have to worry about gossip,"
the male guest said.
"Mr. Zhao, so your view is that marriage is a matter between people, and you and your slave are like a swordsman and his sword
, is that right?" the host concluded.
"You could say that."
"So, how do you think you should treat your slave?"
"Do you mean how to train her? Or…?"
"I mean in terms of attitude."
"I give her as much freedom as possible."
"You give her freedom? As far as I know, most masters restrict their slaves' freedom."
"Restriction is useless unless you can lock her up every day of the year, like in prison. But that's
meaningless. Personally, whether in the shop or at home, I lock them up, but they always
keep the key themselves. My lock is just symbolic."
"I've never been to your shop, it's too expensive. This is the first time I've heard of this; I'd like to hear more about it," the host
said with a smile. "You're like her, aren't you? I never lock my house, and she 　　knows all
my keys, my car keys, my bankbook, and my password . But she's never left the house alone, nor has she touched any of my things. This girl has a rather special constitution; 　　at home, she basically just masturbates." 　　"So, you've completely turned her into a slave." 　　"Sort of, but I always feel something's off. She's too obedient, but the cat-like lividity is still there. Cats can scratch, too 　　." Laughter erupted from the audience again. Number Eight gently rubbed his glans with his molars. 　　"How many slaves have you turned into?" 　　"Countless. Since I started this job, I turn one or two into slaves every week." 　　"What kind of slaves do you think are easier to turn?" 　　"It doesn't matter what's difficult or easy. I think anyone can be turned into a slave." This statement caused a 　　stir in the audience, with viewers and guests discussing it amongst themselves. 　　"I don't understand what you mean." 　　"Human civilization spent more time in slave society than all other civilizations combined. This is 　　part of humanity's cultural DNA. I didn't expect you to be so surprised." 　　"Everyone?" 　　"Everyone." 　　"Including you?" 　　"Including me. But not everyone can control me. You have to defeat me in some way. We all 　　subjugate the defeated and enslave them. It could be through unbearable physical pain, or mental oppression." 　　"I understand. You mean the master-slave relationship is innate, but who is the master and who is the slave is determined later." 　　"It's decided by the person themselves." 　　"You mean the slave can turn around and control the master?" " 　　I've seen people who were originally slaves turn around and control their original masters." " 　　How can that be done?" 　　"It's simple, make your master unable to leave you." 　　"The master falls in love with the slave?" " Unrequited love 　　? Or you find something that can ruin his reputation, or something else. As I 　　said, a swordsman can change swords. Once he can't, your identities change." 　　"Is that the only way?" 　　"There's only one way. If you can't live without him, you lose, and he turns the tables on you." 　　"Even if you torture him, beat him?" 　　"Once you can't treat him entirely according to your own will, you've been controlled by him to some extent. And 　　if you can't actively end this relationship, it means you've already been controlled. A master-slave relationship is actually 　　a relationship between a person and an object. Will your phone grow legs and run away? Only when you throw it away, once you can't get rid of the 　　phone, your relationship with the phone is no longer a relationship between a person and an object." 　　"I understand, but not being able to get rid of it doesn't necessarily mean the relationship has to be reversed." 　　"It must be reversed. First, your relationship is a relationship between a person and an object, and in a relationship between a person and an object, 　　you are the less free one. Then you are no longer a person. He has defeated you." 　　"Why can't we go back to a relationship between people?" 　　"I didn't say it's absolutely impossible. In specific circumstances, it's possible. For example, the male guest next to me could 　　reinstate her as his daughter, though his daughter's wishes are also very important. But generally, a relationship that 　　begins with a person and an object can only end with a person and an object. Let me put it this way: Imagine you're in a slave society, like ancient Rome 　　, during the Spartacus Rebellion. If he had won, how would he have treated the captured nobles? At his friend's 　　funeral, when the nobles were forced to become gladiators, who was the master and who was the slave? 　　In a slave society, except for very special cases of pardon and forgiveness, 　　the loser automatically becomes the victor's slave. When you engage in a mental battle with your slave, and you lose, you naturally become 　　his slave. Once you're in this kind of relationship, you can't escape. Can one person change the world? Sometimes yes 　　, it requires a catalyst, but most of the time it's not possible," Zhao Mou added. 　　As time was running out, the host began his closing remarks. Zhao Mou removed his headset microphone and 　　whispered to the two guests, their voices barely audible. "Thank you to our three guests for joining us today and sharing 　　your views and insights on master-slave relationships. Thank you all." The three bowed and left the stage. "Now, it's time 　　for our charity auction. Please take your number plates..." 　　Mr. Sun looked at Zhao Mou from below the stage and said, "I didn't expect you to be so knowledgeable about these things." " 　　I'm flattered. 　　I've listened for a while, and although I didn't quite understand, it seemed to make sense." 　　"Well, I've recorded shows before, and it's actually quite similar to slave training." " 　　You really are one-way in your understanding, and all methods are applicable. 　　The Tao gives birth to all things; the laws are universal. Ancient people attained enlightenment through various means; it's not unreasonable for me to attain enlightenment through slave training 　　. " 　　"Tell me how it's similar."

You're trying to subdue a slave; you want to defeat him. You can be beaten black and blue, even temporarily humiliated into slavery, all
for the ultimate victory. Your goal is to get others to agree with you; you don't necessarily need to have your own opinion,
just suppress the other person's.
I haven't seen you actually argue.
Suppression doesn't necessarily mean real suppression; just slightly modify their meaning. Maintaining a distance
makes your meaning ambiguous. That's how philosophical research works: you first spout vague and incoherent nonsense,
then when someone attacks you, you quickly seize upon their viewpoint and critique it—that's it.
Hmph, young man, you're quite something.
Anything with a competitive element is quite similar to subduing a slave. Zhao Mou smiled, casually raising his bidding paddle as a gesture
. But the bid was quickly surpassed.
The item was number two, provided by Mr. Sun. He usually occupies slots one, two, and three.
05. The gym had just opened, and before the first class even started, the middle-class wives, neither rich nor poor
, were already chatting idly in the changing room.
"Ugh, my toilet is so annoying! My husband peees and splashes water all over the place, the cleaning lady doesn't clean it properly,
and I have to clean it myself."
"I've trained my husband to sit on the toilet," another said.
"My husband sits too, but my son stands, and I can't control him," yet another added.
"Tell your husband to clean it! In my house, my husband cleans the toilet, whether he stands or sits doesn't matter!"
The last one giggled, shaking with laughter. The bell rang for class, and she thought: My toilet is my husband.
She tapped on the changing mirror, the dark glass reflecting her thoughts. "Right, honey?"
The bald man called, saying he'd gone a bit too far yesterday, injuring Number Six's vagina and mons pubis, and asked Zhao Mou
not to be too rough today. Zhao Mou sighed, thinking about the sweet talk Number Six had given him. But he couldn't argue with the client
.
He first hung up Number Eight and set up the drilling rig. He turned on the switch and then arranged the goods in the other compartments. He turned
the mirror so Number Eight could see what he was doing. He took out a hemp rope over ten meters long, about the thickness of a thumb,
waved it at the audience, and wrapped it around Number Six.
Number Eight thought he wanted to hang Number Six up, but the rope seemed too short, so he couldn't add any unnecessary frills
. Zhao Mou wove a net across Number Eight's chest, tied a braid behind his back, and bound his hands behind his body into two-inch-wide fishing
net knots, pulling them tight. Number Six was originally thin, but with the force of the binding, his body was stretched into a mesh, and fat
squeezed out of the skin in the mesh compartments, but not much. Fat people are more suitable for binding than thin people; fat people's fat overflows
more without pain, while using stiff rope on thin people is pure torture. Zhao Mou originally planned to use thin wire to bind him, but a
phone call from Baldy forced him to give up, and he took out a piece of old hemp rope that hadn't been used for many years.
While thin wire binding isn't as itchy as hemp rope, its small contact area and lack of elasticity often cause it to dig
into the flesh, resulting in bruising and bleeding. Furthermore, it can cause necrosis in limbs distal to the heart due to insufficient blood supply.
Hemp rope, on the other hand, is slightly more elastic and strong enough to handle a woman weighing around 40 kilograms
, but it can break when binding larger male slaves. However, it's slightly more painful and itchy than cotton rope.
Zhao Mou considered cotton rope purely for lovers' flirting, especially since there were imported long-staple cotton ropes sold online
that felt like silk, completely unsuitable for a slave's pleasure. But as a professional, he always had to listen to the client's opinions, and Zhao Mou
didn't care too much about whether the client truly meant it.
Zhao Mou carefully wove the knots around Number Six's body, meticulously creating a rope flower on her nipples,
tying double ropes under her armpits for support, and a single rope between her labia. The double ropes secured the area, while the single rope rubbed back and forth when she was suspended
. Her legs were folded and bound at the knees, the large rope knot ending at the ankles. About two meters of rope remained above her head and below her feet
. He untied the hidden fasteners left in the large rope knot on Number Six's back, revealing a rope loop at each section.
The rope end above her head passed through the loops to her feet, and the rope end below her feet passed through the loops to her head, inserting
a wooden stick into each loop. The stick had a wooden handle and sponge shaped to fit the back of her head.
Zhao Mou lifted Number Six onto a frame, then threaded the rope end through the loops in the metal rod in the middle of the glass partition.
He removed the frame, leaving Number Six suspended in this position. Her feet and shoulders were pulled high by the double ropes, the wooden stick controlling her
spine to prevent bending. Her shoulders were constantly being raised, but her calves and the back of her head were pressed down by the wooden stick and handle.
Her entire body was broken into several segments, each exerting its own force, creating a counterbalance that caused Number Six unprecedented pain.
She tried to struggle a few times, and the ropes binding her genitals and nipples rubbed violently against her. She was almost in
excruciating pain, yet inexplicably felt pleasure.
Zhao Mou had always believed that pain was also a form of pleasure, although he couldn't prove it. But pain was at least a feeling
, and so was pleasure. Zhao Mou felt that feelings could overlap. When pain and pleasure coexisted,
either the greater pain overwhelmed the pleasure, or the greater pleasure overwhelmed the pain. But when pain and pleasure
were almost equal, they would enter a state of entanglement, mutually reinforcing and restraining each other, tearing at one's mind. Zhao Mou wasn't good at using instruments of torture to make goods submit to simple pain, because simple pain 　　had different thresholds
for everyone . He always felt he couldn't control the intensity of the whipping or the tightness of the clamps. And 　　excessive pain would cause the goods' bodies to break down. But he was an expert at using pleasure. He could always perfectly 　　match a certain pleasure with a corresponding pain, and the two would work together seamlessly. Sometimes, even the smallest 　　pain and the smallest pleasure, overlapping and rubbing together, can have a devastating impact on a person's mind, making them 　　quickly realize their true nature. 　　Zhao Mou gently shook Number Six, quite satisfied, and went out to prepare food for the goods. 　　He placed Number Six's canned food and biscuits on the shelf, dripping some water on them, just 　　an inch or two away from Number Six's mouth. Number Six no longer resisted this food; she could eat it naturally when hungry. But 　　how a person bound tightly could cross those few centimeters became Number Six's biggest problem. Number Six tried 　　to suck the food with her mouth, but no matter how hard she tried, only water came through; the food was heavier, and the friction 　　was greater, so it wouldn't come through.

"Don't inhale too hard, or you'll inhale some small bits and cough, tsk tsk." Zhao Mou
was quite satisfied with her reaction, so he kindly reminded her.
Number Six, thinking of the shivering, tingling sensation all over her body when she coughed, quickly stopped inhaling. Then, to
exhale, her body trembled, a feeling that made her extremely grateful for Zhao Mou's reminder, to the point that she momentarily
forgot it was Zhao Mou who had hung her up.
She stretched her neck forcefully, but dared not use too much of her spine and shoulders. Simply lengthening her
cervical vertebrae couldn't make up for that small distance, so she moved her shoulder slightly. Her lips finally touched
a piece of biscuit, but due to the pain, she pulled back.
Zhao Mou gently drew a line where her lips had touched the biscuit, indicating that this was
the baseline for placing food. Number Six seemed to see hope; she tried her best to extend her lips a few more millimeters, and her upper lip finally touched
the edge of the biscuit. But the sting made her recoil, her lips twitching slightly with the biscuit in them. The biscuit bounced up and
fell off the shelf.
Zhao Mou pushed another biscuit behind the line, like rally cars starting in sequence. Having learned from her previous
experience, Number Six was much more careful this time. She gently moved the biscuit little by little, bending and stretching it back and forth several times,
enduring the painful friction, but finally, the biscuit got into her mouth.
Seeing that she had eaten the biscuit, Zhao Mou increased the difficulty of the game, pushing a piece of tuna behind the line. The fish piece
was slightly higher than the biscuit, but narrower, making the lip movements even more difficult. But fish had its advantages
; it was wetter and softer than the biscuit, preventing the tragedy of it bouncing to the ground again.
Number Six's first attempt had been to press the biscuit against the shelf and use the friction of her lips to
gradually bring the food over, just like before. However, the tuna piece wasn't as firm as the biscuit; it crumbled easily under pressure, and she
couldn't budge it at all, only making it crumble more with each press.
Zhao Mou swept away the shattered pieces of fish and moved over a slightly larger one. He tilted his head,
giving another hint.
Number Six understood Zhao Mou's meaning again and tried to turn her head.
Surprisingly, the wooden handle behind her head, which was turning the cylindrical stick, went smoothly with almost no resistance. However, if she turned her head to try and grab the fish with her lips,
her lower lip would have to be closer to the piece, meaning her body would have to move forward a step. After several attempts , Number Six
felt even greater pain. With each millimeter
of progress on the rope, the pain and pleasure increased exponentially. The first millimeter was just a slight tingling, but the last millimeter required the mobilization
of all her muscles and nerves. She persevered, treating the fish in front of her as the goal of her life's struggle,
as if obtaining it would give her the meaning of life.
Finally, a split second before she collapsed, she managed to steady the fish piece as her lips closed. She
smiled, trying to pull it back using the rope's rebound, but unfortunately, she used too much force, and the fish piece
fell to the ground again. The next second, she broke down. She stopped trying desperately to get the biscuits and fish pieces behind the thin line, and she
couldn't cry out anymore, only tears dripping down her face.
Zhao Mou crossed out the thin line and pushed the food, piece by piece, directly below her lips. She
ate greedily, tears dripping onto the food.
"Don't cry," Zhao Mou said.
In just an instant, she stopped crying. Zhao Mou knew he had succeeded again. He slowly fed Number Six until she
finished eating, then pushed the shelf aside, intentionally or unintentionally bumping into Number Six, causing her to sway violently in the air. He
returned from the warehouse after putting the shelf away, and Number Six was still swaying in the air. He steadied Number Six, helping her to calm down. The hemp fibers
no longer pierced her skin or rubbed against her vulva. In fact, her body trembled slightly with every breath,
and even the flow of blood in her capillaries could trigger the friction of the hemp fibers. However, because her vulva was already dripping wet, thoroughly
wetting the rope, a little lubrication counteracted the inevitable
trembling caused by the body's instinctive function.
She looked up at Zhao Mou, as submissive as a parrot. Her mind was filled with Zhao Mou; she recalled
every detail of his body, the bruises and marks she had scratched, and
the feeling of being held captive to the grill by suction cups yesterday. She seemed unable to recall any real displeasure at the time. She remembered the first time she
saw him, when she was still wearing underwear and a skirt.
Zhao Mou inserted a vibrating egg into her vagina, carefully positioned the single rope in the center of her vaginal opening, and walked
away, leaving her alone immersed in endless fantasies. The vibrating egg inside her vagina was connected to a thin wire,
the switch element hanging outside the vagina like a pendulum. A drop of water dripped down the wire.
"This switch isn't waterproof. How long do you think it will take for her to get enough water to soak it?" Zhao Mou asked Number Eight.
"She might lose control of her bladder," Number Eight replied. "I lost control the first time I used one."
Zhao Mou nodded, thinking that was possible, but he hadn't given Number Six much water today, so there should
n't be much urine. Number Eight had been soaked in a water tank for a day before being put on the rope, and there hadn't been
any feeding or games, so her situation was quite different.
He observed Number Eight's reaction on the other side of the glass with great interest. The switch hanging beneath her
swayed slightly with the vibrations transmitted from the wires.
The vibrating egg's motor vibrated 21,000 times per minute, or 700 times per second. Magnifying that number
ten million times would reach the frequency of the most advanced electronic processors in modern times. Thinking of this, Zhao Mou smiled. If an electronic
processor could be modified into a vibrating egg, she would probably experience even more pleasure.
The way pleasure and electronic pulses work is so similar. Excessive sensations can exceed the human brain's processing capacity, leading to unconsciousness. This
is likely a self-protective mechanism: if the pain is too intense, one should temporarily refrain from thinking, wait for time
to heal, or await a peaceful death.
Therefore, Zhao Mou didn't want Number Six to fall into a coma. He gradually increased her pain, hoping to prevent her from suddenly falling
into a coma and becoming numb. He didn't want to reach that critical threshold too quickly. He slowly identified this threshold,
approaching it little by little, and then gradually pushing it higher. In fact, training is about increasing a person's tolerance for pain.
High, by enduring greater and more intense pain, one can turn subtle, ordinary suffering into a habit and even a pleasure.
For example, an ordinary person taken by a bullet on the battlefield, setting aside the helplessness of seeing blood and
the fear of the unknown, the mere sensation of the bullet tearing through flesh and muscle can cause them to faint on the spot. However,
a well-trained soldier, tested by blood and fire, can even
maintain the rationality to stop their bleeding at the moment of being shot. Of course, the bullet might hit a vital spot, rendering them immobile, but
preserving even a sliver of rationality is not such difficult training.
The highest level of physical endurance is limited to direct death; purely in terms of obtaining pain,
groin torture is merely the least efficient and least noteworthy method. But the civilized world has given the genitals—male
and female—to too many interpretations, which gives masters an opportunity. Although the absolute
amount of pain is negligible (even the direct removal of male external genitalia, with proper sterilization and correct
surgical methods, would not directly endanger life), it is perfect for instilling a sense of shame and making the subject doubt their own
sensory organs. For example, using pulses of electricity of certain intensity and frequency
to shock the glans penis or prostate gland can induce ejaculation without an erection, providing
pleasure dozens of times greater than intercourse. This simple doubt about the sensory organs, when properly guided, can eliminate the slave's self-awareness
and their existence as an individual.
Rome attempted to restore the slave's personhood, but what it took away was its army and steel. Now Zhao Mou doesn't need
real warfare or diplomacy, just a small vibrator. And this is precisely the miracle that modern civilization has given us.
"Ah, vibrator! Praise the vibrator," he said sarcastically.
As he said this, Number Six began to vibrate, and a large amount of fluid gushed from her vaginal opening. But the vibrating egg
continued its persistent vibration, showing no sign of stopping.
06. "Let's go to the airport to pick up Mr. Ye," Zhao Mou said to Number Eight.
"Who is Mr. Ye?"
"Mr. Ye is my sun," Zhao Mou replied. He gestured with his index finger, signaling Number Eight to shut up. Actually,
Zhao Mou would see Mr. Ye, who was overseas, every year, but he always chased after Mr. Ye all over the world. From the South Pole to the North
Pole, they met in every corner of the world. Every year at this time, he would leave Number Eight at home alone;
she didn't know Mr. Ye. Mr. Ye didn't know her either, only that he had an adopted daughter. But this year, for some reason,
Mr. Ye suddenly had the idea to return to his hometown. Actually, Mr. Ye no longer had any relatives in his hometown; his parents
had been working overseas since he was very young.
Mr. Ye and Zhao Mou's relationship, in the old saying of Hai City, was that of childhood friends, "childhood friends are those who grew up tying each other
's hair together"—of course, this was something Zhao Mou made up; he didn't know the origin of the term.
Mr. Ye was a doctor with piercing eyes that seemed to have a spotlight. Fearing that she might discover something through observation, listening, questioning, and palpation, he decided
to examine No. 8's body himself first to see if there was anything unusual.
The phone rang—"how many roads mustamanwalk
do wn"—and when he answered, it was a sales pitch for guns and date rape drugs. Zhao Mou smiled, thinking: I can get
her to take off her clothes without guns or date rape drugs.
Unexpectedly, the moment he had the thought, Number Eight started undressing herself.
He had lived with her for three years; she could almost read his thoughts from the way his eyebrows moved. Zhao Mou was a little scared
; he felt this girl knew too much about him, yet he felt he knew nothing about her.
She folded her clothes, placed them on the coffee table, and stood quietly in the sunlight, absorbing the sun's energy.
In the past three years, she had grown much taller, her figure more shapely and graceful, even her hips had lifted, but only
her breasts remained unchanged, still flat. Zhao Mou thought this might be because she was particularly wet: "When two strangers
meet, if it's flat, there will be turbulent flow."
He lay on the chaise lounge, gently stroking her body. She was about to become an adult; according to adoption law, once
she reached adulthood, she could dissolve their relationship. He decided to leave the decision to her, but he believed
she wouldn't leave him.
Zhao Mou watched her body reflect the white light, carefully pressing her skin. She giggled when he touched a ticklish spot
. He reached between her legs and found she was already soaking wet. He only touched her a few times. He remembered
being this wet with Mr. Ye when he was a child, only this time it was him who was wet.
He decided to make love to her in the sunlight. He pulled down his pants and took out his penis.

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【Crimson Blood - Sequel - No. 6】Author: anyifang1

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