[Gay men][Solo dancer]

A Solo Dancer

Xia Shaohua

1.

A dull, somewhat unsettling afternoon. He sat sprawled on the small rooftop. The harsh sunlight scorched his leaden, glossy
hair. His thin face, with a short, thick beard framing his prominent chin, and a
trail of sweat trickling down his left cheek.

This afternoon was not only utterly boring, but also unbearably hot.

With nothing to do, he played with a five- or six-foot-long nylon rope. It wasn't an ordinary nylon rope;
a friend had bought it from Japan years ago. Its appearance was not much different from other nylon ropes. But once it wrapped
around any part of the body, it displayed a magical strength. No matter how much you struggled or pulled, it
wouldn't loosen. It seemed to melt your skin along the path of contact, then
fuse .

He joined the Boy Scouts in middle school. That was the first time he learned various basic knotting techniques. Inexplicably
, he possessed an innate skill for binding. After the instructor's first demonstration, he could perform various knots with
astonishing skill and speed. No matter how complex the knots, he could always
complete them flawlessly on the first try. He didn't know why; he just felt that as soon as his hands grasped the rope, his fingers would naturally
and lightly dance, and the rope would move like a nimble snake between his fingers. In a short while, one
intricate would appear before his eyes.

At that time, whenever there was any tying work involved, he would be the first to start, often handling the entire process himself.
Because no matter how tight his slip knots were, a gentle tug on the protruding end of the rope would
loosen them like a blooming lotus. For a knot that was difficult to untie, the only way to release it was to cut it off. Gradually, tying knots
became an addiction he couldn't break. In his spare time, he would play with nylon rope, constantly exploring other
knotting methods, imagining all sorts of things to be tied, such as paper bags and gifts. Clotheslines. Advertising banners.
Fierce dogs. Even human bodies.

For a time, whenever he saw a rope, he would think of how it could be wrapped around various parts of the body. Wrists.
Ankles . Neck. Chest. Waist and knees. He couldn't help but imagine all
sorts of ways a person might be bound. A spread-eagle binding. Arms tied together and suspended, or the body twisted upside down and suspended by the ankles, and so on. He also indulged in
imagining the painful expressions of the bound person. The wild and futile struggle. How the body contracted and tensed. Even
the heart-wrenching howls.

And the person bound in his imagination was always a man. Always a handsome man.
Bright , piercing eyes. Deep-set eyes. A high, straight nose. And a
jawline with prominent curves, as if cut with a fruit knife. That kind of fierce, masculine profile. Of course, he also possessed a flawless
physique. A pair of arms undulating like waves. A large pectoral muscle, outstretched like a dove's tail. A broad back, a
region where a narrow valley meets a ridge. And on either side, segmented external oblique muscles connect like piano keys. Surrounding that rippling, layered
abdomen. Cracked hexagonal muscles arranged like a chisel-carved puzzle. This type of man often appears in his
virtual fantasies. He exists in various locations and props. His limbs move through nylon ropes with endless binding methods.
Sometimes he's a burly physical education teacher. Sometimes he's a tall, aloof inspector. Or
a heartthrob movie star. A shirtless male model displaying designer underwear. Sometimes it's even himself.

Imagining himself bound and unable to move. Feeling that suffocating tension. Waves of surging, naked
excitement. The stinging pain of the tightening nylon ropes. Imagining. Constantly imagining. When consciousness finally returned to reality
, he found his penis was hard and erect. He was only

sixteen

that year. A tiny seed of fear sprouted hidden in the darkest depths of his heart.
He thought he had some incurable disease. Several times he
stared , questions swirling on his tongue, but he swallowed them back down, along with his sticky saliva. He tried to force himself
not to think about it, but after three or four days, he would always wake up from a jumble of vivid dreams, his body enveloped in a sweaty,
sweltering heat. His swollen penis stood erect, as if about to burst. In his dreams, he saw men with large,
bronze bodies swaying, struggling and writhing under ropes or iron chains. He lay
there to move for a long time, until his penis went limp and fell back.

He spent two years of high school, each day with a sense of urgency, as if trying to pull back from the brink.
The fear, lurked in the dark corners of his mind, grew stronger each day, multiplying rapidly. This was especially true after that biology class on sexuality.
His mind went blank as he read, "...one reason for penile erection is the sight of a woman's naked, bronze body...
" His suspicion that he was ill only intensified. He could only silently endure the unspeakable,
chronic pain. Yet, even as he vowed to completely suppress his wandering thoughts, he found these fantasies
invading his sleep even more frequently. Sometimes, he would wake up after ejaculation for several nights

in a row... As the shadows of panic and anxiety spread and engulfed his life, he
repeatedly tasted, after feelings of guilt and remorse, a sweet, honey-like pleasure—the
purest ecstasy of lust. He thus wavered between resistance and indulgence. Often, after deep regret, I couldn't help but
lift the veil of such fantasies.

Until one strangely eerie afternoon when I was eighteen…

3.

"My hobby is collecting pain," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I collect
all kinds of pain. Free of charge. And it's inexhaustible." He had eyes filled with sorrow.
Slightly protruding cheekbones revealed a thin, gaunt face. "I keep pain inside my body. So I can
feel it often. Feel its volume and shape. Its hidden location. That real existence." Thin eyebrows
drooped slightly. Crow's feet bloomed at the corners of his eyes, crowding together with his smile. Pain. Hundreds of kinds of pain. Stinging.
Numbness. Painless. Aching. Burning. Indescribable pain. Beyond the ability of any words to describe it. His
voice was hoarse and low, full of wrinkles. Like a piece of oiled paper crumpled into a ball. Pain is alive. It
can breathe. The pain that has just been collected is so intense. You can feel it boiling. Rolling. Gradually it
begins to weaken. Degenerate. Until it disappears. It stops breathing. Ends that short life. He remains silent.
His eyes held a distant, empty void. His lips were thin and flat, tightly closed. You must madly cherish
every pain you collect. You must care for it every day, watching its ever-changing color. Only
then will you discover how long its life is. Only then will you appreciate its fleeting stay within your body.
A warm lamp seemed to ignite in his pupils. His tone became lively and cheerful.
Pain worth collecting requires careful planning. Method. Location. Quantity. These are all
factors . Accidental falls. Cuts. Menstruation. Childbirth. Pain caused by illness or any surgery is not worth
collecting. He shifted his posture, remaining silent for a long time. When the pain within you becomes an irreplaceable ecstasy,
you are a true collector of pain.

He met this young doctor at a gym. Six months later, they sat chatting in
a coffee . The doctor told him these words.

He realized that pain could be a kind of ecstatic pleasure that some people crave.

4.

Beep! Beep! A text message came in on his phone. He pulled it out of his pocket, opened it, and
read it. A slightly surprised smile spread across his face. He quickly coiled the nylon rope in his hand into a bundle and put it in
the drawer on the left side of the bed. Then he took a quick shower, changed into a sleeveless, round-neck, tight-fitting shirt, and his jeans,
which had faded slightly and were almost white in some places. He closed the French doors and let the wooden curtains hang loosely.
All the slanted slivers of afternoon light lay shallowly on the balcony.

A hatchback Mastercard roared out of the apartment building. He gripped the steering wheel
and slammed his right foot on the accelerator. The strong wind cut past his ears like a dagger. Listen. That's the sound of speed. A lawyer
had once told him that.

A year ago, he stood in front of a luxury condominium and rang the doorbell. It was an expensive teak door.
The facade was devoid of any carvings. The smooth surface revealed dazzling and bizarre patterns. Intricate lines flowed like
water , sometimes elongating, sometimes turning back, sometimes forking like a dove's tail. These were the totems of time
, telling the story of a bygone era. He stared, somewhat stunned, at this naturally magnificent masterpiece of embroidery, wondering
what kind of man would open the door.

A moment later, the wooden door slowly opened. A tall figure stood in the doorway. "Please come in,
" a very clear voice said, enunciating each word precisely. He stepped inside. The granite floor tiles were unusually cold.
A dim, yellowish light bulb illuminated the entryway. He looked up and saw a huge Buddha head sculpture, bathed in soft light
, smiling peacefully. "Please sit." They sat down opposite each other. An antique fan spun weakly overhead. He
glanced around the living room, then his gaze settled on the man opposite him.

The man was also staring at him. That familiar gaze rushed into his mind, hastily
scratching at a stale memory. We must have met somewhere before. His clear voice shattered the frozen
silence. Yes. You really are attractive. And so the conversation began. Back and forth, like smooth traffic on a two-lane
highway . The flow of traffic never stopped. They talked with surprising ease. That tacit
understanding quickly incubated a mutual warmth and familiarity. After moving beyond broad topics, they
intentionally or veered into more specific topics of conversation. No one showed any intention of avoiding them. "I have a fetish. I'm also
gay. What about you?" "I don't think I'm gay," the man said, his tone steady and firm. "But I don't
deny that I'm a fetishist. A deeply addicted fetishist." "We're both men spoiled by God." "Is that so?" the
man asked with a smile. "Maybe." God has given us a tail that can't see the light of day. Yes! When we
find someone else to stroke that tail, the feeling is truly ecstatic. "When did you become fascinated with
bondage?" the man asked. "Middle school, I think." "And you?" "I've loved walking my chained little dog around since I was little. I don't know
why. I especially loved tying up cats and dogs with iron chains or ropes." The man recounted his
story in a soft voice. "I often tied my younger brother's or sister's hands and feet. Watching their helpless struggles gave me a
strange sense of excitement. Yes. That irreplaceable, indescribable excitement. I've loved untying knots since I was little.
I'm deeply fascinated by those knotted ropes. When I tug and pull them away, I
feel incredibly relaxed." The man said, his calm expression radiating a distant and intoxicated look in his eyes. It wasn't until I went to America
to study law that I learned what bondage was. What is BDSM? It's about delving into the darkest, most morbidly addictive
realms . The deeper you go, the further you stray. Everyone fell silent. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows
, cascading onto the man's face. His hair was slightly gray. Wrinkles of varying lengths, plowed into his forehead and the corners of his eyes by the passage of time, were faintly visible
. But his sharply defined features revealed the youthful brilliance and handsomeness of his younger days. "You…you don't want
to start ?" "No rush," the man said. "My wife and children have gone back to America on vacation. Anyway, your services are calculated by the hour,
aren't they?"

5.

Three years later. He encountered the lawyer again in the lobby of a five-star hotel. Standing beside the lawyer was
a young man at least thirty years younger than him. A thin face with melancholy eyes. A loose-fitting
long-sleeved sweater wrapped around his slender frame. The lawyer had spotted him from afar, sitting on a black leather sofa trimmed with gold.
His expression remained consistently calm and composed. He spoke a few words to the young man, whose face betrayed a slight blush.
The young man simply nodded, then extended his right arm to shake his hand. At that moment, the sleeve of his sweater rolled up slightly,
revealing faint pink marks on his wrist. After the young man turned and left, the lawyer approached him. He hurriedly
stood up, feeling somewhat embarrassed, as if he had committed some offense. The
lawyer smiled gently, gracefully shaking his hand, and said, "It's a pleasure to see you again. It's truly a pleasure.
" "I…" he stammered, somewhat taken aback. "Me too. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?" he asked,
his hands still tightly gripping his right hand. "Sure," he nodded, slightly pulling his right arm
away, awkwardly withdrawing his hand.

The midday silence settled in the empty coffee shop. They sat down facing each other. A barely concealed joy shone on the lawyer's face
. He, however, simply stared at him expressionlessly. The receptionist slowly approached and
stood very politely by the table. He greeted the lawyer by his full name. After the receptionist turned and left, he said...
"He seems to know you quite well." "It's nothing. I used to meet clients here often," the lawyer said. "I didn't expect him to still remember my name after
three years ." He didn't reply. He stared at him with a vacant look for a moment, then suddenly asked,
"Didn't you immigrate? Didn't you say you weren't going to play around anymore?" His voice was unusually cold, his tone laced with sharp resentment
and bitterness. The lawyer could feel the piercing anger. He didn't answer immediately. He simply took a pack of cigarettes from
his pocket , opened the lid, and pulled out a Benson

6.

A pair of wrists bound with black nylon rope. Arms struggling incessantly. Boneless palms
clenched into fists. Swollen deltoid muscles. Connected to strong bicephalic muscles. Sometimes curled into pebble-shaped lumps of flesh,
sometimes stretched out by weak, outstretched arms. Beads of translucent sweat slid down his neck, where veins bulged.
They crossed the collarbone, which stretched horizontally to the sides, and traversed two vast expanses of pectoral muscles, outstretched like giant wings. Some remained
frozen on his snow-white skin, like glistening morning dew. Others flowed down the sternum, splitting the pectoral muscles,
to his flared abdomen, climbing over the undulating abdominal muscles, and reaching his cone-shaped waist.
A tender red tongue emerged, roaming over his sweat-drenched neck, licking the muscles writhing in struggle, and
circling the slightly protruding Adam's apple. Then it slid down to his taut chest, lewdly savoring the muscle fibers,
greedily teasing the dark brown nipples. A soft, deep moan escaped, a mixture of pain and barely suppressed excitement.
The tongue then slid down to his abdomen, where muscles rose and fell in waves. He walked along the cracked line. He reached the slightly concave navel.
He slowly moistened it there with a circling, licking motion. One Sunday afternoon when he was eighteen, he woke up
. His whole body was hot. His bare, thin back was sticky and sweaty.

He lay motionless in his pocket. His erect penis stood straight up inside his shorts. Clear pre-ejaculate had
soaked the crotch of his underwear. He didn't really want to ejaculate at that moment. To ejaculate for such an intensely passionate dream.
He knew the feeling of defeat and guilt would be especially deep. A few minutes later, he grabbed a shirt and put it on. He
rode his motorcycle blindly through the streets. The scorching sun of around four o'clock blazed down on his back. He felt
as if his muscles were being roasted. Finally, he parked his motorcycle in front of an old theater.
A small hesitation pounded in his heart. He looked around. The crowd was sparse. He glanced briefly at the faces moving around outside the theater
. Making sure no one he knew was there, he suppressed his anxiety and headed towards the ticket counter.
His face flushed as he bought the ticket. He hurriedly handed over the money, grabbed the ticket, and went inside. His heart was still pounding like a drum.
He hadn't intended to watch the movie at all. He was simply captivated by the poster of two men holding hands tightly, and
the tagline, "The first gay film approved for public release this year."

When he entered the theater, the lights were still on, and advertisements were playing on the screen. He glanced around, finally
settling for a seat in a quiet corner. His heartbeat gradually calmed. After sitting down, he was shocked to find
his right hand, which had been holding the ticket, was damp with sweat. The ticket stub was crumpled into a ball. He released his grip, and the crumpled paper rolled
under the chair. Soon after, the lights went out one by one. A thick, dark curtain of light rapidly enveloped him, like a surging
wave assaulting his vision. The only light source came from the fluorescent screen in front of him. Then the preview of the new film began.
Edited . The blasting sound system relentlessly tore through the air, bombarding his eardrums. He glanced
around. Scattered heads floated about. His panicked heart calmed down a bit. Just as the preview was about to end
, someone walked towards him and plopped down in the seat next to him.

A moment later, someone turned off the two small lights on the back wall. The film was about to begin. About thirty minutes later,
he started yawning. He felt somewhat cheated by the poster. Clearly, the poster's imagery and the
astonishingly worded text were purely a promotional tactic. The film's pace was extremely slow. The pale
plot was utterly uninteresting. Ten more minutes passed. He was yawning repeatedly and even dozing off. It really was
a terrible movie. The man sitting next to him suddenly spoke. He paused for a moment, then turned to look at him, noticing the empty seat
beside . The words seemed directed at him. "Hmm?" he asked briefly in a low voice. "I said this movie
is terrible. What do you think?" the man said, his face still fixed on the screen. "Hmm," he responded in an agreeing tone.
Nevertheless , they continued watching, occasionally shifting their positions. His left thigh would occasionally brush
against the man's right leg through his trousers, rubbing against it. The man would unexpectedly utter a comment or two about the film, or some
trivial questions. And he, as if under some kind of spell—perhaps the man's sensual voice,
or that pungent, sour throat lozenge—would strike up a conversation with him without any hesitation.

The lights suddenly came on. The screen displayed an unfamiliar cast list. The abundant light quickly erased
the dark paint. For the first time, he clearly saw the man's smiling face. His heart suddenly
trembled like a broken string on a zither. He stood there, stunned, for a long time. The man had already gotten up to leave. Seeing his
frozen expression, the man gently moved his right shoulder and said, "Is something wrong?" "No…nothing." His
confused thoughts rushed back to his mind. He stood up somewhat abruptly. The sparse crowd crowded the narrow
exit. Soon all the seats were empty. The man walked slowly, taking short strides. He didn't want to follow closely, so he
slowed , maintaining a slightly wider distance to gaze at the man's tall, slender back.

Reaching the outside of the theater, the man turned back and waited for him to come over. He looked up.
The moment into view, his heart clenched sharply. He wanted to just say goodbye like that, even
leave without saying goodbye. But he didn't. He couldn't help but walk towards the man. He didn't even know
why. Maybe it was that familiar, brand-like face. "Look. The poster even says it's a gay
movie ." "Gay my ass!" the man cursed. "Hmm." He lowered his
head and nodded. "Do you want to see it?" "See what?" He looked up and saw a sly smile on the man's face. "Come with me." The man said, then took his
left hand . He said somewhat embarrassedly, "I...I'll follow you.
" From that moment on, he and his pure white world were shadowed by that completely unfamiliar man. He didn't know where to go
. He only knew the darkness that was creeping over him. The blurry and strange faces of the crowds on the street. The
flickering, will-o'-the-wisps of car lights. And his own uneasy heart. The man was like a sweet candy.
The allure of his presence drew him in like an ant. He had no idea how far he had walked, how many streets and alleys he had traversed. He
had completely lost all sense of time and place. Finally, the man turned and stepped onto a gray, heavily shrouded staircase.
At the end of the stairs was a wooden door with peeling paint. "Come up," the man said, his back to him. A small, dimly lit
bulb hung in front of the door. In the dim yellow light, he saw that the man's shirt was soaked with an indescribable pattern of sweat.

The door opened. The man stepped into the darkness that filled the room. He stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment. "Come in,"
the man said, then turned on a chandelier. "Come in!" the man said again. Only then did he cautiously step inside. The room
was actually quite spacious. There were three glass windows on the wall opposite the door. Near one of the windows was a double bed covered with snow-white
sheets. His gaze lingered on that familiar double bed. The whole bed was so
familiar . It was as if he had slept in that bed for a long time. "Come here," the man said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He walked over
, mesmerized and sat down beside the man. The man casually opened the small freezer beside the bed and handed
him a bottle of frozen cola. Then he bent down and pulled a large leather suitcase from under the bed. The
suitcase was polished to a shine. The sound of something clattering inside emanated from it. The man placed the suitcase on his lap and then carefully
and slowly lifted the lid, as if revealing a sacred secret. The man placed the opened suitcase on the bed and said to him, "Take your
time looking. I'm going to take a shower." He watched the man go into the bathroom before turning his gaze back to the suitcase. The first thing he
noticed was a roll of nylon rope, a stainless steel chain with loops, two handcuffs, a pair of boxing gloves, a
police baton, a rolled-up riding crop, magazines and books, and other unidentified objects, including three
plastic rods shaped like penises. He casually flipped through the magazines. Inside were titles and
headings . Bizarre and absurd pictures and photographs. Naked men. Bears being brutally whipped. A shaved
-headed boy licking a black military boot. A slave with a dog collar around his neck. The more he looked, the more his heart pounded. His thoughts had entered a
completely unfamiliar and distorted world. He could almost smell the pain and the sweat of blood. He could almost hear
the screams and groans. Then he caught a glimpse of a magazine called Bondage. The cover featured a shirtless boy with his wrists and ankles bound
together . He saw the intricate and beautiful knots. That melancholic face and those bulging
muscles. With a trembling right hand, he turned to the first page. He began the most terrifying and shocking visual experience of his life.

Sometime later, the man was standing behind him. He said: "Bondage is an art." Startled, he
quickly closed the magazine and put it back in the box. Turning around, he saw that the man was only wearing shorts. His short beard was shaved clean.
His shoulder-length hair was neatly combed. And those two large, outstretched pectoral muscles, like eagle wings. That unusually
dark brown nipple. A flat yet resilient abdomen. Ah. That deeply creased navel. He remembered that absurd
and obscene dream from the afternoon…

He finally remembered. This man was in that dream.

7.

The young doctor wrapped a two-inch-wide strip of duct tape around his right palm. He
wrapped it several layers extra around the knuckles, the pointed knuckles hidden under the thick tape. Then he lightly tapped his left palm a few times, making
a snapping sound. "Place your palms behind your head. Bend your body slightly," the doctor said. Then he took off his shirt.
The evening sunlight streaming through the window illuminated his muscular limbs, coating his skin with a
thin, even bronze hue. "Don't be nervous. The first round will be very light," the doctor said. Shrug your shoulders. Swing your arms a few times.
Relax. Only tighten your abdomen when I throw the first punch. Remember, a belly punch is a very, very sensual
thing. He had already taken his stance. He nodded, but his face inevitably betrayed a hint of excitement and unease. "I'm starting
," the doctor said. Then he released the first punch. He naturally closed his eyes. He bent over and pulled back forcefully. The fist
landed on his bulging, square-shaped abdomen. The right fist retreated. The left fist followed immediately, but the swing speed was quite slow. One punch after another.
Almost like a light drizzle. It set the stage for the game. And he, in the darkness of his closed eyes, endured
the impact of the fists hitting his skin. That indescribable feeling. Each punch landed like a low-level electric shock to the nerves.
The rapid, tingling vibrations spread in all directions from the center of his lower abdomen. Because the swing was slow and deliberate, the feeling was like a violent
caress.

After swinging ten punches with each arm, the doctor stopped with a smile on his face. "Hidden, firm abs," he said.
"How does it feel?" He opened his eyes, glanced at his slightly flushed belly, and said with an embarrassed smile, "It's alright. Don't worry. My
punches are very accurate. A puncher will never hit other parts. That's the main rule of abdominal punches. Injuring is a serious foul,"
the doctor said. "Don't forget, I'm a doctor myself!" "Again," he said. "Get into a horse stance. This time, punch
harder ." The second round of punches was significantly more powerful. When the fist hit the hard abs, it made a "thump" sound.
This time, he opened his eyes, concentrating intently on contracting his abdomen. Beads of sweat began to appear, and a wave of heat evaporated from his body.
This round felt completely different. The punches were not only faster, but the impact was also stronger. What spread was no longer
a tingling sensation, but a smooth, abundant, numb pain. That kind of deep yet urgent slight pain. Naturally
, he tightened his waist and abdomen even more.

The doctor sensed a new resistance. His excitement surged instantly. This was the essence of abdominal punches: the subconscious muscle reaction
guided , unleashing the muscles' latent instinct to grow stronger with each impact, and thoroughly revealing the body
's high degree of resistance against external shocks.

The doctor should, in principle, increase the force of his punches. However, he felt that this first-time recipient's performance was already remarkable.
Therefore, he decided to increase the number of punches by a few more times, further testing the recipient's endurance. Sweat soaked his hair. His
face began to twitch intermittently. When the duct tape binding his fist touched the skin of his abdomen, the constantly shifting
pain occasionally triggered localized spasms in his cheek muscles. His waist and abdomen arched even more sharply. The contraction gradually
weakened. Every stretched muscle fiber gradually rebounded and retracted. The hardness of his abdomen gradually crumbled. What was initially a numb, tingling
sensation had escalated into a deep, solid pain, like a rolling snowball. With each punch, its volume expanded
. The doctor continued to strike with both hands. "Sewing! Sewing! Sewing! Sewing!" The previous heavy thuds
began to soften. The resistance against the punches from his abdominal wall decreased sharply. He knew his limit of endurance wasn't far off. "You can
call it a stop anytime," the doctor said. His broad, undulating back was covered in a fine layer of sweat. His oily arms were also
slightly sore. His face began to contort. The gurgling sounds from his leaking stomach had turned into heavy groans.
One shot. A groan, almost a wail, escaped from the back of his throat. "What a seductive cry!" the doctor thought to himself. He
knew the victim's abdominal defenses were crumbling. When he noticed the duct tape on his fist sinking into the muscle,
he guessed the game was nearing its end. "Five more punches!" he said.

The focus of pain spread like wildfire. He felt a burning, trembling agony.
The strength in his contracted abdomen had almost reached its lowest point. He felt each punch as if piercing his belly, fiercely pounding his
spine. The doctor increased the force of his blows slightly. These final five punches would push the game to its climax. The ecstasy and pain
ignited were boiling. The thick smell of sweat filled the room. The crisp impact and the seductive
howl echoed repeatedly within the room… Finally, when the doctor delivered his fifth punch, his knees involuntarily
buckled. He collapsed to his knees.

Their breathing was rapid and heavy, like a sprinter crossing the finish line in a 100-meter dash. He pressed his palms to the ground,
supporting his excruciatingly painful lower back. But beyond the agony, he felt a satisfaction he had never experienced before—an
extreme, ecstatic sexual ecstasy. He was horrified to discover that his penis was actually hard and erect. He knelt there, somewhat embarrassed
, staring at his flushed belly, savoring the agonizing, gnawing pain.
This was the ultimate goal of abdominal thrusting: to challenge the body's pain tolerance, to understand the limits of one's own physical pain. "
And also, to let you cherish the sweet fruits of this game," the doctor said, moving his hands to the buttons of his shorts. "For us, we'll also receive another extra gift: the pleasure of sex." He looked up, giving him a suggestive smile, and said, "Do you feel this way too?" The doctor silently unbuttoned his shirt. Once the zipper was undone, his penis sprang out like a straightened bamboo pole, trembling slightly before his eyes. "Come on. Lick it." The doctor brought the glans close to his lips, saying, "Remember, this isn't part of the abdominal thrust." Then he chuckled. He couldn't help but cough and laugh a few times, then opened his lips and swallowed the doctor's erect penis… 　　8. 　　A Mastercard sports car pulled into a luxury condominium parking lot. His mood was clear and bright. After all, they hadn't seen each other for almost a month. He whistled and hurried towards the elevator. Suddenly, he noticed that the once deep blue sky was now filled with grayish clouds, swirling slowly in the air. Was it going to rain? he wondered. Standing in front of the elevator, a moment later, ding! The elevator arrived. 　　The teak doors opened. That familiar face appeared beside the door. His usual hearty smile bloomed like a flower bud on his face. "Come in," the lawyer said, his expression as composed as ever, his voice as still lake. "Finally back?" he said with a smile. He stepped into the entryway. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed. Before he could even reach the living room, the lawyer had already embraced him from behind, his left hand hastily unbuttoning his shirt, his right hand already darting under his shirt, stroking his taut, strong belly. "Let's go to the room," the lawyer said, then repeatedly kissing the back of his neck. "Why the rush?" He half-heartedly followed, stumbling towards the master bedroom. The dimly lit room was filled with a chilling atmosphere, as if a storm was brewing. The sky outside the window was rapidly darkening. Clouds, like surging ocean waves, drifted in from an unpredictable direction. The dazzling sunlight of half an hour ago had completely vanished, disappearing without a trace . 　　Inside the room, the two men began their familiar lovemaking routine. Their clothes lay scattered beside the bed. The lawyer knelt on the bed, lying beneath him. They caressed each other's skin, kneading the alluring nipples. Then the doctor leaned down and licked his neck, his warm tongue roaming over his body, occasionally kissing his lips deeply. His long tongue then ventured into his mouth, teasing and playing with the curled-up tongue inside. Then they intertwined softly and wetly. The rain began to fall, droplets splashing against the windowpane with a clattering sound. He stroked the lawyer's slightly soft waist and abdomen with both hands. The lawyer buried his face in his chest, nibbling at his nipples. He stared at the ceiling. The noisy sound of the rain lingered near his ears. The lawyer's tongue had moved to his lower abdomen. He remained gazing at the white ceiling. The sound of the rain became somewhat familiar. Suddenly, he remembered that man. His consciousness traversed the fragmented and scattered images of his memories, returning to that eerie afternoon when he was eighteen. That suffocating bedroom. That inexplicably torrential evening rain. 　　9. 　　On that absurd and bizarre, almost eerie evening when he was eighteen, the man took a roll of nylon and handed it to him. He walked slowly through the dense jungle, filled with an anxiety that felt like he'd lost a century. He took it with a trembling right hand. As the nylon rope touched his fingers, a tingling numbness coursed through his body. Every tree seemed to observe his movements with a strange and cold expression. Every branch and leaf prostrated itself before him in a shady robe of thorns. The man lay on the bed, hands above his head, legs spread, tying my hands and feet to the iron posts at the head and foot of the bed. The man said he had long forgotten the meaning of time. He only remembered the coldness and loneliness of this jungle. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned close to the man's face. He straightened the nylon rope. He found himself in a jungle, like a lonely island, drifting blindly. Day and night had lost their boundaries. The sun didn't rise on a set time, then set arbitrarily. With practiced ease, he threaded the rope through the man's wrists. A skillful pull and tug, and his hands were bound together in the blink of an eye. The rope 's strands were clearly defined, the knots firm yet supple. He felt himself constantly circling and walking, occasionally passing through a thicket of sharp -sharp grass. Each leaf, with its sharp edge, tore at the fabric, leaving interwoven wounds. When the man's ankles were bound to the iron post at the foot of the bed, the dreamlike feeling that had been brewing in his mind became exceptionally profound. He suddenly couldn't distinguish whether he was in a dream or reality. Everything seemed so real yet so unreal. Occasionally, he waded through unpredictable streams. The direction of the current was elusive, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and filled with beautiful yet treacherous eddies, even harboring highly venomous snakes. "Come. Kiss me. Lick me," the man said, his eyes closed. He lowered his head as if under a spell , pressing his dry lips against the man's pale, taut chest muscles. For the first time in his life, he finally smelled that powerful masculine scent. That scent that had lingered in the realm of his imagination. A dense, silken haze occasionally approached , its footsteps like surging waves, surrounding him, blurring his vision, confusing his hearing, nourishing his inner turmoil and bewilderment with a sweet, honey-like fragrance. It all seemed like that midday dream. For many years...

In the illusion, the actions and scenes of breathing slowly took shape, becoming tangible. Like touching
the body of the man lying before you, his fingertips tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the firm, hard texture of his muscular heads. He
walked tirelessly, day and night, past the twisting, writhing roots of giant trees, across moss-covered
rocks that seemed to burn inexplicably. His intestines appeared and disappeared beneath his feet. He was searching for an
exit, one that even metaphor couldn't grasp. When his soft tongue had almost traversed every inch of the man's upper body, the man was clearly in
a state of frenzied excitement. He struggled with slow, restless movements, uttering moans that were almost pleading. "
Pull down my pants," the man said. He paused for a moment, his heart pounding like a drum. Then, he grabbed the sides of his pants
, glanced at the man, and forcefully pulled them down to his knees. Suddenly… He looked up in astonishment to see the interconnected
branches and leaves gradually untying and parting. The leaden sky gradually faded. The gloomy, wispy clouds rolled away. The menacing
sea of fog evaporated rapidly in the air, disappearing without a trace in an instant. The man's penis
leaped up with abundant elasticity, as straight as a bamboo pole. For the first time, he saw a penis that didn't belong to him. A
thick, swollen penis. The explosive thrill rippled through his mind like an echo in a secluded valley. He
stared wide-eyed at the lubricated glans, which peeked out from the foreskin, which was wrapped with greenish veins. It was naked and
trembling slightly. Touch it. Lick it. Feel it. Try it. "Our only loyal companion, through life and death," the man
said. He closed his eyes and waited patiently. Warm and clear rays of light poured down from the ever-opening gaps in the sky,
filling his eyes. He ignited those murky pupils, washing away the smudged filth from his vision
. He began to see things he had never seen before: a clear, bright sky; snow-
white clouds; colorful butterflies… He reached out and grasped the man's thick penis with his right hand. The hard, throbbing
sensation slowly melted in his palm, transforming into a soft warmth. A lingering moan escaped intermittently from his throat
. He moved his right arm up and down, feeling the man's penis grow even larger. The rhythmic contractions became more frequent. "
Hurry. Take it in your mouth." He hesitated for a moment. "It's time. This is the most beautiful
gift ." He bent down, bringing his face close to the man's groin. Just as his hoarse lips were about to touch the sticky glans, he
vaguely saw three English letters tattooed beneath the disheveled pubic hair: joy. The scorching acid rain abruptly stopped.
The giant tree before him
straight ahead. All the dense foliage turned a vibrant, glossy green. All the buds simultaneously bloomed into a
magnificent sea of flowers. That road weaved through the flowers and lush forest, heading towards an unknown end.

As the man's slightly warm semen, trapped in his throat, spurted out, rain inexplicably began to fall outside the window
. Raindrops pattered against the windowpane… He finally discerned a direction in his desolate and helpless wandering.

10.

He came out of the bathroom after showering. The lawyer was still lying on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "This is for you." The lawyer handed
him a long gift box. "Bought in America. You'll definitely like it, won't you?" He took it, opened
the box, and pulled out a roll of glossy black nylon rope. Wow! It really was something special. "This is our last
meeting gift," the lawyer said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. The joy on his face vanished instantly. He froze
for a moment, staring blankly at the lawyer. The lawyer quickly averted his gaze, lowered his head, and took
another drag. "The immigration paperwork is all done. You…you want to immigrate?" "You only decided a few months ago," the lawyer said.
"My wife has started to doubt our relationship. You've already mentioned this." He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the
brand-new roll of nylon rope. "But you also said you were prepared to separate from your wife…it's not as simple as it seems,"
the lawyer said, his voice filled with helplessness. "For the children. For the reputation of the law firm…you said you could give up everything
…" he cried out, suppressing his emotions. "I'm sorry," the lawyer said, taking another drag on his cigarette. "I thought I could."

He stared silently at the lawyer's eyelids again, his gaze sharp and cold, his fingertips constantly
fiddling with the roll of nylon rope. "Never mind," he said, his voice suddenly softening. "Anyway, I knew this
day . Isn't that right?" A hint of delight flickered across the lawyer's face. "How about this nylon rope?" "It looks good. But
we'll have to try it out to see how it works." He tugged at the rope. "Come on. I recently learned a whole new way of binding.
Let me demonstrate." "Okay." The lawyer stubbed out his cigarette and straightened up.

He began to wrap the rope around the lawyer's wrists, round and round. "Do you remember our first meeting?"
the lawyer asked. "Of course," he said, waving his hands. "When you first bound me, I was very
moved because you could tie all the knots so perfectly. I was also very moved that you
spent a lot of money just to chat with me." He said, the wrists now bound. He pulled the rope towards his neck. "You're also the first
client I've met who didn't ask for sex on our first meeting." He gently lifted the lawyer's head, and the nylon rope wrapped around his neck
. "Money isn't a big problem for me." "The most important thing is to find a like-minded friend,"
the lawyer said, staring at the ceiling. "People like us, what more could we ask for?" he said.
The rope only circled the neck once, then pulled straight down to the feet. "Alas, we can only go this far." "Yes, I
don't think I can play this game anymore," the lawyer said. "I've already promised my wife." He squatted down and began
to bind the lawyer's ankles, no longer uttering a sound. His hands skillfully manipulated the rope, guiding it through
the limbs binding the various parts of the body close to the skin. After binding the ankles, the remaining rope
was pulled towards the chest, finally securing the wrists with a slipknot.

He successfully tied the last slipknot, knelt beside the lawyer, glanced at him, his eyes somewhat cold, his expression
becoming exceptionally unfamiliar and indifferent. "Alright," he said, then backed off the bed, leaving the lawyer on the bed. He slowly
put on his clothes. There was no sign of him intending to untie him. "Aren't you going to help me untie?" The lawyer
lay motionless. He was very familiar with the procedure and structure of this type of binding. The moment he first tried to loosen the knots around his wrists
, he knew it was a highly intricate and dangerous method of binding. Because even the slightest tremor of his hands and feet would cause the knot
around his neck to tighten. He glanced coldly at the lawyer and said, "You try it yourself.
I'm going to make a pot of coffee." He left the bedroom, but didn't go to the kitchen. He took his car keys from his pocket and walked towards
the teak door.

11.

The elevator was empty. He stepped inside and pressed number fourteen. Leaning against the wall, he felt a wave of
bittersweet emptiness. Over the past three years, quite a few men had indeed entered his life. But most only
chose a dark corner for a brief stay, a fleeting glimpse before leaving. Even the doctor had left
this leaving his scarred life without a trace of regret. He
had brushed past countless seemingly unattainable eternities, finally understanding that forever was merely a beautiful
phrase . The lawyer's departure left the deepest scar. The young doctor's abrupt departure still left a
slowly festering, agonizing pain in his heart. And then he got used to it. He continued working at the computer company during the day, occasionally meeting clients at night,
entering and exiting various rooms, speaking different languages, feeding
his , continuing his rebellious yet incomparably joyful lifestyle.

He stood in front of room 1426. He rang the doorbell twice. A thin man opened the door. He stepped into
the room . The man was already naked and lying on the bed. "A friend recommended you. They all say you're very experienced, but
your fees are a bit high," the man said. "That's my value. If you can't afford it, there's nothing I can do." He was in a terrible mood and his words
were a bit harsh. The man didn't seem to mind. He even smiled and said, "You truly
live up to your reputation." Then the man tossed him a hotel razor. "Shave me first," he said. He took off his shirt,
revealing a muscular physique. He straddled the man's flat stomach and began to stroke the man's dark,
curly pubic hair. The man gently stroked his muscular back. "Your face is very kind," he said. He
replied curtly, only wanting to quickly satisfy today's customer and then go home for a good night's sleep. He hoped a
long, deep sleep could completely wash away the unpleasant experience of bumping into the lawyer. "It feels like
I've seen ," the man said. His hands were already on his large pectoral muscles. He didn't speak. The razor had already shaved off a tuft of
hair. His heart suddenly skipped a beat. Right under the pubic hair at the tip of his penis, he glimpsed a few tattooed
English letters. His right hand trembled slightly as he carefully shaved off that part of the hair. Three English letters came into his
view. "Joy" was my friend's nickname. The man said. "The penis is the most wonderful gift God gave to men.
It's the only organ in our bodies that we can control in size with our thoughts." Could it really be him? He wondered.
An indescribable excitement exploded violently in his chest…

12.

He gripped the slightly frozen doorknob. The bedroom was silent. The entire apartment was silent. He could just walk out
like this . Leaving the lawyer's fate to the unknown. He desperately wanted to walk out without looking back. But there was
an endless road ahead. He hesitated for a moment, utterly disoriented, before releasing the doorknob and turning to walk towards
the still-unlit kitchen.

(The End)

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