Temptation of the Abyss

Li Ming’s finger hovered over the screen, the glow of his phone illuminating his face in the dark dorm. He’d been scrolling through obscure forums for hours, looking for something—anything—that might fix the gnawing frustration that had been building for months. The long distance was killing him, but it wasn’t just the miles. It was Zhang Tong. She was so quiet, so reserved. Every time they were together, she’d tense up when he touched her, and the few times they’d tried to go further, she’d shut down completely. She said she loved him, he knew she did, but something was missing. He wanted her to want him, really want him, not just endure him.

The forum post was titled “Deep Relaxation Hypnosis: Unlock Your Partner’s True Potential.” The description promised a downloadable app that could help “release hidden tensions and awaken suppressed desires.” The user—a handle called “Shadow Hypnotist”—had dozens of positive comments from people claiming their partners had become more open, more responsive. Li Ming’s heart beat faster. He clicked the private message button.

*“Can this help with anxiety? My girlfriend is very shy, easily stressed.”*

The reply came within minutes.

*“Absolutely. The app is designed for relaxation. With guided sessions, she can learn to let go of inhibitions. I can customize a program for her needs. Just have her download the link.”*

Li Ming hesitated for a moment, then copied the link. He told himself it was for her own good. She’d been complaining about exam stress, about feeling tense all the time. This would help her relax. And maybe, just maybe, it would help her open up to him in ways she never had before.

He called her that night via video. Zhang Tong’s face appeared on his screen, soft and slightly tired, her hair falling over her shoulders. She was in her dorm room, a desk lamp casting warm light over her textbooks.

“Hey,” she said, smiling shyly. “You’re up late.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I found something I think could really help you.” He kept his voice gentle, caring. “You’ve been so stressed lately with exams. I worry about you.”

She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. “I’m fine, really. Just tired.”

“I know, baby. But I want you to feel better. There’s this app—it’s for relaxation hypnosis. It helps calm your mind, release tension. A lot of people use it for stress relief.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Will you try it? For me?”

Zhang Tong’s brow furrowed slightly. She bit her lip—a habit he knew meant she was unsure. “Hypnosis? I don’t know… that sounds kind of weird.”

“It’s not like stage hypnosis or anything. It’s just meditation with guidance. You listen to a voice, close your eyes, and relax. That’s all.” He leaned closer to the camera, his expression earnest. “I’ve read the reviews. People say it really helps. And if it makes you feel even a little better, isn’t it worth trying?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Li Ming watched her, his chest tight. He knew she trusted him. She always did. That trust was what he counted on, what he needed.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice small. “I’ll try it.”

“That’s my girl.” He smiled, relief flooding through him. “I’ll send you the link. Just download it and listen to the first session tonight. It’s short. And I’ll be right here if you need me.”

She nodded, a hesitant smile touching her lips. He texted her the link, then watched as she opened it on her laptop, her fingers moving uncertainly over the keyboard.

The download bar filled slowly. Zhang Tong’s eyes fixed on the screen, her heart tapping out an anxious rhythm in her chest. She didn’t know why she felt so nervous. It was just an app. Li Ming wouldn’t steer her wrong. He loved her. He always knew what was best for her.

When the app finished installing, a simple interface opened: a dark background with a single button labeled “Start Session 1.” There were no options, no explanations. Just that button.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Good. Put on your earphones and close your eyes. I’ll mute myself so I don’t disturb you.” Li Ming’s image on the screen faded as he went silent.

Zhang Tong plugged in her earphones, adjusted them over her ears, and took a shaky breath. She clicked the button.

A voice filled her ears—deep, smooth, and calm. It was male, with a hint of an accent she couldn’t place. The words were slow, deliberate.

*“Welcome. You are safe here. Let your breath slow. Breathe in… and out… Feel the air fill your lungs and release every worry….”*

She followed along, her eyelids growing heavy. The voice was mesmerizing, wrapping around her thoughts like silk.

*“Your body is growing heavier… your arms… your legs… your head… sinking into a state of deep calm….”*

She let go. The tension in her shoulders melted. Her mind drifted, soft and formless.

Then, beneath the soothing rhythm, something changed. The voice became lower, darker, almost a whisper.

*“You want to be good… You want to obey… Obedience brings pleasure… Pleasure brings peace….”*

Zhang Tong’s eyes fluttered. Something felt off. The words didn’t match the simple relaxation she’d expected. But her body was too heavy to move. Her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in cotton.

*“Listen to my voice… It is your guide… Your only guide… Let go of doubt… Let go of resistance… You will find joy in surrender….”*

A shiver ran through her—not entirely unpleasant. Her heart fluttered with a strange, warm thrill that pooled low in her belly. She wanted to stop. She wanted to open her eyes and pull out the earphones. But her fingers wouldn’t obey.

*“Repeat after me… I am open… I am ready… I am yours to guide….”*

The words echoed in her mind, and she felt her lips move, forming the syllables without sound. A part of her watched from far away, recognizing the wrongness, but the warmth was too seductive, the voice was too comforting.

The session ended with a chime. Zhang Tong blinked, the room coming back into focus. Her heart was pounding, her skin flushed. She looked at the screen. Li Ming’s face was waiting, his eyes hungry with anticipation.

“How was it?” he asked, his voice eager.

“It was… strange,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I feel… weird.”

“Good weird?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I think so.” But her fingers trembled as she removed the earphones. The voice still echoed in her skull, promising peace, promising pleasure. And underneath that, a dark whisper she couldn’t shake: *obey.*

Li Ming smiled. “Let’s do another session tomorrow. You’ll get used to it.”

Zhang Tong nodded, but in the quiet of her dorm, she felt the first crack in her resolve. She had agreed to this for him. But now, something in her wanted it for herself.

The notification pinged from her phone just as she stepped out of the shower, water still dripping from her hair onto the tiled floor. Zhang Tong wrapped a towel around herself and picked up the device, her heart already beginning to race. The Hypnotist’s app icon glowed with a small red dot. She had been trying not to think about it all day, but the memory of that first session lingered in her mind like a half-finished dream.

She opened the message. It was a voice command, not text—a deep, soothing voice that seemed to wrap around her thoughts even before she pressed play. "You are in a safe space now. Relax. Let your shoulders drop. Breathe slowly." She obeyed without thinking, her tense muscles loosening. The voice continued, gentle but firm. "Tonight, when you are in the shower, I want you to let your hands explore your body. Let your fingers trace your skin. When you feel ready, touch your breasts. Slowly. Feel every curve, every sensitive point. Let yourself enjoy it. You deserve this pleasure."

Zhang Tong’s face flushed. She read the transcript that appeared below the voice message, her fingers trembling. This was too much. Too intimate. She wanted to delete the app, to never hear that voice again. But her thumb hovered over the delete button without pressing it. A part of her, a hungry part she had never acknowledged, was curious. Li Ming never touched her like that. He was always in a hurry, always focused on his own release. She had never told him what she wanted, because she didn’t know how to say it. And now, this stranger was giving her permission.

She set the phone down and walked back into the steamy bathroom. The mirror was fogged, her silhouette blurry. She turned on the water again, letting it run hot. The command echoed in her mind. *Touch your breasts.* She hesitated, her hand hovering over her chest. Then, slowly, she placed her palm over her left breast. The water cascaded over her fingers. She squeezed gently, then let her fingers trace the curve, the nipple hardening under her touch. A shiver ran through her. She closed her eyes and did it again, more deliberately. The sensation was new, sharp, and embarrassingly good. She felt a warmth pooling low in her belly, a strange electric thrill. She pressed harder, rubbing in circles the way the voice had suggested. A soft gasp escaped her lips. She had never done this before. Not like this. Not with intention.

The pleasure built, unfamiliar and dizzying. She leaned against the tiled wall, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. Her hips moved unconsciously, pressing against the cool surface. For a moment, she felt completely alive, completely present in her own body. Then the orgasm rippled through her—small, tentative, but undeniably real. Her knees buckled. She slid down to the shower floor, water streaming over her, tears mixing with the spray. She had never come before. Not with Li Ming. Not alone. And now, because of a voice from a phone, she had.

She sat there for a long time, shivering despite the hot water. Shame and exhilaration warred inside her. She wanted to call Li Ming and tell him everything, but she knew he would be angry. He would ask why she had done it, why she had listened to some stranger. She could already hear his voice, sharp and suspicious. So she said nothing. She dried off, wrapped herself in a robe, and stared at her reflection in the now-cleared mirror. Her eyes looked different—brighter, hungrier. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear and looked away.

That night, as she lay in bed, her mind wandered. She imagined standing in the shower with the curtain open. She imagined a stranger watching from the doorway. A man she did not know, his eyes fixed on her hands, on her body. The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it made her thighs clench. She pressed her face into the pillow, embarrassed by her own fantasies. But she could not stop them. The images played over and over: a crowd of anonymous faces, all watching her touch herself. She felt both exposed and powerful. The shame was part of the excitement, a secret she held close to her chest.

The next day, another command arrived. "I want you to buy new underwear," the voice said, calm and authoritative. "Something sheer. Something that makes you feel beautiful and bold. You will wear it under your clothes, and no one will know except you and me." Zhang Tong’s heart pounded. She opened her online shopping app and searched for lingerie. Her fingers scrolled past cotton bras and practical panties, stopping at a set of lace transparent fabric. The model wore it with confidence, her nipples visible through the thin material. Zhang Tong clicked on it, read the reviews, and then closed the app. Too risqué. Too obvious.

But the thought lingered. All through her classes, through lunch with her classmates, through a video call with Li Ming that evening. He complained about his roommate, about a project deadline. She nodded and smiled, but her mind was on the shopping cart. After the call, she opened the app again. She stared at the lace bra for fifteen minutes. Her mouth was dry. She added it to the cart, then removed it. Added it again. Her finger trembled over the buy button. *Just this once,* she told herself. *I don’t have to wear it. I can return it.* She clicked confirm. The order went through.

She sat back, breathing hard. The phone buzzed with a confirmation email. She deleted it quickly, as if someone might see. Then she opened the Hypnotist’s app and typed a simple message: "I did it." A few seconds later, the reply came: "Good girl." Those two words sent a wave of warmth through her. She hugged her phone to her chest, a strange smile spreading across her face. She was scared. She was excited. And she was already looking forward to the next command.

The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty blinds of Zhang Tong’s dorm room, casting pale stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. She stood in front of the small mirror taped to the closet door, her hands trembling as she adjusted the straps of the new lingerie set—a delicate black lace thing she’d ordered in secret, hidden inside a plain brown delivery box.

The fabric felt foreign against her skin, too light, too airy. She had never worn anything like it. Her own reflection startled her: the cups barely contained her breasts, pushing them upward, the lace cutting high on her hips. She turned sideways, then back, her cheeks flushing. She looked… wrong. And yet, something stirred in her stomach, a flutter she couldn’t name.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from the hypnotist.

*Take a photo. Post it on Weibo. Show the world what you’re becoming.*

Zhang Tong’s breath hitched. She typed back quickly, her fingers clumsy. *I can’t. Someone I know might see.*

The reply came instantly: *That’s the point. You want them to see, don’t you? Deep down. You want to be seen. Obey me.*

Her hand shook as she picked up the phone. The voice in her head—his voice, smooth and commanding—seemed to wrap around her thoughts, pushing aside her hesitation. She positioned herself against the wall, the window behind her letting in just enough light to silhouette her curves. She took three photos, deleted two, kept one where her face was partly obscured, her hair falling across her cheek.

The upload button glowed. She pressed it.

Her heart hammered as the image processed. For a long, agonizing second, nothing happened. Then the notifications began. A like. Another. A comment from an unfamiliar account: *Wow, nice*. Her stomach clenched—not with shame, but with a hot, creeping satisfaction. She refreshed the page. More likes. More comments. Men, mostly, with avatars of cars or anime girls.

She closed the app quickly, then opened it again. The numbers climbed. Each one sent a small jolt through her. She bit her lip, a smile fighting its way onto her face. *This is wrong,* a distant part of her mind whispered. But the hypnotist’s voice was louder, gentler, coaxing: *Good girl. See? You love it. You’ll want more.*

---

The next morning, she stood before her wardrobe for ten minutes, her hand hovering over a modest crew-neck sweater. Then, almost as if guided, her fingers moved past it to a thin, V-neck top she’d bought on a whim and never worn. The cut dipped low, showing the swell of her breasts. She hesitated, then pulled it on.

The walk to the lecture hall felt endless. Every step seemed to amplify the sensation of eyes on her. A male student in the corridor glanced at her chest, then quickly away. Another stared openly, his gaze lingering. Zhang Tong’s face burned, but her legs kept moving, her steps steady. She took a seat near the back, hyperaware of the way the fabric gaped when she leaned forward to take notes.

During the lecture, she could feel the heat of gazes from two rows ahead. A boy with glasses kept turning his head, pretending to stretch. Under the desk, her thighs pressed together. A damp warmth gathered between her legs. Her nipples, rubbed raw by the lace bra, ached and hardened against the thin cotton of her top. When she glanced down, she saw the dark outline of her areolas through the fabric—larger than she remembered, darker, as if the constant friction and stimulation had swollen them.

She should have been terrified. She was terrified. But beneath that terror, a current of excitement pulsed, strong and undeniable. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning.

---

That evening, her phone rang. Li Ming’s face appeared on the screen, his brows furrowed in that anxious way she’d grown used to.

“Hey, baby,” he said, then paused. “What are you wearing?”

Zhang Tong’s heart lurched. She had forgotten to change. The low-cut top was still on, the lace bra visible at the edges. She forced a smile. “Just a new top. It’s trendy right now. All the girls are wearing them.”

Li Ming leaned closer to his camera, squinting. “It’s really low. I don’t like guys staring at you.”

“They don’t stare,” she lied, her voice light. “It’s just fashion. Don’t worry so much.”

He frowned, but after a moment, he sighed. “Okay. If you say so. Just—be careful, alright?”

“I will.” She promised, her voice steady. But inside, the hypnotist’s whispers grew louder, wrapping around her resolve like vines.

*He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. This is our secret. You’re becoming something beautiful. Something free.*

That night, after the call ended, Zhang Tong sat in the dark, her fingers tracing the lace on her thigh. She opened Weibo again. The photo had over three hundred likes now. She scrolled through the comments, her breath quickening. Some were crude. A few asked for more.

She looked at the ceiling, her lips parting. The shame was still there, but it was fainter now, drowned out by a thrumming, hungry need. She typed a message to the hypnotist: *What should I do next?*

His reply came almost immediately: *Tomorrow, wear something even more revealing. Let them see. Let them want you. And when you feel their eyes, remember—you’re doing this for me. For yourself.*

She closed the chat, her pulse racing. Her reflection in the dark screen stared back—a stranger with flushed cheeks and eyes that gleamed with something she barely recognized. Something that was growing, day by day, like a seed cracking through dry earth, reaching for a sun that burned.

The library’s second-floor reading room was nearly empty at this hour. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the wooden tables. Zhang Tong sat in the farthest corner, a stack of textbooks arranged in front of her like a fortress. Her hands trembled over the keyboard, but she wasn’t typing.

Her phone buzzed silently on the desk. A notification from the app.

*Unbutton your top. Slowly. Let your skin feel the air.*

Her breath caught. She glanced around—a male student two rows away was buried in his laptop, headphones on. A girl shelving books near the window had her back turned. No one was watching. But the instruction felt like a spotlight aimed directly at her chest.

Her fingers moved before her mind could object. She undid the first button of her blouse. Then the second. The buttonhole resisted for a moment, then gave way. The third button slipped free. The fabric parted, exposing the lacy edge of her bra. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it must be audible across the room.

A pause. Another message.

*Take off your bra too. Let your nipples touch the air. Be a good girl.*

She closed her eyes. She should stop. This was insane. Li Ming would never approve—no, Li Ming had sent her to this hypnotist. He wanted her to "open up." Still, this felt like falling off a cliff, and there was no rope.

She reached behind her back, fumbled with the clasp. The bra loosened. She pulled it out through her sleeve, crumpled it into her backpack. The cool air of the air conditioning kissed her bare skin. Her nipples hardened instantly, pebbling against the inside of her blouse. She kept her gaze fixed on the textbook, but she couldn’t read a single word.

The male student stood up, gathering his things. He walked past her aisle, and for a split second his eyes flicked toward her. She held her breath. He didn’t stop, didn’t seem to notice. He disappeared around the shelves.

She exhaled. The fear mixed with something else—a warmth pooling low in her belly. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and somehow alive.

*Good girl. Now go to the poetry section. Third aisle from the west window. Wait there.*

She obeyed. She gathered her bag, left the laptop, and walked through the stacks. The poetry aisle was narrow, lined with dusty volumes no one ever touched. The light was dimmer here. She stood between the shelves, facing the books, her back to the entrance of the aisle.

Footsteps behind her. Heavy, deliberate.

A shadow fell across the books. She turned, startled.

A tall black man stood at the end of the aisle. He wore a university hoodie and carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes, dark and intense, traveled from her face down to her chest, where her undone blouse gaped open. She saw his gaze stop at the outline of her nipples against the thin fabric. A slow smile spread across his lips.

“You look lost,” he said, his voice deep, with a smooth accent. “Need help finding something?”

Zhang Tong’s face burned. She grabbed the edges of her blouse, pulling them together, but the buttons were undone. Her fingers fumbled uselessly. “No—I’m fine—I have to go—”

She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t move to block her, but she felt his eyes on her back as she hurried down the aisle. Her knees were weak. She made it to the reading room, grabbed her laptop, and stuffed it into her bag. She didn’t look back. She walked out of the library into the cool evening air, her heart still racing.

But underneath the panic, a thrill pulsed through her veins. He had seen her. He had *wanted* to see her. The flush of shame mingled with a strange, fierce pride.

She rushed back to her dorm, locked the door, and fell onto her bed. Her hands went to her chest, cupping her breasts. The nipples were still hard. She imagined his eyes again, his smile. She slipped a hand down her jeans, under her panties. She was wet—so wet.

She touched herself, rubbing in circles the way she always did, but this time the images in her head were sharper. The hypnotist’s voice. The international student’s gaze. Her own reflection in the library window, half-naked and trembling.

Her breathing quickened. Her hips bucked against her hand. The pleasure built, climbing, coiling—near the edge, the crest, the peak she had only ever read about. She was *almost* there. She pushed harder, faster, whimpering.

And then it faded. The wave receded, leaving her just short of the shore, gasping and frustrated. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.

Her phone buzzed.

The hypnotist’s message: *You were amazing today. I can feel your excitement. You’re learning to let go. Are you still touching yourself?*

She stared at the screen. Her fingers were still wet. She typed back, trembling: *Yes.*

*Good girl. You don’t need to hide from me. The pleasure is yours. You deserve to feel beautiful, to feel wanted. Tomorrow you’ll wear that blouse again. Unbuttoned one button lower. Do you understand?*

She bit her lip. The thrill returned, warm and dizzying.

*Yes,* she typed. *I understand.*

She curled up on her bed, clutching the phone to her chest. The shame was still there, a dull ache in her stomach, but it was drowned out by something louder: a hunger. She wanted to be seen again. She wanted to feel that rush again. The thought scared her, but it also made her smile.

She opened the app and replayed the hypnotist’s voice file from earlier, the one that had led her through the library. She closed her eyes, and let the words wash over her. In the darkness behind her lids, she saw the international student’s face, saw his greedy smile, and she touched herself again, chasing a peak that kept slipping away.

But she was closer now. She could taste it.

The message came through late in the evening, a simple text from an unknown number: *I know what you do. Meet me behind the old library tomorrow at four, or I’ll tell everyone.*

Zhang Tong’s fingers trembled as she read it. Her first instinct was to delete it, to pretend she had never seen it. But the words burned into her mind, and the hypnotist’s voice echoed softly in the back of her skull: *You will obey. You will surrender.* She had no choice. The compulsion was already sifting through her thoughts like sand through a sieve, leaving only the need to comply.

The next afternoon, she stood under the gray sky of Suzhou, the autumn wind biting at her cheeks. The old library loomed behind her, a red-brick building covered in ivy, its windows dark and broken. She hugged her arms, waiting. A shadow detached itself from the wall and approached. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin that gleamed under the weak sun. His eyes were sharp, appraising, and he smiled when he saw her.

“You came,” he said, his accent thick but understandable. “Good girl.”

She wanted to run. Her legs refused.

He led her around the building to a door that was half-rotted, propped open with a brick. Inside, the air smelled of dust and rust. An abandoned classroom on the second floor still held a few desks, their surfaces engraved with years of idle carvings. He closed the door and turned the lock.

“Don’t be scared,” he said, unzipping his jeans. “I just want to see what the hypnotist made.”

Zhang Tong’s mouth went dry. “Please—I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, his voice low and calm. “Kneel.”

Her knees buckled. It was not her will that brought her down, but the hypnotist’s command, layered into her like a second skeleton. She knelt on the gritty floor, her skirt pooling around her thighs. He stepped closer, his erection already out, hard and dark against his stomach.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “No, I don’t want to—”

“You will,” he said, and his hand found the back of her head, pressing her forward. She tried to resist, but her jaw unlocked, her lips parting. He pushed inside her mouth, and she gagged, her eyes wide and wet.

He groaned, holding her there for a moment before beginning to move. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened on her hair. The hypnotist’s voice whispered: *You exist to serve. You exist to be used.* Her resistance crumbled, replaced by a hollow shame that accepted everything.

He guided her rhythm, his hips thrusting shallowly, then deeper, his breath quickening. When he came, he held her head still, forcing her to swallow. Then he let go, stepping back to zip his pants.

She stayed on her knees, trembling, saliva and semen dripping from her chin.

A phone rang. It was Li Ming’s ringtone.

Zhang Tong scrambled for her phone, hands shaking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before answering.

“Hey,” she said, her voice strained.

“You sound out of breath,” Li Ming said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a lightness she did not feel. “I’m in the library. Studying.”

The black student watched her, amused, leaning against the chalkboard.

“Okay,” Li Ming said, and she could hear the suspicion in his pause. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she said, her throat tight. “I have to go. Quiet floor.”

She hung up before he could say more. Then she sat on the cold floor, tears blurring her vision. She did not wipe them away. She sat there in the ruined classroom, listening to her own ragged breath, and slowly she felt the hypnotist’s words soften her spine again: *This is who you are now. Accept it.*

The black student knelt beside her, his hand on her chin, tilting her face up. “Tonight,” he said. “Same time. Come alone.”

She nodded, even as a small, dying part of her screamed no.

The needle slid into her skin with a cold, sharp pinch. Zhang Tong winced, her arm jerking instinctively, but the black international student—she still didn’t know his name, only that he was a senior in the engineering department—held her wrist firm.

“Relax,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s just vitamins. You said you’ve been tired.”

She had said that. Last week, after another sleepless night of hypnosis sessions, she had mentioned feeling run-down in the university chat group. He had messaged her privately, offering help. She should have said no. But the hypnotist’s voice in her ear—through the earbuds she wore almost constantly now—had whispered, *Trust him. He is part of the path.*

So she had agreed to meet him in the empty music practice room, drawn by a command she didn’t fully understand. Now her arm hummed with a foreign warmth.

“There,” he said, withdrawing the syringe and pressing a cotton ball to the pinprick. “Done. You’ll feel different soon. Better.”

Zhang Tong nodded, rubbing the spot. She felt dizzy, but that was probably from skipping lunch. She gathered her bag, mumbled a thank-you, and hurried back to her dorm.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her chest ached—a deep, fulsome pressure as if someone had packed wet sand under her skin. She unbuttoned her pajama top in the dark, running her fingers over her breasts. They felt heavier. Swollen. The nipples, usually pale and small, had darkened to a bruise-like brown and poked out firmly, sensitive to the brush of her own palm.

Panic fluttered in her stomach. She grabbed her phone and opened the hypnosis app, finding the hypnotist’s chat.

“Something’s wrong with me,” she typed. “My chest… it’s growing.”

The reply came instantly. “That is transformation. The body prepares for a higher purpose. You are becoming more fertile, more desirable. Do not fight it.”

She wanted to fight. She wanted to call Li Ming, to tell him something terrible was happening. But the hypnotist’s words wrapped around her thoughts like silk. *Fertile. Desirable.* Li Ming always said he wanted her to be more confident. Maybe he would like this.

She fell asleep with her hands pressed to her swollen breasts, dreaming of warm mouths and full vessels.

Over the next three days, the change accelerated. By the second morning, her bra size had jumped from a modest B to something that strained the fabric of her largest sports bra. The areolas had spread into dark, dinner-plate-sized circles, and when she squeezed one in the shower, testing its tenderness, a thin, milky bead emerged.

She screamed. A low, strangled sound that died in her throat.

She dropped her phone into the sink. When she fished it out, the hypnotist’s notification was waiting. “The milk is a gift. It means you are ready to nurture. Post a picture. Show them your progress.”

She didn’t. She wrapped herself in a loose hoodie and went to class, but from across the lecture hall, the black international student caught her eye and smiled—a slow, possessive smile that made her feel seen. Stripped. She fled before the lecture ended.

By the end of the week, her belly had begun to swell.

It started as a subtle roundness, a fullness in her lower abdomen that she could blame on bloating. But every morning she woke larger, her skin stretching taut, a dark line appearing from her navel downward—the same line pregnant women had, the one she had seen in biology textbooks.

She sent a frantic voice message to the hypnotist. “I’m getting fat! Something is seriously wrong!”

“Not fat,” he replied, his voice layered with the soothing tones of his hypnosis tracks. “Life. The body mimics what the soul desires. You want to be filled, to be complete. This is pregnancy without a child—a readiness. Do you understand?”

She didn’t. But when she stood before the mirror, naked, and turned to the side, she saw the curve of her belly and felt a strange thrill. Her breasts were heavy with milk, her stomach round and firm, her skin flushed with a new heat. She looked fertile. She looked *wanted*.

Li Ming called that night. She almost didn’t answer, but the phone buzzed insistently.

“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice bright.

“You sound weird,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just… gaining a little weight. Stress eating.”

He laughed, but it was hollow. “You know I like you better thin. Don’t let yourself go.”

The words stabbed. But the hypnotist’s counter-suggestion was already embedded: *His words are fear. He does not see your power.*

She ended the call early and opened her social media. The app’s algorithm, attuned to her recent searches, showed her pregnancy forums, lactation videos, belly growth timelines. She scrolled, her breath quickening.

Then she did what the hypnotist had suggested. She took a photo: her hand cradling her swollen belly, the hem of her shirt lifted just enough to show the dark line, the roundness. She posted it with a single emoji: a cherry blossom.

The comments came in within minutes.

“Holy fuck, who knocked you up?”

“That belly is perfect. I want to worship it.”

“Milk factory opening soon?”

She gagged. Then she replied to the last comment: “Maybe.”

Her fingers trembled as she typed. Shame and excitement mixed in her chest like oil and water, impossible to separate. Another comment: “Let me drink from you. Suzhou. I’ll find you.”

She replied: “Try.”

She shut the phone off, heart hammering. The milk had begun to leak, soaking through her shirt. She cupped her breasts, feeling the damp warmth, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

She pressed her belly. It was hard and full, and she imagined—for just a second—something growing inside her, a life that was only hers to carry.

The hypnotist’s voice echoed in her memory: *Pregnancy is ultimate happiness.*

She wept. But she did not stop stroking her belly.

The black international student gripped Zhang Tong’s wrist and led her through the crowded living room of the off-campus house. Music thumped from a speaker on the counter, and bodies pressed together in the dim light. She kept her eyes down, heart hammering against her ribs, but she did not pull away. He had told her to obey without question, and the hypnotist’s voice still echoed in her skull—*you are free when you surrender*.

“Stand here,” he said, stopping her in the center of the room where a circle of students had formed. Some were Chinese, others international, their faces half-lit by colored string lights. “Take off your clothes.”

Her breath caught. She looked at him, then at the grinning faces around her. A girl laughed. A boy raised his phone. Zhang Tong’s fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of her white blouse. She hesitated.

“Now,” he said, not loud but firm.

She unbuttoned the blouse and let it fall to the floor. Then her bra, her skirt, her underwear. The air was cool on her skin. Someone wolf-whistled. A flash from a camera stung her eyes. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, face burning, but the international student stepped forward and pulled her arms away.

“Show them,” he whispered. “You like to be seen, don’t you?”

She did not answer. But she did not resist. Her hands fell to her sides. The circle of students clapped and jeered. Someone handed her a bottle of beer and told her to drink. She obeyed. The room spun a little, and she found herself laughing—a hollow, unfamiliar sound—as hands reached out to touch her waist, her thighs.

The party dissolved into a blur. She was passed from one person to another. A boy with acne cupped her breasts. A girl with red lipstick kissed her neck. The black international student watched from the couch, nodding when someone asked if they could take her to a bedroom. He gave permission with a wave of his hand.

That night she was taken to a small room upstairs. Three international students took turns with her, their hands rough, their laughter loud. She lay on the mattress, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling, and let them do what they wanted. Her body responded mechanically—she moaned when they bit her nipples, arched when they entered her—but inside she was somewhere else, floating in the gray space the hypnotist had built for her.

After that night it became routine. Every day the black international student summoned her to a different location: a dorm room, a picnic on the lawn, the back of a car. Other international students joined, their faces always changing. They called her “the Chinese doll” and “the milk cow.” Her breasts were sucked raw, red and swollen, and milk leaked from her nipples in thin white streams. She wore no bra anymore because it hurt too much. She wore thin shirts that stained quickly. She did not care.

When she walked across campus, she felt their eyes on her. She knew the videos were circulating—the party, the dorm, the park bench at midnight. Her face was everywhere. Some students whispered, some laughed. A professor once asked if she was okay. She smiled and said she had never felt better. The hypnotist had told her that this was freedom, and she believed him.

Li Ming stumbled across the video on a Tuesday night. He was scrolling through a group chat, half-asleep, when a user named “SuzhouFun” posted a link with the caption: “New batch. Look who’s the star.”

He clicked. The video was grainy, shot from someone’s phone in a dimly lit room. At first he saw only a tangle of bodies, but then the camera zoomed in on the woman in the center. She was on her knees, naked, with two men behind her and one in front. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes half-lidded.

He knew those eyes. He knew the small mole above her left eyebrow. He knew the way she tilted her chin when she was trying to be brave.

It was Zhang Tong.

She was smiling. A slack, dreamy smile that did not touch her eyes. Her breasts were red and swollen, milk smeared across her stomach. A man—black, tall, familiar from earlier videos—grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. She made a soft sound, not pain, not pleasure. Something in between.

Li Ming’s hand went numb. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the desk. He stared at the screen, where the video continued to play. Another man stepped forward. Zhang Tong’s eyes met the camera for a moment, and she smiled wider.

He vomited into the trash can beside his bed. Then he picked up the phone, fingers shaking, and called her number. It went straight to voicemail. He called again. Again. Again.

The video looped. He watched her lips move—she was saying something, but the audio was distorted. He read the comments below: *she’s so hot*, *I had her last week*, *she’s a good little slut*.

He slammed the laptop shut and sat in the dark, breathing hard. The world splintered around him. He thought of the first time he had kissed her, under the willow trees by the canal. He thought of her laugh, soft and shy. He thought of the hypnosis files he had made her listen to, the instructions he had whispered into the phone late at night—*you will be more open, more free, more willing*.

He had wanted to transform her. He had wanted to feel powerful.

He had destroyed her.

Li Ming pressed his palms against his eyes until colors bloomed in the darkness. He did not call her again that night. He did not sleep. He sat at his desk until dawn, staring at the blank screen, and when the sun rose, he began to cry.

Zhang Tong’s fingers hovered over her phone screen, her breath shallow. The dormitory room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. She scrolled through the message thread with the black international student—his name was Derrick, or at least that was what he had told her. His last message was simple: “Come to my apartment tonight. I’ll be waiting.”

She should have felt fear. She should have remembered the taste of shame that had coated her mouth the first time she let him touch her. But there was only a low, pulsing warmth in her belly, a need that had been carved into her by the hypnotist’s voice, layer by layer, until resistance felt like a foreign language.

She typed: “Okay. I’ll be there.”

Li Ming was three hundred miles away in his own cramped dorm, staring at his laptop screen. He had spent the last two weeks combing through forums, tracking the hypnotist’s digital footprints. He had found a name—a handle, really—and an IP address traced to a nondescript building in Shenzhen. He had called the police once, but they had laughed him off. “No evidence of a crime,” they said.

Tonight, he had confronted the hypnotist through a video call. The face that appeared on his screen was ordinary—middle-aged, tired eyes, a slight smile that never reached them.

“You think you can undo what’s been done?” the hypnotist said, his voice smooth as oil. “She came to me willingly. Every session was recorded with her consent. I have her signature on a release form.”

“You brainwashed her!” Li Ming shouted, his hands trembling on the desk.

The hypnotist shrugged. “I merely helped her discover what she wanted. You, on the other hand, pushed her into my arms. You wanted to control her, didn’t you? You just didn’t have the skill.”

Li Ming’s jaw tightened. “Give me the recordings.”

“I already deleted them,” the hypnotist said, his smile widening. “All of them. Just in case. Goodbye, Mr. Li.”

The screen went dark.

Li Ming sat in the silence, his reflection staring back at him from the black glass. He remembered the nights he had spent whispering instructions to Zhang Tong over the phone, telling her to relax, to obey, to open her mind. He had wanted her to become someone who would never leave him, someone who would need him completely. He had planted the seed. The hypnotist had only watered it.

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Zhang Tong walked into Derrick’s apartment without knocking. The smell of stale beer and sweat hung in the air. He was on the couch, watching something on his phone. When he saw her, he grinned and patted the cushion beside him.

“You came fast,” he said.

She sat down, her hands in her lap. “I want to be with you.”

“I know.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

She nodded, a surge of heat flooding her chest. The hypnotist’s voice echoed in her head: *You exist to serve. Your pleasure is in giving. Resistance is pain, surrender is bliss.* She believed it. She had to believe it, because the alternative was a void so deep she couldn’t bear to look into it.

Derrick’s touch became rougher, more demanding. She let him do what he wanted. When it was over, she lay still on the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. He rolled over, already scrolling through his phone.

“Don’t leave tonight,” he said.

“I won’t.”

Three months later, Zhang Tong realized she was pregnant. She stood in the bathroom of the dorm, staring at the positive test, her hand pressed to her stomach. A strange, giddy joy bubbled up inside her. This was proof. This was something of her own. Derrick had told her to get an abortion, but she had refused. For the first time in months, she had said no.

Li Ming saw the announcement on her social media. A blurry ultrasound image, captioned: “A new life. A new beginning.”

His hands shook as he typed a message: “Tong, please. Come back. I can help you. We can fix this.”

She replied within minutes: “I don’t need help. I’m happy. Leave me alone.”

He tried calling. She blocked his number.

Months passed. Li Ming’s grades plummeted. He barely ate. He spent his nights scrolling through her posts, watching her belly grow, watching her smile in photos with Derrick’s arm around her shoulder. The jealousy was a physical pain, sharp and constant.

On a cold December evening, Zhang Tong went into labor. She was alone in her dorm room—Derrick had said he was busy. She called no one. She had read articles about unassisted birth, had convinced herself she could do it. The pain was blinding, but she bit down on a towel and pushed.

When it was over, she held the baby in her arms. A boy. Mixed-race. His skin was lighter than Derrick’s, his eyes dark and curious. He cried, and she shushed him, her voice trembling with love.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “No one will take you from me.”

She posted a photo that night: herself, disheveled and glowing, the baby wrapped in a pink blanket against her chest. The caption read: “Welcome to the world, little one. Mommy loves you.”

Li Ming saw the photo. He zoomed in on the baby’s face, then on Zhang Tong’s. The smile she wore was serene, almost holy. It was the same smile she had worn in the early days of their relationship, when she had looked at him like he was the only person in the world.

He closed the laptop and walked to the window. The street below was empty, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and the tears came again, silent and relentless.

He had wanted to possess her. He had wanted to shape her into something that could never leave him. And in doing so, he had handed her to the very thing that had destroyed them both.

The baby cried in the photo, frozen in pixels, as if calling out for something he would never know.