The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty blinds of the cramped apartment, casting stripes of light across the cluttered living room. Zhao Xiaogang sat cross-legged on the worn sofa, his laptop balanced on his knees, the screen glowing with job search websites he had long stopped believing in. His thumb scrolled mechanically past listings for warehouse workers and delivery drivers, each one a reminder of the rejection emails that filled his inbox. He was twenty years old, a junior college graduate with a diploma that felt like a worthless piece of paper, and the weight of his own inadequacy pressed down on his chest like a stone.
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and the low hum of his mother’s voice as she talked on the phone. Su Wanqing’s tone was tired but patient, a mix of apologies and explanations that he had heard before. She was asking for an extra shift at the restaurant, begging for overtime pay that barely covered their rent. Zhao Xiaogang glanced at the clock—three in the afternoon. She should have been at work already, but she was still here, still scrambling to make ends meet.
He closed the laptop and set it aside. The apartment fell quiet except for the distant murmur of traffic. His mother’s footsteps padded across the linoleum floor, and he heard her hang up the phone with a sigh. A moment later, she appeared in the doorway, her uniform wrinkled, her face lined with exhaustion she tried to hide behind a weak smile.
“Xiaogang, I have to go in early today. There’s leftovers in the fridge,” she said, her voice gentle as always. She adjusted her apron, her hands moving automatically, as if she had done this a thousand times. “Did you find any jobs today?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he watched her feet. She wore a pair of worn-out black flats, her toes peeking through a small tear in the fabric. Her stockings were sheer, a pale beige that caught the light, and he felt a familiar heat rise in his stomach. He looked away, his jaw tight.
“I’ll find something,” he muttered.
Su Wanqing hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but she only nodded and grabbed her bag. “Don’t stay up too late. Your sister will be home after her shift.” She left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Zhao Xiaogang waited until he heard her footsteps fade down the hallway. Then he stood up and walked to her bedroom. The door was half-open, and he slipped inside, his heart pounding. The room smelled of her—laundry detergent, a faint trace of cooking oil, something floral from a cheap perfume. He went to the laundry basket in the corner, where her dirty clothes piled up. He picked up a pair of stockings she had worn the day before, crumpled and damp with sweat. The fabric was soft, clinging to his fingers.
He brought them to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent triggered something primal, a hunger that had been growing inside him for years. He pressed the stockings against his cheek, his mouth dry, and then he took out his phone. The camera app opened, and he scrolled through the videos he had hidden in a password-protected folder. There they were: clips of his mother’s feet as she sat at the dinner table, his sister’s legs as she watched TV in short shorts, their bare toes flexing, the arch of their insteps. He had been filming them for months, hidden in corners, pretending to be bored, while his mind burned with fantasies he could never speak aloud.
He selected a recent video—his mother asleep on the couch, her feet hanging over the armrest, the stockings stretched tight over her calves. He propped the phone against a pillow, unzipped his pants, and began to masturbate. His breath came in short gasps, his eyes locked on the screen, the image of her feet triggering a wave of shame and pleasure that left him trembling. When it was over, he lay back on her bed, the stockings still clutched in his hand, and stared at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered, but the question was hollow. He already knew the answer. He didn’t care.
That evening, his sister Zhao Li came home from the cake shop, her uniform dusted with flour, her hair smelling of vanilla and sugar. She was twenty-two, pretty in a wholesome way, with a smile that customers found charming. But tonight her shoulders sagged, and she collapsed onto the sofa next to him without a word.
“Rough day?” he asked, not looking up from his laptop.
“Manager cut my hours again,” she said, her voice flat. “Says business is slow. I don’t know how we’re going to pay the electricity bill this month.”
Zhao Xiaogang said nothing. He watched her kick off her shoes, revealing her feet encased in sheer stockings. She wiggled her toes, and a drop of sweat traced down her ankle. His hand tightened on the mouse.
“Did you apply anywhere?” she asked, turning to him. “Mom said she talked to you.”
“I applied everywhere,” he lied. “No one’s hiring.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “We can’t keep going like this. Maybe I should pick up a second job, but I’m already exhausted.”
He saw the worry in her eyes, the cracks in her composure. And he felt a surge of resentment. She worked hard, his mother worked hard, and he sat here in their apartment, a parasite feeding on their labor. But the resentment curdled into something else—a twisted satisfaction. They needed him. They couldn’t survive without him, even if he contributed nothing.
Later that night, he couldn’t sleep. He lay in his room, the glow of his laptop illuminating his face, and he stumbled onto a website he had never seen before. It was a forum for rope art, bondage videos, and what the users called “financial domination.” He watched a clip of a woman tied in elaborate knots, her face hidden, her body displayed like a sculpture. The comments below it spoke of money, of men paying hundreds of dollars for custom content, of a world where fetishes turned into profit.
His heart raced. He clicked through more videos, reading the testimonials of creators who had made thousands from home. The idea crystallized in his mind like poison forming in a glass. He had the models right here—his mother, his sister. They were beautiful, desperate, and too trusting. He could film them, tie them up, and sell the videos. He could solve their money problems. He could take control.
But he knew they would never agree. Not at first. He would have to be careful, patient, manipulate them into thinking it was their idea. He would exploit their love, their guilt, their fear. And as the thought took root, a cold calm settled over him. This was the answer. This was how he would escape the prison of his own despair.
He closed the laptop and lay back, a smile spreading across his face in the darkness. The next morning, he would begin.