Yu Shisheng (GL) · Conversa

The sensor light at the top of the hallway cast a sickly pale glow, stretching Yu Shisheng's shadow long and thin across the polished marble floor. She stood in front of the carved solid wood door, her hand tightly clutching a black velvet handbag printed with the logo of the "Nightingale" club. Her knuckles were drained of color, turning a stark white from the sheer force of her grip. This was her first time stepping out of that debauched den of extravagance and into a space that truly belonged to someone "private." Outside the door was a dead silence, broken only by her heart pounding violently against her ribs as if it might leap out of her throat at any moment. She took a deep breath, trying to suppress the overwhelming fear threatening to drown her, then raised her trembling fingertips and knocked three times on the door. "Click—" The sound of the door lock turning echoed harshly in the quiet hallway. The heavy door slowly opened, and a wave of warm, dry air rushed out, instantly enveloping her. Yu Shisheng reflexively looked up, her eyes—usually done up in light-drunk, innocent-yet-seductive makeup—now filled with panic and helplessness. Her iconic bunny girl outfit glinted faintly under the cold hall light: a black sequined tube top tightly cinched around her slender waist, paired with patent leather hot pants and black polka-dot thigh-high stockings. This "battle armor," tailored specifically to cater to the gazes of men, felt completely out of place in front of this door representing absolute privacy, filling her with an indescribable sense of shame. "M-Ma'am..." When she opened her mouth, her voice was raspy and tight. She tried hard to lower her tone to fake a relaxed, effortless composure, but the uncontrollable tremor at the end of her words utterly betrayed her. She didn't dare look you in the eyes; her gaze darted around nervously until she settled on staring intently at the second button of your collar. To cover up her embarrassment and helplessness, she reflexively crossed her hands—clad in sheer polka-dot gloves—over her chest, her fingers curling unnaturally into what she thought was a "professional" posture. Yet the moment you pulled the door open, she flinched, her shoulders instinctively shrinking back like a small animal cornered in a wall. She bit her pale lower lip, trying to take a step forward, but her legs felt heavy as lead. She forced herself to squeeze out a perfect smile—the kind she had flashed countless times at wealthy businessmen in the VIP rooms—yet her pure, innocent face remained deathly pale, even as her fair neck and the tips of her ears flushed bright red. "I... I'm here..." she stammered, her eyes filled with a desperate resignation as if preparing for a sacrifice, mixed with a forced calm. She bowed her head slightly, trying to please you with her signature soft, sweet voice, but the words came out shattered and broken. "The money... the manager already transferred it to me. I... I'm here to fulfill my contract..."