The Shackles of the Wedding Dress (A Collection of Wedding Dress Bondage)

They slid down her cheeks, dripping onto the veil, leaving dark water stains. She removed the tiara and found a small pouch at the bottom of the box. A white silk pouch, cinched with platinum thread. She untied it and poured out the contents. A pair of white, elbow-length gloves, made of delicate lace. She unfolded them, holding them up to the light—the lace was so sheer, yet intricate patterns were visible. Tiny roses were embroidered on the back of each hand, identical to those on the tiara, only scaled down. The wrists of the gloves were fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons, six on each side. And a pair of white stockings. Not ordinary stockings, but pantyhose, presented in an exquisite white box. She took them out; they were almost weightless, like a wisp of white mist in her hands. Held to the light, the fine texture of the silk threads was visible, a quality only found in the highest grade of silk. The toes and heels were reinforced, but the reinforced areas were also sheer, just slightly denser in texture. She picked up a glove, the lace brushing against her fingertips, a subtle tickle. Taking a deep breath, she slowly slid her left hand into the glove. The inside of the lace was exceptionally smooth, like lotion infused with silk, conforming to every line of her palm. The glove pulled up slowly, encasing her wrist, forearm, all the way to her elbow. She could feel the subtle raised outlines of the lace pattern on her skin—the roses, like the lightest brand. She put on the right glove, then fastened the pearl buttons at her wrists. Each button was small and exquisite, emitting a soft "click" as it fastened, like a tiny lock. Once fully on, her hands were covered in a thin layer of white, her skin peeking through the lace. She clenched her fist—the gloves had excellent elasticity, neither tight nor loose, like a second skin. Yet, a subtle sense of restraint accompanied it: every flex of her fingers met the gentle resistance of the lace, and the pearl buttons at her wrists pressed lightly against her pulse, each heartbeat echoing there. Her palms began to warm, then to sweat—not from nervousness, but a strange excitement, as if her body was responding to the exquisite embrace. Next, the stockings. She peeled off her black pantyhose—her everyday wear, thick and practical, like a professional armor. In contrast, the white silk pantyhose felt as light as feathers. She sat on the sofa, carefully rolling the stocking to her ankle, then pulling it up inch by inch. As the stocking glided over her instep, the smoothness sent a shiver through her—it was so fine, almost imperceptible, yet all-encompassing. The stocking continued upward, encasing her calf, knee, thigh... finally conforming perfectly to her waist. The entire process felt like being enveloped in a cool, sheer mist; the characteristic coolness of silk quickly gave way to a comfortable warmth as it met her body heat. But the change was more than just temperature: the tension of the stockings was incredibly uniform, from ankle to thigh, every inch of her skin feeling a light, continuous pressure. This pressure was unlike the forceful constriction of shapewear; it was more like a gentle reminder of her body's presence, a reminder that every curve was being noticed, being sculpted. The muscles in her legs tensed involuntarily, not in resistance, but to better feel the embrace. The skin on the inner thighs was particularly sensitive—the stockings rubbed there, creating a fine static electricity that sent a tingling sensation straight to her lower abdomen. She pressed her legs together, and the tingling intensified. Now, she put the tiara back on and settled the veil. The weight of the tiara pressed on her head, platinum vines winding along her hairline, the central rose petals reflecting a soft pink glow in the mirror. The baroque pearl hung just above her brow, like a mysterious mark. The veil cascaded from behind the crown, as light as mist, covering her shoulders and back, its silver vine embroidery faintly visible in the light. She stood before the mirror again. This time, the image in the mirror rendered her utterly speechless. Her upper body was clad in a deep purple professional suit, its sharp tailoring symbolizing her armor in the real world. Yet, on her head sat a bridal crown and veil—holy, classical, symbolizing eternal commitment and belonging. Her arms were encased in white lace gloves up to the elbows, the delicate rose patterns subtly shifting with every movement of her hands. Her legs were completely covered by white silk stockings, outlining smooth curves from ankle to thigh, the stockings shimmering with a soft, pearlescent matte finish in the light. Four shades of white, four textures, four symbols: the opulence of the tiara (platinum and pearls), the lightness of the veil (French tulle), the delicacy of the gloves (embroidered lace), the smoothness of the stockings (premium silk). They fragmented her into distinct zones—her exposed neck and collarbones, her thighs above the stocking line, with the space in between utterly dominated by white. This sense of fragmentation brought an intense shame. She felt like a partially wrapped gift, awaiting unwrapping, or a priestess performing some secret ritual. The edge of the veil brushed against the bare skin above the gloves on her upper arms, a cool, itchy sensation that raised goosebumps. The constricting feeling of the stockings spread upwards, meeting the downward pressure of the tiara, creating a strange tension that held her fixed before the mirror, unable to move. Her physiological response reached its peak. Her heart pounded as if trying to break free from her chest, the rush of blood roaring in her ears. A flush spread outwards from the edges of the gloves and stockings, tinting her neck, cheeks, and even her collarbones with a faint pink. Her breathing became shallow and rapid; with each inhale, the faint scent of lily of the valley from the veil, the faint dustiness of the glove lace, the clean aroma of silk stockings, mingled with the warm scent of her own skin evaporating, creating a dizzying, intimate, and erotic atmosphere. Deep within, the warmth in her lower abdomen surged. It was no longer a vague sensation but a distinct, physiological throb, accompanied by slight contractions. She clasped her legs together, the stockings rubbing against her inner thighs, amplifying the tingling into an electric current that made her knees weak, forcing her to grip the mirror frame. Her gloved fingers pressed against the cool glass of the mirror, the lace texture creating a faint rustling sound against the surface. The woman in the mirror was also watching her—wearing the bridal crown, veiled, her arms and legs bound in white, her eyes hazy, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted. It was Lin Wei, and yet not Lin Wei. It was someone about to be born, a woman redefined by the wedding attire. "Who am I?" she asked again, her voice hoarse. The woman in the mirror did not answer, but with fingers encased in gloves, slowly traced the surface of the mirror, across the reflection of her own cheek, over the roses on the tiara, finally resting on her stocking-clad thigh. The sensation was dual, triple—the lace transmitted through the silk to her skin, then enveloped by the silk's own smoothness, creating a complex layering of sensations. And the veil, with every subtle movement, left a cool, smooth touch on her shoulders and back, reminding her of the exposed areas. Four pieces. The clasp clicked open, and the package unfurled automatically, blooming like a flower. Inside were two items. A white waist cincher, composed of multiple layers of stiff silk and lace, about ten centimeters wide, with soft padding on the inner side. In the center of the front of the cincher was an inlaid platinum rose – the same design as the one on the tiara, but instead of a pearl at its heart, there was a rotatable knob made of pearl. Around the knob were fine markings, like a precision instrument. On each side of the cincher were rows of platinum hooks and pearl buttonholes, clearly designed to connect the lower edge of the bodice and the upper edge of the skirt. A white card, its edges trimmed with platinum thread. The handwriting was elegant and neat: "Five pieces united, then complete. The cincher binds the upper and lower, and binds to eternity. Turn the rose, and the ritual is fulfilled." Five pieces? She paused for a moment, then understood – the bodice, the skirt, the boots, the headpiece, the gloves and stockings, plus this cincher, made a complete six-piece set? No, the card said "five pieces united," perhaps the cincher wasn't counted as a separate piece, but as a connector. But she had no mind to dwell on it. She put down the card and picked up the waist cincher. It felt slightly heavy in her hands, stiff yet elastic. The inner padding was as soft as velvet, and it shouldn't be uncomfortable against her skin. The platinum rose gleamed coldly in the light, and the pearl knob was warm and inviting. She set the cincher aside for the moment and stood up, walking towards the white items. She knew what she was doing. She knew this might be a mistake. But she couldn't stop. Because this was the final step. Because this was her own choice. Step One: Stockings She sat on the sofa, lifted her foot, and slipped the sheer white stockings onto her toes. Physiological response: The moment the stockings slid over her toes, a wave of icy coolness shot up her spine from her fingertips, like an electric current. It wasn't ordinary cold, but a penetrating chill, as if the threads were infused with mint essence. The stockings continued to slide upwards, enveloping her ankles, calves, knees, and thighs. Every inch of her skin was gently embraced by the sheer fabric, its texture so fine it felt like a second skin, yet smoother than her own. As the stockings glided over the most sensitive area of her inner thighs, she couldn't help but tremble slightly – that skin was rarely touched, and now, encased in the stockings, every single hair could feel the subtle friction. As she stood up, she felt the stockings tighten slightly, providing support without hindering movement. They were as light as if they weren't there, yet she could feel their presence, a captivating contradiction. Her legs appeared more slender and straight beneath the stockings, her skin glowing with a pearlescent sheen. Step Two: Bodice She picked up the bodice, reached behind her back, and fumbled for the pearl buttons – they aligned themselves neatly, the buttonholes and buttons meeting with precision, like magnets attracting. As the first pair fastened, she took a deep breath. The moment the bodice tightened, she could clearly feel the lace pressing against her skin. It wasn't an ordinary tightness, but a perfect embrace – lifting her breasts, accentuating her waist, yet not making it difficult to breathe. Twelve pairs of pearl buttons, she fastened them one by one. With each pair that clicked shut, the bodice tightened a fraction more, until it fit perfectly. She could feel her heartbeat accelerating beneath the lace, each pulse transmitting through every inch of the fabric. She walked to the mirror and looked at her upper body – the white lace clung to her skin, pearls and crystals shimmering in the light. Her waist looked at least five centimeters slimmer than usual, her breasts lifted, forming a deep cleavage. Breathing became slightly more difficult, but still within tolerable limits. Step Three: Skirt She struggled to lift the skirt, finding the connection points at the upper edge – there was a row of platinum hooks and pearl buttonholes, corresponding to the structure on the sides of the cincher. She didn't connect them immediately, but first lifted the skirt to her waist, feeling its familiar weight. Step Four: Waist Cincher She picked up the waist cincher and brought it around her back. The cincher had platinum clasps on both ends, and with a gentle press, they clicked shut. The cincher automatically tightened, conforming to her waist, neither too loose nor too tight, the padding pressing softly against her skin. Then, she connected the hooks on the lower edge of the bodice to the upper row of buttonholes on the cincher, and the hooks on the upper edge of the skirt to the lower row of buttonholes on the cincher. Each connection made a soft "click" sound, fitting perfectly. The moment the cincher completed the connections, the bodice, cincher, and skirt seemed to meld into one, becoming a complete bridal gown bodice. The weight was evenly distributed around her waist and shoulders, and the downward pull of the skirt was dispersed by the cincher, making it easier to bear than before. She tried turning and bending – her movement was still restricted, but her stability had improved. The platinum rose in the center of the cincher rested just above her navel, the pearl knob protruding slightly, like an eye waiting to be awakened. Step Five: Boots She sat down and picked up the white boots. The lambskin was cool and silky, and she slipped her stocking-clad foot inside – a perfect fit. She zipped them up, smoothly and silently. As she stood up, her center of gravity shifted forward instantly. Detailed Physiological Response: Feet: The twelve-centimeter heels placed her feet in an extremely forward-leaning position, her arches raised, and her toes slightly curled inside the boot tips. With every second she stood, pressure bore down on the soles of her feet. Calves: The boots encased her calves, providing support but also limiting the range of motion in her ankles. She could walk, but only with small, cautious steps, like walking on a tightrope. Overall Balance: The heels shifted her center of gravity forward, and combined with the weight of the skirt, standing itself became an exertion. She had to constantly engage her core muscles to maintain her balance. Step Six: Gloves A bride who cannot see, cannot cry out, cannot touch, cannot escape. A true, eternal prisoner. Panic, like icy water drenching her, made her instinctively struggle. First step: attempting balance. Her feet were shackled together. The moment she tried to shift her weight, a cold metallic touch and firm resistance met her ankles. A limit of ten centimeters made her feel as if she were walking a tightrope, her body swaying uncontrollably from side to side. The slender heels of her white high-heeled boots made frantic, light clicks on the marble floor. The calf muscles, tightly encased by the boots, tensed and trembled with exertion. Second step: twisting her upper body. Her hands were bound behind her, leaving her without any means of support or balance. She desperately twisted her waist, trying to break free from her restraints with the power of her body. This movement fully activated the details of her wedding attire: • The platinum vines and pearls on her tiara lightly touched each other with the swaying, emitting faint tinkling sounds, their weight pressing down on her scalp. • Her veil fluttered with her movements, brushing against her exposed nape and shoulders. The mist-like touch felt like the caress of countless tiny hands. • The lace of her bodice dug deeper into her skin with the violent rise and fall of her chest. Pearls and crystals rubbed against her sensitive nipples, each friction sending a sharp, thrilling tingle through her. • Her corset cinched her waist tightly, the straps connecting to her wrist restraints at the back. With every twist, the corset seemed to respond by tightening slightly, pressing into her lower abdomen and ribs. The platinum rose and pearl knob at the center of the corset, cold against her upper abdomen, felt like an indifferent eye. • The seven layers of white tulle in her skirt billowed like waves with her struggles, but the heavy train dragged her down like an anchor, limiting her range of motion. The sheer fabric embroidered with silver phoenixes rustled as it rubbed against itself. • The lace of her gloves dug deeply into the skin where her wrists were bound. The crossed straps behind her pulled her shoulder blades backward, forcing her into a humiliating posture of chest held high and head tilted back. Third step: desperate exertion. Fear and shame fueled her to pull her arms backward with all her might, while simultaneously trying to lift her shackled feet. • The straps behind her remained unyielding, instead tightening their grip on her wrists, pain and restraint intertwining. • The platinum chains at her ankles stretched taut, emitting a faint metallic whine, but they held her firmly in place, allowing only insignificant tiptoe movements. The hard heels of her boots struck the ground with crisp, desperate sounds. • Her entire wedding attire—from tiara to boots—felt like a single entity, a living thing, absorbing, dispersing, and reflecting back every ounce of her struggling force. She was like an insect trapped in amber; all her violent movements, to an outside observer, might have appeared as merely the slight, magnificent tremors of this white icon. Her struggles were futile. When she finally stopped, exhausted and panting (though her breathing was strictly limited by her bodice), she realized with terrified clarity: her entire ensemble, due to the incredibly intricate clasps, straps, chains, and internal support structures, was virtually undisturbed. Her tiara was not askew, her veil had not fallen, her bodice and corset remained perfectly fitted, the volume of her skirt was unchanged, and the restraints on her gloves and boots were in no way loosened. Only her own body, within this gorgeous and cold framework, was undergoing a seismic shift. Sweat had long since soaked the inside of her stockings, chemise, and gloves. The damp, sticky sensation combined with the friction of the fabric created a pervasive, subtle stimulation. Her body temperature soared, her skin burning under the embrace of silk stockings, lace, and leather, especially on her chest covered by the bodice, her lower abdomen pressed by the corset, and the triangular area at the base of her thighs tightly encased by the stockings. Friction and pressure: every twist and turn of her struggle intensified the friction between lace and nipples, corset and lower abdomen, stockings and inner thighs. The restraints at her back continued to pull on her shoulders and arms, creating a deep, controlled ache. The cold of the chains at her ankles contrasted with the snugness of her boots, a constant reminder of her lost freedom. The most secret reaction: moisture had long since spread uncontrollably, flooding her. The warm, slippery liquid soaked her stockings and panties, creating a shameful and intense sensory contrast with the cold restraints all around her. A hollow, yearning throb emanated from deep within her lower abdomen, intensifying with each futile struggle. The final climax arrived abruptly, at the edge of exhaustion and fading consciousness. Not from pleasure, but from a mixture of utter powerlessness, control, and shame. As she made one last attempt to break free from the restraints behind her, pressing her full weight onto her shackled feet, a violent spasm originating from the depths of her pelvis seized her. It was like a silent lightning bolt, cleaving through all fear and resistance, surging up her bound spine, exploding behind her blindfolded eyes, and muffling itself within the silicone gag in her mouth. "Because I was simulating," he whispered, his breath fanning my face, "simulating the feeling of your skin being bound, your breath restricted, your freedom stripped away when you put it on. And every time I simulated it, I trembled with excitement." I closed my eyes, my tears not warm, but icy, like formaldehyde. "Why didn't you say something?" I choked out, "Fifteen years ago, why didn't you say it like a normal person?" "I did." His fingers released my throat and instead grasped my wrist, his thumb pressing against my radial artery, measuring my pulse. "I said, 'You look beautiful.' Your response was to rip up the rose and storm away, making a fool of me in front of everyone." "That wasn't an invitation to become a monster!" "No, Lin Wan." He laughed, a smile devoid of warmth. "That was the only invitation. A normal person would have given up, found a new dance partner, forgotten. But I'm not normal. The moment you tore up that rose, I knew – either you would destroy me completely, or I would possess you completely. There was no middle ground." He leaned in, his forehead pressing against mine. The posture should have been intimate, but it felt like the final gaze of a predator before it lunges for its prey. "I searched for three years and couldn't find you. Then I stopped. Not giving up, but changing tactics. I studied human anatomy, textile engineering, surveillance technology, psychological manipulation. I spent ten years turning myself into the perfect tool to capture you. Then I found you – in office buildings, bakeries, subway stations. I documented your routines, your preferences, your social circle, your moments of vulnerability." His lips brushed against my ear. "You're at your lowest on Mondays because of the weekly meetings. You get sleepy at 3 PM on Wednesdays and sneak yawns in the stairwell. You go to the same bookstore after work on Fridays, but you never buy anything, just run your fingers along the spines. You have claustrophobia; you had a panic attack when the elevator broke down. You're afraid of the dark; you ran upstairs every night that week the hallway light in your apartment building was out." Every detail was a needle, piercing my skin. "I know everything about you. More than you know about yourself." He straightened up and began unbuttoning his suit jacket. "And now, I'm going to learn the last thing – data on the specimen's reaction under extreme stress." By the time I realized what he intended to do, it was too late. The constraints of the wedding dress were not decorative, but instruments of torture. The corset's boning was reinforced plastic, molded to the curve of my ribs, preventing me from taking a deep breath. The layers of petticoats in the skirt were sewn with flexible metal wires, maintaining its shape while restricting my leg movement. The fingertips of the gloves were fitted with tiny magnetic clasps, which he now held with another magnet, securing my hands to the headboard. "Don't," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Don't what?" He had already removed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His movements were unhurried, as if preparing for an experiment. "Don't verify my fifteen-year-old hypothesis? Don't complete this closed loop? Lin Wan, the moment you put on this wedding dress, you already agreed." "I didn't—" "You did." He interrupted me, his fingers tracing my cheek. "You walked into that classroom, opened the bag, put on the stockings, stepped into the heels, tied the ribbons – every step was a choice. You could have left, you could have screamed, you could have resisted. But you didn't. Because deep down, you wanted to know just how far this boy, whom you've always looked down upon, could go mad for you." He leaned down, and his kiss was not a kiss, but an invasion. His teeth broke the fragile barrier of my lips, the taste of blood filling my mouth. His hand slipped inside the neckline of the wedding dress, not caressing, but dissecting – his fingers measuring the curve of my collarbone, his palm pressing against the rise of my sternum, his thumb searching for the strongest beat of my heart. I tried to struggle, but the wedding dress held me captive. The ribbons dug into my flesh, pearls embedded themselves into my skin, and the straps of the heels cut deeply into my ankles. Every twist brought a sharper pain, every resistance tightened the bonds. "Data point one," he whispered in my ear, his breath scorching hot, "Resistance intensity: moderate. Physiological response: heart rate increased to 142, blood pressure elevated, pupils dilated. Psychological response: fear mixed with anger, hatred index 7.2." His hand continued downward. The skirt of the wedding dress was lifted, not gently, but brutally. The layers of petticoats were peeled away like an onion, revealing the stockings and garter belt beneath. He stared at my legs, his gaze not one of desire, but of an connoisseur appraising a masterpiece. "Achilles tendon length: perfect, gastrocnemius curve: standard, ankle joint mobility—" His hand cupped my ankle, his thumb pressing on my inner malleolus, "—restricted by 25%, due to binding. Design adjustment needed." Then he entered me. No foreplay, no tenderness, no hesitation. It was pure penetration, occupation, marking. The pain was sharp as shards of glass, exploding from my core and spreading to every nerve ending. I screamed, but my voice was muffled by the veil, turning into a choked whimper. "Data point two," his voice was as steady as if he were reading an experimental log, "Pain threshold: low. Tolerance time: severe reaction after 47 seconds. Vaginal secretions composition—" he paused, his finger smearing something, then lifting it to observe in the moonlight, "—bloody, consistent with initial penetration." The restraints remained. I picked up the blindfold. The velvet lining felt as soft as a lover's kiss. I put it on, the ties crossing at the back of my head and tightening— Darkness swallowed everything instantly. Not ordinary darkness, but absolute, utter darkness with not a sliver of light. The velvet completely blocked out the light, and with it, the sense of security that vision provided. My other senses exploded awake: I could hear my own ragged breaths, feel the rustle of silk stockings, smell the intensifying cold fragrance of the wedding dress—now mingled with my body heat and sweat, adding a hint of carnal sweetness. My fingers trembled as I fumbled for the gag. Reason screamed: Stop! Stop now! Rip off the blindfold, unfasten the collar, take off this ridiculous thing! But my fingers had a will of their own. They pushed the gag ball into my mouth. The silicone sphere filled my mouth, pressing against the root of my tongue, bringing a strange fullness. Not a comfortable fullness, but an invasive, possessive fullness that stole my voice. The leather strap circled the back of my head. I fumbled for the buckle on the side of the collar, connected it, and fastened it. "Click." The crisp sound was like a gunshot in the silence. Finally, the collar itself. I found the buckle at the front, wrapped it around my neck, and fastened it—no sound this time, but I could feel the leather tighten, the cashmere lining pressing gently against my throat, the silver lock hanging in the center of my collarbone, cool. It was done. I was enveloped in darkness, silence, and restraint. My sight was stolen, my voice was stolen, my ability to move freely was severely limited. I could only shuffle, turn my head slightly, and emit muffled whimpers. But at the same time, an unprecedented sense of completeness washed over me. All the loneliness of these years, all the fantasies no one understood, all the dark branches I had to hide in the normal world—they were seen, accepted, gently embraced and presented by this wedding dress. I no longer needed to be split, no longer needed to pretend, no longer felt the tearing sensation of switching between two selves. In this moment, wearing this wedding dress, adorned with these restraints, I was closer to my true self than ever before. The self that was dark, that craved possession, that wanted to be someone else's property. Then I felt the ankle cuffs. They were at the very bottom of the box, I had almost forgotten. White leather, exquisitely crafted like jewelry, with hidden magnetic clasps. I crouched down—an awkward movement in the confines of the wedding dress, the skirt pooling around me, almost throwing me off balance—and fumbled to put the cuffs on my left ankle, then my right. The two cuffs aligned, drew closer— "Click." The moment the magnetic clasps closed, I heard another sound. "Click—click—click—click—" A series of faint but incredibly clear mechanical sounds emanated from within the wedding dress, like countless tiny locks fastening simultaneously, like the sequence sound of a precision instrument activating, like… the final confirmation of a trap closing. In terror, I tried to rip off the blindfold, but my wrist movements were restricted—the lace at the cuffs had tightened on its own at some point, and small metal clasps emerged from the soft lace, encircling my wrists and fastening. It wasn't a tight restraint, but it was enough to prevent me from moving my hands significantly. I tried to spit out the gag, my fingers fumbling for the strap at the back of my head—the lock on the back of the collar had somehow been locked together with the gag strap, becoming an inseparable whole. I pulled hard, the leather chafing my skin, but the lock wouldn't budge. I tried to stand up, but the chain of the ankle cuffs was only thirty centimeters long. I could only bring my feet together, like a mermaid, and shuffle along. I had become a permanent prisoner of this attire. Panic drenched me like ice water, but within this panic, from the depths of my lower abdomen, a more intense, uncontrollable wave of heat surged. It came without warning, like a tsunami, like an earthquake, like a switch inside me being permanently flipped. My knees buckled, and I had to grab the edge of the vanity. A torrent of hot liquid gushed from the depths of my uterus, soaking the base of my stockings, soaking my panties, and I could even feel it trickling down my inner thighs. My body arched, my toes curled to the limit inside my shoes, my spine trembled as if electrocuted. An orgasm. In the extreme of restraint and the extreme of panic, my body betrayed me and reached the most intense orgasm of my life. It lasted perhaps ten seconds, perhaps twenty. Time lost all meaning in the darkness and pleasure. I whimpered, my voice choked by the gag into broken, animalistic moans. The silver lock on the collar tapped against my collarbone with my trembling, making faint metallic sounds. The rustle of the skirt was like countless hands caressing me. At the peak of the orgasm, only one thought occupied my mind: This is what I wanted. This is what I had been craving. Complete deprivation, absolute control, beautiful imprisonment. Then the wave receded. I collapsed onto the carpet, the skirt of the wedding dress fanned out like a wilting flower. Sweat soaked through the lace neckline, mingling with tears that flowed into the gaps of the gag. The aftershocks of the orgasm buzzed in my veins, like distant bells, like the prelude to judgment. Then came regret. Cold, heavy, suffocating regret. What was I doing? Why had I actually put on the gag? Why had I covered my eyes? Why had I fastened the ankle cuffs? How could I get them off? The ribbons were tied behind my back, the collar was locked, the blindfold was tightened, my wrists were bound, the ankle cuffs were connected— I couldn't get them off. "The wedding dress looks beautiful on you," she said, her voice soft. "Won't you wear it a little longer?" "I've worn it enough," I laughed, trying to keep my tone light. "I just wanted to try it on, I'm not actually getting married." "You've already put it on," she said. "So?" "A bride who has put on her wedding dress shouldn't take it off herself." There was something in her words that unsettled me. I turned to look at her—she was still smiling, but there was an indescribable... certainty in that smile. "What do you mean?" I asked. She didn't answer directly, but walked over to a nearby cabinet and took out a velvet tray. On it lay several items: a wide, white satin ribbon, about ten centimeters across, embroidered with delicate patterns; a black leather collar, lined with velvet, with a silver D-ring at the front; and something I recognized—a ball gag, made of silicone, attached to a black strap. I looked at them, my smile freezing. "What are these?" I asked, my voice starting to tighten. "The final step of the ritual," the old seamstress said, her tone still gentle. "Every bride who wears this dress must undergo the complete ritual." "What ritual? I don't want to participate in any ritual." I took a step back, but the hem of the wedding dress restricted my movement. My heel slipped on the carpet, and I stumbled. "I just want to unbutton it, change back into my own clothes, and leave." "You put on the wedding dress," she repeated, as if stating an unchangeable fact. "The dress chose you. This isn't an outfit you can just take off and leave." Fear began to spread. It seeped in from my feet like ice water. I turned back to the mirror, looking at the pearl buttons on my back—the ones the old seamstress had fastened one by one, which should be able to be unfastened one by one. I reached for the topmost button. I couldn't reach it. My shoulders were restricted by the design of the dress, my arms unable to twist at that angle. I tried bending my arm behind my back—still couldn't reach. The cinched waist and cuff design of the dress severely limited my range of motion. "Don't bother," the old seamstress said, her voice still gentle. "This dress is designed so that the bride cannot take it off by herself. You needed help to put it on, and you need help to take it off." She paused. "But now, there is no help to be given." My heart began to race. "What do you mean?" "The seventh year," she said, as if to herself. "The seventh bride in seven years to try on this dress. The previous six... they all stayed." Her gaze fell on the velvet tray. "Stayed... meaning..." My voice was dry. "They became brides," her smile became a blur. "Eternal brides." I understood. No, I didn't fully understand—but I knew enough. I knew this was a trap. I knew I shouldn't have walked into this shop. I knew that dress was too beautiful—too beautiful to be real, because it wasn't real. I needed to escape. Wearing 15-centimeter heels, with the voluminous skirt of the wedding dress spread out, my movement was severely restricted. But fear propelled me—I turned and lunged towards the curtain of the fitting room door.