The Elven Queen's Latex Cage ~ A Domestication Diary from Mistress of the Emerald Forest to Dark Elf's Bitch

"You said there was something wrong with the magic fluctuations here—what exactly is wrong?" Silas stepped forward quickly, lowering his voice. "Your Majesty, the magic here hasn't disappeared, nor has it been suppressed—it's as if it's been... filtered by something. I can only sense the outermost layer; anything deeper is completely imperceptible. It's like—" He paused, searching for an analogy. "It's like a black latex film has enveloped the entire forest. From the outside, it still looks like a forest, but what's inside—is completely invisible." Elinor fell silent. It wasn't fear. She had lived for over three hundred years, and the emotion of fear had long since vanished from her vocabulary. But she did feel a trace of... discomfort. It was the kind of feeling you get when you've been staring at a painting for a very, very long time, and suddenly notice something in the painting move. Not terror, but an unpleasant sense of being fooled. "Pick up the pace," she said. "Yes." The guards quickened their steps. But what no one—not even Elinor herself—noticed was: The shadows beneath their feet were now seven to eight feet long. And they continued to stretch. Fine, tendril-like black threads were silently growing from the edges of each guard's shadow. These threads extended from the ground, gently brushing against the soles of the guards' boots—and they felt nothing. And Elinor, walking at the very front— Her silver-white hair flowed behind her, her delicate elven ears twitching slightly, sensing the surrounding magic. She still held her head high, her emerald eyes filled with an arrogant pride. The fleeting itch on the inside of her thigh from a moment ago— It had returned. And this time, it wasn't fleeting. It was persistent. Like countless hair-thin threads, they were slowly crawling up her legs, encased in silver stockings. Starting from her ankles, they moved up the inner side of her calves,绕过 her knees, and were heading towards the secret place at the base of her thighs—approaching. Elinor's steps faltered. She glanced down at her legs. The silver stockings still had a faint pearlescent sheen in the dim light, her legs perfectly sculpted—there was nothing unusual. The black magic threads were simply too fine, their color too pale, completely invisible against the sheen of the stockings. "Your Majesty?" Silas noticed her pause. "...It's nothing." Elinor averted her gaze and continued forward. But she subconsciously tightened her legs again. The silver stockings on the inside of her thighs rubbed together, creating a faint, almost imperceptible sensation— "The potion is working," Vera released her grip. "Now, let's examine the lower half." She walked over to the fourth silver platter. On it lay a writhing latex tentacle. The moment Eleanor saw it, a chill ran through her entire body. The tentacle was about the length of an adult's forearm, as thick as two fingers, made of some black, semi-transparent latex, and covered in countless tiny suction cups. One end split into three small lobes, each gently opening and closing, revealing a pink, mucous-lined inner surface – the core of the suction cups. What was more terrifying was that the tentacle was alive. It writhed slowly in the silver platter, its suction cups contracting and expanding, the three lobes opening and closing as if searching for something, emitting faint "plop" sounds in the air. "This is a latex tentacle – one of my proudest creations," Vera picked it up from the platter. It coiled obediently around her wrist. "Its principle is simple: it automatically seeks warm, moist cavities and then attaches itself for a peristaltic massage. It was originally designed for medical examinations, but I later discovered its much broader applications in another field – discipline." She crouched down and placed the tentacle on Eleanor's calf. As soon as it touched her sheer stockings, the tentacle became instantly active. It tightened its body like a real snake, slithering slowly upwards along the surface of the silk. Each suction cup made a soft "pop" as it attached to her skin and then released, leaving a small, moist trail of mucus. It was a semi-transparent, slippery mucus with strong penetrating power – even through the stockings, Eleanor could clearly feel the slick, cool sensation moving slowly up her calf. "Mmm… mmmph…!" She began to struggle desperately. The chains clinked loudly as she thrashed, but the restraints on her limbs did not loosen in the slightest. Her legs were spread and fixed, and no matter how hard she strained, she couldn't bring them together – she could only watch helplessly as the tentacle writhed its way over her knees, past the hollow of her knees, and continued upwards along her inner thighs. The skin on her inner thighs was exceptionally sensitive. Each time the tentacle's suction cups attached there, Eleanor's leg muscles involuntarily spasmed. The mucus soaked through the sheer stockings, making the already gossamer-thin material even more transparent. Beneath it, her fair skin could be faintly seen flushing a pale pink as the suction cups gripped and released. "No… mmmph… don't…" she squeezed out broken protests from behind the gag, but she knew it was futile. The tentacle reached the base of her thighs. It paused for about two seconds – as if confirming its target – then its three lobes opened and, through the mucus-soaked stockings, precisely enveloped her most private core. "Mmmph—!!!!" Eleanor's entire body arched. Her waist bent backward desperately, but the chains held her firmly to the metal pillar. Her struggles only caused the chains to dig deeper into the flesh of her wrists. Through the sheer stockings, she could clearly feel every detail of the tentacle's lobes – the three lobes separately enclosed her labia and the clitoris in between. The fine, mucous-like protrusions on the inner walls of the lobes were rhythmically attaching and contracting, like three small mouths simultaneously sucking at her most sensitive parts. Suck – release. Suck – release. Suck – release. Each time a suction cup gripped her labia and then let go, it was accompanied by a soft, wet sound. A faint "plop" echoed clearly in the quiet cell. The sound made Eleanor's ears burn red – it was the sound of her own arousal fluid being drawn out by the tentacle and then squeezed through the gaps. "Mmm… mmmph… mmm…" Her protests turned into choked sobs. The crotch of her sheer stockings became visibly soaked. The mucus from the tentacle mixed with her own secreted arousal fluid, creating a dark, wet stain on the stockings that continued to expand, spreading from her crotch to her entire inner thighs. Under the dim glow of the dark purple magic stones, the soaked stockings reflected a lewd sheen. "Excellent reaction," Vera commented calmly, as if observing an experimental sample. "Two milliliters of arousal fluid secreted within three minutes, and vaginal wall contractions at a frequency of six per minute. Very good data – excellent for a first-time subject for tentacle examination." Eleanor couldn't hear the data. Her consciousness was drowned in the pleasure surging from beneath her. The tentacle's writhing frequency was accelerating. The three lobes took turns sucking at her labia and clitoris, the rhythm varying unpredictably – she never knew where the next suction would occur or with what intensity. This unpredictability kept her body in a state of extreme tension, every nerve taut, awaiting the next stimulation. And when the stimulation arrived – the intense pleasure would send a wave of numbness from her spine to her toes. Worse still, the central lobe of the tentacle – the one attached to her clitoris – was vibrating at a specific frequency. This vibration, perfectly synchronized with its sucking rhythm, created a cumulative effect that rendered her mind blank. She could feel her clitoris becoming engorged and swollen from the repeated stimulation, poking out from the embrace of her labia, held tightly by the tentacle's suction cup, enduring continuous grinding and vibration. "Mmm… mmmph… mmm…!!" Her moans became increasingly rapid and drawn out. The tentacles' writhing reached a crescendo. Three petal-like mouths tightened simultaneously, latching onto her flower lips and clitoris with maximum force and speed, and then—the tentacle's body began to explore internally. It didn't force its way in, but instead used its thinnest tendril to gently pry open the cleft of her labia, probing the tip just a short distance—enough to brush against the most sensitive nerve endings at the entrance of her honey hole. Elinor's eyes snapped open wide. A flash of white light exploded in her mind. "Mmmph—!!!!" Her knees and waist arched upwards simultaneously, her head slamming against the metal pillar with a dull thud. The pressure that had been building deep within her lower abdomen released in an instant, her honey hole's inner walls beginning to spasm uncontrollably. Streams of warm, clear arousal fluid spurted from the gap between the tentacle and her flower lips, soaking her silver-threaded stockings and trickling down her inner thighs, dripping onto the stone floor to form a small puddle. The orgasm swept through her body like a tsunami. Her body, having never experienced such a sensation, had no idea how to cope—her limbs twitched against the chains, her toes curled and uncurled, her fingers clenched tightly before going limp. Most alien to her was the sound she made—a long, soft moan she'd never heard before, muffled by the gag into a series of meaningless "mmph"s and heavy breaths, causing her face to instantly burn crimson. The tentacle slowly released its suction amidst the aftershocks of her climax. With a soft "pop," the three tendrils reluctantly detached from the wet crotch of her stockings, leaving behind a viscous strand—whether it was its slime or her own arousal fluid, she couldn't tell. She slumped in the chains, her chest heaving, gasping for air. The collection bottle attached to the latex gag had gone from empty to holding a small amount of liquid—she was secreting far more saliva than she'd imagined. Her silver-threaded stockings were completely saturated, clinging to her legs and outlining every inch of skin, shimmering with a lewd sheen in the light of the magic stone. Her honey hole still twitched faintly, and through the stockings, her labia could be seen parting and closing in the aftershocks, as if savoring the unfamiliar pleasure. So shameful. So humiliating. What am I doing... this body of mine... how could... Her inner self screamed these thoughts frantically. She wanted to deny what had just happened, but the truth was written clearly on her soaked stockings, on the trembling roots of her thighs, on the blush that refused to fade from her face—she had orgasmed. In the hands of her enemy. At the plaything of a latex tentacle. "So sensitive for your first time," Vera stood up, looking down at Elinor, who was slumped in the chains. "You have great potential—even more than I initially estimated." Elinor lacked the strength to reply. Her lips trembled slightly behind the gag, and the tears that had been gathering in her eyes finally overflowed, tracing slow paths down her cheeks. She wanted to say something—to refute Vera's assessment, to curse the damned dark elf, to declare that she was still the noble Elven Queen—but she couldn't utter a sound. Because everything that had just happened was real. Her body was indeed that sensitive, she had indeed orgasmed under the tentacle's ministrations, and when that climax arrived—she had not pushed it away. Vera leaned down, extending an index finger to wipe away the tear from the corner of her eye, then brought the tear-stained finger to her mouth in front of Elinor. "Salty," she said. "But it tastes good." Then she turned to the four attendants. "Release her and take her to cell number two. The examination is over—we have enough data for today. Tomorrow, we begin the first stage of sensitivity development training." Elinor felt the chains being unlocked one by one, but she no longer had the strength to struggle. As the attendants unfastened her from the metal pillar, her legs went weak, and she nearly fell—the post-orgasmic exhaustion made even standing a challenge. Two attendants supported her under the arms, dragging her out of the cell, her silver-threaded stockinged legs dragging limply on the ground, the tips leaving faint watery trails on the stone. The latex tentacle that had just violated her had been retracted by Vera into a silver platter, now curled quietly in a corner like a docile pet resting after a full meal. And the magic-dampening gag in her mouth continued to absorb her mana—in the semi-transparent collection bottle, a silvery-white light was growing brighter. It was the last vestige of her power as Elven Queen, draining away drop by drop with her saliva. And her heart, along with that recent orgasm, had cracked open with its first irreparable fissure. Elinor's guards were dragged from the ground one by one by dark elf soldiers, their wrists fitted with magic manacles, their mouths stuffed with gags, and led into the darkness like a string of trussed-up prey. Several of them desperately tried to turn their heads to look at her as they passed, but the escorting soldiers roughly straightened their jaws. "Your Majesty..." one elven guard stammered before being gagged, then dragged away. Elinor wanted to respond, but her mouth, blocked by the gag, couldn't form a complete sentence. She was still suspended in mid-air by chains. Her arms had long gone numb, her wrists were red from the rings, and her entire weight pressed down on her shoulders, her bones creaking with every breath. Her elven royal robe had been torn to shreds in the battle, and now only a single silver stocking clung precariously to her right leg—the other had been kicked off at some point, and her bare ankle shivered in the cold air. Her skirt was gone, her undergarments too, and she hung there with her legs spread, a magic vibrator still lodged in her pussy, continuously buzzing. Saliva dripped from the mesh of the gag, drawing a glistening thread down her chin. "Take her away." Vera's voice was light, as if instructing a servant to pack a piece of luggage. Two dark elf maids stepped forward, carrying a black object between them. Elinor laboriously lifted her eyelids and saw what it was—a restraint sleeping bag. Made of pure black latex, its surface glistened with a damp sheen. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary long sack, but when the opening was revealed, the inner layer was coated with semi-liquid black latex that writhed slowly, like some living creature awaiting food. Elinor's eyes widened. "Mmm... mmmph!" She began to struggle—or rather, her suspended body swayed slightly. The skin on her wrists had long been abraded by the chains, her legs had lost all sensation from being suspended for so long, and she didn't even have the strength to kick. The maids ignored her resistance, one supporting her waist, the other unfastening the clasp of the suspension rings. The moment her support was gone, Elinor plummeted. Her legs gave out completely, her knees buckling as she started to fall to the ground, but the maids caught her and dragged her to the mouth of the sleeping bag. "Mmm... woo..." Her feet were the first to be stuffed into the bag. The silver stocking still clung to her right leg, its soaked surface translucent against her skin, her toes curling slightly within the stocking tip. As soon as the latex sleeping bag's inner layer touched her feet, it clung to them—not a wrap, but an adhesion, as if countless tiny suction cups simultaneously attached to her skin and then slowly tightened. Elinor could clearly feel the slick latex flowing between her toes, around her ankles, and creeping up her calves, each inch of skin covered bringing a warm, constricting sensation. Both of her calves were completely encased. As the latex solidified, it contracted slightly with her body heat, like a layer of living skin slowly conforming to her shape. The maids continued to pull her up. Her knees, thighs, and then her hips—when the latex touched her bare buttocks, the slick sensation made her involuntarily clench her legs. But the inner wall of the sleeping bag was too smooth and too tight; her legs were pressed together by the latex, knees touching knees, ankles touching ankles, with not even a sliver of space. From the outside, the lower half of the sleeping bag had taken on the contours of two slender legs, appearing even more elongated and straight under the black latex. Her waist was also encased. The latex adhered to her flat abdomen, creating a shallow indentation at her navel. Then came her breasts—Elinor let out a muffled groan as the latex enveloped the full mounds of her breasts. The sensation from the demon general's hands on her breasts during the battle still lingered, her nipples still excessively sensitive. Now, stimulated by the cold latex, both nipples hardened instantly, pushing out two small bumps on the surface of the latex. The maid noticed these protrusions but continued to pull the sleeping bag up with a blank expression. Her shoulders were encased, her collarbones, her neck. Finally, her head. Then she heard the sound of a zipper – starting from her feet, it moved upwards, past her calves, thighs, abdomen, chest, neck, and finally stopped at the top of her head. With each inch the zipper ascended, the latex inside the sleeping bag tightened a fraction, encasing her body more snugly, more completely. *Click.* The first lock. *Click.* The second lock. *Click.* The third lock. Three locks, securing the zipper tabs at her ankles, waist, and neck. Now she couldn't get out. Eleanor tried to move within the sleeping bag – she couldn't even roll over. The latex clung to her body like a custom-made coffin, wrapping her from head to toe. Her hands were pinned to her sides, her fingers only able to flex slightly through the latex, unable to even make a fist. Her legs were bound together, her knees and ankles encased so tightly by the latex that when she tried to spread them, the material's elasticity snapped them back. The skin of her inner thighs rubbed together through the latex, emitting a faint squeak. The only thing she could move was her head – and even then, only a few centimeters from side to side. She couldn't nod or shake it. The gag was still in her mouth, a mesh ball connected to a small collection bottle, which was already half-full of saliva that had dripped from her mouth. Through the sleeping bag, she could hear the bottle gently swaying against her chin. The vibrator in her pussy was also still active. That pink magic vibrator hadn't stopped since earlier. After the battle, it had been on its lowest setting, just a gentle pulse to remind her of its presence. But as the latex sleeping bag tightened, the vibrator was pushed deeper into her pussy, its tip landing precisely on her most sensitive spot. *Vvvvmmm—* The vibrator suddenly jumped from its lowest setting to medium. "Mmmph—!" Eleanor's body tensed violently within the sleeping bag. It was the inner layer of the latex. She finally understood – the semi-liquid latex coating the inside of the sleeping bag wasn't ordinary. It was embedded with magically sensitive contact points that could sense her body temperature, heartbeat, and every muscle contraction. It then automatically adjusted the intensity of stimulation based on these signals. The more tense she became, the faster her heart beat, the higher her temperature rose, the more vigorously the inner latex writhed, and the stronger the vibrator pulsed. And she had just tensed up, her heart racing. The vibrator escalated another level. "Mmmph mmmph mmmph…!" Eleanor gritted her teeth in the darkness. Her pussy was already drenched – it had started secreting fluids when the demon general had played with her earlier, and now those sticky liquids were being churned by the vibrator, emitting faint gurgling sounds that, through the layers of latex and sleeping bag, reached her own ears. She knew that whoever was outside might not hear it, but she heard it all too clearly. This body… This body she had been so proud of… Now it obeyed her no longer. Not Lilian—Lilian’s footsteps were light and delicate, like a cat pacing on flagstones. This footfall was slower, more deliberate, the rhythm of her heels on the stone unhurried, each step falling precisely into the intervals between the dripping water. Eleanor’s heart leaped. The door opened. Not all three locks—all three were undone at once, and the iron door groaned with a dull thud as it was pushed inward from the outside. The light from the corridor flooded in, not sunlight—there was no sunlight underground—but the brighter glow of magic stones, forcing her to squint. A figure stood in the doorway. Deep violet. That was the first color Eleanor registered in the hazy backlight. Not the silver-white of the elves, not the warm gold of humans, not the scarlet of demons—deep violet. She had only seen that color once before, in the central plaza of the Emerald Forest, when a woman emerged from the shadows, chains shooting from her fingertips, transforming her from queen to prisoner. Vera walked into the cell. Her steps were not hurried, each one placed with firm certainty. The magic stones in the cell brightened by one as she stepped inside—not a faint firefly glow, but a brighter, softer purple light that illuminated her entire form. Then two more lit up, and the light in the cell spread around Vera like stage lighting, as if even the light knew who was master here. Eleanor finally saw her attire for the day. Not armor, not royal robes. It was a form-fitting black latex dress—the latex didn’t look like fabric, more like some living substance, shimmering with a wet sheen under the purple light. The neckline of the dress was cut low, encasing the two round, full curves of her breasts, which rose and fell subtly beneath the latex with her breath. Her waist was cinched incredibly tight by the latex, so slender one might suspect her internal organs had been relocated. Below the waist, her ample hips flared dramatically, outlining a curve that was impossible to look away from, encased in black latex. The hem of the skirt tightened from the calf down, forcing her to take small steps when she walked, but this restriction lent each step a certain languid rhythm—as if she were walking through water. Deep violet hair cascaded down from her head, reaching her hips. Her bangs were parted to one side, obscuring the left half of her face, revealing only one deep crimson eye. That eye was fixed on Eleanor, who was secured to the metal frame, holding a kind of languid interest in its depths, like a painter examining a newly unwrapped gift. The scent of latex and musk intensified as she approached. It wasn’t ordinary perfume—it burrowed into the nostrils and lingered at the back of the throat and above the bridge of the nose, making the head swim slightly. “Awake?” Vera’s voice was light, soft, the end of her words rising slightly, as if greeting a lover who had just woken. She walked to the front of the frame and stopped, her deep crimson eye sweeping slowly from top to bottom over Eleanor’s entire body—from the collar pulled tight by the chains, to her breasts, barely concealed by sheer fabric but with clearly visible, erect nipples, to her legs, fixed in an M-shape by three straps, to the red marks left by the straps at the root of her thighs, finally resting on her lips, parted by the gag. “Three hours earlier than I expected.” Vera tilted her head, a faint curve at the corner of her lips. “It seems the Elven Queen’s constitution is indeed not comparable to that of ordinary elves. After being fixed to the frame all night, an average elf would sleep until noon at least. You opened your eyes before dawn—well, though there is no dawn underground.” Eleanor wanted to speak. But the gag mashed every word into a muffled whimper. Saliva had accumulated in her mouth all night, and she blew it out in fine bubbles with her nasal breathing, which broke and reformed on the silicone ring of the gag. “Mmmph… woo…!” Vera watched her for a moment, then extended two fingers—her nails painted deep violet, her fingers long and elegant—and cupped Eleanor’s chin. The skin of her neck, constricted by the collar, felt the coolness of that hand, but its touch was light. Vera’s other hand went behind Eleanor’s head and pressed the buckle of the gag’s strap. *Click.* The small lock sprang open. The strap was undone, and the silicone gag was pulled from between Eleanor’s teeth—as the gag left her lips, it drew out a long strand of saliva, trailing from her lower lip to her collarbone. “Urgh—Haaah—” Eleanor finally closed her mouth. Her upper and lower teeth were accustomed to the O-shape, and when they snapped shut, her teeth clicked together with a soft sound. Her jaw ached terribly, her jaw muscles feeling as if they had been fiercely squeezed. She licked her dry, cracked lips, the taste of silicone lingering on her tongue. As her tongue swept across the surface of her lips, it encountered an indentation left by the gag—that indentation was pressed precisely in the center of her upper and lower lips, like a brand mark on her mouth. She wanted to curse her. Wanted to call her a bastard. Wanted to ask why she was doing this to her. But she raised her head—raising it with effort, because the chain on the collar was still pulling backward—and when she saw the expression in Vera’s deep crimson eyes, all words caught in her throat. It wasn’t an angry gaze. Nor was it a triumphant one. Not even a mocking one. It was admiration. Pure, unadulterated admiration. Like a painter standing before a newly completed work, squinting to examine the depth and shade of every brushstroke. Eleanor suddenly felt something being drawn out of her chest. Not fear—fear had filled her yesterday. It was something colder, emptier. That emptiness made her mouth, just freed from the gag, open and close, but not a single word could come out. “Don’t rush to speak.” Vera placed the gag on the small table by the wall and picked up a soft cloth to wipe the saliva from her fingers. “Your mouth muscles have been stretched for over a dozen hours; speaking now will injure the root of your tongue. Let your mouth rest for a while—though after it rests, I will put it back on.” Vera actually smiled when she heard those words. Not a mocking smile, but one of amusement—her lips curved, her eyes crinkled at the corners, as if she’d heard something incredibly endearing. “Bastard. Hmm, I like that assessment.” She rose from the armchair and walked, step by step, to the frame, close enough that Eleanor could see every intricate detail within her dark crimson eyes. “But before you continue insulting me, there’s something I’d like to do first.” She reached out, her fingertips landing on Eleanor’s right hand, which was locked in place by the leather restraint glove behind her. “Single-finger glove.” Vera’s fingers traced the lines of the leather glove slowly, starting from the wrist buckle and moving up to the reinforced straps around her mid-forearm. “Classic five-finger separation design. Lined with velvet to prevent skin abrasion. The sensation of each finger being individually confined is quite peculiar, isn’t it? You can’t feel what your fingers are doing—they’re each imprisoned in their own separate tubes, immobile, unable to touch each other. This is far more agonizing than a regular mitten—not physically, but mentally. Because your five fingers are still present, but they’ve been taken apart.” Her fingertips slid to the strap buckle at her wrist. “Wrist. Forearm. Elbow joint. Three reinforced straps.” Her fingers flicked the edge of a strap, producing a dull thud characteristic of leather. “Made from monitor lizard hide. A rare lizard that only inhabits the dark elf territories; its skin is tough enough that even an adult dragonkin couldn’t break free. The spacing of the three straps is precisely calculated—just enough to prevent your arm from generating any effective leverage. When you struggle, your force is distributed across these three points, ultimately absorbed by the frame.” Eleanor bit her lower lip. She had struggled yesterday—she knew Vera was telling the truth. Every twist of her arm had its force dissipated by the strap at her elbow. Vera’s hand moved up her arm, her fingertips brushing over her spine, tightened by the straps. The sweat from prolonged contact between leather and skin left a cool trail as her fingertips passed. “Shoulder blades.” Vera pressed two fingers between the prominent bones on Eleanor’s back. “The rear-hand restraint forces your shoulder blades together, towards your spine. This posture is difficult for you—but exquisite for the observer. Look at how these two mounds on your chest are pushed up when your shoulders are locked—” Her fingers traced over her shoulder and down to her collarbone, where they paused. “At their highest point.” Vera lowered her gaze to Eleanor’s chest, to the full, rounded curves of her breasts beneath the sheer fabric. “This is why I don’t dress you in proper clothing. Not because there isn’t enough fabric—but because the visual effect this sheer material creates in this position is far more alluring than any formal attire. It reveals nothing, yet doesn’t fully uncover. You’re more enticing in this than when completely naked—because when people want to see but can’t fully, their imagination fills in the most erotic parts.” Eleanor’s cheeks burned. Not from shyness—but from a panic of being dismantled, with nowhere to hide. Vera spoke as if discussing an academic subject, calm, objective, even with a hint of admiration. It was this tone that frightened her—because it meant Vera wasn’t trying to mock her, but to meticulously examine her. Like an anatomy professor teaching students the names of each muscle. “Stop—!” When Vera’s fingertips slid to a centimeter above her cleavage, Eleanor finally cried out. Her voice cracked, but it was at least louder than her previous hoarse whisper. The chain on her collar rattled slightly with her cry. Vera’s hand froze. Her fingertips hovered just above Eleanor’s left breast, not moving further down, but not withdrawing either. “Did you know, Princess Eleanor,” Vera said, lifting her head—no, not her hand, but her head, her dark crimson eyes locking directly into Eleanor’s emerald green ones, “that I spent three years studying you?” “Your combat habits—your tendency on the battlefield to cast a star net before releasing magic arrows, leaving a half-second gap. Your magic wavelength—your star magic has a subtle frequency difference from traditional elemental magic, a difference sufficient for me to craft a specialized封魔锁链 (fēng mó suǒ liàn - magic-sealing chain). Your guard rotation cycle—a new shift every twelve days, and on the day of the peace talks, it happened to be the weakest link in the command chain.” Her fingers remained suspended above her cleavage. It was a full set of black leather restraints—unlike any she had worn before. They gleamed with a dark, cold light in the morning sun, each strap, each metal buckle, precisely arranged in custom-sized grooves, as if displaying a precious artifact. At the top was a widened collar, different from the one on her neck—this one had a silver D-ring at the front, engraved with a line of tiny characters she couldn't quite make out. "This is your K9 training set," Lilian said, taking out the collar and walking up to her. "K-9, the designation for canine. What you're going to learn today is much like what a puppy learns." "Wh—" Eleanor's eyes widened. "You... what did you say... canine?" "Mmm," Lilian nodded, fitting the collar around her neck. The moment the leather wrapped around, Eleanor felt a sensation entirely different from the metal collar—not cold, but warm. As the leather warmed to her body heat, it molded more closely to her skin. When it was fastened on the last notch, it settled just below her Adam's apple, not constricting, but making her acutely aware of its presence with every swallow. Then came the chest straps. Two widened black leather straps extended from the front of the collar, crossing at her collarbones, then wrapping downwards along the sides of her cleavage. Lilian's movements were swift and efficient—she pulled the straps under Eleanor's arms, crossed them behind her back, then brought them forward again, looping around the outer sides of her breasts and tightening at the base. The instant they were tightened, Eleanor let out a muffled groan. The leather cinched at the roots of her breasts, pushing and thrusting the full mounds upwards and forwards. The straps gathered her breasts from all sides towards the center, creating two more rounded, perky curves on her chest. The openings in the leather at the tips of her nipples were cut just right—her two pink nipples were squeezed out from the openings, hardening rapidly in the cool air. "Ugh... What is this—" Eleanor looked down at her chest, her face flushing instantly. She wasn't covered—she was deliberately exposed. The leather straps enveloped every inch of skin on her breasts, leaving only the most sensitive points bare. Lilian didn't answer, simply reaching into the box and pulling out two small silver objects. They were nipple clamps, with a ring of tiny silicone nubs on the inside and a delicate silver chain attached to the outside. "Nipple rings. They have contact points that can receive signals from Madam Vera's remote," Lilian said, pinching one of the rings open and clipping it onto Eleanor's left nipple. "Ugh—!!" The coolness of the metal and the pressure of the silicone nubs hit her simultaneously. The moment the clamp bit into her nipple, a tingly electric sensation exploded from its tip—not electricity, but a pure physiological response—yet her entire left breast twitched from the stimulation. Once the clamp was secured, the other end of the delicate chain was clipped onto the D-ring of the collar. The chain for her left breast was adjusted to a length that was taut but not overly pulling—if she lowered her head or hunched her shoulders, the chain would tighten, tugging her nipple forward. Then came her right nipple. The same clamp, the same delicate chain, the same connection to the collar. Two delicate chains extended from the collar to her breasts, forming an inverted V-shape. Now she had to hold her head high and chest out—not by command, but by the length of the chains. If she hunched even slightly, both chains would tighten simultaneously, pulling both nipples forward. It didn't hurt, but this constant tugging kept her nipples perpetually engorged and hard. "Mmm, this angle is just right," Lilian stepped back to admire her work and took out the next item from the box. For her lower body, there was a pair of black leather strap panties made of the same material. Calling them panties was a stretch; they were essentially just a few straps. A wide band went around her waist, splitting into two thinner straps at the front that passed through her inner thighs, converging at the back and fastening to a metal ring. And crucially—the crotch was open. The leather straps outlined the curves of her waist and hips, the straps at her inner thighs digging into the soft flesh, lifting her buttocks slightly. But her pussy and ass were completely exposed to the air. "Ugh... This, this is not okay... Ugh..." Eleanor desperately squeezed her legs together, but her legs were still weak after being freed from the latex skirt. Lilian merely gave her knee a gentle push, and she lost her balance, unable to do anything but let the strap panties be fitted around her waist and buckled shut. Next came the leather restraint gloves for her hands. This time, they weren't folded behind her back—they were first buckled at the wrists, then hung down from her waist, the ends of the gloves featuring a metal ring that could be secured anywhere on her back. Lilian temporarily locked her hands behind her lower back, the metal ring clicking into the ring on the back of the strap panties, fixing her hands just above her buttocks. "Alright. Lastly, the shoes." Eleanor looked down at the bottom of the box. There lay two "shoes" made of metal—no, they weren't shoes at all, they were shackles. Two metal rings were fitted around each ankle, extending downwards into a fifteen-centimeter metal heel. The heels were forged from metal, with no soles, only a thin metal rod connecting the shackle to the ground. Once on, her insteps were almost perpendicular to her calves, her entire weight pressing down on her tiptoes. "How... how can I walk in these..." Eleanor looked at the thin, high heels, her voice trembling. "It's perfectly normal that you can't walk," Lilian crouched down and fastened the metal shackles onto each of her ankles, locking them. "You're not meant to walk now. You're meant to crawl." *Click*. The left foot locked. *Click*. The right foot locked. Lilian stood up and picked up the leash—the clasp at the end of the chain clicked into the D-ring at the front of the collar. She gave the chain a tug, and Eleanor stumbled forward, her fifteen-centimeter metal heels striking the stone slabs with a crisp *ding*. Instinctively, she tried to reach out for something to steady herself, but her hands were locked behind her and immobile. She could only desperately balance on her tiptoes to keep from falling. "Luna..." She said it. At the naming ceremony, in front of dozens of dark elf nobles, while chained to the kneeling cushion in a doggy position, dripping with precum and drool – she spat out this new name from her own throat. Not Eleanor, not the Elf Queen, not the ruler of the Emerald Forest, not even Prisoner Number X. It was Luna. Luna was a bitch. A pet. A work of art. She had just clearly stated it, with her own tongue, to her new master. Then the magic stone at the center of the collar suddenly erupted with a blinding light – dark purple magical energy surged from the stone, enveloping her entire body. A searing heat shot up from her tailbone to her neck, exploding in her brain. It was an ecstasy far beyond anything the music box, the orgasm chair, the electrode pads, or any toy in the training room could provide. It was far more intense than the activation of the mark earlier – so intense that her vision went completely white in a fraction of a second. So intense that her fingers curled into fists inside the single glove and then spasmed open, her toes scraping the stone slab several times. So intense that her back arched to the point where the subtle clicks of her vertebrae could be heard, the inner walls of her cunt convulsed wildly, and a stream of clear fluid sprayed from the edge of the thin material, splattering the dark wet marks on the velvet cushion. She orgasmed – more intensely than ever before. So intensely that her limbs spasmed, her vision blurred, and all she could force from her throat was a long, drawn-out scream instead of a fake penis. The scream, mixed with sobs and moans, tore her vocal cords, finally trailing off into a series of whimpers and gasps. And at the peak of the orgasm – at the apex where every cell in her body was drowned in pleasure – she heard her own voice. It didn't sound quite like hers, more like a stranger's – hoarse, trembling, wet – and she cried out again – "Luna...呜..." Then she collapsed. Her limbs went completely limp, only staying upright because of the leather restraints and buckles. The dildo in her mouth slipped out halfway, the edge of the transparent gag splitting slightly, saliva no longer flowing into the tube but dripping directly onto the velvet cushion. The bells stopped ringing – because her body had stopped trembling. Only her cunt continued to twitch slightly – once, twice, three times – squeezing out the last vestiges of fluid from her body cavity. Then she felt her inner thighs get wet. Not the wetness overflowing from her cunt – it was hotter, more uncontrolled, a warm liquid spilling from some orifice in the front that she could no longer control. Urine penetrated the weave of the thin material in the crotch of the latex suit, trickling down her inner thighs, mixing with the precum that had dripped onto the cushion, spreading a large, irregular dark stain on the velvet. She had lost control. In front of the dark elf nobles, at the naming ceremony, after shouting the name "Luna" – she had peed. She knew she had peed. She could feel the warm stream sliding down her inner thighs, she could smell the faint, musky scent in the air. She could see Lillian walking up from the side stage, a wet cloth in her hand, kneeling beside the cushion to wipe the exposed skin beneath her latex suit – first her inner thighs, then the wet marks at the edge of the cushion, then the edge of the glass bottle. But she could do nothing. Her body was limp, even her shame had gone limp. She wanted to cry – tears were still flowing, but they were just trickling from her eyes, mixing with the moisture at the edge of the hood and sliding down her neck over the new collar, without a sound, without a whimper, silently. At this moment, thunderous applause erupted from the noble seats. No exaggeration – the restrained nobles stood up from their seats, their palms producing a few measured and solemn claps. Some were nodding, some exchanged approving glances, and two nobles in the front row raised their hands in the dark elf salute to Vera. "Congratulations, Lady Vera. Tonight's ceremony was truly spectacular." "The way that bitch orgasmed – even I felt my heart race." "As expected for the culmination of the Fourth Stage. Ownership mark + permanent collar + naming – all in one go." "Queen Vera, the works of art you train are getting better and better." Vera smiled and accepted the nobles' congratulations. She waved to Lillian to release Eleanor from the restraints on the kneeling cushion – ankles, knees, wrists – one by one the leather straps were opened, and her numb body was lifted by two maids. The single glove was still on, her legs still trembled and couldn't stand, half her weight resting on the maids' arms, a thin sheen of moisture still on her hips. She lowered her head, tears mixing with drool and flowing onto her new permanent collar, sliding over the surface of the magic stone, dripping onto the floor. Her shoulder-length silver-white hair was soaked with sweat and clung to the outer edge of the latex hood. The two silver bells on her chest gave out two final soft chimes as the maids helped her up – ding, ding – as if announcing the final toll of the death knell for her old identity. Vera walked up to her and flicked the still faintly glowing magic stone on the front of her collar with her finger. "Welcome to being mine, Luna. Starting tomorrow, we will enter a new phase – you will learn how to be a proper bitch." Luna – she – didn't respond or shake her head when she heard the address. Her mind hadn't fully recovered from the aftershocks of the orgasm, and the collar sent another wave of extremely weak reward current when Vera touched it, causing her cunt to contract gently, almost fawningly, in response to this faint current. "Another one," a maid said, lifting a milky-white gag from the chest. She weighed it in her hand. "The Master said you've been wearing the open-mouth ring all day and your mouth must be tired. So tonight, we're switching. This gag is more comfortable than the ring, at least it lets you close your mouth." Close her mouth. Those three words were like a heavenly temptation to Eleanor right now. Her jaw had been propped open by the ring all day, her cheeks aching as if she'd been punched. She'd drooled an immeasurable amount, her chin and collarbone slick with dried and wet saliva marks. The maid unlocked the strap of the ring. As the silicone loop was pulled from between her teeth, Eleanor's upper and lower jaws finally met—*clack*, her teeth hit together, a sharp ache shooting through her cheeks. But the sheer relief of finally being able to close her mouth made her let out a faint whimper. "Mmm… Haa…" Saliva trickled from her closed lips, far less than when she wore the ring. She moved her jaw, her cheek and masseter muscles protesting with a dull ache. But the new gag arrived quickly. It was a milky-white silicone gag—larger than any she'd used before, but the silicone was incredibly soft. The maid brought it to Eleanor's lips, using her fingers to pry her mouth open from the sides, then pushed hard—the gag slid between her teeth. "Mmm—Mmm—" Unlike the ring, it didn't force her mouth wide open. The gag pushed her upper and lower teeth apart, pressing her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. Her lips could close, but they had to encircle the ball. A small hole was in the center of the gag—for breathing and drooling. The maid wrapped two straps around her cheeks and the back of her head, buckling them beneath the stubble of her short hair. *Click*—the small lock engaged. "Rest well tonight," the maid said, pushing the empty trolley to the door. "Tomorrow morning's lessons, the Master says they will be very interesting." The door closed. Three locks clicked into place. Eleanor was alone in the cell once more. A milky-white gag filled her mouth, her lips sealed around the silicone sphere. Saliva slowly seeped from the small hole, dripping onto her chin, drop by drop. Much slower than with the ring, but still flowing. Her arms remained locked behind her back in the single gauntlet, and her legs could still stand—but not for long. The trembling in her knees was becoming more pronounced. In the black chest in the corner, the dark purple latex catsuit lay silently. Under the fading purple light of the magic stone, the latex surface gleamed with a moist sheen, like some slumbering living creature awaiting its first awakening tomorrow morning. It was her new skin. Once she put it on tomorrow, she would never take it off. Eleanor looked at the chest, at the stack of dark purple latex, at the purple that was so different from her own eye color, the purple that belonged to Vera. Her pupils unfocused for a moment in that swirl of purple—then she saw a small line of text written in silver ink on the lid of the chest. The handwriting was delicate, handwritten: "Luna's first custom uniform. —V" V. Vera. This latex catsuit wasn't a generic item taken from the wall. It was custom-made for her. Since the day she was captured—no, perhaps even earlier. Perhaps it had been sewn long before she even knew Vera existed. Its color was the same as Vera's magic gem, the same as the gem on Lillian's collar. By wearing it, she would officially become part of this purple lineage—Vera's pet, Vera's toy, Vera's creation. Custom. That word had once meant crown, scepter, and royal robes. Now it was a latex catsuit. "Mmm…" Eleanor closed her eyes. Tears squeezed from the slits of her tightly shut eyelids, tracing paths down her tear ducts and onto the gag, where some were absorbed by the silicone. The rest dripped down her chin. She told herself she would continue to resist when she woke up tomorrow. She would struggle desperately when they put on the latex suit. She wouldn't let Vera smoothly slide her into that new skin. But she also knew—just as Lillian had said—that time wore away everything that wasn't needed. She didn't know yet if she herself was included in that "unneeded" category. The magic stone flickered. In the fading purple light, the black chest in the corner caught the last glint. The drool seeping from the gag mingled with the tears sliding from the corners of her eyes, drawing a glistening thread at the tip of Eleanor's chin. Fifth. Sixth. By the seventh interrupted edge, Eleanor no longer struggled. Her body lay limp on the chair—not unconscious, but slack-muscled from the torment of repeated, broken pleasure. The insides of her thighs began to cramp from the continuous cycles of being held at the brink of orgasm, the pain of the cramps mingling with the pleasure into a hybrid of agony and ecstasy. Her cunt was soaked—her juices dripped down the base of the thick shaft onto the seat, creating a small, dark wet patch on the felt beneath. Her ass was the same—intestinal fluids had coated the surface of the thin shaft in a slick layer, and a transparent strand of mucus would stretch in the air each time the thin shaft withdrew. Her mouth couldn't close. Saliva streamed from the corner of her lips, down her neckband, and then spilled over the edge of the neckband to drip onto her gauze dress. She no longer wiped it away—she was too exhausted to even do that. Her pupils were rolled up halfway—not in an exaggerated way like rolling one's eyes, but unfocused, drifting within her sockets, unable to find anything to fixate on. "Mmm... how many times... mmm... I can't remember... mmm..." "The twelfth," Vera said, glancing at the counter on the remote. "Your edge-to-edge interval has shortened to fifty seconds—an eighty percent reduction from the initial four minutes. This means your body has learned how to reach the brink of orgasm quickly—a very useful skill. In certain specific situations in the future, you will need to achieve a controllable orgasmic state in a very short period. Your data tonight has laid the foundation for all future training." Vera flipped the remote over and looked at another number displayed on the back. "However, you still have five more edge interruptions to complete. Before these five are completed—if you can't hold on and want to rest, you can request a pause. During the pause, the dildos will be fully withdrawn, and you will rest for five minutes. The price for this—is the cancellation of all rewards for tomorrow." Eleanor's lips moved slightly. She wanted to say "rest." She wanted it so badly. Every inch of her body screamed for rest. The feeling of her cunt being repeatedly stretched open and then held back had become torture. The sensation of her anus being repeatedly filled and then emptied made her entire pelvis burn. She needed to stop—even for just five minutes—to have those two things pulled out of her body—to let her empty lower half cool down— But all tomorrow's rewards would be canceled. An extra sip of water. An extra hour of sleep. Loosening the neckband to let her lower her head for a bit. These things she needed most right now—from drinking water to lowering her head—were all exchanged for the data she was accumulating tonight through these edge interruptions. If she requested a pause, it would all be gone. "Mmm... no... I won't request... mmm... continue... mmm..." Her tone was utterly soft. Not a tone of strength—but the weakness of being so utterly exhausted that she didn't even have the energy to pretend to be strong. But she said it. She didn't say she wanted to rest; she said she wanted to continue. Vera smiled and took a sip of her red wine. "Good girl. Then let's continue. Thirteenth set—begin." The red button was pressed again. The two dildos began to thrust again. Eleanor let out a soft "mmm" on the chair—not a scream, not a moan, but an inexplicable response after being poked into a state of hazy consciousness. Her brain could no longer distinguish where the stimulation was coming from—her cunt, her anus, her nipples, the insides of her thighs—the nerves in every place had become a tangled mess. Her entire pelvis went numb when the thick shaft pushed up, and her lower back went soft when the thin shaft withdrew. She couldn't tell which was her cunt and which was her anus—only that two things were constantly entering and exiting her body. The corners of her mouth twitched. Not the twitching of crying—but the involuntary spasms of facial muscles as the accumulated pleasure in her body overflowed. Saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth onto the thin gauze in front of her chest, the fabric now semi-transparent, the two hard nipples on her breasts completely visible. "Mmm... I can't... mmm... I really can't... quick—quick stop—mmm—" She no longer knew what she was saying. One moment begging to continue, the next begging to stop. Her brain had been churned into a mess by the cycle of pleasure and interrupted pleasure. The guests in the front rows fell silent for a few seconds, all ears. Then everyone heard it – from the crotch of the black latex creation on the display stand, a layer of transparent wetness was slowly spreading across the latex garment. It was the lustful fluid churned out from her honey hole by the crystal dildo, seeping out bit by bit from the thinner excretory channel next to the tube of the gag, soaking through the thin lining of the latex crotch, and forming a reflective water stain on the black latex surface. "It seems the Queen's body is quite honest," Vera said in a doting tone, her voice echoing exceptionally clearly in the hall, each word striking Luna's ears. She walked to the display stand and gently lifted the chain connecting Luna's collar and ankle restraints, pulling it taut. Luna's head was yanked higher, her chin almost pointing to the ceiling. Then Vera gripped the metal rings on either side of the collar and slowly turned Luna's head to the right – facing the main guest seating area. Seated there were Vera's core confidantes, as well as the two old generals who had just arrived from the border. "Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce the configuration of tonight's exhibit in detail." For the next while, Vera, in the tone of a connoisseur, leisurely dissected each restraint on Luna's body. "Let's start with this latex suit—" She pressed the controller in her hand, temporarily stopping the crystal dildo's vibration, giving Luna a moment to breathe. Then she moved behind Luna and pointed at the seam on the back of the latex suit with her finger, "This is refined from the resin of the Shadow Oak, harvested from the deepest part of the Black Forest. It's about half as thin as a regular latex suit, but its strength and fit are more than three times that of a normal one. Look at the position of her shoulder blades—" She traced a finger down Luna's spine, her fingertip outlining the shape of each bone on her back through the latex. Luna clenched her jaw beneath the mask, biting down on the gag – that hand was so light, so light it felt like a caress, yet every inch of her nerves screamed. She could no longer distinguish whether this action was a display or a torment. "The inner layer of the latex suit is coated with a magical active coating – it forms a weak vacuum layer between itself and the skin when activated by the wearer's body temperature. In other words, once this suit is on, specific unlocking magic is required for removal; ordinary people cannot take it off. Of course, it's also breathable, otherwise, she would have already fainted from the stuffiness inside." "Then, the fixation method—" Vera moved back to the front and pointed at Luna's arms, which were bound behind her back, "Tonight, I'm using the standard Ebi-gari binding for her, combined with the rear-leaning collar chain and leg folding for fixation. You can see her current posture—" Several guests on the sides, wanting a closer look, walked onto the display stand to examine the shrimp-shaped Luna from various angles. Some peered at the buckle structure of the restraint ring at her inner thigh, others went behind her to bend down and look at her wrists, tightened by the restraint straps, and one person squatted down to get a closer look at the expanding wet patch on the latex crotch. "One advantage of Ebi-gari binding," Vera said, gently patting Luna's folded calf, "is that the restrained person cannot change their posture by their own strength at all – all their joints are in a state of reverse lock. Arms folded to the limit, legs folded to the limit, neck tilted back to the limit. If she wants to move, only her fingers and toes can move. However—" Vera pressed the third button on the controller. The slightly thinner crystal dildo in Luna's rear began to inflate. It wasn't simple inflation – the tip of the rod, near the prostate, began to slowly expand, forming a small sphere deep within her rectum. The sensation of being stretched from the depths of her body caused Luna's head to snap back – within the limits of the Ebi-gari binding, she could only tilt her head back that much – a muffled groan, filtered by the gag into a guttural sound, escaped her nostrils. A few drops of saliva around the silicone gag splattered onto the display stand with this groan. "—However," Vera's voice calmly continued after Luna's groan, "she has some small devices built inside her. Take this rear plug, for example – its air pressure can be precisely adjusted. The current level you see is only one-third of its capacity. If it were turned up to maximum—" She pressed the button again. The sphere expanded by another circle, grinding over the most sensitive point inside Luna. Her body arched violently within the extreme tension of the restraints – it was more of a spasm in the small, unfixed muscles of her abdomen, but this spasm pulled at all the locked joints of her body. The bones of her shoulder blades popped sharply under the latex, and her fingers, bound behind her back, turned white-knuckled. "Mmm—Mmmph—!!" This groan was louder and more urgent than before. The gag vibrated with the rush of air, and the saliva in the tube flowed faster. The collection bottle under the collar filled up almost halfway within a minute. The guests in the front rows laughed even louder. The noblewoman closest to Luna even gestured with her finger in the air, mimicking the rhythm of the groan, as if recording some interesting data. Then Vera returned the rear plug's air pressure to its original setting. The sphere slowly shrank back to its original size, but the illusion of being stretched lingered in Luna's rectum – her inner walls were still contracting involuntarily, as if trying to hold onto what had shrunk. The inside of her thighs trembled slightly under the latex, and the wetness in her crotch had spread to cover the entire supporting surface of the display stand. "Next, the chest configuration—" Vera moved to the front of Luna and parted the edge of the pre-cut window on the latex chest with two fingers, exposing the nipple clamps and their connecting wires more clearly under the spotlight. Luna's nipples had been clamped for nearly an hour. The originally pale pink flesh had turned a deep red, slightly misshapen under the pressure of the clamps. The skin around the edges of the clamps had a ring of light purple bruising, layered over old marks from long ago, making her look even more pathetic. "Inside each nipple clamp are sixteen micro-electrodes, capable of independently controlling the frequency and intensity of each pulse. Currently, I have set it to a low-intensity cyclical mode, releasing a 0.5-volt pulse every three seconds – enough for her to feel like someone is lightly licking her nipples with their tongue, but without causing actual harm." Someone in the audience whistled. Vera pressed the fourth button on the controller, increasing the current intensity by one level. Luna's nipples twitched from the sudden jolt of electricity. Her nipples vibrated slightly beneath the clamps, and her entire upper body trembled violently within the Ebi-gari restraints. "Ugh—" The sounds were becoming uncontrollable. It wasn't that she wasn't clenching her teeth anymore, but the tingling electric shock made the muscles in her jaw disobedient. The silicone gag in her mouth was completely soaked with saliva, her teeth couldn't get a grip on the slippery silicone, and her tongue had nowhere to go, pressed under the gag. All she could do was express the stimulation her body was enduring with continuous whimpers escaping her throat. And her body – her body, under the relentless assault of electricity, vibration, and air pressure, was beginning to slip out of her conscious control. She could feel another wave of warm liquid surging from deep within her honey hole. This time, it wasn't churned out by the crystal dildo, but secreted by herself when the electrical pulses passed through her nipples. She heard the wet patch on the display stand continue to expand with a gurgling sound. "Almost there," Vera said, stepping in front of her. She squatted down and picked up the transparent, tubular gag from the cart. She held it up for Eleanor to see—clear, hollow, with a dense cluster of tiny pink tentacles embedded on the inner wall. The tentacles were short, only about the length of a grain of rice each, but they all swayed slightly with the tremor of Vera's hand as she held the gag, like coral polyps in the sea. "This gag doesn't need straps. It's hollow so you can breathe. But these little tentacles on the wall will keep moving—they're not powered by electricity, but by magic. If you keep it in your mouth for ten minutes, your tongue will be constantly tickled—but it won't hurt. Your mouth will water non-stop. Lillian will wipe your face three times a day." Eleanor stared at the still-quivering tentacles and desperately tried to close her mouth. She didn't want to put this thing in. She didn't—she didn't want her mouth filled with those prickly, fuzzy tentacles, didn't want her tongue and palate teased, didn't want to become a drooling sex toy. But her mouth was wrapped in latex, and the gap between her lips was too narrow to close completely or open wide—she could only breathe through a tiny slit. "Mmm... no..." Vera brought the gag closer to her mouth. "Open up, Luna." Luna. Not Eleanor. Luna. As Eleanor heard the name, alarms blared in her mind: Don't open your mouth! Close it! Close it!! But her mouth wouldn't obey. The latex around her lips was too slick, and the tip of the tubular gag had already nudged into the narrow gap—when the tentacles brushed against her lower lip, she shivered all over, and her mouth involuntarily opened a little wider. Then the gag slid in. The transparent tube pried open the slit of her lips, stretching her upper and lower lips into an O-shape—not a wide one, just enough to fit. Two thin chains at the back of the tube were clipped to small rings on either side of the collar—once clipped, the tube was secured, unable to slide out or be spat out. Then the tentacles began to move. As soon as the tiny pink tentacles touched the moisture and warmth inside her mouth, they came alive—all of them unfurled simultaneously, clinging densely to her tongue, the sides of her tongue, the tip of her tongue, her lower jaw—and her palate. Each tentacle writhed independently, not with large movements, but with a fine, high-frequency undulation, like countless tiny tongues licking simultaneously. A few tentacles poked at the root of her tongue, brushing against the extremely sensitive soft flesh above her pharynx—she couldn't help it, her throat constricted sharply, a gag reflex trying to expel it, but the tube blocked her mouth, preventing her from spitting it out, only forcing air out of the tube with a burp. "Mmm—Nngh! Nngh! Nngh—!!" The tentacles stimulated her salivary glands, and saliva began to secrete in large quantities. She could feel her mouth instantly fill with saliva—much more than usual, thick, warm, with the lingering腥咸 taste of yesterday's nutrient paste. There was nowhere for the saliva to go—although the tube was hollow for ventilation, she couldn't swallow, so the saliva could only overflow from the edges of the tube, dribbling out from the gaps between her lips and the tube wall, running down her chin, dripping onto the latex on her collarbone. One drop, two drops, three—a continuous stream. The saliva left long, wet trails on the black latex, forming a thin rivulet that flowed to the edges of the two openings on her chest, mixing with the sweat around her nipples. She knew what she looked like now—her mouth stretched into an O by the tube, pink tentacles faintly visible inside the clear cylinder, saliva flowing non-stop, her entire face sealed in black latex with only her eyes crying. "Done," Vera said. Vera stepped back a few paces, standing by the mirror, her hands clasped in front of her. Her dark red eyes gleamed slightly under the cold white light, a faint smile playing on her lips—a smile of gentle appreciation, not malicious contempt. Her gaze swept over the figure in the black latex on the frame, from head to toe, as if admiring a newly fired piece of porcelain. Fixed on the ritual frame—no longer could she be called Eleanor. She was a black latex mannequin with perfect feminine curves. Gleaming black all over, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, not an inch of skin exposed. She had round, full breasts—with two specially made circular openings on the chest, edged with silver rings, from which two swollen, red nipples protruded, weighed down by silver砝码, still trembling slightly. She had a tight, slender waist, the latex cinched into an exaggerated curve. She had long, straight legs, the black latex on the inner thighs glistening wetly in the light, and the shadow between her legs was an absolute smoothness, devoid of pores. She had no fingers—only two slightly curved black rubber masses. She had no face—only a slight ridge at the bridge of her nose, two indentations for eyes, and a slightly parted slit for lips. Her mouth was propped open into an O-shape by a transparent tube, filled with writhing pink tentacles, saliva and tears mixing and streaming down her chin. Her body was trembling—a faint, high-frequency tremor throughout. Her nipples quivered in the cold air, her abdomen rose and fell with her breaths, and her legs involuntarily drew their knees up within the spread frame. She was crying. She could cry. But her cries came out through the transparent tube, mixed with the saliva churned by the tentacles, becoming muffled, wet sobs, like someone drowning. "Mmm—Mmm—Mmm—" Vera walked behind her, bent down, and brought her mouth close to her earlobe, which hadn't yet been sealed by latex. The dark elf queen's warm breath brushed against the black latex ear, carrying a faint scent of herbs. Even her pointed ears were molded in latex, even the roots of her ears were molded in latex, but Eleanor could still hear—that sense of hearing was the last thing she could clearly perceive from the outside world. "Luna," Vera's voice was as soft as reciting a poem, "you look beautiful now. More beautiful than ever before." Eleanor's pupils contracted slightly in the mirror. Luna. She was called Luna again. She tried to open her mouth to protest—"My name is Eleanor"—this was the correction she always made in her mind when her name was called incorrectly. But the transparent tube was jammed in the slit of her lips, sealed tightly. She wanted to shout those four words, but the tentacles licked across her tongue, and her tongue reflexively flicked upwards, hitting the wall of the tube. The tentacles seized the opportunity and burrowed under the root of her tongue—what came out was not "My name is Eleanor," but a muffled string of "Mmm-mmm-mmm-nngh—" sounds. She couldn't correct it anymore. She couldn't even say her own name. She looked in the mirror. The mirror reflected a faintly trembling, living latex doll. The doll was crying—tears constantly welled from her green eyes, forming small beads at the edges of her sockets, trickling down along the edges of the latex film. The doll was drooling—saliva overflowed from the edges of the transparent tube, trailing threads down her chin. The doll was trembling—from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes, every inch of her body wrapped in black latex quivered as if stimulated by a microcurrent, rustling and shaking. That latex doll was her. That was what she looked like now.

Not human. It's a *thing*. They were once human, or perhaps still are, but it's impossible to tell. They are fixed in various poses, displayed in different parts of the room. The one closest to the door has been made into a coffee table. A latex mannequin kneels on a base, its arms and legs completely encased in black latex, not an inch of skin exposed from fingertips to the root of its thighs. Its back is covered by a flat, transparent crystal panel, the four corners of which are secured to the base with silver pillars, pressing its body down to the standard height of a coffee table. Its head is completely covered – no eyeholes, no exposed breathing vents, just a smooth expanse of black latex encasing its head. Its breathing emanates from a faint exhaust valve somewhere on the side of its neck, a soft hiss, hiss, even and slow, as if asleep. Several wine glasses and a bottle of dark red wine rest on the crystal panel. The liquid in the glasses shimmers slightly under the magical lighting, indicating it's still breathing – the rise and fall of its breath causes its back to gently push against the crystal panel, a movement so subtle it's only noticeable if one stares. A few steps further in is a lampstand. A latex mannequin is vertically fixed to a metal pillar rising from the floor, the pillar passing between its legs. It's bound to the pillar – wrists tied behind its back, ankles secured to metal rings on either side of the pillar's base. Its head is covered by a custom latex hood, with an opening at the top. A thin, glowing crystal rod is inserted through the opening, reaching deep into its throat. The crystal rod emits a soft light within its mouth, illuminating the entire hood from the inside – the latex turns a translucent dark red under the strong light, vaguely revealing the outline of the jawbone of the face within. Its body trembles slightly, not from cold – the crystal rod inserted in its throat must be connected to something else, but Luna can't see it. In the center of the room is a slowly rotating circular display platform. On it are three latex mannequins made into "music box rotating shelves." They are fixed in ballet dancer poses – one leg standing, the other raised behind, arms crossed in an arc above their heads. Each one has different sound-producing devices embedded within them. As the platform slowly rotates, they emit fragmented ancient dark elf melodies – not sung from their mouths, but physically vibrating from resonators in their throats, chests, and abdomens. The three individuals have different pitches, and as the melody shifts, the harmonies change, the intermittent tunes colliding against the marble walls, sounding like someone crying, or like a lullaby being hummed. There are more in the corners. One is shaped into a floor-standing vase, its arms and legs completely stuffed into a black latex cylinder, only its hooded head exposed above the cylinder's opening. Its hair is cut short, just above the ears, and several dark purple withered flower branches are stuck into the top of its head. Another is made into a wall relief, its entire body embedded in a recess in the wall the same size as its body. The color of the latex coating is identical to the marble wall, making it impossible to notice a person there without careful inspection – only the faint rise and fall of its chest and the occasional spasm of its fingers betray its existence. Another one is being pushed by Lillian across the other end of the room – it's a tea cart. The latex mannequin is fixed in an upside-down position, back down, belly up, its limbs folded at ninety-degree angles and secured to the four corners of the base. A curved crystal tray is placed over its chest and abdomen, holding several small pastries and tiny ceramic cups. Lillian pushes it past Luna's line of sight, the wheels emitting a faint rumble on the marble floor. The woman made into a tea cart lets out a short moan from the breathing vents of her latex hood – it's unclear if it's from the jolting of the wheels or if the tray on her chest and abdomen is pressing somewhere. Luna's legs are trembling. Her knees are shaking so much she can barely stand. It's not fear – not the stiff, rigid fear she felt the first time she was brought to the interrogation room. It's something she can't quite articulate. Fear and excitement are mixed together, like two different colored potions poured into the same beaker, permeating each other, dyeing each other, and finally becoming a completely different new color. She stares at the crystal panel pressing down on the coffee table, staring for a long time. Then she can't help but wonder – what if it were herself kneeling there? What if that crystal panel were pressing on her back? What if Vera usually sat beside her – no, Vera wouldn't necessarily sit beside her. Perhaps she would just be in the room handling official documents, her peripheral vision occasionally sweeping over her body. Perhaps after a banquet, she would casually place her leftover wine glass on her back. Perhaps when tired, she would tap her shoulder blade with her fingers, like tapping any table – *knock, knock*, twice. Her honey trap twitched again under the latex suit. This time it was more pronounced than in the dressing room earlier. She could feel a patch of the lining in her crotch had become wet, sticking warmly and stickily between her legs. She cursed herself inwardly. What were you just thinking about? You were thinking, "What would it feel like when she taps my shoulder blade with her fingers." That's what you were thinking. You weren't thinking, "I don't want to be made into a table." You were thinking, "What will she do to me after I'm made into a table." Did you notice the difference? She noticed. That's precisely why she cursed herself inwardly. But those two curses were too distant, as if drifting from afar – separated by the sensation of her nipples hardening into two small stones under the latex, separated by the unstoppable warmth in her honey trap. These sensations were much closer, and much louder, than the curses. "Mmm..." She let out a soft moan under the latex hood. So soft, it's unlikely Vera, standing beside her, would even hear it. But that whimper wasn't a plea. It wasn't begging Vera to spare her. It was her own whimper to herself. It was the part of her that still retained a sliver of clarity letting out a mournful cry to the part of herself that was already close to surrendering. Vera stood behind her. Her hands came around from behind, gently encircling her waist. Her chin rested on her shoulder, her warm breath entering the gap between Luna's latex hood and shoulder. The gesture was so close, so close that Luna's entire back pressed against Vera's embrace. She could feel Vera's ribcage breathing – rising and falling, transmitting through the thickness of the latex suit into her spine, like some quiet rhythm. "Let's start with the simplest," Vera's voice was right by her ear, low enough that only she could hear it, her lips almost touching the outer shell of the latex hood. "Be my coffee table, alright?" The "alright" was superfluous. Both of them knew it. Because Luna was already nodding. Not controlled by magic. Not by command. Not because she feared being dragged back to the cell and having the gag and ball gag put back on if she didn't nod. It was her own neck, driven by her own will, within the confines of the latex hood, moving slightly, tremblingly, but definitely back and forth. Her chin dipped down, then lifted, then dipped down again. Twice. Very light. Very slow. But very clear. She said something to herself in her heart. It went like this: "It's over. You don't even have the thought of 'I don't want to be made into a table' anymore. Do you know what this means? It means you have completely, utterly, and without reservation become her thing. Not a maid, not a servant, not a person. A thing. A thing that can be made into a table." But as she said this, the corners of her mouth curved upwards beneath the latex mask.

Lillian walked behind her, beginning to undo the fastenings of her attendant's dress. The dark purple velvet attendant's gown—the one she'd worn for two months serving Vera—was unbuttoned from the back, slid from her shoulders, and pooled at her feet. Then came the silver chain connecting her collar and gown—it clicked open, the collar remaining on her neck, but the chain was retracted. Next was the latex bodysuit—Lillian unzipped the invisible zipper down her back, from the nape of her neck all the way to her tailbone. The edges of the latex bodysuit flapped open slightly on either side of the zipper, revealing the pale skin beneath, which had been encased all night and was now covered in goosebumps in the cool air. Lillian slid her fingers into the zipper's gap and peeled it off, starting from the shoulders. The latex peeled away from her body with a faint, sticky sound, like tearing off a bandage that had been stuck to the skin for too long. As the latex came off her chest, her nipples were freed from the rubber, instantly hardening into two small, pale red pebbles in the cold air. When the latex around her waist and abdomen was removed, her stomach gave a slight inward flinch—not from the cold, but from the sudden absence of that tight, constricting pressure, which now felt like something was missing. The latex on her thighs and ankles was removed last. She stood naked in the center of the room, the only thing on her body a metal collar around her neck. She stood there, her emerald eyes looking out from the eyeholes of the latex hood at the two maids. She didn't tremble. It wasn't that she wasn't afraid—it was that she had been undressed so many times in the past two months. From the initial desperate struggles when she was first imprisoned and stripped, to now, where she was accustomed to being treated like an object to be assembled. "Frame. Kneeling position." The two maids each took an arm, guiding her to the metal frame in the center of the room. This frame was similar to the one used for the table training yesterday, but smaller and lighter. The base was a single piece of polished black stone slab, with pre-drilled holes for securing. They pushed Luna onto it—her knees landed on the cool, hard stone, her palms resting on the leather pad in front of the base. She lowered herself into a standard kneeling position, like a low table. Then the restraints began. The first item brought out was a black latex single-glove jacket. This jacket was thicker than any latex clothing Luna usually wore—the outer layer was matte, with a textured, almost sandy feel, but the inner layer was exceptionally soft, so soft it felt like something was gently supporting her skin from within. Lillian spread the jacket out behind her and slid it over her shoulders. The sleeves of the jacket were a little shorter than her arms, a deliberate design—when she put her hands in, her forearms were held by the sleeves and bent behind her back, her wrists overlapping, fingers splayed upwards. Her entire arms and torso were fixed at a tight angle. "Mmm..." The jacket tightened from the shoulders down. Not with a zipper—but with magically embedded contraction lines hidden within the latex layers. With each tightening, she felt her arms and torso pressed closer together. Her shoulder blades were pulled back, pushing her chest forward—her breasts were pushed out even more by the jacket's compression, her nipples pointing higher in the cold air, small red nubs trembling slightly. When the final contraction line of the jacket was activated, she felt her arms were completely pressed against her back, her fingertips just brushing the small of her lower back, unable to move—even the joints of her fingers were constricted by the latex, only able to bend slightly. "Please... a little looser..." This whisper escaped on its own. She bit her lip under the latex hood—she shouldn't have spoken. She was a prospective low table; low tables didn't speak. But Lillian didn't scold her, merely traced a finger along the magical lines on the jacket's surface—not to loosen, but to tighten it another notch. Luna's shoulders were pulled wider, her chest pushed further forward, her breasts almost spilling out of the two openings deliberately left in the front of the jacket. They weren't completely exposed—a ring of soft silicone padding around the edges of the openings perfectly cradled the base of her breasts, pushing them into a fuller curve, her nipples completely exposed to the air. Then came the leg sleeves. The two maids each carried an unfolded leg sleeve. The sight of them made Luna gasp. The leg sleeves were made of the same matte black latex, but they weren't straight; they were curved at an angle of about ninety degrees, perfectly matching the position of her legs when folded in a kneeling posture. Three wide leather straps were sewn onto the outside of the leg sleeves, spaced extremely close together—it was clear at a glance that this was a restraint designed for extreme tightness. Lillian squatted down and picked up the left leg sleeve. She pushed Luna's lower leg upwards—her heel touching the back of her thigh—and then began to slide the leg sleeve on from her ankle. The latex glided over the skin of her calf, making a faint gurgling sound as it slid. As it reached the bend of her knee, the rubber tightened, firmly binding her lower leg to her thigh. The first strap was buckled at her ankle—*click*, the teeth of the buckle bit into the leather surface of the latex, her small ankle locked within the leg sleeve, her toes exposed at the opening at the front of the sleeve, her pale, slender toes curling in the cold air. The second strap was buckled at the bend of her knee—*click*. The third was buckled at the top of her thigh—*click*. With each buckle, the pressure of the strap made her involuntarily want to move, but she couldn't—her legs were locked in a ninety-degree folded position. Then came the right leg sleeve. The same steps. The same three straps. The same clicking sounds. Once both leg sleeves were on, Luna could no longer maintain her kneeling position—not that she couldn't kneel, but her legs were folded so tightly, the muscles between her thigh and calf so compressed, that her center of gravity had completely shifted. She swayed, her body tilting to the side—a maid reached out and pressed on her shoulder, steadying her. But the restraints weren't over yet. Lillian took out an item from the wooden cabinet by the wall—a metal spreader ring. The ring was about forty centimeters in diameter, silver-white, with a smooth polished surface and a lining of pale gray soft silicone padding on the inside. The ring had four buckle interfaces, positioned to align with the front, back, left, and right of her thighs. Luna let out a faint groan in her throat when she saw it—she had seen this item yesterday in the display case among the living furniture. The woman who had been made into a tea cart also had one of these rings between her legs. At the time, she had thought, *how far apart her legs were spread*. Now it was her turn. Lillian didn't give her time to think. She walked behind Luna, holding the spreader ring with her hands, and fitted the ring into her crotch—the sides pressed against the inner thighs of her leg-bound legs, the back against the area below her tailbone, and the front positioned just in front of her vulva. Then, the four buckles were locked one by one into the corresponding interfaces on the leg sleeves. The first—*click*. The lower half of the ring was secured to the inside of the leg sleeves, and her inner thighs were pushed outwards by half an inch. The second—*click*. The left side was locked. The third—*click*. The right side was locked. The fourth—*click*. As the last buckle snapped shut, her legs were forcibly spread to an almost bent split-split position. "Mmm—" Luna gritted her teeth under the latex hood, but a whimper still escaped through the breathing holes. It wasn't because of pain—the restraints were designed with exquisite precision, the silicone padding inside the ring was soft enough not to dig into her skin, and the weight of the leg sleeves evenly distributed the pressure on her inner thighs. It wasn't pain. It was the feeling of being completely opened. Her legs were now spread to the extreme limit of her body—any further and her ligaments would tear, but they were held precisely at that limit. Her lower legs were folded within the leg sleeves, her thighs locked by the ring at its widest setting. Her entire private area—though not exposed, still covered by a thin layer of latex in the crotch—its contours were clearly stretched and defined. The shape of her vulva was outlined under the latex into a slightly parted arc, and her anus was pulled into a more pronounced hollow by the spreading of her thighs. These contours were completely invisible when her legs were together. Now, they were all exposed. Finally, Lillian produced a metal neck ring. This neck ring was wider and thicker than her collar, made of black iron about three fingers wide, with a matte finish on the outside and a soft leather lining on the inside. The front of the neck ring had a horizontal rod extending forward about twenty centimeters, ending in a solid metal ball. Lillian fitted the neck ring below her collar and tightened two screws—then lifted her chin, positioning her head at the angle of the rod. The metal ball pressed against the top of her collarbone, forcing her head to remain only in a horizontal downward position. She could see directly in front of her a black stone slab, the light from magic lamps in the gaps at the edge of the slab, and the fingertips of her latex-gloved hands resting on the ground—she could see her own legs spread open by the spreader ring and her exposed private parts in the air. She couldn't see the ceiling, the walls on either side, or the door behind her. Her field of vision was reduced to a radius of less than half a meter in front of her.

For the next two weeks, Luna served as a public toilet, accommodating a wide variety of users. In the first few days, every time the lounge door creaked open, her entire body would involuntarily tense up. It wasn't about pain – the gag stretched her mouth into a perfect, unyielding circle, forcing her to accept whatever size came her way, rendering pain a secondary concern. It was the uncertainty of who would enter next that kept her on edge every second. But gradually, she found herself no longer needing to stare wide-eyed through the hollow of the gag. She began to discern the type of person approaching by their footsteps. Heavy and hurried steps belonged to the young guards, fresh off their shifts. The mud from the training grounds still clung to the soles of their boots, making a dull, heavy thud on the wooden floor. Their pace was so rapid, as if they were trying to stomp all the pent-up impatience from their guard duty into the floor. They usually walked straight up, ignoring the nameplate and the flush button, unzipping their trousers and thrusting themselves in. Their actions were rough and brief – perhaps a minute or two, sometimes even less – and then they'd hit the flush button and leave without a backward glance. From within the gag, Luna could only see the repeated impact of dark red fabric from their crotches, and smell the mingled scent of sweat and dried leather. These men didn't care who she was, or what her nameplate said. They simply needed a warm hole to release into, and she happened to be that hole. In their hands, she felt like a cheap, disposable tool – not cherished, merely needed. This shame of being "disregarded" was the first type she learned to distinguish. Slow and dragging footsteps belonged to the middle-aged officers, who would be smoking and chatting in the lounge. The soles of their boots were thinner, making longer contact with the floor as they walked. The occasional scrape of spurs against the wood could be heard as they shuffled over. These men were in no hurry. They would first stand before the frame, examining the text on the nameplate. With a finger, they'd flip over the first plate, reading aloud, "Elinor, Moonshadow, Former Elven Queen," followed by a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but a more complex sound, the kind of exclamation one makes when finding a coincidence hidden in the crevices of history. Once, a dark elf officer with a small mustache stood before her. After reading her nameplate, he didn't immediately unzip his trousers. Instead, he took out his pipe from his belt, lit it, took a couple of puffs, and then rested the bowl of the pipe on the metal rim of her gag. The residual heat from the pipe transferred through the gag to her upper lip, making her flinch. But she had nowhere to retreat. He saw her flinch, picked up the pipe, tapped the outer ring of the gag with his finger, and said, "Quite sensitive, aren't we?" Then he began to unbuckle his belt. His movements were slow – first, he drew the leather belt out of the metal buckle, a series of clinks and jingles. Then, he unfastened his trousers, but instead of immediately thrusting himself in, he held himself in front of her gag, his hand occasionally brushing against the edge of her lips, retracting each time he touched. It was as if he were testing his own hardness against her. When he finally entered, his rhythm was unhurried. He wasn't rushing towards climax, but engaged in conversation with his companions playing cards nearby, their topics ranging from the purity of magic crystals to the hem length of a certain noblewoman's dress. Occasionally, he'd glance down at the part enveloped by her lips, then resume his conversation. Behind the gag, Luna bit at the air – she wanted to bite down, but the gag held her teeth in place, preventing even a clench. She tried to push his tip outward with her tongue – it wouldn't budge. He felt the resistance of her tongue, looked down at her, grunted, and then pushed in with greater force, flattening her tongue completely. "See this mouth? The orders it once gave could send tens of thousands of elven warriors to their deaths for you. Now it's massaging my cock for three thousand gold a night." He was speaking to another companion at the card table, not to her. In that moment, Luna felt not anger, but a profound powerlessness at seeing her most cherished past reduced to a joke. Her scepter had once swept under the vaulted ceilings of the Elven Court, each arc capable of commanding tens of thousands of Star Knights. Now, her mouth was stretched open by a gag, her commands reduced to the dribble of saliva from her lips. She couldn't retort – not because her mouth was blocked, but because he was stating a fact. He didn't need to demean her; he merely needed to state the reality. Occasionally, light and quick footsteps signaled the arrival of dark elf handmaidens. Few dark elf women used the commodes – while the proportion of women in the dark elf army was not low, they usually had their own private washrooms and wouldn't come to the guards' lounge to use the humanoid commode in the corner. So, the few who did come were mostly out of curiosity. The soles of their shoes were soft leather, making a hushed, rapid, and fragmented sound on the wooden floor, like small animals tentatively approaching something unfamiliar. Luna could distinguish them by their scent – unlike the mixture of sweat and alcohol on the soldiers, the dark elf handmaidens carried the clean scent of soap mixed with a hint of herbal tea or magical candles. They would squat before the frame, carefully examining the words on the nameplate, then cautiously watch her tongue within the gag. Once, a young handmaiden, who looked less than a hundred years old, squatted before her for a long time. Then, she reached out and, with the tip of her index finger, lightly and quickly touched Luna's lower lip – the spot pressed pale by the outer rim of the gag. She recoiled as if shocked, her face flushing crimson, and stood up, clutching her skirt, and fled. Her companions burst into laughter. Another handmaiden, a bit bolder, circled around to the back of the frame and peered into the collection bottle. She then pulled her companion over, and the two squatted there for a while, studying the construction of the posterior insertion point. Their voices were kept low, but Luna still caught a few words – "Doesn't it hurt?" "Queen Vira said she flushed it." "Do you want to try the front hole?" Standing there, listening, she thought: I find being examined by them more humiliating than being used by the men. Because being used was merely a physical contact, but being examined was treating your entire existence as a spectacle to be understood. Yet, they harbored no malice, only curiosity. In the end, none of them used her. Before leaving, each reached out and touched the outer rim of her gag, like tracing the edge of an exhibit, and then they scurried away, arm in arm. Each type of user brought a different kind of shame to Luna. The rough, hurried use by the young guards made her feel like a cheap, disposable tool, disregarded, used quickly, flushed quickly, forgotten quickly. The slow, deliberate appraisal by the middle-aged officers made her feel like an antique being admired – they read the nameplate, commented on her lineage and past, and derived some unspoken satisfaction from the contrast of "the former Elven Queen now serving as a toilet." The cautious touches of the dark elf handmaidens made her feel like an observed anomaly – they weren't there to use her, but to look at her. She wanted to close her eyes more when she was being observed than when she was being used. But she didn't close her eyes when she was being observed. Because every time she closed her eyes, that small, dark purple light would flicker anew in the darkness behind her eyelids – it was Vira's monitoring light, and she knew Vira was watching her. She didn't want to close her eyes when Vira was watching, because if Vira was also watching while others were using her, closing her eyes would be equivalent to shutting everything else out – but Vira was not "everyone else." Vira was the only one who could not be shut out. The elderly dark elf noble arrived on the ninth day of her toilet training.