Tentacle Parasite Magical Girl: S-Class Bishoujo Senshi Imprisoned in a Living Latex Pet Suit!

"What the—!" Rion swung her staff, a blade of pure white light arcing towards the thing. The light blade struck its target precisely—but the part of the form-fitting suit that was hit merely indented, like elastic latex being pressed down and springing back, completely uncut. The thing didn't even slow down, wrapping directly around her right hand holding the staff. The touch was cold and sticky, like being licked by a living tongue. She looked down to see her staff slip from her fingertips, clattering to the ground. Immediately, countless tiny tentacles extended from the surface of the form-fitting suit, burrowing into every seam of her combat attire—the neckline, the cuffs, the shoulder seams, the armpits, the waistline, the crotch. Every tiny opening was precisely found and pried open. She heard a faint tearing sound. Not the sound of fabric tearing—it was the sizzle of synthetic fibers dissolving under some acidic substance. She looked down to see her proudest white combat suit vanishing from top to bottom. The black slime secreted by the tentacles touched the fabric, and the white suit turned to ash like paper burned by flames, dissolving instantly in the accumulated water. "No—!" Her voice echoed in the empty basement, but there was no response. Only more tentacles split from the form-fitting suit, crawling along the torn seams of her combat attire and into the skin beneath. Cold, slippery, each tentacle seemed to possess an independent will, searching for the most suitable point of entry. Rion's hands were yanked apart by an irresistible force. Not grabbed—but tentacles wrapped around her wrists, pulling her arms outwards with absolute, overpowering strength until her shoulder joints emitted a faint creak. Her body was lifted into the air, her feet leaving the ground, suspended mid-air. Her legs were then forcibly spread apart—tentacles wrapped around the insides of her thighs, gripping her calves, pulling her legs to their maximum width. Her body was fixed in a spread-eagle position in the air—the most shameful posture, one she had never even shown herself in. Little of her combat suit remained, tattered white fragments clinging to her body, offering little coverage. Looking down, she could see more than half of her chest exposed to the air, her milky white flesh slightly distorted by the pressure of the tentacles. And the coverage by the parasitic suit had only just begun. First, her toes. A cold, latex-like sensation spread upwards from her fingertips—not like putting on socks, but more like an unseen hand tailoring a new skin for her feet. The material was alive, tactile, smooth and fine, clinging tightly to her skin without a single gap. The tentacles crawled up her instep, wrapped twice around her calves, and tightened—her calf muscles were indented by the constriction, revealing their rounded contours under the latex. Then came her knees—the tentacles tightened even more here, completely encasing her knees before wrapping around once more, tying a knot in the hollow of her knee, making it impossible for her to bend her legs. Above the knees, the black film woven by the tentacles was like a pair of thigh-high stockings stretched to their limit, so tight she could feel her pulse beating in her veins. Rion bit her lower lip, refusing to make a sound. She told herself it was nothing—just a strange form-fitting suit. She would break free soon. The Alliance would notice, they would send reinforcements. She just had to endure. The tentacles continued upwards from her crotch, coiling three times at the base of her thighs. The tentacles here were exceptionally thick—each as thick as a finger, digging into the soft, tender flesh of her inner thighs, leaving deep indentations. They coiled and tightened alternately, completely encasing both legs in the same layer of smooth, black latex. She could feel her legs, restrained, pressed tightly together and then forced apart—the tentacles on the outside of her thighs clamped down, preventing any possible closure, while those on the inside pulled her legs apart, maintaining the open position. Then, her hands. The tentacles released her wrists, and before she could move, her fingers were forcibly brought together. The tentacles weaved between each of her fingers, filling the gaps and tightening, merging her five fingers into a single unit. Then the black latex material slid over from her fingertips—fingers, palms, wrists, forearms, elbows, all encased in the same pitch-black "skin." There were no finger gaps; these latex gloves made it impossible for her to bend any of her fingers. She tried to open her fingers, but they wouldn't budge. She couldn't even lift a single finger. Her fists were wrapped into small, tight balls, pulled behind her by the tentacles. Her arms, encased in black latex, were crossed behind her back—first her wrists were overlapped, the tentacles coiling around them to bind them securely; then her forearms were bound parallel to each other, her elbows almost touching. This reversed posture forced her to arch her chest, and the two full mounds of soft flesh on her chest were exposed to the air, rising and falling with her rapid breaths. Two thick tentacles snaked around to her chest. They didn't wrap directly, but began to coil from the base of her breasts. The tentacles first passed under her chest, digging into the skin of her ribs, then circled the underside of her breasts before beginning to coil upwards. The first coil tightened, lifting and pushing the two mounds of soft flesh upwards from below; the second coil tightened further, constricting the base of her breasts more tightly, concentrating blood to the tips of her breasts, causing her nipples to harden uncontrollably. The third coil passed through the cleavage, squeezing the two breasts together, creating a deep ravine. Rion looked down at her constricted chest, her face flushing instantly. The two mounds of soft flesh were squeezed into a perfect teardrop shape from the base by the tentacles, trembling and swaying in the darkness with her breaths. And her nipples—she saw two circular black latex patches split from the main body of the parasitic suit, attaching precisely to her nipples. It wasn't simple coverage. The moment they attached, countless tiny suction-cup-like tentacles extended from within the latex, taking turns sucking on her cherry-colored nipples. The sensation—like a baby suckling milk, but more intense, more persistent. She felt not pain, but a tingling, electric current she had never experienced, traveling from her nipples to her lower abdomen, and then shooting downwards. "Ugh—!" A faint sound escaped her tightly bitten lips. Can't scream. Can't. She desperately told herself. If she screamed, she lost. But the sucking on her nipples grew stronger, the tentacles sucking in waves, each touch precisely hitting her nerve endings, fragmenting her thoughts. The most terrifying sensation came from below. The place she had never been touched by anyone—a place she deliberately avoided even when bathing—was now being slowly but firmly pushed into by a tentacle of moderate thickness. The tentacle secreted a large amount of slippery fluid, coating the entrance of her honey hole evenly, then began to push inwards inch by inch. Cold. Slippery. Alive. She could clearly feel every raised texture on the surface of the tentacle—those tiny suction cups slowly sweeping across the inner walls of her honey hole. It wasn't pain, but a head-tingling fullness—the place that had never been stretched by anything was now being slowly filled by a living thing. She could feel every inch of her vaginal wall being stretched and rubbed by the tentacle, then the tentacle would retract slightly, and before the tender flesh of her inner walls could contract, it would be stretched even wider by the next push. Her honey hole was entered by a foreign object for the first time, not in any way she had ever anticipated, but by a living tentacle, on the third basement level of an abandoned laboratory, while she was bound in a spread-eagle position. "Ugh... no... not there..." The tentacle retreated to near the opening of her hole, then slowly pushed back in, grinding against a sensitive spot on her inner wall that she had never been aware of. Her waist involuntarily twitched, her inner thighs tensed and then relaxed, and the tender walls of her honey hole contracted violently, fiercely gripping the intruder. The tentacle continued to push deeper within the tightened inner walls, giving her no room to adapt. She could feel a fluid being secreted within her that did not belong to the tentacle—thick and warm, seeping from the opening of her honey hole through the gaps left by the retreating tentacle. She was wet with her own arousal. Blood beads appeared on her lips—bitten. She tasted the metallic tang of iron. Her hands clenched desperately within the latex gloves behind her back, but she couldn't move a single finger. The tentacle continued to push deeper—she could feel it reaching a limit, her cervix—a place that had never been disturbed. Then the tentacle stopped. It just stopped there, not pushing further, not withdrawing, just at the edge of that position. She could feel the subtle vibrations on the surface of the tentacle—it was alive, waiting for her reaction. I am the S-class magical girl Hoshino Rion. Not just any commoner. This level of restraint, how could it possibly trap me. She encouraged herself internally, trying to ignore the slight burning temperature of the tentacle deep within her honey hole, and her own uncontrollably slick wetness. "It's just a piece of clothing—!" Rion gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and began to channel the light magic within her. She sank her consciousness deep into her chest cavity, where her core magic was stored—the purest light attribute, with absolute control over all dark attributes. She felt a familiar warmth spread from her chest, pure white light seeping from beneath her skin, casting a hazy white glow through the black latex. She unleashed all the magic she could muster in one go. The white light exploded for a moment. Dazzling pure white burst from the seams of the black latex enveloping her body, causing the parasitic suit to bulge outwards. She could feel the latex expanding, and the suffocating tightness seemed to be lessening. Success—! But the light only flickered for less than two seconds. A ring of dark purple patterns appeared on the surface of the parasitic suit, spreading from her chest to her entire body. These patterns moved like living things on the latex surface, each one precisely covering the seams where the white light had burst forth. Then she felt her magic being drawn away—not violently plundered, but more like being savored, her magic being sucked in strand by strand, followed by a low-frequency vibration, as if expressing some kind of satisfaction. The white light completely extinguished. The restraint was tighter than before. "How... could this be..." she murmured, disbelieving. Her most proud light magic—the capital with which she ascended to S-class—was absorbed just like that? Without even a chance to resist? She refused to believe it. She never believed in fate. From childhood, every time she faced monsters, faced abyssal rifts, faced those who said, "Such a young girl should just stay in the rear"—she had pushed through with her refusal to yield. How could she lose to a piece of clothing? For the second time, she channeled her magic, pouring all her will into it. Not from her chest, but from every magic-containing cell in her body simultaneously. She felt her body temperature rising, her blood accelerating, a faint white light erupting beneath every inch of skin encased in latex. This time, she didn't cry out, but roared silently—in her mind, in her heart, gritting her teeth, desperately trying to flood the entire parasitic suit with light magic until it couldn't bear it and exploded. The white light flared again, more sustained and brighter than the last time. The dark purple patterns on the surface of the latex dimmed slightly under the light. Then the parasitic suit responded. Not by absorbing magic—but by tightening. All the tentacles suddenly constricted at the same time. Her wrists, bent backward, were forced into an even more extreme angle, her shoulder joints pulled to their limit, emitting a dull ache. Her legs were spread further apart, the tender flesh of her inner thighs pressed into deeper indentations by the thick tentacles, her muscles tensing to the point of trembling. The restraint on her chest also increased—her breasts, originally lifted from the root, were squeezed even higher, her nipples almost protruding through the latex. But the most uncontrollable aspect wasn't these. The tentacle in her honey hole—the one that had been contentedly lodged deep inside just moments ago—began to move. Not for any other reason than her magical fluctuations. The more magic she channeled, the greater the tentacle's response. This time, she had released almost all her magic, and the tentacle's response was—first, it slowly withdrew an inch, giving her just enough time to gasp for breath, and then it violently thrust back in. The glans-like protrusion precisely ground against the most sensitive fold within her honey hole, scraping roughly, then retreating a little, then grinding back again. "Ah—!" The sound escaped uncontrollably. Not the suppressed whimper from before, but a short, sharp scream, its tremulous tail echoing in the empty basement. She heard her own voice trembling, the tail end rising into a near-crying pitch. Shame surged instantly, and she wanted to cover her face—but her hands were bent behind her back, encased in latex gloves, unable to move even a single finger. "No... don't... don't move..." The tentacle ignored her. It continued to writhe, its rhythm synchronized with her heartbeat. She could feel her heart pounding, and with each beat, the tentacle thrust once—the more rapid her heartbeat, the faster the thrusting. And the more she feared and tensed, the more uncontrollably her heart accelerated. This formed a vicious cycle she couldn't break. Even more terrifying was the reaction of her honey hole's inner walls. Her body had never experienced such stimulation—those fine suction cup-like protrusions were repeatedly sweeping across the most tender inner walls, each time sending a tingling current from her tailbone straight to the back of her head. She could clearly perceive every texture, every protrusion, every coiled pattern on the tentacle's surface, as those things slowly churned within her, stretching, rubbing, and stretching again the tender flesh that had never been touched. She lowered her head and saw the tentacle between her legs trembling slightly. Part of it was buried in her honey hole, while the exposed portion was as thick as her wrist, its surface covered in dense suction cups and patterns. Each time it withdrew, it was coated in clear, viscous fluid—her own secretions, glistening under the blue cold light. She couldn't believe those things were flowing from her own body. In the briefest of silences, Rion gasped for air. The tentacle paused at the entrance of her cunt, not venturing further, and the suction cups on her nipples retracted mostly, leaving only the collar around her neck to tighten and loosen with her breath. Her body still thrummed with the aftershocks of the last wave of pleasure – her thighs trembled, her lower belly spasmed intermittently, and the walls of her cunt contracted uncontrollably after the tentacle’s withdrawal, as if searching for something to fill the void. She opened her eyes, her vision blurring for a few seconds before refocusing. The first thing she saw was a white fragment floating in the puddle at her feet. It was a piece of her battle suit’s shoulder, still faintly glowing with residual magic. It circled twice on the water’s surface before sinking. Rion lowered her head and saw her own battle suit dissolving. The suit that had accompanied her for three years, that had witnessed countless battles and been bathed in the glory of innumerable victories – this pure white magical battle suit – was now being torn apart piece by piece by black tentacles. It wasn’t a violent ripping. The black slime secreted by the tentacles touched the white fabric, and the material began to melt like paper burned by flames, dissolving from the edges into ash-grey debris that rained down. First, a tear appeared on her shoulder, the edges of which crackled and spread outwards. What was revealed beneath the tear was not her skin, but a shoulder completely covered in black latex – smooth, taut, and gleaming with a dull, cold light under the blue luminescence. Her skin had been replaced. The white battle suit was merely the last shred of modesty clinging to the outside, and that shred was being peeled away. Then, her chest. The high collar design that had snugly encased her breasts now had a large hole melted from the inside, its edges curling and dissolving outwards. She watched, helpless, as the last remnants of white fabric on her chest turned to ash, exposing her two soft mounds, pushed higher and firmer by the tentacles, to the air. Though they were already encased in black latex – the latex clinging to every curve of her skin, outlining the swell from the base to the nipple with perfect clarity – the humiliation of being so forcibly displayed made her instinctively want to cover herself. Her hands wouldn't move. Her arms, folded behind her back, were encased so tightly in latex gauntlets that she couldn't even lift a single finger. All she could do was hold her chest high, her latex-clad breasts exposed to the cold air without any concealment. Two circular black latex patches still adhered to her nipples, their tiny suction cups wriggling slowly, making the subtle bulges of her hardened cherry-red nipples beneath the latex clearly visible. “Don’t look…” she whispered, her voice hoarse, alien to her own ears. No one was looking at her. She was alone in the basement, with only the parasitic suit that enveloped her. Yet, she couldn’t bear this sight – her breasts pushed high and firm in front of her, her nipples forming two distinct points under the transparent latex. She wanted to close her eyes, but found she couldn’t even turn her head – the collar around her neck, though soft, held her head firmly in place. She could only look straight ahead at her own body. What broke her the most was the battle suit on her lower body. Originally, the suit had a high-cut design, exposing only the skin on the sides of her thighs, but at least it covered her most private parts completely. Now, the entire crotch area had been dissolved into a large opening, with remnants of un-melted white fibers clinging to the sides of her thighs like torn underwear. The tentacle that was entering and exiting her cunt was fully exposed to her sight. She saw it clearly. The tentacle was about as thick as her wrist, its surface covered in countless tiny suction cups and spiraling ridges, reflecting a moist, dark sheen under the blue light. It emerged from between her legs – one end buried deep within her cunt, the exposed portion still wriggling slowly. She watched as the tentacle withdrew an inch, coated in viscous, clear fluid that shimmered brilliantly in the light, trailing a thin thread that connected to her parted cunt lips. That was her own arousal fluid. She watched as the tentacle slowly pushed back in, her cunt lips parting to swallow it whole before closing again. Each thrust produced a faint squelching sound, and each penetration made her thighs tremble uncontrollably. She could see the slightly reddened flesh of her cunt lips being stretched open, could see the tender inner walls being pulled out slightly and then retracting as the tentacle withdrew, could see her entire cunt glistening with moisture from the secreted fluid. She had never seen her own lower body like this. She had never truly looked at it – even during baths, she’d rushed through, never bothering to examine herself closely in a mirror. And now, in this forced position, with her legs spread to their maximum, with the tentacle writhing inside her, she saw her most private part with unprecedented clarity for the first time. Stretched open. Soaked. Still subtly contracting. She closed her eyes. Then opened them again. The image hadn't vanished. It was still the same – her legs spread wide in a straddle, a thick tentacle moving in and out of her cunt between them, each withdrawal bringing out her own viscous fluid, which dripped down the tentacle’s surface, falling into the accumulated water with a clear, crisp sound. “I’m already…” she murmured, her voice trembling too much to form a coherent sentence, “I’m not clean anymore.” The moment this thought struck her, tears finally welled up and spilled from her eyes. I am complying. The realization sent her spiraling further into despair. But she couldn't stop—her body was no longer her own. Her hips swayed involuntarily, her thighs instinctively clamped shut with each withdrawal of a tentacle, and her pussy greedily tightened around whatever entered, unwilling to let go. She could hear her own lubrication increasing, the squelching sounds of the tentacles penetrating growing louder, echoing in the cavernous basement. "Mmm... no... don't... I'm not... enjoying this..." She bit her lip, her voice slurred. But the tentacles seemed to understand—they abruptly increased their pace, thrusting in and out three or four times, each stroke precisely grinding against her most sensitive spot. Rion's back arched instantly, a hoarse cry escaping her throat. Her thighs trembled violently, her pussy spasmed and clenched—a thick fluid erupted from the opening, slicking the tentacle's surface as it dripped, drop by drop, into the pooling water. Under the relentless stimulation, without any direct command, she had orgasmed. Her body had betrayed her first. Though she still fought to keep herself from completely collapsing. The aftershocks of her climax churned within her, her mind a blank slate. It was then that the parasitic suit began its final embrace. Tentacles slithered up from her jawline, two slender tendrils tracing the curve of her ears before securing her head from behind. Then, a thicker tentacle curved from her neck, slowly but firmly pushing into her mouth. It wasn't a violent insertion. It was slow, patient. The tip of the tentacle pushed against her lips. She clenched her teeth, wanting to refuse, but a sweet, metallic fluid secreted by the tentacle touched her gums, and her jaw loosened involuntarily. The tentacle seized the opportunity, prying open her mouth, pressing down on her tongue, filling her entire oral cavity. "Mmmph! Mmmhmmm—!" She wanted to vomit. The tentacle pressing on her tongue triggered her gag reflex, her throat contracting violently, trying to expel the foreign object. But the tentacle remained unmoving, instead adjusting its angle slightly to match her throat's contractions, burrowing deeper. She could taste the tentacle's surface—salty, astringent, with that indefinable sweet metallic tang, mixed with the saltiness of her own tears, filling her mouth with a complex flavor. The tentacle on her tongue vibrated subtly, emitting a low hum that traveled from her tongue to her palate and deep into her nasal cavity, turning her thoughts into a muddled mess. She realized this wasn't a random act. The parasitic suit was silencing her—confirming her body's reactions, preventing her moans from escaping. Not out of fear of discovery, but to seal all sound within her mouth, forcing even her breaths to be mere wisps through her nose. Through tear-blurred vision, Rion looked across at the glass panel, splattered with culture medium but still bearing a few intact sections. It reflected her current state. The parasitic suit had completely consumed her body. From her toes to her neck, every inch of skin was encased in cool, slick black latex. Its mirror-like surface shimmered dimly under the blue light. The tight material perfectly outlined every curve of her body—her waist, now slenderer from the tentacle's constriction; her breasts, lifted and pushed higher from the base; her long, straight legs; and her slightly rounded abdomen, filled by the tentacles. The latex clung to her skin without a single gap, revealing even the subtle rise and fall of her ribs with each breath. She couldn't see her face—her mouth was blocked by a tentacle, and only the outline above her nose was vaguely discernible—but her body was no longer as she remembered it. This wasn't the physique of a magical girl who had fought for years. It was a body encased in black latex, its curves exposed, trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. She looked like—a living sex toy clad in a latex bodysuit. The thought made her face burn. She could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks through the thin layer of latex covering her face. She wanted to say no, to protest that she wasn't a toy, but only the vibrating tentacle was in her mouth, rendering her incapable of forming a word, only a muffled whimper. Her legs continued to tremble uncontrollably. The tentacle in her pussy hadn't retreated; it remained inside, its rhythm slowed to an almost standstill. She could feel its presence within her—warm, subtly vibrating, lodged in her most sensitive spot. The suction on her nipples also slowed, becoming a languid, lingering touch. The parasitic suit seemed to be giving her a moment to recover, but this respite was part of the humiliation—it proved she had completely lost control during her orgasm and now needed time to recuperate. She closed her eyes, wanting to look away. But with her eyes closed, her physical sensations became even more acute—the lingering tingle deep within her pussy, the soft, yielding sensation of her nipples being held, the constant hum of the tentacle in her mouth, the slight pressure of the collar tightening and loosening with her breath. Every sensation was a reminder: this wasn't training, it wasn't a battle, she was being toyed with by a living bodysuit. And her body had just orgasmed from being played with. She bit down on the tentacle in her mouth. Her teeth sank into the soft surface. The tentacle merely twitched slightly, not withdrawing. Instead, it nudged deeper against her tongue, as if warning her not to bite. The nudge made her gag, and another tear welled in the corner of her eye. The heat surging from the depths of her lower abdomen wasn't a slow seep of warmth, but a direct blow – striking the cervix, then surging up her spine. It exploded at her lumbar vertebrae into a jolt of electricity that arched her back, continued through her thoracic vertebrae, and detonated into a searing heat that made her heart skip a beat. Finally, it rushed towards the back of her skull, exploding into a flash of white light that left her mind utterly blank. Her body was no longer her own. Her waist arched uncontrollably – not to break free, but passively pushed outward by pleasure from within. Suspended by the tentacles, her entire form became a taut arc. Her breasts quivered with the violent heaving of her chest, the nipples hardening into two dark points within the latex. Her limbs tensed and released – fingers curled tightly within the latex gloves, pulling fine wrinkles across the back of her hands; her legs desperately tried to clamp together, but were held wide apart by thick tentacles at her inner thighs, only managing to tremble spasmodically in the air. Her pussy contracted violently – so intensely that the in-and-out movement of the tentacles became labored. It gripped the intruding tentacles tightly, the tender flesh of her inner walls twitching as if trying to tear it apart. A viscous, clear fluid gushed from the seams of her stuffed orifice, far more than the last time. It sprayed onto the tentacles, then flowed down them, dripping into the accumulated water, creating tiny ripples on the surface. She heard her own climax – a long, near-screaming moan burst through the blockade of tentacles, laced with a hoarse sob, its tail end falling softly, like a kite with a broken string. Then the tentacle in her mouth refilled her mouth, pressing down on her tongue, stifling all sound back into her throat, turning it into a weak whimper. Her body convulsed. Each spasm tightened her pussy again, forcing the tentacles to pause their thrusting. She could feel her own fluids still flowing out, warm and viscous, trickling down her inner thighs along the latex, following the indentations left by the restraints. She had climaxed. A true, uncontrollable climax that her will couldn't resist, her body completely out of her command. Under the thrusting of a living tentacle, suspended in the air of a dark, abandoned laboratory, spread-eagled in a forced posture, in a place no one knew, she had climaxed. Not the slight, premature climax of before – this was the real deal, dragged from the depths of her womb, a true climax that had blasted her brain into a blank void. The aftershocks of her orgasm still churned within her, her consciousness slowly piecing itself back together from the void. Her head buzzed, her ears felt stuffed with cotton, all sounds muffled. The roots of her thighs still trembled with the aftershocks, her pussy spasmed between tightening and loosening, each clench sending a faint tremor through the tentacle still inside. Then that voice echoed in her mind again. Not stern, not sarcastic, but with a hint of amusement – a smile that wasn't malicious mockery, but more like the pleased satisfaction of seeing a kitten learn to use the litter box for the first time. "So good. You've learned to climax." The tone was as gentle as praising a well-behaved child. Tears welled up in Rion's eyes. Not because of the physical climax – that had passed, its aftershocks fading. She cried for that sentence. That tone. The way her climax was praised with gentle encouragement, as if she had "learned something." It was more devastating than being scolded or abused. Being scolded at least meant she was seen as an opponent to be subdued, that the fight was still ongoing. But this gentle tone – it treated her as a student, an object of encouragement. It didn't see her as an enemy, but as a blank canvas, being painted upon bit by bit according to its will. It wasn't defeating her. It was taming her. This realization struck her pride more precisely than any tentacle. "No... it's not... I didn't..." She argued vaguely through the tentacle, her voice muffled into a garbled whimper. She desperately tried to convince herself it wasn't her fault – her body had reacted on its own, the tentacles were too cunning, she was too tired and her magic was depleted – each of these excuses was plausible on its own, but strung together, even she didn't believe them. Her body had just climaxed. Whatever the reason, the result was that her body had climaxed. A living tentacle had made her climax. She had even made a sound she never knew she was capable of. "So good," the voice continued to whisper in her mind, like stroking the back of a frightened small animal. "To do this on your first try, you'll only get better." "Don't—say—it—!" She shook her head desperately, tears and sweat mixing and dripping into the water. But her body – still convulsing, her pussy still clenching, her nipples hardening and swelling within the suction cups, her legs still trembling – betrayed her. Her anger and shame couldn't change the fact: at the moment the parasitic suit completed its symbiosis, at the moment she lost her white battle suit, at the moment she was played with by tentacles until she climaxed, she was no longer the complete, proud, inviolable S-class magical girl Hoshino Rion. She was now the pet of something. The pet of a living, sentient, talking parasitic suit. And she didn't even know where it was. The tentacle in her cunt didn't fully retract. It pulled back from the depths to near the entrance, leaving only a small section still lodged inside—about two finger joints long, precisely filling the most easily overlooked yet utterly undeniable spot just inside the opening of her cunt. It wasn't meant to cause her discomfort, but to keep her constantly, acutely aware: you are still filled. It's not over. Every second, that silent tentacle reminded her—there's still something inside your body. You can feel it—your own fluids mixing with some viscous fluid secreted by the tentacle, dripping out drop by drop from the gaps of the plugged cunt opening. The liquid was warm, flowing down her perineum, over the skin encased in latex, tracing new wet paths along the dried trails on her inner thighs. She could clearly sense the path of each drop, the slippery, slow crawling sensation making her want to clamp her legs shut, but she couldn't—her legs were fixed open at their widest arc by a thick tentacle from the root, allowing her tremors only within a limited range. I actually orgasmed under that thing's manipulation just now. She replayed this fact in her mind, each word a needle piercing her already tattered self-esteem. It wasn't a slight, involuntary orgasm—it was a true climax, forcefully delivered by active, violent, punitive thrusting. During the climax, she had made sounds, sobs, screams, and those soft moans she never knew she was capable of. Then came that voice—that phrase, "Good girl, you've learned to climax now," as gentle as praising a kitten that had just learned to use the litter box. Every time she recalled that sentence, the blush on her face deepened. She could feel her cheeks burning, the heat radiating outward through the thin layer of latex covering her face. She wanted to cover her face—her hands were bound behind her back, encased in latex gloves, unable to bend even a single knuckle. She wanted to curl up into a ball—her legs were spread and fixed in the air, her knees unable to close. She wanted to curse herself, curse that voice, curse this damn tight suit—the tentacle in her mouth was still there, not fully stuffed, but pressing against her tongue, leaving her with only muffled whimpers. Can't move. Can't hide. Can't curse. Nothing about her body obeyed her. "Mmmph..." A weak whimper escaped her lips, muffled by the tentacle. She tried to push the tentacle in her mouth with her tongue—it was the same as before, unmoving, only eliciting a slight tightening of the suckers on the tentacle's surface, not hard, as if gently reminding her not to exert herself. She gave up. It only took a few seconds to abandon an act of resistance, but from giving up to acceptance, she didn't know how long it would take. Her fingers, bound behind her back, tried to clench into fists. This was a habit ingrained since childhood—whenever she was injured during training, whenever she pushed her body to its limit, whenever a drill instructor criticized her, saying "How can you possibly qualify for S-rank like this?" she would clench her fists. Clenching her fists made her feel like she still had some control, even if it was just over her own fingers. But now her fingers were inside latex gloves, tightly bound together and fixed against her palms. She tried to bend her index finger—the latex showed no sign of stretching. She tried again—unmoving. She tried with all her might to curl her fingers—her elbows even trembled slightly from the exertion, but all she felt from her fingertips was the resistance of the snug latex and a faint, enclosed friction heat. Not even a single knuckle could bend. With these hands, she had once unleashed countless light magic spells, repelled monsters surging from abyssal rifts, and rescued civilians trapped in ruins. Now these hands were encased in a pair of black latex gloves, bound behind her back, fingers forcibly pressed together, incapable of doing anything. Fist. Can't make a fist. This realization was more despair-inducing than any humiliation. "...If..." she mumbled vaguely through the tentacle, her voice so low she could barely hear it herself, "...if I hadn't resisted just now..." The thought flashed in her mind for only an instant. The tentacle immediately reacted—not with punishment, but with an almost imperceptible, slight tremor. The presence lurking at the edge of her consciousness seemed to have heard something interesting and stirred slightly. There was no sound, no words, just a faint residual emotion—not malice, but more like patient observation tinged with a hint of satisfaction. It was listening. This realization sent a chill down her spine, but more than that, it was a complex emotion she was unwilling to analyze. Not the fear of being spied on, not the anger of being violated, but a strange, face-flushing sense of being noticed. It was listening to her speak. Listening in silence. As if it genuinely cared what she was thinking. "Sleep, pet." That voice echoed in her mind again. Gentle, deep, like a soft pat on her back in the darkness. "Master has many things to teach you tomorrow." It wasn't the first time she had heard him refer to himself as "Master," but never as clearly as this. Not "I," but "Master"—along with the title "pet," it hammered an undeniable power dynamic deep into her consciousness. This wasn't a request for her consent, not even a notification. It was simply a doting statement, delivered with the complete certainty that she wouldn't refuse, outlining the general plan for the next few days. It was as if she was naturally destined to remain under his control, as if "training will continue tomorrow" was as undeniable as the sun rising tomorrow. She wanted to retort—wanted to say I won't let you teach me anything, wanted to say I'm not your pet, wanted to say the Alliance will find me soon—but her body had already given the most honest answer. Her eyelids were growing heavy. It wasn't the feeling of being magically forced into unconsciousness, but her body naturally succumbing to sleep after exhausting all its energy—fatigue had already reached its limit. The struggle during her capture had drained her physical strength, two magical surges had depleted her mana, and two orgasms had hollowed out her last reserves of mental energy. Now, all that remained in her body was a heavy, irresistible drowsiness. "No... I haven't..." she protested vaguely through the tentacle, her voice growing fainter. Her consciousness began to blur. The light before her eyes started to dim—not the blue light of the incubation pod extinguishing, but her brain ceasing to process visual signals. She could feel her head drooping, but the collar around her neck gently, softly supported her chin, preventing her from slumping completely. This detail made her pause—the collar wasn't tightening as punishment, but supporting her when she was at her weakest. As if afraid her neck would be uncomfortable if her posture was wrong while sleeping. Was it a coincidence or intentional? She couldn't tell. Without being able to tell, she couldn't categorize it—couldn't label it as "malice" or "benevolence," couldn't understand what was happening with the familiar dichotomy of enemy and ally. This ambiguity instinctively frightened her, unsettling her more than facing clear malice. Facing an enemy, she knew how to respond—fight, resist, refuse to yield. But facing a presence that gently supported her neck as she was about to fall asleep, to prevent her from being too uncomfortable, she didn't know what expression to wear. A single tear rolled from the corner of her eye. Not a cry, not a sob, just a silent tear, overflowing from the corner of her eye, slowly sliding down her latex-covered cheek. The tear rolled over her cheekbone, over her jaw, and finally dripped from the tip of her chin. Her hands were bound behind her back. Latex gloves encased her ten fingers into a useless ball, her forearms forced together by latex restraints, pressed tightly from wrist to elbow. She tried to wiggle her fingers – the knuckles were so tightly wrapped in latex, she couldn't even bend them. This extreme hand bondage severed all her possible magic circuits, rendering her unable to form even the most basic light-based sigils. The desire to move her fingers became a luxury. The tentacle in her mouth had changed. It wasn't the soft, pliable one she could manage to push with her tongue before. This one was hard, thick, and phallic-shaped, made of rubber. It extended from her lips all the way to the root of her tongue, filling her entire mouth snugly. The center of the gag was hollow, connected to a long, transparent tube that snaked upwards into some device on the wall. With every swallow, she could feel something flowing through the tube – viscous, slow, being pushed from the wall into her mouth by the pressure of her throat muscles. Instinctively, she pushed with her tongue. The moment her tongue touched the inner opening of the gag, a drop of liquid dripped from the tube, landing precisely on the base of her tongue. Sweet and metallic, warm. After it slid down her throat, her lower abdomen began to heat up, as if a small ember had been lit inside her. An aphrodisiac. She had experienced its effects before – just a few drops were enough to make her body secrete fluids it shouldn't, and now the tube was directly connected to her mouth, each drop landing precisely in her throat. Bastard. She cursed inwardly, daring not to push against the gag again. But her tongue had already touched the residual liquid. The sweet, metallic scent clung to the mucous membranes of her mouth, lingering for a long time, and the heat in her lower abdomen continued to creep upwards. Her limbs were completely immobilized, her collar locked around her neck, and the frame spread her legs as wide as they could go. She could only maintain this posture – her entrance wide open, shamefully spread in an M-shape, her most private parts exposed without reservation. In this position, she couldn't even pretend to maintain dignity. Breeding doll. The words unbidden jumped into her mind, and she bit down on the gag, desperately trying to suppress them. She wasn't that kind of thing – she was Hoshino Rion, an S-class magical girl, forced, imprisoned, still planning her escape. She was merely enduring for now. But once the word appeared, it refused to leave – her legs were spread to their limit, her honey trap fully exposed, her limbs immobile, her mouth filled with a phallic gag, her right to even close her legs to cover her most private parts stripped away. What else could she be called in this state? Nothing but a breeding doll waiting to be used by her Master at any moment. She let out a whimper – the gag in her mouth turned all her anger into muffled moans. She wanted to curse, to yell "Let me go," "I'm not your breeding doll" – but the sounds that escaped her filled mouth came out as soft, drawn-out, nasal whimpers. Each syllable was distorted by the texture of the gag, the tail end dropping and then curling upwards, like a spoiled child. She heard her own voice and trembled with shame. The whimper sounded so lewd, like she was in heat. "Awake?" Her Master's voice echoed directly in her mind, as gentle as a morning greeting. No warning, no footsteps, no door closing, it simply materialized in the deepest part of her consciousness, making her tremble slightly. The tentacle in her honey trap twitched gently in response – a simple greeting, a reminder of its presence after confirming she was awake. Her waist involuntarily jolted. It wasn't fear – it was an instinctive reaction to having her sensitive spot lightly touched. She bit down on the gag, trying to suppress the sound that threatened to escape her lips. But a small whimper still slipped out from her throat. Sweet, soft, with the nasal tone of just waking up and the lingering warmth of the aphrodisiac, it echoed softly in the dark basement. She froze instantly. That whimper sounded too eager. She shook her head desperately, muffled protests emanating from the gag. She wanted to say "I'm not your pet," "Let me go," "Bastard" – but all her syllables turned into muffled whimpers squeezed from her stuffed mouth, vaguely carrying a trembling nasal tone and an unconsciously rising inflection, like playful banter. Her Master didn't respond to her protests. He simply made the tentacle twitch gently again in her depths. It was as if he was silently responding to her whimper in his own way. She let out a faint moan into the gag, her eyes welling up, unsure if it was from anger or shame. Her current state – fixed on the metal frame, legs spread to their limit, mouth filled with a phallic gag, wearing nothing but latex, with a living tentacle inside her honey trap – if anyone from the Alliance saw her like this, she would never be able to hold her head up again. No, no one would ever see her like this. This was her Master's custom-made display. She couldn't see anything in the darkness. Only the cold touch of the metal frame, the faint sound of liquid flowing through the gag's tube, the subtle tremor of the tentacle in her honey trap, and the increasingly hot sensation in her lower abdomen and her completely uncontrollable, faint whimpers. She was now the most exquisite ornament in this basement. A living sex toy, fixed on a frame, wide open, waiting to be used. Not a magical girl, forget that name. A breeding doll. A breeding doll belonging only to her Master. The tentacles continued to spread, moving from her eyelids to the area around her eye sockets, weaving a second net over her brow bone, sliding across her temples, and forming a third web in the hollows of her eye sockets. Layer by layer, circle by circle, until the entire eye area was completely covered. All that remained was an impenetrable darkness – not the kind where you could still sense a faint glimmer of light, but an absolute, complete darkness that not a single photon could penetrate. A brand new, fully enclosed blindfold. Denser, more form-fitting, and more thorough than the thickened latex before. She instinctively tried to blink to confirm if she truly couldn't see anything – as her eyelids moved, the fine tentacles tightened slightly, as if responding to her action. With each blink, the tentacles brushed lightly against her eyelids and lashes, not painful, not itchy, just too light – so light that it felt as if her eyes were being touched with the softest part of fingertips. The instant she lost her sight, her other senses seemed to snap open, amplifying dramatically. Hearing reacted first. She could hear her own breathing – muffled by the gag, it became a faint hiss in her throat, and with each inhale, she could feel the tiny sound of air friction against the nasal lining as it passed through her nostrils. She could hear the flow of liquid within the gag's tube – the viscous arousal fluid slowly crawling along the inner walls, each swallow drawing new liquid from the other end towards her mouth with a faint gurgling sound. She could even hear the sound of the tentacles slowly writhing within her pussy – a thick, subtle sound, each suction cup gently sweeping against the inner walls accompanied by an almost inaudible pop, like countless tiny bubbles bursting in liquid. She also heard a low-frequency hum from the depths of the basement – something she'd never noticed before, unsure if it was ventilation or some machine. She heard the sound of water droplets condensing on the walls and falling, drip, drip, drip, each one as clear as someone tapping glass with a fingernail. She could even hear her own heartbeat – a dull, rhythmic thud against the latex lining in her chest, each pump of blood causing her carotid artery to bulge slightly under the pressure of the collar. Touch was also losing control at the same rapid pace. She could perceive every subtle crease where the latex clung to her skin – what were once just defining lines of restraint now became countless tactile pixels simultaneously reporting information to her brain. Inside the latex gloves encasing her fingers, she could even sense the entire process of her sweat beads seeping from the skin of her hands and being absorbed by the inner layer of latex. Where the thigh was secured by the frame, the metal buckle pressed into her tender flesh between the latex and her skin. The in-and-out motion of the tentacle suction cups in her pussy was magnified countless times; each opening and closing of the suction cup felt like someone gently pressing and releasing the tender flesh of her inner walls with their fingertips. A gust of air brushed against the opening of her exposed pussy. It was just a breeze, she didn't know where it came from – perhaps from the ventilation, perhaps seeping through cracks in the wall. But in the darkness, this breeze made her feel as if she had been licked. Her hips twitched involuntarily. She hadn't even registered it herself before her body reacted – the tender flesh at the opening of her pussy contracted sharply as the air current passed, as if trying to evade something that wasn't there. She bit down on the gag, forcing herself not to make any sound. But that reaction wasn't under her control; even as her brain was still processing that it was just air, her body had already reacted on its own. Master seemed to be waiting for this moment. The tentacles in her pussy began to move, but not with the punishing thrusts from before. It was a gentler, slower, more unpredictable sliding. It didn't enter or exit, but merely writhed softly and slowly within her pussy, as if caressing every inch of her inner walls with fingertips, circling her most sensitive folds without leaving. Then the tentacles on her chest joined in, slowly sliding upwards from the base of her breasts to the sides, tracing the curve of her uplifted breasts before slowly retracting. The tentacles on her waist also joined, crawling upwards from her hip bones along the arc of her ribs to her armpits, pausing at her most ticklish armpits before continuing. The tentacles on the inner thighs also began to climb slowly – starting from behind her knees, crawling upwards along the inside of her legs, fixed by the frame, reaching the most tender part of her inner thighs before retreating and climbing again. Not simultaneously, no unified rhythm. It was random, unpredictable. Sometimes several tentacles, sometimes just one. After moving, they would pause for a few seconds, and just when she thought the touch had ended, they would move again. She couldn't guess where she would be touched next, only waiting with bated breath. Her nipples, the hollow of her neck, her navel, her hip bones, the bend of her knees, the soles of her feet – her entire body was a target, each point a potential next location. Each touch made her body tremble. She tried to calm her nerves with deep breaths, but as soon as she inhaled, a tentacle slid across her lower abdomen, and the breath she had held escaped in a trembling rush. Her body was completely out of her conscious control – she was like the person in a game, spun around blindfolded and left standing, waiting to be touched. She didn't know what would touch her next, how hard it would be, or how long it would last. She could only wait. Blindfolded, even the most basic ability to anticipate was stripped away. She realized for the first time what darkness truly meant. Without sight, there was no warning. Nothing to distract her – no wall patterns to guess her position, no structure of the metal frame to calculate the angle of her bent posture, no trajectory of the tentacles to predict the next landing spot. All she had left was passive sensation – waiting to be touched, waiting to be felt, waiting for the fear of not knowing where the tentacles would touch next to continue its slow climb. There was nothing to measure time with – she didn't know how many seconds had passed since the last touch, or how many seconds until the next. No reference points, no distractions, nothing to break this cycle. Only the touches and pleasure dictated by Master. She began to react more to each touch – not because it was comfortable, but because her body, in its heightened state of focus, began to amplify each touch into an impact. When a tentacle slid across her waist, she involuntarily twisted her hips to evade, but couldn't escape; she was bound too tightly, and could only feel every inch of the tentacle's path across her skin. When a tentacle crawled up her inner thigh, her inner thighs trembled, wanting to clamp shut, but the frame held them firmly open, unable to close even slightly. When her nipples were gently circled, she let out a faint whimper, the end of the sound becoming muffled and soft in the gag, like a plea or an urging. In the darkness, Master's voice did not sound. He simply let the tentacles continue to roam her body, leaving her helpless in the darkness, waiting for each touch. The stranger in the black latex, still in the mirror, continued to watch her. She stared at the face in the mirror for a long time—long enough to count the blood vessels in her eyes. The pale violet eyes no longer belonged to the proud S-class magical girl of her memory; they were filled only with fear, shame, and a haze she desperately refused to acknowledge. The glistening string of saliva hanging from her lips stretched a little further, poised to fall from her chin. Then, the Master’s voice echoed in her mind. “Rin, stay.” Just four words. No threat, no warning of punishment, no indication of consequences for disobedience. The tone was flat, as if stating the most natural thing in the world—like calling a long-beloved pet dog back to its bed. The tentacles inside the parasitic suit immediately began to move. Rin’s first instinct was to straighten her body. Her knees, still trembling on the floor, ached so intensely that every movement felt like being sawed with a dull knife. Yet, she bit down on the gag and desperately tried to lift her waist—she refused to lie down. She was Hoshino Rin, not some bitch who’d obediently present her ass at a command. As soon as her spine lifted a few inches, the tentacles on either side of her shoulder blades exerted pressure, forcing her back down. She tried to straighten again, and the tentacles pushed her down again. On the third attempt, she held her breath and used all her strength to lift her upper body—this time, the tentacles didn’t press her down directly. Instead, they held her halfway up and then, passing under her arms, suddenly released her bound hands. The freedom of her hands came too suddenly. Her shoulders, restrained for seventy-two hours, could move for the first time. Her shoulder joints emitted faint creaks, and the ache spread from her shoulder sockets to her entire back. Before she could even move them, new tentacles guided her body forward—her palms instinctively braced against the cold tile floor. This was the first time in days her hands had touched a surface other than the latex gloves on her back. The rough texture of the tiles transmitted through the latex to her palms, a chill spreading from her fingertips to her wrists. Her ten latex-wrapped fingers splayed uselessly on the tiles—the latex was too tight, so tight that no light penetrated between her fingers. Her fingers could only bend slightly on the cold surface, like the front paws of a real animal. “Mmph—!” she muffled a cry into the gag, her arms straining to support the weight of her upper body. The tentacles didn’t prevent her from bracing herself—they simply pressed down from either side of her spine, near the end of her lumbar region, just as she pushed herself a few inches off the ground. The force was precise, just enough to make her unable to hold on, but not so much that she’d crash to the floor—she wasn’t pushed down, she was crushed. The momentary strength in her arms couldn’t withstand the continuous downward pressure from her spine. Her entire upper body, from shoulders to elbows to wrists, slowly softened. Her five latex-wrapped fingers scraped faint, blurry marks on the tiles before falling limply. Her knees were pushed apart by the tentacles. The inner muscles of her thighs, still sore from the spasms of being forcibly spread for seventy-two hours on the brace, were now pushed further apart from her kneeling position—to about shoulder width. This allowed her calves and the tops of her feet to press firmly against the floor, stably supporting her hips from the sides. She lowered her head, panting, her silver-white hair falling from her forehead to brush against the tiles. Through the gaps in her hair, she could see her pushed-apart knees. The rounded joint bones pushed up two arcs through the black latex. Her kneeling posture was more stable now, and lower. This low position made her uncomfortable. With her kneeling height compressed, her forward view was lower, seeing only the texture of the tiles and the bottom edge of the mirror. Then, the tentacles pressed down on her waist. Not a violent shove, but a sustained pressure that gradually pushed down her straightened waist. She desperately tried to maintain the curve of her spine—her abdominal muscles tightened and tightened under the latex, the muscles on her sides as stiff as two unmoving steel plates. The tentacles didn’t rush to break her resistance; they simply pressed steadily, waiting for her muscles to begin trembling under the continuous pressure—her abdominal muscles were the first to give way, shifting from over-tightening to a series of tremors before slowly relaxing. The muscles on her sides softened along with her loosening abdominal wall, and the erector spinae muscles along her spine gradually relaxed from stiffness. She bit down on the gag, holding on—holding on until she felt her lumbar spine was about to break, until her breaths escaping her nose were tinged with a tremor. But the tentacles’ pressure remained unwavering, constant and steady, forcing her muscles to soften a little more with each exhale. Her waist collapsed—not in defeat, but in exhaustion, her every inch of resistance worn down by the relentless, continuous pressure. Her spine began to curve downwards from her neck—first her cervical vertebrae, then her thoracic, then her lumbar. Each vertebra lowered in succession under the tentacles’ guidance. In the mirror, she watched her back gradually lose its human S-curve, becoming a sagging arc from shoulders to hips. It wasn’t straight—her neck was slightly tilted, her head raised, her back curving inwards from her shoulder blades to her waist, her waist collapsing before arching up from her hips. Her hips naturally arched upwards after her waist fully collapsed. Her hips, after her waist caved in, were lifted to become the highest point of her entire body. She couldn’t see it herself, but she could see it clearly in the mirror—her posture on the floor, her arched buttocks, were identical to the bitch in her memory. Then, the tentacles adjusted the final detail of her legs. Her knees were already spread shoulder-width apart, but her ankles were still together. The tentacles gently tapped the inside of her calves—she didn’t move—and then hooked her ankles, slowly pulling them apart by about half a foot. This changed her calves and the tops of her feet from parallel and together to a slightly pigeon-toed V-shape. This minor adjustment in ankle angle shifted her entire lower body’s center of gravity forward, causing her hips to arch even higher under the weight. It looked even more canine. She shook her head desperately into the gag, wanting to deny it all—wanting to say I’m not a bitch, I don’t want to arch my ass—but the tentacles had already slid from the back of her calves to her hamstrings, thighs, and the tips of her buttocks. They traced her arched spine, climbing over her lumbar and thoracic vertebrae, her shoulder blades, finally stopping at the edge of her collar, as if checking the standard of her posture. Then she felt the tentacle that had been quietly blocking her honey hole begin to writhe slowly—slowly, not roughly, just gently caressing the most sensitive fold of her inner wall in her current prone position. The base of her legs suddenly trembled—not from pleasure, but because the moment the tentacle brushed against her in this position, her body instinctively arched her buttocks higher. Right there in front of the mirror, guided by the tentacles, she actively adjusted her position into this submissive bitch posture. She raised her head, seeing her own expression in the mirror, so full of shame she was about to cry. Her hands braced on the tiles like a pair of clumsy, encased front paws, her fingers splaying and clenching uselessly within the latex. Her knees were bent and slightly apart, her calves and the tops of her feet pressed against the cold tiles, her pigeon-toed stance making her legs look even more pathetic. Her waist had collapsed into a concave curve from shoulder to hip, her buttocks high and arched, her honey hole facing the mirror behind her at an unobstructed angle—she could see the slightly parted opening of her cunt between her legs in the mirror, could see the tiny bumps on the surface of the latex pushed up by the slow writhing of the tentacle inside her, could see how her most private parts were completely opened and exposed in this posture. Her face, distorted by the gag, was twisted into an expression she didn’t recognize, a blush spreading from her cheekbones to her entire face, revealing patches of dark shadow through the semi-transparent latex. Her pale violet eyes were wide now—reflecting the image of the helpless bitch in the mirror. Once the display was over, the tentacles released her hands—which had been pinned behind her head—and her legs, which had been stretched to their limit. Rion collapsed onto the floor tiles, gasping for breath, every muscle in her body protesting the soreness and exhaustion caused by that utterly humiliating position. Before she could catch her breath, the tentacles slipped under her armpits once more, lifting her off the floor and forcing her back into a kneeling position. She kept her head down, panting heavily, her silver hair falling haphazardly across half her face. The image she’d seen in the mirror moments ago was still seared into her mind—herself with her arms wrapped around the back of her head and her legs spread wide, her body traced inch by inch by the tentacles. Her collarbone, breasts, lower abdomen, and inner thighs—every detail had been praised one by one by that gentle voice. She hadn’t yet shaken off the discomfort of being displayed like an exhibit and appraised. Then she heard a faint slurping sound—the sticky, tugging noise made as the tentacle withdrew from her mouth, breaking the vacuum left between the surface of the gag and her tongue. It turned out that the phallus-shaped rubber gag had been in her mouth for so long that she had almost forgotten it was even there. Now it was retreating from her mouth, pulling out a viscous, transparent thread mixed with saliva and remnants of aphrodisiac, stretching from her lips all the way to the surface of the gag before reluctantly snapping off, The sudden emptiness in her mouth left her tongue fluttering aimlessly in the hollow cavity, unsure where to rest. Air rushed in; her lips could close again, her gums could touch each other, and her tongue could move freely within her mouth. In that instant, she experienced an illusion—as if she had been allowed to become a whole, living being once more. But before she had a chance to wipe away the dried traces of saliva from the corners of her mouth and her chin, a brand-new gag pressed against her lips. This gag was completely different from the previous one. Its design mimicked that of a baby’s pacifier, with a flat, round silicone nipple at the front and a ring of raised texture on the surface that simulated the feel of breast milk. A tiny hole for fluid flow was left in the center of the nipple, and a familiar sweet, fishy scent wafted from the edge of the hole. The gag was hollow inside, with a soft tube connecting from the base of the nipple directly to the device on the wall that supplied the aphrodisiac—every few seconds, as long as she applied slight pressure to the nipple with her tongue or the inside of her mouth, the valve would open, and a drop of viscous, warm aphrodisiac would fall precisely from the opening onto the back of her tongue. She instinctively clenched her teeth, pressed her lips together tightly, and shook her head vigorously, the ends of her silver hair whipping against the latex surface on her shoulder. She had only just tasted a few seconds of freedom to breathe and did not want another intruder to reclaim her tongue. But tentacles inside the parasitic suit gripped both sides of her jaw, and thumb-like protrusions pressed between her clenched teeth and cheekbones—not with brute force, but with steady, sustained pressure. A dull ache spread from her jaw joint all the way to her temporal muscles; she couldn’t hold out—the moment her teeth loosened, her lips parted slightly. The pacifier was immediately pushed in; the flat, round silicone tip slid over her lips, pressed against her gums, and rolled over the surface of her tongue, settling precisely in the spot between her upper palate and the back of her tongue—the perfect position for sucking. The liquid outlet was aligned with the most sensitive spot at the base of her tongue, while the outer retention strap was looped around the back of her head by the tentacles and fastened to the collar. The latex at the back of her head bore several shallow indentations from the straps, and the mouth gag was completely secured—there was no way she could push it out with her tongue. When the pacifier was first inserted, she held her breath, refusing to suck. The sensation of a foreign object in her mouth made her instinctively try to push it out with her tongue, but the pacifier’s shape fit too snugly—every time she pushed, the raised texture on the silicone surface would roll over the surface of her tongue and spring back, almost as if it were actively rubbing against her tongue. Once her tongue stopped moving, the stifling silence in her mouth made her realize that the air passage had been completely filled by the nipple’s head. She was still breathing through her nose, but with her mouth blocked by the pacifier, the air passage between her throat and nasal cavity had become abnormally narrow—every inhalation felt like drawing air through a crushed straw, and the amount of air she could take in was far from enough. She tried breathing through her nose alone. Inhale—air squeezed its way into her nasal passages, cool but coming in far too slowly. Exhale—there was hardly any air left in her lungs; she could only force out a faint, raspy breath. She breathed through her nose for over ten seconds, the tightness in her chest growing heavier and heavier. A sense of oxygen deprivation surged up from deep within her chest, as if an invisible hand were squeezing her neck, tightening slowly. She needed to take a breath. She needed a breath of air— With the pacifier still in her mouth, she sucked desperately. Her lips instinctively tightened around the silicone nipple, her cheeks caved in to create negative pressure, and as the back of her tongue relaxed, the valve was pushed open by the suction, air surged from the tiny air channel inside the nipple into her throat—but along with it came a drop of sweet, metallic aphrodisiac fluid, precisely squeezed through the dispensing hole onto the back of her tongue. Warm and viscous, it slid down her throat into her esophagus, dissolving into a familiar warmth in her stomach. The air was swallowed along with the aphrodisiac; the act of staying alive and becoming more sensitive were both swallowed in a single gulp at the bottom of her stomach. She let out a muffled sound through the gag—it was hard to tell if it was a sigh of relief or humiliation—and the gurgling sound carried from the nipple’s dispensing hole, echoing clearly through the quiet basement. Hearing the slurping sound of herself sucking on the nipple made her face burn even more than when she’d previously heard the dripping of her own juices during orgasm—it was the kind of sound only a nursing infant would make. It was the clumsy sound a young cub still being weaned would make as it sucked milk from a bottle, sip by sip—and it was coming from her mouth. But if she didn’t suck, breathing became difficult. She could only close her eyes and suck desperately; with every suck, a drop of aphrodisiac dripped down the tube into her throat. Saliva leaking from the corners of her mouth mixed with the sweet, slightly fishy liquid that overflowed from the nipple with each suck, trickling down her chin, wetting her neck, flowing over her collarbone, finally leaving a glistening wet streak on the latex covering her chest. A small pool of a mixed liquid—transparent with a faint milky tint—had gathered in the hollow of her collarbone, rippling slightly with each gulping swallow. The tentacles began to adjust her posture. Her hands were guided to her lower abdomen, where her left and right forearms crossed and lay one over the other above her navel. Her wrists were turned outward by a small half-circle, her fingers remaining naturally slightly curved. Then, several slender tentacles wrapped around the sides of her wrists, securing her crossed arms into a complete embrace. This position prevented her from moving her arms freely—like a small infant swaddled in a blanket while fast asleep, with both hands bound in front of her body, obediently maintaining a fixed posture. Her legs were adjusted into a seated position, with her thighs parallel to the ground and spread outward, her knees bent outward to expose her honeyed slit, glistening with love juices; her calves formed a right angle with the ground, and her heels were gently pushed by tentacles to rest against the skin on either side of her buttocks, which was beginning to grow warm. Her entire body remained in a reclined sitting position—unable to move about or roll over, like an infant who hadn’t yet learned to crawl, needing a tentacle behind her to gently support her back just to sit upright. Then she realized that breathing had become even more difficult. The valve inside the pacifier would only open when she actively sucked—if she didn’t suck, the small hole would remain closed. The amount of air passing through her nostrils was too small, barely enough to maintain the most basic level of consciousness, and the suffocating sensation in her chest kept urging her to breathe through her mouth. She discovered that if she didn’t keep sucking, breathing would become truly difficult—so she had no choice but to close her eyes, suck on the nipple while making shameful “gurgling” sounds, and suck as hard as she could. With every suck, the aphrodisiac dripped onto the back of her tongue, and the heat in her lower abdomen kept building. The slippery wetness seeping from deep within her honeyed slit had long since been slowly trickling down the insides of her thighs, dampening the floor tiles.

The transformation ceased. The latex that had encased her entire body finally stopped flowing. The receding, thickening, stretching, and forking that had continued for an unknown duration all stilled in the same instant. The newly formed restraints clamped firmly onto her joints. The skin, newly exposed to the air as the latex retreated, still retained the damp heat of being covered for too long. It rapidly cooled upon contact with the basement's chill air, causing each individual hair to stand on end. Rion knelt on the floor tiles, head bowed, her silver hair falling in disarray to obscure her entire face. She dared not look up. She feared seeing her current appearance in the mirror. During the transformation, she had caught glimpses within her limited field of vision: a restraint ring around her chest, the latex receding from her lower abdomen, her knees covered by thick restraints, her fingers being individually separated and encased in new finger cots. But she lacked the courage to confirm what these fragmented images would form when pieced together. The pacifier was still in her mouth, its sucking sounds echoing with peculiar clarity in the silent basement. Her Master's voice resonated in her mind, gentle and calm, telling her to lift her head and look at herself. She shook her head desperately. The ends of her silver hair whipped against her bare shoulders. The latex had receded from her shoulders, her skin directly touching her hair. The cool sensation made her realize she was more exposed than she had imagined. She stared intently at the gray dust in the cracks between the floor tiles, dust that had been soaked countless times by her own fluids and sweat, wishing to prolong this moment indefinitely. As long as she didn't look up, she could pretend she hadn't yet transformed into something strange. The tentacles did not force her. They simply waited in silence. This waiting itself was more inescapable than direct coercion. If the tentacles had forcibly lifted her head, she could at least have told herself internally that she was being forced. But her Master merely asked her to look up herself, to choose to see. This very agency was a test for her. Her neck stiffened for a moment in the silence. Then, she raised her head. The reflection in the mirror made her pupils contract sharply. Her hands shot up from the floor tiles, intending to cover her face. But halfway through the movement, the backs of her wrists were grasped by tentacles extending from either side, gently but firmly pressed back down onto the floor tiles. Her fingers twitched futilely within the latex paw gloves, the soft pads of her palms pressing against the cold tile surface. She could only look directly. Her neck – the full-coverage latex had receded, replaced by a thick, heavy black leather collar. The collar was wide, supporting her jaw, so that with every swallow, she could feel the edge of the leather lightly scraping just above her Adam's apple. A metal nameplate was riveted to the front of the collar. The cold light of the lamp reflected off it, creating a glaring silver-white spot. Clearly engraved on it were a few letters: RION-PET. Hoshino Rion, pet. Her name had been reduced to a designation, her identity nailed to the collar. Her torso – the latex had receded over a large area, exposing a significant portion of her skin. Her collarbones were bared, her shoulder sockets exposed, and the skin of her entire back, from shoulder blades to the small of her back, was exposed to the cold air. But a thick, heavy restraint ring now encircled the base of her breasts. It was made of black leather, lined on the inside with a thin layer of soft padding to prevent chafing, but tightened so severely that even the padding couldn't stop the edge of the ring from pressing red marks onto the base of her breasts. Her breasts, held tightly from the root, were squeezed into a more voluptuous teardrop shape. Attached to her nipples were nipple clamps connected to the collar – two butterfly clamps, their edges lined with tiny silicone teeth, biting down on her already long-hardened nipples. Four leather straps extended from the collar, dividing into two paths that wrapped around her collarbones, passed through her armpits, and converged on either side of her ribs into four straight lines, securing the base of the clamps. With every breath – as her chest expanded and her ribs lifted – the straps tightened slightly, pulling on the clamps and tugging at her nipples. Her nipples were pinched forward slightly through the gap of the clamps, then pulled back into place. Her lower body was covered only by an extremely thin T-strap. The front width barely concealed the narrowest slit at the entrance of her vulva, leaving the petal-like labia exposed on either side. The rear half of the T-strap disappeared deep into her buttock crease. Through the mirror, she could see how the strap tightened and nestled snugly between her buttocks, connecting to a position behind her: a butt plug. Not an ordinary butt plug, but a living, thick, short butt plug extending from the position of her tailbone, covered in fine suction cups, constantly contracting and expanding at a very low frequency. Each contraction pushed her anus outwards by a millimeter from the inside, and each expansion pressed the intestinal lining back against the surface of the plug. This subtle internal rhythm continuously stimulated the sensitive nerve plexus at the deepest part of her vulva through the anterior wall of her rectum, causing her vulva to twitch and throb beneath the T-strap. Her limbs were encased in latex paw gloves and boots. Her hands were wrapped into round pads. Beneath the semi-transparent black latex, she could see her fingers bent and fixed into a clenched fist shape, the knuckles pressing against the floor tiles, the soft gel filling the pads squeezed into an oval by her weight. Each wrist was fitted with a thick restraint ring, connected to short chains that could be fastened to the ground at any time. Her knees were covered by thick dog leg boots, the latex extending from the back of her knees to the middle of her calves, forcing her to crawl on all fours. The tops of her feet were pulled by the paw boots into an angle parallel to the ground, her toes separated and fixed within the latex to resemble the splayed pads of a canine paw. What made her most desperate was above her buttocks. A tail – a living tentacle tail – extended from the restraint at her tailbone. It was about as long as her forearm, mimicking the thickness and shape of a canine tail, but it was alive. It was part of the parasitic obedience, an extension of her Master's will. As the tail emerged from the restraint at its base, it precisely pressed against the entrance of her anus. The butt plug in front was still vibrating inside, and the width of the tail's base pressed down on that area from the outside,夹ing both her anus and vulva between two layers of internal and external pressure. Then, without her conscious thought – she hadn't even considered wagging it – the tail began to sway gently on its own. With each sway, its base brushed against the sensitive area where her anus and vulva met, not heavily, just enough to make her tremble from stimulation on that side. But what broke her most was that she couldn't control it. It was her Master's wagging tail, her Master's mood, her Master expressing some emotion she dared not contemplate with a living tail.

As the K9 suit's tactile sensation receded from her body, Rion remained sprawled on the floor, unable to recover. The metal nameplate of the collar vanished from beneath her throat, and the moment the nipple clamps released, her nipples sprang back to their original state, a wave of tingling shooting from her chest up to her neck. The tail-like appendage retracted from her tailbone, giving one last grind at the entrance of her rear, eliciting a muffled groan. The red marks left by the restraint rings from the crawling training still lingered on the inner sides of her thighs. The paw covers melted into liquid latex, flowing down her fingers and toes, pooling on the floor tiles into a puddle of black goo that was reshaping itself. She let out a weak whimper inside the gag. She didn't know what she would turn into this time. The image of the bitch from before hadn't fully faded from her mind; the engraving "RION-PET" on the collar seemed to be branded on her throat, and with every swallow, she could feel the spot where the metal nameplate had once pressed. She lowered her head, her silver hair falling messily to the sides of her face, intending to stall for as long as possible. After all, no matter what she turned into, it wouldn't be more devastating than the bitch outfit with her name engraved on it from earlier – she told herself this to find comfort. The parasitic suit's transformation was faster than the last time. The latex that receded from her torso didn't cover her again, merely leaving a few restraint rings on her waist and wrists. Her forearms were fixed in a crossed position in front of her, the restraints on her wrists connected by a short chain to the buckle at her waist, leaving her hands to hang uselessly in front of her abdomen. She tried to struggle – the restraint chains emitted a faint metallic clinking, and her wrists were pulled back to their original position, her fingers only able to open and curl futilely in front of her stomach. The latex on her thighs had also receded significantly. A new material began to spread upwards from her ankles – white silk fabric slid over her calves, wrapped around her knees, and climbed up her thighs. The cool, silky touch crept up her skin, and with every inch it wrapped tighter, it reminded her of the habitual movements of putting on her uniform and stockings every morning back in the Alliance. But at least she had put those on herself. Now, this stocking grew from the parasitic suit; it tightened on its own, creating just the right curve on her calves, and automatically rolled into a thickened cuff at the top of her thighs. She looked down at her legs – white thigh-high stockings covered both legs seamlessly from toes to thighs, fitting snugly. In the mirror, her legs, encased in white silk, were straight and slender, the surface of the stockings emitting a faint glow under the cold light. Garter belts followed closely. Four thin straps extended from the white waistband at her waist, curving around her hip bones and down the front of her thighs. The garter clips made a faint clicking sound as they bit into the edges of the silk stockings. With every breath, as the waistband tightened slightly, the garter straps pulled upwards, the clips sliding the stocking edges a small distance across her thigh skin. She felt the area on her thighs where the garter clips bit into her skin slowly forming an indentation. Then she saw her upper body. The nurse's uniform in the mirror only had a front panel, no back. Semi-transparent white gauze hung over her chest, the neckline cut very low, revealing the hollow of her collarbones and the curve of her breasts clearly beneath the sheer fabric. She saw the dark shadows of her areolas and nipples clearly imprinted on the mirror surface through the barely-there cloth, swaying slightly with the rise and fall of her chest. The uniform's length reached just to the root of her thighs – in the mirror, she saw her butt cleavage and her entire back exposed from her shoulder blades down to just below her waist, with no covering whatsoever. She instinctively tried to cover her chest with her hands, but as soon as her hands moved, the restraint chains on her wrists were pulled taut by the buckle at her waist, and her fingers could only curl futilely in front of her abdomen. She couldn't cover herself. She couldn't cover herself from the front, and even less from the back. What broke her the most was the new gag in her mouth. Shaped like a phallus, the thick silicone shaft filled her entire mouth, pressing her tongue flat. This thing also had a thin, flexible tube extending from outside her lips, winding around her chin, tracing her collarbone, and running down between the soft flesh of her breasts, half-hidden by the gauze. The small silver disc at the end of the tube was gently pressed against her body by a tentacle – the cold metal directly on the softest indentation. The latex here had been deliberately receded to create an opening, and the skin touched by the disc was warm and moist; she could even feel the small piece of mucous membrane pressed by the metal inside involuntarily contracting. The tentacle began to writhe slowly inside her. Not with punishing up-and-down motions, but slowly sliding along the inner walls, as if checking something. Then she heard the first watery sound. A faint gurgling sound transmitted through the tube to her ears – the sound was so close, as if someone was gently stirring a small pool of viscous, warm liquid inside her head. She clenched her jaw, trying desperately to hold back, so hard that her abdominal muscles tensed, but the more she resisted, the clearer every subtle twitch inside her became. Her vaginal opening involuntarily parted slightly, and the tube immediately amplified this faint sucking sound, exploding into a wet, soft noise in her ears. The tentacle seemed to know she was resisting and paused deliberately. She let out a breath, but her body didn't stop – her inner walls were still contracting subconsciously, squeezing out the mucus hidden in the folds and letting it flow down the inner walls. The tube amplified the sound of this slow, viscous flow into a long, sliding note, from one end of her head to the other. She closed her eyes, afraid to look in the mirror, but with her eyes closed, her hearing became even more acute – she heard the sound of her vaginal walls retracting and squeezing the residual fluid to the front as the tentacle withdrew, heard the faint sound of newly secreted fluid seeping out from the depths of the folds. Then the tentacle moved again, changing its angle, grinding over the most sensitive patch of tender flesh – this time, the sound from the tube wasn't a gurgle, but a slick, wet sound with a lingering, stringy tail.

Rin knelt on the tiled floor, the hollows of her knees still trembling from the aftershocks of climax. A thin stream of viscous, clear fluid followed the vibrating dildo as it was withdrawn, tracing a path down her inner thighs and soaking into the seamless white stockings, leaving a damp patch that clung to her skin. The rose gag had just been removed from her mouth, leaving faint indentations on either side of her cheeks from the straps. Saliva, too thick to swallow after being held open for so long, pooled at the corners of her lips. She panted, head bowed, her gaze falling through the veil of her bridal headdress to the glistening patch on the tiles – the remnants of the wedding ceremony. She expected the usual routine. A change of clothes, a new uniform, and the reflection in the mirror would show her transformed into another meticulously crafted pet. The dog suit, the nurse’s uniform, the qipao, the wedding dress – she had grown accustomed to the rhythm of these four changes. Each new outfit marked another round of humiliation, but at least it was within the confines of this room, a space whose every tile she knew intimately. Four walls, one mirror, a cold fluorescent light overhead, and the rope for leash training still hanging in the corner. This was her entire world, a world of humiliation, but a familiar one. The parasitic suit began to change. This time, the sensation was different. There was no rough leather collar emerging from her neck, no sudden exposure of skin to the cold air from cut-out sections, no semi-transparent gauze settling over her chest. The transformation began at her ankles. A dark grey fabric, matte and non-reflective, clung to her legs as it crept upwards, not with the tight constriction designed to accentuate curves, but with a simple, form-fitting adherence, like an ordinary, unremarkable athletic bodysuit. The grey covered her calves, knees, and thighs, obscuring the damp marks left by her white stockings. She watched as the dark grey fabric consumed her legs, silently pressing down the still-drying moisture on her stockings. The change continued, the grey climbing from her waist, encasing her ribs and chest, reaching her collarbones, then sliding down her arms to finish at her wrists. There were no rivets, no straps, no restraining rings. No collar crawled over her throat, no nipple clamps extended from her chest, no tail-like appendages sprouted from her coccyx. It was a single, matte dark grey bodysuit, enclosing her completely from neck to ankle. The material had a fine, matte texture like sharkskin, absorbing the light under the cold fluorescent bulbs, barely reflecting anything. She froze. She raised her hands, examining her palms. Her five fingers were individually encased in the dark grey fabric, the joints bending freely. She touched her neck. Only a layer of soft, conforming elastic fabric covered her collarbones and throat, no metal nameplate, no keyhole. Peering through the veil of her bridal headdress, she looked into the mirror. The reflection showed a figure clad in a dark grey sharkskin bodysuit, her form outlined by the close-fitting cut – a slender waist, long thighs, a full chest – but not a sliver of skin was exposed. It looked almost like normal athletic wear. Tentacles removed the bridal headdress from her head. As the veil fell away, her vision cleared instantly. The contours of the face in the mirror were no longer shrouded in a white mist. Then, the tentacles gently withdrew the phallic-shaped plug from her mouth, a thin, attenuated strand of clear fluid snapping as it broke from her lips onto her chin. Before she could savor the sensation of her tongue moving freely in her newly closed mouth, a new object was inserted. It was made of soft silicone, smaller and thinner than any before, pressing against her tongue just enough to prevent speech but not so much as to distend her cheeks. From the outside, her lips were pressed together tightly, like someone deep in serious thought. Next, tentacles gathered her hair and tucked it into a black baseball cap. The brim was pulled low, obscuring part of her vision and hiding most of her striking silver-white hair. A pair of oversized dark sunglasses were placed on her face, the frames nearly covering the entire area from her eyebrows to her cheekbones. The lower edge of the frames rested on her nose, the lenses so dark that her eyes behind them were completely invisible. Through the sunglasses, she looked at the person in the mirror. A black baseball cap pulled low hid her silver hair, oversized dark sunglasses concealed half her face, and the grey sharkskin bodysuit encased her from neck to ankle. She looked like a passerby dressed in tight athletic wear, ready for a late-night run – nothing remarkable, except for the overly tight set of her lips and her slightly stiff posture. She looked like a normal person. The thought sent a wave of disorientation through her; it had been so long since she had been reminded that she possessed the appearance of a normal person. Then, she realized with a jolt that her master had dressed her this way not to return her to a normal world. He was taking her out.

As tentacles pushed her to the center of the stage, she saw another person lying on the floor on the other side. The same K9 suit. A restraint ring supported her breasts from the root, and the nipple clamps attached to her nipples were connected by straps extending from the collar, gently tugging on the silicone teeth of the clamps with each breath. A T-strap extended from the lower back, and a tail tentacle emerged from the tailbone, resting quietly on the wooden floor. Her limbs were encased in latex paw gloves and boots, her palms cupped into rounded pads pressing against the floor, and her knees were covered by thick dog leg covers, leaving only a thin layer of black latex between her limbs and the ground. Her short chestnut hair was disheveled, with a few strands sticking to her sweaty cheeks. She was entirely wrapped in a transparent, latex-like pet suit, her skin, navel, and collarbones faintly visible beneath the latex. A pink collar with small bells adorned her neck, the bells glinting in the dim light—while her owner's collar had an engraved nameplate, this one had bells that produced a faint tinkling sound with every slight movement. Rin's mind went blank for a moment. It wasn't just anyone. It was Tsukishiro Mahiru, her former senior, partner, and an A-class magical girl. The Alliance's missing person report had listed her as "killed in action." They had all believed she died on a mission in the Abyss Rift. Everyone believed it. But now she was here, wearing the same K9 bitch restraint suit as her, a transparent pet suit, a bell collar, the same wagging tail attached to her tailbone, her limbs propped on the wooden stage floor, awaiting whatever public training was to come. No one had searched this place in the year she had been missing. Beneath the transparent latex pet suit, on Mahiru's hip, was an old, faded scar—left years ago to shield her during a joint training exercise. Rin remembered the details of that training, remembered Mahiru pushing her behind cover before falling debris, scraping her leg, and Mahiru smiling while getting it bandaged in the infirmary, saying, "This little scratch is nothing." Now, the scar was pressed into a pale, flattened line beneath the tight, transparent latex. The scar remained. But the magical girl Tsukishiro Mahiru was now only this scar to prove she had once been that person. Mahiru saw her too. She raised her head, her short chestnut hair sliding from her ear to cover half her face. Her jaw, encased in transparent latex, lifted slightly, and the bells emitted a very faint, crisp chime with the subtle movement. She recognized her—a fleeting, almost imperceptible spark ignited in her eyes. It was a gaze that seemed to span a vast distance—fear, guilt, a desire to call her name, but seeing the collar and tail, her words caught in her throat. But in almost the same instant, that spark was extinguished by something deeper. Calmness. So calm, as if she had long accepted a certain truth. She said nothing, but her tail began to wag gently—a conditioned reflex her owner had specifically set for encounters between kindred spirits. When kindred spirits made eye contact, the tail automatically wagged, and the bells chimed. She wasn't truly wagging her tail; Mahiru no longer had to decide whether to wag it or not. Rin froze completely before the wagging tail. Her hands and feet were guided by tentacles into a submissive posture, her fingers trembling inside the paw gloves as her knees and pads pressed onto the stage floor. She had been convincing herself this was a temporary predicament, that she could escape if she found an opportunity. While being trained, changed, and climaxing in shame, she kept telling herself it was tactical endurance. But she could no longer explain away the scene before her—Mahiru, opposite her, in the same K9 suit, her tail wagging expertly, the bells chiming softly. She used to be A-class. Now she was a bell-wearing bitch. And this was what she had become after a year—she had just demonstrated it before her. Mahiru didn't break eye contact. She kept looking at Rin, a slight curve at the corner of her mouth, not a smile, but a habitual indentation left from prolonged pressure from the gag. She watched how this newcomer would be dragged out of the abandoned factory district to the underground theater after her first public appearance, how her submissive posture wasn't quite standard, how her ass wasn't arched high enough. Something in her eyes lit up—then died out. Finally, she simply drew her wagging tail slightly closer to her hip, the bells on the chain tinkling very faintly and crisply for a moment before falling silent.