A meticulously planned kidnapping

The towel was soaked with a cloyingly sweet and acrid liquid. The smell was overpowering, like cheap nail polish remover mixed with industrial alcohol, laced with a sweet, decaying fruitiness that assaulted the senses. She instinctively wanted to cough, but her mouth and nose were clamped shut, air trapped in her throat, forcing out only a muffled, compressed whimper. "Mmph—!" The sound was muffled by the towel, indistinct, yet filled with shock and terror. Her eyes widened instantly, pupils constricting rapidly, her tear ducts immediately flooding with physiological tears. Her hands snapped away from the car door handle, fingers stiffening in mid-air for a moment before frantically clawing at the hand covering her mouth and nose. The garage erupted with the sounds of a violent struggle. "Mmph! Mmph mmph—!" A series of muffled whimpers escaped her throat, each syllable choked by the towel and the hand, only letting out dull, distorted final sounds. She desperately tried to scream "Help," but her mouth was held too tightly, her tongue pressed by the towel, her lips contorted, all syllables devolving into the same suffocating "wooo wooo" sound. Her fingernails dug deep into the man's flesh, feeling skin and sticky bodily fluids packed under her nails. She clawed, scratched, and tore with all her might, her fingers gouging bloody tracks on the back of his hand, but his grip was like iron, unyielding. It was a pair of large-knuckled hands, veins bulging on the back of one hand covering her mouth and nose, the other gripping the back of her head, pressing the towel and her face together, leaving her no room to breathe. Her heels kicked backward desperately, her stiletto heels striking the man's shinbone repeatedly. The first kick landed true, the heel hitting the tibia directly, a searing pain that elicited a beast-like growl from the man's throat, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let go. The second kick landed on the same spot, the third missed, the heel scraping across the outer side of his calf, leaving a white mark. Her legs kicked backward alternately, her black-stockinged legs tracing chaotic arcs under the fluorescent lights, the muffled thud of heels hitting bone, again and again, like someone smashing something with a hammer. "Let—go—!" she forced out two words from the depths of her throat, her voice distorted by the towel, sounding as if it came through a wall, dull and twisted, but the tail end of the word "go" rose sharply, a desperate shriek. The man remained silent, only his heavy, ragged breaths washing over Zhang Yaohuan's ears, hot and humid, carrying the scent of stale smoke and rotten teeth. He buried his face in her hair, his nose almost touching her earlobe, his exhaled breath spraying onto her ear and neck, raising goosebumps. The struggle intensified. Zhang Yaohuan suddenly threw her head back, her occiput slamming against his face, her neck bending back to its limit, the veins in her neck bulging. She felt something brush against the back of her head—his nose? Cheekbone? She didn't know, but the towel slipped slightly, exposing one of her nostrils. Fresh air rushed in, mixing with that sweet chemical odor, choking her into a violent cough. In that instant, she summoned all her strength and stomped the stiletto heel of her high heel down onto the attacker's instep. This strike used all her might, from her thighs to her calves to her ankles, all the power of her lower body concentrated on that needle-thin heel, crushing down. The man grunted, and in pain, his hands instinctively loosened for a moment. "—Fuck! You stinking bitch!" he cursed, his voice hoarse and rough, laced with a furious resentment, stumbling back half a step. The towel fell from Zhang Yaohuan's face, hitting the ground with a wet slap. She didn't have time to run, to call for help, because the large dose of drugs she had inhaled earlier had taken effect, coupled with the dozens of seconds of suffocation, her brain starved of oxygen. She collapsed to the ground as if her bones had been removed, her knees hitting the cold concrete floor heavily, the sound of flesh and bone impacting the hard ground dull and crisp. "Cough—cough—cough cough cough—!" She erupted into heart-wrenching coughs, one after another, her entire body heaving violently, her shoulders shaking, her back arching, her head almost drooping to the ground. The coughs echoed and reverberated in the empty garage, sounding desolate and helpless. Something felt stuck in her throat, each cough bringing with it the urge to gag, her mouth filled with that sweet, acrid chemical taste, her tongue numb, her throat burning. "Help—cough—help—" she tried to call out between coughs, but her voice was fragmented by the coughing, barely audible, so quiet she could barely hear herself. She wanted to scream, but her windpipe felt as if it were being squeezed, every bit of air having to push through immense resistance to escape, only to emerge as hoarse, weak, intermittent gasps. As she knelt, the hem of her black pleated skirt flipped up, piling layer upon layer around her waist, exposing the view beneath her skirt without reservation. The wide lace waistband of her black stockings hugged her slender waist tightly. Below the waistband, the stocking fabric was stretched extremely thin and sheer over her buttocks, revealing the color of the skin beneath. A black thong was cinched between her buttocks, so narrow it seemed like only a thread, the so-called "fabric" at the back reduced to a single strap, deeply embedded in the crevice of her full buttocks, almost completely swallowed. On the sides of her hip bones, only tiny triangular pieces of fabric barely covered, the sides of these triangles no more than two or three centimeters long, only concealing the most core areas. A few stray, curly hairs, distorted by the stockings, peeked out from under the stockings, a shade lighter than the black of the stockings, a warm, dark brown hue. The black pantyhose were deeply indented into her flesh around her buttocks, forming a blood-pumping crease. This crease ran across the highest point of her gluteal peaks, dividing the plump buttocks into an upper and lower section. The upper section was held by the stocking's waistband, slightly bulging, while the lower section was doubly constrained by the thong and stockings, stretched taut and rounded. Under the cold white glare of the fluorescent lights, her black-stockinged buttocks shimmered with a faint glow, the extremely subtle reflection produced when the stocking fabric was stretched to its limit, clearly outlining every inch of the buttocks' full curve. The man stood behind her, looking down at the scene. He lowered his head, gazing at the woman kneeling on the ground, trembling from coughing, her skirt gaping open, a greedy and wild glint flashing in his eyes. He licked his chapped lips, his tongue slowly tracing the few bleeding cracks, his Adam's apple bobbing again, this time more pronounced, as if he had swallowed something scalding. "Damn it, dressed like this, who are you showing off for?" His voice was low, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps passing judgment. His hoarse, rough voice was particularly jarring in the empty garage, each word like sandpaper on glass, grating into Zhang Yaohuan's ears. "Dressed up like a whore late at night, even God can't stand it, so he sent me to take you." A woman hangs suspended in the air within the carriage. Her body is tautly pulled by several ropes simultaneously. Coarse ropes are tightly bound around her ankles, one connecting upwards to a crossbeam on the ceiling, hoisting her entire weight onto this single pulling rope. Another rope extends from her ankles, constricting her neck and forcing her head and neck to bend backward. A third rope pulls her hands, bound behind her back, stretching her limbs to their extreme limit behind her. Three forces tear at her from different directions, making her like a bow pulled taut from three points, her torso bent into a shocking C-shape. (It hurts so much... my shoulders are going to break... I can't breathe...) Every muscle is being torn by the ropes and gravity, the pain long and continuous. Her neck, shoulders, elbows, waist, knees, and ankles – all the joints bear tension beyond their limit. The pain is not a sharp sting, but a dull ache that seeps out from the very bones, mixed with the burning sensation of ligaments stretched to their breaking point. She hangs there, slowly rotating around the vertical pulling rope. Several times she tries to close her eyes, to escape through unconsciousness, but the moment her body relaxes even slightly, the ropes dig deeper under the pull of gravity, and a new wave of pain drags her back to consciousness. Her head hangs limply – or rather, is forced to tilt back – her body beneath the pulling rope like an forgotten, open fan, rotating slowly, circle by circle. At certain angles, the dim yellow light bulb overhead shines directly into her eyes, making her pupils contract. Then the shadows cover her again, swallowing her into the gloom. Then the light again, then the shadows, over and over. Her shadow is cast on the carriage wall, constantly changing shape with the rotation – sometimes stretched incredibly long, like a wadded-up rag doll; sometimes shrunk into a ball, like a small animal shivering in the dark. Her face is completely covered by a black leather dog mask, revealing only her eyes. The mask is meticulously crafted, the leather soft and thick, fitting snugly against every contour from her forehead to her jaw. The forehead of the mask bulges slightly, mimicking the shape of a dog's skull, and two black leather ears hang down from the sides, flopping softly and swaying gently with her movements. The only hint of her emotions is in the eyes exposed through the eyeholes – they are filled with shame and despair. The whites are crisscrossed with fine red veins, her eyelids slightly red, her lower eyelids slightly swollen from prolonged crying. Tears have pooled in her eyes for too long, the skin at the corners of her eyes pale and wrinkled from being soaked. The tears, held back in her eye sockets, slosh at the bottom of her eyes, reflecting the dim yellow light from above, shattering into fragments of light. Her brows are tightly furrowed beneath the mask, twisted into a knot of pain, the muscles in her brow twitching involuntarily, jumping every few seconds. The mouth of the mask protrudes outward, shaped like a realistic dog's muzzle, extending forward in a cone shape for four or five centimeters, its surface pressed with fine wrinkles. Inside the mouth, a black rubber ball gag is firmly secured to the inside of the mask with straps, wedged tightly in her mouth, pressing down heavily on her tongue. The gag is about four centimeters in diameter, fitting snugly between her upper and lower teeth, forcing her jaw open to its widest angle, causing a constant ache in her jaw joints. Saliva secretes uncontrollably, seeping out along the gap between the gag and her lips, dripping down the protruding muzzle of the mask. Some saliva stretches into a thin, silvery thread, swaying gently in the dim yellow light before breaking and dripping down, adding another layer of moisture to the already soaked fabric on her chest. The skin around her mouth is red and wrinkled from the saliva, and more and more saliva accumulates inside the mask. With every breath, a faint sloshing sound of saliva can be heard from the bottom of the mask. A rope is tied to a D-ring at the back of the mask, the other end connected to her bound toes, forcibly arching her head backward. The rope is taut like a guitar string, running straight from head to toe. Her neck is held at an extremely unnatural angle for a prolonged period, the surrounding muscles stiff as stone. The woman is wearing a slip-style lingerie set, so thin it's almost transparent, like a pale purple mist, barely covering her skin. The straps are extremely thin, one of them having slipped off during her struggles, hanging diagonally over her upper arm, revealing the smooth, rounded curve of her bare shoulder. Her collarbones protrude clearly beneath her thin skin, and a small pool of sweat has gathered in the hollow between them, glistening in the light. In front, above and below her breasts, are two ropes. The rope between them is embedded in her cleavage, extending upwards, wrapping around her shoulders, and securely fastened. Those full, teardrop-shaped breasts, squeezed by the ropes and contrasted by the purple lace lingerie, appear even more erect and swollen – their curves round and natural, their skin taut and smooth, with faint blue veins visible beneath. The upper rope constricts the upper curve of her breasts, causing them to bulge slightly; the lower rope lifts them from below, presenting the pair of breasts in a forcibly uplifted posture, as if about to break free from the thin fabric at any moment. With every sway of her body, her breasts jiggle slightly, the movement not large, but appearing particularly concentrated due to the pressure of the ropes. The tips are adorned with two delicate cherry nipples, slightly erect from prolonged exposure to the cool air. They are a pale pink, appearing particularly fragile and striking against the body wrapped in purple fabric and black ropes. The lace horizontally obscures and reveals them. Every time she slightly shifts her body due to the pulling tension, those delicate tips tremble gently, like two small buds shivering in the wind. Her arms are bound behind her in a "backwards-facing monkey" restraint. Her arms are folded backward, the inner sides of her forearms pressed together, her hands clasped, palms touching, fingertips pointing upwards, locked in a prayer-like pose behind her neck. Her shoulder joints bear immense pressure in this extremely unnatural position, the humerus head twisted to a critical point in the joint socket, sending waves of numbness down her upper arms to her fingertips every few minutes. Purple nylon gloves cling tightly to her skin, covering her arms from fingertips to just below her armpits, encasing them completely. The gloves are a tight fit, made of a relatively thick nylon fabric with a dense elasticity, snugly molding to every curve of her arms, like a purple second skin. The nylon fabric has a fine, soft matte finish under the light, accentuating the smooth, attractive lines of her arms. But at this moment, these beautiful hands are tightly bound behind her neck, the nylon fabric creased by the pressure of the ropes. The rope starts from her bound wrists behind her neck, winding tightly around them, securing the base of her clasped hands, then extending down along her tightly pressed inner forearms. The rope tightens into a noose at the bend of her elbows, firmly gripping the joint, then climbs back up along the curve of her upper arms, with deep, constricting rope loops sinking into the fabric at intervals. The black rope bites into the nylon fabric of the purple gloves, creating deep creases in the nylon, the taut fabric bulging slightly on either side of the rope. Her fingertips, pressed against the back of her neck, occasionally tremble slightly, curling futilely within her clasped palms, unable to even brush against the edges of the knots. Her chest and abdomen, from the Last night in the garage, she was drugged and taken by that stranger. The experience that followed – despair, humiliation, unforgettable. Later, she was bound and imprisoned like this, unsure how long she had been suspended. From the moment she was tied in this position, time lost all meaning. Perhaps an hour, perhaps three, perhaps an entire night. In the pain and fear of suspension, every minute stretched into a century. Her consciousness flickered between clarity and haziness – when clear, every nerve screamed, every inch of skin constricted by the ropes sent signals of pain to her brain; when hazy, the surrounding scene distorted, the van, the ropes, the lights blurring into a murky mess, only to be violently yanked back to lucidity by a sudden, sharp pain. The sensation of hanging, utterly unsupported, was ten times more terrifying than mere restraint. When a person is bound, they can at least touch a support, grasp a sliver of stability. But suspended in mid-air, the only contact with the outside world was the ropes digging relentlessly into her flesh. She was like a leaf caught in a spiderweb, floating in the air, unable to ascend or descend, left to the mercy of the ropes as they slowly sliced into her body. The fear of weightlessness, the despair of having nowhere to brace herself, the humiliation of being completely stripped of agency – these layers compounded, becoming far more unbearable than any single form of torture. She was a person of extreme control, involved in every detail at her company, even choosing the ribbon color for the packaging – yet now, she couldn't even control her own body, couldn't decide which way to move a single finger. Zhang Yaohuan repeatedly asked herself: How did I end up like this? I am Zhang Yaohuan, founder of PUPU W, who built this company from scratch to its current scale. I survived divorce, raising a child alone, countless supplier defaults, and cash flow crises – I overcame every single one. But this time, she didn't even have the standing to negotiate as an equal. Here, she wasn't a general manager, not a brand founder, just a woman hanging in the air, stripped bare of even her modesty. Her negotiation skills, management acumen, and business sense, which she prided herself on at the company, were utterly useless now. All she could do was hang like this, waiting for that man to return, waiting for him to decide when the next round of torment would begin. She closed her eyes, and two tears slowly squeezed through the eyeholes of the mask. The tears trickled down the inside of the leather, seeping into the gap between the mask and her cheeks, an itchy sensation she couldn't even scratch. Her body swayed slightly with this release of tension as she closed her eyes – a faint metallic scraping sound came from the point where the hoist rope was attached to the ceiling of the van, and she began to slowly rotate around her own axis, like an old, forgotten fan, turning circle after circle in the dim, yellow light. As she rotated towards the light, the world behind her pupils became a blinding, murky red; as she turned back into the shadows, it darkened again, as dark as the shrinking silhouette of "Zhang Yaohuan" in her heart. The hoist rope dropped straight down from the roof beam, converging into a rough knot at her ankles. From her ankles upwards, the rope split into two strands: one climbed up her spine, looped around her neck, forcibly pulling her head back; the other followed the line of her arms, disappearing into her wrists, locking her bound hands tightly behind her neck. Three ropes tightened simultaneously in three directions, pulling her body into a shocking C-shaped arc – her shoulder blades were stretched to their limit, her lumbar spine sagged downwards, her buttocks were forced to arch upwards, her entire body like a bow pulled taut from three directions. The powerlessness of being completely stripped of control was more devastating than the pain itself. A memory flashed in her mind from the company's annual party last year – she stood on stage in a white suit, raising a toast to over a hundred employees, the spotlight on her, all eyes focused on her as she announced the goal of 300 million in sales for the next year, met with thunderous applause. Was the woman bathed in that spotlight truly the same person as the one now hanging in mid-air, wearing a dog-head mask, clad only in a few scraps of purple gauze? On the van floor, a pair of purple high heels lay askew. The heels were about ten centimeters high, as slender as two purple nails, the uppers made of matching patent leather, reflecting dim highlights in the dim, yellow light. The inside of the shoes still bore the "PUPU W" logo – a product of her own company. Now, those shoes lay discarded like trash, the left one overturned, its sole facing the ceiling. Next to the high heels was a pair of purple mesh thong panties. They were carelessly tossed on the van floor, the fabric meager, with only two hair-thin purple ribbons at the sides, and a small piece of purple mesh at the crotch, its holes so large they could barely conceal anything. That piece of mesh was now stained with several dark, wet marks, and some cloudy, whitish residue, gleaming dully in the dim light. One of the side ribbons was torn, its frayed end curled askew, while the other remained intact but was crumpled and creased. Further to the side, four or five used condoms were scattered about. Some were near the van door, openings facing up, holding a semi-transparent liquid; others had rolled under the sound-absorbing foam in the corner of the van, only revealing half of their rolled-up rubber rings; some were simply dropped next to the thong panties, almost touching the purple mesh. The inner walls of the condoms were coated with a cloudy, whitish, viscous fluid, slowly dripping from the openings and forming small, dark wet patches on the gray felt mat. The fluids hadn't completely dried, reflecting a damp sheen in the light, emitting a strong, alkaline odor that mingled with the scent of sweat and rubber in the van, creating a nauseating, murky aroma. All of this silently testified to the nightmarish encounter of last night – how violently she struggled, how her coverings were stripped away one by one and flung aside; and the culmination of all that struggle was this body, now suspended in the air. Wrapped in layers of purple and black, bound by ropes inch by inch, she swayed slightly in the dim, yellow light, accompanied by a never-ending, broken whimper. Every time Zhang Yaohuan's gaze swept over the condoms on the floor, her stomach churned. She remembered the sound of each wrapper being torn open – the man biting the serrated edge of the packaging with his teeth, tilting his head, and tearing it open with a "riiiip." She remembered his heavy breaths as he pressed down on her, the feeling of his fingernails scratching her skin as his hands fumbled over her body, the warm, sticky sensation of those fluids entering her body – living, body-temperature fluids, now slowly drying on the gray felt mat through the semi-transparent rubber walls. She was the general manager of a lingerie company, designing countless sexy pieces. But when her own body became a "test subject" for those products, she understood true humiliation. She remembered telling the designers in the conference room, "We create products that make women feel confident when they wear them," but now, wearing these products, she felt only shame, shame from head to toe. She wanted to vomit, but the ball gag prevented her, allowing nothing to escape but more saliva mixing with tears and trickling down. "Mmm... mmmph..." A muffled whimper escaped her throat again, her voice filled with lingering despair. The sound echoed in the van for two or three seconds before being swallowed by the sound-absorbing foam and the metal walls of the van, leaving not even a trace of an echo. (Help! I'm here! Please—) She began to struggle desperately, more violently than ever before—her entire body twisting madly, the tether rope emitting a piercing creak, a sound like the shriek of rusty chains being pulled with force, echoing back and forth in the confined carriage. Her hips and waist swayed violently from side to side, the rope digging deeper with the frantic thrashing, several loops sinking directly into her flesh. Her legs kicked backward with all their might, the muscles of her thighs, encased in purple stockings, tensing and relaxing violently between the ropes. The angle of her waist bent and shifted with each struggle, accompanied by a sharp, stabbing pain each time it changed. The tether rope swung wildly with her frenzied movements, the metal sheeting of the carriage groaning faintly. But the price of each swing was paid in the same instant—the rope on her ankle yanked sharply upward, lifting her calf half an inch, stretching the muscles at the back of her thigh to their limit, a tearing, burning pain shooting through the ligaments at the base of her leg. She instinctively tried to retract her leg, but this movement immediately tightened the rope connecting her ankle to her neck, the loop constricting her throat fiercely, crushing her trachea, cutting off both inhalation and exhalation. Suffocation, like an invisible hand, gripped her throat, and a black mist instantly clouded her vision. She had no choice but to abandon the thought of retracting her leg, allowing her neck to return to its forced backward angle, and air began to rush back in through the slits of her nostrils with a sharp gasp. But as soon as her legs stopped contracting, her body's center of gravity shifted to her hips and the sides of her waist. The suspended posture caused her entire weight to press down on the rope around her waist, her lumbar spine caving downward, and the several loops around her abdomen acted like a wrench being continuously tightened, twisting her abdominal cavity inch by inch. She could feel her abdominal muscles helplessly bulging and collapsing on either side of the rope loops—with each inhale, her abdomen expanded, and the rope sank a layer deeper into her flesh; with each exhale, her abdomen contracted, but the rope couldn't retract fast enough, and it tightened even more with the next inhale. This was a slow, rhythmic tightening, each breath wrapping the rope another turn around her body. The skin on her waist grew hot from the friction, sweat seeping out along the edges of the rope loops, mixing with the skin to form a sticky layer in the gaps. Simultaneously, her hands, bound behind her neck, began to tremble uncontrollably. The fingers of her purple nylon gloves flexed and extended repeatedly in a clasped posture—as soon as her fingertips slightly curled, trying to grasp something, the loop on her wrist immediately tightened, the rope biting into the nylon fabric, creating fine wrinkles, and cutting off circulation to the base of her fingers, causing her fingertips to go numb and swell. She forced herself to straighten her fingers, but as soon as she did, the rope at the base of her palm tightened into the inner side of her wrist, where the skin was thinnest, allowing her to clearly feel her pulse throbbing beneath the loop, each beat reminding her how close the rope was to her veins. Her fingers moved futilely behind her neck, the purple nylon-clad fingertips rubbing against each other, emitting a faint rustling sound, like two pieces of sandpaper lightly scraping together. She tried to trace the path of the rope with her fingers, searching for the knot, but her fingertips encountered only taut loops and cold metal rings—the D-ring was firmly embedded at the intersection of the ropes on her wrists, and each finger was rigidly fixed in the clasped posture, making it impossible to even draw out a single finger. She shook her head, trying to loosen the rope connecting to her toes at the back of the mask, even by a fraction. As her head tilted to the left, that rope immediately tensed, forcibly pulling her head back to the center, while simultaneously yanking her big toe upward. A faint "click" sounded from her toe joint, and pain shot in like a nail from her toe, traveling up her instep, ankle, and calf, piercing directly into the popliteal fossa behind her knee. Her leg twitched violently, the muscles on the inner side of her thigh spasming uncontrollably, her stocking-clad thigh muscles jumping several times between the ropes. But this leg twitch caused the rope between her thighs to saw horizontally in her crotch—the rough hemp rope, moistened by bodily fluids, offered no less friction, its fibers scraping against the already swollen, tender flesh of her labia, leaving a fleeting white mark that was immediately filled by new seepage. A simultaneous explosion of stinging pain and tingling numbness made her buttocks clench sharply, her gluteal muscles instinctively tightening to avoid the rope, but this contraction only drove the rope deeper into her crotch, the entire rope embedding itself in the cleft, pressing tightly against her perineum. She had to force herself to relax the muscles of her buttocks, but as soon as she relaxed, the rope slid back into place, scraping against the same tender flesh. Zhang Yao Huan tried to relieve the spasms in her legs by rubbing them together—her tightly pressed thighs rubbed against each other with small movements under the restraint of the ropes, the inner sides of her stocking-clad thighs making a faint rustling sound. But the rope loops on her legs divided her thighs into three sections, each forming a small bulge of flesh within its respective loop, and as her thighs rubbed together, the loops rolled back and forth on her skin, making the already reddened skin even hotter. The popliteal fossae behind her knees were tightly sealed by the ropes, sweat accumulating there into a damp hollow, the stockings becoming darker where they were soaked and clinging tightly to the hollows. With each movement of her legs, the soaked stockings were repeatedly pulled and stretched under the ropes, emitting a faint crackling sound, like the snapping of fibers when fabric is stretched to its limit. She tried to lift her hips again—this was the last movement she could attempt. Her gluteal muscles contracted forcefully, lifting her hips less than an inch before the tension on the tether rope suddenly increased, the rope on her ankles yanking downward, and the loop on her neck tightening upward, the two opposing forces pulling the C-shaped arc of her body even more extreme. The pressure on her lumbar spine instantly soared, and she could feel the cartilage between her vertebrae being squeezed to a dangerous critical point, the ache spreading from her lower back all the way to her shoulder blades. The rope in her crotch became the sole point of support at this moment—as she lifted her hips, some of her weight transferred to this rope embedded in her crotch, the rope sinking deeply into the cleft like a taut bowstring, its rough fibers pressing hard against the most sensitive nub at the opening of her labia, grinding over it, then back again. A sharp, almost electric tingling exploded from the opening of her labia, shooting up her spine from her lower abdomen, all the way to the back of her head. Her entire body convulsed violently, the force of her hip lift instantly dissipated, and her buttocks fell heavily back into place, the tether rope emitting a dull thud that vibrated in the carriage for several seconds. With this fall, all the ropes tightened by another round. The loop on her ankle slipped down a millimeter, catching on the protrusion of her ankle bone, where the skin had already been abraded during yesterday's suspension. Beads of blood bloomed like small dark red plum blossoms beneath the purple stockings, and now, as the rope tightened again, the needle-like sting made her emit a muffled groan from her nostrils. The loop on her neck shifted upward by half a finger, settling precisely into the hollow below her Adam's apple, and with each swallow, she could feel the rope frictioning against her throat. The loop on her waist sank into the thinnest part of the soft flesh on the side of her waist, where the skin had been whitened and wrinkled by sweat. The area where the rope passed left a deep indentation, the skin at the edge of the indentation a strange deep red, like a developing bruise. She paused briefly, gasping deeply through her nostrils. Her chest struggled to expand under the restraint of the ropes, her breasts beneath the purple lace bra rising and falling with her ragged breaths, the rope between her breasts rolling back and forth as her flesh was squeezed. Sweat poured from every pore of her body, mixing with tears, soaking her undergarments and the edges of the mask. The purple stockings on her calves were unevenly darkened by sweat, and several small holes had been worn through the stockings at her ankles, the frayed fibers spreading out like a fine purple spiderweb. At this moment, she could no longer afford to worry about the suffocating sensation that rose to her throat when she kicked her feet. The sounds that burst from her throat were rapid and muffled—"Mmm! Mmm-mmm! Mmm—!" much higher pitched than before. Although the gag blocked all clear syllables, she desperately forced sounds out of her throat, trying to make more noise. The mouth beneath the mask opened and closed frantically, her jawbone moving up and down, trying to push the gag out, but it was held firmly in place by the strap around her jaw, unmoving. Her tongue could only writhe uselessly behind the gag, saliva uncontrollably surging, wave after wave, streaming in large quantities from beneath the mask, some even squeezing out from the gap between the mask and her cheeks, flowing down the side of her neck, and into the small pool of sweat on her collarbone. Suddenly, the rough palm moved away from her buttocks, circled around to her front, and seized her breasts, which were made even more prominent by the ropes. His five fingers spread, reaching under the curve of her breasts, cupping the soft flesh within his palm, and then slowly tightening. The thin purple lingerie bunched up in his hand, and the two ropes around her nipples dug deeper into the flesh under his fingers, causing it to bulge out from above and below the loops. "Used so many times last night, and these tits are still this perky," the man chuckled, his voice laced with a rough admiration. "Thirty-something, had a kid, and your breasts are still like a maiden's before marriage, firm and bouncy. Ms. Zhang, how on earth did you grow this body? Did you just rub them yourself at the company all the time, to get them like this?" The sudden assault on her chest made Zhang Yaojuan's body stiffen, her ears instantly burning red. She shook her head desperately, trying to wrench her head away, but the rope connecting her big toe to the back of the mask held her head fast, allowing only a minimal side-to-side movement. A fierce roar erupted from her mouth, muffled by the ball gag – "Mmmph mmmph mmmph!" – a high-pitched, broken sound, laced with shame, anger, and the terror of violation, like a trapped beast issuing its final warning. (Get away! Take your dirty hands off me! I'll kill you – I will kill you –) An overwhelming sense of humiliation washed over her. Her breasts, her body, were being weighed and played with in a stranger's palm like an object. He even used the word "used" – as if she weren't a living, breathing person, but a sex toy repeatedly employed. The man scoffed, increasing the pressure with his fingertips. He lowered his head, looking at the nipple he was teasing, a satisfied smile on his lips. "You say no with your mouth, but these nipples are quite honest. Ms. Zhang, your body is much more honest than your mouth. You screamed all night yesterday, didn't you? Your voice must be hoarse. But these nipples harden at a touch, and you get wet when I rub against you. Aren't you just born to be fucked?" After indulging in his ministrations, he reached out to untie her ropes. However, he only released three of them – one connecting her toes to the D-ring at the back of the mask, one connecting her ankles to her neck, and another connecting her ankles to her wrists. He untied the ropes with practiced ease, quickly pulling the ends from the D-rings, then unwinding them coil by coil until they lay in a small pile on the floor. The moment the ropes loosened, her toes and head returned to their natural positions. Her head finally lowered from its extreme backward angle, her cervical spine emitting a series of faint clicks. Her neck no longer felt the strain of being pulled back, the rope around her throat loosened, and air flowed freely into her lungs. The pulling force between her ankles and wrists finally dissipated. (Finally, I can breathe... My neck is so sore...) The remaining restraints remained untouched. The black ropes were embedded in her body like a second skin, leaving crisscrossing indentations on the sweat-soaked purple fabric and stockings. The cuffs on her arms were all still there, the ropes around her waist and abdomen remained tight, and the loops on her thighs and calves were as dense as ever. She was still bound tightly all over, utterly unable to move. Zhang Yaojuan lay on her side on the floor of the carriage, breathing deeply through her nostrils. Although only three ropes had been released, the extreme arching and tearing had finally ceased, offering her body a moment of respite. The sharp pain in her joints slowly receded, replaced by a dull ache. Her chest heaved, the outlines of her ribs beneath the purple lingerie appearing and disappearing with each breath. Her eyes remained fixed on the man, her pupils filled with vigilance and fear – like a wounded cat, momentarily still, but with every nerve taut, ready to resist again if he made another move. She didn't know what he would do next, why he had only released three ropes and not all of them, why he had lowered her from her suspension but kept the other restraints. The unknown fueled her fear, her muscles remaining rigidly tense. The man soon moved again. He gripped her bound ankles in one hand and picked up a high-heeled shoe from the floor with the other. His hand was like a vise, his five fingers clamped around her ankle, holding her foot still. Zhang Yaojuan's ankle writhed desperately in his palm; she tried to pull her foot back, but her legs were bound tightly, her knees tied together, her thighs also bound, leaving her nowhere to escape. He roughly pried open her curled toes, his thumb and index finger gripping the sides of her arch, and with a forceful twist, straightened her curled toes, then shoved the shoe on. The shoe opening was a bit tight, and with a strong push, the heel finally locked into her heel. Then he did the same to her other foot, with the same technique and the same brutality. The high heels were back on her feet, the ten-centimeter stiletto heels arching her instep high, making her legs, encased in purple stockings, appear even longer and more alluring. "They look better with shoes on," the man said, admiring his handiwork, clicking his tongue. "These shoes are from your company too, aren't they? Ms. Zhang, when you design high heels, do you imagine yourself wearing them, tied up, for someone to play with? The heels are as thin as nails, arching your instep so high when you wear them, paired with these slutty purple stockings, any man would get hard. Were your company's female models tied up like this when they filmed commercials? Were those films passed around internally?" Zhang Yaojuan lay on her side on the floor, her body still writhing. She tried to roll over – from lying on her side to lying on her back, and then from her back to her other side, thrashing on the floor like a fish thrown ashore. But her arms were bound behind her neck, and each roll pressed on her shoulder, which was twisted to its limit. Her calves, wrapped in purple stockings, swept back and forth across the floor, the stockings creating tiny fuzz balls as they rubbed against the rough felt. The insides of her thighs rubbed together as she struggled, the stockings emitting a faint rustling sound. With each roll, her buttocks hit the floor, pushing the rope deeper into her cleft. The rough rope chafed back and forth in the crevice, grinding her tender labia until they were red and swollen. Her vulva uncontrollably secreted a slippery fluid, soaking the rope more and more. The "正" character on her buttocks distorted with the movement of her flesh. "Don't want to listen? Don't close your eyes, Mr. Zhang." The man reached out and pried open her eyelids, his thumb and index finger pressing on her upper and lower lids, forcing her closed eye open. "Weren't you quite proud when you designed these slutty panties? Isn't your company doing quite well? Your company's ads are all over the internet, with those female models posing in various seductive ways in your lingerie, and a bunch of men in the comments section getting horny, saying things like 'I want to lick,' 'I want to fuck,' 'I'm hard'—did you ever think about what those men were thinking when they looked at those pictures?" He paused, took the cigarette out of his mouth, held it between his fingers, and pointed the burning tip at her curled-up body. "They were thinking about what I did to you last night. Every single thing, I did it all. Your models are just slutty in the photos—you're truly slutty—that slutty vibe that oozes from your very bones, it's not something you can fake by striking a few poses. Last night, when I pinned you to the ground, your struggling and helpless look was more effective than any advertisement. Have you considered appearing on a livestream to sell your products, bound like this? I guarantee it would sell better than any of your models doing their slutty dances, and it would definitely make all your knock-offs and fakes get wiped out by the real thing—because no one can embody a fucked-out slut better than you." He stood up and looked down at Zhang Yaohuan, who was curled on the ground, trembling all over. The smile on his lips gradually faded, replaced by an almost serious scrutiny. "Alright, next I'm going to 'process' you a bit more, make you more like a proper bitch." He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held it between his fingers, and picked up the scattered ropes. He first wrapped the rope around the instep of her feet, crossing over the patent leather of the shoe uppers, forming a cross-shaped knot, and then looping under the sole of her foot. The rope dug into the arch of her foot, creating a peculiar bite with the stiletto heel of the high heel. He tightened the rope, securing it firmly like the loop on her calf, making the high heel and her foot become one. Finally, he simply wrapped the remaining rope around the thin heels of both high heels several times, the rope weaving back and forth between the two heels. Then, with a strong pull, the two heels snapped together with a "click." This action locked her feet into the high heels and forcibly brought her feet together, making it impossible to separate them even by a sliver. After finishing, the man clapped the dust off his hands, squatted down, and leaned close to her face. Through the dog mask, he stared directly into her bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. His face was so close that she could see the tiny beads of sweat clinging to his stubble, and smell the murky odor in his mouth, a mixture of cigarette smoke and stale tartar. "Don't look at me like that. You're my bitch now, and a bitch should act like a bitch." He reached out and patted her cheek, covered by the mask, in a flippant and casual manner. His palm made a light "slap" sound on the leather mask. "Stay put, we're moving somewhere else. When we get there, I'll take good care of you, and finish the remaining five strokes." The man didn't look at her again and turned to get into the driver's seat. As he started the car, the engine gave a dry, muffled cough before roaring to life in a low rumble. The exhaust pipe spewed a plume of black smoke that slowly dispersed in the morning mist. He put the car in gear, and the van bumped out of the parking lot on the uneven concrete ground, its body making a clanging sound of metal parts colliding. The tires rolled over a puddle, splashing muddy water onto the car, adding another layer of new grime. Zhang Yaohuan was curled up in the back of the van, her body rolling helplessly on the floor with each bump. The van's suspension was clearly long gone, and every pothole transmitted directly into the cabin. Her body was thrown up and then dropped down, her shoulder blades and hip bones hitting the hard metal floor repeatedly with dull thuds. With every bounce, the ropes dug deeper into her skin; with every rise and fall, the restraints tightened a notch further. She tumbled around on the van floor like a rag doll tossed into a washing machine—sometimes she'd hit the side of the van on her side, her shoulder making a dull thud against the sound-dampened metal; sometimes she'd be face down, her hands, bound behind her neck, sticking straight up, her fingertips encased in purple nylon gloves grasping futilely in the air above the floor; sometimes she'd be on her back, her silk-stockinged legs in high heels kicking upwards with the jolts, the heels tracing a purple arc in the air before landing heavily on the felt mat. Her legs were tightly bound together by the ropes, her knees unable to separate. Her high heels were tied together, so she could only swing both legs together. Her calves, encased in purple silk stockings, thrashed left and right on the van floor, the heels of her shoes clacking against the metal floor with each bump, like some desperate drumbeat. She constantly let out muffled groans from her mouth—"Mmm! Mmm mmm! Mmm—!" With every violent jolt of the car, the "mmm" sound was broken into intermittent fragments. She desperately exhaled through her nostrils, trying to suck in more air during the brief lulls in the bouncing, but the ropes on her chest severely restricted her breathing, making each inhale pitifully shallow. (Can't breathe... the ropes are too tight...) Rolling over was the most painful. To roll from a side-lying position to lying on her back, she had to first curl her bound legs together, find a pivot point on the van floor with her knees and heels, and then twist her waist and abdomen—but with each twist, the ropes around her waist tightened, compressing her chest like a crushed soda can, making her unable to draw any air for a moment. Even more terrifying was how her breasts were squeezed and deformed on the floor when she rolled over—when lying on her back, her breasts spread to the sides; when lying on her side, one breast was pressed underneath her, while the other drooped towards the floor under the pull of gravity. The ropes made her breasts even more asymmetrical. With every roll, the rope between her legs rubbed back and forth in the crevice of her vulva. That rope, slick with bodily fluids, sawed back and forth against her most sensitive flesh, causing her body to spasm with each friction. Her vulva was rubbed raw and swollen, yet it continued to uncontrollably secrete slippery liquid, making the rope even wetter and the friction smoother. (The rope below is rubbing again... it hurts... but it's so slick... don't leak anymore...) She rubbed her legs together, trying to alleviate the stimulation from the rope—her inner thighs rubbed against each other through the silk stockings, the purple stockings making a faint rustling sound, but the rope loop only dug deeper into her muscles with the repeated tensing and relaxing of her thigh muscles. The silk stockings were darker where they were soaked with sweat behind her knees, clinging damply to the hollow of her popliteal fossa. With each bend and extension of her legs, that patch of dark purple wetness gleamed under the light. She mumbled incoherently, her voice thick with crying, trying to call for help over and over—even though she knew the sound-dampening cotton in the van would swallow her cries whole, even though she knew no one would hear her in this desolate wilderness, she couldn't help but cry out, because there was nothing else she could do besides squeeze out a few broken syllables from her gagged mouth. The gag pressed her tongue firmly against the bottom of her mouth, and all she could produce were muffled, distorted nasal sounds from the depths of her throat—"Mmm—mmm mmm—" like a small beast trapped in a cage, whimpering incessantly in the bouncing vehicle. Two used condoms lay askew on the floor. The inner walls of the latex were coated with a cloudy, viscous fluid, slowly dripping from the openings and staining the grey felt pad with small, dark, wet patches. Zhang Yao was curled up in a corner of the carriage. Her posture was even more disheveled than before—her arms were bound tightly behind her back in a "reverse Buddha's blessing" knot, her hands clasped behind her neck, palms together, fingers pointing upwards as if in silent prayer. The thin rope between her fingers was wound tightly from base to tip, binding her hands into a single unit, rendering each finger immobile. The purple silk gloves still covered her forearms, already soaked through with sweat, clinging damply to her skin. The silk had become semi-transparent, clearly revealing the outline of each finger forced together, knuckles slightly prominent, fingertips tinged a faint pink from poor circulation. The shoulder joints had been twisted backward for too long, the sharp tearing sensation having settled into a dull numbness. Her arms pressed heavily against her back, her shoulder blades pulled backward and apart. It was precisely this backward pull that involuntarily pushed her chest forward. The ropes crossed in front of her chest, lifting from beneath her breasts and tightening above them, cinching her naturally full curves into an even rounder, more prominent shape. The purple fabric stretched to its limit, a thin layer encasing the heavy softness, the lace pattern faintly visible beneath the material, rising and falling gently with each of her short breaths. Sweat trickled from her neck, flowed along her collarbones, and finally disappeared into the shallow groove created by the ropes. - Her bare buttocks bore two more strokes than before, forming the character "正". The black ink stood out starkly against the pale, tender flesh of her buttocks, the strokes crooked, each about a finger's width wide. The pungent smell of the marker pen mingled with the already stale air in the carriage, drilling into her nostrils, a constant reminder of the counting system with every breath. Her legs were also bound in sections by ropes, starting from the tops of her thighs. One by one, the ropes dug into the purple stockings, leaving regular ring-shaped indentations that extended all the way to her ankles. The high heels remained on—the heels were tightly bound together by ropes, like a pair of exquisite shackles, locking her feet in place. The dog-head mask was on her face, fitting snugly against every contour from forehead to jaw, swallowing her entire face into a deep blackness. She was struggling. The sweat-soaked purple nylon gloves clung tightly to her skin. Her fingertips reached futilely towards the back of her neck—not even close to the rope. The rope loop at the base of her fingers created fine wrinkles on the fabric. Each time she bent her fingers, those wrinkles tightened at the knuckles, but her fingertips touched only air. She could feel the rope on her wrists digging deeper into her flesh with every flexion of her fingers. Blood flow was obstructed, and her fingertips began to tingle and swell. The swelling wasn't from edema, but a distension from blood being trapped in her fingers, like something expanding and contracting inside. The muscles in her thighs tensed sharply for a moment. She wanted to rub her legs together, to make her tightly pressed legs friction against each other, even just to separate her knees by a centimeter—but the rope restraints on her legs divided her thighs into three sections, each forming a small bulge of flesh within its respective loop. The inner thighs, encased in purple stockings, could only rub against each other slightly under the restraint of the ropes, producing a faint rustling sound between the stockings, so quiet it was almost inaudible, especially against the backdrop of the noisy market sounds. But this rubbing caused the rope loops to roll back and forth on her skin, making the already reddened skin even hotter. The stockings on her calves had developed several small pilling spots. The hollows behind her knees were completely sealed by the ropes, where sweat accumulated into a damp hollow. The soaked stockings darkened, clinging tightly to the indentation of her popliteal fossa, and with each bend and extension of her legs, that patch of dark purple wetness moved back and forth beneath the ropes. She twisted her waist. The ropes around her waist instantly tightened, squeezing a shallow bulge of soft flesh from her flanks. The ropes dug particularly deep into her waist indentations, almost embedding themselves into those two shallow hollows. With each twist of her waist, the ropes rubbed back and forth on the skin of her sides, which had been rubbed red and hot from prolonged confinement. Sweat seeped out along the edges of the rope loops, mixing with the skin to form a sticky layer in the gaps between the ropes and her skin. Her perky buttocks occasionally arched high, then writhed anxiously. Her fair, full peach-like buttocks, and the rope squeezed between her cheeks, were now completely exposed to the air. Each contraction of her gluteal muscles drove the rope deeper into the cleft of her vulva. The rough rope, slick with bodily fluids, scraped against the already red and swollen tender flesh of her labia with each fiber, leaving a fleeting white mark that was immediately filled by newly secreted mucus. She wanted to avoid the rope, but with a clench of her buttocks, the rope was pinched even tighter; she had to relax her gluteal muscles, but as soon as she relaxed, the rope slid back into place, scraping against the same tender flesh. Stinging and numbness exploded simultaneously. Her body stiffened abruptly, and a high-pitched whimper escaped her throat—she quickly bit down on the gag, daring not to twist her waist any further. But the rope was now thoroughly soaked, and each friction was smoother than the last, each pass grinding over the same spot. The entrance to her vulva was rubbed red and swollen, her tender flesh slightly everted. Each time the rope pressed over her clitoris, it sent a shiver down her spine, from her perineum to her lower abdomen, then along her spine, all the way up to the back of her head. She hated that rope. She hated her body even more—why, even at this point, was that place still uncontrollably secreting slippery fluid? She dared not twist her waist anymore, so she could only use the remaining method—her throat. "Mmmph! Woooohhhnnn!!" "Wooo! Wooo wooo oh oh!" "Woooohhhnnn—" She was calling for help. There were so many people outside—the fried dough stick vendors, the steamed bun sellers, those carrying black rice porridge looking for seats—so many people. If even one of them heard, if even one stopped, if even one looked into the carriage window—she screamed desperately in her heart: "Help—I'm here—please—anyone will do—" But the sounds that rushed out of her throat, crushed by the gag, muffled by the narrow passage of the dog-head mask's mouth, then hitting the sound-insulated carriage walls, and finally squeezing out from under the dark blackout film, had become a series of indistinct, low "wooo" sounds. The sound was pitifully weak. Heard from outside the carriage, it was probably no different from the whimpering of a tethered dog in the distance. His gaze slowly swept over her—first, the tear-filled eyes burning with fury beneath the mask, then the purple fabric of her top, strained taut by the ropes across her chest, then her bare waist and the "正" character on her buttocks that was getting longer and longer, then her legs, bound in sections by ropes and encased in purple stockings, finally settling on the heels of her boots, tied together. After a long moment, he reached out. Zhang Yaohuan instinctively flinched back, but he merely removed the dog-mouth-like protrusion from the mask's mouth. His fingers fumbled with the buckles on either side, and with a gentle tug, the leather made a faint rustling sound as that conical section jutting forward was detached. The hollowed-out interior of the mask was instantly exposed: her mouth and nose, and the black rubber gag clamped tightly in her mouth. The gag was stuffed full, stretching her lips into an unnatural arc. The skin around her mouth shone, the fine lines pulled and distorted. Saliva seeped from the gaps between the gag and her lips, trickling down her chin, already forming a damp patch on her neck. Next, he removed the gag from her mouth. His fingers went behind her head, found the buckle of the strap securing the gag, and with a soft click, the strap loosened. He gripped the rubber ball and pulled, the black sphere sliding out of her mouth, trailing a large amount of viscous saliva, forming a transparent strand that dangled from her chin before snapping. The moment the gag left her mouth, her jaw snapped shut like a sprung clamp, her teeth clicking softly. A dull ache shot through her jaw joint, and her lips, stretched for so long, couldn't fully close immediately. Her mouth still bore the pale, saliva-soaked skin at the corners. Zhang Yaohuan licked her chapped lips. The raw spots from the gag throbbed with a sharp pain, her tongue tasting a mixture of blood and rubber. She raised her head, turning her tear-and-saliva-streaked face towards the man. Then she spoke. "You bastard!" Her tongue was still numb from being blocked for so long, her mouth filled with the腥气 of rubber and saliva. But every word was forced out from between her teeth, carrying the anger and humiliation of the past two days, erupting from the depths of her throat. "When I get out, I'll make you wish you were dead—do you hear me?—wish you were dead!" Her voice hit the soundproofing foam and bounced back dully. She gasped for air, her chest heaving violently beneath the ropes. Sweat beaded between her collarbones, rolling down to splash onto the gray felt mat. The man squatted before her, watching her hysterics with a smile that never left his face. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slowly extracted one, and placed it between his lips, not bothering to light it. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, bobbing up and down. "You animal—scum—pervert—may you die a horrible death—you will—" She scraped her dry, raspy throat for every word she could think of, hurling them out, haphazardly, gasping for breath between each one. "You think you can get away—the police will find you sooner or later—you just wait—" Zhang Yaohuan's voice grew hoarser, as if scoured by sandpaper, each word a painful sting. But she couldn't stop. The fear, humiliation, anger, and hatred that had been building for two days were all stuck in her throat; if she didn't spit them out, she'd choke. She cursed until her voice cracked, until her chest was starved of oxygen, until her vision blackened. Finally, she pressed her forehead against the floor of the carriage, gasping for air. The man remained silent, only taking out a lighter and igniting his cigarette. Squinting one eye, he continued to appraise her through the smoke. The smell of cheap tobacco filled the carriage, mingling with the scent of sweat and rubber, making it even more acrid than before. Finally, Zhang Yaohuan stopped her curses. She lay on her side on the floor, her cheek pressed against the rough felt mat, sweat soaking the leather inside the mask. Her throat was so hoarse she couldn't form complete sounds, only a couple of low, muffled whimpers escaped from the depths of her being. The silence in the carriage lasted only a few seconds, the clamor of the market outside still surging. Just then, the man made a move. He took a small packet from his bag and dangled it before her eyes. "You've been cursing for a long time, you must be tired. Eat something first, regain your strength, you can curse more later." He grinned, his voice hoarse and casual, "I've been thinking about CEO Zhang, I didn't forget to bring you a meal." Zhang Yaohuan narrowed her eyes, staring at the packet for several seconds before recognizing what it was—dog food. A picture of a golden retriever was printed on the bag, with the words: "High Protein Formula, Complete Nutrition." She trembled with rage. Behind the eyeholes of the mask, her tear-filled eyes widened abruptly. The previous wave of fury had not yet subsided when a new flame crashed down, fiercer, hotter. "You—you dare! You dare to feed me this!!!" She was Zhang Yaohuan. Thirty-two years old, a self-made woman who had built "PUPU W" to its current scale. She closed her eyes. Her eyelids drooped heavily, lashes trembling beneath them. Tears squeezed from the slits of her closed eyes, trickling down the inside of the mask and pooling in the gap between the mask and her cheeks, an itchy sensation like countless tiny insects crawling on her face. She wanted to reach up and wipe them away, but her hands were bound behind her back, preventing even the slightest rub. (Son… Mom misses you so much…) The man didn't give her much time to process before he excitedly pulled another item from his bag, dangling it before her eyes. Zhang Yaohuan’s gaze fixed on it, and she nearly exploded with rage. It was a dog collar – black leather, about two fingers wide, with a finely textured pattern pressed into its surface, exquisitely crafted. Two rows of metal studs adorned the strap, their silver heads glinting under the light. The studs were evenly spaced, each polished smooth and round, firmly embedded in the leather, sturdy yet not snagging. “This is a bitch’s medal, wear it obediently.” The man weighed the collar in his hand, the metal fittings clinking with a crisp sound that was particularly pleasant in the confined space of the carriage – at least to him. He leaned forward, one hand unceremoniously gripping her bare shoulder, the other snatching the collar and looping it around her neck, pressing the leather strap directly against her throat. She desperately tilted her head back, her neck stretched to its limit, exposing a sliver of pale skin between her throat and jaw, veins bulging on her neck. The carriage was so small, where could she possibly escape? The moment the leather touched her, her entire body jolted – not from pain, but from revulsion. As the cold, smooth leather pressed against the most vulnerable part of her throat, she felt like livestock tethered to a post. No, not like, she *was* tethered. The buckle clicked shut at the side of her neck, a sharp, decisive sound. The collar was neither too tight nor too loose, the leather lying flush against her skin, lined with a thin layer of soft fabric. The touch was so soft it made her nauseous – the designer had clearly considered the comfort of a dog wearing it for extended periods. She lowered her head, trying to rub the collar away with her chin, to push the leather off, but it held firm. The edge rested just below her Adam's apple, brushing against it with every swallow. Then, he produced a thin chain. One end clipped onto the D-ring at the front of the collar with a crisp "click," clear and sharp; the other end he held in his hand. He tugged, and the chain went taut, yanking Zhang Yaohuan’s head forward. The collar on her neck dug half a millimeter into her skin under the strain. It wasn't suffocating, but the humiliation of being pulled by something was more devastating than any suffocation. “Take it off…” Zhang Yaohuan cried out in utter shame, her voice hoarse and broken. As these words escaped her cracked lips, the end of her plea dissolved into sobs, “Take it off – I’m not a dog – don’t do this to me –” She hunched her shoulders, trying desperately to pull away, to distance herself from the chain. As she dodged, the chain tightened, the collar digging into the soft flesh on either side of her neck. The skin on her throat was pressed into a shallow indentation, making it slightly harder to breathe. She had to stop struggling, to let her neck return to its original position, and the collar loosened back to its previous state. The humiliation she felt was beyond words. The shame brought by this dog collar was ten times worse than that "correct" character, more excessive than the bruised palm prints on her backside, more excessive than the countless ropes binding her body. She was Zhang Yaohuan, thirty-two years old, founder of the PUPU W brand. Not a dog. She told herself this again and again, repeating it silently in her mind, as if trying to redraw a boundary that was rapidly blurring. But the cold chain hung against her collarbone, and every time she moved her head up or down, the links brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps. As if to say: No, you are not Zhang Yaohuan. You are a bitch now, a leashed bitch. The man reached out and tugged the chain. The chain tightened and slackened, emitting a clear metallic tremor in the carriage. He then tied the end of the chain to a metal ring on the crossbar of the carriage ceiling, the same place where the ropes that had once bound her ankles had been secured. “Eat more, fill yourself up.” He squatted in front of her, tapping the edge of the stainless steel dog bowl with his finger, making a "ding ding" sound. His lowered voice held a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, “You’ll have to perform well in tonight’s live stream, Ms. Zhang.” Zhang Yaohuan’s pupils contracted sharply within the mask's eyeholes. Her tightly bound body felt as if an electric current had coursed through it, stiffening her from head to toe. The veins on the side of her neck bulged, and her shoulders twitched violently under the restraint of the ropes. “What… what did you just say?” Her lips trembled, her voice light and ethereal, her breathing short and shallow, like a drowning person desperately tilting their head back for the last breath of air. The man didn't answer. He turned and got out of the car, his silhouette shrinking into a dark cutout against the backlight. Then the car door was pulled shut, all light instantly cut off, and the carriage plunged back into darkness. The moment the door closed, the carriage was plunged back into darkness. Not long after, just as he was watching with keen interest, the live stream suddenly flickered, as if the signal source had been forcibly cut off. The screen went black for a moment, then lit up again, but the content on the screen had completely changed. It was no longer the live stream room showcasing lingerie from before, but a brand new, entirely different scene. The light in the frame was dim and murky, with only a single dim yellow bulb hanging from above, casting a hazy beam of light through the air. The floor was covered with dirty gray felt mats, crisscrossed with stains of varying depths. In the background, the metal walls of a carriage could be vaguely seen, with rough sound-absorbing cotton panels secured by rivets, several of which were curled up, revealing the rusty metal underneath. A woman knelt in the center of the frame. Gao Yong's first reaction was to frown. The scene made him feel uneasy—the light was too dim, the background too crude, not like the setting of a proper live stream room. But his hand didn't swipe away, and his eyes didn't leave the screen. He told himself it was professional instinct at play; as a police officer, he needed to confirm the situation first. But beneath that thought lay another, more honest reaction: the woman's figure was too good, so good that his gaze was momentarily fixed. She was wearing a set of purple lingerie, and if you could call it lingerie, the fabric was meager. The material was so thin it was almost transparent, like a layer of pale purple mist vaguely veiling her skin. One of the thin straps had slipped off her shoulder, hanging diagonally on her upper arm, revealing the smooth, rounded curve of her bare shoulder. Her collarbones clearly protruded beneath the thin skin, and a small pool of sweat had gathered in the hollow between them, shimmering faintly in the dim yellow light. On her arms, she wore a pair of purple nylon long gloves, covering them from fingertips to just below her armpits. The gloves were form-fitting, made of a thicker nylon fabric with a dense elasticity, tightly hugging every curve of her arms like a second skin of purple. The nylon material had a fine, soft matte finish in the dim yellow light, accentuating the smooth, beautiful lines of her arms. Her legs were encased in a pair of purple garter stockings, reaching to about a hand's width below the top of her thighs. The stockings were a very pale purple, highly transparent, appearing as if she wasn't wearing anything from a distance, and only upon closer inspection could one discern the faint, soft glow they cast on her skin. The delicate straps of the garters were tightened around her waist, the elastic bands pulled taut by her kneeling posture, the clips biting deeply into the lace edge "Mmmph... Mmmph..." The woman's voice, thick with a sob and a plea, was muffled by the gag. Her buttocks trembled, a response to both the pain and the ropes. A slick trickle of fluid seeped from where the spreader bar had chafed her cunt, tracing a dark, wet path down the thin straps of her purple thong. She tried to pull her hips back, to escape the lens and the hand, but as soon as she moved an inch, the chain around her neck tightened. The collar choked her, a wave of suffocation forcing her back into position – her ass still high in the air, exposed to the camera. The lens moved up her body, from her ass to her waist. The man's hand slid along the net of ropes on her flank, his fingertips tracing each knot. With every knot he pressed, the skin on her waist twitched – the knots were perfectly placed just below her ribs and above her hip bones, in some of the most sensitive spots. He pressed down on one knot with his thumb, the knot sinking deep into her flesh, the skin around it blanching from the pressure. The woman's body jerked, her waist twisting away, and a pained grunt escaped her nostrils. He released his grip and refocused the camera on the front of her abdomen. The ropes wove a neat diamond pattern across her flat stomach, each intersection secured with a knot. With her rapid breaths, her abdomen rose and fell within the confines of the ropes – each inhale expanded her belly, pressing the net deeper into her flesh; with each exhale, her abdomen contracted, but the knots didn't loosen, only tightening further with the next breath. He pressed down on one of the diamond-shaped sections, his fingertip sinking into the slightly bulging skin enclosed by the ropes, feeling the tremor of her abdominal muscles beneath the net. He switched the phone to his left hand, freeing his right. He spread his fingers and slid them under the edge of her breasts, cupping the soft flesh in his palm. The thin purple fabric bunched up in his hand, her breasts spilling slightly between his fingers. He slowly tightened his grip, deforming her breasts in his palm – the lower curves were pushed upwards, squeezing the flesh into a fuller, more swollen shape, the upper curve arching more dramatically over the ropes. Then he released his hand, and her breasts sprang back to their original shape, swaying slightly between the ropes. "Mmm..." The woman let out a faint groan. Her chest heaved under the restraint of the ropes, her ribcage expanding with each inhale, pulling the ropes tighter. With each exhale, the ropes refused to yield, allowing her only a shallower breath with the next inhale. The sensation of her own breath tightening the bonds made each breath a struggle. The man's hand didn't stop. Through the sheer fabric, his index finger and thumb found the right nipple, pinching it precisely. The nipple, already engorged and erect beneath the sheer material, was a pale pink, appearing exquisitely tender against the backdrop of purple fabric and black ropes. He rubbed it gently with his fingertip – the nipple rolled under his touch, becoming harder and more prominent, creating a distinct peak through the fabric. "Mmmph—!" The woman's body jolted as if electrocuted. Her chest quivered violently, the breasts cupped in his palm shifting between the ropes. She shook her head desperately, trying to pull away from his hand, but the chain around her neck limited her movement. She could only twist her head from side to side, her hair flying around the sides of the mask. She tried to arch her upper body backward, to create distance from his hand, but her arms were bound tightly behind her neck, her shoulder joints twisted to an extreme angle. Any further backward movement would send a tearing pain through her shoulders. The man remained unfazed by her struggles. His thumb and index finger continued to pinch and rub the nipple, unhurriedly – sometimes circling clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise, sometimes pressing down on the tip with his fingertip, pushing it into the areola before releasing it to spring back. Under his ministrations, the nipple grew harder and more erect, its color deepening from pale pink to a richer rose. Through the sheer fabric, his areola could be seen to contract, its surface dotted with tiny bumps. "Mmmph... Mmmph..." The sound escaping the woman's throat changed. It was no longer just pain and pleas, but a tremor she herself refused to acknowledge, an involuntary shudder. Her body was betraying her – her nipples hardened under his fingertips, her cunt grew wetter from the friction of the spreader bar; these were physiological responses she couldn't control. She lowered her head, her chin almost touching her collarbone, her hair falling to obscure the sides of the mask. Her eyes, visible through the mask's eyeholes, were squeezed shut, her thick lashes trembling violently, tiny tears welling at the corners. After finishing with the right nipple, the man moved to the left. The same technique – pinching through the sheer fabric, rubbing, pressing. The left nipple also quickly became erect under his manipulation, hardening and pressing against the sheer fabric just like the right. Then, he simply brought both his thumbs and index fingers over, pinching one nipple with each hand and gently rubbing them simultaneously. The two nipples trembled in unison under his fingers, a faint blush spreading across the areolas beneath the sheer fabric. Gao Yong's gaze was fixed on the two prominent points on the screen. He could see them quiver with her breaths, hardening as the man's fingers worked them. The thin purple fabric concealed nothing, only making the scene more alluring – the faint pink nipples, visible through the sheer material, were being kneaded, the lace pattern leaving delicate indentations on them. The moment the man released his grip, Gao Yong suddenly noticed the rose tattoo on her left arm. The camera was close, clearly showing every detail of the tattoo – the fine, flowing lines of the red petals, the outline of each flower meticulously drawn with a thin black line, standing out vividly against her fair skin. Her arm trembled slightly, the tattoo shifting with the subtle movement of her muscles, the petals seeming to unfurl on her skin before retracting as her arm settled. "I think I've seen this tattoo somewhere before," a vague thought flickered through Gao Yong's mind, but he couldn't quite place it. He didn't dwell on it, as the scene on the screen continued. The man patted her rope-bound chest, his palm leaving shallow creases on the purple fabric. Then he moved the phone away from her chest, stepped back, and reframed the camera to capture her entire body again. He slowly walked around her, the lens sweeping across her hands bound behind her neck, her rope-netted waist, her rope-tightened buttocks, and her legs bound in sections. Finally, he stopped behind her, and the camera slowly zoomed in on her back – starting from her feet in purple high heels, moving up her calves and thighs wrapped in stockings and ropes, sliding over the crevice of her buttocks tightened by the spreader bar, past the rope net at her waist, and finally stopping at her hands, bound behind her neck. The way her hands were bound was intricate. Her arms were folded backward, her forearms pressed tightly together, palms touching, fingertips pointing upwards, locked in a posture resembling prayer behind her neck. Purple nylon gloves encased each finger tightly, from fingertip to wrist to upper arm, completely covering every curve of her arms. The nylon fabric had a fine, soft matte finish in the dim light, accentuating the smooth lines of her arms. But now, these beautiful hands were bound tightly behind her neck – black ropes were wrapped tightly around her wrists, digging into the nylon fabric and creating deep creases. The taut nylon bulged slightly on either side of the rope circles, the skin beneath the bindings turning lighter, like a rubber band stretched to its limit. Even the bases of her fingers were tightly bound together with thin cords, rendering each finger immobile, forced to maintain the palm-to-palm position. Her fingers were slightly curled within the nylon gloves, the knuckles clearly visible through the taut fabric, occasionally trembling slightly. Gao Yong watched her hands, bound behind her neck, and noticed that her fingers weren't completely still. The fingertips, encased in purple nylon, trembled slightly – her knuckles gently bent, then unbent weakly, the nylon fabric stretching and creasing faintly between her fingers. Then her fingers curled again, then straightened, repeating the motion. She was trying to break free, even though every finger was bound by thin cords and her wrists were locked behind her neck by the ropes. She was testing the limits of her small remaining range of motion. But the thin cords at the base of her fingers held them tightly together, allowing her only small flexion and extension movements within the clasped position, her fingertips unable to even brush against the knots. The more she tried to separate her fingers, the tighter the cords at the base of her fingers became, the nylon fabric indenting deeply, her knuckles turning slightly red from restricted blood flow. The man's camera lingered on her hands for several seconds before he repositioned the phone on the stand. The comments began to stream in. At first, only a few scattered messages, then more and more, piling up densely below the screen. "??? What the hell is going on" "Did I switch channels by mistake" "Weren't they just selling bras a minute ago, what the fuck is this" "Holy shit, what kind of heavy-duty script is this" "The binding is so on point" "Damn, her body is amazing" "There's something wrong with her eyes" "Is she asking for help?" "This streamer is acting too real, so fucking hot" "The rose tattoo is pretty, but it just screams slut!" "This tattoo, I feel like I've seen it somewhere... I just can't remember" "Look at her nipples, they're hard, she looks like she's enjoying it" "More than her nipples, her pussy's probably all wet by now, her tits are so big, I want to squeeze them" "Can't take it anymore, I'm hard, gonna jerk off first!" "Who could resist being tied up like this, I can't either!" Gao Yong's gaze quickly scanned the comments before returning to her eyes. He had the same question – was this a script, or was it real? If it was real... She refused to accept it. Refused to be reduced to a mere plaything and pleasure slave. Refused to let that man have his way, refused to let the company collapse, refused to let her son never see his mother again. These refusals were like three red-hot iron nails driven into her chest, each breath a reminder—you still have unfinished business, you still have people to see, you cannot surrender like this. This thought jolted her awake from the lingering aftershocks of climax. She couldn't go on like this. She had to escape. She pressed her masked face hard against the concrete floor, seeking a sliver of coolness to dispel the lingering heat in her body. Her breathing gradually steadied, and the spasms in her muscles slowly ceased. She began to consciously assess her body—where the ropes were tightest, which joints could still move, which muscles still held strength. The leg restraints ran from her thighs to her ankles, dense and almost seamless, but her knees could bend slightly in the gaps. Her hands, bound behind her neck, were locked most securely, the ache in her shoulder joints persistent, but her fingers could still flex slightly within the nylon gloves. The rope net around her waist was tight, but her abdominal muscles could still contract. She reviewed her entire body's bondage in her mind, like a locksmith feeling out the mechanism of a lock in the dark. Once her strength had somewhat recovered, she began to struggle again in the darkness. At first, it was tentative—a wiggle of her fingers. The tips of her fingers, encased in purple nylon, flexed slightly within her clasped palms. The thin ropes at the base of her fingers immediately tightened, pinching her knuckles until they ached. "Mmm..." a faint groan escaped her nostrils. Then her wrists. She tried to push her hands outward from behind her neck. Her upper arm muscles bulged under the ropes, but the rear-bound posture locked her arms fast. Her shoulder joints screamed with a tearing pain after extending less than a centimeter. "Nngh—!" her groan rose half a pitch, only for her to force it back down. She abandoned the struggle with her arms and shifted her attention to her legs. Her legs were bound together tightly from top to bottom. The three rope loops on her thighs and the dense rope coils on her calves prevented her from even bending her knees. She could only curl both legs together, drawing her knees towards her chest, and then twist her torso violently—her abdominal muscles tensing like a steel plate in that instant—flipping herself from her left side to her right. "Mmm—Ngh—" During the roll, the crotch rope rubbed horizontally against the slick folds of her vulva. The rough fibers scraped against the two swollen, tender lips, and a sharp sting mixed with numbness exploded from her clitoralis. She forced a suppressed, pained groan from her nostrils, biting down on the gag to stifle a louder cry deep in her throat. After rolling over, the arm beneath her began to go numb. Within fifteen minutes, her fingertips lost all sensation, followed by her wrists, her forearms, her entire arm feeling as if submerged in ice water. She had to roll back. "Hngh... Mmm..." With each roll, a faint sigh escaped her throat—the sound of her body expelling effort, the sound of strength and pain being squeezed from her lungs. And so, she tossed and turned in the darkness, losing track of time. In this windowless room, time lost all meaning, leaving only the accumulating pain and fatigue in her body. Sweat seeped from every pore, soaking her purple lingerie and stockings. The skin constricted by the ropes became red and swollen from the constant friction. Her vulva, under the continuous friction of the crotch rope, secreted slippery fluids uncontrollably—the rope was thoroughly soaked, and each friction brought a shameful smoothness. (Why am I still leaking... why can't I stop...) She hated her body. Hated its weakness, its sensitivity, its physiological responses even in such humiliation. But she hated that man even more—hated his every word, every action, his careless expression each time he marked her buttocks. Hatred burned in her chest like an unquenchable flame all night. (I will get out alive. I will make him pay. I will make him regret. I will make him kneel in court, behind bars, look into my eyes, and know he was sent to prison by a "bitch" he himself called.) The man likely assumed she couldn't possibly escape. Her hands were bound behind her back, the ropes cinched so tightly around her body that escape seemed impossible, especially with the radiator positioned so high. He hadn't bothered with a lock, just casually hung the chain. That, however, gave her an opening. Beneath the mask, her eyelashes brushed against the leather, creating a faint rustling sound. Regaining a sliver of confidence, she forced herself to calm down – panic would only waste precious energy. She needed to be clear-headed, to plan, to calculate every move. Step one: get the chain off the radiator pipe. Zhang Yao Huan took a deep breath and began to struggle. The ropes, however, bound her so tightly that her range of motion was minuscule. She had to use her abdomen as a pivot, arching her back and then flattening it, inching forward millimeter by millimeter. First, she forcefully shrugged her shoulders, her shoulder blades protruding sharply, veins bulging on her neck, pushing her upper body forward a few centimeters. Then, she violently contracted her waist and abdomen, lifting and dropping her hips to drag her lower body forward with immense effort. Each movement advanced her only a tiny distance. With every wriggle, the ropes dug deeper into her skin. The rope binding her wrists chafed her wrist bones, and the purple nylon gloves began to show small fuzz balls. The restraints around her ankles tightened further, embedding themselves deep into the skin beneath her stockings. Each drag felt like a dull knife sawing repeatedly over her bones – the tips of her shoes left faint white marks on the floor. The rough concrete floor scraped against her chest, making her involuntarily arch her body, trying to avoid contact. The repeated friction of the stockings around her knees created a fine fuzz, and in some places, they had snagged, fibers spreading from the tears like tiny cracks. The most agonizing part was the knots between her legs. Every time she arched her back, every time she pushed her abdomen forward against the floor, they ground back and forth against the most sensitive flesh. The ropes, soaked with bodily fluids, were slick, yet the coarse fibers relentlessly scraped against the swollen, tender skin there. The knots were positioned precisely on the most sensitive point, and each movement ground them back and forth over that tiny nub. It became engorged and hypersensitive, each pass of a knot sending a faint electric current along her nerve endings, spreading throughout her body. It was uncontrollably secreting a slick fluid, making the crotch ropes even wetter, the friction smoother – and infinitely more unbearable. "Mmmph..." Beneath the mask, Zhang Yao Huan's cheeks burned. But she bit down hard on the gag, forcing herself to continue inching towards the radiator. Her eyes, wide behind the mask's eyeholes, were fixed on the radiator pipe ahead, as if it were the only piece of driftwood in a raging sea. Her brows were drawn together in intense concentration, the "川" character etched deeply between them, veins throbbing on her temples with each exertion, extending from her brow to her hairline. Her entire face – no, her entire body – from the tip of her eyebrows to her toes, every muscle strained with all its might. Even her fingers, bound behind her back, were clenched into fists inside the nylon gloves, her fingernails digging into her palms through the thin fabric. The moment she finally stopped, she felt utterly drained, gasping for air, her nostrils flared wide, her chest struggling to rise within the confines of the ropes. Each inhale was a battle for space against the restraints – her ribs ached, and her breath could only fill the upper lobes of her lungs, shallow and rapid. She rested for a few seconds. Or maybe longer. She couldn't tell anymore. She moved again. To roll over – a simple action before – a twist of the body, and she'd be over. But now, she had to negotiate with every single rope. There was no other choice; she had to end up on her back to bring her legs high enough to reach the radiator. She took a deep breath, drawing it into the depths of her abdomen, and then violently contracted her core, her body tensing into a taut arc. She shifted her weight to the left, creating a diagonal line from her shoulder to her hip, then twisted her lower back sharply – the force originating from her lumbar spine, wringing her upper and lower body in the same direction like a towel. Her shoulder hit the ground first, the coolness of the concrete seeping through the thin fabric, then her hip, then the outer thigh. The ropes creaked and groaned as she rolled, the loops grinding against her skin. She lay on her side, gasping for a few seconds, waiting for the numbness from the constriction to subside, then contracted her core again and flung her hips sharply – finally managing to roll onto her back. The ropes on her chest tightened and loosened as she rolled, pressing against her lungs, each breath only half-filling them. There was no time to rest. She curled her tightly pressed legs, bending her knees as much as the ropes allowed, the heels of her high heels hovering just above the floor. Then she tightened her abdomen – the ropes across her stomach dug deeply into her skin with the muscle contraction, the dull ache in the center of her abdomen feeling like a knife cut. She bit down hard on the gag and lifted both legs simultaneously. Her legs, clad in purple stockings, trembled violently in the air. The three rope loops on her thighs bulged the leg muscles, while the dense network of ropes on her calves stretched taut with the effort. The entire movement relied not on leg strength – her legs were too tightly bound, her knees lacking any room to maneuver – but on her core. Her abdominal muscles bore the entire weight of her legs, turning them into levers extending from her torso. She held her breath, her abdomen quivering with each contraction – the thin heels of her shoes swayed in the air, repeatedly reaching for the radiator pipe. Her eyes were locked on the radiator pipe on the ceiling, the pupils reflecting the faint metallic glint – her sole hope at that moment. Her brows were furrowed to the extreme, fine lines radiating from the "川" character between them, spreading like ripples across her forehead. The whites of her eyes were engorged with blood vessels from the strain, her lower eyelids trembling, her eyelashes fluttering violently with each leg lift. Sweat trickled from her temples, running along her brow and into the corners of her eyes, stinging her so badly that her pupils contracted, but she dared not even blink. The first attempt – the heel of her shoe brushed against the chain, making a crisp "ding" sound, but the force was insufficient. It only made the chain sway slightly, failing to dislodge the hook from the radiator pipe. She rested for a few seconds, allowing the cramping pain in the back of her thighs to subside slightly. Then she continued to lift her legs. The second attempt – the heel of her shoe grazed past the underside of the hook, only scraping the edge of the chain, producing a faint metallic rasping sound. Her abdominal muscles were burning, the muscles on either side of her lower back felt hot with strain. The back of her thighs were stretched to their limit, tears welling in the corners of her eyes from the pain. Sweat rolled from her forehead, along her brow, and into the corners of her eyes, stinging her pupils, but she dared not lower her legs – once she did, all the effort she had accumulated would be lost. She had to maintain this position, had to continue. She bit down fiercely on the gag, contracting her upper, lower, and side abdominal muscles simultaneously. The force radiated outwards from around her navel, pulling the edges of her ribs tight. Her eyes widened abruptly, stretched to their limit, a flame of unyielding determination burning in her pupils – the ferocity of someone who had no other choice. It was that last bit of something left in her bones after her body and will had been utterly depleted – something harder than hope. It was stubbornness, it was grit, it was the refusal to yield of a woman who had built a company worth hundreds of millions from scratch. Her legs rose to their highest point, the heels tracing an arc in the air – her calves, taut beneath the purple stockings, her insteps forming a graceful curve – And hooked precisely onto the ring at the end of the chain. The weight of the chain registered on her heel – her pupils contracted sharply for a moment, then dilated, a flicker of disbelieving ecstasy erupting in her eyes. After the ecstasy came extreme focus – she didn't cheer, didn't relax, because she knew this was only the first step. Then, carefully, inch by inch, she moved her knees, using the imperceptible side-to-side motion of her knees to guide her thighs, her thighs to guide her calves, her calves to guide her heels – the chain slid sideways along the direction of the radiator pipe above her head. As it slid, the chain and the pipe rubbed together, emitting a faint metallic sound – the sound of the chain scraping against the rusted surface of the radiator pipe, bit by bit, like a second hand ticking. "Click." A soft sound, and the loop detached from the crossbar, falling to the floor. The chain landed on the floor with a crisp metallic clatter. It was done. She bit down on the gag, suppressing the strange sensations coursing through her body, and began to writhe like an earthworm. First, she tightened her abdomen—her lower belly constricted sharply beneath the rope net, her hips arching upwards in response. Her knees bent as much as the ropes allowed, the heels of her high heels lifting clear off the ground. Then, her upper body lunged forward, shoulders pressed hard against the floor, her neck stretching desperately forward. Finally, using the strength of her abdomen, she dragged her lower body forward, inch by inch. Her entire body completed a full writhing cycle on the floor, moving forward a mere five or six centimeters. Then came the second, and the third. In the stifling air, only her suppressed breaths and the rustling sound of skin against the rough ground remained. Each wriggle was accompanied by the deep tightening of the ropes and the rough friction of the crotch rope. As she tensed her abdomen and arched her back, the crotch rope was pulled upwards, its knots grinding fiercely into the sensitive flesh of her vulva. When she lowered her hips back to the ground, the rope slid back into place, scraping again over the same raw, swollen tender flesh. Her breasts, flattened into fleshy patties by the pressure, rubbed against the coarse concrete floor with every forward lunge of her upper body—her nipples, through the thin lace of her bra, were repeatedly scraped by the ground, each friction grinding those delicate buds into a distorted shape. "Mmm... mmm..." Muffled groans escaped Zhang Yaohuan's throat. The sensations were overwhelming—the grinding of the knots in her crotch, the friction of her nipples, the constriction of the ropes all over her body. All the stimuli converged, igniting wave after wave of uncontrollable reactions within her exhausted body. Her vulva, rubbed raw by the repeated friction, secreted more and more viscous fluid, soaking the crotch rope until it gleamed slickly, making the knots roll more smoothly within her cleft. She could hear the faint watery sounds of the crotch rope rubbing, so quiet, yet in the extreme silence of the room, to her own ears, they were shamefully clear. She continued to wriggle, biting down on the gag. One centimeter, then another. The four or five meters from the bedroom to the door felt like an endless marathon. Sweat seeped from every pore, soaking through the fabric of her purple lingerie and her stockings. The stockings had developed several holes from the repeated friction, revealing her fair skin beneath, skin that was now streaked with gray-black dirt and small abrasions. The leather inside the mask had softened from the sweat, and the skin against her cheeks made a faint wet sound with every turn of her head. Her eyes never left the door. From initial determination, they narrowed in pain midway, tormented by her physiological responses—each time a knot ground against that one spot, her eyes would snap shut, her eyelashes trembling against the inside of the mask, a flicker of light in her pupils, like a candle flame blown askew by the wind, but never truly extinguished. The eyebrows beneath the mask were soaked with sweat, and beads of sweat clinging to her brow rolled down with each wriggle, from her brow bone to her temple, then tracing the curve of her cheek. Her entire face was contorted—the "川" character lines between her brows, the fine lines on her nose bridge, the muscles in her cheekbones tensed from biting the gag—her whole body was exerting itself, even her toes were curled inside the purple stockings. Despite her dire predicament, she refused to give up, gritting her teeth, enduring the increasingly distinct and familiar pleasure surging within her, her movements becoming more practiced with repetition. But just as she arched her back and her last abdominal contraction propelled her out of the bedroom doorway—at that final tightening of her abdomen, the knots in her crotch happened to lodge themselves on the most sensitive nub at the entrance of her vulva, grinding fiercely with her movement. The rough rope fibers scraped against that engorged nub, against the two already raw and swollen tender lips. In an instant, an electric jolt of pleasure exploded from that spot, surging up her abdomen, spine, and the back of her head, instantly spreading to every limb. "Mmm—!" A drawn-out, distinctly tearful groan squeezed past the gag. Her body convulsed violently—her hips clenched tightly, the muscles in her inner thighs spasming uncontrollably beneath the stockings, even her fingers, bound behind her back, stiffened. Her vulva contracted violently, and a warm liquid surged from deep within her body, soaking the crotch rope, soaking the thin straps of her thong, and trickling down the crease of her thighs, spreading a large, dark wet stain on her purple stockings. Zhang Yaohuan lay on the floor, her entire body trembling violently. Her chest heaved under the restraint of the ropes, each inhale expanding only a tiny amount, each exhale carrying a trembling nasal sound. And her eyes—behind the mask's eyeholes, they underwent a dramatic transformation. At the moment of climax, her pupils dilated sharply, the whites of her eyes around the irises squeezed into narrow rings. In them was written shock and disbelief—she couldn't believe her body had betrayed her again at such a moment. Then came resentment—her eyebrows furrowed into a pained arc, fanning outwards from her brow, like two wings broken by a storm, the ends drooping, sinking into the deep darkness of her eye sockets. Then came shame—her eyelids trembled violently, her eyelashes clumped together, wet, each blink squeezing out more tears. Finally, there was a near-numb despair—the fire that had burned in the depths of her pupils for so long was suddenly doused by a bucket of cold water, sputtering and struggling for a moment before extinguishing. She was being forced. She was a victim. She shouldn't have any reaction at a time like this. But her body wouldn't obey her. Those physiological responses occurred stubbornly, uncontrollably, delivering the most fatal blow when she was most vulnerable. Just then, faint, indistinct footsteps could be heard from outside the door. Suddenly, a phone rang outside, clearly audible even through the door. The person at the door picked it up and responded in a low voice for a few sentences – most of the sound was muffled by the door, only fragmented syllables like "Understood" and "I'll be right back" could be heard – followed by footsteps moving away, one step, then another, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared around the corner of the stairwell. He just left. "Mmmph—wooo—!!" Zhang Yaohuan let out a heart-wrenching wail in her mind. Despair washed over her again, and in that instant, the whole world felt hollowed out. She lay on the floor, trembling uncontrollably, tears and saliva mixing and dripping down from the edge of the mask. He left. Her only chance, gone just like that. He hadn't even heard her voice – the whimpers, the muffled cries she'd desperately let out – he hadn't heard a single sound. She lay on the floor, panting for a long while. Her chest heaved violently under the restraint of the ropes, her body pinned down, almost unable to move. Sweat trickled down her neck, pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, forming two small, shallow puddles. Can't give up. She couldn't just lie there and wait for that man to return. If he came back and found she'd broken free from the chains, found she'd tried to escape – given his brutality, she dared not imagine the consequences. Zhang Yaohuan bit down on the gag and continued to inch forward. This time, her movements were slower, each push requiring several seconds of rest, but her direction remained unchanged – towards the closed door. Her gaze was different now. No longer burning, no longer filled with longing, but a focused intensity, almost bordering on obsession, born from hitting rock bottom. All emotions were suppressed – fear, shame, the lingering echoes of climax – all pushed deep into the pupils of her eyes, leaving only one thought: get to that door. One meter. Half a meter. Twenty centimeters. Finally, her shoulder pressed against the door. Zhang Yaohuan turned her head, leaning against the door to catch her breath for a while. Her eyes, peering through the eyeholes of the mask, were fixed on the doorknob, her mind racing – it was an old-fashioned L-shaped handle, about a meter off the ground, higher than the radiator she'd encountered earlier. Hooking it with her foot might not be enough. After a moment's thought, she decided to try standing up first. This was the most direct approach. If she could stand, she could use her hands, tied behind her back, to reach the doorknob and press it down – if the door wasn't locked, it would open. This was also the simplest solution. But her feet were bound tightly together, the slender heels of her high heels entangled by the ropes, her legs like a single club. Leaning against the door, she tried to use it for leverage to push herself up. First, she bent her knees – within the limits allowed by the ropes, her knees could only bend at a very small angle – then she pressed her shoulder firmly against the door and pushed upwards with her waist. The muscles in the back of her thighs stretched to their limit, the pain bringing tears to her eyes, veins bulging on her neck, and a suppressed groan escaping from the depths of her throat. Her body had barely lifted ten centimeters off the ground before her legs began to tremble violently. The rope cinched tightly around her thighs, restricting blood flow, making her legs feel weak and oxygen-deprived with every exertion. Coupled with almost no food, water, or proper rest for three consecutive days, her stamina was already at its absolute limit. Her knees couldn't support her body weight, and she slid heavily back to the floor, her shoulder blades hitting the door with a dull thud. Unwilling to give up, she tried a second time, then a third. Each attempt ended in failure. She lay on her side on the floor, gasping for air through her nostrils, sweat trickling down her neck, soaking the skin around her collar. Standing up – impossible. Zhang Yaohuan closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. She had to find another way. Since she couldn't stand, she could only rely on her feet – her legs were bound tightly together, the slender heels of her high heels entangled by the ropes, but this also formed an irregular knot – perhaps that knot itself was a "key." If she could hook it onto the bar of the doorknob and then use the strength of her legs to press down, maybe she could turn the lock. She opened her eyes again. There was no dejection, no hesitation in them, only a calm, almost cold, decisiveness. Her eyebrows, previously tense from trying to stand, slowly relaxed. The "川" shaped furrow between them remained, but it was no longer a distortion from exertion, but the focused concentration of thought – her brow slightly lowered, her eyes narrowed, creating fine lines at the corners. Feeling that it was feasible, and with time pressing, she immediately began to act – first adjusting her position, sitting up straight with her back against the door, her right shoulder and hip wedged into the corner formed by the threshold and the doorframe. This posture gave her a relatively stable support – the doorframe held her body from the side, preventing her from falling backward or forward. Then she began to lift her legs. Her legs, bound tightly together, moved up along the angle between the doorframe and the door, the soles of her high heels scraping against the door, inching upwards. The three rope loops on her thighs made her leg muscles bulge, and the dense rope circles on her calves straightened rigidly with the exertion. Her abdominal muscles trembled violently. The rope net on her abdomen sank deeply into her skin with each contraction of her abs, the diamond-shaped rope pattern distorting. Beads of sweat rolled from her forehead, seeping under the edge of the mask, mixing with the tears and sweat on her face that were no longer distinguishable. But when her legs were raised to about sixty degrees, she couldn't go any higher. The muscles in the back of her thighs began to twitch spasmodically – a signal of muscle oxygen deprivation after prolonged constriction by the ropes. The muscles in the back of her legs had been compressed for too long, blood circulation impaired, and now they convulsed violently with every exertion. The slender heels of her high heels were still about thirty centimeters away from the doorknob, and her calves were shaking uncontrollably. First attempt, failed. She rested for a few seconds, then began the second. This time, she shifted more of her body weight onto the doorframe, trying to leverage herself to lift her legs higher. The outer side of her thighs pressed firmly against the doorframe, the purple silk stockings rubbing against the rough wooden frame, creating tiny fuzz balls. The soles of her high heels scraped against the door with a harsh friction sound, inching upwards. This time, she managed to lift them to about seventy degrees, the heels about twenty centimeters from the doorknob – but just as she tried to lift them a little higher, her right calf cramped without warning. The muscle contracted sharply, becoming as hard as a stone wedged into her calf. The pain was sharp and intense, like a nail driven straight into the back of her calf, into the bone. Her calf bulged beneath the silk stocking, deforming the entire calf into an irregular hard lump under the purple fabric. "See that pen?" "The one used to draw the character." "See those few rhyming condoms next to it? They're just used and tossed aside. The inside is still sticky, thrown away like trash by the urinal. She can still smell herself even with the used condom at her feet." "Used condoms tossed directly by the urinal. Fucking hell, treating her like a urinal accessory. They're all bathroom items anyway, used condoms and tethered bitches are categorized as toilet trash." ... The barrage of comments grew more intense, a torrent of obscenities pouring out like a breached dam. "So they're using President Zhang as a urinal, huh? A urinal collects urine, she collects cum." "Pure bitch treatment, worse than a dog. Even dogs know not to piss near their own den. She's tied up by the urinal like a living, breathing toilet." "Fucking hot. Sluts should be treated like this. A female CEO in a lingerie outfit, displayed in a public restroom. More effective than any of your company's ads." "Her pose is so lewd, her juices are about to spill out. The crotch rope is digging into her slit, and the fluids are overflowing on both sides, dripping onto the floor and mixing with the urine." "This whore deserves to be played with like this. Tied by the urinal and left to stink for a night. When the cleaning lady comes in the morning, she'll think a demon has grown in the toilet." "Just piss in her mouth. She's already squatting in front of the urinal. Take off the gag and piss directly in it, save her the trouble of drinking from the urinal." "The most lewd part is that she's still wet. Truly a slut to the core. Tied to the urinal, smelling her own stench, and she's still leaking. This body is naturally made to be a bitch." "That fluid doesn't smell the same as the urinal, does it? The urinal smells foul, but hers smells fragrant." "Fragrant, hahahaha. Have you smelled it? Have you been there? You must be the kidnapper." ... Amidst the flood of vulgar comments, Zhang Yaojuan's body trembled violently. From the moment Zhang Yaojuan was tied here, every second was an agony. The pungent smell from the urinal—the ammonia from fermented urine mixed with the sharp scent of disinfectant—constantly invaded her nostrils. The smell was sour and astringent, pressing down on her like an invisible wall, with no escape. She could feel the smell clinging to her skin, her hair, her purple underwear that was already soaked with sweat and bodily fluids. With every breath, the stench seeped deeper into her lungs, churning her stomach. A sour, astringent liquid rose to her throat, but the gag prevented her from spitting it out. Only saliva secreted continuously, seeping out along the gap between the gag and her lips, dripping onto the crisscrossed rope net on her chest. What made it even more unbearable was her current posture. She had never been exposed in such a humiliating position—her legs were forcibly spread apart, the ropes at her knees like iron hoops, mercilessly locking her legs to the handles on either side of the urinal. The muscles in her inner thighs ached from the prolonged stretching, unable to bear the strain, every stretched muscle fiber screaming in protest. But what terrified her more was the sense of utter exposure. Being forcibly spread like this left the most private parts of her lower body completely bare—though she was still wearing a thong, the purple mesh fabric was meager, the holes so large they barely covered anything. The rope between her legs was tightly embedded in the crevice of her vulva, pulling the mesh fabric of the thong into that soft indentation. The knot was perfectly positioned on the most sensitive nub at the opening of her vulva, grinding against that swollen protrusion with every breath. Zhang Yaojuan could feel cold air from the ventilation shaft blowing in from behind, caressing her bare buttocks, brushing over the small area barely covered by the mesh, making every inch of her skin tremble. The muscles in her buttocks contracted involuntarily due to the cold and fear, and the "正" character on her buttocks distorted with the trembling of her muscles. She didn't know if anyone else was here. The blindfold deprived her of sight, leaving only boundless darkness. This darkness amplified her fear infinitely—every slight sound, every wisp of air movement, was magnified tenfold in her perception. She heard the gurgling sound of liquid flowing through the pipes above the urinal, the humming of the exhaust fan on the ceiling, the faint clatter of partition doors being pushed by the wind in the distance. Every sound made her tremble with fear because she couldn't determine its source—was it the wind, or a stranger approaching? Perhaps the bathroom door would be pushed open the next second, and a strange man would walk in and see her like this—purple underwear, black ropes, spread legs, exposed buttocks—perhaps he would rape her, fuck her like the man who kidnapped her, or maybe more than one. People coming and going to the restroom, any man who saw her like this might act on impulse— This thought made fear grow like a vine in her chest. She had to break free. She had to escape these ropes before anyone else entered this public restroom. "Mmmph—!" A muffled groan, blocked by the gag, burst from the depths of her throat, echoing in the dirty, empty restroom. It was clear she was struggling. Her body, tightly bound by ropes, began a series of attempts. First, her fingers—her ten fingers, wrapped in purple nylon, desperately flexed and extended in a clasped position, her fingertips rubbing repeatedly behind her neck, trying to find even the slightest gap to move. The nylon fabric creased finely as it was stretched between her fingers, and the friction of her fingertips against each other made a faint rustling sound. But the thin ropes at the base of her fingers held her ten fingers firmly together, and the rope hoop around her wrists was locked tightly behind her neck, the reverse prayer pose binding her arms at an unalterable angle. Every flex of her fingers only caused the thin ropes to embed deeper into the base of her fingers, creating denser creases in the nylon gloves. Her finger joints began to go numb due to restricted blood circulation, and her sense of touch became dull and disordered. Then she tried shaking her head. She attempted to shake her head—perhaps to loosen the muzzle even a tiny bit, perhaps to find an angle to rub off the blindfold. As soon as her head tilted to the left, the wide forehead strap tightened immediately, the leather strap pressing a deeper indentation on her forehead, the metal buckle biting tighter. The leather lining inside the strap became slippery with sweat, but showed no sign of loosening. Instead, it clung to her face like a damp second skin. She tried to move her legs. The muscles in her inner thighs strained under the restraint of the ropes—but the rope hoops locked her thighs tightly from the root to the knee, and combined with the two ropes at her knees that spread her legs apart, she couldn't even move her legs an inch closer. Her legs were firmly fixed in their respective positions. The inner thighs, wrapped in purple stockings, could only tense and relax futilely in place. The stockings were stretched extremely thin and transparent between the rope hoops, and the muscles where the rope circles were tightened were squeezed into two slightly bulging bulges, trembling independently, never able to touch each other. She tried to lift her buttocks again. Her gluteal muscles tightened sharply, and her buttocks strained upwards—wanting to loosen the crotch rope even a tiny bit from the crevice of her vulva, wanting to alleviate the aching sensation of the rope binding her buttocks. But as soon as her buttocks lifted less than an inch, the rope net around her waist tightened instantly, pulling her lifting motion to a dead stop. And in that instant, the crotch rope became the most sensitive and cruel fulcrum—as she lifted her buttocks, the rope was instantly tightened, deeply embedding itself into the crevice of her vulva. The rough hemp fibers pressed tightly against the most sensitive nub at the opening of her vulva, grinding, and then grinding back. The man pulled open the side door. The sound of the door sliding open was low and smooth, entirely unlike the creaking, broken door of the van. The scene inside the vehicle was starkly revealed to Zhang Yaohuan. The rear seats had been completely removed, creating an exceptionally spacious interior. The inner walls and ceiling were meticulously covered in dark gray soundproofing foam, unlike the torn and peeling material in the van; each piece was fitted perfectly, with clean, sharp edges. The floor was covered by a rectangular black metal baseplate, treated with a matte, non-slip finish. It was dotted with numerous mounting holes and locking mechanisms. On either side of the baseplate ran a row of U-shaped restraints—their semicircular cuffs flipped open, awaiting wrists and ankles. The inner surface of the cuffs was lined with a thin layer of rubber padding, presumably to prevent skin abrasion during struggles. At the rear of the baseplate, an upward-protruding fixture held a movable metal ring. A thin chain hung from the ring, its end terminating in a stainless steel hook. The rounded head of the hook gleamed with a cold metallic luster in the dim interior light. Beyond this, placed beside the baseplate, were a vibrator, two pink bouncing balls, and several lengths of rope. These items were neatly arranged on a dark velvet cloth, resembling a display of precision instruments. The moment Zhang Yaohuan saw this, a violent wave of unease surged through her. Beneath her mask, the pupils of her eyes contracted sharply, the whites around her irises widening dramatically. Her body instinctively began to retreat. The slender heel of her stiletto scraped backward across the floor twice, but the man’s grip on her arm remained unyielding. A trembling whimper escaped her throat—"Mmm—" her voice pitched half a note higher, laced with palpable terror. This car, these devices, this meticulously arranged space—he must have spent a long time preparing all of this before she arrived. Every detail indicated that he had long-term plans for her captivity. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment act, not an impulsive crime, but a meticulously planned and thoroughly considered step-by-step operation. The man gave her no more time to think. He shoved her into the car—she lost her balance and tumbled into the cabin. Her hands, bound behind her back, prevented her from reaching out to brace herself. Her knees struck the metal baseplate with a dull thud—"Thump." The purple silk stocking covering her knee tore, revealing a small patch of skin through the rip. Then her shoulder hit the baseplate, her scapula scraping against the hard metal surface before sliding off, and she landed on her side. The cold of the metal seeped through the thin fabric of her purple lingerie, causing her to shiver involuntarily, her skin erupting in a fine layer of goosebumps. Her body was too weak to even support itself; she could only lie on her side on the cold baseplate, her legs, clad in purple stockings, drawn up slightly, the slender heels of her shoes scraping faintly against the metal. The man followed her into the cabin, crouching beside her, and began to work. He rolled her from her side onto her back, pressing her shoulders and back firmly against the metal baseplate, her hips positioned near the center of the floor. The chill immediately transferred from the metal, seeping into every inch of her skin through the thin purple lingerie. She instinctively tried to curl up, to roll away from the cold touch, but before her body could react to being turned over—the man’s hand had already grasped her right wrist. He pulled her right arm out to the side, flat against the metal plate, her hand palm-up, back down. The U-shaped restraint on the right side of the baseplate, its semicircular cuff already flipped open, waited. The restraint was sized to perfectly accommodate an adult woman's wrist, its inner rubber lining matte in the dim light. He pressed her right wrist into the restraint’s cradle, then lowered the cuff. The locking mechanism engaged with a crisp metallic click—*click*. The sound, amplified by the soundproofed interior, echoed dully for a moment before fading. She instinctively tugged at her arm, her wrist hitting the cuff. It didn't budge, the rubber padding absorbing the impact, leaving only a faint white mark on her bone. Without pause, he moved to her left side and secured her left hand in the same manner, pressing it flat against the plate. Both wrists were now fixed to the sides of the baseplate, her arms stretched out completely, forming a T-shape with her body. Purple nylon gloves hugged each finger tightly, encasing her arms from fingertips to wrists, all the way up to her armpits, perfectly following the curve of her limbs. Her palms faced upward, the nylon fabric damp with sweat, clinging to her skin. She tried to clench her fists—her fingers slowly curled within the gloves, her knuckles clearly visible through the nylon—but with her arms stretched out and secured, even clenching her fists was rendered meaningless. She could grasp nothing, push nothing away. Next, a larger U-shaped restraint was fastened around her neck. The cuff was a full size wider than the wrist restraints, also lined with rubber padding. The ends of the cuff aligned with the mounting holes on the baseplate. The man cupped the back of her head, lifting her chin slightly to allow the cuff to slot into the space between her neck and the baseplate. He then sequentially locked the clasps on both ends—*click*, *click*. The restraint fit snugly around her neck, not too tight to restrict breathing, but firm enough to prevent her head from turning left or right. The rubber padding pressed against the skin of her neck, rubbing gently with each involuntary swallow. She swallowed hard—her saliva, blocked by the gag, had nowhere to go but down, forcing an instinctive swallow—her throat slid against the inner surface of the restraint, and she could clearly feel the presence of the metal ring. Her neck was fixed in place. She instinctively tried to turn her head, to look around her surroundings, but as her neck muscles tensed to the left, the restraint gently but absolutely pushed her head back into its original position. She could feel the weight of the cuff’s edge pressing down on her collarbone—not heavy, but an undeniable pressure. Then came her legs. The man stood up, straddling her body, and bent down to grasp her left and right ankles. The slender heels of her stilettos and her calf muscles, encased in purple stockings, appeared exceptionally delicate in his hands—his hands were large, able to encompass her entire ankle with one hand, his fingers closing around the area just above her ankle bone, the slippery texture of the stockings transmitting through his palm. He slowly began to lift her legs upward, inch by inch, pushing them towards the direction of her head. Initially, the angle was not extreme—her knees bent, her thighs drawing towards her abdomen, a range her body could still tolerate. She thought he was merely folding her into a crouched position to lock her up, clinging to a sliver of hope—this wasn't so bad, much better than the tortures before. But as the angle increased, her hips were forced to lift off the metal baseplate. Her thighs pressed against her chest, her knees gradually closing in on her shoulders. The silk-stockinged calves were pushed higher and higher in his grasp, her ankles rising above her head, beginning to approach the top of the baseplate. At this point, her hip joints were bent at an uncomfortable angle, the head of her femur rotated to its limit within the acetabulum, the surrounding ligaments stretched taut. She tried to pull her legs back, to let her knees drop slightly, but his hands remained unmoving, instead pushing her ankles even higher. She could feel her hips lifting further and further from the baseplate, her body’s weight shifting from her shoulders and back to her shoulder blades and the back of her head. Then her knees pressed down on her shoulders. Her own thighs were pressing into her collarbones and chest, her ribcage compressed to expand only within a very small range—each inhale caused her ribs to lift only slightly, her lungs pressed by the weight of her thighs, unable to draw in enough air. She tried to compensate by breathing with her abdomen—her lower belly rose and fell rapidly beneath the rope marks left by the shibari, but the oppressive weight still made every breath a difficult struggle. A suppressed groan escaped her throat—"Mmm—!" a short, sharp sound, crushed by the rubber ball of the gag into a muffled nasal sound. But this was far from over. The man continued to push her ankles upward. Her ankles were bent to almost 140 degrees, her knees completely pressing down on her collarbones, her calves flipped over her head, her feet now entirely above her face. She could feel the backs of her high heels pressing against the metal surface at the top of the baseplate—that cold sensation transmitted through the stockings and the shoe uppers to the tops of her feet. Then the restraints were successively fastened around her left and right ankles—*click*, *click*. Her feet were fixed side-by-side at the top of the baseplate, soles facing upward, heels dangling in the air, the tops of her feet pressed against the cold metal. At this point, Zhang Yaohuan was contorted into an extremely humiliating position—thighs pressed against her chest, knees against her shoulders, her hips forced high upward, completely exposed towards the ceiling of the car. Her entire body was like a folded butterfly specimen, firmly pinned to this metal baseplate. Her vision was reduced to the dark gray soundproofing foam on the ceiling—the rough texture of the foam became the only thing she could see, each tuft of fiber casting tiny shadows in the dim light. She wanted to twist her body, to shift to the side, to even slightly alter this posture—but her wrists were cuffed, her neck locked, her ankles secured. The only part of her body that could move was her hips. Her gluteal muscles contracted unconsciously, causing the already soaked mesh of her thong to brush lightly between her buttocks. Her toes, encased in stockings, curled within the pointed tips of her high heels—that was all. The man walked to the end of the baseboard, directly facing her uplifted buttocks. From this angle, he could take in everything between her cheeks – the two plump, full cheeks, still slightly flushed from prolonged restraint and struggle. The overlapping bruises on her gluteal peaks, once bright red, had turned a deep purple after a night, their edges beginning to yellow, the blood pooling and gradually being absorbed beneath the skin. The thin strap of the purple thong, deep in the crease, had been dug into by the crotch strap all night, leaving only the faintest hint of two hair-thin purple ribbons at her waist. The thong's mesh fabric, soaked through with arousal and sweat, had darkened from a pale violet to an almost black hue, clinging tightly to her vulva, glistening wetly in the light. Scrawled crookedly across her buttocks were the black characters for "正" – eleven strokes, hastily drawn, each line trembling slightly, deeply etched into the skin's texture, spanning the full curve of her glutes. The ink was a mix of fresh and old; the earliest strokes had dried, their edges slightly blurred and seeped into the fine texture of her skin. The later strokes were darker, the ink not yet fully dry, gleaming with a damp, dark sheen in the light. The skin around the edges of these strokes was slightly reddened from repeated friction with the marker. Embedded in the upward-curving structure at the end of the baseboard was a movable metal ring. A thin iron chain dangled from the ring, its end terminating in a J-shaped hook that gleamed coldly in the light. The hook was made of stainless steel, its surface smooth and polished. The curve of the hook was meticulously ground, its rounded tip about the size of an adult’s thumb, free of any burrs or seams – this was no crude implement, but a custom-made instrument. The man picked up the hook. The iron chain emitted a faint, crisp clinking sound – amplified in the soundproofed space, the collision of metal links was chillingly clear. Hearing this, Zhang Yao Huan’s body stiffened abruptly. Beneath the mask, her eyes widened uselessly behind the blindfold, and a trembling sigh escaped her throat – “Mmm…?” The sound was short, its tail rising, laced with palpable fear and question. What she couldn’t see was the man bringing the rounded head of the hook towards her slick, muddy cleft. The crotch of her thong was already saturated with fluid – not from arousal, but from the body’s spontaneous physiological response after prolonged restraint and friction. The thin mesh clung wetly to her vulva, outlining the shape of her labia. He used his fingers to pull aside the sodden fabric, revealing her vulva completely – the two tender lips, slightly swollen and red from the pressure of the crotch strap, still retained their soft, pinkish hue. The meticulously trimmed pubic hair around them was damp with arousal, clinging to her skin in small clumps. He slowly slid the rounded head of the hook back and forth across her moist vulva – the coolness of the stainless steel made her shiver with each pass – from the tip of her labia to her perineum, and back again, collecting the involuntarily secreted slippery fluid as lubrication. “Mmm—Mmmhmm—!” A series of broken hums escaped Zhang Yao Huan’s throat, filled with terror and resistance. The icy metal sensation made her skin crawl – it was too cold, too hard. When it touched her most sensitive, softest area, the contrast in temperature made her feel as though she wasn’t being touched by a person, but by a tool, an unfeeling instrument. Her buttocks instinctively tried to clench, to pull away from the cold metal hook, but her body was shackled to the baseboard, her buttocks nowhere to escape – her gluteal muscles could only tense and relax in vain, causing the eleven crooked black characters to distort and warp with the tremors of her muscles. The man did not rush to enter. He paused the rounded head of the hook above her vulva, then slowly slid it down along the seam of her labia, past her perineum, and touched the entrance to her anus. As the coolness reached that most sensitive, narrowest entrance, Zhang Yao Huan’s entire body jolted as if electrocuted – the restraints on her wrists and ankles emitted a faint metallic clink. She could feel the spherical stainless steel head pressing against the entrance of her anus, so cold, so hard. She desperately tightened her buttocks, trying to repel the intruder – her sphincter contracted to its tightest, her entire gluteal muscles straining. But her resistance only made the skin at the entrance more taut, providing a clearer point of pressure for the ball to enter. “Mmm… Mmm… Hmmm…” Faint, trembling hums continuously escaped her throat, muffled by the gag. These were not cries or screams, but involuntary sounds of a body pushed to the absolute limit of fear. Each sound was soft, each sound trembled, as if something deep within her throat was being shattered by fear, bit by bit. The man began to apply pressure. The rounded head of the hook pressed against the entrance of her sphincter, slowly and irresistibly pushing inward. The ball was thicker than a finger, thinner than a dildo, but its smoothness was its advantage – the stainless steel’s mirror finish, combined with the lubrication from the fluid in her vulva, allowed it to stretch her opening immensely without tearing. As it widened, Zhang Yao Huan’s buttocks convulsed violently, the handprints and the characters on her glutes distorting simultaneously. It was a feeling of being stretched – not a sharp pain, but a dull, internal fullness, pushed to the limit. She could feel the stainless steel shaft gradually entering her anus – first the rounded head pushing through the sphincter and sliding in, then the curved shaft following, its arc perfectly conforming to the natural curve of her rectum. She could even feel every curve, every bend of the shaft, those metal lines imprinting their shape within her inch by inch, like a key slowly turning in a lock. Throughout the process, she could clearly perceive every millimeter of the hook’s movement inside her – the sensation was too clear, the touch of stainless steel starkly contrasting with her body temperature, making it impossible to ignore its presence within her. Once the hook was fully inserted into her anus, the man began to tighten the chain. The thin iron chain was pulled taut, link by link, the sound of the chain sliding on the metal ring becoming shorter, tighter. The skin of her buttocks felt the pulling force of the straightened chain – the hook embedded within her anus was gently pulled outward, the rounded head pressing against the rectal wall, the sensation of being pushed from within making even her breathing cautious. Every contraction of her abdominal muscles – even the slight rise and fall from breathing – would cause the hook to shift slightly inside her, and each shift made her acutely aware: a metal hook was lodged inside her body, its other end connected to a chain, the chain’s other end secured to the baseboard, and she was like a fish hooked by its mouth, the more she struggled, the deeper it dug in. The chain was pulled to its limit, the hook firmly locked inside, with no room for retreat. Zhang Yao Huan let out a long, trembling sigh from her nose – a moan on the verge of collapse. She felt as if a cold nail had been driven into her body; it didn’t hurt, but it was there. It reminded her that her body no longer belonged to her, that every inch of her was secured – her wrists cuffed, her ankles locked, her neck bound, and even her anus impaled with a hook attached to a chain. She was truly locked onto this metal plate, from head to toe, inside and out, unable to move a single millimeter. Next, the man produced a T-shaped metal fixture. He placed the top of the fixture horizontally against her lower back, and the other end into the protruding structure at the end of the baseboard. As the fixture tightened, there was a crisp “click” of metal against metal. Her waist was firmly pressed by this metal piece, preventing her waist from sinking, thus fixing her buttocks at an even higher angle, leaving no room for any downward movement or adjustment. From her buttocks to her waist, every part was completely locked down. She could no longer make even the slightest adjustment – before, she could slightly alter her posture by tensing or relaxing her gluteal muscles, but now even that small margin was taken away. Then, the man took out an AV vibrator. The shaft was thick and long, its surface made of soft silicone, the head slightly curved, its arc perfectly fitting the curve of a woman’s clitoris. He wrapped a length of rope around the middle of the shaft twice and tied it – not a fancy knot, but a practical double knot, the kind that tightens with pulling. He placed the curved head of the vibrator against her vulva, inserting it through the gap where the thong had been pulled aside, precisely pressing against the most sensitive nub at the tip of her clitoris. The silicone felt soft and warm, unlike the cold stainless steel, but when it touched that extremely sensitive spot, goosebumps rose all over her body – not from the temperature, but because that spot was too vulnerable. That small nub, already engorged and swollen after three consecutive days of restraint, friction, and forced orgasms, felt like a faint electric current directly hitting the most sensitive nerve endings with every touch. He adjusted the vibrator to the optimal angle, ensuring the curved head pressed precisely against her clitoral glans, then used the rope to wrap around the roots of her thighs. The rope tightened twice around the inner thighs – not too tight, not too loose, just enough to firmly secure the vibrator at her vulva, the silicone head pressed firmly against the sensitive spot, unable to slide at all. As the rope dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, the purple stockings were pressed into two deep indentations, the stockings bulging slightly on either side of the rope, accentuating the plump curve of her leg flesh. The inner thighs are one of the softest and most sensitive areas of the human body, and with the rope tightened there, it was not just pressure – as the rope tightened, the curved head of the vibrator was pressed more firmly against that sensitive nub. She could even feel the texture of the silicone head’s surface – those tiny granular bumps were clearly transmitted through the delicate skin of her vulva to every nerve ending. Finally, the man took out two pink nipple clamps. Each clamp was only the size of a thumb, perfectly rounded like an egg, its outer shell made of smooth ABS plastic, warm to the touch, with no sharp edges. Each clamp had an eight-shaped rubber ring fitted around its middle – the rubber rings were extremely small, with a diameter of only a few millimeters when unstretched, but the material was incredibly elastic, capable of stretching five to six times its original length without breaking. The man reached out, pinching her right nipple through the fabric of her lingerie. His thumb and index finger clamped the nipple through the thin fabric, then pulled it upwards. Her nipple was pulled and elongated from the top of her breast – first the tip emerged from the lace trim of the purple fabric, then the areola was pulled out from the edge of the lingerie, its color pale, glowing a soft pink in the light. The nipple was stretched to twice its normal length, the skin around the areola pulled taut, faintly revealing small blood vessels beneath. Zhang Yao Huan let out a pained groan from deep in her throat – “Mmm—!” – the sound distorted by the gag. The sensation of her nipple being pulled was too intense, causing her entire body to stiffen for a moment. "Don't say it... don't say it anymore... I can't control it... it's not because I want to... it's just because..." Her eyelashes trembled violently behind the mask's eyeholes, more tears welling up from the corners of her eyes, flowing down her temples and into her hairline. She didn't know how to refute him—those physiological responses were real, she couldn't deny them, couldn't control them. She hated that her body could still react at a time like this, hated that it gave this man a reason to gloat. But hatred changed nothing. The vibrator was still buzzing, her cunt was still secreting mucus, her body was still responding to every touch in the most honest and humiliating way. The man's left hand moved away from the vibrator and went around to her buttocks. Because she was locked in by the T-shaped restraint, her buttocks were forced into a high, arched position, presenting her cheeks directly to him. His hand cupped her right buttock—fingers spread, his entire palm covering the plump, firm flesh. The skin of her buttocks was slightly sticky from prolonged exposure and the stuffy heat of the carriage, a thin layer of sweat beading on its surface, shimmering with a moist sheen under the dim light. Yet, even so, the flesh remained soft, yielding and deforming in his palm as he kneaded it. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the crooked "正" (zhèng - correct/proper) characters on her buttock—the eleven strokes were a mix of old and new, the earliest ones dried, their edges slightly blurred and seeped into the fine texture of her skin; the last strokes added were darker, the ink not yet fully dry, forming a sticky layer in the humid air, slightly tacky under his fingertips. "Eleven strokes. This '正' on your ass, one more stroke and it'll be twelve." His thumb traced the last stroke, his nail scraping over the half-dried ink on her skin, leaving a shallow white mark. "I'm thinking, after it's twelve strokes, what new character should I change it to? Write '骚' (sāo - slutty)? Write '母狗' (mǔgǒu - bitch)? Or draw a flower for you—like the one on your arm, a rose, so you have one on your ass too. Which do you think is better?" "Mmm..." A faint, tearful hum escaped Zhang Yao Huan's throat. She dared not answer, nor did she want to. She could feel his thumb tracing the "正" character on her buttock, the pressure neither light nor heavy, not like writing, but more like tracing an inscription on an artifact—as if confirming ownership. (I'm not yours... I'm not...) "Oh, right, I almost forgot." The man's fingers moved away from the "正" character and slid down her buttock crack. His index finger touched the thin chain extending from her tailbone, his fingertip tracing each link downwards, feeling the slight tremor of the chain with every touch—it was the subtle trembling of her body under continuous stimulation, transmitted from her tailbone to the chain, and from the chain to his fingertip. His finger followed the chain to the end of the cock ring, where a small section of the stainless steel hook extended from the entrance of her anus, revealing the end of the hook tightly gripped by her sphincter. He flicked the exposed stainless steel with his index finger. "Ding—" The sound of metal being flicked was exceptionally crisp in the quiet carriage. The vibration from the flick traveled through the hook to the ball head, which jolted violently deep within her rectum. The jolt was deep and fierce, like a clenched fist smashing into the deepest part of her body. Zhang Yao Huan's entire body shot up, her gluteal muscles spasming violently in that instant—this spasm caused the cock ring to be clamped even tighter inside her, the ball head pressing hard against the soft flesh lining her rectum, a sensation of fullness and foreignness exploding simultaneously. Her sphincter instinctively contracted, trying to push the intruder out, but the tighter it contracted, the deeper the cock ring embedded itself, the chain rattling loudly. "Mmm—!! Mmm mmm—!!" A series of high-pitched, broken moans burst from beneath the mask. Her eyes widened to their limit behind the mask's eyeholes—pupils rapidly constricting, the whites around her irises fully exposed, tears flung from her eyes by the violent movement, streaming down her temples. Her eyebrows were furrowed into a painful arc, the outer edges drooping, merging with her tightly closed eyelids. She could feel her face burning—not from shame, but because her body had endured too much stimulation in that instant, all her blood vessels expanding, all her nerve endings sending signals to her brain. The inner thighs of her legs twitched uncontrollably beneath her stockings, the purple silk stretching thinner and thinner under the repeated muscle contractions, the warp and weft of the threads pulled to their limit. "Mmm-hmm—hng—woo-hmm—" The aftershocks of the flick continued. The ball head swayed gently deep within her rectum, each sway causing her gluteal muscles to twitch again. Her buttocks bounced slightly up and down with the spasms, the strokes of the "正" character on her buttocks distorting with each twitch, and the thin strap of her thong, pushed aside in her buttock crack, rubbed against the tender flesh of her cunt, pressed by the vibrator, with each spasm. And each gluteal spasm pulled the vibrator tighter against her cunt, transmitting the vibration even deeper. She was caught in a chain reaction—the cock ring made her twitch, the twitch made the vibrator press tighter, the tighter press made her more sensitive, and more sensitive made her twitch uncontrollably. She could no longer distinguish what was making her tremble. The man watched her tremble all over from the stimulation of that jolt, a deeper smile spreading across his lips. He didn't touch the cock ring further, but took his phone out of his pocket and opened the camera app. The lens was aimed at her face, hidden by the dog mask. With one hand holding the phone, he used the other to straighten her chin—his thumb pressing on her jawbone, his four fingers cupping her cheek on the other side, forcing her head, which she tried to turn away, back to face the camera. Beneath the mask, her red, swollen eyes, filled with tears, stared directly into the phone's camera through the eyeholes, her pupils reflecting the ring light of the lens. Click. He pressed the shutter for the first photo. "President Zhang, smile. This is a souvenir—your company's lingerie series, the founder personally demonstrating the product's effectiveness." He chuckled softly and moved the phone away from her face. The moment the shutter clicked, Zhang Yao Huan squeezed her eyes shut tightly—her eyelashes trembled violently, new tears squeezed from the corners of her tightly closed eyes, flowing down the inside of the mask. She didn't want to see, didn't want to be photographed. She remembered the last livestream, the comments, the words "正字窑姐" (zhèngzì yáojiě - a derogatory term for a prostitute associated with the "正" character). Now he was taking photos again—would these photos appear online? Would her employees see them? Would the parents of her son's classmates see them? (Don't take pictures... please don't take any more...) The man stood up and adjusted the shooting angle. He moved to her side, the phone lens aimed at her breasts. In the frame, the thin fabric of the purple lingerie wrapped around two breasts with red marks from the ropes, the lace panel between her cleavage dotted with fine beads of sweat, which seeped out in the hot summer carriage, reflecting a soft, moist sheen in the light. The two pink nipple clamps each covered her nipples, their egg-shaped shells gently swaying with the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her nipples swelling slightly beneath the rubber rings, their color deepening from pink to a rich crimson. His lens zoomed in, almost touching her breasts. Then he pinched the right nipple clamp with his left hand and lifted it slightly—the clamp, along with the nipple, was lifted, stretching the nipple slightly under the pull of the rubber ring, and her areola bulged along with it. The shot clearly captured this moment—the arc of the stretched nipple, the folds of the pulled areola, the taut rubber ring between the bottom of the clamp and the nipple. "Mmm—hng-hmm—!" Zhang Yao Huan let out a muffled groan from her nose, a mix of pain and shame. The sensation of her nipple being pulled upwards—that dull tugging from the root of her nipple—made her entire body tremble. She could feel her nipples becoming even more sensitive after being stretched, the small protrusion at the tip sending waves of goosebump-inducing pleasure with each vibration of the clamp. Her shoulders instinctively tried to shrink upwards, to cover her breasts with her shoulders, but her arms were fixed to the baseplate by the restraints, and any movement of her shoulders caused a faint scraping sound of her shoulder blades against the metal. The man took several shots. Then his lens moved down from her breasts, sliding over her slender waist beneath the sweat-soaked purple lingerie, over the faint outline of muscles on her lower abdomen, finally settling on her highly arched buttocks. From this overhead angle, her entire buttocks were visible—two plump, rounded cheeks slightly reddened from prolonged restraint and the humid environment, covered in a fine layer of sweat that shimmered with a moist glow in the light. The overlapping blue and purple handprints on her buttocks had faded from bright red to dark purple overnight, the edges beginning to yellow. The eleven crooked black strokes of the "正" character across her buttocks gleamed with a damp, dark sheen, soaked by the humid air. Deep in her buttock crack, the end of the stainless steel cock ring extended from the entrance of her sphincter, connected to a thin chain that ran straight to the end of the baseplate. Beside the cock ring, the thin strap of the purple thong was pushed to one side, revealing the vibrator, tied and fixed to her cunt, its silicone head pressed tightly against the tender flesh, the slick film of water encasing the silicone reflecting a moist sheen under the lens. He brought the phone closer. The lens was almost touching her buttock crack. He could clearly capture the details of the cock ring embedded in her anus—her sphincter tightly gripping the end of the stainless steel hook, the delicate skin around her anus slightly reddened from being stretched for so long, contracting slightly with each breath. He gently nudged the end of the cock ring with his left index finger—the hook rotated a few degrees within her sphincter under his manipulation, its stainless steel surface tracing an arc of light. "Mmm—mm-hng—!" A trembling hum escaped Zhang Yao Huan's throat. Not a scream, not a cry, but a soft, weak reaction of all shame and resistance turning into a muffled hum after being touched in the most sensitive spot. She could feel his finger on the end of the cock ring, the touch cool—his fingertip pressed against the stainless steel hook, and through it, she could sense the pressure of his finger, which transmitted through the hook to the ball head, causing it to shift slightly deep within her rectum. Her buttocks trembled uncontrollably in front of the lens—her flesh bounced with extreme frequency, the strokes of the "正" character blurring with the trembling. She desperately tried to tighten her gluteal muscles, to clamp the cock ring tighter to stop its movement, but the tighter she clenched, the deeper the cock ring embedded itself. And the tightened gluteal muscles also pressed the vibrator tighter against her cunt, the vibration transmitting through the contracted muscles and becoming even more intense. She was trapped in her own predicament—relaxing would make the cock ring shift, tightening would make the vibrator more stimulating. Either way, it only made her suffer more. The man seemed satisfied with the scene. He pressed the shutter several times, the flash illuminating her buttocks on and off. Then he turned off the phone and put it back in his pocket. His left hand moved away from the cock ring and cupped her right buttock again. This time it wasn't a caress, but a triumphant, light slap—his palm landed on her flesh, making a soft "pat" sound. Her buttocks trembled for a few seconds before settling, leaving a fresh, light red palm print, superimposed on the old, overlapping blue and purple marks. "Alright, that's enough for now. I'll post these online later, let the audience see—how President Zhang's asshole was stretched open by the cock ring, how President Zhang's slutty cunt was vibrated until it flowed endlessly." He stood up, brushed the dust off his hands, and looked down at her, curled on the baseplate. She had her head turned to the side, her eyes closed beneath the mask, her eyelashes still trembling, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. The purple lingerie was semi-transparent from sweat, clinging tightly to her skin, the outline of her breasts and the nipple clamps clearly visible beneath the fabric. The purple stockings were stained with varying shades of sweat and bodily fluids at the thighs, and the stockings at her ankles had several small holes worn by the restraints, with frayed fibers creeping out. In the hot summer morning, the temperature in the carriage continued to rise, sweat constantly seeping from every pore, leaving small damp marks on the metal surface of the baseplate. "Stay put. Don't even think about pushing the cock ring out—it's chained, the tighter you clamp, the deeper it goes. I'll change the vibrator and nipple clamps later when they run out of battery." He opened the car door and glanced back at her before jumping out. Outside the car door, the morning light was already brighter than before, the gray-white transitioning to pale gold, and the faint chirping of early birds could be heard in the distance, exceptionally crisp in the quiet summer morning. "President Zhang, don't you think you were born for this line of work? Wearing your own designed slutty lingerie, being serviced by your company's 'products' to the brink of ecstasy. Your lingerie designers should consider you their muse—from now on, for every new product, they'll have you try it on and take promotional photos. Guaranteed to be more effective than any advertisement." The car door was pulled shut. The frame met the body with a dull thud, shutting out the morning light, the birdsong, and the scent of summer vegetation. The carriage returned to its suffocating silence—only the hum of the vibrator, the tremor of the nipple clamps, and her own breathing. The soundproofing completely absorbed the outside noise—no footsteps, no sound of the car door opening again, no engine starting. The car remained stationary, unmoving.