Vinyl Gallery: The Latex Bitch Training of the Arrogant Female Critic

"Come, I'll show you the other exhibits." For the next forty minutes, Mr. M personally guided her through the entire Obsidian Gallery. It wasn't just the display case in the atrium. The first floor had three more exhibition halls, each showcasing different themes of "living sculptures." Each piece was enclosed in a transparent display case. Some were standing, some were secured on specialized stands, and some were suspended in mid-air. All the "exhibits" were clad in full or partial black latex, some with their mouths completely sealed by the latex, others with their mouths open, holding various sizes of dildo-shaped gags, emitting faint whimpers from their throats. As Mr. M approached each display case, he would explain the creative concept in his unhurried tone. "This one is called 'Penitence.' Observe her posture—kneeling with legs spread in an 'M' shape, hands bound behind her back with a double-strand hemp rope, tied in a 'back-view Guanyin' knot. The rope wraps around her shoulder blades, over her upper arms, and is tightened with a double slipknot at the wrists. Finally, a self-locking knot is tied at her lower back—no matter how she struggles, it won't loosen. The soft silicone deep-throat gag she's holding has a one-way valve; saliva will flow through a tube to the collection trough at the bottom of the display case." He spoke with the same professional, meticulous, and devoid-of-lust tone as if he were describing a painting or a piece of porcelain. Su Wanqing looked at the black latex figure kneeling in the display case, at her jaw trembling slightly with the gag in her mouth, at her arms, bound by the double-strand rope, glistening with a thin layer of sweat from her struggles—the sweat condensing into tiny droplets inside the latex, slowly sliding down her inner elbows. The pose forced the woman's breasts forward, her nipples forming two prominent points against the taut latex. "Don't you think," Mr. M looked at Su Wanqing, "when a woman is so restrained that she cannot move at all, and is deprived of the ability to make a sound, her body's contours become even more pure? Like a canvas stripped of all desire for expression—leaving only the form itself." Su Wanqing wanted to say this was kidnapping, illegal detention. But what came out of her mouth was, "This can no longer be called art." "Then what is it called?" She couldn't answer. Because as she looked at the bound woman, she suddenly felt a spot between her own legs tighten uncontrollably. The sensation flashed and was gone, but she had definitely felt it. She quickly averted her gaze, pretending to look elsewhere. Mr. M seemed not to notice her lapse and walked ahead. "Let's go, the next exhibition hall is the 'Mother and Child' series." In the second exhibition hall, she saw three latex figures simultaneously secured on display platforms—each in a different pose, but all wearing the same style of black latex clothing. Their bodies were restrained by various metal contraptions on the platforms. One was in a 'shrimp bind'—her entire body folded into a shrimp-like shape, her ankles and wrists connected and secured by the same metal rod, her neck encircled by a latex collar and suspended from a steel beam overhead, leaving her upper body slightly elevated, her toes just barely touching the platform floor. Another was fixed on a leg spreader, her legs forcibly raised and spread at a ninety-degree angle, her private parts completely exposed, with a thick, transparent dildo inserted into her vulva, still vibrating slightly and emitting a humming sound. Mr. M specifically stopped to explain the ingenious design of the leg spreader. "The angle of this leg spreader is adjustable. Her legs are now raised to an angle of one hundred and thirty-five degrees relative to her body, allowing viewers to see her entire lower half when looking down, while her head is precisely at the viewer's waist height—maintaining optimal viewing distance in both directions." Su Wanqing nodded absentmindedly, her gaze secretly drifting to the spread vulva. The motor inside the transparent dildo was rotating, and beneath the latex contours, she could clearly see the tender flesh inside the woman's intimate area contracting in waves from the vibrations. She saw a faint milky-white fluid seeping from the base of the dildo, slowly flowing into the collection bag through a catheter. Su Wanqing swallowed, but her throat felt even drier. The third exhibition hall was smaller, displaying only one set of works. Two black latex figures were confined in an iron cage, one kneeling and one prone. The prone one wore a dog-ear headband and held a bone-shaped gag in her mouth. Her hands were encased in fingerless gloves, preventing her from supporting herself with her hands, forcing her to rest on her forearms on the cage floor. The kneeling one had a chain around her neck, the other end of which was attached to an iron bar at the top of the cage, forcing her to keep her head tilted back. "This is the 'Pet' series. Some clients particularly enjoy customizing this type—dressing up the exhibits in their preferred styles. Canine, feline, bovine." Mr. M bent down slightly and tapped the iron bars of the cage with his knuckles. The canine-styled figure's body trembled slightly at the sound. A soft whimper escaped through the gap of the bone-shaped gag, and her legs instinctively squeezed together. **"Subject 029, Level 1 Sculpting - 6:00 AM."** He placed the notebook back in the drawer, switched off the studio lights, and walked to the end of the corridor. He paused by Cell 029—there was no longer any sound from within. No crying, no moaning, no clinking of the short chain. Only the low hum of the fluorescent lights escaping from under the door, faint and thin, like the buzzing of a mosquito's wings. He chuckled and turned away. The corridor was once again filled only with the drone of the ventilation system and a sliver of white light seeping through the gap under the door. Inside the cell, Su Wanqing no longer had the strength to cry. She rolled over on the padded mat—this time, more skillfully than ever before. The short chain clicked and automatically adjusted to the length needed for her side-lying position, the scabs on her knees now facing upwards, no longer rubbing against the mat. The damp patch on the crotch of her black stockings brushed against the back of her thigh as she moved, leaving a cool trace that quickly merged with her body heat. She opened her eyes and stared at the scratches on the wall. They were clearly visible in the stark white light—thin, not deep, as if made by fingernails. Seven in total, spaced almost evenly, arranged in a row from left to right. She didn't know who had made these scratches, but she knew that starting tomorrow, it was unlikely she would be making any new ones in this cell. Because of sculpting. She didn't know what sculpting meant. Mr. M hadn't explained, and neither had Linda. But Linda had said, "Your body should be ready for its first sculpting." That sentence, combined with the word "sculpting" itself—shaping, transforming—made her afraid to think any further. What shape could her body be sculpted into? Her measurements had already been taken, every inch of her skin recorded. Was sculpting something more than just measuring? Was it to turn her into someone like Linda? Or into that latex mannequin called "Confession" from the special exhibition—sealed inside a full-body latex suit, with only her nostrils free to breathe, forever frozen in one pose inside a crystal display case? She remembered the image of liquid dripping from the mannequin's crotch. That drop of liquid, shimmering under the blue light, slowly, so slowly, seeped from the crotch of the full-body latex suit, stretching into a thin thread in mid-air before falling into the trough at the base of the display case, creating a small ripple. There was already a shallow layer of clear liquid in the trough. She had stood in front of that display case for a long time, not shocked—the word "shocked" was too shallow to describe her feelings then. She was gripped by something she couldn't even name. It was half disgust, half fascination, two completely opposite emotions colliding in her chest, creating a sense of dizziness she had never experienced before. She stood in front of that latex mannequin for fifteen minutes until Assistant Lin Xiaoyu tugged her sleeve and whispered, "Sister Su, we should go. Three more articles are due for the next issue." As she left, she glanced back. The latex mannequin remained motionless, but another drop of clear liquid had appeared in the trough. Now she knew. That drop of liquid wasn't a prop, not a special effect. It was the bodily fluids that woman—whatever her name was, whatever her past identity—couldn't control from excreting while encased in latex. Urine, vaginal fluid, sweat—mixed together, forced out from a tightly sealed crotch. No one helped her wipe, no one helped her change the collection bag. She stood in that crystal display case, watched by countless strangers, dripping her bodily fluids into a transparent trough, drop by drop. That was the exhibit. That was the price of "being watched with serious intent." She first rolled Su Wanqing over from the ground, positioning her on her side. The collection bag had been crushed and deformed during the fall, causing the catheter to kink inside her urethra. Su Wanqing let out a muffled groan, feeling a strained ache in her bladder. Linda ignored her whimper and pulled her arm, rolling her into a position with her back to her. Su Wanqing's hands were cuffed behind her back – a position she was all too familiar with. Her hands had been in this position for four days, and the red marks left by the ropes on her wrists had yet to fade. But this time, Linda didn't use rope to bind her wrists. She started with her forearms, wrapping cotton rope around the middle section of each forearm, coiling it round and round, tightening each loop with force before tying a clever knot. The rope loops were packed tightly, one next to the other. The black cotton rope dug shallow indentations into her fair skin, compressing the muscles into a firmer curve. From just above her wrists all the way to her elbows, her entire forearms were bound into a single, tight cylinder. The palms of her hands were forced together, her ten fingers interlaced, as if in prayer, but directed towards her own backside. After binding her forearms, Linda picked up the black leather glove. Su Wanqing turned her head to glance at it. It was larger than she had imagined, about forty centimeters long from opening to the deepest point. The black leather surface had a fine texture, lined with a thin layer of velvet on the inside. The opening had three straps with buckles, corresponding to the wrist, mid-forearm, and elbow. "Mmm... that... that's going to take my whole hand, isn't it..." Her voice trembled with a fear she couldn't quite articulate. Her hands were her last hope. For four days, she had comforted herself with the thought that at least her hands were free, and as long as her hands were free, there was a chance to untie the ropes. But if her hands were to be put into that thing— Linda didn't answer. She aligned the opening of the glove with Su Wanqing's fingertips and pushed down. The leather slid over her fingertips, across the back of her hands, to her wrists, and then up her forearms. With every inch it advanced, her hands were pulled tighter. As her fingertips brushed against the velvet lining at the deepest part of the glove, her fingers instinctively tried to spread, but the internal space of the glove was only large enough to accommodate a standard, clasped forearm, leaving no room for any extraneous movement. Her ten fingers could only maintain their interlaced position, their pads pressed against the backs of each other's hands, her fingernails digging slightly into the skin between their fingers, causing a faint sting. Linda tightened and locked the three straps one by one. The first at her wrists – the buckle clicked shut. The second at her mid-forearms – another click. The third at her elbows – click. Su Wanqing tried to move her arms. She could still move from her shoulders to her elbows, but from the elbows down, she was completely immobilized. The glove fit like a second skin, tightly encasing her forearms, but unlike a second skin, it allowed no bending, no twisting, no freedom of any kind. Her arms were firmly secured behind her back, her shoulder blades pulled back, forcing her to arch her chest. Her breasts, which had become hypersensitive after days of confinement, thrust forward, their pink nipples trembling slightly in the cold air, surrounded by a fine layer of goosebumps. "Mmm... so tight..." Linda rolled her over to lie flat on her back. When lying flat, the glove pressed uncomfortably against her back, but before Su Wanqing could adjust her position, Linda began to bind her legs. Starting from her ankles. Cotton rope wrapped around her slender ankles, encased in black stockings, crossed, knotted, and tightened. Her feet were bound tightly together, bones pressing against bones. The ankle bones on the inside of her ankles squeezed against each other through the stockings. The nylon fibers of the black stockings stretched taut, revealing a small patch of fair skin beneath at the ankles. Linda's technique was steady – not just a few random wraps and a tight knot, but each loop pulled to maximum tension before a non-slip knot was tied, ensuring the loops wouldn't slide or loosen with struggling. Then came her calves. Cotton rope wrapped three times around the thickest part of her calves. The moment it tightened, Su Wanqing felt the muscles in her calves compress, blood being squeezed towards her feet and knees. The rope loops embedded themselves into the black stockings, creating shallow grooves. The black of the stockings and the black of the rope merged, making it impossible to tell which layer was which. Linda used her fingers to check the tightness of the loops – just enough space to fit a pinky fingernail. This was the standard tightness for restraint: tight enough to hold, but not so tight as to be fatal, and impossible to escape. One loop above and one below each knee. This position was tricky because the kneecaps were prominent. Rope wrapped above the knee would naturally slide into the hollow behind the knee, and rope wrapped below the knee would slide down the calf. Linda solved this by wrapping one loop above and one below, then connecting the two loops with a vertical rope, forming a cross knot. The upper and lower loops pulled against each other, preventing any slippage, and the knees were firmly fixed between the two loops, unable to bend. The middle of her thighs – one of the fullest parts of Su Wanqing's body. As the cotton rope wrapped around her thighs, it squeezed the tender flesh of her inner thighs, causing it to bulge. The crotch of the black stockings was pulled down slightly by the rope loops at the base of her thighs, revealing a small patch of fair skin at the junction of her waist and hips, uncovered by the stockings. Each intersection of the rope loops was like a black chess piece precisely placed on an anatomical point of her thigh. Viewed from above, six rows of rope loops bound her long, shapely legs into taut black cylinders – not even the thinnest piece of paper could be slipped between her legs. The base of her thighs was the final tie. As this loop was tightened, Su Wanqing let out a muffled groan. The rope was too close to the inner part of her thighs, and through the stockings, it brushed against the outer edge of her clitoris. The rough texture of the cotton rope scraped against the stockings, causing her clitoris to contract sharply. A faint current shot from her clitoris to her tailbone. The tips of her buttocks involuntarily clenched for a moment, the muscles at the base of her thighs tensing within the rope loop before relaxing again. "Mmm... there... you touched there..." Linda paused. Not because she heard Su Wanqing's whimper, but because the rope loop at the base of her thighs needed to avoid the collection bag's catheter and clip. She adjusted the catheter's path, guiding it over the rope loop at the base of her thighs to prevent it from being compressed and causing urine to flow back into her bladder. Then, on top of the rope loops, she added three leather restraints – one at the ankles, one at the knees, and one at the base of the thighs – each secured with a lock. The locks clicked, clicked, clicked three times. It's in. Fifteen centimeters—that's about the depth. The end of the tube rests in the upper esophagus—not yet in the trachea, so it doesn't impede breathing, but it has passed the pharyngeal curve. Her gag reflex has shifted from violent retching to weak, intermittent, uncontrollable spasms. Saliva begins to secrete uncontrollably—not from hunger, but because the presence of a foreign object in the mouth automatically stimulates the salivary glands to dilute and expel it. But the saliva, surging around the tube, has nowhere to go—her lips are held open by the metal ring, unable to close—it spills out of her gaping mouth, first wetting her lower lip, then trickling down her chin, leaving a glistening trail on her latex-clad chest. "Gurgle—blub—urble—" She wants to speak. She wants to say "No," to scream "Let me go," to utter any complete sentence. Her vocal cords can vibrate—her Adam's apple can move up and down—air can be pushed from her lungs—but the airflow is blocked by the tube as it passes through her oropharynx, and then dispersed by the metal ring as it rushes out of her mouth. All that escapes her parted lips are garbled gurgles, faint whimpers, and the occasional sound of bursting bubbles. "No"—that's the word she says most often, but now it won't come out. She tries to bite her tongue against her palate to form the "b" sound, but the tube is lodged between her tongue and palate, preventing the airflow from creating an explosive sound. The closest she can manage to "no" is: "Urble—blub-urble—oogle—" Even she can't understand it. Language—humanity's last bastion of freedom, unburdened by hands or feet—is gone. Su Wanqing—Bai Lu—her body, fixed to the surgical chair, trembles violently. It's not the pain—the speculum's insertion is painless, the silicone tube doesn't injure the mucosa, the metal ring hasn't cut her lips. It's the sense of powerlessness—something in her mouth, her lips unable to close, saliva flowing out, her voice trapped. She has lived by words for over twenty years—meticulously choosing every character when writing reviews, precisely selecting every word when cursing, and even after being dragged into the Obsidian Pavilion, the only thing she could retain was her ability to speak—though most of the time, no one listened. But now, even that is gone. The tube doesn't just fill her throat—it fills the last outlet of a writer. She cries. Tears stream down from the corners of her eyes, tracing the seam between the latex hood and her cheeks, pooling in her ears. She cries silently—not because she doesn't want to wail loudly, but because with the tube in her mouth, wailing is impossible. Only a few distorted, inhuman whimpers escape from the deepest part of her throat, passing through the metal tube and emerging as a faint, thread-like lament, like the final gasps of a trapped, dying animal in a cage. Linda fastens the speculum's retaining arms to the sides of her latex hood—two clasps click precisely into the metal loops pre-sewn into the hood. Click. Click. One on the left, one on the right. Mr. M takes the key and slips it into his suit pocket. This means, from now on, unless he chooses to unlock these two latches, Su Wanqing's mouth will remain perpetually in this O-shaped open position—not for an hour, not for a day, but forever. "For-ever"—she adds the word herself in her mind. Mr. M didn't say forever—but he also didn't say when it would be removed. When unsure whether it's today or forever, the default is forever. Mr. M wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes with his finger. The fingertip, as it touches and withdraws, carries the coolness of latex, brushing against a small patch of skin below her eyes not covered by the latex—only that small patch, as everything from her jaw upwards is covered in black latex, and her upper face is also encased by the latex hood, leaving only the area around her eyes and mouth for expression. And now, even the skin around her mouth is stretched by the metal ring, distorting its original curve. He steps back two paces, appraising her new oral apparatus with an appreciative gaze. The surgical lamp has been turned on at some point—its stark, uniform light spills from above, illuminating every detail of the surgical chair. Her body, covered in black latex, gleams faintly under the light. Her legs, spread by the stirrups and clad in black stockings, tremble slightly. The collection bag on her outer thigh sways, half-filled with a pale yellow liquid. And that mouth, which once smiled and conversed at countless art exhibition openings, is now a forced O-shaped void—lips stretched to their limit, teeth unable to close, a transparent silicone tube protruding from the depths of her throat, saliva dripping down her chin onto her latex-covered chest. "From today onwards—" Mr. M begins to speak slowly. His voice sounds clearer in this operating room than usual, perhaps due to the room's acoustics, or perhaps the silence of the surgical lamp has robbed the ears of ambient noise. "Bai Lu's mouth will no longer be a tool for commenting on art." His gaze shifts from her stretched mouth to her eyes. There is no mockery or malice in his eyes, only a faint seriousness and satisfaction, like an artisan completing the final step of a craft. "It will be something better—a perfect receptacle." Receptacle. Su Wanqing twitches on the chair. Not because the word itself is so insulting—but because he says it with such earnestness, so earnestly as if an architect were showing you blueprints for a project about to commence. A mouth, once used for writing articles and cursing, for witty banter at parties, for telling an assistant "Make that painter wait a moment." What will it be used to receive from now on? It took her over a month to accept that she was a canvas—and now, another opening has appeared on the canvas, and its purpose is "reception." She wants to question him but can't—only a string of garbled gurgles rushes out of the tube, shattering into scattered bubbles in the air. Mr. M doesn't explain what he intends to store. He merely curves his lips slightly—that smile she knows too well—and hangs the brush back on the wall. "Linda, take her to the adaptation room. No need to return to the cage today—let her spend a few hours alone in the adaptation room to get used to her new way of breathing." Linda unfastens the restraints on the surgical chair—first the ankles, then the wrists, and finally the waist belt. The moment Su Wanqing is helped down from the chair, her legs give out—her inner thigh muscles have become rigid from being held in the stirrups for so long, and the metal crossbar has left a faint red indentation on the backs of her knees, barely visible through her black stockings. She kneels on the floor, gasping for air—not because she wants to gasp, but because the speculum forces her to breathe through her mouth, and her mouth can no longer close. Air flows directly through the tube and metal ring into her trachea, bypassing the filtration and humidification of her nasal passages. Each breath makes her throat feel dry and itchy, and the tube beneath her tongue trembles slightly with the rhythm of her breathing. Su Wanqing had been fixed to the flesh-toilet rack for a full three days. For these three days, she had been facing the mirror. Mr. M had deliberately adjusted the mirror's position – directly opposite the rack, at an angle that allowed her to see her entire body without obstruction. Her legs were spread as wide as possible by the metal arms and hoisted high, knees bent with ankles secured above her shoulders, her entire lower body suspended in an extremely shameful 'M' shape. Both her honey hole and rear were plugged with dilators, their ends connected to transparent collection tubes that led to two collection bags hanging at the bottom of the rack. The catheter in her urethra had been removed – Mr. M had said a flesh-toilet didn't need a catheter; all fluids should exit through their designated passages. A funnel-shaped speculum was fitted into her mouth, its metal frame forcing her jaw open into a five-centimeter diameter channel, the bottom of the funnel connected to a soft tube that went directly down her throat. This way, both her mouth and the two lower orifices became inlets that could be filled at any time, with the contents flowing through their respective tubes into their corresponding collection bags. Not a single drop would be wasted. Her breasts had undergone the most significant changes. Three days ago, Mr. M had attached two transparent breast pump cups to her nipples, connected to an electric milking pump that activated automatically every four hours. The first time, she had been in so much pain she almost bit through the speculum – not because the suction was too strong, but because the sensation of something being drawn out from within her body was too bizarre. The moment milk was drawn from her nipples, her entire breasts convulsed, her areolas puckered into small knots, and her nipples visibly doubled in size within the transparent cups. The pump ran for about ten minutes, drawing out milk that flowed through the soft tube into a glass bottle hanging on the side of the rack – Mr. M picked it up, held it to the light, swirled it, and remarked, "Grade A quality." His tone was like that of a connoisseur appraising a newly opened bottle of vintage wine. Over the three days, she had been milked no less than fifteen times, her yield increasing each time. Her breasts had swollen from a C cup to a D cup, bulging like two water-filled balloons hanging from her chest, with two drops of un-sucked white residue perpetually clinging to her nipples. Other parts of her body were not idle either. Her entire body, except for her face and fingers and toes, was covered in a layer of black latex – Mr. M had applied several more layers during these days, from primer to the third coat. The latex was now thick enough to faintly obscure the bluish tint of the veins beneath her skin. The front of her thighs and calves had also been thoroughly coated, with only the protruding kneecaps retaining a hint of their original color, as the knees needed to bend, and too thick a coating would impede movement. But Su Wanqing was fixed to the rack, her knees unable to bend, so the remaining original color was merely symbolic – a symbol that she had not yet been completely covered, a symbol that this body, at least technically, was still one step away from being a "finished product." Her consciousness had undergone a slow, almost drowning descent over these three days. Initially, every second was agony. Her legs were spread to their maximum angle, stretching the ligaments and tendons in her inner thighs, causing a dull ache. Her arms were fixed in reverse behind the rack – elbows bent, forearms crossed, wrists locked by metal clasps onto a steel plate behind her waist – her shoulders aching as if they had been wrung out like a towel all day. Her neck could move, but she dared not – any movement would cause the speculum's tube to scrape against her throat, a sensation more disgusting than the feeding tube. She could only maintain her neck at a slightly tilted-back angle, staring at her reflection in the mirror, watching the black, humanoid figure covered in black latex, legs spread wide, a funnel in its mouth, transparent cups attached to its breasts. That humanoid figure was her. For the first six hours of the first day, she cried continuously. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, pooled in her earlobes, and then trickled out, soaking the soft padding at the head of the rack. She looked at herself in the mirror and cried even harder – the black figure in the mirror was also crying, tears reflecting light on its black latex cheeks, two watery trails flowing from its eyes down to its jawline. She averted her gaze, not wanting to look, but the rack's angle ensured that no matter where she looked, her eyes would eventually return to the mirror. Closing her eyes was useless – it only stopped her from seeing, but every inch of her skin reminded her of the shameful position she was in. The presence of the two dilators between her legs was as intense as two red-hot iron rods. The negative pressure from the breast pump cups activated punctually every four hours. The metal frame of the speculum in her mouth pressed her tongue to the bottom, rendering it immobile, and even swallowing saliva required waiting for it to trickle down her throat on its own. On the second day, she learned to empty her mind. Not meditation – she didn't have the state of mind for that – but to clear everything from her brain, to think of nothing, and just stare at the small bright spot reflected from the fluorescent light onto the mirror. The spot was a tiny white dot on the mirror, motionless. Staring at it for a long time would imprint a green afterimage on her retina. She passed the time by observing the movement of this afterimage – a slight turn of her head would shift the afterimage, stopping would cause it to slowly fade, and then another slight turn. Hours passed like this. The feeding pump activated automatically every six hours, pumping warm, high-nutrient liquid through the speculum's tube into her throat and directly into her esophagus, requiring no swallowing or opening of the mouth. The first time she was fed, she was so nauseated she almost choked – the liquid flowed too quickly, and her throat couldn't divert it in time, spilling into her trachea. She coughed violently on the rack, but the coughing only splattered residual liquid from the speculum everywhere. The second time she was fed, she learned to cooperate – not mentally, but her throat learned to automatically hold its breath the moment the feeding pump activated, waiting for the liquid to enter her esophagus before breathing again. This "learning" made her stare at the mirror for a long time after the feeding, her eyes vacant. On the third day, she no longer looked at the mirror. Not by turning her head – her head couldn't turn – but by keeping her eyes open without seeing anything. Her eyes were open, but her focus was set to infinity, and the black figure in the mirror became a blurry shadow, merging with the pale white wall in the background. Linda had changed the collection bags several times – she didn't know how many times, but she felt a tugging sensation in her lower body when they were changed, and then the weight of the two bags hanging on her outer thighs would lighten. Linda remained silent throughout, as if changing the filter on a machine. Just when she thought she had hit rock bottom – thought she had adapted to this half-dead state of being fixed, infused, and milked – the door opened. It wasn't Linda. Linda's footsteps were light and quick. This time, there were two sets of footsteps – one was Mr. M's unhurried leather shoe sound, and the other was a heavy, unfamiliar leather shoe sound she had never heard before. Su Wanqing's pupils contracted sharply within the eyeholes of the black latex hood. Her chest—when she pressed it against his collarbone—was positioned directly above his heart. The thumping of his heart reverberated in her eardrums, a steady, unhurried rhythm like a clock. As she listened to his heartbeat, her body relaxed—it had already relaxed, not was relaxing, but had relaxed. Her trapezius muscles sank, her gluteal muscles loosened, and even the inner thighs, which she had clenched tightly, afraid to release, parted slightly. "Mmm... no... it's not... mmm..." She refuted herself inwardly, her voice soft and utterly unconvincing. Lying on his lap, she rubbed her latex-covered face against the side of his thigh—she hadn't meant to, her head was heavy and her neck was sore, and she wanted to change her angle. But after changing her angle, the part of her face against the side of his thigh was her cheek—that spot, if she hadn't been wearing the hood, would have been her bare face resting on his leg. Now, through the latex hood, the sensation wasn't a hundred percent, but the warmth still came through. His legs were firm, and when he sat, his thigh muscles were relaxed, forming a gentle slope. Her face was nestled on that slope, stable and more comfortable than a cushion. She closed her eyes. At the eye openings of the latex hood, the black latex edge was lined with a circle of metal grommets. Through these grommets, she could see the base of the examination chair. Her vision slowly blurred—not from sleepiness, but from emptiness. The scent of essential oil filled her nasal cavity, sandalwood mixed with a faintly sweet herbal aroma, enveloping her consciousness and pulling it down. Mr. M's left hand remained on her lower back, while his right hand's fingers slowly moved down along the latex seam on the back of her calf. From the hollow of her knee to her calf, to her ankle, and then to her heel, every inch was coated with essential oil. The latex gleamed with a warm luster under the soft light. He paused when he reached her heel, cupping it in his palm. Her feet were small—size thirty-six, and they looked even smaller wrapped in latex, like black cocoons. He gently massaged the latex on her heel with his thumb—the heel was one of the most prone areas for latex wear and tear. Although the soles of her latex boots were still intact, the heel area had endured significant tension due to the prolonged kneeling position with her feet flexed upwards. After massaging, he gently placed her heel back on his thigh and then treated her other foot in the same manner. Su Wanqing lay on his lap, motionless. She wasn't asleep—her eyes were open, and through the metal grommets of the eye openings, she watched a scratch on the base of the examination chair. That scratch was probably from the previous batch of material—or perhaps the one before that—it had already yellowed a bit. She stared at the scratch for a long time, until her eyes ached, without blinking. Because she was afraid to blink—she feared that if she blinked, her body might do something she couldn't control. Her cunt was still secreting. The viscous fluid in the interlayer between the latex and her skin had spread from a small damp patch to a large area, extending from the opening of her cunt to her inner thighs and then to the junction of her buttocks and thighs. She was sealed by the latex—the liquid couldn't escape and could only slowly diffuse between her skin and the latex, soaking her entire private area. The sensation was strange—not wet, because the latex was waterproof and felt dry on the outside. But she could feel a warm liquid slowly flowing around her private parts, and with every slight movement of her thighs, the liquid would shift, flowing to a new spot and leaving behind a small patch of warm dampness. She was immersed in her own bodily fluids, lying on his lap, smelling his essential oil, listening to his heartbeat. This was not what she had imagined being trained would be like. She had rehearsed "what it would be like to be trained" in her mind many times—whips, shackles, electric shocks, suspension, being hung from the ceiling and doused with cold water. She had constructed a framework of scenes filled with violence, pain, and screams using her limited knowledge. That wasn't hers—she had never experienced it; those images came from movies, novels, and occasional news reports. But these past few days, there had been no whips, no electric shocks, no suspension. Only cotton ropes, single gloves, latex brushes, collection bags, and a warm towel. There was no pain, only shame. No fear, only waiting. And today, even the shame was slowly changing—from naked humiliation to a dizzying, indescribable feeling, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, a warm, passive state. She didn't know why she was so sensitive—three weeks ago, when the first layer of primer was applied, she was still crying, still cursing, still telling herself over and over in her mind, "I haven't surrendered yet." Three weeks later, she was lying on the lap of the person training her, and she became wet while being applied with essential oil. She took a few seconds to digest this fact and then told herself again in her mind, "I haven't surrendered yet." This time, even the trailing end of her voice was wavering, so weak that she couldn't stand to hear it herself. He turned you black, locked you in a cage, turned your hands into paws, fed you with tubes, and urinated for you with a catheter. Every action he took, you recorded it in your mind—this is hate, this is hate, this is also hate. Then he placed a hot towel on your shoulder, and all your hate began to blur. Like a clear pencil line smudged by a finger, the edges blurred, becoming indistinct, blending with the surrounding paper into a gray mass. This was what he called "shaping"—not shaping the body into a certain form, but shaping the will into one that could accept any shaping. The primer was not the first layer of latex—it was the moment her body relaxed after the first touch. She lay on Mr. M's lap, her face against the side of his thigh, and closed her eyes for a moment amidst the scent of essential oil, then opened them again. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes for too long, she would actually fall asleep—if she fell asleep on his lap, it wouldn't be her body betraying her, but even her consciousness would have betrayed her. "Turn over." "Bai Lu, I'll come check on you every hour. The room light will never be turned off—because I want you to always see yourself in the mirror. I want you to—see enough of yourself as you are now." He straightened up, wiping the glossy latex from his lips with the back of his hand. Then he turned and walked towards the door. Linda followed, pushing an empty trolley, and the two of them left the room one after the other. The door wasn't fully closed—a gap was left, and the fluorescent light from the corridor spilled through the crack, laying a long, thin wedge of white light on the floor. Then the door was closed. The light patch vanished. Only Su Wanqing and the mirror remained in the room. And the low-frequency hum of the infusion pump. For the first hour, she cursed inwardly. Her nipples continued to swell under the effect of the lactation gel, both buds as hard as stones. A little white milk occasionally seeped from the pores, forming small beads on the tips before dripping onto her own thighs. She couldn't lower her head to see her nipples—the angle at which her body was folded blocked her breasts between her chin and chest—but she could see in the mirror the two mounds of flesh peeking out from the openings of the black latex suit. The milk on her nipples glinted, reflecting the light. "Ugh—bastard—呜呜—" she let out a hoarse whimper from her throat behind the gag. The curses were churned into a mess by the funnel in her mouth; she couldn't even tell what she was saying, but she persisted. Because she hadn't given up. Because she still felt someone would come to save her. Because even though she was folded into this position, secured on a custom-made metal frame, gagged with a funnel, pumped with nutrient solution into her stomach, her lower body stretched open by a dilator, and a collection bag hanging from her leg—she could at least still curse. Cursing was the only human action she could still perform. She cursed for about forty minutes before stopping. Not because she had cursed enough—but because she suddenly realized something: all the curses she uttered could only be heard by herself. And even she couldn't hear them clearly. The point of cursing was to make others hear her anger, but now her anger was trapped between the funnel and the tubes, turning into muffled puffs of air that couldn't even travel out of the room, let alone reach Mr. M's ears. Her anger had no audience. Just as her tears had no fingers to wipe them away. Just as her body had no joints that could move freely. Everything that belonged to her was intercepted in this room, only able to meet her own gaze in the mirror. In the second hour, the cursing turned into pleading. Not to anyone—no one could hear her pleas—but to the contorted, inhuman thing in the mirror. Her mouth was held open by the funnel, unable to even close, yet she still tried to vibrate her throat to form syllables: "Let me out—please—let me go—I won't call the police—I won't tell anyone—my dad is rich, I'll give you as much as you want—please—" The person in the mirror offered no response. The person in the mirror was simply contorting her once-proud body into poses she herself didn't recognize—limbs folded, lower body spread, mouth filled. The person in the mirror's breasts were leaking milk, and the person in the mirror's honey hole was seeping clear, viscous fluid at the edge of the dilator—that was her body's self-protection mechanism, secreting lubricant to reduce friction between the dilator and the flesh walls. Her body was maintaining itself automatically, without her permission. She remembered what Mr. M had said: "Your body data is excellent." What did excellent mean? Did it mean that while her consciousness was still resisting, her body had already automatically adjusted the amount of lubricant secreted? Did it mean that while her soul was still cursing, her sphincter had learned to automatically embrace the dilator? Did it mean that while her mind was still planning an escape route, her mammary glands were obediently mass-producing Bai Lu under the effect of the lactation gel? Her body was a precision instrument custom-made for her, and her consciousness was merely an inconvenient alarm light attached to this instrument—it flashed, but it was useless. In the third hour, the pleading turned into silence. Not peace—but silence. The kind of silence where even speaking was too much effort, so she simply stopped. The nutrient solution was still being pumped into her stomach; the third 300ml had been finished. Linda came to change the bag once—her movements were light and quick, she didn't look at Su Wanqing at all, and left after changing it. The collection bag was emptied once and re-attached to her leg. The dilators were removed for about two minutes—the two silicone plugs inserted into her honey hole and anus made a "pop" sound when pulled out, which seemed exceptionally clear in the quiet room, reflected by the mirror. Linda squeezed a tube of moisturizing lubricant into each hole, then reinserted the dilators. In that two-minute interval, Su Wanqing felt her sphincter contracting uncontrollably—not because she wanted to expel something, but out of habit. The two holes that had been stretched for months were suddenly empty, and her body's first reaction was not relaxation but discomfort. This realization made her stare at the mirror for a long time after Linda left. After the silence came a weariness she was unwilling to admit. Not just physical fatigue—her body had been tired for a long time, from the first minute she was folded into the frame, every muscle had been screaming with soreness. Her hip joints were stretched to their limit, and the ache of her ligaments spread from her groin along the inner thigh all the way to the inner knee, like two burnt iron wires buried in the roots of her legs. Her wrists were slightly numb from being bent backward too far, and her fingers had lost their sensation inside the single glove. The metal support on her lower back prevented her from slumping, and her abdominal muscles were constantly tensed to maintain the incline of her upper body. Every part of her body ached—but the pain paradoxically made her more lucid, and lucidity made it impossible for her to escape the contorted black mass in the mirror. It was a fatigue of the will—this fatigue was more deadly than the physical soreness. Because that mirror was always there. She had nowhere to hide. She couldn't turn her head, couldn't close her eyes—the presence of the gag made even the most basic act of escape, like tightly closing her eyelids, impossible. Because the muscles of her mouth were connected to her eyes, and the funnel stretching her mouth pulled at the skin and flesh of her face, slightly tugging at her eyelids as well. Every blink came with a slight resistance. The mirror was placed one meter and twenty centimeters directly in front of her, not too high, not too low, at an angle that perfectly framed the entire contorted posture of her body within its silver metal frame. The shadowless lights from four directions cast no shadows, illuminating every detail with stark clarity. She could only watch the contorted mass of black flesh in the mirror every second. And then, repeatedly, be forced to admit— That is me. That is me now. Not Su Wanqing. It is Bai Lu. Su Wanqing let out a muffled whimper from behind the speculum. She desperately wanted to say, *I'm not adapting, I'm not adapting, don't say I'm adapting*—but the words wouldn't come out. And he was telling the truth. Her heart rate had indeed slowed since being put on the rack, her blood pressure was stable, and her breasts were producing milk at a rate of one increment per hour. Her bodily data were telling him: this vessel was functioning normally. Mr. M stood up and walked to the side of the mirror, adjusting its angle slightly with his hand—allowing Su Wanqing to see more clearly the honey trap stretched open by the dilator and her anus, completely exposed after being folded back. The two silicone plugs in the mirror gleamed faintly under the surgical light, their surrounding tender flesh quivering slightly with each breath, a subtle yet rhythmic movement that, in sync with the dripping of her milk, formed a bizarre biological metronome. "At the sixth hour," he turned to look at her in the mirror, "I will remove the dilators and give you a cleaning. After cleaning, I will reinsert them for you—but this time with a larger size. Your current dilator diameter is 2.5 centimeters; the next stage is 3.0. Bai Lu's vessel capacity—" he tapped the mirror surface with his finger, directly over the honey trap stretched open by the dilator, "—needs further development." The words sent a shiver down her spine. 2.5 centimeters had already been inserted for days—she had grown accustomed to the feeling of being stretched, and though her sphincter still contracted automatically, it no longer resisted the presence of a foreign object. 3.0 centimeters—an increase of only 0.5, which sounded small, but in this region, an extra 0.5 could be an entirely different magnitude. She couldn't recall if her body had ever been stretched by something so large, but she knew she had no right to refuse. After speaking, Mr. M turned and left, leaving a cup of water on the floor—but it was clearly not for Su Wanqing. Her mouth was blocked by the speculum; she couldn't drink. The water was for Mr. M himself, a sip taken before he came in to talk to her, the cup then placed on the floor as casually as a doctor might place a water cup on a bedside table during rounds. The cup of water sat quietly on the floor. Its surface reflected a faint light under the surgical lamp. Su Wanqing watched it—from her angle, she could just see the water level rippling slightly, the air disturbance from Mr. M's movement not yet fully settled. The water shimmered in her gaze for about three seconds before becoming still. It was normal to the point of being heartbreaking. The water was separated from her by over a meter—but this meter was more insurmountable than any lock on any iron gate in the Obsidian Hall. Her hands were bound behind her head; she couldn't reach the water. She wasn't allowed to drink water herself. She was infused with nutrient solution, cleaning fluid, and moisturizing gel—all input was passive. The simplest act, lifting a cup of water to her lips, something humans learned from the age of two, had become her luxury. The sixth hour. Mr. M arrived precisely on time. This time, he carried a silver tray, on which were placed two tubes of lubricant, a pair of silicone tweezers, and a black dilator that was a size larger than the previous one—the 3.0 centimeter version. Linda followed behind, pushing a cart laden with an irrigation syringe and a bottle of clear cleaning fluid. He knelt before the fixation frame and gently pressed around the edge of the dilator with his fingers—checking the elasticity and moisture of the vaginal walls. His latex gloves gleamed under the surgical light. As his fingertips traced the outer edge of her honey trap, Su Wanqing's entire pelvic region twitched. "Lubrication is sufficient, no tearing, no redness or swelling," he withdrew his fingers from the edge of the dilator, a glistening strand of fluid stretching from his fingertips. "It can be removed." Linda first removed the dilator from her honey trap. *Pop*—the sound was louder than the last time it was changed, as this dilator had been inserted for five to six hours, creating a more complete vacuum seal between the flesh and the silicone. The moment the plug was pulled, a clear, viscous fluid was drawn out with it, stretching into a thread that broke on the latex clothing on her inner thighs, leaving a reflective mark. Su Wanqing let out a muffled groan behind the speculum—not from pain, but from emptiness. It was a shameful emptiness born from the sudden void after her flesh, accustomed to being filled, was emptied, her honey trap still opening and closing reflexively, as if searching for the silicone that had been removed. Then came her anus. *Pop*, another sound. When the anal dilator was removed, it brought out more lubricant—a milky white viscous fluid trickled down her buttock crease, pooling slightly on the non-slip texture of the metal base. The sphincter, without the support of the foreign object, snapped shut into a small fold—then relaxed again, slowly quivering under the surgical light, like a pale flower bud, waterlogged, breathing in and out. The cleaning process was the same as usual—Linda connected the soft tube of the irrigation syringe to the cleaning fluid bottle, first rinsing her honey trap and anus twice with warm water to wash away residual lubricant and bodily secretions, then irrigating each cavity once with the cleaning solution. As the liquid was introduced, Su Wanqing could feel the warm cleaning fluid sloshing in her abdominal cavity—not a sensation from her stomach, but from the region of her intestines and pelvis. The feeling of being filled internally by liquid was different from tube feeding, but equally passive. Then Linda pressed on her lower abdomen, allowing the cleaning fluid, along with the flushed-out substances, to flow out from both openings—mixing with white lubricant, clear bodily fluids, and some pale yellow intestinal secretions, draining into a shallow trough beneath the base, where it was siphoned away by a built-in drain. After cleaning, Mr. M picked up the 3.0 centimeter dilator. He held the plug up to Su Wanqing—letting her see. "3.0," he said, "0.5 more than before. Your sphincter and vaginal wall muscle fibers will adapt to the new diameter within three to five days after this 1.5 millimeter expansion. Then we'll switch to 3.5—4—4.5—and finally 5." He dipped the tip of the plug in lubricant and then parted the outer petals of her honey trap with his thumb and forefinger. The clitoris trembled slightly in the cold air—the freshly cleaned mucosa was a pale pink, slightly reddened from the warm water. The entrance to her honey trap was still quivering, the tender flesh on the inner walls contracting in concentric circles, as if instinctively resisting what was about to enter. But he encountered almost no resistance as he pushed it in. It wasn't because it wasn't tight—the lubrication was sufficient, the position was correct, and the sphincter, through months of repeated dilation, had learned to relax automatically upon encountering frontal pressure rather than contracting instinctively. The 3.0 centimeter dilator, rotating slowly, was pushed deep into her honey trap—as the widest part of the plug slid past the entrance, Su Wanqing's toes curled tightly inside her black stockings, and a groan, crushed by the speculum, escaped her throat. It wasn't pain—it was a satisfying fullness, accompanied by a slight ache, a feeling that sent her heart plummeting: if being filled brought her satisfaction, then what was the difference between her and Bai Lu, the one Mr. M called "naturally suited to be made into a vessel"? Her anus was also fitted with a new dilator. The same diameter. Her anal sphincter was tighter than her honey trap, and the insertion process took more than twice as long. Mr. M's hands were patient—first sending in the tip and waiting for the first wave of sphincter spasms to subside, then pushing in another two centimeters, waiting for the second wave, then the third. The entire process lasted nearly a minute. After the dilator was fully inserted into her anus, Su Wanqing's lower back was arched as much as it could be—not from pain, but from an intense feeling of fullness and distension, spreading from the deepest part of her abdomen to her entire pelvis, forcing her to arch her back to make room for the increased volume. "Very good," Mr. M said, tossing the used old plugs into the tray and removing his latex gloves. "Dilator change at the sixth hour completed successfully. The next phase of observation will continue until the twelfth hour. Bai Lu, you are very promising." Promising. His choice of words was still that unsettling praise. Promising. Like a parent commending a child for not spilling food on the table at kindergarten. Su Wanqing closed her eyes behind the speculum—the only action she could still control independently was closing her eyes—blocking the mirror with her eyelids. But the mirror was still there; closing her eyes could only block her vision, not the dim red afterimage of the surgical light reflected by the mirror, which, passing through her thin eyelids, was imprinted on her retina. When she closed her eyes, she saw black tinged with red; when she opened them, she saw the coiled mass of flesh in the mirror, now fitted with a larger dilator. Whether her eyes were open or closed, it was Bai Lu. The paw gloves were thicker and rounder than ordinary gloves, obliterating any fine motor control. The sponge used for painting was held by the fingertips; with the paw gloves on, it could only be clamped between the two fleshy pads – but Xia Ran had already tried that. The sponge was too soft, the pads too round, and there were no finger gaps to grip it. This adjustment wasn't M's deliberate targeting of Xia Ran. The standard canine transformation procedure mandated the use of paw gloves for every subject on the first day of transformation training, regardless of whether they were painters who used their fingers or critics who typed on keyboards. However, its side effects were more pronounced for Xia Ran because her self-preservation was highly dependent on painting. The nutrient paste murals were the only way she could confirm "I am still Xia Ran" in her cell. Bai Lu picked up the kneeling restraints. Two of them. One for the left leg, one for the right. Each consisted of three straps and two metal buckles, fastened around the middle of the thigh and the upper and lower parts of the calf, locking the thigh and calf into a ninety-degree bent position. Once worn, the kneeling posture for quadrupedal crawling would be permanently fixed; the knees could not be straightened, and she would remain forever on her knees. She squatted down. Xia Ran's calves were encased in black latex, which had a matte sheen under the dim red light. Bai Lu wrapped the first restraint around her left leg – first the strap around the middle of the thigh, then the upper calf strap, and finally the lower calf strap. With each buckle fastened, Xia Ran would sway slightly, not struggling, but adjusting her balance. After all three straps were secured, she tried to bend her knee. The angle was locked at ninety degrees, and the latex between her thigh and calf reflected the tension. Then came the right leg. Throughout the process, Xia Ran kept her head down, watching Bai Lu's fingers move between the straps and buckles. Bai Lu's movements were practiced. Linda had told her back then that the most crucial aspect of canine restraints was the angle of the knee bend. If it was too loose, the subject might find a way to stand up; if it was too tight, the blood vessels in the popliteal fossa would be compressed for too long and go numb. She had spent three days testing it on herself, kneeling in the cell and repeatedly adjusting the tightness of each strap, finding that critical point of "just unable to stand but not numb." Now her hands automatically found that critical point. The last strap was buckled. Bai Lu stood up. Xia Ran knelt on the soft mat. The kneeling restraints locked her thighs and calves at a ninety-degree angle, preventing her from standing upright and forcing her knees to the ground. Her two forepaws rested on the ground, bearing the weight of her upper body. Due to the imbalance of weight distribution, her hips were unconsciously cocked upwards – not intentionally, but because the locked knees caused her pelvis to tilt forward, creating an arc in her buttocks that was not present when she stood upright, taut beneath the black latex. Bai Lu glanced at the lower shelf of the trolley. The hand mirror was still there. It was the same one Xia Ran had used when she first applied the black latex primer – Bai Lu had placed it in front of her then, letting her watch the process of her left ankle being covered in black latex. Later, the mirror had remained on the lower shelf, and Bai Lu would take it out each time she conducted Xia Ran's daily check-ups, allowing her to examine different parts of herself. She picked up the mirror. And placed it in front of Xia Ran. Xia Ran looked up. The creature in the mirror also looked up. Black canine ears stood high on her head, the tips tilting slightly forward. A bone-shaped muzzle was clamped in her mouth, saliva already dripping from the corners and forming a thin line at her chin, making a soft pattering sound as it landed on the mat. Her hands had become black paw pads supporting her on the ground, the texture of the anti-slip pads imprinted by the soft mat after being flattened. Her legs, encased in black latex, were bound into a kneeling posture by the restraints, knees on the ground, calves folded back, and her buttocks were raised due to the forward tilt of her pelvis. The leash hung from the metal rings on either side of the muzzle, forming an arc across her chest, its end held in Bai Lu's hand. She watched for three seconds. Then she made a muffled sound within the muzzle. It wasn't a cry. It wasn't a curse. It was a grunt, somewhere between a wry smile and a sigh, forced out by the sheer absurdity of her situation – the airflow from her throat, blocked by the muzzle, escaped through the bone-shaped ends, becoming a muffled, indistinct, intermittent gasp. Then she lowered her head. And rubbed her nose with the back of her paw. Wearing the latex hood for too long made her nose itch. She couldn't scratch it with her hands, so she used the rough anti-slip pads on the back of her paw pads to rub against it. This was a habit she had recently developed – during the days they were in the same cage, she would rub her nose with the back of her gloves every night before sleeping. But now her gloves had become paw pads, and the anti-slip pads on the back of her fleshy pads were larger, so when she rubbed, her forehead was also brushed. Paired with her current attire, the action was uncannily like a dog scratching its face with its paw. The warm white spotlights in the exhibition hall were already on. Linda had arrived early to set them up – she’d recalibrated the grille angles by half a degree from the logistics department, and now each beam of light hit its designated spot precisely. The nineteen paintings on the three walls had been hung last night, enlarged to wall-sized dimensions after high-definition reproduction. The grayscale texture of the nutrient paste was captured in exquisite detail by the macro lens – the hairline highlight in the corridor perspective, the curve of the shoulder blade in the Bai Lu back view, the leaf that Xia Ran had added at the last minute next to Linda’s teacup. At the center of the exhibition platform. Circular, two meters in diameter, thirty centimeters off the ground. Dark gray anti-slip floor stickers covered the entire surface. The display stand was in the exact center of the platform, its metal frame wrapped in black leather, with metal fastening points at the four corners. Bai Lu led Xia Ran into the exhibition hall by the leash. Xia Ran paused at the doorframe. It wasn't that she couldn't kneel. It was that her eyes were fixed on the entire wall directly in front of her – where her first painting hung. The back of Bai Lu. The grayscale of the nutrient paste, magnified to a size larger than life after being captured by the high-definition camera, showed the woman’s standing back on the wall, the slight curve of her shoulder blades, the layers upon layers of dark gray folds at the neckline of her maid outfit. In the bottom right corner of the painting, the extremely fine, undissolved particle tail that had accidentally leaked from the sponge gap was still visible. Xia Ran had retouched the details of this painting many times before, each time saying, "This one is actually the cleanest." Because it consisted of three minimalist arcs – the arc of the shoulder blades, the arc of the neckline, and the arc at the waist, cast into shadow by the dark red light. Nothing else was added besides these three arcs. In the cell, it had been painted on the concrete wall with nutrient paste. Now, it was framed with light, photographic paper, and glass, hanging in the exhibition hall. The back of the woman in the painting and the woman standing outside the painting wore the same maid outfit. Bai Lu tugged the leash and walked forward. Xia Ran followed. The knee-braced restraints on her legs made a faint creaking sound as they scraped against the wooden floor – not from slipping, but from the friction between the suede anti-slip bottom that Bai Lu had added to the knee pads last night and the wooden floor. Linda had said yesterday afternoon that the wooden floor was more slippery than the soft padding, and if one was nervous while kneeling, their knees would keep sliding down, so Bai Lu had found a piece of old velvet from the storage room and sewn it onto the bottom of the knee pads. The edges of the velvet were not sewn very neatly – her needlework had always been mediocre. In front of the exhibition platform. Bai Lu unhooked the leash from the metal rings on either side of Xia Ran's muzzle. She replaced it with the built-in fixing buckle of the display stand – a very short stainless steel chain, one end clipped to the muzzle ring and the other to the base of the display stand. It was so short that it only allowed Xia Ran to maintain a basic seated kneeling posture facing the main aisle within the two-meter diameter circle. It wouldn't restrict her from turning her head, wouldn't restrict her from using her lips to pick up a pencil, wouldn't restrict her from drawing on the blank space at the edge of the anti-slip floor sticker on the platform. But it wasn't long enough for her to crawl off the platform. Bai Lu pressed down with her fingers as she inserted the buckle into the base. The metal locking mechanism made a crisp click. Xia Ran lowered her head, watching Bai Lu's fingers on the buckle. Then, a low rumble came from inside the muzzle. The sound was so muffled that the logistics assistant standing nearby didn't hear it at all. Bai Lu heard it, and she understood that the word hidden in the rumble was probably "The chain is so short – are you afraid I'll crawl away?" But she didn't translate it for anyone else. She just made a final adjustment to the angle of the pencil holder. Now, if Xia Ran tilted her head slightly, her lower lip would touch the end of the pencil. The silicone pad on the clip didn't reflect the light, and from a distance, it looked as if the pencil was naturally clipped to the side of the dog ear hood – the audience wouldn't realize it was a specially modified, detachable device. Then she took a stopwatch from her pocket. Eight minutes until the exhibition opened. There were only three staff members in the exhibition hall – Bai Lu, Linda, and the logistics assistant. The warm white spotlights shone quietly on the three walls. Nineteen paintings waited in their positions for the first wave of visitors. In the center of the platform knelt a black creature, its dog ears perked high, a muzzle clamped in its mouth, its front paw pads resting on its knees, drool dripping from the corners of its mouth onto the anti-slip floor sticker. Bai Lu stood beside the platform, conducting a final equipment check. She ticked off the pre-exhibition confirmation checklist item by item – spotlight color temperature consistent, grille angle correct, exhibit fixing buckle locked, pencil grip test passed three times, knee pad suede anti-slip bottom intact, no lifting at the edges of the platform floor sticker. She put a checkmark after each item. After the last checkmark, she closed the clipboard. Then she felt a gloved hand lightly touch her wrist. Very lightly. The rough, soft texture of the anti-slip palm pad brushed against the skin of her inner wrist. Bai Lu looked down. Xia Ran was looking up at her. Her mouth was filled with the muzzle, so she couldn't speak. But her eyes were asking a silent question. Not "Will I be stared at?" "Will I be humiliated?" "Can I endure it?" – she hadn't asked those questions for a month. She was asking another question. She began to dread Mr. M's arrival. Not that he would hurt her – he no longer hurt her; he was merely maintaining her now. It was the fear that her body would react the moment she saw him, that the instant he walked into the room, her body would know a head-to-toe cleansing was imminent. This Pavlovian response, the involuntary salivation at the sound of a bell, was more unbearable to her than any direct humiliation. But her body didn't listen to her. The moment Mr. M's leather-soled shoes sounded in the hallway, her nipples had already begun to swell – not from a stimulant, but from conditioned reflex. She didn't know how many days had passed – perhaps a week, perhaps two, perhaps longer – when Su Wanqing found herself no longer able to distinguish the boundaries between the names "Su Wanqing," "Bai Lu," and "Number 029." At first, it was just occasional confusion. When she told herself, "I am Su Wanqing," the image that flashed in her mind wasn't of the woman in the tailored suit and high heels pacing the gallery, but of her own curled-up black body, encased in latex on a steel frame. She would quickly correct herself: "No, no, that's Number 029. Su Wanqing is that person – the one who writes reviews – Su Zhengguo's daughter –" After correcting herself, she felt hollow. Because when she tried to describe Su Wanqing, she used the term "that person" – not "I," but "that person." "That person" does art criticism; "that person" is Su Zhengguo's daughter. So, who was "I"? Then there was Bai Lu. The identity of Bai Lu felt closer than Su Wanqing – not chronologically, but in terms of bodily memory. She was Bai Lu when the milking machine drew milk from her breasts, when she was led to the exhibition stand for public viewing, when she opened her mouth on a pile of hay towards the automatic feeder. Bai Lu's bodily memories hadn't faded – her breasts still remembered the violent suction when the milking machine latched onto her nipples, her rear still remembered the tightening and forced stretching when the brush was inserted, her neck still remembered the angle it tilted back when the chain on her collar was pulled. These memories were more vivid than Su Wanqing's memories of writing reviews – writing reviews happened in the mind, milking happened on the body. The body remembered more firmly. And this current body, sealed in latex, was physically closer to Bai Lu than to Su Wanqing, because Bai Lu was also controlled, milked, and fixed in a certain position, unable to move. Su Wanqing was free – so free that she could no longer remember what freedom felt like. Finally, there was Number 029. Number 029 was the designation Mr. M and Linda used for her, and it was the role she was currently playing – a living vessel curled on a metal restraint frame, sealed in black latex. Number 029 didn't write reviews, didn't milk, didn't stand for exhibition. Number 029 only maintained a posture, received nutrient fluid, received vibrations, received maintenance. Number 029 didn't need a name – a number was enough. Number 029 didn't need a past or a future – her current state was enough. These three people – "Su Wanqing," "Bai Lu," "Number 029" – took turns occupying her mind. Sometimes she resisted with all her might, shouting slogans in her mind with Su Wanqing's identity: "I haven't surrendered yet – I am still Su Wanqing –" After shouting a few times, she would suddenly realize she was speaking in Bai Lu's voice. Bai Lu's voice was softer than Su Wanqing's, more compliant; Bai Lu wouldn't shout slogans, only whimper softly a couple of times and then continue to lie down. Sometimes she gave up resisting and let Number 029 take over everything – Number 029 was the most effortless, Number 029 didn't need to think, didn't need to resist, didn't need to tell stories in her mind; Number 029 only needed to remain still, remain open, remain receptive. But after Number 029 had been in control for too long, at a certain moment, she would be jolted back from numbness by a sudden vibration, realizing that for a long time she hadn't thought anything at all – not even "Who am I?" That emptiness terrified her more than any fear, because emptiness meant she no longer needed her own name. Her most dreaded moment was when she tried to recall "Su Wanqing's" appearance, and the face that appeared in her mind was her current black latex hood. It wasn't a deliberate substitution – the memory had updated automatically. What did the original Su Wanqing look like? An oval face, faint eyebrows, lips a little thin but beautifully shaped – she knew these words, but when she tried to piece them together into a face, the image was blurry, like a water-damaged photograph. But the face wrapped in black latex in the mirror was clear – too clear, so clear that she could see it every time she opened her eyes. She thought, perhaps after some more time – another week, another two weeks – she would completely forget what Su Wanqing looked like. And then, at some point in her mind, Su Wanqing would die. Not a physical death – her body was too well cared for to die. It would be the death of an identity. The woman who could once write a ten-thousand-word review would be erased from this world, leaving only a name and an anecdote occasionally mentioned by others. And in her place would be this black, semi-transparent container – with body temperature, a heartbeat, the sheen of latex, and continuous vibrational frequencies. Alive, but not human. The thought terrified her so much that she wanted to cry, but tears wouldn't come – not because her tear ducts were blocked, but because the latex had blocked the thought itself. She could only feel liquid gathering in her eye sockets, blurring the already dim vision on the transparent film, and then the tears would slide down the inside of her cheeks, ultimately failing to escape the layer of latex. The completion of the full enclosure rendered time meaningless. Su Wanqing's eyes could still see. The latex hood left a transparent area over her eyes—not a hole cut out, but a patch of incredibly thin, transparent latex film pressed against her eyelids. The world seen through this film was two shades darker than before, and everything appeared as if submerged in a shallow pool of black liquid—the four walls of the room turned a pale gray, the white light of the fluorescent tubes became a grayish-white, and Linda or Mr. M, who occasionally entered, became gray-black silhouettes. But she could see. She saw the full-length mirror directly opposite her—Mr. M had readjusted the angle of the fixation frame after the enclosure was complete, allowing her to see her entire body. The body reflected in the mirror was unrecognizable: a human form, completely encased in black latex from head to toe, curled on the metal fixation frame. The latex clung so tightly that the contours of every muscle were vividly defined—the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of her breasts, the arrangement of her ribs, the protrusion of her hip bones, the gap between her inner thighs—all anatomical structures were present, but all turned black, reflecting a moist sheen under the fluorescent lights. A slightly raised latex patch covered the area of her lips, flattening her mouth completely. Two tiny honeycomb-shaped vents were located at her nose, the only channels through which she could still inhale air from the outside. Beneath the latex, her mouth remained perpetually open—not by choice, but because the patch sealed so tightly, pressing her lips together, forcing them into a posture of perpetual, involuntary openness, like a silent scream frozen in time. She could hear. Not all sounds—the latex hood filtered out some high frequencies, so she couldn't hear the rustling of Linda's skirt as she walked, but the low-frequency vibrations of her leather shoes on the floor could still be transmitted through the metal arms of the fixation frame to her spine and then to her inner ear. She could hear Mr. M clearly when he spoke, though his voice sounded a bit more distant than it actually was, as if speaking through water. More sounds came from within her own body—her heartbeat, her breathing, the faint gurgling of the nutrient solution flowing through the IV line, and the muffled thud of her mammary glands expanding slightly as milk accumulated. These internal sounds were louder than any external ones because they didn't have to pass through the latex; they were transmitted directly through bone to her inner ear. She could feel. Her sense of touch was still intact—all of it. And because her sight and hearing were diminished, her sense of touch had become even more acute. The metal arms of the fixation frame clasped her wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. The metal surface was covered with a layer of soft rubber, but the cold sensation still permeated. The infusion pump automatically activated every four hours—she could feel the IV line beneath the latex vibrate slightly, then a stream of warm, cool liquid flowed through the line into the subclavian vein, and was carried by her blood throughout her body. That warm, cool sensation spread downwards from her collarbone, and as it passed through her chest, her heart would beat twice more before returning to its normal rhythm. And then there were the two dilators in her nether regions. Mr. M had set the two dilators to different vibration frequencies—the one in her pussy was low-frequency, vibrating once every twelve seconds for three seconds each time, its rhythm like a slow tide; the one in her anus was slightly higher frequency, vibrating once every eight seconds for two seconds, its rhythm deliberately out of sync with the one in her pussy. The two dilators operated independently, yet at certain random moments, they vibrated simultaneously—at that moment of simultaneous vibration, the two frequencies would combine in her pelvis into a deeper hum, shooting from her clitoris to the sensitive points at the very end of her anus, causing her gluteal muscles to involuntarily clench. She had no way to evade it—the fixation frame held her legs apart at a forty-five-degree angle, knees slightly bent and fixed at a semi-squat height, her buttocks suspended, the two dilators inserted to their deepest point, the angle at which her pussy and anus were stretched just right to maximize the transmission of vibration to her pelvic nerve plexus. But she had lost the ability to express. This was the most fundamental change—not the inability to see, to hear, or to feel pain or pleasure, but the loss of all means to express these feelings. Her mouth was sealed, and no sound from her throat could break through that latex patch—she had tried. In the first few hours after the enclosure, she had exerted all her strength to force a sound from her throat, but the airflow generated by her vocal cords was blocked by the latex patch, flowing back into her mouth, up through her nasal cavity, and then squeezed out through the two small holes in her nostrils, becoming a puff of air lighter than a sigh, almost inaudible. She couldn't even utter a complete "Mmm." She wanted to purse her lips—she couldn't. The latex was too tight, pressing her upper and lower lips apart by half a centimeter. Her tongue could lick the smooth inner surface of the latex but couldn't push it. She wanted to squeeze out tears to express sadness—her tear ducts were still functional, and tears would flow, but once they emerged, they were trapped in the extremely thin space between the latex and her skin. They couldn't escape, only slowly trickle down along the contours of her face, eventually being absorbed by the latex at her jawline or slowly evaporating, leaving behind an invisible trace of salt on the inner surface of the latex. She couldn't close her eyes to express defiance—the latex patch pressed on the upper edge of her eyelids, requiring twice the usual effort to close her eyes, and after a moment, the elasticity of the latex would snap her eyelids open again. She couldn't twist her body to express struggle—the adjustment screws of the fixation frame had locked the joints of each metal arm. The furthest she could move was to extend her lower leg by two centimeters, curl her fingers within the single glove, or turn her neck about five degrees to the left or right. Even her gaze had lost its expressive function—because everyone who entered the room treated her as an object. Linda, when performing "display case maintenance," never looked into her eyes, only at her latex-encased body, like a cleaner wiping the glass of a display case—from top to bottom, from front to back, programmed, never looking into the eyes of the exhibit within. Mr. M would occasionally glance at her, but his gaze was akin to checking the tightness of a screw on the fixation frame—not looking at a person, but confirming the preservation status of a piece. She was trapped in a body that could not communicate with the world. Like someone confined in a soundproof glass room, able to see everything happening outside, to hear muffled sounds, even to feel the vibrations of people walking on the floor—but unable to touch the outside, nor to be heard by the outside. People came and went outside the glass room; some entered, wiped the glass, and left; others stood before the glass, looked for a few moments, and left. No one knocked on the door, no one shouted into the room. She could only talk to herself inside the glass room. The first few days were the hardest. Not physically—Mr. M had not been negligent when designing the fixation frame. Each stress point of the metal arm was padded with soft rubber, the formula for the intravenous nutrient solution was precise, calculated down to the amino acid ratio, and the vibration frequency of the dilators was always controlled within a range that wouldn't cause nerve numbness. There was no physical pain. But the psychological torment was far more terrifying than the physical. She began to notice her breathing. Not because of difficulty breathing—the honeycomb vents on her nose allowed for good airflow. But because with every breath, the latex on her face would move—during inhalation, the latex patch would slightly concave inwards, pressing against her open lips, and her tongue could feel the cool touch of the inner latex surface; during exhalation, the patch would bulge slightly, her lips regaining a little space but immediately being pressed back by the next inhalation. This cycle had no end—as long as she was alive, she would breathe, and as long as she breathed, she would feel the process of her lips being repeatedly pressed and released by the latex. This sensation became an unceasing reminder. A reminder that she was sealed. A reminder that her body was no longer her own. A reminder that even the simple act of closing her mouth, something an infant could do, was now a luxury. Xia Ran fell silent in the face of these details. She no longer mumbled, no longer raised her eyebrows, no longer asked, "Where are we going now?" She simply turned her head slowly to the left, then to the right, her eyes, freshly freed from the harsh glare of the overhead lights, desperately absorbing every scrap of information she could glean from the corridor. Bai Lu pushed the wheelchair forward, its wheels rolling over two worn tracks on the wooden floor, emitting a soft, uniform friction sound, guided as if by rails. Then Xia Ran's gaze settled on the wall. The wall was adorned with numbered photographs – from 001 to 029, lined up in a row, clipped to a stainless steel bar with small black metal clips. Each photograph was the same size, with the same background (a seamless, dark gray paper) and the same lighting angle (45-degree side-lit from above). But the content of each photograph was not entirely the same. Number 001 – short blonde hair, extremely petite, encased in full-body latex, curled into a ball. Only the faint outlines of eyeholes on the latex hood hinted at the placement of her features. A line of small chalk writing on the background wall read: "Florist, voluntary." Number 003 – tall and broad-boned, shoulders much wider than an average woman's, likely an athlete. Posed in an inverted position, her legs were spread into a perfect straddle by a stainless steel bar. As she hung upside down, the latex on the inner thighs pulled into fine, horizontal pleats from the force of gravity. Background text: "Equestrian coach, struggled for two weeks." Number 005 – the latex over her chest was deliberately cut into a heart-shaped opening, revealing the real skin beneath, which had been coated with a barrier cream. A meticulously detailed black mandala flower was drawn on the skin, its petals catching the light with a subtle sheen. Background text: "Tattoo artist, signed." Number 007 – her cheeks were pierced and adorned with two thin silver chains. The chains passed through metal eyelets in the latex hood and connected behind her ears, making her look like a doll locked within latex. Background text: "Jewelry designer, escaped once." Number 011 – her spine was immobilized by an external black rubber brace, its ends embedded into reinforced rings on the latex suit's shoulders and hips, keeping her body perfectly straight even when moved for positional adjustments. Background text: "Dancer, refused to speak." Number 015 – her voluminous wavy hair was completely sealed within the latex hood, its strands invisible from the outside. Her entire body was posed in the classic reclining figure drawing posture – one elbow resting on a soft cushion, one leg bent and resting on the other, like a Greek statue molded in latex. Background text: "Model, cried for a month." Number 018 – an extra layer of translucent white latex veil was added to her face, obscuring the original black eyehole outlines and revealing only the position of her lips. Her lips were dyed a pale gold, the only part of her body not black. Background text: "Makeup artist, fell asleep during the first layer." Number 021 – shared a similar facial structure to Linda from the same batch. High cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Her hands were bound behind her back with a very thin chain connected to her ankles. The chain was sealed within the full-body gloves by latex, making it completely invisible in the photo. Only a slight arc between her two latex-encased ankles indicated the tension. Background text: "Dance assistant, information undisclosed." Number 024 – her body was encased in a layer of refractive, semi-transparent latex. When light hit from a specific angle, the human silhouette within the latex was faintly visible, but from another angle, it became completely opaque black. Several versions of this photograph, taken under different lighting conditions, were displayed side-by-side in the same frame. Background text: "Lighting technician, adjusted parameters voluntarily." Number 027 – her eyes were completely obscured by a pair of convex black latex coverings. The edges of the coverings were slightly raised, revealing a faint red ring – a subtle latex allergy mark left from too many applications of eye patches long ago. Her mouth was stretched into a perfect oval by a circular speculum, pressing tightly against the opening of the inner full-body latex hood, completely misaligned with her lip shape. Background text: "Under review." Number 028 – the pose was the strangest of this batch. She was not fixed in a display case but posed sitting on a high stool, legs crossed, one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other on her knee, looking quite relaxed. However, a closer look revealed several extremely fine transparent fishing lines emerging from the inside of her latex gloves and secured to hidden hooks on the stainless steel chair back. Her "leisure" was a facade, with every muscle secretly restrained. Background text: "Actress, low cooperation." Number 029 – was the only empty frame. All numbers had someone, but 029 was empty. A small piece of blue tape, used for the previous photograph, still clung to the empty clip. The edge of the tape was torn unevenly, suggesting the person who removed the photo was either in a hurry or deliberately tore it askew – to leave a trace. The empty frame was positioned between 028 and 030, slightly lower than the other frames. This was because the stainless steel bar holding the photos had slightly sagged at this point, likely due to the spring losing tension from repeated removal and replacement of items. Xia Ran's gaze swept quickly over the photographs – not a casual glance, but the discerning sweep of an artist reviewing a catalog. Each one held her attention for a brief second or two, capturing key information in her mind – dimensions, lighting, facial proportions, the number, and the text – before moving on. It was like flipping through an art book, a quick initial scan followed by a return to study the pages of interest. Her lips moved silently a few times. Bai Lu, behind her, couldn't see the shape of her lips, but judging by the slight diaphragmatic breaths she took every few seconds, she could tell Xia Ran was silently counting the numbers – 001, 003, 005, 007, 011, 015, 018, 021, 024, 027, 028 – before pausing at the empty frame of 029.