The Immortal Flower Pavilion: Trained by the Gentle Gardener into an Immortal Whore Flower that Lactates from Orgasm

First, she checked her weapons. A collapsible phase dagger, no bigger than a lipstick when compressed, concealable in any seam of her clothing. Decompressed, it was a short blade about forty centimeters long, forged from phase crystal, capable of slicing through most known magical barriers and physical materials. The exhibits – the women – looked entirely different in the night than they did in the day. During the day, Shen Ruolan’s first instinct was to notice their restraints, the intricate cages woven from latex, leather, and vines. But the low light of night concealed these details, leaving only the silhouettes of their bodies illuminated by the faint fluorescence. The curves, encased in various colors of latex, reflected a subdued, matte sheen in the dimness, like a row of porcelain dolls placed at the edge of an abyss. Each one was so still, so close to eternal, that only the slow, deliberate rise and fall of their chests reminded the observer that they were, indeed, alive. The Gardener stopped before a particular display. Shen Ruolan followed, and then recognized the exhibit – this was the “flower” that had first caught her eye during the day. During the day, she had been too shocked by the sight to examine it closely. Now, in the low light of night, she could see it more clearly. It was a woman kneeling in a massive crystal flowerpot, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years old, around her own age. Her entire body was encased in a seamless, deep red latex suit, sealed from head to toe, with only two tiny, circular openings left for her nostrils. The red latex fit without a single wrinkle at every joint – neck, armpits, hips, and knees – suggesting the suit was either custom-made or somehow directly molded onto her body. Her arms were bound behind her back, not with simple ropes, but with a multi-stage restraint system composed of at least four leather straps. These were fastened at her wrists, elbows, and shoulders, connected by metal rods between each strap, fixing her entire arm into an unmovable, unalterable arc. Her legs, from the knees down, were encased in a matching deep red latex mermaid tail bag. The tail bag was smooth and seamless, gradually Shen Ruolan wanted to pull her foot away, but the medicinal effects of the flower tea and incense, accumulated throughout the day, were now in full force. Her legs felt as if they were filled with lead, and below her knees, they were almost unresponsive. She could only watch helplessly as the two tendrils wrapped around her ankles, one loop, two loops, three loops. Each loop fit snugly against the curve of her skin, not too tight, not too loose, just enough for her to feel the restraint without digging into her flesh. Then, a second pair of tendrils crossed over the first, looping twice more, binding her ankles together. Her legs, clad in black stockings, were firmly secured at the ankles, unable to separate, unable to lift. She could only stand there, straight and still, feeling the viscous fluid secreted by the vines slowly seeping into the silk fibers. "This is the Spirit-Binding Vine," the Gardener's voice came from in front of her, his tone as calm as if he were explaining the care of a potted plant. "A variety cultivated in the flower pavilion. It has a very interesting characteristic – the mucus it secretes doesn't harm the skin, it merely temporarily obstructs the flow of magic. At the same time, it increases tactile sensitivity by about three times." "...Let me go!" Shen Ruolan finally broke the calm composure she had maintained since entering. These three words were not a calm command, not a tactical delay – they were anger, shame, and a realization of her own deep-seated unwillingness only after the sound had escaped her throat. Her voice bounced off the mirrors in the empty guest room, louder than she had expected, sounding not like an order, but like a small animal thrashing its legs after its neck had been grasped. The Gardener simply watched her. There was no cruel delight in his light green eyes, no mockery of a hunter watching its prey struggle, only pure admiration – as if he were observing a piece of art being meticulously wrapped. The vines continued to creep upwards. Starting from her calves, two thicker tendrils wrapped around her knees, two loops above and two below. It wasn't a painful tightening – the Spirit-Binding Vine's method of coiling was peculiar. It didn't constrict like a rope until flesh deformed. It would first coil around the target, then secrete a thin layer of mucus. Upon contact with the skin, the mucus would rapidly form a thin, elastic gel film, distributing the pressure evenly between the vine and the skin, preventing any single point from bearing excessive force. So, it wasn't constricting – it was enveloping. Each loop of vine clung to the texture of her skin, dividing her perfectly shaped legs, encased in black stockings, into sections. Under the restraint, her muscles bulged slightly upwards, and the smooth curve of her calves was outlined by circles of faint purple luminescence, creating a more erotic, more voluptuous silhouette. Then came her arms. A thicker tendril snaked from behind her back, first coiling around her right wrist, one loop, two loops. Then, a thin offshoot branched out, wrapping around her left wrist, bringing her hands together behind her back, one loop, two loops, three loops – tightening. Her arms formed a fixed, crossed arc behind her back, forcing her shoulder blades inward. This posture involuntarily pushed her chest forward. The two already precarious clasps on her tight combat suit's chest finally gave way under the dual pull of her leaning back and her chest thrusting forward. The button pinged off the mirror with a faint, crisp sound. Shen Ruolan looked down at her chest. The collar of her black combat suit had opened about three to four centimeters after the button popped, revealing a small patch of fair skin below her collarbone and the edge of her black lace bra. Her cheeks flushed to the roots of her ears. Not because of what was exposed – the area of skin was perhaps only half the size of her palm, far less than what she exposed when wearing a training vest on the headquarters' training grounds – but because the exposure itself had been imposed upon her. It wasn't her choice how much to reveal, but the restraint had positioned her body in a posture that necessitated exposure. Then came the vine that wound around her neck. The sensation changed from the cool slipperiness of her ankles and forearms. The vine around her neck was warm. Not the warmth of human body temperature, but closer to the temperature of river water warmed by the sun, just slightly warmer than her skin's surface. It circled from the side of her neck, first tracing the hollow above her collarbone, then splitting into two strands. One strand slid down along the curve of her collarbone, disappearing into the open neckline of her combat suit. The other strand crept down along her spine, past the base of her tied-back ponytail, past the indentation created by her bound hands between her shoulder blades, and continued downwards. The moment the slick, warm sensation touched her waist, Shen Ruolan couldn't hold back. A short, muffled groan escaped from the depths of her throat – "Mmm—". It was a sound between a gasp and a moan, indistinct, soft, the tail end rising slightly before abruptly cutting off – because she bit her lower lip, forcibly stifling the rest of the sound. But that single syllable was enough to push her shame and indignation to their peak. She had never made such a sound in front of any living person. She had broken bones on the training grounds, suffered cracked ribs, endured electric torture from anti-magic forces – and hadn't uttered a sound. Yet now, a vine had merely brushed against her waist, and her body had involuntarily emitted a completely uncontrolled, soft, misleading moan. "The Spirit-Binding Vine's mucus increases tactile sensitivity by about three times," the Gardener said, walking closer. He gently stroked the vine coiled around her shoulder with his finger. His fingertip, through the vine, felt the subtle tremor of her body, a rhythm of tension and shame. Even through the three layers of fabric – the tight combat suit, the stockings, and the vine – it felt as if he were touching her through a veil. The vine's ability to transmit sensation, combined with her tripled skin sensitivity, turned every minuscule touch into a suffocating signal. "And your body seems to react particularly well to the Spirit-Binding Vine, Miss Ruolan." The Gardener lowered his head, leaning close to her ear, his warm breath caressing her earlobe, his voice as light as a petal falling onto water. "You see, it likes you very much." Shen Ruolan bit down harder on her lower lip. The pain from her lip transmitted to her brain, momentarily overriding the全身酥麻 brought on by the vine's mucus. She needed pain. Pain reminded her who she was – Shen Ruolan, Silver Orchid, Special Investigator. She would not yield, would not beg, would not become one of those women with vacant eyes in the flowerpots. This is nothing – she repeated to herself incessantly – this is merely the body's physical response to restraint, a physiological reaction amplified by the flower tea and mucus. She couldn't control this, but it didn't affect her will. Her will was still her own; no one could take it away, no one. The Gardener seemed to read her thoughts. He smiled slightly, not refuting, not further humiliating, but withdrawing his hand from the vine. Then, he took something out from the inner pocket of his robe. Shen Ruolan saw the outline of the object – a butterfly-shaped gag, with black leather as the base, inlaid with a not-too-thick but sufficiently deep pink silicone rod in the center. The rod's surface had a few small raised bumps, and on either side were straps for securing it behind the head. The leather surface of the gag was also embossed with a small butterfly pattern. The craftsmanship was so exquisite it didn't look like a torture device, but more like a limited edition item displayed in the innermost showcase of a high-end custom adult novelty shop. Her eyes widened. "Don't—" Halfway through her refusal, the Gardener's finger gently cupped her chin. Not pinching, not squeezing, but cupping – his thumb resting on her chin, his index finger on either side of her jaw, as if holding a small bird. Then, he pushed the silicone rod into her mouth. As the rod slid across her tongue, she tasted a faint sweetness – not the sweetness of flower tea, but a subtle sweetness inherent to the silicone itself, like that of a baby's pacifier, after some special treatment. This gag had been specially treated before being put on her. Her lips were stretched into an unclosable O. The strap went around the back of her head, passing beneath her high ponytail—the Gardener's fingers flickered through her thick hair, swiftly and lightly, tucking away a few stray strands clinging to the collar with sweat—then tightened and snapped shut. She desperately tried to push the silicone gag out with her tongue, to dislodge it from her mouth, but the design of the gag ensured that the harder she pushed, the tighter the rod wedged itself between her palate and her tongue. Saliva nearly immediately seeped through the edges of the gag. It wasn't that she wanted to drool—her stretched lips couldn't close, her He withdrew his fingers and took something from the wall she hadn't seen before—a silicone tube, shorter than a training rod but thicker at the end, with a circle of fine bristles embedded in its wall, already coated with clear lubricating gel, glistening wetly under the light. "First, a thorough oral cleaning, then we'll switch to the new display gag. Guests like to see the blossoms on the display rack with their lips parted, no need for an extra plug." Shen Ruolan didn't resist. She had been fitted with the gag for so many days that her jaw muscles had atrophied to the point where she could no longer close her mouth tightly even without it. She knelt there, letting the cleaning brush rod slide in through her parted lips, the bristles scraping along the curve of her palate all the way to the root of her tongue and back again, several times. When the bristles swept over the sensitive mucosal line behind her soft palate, her throat still contracted involuntarily, but she no longer gagged—her pharyngeal muscles had been trained like repeatedly pounded meat; the sensitivity was still there, but the trigger point had been raised significantly. After cleaning, the gardener removed the new gag. It was different from the previous functional one—a perfectly round stainless steel ring, about four centimeters in inner diameter, with a ring of translucent medical silicone padding around the outer edge. When inserted into her mouth, the silicone padding fit snugly between her gums and lips, stretching her mouth into a perfect O-shape. The steel ring in the middle allowed a clear view into her oral cavity from the front—the deep red palate, the flattened tongue, and the pharyngeal opening behind the tongue that pulsed with each breath. "Display ring. More comfortable than a speculum, but visually—" He didn't finish, turning the training room mirror to face her. Shen Ruolan saw herself in the mirror. She hadn't looked directly at her own face in a long time. The last time she had cried so fiercely after the full-face latex mask was removed, her eyes were so swollen she couldn't see clearly. Since then, one oral modification and deep taming session after another, each time she caught a glimpse in the mirror, it was of her in a state of disarray, her mouth stuffed with various things, her chin dripping with saliva, her gaze automatically averting. But this time, the gardener had deliberately angled the mirror towards her, his hand resting behind her collar, preventing her from turning her neck. She saw clearly. Deep purple latex wrapped her from neck to ankles. Long-term crawling had lowered her waistline slightly, and the curve of her buttocks was more pronounced than when she first entered the flower house. Her breasts had grown a size larger under the constant suction of the milking machine; her nipples had changed from pale pink to deep red, like two repeatedly massaged berries embedded in transparent suction cups. The dog-ear headband was askew on her head, and the copper bell on her collar swayed gently with each breath. The transparent collection bags on either side of her thighs—the left containing pale yellow fluid, the right containing clear lubricant and flushing return fluid—shimmered faintly in the light. And then there was the perfectly round display ring on her face, stretching her mouth into a perpetually open maw. She no longer looked like Shen Ruolan. Not even like G-07. She looked like a product, pre-packaged before being placed on the display shelf. "Mmm..." Another sound escaped. A slight puff of air, unintentionally released through the center of the display ring. The gardener removed the dog-tail butt plug from behind her, screwed a short, translucent silicone plug into the now-empty posterior interface, and patted the back of her neck behind her collar. "Ten o'clock display. Head to the exhibition hall now." The exhibition hall door was narrower than all the doors in the flower house, so narrow that the gardener had to push Shen Ruolan, crawling, almost along the doorframe to get her through. The door closed silently behind her. The familiar wall lamps in the corridor, whose positions she knew by heart, and the row of equipment on the wall shelves, which she could have touched blindfolded, were all left outside. The air inside was a degree cooler than in the corridor, mixed with the dry, dusty scent of velvet drapes and the woody,焦香 of high-grade cigars—she had smelled this scent on the day of the pollination ceremony. The floor had changed from tiles to a dark gray short-pile carpet. Kneeling on it with her knees wrapped in latex, she could feel the small granular texture of the carpet pile pressing into the latex surface. In the center of the exhibition hall From the first day she stepped into this flower house, every approach he made towards her was accompanied by a degree of violation. Not a crude violation – she could resist crudeness, fight back with anger. It was something gentler, more insidious. Dressing her in floral attire, making her climax with a vibrator, displaying her legs spread in an M-stance for strangers to ogle, guiding her through humiliating poses in the training room with a riding crop until she wanted to bite off her tongue in shame. Every action he took was a step further into deeper humiliation, yet every word he spoke was as if he were simply chatting with her. Not a threat, not a taunt, not any interrogation tactic she had learned to counter in training. He was simply, quietly, gently, unyieldingly transforming her from a top-tier investigator into a flower blooming silently in the center of the exhibition hall. If he had always been brutal, if he had always been cold, she could have hated him. Hatred would have been the sturdiest wall in her psychological defenses, behind which she could hide, fueled by resentment, to survive in this place. But he didn't give her that fuel. After every torment, he offered a touch of gentleness – wiping away her nectar after an orgasm, kissing her forehead after posture training, bringing fruit to her lips after kneeling timed sessions. Like a gardener applying a protective balm to a wound after pruning – not out of guilt, but because it was a necessary step for the flower to grow better. She knew this – her rational mind was perfectly clear. But it didn't stop her body from reacting to every touch. Then he helped her up from the bed, letting her sit. Tears still welled in her eyes, not yet wiped away. He should have seen them – he was crouched before her, less than half a meter away, and the light was bright enough. But he didn't ask, didn't react with any "Why are you crying?" Instead, he reached behind her and unlatched the metal clasp of the restraints on her wrists. *Click.* The left cuff loosened. As the leather slid from her wrist, it carried away the faint sweat that had been trapped there all day, leaving behind a patch of unevenly distributed red marks – not abrasions, but the more tender layer of the dermis revealed as the stratum corneum was flattened by prolonged, uniform pressure. Then the right hand. *Click.* The right cuff also loosened. He placed both cuffs on the bedside table, the metal chain making a faint, delicate clinking sound as it dangled over the edge of the wood grain, and then silence fell. This was the first time since entering the flower house that her hands were completely unrestrained. Not briefly unbound only to be re-secured – but completely, freely. She looked down at her hands, fingers spread, trembling slightly in the light – not from weakness, but because her body was unaccustomed to not being bound. The faint red marks from the cuffs on her wrists were still there, their edges already beginning to fade from red to pale white, likely to disappear completely within half an hour. But she stared at the marks for a long time, as if noticing she had hands for the first time. She clenched her fist, opened it, clenched it again, opened it again. Each extension of her fingers brought a subtle stinging sensation – a normal reaction as blood rushed back into the long-compressed capillaries. But she registered this feeling, savoring it repeatedly, because it proved her hands were still hers. Then the gardener pushed a small dining cart into the room. The cart was silver, with two tiers. The upper tier held a round, white porcelain plate covered by a silver cloche. Beside it was a glass of red wine – no, two glasses. Two glasses. And a bottle of opened red wine, its label bearing script she didn't recognize. She smelled food – not the pale purple tea with its sweet, slightly fishy scent, not the faint sweetness of silicone lubricant from the training room, but real food, the scent of which she hadn't encountered in so long she couldn't recall: the savory char of pan-seared steak, the sharp bite of black pepper, the caramelized sweetness of roasted vegetables mingled with honey and olive oil. Her stomach clenched violently at the scent, emitting the loudest growl it had made in twenty-four hours. The gardener pushed the cart to the bedside, lifted the silver cloche. On the plate was an exquisite steak – about medium-rare, with perfect diamond-shaped grill marks on the surface. Its cross-section revealed pinkish muscle fibers and glistening juices. It was accompanied by roasted asparagus, baby carrots, and a small dollop of mashed potatoes, drizzled with pale yellow butter that was slowly melting, trickling down the curves of the mashed potato mound. He placed the plate on the low table beside the bed, then took another identical plate from the lower tier of the cart and placed it opposite her on the table – his own dinner. He then sat down opposite her, picked up his knife and fork, and began to cut into his steak. Shen Ruolan didn't reach for her food. Not because she didn't want to eat – her stomach had sent hunger signals to every active region of her cerebral cortex – but because she didn't know if she was allowed to. She had been in this flower house for too long, in this room where she was repeatedly instructed from morning to night on what poses to strike and what attire to wear. She had become accustomed to waiting for instructions for everything – could she stand up? Could she sit? Could she eat? The plate of fruit had been within her reach while she was timing herself in front of the mirror, but she hadn't reached for it at all because no one had told her she could. The three layers of latex clothing were completely dried and molded. She looked down at herself. A deep purple, mirror-like sheen flowed from her shoulders to her toes, reflecting a continuous, unbroken band of highlight under the direct glare of the workshop spotlights. She tried to move her right index finger – as the joint bent, three extremely fine, shallow horizontal creases appeared in the latex. Each crease was only about as thick as a strand of hair, deepest when she bent to the second knuckle, then smoothed out simultaneously as she slowly straightened her finger. The slight vacuum seal on the inside of the latex, clinging to her skin, made a barely audible sound of separation, audible only in complete silence. The sound reminded her of some kind of mollusk being peeled from its shell – not painful, but as if she had grown a layer of elastic skin that would envelop every movement, and each simple joint motion was recorded by the latex as a subtle mechanical event. She bent each finger in turn, observing the different crease patterns formed as each knuckle flexed. The skin creases on her index and middle fingers were concentrated at the proximal interphalangeal joints, the two fingers that bent the most; the latex on the inside of her ring finger formed a single, extremely fine, shallow line; the latex on her little finger had almost no creases – her finger was too slender, the latex wrapped too tightly, leaving almost no extra space for skin creases to form. The entire process took about two minutes. She silently recorded this data in her mind, using the habit of an investigator to convert the position and depth of each crease into geometric information – not because the information was useful, but because she needed to do something to stop her brain from thinking about something else: what she saw when she looked down was no longer her own hands. They were a pair of prosthetic limbs, completely encased in a seamless, deep purple shell, looking as if they had been injection-molded from some industrial mold. She could see the outline of her fingers, the shape of her fingernails floating on the surface of the latex, the extremely faint warm tones showing through the latex where blood pooled during joint flexion. But she couldn't see skin, couldn't see pores, couldn't see the small scars she had inadvertently made with the tip of her dagger during countless combat training sessions. Her hands were flattened, every inch of them. From fingertips to wrists to elbows to shoulders, all covered in the same color, as if a person had been peeled from their one and only skin and stuffed into another, belonging to no one, yet precisely replicating every contour of the original. "The stem is molded," the Gardener's voice came from above her. He placed the heat gun back into the storage compartment beneath the workbench, and the metal pin at the bottom of the machine made a faint, crisp clink as it dropped into its slot. Then he walked towards a gray metal box in the corner of the workshop – the box had been hidden behind the latex raw material barrels, and you wouldn't notice it unless you specifically walked over to look. The label on the box was yellowed and curled at the edges, but the handwritten text was still clear: "Respiratory Control System • Wisteria Exclusive • Generation IV." He opened the lid of the box slowly and deliberately, took out the gag, and then rummaged inside the box for the matching tubing and reservoir interface, arranging each accessory neatly on the workbench. Shen Ruolan's pupils contracted sharply when she saw the object. It She drew a gentle breath every four to five seconds. Not three shallow, one deep, not variable frequency induction, but the simplest, mildest, most uniform light suction. The suction seemed so small—so small that Elena's breasts showed almost no visible undulation within the transparent crystal suction cup. Only by carefully observing the flow rate of the golden fluid in the soft tube could one confirm the vacuum pump was working. But this rhythm never faltered. Shen Ruolan counted—kneeling there with nothing else to do, she counted silently She was helped onto the display stand. Compared to the one Elena had seen on screen, this stand was silver-white – a color specially formulated by the Gardener for Wisteria – with a wide base and fixation rings positioned a few centimeters lower than Elena's, clearly adjusted for her height. The attendants pressed her onto the seat – not a sitting position, but a transitional pose between sitting and kneeling – and began to lock her in. *Click.* Her left ankle was secured in a metal ring locked into a slot on the left side of the base. *Click.* Her right ankle. *Click.* Her left knee – after the ring tightened, her knee was pressed into a semicircular groove on the base, the same "snapped in" sensation as on the milking rack in the training room. Except this time, fifty-two pairs of eyes were watching from below. *Click.* Her right knee. *Click.* Her left thigh – a wider metal band than usual locked around the base of her thigh, connected to a telescopic strut on the side of the base. An attendant pulled a lever on the strut, and her left leg was slowly pushed outward, splitting into a wider angle than the portable system had ever achieved, with both her thigh and knee fixed. *Click.* The same movement for her right thigh. Now her legs could no longer be brought together – split into an M-shaped spread, the latex on the inner thighs stretched tighter than ever. She could feel the seam of the deep purple latex suit at the crotch positioned precisely around her private parts, and that area was now facing fifty-two pairs of eyes. Even through the latex, even with three layers of material sealing it, she involuntarily wanted to clamp her legs together – but the metal band at her thighs turned that faint struggle into a minuscule creak between the metal ring and the base, unnervingly clear in the now-silent exhibition hall. Then came her wrists. The attendants brought her arms behind her back – not bound at the waist, but folded behind her spine, her wrists fitted into a double-layered leather cuff. A rectangular metal brace was then attached to the outside of the cuff, its ends clipped into two slots on the inner sides of the display stand's uprights, positioned at the same height as her elbows. Once she was secured, her upper body was forced into a forward-leaning posture, her chest pushed out – the waist cincher, at this angle, squeezed her waist into an arc, while the two display-specific crystal suction cups on her chest, illuminated by the purple light, looked like two transparent crystal vessels pressed against her breasts. Finally, the collar. An attendant looped the short chain at the back of her collar around her neck, and the other end was hooked into a lock hanging from the top of the display stand. The chain tightened – not to choke her, but to shorten until her head could no longer droop. She was forced to lift her head, her gaze rising from the floor to the audience, meeting the single-lens telescope of the old gentleman in the front row. The old gentleman raised his scope, aiming it at her chest. Then the lights changed. The main lights in the central hall shifted from gold to purple – not a dull purple, but a bluish, dreamlike violet with a soft-focus filter effect, perfectly matching the deep purple of her latex suit, the crystal suction cups, and the faint traces of milk visible in the semi-transparent soft tubes on her chest. The purple light shone down from above the stand, bathing her entire being as if she were immersed in a pool of diluted wisteria juice. The Gardener walked onto the stage from the side. He held a small remote control connected to a control box on a cart behind him, and stood between the display stand and the audience. "Good afternoon, everyone," he began. More than fifty pairs of eyes turned to him simultaneously. "Our second exhibit this afternoon – Wisteria Hall • Wisteria, a first-generation lactating specimen newly acquired this year. Seventh day since acquisition, fifth day of prolactin induction. Daily yield has stably exceeded 150 milliliters, quality assessment –" He glanced down at a card in his hand, "– sweetness is above average, with a distinct bitter-sweet aftertaste, a characteristic astringent finish unique to wisteria, fine texture, pure milky white with a pale yellow hue, medium-high transparency, no impurities." He flipped the card over. "Wisteria's nectar quality ranks first among the immortal flowers acquired in this batch. According to the museum's quality control system, her colostrum quality has reached the standard for public display and tasting. Today's exhibition project is – the first public nectar collection from Wisteria Hall, and –" He paused, then looked up at the audience, "– a live auction for the right to taste the first batch of nectar." A low murmur rippled through the audience. Shen Ruolan heard her codename mentioned at least four times – the name "Wisteria" spoken by different mouths in different tones, like a word simultaneously translated into several languages she didn't understand. Some flipped through their notebooks. Some adjusted their seating positions. "Then – let's begin." The Gardener pressed a button on the remote. The vacuum pump connected to the display stand behind her activated – its hum was much louder than the portable one, but diluted into a kind of low-frequency background noise in the exhibition hall. Then, the two crystal suction cups on her chest simultaneously adhered to her nipples. She didn't know what else could possibly break her, now that she'd been placed in the same exhibition hall. "Come." The Gardener stood up and helped her from the bedside. The metal support of her stilts scraped against the edge of the bed, emitting a sharp, short sound. He unfastened the thin chain from her collar that was attached to the headboard, a chain she'd hooked to the anchor point herself before falling asleep last night. Then, with one hand on her lower back—the palm-sized flat area between the upper edge of her corset and her shoulder blades—he gently guided her a step towards the cart. Shen Ruolan didn't resist. It wasn't out of fear, but rather... her name was already engraved on the cart's nameplate. Even the decorative border of the font matched the "Wisteria" on her collar. These nameplates weren't made this morning. Perhaps on the same day they custom-made her deep purple latex suit, perhaps when she was first secured on the milking rack, perhaps even earlier—so early that she herself didn't know she would become Wisteria, this plate had already been engraved. She stepped onto the cart's metal pedal. The soles of her stilts had no heels, and her feet were pressed into the hollow metal grid, leaving behind fine diamond-shaped indentations. Once she was on, the Gardener had her sit down— The exhibition hall's lights were dimmed to a deep crimson in night mode—not pitch black, but a thick, almost palpable crimson glow emanating from the few unextinguished deep red crystal beads hanging from the dome chandelier. Both vacuum pumps were running at low power—the rose pump, cycling every four-point-five seconds, and the wisteria pump, activating once every two hours, both reduced to their minimum settings in night mode. Shen Ruolan was not asleep. Her portable pump had just completed an automatic collection, adding about sixty milliliters of pale white milk to the collection bottle at her waist. The faint, aching sensation in her breasts after emptying still lingered deep within her mammary glands, leaving her in a semi-conscious, hazy state, abnormally sensitive to the internal sensations of her body. Then she heard it. Not a hum, not a tap, not the sound of latex rubbing against crystal walls, not the intake of the vacuum pump. It was a sound she had never heard from Elena—faint. Irregular. A minuscule vibration, muffled by layers of latex and the gag from the deepest part of the full crimson latex mask, yet still leaking out ever so slightly. A sob. Elena was crying. Not loudly—she couldn't possibly cry loudly. Her lips were sealed, her mouth filled, and a portion of her throat occupied by the nutrient fluid tube. The only passage left for her to make sound was the small nasopharyngeal cavity behind her nose. As air squeezed through, it brushed against the accumulated moisture and debris within her nasal cavity—thickened by prolonged intubation and accumulated saliva she couldn't swallow. The sudden acceleration of her breathing dislodged these particles, creating an extremely faint, intermittent sound, like a broken bubble being pressed and released and pressed again. It wasn't a cry. It was the sound of mucus in her nasal passages being churned into dense bubbles by the continuous airflow, then bursting, then new bubbles forming. The sound was so small, so tiny, that any one of the vacuum pump's four-point-five-second intake cycles could completely drown it out. If it weren't for the night mode reducing the pump's power to its minimum, if Shen Ruolan hadn't been straining her ears intently in the crimson light, she would never have noticed. But she did. At first, she just felt Elena's breathing rate was a bit off—more than double what it was before sleep. Then she listened closely—at the end of each exhale, there was an extremely faint, continuous series of tiny bubbling sounds. It wasn't accidental. It happened with every exhale. The rhythm of the tiny bubbles was in bursts—seven or eight continuous, fine bubbles, then a pause, then another seven or eight, then another pause. That rhythm corresponded to—sobbing. A deep inhale, then holding, then exhaling the held breath in seven or eight small bursts, each exhale causing the liquid in her nasal cavity to bubble. Then inhaling again, holding, and exhaling in seven or eight bursts. She had endured for a long time. Perhaps since morning. Perhaps longer—days, weeks, months. Perhaps for the past three years, every time she needed to cry, she had held it until night, until the pump's power was reduced, until those who might hear her during the day were gone, and then allowed herself to force out the mucus. Not allowed—that word was too active. She couldn't help it. She had held it for a very, very long time, so long that she herself didn't know why she couldn't hold it in this time. Shen Ruolan's eyes snapped wide open in the crimson light. Her collar was fixed at a slightly upward angle by a chain, so she couldn't see herself, but she could see the faint outline of the crimson figure opposite her. Exactly as usual—kneeling motionless, posture impeccable, the latex surface as silent as an abyss. If not for those bubbling sounds, no one would believe anything was happening within that silhouette. Anyone would only think it was a crimson wax figure, placed in a crystal planter as decoration. A short, muffled sound came from Shen Ruolan's throat, behind the gag—"Mmm!" She was afraid Elena wouldn't hear. She hummed twice more—Mmm-mmm! Then she desperately scraped her fingernails against the crystal wall behind her. Squeak— Then she scraped again. Squeak— Then she desperately banged the chain on her collar—it was the only part of her body she could use to create sound with her body weight. The metal ring on her collar struck the metal clasp of the crystal pillar, producing a faint, crisp jingle. She didn't know what Elena needed, why Elena was crying, whether it was for a specific reason or because all the accumulated emotions of three years had just crossed a threshold tonight. She could do nothing—her hands were locked behind her in a W shape, her legs were secured to the base of the crystal planter by three metal bands, and her waist was fixed to the pillar by a short corset chain. She couldn't even reach out to touch Elena's planter. They were separated by two meters, a distance that now seemed longer than any interdimensional portal. But she could let her know someone was listening. Mmm—Mmm—Mmm—. She emitted three low hums in succession. Not the ordered code from before, but a low hum, each one heavier and deeper than the last, like someone punching the ceiling from below. She didn't stop. She tapped and hummed, hummed and tapped. The collar chain jingled incessantly against the pillar. Her fingernails scraped the crystal wall with varying frequencies. She used every muscle she could move—her throat, her wrists, her neck, her fingertips—turning every sound she could make into a single message: Cry. Cry. I'm listening. I'm right here, listening. I won't tell anyone. I won't make a louder sound than you. I won't make you feel like you're crying at a flower. You're crying at a living person. That living person is locked in a planter two meters opposite you, unable to do anything, but she is listening to you cry. Then Elena's sobs stopped. Not stopped—halted. Like someone crying, then suddenly realizing someone was in the room watching them, and instinctively swallowing the cry back. The bubbling sound disappeared. Her breathing returned to a stiff, forced, even rhythm. Shen Ruolan's heart sank—she was afraid she had scared her. She was afraid Elena didn't want anyone to hear her crying. She was afraid the sound of her desperate banging on the collar had knocked back the fragile defense Elena had finally relaxed. Then she heard Elena's neck lower. The face in the mirror was much paler than when she first entered the pleasure house—not a sickly pallor, but the kind that comes from prolonged confinement in the airtight microenvironment of a latex hood and mask, where the skin, deprived of fresh air, loses its natural pigmentation. Around her lips was a faint, almost invisible ring of discoloration, a pressure mark left by the repeated friction of the silicone post of the pacifier gag. The gag had been in her mouth constantly during her "puppy training," only removed briefly for freeze-dried fruit and water. The marks extended inward from the corners of her mouth, forming a subtle, curved line along the seam of her closed lips. Her jawline seemed narrower than when she first arrived—not from weight loss, but from the slight atrophy of her masseter muscles due to the constant presence of the gag, which kept them in a state of disuse. Back at headquarters, she could have used a dagger to shave off half a compressed nutrient biscuit with her jaw, but now, even a single piece of freeze-dried fruit would cause her masseter muscles to ache after the first chew. The Gardener allowed her a brief respite—only temporarily unfastening her paw gloves so she could use her five-fingered hands to cup a mug of warm honey water and drink it slowly. He then used a clean white towel, dampened with warm water, to wipe her face. As the towel brushed over her cheekbones and forehead, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth and moisture of the wet cloth seep through the latex hood to the surface of her skin. The sensation was so alien that she involuntarily tilted her face a fraction of an inch towards the towel. It wasn't compliance; her body was simply seeking the warmth. Then, the Gardener folded the towel and set it aside. He reached into the top drawer of the trolley, which had been newly brought in when he returned, and took out a gag. Externally, this gag looked very similar to the previous pacifier-shaped respiration control gag—a silicone nipple at the front, a leather ring in the middle for the strap, and a connector