Commit to 'strappado' as your answer

"Strappado," you say, forcing the word out with manufactured confidence. "That's my final answer."

Derek doesn't even hesitate. His face lights up with the genuine pleasure of a predator watching prey step into a trap. "Oh, Lexi." He draws out your name like he's savoring expensive wine. "Strappado is indeed a bondage position—a rather nasty one involving suspended arms behind the back—but it's not what we were looking for. The answer is 'stress positions,' or if you want to get technical about it, the practice itself is simply called predicament bondage. You were actually closer with your first instinct."

He turns to the audience with theatrical flair, spreading his arms wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, that's three wrong answers out of five questions. Our contestant is now—let me do the math here—three hundred thousand dollars in debt before even considering her forty thousand in winnings."

The audience erupts in a mixture of jeers and excited applause. Someone shouts, "Take it all off!" and others laugh.

"Rita," Derek says, his voice dropping to that silky purr that makes your stomach clench, "transformation number three. And sweetheart? Really make her understand what happens when contestants don't study hard enough."

"Ohmigod yes!" Rita squeals, practically bouncing at her control panel. Her fingers fly across the interface with practiced enthusiasm. "This one's gonna be, like, super cute! I'm thinking we go, like, totally girly? Maybe some fun colours?"

The booth hums to life again, mechanical arms unfolding with hydraulic precision. Through the glass you can see Derek leaning back against the game show desk, arms crossed, watching you with the satisfaction of someone who's just won a particularly satisfying bet.

"You know what the real beauty of this show is?" he says conversationally, speaking to the cameras but clearly meaning for you to hear. "Every single transformation is cumulative. Everything that's already been done? It just gets more. Those lips? Fuller. That mental fog making you want to please me? Thicker. And now we add something new." His smile widens. "Lock number three, of course. You're going to look absolutely perfect by the time we're done."

The booth's energy field crackles to life, wrapping around your transformed body like invisible chains.

The booth's energy field wraps around you like invisible quicksand, pulling at something deeper than flesh. You lock your knees and grip the podium's edges until your knuckles go white beneath the shackles, teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches.

The mechanical arms move with choreographed brutality. Your eyes burn first—contacts materializing directly on your corneas, turning your natural color into an unnatural violet that glows under the studio lights. Ink blossoms across your left shoulder blade, a tramp stamp reading 'BOUND' in elaborate cursive that you can feel burning itself into your skin permanently.

Your lips swell even further, grotesquely plump now, while your waist cinches tighter until breathing becomes a conscious effort. The corset has somehow integrated itself more fully, boning digging into ribs that feel like they're being reshaped. Your breasts surge larger again, straining leather that creaks audibly.

But worse than the physical changes is the syrupy warmth flooding your skull. Thoughts slow down, soften at the edges. Derek's face through the glass looks... commanding. Attractive, even. A treacherous part of your brain whispers that maybe if you just apologized, told him you were sorry for being rude, he might go easier on you. He's not so bad, is he? He's just running his show. You're the one who came here willingly.

You bite your tongue again, harder this time, using the sharp copper taste to anchor yourself. No. Fuck that. Fuck him.

New restraints materialize—leather cuffs locking around your wrists separate from the podium shackles, connected by a short chain that restricts your arm movement. An ankle spreader bar appears between your platform boots, forcing your legs apart in a stance that makes standing an active challenge.

"Lock number three," Rita announces with genuine enthusiasm, clicking another padlock onto a leather band that's materialized around your right thigh, matching the one on your left. She practically skips as she does it, her own augmented curves bouncing.

The booth powers down. You're panting through your nose, sweat rolling down your transformed body despite the studio's air conditioning. Your reflection in the camera monitor shows a platinum-blonde fetish doll with violet eyes, pornographic lips, and three visible padlocks adorning leather restraints.

"Magnificent," Derek purrs, circling your podium like a shark. "You're holding up better than most, I'll give you that. But we both know you're starting to feel it now, aren't you? That little voice telling you to be a good girl?" His smile is venomous. "Question six, for three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Shall we continue?"