Make a sarcastic guess: 'Is it where subs hang out online or something?'

Your sarcastic quip lands with the subtlety of a brick through a window. The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before Derek throws his head back and laughs—a genuine, delighted sound that makes your stomach drop.

"Where subs hang out online!" He slaps his thigh, turning to play to the audience who erupt in laughter. "Oh, that's rich! Did you hear that, folks? Our athletic little contestant thinks subspace is some kind of internet forum!"

The audience's laughter washes over you, cruel and hungry. Derek's expression shifts from amusement to something predatory as he faces you again, his hand already reaching for his tie.

"No, Lexi. Subspace is the altered psychological state that submissives enter during intense scenes—a trance-like condition induced by endorphins and adrenaline. But your answer?" He shakes his head with mock disappointment. "That snarky attitude tells me you're not taking this seriously. Crystal, I think our contestant needs a more... comprehensive adjustment. Make it memorable."

Crystal's face lights up with something approaching genuine excitement. "Ooh yes, Mr. Sinclair! She's been very cheeky!" She hits the transformation button with both palms this time, practically bouncing.

The booth descends faster, harder. The mist isn't mist anymore—it's a pressurized spray that coats your skin with chemical precision. Your breasts surge forward again, the growth so rapid you can feel the skin stretching. The athletic top finally gives up, tearing at the seams as your chest expands to pornographic proportions. Your waist cinches tighter, creating an hourglass so **** it borders on cartoonish.

But Derek wasn't kidding about memorable. You feel your hair suddenly yanked upward by invisible forces, gathering at your crown before the length is severed in one swift motion. What remains is buzzed down to a quarter inch all over—your pride and joy reduced to stubble in seconds. The shock of it hits harder than the physical changes.

"There's that attitude adjustment," Derek narrates smoothly. "And some new ink to commemorate the occasion."

Heat spreads across your lower back, then your inner wrist. When you glance down, you see fresh tattoos materializing: a barcode on your wrist, ornate script reading 'PROPERTY' across your lower back.

The bondage escalates. A metal bar spreads between your ankle shackles, forcing your legs apart. Your wrist restraints are pulled higher, stretching your arms uncomfortably. A ball gag materializes, forcing your plumped lips apart as the rubber sphere pushes into your mouth.

"Question five," Derek announces cheerfully. "For twenty thousand dollars: What does CBT stand for in kink terminology?"

Your mouth is too full to answer properly now.