Try to mumble an answer through the gag

You try to **** words past the rubber sphere wedged between your teeth, your tongue working desperately against the obstruction. What emerges is a series of muffled grunts—"Mmph... mmm-bee... tee..."—barely recognizable as attempted speech.

Derek's eyebrows shoot up in theatrical surprise. He cups his hand to his ear and leans forward mockingly. "I'm sorry, what was that? I didn't quite catch it. Could you speak up, Lexi?"

The audience roars with laughter. Several people in the front row are recording on their phones, capturing your humiliation in high definition.

"Let me help you out," Derek continues, his voice dripping with false concern. "The question was: What does CBT stand for in kink terminology? And you're trying so very hard to answer, aren't you? I can see the effort. The determination." He pauses, letting the moment stretch. "But I'm afraid 'mmph-bee-tee' isn't going to cut it."

Crystal giggles from her station, her platform heels clicking as she shifts her weight. "She can't talk with the gag in, Mr. Sinclair! That's like, totally impossible!"

"Exactly right, Crystal," Derek agrees smoothly, turning back to you with reptilian satisfaction. "Which presents quite the dilemma, doesn't it? You see, Lexi, the rules state you must provide an audible, intelligible answer. Since you cannot—and I emphasize cannot, through no fault of your own—that technically counts as failure to respond."

He lets that sink in for a moment, watching your eyes widen behind the gag.

"The correct answer, for those playing at home, is Cock and Ball ****. A rather intense practice, but then again, we're dealing with intense subjects now, aren't we?" He signals to Crystal with a casual wave. "I think another transformation is in order. After all, rules are rules."

"Oh my gosh, yes!" Crystal squeals, her finger already hovering over the button. The eagerness in her voice carries an edge of relief—someone else getting transformed means she's safe for another round.

The booth begins its descent once more, and through the gag you can only manage a muffled protest that sounds more like a whimper than anything else.

The transformation mist envelops you completely this time, so thick you can barely see Derek's silhouette beyond the booth's glass panels. Your muscles tense involuntarily, pulling against the metal restraints that bite into your wrists and ankles. The spreader bar between your legs rattles as you twist, the sound pathetically insignificant against the mechanical hum of the machinery working on your body.

The changes come in waves. Your ass swells outward with alarming speed, the muscle and fat redistributing itself into two perfect spheres that strain against what remains of your athletic pants. The fabric gives up entirely, shredding with audible tears. Your hips widen to accommodate the new proportions, creating a bottom-heavy figure that makes your cinched waist look even more ****. Then comes the makeup—permanent cosmetic tattooing that burns as it's applied. Your eyebrows are reshaped into thin, arched lines. Dark eyeliner wings out from each eye. Your lips, already swollen, receive a coat of permanent glossy pink that makes them look perpetually wet.

But the bondage is what really escalates. A leather armbinder materializes, forcing your arms together behind your back, shoulders wrenched into an uncomfortable position that makes the wrist shackles redundant. The ball gag is replaced with something worse—a ring gag that forces your jaw wide open, leaving your mouth accessible and drooling. Nipple clamps bite down on your enlarged breasts, connected by a chain that dangles between them. The collar around your neck tightens another notch.

"Magnificent," Derek breathes as the booth retracts, and you're revealed to the studio audience in your new configuration. "Just look at that transformation. Our contestant is really starting to embrace the theme now, wouldn't you say?"

The audience applauds enthusiastically. Camera flashes pop from multiple angles.

"Still at ten thousand dollars, I'm afraid," Derek continues, consulting his cards. "That's five wrong answers and only one correct. We're halfway through, Lexi. Five more questions to go. And since you can't seem to keep that mouth shut—or rather, since your mouth is now permanently open—let's move on to question six."

He produces a new card with a flourish.

"For forty thousand dollars: What is 'figging' in BDSM practice? Is it A) Temperature play using ice, B) Insertion of ginger root for a burning sensation, or C) A technique involving fig preserves?"

Crystal giggles from her control station, twirling a strand of platinum hair around her finger. "Ooh, that's a tricky one!"

Drool begins sliding from your ****-open mouth, dripping onto your exposed, clamped breasts. The studio lights feel impossibly hot on your altered body.