Try to guess C) A technique involving fig preserves

Through the ring gag, you attempt to **** out the letter 'C,' but what emerges is a garbled, wet sound—'Khhheee'—followed by more drool cascading down your chin and onto your clamped breasts. The effort makes your jaw ache against the unforgiving metal circle holding your mouth open.

Derek doesn't even pretend to strain to hear you this time. He simply shakes his head, that predatory smile never wavering.

"I'm going to be generous and assume you were attempting to say 'C'—a technique involving fig preserves." He holds up the card for the audience to see. "Which would be absolutely adorable if it weren't completely wrong. Figging, dear Lexi, refers to the insertion of peeled ginger root into orifices for a uniquely burning sensation. It's been used in BDSM play for centuries. Fig preserves!" He chuckles, turning to play to the crowd. "Where does she come up with this stuff?"

The audience erupts in laughter, some members actually wiping tears from their eyes. A woman in the third row is laughing so hard she's bent over double.

"That's six wrong answers and still only one correct," Derek announces, his voice carrying that familiar edge of satisfaction. "Crystal, I think we need to help our contestant understand the severity of her situation. Let's really drive the point home."

Crystal squeals with delight, her massive breasts bouncing in the latex as she hammers the transformation button with both fists. "Yes, Mr. Sinclair! She's been so wrong about everything!"

The booth crashes down around you with mechanical efficiency. This time the spray comes in pressurized bursts that feel almost violent against your exposed skin. Your breasts surge forward again, the flesh swelling until the nipple clamps dig in painfully, the chain between them pulling taut. Your already **** waist cinches another two inches, making each breath a conscious effort.

But the real punishment is in the new restraints and modifications. A posture collar replaces the simple studded one, forcing your head up and back at an uncomfortable angle. Your legs are bent at the knees, new shackles appearing to lock your ankles to your thighs in a frogtie position. The spreader bar remains, keeping your folded legs apart. Metal cuffs appear at your elbows in addition to the armbinder, welding your arms into complete immobility.

Then comes the clothing—or what passes for it. Crotchless latex panties materialize, leaving you completely exposed between your ****-apart legs. Thigh-high platform boots with seven-inch heels lock onto your feet, though in your frogtied position they serve no purpose except aesthetic degradation.

A fresh tattoo burns across your exposed pubic area: 'FREE USE' in bold letters.

"Seven restraints now," Derek narrates cheerfully as the booth retracts. "And we're getting into the real money questions. Question seven, for eighty thousand dollars: What is a 'Violet Wand'?"

You're drooling uncontrollably now, unable to swallow properly with your head **** back by the posture collar.