Try to make any sound that might indicate you don't know the answer

You **** out a series of **** sounds through the ring gag—confused grunts, questioning moans, the universal noise of complete bewilderment. Drool streams freely as you try to inflect meaning into the garbled utterances. Your head strains against the posture collar, attempting to shake back and forth, but the rigid leather permits only the slightest movement.

"Mmmmph? Nnnngh? Uhhhhh?"

Derek watches your performance with undisguised amusement, letting you struggle for a solid fifteen seconds before raising his hand to silence you.

"What we have here," he announces to the audience, "is a contestant who doesn't know the answer. She's making that abundantly clear. But you know what? I'm in a sporting mood tonight. Let's give her a fighting chance." He holds up three fingers. "I'll give you three options, Lexi. Try to grunt once for A, twice for B, three times for C. Can you manage that?"

The audience leans forward collectively. Camera operators zoom in on your drool-slicked face.

"A Violet Wand is: A) A type of purple candle used in wax play, B) An electrical device that produces static shocks for sensation play, or C) A specialized whip with violet-colored leather tails."

Your frogtied legs tremble with the effort of maintaining position. The crotchless panties leave nothing to imagination as the studio lights beat down. The nipple clamps bite deeper with each labored breath against your corseted waist.

Crystal bounces excitedly at her control panel, one manicured finger hovering over the transformation button. "Come on, come on," she whispers, loud enough for the nearby microphones to catch. "Just get it wrong already. You know you want to."

Derek taps his card against his palm rhythmically, that predator smile never faltering. "Take your time, Lexi. Well, not too much time. We do have a schedule to keep. What's your answer? One grunt, two grunts, or three?"

The posture collar digs into your throat as you try to swallow the accumulating saliva. Your arms ache uselessly in the armbinder behind you. The platform boots locked to your folded legs serve as a constant reminder of how thoroughly immobilized you've become.

"Tick tock," Derek adds, glancing at an invisible watch.