Wrestling female slave

The Purchase

The darkness was absolute, punctuated only by the muffled sounds of movement and the occasional jolt that reminded you of your current reality – a cargo being transported. The rough rope bit into your wrists and ankles, while the gag in your mouth had long since become soaked with your saliva, making each breath a struggle. Your naked body pressed against the wooden confines of the crate, the splinters occasionally pricking your skin as you shifted position.

Hours blurred together until suddenly, a violent lurch signaled the end of your journey. Voices – one deep and gruff, another distinctly female and dripping with authority – filtered through the wooden box.

"Right there is fine," the female voice commanded. "Just leave it in the middle of the room. I'll handle the rest."

Footsteps echoed, then a door closed, leaving you in silence once more. Minutes passed like hours before you heard the distinctive click of high heels approaching your prison. The sound stopped directly in front of the crate.

"Well, well, well," the voice purred, dripping with amusement. "Let's see what one hundred thousand dollars buys these days."

You heard the scrape of metal as a crowbar was inserted into the lid of the crate. With a series of splintering cracks, light flooded your prison, blinding you after so long in darkness. As your eyes adjusted, you saw her – Stephanie McMahon, even more imposing in person than she appeared on television. Dressed in a power suit that hugged every curve of her athletic frame, she stood over you with a predatory smile, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips as she surveyed your naked, bound form.

"Not bad," she mused, reaching down to trace a line along your jaw with the tip of her expensive shoe. "For a hundred grand, I suppose you'll do." Her eyes sparkled with cruel amusement as she noticed the tag attached to your wrist. "Ah, the 'professional slave' model. Interesting." She read the fine print aloud, "Doesn't break if it does, call number return 90 days." Stephanie threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the spacious room. "Well, we'll just have to test that warranty, won't we?"

With deliberate slowness, she untied the gag, pulling it from your mouth and allowing you to gasp for air. Before you could speak, she grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at her.

"Listen carefully, because I'm only saying this once," she began, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "You belong to me now. Every part of you – your body, your time, your dignity – all mine. When my husband is away on business, you'll serve me. When he's home, you'll serve him too – starting with those shoes he's so particular about. And when the children are around, you'll either be out of the house with one of my friends, or hidden away in that little shed outside. Got it?"

She released your chin with a slight shove, stepping back to admire her new acquisition. "Now, what should we do first to break you in properly? I have so many ideas..."

What happens next?

Option 1: Stephanie decides to test your physical endurance by making you perform exercises while she sits on your back, occasionally adding her weight to make it more difficult.