A rainbow of submission draped in shimmer and silence surrounds me, and I’m the pearl they mean to pry open.

As Oliver urges me forward, I catch sight of Kayla in a scarlet ensemble that glows in the soft lighting. She offers a slight nod, but her posture says more than words.

We’re all bound by the same rules tonight.

I scan the dim room, gaze darting from couple to couple until it clicks. Twelve in total, situated around an altar-like table where a frosted bottle and silver spoon await.

Vance’s elixir.

My stomach clenches as I recall the unbearable consequences of three measured doses.

The incessant throbbing.

Blood surging in an endless loop.

No relief.

Oliver guides me to the center and picks up the bottle. “Dr. Morgan’s invention is quite genius,” he announces to our audience. “One teaspoon arouses, two creates desperate need, and three does both while making climax physically impossible.”

He pours the first spoon and lifts it to my lips. “It’s an effective way to punish disobedience, or as in the queen’s case, ensure purity. As a virgin, her hymen must remain intact, orgasm denied.”

If the liquid had a taste, I imagine it would burn bitter. But it slides down smooth, one spoonful after another, until the last drop is gone and every eye in the room watches in curious wonder.

Without another word, Oliver works the features of my garment, finding the anchors and winding the cords around my limbs, crafting bonds from the same material that whispered across my skin moments ago.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, I spy the wives undergoing the same transformation, each woman rising to her feet to become a slave.

Oliver nods toward Mr. Davenport, and something clicks overhead. A quiet whir follows as the cords of my gown begin to tighten.

At first, I stay grounded, my heart racing as fabric draws taut. Then the system claims me, hidden pulleys lifting, inch by inch, until I’m suspended in the air like a splayed starfish caught in a current.

It’s a pose I can’t control and wouldn’t know how to name, my arms and legs bent and spread apart.

The others ascend around me, twelve women hanging in a carousel of living marionettes, circling the virgin at the center.

Some are gagged. Others grit their teeth as jeweled anal plugs breach their rears in silent ceremony. Virginia Davenport, draped in plum, already has her mouth wrapped around her husband’s cock.

Oliver ambles closer, attracting my focus as he pulls a pair of clamps from his pocket. He holds up the delicate adornments, pearls swaying from the ends. “You have such responsive nipples. I can’t resist.”

My first instinct is to protest. Didn’t he inflict enough pain the other night? But as a loud moan breaks the quiet, colliding with someone else’s guttural wail, I bite back an objection.