Inhale, exhale. Stumble, looking for a solution where there isn't one. Bucking hips, twitching without permission when she felt jolts of particular power. Her knees stood still, then locked in place, and then wobbled when a wave of puissant pleasure washed over her.

The gems around her belt glowed. Manufactured to exacting specifications and finished by a wise mage, they served to reflect and amplify Fantom's power. She was a living ley-line, intersecting unsated lust and magical prowess.

She thought back to the words that Miranda had delivered when explaining the belt to Fantom's captor. Miranda wore a similar device, but not identical. On both, the gems were more than decorative. Fantom hadn't been privy to all the details. There were muffled words and knowing grins exchanged between the captor and the seller. A promise that, should more be needed, Miranda could find more artifacts of similar use, even if she couldn't craft them herself. A threat to Fantom.

The use, she knew, was to drive her into a submissive haze. Arma, her captor and ersatz owner, would have her pliant and malleable; a clay to craft a willing servant. His tools were physical bonds and careful words. The slim, stretchy fishnet suit that she wore covered her pale flesh, but outlined her curves with such incredible tightness that she may as well have been nude.

Thick leather boots that went to her knees matched with gloves that went past her elbows. They were stiff, dyed red, and contrasted against the dull color of her suit. They also featured massive metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles; polished brass that hooked against steel spreader bars.

Fantom's legs were kept apart, but each wrist was attached to the heavy metal posture collar around her neck. She was forced to adopt a regal posture, though with each arm raised she was essentially a walking pillory. The metal also served to cover the seam of heavy, shining, rubbery mittens that left her hands useless.

This was part of the conditioning; the program that Arma was so lovingly crafting for his in-house ninja. Each aspect was escapable on its own. Yet they compounded. One prevented her from working on the next; that prevented any work on the other. It was immensely frustrating, but it didn't hold a candle next to the belt.

Fantom was trapped in such immense, erotic longing that it nearly hurt. The heavy metal chastity belt featured locking straps around her thighs and jingling chains that were almost certainly decorative and not functional. Glowing gems embedded in its exterior were the source of the coruscant energy that flowed through her body, pleasing her but preventing release.

She huffed loudly into a fat gag. For the fifth time, she tried to grind her thighs together, unable to do so thanks to the spreader between her legs. She leaned down, straining against a corset even though she knew she wouldn't be able to release the belt or pleasure herself. She squinted her eyes shut, masticating the fat gag between her lips. It had been sealed atop a hood with eyelets and various carefully crafted D-rings, should Arma decide to lovingly provide her with an "exit" from reality. He had offered several times to increase her gag and blindfold her; to play with her fishnet-clad body and have her enjoy it as an anonymous toy.

Of course, being his live-in plaything would mean sacrificing that rebellious streak; he wouldn't call her Fantom any longer. He'd find a new name, like pet or toy or some other pejorative.

As a result, she resisted. The siren's song of submission called to her. It was inside her - calling in her ears, washing from her womb to every nerve in her pleasure-wracked body. Her need could be seen, felt, and heard. Her desire could be glimpsed by every sense; doubly so when she fruitlessly rubbed her body against a wall of Arma's castle hideout. Triply so when she fell to her knees, panting.

Fantom moaned.