Side Story: An Elegant Lady's Tour of the Bitch Exhibition Museum

Empress Gloria of the Empire is a notorious madwoman. This is the impression shared by the Empire's citizens, nobles, and soldiers alike.

Not content with staging a coup, she launched expansionist wars that subjugated the dwarves and giants. She personally led troops to the front lines, directing massacres herself. High-ranking nobles marked for purge and women from rebel factions were captured and "atoned" by being mounted naked and displayed in museums. Madness incarnate.

Before it became an empire, the kingdom would sever the limbs of great traitors and burn their families' estates, but it never displayed the living in sexual exhibitions. Some say this is simply Gloria's sexual preference, whispering rumors of her unimaginable perversions, but no one dares speak such words before the Empress.

The changing Empire. Amid endless wars, she seized even farming tools under pretexts of taxes and construction corvée, melting them in furnaces. To quell the discontented masses, she legalized certain narcotics—an extreme policy. Many sprawl in the streets like corpses, countless citizens starve, but such things mean nothing to her.

"Thanks for escorting me. But I'll tour from here on my own."

Confirming her guards had left, she lifted her gaze to the Three Sins Cathedral before her. Recently completed, it had just begun its full exhibitions. This structure, the size of a small city, reportedly housed no fewer than 2,000 "exhibits"—fallen nobles, enemy generals, purge targets, and even those who volunteered as exhibits for reasons unknown.

The grand doors to the cathedral stood open. Passing through gates ornate with gold filigree, she immediately saw statues of naked women, petrified and mounted.

All those petrified here were criminals, great or small. They stood as statues along the passage to the Three Sins Cathedral for the duration of their sentence. How many years? She didn't know.

Desiree Shalcott, second daughter of the Shalcott family—now a proper house, greatly enriched by Empress Gloria's policies, having evolved from a criminal syndicate dealing in drug sales and supply—clacked her heels as she inspected the statues one by one.

"—Hmm. Murder, 32 years. Theft, 5 years. Public indecency... Hmm? In the modern Empire?"

Desiree swept her white hair back over her shoulder and read the plaque closely. This wasn't the old days—it was the modern Empire. They'd built this insane museum, legalized drugs, shattered traditional sexual taboos by parading sex slaves openly in the streets, yet imposed such draconian penalties. Overkill.

Desiree eyed the notice: "This exhibit retains consciousness. Feel free to touch."

"—Like this? Supposed to like it... No reaction."

Desiree picked up the sculpting knife and feather beside the statue, stroking its thigh, waist, underbreast. Naked, its figure was starkly revealed. Were only women with superior bodies selected? Even Desiree, confident in her looks, felt outclassed. Fixed in place, the breasts sagged not at all, perfectly shaped; nipples, pussy, and pubic hair rendered in embarrassing detail, all in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voluptuous curves.

"......"

Desiree glanced down at her own body. Her breasts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠formed a clear swell, just barely veiling her toes. But not as pronounced as this statue's.

...A subtle envy stirred. She set down the knife with a huff.

"Hmph. So what if the body's a sow's vulgar bulk? True beauty in a woman unites facial grace, intellect, and aura. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Like mine."

She muttered to the statue—petrified two years ago, so surely conscious, unable to reply. Laughing at her own outburst of inferiority, she set the tools aside and strode past the main passage toward the inner doors. Certainly not deflated by a superior figure.

"Oh! If it isn't the second daughter of House Shalcott!"

Entering the passage, a greasy fat man greeted her unpleasantly. Desiree suppressed a deep sigh.

"Sorry, don't recognize the face. Mind introducing yourself?"

"Of course. I'm Rubel, one of the curators here. A lowly wretch spared only by your house lord's grace."

He bowed obsequiously, squinting thinly, eyes appraising her from head to toe. Rude, but she was pretty. No sow-like curves, but her slender, elegantly sculpted frame, ruby eyes, and poised demeanor drew attention aplenty.

"Right. So, what do you want? A museum tour?"

"Yes, yes—if you'll permit. I'll guide you with utmost sincerity."

"Sorry, but—"

Desiree began to refuse, but...

"Join me, and I'll show you the secret VIP seats and full viewing charts."

"......Fine, then."

Curious about the museum's operations anyway—for business, as House Shalcott dabbled in slaves—she agreed.

"First, the Vibe Corner." He gestured.

The hall's center featured a massive glass wall enclosing one woman. Restrained in M-legs, a metal rod—club-shaped, mushroom-rounded at the tip—was wedged between her labia.

"Hm." Desiree leaned in, intrigued, reading the plaque. The metal rod was the vibe, faintly pulsing with mana—spot on. Notably, it recharged via the subject's climaxes.

"This one's from a purged noble house, right?"

Simple crime: offspring of nobles who defied Empress Gloria. Punished under "guilt by association."

Metal restraints protruded from the glass wall's interior, forcing her M-legs; she trembled faintly. Ball-gagged, arms deep-kimbo behind her head, she wept through endless orgasms.

"Look here."

The man sidled too close—unpleasant, but not enough to complain. She followed his gesture to a button.

"What's that?"

"Linked to the vibe. Press it."

Desiree clicked casually. The woman jolted, thrashing. Clank—restraints rattled.

Vrrrrmmm! A metallic hum rang out; the vibe glowed yellow between her thighs. Rotation intensified; mana pulses reached even Desiree through the glass, quivering her womb. Orgasm induction, as described. This far away, and still...

For the woman with it jammed in her pussy...

"─────!!!!!"

Legs spasming like a shocked frog in M-pose, she squirted spectacularly, soaking the glass before Desiree's eyes.

'Forgive me. Stop. No...'—such pleas screamed silently from her eyes. As Desiree stared blankly, the man pressed it again.

"─────!!!!"

'No! No!' Ball-gagged, she shuddered in terror, enduring another pulse, squirting, ragged breaths rasping past the gag, tears and snot streaming as she begged with her gaze.

Desiree, second daughter of a former crime boss, had killed plenty. Life's pleas were routine. But... this.

"Fun, right? Shame it runs out after a few daily blasts—mana-based."

Pulses ceased, but orgasmic aftershocks lingered. The vibe droned on. Relentlessly stimulating her hypersensitive pussy and body, she locked eyes with Desiree, pleading mutely for mercy.

"...Enough of this. More?"

"Plenty next door, all similar vibes. Ah! Deeper in, a former Saintess exhibit."

Desiree followed slowly. Before leaving, her eyes drifted to the woman's plaque—decent-sized tits, fully exposed.

Deeper in, past crowds and exhibits, lay a voluptuous pink-haired nude in glass.

"As you see, the former Saintess, now a brood sow exhibit. That luscious body remains superb."

"......Hm?"

Oddities abounded. Restrained spread-eagle, Yuria lacked arms and legs—not severed, but ringed at shoulders and hips.

"Ah, amputation rings. Succubus magic refined. Teleports objects from the ring's center. Limbs, in her case."

"...Ah, yeah. Heard of 'em."

Thus limbless, Yuria was expressionless—yet trembling.

"Control spell?"

"Yes. Forgot her saintly duties, willfully defiled herself, failed her mission. This is her punishment."

Her plaque confirmed self-inflicted doom: offered herself to succubus beasts and tentacles, nearly killing nuns and paladins; fed them mana for secondary havoc; endured torture-like ecstasy, bedridden months recovering—all detailed beside her pussy.

Her crotch was encased in metal-and-tentacle mass. Nipples sported milker-like devices, pink tentacles writhing within.

Wriggle♡ Wriggle♡ Whirrr!!♡♡

"Half-machine, half-tentacle. Mana runes on the core guide tentacles, sustain life. She's under focused clit, pussy, anal, Foresio torment now."

Pink hair, pale skin, fierce eyes—Yuria's muscles twitched in ecstasy. Difference from prior: massive invaders in her pussy, forearm-thick, ravaging, spinning destructively. Irregular rhythm; core overheated crimson, pistoning near 10/sec—Desiree's count—sometimes blasting orgasm waves simultaneously.

Desiree's womb quivered; her pussy wetted. Waves leaked through glass, but Yuria's lewd sow-like orgasms fueled it. Just viewing dumb bitches' natural comeuppance—law of the jungle. Why the spine-chilling thrill?

"Spectacular, eh? Ordinary exhibit would've died, but this monster-strong Saintess Yuria endures. See those ecstatic muscles?"

Limbless like a roly-poly, denied even emotional expression, she repeated tentacle torture, destruction, climaxes. Abs convulsed nonstop. Shoulder-neck veins bulged near-bursting, receding cyclically. Anal tentacle brutal: swelling/shrinking, probing/pistoning, ceaselessly stimulating mana lines (per plaque).

"Beautiful, no? Control magic's pinnacle. Vestiges of emotion twitching uncontrollably. A gourmet feast."

Desiree eyed her face: thick brows gave a fierce scowl, utterly blank—yet drenched in sweat.

"This exhibit conscious?"

"Naturally. All cathedral exhibits get meticulous care. Stimulation calibrated not to break them. Sleep time too. How merciful."

Revulsion. A twinge of—amusement, arousal. Heart stabbing deep, Desiree watched Yuria suffer beyond the glass. Spotting an odd tool beside her, she pointed.

"That?"

"Her pre-exhibit lingerie and masturbation toys. Unbefitting a Saintess, anal play favorite. All used for wanking, frequent wear."

Dissecting past personality, deeds, records for mockery—Desiree felt faint nausea. The opulent gold interior clashed sickeningly with the horror.

Pink toys and undies on gilded ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠racks screamed blasphemy. What madness birthed this?

Vmm! Vrrrrm!! Mid-speech, the thick semi-mechanical tentacle overheated, stabbing Yuria's pussy. Motionless, voiceless, she streamed ambiguous fluids, climaxing. Squirting clear jets battered glass; tentacles unrelenting.

"Let's see others."

Shivering yet compelled to scour every inch, Desiree moved on. Exhibits galore: varied bodies, crimes.

"Of course."

He salivated gleefully. Later: hobby-horse electric shocks; cow-udders milked; underwater orgasm/breath-play; petrified sans erogenous zones, fountain-squirting. All horrific. Tortures preferable to death. Most chilling: rests dosed to prevent madness.

They passed a colossal colosseum-like arena. Rumored for ex-nobles/royals. Pity and farce mingled at the thought of such splendor wasted on exhibits.

"Final section. Enjoyed so far?"

Hours later, he mopped sweat—overexcited rambling.

Desiree replied primly: "Eh, entertaining enough."

True. Initial unease, dread, chills gave way to enjoyment midway. She knew the source: exhibited women mirrored Desiree Shalcott. Young, beautiful, sexually consumable. From crime roots—still shady—she could easily join them. Noble now by policy, tomorrow's purge fodder? Plausible.

Then—she'd be dissected, every shame, trait, ego displayed. That possibility birthed the fear. But humans crave peril. Accustomed, she overlapped herself with exhibits, savoring the shivers.

"Last: self-volunteered exhibits. Care to see?"

Grinning unpleasantly close—seeing through her?—he said. Her heart skipped.

"Of course. Lead on."