The Squinting Master Uncle's Tour...! Thank God My Mistress Didn't Hear Dark Bringer's Freaky Remarks
Dark Bringer's deranged comments had slipped by like water under a bridge for the moment, and Padric began guiding us through D District. He took the lead, yanking the leash taut, and his pet owner scrambled after him on all fours—knees and elbows forming her unnatural quadrupedal gait, her limbs kicking frantically to keep up.
Blindfolded, she couldn't see where she was going, so her path veered off bit by bit. Every time it did, sweat poured from her as she panted huff huff, which was downright pitiful. Not only was she crawling in a way no human was meant to, but her folded limbs were shortened and awkward to boot. It reminded me of Sylvia's situation strapped to my back, but since it was someone else's business, I kept my mouth shut.
We entered a nearby building lined with dozens of doors. Padric didn't spare a glance at his owner, who looked on the verge of collapse, and instead explained what the space was for.
"This is the punishment room. They designate minor slip-ups as 'infractions,' then whip the owner whenever she commits one."
"What!? You mean actually hitting them!?"
I instantly vowed to skip this place no matter what. I could give Sylvia a playful smack for fun, but real punishment? No way.
Still, I decided to hear the rest of the explanation first.
"It's not super popular, so most rooms are empty, but a few should have ongoing sessions. Some owners permit viewing—want to take a look?"
"Sure."
He led me to the first door and activated a magic tool inside, projecting a screen.
"These things guzzle mana, so make sure to turn it off when you're done."
With that, he plopped comfortably onto the sofa and stroked his owner. A small screen floated in the air, revealing exactly what went on in the punishment rooms.
A slender woman, naked except for an eyemask and ball gag, hung suspended from the ceiling. Her wrists were yanked upward and bound, her body hovering well off the floor, ankles shackled and chained so she couldn't touch down. She was utterly immobile.
I'd hate exposing Sylvia's intimate parts to strangers, but this woman had openly allowed viewers. Her slave approached, gripping something like a short riding crop. He swung the flat side like a flyswatter.
Crack!
Her thigh jiggled from the flexible strike, the sharp sound echoing.
Mmph!! Mmmph!!!
Strung up spread-eagle, she could only twitch helplessly. Unable to move or speak, the slave whipped her for not greeting him, not answering, not apologizing for her wrongs.
"...That's too much."
Padric caught my murmur and clarified, as if to dispel a misunderstanding.
"Haha, it looks brutal, but that whip's a special magic tool—barely hurts at all."
"Really? Even so, why do this...?"
"It's their kink. Before impact-reduction enchantments on whips like that, nobles really got marked up—deep red welts from their slaves' beatings."
"I... see."
"These days, it's toned down to protect the slaves. It doesn't hurt like before, but the situation of getting hit still gets the nobles plenty excited and satisfied."
Looking back at the screen, her skin had barely changed color despite the loud smacks.
"Watch closely—they only target erogenous zones, teasing until a direct hit on the sweet spot sends her over the edge, absorbing her mana. Every magic tool in D District has mana-drain on contact as standard."
Mana absorption was terrifying the more I thought about it. In this mana-supreme world, it could beat anyone no matter how strong.
"Uh, isn't mana absorption insanely powerful?"
"Only if they lack basic resistance—it's got a fatal flaw."
"A flaw...? Then how does it even work?"
"From what I hear, it's a fluke discovery. During orgasm, when they're lost in pleasure and gushing fluids, defenses drop. Women squirt in ecstasy, right? If a tool's touching them then, it drains the mana too."
What the hell... unbelievable.
"That's the weakest one with the whip. Want to see other screens?"
"No thanks, not interested."
"Before we move on—that tool returns to its spot automatically after use. See the whip-shaped groove on that table to the right?"
Sure enough, there was a fitting slot.
"Docking it sends absorbed mana to storage, then distributes it to facilities all over Witch City."
With the explanation done, Padric led us next to the milking factory.
"From here on, owners formally sign away human rights waivers and slave-ownership transfer contracts."
Transferring ownership? I'd done that torturing Sylvia. But written contracts made this more official.
"Slaves with their owners start by using the memory seal headband for the first step of livestock conversion. Then inject special drugs to induce lactation."
Oh... sounds familiar. This is what Mother-in-law was talking about!
"Even without intelligence, instinctual imprinting makes them reject anyone but their slave's touch. Don't get too close—they might self-harm if touched by mistake. You'd be liable for damages."
"Got it."
No intention of touching, but self-harm on contact? Creepy.
"Hm... no one's permitting views right now. Rare to have even a few, but none at all? Guess we'll check the facilities instead."
Padric showed me a narrow metal stall lined with shackles for limbs. Perfect height for a chin when locked on all fours.
Perfect? It's a person, damn it. I've gotten too used to this. Gotta stay sharp.
"These udder supports lift and cradle the swaying breasts. Then attach the milker and squeeze."
He demonstrated the device.
"See the brushes inside? They stimulate erogenous zones while milking, so everyone enjoys it. Nipple orgasms release milk and mana together."
"Uh... yeah."
Milking... suddenly hyper-aware of Sylvia's breasts against my back.
"D District's intensity means only long-accustomed master-slave pairs come here. But with top-tier automation, you satisfy your owner with less effort than before."
...Makes sense. Only checked two spots so far, but it's more sadism than sex. Great for nobles craving torment, but my overflowing stamina might not fit.
Leaving the building, we followed Padric to the next stop: a room full of capsule beds. Glass surfaces on the capsules, spaced apart, showed hazy flesh-toned outlines inside—steam or something obscuring details. Men sat at consoles before them; one noticed us.
"Padric? Not out walking?"
"Ah, guiding a newbie."
"Got it. Keep up the good work."
He returned to his console. Padric explained.
"He looks young, but he's been here ages—over seventy."
Shocking.
"What? He looks thirty tops."
"Strong owners slow aging, but not perfectly. His is a powerhouse witch—never chatted, she's prickly."
That powerhouse trapped in a capsule now? What hell was she enduring? I looked away to Padric.
Wait, does that make him way older than me?
"You too, Padric? Your age...?"
"Haha, not that old."
Not that old...? He changed the subject before I could pry.
"Anyway—this is the fixture factory, highest usage rate. Checking for view permissions."
He scanned the ledger.
"Lots using now... zero permissions. Haha, typical unless they're special."
Clunk! Clunk!
"People are inside those?"
"Yes, but don't peek without screens—manners, right?"
"Obviously."
Padric opened an empty capsule's glass hatch.
"These four holes fully restrain limbs if they thrash from overload—safety first."
"Thrash? Like, go insane?"
"Probably just their kink—no one's actually lost it."
"Phew. Scared me."
"Console here controls it. Like this—"
A rod rose from the base.
"And this?"
It morphed into a dildo.
"Impressive, huh? One console does it all—even molds to the user's body. Or this—"
Two more rods emerged, shifting forms: one toothpick-thin, the other strung with bulging beads like a skewer.
"This button activates auto-mode."
Whirr whirr whirr!
Watching the rods thrust into empty air sent chills down my spine. Regular witches would break from this alone.
"Press this for clitoral cap."
A small glass dome popped out left, lined with dense brushes.
"My owner modded it with a lower-district invention. Brutal."
Clit brush. I bought one too. Haven't tried it yet... this capsule was a full pervert's buffet.
"Lots of buttons."
"Plenty left. This one's for oral."
Another rod for the mouth, turning dildo-shaped, oozing warm fluid.
"Processed water—fake, but simulates creampies. Nobles keep upgrading."
Squish—squish—
"Eyemask, earplugs, milking too—no lactation drugs here to match factory rates. My owner tried it once—said clamped areolas and sucked nipples without milk felt tragic and sad. Endless orgasms blank the mind. Not my thing, haha."
"Ha... ha..."
This guy's terrifying. A total pro.
"This button sprouts nubs in the limb holes—presses between toes and soles for pain-relief massage."
"...Acupressure?"
"You know it? Owner's shoulder rubs hurt when I was young, but now they're refreshing. Made for male slaves first, now for noble sex-torture."
Creative... or insane? Overwhelming pleasure alone would shatter minds, but cruelty on top.
"And feathers for tickling."
"Gotta tickle too?"
"Trapped nobles resist, but pattern variations break them fast—they wail."
Wonder if resistance is even possible.
"Hard to watch the sobbing, so we'd release them... but they complained about not enough torment later. Nobles crowdsourced fixes for long-term confinement. Tickling mid-wail brightens faces—lets us men keep them locked worry-free."
No, they laugh from tickling, obviously. This squinting uncle couldn't seriously think this was fine, could he?