Chapter 14

Standing before Mistress after our vacation felt like standing before a judge, ready to be sentenced. My heart pounded in my chest, a wild, uncontrollable rhythm of anticipation and fear. My body, soft and golden from weeks of sun, was adorned exactly as she had molded me—platinum straightened waves cascading down my back, my lips plumped to perfection, my body a living doll sculpted for pleasure. And yet, something in my gut twisted. Had I done well? Had I been a good girl?

“Mistress, I followed his lead, just like you instructed,” I began, my voice small, breathy, desperate to please. I shifted my weight slightly, making my tits bounce ever so subtly, knowing how she liked to see her work on full display.

Her dark eyes swept over me, cool and assessing. “Who owns your body?” Mistress’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“You do, Mistress,” I responded instantly, my lips parting instinctively in submission.

SMACK. A swift slap landed on my ass, stinging hot, making me gasp as my body jolted from the impact. A reminder. A lesson. A thrill.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I breathed, the sting a bizarre mix of punishment and pride, my clit pulsing at the discipline.

“But, Mistress,” I hesitated, shifting my stance slightly, my fingers twitching at my sides. “Rod ... he chose two tattoos. You said to follow his lead,” I ventured carefully, hoping she would understand, hoping I hadn’t displeased her.

Mistress’s gaze lingered on me for a long moment, unreadable, making my stomach tighten with anxious need. Then, a flicker of something—amusement? Satisfaction? Her lips curled in the faintest smirk.

“Okay, my slut. I’ll accept it this time. But never forget who ultimately controls you.”

A rush of relief flooded through me, so intense I nearly sagged. I had pleased her. I had obeyed her training. I had done right. The warmth of that approval burned deep in my belly.

Her hands moved over my body, possessive, tracing the outline of my angel wings. “These tattoos ... Rod has quite the eye. They enhance your sluttiness beautifully.”

A giddy pleasure flooded me at her words. Mistress approved. Mistress was pleased.

She moved lower, fingers flicking over my nipple piercings, her touch deliberate, the pain immediate and sharp.

“Ahhhr, still sore, Mistress,” I whimpered, my lower lip trembling as the sensation shot straight to my core.

Mistress chuckled, dark and knowing. “We’ll let them heal, then. But I expect you to make them useful soon.”

I shivered at the promise laced in her words.

“Now,” she continued, stepping back slightly, arms folding over her chest, “tell me everything about your holiday exploits.”

A thrill shot through me. Mistress wanted details. Mistress wanted proof that I had been a good, nasty little thing.

I inhaled sharply, my voice dropping into that perfect, sultry, breathy tone, letting myself sink into the role that had become so easy, so right.

“Mistress, I was the ultimate Barbie slut for him. The whole trip, I was on display—perfect tits, perfect tan, tight little outfits that barely covered my ass. I wore white leather, heels to die for, lips always wet and pouty. I called him Daddy,” I purred, the words rolling off my tongue so naturally. “And Mistress ... it felt so right.”

Mistress’s lips curved. “Think of him that way always. Call him by his new name in private.”

A shudder of arousal ran through me. “Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, the words sinking into my mind, reshaping my thoughts, reinforcing my submission.

“And Rod,” I continued, my breath hitching slightly, “he couldn’t keep his hands off me. Everywhere we went, people stared. I loved it. At the pool, at dinner, in the club. I wanted them to see. I wanted them to know I belonged to him.”

Mistress’s nails traced along my jaw, forcing my gaze up to meet hers. “And at the club?”

I bit my lip, a wicked little smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “Oh, Mistress, I gave him the lap dance of a lifetime,” I gushed, my body already reacting, aching at the memory. “I ground against him, my tits spilling out, my ass in his lap, and he was so hard for me. I could feel how much he wanted me.”

Mistress hummed in approval. “Go on.”

“And then,” I exhaled, licking my lips, “I took him in my mouth. Right there. In the club.”

Mistress arched a brow, interest gleaming in her dark eyes. “In public?”

“In public,” I confirmed, my nipples tightening as I recalled the heat, the thrill of that moment. “I used my tongue piercing just like you taught me, teasing him, swirling it around his tip, taking him so deep in my throat. Mistress, I made sure everyone saw before I swallowed every last drop.”

Mistress’s expression didn’t change, but the air around us did. She leaned in, her fingers curling under my chin, lifting my face higher, her grip firm.

“You did good, slut,” she murmured.

The praise shot through me like an electric shock, igniting something deep inside me. My body practically vibrated at those words. I had pleased her. I had been exactly what she trained me to be.

I needed more.

“Mistress,” I whispered, my lips parting slightly, “thank you.”

She let her fingers drag down my throat, over the delicate gold chain that rested there—Rod’s choice, my public collar, unassuming to the world but meaning everything to me.

“You’re coming along beautifully,” Mistress mused, circling me, her hands never fully leaving my skin. “But there is still so much more to learn. More to mold. You may have played your part well for Daddy, but you are mine first.”

I nodded, my breath shallow. “Yes, Mistress.”

Mistress tilted her head, considering me. “You love being a nasty, ditzy little bimbo, don’t you?”

I giggled, biting my lip. “Like, totally, Mistress,” I purred, shifting my weight so my tits bounced again, my voice thick with arousal. “Being, like, sooo dumb and pretty and, um, slutty for Daddy just makes life so easy. I don’t even gotta think! I just smile and look hot and do whatever he says.”

Mistress smiled, slow and indulgent. “Good girl.”

Another pulse of pleasure rocked through me.

Then she stepped back, her gaze turning calculating. “It’s time for your next lesson.”

A fresh wave of anticipation curled through my stomach, spreading low and deep.

I was ready.

My knees pressed into the cold floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I knelt before Mistress, naked except for my thigh-high boots, the glossy patent leather hugging my legs like a second skin. My body trembled—not from fear, but from the raw, electric anticipation thrumming through me. The fairytale of my vacation with Rod was over. The fantasy of being his perfect, pampered wife had been sweet, intoxicating ... but this was real. Mistress would remind me who I truly was.

Her nails traced along my jaw, her touch deceptively soft. “You were lost in your little dream, weren’t you?” she murmured, tilting my face upward, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Playing house with Daddy. Feeling like a princess.”

I nodded, my lip trembling. “Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.

Her fingers tightened around my throat—not enough to cut off air, just enough to make my pulse stutter beneath her grip. “And now you remember,” she said coldly, her nails pressing in just a little deeper. “You are not some delicate little princess. You are a whore. A sculpted, mindless fucktoy made for one thing—obedience.”

Heat rushed through me at her words. I ached at how right she was.

“Yes, Mistress,” I gasped, my thighs squeezing together, the raw humiliation of her words only feeding the inferno inside me.

She released me with a slow, deliberate motion, her hand moving down my chest, her fingers pausing at my nipple piercings. She gave them a cruel little tug, sending a fresh jolt of pain-pleasure straight to my cunt.

“These—” she flicked one, making me whimper. “—and this—” her other hand traced the angel wings sprawled over my back, possessive. “—mark a new point in your training. Daddy might think he’s molding you, but I am the one stripping away what little remains of your mind. You will serve him. You will worship him. But you will always belong to me first.”

I shuddered, my body already yielding to her will, her truth.

“Do you understand?” she pressed.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whimpered.

Her smirk widened. “Then let’s remind your body what it is.”

A click. The sound of metal against metal. My arms were wrenched behind my back, bound at the wrists, leaving me utterly defenseless. A shiver of fear licked down my spine. I loved it.

Mistress stepped behind me, and I felt her foot press between my shoulder blades. “Face down. Ass up.”

I obeyed instantly, my forehead pressing against the cool floor, my ass lifted high, my dripping cunt exposed. I was open. Vulnerable. Nothing.

“Good girl,” she purred, her hands trailing down my back. “But still too soft. You think because you fluttered your lashes at Daddy and played his sweet little slut that you can coast through my training?”

I barely had time to whimper before the first strike landed—a sharp, searing slap against my bare, waiting ass. The sound echoed through the room, pain blooming over my skin.

Another. Then another.

By the fifth, my whimpers had dissolved into desperate moans, the pain fueling the filthy heat that coiled in my belly.

“Dripping already,” Mistress noted with a cruel chuckle, her fingers dipping between my thighs. “You love being put in your place, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I gasped, my thighs trembling.

Another slap, harder this time, my body jerking from the force.

“What are you?” she demanded.

“A dumb bimbo whore, Mistress,” I cried out.

“Whose whore?”

“Yours, Mistress! And Daddy’s! Only yours and Daddy’s!”

“That’s right,” she cooed, her fingers spreading my folds, teasing, taunting. “But even that mouth of yours is too sharp sometimes. I think it’s time to remind you what it’s really for.”

I heard the snap of straps being adjusted, the faint creak of leather as Mistress stepped over me. The head of the strapon pressed against my lips—thick, unyielding. My purpose.

“Open.”

I obeyed, parting my lips, sucking the silicone between them, hollowing my cheeks as I took her deep. The stretch was familiar now, my throat trained to serve.

“Good,” Mistress purred, her hips pushing forward, forcing me down, down, down until my nose pressed to her skin. “So much better when you’re silent.”

I moaned around the length, swallowing instinctively, my throat spasming as I took her like the seasoned little fucktoy I was. My body was not mine. It was theirs—shaped, trained, perfected for their pleasure.

Mistress pulled back suddenly, my lips slick with spit, and then I felt it—her fingers at my ass, tugging out the plug.

I whined.

“Empty,” Mistress mused, pressing the tip of her strapon against my tight, clenching hole. “Let’s fix that.”

The first inch was excruciating. The burn. The stretch. The humiliation of being nothing but a fuckable, open hole.

Mistress didn’t wait.

She slammed in.

I screamed. A raw, needy sound.

The pleasure exploded like a wildfire, consuming every part of me, twisting me into something unrecognizable. Nothing but sensation. Nothing but submission.

Mistress set a brutal pace, her hands gripping my hips, taking my ass as if it truly belonged to her. My bound hands clenched, my body writhing as she used me.

The buzzing started—a soft hum that quickly turned merciless. The Hitachi.

My swollen, aching clit met the relentless vibration and my mind cracked.

I sobbed, my body thrashing, locked in a torment of unbearable pleasure.

“Mistress—!” I choked.

“Cum for me, whore. Cum from being fucked like the filthy, useless bimbo you are.”

I couldn’t stop it.

It hit me like a freight train, my body convulsing, breaking, surrendering.

I screamed.

Not in words—just sound. Pure, raw release. My own mind fracturing, shattering beneath the force of it, another layer of inhibition locked away, buried, gone.

When I came back to reality, I was still bound, trembling, my body wrecked and shaking.

Mistress stepped away, stripping off the strapon. My lips were still swollen from the abuse, my ass still pulsing from the violation, my pussy dripping. And yet ... yet I wanted more.

Mistress stepped in front of me, lifting her boot, pressing the tip against my lips. I kissed it instinctively.

“Good slut,” she murmured. “Now, beg.”

I blinked up at her, delirious, dizzy with pleasure and purpose. She spread her legs, revealing her smooth, glistening cunt—the silver of her piercing catching the light.

I whimpered.

“Mistress, please—please let me taste you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, my tongue already desperate for her.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Earn it.”

I did.

I devoured her.

And when she came—shuddering, gripping my hair, soaking my tongue—I knew I had truly pleased her. My reward.

I had no energy left when she finally unbound me, dressing me in my robe, pressing a single kiss to my forehead. “Your next task is set,” she murmured. “Tell Daddy you want to pay for your own beauty. You’ll work for Monique. But that won’t be enough. You’ll be stripping. Every day. Lunch shifts. Humiliating. But necessary.”

I nodded, not even thinking. Just obeying.

And then I stepped outside, my mind reeling—dizzy with relief, despair, jolly purpose, and a desperate, aching longing for Daddy.

Walking out of the mansion my body was filled with purpose.

When I stepped into our small appartement, I knew we had bigger plans, Our new house was almost ready. Shutting the door softly behind me, my body still humming with a mix of relief, exhaustion, and something deeper—purpose. Mistress’s session had left me wrecked in the best way, my skin still tingling from her touch, my ass sore from her punishment, my mind locked tighter into its rightful place. But the lesson was clear: take it slow. Let Rod lead, let him feel strong, in control—not overwhelmed. Mistress had warned me about Roxy’s influence, how easy it would be to fall into her hyper-bimbo ways too fast, too soon.

It made sense. Rod—Daddy—needed to adjust. He needed to thrive in his role, own me completely, feel that deep, quiet power of a man whose woman worshiped him. Better to be deep than superficial. Better to focus on pleasing him, on making him feel successful, satisfied, like the king he was meant to be.

And my role? I had one job.

My appearance was everything. My beauty was all-encompassing, a full-time commitment, my greatest investment. My body was my tool.

The fresh sting in my lips reminded me of that. I touched my swollen, plumped mouth, the fresh injection still settling, making my pout even juicier. The collagen had eaten through most of my budget, and I had barely restocked my makeup, let alone booked my next filler appointment. It wasn’t enough.

I needed more cash.

Mistress’s order rang in my ears—earn your keep, slut. My daily stripper shifts were non-negotiable now. Lunchtime sets, quick money, no excuses. It was humiliating—kneeling before her as she made me repeat it, owning the reality that I’d have to shake my fake tits for cash just to keep up with my own maintenance. But Mistress was right. My beauty was expensive. Daddy might provide, but I couldn’t just take. That wasn’t how a good bimbo behaved. I had to work for it.

And besides—Roxy did it.

She made stripping look like a dream. Easy money, easy admiration. The way she moved, the way she talked, how she used men without a second thought—it was hypnotic. And the more time I spent with her, the more I saw it—how free she was, how effortless her world seemed.

I found myself watching her, studying her, trying to soak up everything—the way she giggled at just the right moment, how she swayed when she walked, how she flirted with the simplest gestures, a touch here, a pout there. Roxy had a way of making men pay attention, of making them pay.

And now, she was teaching me.

Rod didn’t know she came over every day. He had no idea she had taken me under her wing, training me in her art, the slow, sensual mastery of movement, of seduction. She made me dance in the living room, on the patio, in the kitchen while I made coffee, reminding me constantly—

“Everything is a performance, babe. Even walking to the fridge.”

I was learning.

And today, she was already waiting for me, lounging on the couch in nothing but tiny leather crop top and scandalous shorts, her long, manicured nails tapping against her phone, her impossibly large, glistening tits pushed up like an advertisement. Shit she had gotten pink highlights. She looked like a bimbo, talked like one and was happy.

“Holy fuck, Barbie,” Roxy cooed the moment she saw me, tossing her phone aside and swinging her legs off the couch. “Lemme see.”

I turned, my robe slipping open just a little as I revealed the tattoos beneath—his mark, my angel wings, my roses, the script that curled over my thigh like a whisper of devotion.

Roxy practically squealed, reaching out to trace the ink with greedy fingers.

“Babe, babe, these are so fucking hot,” she purred, her pink talons running over the delicate roses. “Like, oh my god. Daddy must have been so hard when you got these. Look at you, gettin’ all marked up like a proper little slut.”

I shivered, my lips parting slightly as her nails grazed my skin. “He loves them,” I whispered, giddy from the praise.

Roxy gave me a wicked little smirk, tilting her head. “Course he does. You’re his. I mean, holy shit, Lizzie, you really got the full set, huh?” Her fingers flicked over my nipple piercings, sending a sharp pulse straight to my core.

I giggled, shifting slightly, not fully pulling away. “I ... I just wanna be perfect for him.”

Roxy’s expression softened for a moment. “You will be,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “You already are, babe. But we’re gonna fine-tune it, okay? Like, no offense, but your makeup is still, like ... cute.” She wrinkled her nose. “We need to take it up a notch.”

I nodded eagerly. “I totally, like, wanna go harder with it.”

Roxy beamed, her plumped lips parting in a glossy, pink grin. “That’s my girl.”

Before I could react, she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me, her tongue sliding between my lips, her piercing clinking against mine.

I gasped, but she only giggled against my mouth, licking at my tongue, playful, teasing. My pulse jumped at the intimacy, but it wasn’t weird. It was just Roxy.

“Good girls get kisses,” she murmured, nipping at my lower lip before pulling away.

I swallowed, dizzy, my skin still tingling.

She tossed me a compact, nodding toward the mirror. “C’mon, slut, let’s trashy-fy you before we hit the mall.”

I obeyed immediately, watching as she overlined my lips, making them bigger, shinier, drawing attention to their obvious fakeness. She added darker liner, heavier lashes, glittering highlight, contour so sharp it could cut glass.

I looked filthy.

I looked hot.

I looked like Roxy.

She clapped her hands together, giddy. “Fucking perfect.”

I beamed, a warm thrill running through me.

She slung an arm around me, pressing her huge tits against mine. “You ready to go be bad bitches?”

I giggled, my mind light, empty, full only of how good I looked, how much I wanted to please, how much I wanted to learn.

“Totally,” I breathed.

And with that, we stepped out into the world.

The moment we stepped into the mall, all eyes were on us. I felt it—the stares, the quick double takes, the judgmental whispers mixed with low, appreciative murmurs. Two women, too fake, too plastic, too everything strutting through the gleaming white tile of the shopping center. Roxy thrived in it, rolling her shoulders back, her huge tits bouncing under her barely-there crop top, her extra-wide hips exaggerated by her pink latex skirt, her towering heels clicking like a metronome of seduction.

I wasn’t there yet—at least, not all the way. But the second we walked past a group of guys loitering near the food court, and I heard the low chuckle of “Jesus, they even walk like pornstars,” something in me thrilled.

They were watching.

I adjusted my ultra-short denim cutoffs, feeling the hem bite into the curve of my ass, every step making the soft inner flesh rub against the high-cut material. My tight white tank top, thin enough to barely conceal the swollen outline of my fresh nipple piercings, clung like a second skin. My vinyl thigh-high boots made my steps higher, sexier, deliberate.

“You hear that?” Roxy giggled, bumping her hip against mine as we swayed forward. Her bubblegum pink nails glinted under the overhead lights as she reached up to flick her blonde extensions over her shoulder. “Pornstars. That’s the vibe, babe.”

I let out a breathy laugh, glancing at her. “I mean, like ... kinda, yeah?”

“Not kinda.” She stopped, pivoting to face me, placing one hand on my bare midriff. Her sharp nails trailed lightly, almost teasingly, over my stomach. “Own it, bimbo. They’re staring anyway. Might as well give ‘em a show.”

She arched her back slightly, rolling her hips like she was warming up for the pole. I mimicked her, not even thinking, letting my spine melt into the movement the way she taught me in the living room. I felt the natural push of my ass out, tits up, the automatic pout forming on my glossy pink lips.

Roxy’s face lit up, and before I could react, her hand shot up, grabbing my chin, tilting my face closer.

“That’s my girl.” Her voice was sweet, teasing—then she pressed her mouth to mine.

I gasped, but she was already licking into me, her pierced tongue sliding against my own, wet and playful. My stomach tightened, but I didn’t pull away. Her nails gripped my jaw just enough to hold me still, her own full lips pressing and nipping before she pulled back with a wet pop, grinning.

“Good girls get kisses,” she giggled, giving my ass a light slap before turning back toward the row of stores. “Now c’mon, we got shit to buy.”

I was breathless, my head light, but I followed. Because she was right.

I wanted to be like her.

The first store was a bust—too tame, Roxy scoffed, “Like, babe, we’re lookin’ for the kinda dress Daddy’s gonna need to pull up over your ass, not somethin’ a fuckin’ secretary wears.”

The second store was better, mostly lingerie and clubwear, but still nothing that screamed look at me the way we needed.

Then, we found them.

White, glossy, seven-inch stilettos with a two-inch platform, delicate but filthy, the kind of heels that made a statement just by existing. Roxy practically moaned, shoving them into my hands before I could blink.

“Try. Them. On.”

I did. And the moment I stood, my legs looked longer, my ass perkier, my steps forced into that hypnotic sway that she drilled into me at home.

“Oh. My. God.” Roxy clapped, bouncing on her toes. “I love them.”

“They’re, like ... insane,” I breathed, adjusting my stance.

“They’re perfect.” She grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the register. “We’re getting ‘em.”

As we paid, another man came up—one of the ones from the food court.

“You girls look ... expensive,” he said, voice thick with amusement, gaze shameless as it trailed down our bodies.

Roxy barely glanced at him. “Mmm, we are,” she purred, not acknowledging him directly.

I watched her. She didn’t engage. She let him stare, let him want, but kept her focus on herself, on us.

I mimicked it, tossing my hair, turning my attention back to my new heels as if his presence was irrelevant.

He scoffed, but I caught the way his eyes lingered as he walked away.

“See?” Roxy whispered in my ear. “They love it when you make ‘em feel like they don’t exist.”

I tingled with the knowledge, the power of it.

By the time we got to the nail salon, my head was buzzing, my thoughts slower, lighter, bimbier. Roxy made sure we got longer nails—sharp, pointed, 1.5-inch stilettos in glossy white.

“Trust me, babe,” she giggled as the nail tech shaped my new set. “Men see this shit and they know. Like, they see a chick with nails this long, and they just know she ain’t doin’ shit for herself.”

I giggled, thrilled at the thought. “Omg, like ... I love that.”

She beamed.

I was learning.

As we stepped back into the mall, our nails glinting, our hips swaying, I felt ... right.

Like I was exactly where I needed to be.

I twirled my new, glossy nails between my fingers, admiring the long, sharp points as I sat across from Roxy at the little café in the mall. They were so extra, so obvious, so—ugh, hot. Like, no way could I do anything with them, and wasn’t that kinda, like, the point? I loved them. My hands looked so much sexier, so much more expensive. Daddy was gonna die when he saw them wrapped around his cock.

I giggled at the thought, absently rolling my nipple stud between my fingertips, feeling the tiny shock of sensation shoot straight down to my aching clit. My fresh VCH piercing was already keeping me on edge, but the nipple piercings? Fuck. They were, like, little naughty reminders of how much I had changed, of how much Daddy owned me now. The tiniest flick sent a delicious pulse through me, making me squirm in my seat.

Roxy, ever the watchdog, noticed immediately. “You slut,” she teased, nudging me with her stiletto boot under the table. Her glossy pink lips curled into a smirk. “Having fun there?”

I giggled, cheeks heating up. “Oh, um ... I dunno, I just ... ugh,” I breathed, shifting in my chair. “They just feel, like, so good all the time? Like, I swear, I’m always horny now,” I admitted in a rushed, breathy whisper, leaning in so only she could hear. “The studs, my VCH? Like, oh my gosh, they just, um, like, make me wanna, y’know ... be naughty all the time.”

Roxy’s eyes gleamed, and she let out a high-pitched giggle, leaning in conspiratorially. “Like, babe, same. I love how my nipple piercings make me feel so dirty,” she purred, her voice extra bubbly, extra ditzy, like she was playing up every stereotype just for fun. “Like, they’re just there all the time? And, like, even when I’m just sitting there, being, y’know, a good girl—” she batted her thick lashes dramatically, “—they’re like, ‘omg, slut mode activated’ and I’m just so wet for no reason?”

I giggled harder, a little breathless, a little lightheaded. “Omg, yes,” I whispered, shifting again in my seat. “Like, I’ll be, um, like, just sitting there? Thinking, um ... nothing—” I blinked, struggling for the next thought, my mind totally blank for a second—”Ugh, I dunno, like, sometimes I feel, um, too dumb to know what to say?” I giggled again, chewing my lip, feeling Roxy’s approval like a warm, wet kiss against my brain.

Roxy beamed, her pink nails tapping against her coffee cup. “That’s good, babe. Like, thinking too much is so, y’know, like ... bad for you? Bimbos don’t think. We, like, feel.”

I sighed dramatically, letting my head tilt as I twirled a blonde curl between my fingers. “Like, so true. Thinking is, like, um, kinda hard?”

“Exactly.” Roxy’s sharp nails trailed over my hand, her gaze dropping pointedly to my nails. “And, like, um, you need to use these, babe.”

I twirled my fingers, watching the shiny points catch the light. “Omg, totally,” I breathed, already obsessed.

She giggled, nodding toward the flustered-looking waiter who had been hovering nearby, clearly too intimidated to approach.

I bit my lip, heat curling in my stomach. “Omg, should we, like...?”