Chapter 7

The week had started with an intense blend of emotions that I could hardly keep in check. That morning I had woken up missing Rod deeply, my heart aching for the comfort of his presence. Knowing he would be abroad for weeks left me feeling empty and unmoored. He was my anchor, the one who made me feel safe, and without him, I felt like I was floating in a sea of uncertainty. But there was no time to dwell on those feelings. Mistress Hardgraves had made it clear that my training was about to intensify, and I had no choice but to follow her commands.

I tried to mask my anxiety with a cheerful, bubbly demeanor, hoping it would make the day easier, but deep down, I was scared. The ache in my chest, missing Rod, was growing, but even more terrifying was not knowing what Mistress had in store for me. I knew it would push me further than I’d ever gone before. Every time I felt that pang of doubt or fear, I reminded myself why I was doing this: to protect Rod, to preserve our reputation, to keep everything in our life from unraveling. That thought gave me strength, even as it filled me with dread.

As I got ready for the day, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My tan was perfect, my honey-blonde hair styled in loose waves, and my nails freshly manicured in a glossy, bold red. The tight, slutty outfit Mistress had chosen for me clung to every curve—a leather skirt that barely covered my ass and a top that was more revealing than anything I would have ever worn without her say-so. My heels clicked sharply on the floor as I moved. Looking sexy helped. It made me feel more in control, even when deep down, I knew I wasn’t.

Mistress Hardgraves was waiting for me, her posture commanding and her eyes sharp. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth, and I followed her out of the mansion, feeling the weight of the day ahead.

But I couldn’t hide the fear that twisted in my gut when Mistress Hardgraves announced our first destination: a piercing salon.

The place reeked of pain and metal, the scent clinging to the air as we walked in. My stomach churned. Mistress moved with a purpose, leading me to a chair that felt cold against my bare skin. I sat down, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. She stood over me, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and I knew there was no backing out.

“Open your mouth,” she commanded, her voice sharp, cutting through my hesitation like a knife.

I obeyed, parting my lips and feeling the cold metal tools press against my tongue. A shot of numbing agent was administered, and I could taste the bitter tang of it as it seeped into my mouth. My mind raced, wondering what she had in store for me, but I couldn’t anticipate the sheer intensity of what came next.

The smell hit me first—the unmistakable scent of burning flesh as the piercer cut the frenulum beneath my tongue. The pain followed, a deep, searing ache as my tongue was stretched, elongated, made into something more than it had been before. It felt wrong, unnatural, and yet ... necessary. The thick 10-gauge barbell that pierced my tongue afterward felt enormous, a constant weight in my mouth that made it difficult to think about anything else. My whole mouth felt raw, like it was on fire.

But it didn’t stop there. The next piercing, a monroe on my upper lip, was a painful sting that only added to the foreign feeling of my face. I couldn’t even recognize myself when I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My lips were swollen, my tongue heavy, and speaking felt like an impossible task with the longer bars needed during the healing time jutting from my new piercings.

Mistress’s voice cut through the fog of pain like a whip. “You are going to become the best pussylicker and cocksucker there is, slut,” she said coldly, her eyes never leaving mine. I knew she wasn’t exaggerating. She had made it clear from the start that she was molding me into something I had never imagined being, and now, with my tongue modified and my face pierced, I was more her creation than ever before.

“Yes, Mwistress,” I managed to slur, my voice thick and strange. The swelling made it hard to speak, and I could feel the piercings shift painfully as I tried. But if this was what I had to do to keep Rod happy, to protect our life, then I would do it. The thought of his big cock flooded my mind unexpectedly, a wave of heat spreading through me as I imagined what it would feel like now, with my elongated tongue and new piercings.

Mistress watched me closely, her eyes gleaming with approval as I struggled to get used to the new sensations in my mouth. She handed me a milkshake, and I sipped it gratefully, the cold soothing the ache in my lips and tongue. “Feel the cold temper the fire inside slut,” she said, her tone softer now, though the command never left her voice. “I’m making you perfect for him.”

I nodded, even as the pain throbbed through me. Mistress always knew how to make it hurt, but she also knew how to remind me why it was necessary. It was all for Rod. It was all to keep him proud of me. As I drank the milkshake, I couldn’t help but wonder where we were going next, what new lesson she had in store for me.

But for now, I simply followed Mistress out of the salon, her control over me growing stronger with every step.

We walked toward the car, and as I looked at the sky above, I felt the weight of my new piercings and the deeper weight of my submission pressing down on me, a constant reminder of the woman I was becoming. The woman Mistress wanted me to be. The woman Rod would never suspect.

I’m changing. Every day, every moment, I’m becoming someone else—someone who would do anything for Rod, for our reputation, for the life we’ve built. And today was no different. My body had started to feel foreign to me in some ways, yet the new sensations were beginning to thrill me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. The piercings still throbbed, a constant reminder of Mistress Hardgraves’ control, but that wasn’t the end of it.

Our next stop was a cosmetic beauty salon. I knew this would be another step in my transformation, but I hadn’t realized how far it would push me. The moment I sat in the chair and saw the syringe filled with collagen, my heart raced. But I didn’t back away. I couldn’t. Mistress wanted this, and deep down, I was starting to want it too. For Rod. For us.

The needle pricked my lips, and I gasped, the pain sharp and immediate. The sensation of the 1.5 cc of collagen being slowly injected into my lips was intense. I could feel them stretching, filling up, plumping into something fuller, something more exaggerated. With every careful push of the syringe, I felt myself changing, my lips becoming larger, poutier—more slutty. It was an artist’s touch, shaping them into something that commanded attention.

The swelling came almost immediately, my lips feeling heavy, foreign, and raw. Talking was impossible without slurring. I stared at myself in the mirror, my new lips swollen and tender. The sight was both shocking and thrilling. I couldn’t talk properly, only a soft whisper escaped through my lips when I tried to speak.

The first day was the worst. The swelling made eating anything solid impossible. Mistress had only allowed me power shakes, sucked through a straw. Every time I sipped, the feeling of the straw between my lips made my mind wander. I couldn’t help but think of Rod, of his big cock between these new, pouty lips of mine. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I giggled internally at how far I’d come. I was becoming such a slut. My lips, my body—they were being transformed into something that pleased him. And it made me proud.

As the days passed and the swelling began to subside, I started to adjust to the new weight of my lips. Speaking was still a challenge at first, but Mistress was relentless. She made it clear that every word I spoke now had to come from a place of submission, every sentence laced with dirty, slutty words meant to please. “You have those lips for a reason,” she’d remind me, her voice sharp, commanding. “Use them.”

The training intensified, especially on my body. Mistress was ruthless in her demands, pushing me to limits I didn’t know I had. I could see my body changing every day—becoming more toned, slimmer, but with the perfect balance of muscle and softness. My once-average figure was now sculpted into something that could only be described as sensual perfection. And Mistress made sure I knew it.

“You’re becoming exactly what I need you to be,” she’d say during our fitness sessions, her eyes cold and calculating as she watched me push through the pain. The yoga, the weight training—it was all designed to mold me into the ideal submissive, a woman whose body was a reflection of her devotion.

And it wasn’t just for Rod. I was starting to feel the ownership Mistress had over me through my body. The way my muscles responded, the way my flexibility improved. Everything paid off when she tested me, binding me in increasingly intricate ways, my body folding and bending under her direction. My mind would drift into submission, and it was in those moments that I felt the deepest connection to my new reality.

Mistress became harsher as the days went on, pushing my limits in ways that both terrified and excited me. “You’re not here to be comfortable, slut,” she’d say, her voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion. “You’re here to be perfected.”

But as brutal as her training could be, there were moments of praise—moments where I saw a flicker of approval in her eyes. When my reflection in the mirror showed the slim, perfectly toned body she had worked so hard to shape, or when my lips, plump and glistening, puckered just right, she’d nod, satisfied.

“Perfect,” she’d say, and those words would wash over me like a drug. They were the reward I craved.

I looked in the mirror often, my fingers tracing the curve of my new lips, my pierced tongue rolling over them as I pouted like the slut Mistress had molded me into. The sight of my full lips, the gleam of my piercings, the bronzed skin of my toned body—it all made me smile, even when I didn’t want to. I was becoming exactly what they wanted me to be, and with every step, I felt myself slipping deeper into this new identity.

I’m changing, and I can feel it with every passing day. I’m becoming what Mistress wants, and in a strange way, what I want too. It’s easy now—pleasing, following, doing what I’m told. The fear fades when I’m obedient, and the rewards are so sweet when I play my part. It’s easier to be playful, to be eager, than to hesitate and fear the consequences.

With my new lips, my new piercings, my whole new look, I knew that my words had to match the image. Mistress made sure of that. I needed to speak like the slut I looked like, to use my voice as another tool of seduction. The language that had once felt foreign, vulgar, even shocking, was becoming natural to me. Mistress had started showing me videos—reality TV shows where the women were trashy, bold, unapologetic, unashamed of their sexuality. Then came the porn. Hours of smut, each film filled with women who knew exactly what they were, and loved every second of it.

I was supposed to absorb every word, every moan, every shamelessly trashy thing they said. “Watch, learn, and then practice,” Mistress had instructed, her voice stern and commanding. “You’ll need to speak this way to please the men in your life ... and me.”

The first time I sat down to watch, I felt a strange mix of excitement and discomfort. The women on the screen were so explicit, so eager, so raw. They moaned loudly, called themselves names I would have cringed at before, begged for cock, called themselves sluts, and loved it. I watched them as they made a show of sucking dick, of licking ass, of moaning in ecstasy, all the while saying things like, “Fuck me harder, daddy,” and, “I need your cum, I’m such a dirty slut.” I could feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment at first, but as the scenes unfolded, I began to understand what Mistress was trying to teach me.

I felt a twinge between my legs, my pierced clit pulsing with arousal, as if my body was responding to the slutty language as much as my mind was. I knew that if I wanted to please Mistress and Rod, I’d have to learn how to speak like those women, how to let go of the old Elizabeth and embrace the filthy language of my new world.

Mistress was relentless in her training. Every night, I had to practice. She would play different roles—Rod, a random stranger, sometimes even another woman. Every role was a test of my new language, my new confidence. Mistress would fine-tune my every word, making sure I was vulgar enough, bold enough, slutty enough.

“Tell me how much you love sucking cock,” Mistress would command, her eyes piercing as she watched my face.

“I’ve learned to be a good cocksucking whore, Mistress,” I’d respond, struggling at first with the words. They felt foreign in my mouth, but Mistress’s stern gaze made me push through.

“More vulgar. Make it believable, Elizabeth.”

“I love sucking cock. I’m a cock-hungry slut, Mistress. I worship pussy and ass like a whore,” I said, my voice trembling at first but growing steadier with each word. The words felt dirty, raw, but there was an undeniable thrill in saying them, in owning them. I could feel my clit throb, my body responding to my own words, as if the more I said, the more I became what Mistress wanted me to be.

Mistress praised me when I got it right, but there were still moments when I hesitated, moments when the old Elizabeth tried to resurface. Those moments were met with punishment, of course. Sensory deprivation at night—being blindfolded, gagged, tied down with my arms behind my back, a buzzing vibrator ass plug buried deep inside me. Mistress would leave me like that for hours, the vibrations teasing me, pushing me to the edge without allowing me release. I’d fall asleep, dreaming of the things I’d seen in the porn Mistress had made me watch, my body writhing in frustration, my mind replaying scenes of filthy, depraved sex.

When I woke up, my mind felt more sexual, more aligned with the slut Mistress was shaping me into. My body was learning, my words were starting to flow more naturally. I was becoming.

In the mornings, I’d look in the mirror at my new face—full, pouty lips, bold piercings—and smile. I felt sexy, powerful, and, in a way, liberated. The old Elizabeth was fading, and with each day, I felt myself embracing this new version of me. The slutty words I spoke didn’t feel forced anymore. They felt right. They matched the woman I was becoming—bold, trashy, eager to please. Mistress was molding me, and with every passing day, I was growing into the role.

The more I spoke the dirty words Mistress drilled into me, the more I enjoyed the power they gave me. I could feel my confidence growing, even when I called myself a slut, even when I said things that would’ve horrified the old me. I felt more in control by giving up control. I was learning, evolving. And soon, I wouldn’t need Mistress’s guidance—I’d be the perfect slut, inside and out.

As I stood before the mirror, gazing at the woman I had become, a strange mixture of pride and disbelief washed over me. My reflection was almost unrecognizable from the shy, reserved woman I used to be. Now, I looked every bit the embodiment of what Mistress had been molding me into. My tan, smooth, and sculpted body gleamed under the light, a testament to the extra tanning sessions I’d endured. I loved how my skin glowed, the bronze perfection that gave me more confidence with every glance. I loved running my hands over my smooth skin, admiring the firmness, the curves that seemed to grow more defined each day. My nails were long, fake, and pink, always freshly manicured. I was always in heavy makeup now—false lashes framing my bright blue eyes, lipstick perfectly applied over my collagen-enhanced lips.

The work I’d put into my appearance felt like a badge of honor. My honey-blond hair cascaded down my back in loose, voluminous waves, catching the light just right. But today was different. Today, everything was going to change, and I could feel the excitement building as I got ready for what Mistress had planned next.

With my tongue and Monroe piercings finally healed, I’d started to experiment with different jewelry. I loved how the shorter bar in my tongue piercing made it more manageable, perfect for the vertical movements Mistress insisted on during my training. The shiny pink stone on my Monroe piercing added a playful touch, drawing attention to my plump, perfectly shaped lips. Fake lips, bigger than I’d ever imagined I’d want, but now they felt right. They were mine. Each piercing was an extension of the new me, and I found myself selecting jewelry for different moods, different occasions—sometimes flashy, sometimes subtle.