Chapter 12

The harsh sound of the cage unlocking echoed through the dimly lit room, piercing the silence of the early morning. “Wake up, slut!” Madam Isis’s cold, commanding voice sent a tremor down my spine as I stirred from my fitful slumber. The cage, my confined sanctuary for the night, had provided a semblance of comfort amidst the agony of my new reality. My body, a canvas of bruises and sores from the relentless torment I had endured, protested as I began to move. Slowly, painfully, I inched my way out of the metal bars that had held me captive through the night.

Obeying the order to crawl to the washroom, I felt the chill of the cold tiles against my bare skin. My knees scraped against the unforgiving floor as I made my way to the room where I was to perform my morning ritual. The ben-wa-balls, a constant reminder of my submission, slipped out of my slick, swollen folds with ease, leaving me feeling oddly empty. I licked them clean, savoring the tang of my own arousal, before placing them on the counter with a sense of finality. My morning routine was a blur of pain and degradation, but I was surprisingly eager to start the day, to serve and satisfy.

The sight of the outfit laid out for me was a cruel joke. A sheer black skirt, barely longer, and a pale blue blouse that was more about showcasing my assets than providing coverage. I knew that today would be another day of being exposed, of being the object of Madam Isis’s twisted games. Yet, a strange sense of pride filled me as I donned the attire. It was a symbol of my new existence, a stark contrast to the power suit I had once worn with confidence in the very office I now served as a slave.

Applying the makeup with trembling hands, I tried to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, the marks of my newfound servitude. I descended the stairs, my movements now fluid with the grace of a well-trained servant, and approached the dining table to prepare the morning feast for my mistress.

The meal was simple, yet elegant, a silent testament to the control she had over me. I arranged the dishes with precision, my heart racing as I awaited her approval. Madam Isis entered the room, the newspaper in her hand a silent declaration of her dominance. She took her seat, her eyes scanning the table with a critical gaze that made me want to shrink away.

“Open your mouth, slut,” she demanded, her tone dripping with amusement. Without hesitation, I complied, stretching my jaw wide. She placed a piece of toast upon my tongue, the warmth of the bread a stark contrast to the humiliation that washed over me. I was to hold it there, a living, breathing table decoration, until she deemed it time to release me. The smell was tantalizing, the taste of the crust teasing my senses.

Saliva pooled in my mouth, drooling down my chin as I waited, the toast growing soggy with each passing second. The humiliation grew with each drop that fell, painting a picture of my desperation. “Look at you, such an eager little pet,” she taunted, her eyes gleaming with pleasure at my plight. “Common, Samantha, eat,” she said with a cruel smile, treating me as one would a dog awaiting a treat.

I chewed and swallowed the bread, the taste a mix of sweet victory and bitter humiliation. “Yes, Madam,” I murmured, my voice submissive, my eyes cast downward. The question of hunger was a game she enjoyed playing, a dance of power and control that I had come to crave. “Here you go,” she said, her voice a mockery of kindness, as she placed a bowl of scraps before me.

Without further instruction, I dove into the bowl like the starving animal she had reduced me to. The leftovers from the night before and the remnants of the breakfast I had prepared for her filled my mouth, each bite a reminder of my new station. She watched for a while, her eyes never leaving me, a silent observer to my descent into obedience.

She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, the rhythmic thud of her heels echoing through the silent house. Each step was a declaration of her dominance, a stark reminder that she had complete ownership over me. I remained kneeling beside the dining table, the aftermath of my breakfast spread out before me, feeling a strange mix of fear and excitement. When she returned, the cold steel of the leash clipped to my collar sent a shiver down my spine. The collar, a stark symbol of my subservience, was now as much a part of me as my own skin. She tugged on the leash, and I followed her like a well-trained pet to the hallway.

Her sly smile greeted me as I positioned myself in front of the couch where she sat, her legs crossed elegantly. “Your transition is going well,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, “but there is always room for improvement.” My heart raced at the thought of what new torments she had concocted. Her words were a stark reminder of the power dynamics that had shifted so dramatically, exposing the raw, trembling core of my submissive nature.

Her eyes gleamed as she laid out the new additions to my daily routine. “You will rise at the crack of dawn, 5 AM sharp,” she announced. “You will clean yourself thoroughly, ensuring not a single inch of your body remains dirty.” My stomach churned, anticipating the humiliation that would come next. “Once you are presentable, you will proceed to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. It will be kept warm in the hotbox, awaiting my pleasure.”

Her smile grew wider as she detailed the next part of my morning ritual. “Once my meal is ready, you will crawl to the bedroom on your hands and knees, like the pathetic creature you are, and wake me by worshipping my feet.” She knew my secret desires all too well, and she reveled in the power she had over me. “Your breakfast will be served in a dog bowl, which you will eat like the obedient pet you are. Only after I am satisfied with your performance will you be allowed to dress for the day.”

The ben-wa-balls, instruments of both pleasure and torture, were presented to me with a wicked grin. “You will always wear these,” she said, holding them out. “They will keep your slutty little hole wet and eager for more.” I took the balls in my mouth, coating them with saliva as a sign of my acceptance. With a sense of dread, I lifted my skirt and pushed the balls into my already soaking wet pussy. The chain attached to them dangled obscenely, barely concealed by my clothing.

“These special ben-wa-balls have a little extra something for your training,” she explained with a wicked glint in her eye. “You won’t need that pesky vibrating egg anymore. Just plug the lead into the balls and they’ll do the trick.” I felt the weight of the balls inside me, a constant reminder of my new role.

Next, she addressed my appearance. “You will always wear heels, no shorter than 7 inches,” she said firmly. “And your makeup will be done to perfection.”

The final blow came as she unclipped the leash. “You will carry this with you at all times,” she said, dropping it into my purse. “It’s for when you need to be controlled in public.”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as she informed me of the new transportation arrangement. “You will take the bus to work from now on,” she stated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “And remember, the same rules apply there as they do here.”

Tears blurred my vision as she dismissed me, retreating to her bedroom. I nodded, my voice quivering. “I will, Madam.” The thought of enduring this humiliation on a crowded bus filled me with dread, but I knew better than to protest.

The leash was now a constant companion, a reminder of my new life as her plaything. I could only hope that I would be able to withstand the pain and embarrassment she had in store for me. As I walked to the bus stop, the weight of the ben-wa-balls inside me grew heavier with each step, the little bell attached to the chain jingling with every movement, a mocking tune that sang of my submission.

As Madam Isis had instructed, I stepped onto the 6:30 bus, feeling a twinge of relief at the sparse number of passengers. The near-emptiness allowed for a small modicrum of privacy as I made my way to my place of work. My heart pounded as I thought of the transformation that had occurred within the last week. Once the powerful CEO, I was now demoted to the role of a mere personal assistant for the woman who had so deviously claimed my position. The bus journey was a stark reminder of my new reality, yet I found myself aroused by the humiliation that awaited me.

As the bus chugged along, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the leather collar around my neck, pressing into my skin, a constant reminder of my servitude to Madam Isis. Each bump in the road made the leather collar tighten, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. The QOS tattoo, a symbol of my submission, peeked out from my low-cut blouse, taunting me with every passing glance from the few passengers who weren’t engrossed in their mobile screens.

After what felt like an eternity, the bus pulled up to the office building, and I alighted, my legs trembling slightly as I walked towards the entrance. The security guard’s eyes lingered on me longer than they should have, his gaze lingering on my exposed cleavage, and I knew he could hear the faint jingling of the bells attached to the ben-wa-balls which nestled inside my cunt. The sight of his smirk made my cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

With a deep breath, I approached the ID scanner, swiping the card that now read: “Samantha Ruth Prabhu, Personal Assistant to the CEO.” The stark change in my title was a harsh reminder of my new position. As I climbed the stairs, the heavy balls inside me swung and bumped together with every step, sending waves of pleasure and pain through my body. The sound of the bells grew louder with each step, echoing through the deserted stairwell, a tune that seemed to mock my fall from grace.

When I finally reached the top floor, I could see the grand double doors of the CEO’s office, now belonging to my mistress. My new desk, just outside the office, had been stripped bare, reduced to a mere space for a computer and a few office supplies. It was a stark contrast to the opulence that now surrounded me, a stark symbol of the power dynamics that had shifted so dramatically.

With a sigh, I placed my purse in the drawer. It was time for my duties to begin, and as Madam Isis’s personal maid, I knew what was expected of me. I shed my clothing, folding each piece neatly and placing them in the designated box by the door. My body was now bare and vulnerable, a canvas for my owner’s desires. I cleaned the room as quick and efficiently as possible and moved into the washroom.

I padded into the washroom, ready to begin the daily bimbo training session. This was a ritual that had become a part of me, one that filled me with both dread and excitement. Opening the cupboard, I took out the thick black rubber dildo, a tool that brought both pleasure and pain. It was equipped with a control unit, which would transmit sensations directly to the VR headset that I would soon be wearing, as well as a water inlet for those times when I was to be taught obedience and servitude through oral training.

The dildo was not just for show; it had been designed to mimic a real cock, with minute holes along the shaft and a larger one at the tip, ensuring that every inch was used to its full potential. I attached it to the washroom wall using the suction cup.

I pushed the vibrating plug into my ass and connected the lead from the headset to the balls up my cunt.

The new nipple clamps were a surprise, an upgrade from my previous set. The clamps remained the same, but the addition of suction cups was something I hadn’t seen before. I pinched and rolled my nipples until they were hard and sensitive before attaching the clamps, gasping as they bit into my tender flesh. The suction cups created a vacuum around them, causing my breasts to swell and ache deliciously.

With trembling hands, I put on the VR headset and earphones, locking my wrists behind my head. The headset descended over my eyes, and the world around me vanished, replaced by a digital landscape that would serve as my training ground. The earphones blocked out all outside noise, leaving me fully immersed in my new reality.

I took a moment to steady my breathing, then leaned forward and engulfed the rubber cock with my mouth. As my lips wrapped around the cold, unyielding material, I could feel the training program begin to take over. The sensations grew intense, the clamps tightening and the vibrating plug in my ass sending waves of pleasure through me. The suction cups on my breasts created a symphony of pain and pleasure that made me moan around the rubber dildo.

The virtual world around me flickered to life, and I was no longer a woman in an office washroom but a sexual plaything at the mercy of my digital master. The training had begun, and there was no escape from the torrent of sensations that would shape me into the perfect bimbo servant for Madam Isis.

Sucking on the cold, lifeless dildo, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my own humiliation as the video played before me. It was a stark reminder of my newfound place in the world, a mere plaything for Master Kevin, Mistress Nina, and Madam Isis. The vile device filled my mouth, the taste of rubber a constant taunt as the images flickered across the screen, showing me what I had become. The video was a cacophony of sounds, a symphony of degradation, with the laughter of those who had shaped me into this pitiful creature echoing in my ears.

The women on the screen were a parody of beauty, their figures exaggerated to the point of absurdity. They were clad in the barest of pink garments that barely contained their voluptuous forms. Their breasts, swollen and unnaturally large, bounced with every move they made, and their lips were a garish red, puffed up like inflated balloons, forever stained with the evidence of their depravity. Their eyes were vacant, glazed over with a lust that seemed to consume them, a lust that mirrored the very essence of what my owners want me to become.

The video’s narrator spoke to me, a cruel voice that seemed to cut through the haze of my thoughts. It told me that my body was a canvas for their twisted desires, a vessel to be sculpted into something that would satisfy their every whim. It mocked my former self, the person I had been before I became their property, and pointed out every flaw it saw in my frame. My mind reeled with the thought of being like them, a mindless bimbo slut whose only purpose was to serve.

My thoughts drifted to my friend and fellow slave, Tamanna. She had once been a shy, demure girl, her body a testament to her innocence. Now, she was a vision of carnality, her breasts ballooned to a ludicrous 36D, her buttocks rounded to perfection, and her lips so full and pouty that it seemed as though they would burst at any moment. The sight of her new self, adorned with nipple studs that gleamed in the dim light, made my heart ache with a strange mix of envy and arousal.

The training was designed to break me, to rewire my very thoughts and desires. As the minutes ticked by, I felt myself succumbing to the relentless barrage of visual and auditory stimuli. My resentment faded away, replaced by a burning need to be like the bimbos on the screen. The phrase “I want to be an obedient mindless dumb bimbo slut” looped endlessly in my head, a mantra that grew more potent with each passing second.

My breath grew ragged, my body slick with sweat as the climax approached. It was as if the very air in the room was charged with an electric current that danced across my skin, making it tingle and burn. The rubber dildo in my mouth grew slicker as my saliva pooled around it, and the metal balls nestled in my pussy sent waves of pleasure through me with every movement. I could feel the pressure building, the orgasm coiling like a serpent ready to strike.

And just as I was about to reach the pinnacle of pleasure, the training session abruptly concluded. I gagged as I tugged the dildo from my mouth, desperately sucking in air through my nose. The room spun around me; my legs weak from the effort of keeping myself upright. My body trembled with the aftershocks of the denied release, a cruel reminder that my pleasure was never my own.

With shaking hands, I gathered the toys, each one a symbol of my degradation. Carefully, I cleaned them, feeling the coldness of the rubber against my skin as I wiped away the residue of my own arousal. Each toy was placed back in its rightful spot in the cupboard, a silent witness to the depraved act I had just performed.

Once I had composed myself, I crawled out of the room, the metal balls in my pussy jingling with every movement. I made my way to the CEO’s office, my body feeling both used and empty. The journey was a blur of pain and shame, my knees scraping against the floor as I went.

As I reached the office, I took a moment to catch my breath, my chest heaving with the effort. Slowly, I pulled myself up, the balls in my pussy sending jolts of pain with every movement. I managed to slip my clothes back on, feeling the fabric cling to my sweat-soaked skin, a final humiliation before I stepped out into the cold, harsh reality of my new existence.

Back at my desk, the mundane tasks of the day lay before me, a stark contrast to the depravity I had just endured. Yet, as I worked, my mind kept drifting back to the training session, the images of the bimbo women burned into my retina. I found myself craving the feeling of the dildo in my mouth, the fullness of the balls in my pussy, and the painful pleasure that came with each step I took.

The world outside continued as it always had, oblivious to the transformation I had undergone. Yet, deep within me, I knew that I was no longer the person I once was. I was now a creature of desire and submission, forever bound to the whims of my masters and mistresses.

Madam Isis swept into the room with the grace of a predatory feline, her heels clicking against the floor like the ticking of a time bomb counting down to my next humiliation. She glanced over at me, a wicked smile playing across her lips, “Samantha, I hope your training has been ... enlightening,” she purred, her voice a seductive caress that sent shivers down my spine.

The truth was, I had found a strange thrill in my role as her personal assistant. It was as if I had been born to serve, to bend to her every whim and desire. My days were filled with menial tasks, fetching coffee, ordering her lunch, and arranging her schedule. Yet, it was the quiet moments at my desk that truly consumed me. I found myself lost in a rabbit hole of sordid content, my eyes devouring every page that taught me how to become the ultimate bimbo, a creature of pure obedience and sexual servitude.