Chapter 5: Initial Public Offering

Slut Training...

It was still only halfway through the two weeks and Lydia was already so much smaller of a person than the woman confronted Edgar Sullivan and his family. Edgar made it a point to tell Isaac to finish her training, and that Garrett would be more than happy to help him, but Isaac word is law while he is at work. Lydia was already reacting with trepidation. That young sadistic bastard was thorough in every sense of the word. He already had her swaying her hips everywhere she walked, and she did not know how much more of his training she could take. He started off by giving Lydia the skimpiest floss mono-kini you ever say, it was gold and a pair of golden heels. He made Lydia make herself up critique every little thing that was done wrong, adding it to what he called “her total”. Whatever that meant. Then pulled on a bullet with a wire attached and placed it right on her clit and turned on remotely. Lydia shuddered right away. Isaac continued to circle Lydia as if inspecting an animal for auction, his eyes calculating every trembling muscle and flinch. He picked up the wire remote and increased the setting on the bullet, its hum rising a half-step. Lydia startled, her knee buckling.

“Uh-uh,” Isaac said, wagging his finger. He thrust a hand out and forced her upright by the sternum, then made a show of parading her to the living room. She wobbled in the heels but stayed on her feet. Garrett, already stretched across the sectional in gym shorts, hooted when he saw the new uniform.

“Fucking Vegas floor model,” Garrett said, taking a video on his phone. He narrated, “Look at this, gold-plated wet dream, mouth closed and everything.” He made Lydia do a turn, then passed his phone to Isaac. Isaac didn’t smile, just scrutinized the video as he made Lydia walk back and forth in the living room, increasing the bullet’s vibration by tiny, relentless increments.

Garrett started the morning’s lesson by dragging one of the kitchen stools to the center of the room. He thumped it down and patted the seat. Lydia, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed onto it. Her knees trembled.

“Posture,” Isaac said, his tone clipped. He planted two fingers on the apex of Lydia’s thigh and pressed, forcing her to arch her back and splay her legs wider. She complied without a word. The gold monokini’s floss vanished between her cheeks; the triangle in front barely covered anything at all.

Garrett loaded a paddle app on his phone. “Ready for level one?” he said, eyes glittering. Without waiting for an answer, he thumbed the remote and the bullet buzzed at maximum. Lydia jerked, biting her lip. Garrett circled her slowly, paddle app tracking her every wince. Each time Lydia’s heels lost contact with the floor, he swiped the phone and Jane’s phone in the kitchen registered a precise spank sound, timed perfectly with a physical slap from the paddle Isaac applied to the inside of her thigh. The two men kept this up for ten minutes, occasionally stopping to adjust the mono-kini or correct Lydia’s posture.

When Jane entered with an armful of groceries, she froze and took in the scene. Lydia, perched on the stool, gleaming in gold and trembling as Isaac checked the fit of her suit. Jane said nothing, only tapped her phone and filmed a five-second clip before retreating down the hall, the camera still trained backward on the tableau.

At noon, Isaac made Lydia mix drinks for the brothers. Each trip to the kitchen required her to maintain the same splay-legged posture, the motion of her body exaggerated by the bullet’s now-constant vibration. She fumbled at the counter several times, but each mistake was met by a sharp word or a snap of the paddle. The men drank, laughed, and critiqued her performance, offering suggestions and commands at random.

At two, a knock on the door. Garrett opened it to reveal a pair of the Ravine Crew, Kade and the jerseyed one from the night before. They entered with six-packs under their arms and both had duffelbags.

Isaac looked and glared at Lydia whose eyes got wide as she realized the orders given earlier in the week when the Ravine crew visited still applied. She sauntered as sexily as possible planted a fake smile on her face and wrapped her arms around lovingly, kissed Kade like she was her man and then broke off and panted out a husky, “I am sissyboy’s mom, fucktoy of the Sullivan family, is there anything I can do for you Sir?”

Kade dropped the duffel bag by the door and let Lydia hang from his neck for a moment before giving her ass a double-handed squeeze. The jerseyed one, his name was Chet, from the letters plastered above the stretched-out numbers on his chest, snickered, then claimed his own greeting with a tongue-first kiss that pushed Lydia’s head back, her ponytail taut between their chins.

Garrett wolf-whistled from the couch.

Isaac motioned Lydia toward the center of the living room, then pointed at the duffel. Kade zipped it open with a theatrical flourish, producing a pair of fluffy handcuffs, more mesh fabric, and a bottle of cheap honey whiskey. He handed the bottle to Lydia and told her to do a shot. Kade poured, then held the rim to Lydia’s lips and tapped her jaw until the whiskey ran down the mesh, streaking the gold and stinging the fresh marks on her neck.

“Day drinking with the Sullivan’s,” Chet said, swiping his phone to begin filming, “is better than sex.” As Lydia choked on the whiskey, Kade draped the mesh shirt over her shoulders and fed her arms into the handcuffs, clicking them tight. The display left her breasts lifted, the mesh stretched to transparency, nipples visible in sharp relief.

Isaac nodded his approval and motioned for the Ravine Crew to sit. Kade took the recliner, Chet the end of the sectional. Lydia brought the bottle, wobbling a little in the five-inch heels, and served each man a shot, attempting to curtsy without spilling. Each time she bent at the waist, Chet made a point of tipping his phone to capture the flash of gold floss and the round curve of her ass.

After several rounds, Chet leaned forward and pulled Lydia onto the cushion beside him. He twisted the gold strap to the side, baring her right breast, then drew her in for a prolonged kiss, keeping his phone recording. Kade lifted one of Lydia’s crossed arms and twisted the handcuff chain behind her back, pinning both wrists between her shoulder blades. The motion forced her chest out, making the mesh and gold suit into little more than a frame for the skin underneath.

“Easy access,” Kade said, winking at Isaac, who watched from the kitchen with a glass of water and the bullet remote in his hand. He thumbed the dial; Lydia jerked, then stilled.

Chet ran his palm across Lydia’s collared neck and down to her cleavage, then bounced the mesh shirt up and down until the nipple puckered. He flicked it with a practiced snap of his nail, Lydia gasped, but didn’t pull away. Kade produced a strip of leopard-print duct tape and tore off a six-inch segment, looping it tight around the mesh top so it cinched beneath Lydia’s breasts like a too-tight bra. Chet applauded, then slipped his fingers around the back of Lydia’s neck for another round of kissing, this time grunting approval into the mesh and the taste of whiskey.

Lydia was guided to her knees in front of the two men, her cuffs twisted upward so her armswere forced to arch behind her, shoulders wrenched back so her chest thrust forward at an obscene angle. Kade scanned her over, then straddled her waist with both legs; he ripped another length of tape and looped it vertically, threading the ends tight above and below Lydia’s breasts. This forced the mesh to cut in at the top and bottom, squeezing the flesh into two exaggerated lobes and leaving both nipples peaked and exposed.

With the prep complete, the men began the “initiation.” Chet unzipped his fly, rolled his hips up, and guided Lydia’s mouth onto his cock. He kept one hand on her hair and the other on his phone, narrating as she struggled to balance in the heels and mesh, arms bound behind her. Kade cheered her on, alternating between smacking her ass and holding her upright by the handcuff chain. Whenever Lydia slowed down, Isaac fiddled the bullet remote; the vibration caused her hips to spasm, making the blowjob even more frantic. The gurgling wet sounds Lydia made as she attacked the cock in front of her a testament to Issac’s intense training, she was going at him like a porn star and the fleshy noises echoed thorough the room.

“Let her breath, man,” Kade barked, then twisted Lydia’s head off Chet’s lap and onto his own. He slapped her cheeks until the skin colored, then forced her mouth open with his thumb and index finger. He spat on her tongue and laughed when she gagged, while Chet filmed the close-up and offered play-by-play: “Crowd’s going wild, she’s taking home the gold tonight.”

The Sullivan’s kept a running commentary, Isaac calling out corrections,”lock your jaw, tongue on the underside, show gratitude, moan whore!”, while Garrett used a timer app to track how long Lydia could keep pace without faltering. Each shortcoming was met with another round of humiliation: Kade slapped her face, Chet jerked her head by the hair, or both at once. Each improvement drew jeers and sarcastic applause from the couch. Lydia came hard on one of the slaps squirting all over the floor, fortunately Issac already had a towel under her anticipating this. She was running on red for awhile and she was kept sopping and wanton.

Every minute, a new challenge. Kade demanded Lydia repeat her slave name after every use, if she forgot, or mumbled, or hesitated, Isaac would thumb the bullet higher, the shock causing her to stutter and squirm until she said it properly. She was cycled from one man’s lap to the next, gold floss cutting into her ass, mesh compressing her chest, face streaked in a cocktail of spit and mascara.

Isaac monitored the time and, after half an hour, led an “evaluation.” He uncuffed Lydia’s wrists, propped her onto the stool in the center of the room, and forced her back straight with a flat palm. Kade and Chet took slow, predatory laps around the stool, examining every angle: the lines left by the tape, the shine of oil on Lydia’s skin, the tremor that ran through her calves as she teetered on the heels. The men circled, narrating their critiques like judges at a dog show, pointing out every flaw and issuing instructions for improvement.

Garrett sauntered over with a marker and wrote “RAVINE CREW CUMSLUT” in block letters up Lydia’s over her chest, making Chet film as he did. Kade shot a close-up for posterity, then yanked the monokini to one side, baringher pussy to the room. He spat on his fingers and shoved them in, pulling them back out and showing the camera the glistening result. “Look at this, she’s dripping already,” Kade said, zooming in on the wetness.

Isaac set up the next test. He told Lydia to stand, and she did so, shakily. With her arms at her sides, he instructed her to walk a straight line from the stool to the hall and back, never losing composure, never failing in posture. Kade and Chet watched as Lydia attempted the parade, heels digging into the cheap carpet. She wobbled, and Garrett jeered, “Don’t fall now, or it’s another round on the stool.” Lydia completed the circuit with slow, mincing steps, then returned to stand in front of the Crew, head bowed.

“Again,” Isaac said. He had her repeat the walk, then again, only this time with the bullet dialed up a notch. Lydia steadied herself each time, striving for the perfect catwalk. Each imperfection was noted, discussed, and addressed: shoulders not squared, chin too low, chest not pushed out enough. Isaac and Garrett each took turns adjusting her body with their hands, fingers pressing into flesh as they guided her posture.

Kade privately conferred with Chet, then called for a demonstration. He pointed to the duffel and pulled out a rubber cock ring, instructing Lydia to put it on Chet’s cock with her mouth only, no hands. Chet unzipped, already half-hard, as the other men leaned in to watch the attempt. Lydia knelt and took Chet in her mouth; she fumbled at first, then managed to work the ring to the base with a series of practiced, bobbing motions. Kade timed the attempt, declaring it “new record” and making Garrett record it for later use.

With Chet now fully erect and ringed, the men ran another blowjob challenge, this time with a twist: Lydia had to keep her hands on her head, and anyone was allowed to touch her anywhere to distract her. Isaac set the remote to pulse-mode. Kade took throat shots on his phone, zooming in each time Lydia gagged or pulled away. Garrett circled the room with his own phone, narrating snide commentary for the future watchers. Whenever Lydia faltered, Chet grabbed her by the cheeks and realigned her on his cock, making sure the head stayed visible for the camera.

After several brutal minutes, Chet declared himself close and asked Lydia where she wanted it. She tried to answer, but Kade would not allow her to speak unless it was her slave name. Lydia attempted to answer again, voice muffled by Chet’s cock, and Kade forced her head down until her lips pressed the base, her nose buried in Chet’s lap. Chet came, streaming down Lydia’s throat and out the sides of her mouth. She held, as instructed, until Kade released her by yanking her ponytail. Lydia looked up, face smeared and chin glistening for the phone’s lens.

“Show the mess,” Kade said. Lydia stuck out her tongue, displaying the mixture of cum, then pursed her lips and swallowed. Kade patted her cheek, then forced her upright on the stool again, making her hold her hands out in front of her, palms up for inspection. He ran a finger down the inside of her wrist, then snapped the handcuffs closed again, behind her back this time.

Isaac instructed Lydia to stand. He tapped the remote, and the gold monokini buzzed against her clit, producing a visible twitch in her thighs. Kade guided her toward the hallway with a slap to her ass, making her walk it again, arms locked behind her, heels high and posture perfect. Chet tailed her with his phone, recording the sashay. Lydia’s calves quivered as she made the circuit. Garrett timed it and voiced suggestions for a faster, more seductive pace.

Back in the living room, Kade and Chet took turns directing Lydia through a series of costume changes: the mesh top came off, replaced by a see-through crop, trimmed in fake fur. The gold thong stayed. Kade stuck a “Fucktoy” sticker to Lydia’s chest and ordered her to crawl to each of the men, show it off, and ask how she could serve them. Each crawl was slower than the last, her movements careful but deliberate.

Isaac watched and noted. Whenever he thought Lydia hesitated, he dialed the bullet up a half-step. Kade and Chet each upped their demands. Kade wanted a lapdance; Lydia obliged, grinding on him, mesh and fur pressing into his jean thighs. Chet wanted a “princess wave,” so Lydia knelt, used her shoulder as a pivot, and arched her chest, waving with both hands like a pageant contestant. Each time she lost balance or let her knees touch, Chet clapped and squeezed her chin, reminding her to announce herself as “Sissyboy’s Mom.”