Chapter 2: Training Day
The pink room dissolved into a haze of blaring alarms and sterile white light. A shrill buzzer yanked Lucia from thin, troubled sleep. Sasha was already up, humming and applying mascara with robotic precision.
“Up, up, up! First bell means face-wash and fuck-me eyes! No snoozing, Lucy!”
The schedule was merciless. The first session was in a mirrored studio called “The Silhouette Suite.” A severe woman with a ruler strapped to her thigh barked commands. “Posture is prayer, girls! Your spine is an offering! Arch it! Tits out! Ass back! Think of a hungry mouth waiting at both ends!”
Lucia’s body ached. The cage chafed. She was made to walk a straight, pink line on the floor, a stack of hardcover books balanced on her head. When they fell, the trainer’s ruler snapped against the back of her thighs. The sting was sharp, corrective. “You carry yourself like a man hauling garbage. You are presenting a delicacy. Hips must sway. Think of stirring honey with your pelvis.”
By the second hour, a ghost of the motion appeared. Her shoulders, perpetually hunched over a keyboard, began to roll back. Her stride shortened. The constant, subtle clench of her ass cheeks started to feel normal.
Makeup was next, in a room that smelled of acetone and panic. Sasha, now in a hot-pink tracksuit, was her chirping guide. “Foundation first, dummy! You gotta paint the canvas before you draw the slut!” Lucia’s hands shook holding the beauty blender. The image in the mirror was still jarring: her own tired eyes, her short, messy hair, the faint shadow of stubble on her jaw the hormones hadn’t yet erased. She looked like a man in a satin chemise playing dress-up.
“No, no, no!” Sasha grabbed her wrist. “You’re doing thinking face. Stop thinking. Your face is for decoration, not function.” She took over, applying thick layers of foundation and concealer, painting over Logan’s life. Contour carved out hollows in her cheeks she never had. Heavy eyeliner extended the corners of her eyes. False lashes, applied with ruthless glue, felt like caterpillars perched on her lids.
“See?” Sasha spun her to the mirror. The person staring back was a stranger. Softer. Blanker. A pretty mask. The cage under her panties gave a throb, a pathetic pulse of approval.
Lunch was a protein shake, chalky and vile, consumed while kneeling on a small pillow. “No solid food until you learn to swallow properly,” a nutritionist droned. “Bloating is unattractive.”
The afternoon brought the lesson Lucia had dreaded and, in the secret, caged depths of her, feverishly anticipated. The “Oral Compliance Lab.” It was a clinical space with tiled walls and a surgical smell. In the center stood a medical-grade chair, like a dentist’s, with heavy leather restraints on the arms and headrest. Arrayed on a stainless steel tray were dildos of varying sizes, all in that signature, shiny pink.
Mistress Valeria was there, observing from a corner, her arms crossed. A male trainer, a hulking figure in a tight black t-shirt, stood by the tray. He didn’t look at her face. His eyes were fixed on her lips.
“Subject Lucia,” Valeria said, her voice echoing. “The mouth is a primary utility. It is for smiling, for praising, and for servicing. Today, we train the latter. You will learn to deep-throat. You will learn to suppress your gag reflex. You will learn to worship the cock with your tongue, your lips, your throat. Your pleasure is irrelevant. Your performance is all.”
The trainer, called Brick, stepped forward. He picked up a medium-sized pink shaft. It was veined, lifelike, glistening with lubricant. “On your knees, sweetheart.”
Lucia knelt on the cold tile. The position was becoming familiar, a default.
“Open. Wider.”
She did. He placed the rubber tip against her lips. It tasted like chemical cherries and plastic. “Now, take it. No hands. Just your mouth.”
She leaned forward, enveloping the head. It was an odd, passive act. “Deeper,” Brick commanded, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t thrust. He waited, letting her struggle. She pushed forward, feeling the silicone bump against the back of her throat. Her body convulsed, a dry heave wrenching her shoulders.
“Gagging is failure,” Valeria stated coolly from the shadows. “Again. Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. Imagine it is not an intrusion. It is a purpose.”
Tears welled in Lucia’s heavily made-up eyes. She tried again, taking more of the length. The gag was violent, humiliating. Strings of spit dripped from her chin onto the chemise.
“You’re treating it like a fucking chore,” Brick grunted. He finally moved his hand, pushing the dildo forward with insistent pressure. It slid past the resistance, sinking into her throat. Her eyes bulged. She couldn’t breathe. Panic flashed, white-hot. Just as black spots danced in her vision, he pulled it back.
“See? Your throat opened. It’s made to be fucked. Now, do it yourself.”
For an hour, it continued. The medium dildo, then a larger one. He taught her to swirl her tongue around the base, to suck with her cheeks hollowed, to maintain eye contact with blank, adoring submission. Her jaw ached. Her throat was raw. She was a mess of tears, drool, and running makeup.
“Better,” Brick said, a gruff concession. He wiped the slick dildo on her hair. “You’re still too tense. You’re still in your head. You need to become the mouth.”
The final session of the day was in a soundproofed, dimly lit room called “The Osmosis Chamber.” The walls were curved, painted a deep, pulsating blue. A large, comfortable recliner sat in the center, facing a screen. Mistress Valeria led her in. Sasha was already there, strapped into a similar chair, a blissful, empty smile on her face, headphones over her ears.
“The final conditioning,” Valeria said, guiding Lucia into the recliner. Soft restraints secured her wrists and ankles. They weren’t tight enough to hurt, only to eliminate the possibility of movement. “Your conscious mind is a resistance. It clings to ‘Logan.’ To pride. To the illusion of control. This session will help… dissolve that. It will plant the seeds of your true self. Lucia the bimbo. The cocksleeve. The brainless, happy thing.”
She placed headphones over Lucia’s ears. The world muted. A blindfold descended. Total sensory deprivation. Then, a click.
A gentle, rhythmic thumping began in the headphones. A heartbeat. Under it, a faint, whispering voice, layered and metallic. Good girl… empty girl… pretty thing…
Images began to play against her closed eyelids, projected through the blindfold. Glimpses of Sasha, laughing, sucking, being penetrated. Slow-motion shots of glistening pink cages. Close-ups of thick, veined cocks ejaculating. The visuals were syncopated with the heartbeat.
The whispering voice wove through it. You are nothing… you are a hole… thinking is pain… obedience is peace… your cock is a useless nub… your ass is your sex… your mouth is a cocksucker… you crave it… you need it…
A wave of chemical warmth, released from the chair, washed over her. The arousal dampeners in her system seemed to thin, to melt. A sudden, shocking bolt of desire shot from her caged clit to her gut. She moaned into the blindfold.
That’s your truth… that ache… that emptiness… only a real cock can fill it… you are a vessel… waiting to be used…
The images became more graphic. First-person perspectives of blowjobs, of anal. The whispered voice became her own, but softer, higher, dumber. I’m just a bimbo… I’m so horny… I need to be fucked… I love big cocks…
The conflict was a physical pain. Logan’s ghost screamed in silence, a fading echo of shame and rebellion. But the biological reality was stronger. The cage ached. Her raw throat remembered the fake cock. Her ass, finger-fucked the night before, clenched around a phantom thickness. The hormones, the training, the exhaustion, the hypnotic pulse—it all conspired against him.
Logan is dead… he was weak… he was a liar… you are Lucia… you are pretty… you are hungry…
A final, powerful image: a first-person view of looking down at a massive, dripping cock poised at a stretched, pink hole. A voice, now Mistress Valeria’s clear command, cut through the whispers. “This is your purpose. This is your bliss. Nothing else exists.”
The screen went dark. The heartbeat faded. The headphones went silent.
The restraints retracted. The blindfold was lifted.
Lucia blinked in the low light. She felt drained. Hollowed out. Her body was vibrating with a low, sub-aural hum. Sasha was unbuckling herself, giggling. “Wow, that was a good one! I totally came just from the sounds. Well, my sissy pussy did.” She tapped her cage.
Mistress Valeria studied Lucia’s face. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Mascara streaked down her cheeks from earlier tears. Drool had dried at the corner of her mouth.
“Who are you?” Valeria asked, her voice quiet but piercing.
The answer came slowly, a reflex pushed up through layers of fresh programming. “I’m… Lucia.”
“What are you?”
She swallowed, her throat sore. “I’m… a bimbo.”
“What do you need?”
The words floated up, detached, yet utterly convincing. “I need… to be filled. I need… cock.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Mistress Valeria’s face. It was the first genuine warmth Lucia had seen from her, and it was colder than ice.
“Excellent. The seeds are planted. Tomorrow, we water them.” She turned to leave. “Sasha, get her cleaned up. She has a date with a real trainer tomorrow morning. She’ll need her beauty sleep.”
Sasha clapped excitedly. Lucia simply sat there, feeling the new emptiness inside her, an echo chamber where a man’s voice used to argue, now only repeating a single, thrilling, terrifying phrase.
I need cock.
Lucia’s eyes snapped open to the pink ceiling. No grogginess clung to her. Her mind felt strangely still, a calm pool where yesterday’s frantic ripples had been smoothed into flat, obedient reflection. The phrase from last night was just… there. I need cock. It wasn’t a thought. It was a fact, etched into her marrow. Sasha’s bed was already empty, the sheets a riot of glitter and shed false lashes.
“Rise and shine, slut-face!” Sasha’s voice chirped from the vanity. She was applying frosted pink lip gloss, her enormous tits threatening to spill from a neon-yellow bralette. “Big day! Voice lessons! You get to learn how to sound as dumb as you look, which is saying something!”
Lucia pushed back the lace covers. The pink cage was a familiar weight. The soreness in her throat from the dildos was a satisfying reminder. She stood, and her body moved with a newfound, unthinking fluidity. The hypnosis hadn’t created skills, but it had dismantled the constant, internal critic that fought every sway of her hips. That critic was just… gone.
The first lesson was in a sound-proofed booth that smelled of old coffee and perfume. The instructor, a man with a goatee and a headset, sounded bored. “Bimbo vocal fry is a tonal placement. It comes from here.” He poked Lucia’s throat. “It signals vacancy. A lack of intellectual engagement. It says, ‘My thoughts are not here. They are below my waist.’ Try the phrase: ‘Like, oh my god.’”
Lucia swallowed. “Like. Oh. My. God.” The words were flat, robotic.
“No. Annoying. Up-speak. Make every sentence sound like a question. Breathe from the top of your lungs, never your diaphragm. Sound out of breath. Sound perpetually surprised by your own existence.” He rolled his eyes. “Imagine you’ve just been throat-fucked and you’re trying to say ‘thank you.’ Again.”
She closed her eyes, the instructor’s crude directive somehow meshing with the whisper in her skull. She let her throat relax, let her voice climb into a higher, airier register. “Like, oh my god?”
“Better. Now, vocabulary. Your new lexicon is limited. Things are ‘cute,’ ‘fierce,’ ‘literally amazing,’ or ‘totally gross.’ Complex concepts are ‘like, whatever.’ You agree with everything a man says. Your favorite word is ‘like.’ Use it as punctuation. Describe your training from yesterday.”
Lucia took a breath, feeling the new voice like a costume slipping on. “It was, like, super intense? But, like, amazing? I learned, like, how to deep-throat and stuff. It made me, like, sooo wet.” The words felt alien, but saying them triggered a low thrum in her cage. Approval radiated from the instructor’s slight nod.
“Acceptable. You sound properly vacant. Next: giggling. Giggle at everything. A command, a joke, a dick sliding into you. It’s your default response. Show me.”
Lucia forced a laugh. It was brittle.
“So fake. Think of something that actually pleases you. Think of that rubber cock hitting the back of your throat yesterday.”
The memory, stripped of its shame by the hypnosis, surfaced cleanly. The stretch, the choking, the sheer abasement. A genuine, breathy giggle escaped her. It sounded stupid. Empty. Perfect.
Outfitting and Dressing was held in a room like a surreal closet. Racks of clothing in blinding pastels, neon, and transparent fabrics lined the walls. The instructor was a gaunt man named Marcel who pinched the bridge of his nose as Lucia entered. “We are building a brand. The brand is ‘Available.’ Every outfit is an invitation. Nothing is left to the imagination except how badly you want it taken off you.”
He had her strip to just the pink cage and chemise. His hands, cold and impersonal, took measurements with a soft tape. “Hips will be enhanced. Waist will be cinched. These are scheduled. For now, we work with this… earnest canvas.” He held up a microscopic white pleated skirt. “This, with a crop top that shows your midriff. The goal is to highlight the dichotomy between an innocent schoolgirl and the locked cock beneath. It suggests corruption. Men adore the suggestion.”
The clothes felt like wearing cobwebs and electricity. The skirt barely covered the curve of her ass. The crop top ended above her ribcage. Marcel forced her into six-inch clear platform heels. “Walk.”
She wobbled, her ankles screaming. “I’ll fall.”
“Then fall. But you will look pretty doing it. Posture. Chest out. Arch. Think of the skirt riding up. Think of a man seeing the outline of your cage through your panties. That is the point.”
She took a step, then another. The world shifted to a precarious, teetering plane. By the end of the hour, she could shuffle in a circle without holding the wall. Marcel deemed it “a pathetic start, but visually adequate.”
The afternoon was Anal 101.
The room was different from the oral lab. It was warmer, darker, with padded benches and a faint, antiseptic smell underlaid by the musk of lube and sweat. Mistress Valeria was present again, a silent statue in a corner. A different trainer, this one named Dex, gestured for her to enter. He was lean, with watchful eyes and a coiled stillness. Sasha was already there, bent over a padded bench, her ridiculous ass in the air, a thick black plug gleaming between her cheeks.
“Hey, Lucy!” Sasha called, her voice muffled by the bench. “You’re gonna love this! It, like, feels sooo full!”
Dex ignored her. His gaze was on Lucia. “The ass is not a convenience. It is a necessity. A primary orifice. You will be fucked here more than anywhere else. It requires preparation, submission, and a complete rewiring of your brain to interpret pain as pleasure, invasion as fulfillment.” He pointed to Sasha. “Observe.”
He took a bottle of lube, coated his fingers, and without ceremony, pushed two inside Sasha’s already-stretched hole. Sasha moaned, pushing back eagerly. “She’s prepped. She wears a plug at all times. Her hole has learned to stay open, to welcome. Today, for you, we start smaller.” He withdrew his fingers with a wet pop and turned to a tray.
On it lay a series of silicone plugs, graduating in size from a modest bulb to a terrifying, knotted monster. He selected a medium one, the silicone a soft, flesh-toned pink. It had a flared base shaped like a glittering pink jewel.
“This will be your constant companion. You will wear it during all waking hours. It will remind your sphincter to relax. It will train your body to feel empty without it. Kneel on the bench. Present.”
Lucia’s heart hammered, but the fear was a distant thing, muffled by the hypnotic blanket over her mind. She obeyed, mimicking Sasha’s position, her cheek against the cool vinyl. The tiny skirt offered no modesty. She felt exposed, the pink cage a pointless trinket facing the floor.
She heard the squirt of lube. A cold, wet droplet landed on her pucker. She flinched.
“Do not clench,” Dex’s voice was flat. “You are offering. A clenched offering is a rejection. Breathe out. Push out, as if you’re trying to shit. That opens you.”
The blunt, slick tip of the plug pressed against her. It was an intense, unfamiliar pressure, a burning ring of resistance. She whimpered.
“Breathe out. Push.”
She exhaled, forcing her muscles to obey. The tip popped past the tight ring. A sharp, tearing burn made her cry out. It was inside her, stretching her in a deep, impossible way. She gasped, feeling the widest part of the bulb slowly, relentlessly, work its way past her defenses. It was a brutal, full feeling, a violation that reached into her core.
“Good. Now, the rest.” He didn’t stop. He pushed until the entire bulb was seated inside her, the flared base resting snug against her cheeks. The feeling of being stuffed, penetrated even in this empty room, was overwhelming. It felt permanent.
“Stand up. Walk.”
She shuffled off the bench. Every step sent a jolt through her. The plug moved inside her, a massive, foreign presence her body couldn’t ignore. It didn’t hurt exactly anymore. It ached, a deep, filling ache that radiated warmth through her pelvis. Her caged clit gave a frantic, ignored pulse.
“This stays in,” Dex said. “You eat with it, you sleep with it, you train with it. You remove it only for enemas, and for when a trainer replaces it with his cock. Understood?”
“Yes,” Lucia breathed. The word was a gasp.
“Good. Today’s practical is simple. Get used to the feeling. Learn to associate it with arousal.” He nodded to Sasha. “Show her the next step.”
Sasha, beaming, retrieved a thick, realistic dildo from the wall. It was bigger than the plug. She lubed it and, without a word, began to fuck her own ass with it on the bench, moaning with theatrical, vacant pleasure. “See, Lucy? It’s, like, the best feeling ever! You’re gonna get sooo addicted!”
Dex guided Lucia back to the bench. “Your turn. Without the plug, with the toy. You need to learn the motion, the rhythm of being fucked.” He removed the plug. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a loss that felt worse than the initial intrusion. He pressed the lubricated dildo against her loosened, burning hole. “Now, take it. Fuck yourself back onto it. Show Mistress you’re eager.”
Lucia reached back, her fingers fumbling against the silicone shaft. She pushed back. The dildo’s head, larger than the plug’s bulb, stretched her anew. A ragged moan was torn from her. It hurt. It burned. But beneath the pain, the hypnosis and the training twisted the signal. The intense, stretching pressure began to translate, treacherously, into a shocking bolt of simulated pleasure. She rocked back, taking another inch. Her body was betraying her, sparking with dark, unwanted delight at its own violation.
“That’s it,” Dex murmured, a hand on her lower back, holding her down. “Your brain is rewiring. It’s learning that this hole is your center. That this is your real sex. Faster.”
She obeyed, her movements becoming less hesitant, more frantic. The squelching sound of the lube-filled hole, the slap of her ass against the base of the dildo, filled the room. Sasha cheered her on. She didn’t see Mistress Valeria’s thin, satisfied smile from the shadows.
That evening, the Osmosis Chamber welcomed her back. The plug was inside her again, a constant, fulsome reminder. The restraints felt like a hug. The headphones descended. The heartbeat thumped.
The whispers greeted her like an old friend. Good girl… full girl… your hole is learning… you are an asshole for cocks… your pretty mouth is for praise… your silly voice is for begging… you are empty and you need to be filled…
The images were more targeted now. First-person views of anal sex, the stretch, the submission. The whispered voice blended with the memory of Dex’s instructions. The pain is pleasure… the stretch is purpose… you are a sleeve… a wet, tight sleeve…
The chemical warmth flooded her. This time, the arousal wasn’t a shock. It was an affirmation. The plug in her ass seemed to heat up, to pulse. Her cage was a distant, irrelevant cage. All of her need, all of her focus, was pulled deep into her guts, to where the silicone stretched her.
When the session ended and the blindfold lifted, her eyes were wet. Not with tears of pain, but of overwhelmed sensation. Sasha helped her from the chair. Lucia’s legs were weak. Every movement made the plug shift, sending little sparks through her nervous system.
“Who are you?” Valeria’s voice cut through the fog.
“Lucia,” she whispered, the vocal fry effortless now.
“What is your purpose?”
She touched her stomach, feeling the phantom presence of the plug inside. “To be open. To be filled.”
“With what?”
A genuine, airy giggle bubbled out of her, followed by the words, dripping with her new, vacant sincerity. “Like… with cock. Duh.”
Mistress Valeria nodded, her work for the day complete. Lucia walked back to the pink room, each step a delicate, filled reminder. The plug was no longer an intrusion. It was a part of her. A promise. A need. She fell onto her bed, exhausted, her body humming with a trained, specific hunger that had completely overwritten the man she once was. The ghost of Logan was now just a whisper beneath the heartbeat, and every day, it grew fainter.