Chapter 15: The Double Slut Training Session
The humid scent of leather and anxious sweat had long since been replaced by the cleaner, more surgical aromas of silicone and antiseptic gel. For Lizzy, the transition was not a descent but an arrival. The trembling confusion of Leo had been scoured away, replaced by a slick, warm certainty that hummed in time with the low vibration of her cage, a constant reminder of her new purpose. Her skin felt different—softer, more receptive, every nerve ending tuned to anticipate touch, pressure, invasion.
She stood beside Lydia in an antechamber, both of them glistening under a fine sheen of preparatory oil. Lizzy’s body was a echo of Lydia’s now: the same subtle curves enhanced by hormone therapy, the same delicate silver cage nestled between shaven thighs, the same plump, promising rear. Only their faces held fading ghosts of their pasts, ghosts that were fast being erased by expressions of eager vacancy.
“Nervous?” Lydia asked, not looking at her, but checking their reflection in a polished steel panel.
Lizzy considered the question. The fizzy, nauseating fear of the Training Chamber was gone. In its place was a taut, liquid excitement. “No,” she said, and the truth of it was a revelation. “I feel… empty. In a good way. Ready to be filled.”
Lydia’s smile was a quick, bright thing. “That’s exactly right. Remember, it’s not about enduring. It’s about containing. Your body is a vessel. The more they pour in, the more complete you become.”
A soft chime sounded. The frosted glass door to the main chamber hissed open, revealing the Glass Dungeon. It was colder than the antechamber, the air crisp. The walls were indeed polished chrome and glass, and the mirrored ceiling reflected the room’s brutalist furniture: two heavy, leather-padded “fuck benches” positioned side-by-side, their surfaces angled sharply to elevate and present the hips. Restraints dangled from stainless steel frames. In the corner, a small red light glowed beneath a discreet lens.
Waiting near the benches were three figures. They wore identical black latex hoods, featureless save for gleaming zippers over the mouth areas. Their bodies werevaried—one tall and lean, another powerfully built, a third with a swimmer’s frame. They stood utterly still, their erection stark and apparent, sheathed in different textures of ribbed and studded latex.
Mr. Davenport stood by the observation window, a silhouette against the bright lights behind him. He gave a single, slight nod.
Wordlessly, Lydia moved to the bench on the left, leaning over the padded rail, her back beautifully arched. Lizzy mimicked her on the right. The leather was cool against her breasts and belly. Her ass, oiled and high, felt exposed in a way that was more invitation than vulnerability. Supple cuffs were fastened around her ankles and wrists, securing her in place with a gentle, inescapable firmness. She was locked into presentation.
She heard the faint click of Lydia’s restraints, then a sigh of contentment. Lizzy turned her head. Their faces were close, separated only by the narrow gap between the benches. Lydia winked, her eyes already glazing with subspace bliss.
The figures moved. No words were exchanged. This was a clinical exercise in application.
The first dominant, the powerfully built one, positioned himself behind Lydia. Lizzy watched, mesmerized, as he guided his thick, latex-wrapped cock to Lydia’s glistening hole. He didn’t tease. He pushed, a single, relentless forward motion of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, deep stroke.
Lydia’s body absorbed it with a practiced tremor. A breathy “Oh, yes,” slipped from her lips, her cage dribbling a clear bead of lubricant onto the leather below.
Simultaneously, the tall, lean figure moved behind Lizzy. His hands gripped her waist, cool through the latex. She felt the broad, flared head of his cock press against her. Her own hole, still wonderfully loose from her final training session, stretched open eagerly. There was a moment of intense, blooming pressure, then a sublime, gut-deep fullness as he sank all the way in. The texture of the ribbed latex was exquisite, a rasping, internal friction that made her gasp.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the word dripping with awe.
Lydia giggled, a sweet, girlish sound at odds with the violent penetration she was receiving. “Good, isn’t it?” she panted, her breath hitching as the man behind her set a brutal, piston-like rhythm. The slapping of flesh against flesh, of latex against slick inner muscle, began to fill the room.
“So good,” Lizzy moaned, as her own dominator began to move. Each deep drag stirred something essential inside her, lighting up the rewired pathways Lydia had carved. Her cock strained uselessly in its cage, a distant, unimportant throb. All of her universe was the relentless invasion of her ass.
The third dominant approached Lydia from the front. He unzipped the mouth panel of his hood. Lydia lifted her head, mouth already open, tongue extended. He fed his cock into her waiting mouth, and she took him deep, her throat working around him instantly, no gag, no hesitation, just a warm, wet, sucking embrace. Her eyes rolled back in pure bliss.
Seeming to understand the script, the swimmer-built figure came to Lizzy’s front. The zipper parted. She saw the head of his cock, slick with something that wasn’t lube. She opened her mouth. The taste hit her first—salty, musky, the flavor of another woman’s arousal. He’d been with someone else in preparation. The thought made her moan around his girth as he pushed in, fucking her mouth with the same steady cadence the other man used on her ass.
The synchronization was obscene. They were being used in unison, like living, breathing sex toys. Lizzy’s world narrowed to the twin sensations of being pumped from both ends. She could hear Lydia’s wet, choked gags, the rhythmic grunts of the men, the symphony of slaps and squelches. She turned her head, meeting Lydia’s gaze. Spit and pre-come trailed from Lydia’s lips around the cock filling them. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, ecstatic.
Lizzy felt a bizarre surge of camaraderie, of love. She strained against her head restraint, and Lydia did the same. They managed to bridge the small gap, their lips meeting in a sloppy, desperate kiss around the girth of the cocks penetrating their mouths. They shared saliva, the taste of latex and male musk, their tongues dancing in the limited space. It was filthy, intimate, and profoundly connecting.
The men swapped. It happened without fanfare. A tap on a shoulder, a seamless withdrawal and reorientation. The lean man behind Lizzy pulled out, his cock making a wet, sucking pop. The powerful one from Lydia took his place, his thickness a shock, stretching Lizzy even further, making her see stars. She whimpered into the new cock in her mouth, owned by a new set of hands.
Lydia got the swimmer in her ass, his pace quicker, shallower, a frantic drilling that made her squeal. They kissed again, a frantic mess of lips and tongues, cheering each other on with muffled, encouraging sounds.
“Take it, you perfect slut,” Lydia gasped when her mouth was briefly free.
“They’re ruining us,” Lizzy cried, not in protest, but in celebration.
“Yes! More ruined! More!”
The gangbang became a blur of sensation, a carousel of cocks and hands and voices. They were flipped onto their backs, legs hooked over leather-clad shoulders, and fucked deeper. They were bent over the benches again, taking two at once—one in the ass, one in the mouth—a continuous, rotating fuck-train that left their holes gaping and slick, their minds blissfully blank. Their cages dripped constant, leaking proof of their arousal, a pathetic fountain of denied masculinity.
Through it all, they sought each other’s eyes, each other’s fleeting kisses, whispers of “good girl” and “look at you” passing between them like sacred vows.
Finally, after what felt like hours, a shift occurred. The men stepped back. Lydia and Lizzy, trembling and soaked in sweat and lube, were unfastened. They could barely stand. They clung to each other, their bodies sliding together, supported by a shared weakness.
Mr. Davenport’s voice cut through the humid air. “The final communion.”
A low table was brought forward. On it sat a large, shallow bowl of polished obsidian. The three dominants formed a semi-circle around it. With swift, practiced strokes, they began to finish themselves off. The first come hit the bowl with a thick, pearlescent splatter. The second and third followed, ropes of white jetting across the dark stone, pooling together.
The bowl became a offering, a steaming, salty soup of their violation.
Lydia sank to her knees before it, pulling Lizzy down with her. The scent—musky, pungent, animal—was overwhelming. Lydia dipped her fingers into the warm, viscous pool, lifting them to her lips, sucking them clean with a moan. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Our prize,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from use. She guided Lizzy’s hand into the bowl.
The warmth was a shock. Lizzy looked at the mingled fluid, this tangible proof of their shared debasement. There was no disgust. Only a profound, hungry reverence. She brought her coated fingers to her mouth. The taste was complex, bitter, salty, deeply human. It was the taste of their success.
Lydia leaned forward, her tongue lapping directly from the bowl like a cat. Lizzy followed. They drank, their faces close, their tongues sometimes touching as they gathered the shared essence. They kissed, transferring the warm, sticky fluid between their mouths, swallowing it down. It was the most intimate act yet, a sacrament of their new identities.
When the bowl was clean, they slumped against each other, spent, filled in every conceivable way. The red light in the corner winked out.
Lydia nuzzled into Lizzy’s neck. “You’re perfect,” she sighed, her words slightly slurred. “You understand now. It’s not about being used by them.”
Lizzy, her belly warm, her body humming with a deep, satiated ache, understood completely. She kissed Lydia’s forehead. “It’s about being theirs together.”
In the darkening room, they held each other, two beautiful, broken vessels, finally full.
The quiet was punctured by the sharp click of patent leather shoes on polished stone. Mr. Davenport emerged from the shadows, his figure cutting a clean line through the hazy, spent air of the dungeon. He looked at them, a biologist evaluating a successful pairing. “Clean yourselves up, but only superficially. The night’s service is not complete.”
A thrill, sharp as a needle, shot through Lizzy’s exhaustion. The communion in the bowl had felt so final. Yet the emptiness, that welcoming hollow, was already returning.
Lydia merely nodded, her movements fluid as she rose, pulling Lizzy up with her. They used damp towels from a warmed cabinet, wiping away the worst of the sweat and spend from their skin, but leaving the sticky evidence in their hair, the ache in their muscles, the profound looseness of their well-used holes intact. This was part of the presentation.
“A private client,” Mr. Davenport stated, leading them from the Glass Dungeon down a narrower, darker corridor. “His tastes are… particular. He does not seek communion. He seeks function. You will be his furniture.”
The door at the end of the hall was unmarked, heavy oak. Inside, the room was disturbingly normal, like a lavish study. Burgundy carpets, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace with a low gas flame. The client stood by the mantelpiece. He was older than Mr. Davenport, with thinning grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a tailored tweed suit. He looked like a retired professor.
“Ah, the pieces,” he said, his voice dry, academic. He removed his glasses, cleaning them on a handkerchief. “The living table and the oral stool. You have prepared them according to the specifications?”
“They are primed,” Mr. Davenport answered smoothly. “Fully conditioned, pliable, and silent unless commanded otherwise.”
The client, whose name was never given, approached. He circled them, not with lust, but with a collector’s appraisal. He pinched the flesh of Lydia’s thigh, testing its give. He lifted a lock of Lizzy’s hair, nodded at the residue there. “Acceptable. The anchoring system?”
Mr. Davenport gestured to the center of the room. A low, broad glass table, supported by a central column, gleamed under the lights. Beside it, a sturdy, backless leather stool. Both were fitted with subtle straps of reinforced suede.
“Assume your positions,” Mr. Davenport commanded.
Lydia moved to the glass table. She bent over it, her torso lying flat along the cool surface, her arms stretched forward, her cheek pressed to the glass. Straps were secured around her wrists, her ankles, her thighs, and a wide belt across the small of her back, locking her down. Her plump ass was elevated by a hidden cushion, positioned at the perfect height. Her face was turned to the side, her breathing already slowing into a trance-state rhythm.
The client pointed to the space beneath the table, directly between Lydia’s presented head and the stool. “The receptacle.”
A shallow porcelain bowl, clinically white, was placed on the floor there.
Lizzy understood. She went to the leather stool, kneeling on it, then bending forward until her chest and face were parallel to the floor. Her wrists were anchored to the front legs, her ankles to the back. Her mouth was positioned directly over the white bowl. She was a human spittoon, a living ashtray.
“Excellent,” the client murmured. He removed his tweed jacket, folded it neatly over a chair. He poured himself a brandy from a crystal decanter on a real sideboard, then settled into a wingback chair facing them, opening a folio of papers.
For a long time, nothing happened. He read. He sipped his brandy. He made notes in the margin with a silver pen. The fire crackled. Lydia’s body was a still, warm sculpture. Lizzy’s knees ached. The room’s normalcy was the most profound humiliation yet. They were not being ravaged; they were being ignored as objects.
Then, he cleared his throat. He took a long sip of brandy, swished it in his mouth, and without looking up from his papers, leaned forward and spat the warm, amber liquid into Lizzy’s waiting mouth.
It splashed over her tongue, the alcohol bite sharp, the flavor rich and alien. The command was implicit. She swallowed. The sound was audible in the quiet room.
“Good,” he said, not to her, but to himself. He continued reading.
This was the fetish. The utter objectification. The reduction to utility. He finished his brandy, and moments later, a thin line of saliva and phlegm descended from his lips into her mouth. She took it, swallowing the bitter slickness without a sound. Her cage dripped, a pathetic, autonomous response to being used as a trash bin.
After an hour, he stood. He walked to Lydia, who had not moved a millimeter. He unzipped his trousers, freeing a soft, uncaged cock. He positioned himself behind her, not touching her otherwise. He began to masturbate slowly, his eyes on his documents which he held in his other hand.
Lizzy watched from her low angle, her chin damp with his spit. She saw his cock stiffen, not from Lydia’s beauty, but from his own clinical fantasy of use. He read a paragraph, stroked himself, read another. His breath hitched. He dropped the papers, grabbing Lydia’s hip with a sudden, bony strength.
He came with a grunt, jetting his spend in thick, possessive ropes across the small of her back, over the suede belt, onto her upthrust ass. It was a claiming, but a cold one. He wiped himself on her thigh, rezipped, and returned to his chair, leaving his mess cooling on her skin.
The client then produced a long, polished mahogany pipe from his jacket. He packed it with tobacco, lit it with a wooden match. He smoked leisurely, the sweet scent layering over the brandy and sex. Periodically, he would lean forward and tap the hot ash directly into Lizzy’s open, waiting mouth. It stung, tiny embers dying on her wet tongue. She flinched but held position, swallowing the gritty, burned residue.
He finished the pipe. He stood again, this time with a peculiar glint in his eye. From his briefcase, he removed a small, old-fashioned inkwell and a heavy-feathered quill pen. He dipped the pen.
“The final annotation,” he said.
He approached Lydia. With precise, deliberate strokes, he began to write on her skin, using her body as parchment, tracing the letters through the drying streaks of his own come. The ink was cold, the quill ticklish and sharp. Lizzy could not see the words from her angle. Lydia’s breath remained even, her submission absolute.
He then came to Lizzy. The tip of the quill hovered near her lips. “Open wider.”
She did, sticking out her tongue. On the flat, pink surface, he wrote a single, intricate word. The ink pooled, metallic and oily. “Hold it,” he commanded. She dared not swallow, her mouth filling slowly with saliva around the foreign script.
Satisfied, he packed his things. He nodded to Mr. Davenport, who had been a silent spectator the entire time. “The pieces performed adequately. They may be stored.”
The client left, the door shutting with a soft, final click. Only then did Mr. Davenport approach. He used a clean handkerchief to wipe the ink from Lydia’s back, reading it first. He showed it to Lydia. A single word: PROPERTY.
He then stood before Lizzy, his fingers gently under her chin. “Show me.”
She extended her tongue, now aching from the effort. He smiled, a rare, true curve of his lips. The ink had blurred, but the word was still legible. It was the same.
“Now you swallow,” he said.
She did, the taste of ink and ash and brandy and stranger’s phlegm flooding her throat as she consumed the label. Mr. Davenport unstrapped them. Lydia trembled as she stood, the client’s cold come cracking on her skin. They clung to each other again, but the embrace was different. It was not just shared satisfaction. It was consolidation. They were not just full. They were owned inventory.
“Rest,” Mr. Davenport said, his voice softer than usual. “The client has requested you for a weekend engagement at his country estate. He has a gallery. He wishes to acquire matching pieces for a permanent installation.”
He left them in the quiet study. The fire had died to embers. Lydia traced a finger over the phantom word on Lizzy’s lower back. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a dizzying anticipation.
“A permanent installation,” Lydia whispered, the concept thrilling in its finality.
Lizzy leaned into her touch, the deep emptiness inside her singing a fierce, welcoming hymn. They were no longer being prepared for a market. They had been purchased.