Chapter 3: First Lessons in Sluttiness
The recovery was a blur of timed pills, the gentle snip of suture removal, and the profound relief when the drains were pulled from his chest—a long, slick sensation that made him lightheaded. The swelling subsided day by day, revealing the new geography of his face. His jawline was softer, tapered. His cheekbones, once flat, now held a subtle prominence. The bruises faded to yellow smudges, then vanished under a layer of expertly applied concealer from a silent nurse.
He was moved to a dormitory wing. His room was small, minimalist: a narrow bed, a vanity with a large, well-lit mirror, a wardrobe. It felt like a cell in a very luxurious convent. The mirror was his constant companion, his nemesis, his proof. Every morning he examined the healing incisions, the settling implants. The two small mounds on his chest were firm, unreal to the touch, but they cast a shadow. They were his. When he turned, he could see the new swell of his buttocks, still hidden under loose sweats but unmistakable.
The device was the center of his universe. It wasn’t painful. It was a presence. A quiet, persistent reminder that his body was no longer his own to command. He woke up with it. He showered around it, careful with the handheld spray. He felt it with every step, a snug, encapsulating weight. And it kept him in a state of low-grade, simmering arousal that colored everything. The brush of fabric against his nipples—newly sensitive, the nerves reawakening—sent sparks straight to that locked cage. The simple act of bending over to tie his shoes made him gasp, the pressure shifting, the awareness spiking.
He was hungry for the points. He checked the digital catalogue on the tablet in his room obsessively. 500 for lips. 5,000 for more ass. The numbers were galactic. He had 100.
On the fifth morning, a message chimed on his tablet. Report to Training Room 7. Mentor Session: Candy. 0900.
His heart did a funny little stutter. He dressed in the provided athleisure wear: soft pink leggings and a matching crop top that clung to his new chest. He looked in the mirror. The person looking back was alien and familiar. Slim-hipped, with a tentative curve above and below. A face free of stubble, softly contoured. Eyes that seemed larger, waiting.
Training Room 7 was nothing like the surgical suite. It was bright, almost painfully so, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three walls. The fourth wall was a screen, currently dark. The air smelled like artificial cotton candy and disinfectant. In the center of the room stood a woman. Or what had once been a man.
Candy was the living, breathing manifestation of his secret browser history. She was maybe five-nine in her clear platform heels, a cascade of platinum blonde hair extensions falling over her shoulders. Her lips were a lush, overstuffed pillow of glossy pink, her cheekbones sharp under layers of highlighter. She wore a neon green string bikini that did nothing to contain the spectacular, gravity-defying arc of her silicone breasts or the prodigious, round shelf of her augmented ass. She was turning slowly in front of a mirror, checking her profile.
“Ugh, the left one’s settling a little high, don’t you think?” she said, not to him, but to the room. Her voice was a melodic, practiced squeak, a cartoonish femininity that was utterly convincing. Then she noticed him in the reflection. She turned, a wide, lip-glossy smile breaking out. “Oh! You must be the new girl! V, right? I’m Candy. Elara said you were gonna be a project. C’mon in, don’t just hover!”
V stepped in, the door swishing shut behind him. He felt impossibly plain, a sketch next to a finished painting.
“Wow, they just did your basics, huh?” Candy sauntered over, her hips swinging with an exaggerated sway. She circled him, her eyes critical but not unkind. “The face is cute. Good bone structure to work with. The tits are, like, starter set adorable. And oh!” She let out a giggle, peeking at the front of his leggings. “You’re locked! Classic. How’s the horny level? On a scale of one to ‘need a dick in me yesterday’?”
V flushed, the heat spreading down his neck. “I… I don’t know.”
“You’ll learn to rate it. It’s important data.” Candy waved a dismissive hand, her long acrylic nails glittering. “Okay, lesson one. Posture. You’re standing like you’re waiting for a bus. You’re not. You’re a display model. Shoulders back. Tits out. Arch the lower back. Stick that ass out. Imagine a string pulling from the ceiling, attached right between your new boobs.”
V tried. He pulled his shoulders back. The movement made the crop top stretch. He felt the implant shift slightly, a foreign pressure.
“More,” Candy commanded. She came behind him, placing a cool hand on his lower spine and pushing. “Arch, girl! Ass back! There you go. Feel that? That’s the sissy slouch. It puts everything on display. It makes your waist look smaller and your ass look bigger. It’s also fucking murder on your back until you get used to it. But you’ll get used to it.”
Holding the position was intense. It engaged muscles he never used. And it changed his center of gravity. He felt the device more acutely, a focal point in the new arrangement of his body.
“Now walk,” Candy said, stepping back. “To the mirror and back. But not like that.”
V took a step. It was a shuffling, awkward step. His gait was still his own.
“Nope! Stop!” Candy laughed, a sound like tinkling glass. “You’re walking like a boy. Boys walk from their shoulders. Girls walk from their hips. Think of your hips as a wheel. They turn, side to side. The shoulders follow, but opposite. It’s a counter-balance. Watch.”
She demonstrated, walking a short line in her towering heels. It was a mesmerizing, rolling motion. Each step began with a hip leading out, a slight swing, the opposite shoulder dipping back. It was confident, seductive, and completely artificial.
“Your turn,” she said, pointing to a pair of white PVC heels waiting by the mirror. “Six-inch stilettos. Beginners’ model. Ankle support.”
V toed off his sneakers and stepped into the heels. The world tilted. He grabbed the wall.
“Whoa, easy, girl! The floor’s not moving, I promise.” Candy stood in front of him, holding out her hands. “Hold my wrists. Now, find your balance. Feel the ball of your foot. That’s where your weight goes. Not the heel. Never the heel.”
It was a precarious, trembling experience. The arches of his feet screamed. The new posture, combined with the pitch of the shoes, made his calves tremble. He took a tentative step, clinging to Candy’s arms.
“Hips! Lead with the hip! Yes! There! See? Now the other one.”
For an hour, they walked the length of the mirrored room. Step, swing, clutch. Step, swing, stumble. His ankles ached. A blister formed on his little toe. Sweat beaded on his lower back. The constant, dull ache from the chastity device seemed to pulse in time with his clumsy steps.
“Good! You’re getting it!” Candy chirped, finally letting go. “It’ll take weeks to be natural. But you gotta practice every day. In your room, just wear them while you’re checking your catalogue. Now, point-earning opportunity.”
V looked up, panting slightly.
“Makeup basics. A smoky eye and a blended contour. Fifty points if you don’t look like a raccoon that fell into a clay pit.” Candy guided him to the vanity tucked in a corner. It was covered in more products than V had seen in his entire life. “Sit.”
He sat. Candy stood behind him, her impressive chest pressing against the back of his head as she leaned over. “Okay, primer first. Always. Your face is a canvas, not a sponge.” She talked him through it, her instructions rapid-fire. Foundation to even out his skin tone, which was still healing. Concealer on the lingering shadows. A contour stick to emphasize his new cheekbones and minimize his jaw. “Chisel, chisel, chisel,” she muttered, blending with a sponge. “We’re creating an illusion, baby. The illusion is ‘fuck me’.”
Then eyes. A sticky primer. A neutral base shade. A dark brown in the crease. “Blend, V, blend! No harsh lines! We’re not doing punk rock, we’re doing ‘blowjob ready’.” She guided his hand, showing him the feathery motions. Mascara. Then, finally, lips. A liner to slightly overdraw his new, fuller shape, followed by a creamy nude lipstick.
“Okay. Look.”
V opened his eyes, which he’d squeezed shut in concentration.
The person in the mirror was a revelation. The makeup didn’t hide him; it completed the surgery. The contours sharpened the soft angles of his new face into something glamorous. The eyes looked deeper, smokier, inviting. The lips were a perfect, plump bow. He looked… pretty. Not like a man in makeup. Like a different kind of person altogether. A blush rose on his cheeks, visible under the foundation.
“Whoa,” he breathed.
“Right?” Candy grinned, popping her own glossy lips. “That’s the power. That’s the armor. And the lure. Fifty points pending Elara’s approval. Now…” Her tone shifted, becoming less instructor, more conspirator. “The main event. The reason we’re all here.”
She walked over to a cabinet and opened it. Inside, mounted on a stand, was a large, flesh-colored silicone dildo, veined and lifelike. She carried it over and placed it on a small, adjustable stand in the middle of the room, setting it to about waist height.
“Oral proficiency,” Candy announced, as casually as someone announcing lunch. “The cornerstone of a good sissy’s education. This is Derek. He’s not very talkative, but he’s a good listener.”
V stared at the prosthetic. His mouth went dry. The gentle throb between his legs intensified, as if the device had just been plugged into a stronger current.
“The goal,” Candy said, striking a pose beside it, “is not just to suck. Anybody can suck. The goal is to worship. To perform. To make the person attached to this,” she patted the fake cock, “feel like a god. It’s about enthusiasm, technique, and total submission. Your slut points for this are variable. Based on technique. Ready?”
V wasn’t. He stood frozen, the heels suddenly the least of his concerns.
“Come here. On your knees. On this pillow, be nice to your joints.”
Mechanically, V walked over, the hips-and-heels walk forgotten, and sank onto the plush cushion. The dildo was at eye level. It smelled vaguely of clean silicone.
“First, attitude.” Candy knelt beside him, her presence a cloud of perfume and synthetic femininity. “Look at it not as a chore. Look at it as a privilege. This is your purpose. Your mouth is a tool for giving pleasure. That thought should make you wet—well, you know what I mean. It should make you want.” She glanced at the front of his leggings. “Judging by the little strain against that cage, it already does. Good. Use that.”
She placed a hand on the back of his head, not forcing, but guiding. “Start slow. Eye contact with me, for now. Tease. Use your lips. No teeth, ever. Never, ever. Glide them up and down the shaft. Make it slick.”
V leaned forward. The silicone was cool and smooth. He pressed his new, fuller lips against it and moved them. It felt ridiculous. Humiliating.
“More feeling,” Candy whispered. “Imagine it’s Anthony’s. Imagine he’s watching you right now, those cold gray eyes seeing if you’re worth all the money he’s spending.”
The name was a trigger. A jolt went through V. The humiliation didn’t recede; it transformed. It mixed with the constant ache, with the memory of Elara saying He is pleased. He closed his eyes and did as instructed, trying to put more sensation into the glide of his lips.
“Good. Now, introduce the tongue. Flat, broad strokes along the underside, right on that sweet spot. Like you’re licking the world’s best ice cream cone.”
He did. The silicone tasted of nothing. But the act itself—the position, the submission, Candy’s coaching—was wiring something new in his brain. The throbbing in his cage was a drumbeat now, a demanding rhythm.
“Now take the head into your mouth. Just the tip. Suck gently. Apply pressure with your tongue.”
He opened his mouth, taking the rounded end past his lips. He suckled, his tongue pressing up.
“Yes! That’s the spot. Now, deep breath through your nose. Relax your throat. This is the big one. Taking it deep. You’ll gag. That’s okay. We train the gag reflex away. But you have to try. Show it you want it. On three. One… two…”
On three, Candy’s hand applied the gentlest pressure. V pushed forward, taking more of the length into his mouth. It hit the back of his throat. His body convulsed, a harsh gag wrenching his shoulders. He pulled back, coughing.
“It’s okay! Again. Show it you’re not afraid. Breathe. Try to relax. Think of it as a challenge. A conquest.”
He tried again. And again. Each time, he took it a fraction deeper. The gags were violent, embarrassing, bringing tears to his carefully made-up eyes. But each time he went back, the desperate, hungry part of him grew louder. Candy’s praise was a drug. “Good girl.” “There you go.” “You’re a natural, I swear.”
After the tenth attempt, he managed to get halfway down the shaft before gagging. He pulled back, saliva coating his lips and chin, his breathing ragged.
“Outstanding!” Candy clapped. “For a first timer? Phenomenal. That’s worth… let’s see… two hundred points for demonstrated willingness and progression. I’ll log it.”
Two hundred points. Added to his fifty for makeup and his original hundred. Three-fifty. He was almost there for the lip filler. The thought was a shot of pure adrenaline. He looked at the dildo, glistening with his saliva, and a strange pride swelled in him.
“We’ll work on depth and rhythm tomorrow,” Candy said, helping him to his feet. His knees were weak, from the heels and the kneeling. “But remember this feeling, V. This… hunger. This is what they’re cultivating. This need to perform, to please, to earn. It’s more powerful than any surgery.”
She handed him a towel. He wiped his mouth, his makeup smearing slightly. In the mirror, he saw a debauched, pretty thing. Lips swollen from more than filler, eyes wide and wet, hair slightly disheveled.
“One last thing,” Candy said, her voice dropping to a genuine, almost soft tone. “It’s easy to feel like a thing in here. A project. A collection of parts. But that’s the secret.” She turned him to face his reflection fully, standing behind him, her extravagant body framing his slender, transformed one. “When you fully become the thing they want… that’s when you find the power. It’s a different kind of power. It’s not the power of saying no. It’s the power of being so absolutely, devastatingly good at saying yes that they become addicted to you. Anthony will own your contract, but you can own his attention. You can own his desire. Think about that.”
She gave his shoulders a squeeze and sauntered towards the door. “Practice your walk! I’ll see you tomorrow, girl. And hey,” she turned, winking one heavily lashed eye. “Nice lips. They’re gonna look amazing wrapped around something real.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
V was alone in the bright, mirrored room. The dildo stood on its stand, a testament. His body hummed with fatigue, with ache, with that relentless, unfulfilled throbbing. He walked to the mirror, slowly, trying to remember the hip swing. He examined his smeared makeup, his tired eyes.
He didn’t see V anymore. He saw a prototype. A work in progress, hungry for its next upgrade. He pulled his tablet from his bag. He opened the catalogue. Lip Filler +1cc. 500 SP. He had 350.
He looked at his reflection. He pursed his new, surgically-enhanced, makeup-defined lips into a kiss.
“Soon,” he whispered to the pretty stranger in the glass. The hunger in his stomach wasn’t for food. It was for points. It was for approval. It was for the chance to kneel again and do it better. To be worth watching.
He left the training room, walking back to his cell with a slightly more conscious sway in his hips, the click of his borrowed heels echoing in the sterile hall, a relentless, quiet ache leading him every step of the way.