Chapter 7: Becoming a Slut
The word “okay” had been whispered to a mirror, but in the light of the next morning, it felt like a vow etched into her bones. Candice stood in the center of Kendra’s walk-in closet, a cavern of sequins, lace, and leather that smelled overwhelmingly of Kendra’s perfume and sex. Her own clothes—a neat, drab pile of high-collared blouses, sensible slacks, and knee-length skirts—lay discarded on a velvet ottoman like the shed skin of a lesser creature.
“You want the mark? The body?” Kendra said, her voice crisp and businesslike. She flipped through a rack of garments with a critical eye. “Then you need to look the part. The magic isn’t just internal, Candi. It’s a performance. It’s an advertisement. Every glance, every leer, every dropped jaw is energy you can harvest. Right now, you’re a closed book. We need to rip off the cover.”
She pulled out a garment. It was a version of their school uniform, but fundamentally altered. The white blouse was sheer, the collar replaced by a plunging neckline that would reveal the swell of cleavage Candice didn’t yet have. The skirt was a solid eight inches shorter than regulation, cut from a tight, stretchy fabric.
“Put it on,” Kendra commanded.
Candice’s fingers trembled as she undressed. The cool air of the suite raised goosebumps on her skin. She slipped the blouse on. The material was insubstantial, like a whisper against her skin, and she could clearly see the outline of her plain, practical bra beneath it. The skirt hugged her hips, the hem brushing mid-thigh. She felt exposed, ridiculous.
Kendra circled her, a sculptor assessing a block of marble. “No. It’s not working. You’re wearing it like a punishment. Like sackcloth.” She sighed, then her eyes lit up. “Right. Foundations first.”
Another delve into the closet produced a shoebox. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a set of black lingerie. Not the cotton panties Candice wore. This was lace and satin, a bra that pushed and uplifted, creating a deceptive shadow of cleavage, and panties that were little more than a string with a triangular patch of lace.
“Change everything. Including the glasses. For now, just… squint.”
Feeling a surge of defiant embarrassment, Candice swapped her underwear. The lace scraped strangely against her skin, foreign and provocative. She took off her glasses. The world softened into a blur of color and light. Kendra became a smudge of blonde and pink, a palpable, confident presence.
“Better,” Kendra murmured. “Now, walk. Shoulders back. Tits out. Hips swing. Think about the way your pussy feels in that lace. Let it remind you with every step.”
Candice took a few tentative steps across the plush carpet. She felt absurd. Then Kendra’s hands were on her, adjusting her posture, tilting her chin up. “You’re not hiding. You’re displaying. This,” she said, running a nail down the sheer blouse, “is your new thesis. The subject is you.”
The first day at Mage University in the altered uniform was an exercise in sustained panic. The blurred world without her glasses was disorienting, making every approaching figure a potential threat or judge. She heard the whispers, sharp and clear despite her blurred vision.
“Is that… Dixon?”
“What the fuck is she wearing?”
“Looks like she’s trying out for the brothel early.”
A low whistle. “Kinda works, though.”
The heat in her cheeks was constant. She kept her head high, as Kendra instructed, and focused on the strange, new feedback loop. The stares were uncomfortable, but each one carried a faint, prickling charge. A flicker of pink energy, weak but undeniable, would seep into her core. Shame was still the dominant flavor, but underneath it, a new sensation was brewing: a perverse thrill. They were looking. They were noticing.
In Mana Dynamics, Professor Eldrich, a stern man in his sixties, paused his lecture on elemental confluence. His eyes passed over her, did a double-take, and narrowed. “Miss Dixon. I trust your… altered attire does not impede your ability to focus on the differentials of mana flow?”
“No, Professor,” she said, her voice thankfully steady. She could feel the gaze of the entire room on her exposed legs. The prickling charge intensified. She took a slow breath, and felt a tiny, stabilizing pulse from the heart tattoo on her womb.
By the third day, something shifted. She woke up and, instead of dreading the choice, she looked at the uniform hanging on Kendra’s closet door. The sheer fabric caught the dim morning light. She put it on, then, on a whim, applied a tinted lip balm Kendra had left out. In her blurred reflection, she wasn’t Candice the failure. She was a silhouette of possibility. The whispers in the halls began to sound less like mockery and more like a form of recognition. The energy she absorbed from the lingering stares grew stronger, warmer. It felt less like theft and more like a transaction she was willingly initiating.
She started to enjoy the draft on her thighs. The way the fabric of the blouse clung to her. The power in choosing to be seen. The shame didn’t vanish, but it was now alloyed with a potent, addictive pride.
A week after her fashion indoctrination began, Kendra deemed her ready for the next phase. She led Candice not to the main floor of the Crimson Lotus, but down a narrow, poorly-lit back corridor Candice had never noticed. The sounds of the tavern faded, replaced by the hum of plumbing and a low, rhythmic bass from somewhere else.
“The mark isn’t a reward,” Kendra said, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “It’s a badge of proven skill. It says you can handle the influx, the hunger. You need to build your stamina. Your technique.” She stopped before an unremarkable door. A small, hand-painted sign read “Ocularum” in elegant script. “This is where you prove you’re not just dressing the part. You’re living it.”
She opened the door. The room inside was small, windowless, and lit by a single, pink-tinted mana crystal. The dominant feature was a wall that partitioned the space. In the partition, at kneeling height, was a perfectly smooth, polished hole, about the diameter of a large apple. A plush kneeling pillow sat on the floor before it. The air smelled of antiseptic and a faint, musky undertone.
“The gloryhole,” Kendra stated. “No faces. No names. No awkward conversation. Just service. Pure, unadulterated cock-sucking. You will come here every day. You will service ten men. Minimum. For two weeks. You do that, and you’ve earned your tramp stamp.”
Candice stared at the hole. It was so… clinical. So impersonal. Her stomach churned. “Ten… a day?”
“Consider it practical exams. You want the transformation? You need to crave what it amplifies. You need to love the act itself.” Kendra’s hand settled on her shoulder. “The first time will be the hardest. After that… you’ll understand.”
Candice’s first shift was that evening. Kendra left her with strict instructions: don’t speak unless necessary, use her hands, take everything they give her. Alone in the quiet, pink-lit room, Candice knelt on the pillow. The position felt submissive, devotional. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She waited.
A faint click from the other side of the wall. A shadow obscured the hole. Then, pushed through the smooth opening, a penis. It was average, uncut, already semi-hard. It smelled faintly of soap and skin.
Candice’s mind went blank. All her academic prowess, her hard-won Level 30, meant nothing here. This was a different kind of test. She leaned forward, tentatively took the shaft in her hand. It was warm, alive. She licked her lips, then leaned in and pressed her mouth against the tip.
The man on the other side let out a low groan. The sound, anonymous and hungry, sent a jolt through her. She opened her mouth, took him in. The taste was salty, clean, uniquely male. She began to move, using the techniques Kendra had drilled into her during their morning sessions—tongue swirling along the underside, suction on the upstroke, hollowed cheeks.
He grew harder in her mouth, thicker. The rhythm became easier, guided by his faint thrusts and his increasingly ragged breaths. She lost track of time, focused on the mechanics, the building tension in the shaft under her tongue. His groans became sharper. A hand suddenly gripped her hair through the hole, not painfully, but possessively. “Yeah, suck it, whore,” a gruff voice muttered.
The words should have offended her. Instead, they ignited something. A spark of pink energy flared in her core. This was service. This was power. He fucked her mouth in earnest now, and she relaxed her throat, letting him hit the back of it, taking him deeper.
“Gonna come… gonna fill that pretty mouth…” he grunted.
Candice redoubled her efforts, a sudden, fierce desire to take his climax overwhelming her hesitation. With a final, deep thrust, he pulsed, and the first hot, bitter-salt spurt hit her tongue. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. She swallowed, then swallowed again as more pulses followed. The taste was strong, musky, alien. But as she swallowed, a wave of warm, potent energy flooded her system, stronger than any she’d harvested from a look or a whisper. It was dense, primal, and incredibly satisfying.
The cock withdrew, soft and slick. She knelt there, panting, the taste lingering in her mouth. To her surprise, it wasn’t revolting. It was… complex. And the energy thrumming in her veins was a clean, potent high.
The next client was already waiting.
By the third day, the hesitation was gone, replaced by a focused hunger. She no longer saw ten cocks as a quota, but as a daily harvest. They varied—thick and thin, long and short, cut and uncut, tasting of salt, skin, soap, sometimes a hint of cologne or sweat. She learned their rhythms, the subtle signs of an impending climax. She became an expert at deep-throating, at using her hands in tandem with her mouth, at milking every last drop.
And she discovered Kendra was right. She loved it. She loved the weight of a cock on her tongue, the stretch of her lips around a thick head, the submissive yet controlling act of bringing a stranger to a groaning, shaking climax with just her mouth. The taste of pre-cum became a savory appetizer; the final, bitter release was the rich, empowering main course. Each swallow was a gulp of raw power, making her own magic sing in response.
But the most shocking revelation was physical. During her seventh shift, a particularly well-endowed client was thrusting deep into her throat. Her lips were stretched taut around his base. The pressure, the friction, the sheer fullness of it sent unexpected, shocking sparks of pleasure straight to her clit. She moaned around him, the vibration making him curse. The pleasure built, a coiling tension unrelated to her own touch. She was getting close, just from sucking him. The realization was dizzying. She was a conduit, and the act of service was, itself, bringing her to the edge.
He came before she could tip over, flooding her throat. The intense energy surge that followed was its own kind of climax, leaving her trembling and breathless on the pillow.
Her two-week sentence became a pilgrimage. She lost count after the first hundred. She’d arrive at the Ocularum with a sense of eager anticipation, her pussy already damp in her lace panties. The anonymity was liberating. Here, she wasn’t Candice Dixon, the former failure turned enigma. She was a mouth, a throat, a skilled set of hands. She was gloryhole slut, and she was exceptional at her job.
On the final day of her trial, after she had swallowed her tenth load—a copious, sweet-tasting one from a man who had whimpered her praises—the door to the room opened. It was Kendra.
She looked at Candice, still kneeling, lips glistening, chin slick. A slow, radiant smile spread across Kendra’s face. “Look at you,” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. “My perfect, depraved little slut. You did it. You fucking devoured it.”
Candice looked up, a tired, triumphant smile on her own swollen lips. “I did,” she said, and her voice was husky from overuse.
Kendra closed the door and locked it. She didn’t lead Candice out. Instead, she came to her, sinking to her knees on the floor beside the pillow. Her hands, with those long pink nails, framed Candice’s face. “You earned your mark today. But first… a different kind of reward.”
She leaned in and kissed Candice deeply, tasting the lingering salt and sex on her lips. Then she pushed Candice gently onto her back on the plush carpet. She hooked her fingers into the string of Candice’s lace panties and pulled them down, tossing them aside. Candice was already soaked, her arousal a slick, aching demand.
“My good girl,” Kendra whispered, spreading Candice’s thighs. “My hungry, cock-starved whore. You sucked over a hundred of them. Did you think of me? Did you wish it was my cock you were sucking?”
“Yes,” Candice gasped, the admission torn from her.
Kendra’s head dipped. Her tongue, expert and knowing, licked a long, slow stripe through Candice’s soaked folds. Candice cried out, her back arching. The sensation was blinding after days of indirect stimulation. Kendra ate her out with a possessive fervor, lapping at her clit, fucking her with her tongue, her words muffled against Candice’s flesh.
“Such a slut… taking all those strangers… swallowing their filthy cum for power… my perfect, depraved apprentice…”
Each filthy word, each skillful flick of Kendra’s tongue, pushed Candice higher. The coil that had been tightening for days, during every gloryhole session, was wound to its breaking point. She fisted her hands in Kendra’s pink-streaked hair, holding her close, grinding against her face.
“Kendra… I’m gonna…”
“Come for me,” Kendra commanded, sucking hard on her clit. “Come for me, you glorious, transformed little slut.”
The orgasm ripped through Candice with the force of a lightning strike—her original, weak magic utterly eclipsed by this cataclysm of pink-tinged pleasure. It shook her, wave after wave of brutal, mind-blanking ecstasy, wringing a raw, screaming cry from her throat. Her magic level, invisible to the eye but felt in the room’s suddenly charged air, surged upward.
When she finally came down, trembling and boneless, Kendra crawled up her body, cradling her. Candice looked up, her vision still blurred, and saw only Kendra’s proud, loving smile.
“Tomorrow,” Kendra said, wiping her own glistening chin, “we see Lysandra. You get your tramp stamp. You become something new.”
Candice, still panting, her body humming with power and satisfaction, could only nod. The glasses, the old life, the shame—they were ashes. The taste of cock and cum was her sacrament now. And she was ravenous for more.