Higher level slave training

The bracelet on my left wrist vibrated once. The black chip flashed red. Then it stopped again.

Madame Vivienne was waiting for me in her office. She was sitting behind her desk, her black suit impeccably tailored, her platinum hair pulled back in a neat bun, a black cigar between two fingers. Green lines scrolled across the monitor in front of her—she was downloading the data recorded by My bracelet.

Data, times, coordinates. The bracelet. Every time someone touched me, every time I stood still for too long, every time the chip registered suspicious movement. Everything there, on its screen. Everything recorded. And stored in my personal file.

SISSY SLAVE LORENZO BIANCHI. SERIAL NUMBER 003456

“Sit down,” he said, without looking up from the monitor.

I sat down on the chair across from her. The chair was hard, wooden, with no cushion. My buttocks, still sore from the cafeteria floor, pressed against the wood, and I felt the plug—no, there wasn't a plug. Not yet. Just my cock, locked in the silver cage, pressing against the zipper of my leggings.

"Your week in the red collar is over," Madame Vivienne said. She took a drag on her cigar. The smoke slowly rose to the ceiling. "The figures are clear. An average of 12 men a day. Five this morning. Your mouth has worked well, Lorenzo. Big M is quite satisfied."

I lowered my eyes. "Thank you, Madame."

"I didn't pay you a compliment." He stubbed out his cigar in the glass ashtray. "I gave you information. Your data goes into the final evaluation. Every man you've ever taken in your mouth, every drop of cum you've swallowed, every time you've said thank you—everything counts. Everything weighs."

He opened a drawer. He took out something I couldn't see right away. Then he placed it on the desk in front of me, and my stomach tightened.

It was a butt plug. Black, shiny silicone, with a wide base and a small gold ring at the end. Next to it, a row of other plugs, lined up by size, from the smallest to one that made my head spin—as wide as my closed fist, with a white label that said XXL.

"From today," said Madame Vivienne, "you begin the anal adaptation course. Each day, one size up. We start with the L." She pointed to the first in line. "Tomorrow the XL. The day after tomorrow the XXL. And so on, until your ass is ready for what it has to accommodate."

I looked at the row of plugs. My throat closed. "Madame—"

"I'm not finished." His voice was flat. "The red collar meant your mouth was available to all the men in the school. The pink collar—which you'll be wearing starting tomorrow—means your ass is available. Anyone who wants to fuck you can. Without asking permission. Without asking me. Without asking you."

The blood rushed to my face. Then it went away. My hands spread across my thighs, fingers stiff, and I felt the metal of the cage pressing against my cock, which was trying to harden but couldn't.

A shock reminds me that I can't get excited.

"Including double anal penetration," Madame Vivienne continued. "Which Big M and I highly recommend and will even mention on the bulletin board. In the final evaluation, double penetration counts double. Two cocks in the same hole, Lorenzo. Two men opening you up at the same time. It's proof that your training is complete."

He picked up the large plug from the desk and handed it to me. The silicone was cold. Heavy. The broad base filled my palm.

"Put it on," he said. "Now. Here. I want to see if you've learned to relax."

I rose from my chair. My hands were shaking. I pulled my leggings down to my knees, my T-shirt up to my waist, and stood there in front of her desk, my ass bare, the red collar around my neck, the silver cage between my thighs. Madame Vivienne didn't look away. She leaned back and crossed her arms.

I spit on the plug. I had no lube. I ran my wet fingers between my butt cheeks, found the hole, and pressed it. The first finger entered with a resistance I knew—the same as the first time, when Big M had spread me open with his fingers before taking my mouth. But this time it was different. This time I knew what to expect. The second finger entered more easily. The third almost painlessly.

Then I took the plug. I placed it against the opening. I pushed.

My head went in. The rest didn't. My body tightened, my back arched, my hands gripped the edge of the desk. Madame Vivienne didn't move. She didn't help me. She didn't say anything. She waited.

Breathing I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth, just like Big M taught me.

"Good," said Madame Vivienne. "Turn it around. Let me see."

I turned around. The plug moved inside me, and I felt every inch of silicone pressing against the walls of my ass. The black base protruded between my buttocks, the gold ring glinting in the desk light.

"You'll keep it in all day," she said. "Even when you walk. Even when you eat. Even when you sleep. Tomorrow morning, at seven, you'll show up here. With the pink collar. And with the next size plug already in."

She stood up. The black suit moved with her like a shadow. She approached, took my chin between two fingers—her manicured nails, her skin cool—and lifted my face to hers.

"Do you understand, Lorenzo?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Repeat."

"Starting tomorrow, I'll be wearing a pink collar. My ass is available to all the men in school. Even for double penetration."

"AND?"

"And I'll keep the plug in all day. And tomorrow I'll put in a bigger one."

He let go of my chin. He went back behind the desk. He opened the drawer again—the bottom, deeper one—and pulled out a collar. Pink. The same leather, the same silver buckle, but the color was a pale pink, almost flesh-colored, and the gold tag was blank. There was still no writing on it.

"You'll wear it starting tomorrow morning," he said. "We'll decide on the inscription later. You have to earn it first."

She placed the pink collar on the desk, next to the remaining plugs. Then she pressed a button on the computer. The screen went dark. The data had been saved. My week with the red collar was archived, closed, transformed into numbers.

"Go," he said. "And walk slowly. I want you to feel every step."

I left the office with the plug in. Every step was a pressure, a movement, a memory. The service stairs took me to the students' floor, where the bunk beds and metal lockers were. No one looked at me. The other kids—those who hadn't yet had the collar, those who had arrived after me—lowered their eyes as I passed. The red collar around my neck said all there was to say. The pink collar I would wear tomorrow would say the rest.

I lay down on the bed. The plug pressed against the mattress, against my buttocks, against every nerve in my body. I closed my eyes. The bracelet on my wrist vibrated once—the chip that recorded my position, my rest, my silence.

I thought of the pink collar. I thought of the open ass offered to anyone who wanted it.

I thought about double penetration, which was double the value, that Madame Vivienne and Big M highly recommended. I thought of two cocks in the same hole, two men stretching me at the same time, and my cock, locked in the cage, hardened until it hurt against the metal... an electric shock inexorably goes off, making me jump, bringing me back to reality.

I couldn't touch myself. The chip would have registered it. The bracelet would have flashed red, and Madame Vivienne would have known. But the thought was mine. The thought didn't register.

Tomorrow morning, at seven, with the pink collar around my neck.

I closed my eyes. The plug throbbed inside me, a second heart beating in the wrong place.

Outside, the courtyard was beginning to lighten. The first shift in the mess hall was about to begin. In an hour, the men would be coming in for breakfast.

At a quarter to seven, the janitor returned. He didn't knock. He opened the dormitory door and stood in the doorway, his figure held up to the light, his large hand resting on the jamb. He didn't say my name. He nodded with his chin—"Come!"—and I got out of bed, the plug moving inside me like an extra vertebra.

The hallway was empty. The other kids had already left. I walked past the metal lockers, past the showers, past the frosted-glass dining hall door. The janitor walked ahead of me, without turning around, and he knew I was following. He knew it from the sound of my footsteps. The plug forced me to walk at a different pace—shorter, slower, my thighs touching with every step—and he listened. He didn't tell me to hurry. He just let me walk.

He stopped in front of Madame Vivienne's office door. He knocked twice, with his knuckles. A voice from inside said something I didn't understand. He opened the door, let me pass, and closed it behind me.

Madame Vivienne stood at the window. The morning light cut her suit in two—black on one side, gray on the other. She didn't turn around immediately. She was looking at the courtyard, where the first men on shift were entering through the service gate, their overalls, thermoses, and lit cigarettes.

"You're three minutes late," he said.

"I'm sorry, Madame."

"It doesn't matter. The pink collar isn't yours yet." He turned. He had the pink collar in his hand, and next to it, in his palm, the gold tag. Empty. "But the plug is."

He set it on the desk. Then he opened the drawer and pulled out the next size plug—XL. I focused on it and felt my stomach tighten. It was longer. Thicker. The base was as wide as my open palm, and the black silicone had a sheen that made my current plug look like a toy.

"Take off your leggings," she said. "Get down on all fours on the carpet. And get what's inside you out."

I pulled my leggings down to my knees. The carpet was the same—dark red, short-haired, smelling of wool and cigar smoke. I got down on all fours. My hands dug into the fur. My knees found the hard floor beneath me. Then I ran a hand between my buttocks, found the gold ring, and pulled.

The plug came out with a wet sound. My ass snapped shut, empty, and I felt the emptiness like a void—my anus open like a mouth waiting for a cock. I felt the fresh air rushing in.

"Good," said Madame Vivienne. "Now open up."

She didn't touch me. She didn't help me. She sat down on the chair behind the desk, crossed her legs, and took the cigar from the ashtray. She calmly relit it. The smoke rose. I remained on all fours, my ass open to her, and waited.

"The XL plug won't fit with spit," he said. "You need something else. There's a bottle under the desk, on the right. Get it."

I reached out. The bottle was clear plastic, with a white label and some writing I couldn't read. Lubricant. I opened it. The gel was cold and thick, and I put a generous amount on my fingers. Then between my butt cheeks. The hole was still loose from the recently removed plug, and my fingers entered without resistance—two, three, four. I opened myself, in front of her, my ass in the air and my face against the carpet, and I felt the gel dripping down my perineum and between my thighs.

"Now the plug," said Madame Vivienne.

I took it. The base filled my hand. The head was wider than three fingers, and when I placed it against the opening, I felt my body tense reflexively—the same fear as the first time, the same voice in my head saying, it won't go in, it won't go in, it won't go in. I pushed. The head entered an inch and stopped. My ass squeezed it like a fist. My back arched, my arms trembled, and a sound escaped my throat—low, involuntary, almost a moan.

"Breathe," said Madame Vivienne. "Like Big M taught you."

I relaxed my ass. And pushed again. The plug slid in suddenly, whole, all the way to the base, and my body welcomed it with a sound I'd never heard before—a moan.

The base rested against my buttocks. The silicone pressed against the walls of my ass.

"Turn it around," said Madame Vivienne. "Let me see."

I turned and sat on the carpet. The plug moved inside me, and I had to brace myself to keep from falling. My legs spread, my ass full, the silver cage between my thighs. Madame Vivienne looked down at me. Then she stood up, grabbed the pink collar from the desk, and approached.

"This," he said, "is the ass collar. From now on, anyone in the school can take you from behind. Without asking. Without warning. If you're in the hallway and a man puts his hand on the back of your neck, you bend over. If you're in the cafeteria and a man pulls you by the collar, you get up and follow him. If you're on the bed and a man spreads your legs, you spread them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Repeat."

"My ass is available to anyone in the school. If a man puts his hand on the back of my neck, I bend over. If he tugs on my collar, I follow him. If he opens my legs, I open them."

"AND?"

"And thank you."

Madame Vivienne stood up. She returned to her desk. She picked up her cigar, took a puff, and looked at the computer screen—the green lines scrolling, the data from my bracelet, my week transformed into numbers. Then she pressed a key. The screen went black again.

"Go to the cafeteria," he said. "Breakfast's ready. And today it's not just your mouth that's needed."