Writing her resume

From the hallway came muffled footsteps—Tyler pacing. Kyle grinned, pressing Lydia harder against the mirror. Her breasts flattened against the cold glass. "Spread your legs," he ordered, his voice rough. She obeyed instantly. Kyle grabbed a tube of lipstick from her vanity. "Let's mark your... uniform requirements." He uncapped it with his teeth. The cherry-red stick dragged across her left breast, circling her nipple. Lydia whimpered, arching into the touch. Kyle scrawled "TOO BIG" across her cleavage in jagged letters. The lipstick snapped as he traced her ribs. "Tighten up," he growled, smearing crimson down her belly.

The marker came next—permanent, black. Kyle gripped her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh as he wrote "PROPERTY OF KYLE" in bold strokes across her lower back. Lydia gasped when he swatted her ass—hard—leaving a red handprint. The footsteps stopped outside the door. Kyle smirked, dragging the marker lower. "This," he whispered, writing "WORTHLESS" between her cheeks, "is your resume now." The ink seeped into her skin as he pressed deeper. Lydia moaned, thighs trembling. Tyler's fist pounded the door once—then silence. Kyle tossed the marker aside. It rolled under the bed, trailing black smudges.

"What does it say?" Lydia breathed, craning her neck to see the mirror. Kyle traced the words with his fingertip, smearing them. "Perfect marks," he lied smoothly. "Just says 'hire me' in fancy script." She beamed, wiggling against him. "Really? That's so professional!" Kyle chuckled darkly, spinning her to face him. Her breasts glistened with smeared lipstick, nipples pebbled tight. He palmed them roughly, watching her lips part. "Very," he agreed, thumbing a stiff peak. "Don't forget to show these to your employer" Kyle smiled, hoping to incite more humiliation to this clueless bimbo's son. Lydia nodded enthusiastically, her breasts bouncing with the movement.

Kyle smiled. Everything was going perfectly, but he didn't want to finish Lydia off just yet. He needed her for weeks to come; prolonging Tyler's humiliation was priority number one. "Alright Lydia, you need to go to your interview soon. Let's see what you can wear."

Kyle pulled out a tiny black blazer dress from her closet—micro-mini in length, barely skimming the tops of her thighs, its lapels plunging dangerously low so that her bare cleavage spilled out in scandalous display. The blazer had no buttons—just a waist-cinching belt that, when tightened, would frame her waist while pushing her tits upward obscenely. He held it up with a wolfish grin. "Try this. No bra. That's how high-class hostesses dress."

Lydia clapped her hands like a delighted child, oblivious to the gleam in Kyle's eyes as she shimmied into the outfit. The stretchy fabric clung to every curve, the gaping lapels barely containing her bouncing breasts. Kyle adjusted the belt brutally tight, making her gasp as her tits jutted forward, nipples peeking through the thin material. "Perfect," he murmured, spinning her toward the mirror. "Now the finishing touch." From his pocket, he produced a delicate gold chain—a collar, really—and fastened it around her throat. The pendant rested directly on her cleavage, drawing attention downward.

"Oh, Kyle!" Lydia sighed, stroking the chain. Her fingers brushed the engraved tag: *KYLE'S WHORE*. "It's so elegant!" She beamed at him, eyelashes fluttering. Kyle's lips twitched as he imagined Tyler's face when he spotted it. Lydia turned in a slow circle, the dress riding up to expose her bare ass cheeks. "Do I look... polished?" she asked, biting her lip. Kyle gripped her hips from behind, grinding against her. "Professional enough to make every man at that yacht club forget his drink order," he growled.

Kyle lifted his arm up and let it down against her backside - hard. His palm cracked against her ass—sharp, stinging—leaving a fresh red print over last night's tan lines. Lydia yelped but arched back into the contact, her thongless cunt pressing against his hardening cock through his jeans. Kyle traced the welt with his fingertips before delivering another slap—harder this time. She shuddered, her breath hitching. "Go on," he murmured, giving her a final shove toward the door. "Wouldn't want to be late."

The hallway was empty—no Tyler lurking by the stairs, no furious footsteps pounding toward them. Just the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint scent of chlorine from the pool out back. Kyle smirked. Tyler had either stormed out or was sulking somewhere, impotent. Either way, the field was clear. He watched Lydia wobble toward the front door on six-inch stilettos, her ass jiggling with each step. The blazer dress clung to every curve, the split riding up to expose her bare cheeks whenever she moved.