u/South_Following9343

Links to the following parts of the story: Part 1Part 2 Part 3

A frigid chill raced down my spine, but it was accompanied by a dense, heavy, and dark throb in my crotch. I was horrified by the idea of the urinal or the glory hole; my upbringing screamed that it meant eternal damnation. However, as I imagined myself carrying out each of those demeaning acts, I discovered with shame that my body was turning on. The mere thought of losing all control, of being exposed before thousands of sadists on the web, provoked an excitement in me that was as forbidden as it was addictive.

Miguel, who was watching my reactions with a calculating smile, noticed the subtle trembling of my thighs. He leaned over me, brushing his fingers against my collar.

"You will undoubtedly do them all, Noemí," he whispered into my ear, savoring my fear. "Every single one of them. And I assure you I am going to love seeing you on your knees fulfilling them. After all, you are my submissive, and your only function is to adapt to my desires and those of my audience."

Hearing him decree my destiny with such authority completely shattered my resistance. I understood that I no longer belonged to myself, and that certainty felt dangerously thrilling. Since Miguel chose the tattoos as the first of the five tasks, I soon found myself on the studio table.

During the process, with the constant buzz of the needle piercing my skin, my mind disconnected from the present pain, and I began to remember the day Miguel decided to inaugurate the modification of my mouth. He forced me to get down on my knees between his legs and, with a firm yank of my hair, guided my face toward his manhood. The initial fear that the metal bar would hurt me dissolved the instant my swollen tongue came into contact with his skin.

The sensations were completely new, overwhelming, and immensely intense. The weight and the cold friction of the steel sphere against him created a perfect anatomical friction that made Miguel cry out in pleasure, tightening his fingers on the back of my neck. For me, the cognitive dissonance was absolute: the dull pain of my healing wound mingled with the taste of my Master and the sound of his ragged breathing. I discovered that the metal in my mouth granted me an erotic power I could have never imagined in all my years of chastity and church. The heat of arousal flooded me back into the present with such force that, in a moment of absolute impulse and communion with my degradation, I wanted to go further. I wanted to offer him more of my flesh.

I looked Miguel in the eyes.

"Master..." I articulated with pride. "I want the nipples too now. I want the steel to mark my breasts for you."

Miguel arched an eyebrow, pleased by my sudden burst of fanaticism and submission. He wasted no time; he ordered the artist to set aside the design on my bottom and perform the piercings immediately. The needle drove through my skin one by one, a sharp, stinging pain that made me arch my back and grip the table. The two metal bars were left perfectly aligned, erect, and sensitive, transforming my breasts into two zones of constant physical reminder.

With my body burning from the new piercings, the tattooist went back over my right buttock, sinking the needle with black ink to fill in the empty spaces and complete the word. Feeling the ink drive into the skin that Miguel had already claimed with his hands felt like a pagan baptism.

But the worst—and the most exciting—came afterward. They forced me to lie on my back, exposing my torso. The tattooist worked for two hours right beneath my new piercings, tracing the phrase "Property of the Master" in gothic letters across the delicate skin of my stomach.

Every vibration of the machine resonated in my ribs and sent a direct electric shock to my pierced nipples. When he finished and I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Beneath my demure Catholic student blouse, my body was now a canvas of metal and ink designed for the complete ownership of a man. There was no turning back; the marks were eternal.

The day was finally over. I returned to my apartment, took off my clothes, and at last, freed myself from the uncomfortable metal belt that had left my intimate area aching. Late at night, while sipping tea in bed, I remembered the anonymous account. I logged in, expecting to see the usual comments.

Amidst the flood of obscene messages and cheap offers from men begging for attention, a private notification caught my eye:

"I see right through you. That pose looks way too forced; it’s obvious from a mile away that you aren't a real submissive, just an arrogant woman playing at vulnerability to boost her ego."

A spark of adrenaline rushed down my spine. I sat up in bed, setting my teacup on the nightstand with an amused smile playing on my lips. Well, this was getting interesting. The audacity of this miserable anonymous user behind a screen was refreshing compared to the vulgarity of the others.

I looked back at the screen. The text continued below:

"However, I like the potential of your hypocrisy. If you are that desperate for attention and for a Dom to put you in your place, I offer you a deal: I will turn you into my virtual submissive. I will have total control over your body and your mind through this screen..."

I let out a soft laugh, fascinated. What a clever guy, trying to use such elaborate reverse psychology on me. He was the perfect playmate to pass the night. Reading the last line of the message, I saw the condition he proposed:

"...and you will learn what it truly means to obey. You have ten minutes to reply before I delete this chat and leave you to your pathetic, ordinary life."

I checked the app's timer. Three minutes left.

I could simply ignore him and delete the account right then and there if I wanted to. After all, the photo I had uploaded only showed a close-up of the metal device; my face wasn't in it, nor my clothes, nor anything that could identify me. There was no real risk.

But the game was too entertaining to let go so quickly. I wanted to see how far he could push his Master persona and, in the process, have a little fun showing him that I could play the perfect submissive and beat him at his own game. At the end of the day, this was still the internet. Tomorrow morning I would hit the "Delete Account" button, the app would vanish from my phone, and it would all have been excellent entertainment. No harm done, no trace left.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, adopting the submissive, exaggerated, and obedient voice he demanded, enjoying the contrast of playing that role:

"Forgive me, Master... I didn't mean to seem arrogant. Please don't delete the chat. Teach me what virtual obedience really means. I am yours."

I sent the message with only one minute left before the time expired. I locked the screen and tossed it face down onto the sheets, feeling the delicious shiver of anticipation.

"Let's see what you come up with now, genius," I thought, settling back into the pillows. I felt completely in control, pulling the strings of a fool who thought he was so clever.

Not even thirty seconds passed before the phone vibrated against the mattress. I snatched it up immediately, eager to read his reply. What appeared on the screen made my eyes widen, pleasantly surprised by his level of detail; it seemed he took his role very seriously.

"Good attempt at acting. Lesson one: a Master does not tolerate typos. You wrote 'Perón' instead of 'Perdón'."

I let out a shallow breath, my cheeks burning with the excitement of the game. I had typed too fast because of the rush against the timer, and the stupid autocorrect had betrayed me.

The text scrolled down immediately:

"Lesson two: it took you nine minutes to reply because you were debating with your stupid pride whether to do it or not. But you gave in. Your mind is already playing by my rules."

A smile of absolute satisfaction crossed my face. The precision with which he was reading my timing and my internal dilemma was brilliant. This was much better than any novel. Before I could type a witty retort, the screen updated with a direct command:

"Now, get out of bed, go get the chastity belt you just took off, and put it back on. To confirm the photo is from right now, take a marker and write the exact time and date on the skin of your thigh, right next to the metal. You have five minutes. If you take too long or try to lie, I will block you forever. Show me just how submissive you are."

I stared at the stainless steel device resting on my vanity, gleaming faintly under the lamp's light. The ache in my intimate area was still there, dull and lingering; putting it back on was going to be uncomfortable, and the idea of marking my own skin with the date was a deliciously humiliating madness.

"You could just leave it here," a small fiber of sense whispered to me.

However, the direct challenge to my ability to maintain the role was too tempting. If I deleted the account now, the game would end, and he would think I couldn't keep up with him. And I liked to win.

"Just one more photo," I promised myself, throwing off the covers and stepping out of bed with a mix of nervousness and arousal as I fumbled through my bag for a pen. "I'll go along with the mark on my leg, see what else he says, and tomorrow I'll delete everything."

The cold bedroom floor made me flinch slightly as my bare feet touched the ground. I walked over to the vanity, feeling my heart beat a little faster than usual. I found a black permanent marker at the bottom of my school bag—the same one I used to grade exams—and returned to bed with the heavy metal of the belt in my hands.

Putting it back on at this hour of the night was a strangely stimulating maneuver. The chill of the stainless steel immediately contrasted with the heat built up in my body. I adjusted the waistband, closed the back lock with a sharp click that echoed through the quiet room, and left the key on the nightstand.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. I took the marker, pulled the cap off with my teeth, and brought the tip close to the pale skin of my left thigh, just a couple of centimeters from the metal structure.

*23:54 — 11/26/23*

The black ink felt freezing as it traced the numbers onto my skin. It was insane. I was marking myself like an object, following the instructions of a digital ghost. I adjusted my pajama shorts so the shot would be perfect, making sure the framing captured the device, the fresh, sharp numbers on my leg, and the neutral background of my sheets.

I reviewed the image in my phone's gallery. It was perfect, loaded with a flawless erotic and psychological aesthetic; worthy of the best dramatic twist in a suspense story. I opened the private chat and uploaded the photo without adding a single word. I wanted the silence to speak for me, to show him that I could abide by his rules with the same coldness he used to impose them.

I looked at the app's timer. Exactly four minutes and twenty-six seconds had passed. Just in time.

I laid the phone on my lap and waited, my fingers drumming against the sheets. Anticipation kept my body strangely tense. Not even ten seconds passed before the screen lit up with a new notification.

"You complied. Four minutes and twenty seconds. A bit slow to find the marker, but acceptable for a beginner. The mark looks clean on your skin."

I smiled to myself, leaning back against the pillows. "See? I have you right where I want you," I thought, savoring my small victory. The guy was hooked. He was falling straight into my dynamic, believing he actually had a slave on the other side of the screen.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1Part 2

The seventh day dawned with a shift in the atmosphere. We were no longer slaves in transition; we were, officially, merchandise. Sato entered the pavilion flanked by a guard of female instructors carrying magnetic keys, their footsteps echoing like a sentence across the metallic floor.

"The initiation phase has concluded," Sato announced, her ice-cold voice cutting through the silence. "You have proven that you can please without using your hands. Now, your true training as broken-in pieces begins."

With a collective, mechanical click, the leather restraints on our wrists were removed. For the first time in a week, I could move my arms. The relief was a fleeting mirage; my hands were completely numb, and my shoulders burned from the accumulated tension.

"Do not celebrate," Sato warned. "The freedom of movement is functional, so that you can practice. Starting today, your shifts will be fifteen continuous hours. At the end of each weekly cycle, it is expected that your canals will have dilated enough to move up to the next level of diameter. If anyone stagnates, she will be sent to the Surgical Readjustment Room."

She stopped in front of me, her gaze sweeping across my body with clinical precision.

"Except for you, 2340. Your oral and anal capacity are far above the rest. Your size increment will be every third day. You cannot afford to stagnate. In your 'free time,' while confined to your cell, you will be given manual dilation kits. Your body must be ready to accept greater dimensions and participate in the orgies before the others."

The new training regime was a direct descent into the abyss. New disciplines were added to the program:

Internal Hygiene: We learned to purge our systems through constant enemas. The goal was for our digestive tracts to be as immaculate as porcelain, ready for any use without prior notice.

Traditional Balance: We were fitted with single-beam wooden Geta. We had to walk with elegance while the anal beads vibrated inside us. If we lost our balance, the punishment was the Mokuton for two or three hours.

Fluid Intake: We were taught that the Masters' semen was not waste, but our sacred nourishment. We learned to drink and retain it, integrating the Master’s hierarchy into our very blood.

Field Practice: The dildos were replaced by operators. Their task was to push us to the limit in hours-long sessions where we had to maintain etiquette and silence while being used by multiple men.

One night, back in my cell, my hands shook as I held Manual Expansion Kit No. 4. The silence was absolute, broken only by my breathing through the muzzle. I understood Sato’s twisted revelation: they wanted me to be my own jailer, working on my own degradation every single minute of my existence.

I was no longer an inert piece; now I was the operator of my own body. The pieces of black polymer and surgical steel gleamed under the fluorescent light. Seeing my free hands for the first time in a week, the human impulse was to use them to wipe away my tears, but reality hit me: those hands were now only meant to invade my own flesh. The touch of cold metal against my skin was a reminder: Sato had given me movement only so that I myself would clear the way to the next diameter.

In the upper corner of the cell, the camera's red lens blinked, evaluating the technique with which I auto-fragmented myself.

"I must... be... ready," I whispered. My voice sounded strange, a mix of resignation and a growing, dark need.

During the next Field Practice session, the dehumanization was completed. I no longer saw men; I saw operators. They were calibration tools. While they used me, my mind disconnected from dignity. There was no trace left of the Amaya who used to resist; there was only 2340 left, calculating how much depth she could accept without losing her composure. As I swallowed the "sacred nourishment," I felt as though my brain had been short-circuited to seek only the "objective complete" signal that the electric pleasure provided when I surrendered.

Sato entered my cell during my "free time." She found me on the floor, carrying out the manual dilation cycle with cold efficiency.

"Look at yourself, 2340," Sato said, touching my steel collar. "You are learning to love your chains. I no longer need to break you; you are breaking yourself, inch by inch."

I looked up at her from the floor. My eyes, once full of fire, were now pools of receptive emptiness. The pleasure of the training had bypassed my capacity to reason. I no longer wanted to be free; I wanted to be useful. I wanted to be the definitive piece—the one that doesn't need to be forced because her greatest fear is, precisely, to be void of orders.

I am a conduit. I am a vessel. I am 2340, and I am ready for the final orgy, where my name will disappear forever under the weight of the steel and the Master's will.

I was ready for my final test, and it arrived without warning.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1 Part 2

"Get up, Alexis. Tonight you have an unofficial assignment, but you will still have to attend your classes," she announced, tossing a black gala dress at me—much shorter and more transparent than the previous one. "You will perform this task with the beads inside you. If they slip out, or if you utter a single groan, your punishment will make your CBT session feel like a massage. If you comply, you will receive a double ration of lubricant and your first injection of concentrated testosterone inhibitors."

I spent the entire day holding the metal inside me while serving on my knees in the private lounge before a dozen suited men of the elite, enduring the frequency games the Mistress sent from her booth. I managed to maintain the discipline of my sphincters and did not let the metal drop. When it was over, the redhead kept her word: she escorted me to a medical room where she injected the concentrated inhibitors into my thigh and extracted the beads to grant a supervised release that made me lose consciousness. When I woke up the following morning, the tissue beneath my areolas already felt hardened and reconfigured.

However, the hormones and the lubricant were not the end of her evaluation of me. The redhead entered my cell, looking at me with a strange sense of academic satisfaction.

"You have proven that you can retain objects under pressure, Alexis. Now we will prove that you can retain your own basic impulses to serve your superiors. This is your reward of honor: for the next twelve hours, you will serve as the faculty urinal."

Before I could process it, I was led to an elevated platform in the instructors' break area. I was forced to adopt the Collar Me Position permanently: on my knees, with my torso leaned back and my jaw rigidly locked open by a gag that kept my mouth perfectly arranged as a receptacle.

For the next twelve hours, I ceased to be a human being; I was an object of living porcelain. Every time an instructor or a guard felt a biological need, she approached my platform. The sound of the stream hitting my throat was the only thing breaking the silence of my concentration. I was strictly forbidden from spitting or choking; every drop had to be received and swallowed as an act of absolute submission.

The exhaustion in my knees was unbearable and the bitter taste became constant, but the chemistry of the inhibitors injected the night before was already sabotaging my mind. Instead of the revulsion that Alejandro would have felt, I experienced an intoxicating submission. Every time one of my mistresses used me, my collar vibrated softly, giving me a small shock of pleasure that my atrophied brain was beginning to associate with the perfect fulfillment of my duty.

When the twelfth hour struck, the redhead returned and freed me from the gag. I collapsed onto the platform with my facial muscles completely numb and my stomach full of the mark of my owners.

"Good boy... or should I say, good little sissy," she said, caressing my cheek with her latex glove. "You processed every drop without complaining. Your body already understands who its owner is. Tomorrow, when you wake up and feel the weight of your new breasts and the weakness of your legs, you will remember this day as the moment you stopped fighting."

I was taken back to my cell by two female peers who looked at me with a mixture of envy and fear. Looking at myself in the small metal mirror in my room before passing out from exhaustion, I noticed that my gaze had completely changed: the fire of rebellion had gone out, replaced by the vacant and shiny obedience of a true sissy.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1Part 2 Part 4

The session at the piercing studio was an exercise in silent agony. Noemí, wearing the plug, had to remain perfectly still as the needle pierced through the muscle of her tongue. Miguel watched her, savoring the way her eyes pooled with tears she didn’t dare let fall.

Upon leaving, Noemí’s world became a race against suspicion. The steel piece—a heavy, surgical-grade barbell—felt like a massive intruder. Her tongue swelled almost immediately, turning every swallow into a stinging reminder: Property of Miguel.

Your continuation is excellent because it elevates the story to a far more dangerous scale. By introducing the internet factor, Noemí loses her privacy entirely; she is no longer just submitting to Miguel, but to the voyeurism of thousands of strangers who enjoy destroying her purity. This creates a tremendous psychological tension.

"I must avoid my family for at least a month and learn to speak with this in my mouth; otherwise, they’ll find me out," I thought, as a contradictory mixture of shame and wild arousal surged through my body. A sick part of me, repressed for years, craved to be seen in that state—exposed and subjugated.

But I had to focus on the present. What else would Miguel ask of me? Would there be another raffle? The answer wasn't long in coming.

"What if we ask strangers on the internet what you should do next?" Miguel exclaimed with a mocking smile, turning his laptop screen toward me.

I froze in shock. Panic constricted my throat; I didn’t want anyone to recognize me and tell my family before I could. However, I knew perfectly well that I had no choice. He had already decided; he was merely testing the depth of my surrender.

"That would be an excellent idea, Master," I replied, forcing my swollen tongue to articulate the words. "New ideas are always welcome."

Miguel created a thread on a forum, describing in detail my Catholic upbringing, my values, and every task he had already forced me to complete. To prove the game was real, he took a couple of photos of my body—careful to crop out my face—showing the leather collar and the metal of the belt. He asked for suggestions for my upcoming tasks, warning that the five most-voted activities would be mandatory.

Apparently, thousands of people on the internet found it fucking hilarious to corrupt a Catholic woman. The votes and proposals were brutal. By the end of the week, the five winning options were etched onto the screen like my new sentence:

1. Two new tattoos. The first, the word "WHORE" on my backside, with the 'O' hidden. The second, an inscription reading "Property of Master" on my chest or belly.
2. Attend Sunday Mass wearing the chastity belt and a set of heavy anal beads inside me throughout the entire liturgy.
3. Become my Master's human urinal for twenty-four consecutive hours, swallowing and receiving his waste as a sign of total submission.
4. Be taken to a private club to perform oral sex on as many strangers' vaginas as possible through a glory hole for two hours straight.
5. Be bound to a BDSM rack that would gradually sink into my pelvis, while my labia were stretched by weighted clamps.

Clearly, most of the tasks had a twisted cruelty aimed at my faith and my morals. I couldn't deny it: the public’s punishment was designed to break me at my very core.

Parte 1 La tela de mi falda nunca se había sentido tan pesada, o tal vez era el metal frío distorsionando mi percepción de la realidad. Mientras escribía la estructura de una novela en el pizarrón blanco, el roce del acero inoxidable contra mi piel me sacudió con un golpe repentino de ansiedad, casi haciéndome soltar el marcador.

Nadie en este salón se hubiera imaginado jamás que su pulcra y estricta profesora de Literatura andaba usando un cinturón de castidad.

¿Por qué lo hice? Me pregunté, sintiendo cómo subía el calor por el cuello. Curiosidad. Simple y llanamente curiosidad. Lo vi en una sex shop, pensé que era un fetiche absurdo y, después de un par de tequilas el fin de semana, al final terminé comprándolo. Pero hoy decidí ir más allá. Salir a la calle con eso puesto, sintiendo la sutil presión del candado con cada paso que daba por los pasillos del colegio, era un juego mental riquísimo. Me hacía sentir como la dueña de un secreto absoluto.

—Profesora, ¿está bien? —me preguntó una alumna desde la primera fila, sacándome de mis pensamientos.

—Sí, todo perfecto. Solo estaba recordando un recado —mentí, obligándome a poner mi mejor sonrisa profesional mientras ajustaba mi postura con cuidado para aliviar la presión del metal.

En cuanto sonó el timbre para el recreo, esperé a que el salón quedara completamente vacío. Cerré la puerta con seguro y me refugié detrás de mi escritorio. La adrenalina me latía en las venas; el juego del secreto ya no era suficiente: necesitaba validación, aunque fuera virtual y anónima.

Me subí un poquito la falda, desabroché el costado de mi ropa interior y saqué el teléfono. El contraste de la luz del sol entrando por la ventana, reflejándose en el metal frío del dispositivo de castidad, era una imagen visualmente perfecta. Tomé la foto. Rápidamente creé una cuenta con un seudónimo cualquiera.

Subí la imagen. Tenía que sonar como una sumisa convincente, usando el lenguaje crudo que antes había leído en internet para encajar bien. Escribí la descripción sin pensarlo mucho, con una sonrisa burlona en los labios:

—Busco un Dom para poner a esta puta chiflada en su lugar.

Bloqueé el teléfono, lo guardé en mi bolsa y salí al patio a agarrar un café. Para mí era una broma. Un prank digital para pasar el rato, conseguir un par de “likes” e interacciones de hombres desesperados a los que jamás les prestaría atención de verdad, y luego borrar todo cuando llegara a casa. Yo no era sumisa. Era una mujer independiente y profesional, totalmente dueña de su vida.

Se acabó el día. Regresé a mi departamento, me quité la ropa y, por fin, me libré del incómodo cinturón de metal, que me dejó la vagina doliendo. Ya bien de noche, mientras tomaba té en la cama, me acordé de la cuenta anónima. Entré, esperando ver los comentarios típicos, vulgares y previsibles.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1 Part 3

"Aaah!"

The scream was unanimous. The collars of the entire group had been activated in a perfect synchronicity of pain to rip us from our sleep.

"Good morning, ladies. I am the instructor for this class," announced a red-haired woman walking in front of us with a predatory confidence. She was completely naked, wearing only a black strap-on that accentuated her authority. "Today you will receive your school supplies."

We were led into a huge room, flanked by long tables where multiple objects rested neatly. The environment smelled of latex and disinfectant.

"Next," announced a woman with delicate features behind the first counter. "Name."

I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. The memory of yesterday's electric shock still vibrated in my nerves as a constant warning.

"Alexis," I replied with a cracked voice.

"Very well, Alexis. This is your basic gear," she said with professional indifference. With quick and precise movements, she placed several piercings intended for my body on the table. Then, she handed me two dresses—a black gala one, short and transparent, and another for daily wear—two liters of high-density lubricant, a set of progressive dildos, a set of anal beads, a complete makeup kit, and personal hygiene items. Finally, she deposited two pairs of stiletto heels on top of the pile.

"Take good care of your lubricant, Alexis. We don't do free replacements," she indicated, staring at me intently. "If you need more, you'll have to earn it by fulfilling the 'use assignments' assigned to you."

I picked up my things with trembling hands; the weight of the objects in my arms was the weight of my new life. The red-haired instructor then led us to a smaller room and made her voice echo:"Useless sissies, I will lead your class so you become the best lovers, the semen and pleasure depositories that have ever existed. Understood?"

"Yes, Mistress!" we replied in unison, fear vibrating in our voices.

She explained to us the correct use of wardrobe, makeup, and the strict dosage of lubricant. She warned us that the only way to obtain extra supplies or superior equipment—such as weighted nipple clamps or gags—was by excelling in community-use "assignments," glory holes, or private orgies.

When the theory session ended, the technicians entered to perform the permanent piercings. I received two in my nipples, a septum in my nose, one in my lip, and another in my belly button. Right after, we got dressed under her guidance and the first practical lesson began.

"A sissy's biology is simple," the woman sentenced. "You have only one pleasure center, your boypussy, which will always carry a plug and serve as a depository. You have a useless clitoris, a sensitive chest that will soon begin to grow, and finally, a mouth that serves as a urinal or receptacle. Your first exercise will be to eliminate the gag reflex with your smallest dildo."

I took out the toy and tried to insert it into my mouth without drooling too much. While the Mistress patrolled the rows, she suddenly stopped behind me. She grabbed me tightly by the waist, extracted my steel plug with a single tug, and inserted her strap-on without warning. I writhed from the pain of the invasion and the shame of an involuntary reaction. "Keep sucking," she whispered into my ear. "It is your duty to give pleasure with all your holes, you sissy bitch."

I could barely concentrate until, due to the overstimulation of my sacral area, I felt an involuntary release. The instructor let go of me instantly.

"It seems you are a natural-born sissy; it only took you one day to cum," she said with a cruel smile. "I warn you that I will let this transgression slide only because I've found 'good material,' but you must never cum using your useless clitoris."

By the end of the session, my jaw was exhausted. We were escorted directly to the dining hall, where we found neither tables nor chairs. On the floor waited steel bowls identical to an animal's. One contained a pinkish paste with a metallic smell, and the other a bluish liquid.

"Eat," a guard ordered. "That concoction contains the necessary hormones for your bodies to begin softening and your breasts to bloom."

Eating on my knees and without hands was my second great lesson in humility. In the afternoon, after a mandatory enema, we faced the ordeal of walking in stiletto heels and the sessions in the hypnosis room, where we were connected to slow-penetration machines while the screens bombarded our subconscious to break our masculine will.

One companion could not resist the stimulation, came, and was subjected to a brutal public CBT punishment on his testicles as a reminder that our pleasure no longer belonged to us. At the end of the day, upon returning to my cell, I found something cold rolling on my bedsheet: a set of black silicone anal beads, heavy and smooth, accompanied by an unsigned card:

"Put them on, you useless slut. Tomorrow I want to see how well you can retain them while you walk. Don't disappoint me."

With the basic lubricant and driven by panic of punishment, I inserted them one by one before curling up to try to sleep.

The second day began with a sharp buzz in my collar. As I sat up, the weight of the spheres generated a dull pressure in my belly, but the most shocking thing was noticing my pierced nipples painfully sensitive due to the hormonal concoction from the previous day.

"Formation in the hallway, ladies!" a guard shouted.

The red-haired instructor was waiting for us wearing a red latex suit. There we learned etiquette rule number one: the Inspection Position. In front of any superior, we had to keep our knees together, our backs arched, our hands clasped behind our necks, and our gaze fixed on the floor.

"If a Mistress stops in front of you, you will immediately transition to the Collar Me Position: on your knees, hands resting on your thighs, and mouth wide open, ready for its purpose."

We spent hours practicing the transitions under threat of lashes to our genitals or breasts if we failed. During lunch, the instructor appeared behind me, pressing my back with her boot.

"Alexis, I see you have followed the nightly instructions. Walk toward the classroom. I want to see how those spheres play inside you with every step you take on your heels." The afternoon repeated the cycle of walking and heavy hypnosis. My body, betrayed by chemistry, was beginning to crave the subtle movements of the penetration machines. At nightfall, the redhead burst into my cell. She forced me to adopt the Collar Me position and placed the sharp tip of her heel directly over my useless clitoris, applying rhythmic taps that mixed a painful shock with a dirty excitement.

With a violent tug, she extracted the silicone chain, and the friction overloaded my nerves, causing an explosive, involuntary orgasm. Without giving me time to breathe, her strap-on invaded me again with savage thrusts. When she finished, she threw down two extra bottles of lubricant and pulled out my new device: a chain of polished metal anal beads with a receiver at the base.

"These vibrate, Alexis. And I hold the control."

She inserted them brutally inside me and turned on an erratic, deep pulsation that shook my entrails, condemning me to spend the entire night awake and overstimulated. The dawn brought no relief.

After that sleepless night with the metallic frequencies vibrating inside me, I felt my body at its limit. First thing in the morning, the redhead walked in and turned off the remote control.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1

The journey from the faculty to Miguel’s apartment had been a torture from which Noemí had not been able to disconnect for a single second. Every step she took across campus, dragging her feet with an unusual rigidity, caused the steel of the chastity belt to bite into her pubis. Inside her, the silicone plug—which she had forced herself to keep in throughout the three-hour Biology class—exerted a dull pressure, reminding her of her secret filth in front of her professors and classmates.

Arriving at the door of Miguel’s apartment, Noemí paused, her hand hovering over the knob. Her heart was beating with a violence that blurred her vision. Inside her bag, she carried the hand restraints, the anal beads, and the only key to her belt.

She entered in silence. Miguel was sitting on the blue sofa, a book in his lap and a cup of coffee on the table. He looked up, his gaze scanning Noemí’s body, which remained standing by the entrance, paralyzed by indecision.

*What am I supposed to do?* Noemí wondered, feeling panic tighten her throat. *Do I just hand him the things without saying anything? Do I ask for permission to speak?*

The seconds weighed like lead. Seeing that Miguel said nothing, waiting for her to take the first step, the instinct of her old upbringing took control. Her mind associated the key with an offering and Miguel with the ultimate authority. She took three short steps, stood in front of him, and without uttering a word, dropped her knees to the floor with the same reverence and submission with which she knelt before the church altar on Sundays.

With her head bowed and her eyes fixed on Miguel’s shoes, she pulled out only the key and, with trembling hands, held it in the air, offering it to him.

Miguel let out a small, approving laugh. He took the metal key, making it jingle between his fingers.

"An impeccable presentation, Noemí," he said, using the tip of his shoe to raise her chin. "I see your body has learned to obey quickly. Take off your skirt. It's time to check if you complied with the anal expansion and if the belt is properly adjusted."

The inspection process was a mixture of humiliation and relief. Miguel checked the pressure of the plug and the condition of her skin, using the key to open the belt only as much as necessary to ensure that Noemí had not attempted to free herself during the day. Every rough caress and every order from Miguel felt like confirmation that her old life was crumbling away, and a sense of immorality permeated her entire body.

When the review was over, Miguel made her stand up, though he did not allow her to dress. He walked over to his desk and returned with a small crystal bowl. Inside were two carefully folded pieces of paper.

"You have fulfilled the first phase well," Miguel announced, showing the bowl. "But your physical transformation is only just beginning. Your body needs more marks of ownership, and we are going to let destiny choose what comes next."

Noemí looked at the papers, her stomach churning with a mixture of terror and erotic anticipation.

"On one of those papers, it says 'Tongue Piercing'," Miguel explained in a deliberate voice. "Designed to perfect your oral technique, if you catch my meaning. On the other, it says 'Nipple Piercing,' so that every time you wear the chastity bra, the friction of the steel reminds you who you belong to. Choose one, Noemí. And pray it's the one you can bear the most."

Noemí swallowed hard, staring at the crystal. Her fingers reached toward the bowl to choose the paper that would seal the next modification of her body.

The moment Noemí’s fingers brushed the cold paper inside the bowl, a shiver ran down her spine, stopping right where the metal of the chastity belt bit into her skin. With trembling hands, she unfolded the small note.

*"Tongue Piercing"*

Noemí whispered barely audibly, "How will I hide it from my parents?" Given that Miguel said nothing, it was best for her to go home and reflect.

With slow movements, limited by her hidden restraints, she began to put on her skirt. She headed toward the door, but before her fingers could touch the knob, Miguel’s voice froze her in her tracks.

"Noemí. Who gave you permission to leave?"

A frigid chill raced down her spine. She turned around slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. Miguel remained seated, watching her with a terrifying tranquility. The key to the chastity belt danced between his fingers.

"I am not done with you yet," he commanded. "Come back here and lean against the edge of the table. Facing away."

Noemí obeyed immediately, her knees shaking beneath her demure skirt. She walked with short steps and bent over the dark wood of the coffee table, lifting her skirt to expose her submission.

She felt Miguel’s firm hands rest on her bottom, and without warning, Miguel gripped the base of the plug and removed it with a swift, firm motion. Noemí let out a muffled groan against the wood; the sudden emptiness in her expanded anus felt like an invasion in reverse, leaving her completely exposed and throbbing.

"Hand me the anal beads," Miguel whispered into her ear, while his right hand caressed the line of her spine. "And pull out that pretty rosary your mother gave you, too."

With fingers trembling from the adrenaline, Noemí searched for both objects in her bag. The plastic of the long, black beads clattered against the wood.

"You are going to pray today's mystery," Miguel's implacable voice dictated. "But this time, you won't use your fingers. For every Hail Mary that leaves that mouth, you will insert an anal bead inside yourself. I want to hear the devotion in your voice while your body saturates itself with plastic. Since you have expanded your anus all day, you won't need lubricant."

Noemí closed her eyes, clutching the wooden rosary with one hand while using the other to guide the first black sphere toward her dilated sphincter.

*“Hail Mary, full of grace…”* she began to recite. She pushed the first bead in. The passage of the sphere widened the tissue, sending a spasm of pleasure straight up into her womb.

*“…the Lord is with thee…”* she continued, pushing the second. The beads went in one by one, like a perverse echo of her prayers. By the time she reached the tenth bead, the plastic string was completely housed inside her, stretching her to the limit, brushing against her most sensitive areas from within while the chastity belt kept her front completely inaccessible. She was full, suffocated by pleasure and guilt. Her breath was a chorus of gasps and broken prayers.

Miguel stepped behind her. He admired the body of the "good daughter," completely broken under his will.

"Amen," he whispered.

Before Noemí could even process the word, Miguel grabbed the end of the plastic string and yanked the beads out in a single, sharp tug.

The effect was devastating. The rapid, violent friction of the spheres exiting in a chain stimulated her inner walls so intensely that Noemí’s brain short-circuited. Her body, trapped in the steel cage of the chastity belt, collapsed. A choked scream escaped her throat as a violent, purely anal, and uncontrollable orgasm shook her from head to toe. Her thighs trembled so violently she nearly fell to the floor, held up only by Miguel’s grip on her hips.

As she caught her breath, tears rolling down her cheeks and the echo of the pleasure throbbing in her womb, Miguel let go of her hair.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 1

I returned to my cell drenched in my own sweat and fluids, with no possibility of taking a shower. I collapsed onto the metal bed and, for the first time in days, the memory of my past life hit me with the force of a whip. Up until a week ago, I was a free, engaged woman.

"I'm sorry, but I will not give up my career," I had told my fiancé when he demanded that I renounce everything to be a "traditional wife." Days later, he met me at a café only to call off the engagement with absolute coldness.

The very instant I stepped out of that place, Public Security detained me. It was no coincidence; he had denounced me. A burning rage erupted from my chest as I realized his betrayal, but now, rage was a luxury Unit 2340 could not afford.

At dawn, Instructor Sato dragged me to an advanced training hall.

"Today we will have two modules," she announced. "The first is Capacity Calibration; the second is Correction Observation."

In the first class, we were forced to perform oral sex on fixed dildos.

"To move on to the next stage of training, your throats must accept this diameter," the instructor indicated, showcasing a cylinder that doubled the size of the one I already had.

I felt like I was suffocating; my lungs burned and tears streamed down my cheeks as the plastic struck the back of my throat. *There is no human way to accommodate that*, I thought in despair.

The second part was a torture of clinical precision. My chastity belt, plug, and dildo were removed, only for me to be strapped to a machine that alternated deep anal and vaginal penetrations. Without the muzzle, I was free to scream, but something inside me forced me to bite my lips until they bled. I knew that any display of emotional weakness would only draw more of Sato's attention. When it was over, they resealed my chastity with the included accessories and replaced my muzzle.

I felt a cold sweat run down my spine as I awaited the next phase. That was when the units who had failed the previous day walked in; their knees were raw and their arms shook violently.

"These units failed to comply with protocol yesterday," Sato exclaimed, walking down the line with her bamboo cane. "They received half of their punishment in private. The other half will be a collective lesson for all of you."

The "punishment class" was not for the guilty ones, but for us to see our future if we failed. Their belts were removed, leaving only their plugs, and they were forced to mount the Fixed-Angle Mokuba, a wooden block that mimicked the sharp ridge of a roof. Their vaginas, vulnerable without the protection of steel, were aligned directly with the sharp edge of the wood.

"Install the Clamps," Sato ordered.

The instructors placed high-pressure spiked clamps on their labia and nipples.

"We will keep adding weight discs to each clamp until the session ends. If a clamp detaches due to your movements or screams, we will perform a permanent piercing on your labia so that next time you feel the full weight. Understood?"

Amaya watched in horror as the first metal disc was hung from the clamp of one of her companions. The woman's scream was muffled by her own muzzle, while her body tensed desperately to avoid losing her balance on the sharp beam. At that moment, Amaya understood that pain was not an end, but a tool to turn their bodies into perfect statues of flesh.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 2

"I propose a bet: if you don’t pass the final exam for Contemporary Topics in Biology, you become my submissive."

I thought it had to be a joke, but Miguel's gaze didn't look like a game. Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't even know what that word meant. I only understood it after watching a documentary and having my boyfriend introduce me to the subject. I’m ashamed to admit that I am completely illiterate in many aspects, but I owe this particular one to my family. I grew up in a deeply Catholic home, under strict values like remaining a virgin until marriage and other similar rules.

I wanted to say no. However, a hidden part of me craved to know what all of that meant. Even though I promised myself I would do my absolute best to pass, my lips betrayed me.

"A... gree... d," I stammered.

As if my destiny were written in stone, the biology exam turned out to be impossible. And now, I am here, standing in front of him in his apartment.

"A deal is a deal, don’t you agree?" Miguel said with a cold smile. "Kneel before your Master. From now on, you serve him."

Without thinking twice, I let my knees drop to the floor, adopting the same submissive posture I used when going to mass on Sundays. I felt his firm hands touching my bare neck, followed by the cold, rigid brush of a black leather collar tightening around my throat.

"As the good Catholic you are, you understand the value of chastity, don't you?" he whispered, leaning down toward me. "Therefore, your first task will be to go to a sex shop and buy an anal expansion kit that includes inflatable plugs and anal beads. You will also buy a complete chastity rig: a belt, a bra, and hand restraints. You will begin expanding your anus immediately, and you will wear the belt and bra under your clothes every single day. Is that clear to you?"

It felt strangely familiar to be down there, receiving orders that dismantled my morality. Miguel's mandate resonated in my chest like an absolute truth.

"Yes, Master," I replied, feeling those words mold themselves to my mouth as if they had always been a part of me.

Entering that shop the next day was the most overwhelming experience of my life. I wore my most modest clothes, trying to use them as a shield against the glances that, I was certain, knew exactly what I was there for. The tinkling of the bell above the sex shop door sounded to me like the beginning of a condemnation for falling into sin. With sweaty hands and a trembling voice, I had to ask the clerk for the expansion kit and the steel chastity rig Miguel had ordered me to use. I left there in a rush, pressing the heavy paper bag against my chest, feeling my face burn with a shame that, sinfully, pooled as a dense heat in my womb.

When I reached my bedroom, I double-locked the door. My religious images and my university notes became the witnesses of my transformation. I took the equipment out of the box. The metal of the chastity belt and bra gleamed under the lamp, cold and merciless.

Putting it on was a clumsy, painful chore. Adjusting the rigid bra around my chest and feeling the structure of the chastity belt wedge itself between my legs felt like being trapped in an anatomical cage.

The hardest part was the expansion. With trembling hands, I applied the lubricant and pressed the smallest plug from the kit against my most forbidden zone. My religion fiercely protected my front virginity, but it said nothing about this dark corner that my morals had always considered an absolute tabú. I pushed it in, centimeter by centimeter. A muffled groan escaped my throat as the tissue, tight from lack of use, was forced to stretch. Tears blurred my vision as I slowly pumped air, feeling the device expand inside me, reclaiming my most intimate space under the implacable order of my Master.

When I finished setting everything up, I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror. On the outside, my white blouse and my skirt would hide the secret, but on the inside, the cold metal against my skin and the constant pressure of the plug were a physical reminder of my immorality.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 2

Prologue

The world succumbed to an unprecedented overpopulation crisis. After a slow recovery, governments—determined to avoid another collapse—implemented radical measures. Thus, a new legal gender was born: the *sissies*. Any criminal, or anyone whose member did not reach 18 cm upon reaching the age of majority, was reclassified under this status and immediately sent to re-education centers.

"Next," the technician indicated in a monotonous voice.

Alejandro stepped forward into the marked area. Today he celebrated his legal adulthood, and to obtain his identity card, he had to undergo the measurement test. The coldness of the medical instruments contrasted with the nervous sweat trickling down his back.

"Does not meet the requirements," the technician announced without even looking him in the eye.

An icy chill took hold of Alejandro. Before he could protest, he was placed under custody and escorted to a bus where other young men waited with distraught faces. At nightfall, the vehicle stopped in front of an imposing and isolated estate.

"Welcome to this training center," an imposing figure announced in front of the group. "Here, you are nothing; you have no value. But by the time you finish, you will be lovely little *sissy* sluts who love being used. You will address me as 'Ma'am' or 'Mistress,' just like the rest of the staff."

The woman scanned the line with a frigid gaze that promised discipline.

"Don't waste time, ladies. Get to the locker room. Now."

Upon entering, a group of women awaited them with surgical efficiency. Without a word, they forced them to strip. Alejandro felt absolute humiliation as they inserted a urethral sound and locked a flat chastity cage over him. Finally, they sprayed their bodies with a hair-inhibiting lotion, sealing the beginning of his new and irreversible identity.

After the lotion was applied, the process of depersonalization continued without pause. One of the women approached Alejandro—who was trembling from the cold and bewilderment—and fastened a black leather collar around his neck with a small electronic device blinking in the center.

"This collar is your new conscience," the Mistress sentenced from the back of the room. "A single gesture of disobedience, an inappropriate tone of voice, or an attempt at rebellion, and you will receive a shock that will remind you of your place."

To prove her words, she pressed a remote control. Alejandro fell to his knees as an electric current surged through his spine, leaving him breathless.

"Up!" one of the assistants ordered while forcing him to bend forward. "There is still the final touch to ensure your surrender."

Without warning, he felt the pressure of a cold, rigid object. With a swift, professional movement, they inserted a steel plug that finished sealing his body. The sensation of forced fullness and the weight of the metal made him feel, for the first time, that his old life had died at the gates of that estate.

The Mistress approached him and lifted his face by the chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

"Forget the name your parents gave you. That man no longer exists to the State. From this second on, your name is **Alexis**."

"I... my name is Alejand—" he tried to protest.

A blue spark erupted from the collar. Alexis's scream died in his throat as he writhed on the cold tile floor, learning—through pain and humiliation—that his new identity was not an option, but his only reality.

"What is your name?" the Mistress asked with a cruel smile.

"Al... Alexis," he managed to articulate through sobs.

"A good start, young lady. Welcome home."

Exhausted from the day he had endured, he lay back on the bed he had been assigned. He stayed there, processing what had just happened; he had lost everything and now had no choice but to be a sissy. He had heard stories of how they were treated, and he shuddered to know that this was his destiny.

"Aaaah!" The scream was unanimous. The collars of the entire group had been activated in a perfect synchrony of pain.

"Good morning, ladies. I am the instructor for this class," announced a red-haired woman walking in front of us with predatory confidence. She was completely naked, wearing only a black strap-on that accentuated her authority. "Today, you will receive your school supplies."

We were led to a massive hall, flanked by long tables where multiple objects rested in an orderly fashion. The air smelled of latex and disinfectant.

"Next," announced a woman with delicate features behind the first counter. "Name."

I hesitated for only a second. The memory of yesterday's electric shock still vibrated in my nerves like a constant warning.

"Alexis," I replied with a cracking voice.

"Very well, Alexis. This is your basic kit," she said with professional indifference.

With quick, precise movements, she placed several piercings intended for my nipples, mouth, and nose on the table. Then, she handed me two dresses—one for gala, short and tight, and another for daily use—two liters of lubricant, a set of three dildos of increasing diameters, a set of anal beads, a full makeup kit, and personal hygiene items. Finally, she placed two pairs of stiletto heels on top of the pile.

"Take good care of your lubricant, Alexis. We do not provide free refills," she told me, staring at me intently. "If you need more, you'll have to earn it by fulfilling the 'use assignments' given to you."

I gathered my things with trembling hands. The weight of the objects in my arms was the weight of my new life: one where every inch of my body now belonged to the State.

Links to the following parts of the story Part 2

Note: English is not my first language; please excuse any grammatical errors.

Prologue

In the shadow of a global wave of civil rights rollbacks, Japan had perfected the bureaucracy of oppression. The Marriage Act was clear: any woman who reached the age of twenty-five without a registered marriage contract became the property of the State.

Amaya was leaving a café when the air turned cold. Two Public Security officers, wearing white gloves and with expressionless faces, blocked her path. There was no struggle.

‘Citizen Amaya, your grace period expired at 00:00,’ said one of them, holding out a red magnetic card. ‘Your contract of existence has been transferred to the prefecture.’

A prick in her neck, the smell of ozone, and then… nothing.

When the world regained its shape, Amaya did not wake with the sun, but under the flickering of a fluorescent light. She tried to scream, but her voice died in her throat. A ball gag held her jaw open in a forced position. The silicone straps dug into her skin, sealing her silence.

She lay naked on the cold metal. Stripped of her clothes, her name and her past.

The cell door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Instructor Sato entered, observing her from her tablet with clinical indifference.

“Unit 2340,” Sato declared. “Forget your gestures and your words. From now on, your breath belongs to the State.”

Before Amaya could process her panic, she was dragged into a room that resembled a high-tech operating theatre: the Assembly Room.

“Let’s begin,” said the technician, a man in a white coat who didn’t even look her in the eye.

“You will no longer require voluntary movement.”

Her hands were forced behind her back and secured in a lacquered leather restraint that bound her wrists to her elbows, arching her chest forward. A cold steel collar snapped shut magnetically around her neck, followed by heavy shackles on her ankles.

“It’s time for the base installation,” announced the doctor as he prepared the pneumatic needles. “Anchor punctures in the nose, nipples and labia. We’ll finish with the Ownership Irezumi on the lower abdomen.”

Amaya felt the first impact of the metal piercing her flesh. It wasn’t just pain; it was the beginning of her metamorphosis. She was no longer Amaya. She was Unit 2340 in the process of being assembled.

Amaya was exhausted. The pain from the recent piercings was a constant throbbing in her nose, nipples and belly. She expected to be returned to her cell to collapse, but she was dragged straight to the Calibration Centre.

“Let’s have a look at your file,” said a technician, glancing indifferently at the tablet. “Well… total integrity. You’re a virgin in all your conduits. It’ll be an interesting opening process.”

Without a drop of lubricant, the procedure began. First, they replaced her ball gag with a deep-throat dildo gag, forcing her to swallow rhythmically. Then, a five-centimetre anal plug was ruthlessly thrust inside her, followed by a cold acrylic vaginal dildo.

“To prevent you from trying to expel the equipment or ‘play’ with it, we’ll fit you with a chastity belt,” declared Instructor Sato, fastening the steel belt around her hips with a definitive magnetic click.

“Move, Unit 2340!” A sharp blow to the shoulder snapped Amaya out of her daze.

She was dragged into the dining room, a white-tiled hall with no tables or chairs. Two ceramic bowls, resembling those for an animal, awaited her on the floor: one containing water and the other a nutrient-rich, yellowish porridge. Her muzzle was temporarily removed and, with her hands bound behind her back, Amaya had no choice but to lap up the food like a beast, humiliated as the cameras recorded her degradation.

When she had finished, she was led to her First Protocol Instruction.

‘The objective is the suppression of the physical response,’ announced Sato in front of a row of trembling units. ‘Your lesson is to serve tea with perfection. If you spill a single drop whilst we activate your toys by remote control, you will be discarded.’

Amaya barely survived the session.Her legs gave way as she felt her anus trying to expel the plug and the pressure of the vaginal dildo. Sato turned the vibrations up to maximum; Amaya had never experienced so many sensations at once. She came so many times she lost count, but her muscles were forced to remain rigid so as not to lose control. The forced pleasure was torture.

“Units 2389, 2356 and 6878, against the wall. Await your punishment for breach of protocol,” ordered Sato. “The rest of you, return to your charging stations.”

Amaya was about to retreat, staggering, but Sato stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder.

“You did well, 2340,” said Sato, and for the first time, there was something akin to pride in her cold voice. “From now on, we will increase the diameter of the devices in your three conduits in every session.” “I won’t go easy on you; you have the potential to be a first-class Unit.”

“O... okay... ma’am,” was all Amaya could manage through the muzzle, her knees knocking with sheer terror at the thought of the new sizes her body would be forced to accommodate.