Decided it is time to break from writing
Not because I ran out of ideas
Ideas is still flowing
It is more like the time taken per entry is very long and has been very tiring
So decided to take a break
For readers who are interested to link up, please email or find my account in fetlife under the same email user name
Day 6 Night to Day 7 Morning (Sleeping)
The guests are gone.
The house has fallen silent once more. My chain, looped
through the wall-mounted metal hook and locked to my collar, clinks softly with
even the smallest involuntary twitch, a constant auditory reminder of my state.
The storeroom-turned-slave-chamber feels smaller with the thin mattress
salvaged from the funeral parlour. The dim overhead bulb remains on, casting a
perpetual weak yellow glow that never quite reaches the corners, leaving
shadows that play tricks on exhausted eyes. No windows, no fresh air—just the
still, humid atmosphere thick with the lingering scents of the day.
I must have drifted off sometime after the final commands.
The recitation had gone on for what felt like hours as I repeated the phrase
over and over, endless, until the words blurred into a mantra that seeped into
my subconscious. They were still echoing faintly as sleep claimed me, pulling
me under despite the discomfort.
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
Lying flat on the parlour mattress, its faint musty odor of
subtle chemical traces from the compressed foam pressing up through my uniform.
The wooden block "pillow" forces my head into an awkward angle, neck
muscles already protesting with a dull ache. Thumbs bound tightly together with
palms placed flat over my pubic area. Ankles similarly restrained, knees locked
together, preventing any natural spread or roll for relief.
White canvas shoes still laced on with the white
ankle-length socks. The fresh uniform I changed into this afternoon clings with
its heavy starch, the fabric rigid and unyielding, feminine perfume still
potent but already starting to mix with my own emerging scent. Blouse pinned to
panties at the waist with safety pins. Although this set is clean from the
change, but the mental weight is crushing. The makeup, applied by Miss Evelyn
with brushes that have touched dead skin, feels like a mask hardening on my face.
The wig, braided tight, secured firmly with hidden pins, carries the ghost of
the young girl's viewing it endured overnight. And in the corner, on the
storeroom rack, hangs the previous uniform—six days of unbroken wear, unwashed,
its fabric heavy with layered sweat that has dried and re-wet countless times,
souring into a rancid ferment. Faint ammonia from urine traces, old perfume
turned cloying and rotten, all trapped in this unventilated space. Every inhale
draws it in, a suffocating reminder of degradation, pressing down like the air
itself is tainted.
First Awakening – The Coffin and the Whisperer
I wake with a start—heart pounding, chain rattling sharply
against the hook as my body jerks involuntarily. The dim bulb's glow seems
harsher now, illuminating the hanging uniform like a spectral figure in the
corner. No sounds from the house. My mouth is dry, lips sticky under the gloss.
The phrase is still there, looping uninvited in my mind.
The nightmare floods back in vivid fragments, pulling from
Miss Evelyn's casual stories shared during the makeover, now twisted into
something horrifically real. In the dream, I am not myself—I am HER, the YOUNG
GIRL she mentioned, the one whose family insisted on "making her look
peaceful and pretty" for the final viewing. I lie in the open coffin, the
wooden sides cool and unyielding against my arms, the satin lining slick under
my back. The wig is on my head—braided just like mine now, but it's heavy with
the weight of death, strands matted from the overnight it spent on her real
corpse. Evelyn's voice echoes from somewhere above, narrating as if she's still
applying the makeup: "We always use this shade for the young ones—brings
back a bit of color to the cheeks." Her brush strokes across my face, cold
and deliberate, the bristles dragging over skin that feels waxy and lifeless.
Foundation layers on thick, concealing bruises that aren't mine, concealer dabs
under eyes that stare blankly at the parlour ceiling. Lipstick—the same tube
she used on me tonight—presses into lips that don't respond, the color too
vibrant against pallid flesh. I try to move, to protest, but my body is rigid,
posed for display. The scent is overwhelming: formaldehyde sharp in the air,
mixed with the floral notes of the soap she mentioned using to wash the bodies
beforehand. "Keeps them fresh for the family," her voice says, casual
as ever.
Then she appears—the dead girl herself, stepping out from
behind the parlour curtain, wearing exactly the same uniform as me! Not a floating
ghost, but solid, real, with makeup flaking at the edges. The wig sits slightly
crooked on her head, just as it might have after a night in the cooler. She
approaches the coffin slowly, her footsteps silent on the parlour floor, and
leans over me. Her face is inches from mine, eyes empty sockets reflecting my
own terror. She opens her mouth, and the phrase comes out—not in her voice, but
mine, mechanical from the recitation.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
It repeats, over and over, her cold breath carrying the
chemical tang of embalming fluid and decayed roses. Flakes of makeup fall from
her cheek onto mine, sticking like ash. I feel the brushes again, Evelyn's
hands now hers, reapplying layer after layer until my face is buried under the
mask. The coffin lid begins to lower, inch by inch, the phrase growing louder
in the darkening space.
I gasp in the real world, bolting upright as far as the thin
mattress allows, the chain had sufficient slack which allow me to easily sit
up, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn in slightly within the ankle
ties. The double cable ties around my thumbs keep my hands locked together, the
plastic biting just enough to remind me they’re still bound. Sweats on my
forehead, trickling down under the wig, the braided strands heavy and itchy
against my scalp. The room's air feels thicker now, the hanging uniform's sour
ammonia blending with my fresh perspiration. The phrase loops again, mocking in
its insistence on obedience.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
A sudden realization hits—I’m in the wrong position. Sitting
up like this is a violation, even if unintentional. I must return to the proper
position. I wiggle awkwardly, trying to lower myself back down. The ankle ties
force my knees to stay together, making the shift clumsy and restricted, small,
helpless twists of hips and shoulders, the bound thumbs by the cable ties
digging in as I struggle to slide my upper body back along the mattress. The
chain rattles softly with the effort, slack enough not to stop me but still a
constant presence. After a few strained seconds, I manage to lie flat again,
head forced back onto the wooden block pillow, neck straining at the awkward
angle.
As my body settles and compresses the thin foam mattress
once more, another gust of smell releases from the parlour-salvaged padding—a
faint chemical undertone laced with the merest tinge of purge residue, that
sour-sweet whisper of what the body once held, undercut by the thin, sharp bite
of lingering formaldehyde, rising up like a quiet exhalation from the depths of
the parlour itself.
Eyes squeeze shut. Not choice—exhaustion demanding it. The
wooden block grinds against my head, the mattress’s faint chemical undertone
lingering in the air. The dim bulb hums steadily. Chain holds firm, slack but
ever-present. Mind teeters on the edge, drifting back despite the fear, pulling
toward the next layer of horror.
Second Awakening – The Brushes and the Preparation Room
Another jolt—sharper this time, as if yanked from the
depths. Chain clatters lightly, thumbs straining against ties, sending a fresh
tug through the tuck. The dim glow hasn't changed; time blurred, maybe another
hour lost. Heart races again, breath coming in short gasps that stir the
stagnant air.
The new nightmare builds on the first, drawing deeper from
Evelyn's tales—the cold, sterile space where bodies are washed, dressed, made
presentable. In this dream, I am on the steel table, not in a coffin yet. The
young girl is there, but now she's the one wielding the brushes, her movements
precise and methodical, just as Evelyn described her own routine. "We
start with the soap," her voice says—Evelyn's words, but spoken through
the girl's pale lips. Cold water runs over my body, but I'm still in uniform,
the pinafore soaking through, starch dissolving into a sticky paste that clings
like embalming gel. The girl dips the brush into the same pot Evelyn used for
corpses, the bristles loaded with foundation that smells of talc and decay. She
applies it to my face, stroke by stroke: cheeks, forehead, chin. "This
hides the marks," she murmurs, her fingers cold as refrigerated flesh. The
wig is already on me, but she adjusts it, braiding it tighter, strands pulling
at my scalp like threads stitching a wound. Lipstick next—the tube Evelyn
touched up on me earlier, but now it's smeared with traces from previous uses
on the dead. It glides on, too smooth, sealing my lips as the girl whispers the
phrase in rhythm with each application.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
With every stroke.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Endless, her empty eyes fixed on mine.
The preparation room fills with more figures—other stories
from Evelyn come alive. The elderly woman whose family wanted
"natural" makeup, her wrinkled hands now holding concealer, dabbing
at my eyes. "We use this for the bruising," she intones, voice
crackling like old paper. Another, a middle-aged man from one of her anecdotes,
adjusting a tie that morphs into my own uniform's stiffness. They circle the
table, brushes and combs in hand, preparing me as they were prepared. The girl leads
them, leaning close: "You're one of us now—pretty for viewing." The
phrase choruses from all, overlapping, distorting.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the young girl.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the accident victim.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Echoing around the preparation room, growing until it drowns
out everything.
In the chamber, I lie still—too terrified to move. Chain
taut, thumbs numb from the ties. The room's smell intensifies: hanging
uniform's rot, my own emerging sourness, the parlour mattress's chemical ghost.
Dread compounds—morning will bring discovery, tally, shame. The phrase hammers
on, unceasing.
Eyes close once more. The wooden block feels harder, like
the headrest in Evelyn's preparation tales. Fatigue drags me under again, but
slower this time, resistance crumbling.
Third Awakening – The Viewing and the Circle
Wakefulness hits like a slap—body convulsing slightly, chain
jangling louder in the quiet. Dim bulb unchanged, room air heavier with my
accumulated sweat. Perhaps another hour gone; the night stretches endless.
This nightmare escalates, pulling from Evelyn's offhand
mentions of viewings—the families gathered, the bodies on display. Now I am the
centerpiece, lying in the open casket during a full viewing. The young girl
stands at the head, her family around her—but they are blurred, faceless,
murmuring approvals as Evelyn did in her stories: "She looks so
peaceful." The wig on my head itches unbearably, as if alive with the
residue of her night in it. Makeup cracks on my face with every imagined breath,
flakes falling like dead skin. The girl circles the casket, joined by others
from Evelyn's anecdotes: the accident victim whose features she reconstructed
with careful layers, now piecing my own face together with cold fingers; the
child from a tragic story, small hands holding the lipstick, applying it with
childish precision. They form a circle, each taking turns with the brushes,
narrating their own preparations.
"We wash first," one says, pouring imagined
rose-scented water over my uniform, soaking the pinafore until it clings like a
shroud. "Then the foundation—to hide what life did." Brushes drag,
heavy with product used on corpses before me. The phrase becomes their chant,
whispered in unison as they work.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the young girl.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the accident victim.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Echoing around the viewing room, growing until it drowns out
everything.
A sudden tremor runs through me—built from the horror of the
dream, the morbid weight of the makeup brushed on dead skin now cracking on my
own face, the wig heavy with the dead girl's overnight residue, the parlour
mattress and wooden block beneath me like relics from the viewing room itself.
Memories flash: the guests' hands violating the genital area earlier, probing
and pressing without mercy. Combined with the thumbs bound tight, palms and
fingers pressing hard against the tucked genitals, creating constant pressure.
Ankles tied, knees locked together—the indirect friction from legs rubbing
slightly with every twitch, every involuntary shift in the restraints. It all
accumulates, unstoppable.
A warm rush—small, involuntary ejaculation. Semen
pulses out in short spurts, directed rearward due to the tight tuck, shooting
backward along the confined shaft and pooling against the perineum and rear
gusset of the panties. Sticky and viscous against the skin, it clings thickly
in the posterior crotch seam, contained mostly there without forward escape.
Not wet like a spill, but thick, adhering to the cotton without quick spread or
soak-through. The panties and the heavy starched pinafore skirt draped over
everything trap the residue close to the body, preventing easy diffusion into
the air—the smell does not spread readily through the chamber, held captive
beneath the pinned blouse hem and pleated skirt fabric. No immediate stain on
the outer uniform, but inside, it clings, cooling slowly into a tacky film
pressed between the cleft of the buttocks, thighs, and the tucked base. No
flood, just enough to leave residue that I feel with every subtle shift, every
breath pressing the sticky warmth deeper against the skin behind.
I freeze. Do not rub. Do not shift to clean. Any motion
risks more friction, more betrayal. The safety pins at my waist dig sharper
now, as if sensing the violation, their points grazing through layers.
In the chamber, I lie still—too terrified to move. Chain
taut, thumbs numb from the ties. Dread compounds—morning will bring discovery.
The phrase hammers on, unceasing.
Fourth Awakening – The Return and the Possession
Another rude pull to wakefulness—heart stuttering, chain
clinking as if in response. Dim light mocks; night deepens, perhaps closer to
dawn now.
The fourth nightmare fuses everything from before: I am back
in the chamber, but the dead girl has followed. She emerges from the shadows
near the hanging uniform, stepping into the bulb's glow. Wig on her head,
makeup perfect yet cracking, she approaches the mattress. "This was
mine," she says, touching the wig on my head—Evelyn's story made flesh, the
same wig that spent the night on her corpse, the same makeup Evelyn layered on
us both. She climbs onto the mattress, cold body pressing against mine through
the uniform, her hands wielding invisible brushes. "We share now."
She reapplies the makeup, stroke by stroke, her touch icy. The coffin, the
preparation table, the viewing circle—all collapse here, on this mattress, with
her. The others join—ghosts from her tales, crowding the small space, chanting
the phrase as they prepare me anew.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Whispered into my ear.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Over my skin.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Until I am possessed, the words mine and theirs.
Reality asserts: no one there, but the fear clings. The
ejaculation residue from before has cooled to a sticky discomfort, clinging
thickly in the panties without spreading. Phrase hums subconsciously.
Fifth Awakening – The Sister on the Mattress
Another pull from sleep—less violent this time, more like a
gentle tug, as if someone is calling my name softly from very close. Chain
clinks with the small shift; I open my eyes to the same dim bulb, the same
yellow wash over the room. How many hours now? The night feels endless, dawn
still far. My body is heavy, pressed flat again after the last awkward wiggle,
the thin mattress conforming to my shape like it remembers another weight
entirely.
The nightmare slips in quietly, no jolt, just a slow
fade-in. I am lying on the mattress—the same one—but it's back in the
parlour, lights low, viewing curtains half-drawn. The foam beneath me is still
warm in places, deeply indented from the body that lay here since yesterday
night, all through the dark hours and into the afternoon until Evelyn arrived
and took it right away. The dead girl. The young one whose family wanted her
"peaceful and pretty." Her head rested on this very wooden block,
pressing the teak into the shape it holds now under my skull; her body cooled
slowly while the family waited outside, her weight sinking into the foam,
leaving an outline that hasn't sprung back yet. Evelyn spread new white sheets
over it, smoothing and tucking efficiently, but the underlying memory
clings—the faint chemical undertone laced with the merest tinge of purge
residue, that sour-sweet whisper of what her body once held, undercut by the
thin, sharp bite of lingering formaldehyde. It rises up like a quiet exhalation
from the depths of the parlour itself whenever I shift even slightly.
She appears beside me—not stepping out of shadows, but
simply there, lying parallel on the mattress as if it's wide enough for
two sisters to share. She's in the same uniform as me, makeup perfect (Evelyn's
careful layers: foundation to hide the pallor, concealer under the eyes, that
exact lipstick shade she chose for me tonight), wig braided tight just like
mine. No horror in her face this time—only a calm, knowing smile, eyes soft and
welcoming, like she's been waiting for me. She reaches over, cold fingers
brushing my cheek, then gently lifting a stray braid from my wig. "Your
hair is coming along so nicely," she whispers, voice light and
affectionate, like an older sister giving advice. "Evelyn did a good job
matching us. Feel how soft the strands are now? We both got the same
treatment—brushed out, braided fresh. No more messy boy hair. Just pretty
girls."
She moves closer, body pressing lightly against mine through
our matching uniforms—pinafore pleats overlapping, starched fabric rustling
softly. Her hand rests on my bound thumbs, covering them gently without
pulling, just holding. "Look at us," she says, tilting her head so
our braids touch. "Real girls together now. They made us both beautiful
for the viewing—foundation to smooth everything, lipstick to make the smile
last forever. And this mattress... it remembers us both. It held me all night
and all afternoon, kept me safe until the coffin. Now it's holding you. We're
bed-sisters, sharing the same place. Isn't that nice?"
The phrase starts from her lips, soft and inviting, not
mocking—almost like a shared secret, a lullaby we both know by heart. I am
Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. She says it slowly, eyes on mine,
encouraging. I feel my own lips moving in response, unbidden at first, then
willingly, our voices overlapping in quiet harmony. I am Master’s obedient
girly maid Cassandra. She smiles wider, squeezing my thumbs lightly through
the cable ties. "Say it with me, little sister. It's our name now. Just
Cassandra. Just us."
She nestles even closer, head sharing the wooden block,
braids intertwining slightly. "Feel how the mattress molds to us? It still
has my shape—my weight from overnight, from the long afternoon wait. When you
press down, it remembers me, releases that little breath of where I was. We're
part of it now. Pretty girls on the same death bed, waiting to be viewed
together forever." Her cold fingers trace my makeup—along the cheek where
Evelyn layered foundation, over the lips with the same gloss. "They'll say
we look peaceful. Sisters side by side. No one will know the difference
anymore."
"She leans closer, nose brushing near my neck, inhaling
deeply. 'I can smell you,' she whispers, not accusing, but pleased. 'That
little secret under your skirt, the warm tacky film in the back... it's the
same as mine when I lay here. Purge residue, perfume, and now your own. We're
marked the same way now, sister. No hiding it.' Her cold fingers trace the
pinned waistband, not lifting, just pressing the fabric closer, forcing the
faint musk upward with every breath. The smell doesn't spread far, trapped beneath
layers, but to her — to us — it's intimate, shared, undeniable."
The curtains part slightly in the dream; faint family
murmurs drift in—"They look so peaceful... so pretty..."—as if we're
both on display, side by side, uniforms matching.
In the dream-parlour mirror across the room, our reflections
merge — two identical Cassandras in the same uniform, braids touching, makeup
cracking in unison. No boy left in the glass. Just pretty girls waiting for
approval. The family murmurs grow louder: 'Such beautiful sisters... so
obedient.' I try to look away, but her hand on my chin turns my face back.
'See? No more pretending.
Phrase repeating softly between us like breathing. I am
Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. I am Master’s obedient girly
maid Cassandra. It becomes a gentle chant, her voice guiding mine, pulling
me deeper into the sisterhood. No fear now—just a warm, inevitable belonging.
The mattress compresses under our combined weight, releasing another soft
gust—faint chemical, tinge of purge residue, little formaldehyde—wrapping
around us both, sealing the bond.
I wake with a small gasp, body still flat, chain slack but
present. The mattress feels warmer beneath me, as if her weight lingered in the
foam — or rather, the weight of whoever lay here since yesterday night, the
body whose identity I don't know. A fresh compression from my own settling
releases another quiet exhalation—faint chemical undertone laced with the
merest tinge of purge residue, that sour-sweet whisper of what that anonymous
body once held, undercut by the thin, sharp bite of lingering formaldehyde. The
faint musky undertone from my own earlier residue mixes in quietly, trapped
under skirt and pinned blouse, not spreading far, just close enough for every
breath to remind me. The phrase hums low in my mind, no longer just mine.
I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. Sister
to the dead.
Eyes close again. Exhaustion deeper now. The wooden block
presses harder, as if sharing space with her head. Mind drifts, the sisterhood
lingering like perfume on skin, the invitation echoing softly.
Final Drift – Numb Endurance
Eyes close one last time. No more jolts. Fatigue claims
fully, mind numbing to the cycle. The chamber holds its breath—chain silent,
bulb humming, sticky residue a constant reminder, horrors fading to a low buzz.
Waiting for morning. Waiting to be under Master’s mercy. Waiting, as property
does.
Day 6, night (early put to sleep until time I finally dozed off)
Six months. The contract was six months. Not four days. Six full months! Signed for 4 days on the first day I walked into this house. Extended step by step through tricks, pressure, until Six months of this — chained, starched, painted, perfumed, reduced! Six months of kneeling, serving, thanking, enduring! Six months of sleeping on parlour leftovers, of waking up with death’s residue on my skin, in my hair, in my lungs. Six months of being watched, touched, tugged, laughed at. Six months of hearing my own voice call myself “Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra”!
Yes, the guests are still present right outside the slave chamber, witnessing everything. They had followed us in, stayed, and were now standing just beyond the open door, peering in, eyes fixed on every detail about me. They had seen the chain reattached, the mattress and wooden block placed beside me, the way I knelt chained to the wall hook, exposed in every way! They are witnesses to how completely I’d been reduced!!!
I knelt there, chained to the wall hook. The PVC sleeve cool against my neck, the padlock shut tight, the familiar weight pulling downward. The guests had left, the room quiet again, but the chain kept me in place — kneeling, still, silent, obedient.
But the feeling wouldn’t let me rest. The makeup felt thick and gross on my face — layers shared from tools that touched the dead bodies, the lipstick still slick, floral sweetness coating my tongue with every breath.
The wig sat heavy, real human hair, one-night coffin relic, braids brushing my neck and shoulders like fingers from a grave. The perfume clung thick, trying to mask everything, but it only made the reminder sharper.
The thought of sleeping like this — face painted with death, head crowned with corpse hair — overwhelmed me so much that I couldn’t stay silent anymore.
I spoke up, voice soft but trembling, breaking the rule without thinking.
“Master… may Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra remind you… the makeup… and the wig… they haven’t been removed yet… before sleep…”
The words slipped out soft but trembling, barely above a whisper, breaking the silence.
Master turned slowly, then he chuckled — low, amused, almost fond.
“Yes… I see. You look so pretty in it, girl. Miss Evelyn did such a good job with the makeup — youthful, innocent, perfect for display. And the wig… you look very good in this wig. Real hair. Proper length. Proper style. So why remove anything tonight? Makeup on. Wig on. Until tomorrow morning. Removal then. Sleep in it tonight. Let it set. Let them see how pretty you are when you’re put away.”
Raj grinned. “Wah, sleep in full makeup? She’ll look like a doll tomorrow.”
Ben laughed quietly. “Yeah, pretty brutal — but perfect display.”
Miss Evelyn just smiled. “She’ll be even prettier in the morning.”
Master’s words landed like a quiet command, final and absolute. I was meant to be on display today — for the guests, for the gathering, for their eyes! How desperate I want it to be removed now? I want to erase the very thing that made me look like his perfect girly maid, the thing that had been applied with with tools from the dead, just to show me off! I wasn’t allowed to undo it. I wasn’t allowed to be anything less than what they had seen tonight!
Miss Evelyn reacted immediately, stepping forward with a small smile. She pulled out the same soft pink lipstick — the one she had used earlier, and leaned in close.
“Let me touch up those lips, Cassandra. Can’t have them fading before morning.”
She tilted my chin gently with one finger, and reapplied the lipstick, slow, careful strokes, the creamy stick gliding over my lips again, freshening the color, sealing the pink shine once more. The chemical sweetness flooded my mouth instantly, stronger now, my mind mixing with the faint taste of death that I could never quite escape.
The yucks surged violently — this was the same stick that had touched a corpse’s lips, the same color used to make the dead look peaceful. Now it was on me again, renewed, refreshed, as if to make sure the display stayed perfect overnight! I felt it sink in deeper, the violation renewed with every stroke. Gross. So gross!
She stepped back, satisfied, capping the lipstick and putting it away.
“There. All fresh now. Sleep well, Cassandra.”
No removal??!?!? Not tonight?!??? The makeup shared with corpses?!? would stay on my face all night?!? The wig — real human hair, one-night coffin relic — would stay on my head?!? The thought of waking up tomorrow still painted, still crowned with death, made the yucks surge colder, heavier?!?? Literally broken down inside!! I wanted to beg, to say no, to scrub it all off myself!! Another night of wearing death’s remnants!
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small bottle of makeup remover and handed it to Master.
“Here, Cassandra can use this tomorrow morning. It’s my own bottle, the one I use to take off my own makeup at the end of the day. It’ll take it all off nicely. Gentle on the skin.”
All night she had been so “helpful” — bringing the mattress, the block, the sheets, everything from the parlour, everything tied to the dead, everything that made my situation more degrading, more permanent, more disgusting. Every suggestion, every “I can bring this”, every casual “still new” or “perfectly good” had just piled on more yucks, more contamination on me. I had wanted her to stop. To stop being helpful. To stop making everything worse with her innocent, cheerful complicity. And now… finally… this. A small bottle of makeup remover. Her own. Not from the parlour. Not shared with the dead. Just normal remover, the kind she used on her own face after work. A tiny, actual mercy. Something that didn’t add more grossness. For once, her helpfulness didn’t degrade me further. For once, it was clean.
Master took the bottle, set it on the table beside the chain, and looked at me again.
“And the wig stays. You look very good in it, girl. So from now on, for the rest of your service, you’ll wear this wig until your own hair grows long enough. The only time you can take it off is during showers. Otherwise, it stays on. Understood?”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will keep the wig on for the rest of her service until her own hair grows long enough.”
Master:
“And??….”
“The only time Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will take it off is during showers. Otherwise it stays on.”
The words came out soft, breathy, obedient — sweetness forced forward. But inside, everything collapsed. The wig — corpse hair, coffin relic — would be permanent. For the rest of my service. Six months! Only removed for showers! The thought of my own hair growing under this thing — under death’s hair — made the horror flood hotter!!!
And the worst part? I had to repeat it with my own mouth. I had to say the sentence myself — confirm it, make it real by speaking the words aloud in Master’s presence. My own voice, my own breath, my own tongue forming the agreement that doomed me to wear this corpse relic every day, every night, for months. Every syllable I uttered was me tightening the noose around my own neck. Every repetition was me helping him erase me. The disgust was from knowing I had to voice my own sentence — to repeat the permanence, to name my own replacement, to seal my own fate with the very mouth he had trained to speak.
Master’s eyes narrowed again, voice flat.
“Speaking out of turn. Reminding me of something I didn’t ask for. Major violation — breaking silence without permission. 500 points base.”
He paused, then continued, tone unchanged.
“Stacking across categories. Appearance lapse — speaking disrupts the presentable state. Behaviour lapse — unauthorized verbal interruption. Obedience lapse — failure to wait for instruction. Speech protocol violation — no full ‘Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra’ phrasing. Minor 100 each. Major base 500. Layered. Post-event context — after bedtime setup — adds 50%. Total from this moment: 1,050 points.”
He glanced at the guests, then back to me.
“Debt updated. Previous rough tally 129,450. With tonight’s accumulated points from greetings, service, touches, feeding, game, and now this… I estimate another 2,500 overall tonight. Final rough total: 131,950. And that’s conservative. There’s always more waiting to be added.”
Raj let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. “Wah, 131,950? That’s a lot lah. She’s really racking it up tonight.”
Ben laughed softly, leaning back. “Aiyah, boss, she’s gonna be paying for years at this rate.”
Tan just gave a small, quiet nod, eyes still on me. “Impressive tally.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “Points add up fast when she forgets the rules. But she’ll learn.”
Master glanced at them, then back to me, calm as ever.
“Exactly. She’ll learn.”
The number 131,950 burned into my mind enough to crush me. Every tiny thing had become points. Had become proof that I could never be perfect enough. I had tried so hard today. Really tried. To stay silent. To stay perfect. To earn one night without more points. And now this — another 1,050 from one desperate reminder, another 2,500 tonight overall, maybe more, because I couldn’t even keep my mouth shut when overwhelmed.
Master nodded once, satisfied.
But deep inside, a quiet resolve hardened. I will endure it. I will take every punishment, without letting it trick me into another extension. No more nodding yes. The debt points is already crushing. But I will not give him one more excuse to push it further. I will endure the current sentence — six months — without handing him the next one on a silver platter! I will survive it! I will outlast it. Even if it means swallowing every violation in silence, even if it means breaking a little more each day, I will not let him use my own words to extend this ‘experience’!
“Good girl.”
He paused, looking down at my feet — still in the 4-inch black stilettos.
“Before you lie down, Cassandra. Remove the heels. Change to the white canvas shoes with the ankle-length white socks. You will sleep in those. No heels in bed.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will remove the heels and change to the white canvas shoes with ankle-length white socks.”
I shifted and reached down to slip off the black stilettos- finally able to relax slightly after hours of forced tension. I set the heels aside neatly beside the mattress.
Then I took the white canvas shoes and thin ankle-length white socks. The socks were soft cotton pulling snug as I slid them on. The canvas shoes were flat, light, a small relief from the heels, but still part of the uniform’s restrictive feel. I slipped them on. I adjusted my posture back to perfect kneel, ready for the night.
He turned to me.
“Cassandra. Adopt the sleeping position. Lie down on the mattress. Now.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will adopt the sleeping position and lie down on the mattress.”
I shifted slowly on my knees, the chain tugging lightly at my collar with every movement. The PVC sleeve was cool against my neck, the padlock heavy, the links clinking softly inside the rubber as I lowered myself. The heavily starched uniform rustled stiffly with the motion, short sleeves scraping my arms and pleats poking my thighs, locking me in rigid discomfort even as I moved to lie down.
The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben, and Miss Evelyn — were still right outside the chamber door, peering in, eyes fixed on me from the threshold. Witnesses to this too — to the moment I was ordered to lie down on the parlour mattress, to the way I obeyed without hesitation.
The mattress waited flat on the floor. I turned, lowered myself carefully onto my back, first placing my head on the wooden block, the solid teak pressing hard against the back, no cushion, forcing my neck into a straight, elevated position.
Then my body settled onto the thin foam — the new sheet crinkling under me, against my stiff uniform, but the moment my weight compressed the mattress, the faint ‘scent’ rose. a subtle, sickly sweet-sour whiff escaped from the foam beneath the sheet. My mind immediately imaged it as a trace of decomposing fluid and maybe some embalming chemicals that had soaked in during that one night. Imagination immediately go wild!
The foam gave just enough to cushion the concrete slightly, but not enough to feel like rest.
I lay there, chained to the wall, wooden block under my head, thin mattress under me, sheet crinkling, faint scent rising with every slight movement.
I placed my hands flat above the genital area — palms down, fingers together, covering the tucked area under the panties, felt the effect of pins at my waist as the fabric stretched. The position was submissive, exposed yet concealed, hands shielding the flat front while still presenting the body fully for their eyes. The heavily starched pinafore pleats, pressed even harder in this position — stiff fabric refusing to bend or soften, making the act of covering myself feel more like a punishment than protection. The starch amplify the discomfort, turning even this small gesture of modesty into another layer of restriction and humiliation.
The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben, and Miss Evelyn — laughed softly from the doorway, peering in.
Raj chuckled. “Wah, look at her hands lah. Covering up like shy girl. Cute sia.”
Ben grinned. “Yeah lah, flat and tidy. Hands right there to hide it — but we all know it’s tucked.”
Tan just smiled faintly, observing quietly.
Miss Evelyn tilted her head. “Very proper position. Keeps everything neat.”
Master watched them, then spoke, voice calm.
“Raj, secure her thumbs with cable ties. Then both ankles with the double double cable ties.”
Raj stepped forward, pulling out a handful of cable ties. He knelt beside me, took my wrists gently but firmly, and looped a tie around both thumbs together — tight enough to bind them. The plastic zipped shut with a sharp ratchet sound, locking my thumbs side by side, palms still flat above the genital area.
“Thank you, Sir, for securing Master’s girly maid.”
Raj moved to my ankles next — crossed the legs slightly for stability, then used the double cable ties method: two ties per ankle, one above the other, crossed and zipped tight to secure both my legs tight. The plastic bit into the skin just enough to remind me of the restraint.
“Thank you, Sir, for securing Master’s girly maid.”
Raj stepped back, admiring his work.
Master nodded once, satisfied.
“Good. Now she’s secure for the night.”
He looked down at me, chained to the wall hook, still kneeling beside the mattress and wooden block.
“Cassandra. Close your eyes. Sleep.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will close her eyes and sleep.”
I closed my eyes immediately — darkness swallowing everything. The guests were still right outside the chamber door, peering in, watching the final moment. Their laughter came first — low, amused, rippling through the quiet.
Raj chuckled. “Wah, even eyes under Master control lah. Can’t even look around.”
Ben laughed louder. “Yeah lah, close eyes like good girl. Pathetic sia — chained, eyes shut, ready for bed like a doll.”
Tan gave a small, quiet laugh. “She really obeys everything.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “Very well trained. Eyes closed on command. Perfect.”
The laughter faded into soft murmurs, but they didn’t leave. They stayed right outside, voices carrying clearly into the small chamber.
Then I heard the clicking sounds — sharp, repeated snaps from phones or a camera. I knew they were photographing me: chained, lying on the thin mattress, head on the hard wooden block, gross makeup on my face, wig heavy on my scalp, uniform starched and rigid, notes crinkling in my panties, body perfectly still, eyes closed, exactly like a dead body laid out for viewing, peaceful and unmoving.
Raj laughed softly from the doorway. “Wah, look at her lah. So still, so peaceful — like a corpse ready for the coffin. Perfect shot sia.”
Ben chuckled, snapping another photo. “Yeah lah, really looks dead lah. Makeup on point, wig perfect, chained up nice and neat. If we dim the light a bit, can’t even tell she’s alive.”
Tan gave a small, quiet laugh. “Pathetic… but yeah, like a dead relative on display. Very realistic.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “The position is good — head elevated on the block, just like we do in the parlour. She looks so calm and ready. Nice photo.”
Inside, the humiliation was much more! cation of everything I used to be. They weren’t just taking pictures. They were associating me to a corpse! a chained corpse, painted, wigged thing laid out for their amusement, frozen in time like I’d been prepared for burial. The laughter twisted deep. Raj calling it “perfect shot”, Ben joking I could pass for dead, Tan comparing me to a dead relative, Evelyn noting how “calm and ready” I looked in the exact pose she used on bodies every day. They saw me as a display piece, a realistic corpse on show, and they laughed about it. Laughed at how still I was. Laughed at how peaceful I looked. Laughed at how perfectly I fit the role of something dead?!?!
The grossness wasn’t just in the mattress or the block anymore, it was in me! I was the exhibit. I was the ‘dead thing’ they were photographing. I was the PATHETIC, unmoving body they could joke about, capture, share, remember! And I lay there, letting it happen, letting the clicks store it forever, letting their laughter echo while I stayed perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly corpse-like.
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. A body on display, photographed like it belonged in a coffin.
The photos were taken. Each snap capturing me exactly like this state, chained, starched GIRLS’s uniform, makeup to look youthful and innocent, wig heavy with corpse hair, lying on parlour leftovers, hands flat above the genital area, body bounded and perfectly positioned like a body in a coffin.
They had my image now. Permanent. Digital. Undeniable proof of what I had become.
My secret — the man I used to be, the normal life I once had — was gone! Not just exposed to them tonight. Not just witnessed in this room. They had pictures! They could keep them! They could share them! They could post them online if they wanted! A single upload. A single group chat. And the world could see: me, kneeling, chained, thanking strangers for touching me, eating spit from a dog bowl, lying still like a corpse for their amusement. No face blurred. No name hidden. Just Cassandra. Master’s obedient girly maid. Reduced and Owned!
Photographed. My privacy — the last fragile thing I had — was shattered. Four people now held it in their phones. Four people who could decide to let it spread. To let it leak. To let the whole world know what I’d been turned into! I will be exposed in my normal life soon! How am I going to face my family and friends when I am finally released? How am I going to explain the photos?
The thought made my chest tighten, breath shallow under the chain. I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t delete the photos. I couldn’t even open my eyes to see how many they took. I could only lie here while they captured my final humiliation of the night. While they laughed about how “realistic” I looked. While they planned to come back tomorrow for more!
The yucks surged colder, heavier. A quiet, sinking certainty that my secret was no longer mine. That my privacy was gone forever! That one day, those photos might surface — and the man I used to be would be known publicly, permanently, for everyone to see.
The clicks continued, each sound like another piece of me being captured, stored, remembered. The laughter and comments twisted the knife deeper — they weren’t just taking pictures. They were documenting my reduction, freezing it in time, turning my pathetic sleeping position into something they could laugh about later. Like I really was dead. Like I belonged in a coffin.
I lay there, eyes closed, still, silent, obedient — unable to move, unable to hide, unable to stop them from capturing me like this.
Then finally, the door slammed shut with a heavy thud — but the light bulb stayed on, bright and unforgiving overhead. No darkness. No privacy. Just the chain, the mattress, the block, the light, and the faint voices still drifting from outside the chamber.
The guests were still around, chatting in the living room, their words filtering through the door.
I lay there, eyes closed, unable to sleep yet — fatigue heavy but mind racing.
The starched short-sleeve blouse and pinafore are rigid and unyielding with the collar biting into my neck like a stiff board, locking me in a constant state of scratchy, uncomfortable tension that refuses to soften even when I lie down.The makeup on my face, it’s discomfort is overwhelming, not from how it sits, but from the constant, sickening awareness that every layer is shared with the dead. The corpse toils that had already touched dead bodies and had likely carried traces of decomposition juice. Even though it looks clean and neat on the surface, my mind can’t let go of the possibility: invisible residue, microscopic but real, transferred from corpses to me. The floral perfume tries to cover it, but it only makes the consciousness worse!!!. Every lip movement tastes the lipstick that once sealed a corpse’s mouth. It’s not the weight or stickiness. It’s the violation in my head — knowing I’m wearing death’s leftovers on my living face, contaminated in a way no one else can see but I can never un-know! The grossness is mental! suffocating! inescapable!
The wig is another! from a corpse’s coffin, the braids swinging and brushing my neck and shoulders with cold, lifeless strands. The weight pulls at my scalp, the faint residue from the dead body head mixing with my own sweat and the perfume, making every head movement a reminder of where it came from. The true discomfort is the knowledge that this hair rested on a dead woman’s head for one full night, absorbing the same decomposition juice, the same purge residue, the same embalming chill! Every strand carries that possibility, that invisible taint, and I can’t escape it! The grossness is in my mind — knowing I’m wearing something that shared space with death, something that might still hold traces of it, something I can’t wash away. Mental violation, suffocating, inescapable!
I lay there, chained to the wall, mattress under me, wooden block under my head — items from the dead’s environment, now mine! The thin foam gave just enough to cushion slightly, but not enough to feel like rest. Every time I shifted a little, my weight compressed the foam a little more, releasing another faint waft of that subtle, sickly sweet-sour trace of purge fluid and embalming chemicals that may have soaked into the porous layers during that one night! Or is it my imagination? Each small movement forced a little more out, enough to catch in my nose, enough to remind me again what had rested here before me. The wooden block pressed hard against my back, forcing my neck into a straight, elevated position — the same block that had supported countless dead heads before they went into coffins, only wiped with a cloth but still carrying the parlour’s history. The fresh sheet crinkled under me, clean cotton but from the same place!.
Also! The room smelled unbearable — stale, musty, thick with the scent of the old uniform hanging on the rack since this afternoon. The uniform I had worn for six days straight — through mummification, through sweat that soaked it during that full night as a human washing machine, through punishment and endless service. Unwashed, unventilated, it hung there like a rotting memory — fabric heavy with dried sweat, old perfume gone sour, faint ammonia from urine leaks, a rancid mix that filled the small space. The smell pressed in with every breath! It was my own filth, my own history, trapped in this chamber with me! Just the stink of six days of degradation hanging over my head while I lay chained, waiting for sleep that likely wouldn’t come easily with so much of these around!
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. Not just disgust. A quiet, sinking certainty that this is permanent for 6 months. That every night from now on will carry the same residue. That I’ve been reduced to borrowing from the parlour’s discards for sleep. I keep my eyes closed. Still. Silent. Obedient. Mind running wild!
The conversation drifted in, clear enough to hear every word.
Master’s voice first.
“You’ve seen the daily routine now. Wake up chained, serve, thank for every touch, every command, every task. Full uniform, makeup, wig. Meals in the dog bowl. Sleep chained on the parlour items. The ultimate goal is simple: TOTAL OWNERSHIP. She starts as a man with choices, ends as my perfect girly maid, because she LITERALLY gave it to me! no choices left, no self left. Just obedience. Just service. Just mine.”
Then the reactions came…
Raj let out a low whistle, “Wah, boss… you’re damn lucky lah. One in a billion. Seriously. No one is this stupid to walk into the trap themselves. Delete clauses, added an easy extensions clause, suggest the chain sleeve? She handed you everything on a platter. Respect sia.”
Ben continued: “Yeah lah. Lucky as hell. Most would run at the first sign of real. But this one? Kept pushing ‘make it real’, kept saying yes. One in a million — no, billion. You found a unicorn, boss. Stupid unicorn, but still. Impressive catch.”
Tan next: “Fortunate. Very fortunate. To find someone who would do all that willingly… and then keep agreeing under pressure. It’s rare. Extremely rare. You didn’t just trap her. She built the trap for you.”
Miss Evelyn last: “I’ve seen a lot in my line of work. But this? One in a billion. She literally gave you the keys — removed limits, easy extensions clause, even suggested tools. You’re blessed, Master. Truly.”
Master: ”Exactly. She gave it to me. And now she’s mine. Completely.”
Their admiration hung in the air, and this time not about the control, but for the sheer luck of finding someone who walked into it all on MY OWN! One in a billion. A stupid, eager, trusting fool who handed him everything! And I me laying down in this state, hearing it all! — the praise for my own stupidity, the awe at how perfectly I had trapped myself! This is the worst it can become! They were admiring him for being fortunate enough to find me — the one who would do it all willingly, who would so stupidly and willingly walk into this trap until there was nothing left of me!
Raj laughed softly. “But boss, she’s still locked up whenever you’re not around. Still bound as punishment. She’s not fully serving yet lah — still resisting inside, right?”
The words struck like a hammer straight to the chest. He knew. He knew I was trying to keep some tiny fragment of myself alive, some secret copy of me hidden somewhere deep, some mechanism to survive this. And he was already ahead of it. He wasn’t just planning to punish me. He was planning to destroy every possible escape, every little resistance I might cling to. The intensity he promised wasn’t just pain — it was TOTALLY ERASURE! . Unavoidable. He would make it so strong, so relentless, that no part of me could hide. No mechanism strong enough to outlast him!
But the real blow — the one that made my breath catch — was the casual mention of extension. Six months wasn’t the end! He intended to push it further — maybe a year, maybe two. That is a long time! I am really losing my life!! The contract I signed for four days had already stretched to six months through tricks and my own mistakes. Now he was openly planning to double it, triple it, make it endless. The thought of another year — two years — chained, starched, painted, perfumed, reduced, repeating “Master’s girly maid Cassandra” every time I spoke… it felt like the floor dropping out from under me.
Six months was already crushing. A year? Two? The punishments would never end. The breaking would never finish. He would keep extending, keep collecting, keep shaping until there was nothing left to extend. Until the old me wasn’t just faded — until it was erased so thoroughly that even the memory of myself would be gone.
The hit was brutal! from knowing he had already decided my future stretched far beyond six months! He saw through my coping, through my resistance, and he still planned to drag it out longer! He knew my intention to hold on — and he would make sure I couldn’t! I felt so hopelessly helpless. Maybe starting to resort to this fate…
Suddenly, Raj’s voice cut through from outside the chamber door.
“Boss… the tips are still in her panties lah. Forgot to collect them.”
Master paused. “Ah, right. Good catch. Raj, go retrieve them.”
Raj laughed softly. “Okay lah, boss. My honour.”
The door creaked open again. Footsteps — Raj’s — entered the chamber. I lay there, eyes closed as ordered, I dared not move. I was supposed to sleep.
Raj knelt beside me. His hand lifted the front of my pinafore skirt slowly — the starched pleats rustling stiffly. My hands were still bound flat above the genital area. To reach beneath, Raj had to push my bound hands slightly upward, lifting them just enough for him to insert his other hands under the pinafore skirt.
The movement tugged at the cable ties, the plastic biting into my thumbs, the pins at my waist pulling harder as the fabric stretched.
His other hand slipped under the the skirt, fingers sliding the front of my panties, pressing against the flat, tucked area. The pins at my waist bit harder as he tugged the fabric aside. He retrieved the notes one by one but he didn’t stop there.
His fingers lingered, playing around the genital area — tracing the smooth, flat surface, pressing lightly, exploring the tucked space with slow, deliberate movements.
The violation was immediate and sharp — a stranger’s hand on the most intimate, hidden part of me, the part I had been forced to conceal and reduce to nothing. His fingers lingered, playing around the genital area — tracing the smooth, flat surface, pressing lightly, exploring the tucked space with slow, deliberate movements. Then something unexpected happened: a faint, involuntary twitch deep inside, a small spark of sensation I hadn’t felt in days, not pleasure exactly, but a sudden, confusing warmth, a tiny pulse of life that my body respond to even. It was mild arousal! However, the tuck was too tight, but it was enough to make my breath hitch, enough to remind me of that reaction. The shame exploded hotter — not just from the touch, but from my own body betraying me, from that tiny, helpless response I couldn’t control, from knowing he might have felt it too. I hated it. I hated myself for it. The feeling made the violation worse — because it proved I was still human, but now aroused by a fellow man, and in a manner as a girl!!! I am not just violated, I AM NOW VIOLATED AS A GIRL!! My body had betrayed me twice: first by being reduced to nothing, then by responding like the girl they forced me to become.!
No words. No protest. Just his touch, casual, curious, amused. I lay perfectly still, obeying the sleep command while he played, while he took his time. The stacking of all emotions flooded! Violated while pretending to sleep.
Raj finally pulled his hand out, notes in his palm, and stood up.
“All collected lah, boss. She’s good — didn’t move a muscle.”
Master’s voice drifted in from outside. “Good. Leave her. Let her sleep.”
The door closed again. The room quiet once more — only the faint creak of the starched uniform with my breathing, the soft crinkle of the sheet, the distant murmur of guests outside.
I lay there, eyes still closed, the violation fresh and burning. The notes were gone — but the feeling of Raj’s fingers wasn’t. The grossness settled deeper. Tonight I sleep on parlour leftovers. Tomorrow… more. More eyes. More touches. More reminders that I have no privacy.
Ben chuckled. “Wah, so tomorrow full punishment session lah? Speed up the breaking?”
Master: “Yes. Tomorrow we go all out. Canning until she bleeds if needed. Keep her confined and chained in the room for the next few days to recover — or more really to break her fast. No mercy. No breaks. Just intensity until the resistance cracks.”
The conversation drifted into details — different punishments, how long to leave her bound, how to combine restraints, how to make her thank them for it all. Their voices grew excited, planning, laughing, as if discussing a new hobby.
Halfway through, fatigue finally pulled me under. I dozed off — chained, eyes closed, makeup gross on my face, wig mentally heavy on my scalp, perfume cloying in my nose, starched uniform creaking faintly, on the thin mattress used by dead before, head on the hard wooden block shared with countless corpse.
