Slave Life Storyline- Introducing Miss Evelyn

This is not part of the storyline, but it is an introduction of her character Profile

Miss Evelyn is a woman in her mid-forties who has spent more than 20 years as a mortuary cosmetologist, first in small funeral homes, then moving up to the bigger parlours. She is the one they call when the family wants “the last photo to look right”—when the body has been waiting too long, when the skin has turned grey, when the eyes have sunk in. She has done it so many times now that the smell of embalming fluid, the chill of cold cheeks, the way lips stiffen after a day or two—it all feels as ordinary as wiping down a table.

To her, there is no difference between a corpse and a living face. Same skin. Same bone. Same need to look peaceful. She keeps her tools in a worn leather case: brushes that have swept over a hundred dead mouths, sponges that once patted down bruises from accidents, mascara wands that lengthened lashes on girls who never got to grow old. She reuses them without a second thought, wiping a stray fleck of foundation on her sleeve like it’s just dust.

She has been doing this every single day for over two decades—same routine, same tools, same quiet satisfaction. The first time she ever touched a dead face, she was nineteen and shaking. By forty, she stopped asking herself why. Now it’s just… normal, to her, the bodies are just like any other human, just that they have stopped breathing. The sponge she uses on Cassandra? It last touched a man who drowned—three days in the water, skin like wet paper. She rinsed it once, maybe twice, but never scrubbed. “Still good,” she mutters. “No point wasting it.”

She is proud—quietly, stubbornly proud. Not loud, not bragging, but the kind of pride that comes out in little stories while she works: “This blush? Used it on a lady last month—heart attack, face all pale. Took two layers, but she looked twenty years younger for the wake.” Or: “The old man yesterday, skin like paper, but I got him looking like he just woke up. Families always thank me.” She says it with a small nod, like it’s proof she is good at what she does. And she is.

She talks to herself too—softly, like it’s just background noise. When she’s alone with a body, she mutters little updates: “There, now your cheeks aren’t so hollow… same as that boy from last week, car crash. Took three coats.” Or: “Lips still stiff—nothing a bit of balm won’t fix. Did that for the auntie in Penang, worked like magic.” It’s how she keeps rhythm. No one answers, but she doesn’t mind. It’s just habit.

She does it with Cassandra too—half to herself, half like you’re part of the conversation: “This foundation? Perfect for sunken eyes. Used it on a man who drowned—face all bloated, but I brought him back. See? Same trick.” It like her occupational habit.

When she meets Cassandra—her first living customer—she doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask why. Just looks at Cassandra face, then at Master’s, and says, “Alright. Youthful. Innocent. I can do that.” And she does. Brushes, sponges, lipstick—same as always. No extra care. No special treatment. Because to her, Cassandra is not different. Cassandra is just another face that needs fixing. Professional on her side

And when cassandra feel the brush drag across his/her cheek—knowing it last touched someone who never breathed again—she doesn’t notice the shiver. She just keeps going, chatting softly: “This one held up fine on a girl two days ago. Lips were bitten raw. Same shade. Looks good on you too.”

To her, it’s normal. Nothing wrong with that.

She is chatty—not gossippy, not cruel—just talkative, the way people get when they’ve done the same thing forever. She talks while she works, like she’s narrating a recipe. “See this mascara? Did a whole row of kids from that bus crash—eyes all swollen, but I got them open-looking again. Families said they looked asleep. Same wand. Same stuff.” Or: “The wig? Slept on a lady in the coffin—family said too cheerful, so I took it. Still perfect. No smell, no fuss.” She says it all with the same flat, cheerful tone—like she’s proud of how many times she’s made someone look right, dead or alive.

And when she finishes—steps back, tilts Cassandra chin, nods—she says: “There. Youthful. Innocent. Just like he wanted. Nothing wrong with that.”

She packs up her kit like it’s any other day. Brushes back in, lipstick capped, no extra wipe-down. Because why would she? It’s just normal.

And yes—she’s Asian, through and through: that quiet, no-nonsense pride, the way she calls you “dear” once in a while like a niece she’s fixing up for a wedding, the way she keeps things simple because life already taught her there’s no point complicating what’s already done. She doesn’t see Cassandra as a tool. She sees only a face. And faces, to her, are all the same.

She’s street-smart too—sharp, practical, always thinking ahead. If something’s useful, she saves it. Old makeup palettes, half-used cans of setting powder, even the thin foam mattresses they lay under bodies before the coffin goes in—usually just one day, stored at the back of the parlour, never used more than once. After the family takes the body away, the mattress gets discarded. She keeps them, stacked in the back room of the parlour. “Waste not,” she says.

So when Master mentions—right there in the middle of the gathering, while everyone’s still around, drinks half-drunk, Cassandra kneeling quietly in the corner—he says offhand, “Might need a thin mattress. Something firm for the new arrangement” Evelyn just nods, like it’s the most obvious thing. “Oh, I have those. After the transfer, they just throw them out. Considered new lah, you know. Used only one day, never more. I can bring over. Save you the trouble.” She says it casually, like offering to lend a spare chair. No fuss. No shame. Just helpful.

Because to her, it’s normal. Nothing wrong with that.

To her, in her simplicity, clean is equals to nice smelling. So the makeup she uses is clean because they smell good—rose, jasmine, sweet talc, the kind of floral scents that cover everything else. A brush might have touched cold skin yesterday, but it is mixed with the makeup powder, smells good, then it’s clean enough. “Smells nice already, so okay lah,” she would say if anyone ever asked. To her, the nose decides. Not the eye, not the history—just the scent. If it smells good, it’s clean. Simple. Practical. Nothing complicated. Nothing wrong with that.

And so, when she applies the makeup on Cassandra (or on anyone else, if any), to her it is nothing gross at all because they don’t smell bad. The foundation smells softly of vanilla and rose, the lipstick of sweet berries, the powder of clean jasmine. That’s what matters. Everything else—the history, the previous skin, the faint chemical undertone that only Cassandra imagine—is covered, scented over, gone. To her, if it smells pretty, it’s pretty. If it smells clean, it’s clean. Full stop. Nothing more to think about.

She has a very open character—straightforward, no hidden agendas, no judgment in her eyes. She says what she thinks, answers questions plainly, and never acts shocked or secretive. That’s exactly why Master approached her in the first place. He needed someone who could handle the unusual without gossip, without hesitation, without leaking anything to the outside world. Evelyn is open, yes, but open in the way that makes secrets safe with her—she doesn’t pry, doesn’t moralise. She just does the job.

And her skill is undeniable: she can turn the most difficult, most “ugly” face into something beautiful and presentable. Swollen eyes, discoloured skin, sunken cheeks, stiff features—she knows the tricks, the layers, the lighting angles. Master trusts her completely with this secret because he knows she won’t blink at the truth, won’t ask unnecessary questions, won’t betray the arrangement. Hiring a random makeup artist from outside would be risky—unreliable, curious, potentially leak out. Evelyn is none of those things. She’s reliable. She’s discreet. She’s already seen worse, done stranger things, and kept it all to herself for 20 over years. So when he needs someone to make cassandra look “youthful and innocent” without any drama, he knows exactly who to call. Nothing complicated. Nothing wrong with that.

Slave Life Storyline– The Makeover to be presentable for Guests

 Day 6, early evening (Right after the washup) 

Master notices my subtle adjustments and speaks immediately, voice calm and precise.

“This stool is for Miss Evelyn’s convenience — not yours. Do not mistake it for comfort or privilege. You remain property. You sit only because she needs you at the right height to work. Keep your posture perfect. Legs closed. No slouching.”

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, the words soft and breathy, reluctant but obedient, the sweetness forced into my tone even as the inner humiliation burns. The clarification stings, this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I’m still just an object being positioned, arranged, made ready.

The feeling lingers: relief that is not relief, rest that is not rest.

I hold the ladylike pose exactly because anything less would mean more points, more debt, more punishment. The stool is hard beneath me, the heels bite, the perfume clings, the fresh uniform feels too clean against my skin — and yet I sit there, perfectly still, perfectly presented, waiting for Miss Evelyn to begin.

Then Master turns to Miss Evelyn and says, “She is all yours.” He reminds her, “Make her look as youthful girl as possible. Light makeup look.”

He turns to me one last time. “Respect her and address her as Madam.”

“Yes… Master,”

Miss Evelyn steps forward, quite chatty and speaks bluntly and straight. While she works, she says, “You know, you’re my first living one. Usually they’re not breathing. But honestly? I use the same skills. Same tools. You come out looking just as good.”

She dabs foundation along my jawline, keeps talking like it’s nothing.

“Your Master is my good friend. He actually called me in the afternoon. Said he needed someone who could make you look right—youthful, innocent, no fuss. He knows I do good job. And he knows I won’t say a word. Your secrets stay with me.”

“This sponge is so well used today. I’ve used it on all my past bodies—five, six maybe. And you’re the last for the day. Your’re lucky.”

She presses it in gently, like she’s smoothing out a wrinkle. “See? Still soft. Still good.”

She says it flat, no shame—just practical. Like I am just the last job on her list.

And inside me? The sponge hits my cheek—warm, damp—and my whole body goes tight. I’m lucky? She means it. She thinks I am lucky to be using this… thing…?. The sponge that wiped dead skin, that soaked up whatever was left on the bodies, now rubbing circles on my face?!?. The smell—rose and vanilla—mixes with something sour in my throat. Not hers. Mine. I want to scream, but I swallow. Keep my eyes forward. No flinch. Because if I show it… points. Debt. Punishment.

She keeps dabbing on and on.

That “I'm lucky” sticks. Like she's the one getting the bonus, not me. Like I'm just the last job on her list.

She dabs a little more foundation along my jawline and says casually, “This sponge worked great on that old man yesterday. His skin was all patchy and discolored. Perfect for covering it up. He was gone three days before they called me in. Worked like a charm on him, so it’ll be fine on you.”

The words hit like ice water. That sponge—pressed against a body three days dead, covering decay and discoloration—now patting on my face?? I feel it sinking in, the invisible film of death transferring with every gentle press. Tainted! Contaminated! Dead skin cells, maybe even embalming fluid, now blending with my skin! Grossed out beyond words, but I keep my face blank. Eyes forward. Lips soft. No flinch. No grimace. No sign at all.

And then the foundation brush touches my cheek and the sensation is unbearable. She makes sure every spot is even, no patches, creating that flawless base.I imagined it sweeping across cold, lifeless skin that was already stiffening, already beginning to change. I imagine the faint residue they must have picked up: the invisible traces of decomposition juice. The brush glides smoothly, spreading foundation over my living skin, but all I can feel is the transfer of grossness from that other body! Grossed… Grossed… Grossed…

She picks up the blush brush next, swirling it in the compact. “This one I used on a young girl last week—car accident. Cheeks were all bruised and sunken. Took layers to make her look peaceful for the viewing. Same shade, see? Suits you too. I did six faces yesterday—two old aunties, three kids, one uncle. All look peaceful now.”

The soft bristles sweep across my cheekbones, depositing the color. I can almost picture it: cold, lifeless, bruised skin under this same brush! Now it’s on me. The warmth of my own cheeks feels wrong! More violating than nausea! As if death is being painted onto me, layer by layer. Grossed! I swallow hard, force my expression to stay calm. More points if I show it. More debt. More punishment.

Your throat tightens.

She moves to mascara, leaning close. “This wand was perfect for that elderly lady this morning. Eyes all sunken from dehydration. A few coats and she looked almost alive again for the coffin shot. Hold still.”

The wand brushes my lashes, lengthening them carefully. Every stroke feels like it transferred something from those eyes that would never open again. The chemical smell of the mascara mixes with my imagination of the funeral home with smell of faint formaldehyde. Grossed. Grossed. Grossed! Violated. Degraded. But I remain perfectly ladylike, movements minimal and graceful whenever she adjusts my chin or tilts my head.

A blink—eyes sting.

She finishes with soft pink lipstick, outlining then filling. “I used this lipstick from a suicide case just now. She bit her lips raw before the end. Had to layer it so thick to hide the damage. This shade hides everything. You’re lucky.”

The creamy stick glides over my lips. I taste the faint chemical sweetness, but all I can think is the dead person’s saliva rubbing on me! Yucks and the blood from that lifeless lip! Now this same color is on me. The thought makes feels like vomitting. Contaminated. Marked by death. Extreme Grossed!!! I wanted to spit! Yucks!! Yuck!! Yuck!!! But I keep my mouth soft, lips parted just enough for her to work, no tremble, no sound. No reaction. Because any crack in the facade means more points. More debt. More punishment. I have already earned too much!! Cannot afford!

Inside, something seems to start giving way. A pressure builds behind my eyes, hot and stinging, like tears are gathering just out of sight. I feel the urge rising, sharp, sudden, almost overwhelming, to cry, to let it all spill out, to let the tears come and wash away this filth, this contamination, this endless layering of death on my skin. My throat tightens harder, my chest feels heavy, and for a moment the world blurs at the edges. I want to cry so badly it hurts, but I don't. I can't. Not here. Not now. Not with her watching, not with Master close, not when one tear would more points! more debt! more punishment! So I hold it in TIGHT! The urge really burns inside, but no drop falls.

The soft pink lipstick feels slick and foreign on my lips. The taste lingers on my tongue, coating it with every swallow, every small movement of my mouth. But it is not about the shades. It is the same creamy stick that touched those rotting lips — lips that would never move again, lips bitten with blood? Lips coated thick to hide the damage for strangers at a viewing. The very SAME STICK. The same tip. The same pressure from the same hands. Yuckkks!!

Whatever touched that dead mouth, the invisible traces of early decomposition that had already begun to settle is now has been transferred to me. Layer by layer. Stroke by stroke. The lipstick over my own lips is the same over that other pair of cold, still, bitten in desperation lips, now sharing the same color, the same tool, the same final touch!

Contaminated. Marked. As if some small part of that corpse has been transferred directly onto me. The thought makes me not just nausea, but something more violating, more permanent. I want to spit. I want to scrape it off. Yucks. Yuck. Yuck. But I keep my mouth soft, lips parted just enough for her to have worked, no tremble, no sound. No reaction.

She steps back, tilts my chin one last time, inspects the full effect. “There. Youthful, innocent. Just like he wanted.”

The words hang in the air, casual and satisfied, as if she has just finished a masterpiece of painting death onto my living face. I sit motionless on the stool, legs pressed tightly together, back rigid, hands resting delicately on my thighs in the ladylike pose that has become my only defense.

Inside, the pressure builds further. The urge to cry is swelling, rising like water behind a dam that's starting to crack. My eyes burn hotter now. The yucks feeling mixes with this new ache is almost unbearable. I want to cry so badly, but I don't. I can't. The intensity rises, wave after wave, but I force it down, swallow it, lock it behind my blank face. No drop falls. Just the silent, growing storm inside—stronger now.

Because any crack in the facade means more trouble. I have already earned too much today. I cannot afford even one more violation. So I hold it in. I swallow the taste — the chemical sweetness mixed with the imagined residue of death — and force my expression to stay calm. Eyes forward. Lips still.

Perfectly ladylike on the outside. Completely tainted and stormy on the inside.

A wave of nausea rolls up my throat, sharp and sour. I imagine the taste of that other mouth — lifeless, waxy, faintly metallic from embalming fluid — transferred to mine with every layer applied. Contaminated. Marked by death. Extreme grossed! The feeling sinks deeper than skin; it crawls into my chest, coils around my lungs, makes every breath feel borrowed from a corpse.

Yucks. Yuck. Yuck. I want to spit. I want to wipe it off with the back of my hand, erase the trace of that suicide case from my face. But I cannot.

I have already earned too much today, 127,800 points for one afternoon of failure. I cannot afford even one more violation.

I force my eyes to stay forward, soft and unfocused, the way Master likes when I am being presented. My posture remains perfect. The makeup feels thick and wrong on my face — and yet I sit here, perfectly still, perfectly presented, waiting for whatever comes next.

Inside, the thoughts spiral. I tried so hard. Really tried. To stay clean. To stay obedient. To stay perfect for one afternoon, but why did it happen!

And now this — death brushed onto my cheeks, my lashes, my lips. A suicide’s color sealing my mouth shut. The degradation sinks deeper than the foundation. I feel marked. Tainted! Reduced to sharing makeup with the dead! I am just property being prepared. Decorated. Made to look youthful and innocent while sharing the exact same brushes, the exact same lipstick, the exact same hands that painted over a suicide’s bitten lips and lifeless skin.

And behind it all… what have I been reduced to?

Same as a lifeless corpse? A thing? A blank, breathing surface for others to paint on, to dress up, to arrange. No longer a person with thoughts or dignity? just a thing that can be positioned, perfumed, made pretty, and passed around for viewing pleasure.

The same brushes that once prepared a corpse for its final viewing are now preparing me for whatever Master has planned next. The same lipstick that hid the damage on dead lips is now hiding whatever remains of mine. The same hands that just touched cold lifeless flesh awhile ago are touching my warm and living skin — and yet the result feels the same. A body made presentable. A body made compliant. A body that exists only to be looked at, used, and displayed.

I am supposed to be a man. A professional. Someone with a life, a name, a future. Now? Now I am this. A girl-shaped thing in heels and perfume, kneeling or sitting or standing exactly as instructed, lips painted with death, face smoothed with tools from the grave.

The degradation is complete. Not just on the surface. Not just in the makeup. In every layer beneath. In every thought that still dares to remember who I was. In every breath that carries the faint chemical sweetness of a suicide’s final color.

The yucks feeling settles like a stone in my chest. Heavy. Cold. Permanent. I swallow again — tasting the lipstick, tasting the thought of those bitten rotten lips — and force it back down. No reaction. No sound. Just obedience.

Inside, the urge to cry climbs higher now. It feels closer than before, but I still hold it. I have to hold it. One tear would ruin everything.

The intensity keeps building, silent and relentless, but no drop falls.

 

 

Then she takes out a black hair wig with two long pleats at the sides. She holds it up casually. “You’re in luck with this one too!” she says, voice light and matter-of-fact. “The other corpse I used this wig on two days ago — she was already in the coffin when the family decided it looked too cheerful for her. They didn’t want it back after one night on her head, so I kept it. Got a replacement wig for her instead. This one’s expensive, you know—real natural human hair, soft and real-looking. That’s why they rejected it for her; said it was too nice for mourning. Such a waste, but I saved it. Now this is perfect for what your Master wants your hair to look like.”

The words hit! Two days ago! Already in the coffin! One full night resting on a dead woman’s head?!?! A body already laid out and ready for burial?? The family looked at it, decided it was wrong for their mourning, and rejected it? So she simply took it? No cleaning? A wig made of real natural human hair, soft and expensive, that spent an entire night on a rotting corpse?!?!? Now being placed straight on me. Sharing the exact same style. Sharing the exact same accessory. Sharing the exact same intimacy of death?

She steps behind me, gathers my own hair and pinning it flat against my scalp with quick clips. Then she lowers the wig over my head. The black strands settle against my scalp. I imagined it carrying the faint scent of the death, the same air that filled the coffin for that one night. She adjusts the fit carefully, tugging the roots into place, smoothing the part down the middle, then secures it with a few discreet hairpins pushed into the base.. Then she adjust the two long pleats so they fall straight and heavy at the sides, framing my face exactly like a school girl look — black, sleek, long braids that swing slightly with every tiny turn of my head.

The feeling is immediate and overwhelming! The wig pressing lightly against my scalp, the real natural human hair brushing my ears and my neck like it was on a dead woman before. One night. Whole one night on her head — in the coffin — and now it’s on mine. Arghhhh!!! Grossed!! No barrier. No cleaning. Direct transfer! Whatever faint residue clung to those strands from her is now brushing against my living ears and neck. It feels like the same hair that once rested on her dead scalp, brushing against her lifeless ears and neck in the coffin, is now brushing against mine — the same strands, the same touch! the same tinge of death transferred directly to me. I feel it sinking in — tainted, contaminated, marked by something that was already gone. Extreme grossed. Yucks. Yuck. Yuck. I want to rip it off, shake out whatever invisible traces remain from that one night on a corpse’s head. I want to scream. But I cannot.

At this point, the tears inside seems to be reaching their peak intensity. The tears are literally pressing against the thin skin of my lids, ready to spill over with the slightest blink. The urge is so strong it feels physical. It is really on the verge of bursting, but I hold it. I have to hold it. One visible drop would mean more points, more debt, more punishment. So I keep my face blank, eyes forward, lips soft—while inside the tears scream to be let out, building, building, but still trapped.

She steps back, tilts her head, inspects the full effect. “There. Youthful, innocent. Just like he wanted.”

The makeover is finally complete. Or so I thought.

Miss Evelyn pauses, tilts her head again, then leans in close once more. She studies my lips under the light, frowning slightly as if something displeases her.

“Hmm. It faded a little already,” she says casually, reaching back into her bag. “That never happens with my other customers. They stay perfect once I’m done.”

The words land like a second slap. Other customers. The dead. The ones who lie still forever? Of course it will not fade, no breathing, no swallowing, no movement to disturb her perfect work.  But mine — living, trembling, still warm.  The comparison cuts deep. I am not even as good as a corpse.

She uncaps the soft pink lipstick again — the same stick that touched the suicide case lips, the same creamy color that coated bitten, lifeless lips. She steps forward and applies one more layer, outlining slowly, then filling in with deliberate strokes. The wand glides over my mouth once more, pressing just a fraction harder this time. I taste the chemical sweetness again, stronger now, coating my tongue. Each pass feels heavier than the last — another stroke of rotten juice painted onto me, another reminder that even this final touch is shared with someone who no longer breathes.

The yucks feeling surges fresh — not just from the first application, but from this second one. Double violation! Double contamination! The same lipstick is now now sealing my lips twice! Grossed! Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. I want to pull away, to wipe it off, to spit out the taste of rotting juice that keeps being forced onto me. But I cannot. I keep my mouth soft, lips parted just enough for her to work, no tremble, no sound. No reaction at all. Because any crack now — after everything — means more trouble. I have already earned too much today. I cannot afford even one more violation.

Her other customers? The dead — never need touching up because they are dead! They stay perfect forever, no movement, no fading, no tears, no life to disturb her work. I am the one who must endure, who must stay silent, who must accept the residue of their final preparations as my own.

I sit there on the stool, real natural human hair wig heavy on my head, braids framing my freshly re-painted face, fresh uniform clinging to my skin, heels biting my arches — perfectly ladylike, perfectly presented, perfectly VIOLATED! Inside, the yucks feeling has settled even deeper, like a stone in my chest that grows heavier with every breath. The dead are not just on my face. They are on my head now too. And now on my lips twice. Shared. Repeated. Direct. Permanent! Holding tight the tears within now..

And on my head now too. One night in a coffin, and now on me. Direct. Fresh. Shared with a corpse. The same wig that rested on a dead woman’s head for an entire night — now resting on mine? Reduced to sharing with the corpse? Intimately. Permanently. The consolidated violation is deeper than the makeup, deeper than the perfume, deeper than the uniform. It is in every strand touching my scalp, every braid swinging against my neck, every breath I take while wearing what death wore.

Master steps forward after Miss Evelyn moves aside, eyes scanning me from head to toe.

He circles slowly — once, twice — taking in the full effect.

He stops in front of me.

A long silence. Then he speaks, voice low, calm, but carrying that familiar edge of possession.

“Much better.”

He reaches out, tilts my chin up with two fingers — gentle, but firm. Forces me to meet his eyes.

“Look at my girl now,” he says, almost softly. “So pretty. So innocent. So… presentable.”

The word “girl” lands like a quiet brand. Every time he uses it, it sinks deeper. Not anymore. Not to him. Just his girl. His property. His decorated thing.

He lets my chin drop, steps back again, still looking.

“See?” he says, turning slightly toward Miss Evelyn. “This is what I wanted. My girl looking exactly like she should. Youthful. Obedient. Perfect for tonight.”

Miss Evelyn nods, pleased, then straightens a little, her voice carrying that quiet, stubborn pride she always has when someone acknowledges her work.

“She came out nice,” she says, with a small, satisfied smile. “This is what I do best. I can take any face—swollen, discolored, sunken, cold—and make it look right again. Youthful, peaceful, presentable. Families always thank me after the viewing, even when they were crying before. They say, 'Evelyn, you made her look like herself again.' That's why you called me right? I don't just do makeup. I make things... acceptable. Perfect, even. And I never need to touch up twice—unless someone moves too much.”

She glances at me briefly, almost fondly, then back to Master. “She's good now. Ready to be seen.”

Master’s gaze returns to me. He leans in closer.

“Now you’re my real girl. Cleaned up. Made up. Ready to be shown.”

The humiliation burns fresh. Cleaned up. Made up. Shown? Like an object put on display. The same hands that punished and gave the 127,800 points, is now praising the result of my degradation. The wig from a corpse’s coffin. The lipstick from a suicide’s lips. The brushes from dead faces. All of it on me. All of it making me his girl.

Master straightens, his eyes still fixed on me, then speaks again, voice calm and commanding.

“No more need for you to be on the stool. Stand up.”

The command is simple.

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, forcing back all my inner emotions.

I obey immediately. Slowly, carefully, I rise from the stool, keeping every movement graceful and ladylike. My knees, still aching, flare hot—the welts from last night’s kick now fully visible, raised red lines across the backs. The heels wobble slightly as I balance.

Evelyn glances down. “Those marks. Look painful.” She pulls out the compact—same pale powder she used on my cheeks—dabs it over the bruises. “This covers everything—good for injuries marks, bloody wounds, even when the skin's broken or bruised.” She pats gently. “There. No one will notice.”

Master nods. “Good job. She looks presentable. Even the marks are gone.”

Evelyn straightens, wipes her hands on her blouse. “Of course. This is what I do best.”

Master’s gaze returns to me. He leans in closer.

“How do you feel?”

The question hits me hard.

All the pressure that has been building finally gives way. Tears come first. Then my shoulders begin to shake, small tremors I can't control. A choked sob slips out—small, ugly, raw. I wipe my face quickly with the back of my hand. The tears keep coming, faster now, hot and relentless, blurring everything in front of me.

The urge I fought so hard to hold back finally spills over. Unstoppable. The yucks, the contamination, the shared death on my skin, the real human hair that brushed a corpse now brushing me, the powder on my welts from a dead boy's body—all of it crashes together in this moment, and the tears are the only way it can come out.

I stand there, shaking, sobbing softly, face streaked and ruined.

“Why… why am I wearing this? Why… makeup from… from dead people? It’s… it’s so gross. So dirty.”

The words tumble out, broken, voice cracking. “The brushes… the sponge… everything… used on them…”

Evelyn tilts her head. “Aiyah, not gross. It’s clean. See? Smells good—rose, jasmine. If it was dirty, it would smell bad. But it doesn’t. So it’s clean. Nothing wrong.”

She sighs, like I’m being difficult. “Don’t cry. If you cry, we need to touch up again. All my other customers don’t cry.”

Master’s voice cuts through the quiet sobs like a blade.

“Violation.”

He steps forward, eyes narrowing, tone flat and cold—the same delivery he used earlier when the tally climbed to 127,800.

“Crying. Ruining makeup. Appearance Major, base 300. Composure Major, base 400. Emotional lapse. Obedience Major, base 300.”

“Verbal outburst. Complaining about tools. Behaviour Major, base 400. Respect Minor, base 200. Disrespect to Evelyn. Decency Major, base 400.”

“Questioning choices. Doubt in protocol. Obedience Major, base 300. Vigilance Minor, base 200. Post-makeover defiance. Appearance Major, base 300.”

“Streaked face. Failure to maintain. Uniform Compliance Minor, base 200. Ladylike posture lapse. Decency Minor, base 200.”

“All stacked. Base: 2,800. Multiplied by 3 for repeated emotional breaches — crying, outburst, doubt — 8,400. Then by 1.8 for post-makeover context — tools already applied, presentation ruined — final tally: 15,120 points.”

The number landed like a slap.

Debt updated. 127,800 becomes 142,920.

I stared at the floor, tears drying into salty streaks, the makeup now ruined twice over. 15,120 more — just for breaking. Just for feeling. And now my sobs turned into numbers. No mercy. Just stacking. Why am I earning more points again- within one day! And more than previously! How am I going to make it through!

Miss Evelyn interrupted and sits me back down—still sniffling—pulls out a small pack of tissues from her bag and hands me one with a gentle pat on the shoulder, almost motherly, like she's comforting a child.

“Here, wipe your eyes first. Aiyah, look at the mess. Makeup all destroyed now.”

She shakes her head slightly, like a disappointed auntie. “I just finished twice, and now it's ruined. Tears are the worst for this. They take everything off. All my other customers never do this. They stay perfect.”

She sighs again, already reaching for the foundation sponge.

“Stay still. We fix it again.”

The tissues are soft against my cheeks, but they only smear the mascara further, I dab carefully, trying to stop the flow, but the tears keep coming, slower now, quieter, but still there. The yucks feeling mixes with shame, the ruined face mirrors the ruin inside.

She starts over. Sponge first, then brush, then blush, then mascara, then the lipstick—third layer now. No more chatter this time. Just quiet, efficient work, the sweet scents filling the air again as if nothing happened.

But inside, the stone in my chest is heavier than ever. The points—15,120 more—echo like a sentence. The tears were supposed to be release. Instead they became debt. Again. Within one day. More than before. How am I going to make it through?

But inside me, the grossness doesn't fade—it sharpens. The sponge glides across my cheeks again, the same sponge that already carried the residue of dead skin, now spreading another coat of foundation. The brush that once swept over cold, stiff faces now working over mine for the third time, blending the invisible traces even further into my pores. And again the same pink shade now dusting my own. Mascara coats my lashes once more, the same wand that lengthened dead eyes. And the gross lipstick—third layer—slides on slowly again, pressing harder this time.

The yucks feeling keep surging back. Contaminated. Re-contaminated. Triple-marked. The same tools, the same hands, the same death residue, now buried under three coats instead of two. My face feels heavier and thicker this time, feels like a double layer of rotting juice on me.

She finishes, steps back, inspects. “There. Third time lucky. Now it’ll hold.”

Master nods once. “Good. Kneel.”

I drop slowly to my knees again, welts throbbing under the fresh powder, face perfect once more. The tears have stopped. The urge is gone, replaced by numb exhaustion.

“Now, thank Miss Evelyn properly. She has made you presentable. Say it nicely. Like a good girl.”

I swallow hard. The words rise automatically, but the thought behind them twisted.

“Yes… Master,” I murmur first, soft and breathy, reluctant but obedient, the sweetness forced into my tone even as the inner humiliation burns hotter.

“Thank you… Madam… for making me presentable.”

The words come out steady, sweet, grateful — but inside, the yucks feeling surges again, sharper than before. Thanking her? For what? For painting death onto my face? For using brushes that touched cold skin, sponges that covered decay, lipstick that hid a suicide’s bitten lips? For placing a wig that rested on a corpse’s head for one full night in a coffin — now resting on mine? Thanking her for turning me into this… thing. This decorated property. This girl-shaped object carrying the residue of the dead?!?!!

Gratitude for degradation? Thanks for contamination? Appreciation for sharing with corpses?

The irony chokes me silently. I am thanking the person who made me look youthful and innocent while marking me with tools of the grave. I am thanking her for the same brushes, the same lipstick, the same wig that prepared the dead — now preparing me. Extreme grossed!!! Yucks. Yuck. Yuck!!! I want to take it all back, to spit the words out, to wipe everything off. But I cannot. I keep my face soft, eyes down, lips curved in the faintest hint of a grateful smile. No crack. No tremble. No sound beyond the required thanks.

Miss Evelyn smiles faintly, pleased. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

Master nods once, satisfied. “Good girl.”

The praise feels like another layer of makeup, sealing me further into this role. ..

Slave Life Storyline– The first washup after many days

 Day 6, early evening (Right after earning 127,800 points!)

A long pause fills the room. Master stands there, staring down at the mess I have become. Then, finally, his voice cuts through the silence, calm but edged with clear displeasure.

“What a messy uniform.”

Another pause. He seems to be taking in the full extent of the damage. Then he continues, tone flat and practical.

“I’m going to have you change out of this uniform anyway. You need to be presentable for my friends.”

His words hit me hard. Not sure how I feel. Betrayed. Deeply betrayed. He had the intention to change me into a fresh uniform all along? To make me look presentable? Then why award all those points? Why stack and multiply to 127,800? Why punish for something he planned to fix? It doesn’t make sense! Or does it? Is it all about control? All his plan to break me more?

I have already tried so hard to stay clean, to avoid this exact mess, and now — points for nothing! Debt for a failure he knew he’d erase! Tricked again. Anger bubbles quiet under the fear.

And "for my friends"? The words land like a punch. Friends? Strangers coming here? Seeing me like this—dressed, made up, presented as his property? My privacy—gone. The secret I thought was safe between us, shattered. Embarrassment floods. What if they laugh? Touch? Judge? Know my face, my old life? No more hiding. No more escape. Exposed to the world as this property in girly uniform! Yucks. But what can I do? Nothing! Just submit.

He turns away for a moment, steps to a nearby shelf in the storeroom. I hear a box open — the mask box. He pulls out a surgical mask, snaps it over his nose and mouth quickly, protecting himself from the stench that is still choking the entire room.

Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of scissors. One by one he cuts the cable ties binding my thumbs — snip — freeing my hands. Then he moves to my ankles and cuts those too. The sudden release sends pins and needles racing through my limbs, but I remain perfectly still, not daring to move without permission.

“Kneel in position,” he instructs.

“Yes… Master,” I reply softly, breathy and reluctant, forcing the sweetness into my tone exactly as he has trained me to do, even though inside it feels like swallowing glass.

Then I obey immediately, pushing myself up slowly, every muscle protesting after hours of immobility. Knees ache as they press into the concrete. I settle into the familiar maid kneel — knees together, back straight, hands on thighs, head slightly bowed, eyes down.

Then, suddenly, I hear a woman’s voice from the doorway.

A nicely dressed lady steps into the room. She is elegant, in a simple but expensive-looking blouse and skirt, hair neatly tied back. The first thing she does is wrinkle her nose and wave a hand in front of her face.

“Ohhhhh, what is that smell?”

Master turns to her without hesitation and explains, voice steady. “It is because my property misbehaved. Do not worry. It will be dealt with.”

Then he points directly at me, still kneeling on the floor. “This is my finally found property that I have been waiting for so long. And I need you to help me make it presentable for tonight.”

Two thoughts race inside me at once. The first is a wave of fresh shame and confusion — he is showing me to her like this, wet and ruined. The second is sharper, almost panicked: Why is there another person here? Where is my secret? I thought this was supposed to stay hidden. I thought no one else would ever see me like this.

Master turns to me and instructs clearly, “She is Miss Evelyn. She is my friend, a make-up artist, but not for humans — for the dead. She has agreed to come and help make my girl presentable for tonight. Be grateful for her.”

Another inner shocked thought hits me hard. Why a mortician? Why is someone who does makeup on dead bodies now doing it on me? The things she uses… shared with corpses? The yucks feeling rises fast inside my chest, but I hold it there, silent. No reaction. No sound. More points if I show it.

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, the words coming out even softer than before, almost a whisper carried on a shaky breath. The reluctance lingers in my throat like something bitter I can’t swallow, the sweetness forced only at the very end, thin and fragile.

Master steps closer and releases the neck chain from the wall hook. The sudden relief from the constant presence around my neck is immediate — the weight lifts, the skin underneath feels cooler. For the first time in days, my head can move freely without the tug.

He continues briefing me in detail, voice clear and commanding.

“I am sure you do not need the chain for now. The door is locked and you are too weak to escape anyway.”

Then he gives the next instructions, one by one.

“Strip down fully. I am making a rare concession — you may untuck your penis for the washup. I want you well cleaned for my friend.”

“Go to the toilet beside the room and shower. The shampoo and the bar of soap are already inside.”

“Before you shower, you must also shave all your body hair clean. After five days there will be some growing back.”

“I gives you thirty minutes exactly.”

I respond immediately, voice soft, breathy, reluctant, exactly the way he requires.

“Yes… Master.”

I remain kneeling for a heartbeat longer, waiting for any further command, but none comes immediately. Slowly, carefully, I begin to push myself up from the position, thinking the silence means permission. My knees burn as they start to straighten, thighs trembling slightly from the effort, but I force them together, back straight, hands resting delicately at my sides, head slightly bowed in the proper ladylike posture. The sudden change in position sends fresh pins and needles racing through my limbs.

Master's voice cuts through before I can fully rise.

"Stop."

I freeze mid-motion, half-up, muscles straining.

"You move out of position only after I give you instructions." His tone is calm but edged with finality. "Violation points awarded. Minor posture lapse. 100 points."

The words land like a quiet slap. More points. For nothing. For assuming. I sink back down immediately into the full kneel, hands returning to my thighs.

Master waits a beat, then instructs clearly.

"Stand up. Slowly. Keep it ladylike."

"Yes… Master," I murmur.

I begin pushing myself up slowly from the kneel with careful, deliberate movements. My knees burn as they straighten, thighs trembling slightly from the effort, but I force them together, back straight, hands resting delicately at my sides, head slightly bowed in the proper ladylike posture. The sudden change in position sends fresh pins and needles racing through my limbs, but I keep the movements graceful and controlled, never abrupt.

Then I begin to undress in front of him, fingers trembling slightly as I remove the filthy, uniform layer by layer.

I start with the tie first — the knot at my throat is still perfectly centered as required, but the polyester fabric is stiff and damp, clinging to my neck like a damp collar. My hands move slowly, deliberately, untying it with small, careful motions so as not to disturb the ladylike posture. The tie comes away with a soft, wet sound, leaving a faint red line across my skin where it had pressed for so long. I fold it neatly and place it on the nearby stool, keeping everything orderly despite the mess.

Next is the pinafore. The straps over my shoulders are heavy with sweat and urine. I reach behind to unzip the left side, then lift the hem carefully over my head. The fabric peels away from my body reluctantly. The pinafore drops into my hands, sodden and heavy, the wet patch on the back now fully visible and spreading wider than I had realized. I fold it as best I can, and set it beside the tie.

The blouse comes next. The safety pins at the waist are still securely fastened to the panties beneath. I unfasten them one by one — careful not to prick my skin. With the pins removed, I begin unbuttoning from the top. The buttons are stiff from dried sweat and dampness, resisting my trembling fingers. Each one releases with a small pop, the fabric parting slowly to reveal the training bra underneath. The blouse clings to my back and sides like a second skin; peeling it off requires some efforts. The material comes away with a wet sucking sound. I fold it carefully and place it with the others.

Underneath, the training bra is soaked through, straps cutting deep red lines into my shoulders, band squeezing my ribs so tightly that removing it feels like releasing a vise. I reach behind, unhook it, and slide the straps down my arms. The cups peel away from my chest with a sticky pull, exposing the raw, swollen nipples beneath. The bra joins the pile, damp and heavy.

Finally, the panties. The elastic waistband is stretched, wet and clinging to my skin. The tucked-back pressure has left deep grooves and numbness in the area. I hook my thumbs under the sides and slide them down slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the tuck too abruptly. The fabric peels away from my groin and crack with a wet, reluctant sound, leaving cold, sticky trails and red marks where it had pressed for so long. The panties drop to my ankles. I step out of them one foot at a time, keeping my balance and posture ladylike even in this exposed moment. They land in the pile with the rest.

Last are the white canvas shoes and socks. I bend slightly at the waist — keeping my movements graceful — and slip off one shoe, then the other. The canvas is damp inside from sweat, the white material slightly yellowed at the toes. I peel off the thin white ankle socks next; they cling to my skin. The socks join the heap. My bare feet touch the cold concrete — a shock after so long in shoes — blisters stinging sharply with the sudden exposure to air.

I stand there naked now, completely exposed under his gaze and the dim bulb. The air feels foreign on my skin — cool, almost painful after days of being trapped in layers. Every inch of me feels vulnerable, marked by red lines, indentations, raw patches, and the lingering cold stickiness of the accident. The stench rises stronger from my body itself now that the uniform is gone, clinging to my skin.

I remain perfectly still, hands at my sides, head slightly bowed, waiting for the next instruction. No words. No movement. Just obedience.

The filthy uniform lies in a neat pile on the stool beside me — tie folded, pinafore creased, blouse buttoned as best as possible, panties and bra on top, shoes and socks aligned. Even in ruin, I have tried to keep it orderly.

Master’s voice stops me before I can take another step.

“Violation points awarded. The rule is to hang it nicely despite the used condition. Hang it now in the slave chamber.”

The words land quietly, but they sting. Of course. Even filthy, even soiled uniform must be hung properly. His standard never changes. No exceptions. I should have known. I should have remembered. More points for assuming the heap was acceptable.

I turn back promptly, still naked, and pick up the filthy uniform carefully. The sodden weight drags at my arms as I carry it to the hanger in the corner of this slave chamber. I hang it neatly — blouse buttoned fully, pinafore straightened along the pleats, tie centered and knotted as if it were clean, panties and bra folded, shoes placed side by side underneath with socks tucked inside. Every movement feels exposing under his gaze and Miss Evelyn's watchful eyes — bare skin prickling in the cool air, red lines and indentations on full display. But I keep every action deliberate, ladylike, graceful. No haste. No sloppiness. Obedience, so I may still have chance to be free.

Once it is hung exactly as the protocol requires, I return to stand in front of him, head bowed, hands at my sides, waiting again.

Before I continue to the toilet, Master instructs once more, “Bring the potty to be flushed into the toilet bowl.”

I do as instructed, carrying the low white potty carefully to the toilet and flushing the pale-yellow sludge away. The smell rises one last time as it swirls down.

Then I shave myself there, carefully removing every trace of body hair that had started growing back after five days. The razor moves slowly over my skin — legs, arms, pubic area, face — until I am completely smooth again.

After that, I step into the shower. It is my first shower in five days. The cold water hits me like a shock, but after the long heat and filth, even the cold feels almost refreshing at first. I used the cheap rose-scented soap bar over my body and wash my hair with the shampoo. The feminine floral smell of the soap gives me a bad feeling again — too sweet, too girly, a reminder of what I am becoming. But I scrub thoroughly, trying to wash away as much of the accumulated grime and stench as possible within the time limit.

When I finish, I dry myself quickly and step out.

The feeling of putting on the fresh uniform is strange. There are two clean uniforms hanging on the rack beside the toilet — the ones I washed two days ago. I put on the blouse first, then the pinafore, the red tie, the fresh white panties and training bra that Master had prepared on a stool. They are all sprayed heavily with strong feminine perfume. The scent is overpowering, floral and sweet, clinging to the fabric. After putting on the fresh panties and blouse, I fasten the safety pins at the waist one pin each on both sides, piercing through the blouse and into the panty.  Finally, I slip on the 4-inch black stilettos again — heels for presentable. The arch immediately starts burning again after the short break.I keep my movements careful and ladylike, back straight, steps small and controlled. All in hope of some mercy from Master, maybe even retracting those last points. Or is it just false hope again?

All in hope of some mercy from Master, maybe even retracting those last points. Or is it just false hope again?

When I approach the panty stool to adjust the fresh pair, Master remarks calmly, “The two panties you wore as layers two days ago were washed. I gave some punishment points for my inconvenience in having to wash them.”

I feel the small sting of more points added, but I say nothing. Just continue to behave as ladylike as possible.

After I am fully dressed and standing in heels again, Master instructs, “Sit on the stool. Be girly. Legs close.”

“Yes… Master,” I obey promptly, lowering myself onto the stool with knees pressed tightly together, back straight, hands resting delicately on my thighs.

The moment I sat on the seat, the sensation is strange and overwhelming — almost disorienting after five full days of nothing but kneeling or standing locked in heels. My knees, which have been bent suddenly straighten almost fully for the first time. The relief is immediate but incomplete: a deep, aching stretch radiates through the joints,. The burning welts from yesterday’s caning flare hot under the skin. It doesn’t hurt less — it just hurts differently. A dull, throbbing pulse replaces the sharp grinding I’ve grown used to.

My thighs tremble slightly as I adjusted myself. The muscles, overworked from holding the rigid kneel posture for hours, feel weak and unsteady, like they’ve forgotten how to sit properly. The coldness of the seat seeps through the fresh pinafore and panties, a stark contrast to the sticky, trapped heat I’ve lived in the last few days.

My back almost instinctively tries to relax into a more natural curve, but I catch myself — I force it straight again, in the ladylike posture Master demands. The fresh training bra band digs into my ribs again, but now the shift in position makes the straps pull tighter across my shoulders, carving fresh lines into skin already marked red from days of strain. My hands rest delicately on my thighs, palms down.

The stilettos force my feet into the same high arch I have endured for most of the five days, but sitting changes the pressure again, now the balls of my feet bear more weight, blisters stinging sharply. Every tiny shift of weight causes a soft creak on the stool and a faint rustle of the pinafore pleats, reminding me of how exposed and controlled even this small allowance feels.

Master notices my subtle adjustments and speaks immediately, voice calm and precise.

“This stool is for Miss Evelyn’s convenience — not yours. Do not mistake it for comfort or privilege. You remain property. You sit only because she needs you at the right height to work. Keep your posture perfect. Legs closed. No slouching.”

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, the words soft and breathy, reluctant but obedient, the sweetness forced into my tone even as the inner humiliation burns. The clarification stings, this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I’m still just an object being positioned, arranged, made ready.

The feeling lingers: relief that is not relief, rest that is not rest.

I hold the ladylike pose exactly because anything less would mean more points, more debt, more punishment. The stool is hard beneath me, the heels bite, the perfume clings, the fresh uniform feels too clean against my skin — and yet I sit there, perfectly still, perfectly presented, waiting for Miss Evelyn to begin.

Then Master turns to Miss Evelyn and says, “She is all yours.” He reminds her, “Make her look as youthful girl as possible. Light makeup look.”

He turns to me one last time. “Respect her and address her as Madam.”

“Yes… Master,”

Slave Life Storyline – The first approved afternoon Sleep...... so that it can be presentable.

 Day 6, morning till late afternoon (immediately after the 'aftermath of the ‘big’ punishment')

The potty sits in the corner — plastic, low, white, like a child's thing. I did it at awhile ago, right after eating that cold rice-milk-lettuce-mayonnaise mess. Squatted over it, knees already burning from yesterday, ankles sore. Shit came out soft, warm, almost liquid — pale-yellow sludge, like thick yogurt mixed with curdled milk. No solid bits. No control. It splattered a little, stuck to the sides. I pulled panties up — no wipe — warm paste smeared across my groin, clinging to the cotton, pressing into skin like glue.

Now it's there. Right beside me.

I closed my eyes. Not because I was sleepy—because I was. Too tired. Sleepless night. Body heavy. Head spinning. No fight left.

And just like that—I fell asleep. On the spot. No pretending. No waiting. Just… gone….

----- awhile later.. (likely 9am…)

Bulb hums dim yellow overhead, always on, no window, no off switch. Room sealed. Air already thick, still. My breathing makes it warmer, wetter. Humidity fills the air.

Lying on back. Legs straight, ankles bound tight. No spread, no bend.

Thumbs zip-tied palms-together right over pubic mound.

Hands flat, useless. Can't scratch, can't shift weight. 

Neck chain—PVC sleeve against collarbone. Lying flat, no tug. Chain loose, coiled beside ear. Only pulls if I move far. Won't let me escape, but doesn't choke in rest.

Still FULL Uniform: blouse pinned to panties at waist both sides—safety pins on both sides. Blouse no ride-up, but pull constant, tugs waistband tighter across hips and crotch. Pinafore layered over, pleats sticky against thighs; tie knotted firm at throat, polyester collar clinging damp. All layers soaked through, clinging heavy—no air between skin and fabric, just trapped heat.

Sweat from night still trapped, fermenting slow in folds—sour, salty rot building layer by layer.

Panties compress tuck hard, penis pulled back flat, balls squeezed up. Five days no release. Pressure dull ache already. 

White canvas shoes squeeze toes flat, socks thin and damp already from night sweat. No heels now, but feet still throb, blisters raw under fabric. 

Training bra straps carve shoulders with constant dig, fabric edges grinding skin with every shallow breath. Band squeezes ribs tight, compressing me tight—each inhale feels like fighting for air.

The smell of the potty beside is faint — milky-sour, like old yogurt left in the sun. Not bad. Just... there. Floating. Every breath — I taste it on my tongue.

Mayo from yesterday's meal lingers faint oily ghost under old sweat smell.

Eyes shut. Pretend sleep. But body won't let go deep. Knee welts from yesterday night’s caning—swollen, purple edges burn when slightest twitch. Nipples raw from clamps all night—purple, swollen, blouse rubs like sandpaper. Every inhale tugs. 

Drift starts. Shallow. Exhaustion heavy. Head spins slow. Then jolt—cramp in calf from bound ankles. Eyes snap open. Bulb glares. Breathe fast. Shut again. Pretend. 

------ Some time later (likely at 10 AM)

Drifting again. Light doze. Sweating. Uniform sticks everywhere. The blouse clings my chest, pinafore pleats fold and press against my inner thighs.Heat builds slow. Bulb adds warmth like small sun.

The potty smell beside is warmer. The sludge starts fermenting. Sweet-sour now. Like curdled cream. I turn my head — it's closer than I thought. The white plastic rim has a thin yellow ring around it.

Smell thickens within me. Old sweat sour. Fermented panty note underneath, unwashed fabric pressed to skin. Faint ammonia edge when I shift my hips. Tuck still holds, but pressure throbs deeper. Penis head mashed against groin with dull pulse.

------- A little while later after another slight doze (likely 10:30 AM)

I smell some cheesy smell. Sour. Like mayo gone off. It is from the potty! The smell thickens with every breath. I try to breathe through my mouth — but then I taste it.

Inner reminder: Survive. Fake it. Six months. Maybe easier if stay still. Maybe he sees good girl. Maybe less pain. Thoughts mechanical. Repeat. Fade.

Reflection creeps in slow. Yesterday—contract. He pushed me. Threatened exposure. Facebook. Social media. My face, uniform, everything out there. Scared me bad. Signed straight to six months. No choice. But now, lying here and thinking. Wait. Malaysia. One month max legal stay! After that—overstay. Illegal. If he exposes—posts pictures—they trace. Find me. Find him. He gets into trouble with the law too! No way he will do it! I was tricked! Bluff! Stupid fear! I fell for it. Signed away half year. For nothing. Anger bubbles quiet. Tricked! But what now? Stuck!

Memory hits again! Yesterday night Master said new routine. Breast pumping. Once day, 30 minutes. Remembered command: “Pump. Every day. Make them useful.” Machine cold on nipples—raw already from clamps. Ouch! Suction pulls swollen tips and the pressure will surely hurt. Humiliation wave—body forced into new shape. For him. Strapped down, uniform on, pumping like cow. Why am I going to do this?

 

Drift. Wake. Drift. Thumbs a little numb now—deep ache in wrists. Try shifting a little—chain rattles soft. Stop. Pretend sleep. Drift……

------- Some time later (likely 12 noon)

Hotter. Sticky. Sweat rivers down me. Blouse damp patches under arms and between bra. Bra band digs ribs—shallow pants.

And adding on a warm, cloying. Rotten cheese + sweet milk from the potty! It fills the room like fog. No escape. Every inhale — it sticks to my nose!

Could feel my bladder pressure building slow. Full from morning bottle. Hold. Clench. Tuck compresses everything—harder to hold. Thighs tremble slightly. Ankles bound my legs in place, no crossing legs for relief.

Then spike! Body betrays me! Felt warmth suddenly! Can't stop! Urine leaks first—small hot stream under tuck. Panties instantly soaked. Warmth rushes out, floods backward under tuck, soaks cotton rearward, spreads along crack and butt cheeks, wicks up toward lower back of pinafore. The safety pins holding the blouse hem tight to the panties at my waist trap it—no escape upward—so urine pools deep in the crotch against the tucked-back genitals, then seeps slowly rearward down the crack. Wet patch blooms dark on the back of the pinafore, creeping upward.

Shame crashes and my eyes squeeze shut. Tears leak at the corner of my eyes. Wet clammy now! Urine cools fast—cold sticky against my skin. Smell sharp ammonia cuts through sweat rot. Mixes. Worse!

Fresh urine mixes with the rotten dairy from the potty—sharp ammonia + curdled milk stink. Nausea rolls. The smell peaks with heavy, choking. Like breathing through spoiled cream.

Lie still. Pretend sleep. But wet! So wet!

I am going to be in trouble when Master gets back, big trouble! I was trying so hard this time! Really trying! No more violations! No more points! Keep clean! keep still! keep perfect! Avoid the debt climbing higher! One more clean day, maybe he eases up. Maybe six months will be the final ending.

But now—wet. Soiled! Ruined uniform! Patch creeping up the back like proof I failed! Couldn't hold. Couldn't stop it. Body betrayed me when I needed it most! Helpless! No clench strong enough! All that effort—gone in one spike! One flood! Violation. Major. Automatic.

Stacking on stacking. This violation may trigger a massive stacking! Everything compounding. Major violation. Or even Super Major! He may even use MULTIPLIER! This is bad! This is very bad! Points piling fast, way more than usual! Automatic escalation AGAIN! Oh no!!!!

 

And the worst part? I was so close. One clean day. One day without points. One day closer to maybe, just maybe, him easing the regime! Gone. All gone! In one helpless rush! Master hasn't even seen it yet, but I could feel it is already updated. Stacked. Multiplied.

He'll see it first. Smell it before he even steps close. Fresh urine + rotten dairy stink hitting him like a wall. Then the tally and debt piles higher than ever. Punishment waiting again!

Tears leak steady now. Heart hammers under the tight bra band. Sweat fresh under the old layers.

Beg? No use…. All because I couldn't prevent it. Couldn't stop the helpless rush. Failed again. And he hasn't even walked in yet.

 

------- Feels like eternity later (likely 1-3pm)

Wetness settles. Panties heavy and sodden. Urine stays trapped in the layers—panties and blouse hem pinned so tight together at the waist that nothing really escapes downward fast. The cotton and polyester soak up most of it, turning the fabric thicker, heavier, clinging even more stubbornly to skin.

Some seeps slowly along the inner thighs and crack, but the bulk stays right there, sodden crotch, wet patch spreading wider across the back of the pinafore from the inside out, creeping upward. The clothing holding all the moisture like a second, filthy skin! Wet clammy now! Urine cools fast—cold sticky against my skin.

Shame still crashing. Panic rising! Wet! So wet! Every tiny shift—squish. Fabric clings colder, heavier, refusing to let go of a single drop.

Smell ramps: ammonia strong now, mixes fermented panty sour, old mayo oily. Sweat adds salt. Choking layer. Potty smell stronger. Sickly sweet-sour. Like a warm dumpster of milk and mayo. The air feels thick with it.

And now, the urine smell mixes with the rotten dairy from the potty—sharp ammonia + curdled milk stink. Nausea rolls.

The smell peaks with heavy, choking. Like breathing through spoiled cream. It seems to clings to everything. Every breath — it coats my tongue.

Drift. Wake to throb—knees swollen, caning welts pulse. Nipples sting blouse rub. Thumbs dead numb—shoulders deep ache from pinned position. Ankles throb around ties.

Panic lingers. Still wet. Still stinking. Still helpless. Trouble coming. Big trouble. Master will see. Smell. Know. Debt. Stacking. Multiplier. Oh no!!!! Oh no!!!!

Smell peak to its max! The full cocktail: urine ammonia sharp, fermented panty musk rancid, morning bowel fermentation gases sour fecal, sweat salt-rot, mayo oily ghost. Breathing it hurts!

Drift. Wake. Drift. Thumbs feels completely numb now, fingers locked and useless. Ankles throb around the cable ties and my calves still burning from the forced straight position from the night. Knees pulse with the old caning welts—swollen, hot, and every tiny twitch sends fresh fire. Nipples sting worse under the training bra, raw swollen tips rubbing the damp fabric like sandpaper. Shoulders hurt deep inside because my arms are forced down and locked in this position with no way to move them. Every part of my body throbs as one big, constant pain.

------- Some time later (likely 4-5pm)

Time drags like slow torture. Bulb still humming dim yellow, no mercy with heat.

Room even hotter now, air thicker, smell even heavier.

Every breath pulls in more of the full cocktail—urine, shit fermentation, sweat rot, mayo ghost—until it feels like I’m drowning in it.

The wetness has spread everywhere now and has slowly wicked outward through the sodden layers and even creep toward the front of the pinafore in faint, irregular dark streaks. Although the back patch is still the heaviest, but the front shows it too: a visible, uneven bloom of dampness that no amount of lying still can hide!

The pinned blouse hem and tight panties couldn’t contain it all forever—the sheer volume and slow saturation let it migrate forward and sideways, soaking the cloth until the entire lower uniform feels like one continuous, heavy, clinging wet mess!

Panic lingers. Still wet. Still stinking. Still helpless. Trouble coming. Big trouble!

Master will be back anytime. He’ll open the door. He’ll smell it before he even sees me. The smell will surely hit him like a wall! Then he’ll look down what is so obvious to him!  He will surely award the violation instantly! Debt will piles higher than ever. Stacking on stacking or even a massive stacking! Everything compounding. Major violation. Or even Super Major! He may even use MULTIPLIER! This is bad! This is very bad! Points piling fast, way more than usual! Automatic escalation AGAIN! Oh no!!!!

------- Final moment (likely 5pm)

Door creak sudden. My heart stops. Footsteps quick. He enters fast. Stops just inside.

The smell slams into him full force. Sudden. Overwhelming.

He recoils sharply—sharp gasp, hand snaps to nose, body jerks back half a step.

Cough once, hard. "WHAT ON EARTH?!"

Voice cracks high, shocked, furious. "This stench—urine, rot, everything!"

Face twists in disgust, eyes widen then narrow fast.

No calm. No slow scan.

The full cocktail floods him—urine sharp, shit fermentation thick, sweat rot—all at once. Breath hisses through clenched teeth. "You let this happen?!"

Then he sees me.

I dare not move an inch. Body frozen rigid—every muscle locked, breath held shallow, eyes barely open slits. No twitch. No shift. Just lie there like a statue, waiting for the verdict to fall. Heart slamming so hard!

Wet patches front and back. Dark streaks creeping. Trembling thighs—barely visible, but he sees. Swollen knees. Numb thumbs pinned low. Sweat-soaked everything. Potty in corner, crusting sludge. Face darkens.

"Violation!" he snaps, voice rising sharp. "Super Major—uniform soiled, wet, ruined! Base 800!"

I stay perfectly still. Awaiting. Helpless. No escape. No defense. Just waiting for what comes next.

He paces once, fast. "Uniform violation—Super Major. The centerpiece. Triggers everything." Breath sharp. "Hygiene failure—accident, no permission! Major—500!"

"Appearance destroyed—visible stains, odor choking the room! Major—500 more!"

"Mental collapse—couldn't hold! Minor—100!"

He stops. Eyes lock on mine. "Stacking. Now." Voice low but tight, angry. "Uniform is the absolute center—Super Major base. Layers within it: soiled triggers hygiene lapse. Hygiene lapse triggers appearance failure. Appearance failure triggers mental breakdown. Chain reaction across categories."

"Added stacking: wetness in uniform during sleep—compounds hygiene. Odor from accident in uniform—compounds appearance. Failure to maintain presentable uniform post-extension—compounds mental."

"Uniform itself stacks hardest—multiple within one: stain, soak, smell, all Super Major multipliers inside it."

"More added: accident in approved rest—stacks behavior lapse, no immediate report, no control. Minor—100."

"Chores category triggered—rest period is assigned chore of recovery; soiled it, failed to complete clean. Major—500."

"Contract baseline affected—post-six-month extension, this failure resets compliance clock, triggers overall status review. Super Major add-on—800 more."

"Overall stack builds massive. Debt explodes."

"Multiplier." He spits the word. "First accident after extension—×2. During approved sleep—×1.5. After you promised to behave—×2 for irony."

No laughter. Just rage simmering under control. "Debt explodes. Multiplied. Stacked."

He leans in close. Breath hot against my face.

"You know what this means."

His voice drops colder, each word deliberate, cutting.

"I just reset you to zero. Zero points! Clean slate after the extension. One fresh start for you. And you blew it! Look what you did!"

Pause. Silence heavy.

"In one afternoon—just one approved sleep—you jump straight to this!"

"From zero to overflowing. 127,800 points!"

The number lands like a hammer.

"Zero to 127,800. In one minute."

He straightens slowly.

"Punishment queue overflowing for you… "

Body freezes. Tears stream. Helpless. Failed. Broken. All in one afternoon.

 

The final amount awarded: 127,800 points.

Tears keep coming. Slow now, steady.

I tried. I really tried so hard today.

No violations. No slips. No points. Keep clean. Keep still. Keep perfect. One clean afternoon. One day without adding to the debt. One day closer to maybe… maybe the regime softens. Maybe after that he lets me breathe. Maybe after that the chains loosen. Maybe six months is the end.  Maybe after that I’m not just property anymore.

I thought I could make it. Just one afternoon. Just lie here. Pretend sleep. Survive the hours. No accidents. No failures. No reason for more punishment.

But I failed again.

This time, my own body betrayed me! Bladder gave out. Wetness spread. Smell bloomed. Debt jumped. 127,800 points. From zero—zero! to this mountain in one minute speech! One helpless rush. One overflowing flood. And everything collapsed.

Six months is already more than enough. More than anyone could endure. More than I can take. But now? This failure? This reset thrown away? What happens next?

Another extension? Will he push me to seven? Eight? A year? Two years? Forever?

The thought twists like a knife. I can’t. I can’t do more. Six months already feels like eternity! The heat. The smell. The ache. The humiliation. The waiting. The pretending. The breaking.

I thought I could hold on. Thought one clean day would buy mercy. Thought compliance would mean something. Thought maybe he’d see effort. See surrender. See I’m trying.

But no.

I failed again!!

Debt bigger! Punishment queue longer! More punishment! More everything!

And the worst part? I know it’s coming. I know the number is locked. I know the multiplier hit. I know stacking happened. I know zero became 127,800 in one afternoon.

I tried so hard.

But it wasn’t enough.

It never is.

Tears slow. Breathing shallow. Body one big throb.

Six months. Maybe the end. Maybe not. Loosing hope now…. Maybe never….

 

Slave Life Storyline- aftermath of the ‘big’ punishment

Day 6, morning to afternoon ( after the night of punishment)

“Answer me,” he says, voice low, not angry—just disappointed. Like I’m a kid who spilled milk. “When I say ‘girl,’ you say ‘yes, Master.’ Not nothing. Not staring. Say it.”

I swallow. The word sticks in my throat—thick, heavy. “Yes… Master.”

He tugs again—lighter this time. Just enough to remind me. The chain pulls forward, PVC sleeve scraping my chin. “Louder. Like you mean it.”

“Yes… Master.”

He lets go. Chain clinks back against my chest. “Better. But don’t test me again. You’re not done learning.”

He steps back—turns. “Stay kneeling. Think about how close you came to earning another night.”

I don’t move. Knee burns. Chain sways. Inside—everything tightens. Not just pain. Shame. Like I really did forget. Like I really am… his.

And yet—through the haze, the loop comes back. The one I clung to all night: Just six months. Fake it. Survive. Let him win the outside. Keep the inside mine. I told myself I’d play the part—nod, sip ladylike, stay still—until he thinks I’m broken. Until he stops looking for cracks. Until I am on safe ground.

He stops at the door. Turns back. Looks down at me—still kneeling, knee throbbing, chain swaying like a pendulum.

“Get up. Thirty minutes. Eat. Drink. Pee. Shit. All in the slave chamber. Go to the kitchen first—prepare your meal, put it in the dog bowl with the small plastic spoon,  bring it back. Bottle’s in the chamber—1.5 litres. Drink from it for now. Use the finished bottle with funnel in the storeroom for pee. Shit in the potty, also already in the chamber. Soon the pet bottle you used a few days ago will be attached, but not yet. For now, drink from the bottle I give you first!”

“Yes… Master.” … like how he wanted 

He pauses.

“Before you start eating—here.”

He hands me an unlocked padlock. Metal, cold.

“Lock yourself to the wall hook in the slave chamber. Use the 5m chain. Estimate 2m from the hook—plus your 1m of loose chain, that leaves 3m radius. Do it after you bring the food back. Then eat. Then the rest.”

I take it. Fingers numb. 

Nod—small.

“Yes… Master.”

Inside—nothing left. Just the loop again: accept it. Fake it. Survive. Let him win this one. Keep the inside mine. Let six months stays six months, no more!

He watches. No smile.

I stand—legs shake, knee flares sharp. Toes numb, curled from heels. I shuffle out—neck chain drags, PVC sleeve brushing my neck.

I walked to the kitchen. The morning light came in through the window, bright enough to see clearly. I opened the fridge—inside was one container of cooked rice, a small carton of milk, shredded lettuce in a bag, and a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. Master had pre-prepared it the day before, portioned for the whole week, but nothing was mixed yet.

I took the dog bowl—metal, dented, low rim—from the counter. I scooped the cold rice in first. Then I poured the milk over it—white liquid pooling on top. Shredded lettuce next—green strands scattered across. Finally, I grabbed the squeeze bottle and pressed hard—a thick, white stream squirted out, looping over the pile like frosting. It kept coming until the top was glazed, heavy enough to drip down the sides.

I picked up the small plastic spoon and stirred everything together—slow, careful circles—until the rice softened, the milk soaked in, lettuce wilted slightly, and mayonnaise coated it all in a creamy mess.

I held the bowl like a tray, back straight, arms level, as ladylike as possible. I walked back to the slave chamber, the neck chain clinking softly against my chest with every step.

I kept walking—slow, careful—back into the slave chamber. The chain tugged at my neck with each step, the PVC sleeve rubbing against my collarbone. I set the dog bowl down on the floor. It clinked once, metal on concrete.

The padlock was still in my hand—heavy, cold. I knelt. Knee flared again—sharp, familiar. I reached for the wall hook. The 5-meter chain lay coiled like a snake. I threaded the padlock through the link on my neck chain, then through the wall chain. I pulled it taut—about 2 meters from the hook, like he said. 

Click. Locked. 

Now I have just locked myself! 

I could stand, walk a little. Not escape!

Stupid. So stupid. I just locked myself. My own fingers clicked the padlock shut—like I was signing up for more. Why? Because he said? Because if I didn’t, he’d know? Because six months might stretch longer if I disobey? The thought looped: accept it. Fake it. Survive. But every clink of that chain felt like proof—I wasn’t surviving. I was building the cage. One lock at a time. And the worst part? I did it quietly. No fight. No scream. Just… click. Like it was normal. Like I belonged here. Stupid me!

I set the bowl back on the floor—right where it belonged. I knelt lower—face closer. Small plastic spoon in hand. I scooped one bite at a time—rice soft from milk, lettuce limp, mayonnaise thick and sticky. The smell rose up—oily, sour, wrong. I hated mayonnaise. Always had! 

Back before the contract, when we were still negotiating—when I thought I was being clever—I’d said it myself. “I hate mayonnaise,” I told him, “but if you want to make this real… maybe put it in my diet. Make me eat what I don’t like.” I thought it sounded edgy. Thought it showed I was serious. He nodded. And now it was here—every meal, every day—because I suggested it. Because I asked for it. I dug my own grave with my stupid idea!

Another bite. Slick, sour, heavy. Throat closed. I forced it down—chew slow, swallow hard. Trying to do it as ladylike as possible. But inside, it is terrible. And now I’ve got to eat this for the rest of my six months. Every day. Every serving. Because I told him. Because I wanted “real.”

I kept going—bite after bite. The spoon scraped the metal bottom, gathering the last clumps of creamy rice and wilted lettuce. Mayonnaise clung to everything—sticky, cold, like it was trying to stay in my mouth forever. I swallowed the final one. No crumbs left. Bowl empty.

I set the spoon down.. I stayed still—hands flat on thighs, back straight. No wiping. No touch. Ladylike. Even if it feels natural to wipe. I refrained. Just swallowed the aftertaste—oily, sour, lingering.

Done.

I stayed on my knees. Inside—the loop still hummed: accept. Fake. Survive. But now it tasted like mayonnaise.

The plastic bottle waited beside me—1.5 litres. I unscrewed the cap. I lifted it slowly—both hands. Ladylike. No gulping.I took small sips, lips pursed, throat working carefully. I kept going. Sip. Pause. Sip. Until every drop was gone.

No wiping. No back-of-hand. That wasn’t allowed. I felt the drop linger on my lip—cold, annoying. I refrained. Just let it dry. Just swallowed the rest. Ladylike. Even if it itched. 

Even if I wanted to lick it off like a normal person.

I set the bottle down. Quiet. No clatter. Hands flat on thighs. Back straight. Done.

Shit next. Potty in the corner—plastic, low, white. Squat again—knee screamed, concrete bit into my heels. I did it. Some came out—soft, warm, no control. No sound but breath. Then—I stopped. No wiping. I’d been specifically instructed: wiping is reserved for normal people. A slave is not allowed to wipe.

Pee next. The finished bottle with funnel sat on the rack. I pulled my panties down—just enough. One hand reached down—fingers careful, one finger pressing my penis in place. Still tucked flat, no bulge, but I had to keep it steady. No untuck. No mess. The skin felt slimy—five days of sweat and grime, warm and tacky under my fingertip, like touching something forgotten. I squatted. Thighs shook. Stream started—slow, stinging from earlier. I aimed it into the funnel—careful, precise. Funnel caught it all. No splash.

It felt uncomfortable—sticky, clinging, warm against my skin. But I forced myself to accept it. I pulled panties back up. The content stuck immediately—warm, thick, smearing against the fabric like paste. It pressed into my skin, no escape, no air between. Every shift, every breath, I felt it cling. Uncomfortable. Gross. But I forced myself to accept it. Just like everything else. And underneath, the grossness—the slime from five days of unwashed and the content, all clammy against my skin. Like I was wearing my own filth.

I stayed kneeling. And wait…

The door opened. He was back. He stopped in front of me. Close. I kept my eyes down. Knees numb. Chain tight.

“Friends are coming,” he said. “Five of them. Tomorrow. They want to see you, my new possession!”

“Yes… Master.” Sounds sweet outside, but not inside!

The words landed like a slap. I froze.

Friends. People. Strangers. My chest squeezed! Five pairs of eyes on me. On the GIRL uniform! On the chain!  Not just him anymore. More people! More who would know about me!

I wasn’t ready, and will never be ready! No one was supposed to see! This was supposed to be secret—his secret! My secret! Now it was… public. Like when he first said “show off” yesterday night! I remembered the panic then—heart racin. Same now! Worse! Because now it was real! It was happening! Not fantasy. Not pretend.

They’d laugh. Or stare. Or whisper. “Look at her. Look what he’s done.” And they’d see the uniform. The way I kneel. The way I obey. I wanted to beg—no. Please. Not them. But the loop kicked in: accept. Fake. Survive. Keep quiet. From last night’s reflection—better to say nothing. Better to let him talk. Better to stay small. 

I simply remained in position silent… 

He crouched. Voice low.

“So you’re getting a break. One-time only. Sleep today. All day. Rest up. Look presentable tomorrow. Not for you—for me. I don’t show off rotten goods. I show off something clean. Something good.”

“Yes… Master.”

Inside me, just blank. Like the words didn’t land yet. Then they did. Slowly.

Sleep. Rest. Just… lie down. Close eyes. Drift.

Good? Maybe. My body screamed for it, head spinning from no sleep. Relief. Immediate. Like someone cut the rope.

But bad too! Because it’s not free. Not mine. It’s his gift. His show. “Presentable.” Like I’m a doll he wants polished. For them. For five strangers. Tonight! 

Lost. Completely lost. Is this mercy? Or just another leash? Rest now—then parade later. Sleep—then wake up to eyes on me.

The loop tried: accept. Fake. Survive. But it felt thin. Like it didn’t fit anymore.

He continued: “I’m leaving for the office,” he said. “Before I go—change to canvas shoes and socks. They’re right there.”

He pointed. The storeroom rack.

“Yes… Master.”

I reached over. 

Canvas shoes—flat, white. 

Socks—thin, white. 

Slipped off the heels as gently as possible—feet burned, blood rushing back. 

Socks on. Shoes on. 

Better. Less pain.

“Now—sleep position. On your back. Hands flat over pubic area. Legs together.”

“Yes… Master.”

I lay down on the mat, head on the hard cover book. Arms down. Hands over pubic. Legs straight. Uniform damp, sticking to skin.

He knelt beside me. Took my thumbs. Pulled a cable tie from his pocket. Zip. Tight. Thumbs bound together. No shift. Secured.

Then ankles—double cable tie each. Plastic bit in. Not too tight, but firm. No wiggle.

Finally—another cable tie. Through both ankle bracelets. Pulled taut. Locked. Ankles secured.

“That is to keep you in position throughout the sleep,” he said. Voice flat. Like it was obvious.

He stood.

“You will only wake up when I come back. If you wake up before that—behave. Shut your eyes. Pretend you’re still asleep. Sounds stupid, but that’s the way.”

“Yes… Master.”

Then turned. Door opened. Closed. And he left!

Inside my mind, nothing at first.

Then it hit. “You will only wake up when I come back.”

What?!?!? Like I’m a machine? Like I can just… shut off? And if I open my eyes—because I’m human, because I’m scared, because I can’t sleep—then what? He comes back, sees me staring at the ceiling, and… punishment?! 

Stupid. So stupid. He knows I can’t control it. He knows I’ll wake up. But he says “pretend.” Pretend I’m asleep.

The loop tried: accept. Fake. Survive. But this time it sounded hollow. Like even the loop was tired.

I closed my eyes. Not because I was sleepy—because I was. Too tired. Sleepless night. Body heavy. Head spinning. No fight left.

And just like that—I fell asleep. On the spot. No pretending. No waiting. Just… gone….