Slave Life Storyline- Briefing and Waiting for the Guests

Day 6, evening (before the guest arrives)

I kneel there, knees pressed together, back straight, hands resting delicately on my thighs, head slightly bowed, eyes down — exactly where I belong. 

The fresh uniform clings to my skin, perfume overpowering, heels biting. 

The wig’s long black braids brush my neck and shoulders with every shallow breath — a constant reminder that this is not just second-hand, but second-hand from a corpse.

Shared with the dead. The yucks feeling deepens, colder than before, as if every real strand is whispering: you are wearing what she wore in her coffin.

Real human hair. Hair that once grew on a living scalp, then lay on a dead one. One full night pressed against the decomposing head inside a coffin. One night absorbing smell of the mortuary air and the decomposing juice of the body that would never rise again.

The sensation is violating. Invasive. As if part of her is still here, still present, still touching me through every strand. My scalp prickles under the wig, not from itch, but from awareness — awareness that this hair has been soaked in  death one whole night. It has lain against eyelids forever closed. It has brushed cheeks that no longer flushed. And now it frames my face, my living face. The contrast makes me feel even smaller, even more reduced.

I imagine the last person who wore it — pale, still, decomposing, dressed for her coffin. The wig perfectly placed for the viewing.  The family rejected the wig— and now it is here. On me. No cleaning. No sanitizing. Just taken and transferred. Direct from her head to mine with all the death body’s essence in it. 

What have I been reduced to?

A wearer of cast-offs from the dead?. Someone so low, so stripped of worth, that I am given what even mourners refused? A second handed accessory of a dead body? They didn’t want it so it was passed down to me? What have I been reduced to? 

The yucks feeling coils tighter the more I think. I want to tear it off. I want to rip the braids apart, shake out whatever invisible traces remain — skin cells, mortuary dust, the very scent of her final night. I want to scream until my throat is raw. But I cannot. I keep my posture perfect. I do not react at all. I have already earned too much today.

A man who once had a name, a life, a future. Now reduced to this: face painted with tools from corpses, head crowned with hair that framed a dead woman’s face for one whole night. Second-hand from death itself. Straight from a coffin. From someone who no longer breathes.

I feel a cold, violating touch every time a braid swings against my skin. This hair once touched eyelids that would never open. This hair lay against lips that would never speak. This hair rested on a skull that no longer thinks. Now it rests on mine. Now it brushes body. Contaminated. Marked. Shared with the dead in the most intimate, most degrading way.

So I endure it. The second-hand wig from a corpse. The braids that framed death, now framing me. The hair that belonged to someone gone, now belonging to someone reduced to nothing.

What have I been reduced to?

A thing that wears death’s castoffs. A living mannequin dressed in the rejected remnants of the dead. A girl-shaped property, decorated and displayed, crowned with what a corpse no longer needed.

The makeup feels thick on my face, the layers of lipstick still slick on my lips. The chemical sweetness lingers, the residue of death still fresh in my mind. The yucks from the dead-body tools lingers.

But it is more than residue. It is sharing. Literal, intimate sharing. The foundation that now sits on my cheeks was once smoothed onto a corpse. The sponge that patted onto my face had already patted it into the  flesh with first signs of decay, The blush that warms my cheekbones was brushed onto lifeless cheeks. The mascara that defines my lashes was stroked onto eyelids that would never open. And the soft pink lipstick outlined and filled the decaying lips that were bitten raw in final desperation.

Every layer on my face is shared with the dead. Not just used tools. Shared makeup. Shared colours. Shared final touches.

I feel it all sinking in. The makeup is not mine. It is borrowed from the grave. Repurposed. Reused.

Contaminated. Marked. Shared with the dead in the most intimate way possible. My face is no longer just painted — it is painted with the same makeup that prepared a corpse for its last appearance. 

The degradation is complete. Not just in the tools. Not just in the residue. In every layer. In every stroke. In every breath I take while wearing what death wore.

The yucks feeling coils tighter, colder, heavier. I want to wipe it all off. But I cannot. I keep my face soft, eyes forward, lips still. I have already earned too much today.

He invited Evelyn to join the gathering to present me as his owned slave. Not just as a maid, not just as a girl-shaped thing in uniform — but as his owned slave. The word “owned” hangs in the air between them, casual in their conversation but crushing in my chest. Owned. Like a property, and now wants to show off to his circle. The makeup, the wig, the fresh uniform, the heels — all of it is preparation for display. For proof. For him to say, without saying it outright: Look what I have. Look what I control. Look what I turned her into.

“Move near the sofa and kneel there. Wait on us while we sit.”

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

I obey immediately. Slowly, carefully, I rise from the floor, keeping every movement graceful and ladylike, head slightly bowed. 

The heels bite harder now that I’m standing. The wig’s braids swing gently with each small step, brushing my neck and shoulders — real hair from a corpse’s coffin, second-hand from death, now second-hand on me.

I walk to the sofa, steps small and controlled, posture perfect. The fresh uniform rustles softly, perfume cloying in my nose, makeup shared with corpses thick on my face. Beneath the perfume, I smell rotting flesh, vivid in my imagination. The faint, sweet-sour rot of early decomposition. I breathe in the perfume, but my mind breathes in rot. The lipstick on my lips tastes sweet, but I taste decay. 

I lower myself to my knees near the sofa with  the familiar maid kneel position.

Master sits on the sofa, Miss Evelyn beside him. They settle comfortably, legs crossed and relaxed — old friends chatting while I kneel silently at their feet, waiting.

Master speaks, voice calm and commanding.

“Listen carefully. Tonight my friends will arrive. 3 of them. All men. And Miss Evelyn will stay as well — I invited her specifically to join the gathering as well. I will present you as my owned slave. When they enter, you will greet them properly. Go to them on your knees, head bowed with a slight dip in deference, eyes down. Speak clearly, softly, breathy — the way I trained you.”

He pauses, letting the instruction settle.

“The phrase is this: ‘Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.’ Say it every time, to every guest. If it’s a woman, use ‘Madam’. No exceptions. No exceptions. Repeat it exactly as I said. No shortcuts. No hesitation. Every entry, every return — you will kneel, bow slightly, and speak the full phrase.” 

The phrase burns into me as he says it. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. Each word, Obedient. Girly. Maid. Cassandra. Present to serve. I can already hear myself saying it — soft, breathy, reluctant, forced sweetness — while inside it screams: this is what i have become. This is all I am now. And not just once. Every time they enter I have to repeat the same degrading litany!. Like a trained doll resetting with every door open like an endless repetition of my own reduction.

Master leans forward slightly, voice firm.

“Now practice it. Say it exactly as I said. Let me hear it.”

I swallow, throat tight. The words feel heavier now that I have to speak them aloud, in front of him and Miss Evelyn.

“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”

My voice comes out soft, breathy, reluctant — the sweetness forced at the edges, exactly as he requires. But inside, it feels like swallowing broken glass. Saying it once is bad enough. Knowing I will have to repeat it every time a guest enters every time they step out and back in — makes it worse. Each repetition will hammer the truth deeper.

Master nods once, satisfied.

“Better. But softer on the breath. Do not sound reluctant. Again.”

“Yes… Master.”

I dip my head again, slight bow, eyes down.

“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”

He watches closely, listening for perfection.

“Good enough. You will repeat it exactly like that every time. No shortcuts. No hesitation.”

He continues, voice steady.

“If any guest touches you — hair, face, uniform, body — immediately thank them politely. ‘Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.’ Or ‘Madam’, if it’s a woman. No hesitation. No reaction. Just gratitude. Understand?”

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, voice soft, breathy, reluctant but obedient. The sweetness forced.

Thank them? For touching me? The humiliation sinks deeper, but I keep my face calm, eyes down, no crack.

He nods once, satisfied.

“Now practice it. Let me hear how you’ll thank them.”

I swallow, throat tight. I tried to speak clearly, with the sweetness forced.

“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”

Master tilts his head, listening closely.

“Again. Softer. More breathy. Like you mean the gratitude.”

“Yes… Master.”

I repeat it, voice even softer this time, breathier, the sweetness thinner, almost cracking.

“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”

He nods again, satisfied for now.

“Good enough. You will say it exactly like that every time.”

Before I can respond, Miss Evelyn reaches out playfully and strokes her fingers down my shoulders. The touch is light, teasing, almost affectionate, but it sends a jolt through me. Testing the new rule in real time.

My body tenses for a split second, but I force it still. I respond immediately, voice soft, with the sweetness forced, the gratitude automatic, even as the humiliation crashes inside.

“Thank you, Madam, for touching Master’s girly maid.”

The words come out, but inside, is violent. Thanking her? For stroking me like a doll? For touching what is already tainted with death’s residue? For reminding me again that I am property? The degradation sinks deeper, colder. Like something that exists only to be used and thanked for it. The emotion is indescribable.

Miss Evelyn smiles faintly, pleased. “Good girl. Quick learner.”

Master nods once, approving.

Master continues,

“More rules. Listen carefully. In all conversation, every word you speak — you will refer to yourself as ‘Master’s girly maid’. No ‘I’, no ‘me’, no personal pronouns. Always ‘Master’s girly maid will…’, ‘Master’s girly maid thanks…’, ‘Master’s girly maid obeys…’. Every sentence. Every reply. No exceptions.“

He watches my face, making sure the weight settles.

“If any guest asks for anything or gives a service instruction — drinks, food, a task, anything at all — respond immediately with ‘Yes, Sir, Master’s girly maid…’ and then repeat their instruction back to them exactly. ‘Yes, Sir, Master’s girly maid will bring you a drink.’ ‘Yes, Sir, Master’s girly maid will kneel closer.’ Clear repetition shows obedience. It also shows you understand the instructions. Do not paraphrase. Do not shorten. Repeat it word for word.”

The words sink in, each one tightening the invisible chain inside. Master’s girly maid. The humiliation feels deeper.

He continues, tone unchanging.

“After completing any task for a guest — serving, obeying, anything — you will thank them immediately. ‘Thank you, Sir, for the honour of allowing Master’s girly maid to serve you.’ Or ‘Madam’, if it’s a woman. The gratitude must be sincere in tone. No hesitation. No flatness. They are doing you the honour of using you. Acknowledge it.”

Inside, the twist is sharp. Thanking them for the honour? For letting me serve? Does it make sense?

Master pauses, then adds the last rule, voice dropping lower.

“If a guest wishes to give you a tip — money, a note, anything — you will receive it only in one of two ways. With your mouth — open wide, let them place it on your tongue — or allow them to slip it into your panties. No hands. No reaching. The tip stays exactly where they put it until I give you permission to remove it and place it in the box. All money belongs to me. You are not to keep a single note. Understand?”

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, voice soft, breathy, sweet — the sweetness perfect, forced forward, no hint of hesitation. 

Inside, the words crash: Tips in my mouth? Slipped into my panties? Like a tip jar? Like something to be filled and emptied at his command? The degradation sinks deeper, colder. 

Money from strangers — from touches, from service, from being displayed — all going to him. I am not even allowed to hold it. Just to receive it in the most humiliating ways possible.

He nods once, satisfied.

“Good. Those are the rules. You will follow them perfectly. No mistakes. No hesitation. Just obedience.”

The briefing ends. The weight of it settles over me — every greeting, every response, every task, every touch, every tip — all designed to remind me, again and again, that I am Master’s girly maid. Nothing more.

I kneel. Still. Silent. Obedient.

Waiting for the first time I must speak those words.

Waiting to repeat them — over and over.

Master then turns to her, voice casual, relaxed.
“You know how I found her?” Master starts, tone light, almost amused. “Networking sites. Messaged back and forth for weeks. She was curious. Excited. Kept saying she wanted it ‘real’. Insisted it had to be real. No half-measures. No safety net. Especially the feminization part. She kept saying she wanted to be forced into it — to be kept as a maid, dressed and treated like one, no going back.”
He leans back slightly, smiling faintly.
“I played along. Suggested keeping safe words, limits, exit plans — standard stuff. She refused. Said it would ruin the authenticity. Kept pushing. ‘Remove them all,’ she said. ‘Make it real.’ One by one, she deleted every clause herself. Sent me screenshots. Proof. Said it felt more honest that way.”
Miss Evelyn laughs softly. “She really did that? Just handed you the keys like that?”
Master nods, smiling. “Every single one. I barely had to ask twice.”
He glances at me — kneeling, silent, eyes down — then continues.
“Met her in Singapore. Hotel lobby. Talked for hours. She kept saying how much she wanted it real. How she’d always fantasized about being owned completely as a maid. I told her — if you sign, it’s real. No take-backs.”
He continues, voice dropping to a proud, satisfied tone.
“There, I also suggested the extension clause. Said since she wanted it ‘real’, why not make it flexible? Why not include a simple clause for extensions — mutual, easy, just basic verbal or body language consent. Nod yes, say yes, no objection — that’s enough. She agreed immediately. Didn’t even read it twice. Said it felt more real that way. More authentic. More immersive.”
He chuckles again, low and self-satisfied.
“She was so engrossed in her own world — so caught up in the fantasy, the excitement, the ‘this is really happening’ rush — that she nodded along without thinking. I barely had to push. Just let her enthusiasm do the work. She kept saying ‘yes, yes, make it real’, and I just smiled and added the clause. She makes it so easy for me. Easy. Too easy.”
He glances at me — kneeling, silent, eyes down — then back to Evelyn.
“Just her overwhelming enthusiasm. She walked right into the trap herself. Kept insisting on ‘real’, kept removing protections, agreeing to extension clause because it felt exciting in the moment. I simply just guided her. Let her dig her own hole. And now she’s here. My girl. My property. Exactly as I wanted.”
Miss Evelyn nods, smiling. “Very clever. You always know how to turn their own desire against them.”

Inside, the words cut like knives. Every laugh from Miss Evelyn, every proud chuckle from Master, every casual “stupidly”, “easy”, “walked right into it” lands as an insult. He is boasting about how he tricked me — how he used my own excitement, my own insistence on “real”, my own eagerness to trap me! I admit am foolish to suggest removing the clauses and to push for authenticity. I was impulsive to agree to extensions clause because i was too idealistic and engrossed. And now he laughs and shares it like a funny story in front of me! Like I was a fool who handed him the keys to my own cage! The shame burns hot! I feel small. Stupid. Exposed. Reduced to a punchline in their conversation while I kneel here, silent, unable to defend myself. Unable to say a word. Just property listening to my own silly stupidity.

The impact is immediate and physical. My stomach clenches hard! My throat tightens! My chest feels hollowed out! Feels like the humiliation keeps dragging deeper! My knees press harder into the floor, but I don’t feel the pain; I feel the weight of his words pressing me down instead. Inside I’m shaking. Not just from shame. From the sudden, sick realization that he’s right! I did it! I deleted the clauses! I said yes to extension clause! I walked in myself! I insisted.! I am the one who gave him the rope. Now he’s using it to hang me!

I feel erased! The person I am, the man, a working professional, the normal man, this person is disappearing. Replaced by “stupid girl,” “eager fool,” “property.” And being referred as a ‘she’! Every laugh from Miss Evelyn feels like she’s laughing at that old me too. Every “easy” from Master feels like he’s erasing me a little more.The real me is almost gone! And he’s the one holding the eraser! And I was the one who foolishly gave him!

The shame is so thick it feels like it’s coating my skin under the grossly makeup, under the uniform, under the yucky wig. I want to scream that I didn’t know, that I didn’t mean it to go this far. But I can’t. I stay still. Silent. Eyes down. Because of the fear.. the real fear of experiencing more of his punishments! 

Master stood up slowly from the sofa, walked to the storeroom, now the slave chamber, and returned with the neck chain in his hand. The PVC rubber hose sleeve gleamed dully under the light, the metal links inside faintly clinking as he held it up.
He looked at Miss Evelyn first, then at me — still kneeling, silent, eyes down — and spoke with that same proud, satisfied tone.

“This neck chain? Her idea.”

“She suggested the PVC sleeve herself. Said a bare chain would be too noisy, obvious and not practical. Said the rubber hose would muffle the sound, protect the skin a little, make it more… discreet. More useful for long wear without needing to remove. I listened and agreed. It’s perfect.”
He ran his fingers along the hose, the rubber smooth and slightly glossy.
“She gave me the idea. Stupidly presented it to me — like handing me the exact tool to press her down, to control her, to keep her from escaping. And now I use it on her every day. Pull it tight when I need obedience. Tug it to remind her. Chain her to the wall, to the hook, to the floor. Keep her exactly where I want her. She can’t move far. Can’t run.”
He glanced at me again, eyes cold.
“This tool is so useful, so effective — I intend to use it until she is brainwashed. Until the resistance is gone. Until she is completely mine.”
Miss Evelyn nodded slowly, impressed. “Smart. She really gave you that idea?”
Master smiled faintly, holding the chain up like a trophy.
“Yes. She did. Stupidly. Enthusiastically. And it will always be on her neck, except now. Every day. Every night. Every moment I choose. Because she handed me the perfect way to break her.”
He set the chain down on the table nearby, the PVC sleeve making a soft thud against the wood.

I kneel there, the words burning deep. I gave him the idea. I suggested the sleeve! I thought it would make the session more enhanced … better. And he used it. Turned my own suggestion into the very tool that presses me down, controls me, keeps me chained. The same chain I helped design is now the one that holds me. The same idea I offered is now the one he uses to crush me. Until brainwashed. Until nothing left?
The yucks feeling mixes with shame — colder, heavier. I am not just wearing death’s rejects. I am wearing my own stupidity. My own suggestions. My own trap!

He pauses, then leans forward, tone turning boastful.
“Stupidly walked into my house few days ago. Thinking it was just a short stint. She signed the initial contract the moment she arrived at my house — just four days. But I had the extension clause in there. She just simply signed without thinking. Didn’t realize the door would lock behind her for a long time.”
Miss Evelyn nods, smiling. “Impressive. You always know how to spot the ones who’ll fold. And the ones who’ll stay.”
“Then I started the extensions on her. Step by step. Used every trick. Incentive — offered relief from punishment if she agreed right then. Coercive — warned penalties would escalate if she refused. Deception — distorted how bad it would get without extension, made her think it was the only logical choice. Desperation — withheld comfort, let the suffering build until she broke. One extension after another. From four days to one week. Then two weeks. Three weeks. One month. Two months. Three months. Four months. Six months. She kept agreeing. Kept saying yes under pressure. It was so easy for me, because she unknowingly gave me the tools. Too easy. And now she’s here. My girl. My property for 6 months.”

He chuckles.

He chuckles again, then turns his gaze directly to me.

“And the contract may extend. Maybe longer. Maybe much longer.”

He pauses.

“What do you think, girl? Do you agree? Should we extend it further?”

The question hangs in the air. A trap wrapped in politeness. Another way to make me say yes? I feel the familiar tone, the urge to say no, to reason, to argue, or even to beg for it to end at six months. But I know better now. I know the consequences. I know the rules now. The only safe answer is the one he trained me to give.

I keep my voice soft, breathy, obedient — sweetness forced forward, reluctance buried deep inside.

“Yes… Master.”

The words come out perfectly. Just the expected reply. But inside, the shame floods hotter. Saying yes again? Nodding to the possibility of more time? More of everything?

He smiles faintly, just like he just discovered a new lever.

“You said yes.”

A beat. The silence stretches.

“I wasn’t going to push for it tonight. But since you agreed so nicely… maybe we should.”

He pauses again, letting the implication hang.

“Another time, then.”

The words land softly, almost casual, but they carry weight to me! It feels like another extension is inevitable. It seems like I will easily agree again. He seems to remind me that six months is only the current limit, not the final one. That “another time” will come, whenever he chooses. He doesn’t need my signature tonight. He already has my “yes”. He already has my obedience. The rest can come later.

I feel the twist sharpen inside — shame, dread, helplessness. The urge to say no, to beg, to plead for six months to be the end. But I know better. I know the consequences. The only safe path is the one he trained me to take.

“Yes… Master.”

Agreeing again. Nodding to “another time”? Nodding to more?

Miss Evelyn smiles faintly. Master nods once more, satisfied, then turns back to her, conversation resuming as if nothing happened.

I kneel. Still. Silent. Obedient.

The echo of my own “yes” loops in my head — quiet, relentless. Yes to more? Yes to longer? Yes to “another time? Everything can only be yes?

Master looks at me again, then back to Miss Evelyn, his tone shifting slightly — still casual, but now with a touch of quiet satisfaction, like he’s sharing a practical decision he’s proud of.

“And now that she’s going to be here for six months, I’ve started converting the storeroom into proper slave chambers for her. Thin mattress on the floor. Wooden block as pillow. Getting them in the next few days. Firm with minimal comfort. Just enough to keep her functional — so she can serve me more effectively, stay rested enough to perform, and be maintained in a way that lets her serve me well for the full term.”

He pauses briefly, glancing at me once more — still kneeling, silent, eyes down — as if to emphasize the point.

“The mat will thick enough so she doesn’t break down completely. The wooden pillow — hard, unyielding — will keep her head elevated just right, no softness. It’s all practical. All for her to stay usable. To make sure six months doesn’t wear her out too soon.”

Miss Evelyn nods thoughtfully, as if he’s discussing furniture for a guest room.

“Makes sense. Long-term property needs maintenance. I can help source those if you want — I know exactly the kind that work best for… extended use.”

Six months? Not a short stint. A full term! And now he’s turning the storeroom into something permanent. Slave chambers! Thin mattress. Wooden block. No comfort. Just “functional.” Just enough to keep me serving. Usable. Maintained. Like equipment. Like a tool he needs to keep running smoothly for the next six months! The feeling is… just… indescribable! 

Miss Evelyn smiles,  leans forward slightly, voice casual but eager, like she’s sharing a great find.

“Actually, I already know exactly where to get what you want. Just now, when I passed by the funeral parlour on the way here, it’s only 10 minutes drive from here,  I saw they had just thrown a stack of thin mattresses out at the back. Good friend of the boss, so I can easily ask if I can take one for you. No problem at all.”

She pauses, thinking aloud as if it’s the most normal thing.

“Those mattresses are usually only used once, for the bodies to lay on before they go into the coffin. Just one night — usually the body is transferred to the coffin after that. They’re all considered new, practically unused. No need to waste money buying something when these are perfectly fine.”

She gestures vaguely, continuing in that helpful tone.

“The parlour also has plenty of white bedsheets — brand new ones we use to wrap the mattresses. I can arrange to get one of those too. Wrap it up nicely and tidy for you. The boss won’t mind — I help them out all the time.”

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “The wooden pillows — they’re exactly like the ones I use every day when I do makeup on the bodies. Same thickness, and serve exactly your purpose! Some more it is made of smooth teak or camphor wood, super expensive. They use it to rest the dead person’s head on before they’re placed in the coffin — keeps the neck aligned for the viewing. They have many old ones ready to discard, but are still in perfect conditions, what a waste! Easy to convince the boss to let me take one. Or two, if you want spares.”.

She looks at Master expectantly.

“I can readily drive over there now and pick it up. Just need to give the parlour boss a quick call. Won’t take long — back in half an hour, just nice after your guests have arrived.”

The thought screams louder than ever: Can she stop suggesting and being helpful? She is not helping. She’s grossing me out! She’s making me feel like vomiting! Can she stop being so simple minded?!? A mattress from a dead body? One night on a corpse — now for me? Wrapped in sheets from the parlour? Supposedly intended for the bodies? The same type she uses every day for makeup on the dead? I can already imagine lying on it — the faint chill that might linger, the thought of which body pressed into it last, the smell of mortuary air trapped in the foam. 

And the Wooden pillows. The exact kind she places under dead heads every day. Pillows that support lifeless bodies for one last presentation. And now Master is considering them for me. For my head. For the slave chamber. For six months of nights where my neck rests on something that once holds the dead.

I imagine it: the smooth wood against my skin, the same surface that touched cold that corpse’s head steady for the family to look at. Now for me. Now for someone still breathing and potentially dreading every night ahead. The yucks surges again — colder, heavier. A pillow from the parlour. From the dead. Repurposed for a living slave. Yucks!!! I can almost feel the wood already pressing against the back of my head while I lie on a mattress from another corpse. Just function. Just maintenance. Just usability

My stomach LITERALLY turns violently! I want to scream, to shout at her! to tell her to stop, to tell her no! But I cannot. I stay kneeling, silent, eyes down, face blank. No reaction. No sound. Survival mode.

Master considers it for a second, then gives a small, approving nod.

“Who will reject free things?”

His tone is practical, almost amused — like it’s the most obvious decision.

Miss Evelyn stands up immediately, gathering her bag.

“I’ll drive over there now. Back in half an hour. Just nice after the guests have arrived.”

She heads for the door, phone already in hand to call the parlour boss.

The door closes behind her.

I kneel.

Heart pounding harder now.

Hoping she stops being helpful.

Hoping she doesn’t bring them.

Hoping the mattress doesn’t smell like death.

But deep down, I know. It may.. at least in my mind.:

And I will lie on it. Rest my head on the wooden block. Wake up with them.

Waiting for her return.

Waiting for the guests.

To be continued....... 

Side remarks. The impact on me—right there, in that moment—it’s not just humiliation. It’s erasure.

Master’s words aren’t just boasting; they’re rewriting my history. He turns my excitement, my trust, my eagerness into proof of my stupidity—like I’m the punchline in his story. And I can’t argue back. I can’t say, “I wanted real, not this.” Because I’m on my knees, voice locked in “yes… Master,” while he laughs about how “easy” it was. That silence? That’s the real wound. Every “she walked right into it” feels like he’s peeling away the person I thought I was—curious, brave, adventurous—and replacing it with “stupid,” “enthusiastic fool,” “property.”

The impact hits like cold water: I’m not just owned. I’m complicit. I suggested the sleeve. I removed the clauses. I nodded to extensions. And now he’s holding up every choice like a trophy. It’s not anger—it’s self-loathing mixed with helplessness. Like I’ve betrayed myself. Like my own voice is the chain.

My inner thoughts are raw, looping, vicious:

• I did this. I handed him the keys.
• He didn’t force me—he just let me talk myself into it.
• Every “yes” I said was me digging deeper. And I still said it.
• If I fight now, I lose more. If I stay quiet, I disappear.
• I’m not even angry at him anymore. I’m angry at me.

And underneath it all: a quiet, terrified whisper—“What if he never stops? What if ‘another time’ is forever?”

That’s the impact. Not pain. Not shame. Dissolution. I’m still breathing, still kneeling—but the “me” who signed that contract? She’s fading. And Master knows it.