Day 6, night (early put to sleep until time I finally dozed off)
Six months. The contract was six months. Not four days. Six full months! Signed for 4 days on the first day I walked into this house. Extended step by step through tricks, pressure, until Six months of this — chained, starched, painted, perfumed, reduced! Six months of kneeling, serving, thanking, enduring! Six months of sleeping on parlour leftovers, of waking up with death’s residue on my skin, in my hair, in my lungs. Six months of being watched, touched, tugged, laughed at. Six months of hearing my own voice call myself “Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra”!
Yes, the guests are still present right outside the slave chamber, witnessing everything. They had followed us in, stayed, and were now standing just beyond the open door, peering in, eyes fixed on every detail about me. They had seen the chain reattached, the mattress and wooden block placed beside me, the way I knelt chained to the wall hook, exposed in every way! They are witnesses to how completely I’d been reduced!!!
I knelt there, chained to the wall hook. The PVC sleeve cool against my neck, the padlock shut tight, the familiar weight pulling downward. The guests had left, the room quiet again, but the chain kept me in place — kneeling, still, silent, obedient.
But the feeling wouldn’t let me rest. The makeup felt thick and gross on my face — layers shared from tools that touched the dead bodies, the lipstick still slick, floral sweetness coating my tongue with every breath.
The wig sat heavy, real human hair, one-night coffin relic, braids brushing my neck and shoulders like fingers from a grave. The perfume clung thick, trying to mask everything, but it only made the reminder sharper.
The thought of sleeping like this — face painted with death, head crowned with corpse hair — overwhelmed me so much that I couldn’t stay silent anymore.
I spoke up, voice soft but trembling, breaking the rule without thinking.
“Master… may Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra remind you… the makeup… and the wig… they haven’t been removed yet… before sleep…”
The words slipped out soft but trembling, barely above a whisper, breaking the silence.
Master turned slowly, then he chuckled — low, amused, almost fond.
“Yes… I see. You look so pretty in it, girl. Miss Evelyn did such a good job with the makeup — youthful, innocent, perfect for display. And the wig… you look very good in this wig. Real hair. Proper length. Proper style. So why remove anything tonight? Makeup on. Wig on. Until tomorrow morning. Removal then. Sleep in it tonight. Let it set. Let them see how pretty you are when you’re put away.”
Raj grinned. “Wah, sleep in full makeup? She’ll look like a doll tomorrow.”
Ben laughed quietly. “Yeah, pretty brutal — but perfect display.”
Miss Evelyn just smiled. “She’ll be even prettier in the morning.”
Master’s words landed like a quiet command, final and absolute. I was meant to be on display today — for the guests, for the gathering, for their eyes! How desperate I want it to be removed now? I want to erase the very thing that made me look like his perfect girly maid, the thing that had been applied with with tools from the dead, just to show me off! I wasn’t allowed to undo it. I wasn’t allowed to be anything less than what they had seen tonight!
Miss Evelyn reacted immediately, stepping forward with a small smile. She pulled out the same soft pink lipstick — the one she had used earlier, and leaned in close.
“Let me touch up those lips, Cassandra. Can’t have them fading before morning.”
She tilted my chin gently with one finger, and reapplied the lipstick, slow, careful strokes, the creamy stick gliding over my lips again, freshening the color, sealing the pink shine once more. The chemical sweetness flooded my mouth instantly, stronger now, my mind mixing with the faint taste of death that I could never quite escape.
The yucks surged violently — this was the same stick that had touched a corpse’s lips, the same color used to make the dead look peaceful. Now it was on me again, renewed, refreshed, as if to make sure the display stayed perfect overnight! I felt it sink in deeper, the violation renewed with every stroke. Gross. So gross!
She stepped back, satisfied, capping the lipstick and putting it away.
“There. All fresh now. Sleep well, Cassandra.”
No removal??!?!? Not tonight?!??? The makeup shared with corpses?!? would stay on my face all night?!? The wig — real human hair, one-night coffin relic — would stay on my head?!? The thought of waking up tomorrow still painted, still crowned with death, made the yucks surge colder, heavier?!?? Literally broken down inside!! I wanted to beg, to say no, to scrub it all off myself!! Another night of wearing death’s remnants!
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small bottle of makeup remover and handed it to Master.
“Here, Cassandra can use this tomorrow morning. It’s my own bottle, the one I use to take off my own makeup at the end of the day. It’ll take it all off nicely. Gentle on the skin.”
All night she had been so “helpful” — bringing the mattress, the block, the sheets, everything from the parlour, everything tied to the dead, everything that made my situation more degrading, more permanent, more disgusting. Every suggestion, every “I can bring this”, every casual “still new” or “perfectly good” had just piled on more yucks, more contamination on me. I had wanted her to stop. To stop being helpful. To stop making everything worse with her innocent, cheerful complicity. And now… finally… this. A small bottle of makeup remover. Her own. Not from the parlour. Not shared with the dead. Just normal remover, the kind she used on her own face after work. A tiny, actual mercy. Something that didn’t add more grossness. For once, her helpfulness didn’t degrade me further. For once, it was clean.
Master took the bottle, set it on the table beside the chain, and looked at me again.
“And the wig stays. You look very good in it, girl. So from now on, for the rest of your service, you’ll wear this wig until your own hair grows long enough. The only time you can take it off is during showers. Otherwise, it stays on. Understood?”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will keep the wig on for the rest of her service until her own hair grows long enough.”
Master:
“And??….”
“The only time Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will take it off is during showers. Otherwise it stays on.”
The words came out soft, breathy, obedient — sweetness forced forward. But inside, everything collapsed. The wig — corpse hair, coffin relic — would be permanent. For the rest of my service. Six months! Only removed for showers! The thought of my own hair growing under this thing — under death’s hair — made the horror flood hotter!!!
And the worst part? I had to repeat it with my own mouth. I had to say the sentence myself — confirm it, make it real by speaking the words aloud in Master’s presence. My own voice, my own breath, my own tongue forming the agreement that doomed me to wear this corpse relic every day, every night, for months. Every syllable I uttered was me tightening the noose around my own neck. Every repetition was me helping him erase me. The disgust was from knowing I had to voice my own sentence — to repeat the permanence, to name my own replacement, to seal my own fate with the very mouth he had trained to speak.
Master’s eyes narrowed again, voice flat.
“Speaking out of turn. Reminding me of something I didn’t ask for. Major violation — breaking silence without permission. 500 points base.”
He paused, then continued, tone unchanged.
“Stacking across categories. Appearance lapse — speaking disrupts the presentable state. Behaviour lapse — unauthorized verbal interruption. Obedience lapse — failure to wait for instruction. Speech protocol violation — no full ‘Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra’ phrasing. Minor 100 each. Major base 500. Layered. Post-event context — after bedtime setup — adds 50%. Total from this moment: 1,050 points.”
He glanced at the guests, then back to me.
“Debt updated. Previous rough tally 129,450. With tonight’s accumulated points from greetings, service, touches, feeding, game, and now this… I estimate another 2,500 overall tonight. Final rough total: 131,950. And that’s conservative. There’s always more waiting to be added.”
Raj let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. “Wah, 131,950? That’s a lot lah. She’s really racking it up tonight.”
Ben laughed softly, leaning back. “Aiyah, boss, she’s gonna be paying for years at this rate.”
Tan just gave a small, quiet nod, eyes still on me. “Impressive tally.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “Points add up fast when she forgets the rules. But she’ll learn.”
Master glanced at them, then back to me, calm as ever.
“Exactly. She’ll learn.”
The number 131,950 burned into my mind enough to crush me. Every tiny thing had become points. Had become proof that I could never be perfect enough. I had tried so hard today. Really tried. To stay silent. To stay perfect. To earn one night without more points. And now this — another 1,050 from one desperate reminder, another 2,500 tonight overall, maybe more, because I couldn’t even keep my mouth shut when overwhelmed.
Master nodded once, satisfied.
But deep inside, a quiet resolve hardened. I will endure it. I will take every punishment, without letting it trick me into another extension. No more nodding yes. The debt points is already crushing. But I will not give him one more excuse to push it further. I will endure the current sentence — six months — without handing him the next one on a silver platter! I will survive it! I will outlast it. Even if it means swallowing every violation in silence, even if it means breaking a little more each day, I will not let him use my own words to extend this ‘experience’!
“Good girl.”
He paused, looking down at my feet — still in the 4-inch black stilettos.
“Before you lie down, Cassandra. Remove the heels. Change to the white canvas shoes with the ankle-length white socks. You will sleep in those. No heels in bed.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will remove the heels and change to the white canvas shoes with ankle-length white socks.”
I shifted and reached down to slip off the black stilettos- finally able to relax slightly after hours of forced tension. I set the heels aside neatly beside the mattress.
Then I took the white canvas shoes and thin ankle-length white socks. The socks were soft cotton pulling snug as I slid them on. The canvas shoes were flat, light, a small relief from the heels, but still part of the uniform’s restrictive feel. I slipped them on. I adjusted my posture back to perfect kneel, ready for the night.
He turned to me.
“Cassandra. Adopt the sleeping position. Lie down on the mattress. Now.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will adopt the sleeping position and lie down on the mattress.”
I shifted slowly on my knees, the chain tugging lightly at my collar with every movement. The PVC sleeve was cool against my neck, the padlock heavy, the links clinking softly inside the rubber as I lowered myself. The heavily starched uniform rustled stiffly with the motion, short sleeves scraping my arms and pleats poking my thighs, locking me in rigid discomfort even as I moved to lie down.
The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben, and Miss Evelyn — were still right outside the chamber door, peering in, eyes fixed on me from the threshold. Witnesses to this too — to the moment I was ordered to lie down on the parlour mattress, to the way I obeyed without hesitation.
The mattress waited flat on the floor. I turned, lowered myself carefully onto my back, first placing my head on the wooden block, the solid teak pressing hard against the back, no cushion, forcing my neck into a straight, elevated position.
Then my body settled onto the thin foam — the new sheet crinkling under me, against my stiff uniform, but the moment my weight compressed the mattress, the faint ‘scent’ rose. a subtle, sickly sweet-sour whiff escaped from the foam beneath the sheet. My mind immediately imaged it as a trace of decomposing fluid and maybe some embalming chemicals that had soaked in during that one night. Imagination immediately go wild!
The foam gave just enough to cushion the concrete slightly, but not enough to feel like rest.
I lay there, chained to the wall, wooden block under my head, thin mattress under me, sheet crinkling, faint scent rising with every slight movement.
I placed my hands flat above the genital area — palms down, fingers together, covering the tucked area under the panties, felt the effect of pins at my waist as the fabric stretched. The position was submissive, exposed yet concealed, hands shielding the flat front while still presenting the body fully for their eyes. The heavily starched pinafore pleats, pressed even harder in this position — stiff fabric refusing to bend or soften, making the act of covering myself feel more like a punishment than protection. The starch amplify the discomfort, turning even this small gesture of modesty into another layer of restriction and humiliation.
The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben, and Miss Evelyn — laughed softly from the doorway, peering in.
Raj chuckled. “Wah, look at her hands lah. Covering up like shy girl. Cute sia.”
Ben grinned. “Yeah lah, flat and tidy. Hands right there to hide it — but we all know it’s tucked.”
Tan just smiled faintly, observing quietly.
Miss Evelyn tilted her head. “Very proper position. Keeps everything neat.”
Master watched them, then spoke, voice calm.
“Raj, secure her thumbs with cable ties. Then both ankles with the double double cable ties.”
Raj stepped forward, pulling out a handful of cable ties. He knelt beside me, took my wrists gently but firmly, and looped a tie around both thumbs together — tight enough to bind them. The plastic zipped shut with a sharp ratchet sound, locking my thumbs side by side, palms still flat above the genital area.
“Thank you, Sir, for securing Master’s girly maid.”
Raj moved to my ankles next — crossed the legs slightly for stability, then used the double cable ties method: two ties per ankle, one above the other, crossed and zipped tight to secure both my legs tight. The plastic bit into the skin just enough to remind me of the restraint.
“Thank you, Sir, for securing Master’s girly maid.”
Raj stepped back, admiring his work.
Master nodded once, satisfied.
“Good. Now she’s secure for the night.”
He looked down at me, chained to the wall hook, still kneeling beside the mattress and wooden block.
“Cassandra. Close your eyes. Sleep.”
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will close her eyes and sleep.”
I closed my eyes immediately — darkness swallowing everything. The guests were still right outside the chamber door, peering in, watching the final moment. Their laughter came first — low, amused, rippling through the quiet.
Raj chuckled. “Wah, even eyes under Master control lah. Can’t even look around.”
Ben laughed louder. “Yeah lah, close eyes like good girl. Pathetic sia — chained, eyes shut, ready for bed like a doll.”
Tan gave a small, quiet laugh. “She really obeys everything.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “Very well trained. Eyes closed on command. Perfect.”
The laughter faded into soft murmurs, but they didn’t leave. They stayed right outside, voices carrying clearly into the small chamber.
Then I heard the clicking sounds — sharp, repeated snaps from phones or a camera. I knew they were photographing me: chained, lying on the thin mattress, head on the hard wooden block, gross makeup on my face, wig heavy on my scalp, uniform starched and rigid, notes crinkling in my panties, body perfectly still, eyes closed, exactly like a dead body laid out for viewing, peaceful and unmoving.
Raj laughed softly from the doorway. “Wah, look at her lah. So still, so peaceful — like a corpse ready for the coffin. Perfect shot sia.”
Ben chuckled, snapping another photo. “Yeah lah, really looks dead lah. Makeup on point, wig perfect, chained up nice and neat. If we dim the light a bit, can’t even tell she’s alive.”
Tan gave a small, quiet laugh. “Pathetic… but yeah, like a dead relative on display. Very realistic.”
Miss Evelyn smiled faintly. “The position is good — head elevated on the block, just like we do in the parlour. She looks so calm and ready. Nice photo.”
Inside, the humiliation was much more! cation of everything I used to be. They weren’t just taking pictures. They were associating me to a corpse! a chained corpse, painted, wigged thing laid out for their amusement, frozen in time like I’d been prepared for burial. The laughter twisted deep. Raj calling it “perfect shot”, Ben joking I could pass for dead, Tan comparing me to a dead relative, Evelyn noting how “calm and ready” I looked in the exact pose she used on bodies every day. They saw me as a display piece, a realistic corpse on show, and they laughed about it. Laughed at how still I was. Laughed at how peaceful I looked. Laughed at how perfectly I fit the role of something dead?!?!
The grossness wasn’t just in the mattress or the block anymore, it was in me! I was the exhibit. I was the ‘dead thing’ they were photographing. I was the PATHETIC, unmoving body they could joke about, capture, share, remember! And I lay there, letting it happen, letting the clicks store it forever, letting their laughter echo while I stayed perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly corpse-like.
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. A body on display, photographed like it belonged in a coffin.
The photos were taken. Each snap capturing me exactly like this state, chained, starched GIRLS’s uniform, makeup to look youthful and innocent, wig heavy with corpse hair, lying on parlour leftovers, hands flat above the genital area, body bounded and perfectly positioned like a body in a coffin.
They had my image now. Permanent. Digital. Undeniable proof of what I had become.
My secret — the man I used to be, the normal life I once had — was gone! Not just exposed to them tonight. Not just witnessed in this room. They had pictures! They could keep them! They could share them! They could post them online if they wanted! A single upload. A single group chat. And the world could see: me, kneeling, chained, thanking strangers for touching me, eating spit from a dog bowl, lying still like a corpse for their amusement. No face blurred. No name hidden. Just Cassandra. Master’s obedient girly maid. Reduced and Owned!
Photographed. My privacy — the last fragile thing I had — was shattered. Four people now held it in their phones. Four people who could decide to let it spread. To let it leak. To let the whole world know what I’d been turned into! I will be exposed in my normal life soon! How am I going to face my family and friends when I am finally released? How am I going to explain the photos?
The thought made my chest tighten, breath shallow under the chain. I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t delete the photos. I couldn’t even open my eyes to see how many they took. I could only lie here while they captured my final humiliation of the night. While they laughed about how “realistic” I looked. While they planned to come back tomorrow for more!
The yucks surged colder, heavier. A quiet, sinking certainty that my secret was no longer mine. That my privacy was gone forever! That one day, those photos might surface — and the man I used to be would be known publicly, permanently, for everyone to see.
The clicks continued, each sound like another piece of me being captured, stored, remembered. The laughter and comments twisted the knife deeper — they weren’t just taking pictures. They were documenting my reduction, freezing it in time, turning my pathetic sleeping position into something they could laugh about later. Like I really was dead. Like I belonged in a coffin.
I lay there, eyes closed, still, silent, obedient — unable to move, unable to hide, unable to stop them from capturing me like this.
Then finally, the door slammed shut with a heavy thud — but the light bulb stayed on, bright and unforgiving overhead. No darkness. No privacy. Just the chain, the mattress, the block, the light, and the faint voices still drifting from outside the chamber.
The guests were still around, chatting in the living room, their words filtering through the door.
I lay there, eyes closed, unable to sleep yet — fatigue heavy but mind racing.
The starched short-sleeve blouse and pinafore are rigid and unyielding with the collar biting into my neck like a stiff board, locking me in a constant state of scratchy, uncomfortable tension that refuses to soften even when I lie down.The makeup on my face, it’s discomfort is overwhelming, not from how it sits, but from the constant, sickening awareness that every layer is shared with the dead. The corpse toils that had already touched dead bodies and had likely carried traces of decomposition juice. Even though it looks clean and neat on the surface, my mind can’t let go of the possibility: invisible residue, microscopic but real, transferred from corpses to me. The floral perfume tries to cover it, but it only makes the consciousness worse!!!. Every lip movement tastes the lipstick that once sealed a corpse’s mouth. It’s not the weight or stickiness. It’s the violation in my head — knowing I’m wearing death’s leftovers on my living face, contaminated in a way no one else can see but I can never un-know! The grossness is mental! suffocating! inescapable!
The wig is another! from a corpse’s coffin, the braids swinging and brushing my neck and shoulders with cold, lifeless strands. The weight pulls at my scalp, the faint residue from the dead body head mixing with my own sweat and the perfume, making every head movement a reminder of where it came from. The true discomfort is the knowledge that this hair rested on a dead woman’s head for one full night, absorbing the same decomposition juice, the same purge residue, the same embalming chill! Every strand carries that possibility, that invisible taint, and I can’t escape it! The grossness is in my mind — knowing I’m wearing something that shared space with death, something that might still hold traces of it, something I can’t wash away. Mental violation, suffocating, inescapable!
I lay there, chained to the wall, mattress under me, wooden block under my head — items from the dead’s environment, now mine! The thin foam gave just enough to cushion slightly, but not enough to feel like rest. Every time I shifted a little, my weight compressed the foam a little more, releasing another faint waft of that subtle, sickly sweet-sour trace of purge fluid and embalming chemicals that may have soaked into the porous layers during that one night! Or is it my imagination? Each small movement forced a little more out, enough to catch in my nose, enough to remind me again what had rested here before me. The wooden block pressed hard against my back, forcing my neck into a straight, elevated position — the same block that had supported countless dead heads before they went into coffins, only wiped with a cloth but still carrying the parlour’s history. The fresh sheet crinkled under me, clean cotton but from the same place!.
Also! The room smelled unbearable — stale, musty, thick with the scent of the old uniform hanging on the rack since this afternoon. The uniform I had worn for six days straight — through mummification, through sweat that soaked it during that full night as a human washing machine, through punishment and endless service. Unwashed, unventilated, it hung there like a rotting memory — fabric heavy with dried sweat, old perfume gone sour, faint ammonia from urine leaks, a rancid mix that filled the small space. The smell pressed in with every breath! It was my own filth, my own history, trapped in this chamber with me! Just the stink of six days of degradation hanging over my head while I lay chained, waiting for sleep that likely wouldn’t come easily with so much of these around!
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. Not just disgust. A quiet, sinking certainty that this is permanent for 6 months. That every night from now on will carry the same residue. That I’ve been reduced to borrowing from the parlour’s discards for sleep. I keep my eyes closed. Still. Silent. Obedient. Mind running wild!
The conversation drifted in, clear enough to hear every word.
Master’s voice first.
“You’ve seen the daily routine now. Wake up chained, serve, thank for every touch, every command, every task. Full uniform, makeup, wig. Meals in the dog bowl. Sleep chained on the parlour items. The ultimate goal is simple: TOTAL OWNERSHIP. She starts as a man with choices, ends as my perfect girly maid, because she LITERALLY gave it to me! no choices left, no self left. Just obedience. Just service. Just mine.”
Then the reactions came…
Raj let out a low whistle, “Wah, boss… you’re damn lucky lah. One in a billion. Seriously. No one is this stupid to walk into the trap themselves. Delete clauses, added an easy extensions clause, suggest the chain sleeve? She handed you everything on a platter. Respect sia.”
Ben continued: “Yeah lah. Lucky as hell. Most would run at the first sign of real. But this one? Kept pushing ‘make it real’, kept saying yes. One in a million — no, billion. You found a unicorn, boss. Stupid unicorn, but still. Impressive catch.”
Tan next: “Fortunate. Very fortunate. To find someone who would do all that willingly… and then keep agreeing under pressure. It’s rare. Extremely rare. You didn’t just trap her. She built the trap for you.”
Miss Evelyn last: “I’ve seen a lot in my line of work. But this? One in a billion. She literally gave you the keys — removed limits, easy extensions clause, even suggested tools. You’re blessed, Master. Truly.”
Master: ”Exactly. She gave it to me. And now she’s mine. Completely.”
Their admiration hung in the air, and this time not about the control, but for the sheer luck of finding someone who walked into it all on MY OWN! One in a billion. A stupid, eager, trusting fool who handed him everything! And I me laying down in this state, hearing it all! — the praise for my own stupidity, the awe at how perfectly I had trapped myself! This is the worst it can become! They were admiring him for being fortunate enough to find me — the one who would do it all willingly, who would so stupidly and willingly walk into this trap until there was nothing left of me!
Raj laughed softly. “But boss, she’s still locked up whenever you’re not around. Still bound as punishment. She’s not fully serving yet lah — still resisting inside, right?”
The words struck like a hammer straight to the chest. He knew. He knew I was trying to keep some tiny fragment of myself alive, some secret copy of me hidden somewhere deep, some mechanism to survive this. And he was already ahead of it. He wasn’t just planning to punish me. He was planning to destroy every possible escape, every little resistance I might cling to. The intensity he promised wasn’t just pain — it was TOTALLY ERASURE! . Unavoidable. He would make it so strong, so relentless, that no part of me could hide. No mechanism strong enough to outlast him!
But the real blow — the one that made my breath catch — was the casual mention of extension. Six months wasn’t the end! He intended to push it further — maybe a year, maybe two. That is a long time! I am really losing my life!! The contract I signed for four days had already stretched to six months through tricks and my own mistakes. Now he was openly planning to double it, triple it, make it endless. The thought of another year — two years — chained, starched, painted, perfumed, reduced, repeating “Master’s girly maid Cassandra” every time I spoke… it felt like the floor dropping out from under me.
Six months was already crushing. A year? Two? The punishments would never end. The breaking would never finish. He would keep extending, keep collecting, keep shaping until there was nothing left to extend. Until the old me wasn’t just faded — until it was erased so thoroughly that even the memory of myself would be gone.
The hit was brutal! from knowing he had already decided my future stretched far beyond six months! He saw through my coping, through my resistance, and he still planned to drag it out longer! He knew my intention to hold on — and he would make sure I couldn’t! I felt so hopelessly helpless. Maybe starting to resort to this fate…
Suddenly, Raj’s voice cut through from outside the chamber door.
“Boss… the tips are still in her panties lah. Forgot to collect them.”
Master paused. “Ah, right. Good catch. Raj, go retrieve them.”
Raj laughed softly. “Okay lah, boss. My honour.”
The door creaked open again. Footsteps — Raj’s — entered the chamber. I lay there, eyes closed as ordered, I dared not move. I was supposed to sleep.
Raj knelt beside me. His hand lifted the front of my pinafore skirt slowly — the starched pleats rustling stiffly. My hands were still bound flat above the genital area. To reach beneath, Raj had to push my bound hands slightly upward, lifting them just enough for him to insert his other hands under the pinafore skirt.
The movement tugged at the cable ties, the plastic biting into my thumbs, the pins at my waist pulling harder as the fabric stretched.
His other hand slipped under the the skirt, fingers sliding the front of my panties, pressing against the flat, tucked area. The pins at my waist bit harder as he tugged the fabric aside. He retrieved the notes one by one but he didn’t stop there.
His fingers lingered, playing around the genital area — tracing the smooth, flat surface, pressing lightly, exploring the tucked space with slow, deliberate movements.
The violation was immediate and sharp — a stranger’s hand on the most intimate, hidden part of me, the part I had been forced to conceal and reduce to nothing. His fingers lingered, playing around the genital area — tracing the smooth, flat surface, pressing lightly, exploring the tucked space with slow, deliberate movements. Then something unexpected happened: a faint, involuntary twitch deep inside, a small spark of sensation I hadn’t felt in days, not pleasure exactly, but a sudden, confusing warmth, a tiny pulse of life that my body respond to even. It was mild arousal! However, the tuck was too tight, but it was enough to make my breath hitch, enough to remind me of that reaction. The shame exploded hotter — not just from the touch, but from my own body betraying me, from that tiny, helpless response I couldn’t control, from knowing he might have felt it too. I hated it. I hated myself for it. The feeling made the violation worse — because it proved I was still human, but now aroused by a fellow man, and in a manner as a girl!!! I am not just violated, I AM NOW VIOLATED AS A GIRL!! My body had betrayed me twice: first by being reduced to nothing, then by responding like the girl they forced me to become.!
No words. No protest. Just his touch, casual, curious, amused. I lay perfectly still, obeying the sleep command while he played, while he took his time. The stacking of all emotions flooded! Violated while pretending to sleep.
Raj finally pulled his hand out, notes in his palm, and stood up.
“All collected lah, boss. She’s good — didn’t move a muscle.”
Master’s voice drifted in from outside. “Good. Leave her. Let her sleep.”
The door closed again. The room quiet once more — only the faint creak of the starched uniform with my breathing, the soft crinkle of the sheet, the distant murmur of guests outside.
I lay there, eyes still closed, the violation fresh and burning. The notes were gone — but the feeling of Raj’s fingers wasn’t. The grossness settled deeper. Tonight I sleep on parlour leftovers. Tomorrow… more. More eyes. More touches. More reminders that I have no privacy.
Ben chuckled. “Wah, so tomorrow full punishment session lah? Speed up the breaking?”
Master: “Yes. Tomorrow we go all out. Canning until she bleeds if needed. Keep her confined and chained in the room for the next few days to recover — or more really to break her fast. No mercy. No breaks. Just intensity until the resistance cracks.”
The conversation drifted into details — different punishments, how long to leave her bound, how to combine restraints, how to make her thank them for it all. Their voices grew excited, planning, laughing, as if discussing a new hobby.
Halfway through, fatigue finally pulled me under. I dozed off — chained, eyes closed, makeup gross on my face, wig mentally heavy on my scalp, perfume cloying in my nose, starched uniform creaking faintly, on the thin mattress used by dead before, head on the hard wooden block shared with countless corpse.
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