Slave Life Storyline– The Makeover to be presentable for Guests

 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,”

Miss Evelyn steps forward, quite chatty and speaks bluntly and straight. While she works, she shares openly, “Just came from doing makeup on a dead lady… used the same brush and all the rest of my stuff right on her body… and now I'm using it on you.”

The moment the brush first touches my cheek, the sensation is unbearable. These exact hairs have swept across cold, lifeless skin — skin that was already stiffening, already beginning to change. I imagine the faint residue they must have picked up: the waxy texture of embalmed flesh, the thin film of mortuary powder, the invisible traces of decomposition that start the moment life ends. The brush glides smoothly, spreading foundation over my living skin, but all I can feel is the ghost of that other body — the chill it once carried, the unnatural stillness it held, the slow, inevitable breakdown beneath the surface. Grossed… Grossed… Grossed…

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 my own face. I feel it sinking in, the invisible film of death transferring with every gentle press. My stomach lurches harder. Tainted. Contaminated. Dead skin cells, maybe even embalming fluid traces, now blending with my living pores. Grossed out beyond words, but I keep my face blank. Eyes forward. Lips soft. No flinch. No grimace. No sign at all.

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 pink shade, see? Suits you too.”

The soft bristles sweep across my cheekbones, depositing the color. I can almost picture it: cold, bruised skin under this same brush, the same gentle strokes trying to fake life where there was none. Now it’s on me. The warmth of my own cheeks feels wrong, like the brush is mocking the difference. Something colder, 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.

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 carries the weight of that 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 — legs close, posture straight, movements minimal and graceful whenever she adjusts my chin or tilts my head.

She finishes with soft pink lipstick, outlining then filling. “Lipstick from a suicide case two days ago. She bit her lips raw before the end. Had to layer it 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: those lips were cold, lifeless, bitten in final desperation. Now this same color is on me. The thought makes my stomach twist violently. 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!

The soft pink lipstick feels slick and foreign on my lips. The faint chemical sweetness lingers on my tongue, coating it with every swallow, every small movement of my mouth. But it is not just the shade. It is the same creamy stick that touched those cold, lifeless lips — lips that would never move again, lips bitten raw in a final act of despair, lips coated thick to hide the damage for strangers at a viewing. The same stick. The same tip. The same pressure from the same hands. Yuckkks!!

Whatever touched that dead mouth — the waxy residue of embalmed flesh, the thin film of mortuary powder, 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 living 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 painted directly onto me. The thought makes my stomach twist violently again — not just nausea, but something colder, 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 arranging flowers instead of painting death onto a 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.

Because any crack in the facade means more points. More debt. More punishment. 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. Waiting.

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

A wave of nausea rolls up my throat, sharp and sour, threatening to spill over. I imagine the taste of that other mouth — lifeless, waxy, faintly metallic from embalming fluid — transferred to mine with every layer. 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 hold my mouth soft, lips parted just enough for her to have worked, no tremble, no sound. No reaction at all.

Because any crack in the facade means more points. More debt. More punishment. I have already earned too much today — 127,800 points for one afternoon of failure. I cannot afford even one more violation. Not a flinch. Not a grimace. Not a single sign that the dead are now painted on my living skin.

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.

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 another body for someone to work on. Alive or dead, what difference does it make to her? Or to him? 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?

A canvas? A thing? A blank, breathing surface for others to paint on, to dress up, to arrange. No longer a person with thoughts, fears, 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 touched cold flesh are touching warm, 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 lips — and force it back down. No reaction. No sound. Just obedience.

Because that is all I am allowed.

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,” 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 took it home. Got a replacement wig for the her instead. Now it’s perfect for what your Master wants your hair to look like.”

The words hit like ice. Two days ago! Already in the coffin! One full night resting on a dead woman’s head?!?!  A body already laid out, eyes closed forever, 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 that spent an entire night on a corpse in its final box? 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 roughly but efficiently, pinning it flat against my scalp with quick clips. Then she lowers the wig over my head. The black strands settle against my scalp, 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 she styles the two long pleats, braiding them neatly 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 sits close, pressing lightly against my scalp, the fibers brushing my ears and neck like they were on a dead woman. 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 cold skin, from the embalming chemicals, from the stillness of death, is now pressing into my living scalp. I feel it sinking in — tainted, contaminated, marked by something that was already gone. The thought makes my stomach lurch violently. 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.

I keep my posture perfect — back straight, legs closed, hands delicate. I do not flinch when she tugs the braids. I do not grimace when the fibers brush my neck. I do not react at all. Because any crack means more points. More debt. More punishment. I have already earned too much today. I cannot afford even one more violation.

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 dim bulb, 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 — no breathing, no swallowing, no movement to disturb her perfect work. Their lips never fade because they never live. But mine — living, trembling, still warm — have already betrayed her. The comparison cuts deep. I am not even as good as a corpse.

She uncaps the soft pink lipstick again — the same stick that came from the suicide case, 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 as if to punish the fade. I taste the chemical sweetness again, stronger now, coating my tongue. Each pass feels heavier than the last — another stroke of death painted onto me, another reminder that even this final touch is borrowed from 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, the same hands, the same color that sealed a dead mouth shut, now sealing mine twice! Grossed! Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. I want to pull away, to wipe it off, to spit out the taste of death 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 points. More debt. More punishment. I have already earned too much today. I cannot afford even one more violation.

She finishes the second layer, caps the lipstick, and steps back again. “There. Now it’ll hold. My other customers never complain.”

Her other customers? the dead — never complain because they cannot. 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, 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!

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. The black wig with its long, neatly braided pleats framing my face. The soft pink lipstick freshly layered a second time. The light foundation smoothing my skin. The subtle blush, mascara, youthful glow. The fresh uniform, perfectly ironed and perfumed. The 4-inch heels forcing my posture upright and ladylike. The knees pressed together on the stool, hands resting delicately on my thighs, head slightly bowed in perfect obedience.

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. “She came out nice.”

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

“You were a mess earlier,” he says, voice dropping colder. “Filthy. Stinking. Ruined. But now? Now you’re my girl again. Cleaned up. Made up. Ready to be shown.”

The humiliation burns fresh. Cleaned up. Made up. Shown. Like an object pulled from storage, polished, and put on display. The same hands that cut my ties, the same voice that tallied 127,800 points — 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.

“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.

Then I turn my head slightly toward Miss Evelyn, keeping my posture perfect — back straight, legs closed, hands delicate on my thighs — and speak clearly, voice soft and ladylike, exactly as required.

“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.

Because any sign of resistance means more points. More debt. More punishment. I have already earned too much today.

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

Master nods once, satisfied. “Good girl.”

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

I remain perfectly still on the stool, wig heavy on my head, braids framing my 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. Thanking for death’s tools. Thanking for shared contamination. Thanking for being reduced to this.

Master’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, then he speaks again, voice calm and final.

“No more need for you to be on the stool. Kneel down now.”

The command is simple. Expected. But it lands like a quiet return to reality.

“Yes… Master,” I murmur, the words soft and breathy, reluctant but obedient, the sweetness forced into my tone even as the inner humiliation burns fresh. The brief moment of “rest” — false, temporary, for someone else’s convenience — is over. I am property again. Positioned again. Placed again.

I obey immediately. Slowly, carefully, I rise from the stool, keeping every movement graceful and ladylike. My knees, still aching protest as they bend once more. The welts on the backs of my knees flaring hot again as they press into the floor. My thighs tremble faintly from the effort of lowering myself, but I force them together, hands sliding delicately to rest on my thighs, head slightly bowed, eyes downcast in the familiar maid kneel position.

The hard floor returns. The pressure shifts back to my knees, sharp and familiar. The heels force my feet into their high arch again, toes cramping inside. The wig’s braids brush my neck and shoulders as I settle, a constant reminder of the corpse. The makeup feels thick on my face, the lipstick slick on my lips, the feminine perfume in my nose — all of it now part of this position. This befitting place.

I kneel there, perfectly still, perfectly presented, perfectly violated.

Back where I belong.

Because that is all I am allowed.