Day 6, evening to night (the guest arrives)
The waiting stretched on — silent, heavy — until the doorbell finally rang, sharp and sudden. Master glanced at me and said, simply, “Stand up. Centre of the room. Now.” I rose slowly, and walked to the middle of the living room, positioned exactly as he wanted — ready to be seen.
The sound of doorbell made my heart lurched. Strangers. Other than Master. They were about to see me — not just as a maid, not just as a girl, not just in uniform, but like this: fully made up, wig heavy with its corpse history, face painted with shared death, body presented as his owned slave. My private secret — the man I used to be, the dignity I once had — would be exposed to them. I felt the panic rise, the urge to hide, to run, to beg Master not to let this happen. But I knew this is not feasible.
The reluctance burned inside, deep and silent, while my body stayed still, obedient, waiting for the door to open and the strangers to enter.
Back straight, hands at sides, eyes down, 4-inch black stilettos forcing every muscle in my calves to stay tense. The uniform felt too fresh against my skin, the perfume still l heavy. The training bra hugged tight across my chest; the blouse was pinned to the panties at the waist with those safety pins. The Second-hand corpse wig — real human hair, one-night coffin relic sat heavy on my head, braids swinging slightly, each strand carrying that cold, chemical whisper of the mortuary. The layers of corpse residue, thick, death-shared makeup still stiff on my face.
Master didn’t move from the sofa. He just said, calm and flat, “Cassandra. Door. Kneel and greet properly.”
I walked—heels clicking sharp on the flooring—then dropped to my knees just inside the entrance. Pinafore pleats flipped forward, braids brushed my neck like cold fingers. The door opened.
Uncle Raj stepped in first.
I kept eyes down, head bowed, voice soft and breathy as practiced:
“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”
He paused, door still half-open behind him, grinning down at me.
“Eh, so sweet already? Say it again lah, slower this time. Make it extra girly.”
Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will say it again slower and extra girly.
The words felt like swallowing glass—long, awkward, stripping away every last piece of ‘I’. Every time I forced them out, it was like hearing someone else speak through my mouth. Not me. Not Adrain. Just Cassandra, repeating her own deletion.
I repeated exactly, softer, sweeter, throat tightening as the words came out.
“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”
Raj laughed lightly, closing the door. “One more—look up a bit when you say it.”
Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will look up a bit when saying it.
The length of it burned in my throat. Not just obedience, it is humiliation in slow motion. Saying that name—Cassandra—over and over, when I am not her, when I am a man, made the shame loop tighter with every syllable. I could feel the guests watching, judging, knowing I once had a normal voice. Now this. Property!
I lifted my eyes just enough then repeated a third time. The braids shifted with the movement feeling the death-hair scent wafting faintly under the perfume.
Raj patted the top of my head twice, casual, like petting a dog.
“See boss, she learns fast.”
Immediate: “Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Master, still on the sofa, voice calm: “See how she presents herself properly now.”
Raj moved to sit, still smiling.
Next doorbell.
Mr. Tan entered quietly. Nod to Master. Stood a meter away, observing.
I greeted again, still kneeling:
“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”
He gave a small nod, no smile. “Turn around slowly. Show the back.”
Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will turn around slowly and show the back.
Repeating it again… and again… each syllable hammered home how small I had become. No short ‘yes’. No escape. Only this endless third-person prison. My own voice betraying me, turning every command into another nail in the coffin of who I used to be.
I rose to stand, pivoted 360°—pinafore pleats flaring, apron ruffling, heels stabbing soles with each shift.
Tan stepped closer, lifted my left braid with two fingers, sniffed lightly.
“Hair still damp? Smells… old.”
Master: “Freshly styled today. From reliable source.”
Tan dropped the braid, brushed his thumb across my cheek—testing makeup texture.
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Tan sat, watching.
Last doorbell.
Ben burst in, energetic: “Wah, finally see live version!”
I greeted:
“Welcome, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Sir.”
He crouched to eye level: “Cute lah. Say ‘I’m Master’s pretty property’ five times, each one girlier.”
Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will say ‘I’m Master’s pretty property’ five times, each one girlier.
Voice cracked halfway through from the weight of hearing myself say it. Like I was signing my own erasure, in front of stranger who knows that I am actually supposed to be a man. The repetition wasn’t practice anymore. It feels like punishment disguised as training.
I repeated while still kneeling, pitch rising slightly each time. Shame wave crashed inward.
Ben grinned: “Not bad. Hands behind back, stand again.”
Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will put hands behind back and stand again.
I clasped hands low behind back—shoulders pulled, blouse taut across training bra—then stood.
He circled once, patted both cheeks lightly, squeezed upper arm.
After each touch: “Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Master, from the sofa: “Watch the training pay off. She walked right into it—suggested most of the clauses herself.”
The words landed straight into me! Every choice I’d made—every nod, every removal of limits—now held up as proof of my own stupidity. I stayed silent, on my knees, while they laughed about how easy it had been.
The door opened again.
Miss Evelyn stepped in, arms full. She carried the thin mattress folded awkwardly under one arm, the wooden pillow block gripped in her other hand, and the white sheets bundled over her shoulder. She looked pleased—almost excited—like she’d just completed a successful errand.
I dropped lower into my kneel, voice soft and breathy as trained:
“Welcome, Madam. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra is present to serve, Madam.”
But inside:
Why did you come back?? Why couldn’t you just stop being helpful!!?? You could have returned empty-handed, said nothing was available! You had to be so helpful, so practical, so eager to “save money” and make everything work for Master.! Why!?!? Your helpfulness isn’t kindness — it’s innocent betrayal. Every time you explain how cheap or efficient this is, it makes the grossness worse.! Not impressive! Why can’t you see it is gross? Why do you have to be so determined to assist? Stop being so helpful. Just stop. Please, stop helping like this. It is not helping!
She gave me a quick glance then set everything down on the floor. The thin mattress landed with a muted thud. The wooden block followed, smooth teak surface gleaming faintly. She unfold the sheets slightly and draped over the top.
Miss Evelyn straightened, brushing her hands together. And with clear undercurrent of satisfaction:
“Got lucky today,” she said,
“When I arrived, the usual throw-out mattresses were all gone—someone must have thrown them already. But just nice, one body had just been transferred to the coffin. It was lying on this mattress since yesterday night. The parlour boss let me take it right away. Still new—only one night use.”
She said it so casually like it was so normal. “Just nice, one body…” The grossness of it hit like nausea to me: this mattress had held a corpse for a full night, and she was excited because it was “still new.” I will end up sleeping on this rotting corpse stained mattress, not her! She was proud of achievement.
The thought of her grabbing a body-warmed foam made bile rise in my throat. How could she sound so normal about it?
She unfolded the mattress fully, then knelt beside it and began removing the existing white cover. The fabric peeled away easily, revealing the plain foam underneath—thin, slightly indented from that single body, but no visible stains.
But my mind has all the imaginative stains!
She took the new white sheets from the bundle, shook it out, and spread it over the mattress with quick, efficient movements. She smoothed it down, tucked the edges neatly under, then stood back and looked at the result.
“Much better,” she said, turning to me.
“Cassandra, come closer. Smell if it smells nice now with the new cover.”
Master gave a small nod. I leaned in, nose near the fresh sheet, inside reluctantly. The scent was clean cotton mixed with some faint chemical smell.
Gross. Utterly gross. She was making me sniff it like a product review. The new cover was clean, yes—but underneath? One night of corpse weight, one night of death settling into the foam. And she was proud of how “nice” it smelled now?!? My face is literally inches away from what had cradled a dead body yesterday, and she expected me to judge if it was pleasant?!? She is indeed simple! How could she be so cheerful about forcing me to inhale this?
Evelyn watched me, satisfied. “See? Much nicer now.”
She picked up the wooden pillow block next,
“This one was harder to get. Very expensive—teak, solid. The boss said it had been used too many times and they were planning to throw it away anyway. But since we’re good friends, he gave it to me. I just wiped it with a cloth before coming—no residue left. Simple.”
She placed it at the head of the mattress.
“This will be your new pillow, Cassandra.”
Simple. She said it like it is nothing weird!. The wood had supported countless dead headsand she just simply wiped it casually and handed it over proudly. The grossness of her nonchalance made my skin crawl. She was helping Master save money by recycling corpse supports for my neck. Every time she spoke, the revulsion deepened. This wasn’t cruelty. It was cheerful complicity.
Evelyn turned to the guests, voice proud and straightforward.
“Managed to save Master quite a bit of money today. Parlour items are free or cheap if you know who to ask. All practical! Nothing wasted.”
Raj chuckled softly. “Smart lah. Authentic too.”
Tan gave a small nod of approval.
Ben grinned wider. “She’s sleeping on that tonight? Respect.”
Master, still calm on the sofa, spoke evenly.
“Evelyn and I have been friends for about ten years. We met at a gathering with similar interests—people who understand being a Master or Mistress properly. We’ve stayed close since.”
Evelyn smiled faintly, “Happy to help.”
Help?!??! That’s not helping!! No need you to help!!
The items sat there now—mattress covered fresh, wooden block aligned, and it would be under me, around me, against my skin!
My heart pounded harder. I hoped—foolishly—that the smell would fade, that the wood would feel neutral, that this was still somehow reversible.
But deep down I knew. At least in my mind, the death residue has already seeped in!
Master leaned forward slightly on the sofa, voice flat but deliberate.
“Gentlemen. Cassandra was tricked into the contract—curious, trusting, eager for real. Suggested most clauses herself. Removed limits. Nodded to extensions. Four days became six months locked in. Her male genitals will permanent be tucked back, to show the permanent flat front to look like a girl. Will always be in complete Uniform, even sleeping. Got Evelyn to make her more presentable today.”
Raj nodded slowly. Tan gave a small tilt of approval. Ben smirked.
Tricked. Curious. Trusting. Eager? Each word is a nail I handed him myself. I did suggest clauses. I did cross out limits. I did agreed to add extensions clause, until four days stretched into six months. Permanent tuck. Permanent flat front. Permanent girl shape. Even sleeping. The uniform never comes off—not for rest, not for dignity, not ever. Evelyn made me “more presentable” today and they all nod like it’s normal, not knowing the source of the makeup on me!
Master continued, unhurried.
“Now to demonstrate the slave. Cassandra. Kneel.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will kneel.”
I dropped to knees, pleats flipping, braids swinging reminding me that it was once on a dead woman head.
“Stand again.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will stand again.”
I rose—heels stabbing deeper, calves burning.
“Turn slowly. Show the back.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid will turn slowly and show the back.”
I turned, pinafore flaring, blouse pulling at pins with each step.
“Lift arms slightly.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will lift arms slightly.”
Blouse taut across the training bra. Pins tugged it downward.
Demonstrate the slave. Not show. Demonstrate? Kneel. Stand. Turn. Lift. Each command is short, each response has to be the full humiliating phrase! The braids swing (dead woman’s hair brushing my neck!) Pins pull downward every time fabric stretches—sharp little reminders at the waist. Arms up and the blouse goes taut and the pantie yanks inward on the penis tuck! What am I reduced to?!
Raj stepped close first. Lifted one braid. “Nice hair girl.. ”
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
He brushed fingers across face, touching the makeup.
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Raj stepped back with a grin. “Wah, feels real lah. Soft too.”
Tan got up slowly, circled once. “Looks neat lah. She stays very still.”
Fingers on the braid (my braid now, but borrowed from a corpse, does he even know?), then across my face, tracing makeup with traces of the dead bodies? Every touch is casual for him, electric shame for me, and sharp reminder of the grossly source it came from. “Feels real lah. Soft too.” The words land like slaps to my dignity.
Tan circles slowly, just looking.
“Looks neat lah. She stays very still.”
Stillness is all I have left to offer. Their voices mix approval and amusement like I’m an exhibit finally working as advertised.
Ben laughed. “Come on lah, boss, let’s see more. Less see under the dress lah?”
Master gave a small nod. “Cassandra, up-dress. Let them “Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will up-dress and let them see.”
I rose slowly from kneel, keeping movements graceful and ladylike. First, I reached to the pinafore hem at my waist. With one hand I lifted the skirt slightly to expose the pinned area beneath — the fabric rustling softly as I held it up. The other hand moved to the safety pins on both sides. One by one, I unfastened them. The blouse loosened from the panty, no longer held down.
Then I grasped the pinafore hem. Unzipped the left side slightly. Grabbed the fabric at waist level and yanked it high over my head. The pinafore flipped upward to expose the blouse and panty beneath. The strong feminine perfume rising up in a thick cloud with the sudden movement, clinging to the fabric and mixing air of the room.
Blouse next — I reached for the bottom edge and rolled it upward slowly. The fabric still crisp and fresh, heavily sprayed with strong feminine perfume. The floral sweetness rising as it lifted away from my skin. It resisted just slightly as humidity and body heat had already begun to make the absorbent cotton tacky against me after 1–2 hours in it, but I lifted it high with careful, deliberate movements. The front opened completely. Training bra showed — cups tight against my chest, straps digging into shoulders.
Bra last — fingers slipped under the cups, lifted straight up. Cups rode above nipples — bare, exposed, raw from earlier binder clip clamps.
I gripped the pinafore and blouse at my shoulders, held them high. The fabric piled up around my face and head — covering my face completely, with a suffocating curtain of fabric.
Everything rearranged, uniform still on but lifted, body exposed for them to see — nipples bare, panties visible, tucked area strained under panties. But I could see nothing — only darkness and perfume, only the smell of forced femininity pressing in from all sides.
Why did I ever agree to this? Every time I lift my arms, I’m showing them what I used to hide. I’m a man—still a man—but standing here like this, nipples out for strangers to see, I feel my manhood taken away. I chose the clauses. Now I’m holding my own clothes up while they look. The real shame is knowing that I helped make it happen.
Raj stepped up first. “Wah, not bad lah.” Pinched one nipple lightly — sharp sting from the rawness after yesterday’s punishment.
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
His fingers on me. A stranger. Pinching me like a toy. And I thank him. I thank him. The grossness of it — how automatic the words have become. How they’re already wearing into me, carving themselves deeper every time I say them.
Tan came closer, looked from the side. “Looks good lah. Steady.”
“Thank you, Sir, for inspecting Master’s girly maid.”
Ben grinned, flicked the other nipple quick—snap! Ouch!!!
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Voice cracked a little on the last one. Shame like wave crashing inward.
They see the crack and laugh. Strangers watching my voice break while my chest is bare. Now I’m this. The man I was is disappearing in front of them, and I’m helping it happen!
Master, calm from the sofa: “Again, sweeter.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will say it sweeter.”
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.” Softer this time.
Ben chuckled. “Getting there lah.”
Master: “Enough up-dress. Put it back.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will put it back.”
Lowered bra cups, rolled blouse down, zipped pinafore. Back to “normal.” But the exposure lingered—skin flushed, nipples sensitive under the bra.
I can still feel their fingers. The pinch. The flick.
The inspection. It’s not the pain—it’s knowing I stood there and let it happen. My real nature screamed to move away, but I held position. I obeyed. That’s the worst part. I’m training myself to disappear — to become someone else entirely.
Master commanded:
“Go get the water glasses. Walk to the side table, fetch them on the tray, and serve on your knees in front of them.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will walk to fetch water glasses and serve on knees.”
The words came out soft, breathy, sweet — the trained sweetness forced forward, no crack in the delivery. Inside, is all stormy emotions.
The heels made my steps small and controlled, toes pressing hard with each careful placement. The pinafore rustled softly as I walked to the side table, pleats swaying slightly, the fresh perfume rising with my body heat. The wig’s long black braids swung gently, brushing my neck and shoulders chilling reminder that it’s from a corpse’s coffin, heavy with the memory of that one night on a dead woman’s head. The makeup on my face feels thick and gross, a heavy, clinging layer that makes my skin crawl from knowing exactly where it came from. Every stroke, every dab, every coat was shared with the dead, applied with tools that touched the bodies first. The thought alone is mentally uncomfortable — repulsive, violating, impossible to shake. I feel tainted, dirty inside my own skin, like something unclean has settled on me permanently. The fragrance of the makeup tries to mask it, but it only makes the grossness sharper. I want to wipe it off as soon as possible! Maybe at the end of this event! Gross, uncomfortable, mentally suffocating, with death’s residue painted across my living face.
I reached the side table, lifted the tray with three empty water glasses — balanced it at chest height as trained — and walked back the same way, steps small, posture perfect, heels clicking softly on the floor. When I reached the guests, I lowered myself slowly to my knees in front of them — knees together, back straight, tray held high and steady at chest level, head slightly bowed, eyes down. The position was perfect: presented, serving.
Raj took one, brushed knuckles over hand. “Thanks lah, girl.”
“Thank you, Sir, for allowing Master’s girly maid to serve.”
Tan took without touch.
Ben took last, dipped finger in glass, traced wet line down cheek. “Cool down lah.”
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
Master: “Hold one braid up for Raj to smell.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will hold one braid up for Raj to smell.”
Leaned forward, held one braid toward Raj. He sniffed, nodded. “Smells nice lah, like perfume.”
“Thank you, Sir, for allowing inspection of Master’s property.”
Repeated with Tan and Ben—each sniffed, casual comment (“Not bad,” “Real hair feel”).
Each time: “Thank you, Sir, for allowing inspection of Master’s property.”
They’re sniffing death. Real hair from a dead woman’s head, coffin relic, residue layered under presumed perfume. They think it’s just nice hair. They don’t know. But I do. Every time they lean in, the grossness surges colder. I’m holding corpse hair to their faces, and I’m thanking them for it. The man I was would never do this. The man I was is gone, and I’m the one burying him.
Master, detached: “See? Easy control.”
Miss Evelyn tilted her head, looking at the wig with a casual shrug. “Oh, by the way—those braids? Real human hair. Got them from the same parlour. The woman who wore it… well, she didn’t need it anymore after the viewing. One night in the coffin, then straight to us. And honestly? No perfume on it at all. What you smelled earlier… that faint sweet-sour whiff? Likely it is just spillover from the corpse, the wig probably picked up a trace of purge residue during that one night. Nothing fancy. Authentic hair, right?”
The guests froze. Raj’s grin vanished. Tan’s hand paused mid-air. Ben coughed once, eyes wide.
Raj recovered first, voice low. “Wait… so the smell isn’t perfume? It’s… her?”
Miss Evelyn shrugged again, unfazed. “Sort of. Corpses get perfumed for the viewing—cheap floral sprays, usually rose or jasmine, same stuff we use on living people. But after death, the body starts releasing its own fluids. Purge fluid, decomposition gas, that sweet-rotten smell. It mixes with whatever perfume was sprayed. By the time the wig sits on her head for a night, it absorbs both—the floral scent and likely som of the leakage. So what you smelled on the wig earlier? That’s the perfume she had on, transferred to the hair, and maybe with the corpse’s natural spillover.”
She paused, noticing the sudden tension in the room, then added quickly, with that same calm, reassuring tone like she was explaining how to store leftovers:
“But don’t worry lah. It’s okay. The perfume can actually mask everything. The floral scent is strong enough to cover the bad smell completely. After a night, it just blends in—smells like normal hair with a bit of perfume. Nothing harmful. By tomorrow, you won’t even notice. Trust me, I do this every day. It’s fine.”
The guests shifted uncomfortably, but Evelyn’s words hung there—practical, matter-of-fact, as if she were assuring them about a minor issue. Inside my chest, the yucks feeling twisted harder. “It’s okay.” “The perfume masks everything.” She made it sound so simple, so normal, but I am the one wearing it! Not her!
Death’s smell could just be hidden under flowers.?? But I knew better. I now become more conscious of what is in the wig! the faint juice under the rose and jasmine! The perfume wasn’t masking anything for me. It was amplifying it. Sweet on the outside, rot underneath! Tainted. Shared. And now they knew too.
Raj forced a laugh. “Aiyah… still smells okay lah.”
Tan rubbed his hands together. “I think I’ll wash up.”
Ben just stared at the braids, suddenly silent.
Master watched them all, calm as ever, then looked at me with that faint, knowing smile.
“She wears it perfectly. No complaints.”
Inside, the yucks surged colder than ever. Not just the wig. Not just the makeup. The perfume itself — the one thing that felt clean, feminine, presentable — was tainted too. A corpse’s final spray mixed with its own rot. Transferred to me. Shared. And they had smelled it. Touched it. Laughed about it.
Until they realized what it really was.
I knelt. Still. Silent. Obedient.
But the grossness felt heavier now — like even the perfume was lying to me! the scent was borrowed from death! Like I had been reduced so low that nothing on me was truly mine anymore. Everything second-hand, and worst, from the grave, repurposed for a living thing that used to be a man. A man who once had dignity, who once had choices. Now reduced to borrowing scraps from the dead to be a presentation and demonstration in the room!
Master’s words echoed again in my head: “She wears it perfectly. No complaints.”
No complaints? Really?
The phrase stung like a slap I couldn’t return. No complaints? After everything? After the corpse wig on my head, the makeup from dead faces on my skin, the perfume laced with rot in my lungs? No complaints because I’m not allowed to have them. No complaints because I’ve been trained to swallow every violation and keep my face soft, my voice sweet, my posture perfect. No complaints because the moment I let one slip out, I will invite more trouble for myself . No complaints because I’m property, and property doesn’t complain. It endures. It serves. It wears what it’s given.
And tonight… tonight I’ll sleep on that thin mattress from the parlour — used for one night only on a recent corpse, the body transferred to the coffin today, still considered “new” by Evelyn, now for me. Tonight I’ll rest my head on a wooden block from the parlour’s multi-use stock — the same kind that supported countless dead heads before they went into coffins, discarded only because it looked worn and wiped casually with a cloth, now for my neck. Tonight I’ll lie down with items from the place where bodies are prepared and made presentable, under me, around me.
The worst part isn’t JUST the grossness anymore. It’s knowing that even my rest, the one thing that should still feel like mine, has been taken from the parlour’s throw-outs and given to me. Like I don’t deserve anything new! Like I don’t deserve anything untouched by that place! Like even the space where I close my eyes has to be furnished with what was once touching the dead!
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. Not just disgust! Not just shame! A quiet, sinking certainty that this is permanent for my next 6 months! That every night from now on will lay on the same residue. That I’ve been reduced to borrowing from the dead — not just for display, but for sleep. Simply existence.
I could only knelt. Still. Silent. Obedient.
Waiting to lie down on death’s leftovers tonight..
Waiting for whatever came next.
Waiting for the next segment of my presentation ‘party’
Because that is all I am allowed…..
Master’s gathering continues… To be continued….
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