Day 6 Night( presentation party part 2)
The mattress and wooden block sat there now, teak pillow aligned at the head, fresh white sheet draped over it like it belonged in my chamber. I couldn’t stop imagining the body that had lain on that mattress until it has ‘just been transferred to the coffin.’… Means barely awhile ago??? ‘It was lying on this mattress since yesterday night’!!.. Means it has been soaking whatever the decomposition juice sine yesterday?? Considered new? And soon under me? Tonight.? The wooden block waiting for my head…. ‘used too many times and they were planning to throw it away anyway.’ Discarded because it didn’t match someone’s grief. Tonight I’ll lie down with items from the parlour’s throw-outs under me, around me, against my skin. The worst part isn’t the grossness anymore. It’s knowing that even my rest — the one thing that should be mine — has been taken from the parlour and given to me. Like I don’t deserve anything new. Like I don’t deserve anything at all.
The yucks settled deeper, colder, heavier. Not just disgust. Not just shame. A quiet, sinking certainty that this is permanent. That every night from now on will carry the same residue. That I’ve been reduced to borrowing from the parlour’s discards — not just for display, but for sleep. For existence.
I knelt. Still. Silent. Obedient.
Waiting to lie down on parlour leftovers.
The doorbell rang again — sharp, sudden, cutting through the quiet like a blade. My heart lurched. More guests? More eyes? More strangers seeing me like this — made up with death’s tools, wig heavy with corpse history, uniform fresh but already feeling like a cage?
The uniform had been heavily starched — every piece. The short-sleeve blouse was rigid, collar stiff like cardboard against my neck, sleeves creaking with every small movement. The pinafore pleats jutted out sharp, refusing to drape softly. The tie was starched so thick it felt like a board at my throat. The whole outfit was crisp, presentable, perfect — but it restricted me, reminded me with every rustle that this was not clothing for comfort. It was clothing for display. For being seen. For being Master’s obedient girly maid. The starch made every movement louder, more deliberate. No escape from the stiffness.
I stayed kneeling by the sofa, knees pressed tight, back straight, hands delicate on my thighs, head bowed, eyes down — frozen in place, waiting for Master’s command. The perfume clung thick, floral and sweet, but it couldn’t drown out the faint chemical whisper in my braids. The makeup felt thick and gross on my face, layers shared from tools that touched cold, lifeless skin. The yucks sat heavy in my chest, cold and permanent.
Master didn’t rise immediately. He stayed seated, watching the door. The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben — glanced toward the sound, then back to him, waiting. Miss Evelyn, sitting nearby, smiled faintly, as if this were all part of a normal evening.
He stood up slowly, walked to the door himself, opened it just enough to receive the pizza boxes from the delivery rider. The warm, fragrant smell of pizza — a cruel, normal scent that clashed violently with the mortuary residue still clinging to me, with the perfume that tried to mask it but only made the contrast worse.
The rider barely looked past Master — just handed over the boxes and left.
A small wave of relief washed through me — not another guest. Not more eyes. Just food. Just another task. But the relief was thin, fleeting. It didn’t erase the weight of the wig, the makeup, the uniform, the perfume, the knowledge that tonight I would sleep on parlour leftovers.
Master closed the door, carried the warm boxes back to the low table in the centre of the living room, and set them down neatly. Steam rose faintly from the edges.
He stood there for a moment, looking down at me still kneeling.
“Cassandra. Arrange the slices on the plates. Serve them to the guests.”
“Yes… Master.”
Master looked at me, like he’d caught a small mistake that needed fixing right away.
“Cassandra. That response is not enough anymore.”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“From now on, even when replying to me, you use the new style. Every time. The same way you do for the guests. It keeps you consistent. It keeps you reminded. You will learn your new life faster. Do you understand?”
I felt the shift like a new INVISIBLE CHAIN tightening! Now this will be the new way I speak? Every reply to Master now had to echo the same humiliating format? No more simple “Yes… Master.”? Every word had to name what I was, repeat what he said, lock me into the role even when it was just the two of us!!!
“Yes, Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra understands.”
He nodded once, satisfied.
“Good. Now again. Arrange the slices on the plates. Serve them to the guests.”
“Yes, Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will arrange the slices on the plates and serve them to the guests.”
The words came out soft, breathy, sweet, sweetness forced forward. Inside, helpless resignation twisted sharper. Even answering Master had become another performance, another reminder that I was no longer just obeying — I am like force to self-conditioning myself! Every time I spoke to him now, I had to name myself: Master’s girly maid Cassandra. The phrase was no longer just for guests. It was for him. Always for him.
I rose slowly, heels biting as I moved to the table. The starched blouse creaked faintly with each step, short sleeves stiff against my arms, collar digging into my neck. The pinafore pleats poked my thighs, refusing to soften. I knelt again beside the low table, tray balanced at chest height, and began arranging the slices on the plates — one by one, lifting each piece carefully from the box, placing it neatly, making sure the cheese and toppings were even, the presentation tidy. The warmth of the pizza radiated up to my face, the rich smell filling my lungs. Real food. Human food. For the last five days, almost everything I’d eaten had been the slave diet — small portions of cold plain white rice mixed with milk, shredded cabbage, and mayonnaisel. The mash was cold, clumpy, soggy, and greasy from the mayo, with sharp, bitter cabbage bits breaking through the starchy mess- the same familiar starchy, milky, slightly sour smell every meal. The only exception had been that one plate of chicken rice two days ago, which tricked me into my current fate.
<<<
Now this — hot, fresh pizza, the smell so strong it made my mouth water instantly. But I couldn’t have any. I was only serving. Arranging. Presenting. The food was for them. Not for me. The contrast cut deep, I was surrounded by real food, real warmth, real smell, yet my own diet remained the same: plain, functional, just enough to keep me usable.
The starched uniform creaked with every reach, the short sleeves stiff against my arms, the pinafore pleats poking my thighs. The uniform was rigid, restricting every bend, every stretch, reminding me that this was not clothing for comfort. It was clothing for display. For being Master’s obedient girly maid.
I finished arranging the plates, offered them to the guests first — kneeling close to each one, tray steady, head slightly bowed, eyes down.
Uncle Raj took his plate with a grin. “Thanks lah, girl.”
“Thank you, Sir, for allowing Master’s girly maid to serve.”
Mr. Tan accepted quietly, small nod. Ben laughed as he took his. “Nice lah. Feed me properly now . Sit close, bite by bite.”
Master gave a small nod of approval, no emotion.
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will sit close and feed Sir bite by bite.”
I knelt beside Ben, close enough for him to lean back comfortably. I held each slice delicately, brought it to his mouth, waited for him to bite, then repeated. His grin never faded. Every chew, every swallow, I waited — tray steady, posture perfect, braids swinging slightly, makeup thick on my face, perfume cloying in my nose, residue of death still fresh in my mind. Feeding a stranger while I remained on my knees, reduced to this.
Raj and Tan ate their own slices, watching casually. Raj and Tan ate their own slices, watching casually. Ben finished his last bite, then leaned forward with a grin, eyes glinting.
“Boss, can I give her a tip lah? Proper way.”
Master gave a small nod, no emotion. “Go ahead.”
Ben reached out, lifted the front hem of my pinafore skirt slowly — the heavily starched pleats resisted, jutting out stiffly instead of falling softly, creaking faintly as the fabric was pulled upward, exposing the panty beneath. His other hand slipped under the lifted skirt, fingers sliding down the front of my panties, pressing against the flat, tucked area. The pins at my waist bit harder as the starched fabric stretched tighter, the tucked-back pressure suddenly more intense from his touch. His fingers lingered there for a moment, feeling the smooth, flat front, no trace of anything male.
“Wah… really flat lah. Impressed. Can’t even tell there’s anything there.”
The violation was immediate and sharp. Not just the touch — though that alone was enough to make my skin crawl, a stranger’s hand pressing against the most intimate, hidden part of me, the part I’d been forced to tuck and hide for days. But the words hit harder. “Really flat.” “Can’t even tell.” He was commenting on my reduction like it was a compliment, like the erasure of my manhood was something to admire. My real self — the man I used to be —seems to be gone from that spot, flattened, concealed, and now being inspected, touched, praised for how well it had been erased. The shame flooded hot and cold at once, mixing with the yucks from the makeupand the wig. I felt exposed in a way that went beyond skin — exposed as something that used to be male, now nothing but a smooth, flat front for strangers to touch and comment on.
I remained still. Inside, everything screamed, but the voice that came out was soft, breathy, obedient, sweetness forced forward.
“Thank you, Sir, for touching Master’s girly maid.”
The words tasted like ash. Thanking him? For defiling me? For touching the flat, tucked area he helped erase. For commenting on how well I’d been reduced. For reminding me again that I was no longer a man — just a smooth, obedient surface for them to play with?
Ben slipped the folded note into the front of my panties, right against the tucked area, pins biting harder against my waist as the note pressed in. The paper crinkled against me with every tiny shift, a constant, humiliating reminder.
I knelt there, still, silent, obedient — the violation lingering, sharp and cold, the note crinkling inside my panties.
“Thank you, Sir, for allowing Master’s girly maid to receive your generous tip.”
The note crinkled against the tucked area with every kneel shift. Humiliating. Degrading. Money from a stranger, placed inside my panties like I’m a tip jar. And I have to thanked him for it??!!!
Raj tipped next — same way. Tan quietly. Ben again, laughing. “Another one lah, girl.” Each time: “Thank you, Sir, for allowing Master’s girly maid to receive your generous tip.” Notes accumulated, crinkling with every kneel shift, pressing against me, reminding me I was nothing more than a receptacle for their amusement.
Raj tipped next — same way. Tan quietly. Ben again, laughing. “Another one lah, girl.” Each time: “Thank you, Sir, for allowing Master’s girly maid to receive your generous tip.” Notes accumulated, crinkling with every kneel shift, pressing against me, reminding me I was nothing more than a receptacle for their amusement.
Ben leaned back in his chair, still chewing the last bite I’d fed him, grin widening as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Now my turn to feed her, boss. How?”
Master’s voice:
“Through the dog bowl. My girl can only use a plastic spoon. Cassandra, position yourself.”
The words landed cold. Dog bowl. Plastic spoon. Feed her? like I was nothing more than a pet being given scraps. Inside felt further degraded.
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will position herself.”
I shifted slowly on my knees, moving to kneel directly in front of the low table where the empty dog bowl already sat, the same metal bowl I’d eaten from for days. The braids swayed slightly with the movement, brushing my neck, constant reminder of the previous dead owner. The makeup felt even more uncomfortable now as the residue of death keep looping in my mind.
Ben picked up a slice of pizza, took a big bite, chewed slowly, deliberately. Then he leaned forward, mouth full, and spat the chewed-up pizza into the bowl — warm, soggy, saliva-heavy, the piece landing with a wet plop. The smell hit me immediately — cheese, tomato, mixed with his spit. No plate. No dignity. Just chewed food from a stranger’s mouth, in my dog bowl.
Ben looked at me, grinning. “Eat up, girl.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will eat up.”
The words came out soft, breathy, sweet. But inside, everything recoiled. Repeating his command back like that felt like swallowing something even fouler than the spit-mash in the bowl. I had to echo him. I had to name myself his property, his girly maid, his thing, just to be allowed to eat what he spat out! The degradation wasn’t just in the act — it was in the repetition, in hearing my own voice turn every order into another nail in my own coffin. Grossed. Max grossed. The phrase itself was humiliating enough to choke on, now with saying it aloud, repeating it, making it real with my own breath. I could feel the words carving deeper, more so when I had to call myself!
I reached for the small plastic spoon, fingers trembling just slightly as I gripped it delicately. I scooped a small portion of the soggy mess, brought it to my mouth, and ate slowly, ladylike, the way I’d been instructed. The texture was revolting — warm, mushy, sticky with saliva, tasting of pizza and Ben’s mouth. Every chew felt like swallowing humiliation. Every swallow forced the violation deeper.
“Thank you, Sir, for feeding Master’s girly maid.”
Ben laughed, took another bite, chewed, spat again — this time more, the chewed pizza piling up in the bowl. I scooped again, ate again, thanked again. “Thank you, Sir, for feeding Master’s girly maid.”
Raj watched, then spoke up, voice playful. “Let me try lah — make it neat for her.”
Master nodded.
Raj took a slice, chewed a mouthful, leaned over, and spat it into the bowl — a smaller, neater pile, but still warm, still soggy, still mixed with his saliva.
Inside, the grossness multiplied — two people now! Ben’s spit already coating the bowl, now Raj’s added on top mixing together. Two strangers’ mouths. Two different saliva. Two layers of violation blending into one disgusting, sticky mess to swallow. The texture felt even worse now — thicker, more personal, more invasive. Every scoop will bring both their tastes together on my tongue, the pizza flavour drowned under their spit. Gross. Multiply gross. What will slide down my throat is not food, but them. Their saliva! Their breath! Their casual dominance reduced to this: feeding me like a pet, watching me eat their leftovers, and forcing me to thank them for it! The yucks surged colder, heavier making every breath feel tainted. I wanted to scream that this wasn’t food — it was humiliation disguised as a meal!!! But I kept my face soft, spoon steady, voice sweet.
I scooped, ate, thanked. “Thank you, Sir, for feeding Master’s girly maid.”
Tan watched silently, no comment, but his eyes followed every movement.
Ben did it one more time — bigger bite, more spit, more mess. I scooped the last portion, ate slowly, the taste lingering, the smell filling my nose — pizza mixed with strangers’ spit, served in my dog bowl. “Thank you, Sir, for feeding Master’s girly maid.”
The spoon clinked against the bowl with each scoop. Every clink was a reminder: I was eating chewed scraps from their mouths. Feeding them as they lowly servant, then eating their leftovers like a pet. The contrast burned — they ate hot, fresh pizza; I ate cold, soggy spit-mash from a dog bowl. They laughed and chatted and I have to thank them for the honour of their spit.
Master watched from the sofa, bragging:
“See? She eats exactly as instructed.”
The grossness settled deeper. This was my meal. This was how Master’s girly maid was fed?
I knelt there, bowl empty, spoon clean, face soft, eyes down — still, silent, obedient….
To be continued…
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