Day 6 Night (the gathering is still ongoing, After the Meal)
Master glanced at me from the sofa, voice calm and flat.
Master spoke, voice calm but sharp.
“Cassandra. Move to the centre of the room. Kneel there.”
“Yes… Master.”
The words came out soft, breathy, obedient — sweetness forced forward.
But Master’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“Violation.”
He stood up:
“Failure to use the full response style. Incorrect phrasing. Minor—100 points.”
He paused.
“Stacking across categories. Appearance lapse — improper presentation of self-reference. Behaviour lapse — failure to maintain trained speech pattern. Obedience lapse — non-compliance with updated response protocol. Minor—100 points each.”
Another pause, breath even.
“All layered. All stacking. Minor violations chain together. Post-briefing context — new rules just given, immediate violation — adds 50%. Repetition of disobedience from earlier phrasing errors — another 50%. Total from this one moment: 450 points.”
“Previous tally 127,800. With tonight’s accumulated points from greetings, service lapses, and this mistake, plus my inconvenience of getting your panties washed, I estimate another 1,200 on top. Final rough total: 129,450. That’s how much more you’ve earned tonight. And that’s just what I’m counting now. There’s more.”
The number landed like a slap, not final, just another rough estimate that could grow whenever he decided to tally again. 129,450. More than yesterday. The feelings flooded from the casual way he threw out the figure, like it was nothing! I had tried so hard today. Really tried to avoid earning more points. And now this, just another small slip — another 1,200, maybe more, because I forgot one small rule! Because I answered the old way. Because I’m still learning to get used to this pathetic style of reply!
Master looked down at me:
“Use the correct style. Move to the centre of the room. Kneel there.”
I swallowed, throat tight. The feelings sharper from being corrected like something defective and needed retraining. I kept my voice soft, breathy, sweet — perfection forced forward.
“Yes, Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will move to the centre of the room and kneel there.”
I rose slowly, heels biting as I straightened. The starched uniform rustled stiffly every time I moved. I walked to the centre of the living room and lowered myself back to my knees.
Master nodded once, satisfied.
“Good. Remember it. Every time. No exceptions.”
I knelt. Still. Silent. Obedient.
The extra points echoed in my head — quiet, relentless. So many points with just this one mistake! Literally sunken!
The guests — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben — and Miss Evelyn sat around, relaxed, chatting casually while I knelt silently in the centre, presented, waiting.
Raj broke the quiet first, voice playful but curious, glancing at me kneeling in the centre of the room.
“Boss, she just got points for the wrong reply lah. How do you punish her when she messes up like that? She’s been so good tonight, but… how does it work when she slips?”
Master leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice calm, almost proud.
“Punishment is simple. Effective. She just earned points from that one small mistake — stacking across different categories of violations and given a multipliers.
He then continued.
“The accumulation doesn’t just sit there. It’s not some meaningless number. Every point is a debt to be paid through punishment. I decide when. I decide how. I choose the time and the intensity. And she will pay the amount equivalent to the value of the punishment — whether that’s a single heavy session to wipe out a large stack, or smaller ones spread over days or weeks to match the total. But here’s the thing: the punishment never clears everything. Even after she’s endured whatever I choose, the rest of the points remain. They carry over. Sometimes I wait — let the points build, let her feel the weight of them hanging over her. Other times she pay it immediately, melt the points down with something fitting. A single major violation can be settled with one long session. But it always gets paid. She pays it. With her body. The points are never forgotten. They are never forgiven. They are only settled. She doesn’t decide. She doesn’t negotiate. She endures whatever I choose to match the debt. That’s how it works. That’s how she learns.”
The words sank into me like cold lead. Every point wasn’t abstract.It was a promise of future punishment waiting. All because I said “Yes… Master” the wrong way. The feelings twisted even deeper from knowing the points would be paid when he decided. And I would endure it.
I knelt there, still, silent, eyes down — the extra weight of 129,450 pressing down harder than the chain ever could.
He glanced at me — then continued.
“Previous night , for example — I mummified her completely. Wrapped her head to toe in tight layers, arms bound, legs bound, only breathing holes. Left her like that for hours. Helpless. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just lay there, feeling every inch of restraint. I stood over her, watching. Felt powerful. She was completely mine. Just a wrapped thing. My thing. The way she struggled under the layers, the way her breathing got shallow through the holes… that’s when I knew the control was real. Just helpless total surrender. I enjoyed it. Every minute.”
Ben leaned in, eyes wide. “Wah, serious? She was like that the whole night?”
Master nodded. “Almost whole night, started quite late, like 1,2 am until the next morning.”
He paused, letting the memory settle, then continued, voice calm and proud.
“She was wrapped so tight — layers of cling film, head wrapped except for the breathing holes. Left her with no movements possible. No way to adjust. Literally can do nothing except to breath. I came to see her a few timesl. She couldn’t even turn her head. Couldn’t shift. Just lay there, sweating inside the cocoon, the uniform soaking up everything. Her sweat. Her heat. Like washing the uniform from the inside. Like a human washing machine. That’s what she became that night.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “Wah, so she really just… washed it with her own sweat?”
Master smiled faintly. “Exactly. And in the morning, I unwrapped her. The uniform was drenched — soaked through with her sweat, clinging, sour, heavy. But the smell was somewhat gone. The sweat had done its job. I told her it wasn’t punishment. It was a chore. Her chore. Being the human washing machine. So she ended up not paying back any points for that. So pathetic right?”
Raj burst out laughing“Hahaha, wah, human washing machine? You’re kidding lah! She just… sweat-washed her own uniform? And no points off? Aiyah, that’s next level pathetic sia.”
Miss Evelyn joined in with a light, amused laugh, covering her mouth slightly. “Aiyah, it’s practical what. Bodies sweat too, you know. But on a living one, it’s even better — self-cleaning uniform. Clever lah, Master. She must have been exhausted in the morning.”
Master continued:
“Yes. The way she looked when I unwrapped her. Helpless. Broken. Look more obedient. That’s control. Total control. I enjoyed every second of it.”
The words sank into me like cold lead. Every detail he shared — the cling film, the hours of immobility, the sweat soaking the uniform — replayed in my mind like a nightmare I couldn’t escape. I remembered it all too clearly. The suffocation under the layers. The heat building. The way my own sweat pooled inside the wrappings. The way I couldn’t move. And in the morning — unwrapped, uniform drenched and sour, and the slap when he told me it wasn’t punishment. It was a chore. No points deducted. Like I was nothing more than equipment. A washing machine. A thing to be used.
The shame twisted so deep from hearing him share it so casually. So proudly. Like it was a funny story. Like my suffering was entertainment. I felt small. Erased. Reduced to a thing he could wrap, watch, unwrap, and reuse. The yucks mixed with something colder: resignation. It wasn’t punishment. It was normal. It was expected. And it would happen again.
He continued:
“Another time — last night — I connected her to the ceiling. Hands bound above her head, pulled up tight. Forced to stand, chain from wrists to ceiling hook. She stood there for hours. Helpless. Immobilised. I could do anything on her, touch, tug, anything! She couldn’t even lower her arms! Simple binding, but effective. She stayed like that until I decided she’d learned. “
“The way her shoulders shook from the strain, the way she tried to balance on those heels… that’s power. Pure power. I enjoyed watching her struggle. Knowing she couldn’t control, knowing that she lost control! Because she’s mine.”
Tan spoke quietly. “And she just… took it?”
Master smiled faintly. “She had no choice. That’s the point. The beauty of it is she is forced to endure, whether she likes it anot. She will break slowly. And every time she does, I feel it — the control tightening. The ownership deepening. That’s what the punishments do. They don’t just hurt her. They shape her. They remind her who she is. Who she belongs to.”
The words landed like a slow, cold weight pressing down on my chest, heavier with every syllable. Master spoke on how he was dismantling a person. “She had no choice.” “Forced to endure.” “Break slowly.” “Control tightening.” “Ownership deepening.”
Inside, everything recoiled! It wasn’t just humiliation anymore; it was the slow horror of hearing my own destruction described like a success story. He wasn’t just punishing me. He was proud of it. Proud of how he could make me endure. Proud of how I would break. Proud of how he could shape me until nothing of the old me remained. And I was right there — breathing, listening, absorbing every word while they all watched. They were hearing it too. Hearing how he planned to erase me. Hearing how he enjoyed it.
My stomach churned. Not just from the grossness of the makeup, the wig, the perfume laced with death — but from this. From being talked about like an object being broken in, like a project he was proud of. “They remind her who she is. Who she belongs to.” I already knew. I knew every time I said “Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.” Every time I thanked them for touching me. Every time I repeated their commands. But hearing him say it out loud, in front of them, made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Like he was announcing it to the world: she’s mine. She’s breaking. And she’s doing it right here, in front of you.
I felt small. Smaller than anything I have known!The urge to scream, to deny it, to say “no, that’s not me” surged hot in my throat — but I swallowed it. I buried it, enough points for the day..
So I stayed still.
Raj laughed softly. “Can we see something like that? Witness it next time?”
Ben nodded eagerly. “Yeah lah, boss. Let us watch. Maybe even help.”
Miss Evelyn smiled, interested. “I can bring extra tools if you want. Parlour has plenty.”
My thoughts literally raged inside of me! Can she stop it? Please, just stop. Stop being helpful. Stop offering. Stop turning me into something surrounded with the dead’s things. You could say nothing’s available. Every time you speak, every time you volunteer, it feels like you’re handing Master another piece of my life. Another reminder that even my rest, my sleep, my most private moments will be tainted by the parlour. By the bodies. By the things you touch every day!
Stop. Please stop. Your helpfulness isn’t kindness. It’s betrayal. And every time you smile and say “I can bring…” it feels like another nail going in.
Master considered it for a moment,
“Points are already high from today. 129,450 total, rough estimate. I’m too tired to melt any punishment tonight. It would take too long. But next time — maybe tomorrow — we can do it properly. All of you come back. Witness. Participate. See how she breaks under it.”
He paused, glancing around at them, gauging their reactions.
Raj leaned forward eagerly. “Tomorrow night? Wah, serious lah? I’m free. Can’t miss seeing her in punishments. Count me in.”
Tan nodded, quiet but firm. “I’ll make time. It’s… interesting. I want to see how she handles it.”
Ben grinned wide, practically bouncing in his seat. “Tomorrow? yes lah, boss! I’ll bring drinks. Maybe we can make it a full session — see how long she lasts. I want proper participation.”
Miss Evelyn smiled, tilting her head. “I can come after work.”
Master listened to each one, nodding slowly, letting them talk it out.
Raj added, “But 129,450 points… that’s a lot lah. How long will it take to melt all that?”
Master shrugged casually. “Depends. One big session can burn through thousands if I choose something intense or a combination. But I don’t have to clear it all at once. I can chip away at it. Do enough tomorrow to make an impression, leave the rest for later. The debt stays until I decide it’s paid. And she’ll keep earning more anyway.”
Ben laughed. “So tomorrow’s just a taste lah? Can’t wait.”
Tan: “Agreed. Tomorrow night works for me.”
Miss Evelyn: “I’ll clear my schedule. It’ll be good to see her in full use.”
Master turned to me again, voice calm.
“Right, girl? Tomorrow you’ll be ready for them.”
I felt the trap tighten — not tonight, but tomorrow. Not a maybe. A plan. All of them agreeing. All of them excited. All of them coming back to watch. To participate. To see me break. The words came out soft, breathy, obedient.
“Yes… Master. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will be ready for them tomorrow.”
But inside, the trap snapped shut tighter. Not tonight, but tomorrow. All of them agreeing. All of them excited. All of them coming back to watch. To participate. To see me break. Saying it aloud — repeating the instruction, naming myself again — felt like another signature on my own sentence, the next layer of erasure. The shame flooded hotter, colder, heavier.
He nodded, satisfied.
“Good. Then it’s settled. Tomorrow night. Full session. Bring your cameras if you want photos. We’ll make it worth the trip.”
Raj: “Deal lah. I’m bringing my phone.”
Ben: “Same lah. This one for the memory card.”
Tan just smiled faintly.
Miss Evelyn: “I’ll bring some extra things. Just in case.”
Master leaned back, conversation shifting again, casual, as if they’d just planned a casual dinner.
Master continues:
“Good. But tonight, let’s make her sleep early. So you can see her pathetic state. How she looks when she’s put away. You can even take photos if you want. Her new mattress and pillow are ready. As good as seeing a dead relative, but alive. Pathetic, but functional.”
Raj laughed. “Wah, serious? Photos okay lah.”
Ben: “I want one. For memory.”
Tan just nodded.
Master stood up, picked up the neck chain from the table — PVC sleeve cool in his hand.
“Who wants the honour of chaining her for the night?”
Raj raised his hand. “Me lah, boss.”
Master handed him the chain.
Raj walked behind me, reattached it to my neck with slow, deliberate clicks on the small padlock — the familiar weight returning, feeling heavier now with everyone watching.
“Stand up.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will stand up.”
I rose slowly.
Raj took the chain end, gave a light tug.
“Come. Collect your new bed.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will collect her new bed.”
He dragged me by the neck across the room to where the mattress, pillow block, and sheets waited. The chain tugged with every step, pulling my head forward, reminding me who held it. I walked small, controlled steps, heels clicking, pinafore rustling, braids swaying, grossly uncomfortable makeup on my face.
I knelt again when we reached the items. Raj let go of the chain.
“Pick them up. Bring them to the slave chamber.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will pick them up and bring them to the slave chamber.”
I gathered the folded mattress in fresh white sheets under one arm, the wooden block in the other.
The mattress was light but awkward, I could imagine the foam slightly indented from its one night under a corpse. The wooden block was solid, smooth teak, heavier than expected. The sheets smelled clean — cotton, fresh — but I knew where they came from.
Raj tugged the chain lightly. “Move.”
I followed, dragged by the neck, items in my arms, heels clicking, knees still sore, to the slave chamber door.
The door opened. The room smelled — stale, musty, the unpleasant scent of worn uniforms hanging inside. Unwashed fabric, sweat, old perfume, thick ammonia from the accident. The smell hit me hard — my own filth, my own history, trapped in this small space.
Raj led me inside, tugged me to the wall hook.
“Place the mattress and pillow in position first. Set the mattress flat on the floor, align the wooden block at the head, then kneel.”
“Yes, Sir. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra will place the mattress and pillow in position and then kneel.”
I lowered the items carefully — first the thin mattress, unfolding it flat on the floor. The foam was slightly indented from its previous use, and as I smoothed it out, a faint, sickly smell rose from the material, the quiet, unmistakable trace of fluid that had seems to seep into the foam during that one night. Not strong, quite mild because of the new covers. Just mildly smell like milk gone off mixed with something darker and metallic. A faint reminder of what had rested here before me.
Then the wooden block — solid teak, smooth and heavy — placed precisely at the head, aligned straight.
Once everything was in place, I lowered myself to my knees beside the mattress. The concrete in the room was cold again, hard under my knees. The starched uniform creaked faintly with the movement — short sleeves stiff against my arms, collar rigid at my neck, pinafore pleats feels like poking my thighs.
He attached the chain to the chain secured to the wall hook, short enough that I couldn’t stand fully, long enough to let me lie on the mattressl.
Outside the open door, the guests gathered quietly — Uncle Raj, Mr. Tan, Ben, and Miss Evelyn all standing, peering in with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
They leaned against the doorframe or stood with arms crossed, watching as Raj secured the lock with a final click.
Their eyes followed every movement — the way I knelt, the way the chain hung from my neck, the way the mattress and wooden block waited for me. No one spoke yet. They just watched, like spectators at a show they’d been promised would be worth seeing.
I felt their gaze like extra weight — heavier than the chain, colder than the concrete. They weren’t just guests anymore. They were witnesses. Witnesses to me being chained. Witnesses to me being put away. Witnesses to the pathetic state Master wanted them to see. How completely I’d been reduced!!! I knelt there, still, silent, obedient — chain locked, mattress waiting, guests gathered — exposed in every way!
The starched rigid uniform, collar stiff against my neck, felt like a cage that never softened. The gross makeup still clung on my face, constantly reminding me of the residue of death and making the violation sharper in my mind. The wig sat heavy, second-hand from a corpse that wore it for one full night in the coffin — braids constantly brushing my neck and shoulders reminding of its presences.
The uniform, the makeup, the wig — all of it second-hand from death, all of it forced on me to make me look presentable, youthful, innocent. But none of it hid what I had become. None of it hid the man who was fading. None of it hid the property that remained.
The yucks surged colder than ever. Not just the wig. Not just the makeup. Not just the perfume laced with rot. Everything on me was tainted. Borrowed from the dead. Repurposed for a living thing that used to be someone else.
And tonight… tonight I’ll lie down on parlour leftovers — thin mattress used briefly for bodies, wooden block discarded after holding lifeless heads, against my skin, as part of my rest.
The worst part isn’t the grossness anymore. It’s knowing that even my sleep, the one thing that I thought can remain my only relief, has been taken from the dead’s environment and given to me.
The feelings settled deeper, colder, heavier. Not just disgust. Not just exposure. A quiet, sinking certainty that this is permanent. That every night from now on sleep on this residue. That I’ve been reduced to borrowing from death — not just for display, but for sleep.
To be continued…
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