Day 6 Night to Day 7 Morning (Sleeping)
The guests are gone.
The house has fallen silent once more. My chain, looped
through the wall-mounted metal hook and locked to my collar, clinks softly with
even the smallest involuntary twitch, a constant auditory reminder of my state.
The storeroom-turned-slave-chamber feels smaller with the thin mattress
salvaged from the funeral parlour. The dim overhead bulb remains on, casting a
perpetual weak yellow glow that never quite reaches the corners, leaving
shadows that play tricks on exhausted eyes. No windows, no fresh air—just the
still, humid atmosphere thick with the lingering scents of the day.
I must have drifted off sometime after the final commands.
The recitation had gone on for what felt like hours as I repeated the phrase
over and over, endless, until the words blurred into a mantra that seeped into
my subconscious. They were still echoing faintly as sleep claimed me, pulling
me under despite the discomfort.
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
‘….. Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra……’
Lying flat on the parlour mattress, its faint musty odor of
subtle chemical traces from the compressed foam pressing up through my uniform.
The wooden block "pillow" forces my head into an awkward angle, neck
muscles already protesting with a dull ache. Thumbs bound tightly together with
palms placed flat over my pubic area. Ankles similarly restrained, knees locked
together, preventing any natural spread or roll for relief.
White canvas shoes still laced on with the white
ankle-length socks. The fresh uniform I changed into this afternoon clings with
its heavy starch, the fabric rigid and unyielding, feminine perfume still
potent but already starting to mix with my own emerging scent. Blouse pinned to
panties at the waist with safety pins. Although this set is clean from the
change, but the mental weight is crushing. The makeup, applied by Miss Evelyn
with brushes that have touched dead skin, feels like a mask hardening on my face.
The wig, braided tight, secured firmly with hidden pins, carries the ghost of
the young girl's viewing it endured overnight. And in the corner, on the
storeroom rack, hangs the previous uniform—six days of unbroken wear, unwashed,
its fabric heavy with layered sweat that has dried and re-wet countless times,
souring into a rancid ferment. Faint ammonia from urine traces, old perfume
turned cloying and rotten, all trapped in this unventilated space. Every inhale
draws it in, a suffocating reminder of degradation, pressing down like the air
itself is tainted.
First Awakening – The Coffin and the Whisperer
I wake with a start—heart pounding, chain rattling sharply
against the hook as my body jerks involuntarily. The dim bulb's glow seems
harsher now, illuminating the hanging uniform like a spectral figure in the
corner. No sounds from the house. My mouth is dry, lips sticky under the gloss.
The phrase is still there, looping uninvited in my mind.
The nightmare floods back in vivid fragments, pulling from
Miss Evelyn's casual stories shared during the makeover, now twisted into
something horrifically real. In the dream, I am not myself—I am HER, the YOUNG
GIRL she mentioned, the one whose family insisted on "making her look
peaceful and pretty" for the final viewing. I lie in the open coffin, the
wooden sides cool and unyielding against my arms, the satin lining slick under
my back. The wig is on my head—braided just like mine now, but it's heavy with
the weight of death, strands matted from the overnight it spent on her real
corpse. Evelyn's voice echoes from somewhere above, narrating as if she's still
applying the makeup: "We always use this shade for the young ones—brings
back a bit of color to the cheeks." Her brush strokes across my face, cold
and deliberate, the bristles dragging over skin that feels waxy and lifeless.
Foundation layers on thick, concealing bruises that aren't mine, concealer dabs
under eyes that stare blankly at the parlour ceiling. Lipstick—the same tube
she used on me tonight—presses into lips that don't respond, the color too
vibrant against pallid flesh. I try to move, to protest, but my body is rigid,
posed for display. The scent is overwhelming: formaldehyde sharp in the air,
mixed with the floral notes of the soap she mentioned using to wash the bodies
beforehand. "Keeps them fresh for the family," her voice says, casual
as ever.
Then she appears—the dead girl herself, stepping out from
behind the parlour curtain, wearing exactly the same uniform as me! Not a floating
ghost, but solid, real, with makeup flaking at the edges. The wig sits slightly
crooked on her head, just as it might have after a night in the cooler. She
approaches the coffin slowly, her footsteps silent on the parlour floor, and
leans over me. Her face is inches from mine, eyes empty sockets reflecting my
own terror. She opens her mouth, and the phrase comes out—not in her voice, but
mine, mechanical from the recitation.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
It repeats, over and over, her cold breath carrying the
chemical tang of embalming fluid and decayed roses. Flakes of makeup fall from
her cheek onto mine, sticking like ash. I feel the brushes again, Evelyn's
hands now hers, reapplying layer after layer until my face is buried under the
mask. The coffin lid begins to lower, inch by inch, the phrase growing louder
in the darkening space.
I gasp in the real world, bolting upright as far as the thin
mattress allows, the chain had sufficient slack which allow me to easily sit
up, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn in slightly within the ankle
ties. The double cable ties around my thumbs keep my hands locked together, the
plastic biting just enough to remind me they’re still bound. Sweats on my
forehead, trickling down under the wig, the braided strands heavy and itchy
against my scalp. The room's air feels thicker now, the hanging uniform's sour
ammonia blending with my fresh perspiration. The phrase loops again, mocking in
its insistence on obedience.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
A sudden realization hits—I’m in the wrong position. Sitting
up like this is a violation, even if unintentional. I must return to the proper
position. I wiggle awkwardly, trying to lower myself back down. The ankle ties
force my knees to stay together, making the shift clumsy and restricted, small,
helpless twists of hips and shoulders, the bound thumbs by the cable ties
digging in as I struggle to slide my upper body back along the mattress. The
chain rattles softly with the effort, slack enough not to stop me but still a
constant presence. After a few strained seconds, I manage to lie flat again,
head forced back onto the wooden block pillow, neck straining at the awkward
angle.
As my body settles and compresses the thin foam mattress
once more, another gust of smell releases from the parlour-salvaged padding—a
faint chemical undertone laced with the merest tinge of purge residue, that
sour-sweet whisper of what the body once held, undercut by the thin, sharp bite
of lingering formaldehyde, rising up like a quiet exhalation from the depths of
the parlour itself.
Eyes squeeze shut. Not choice—exhaustion demanding it. The
wooden block grinds against my head, the mattress’s faint chemical undertone
lingering in the air. The dim bulb hums steadily. Chain holds firm, slack but
ever-present. Mind teeters on the edge, drifting back despite the fear, pulling
toward the next layer of horror.
Second Awakening – The Brushes and the Preparation Room
Another jolt—sharper this time, as if yanked from the
depths. Chain clatters lightly, thumbs straining against ties, sending a fresh
tug through the tuck. The dim glow hasn't changed; time blurred, maybe another
hour lost. Heart races again, breath coming in short gasps that stir the
stagnant air.
The new nightmare builds on the first, drawing deeper from
Evelyn's tales—the cold, sterile space where bodies are washed, dressed, made
presentable. In this dream, I am on the steel table, not in a coffin yet. The
young girl is there, but now she's the one wielding the brushes, her movements
precise and methodical, just as Evelyn described her own routine. "We
start with the soap," her voice says—Evelyn's words, but spoken through
the girl's pale lips. Cold water runs over my body, but I'm still in uniform,
the pinafore soaking through, starch dissolving into a sticky paste that clings
like embalming gel. The girl dips the brush into the same pot Evelyn used for
corpses, the bristles loaded with foundation that smells of talc and decay. She
applies it to my face, stroke by stroke: cheeks, forehead, chin. "This
hides the marks," she murmurs, her fingers cold as refrigerated flesh. The
wig is already on me, but she adjusts it, braiding it tighter, strands pulling
at my scalp like threads stitching a wound. Lipstick next—the tube Evelyn
touched up on me earlier, but now it's smeared with traces from previous uses
on the dead. It glides on, too smooth, sealing my lips as the girl whispers the
phrase in rhythm with each application.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
With every stroke.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Endless, her empty eyes fixed on mine.
The preparation room fills with more figures—other stories
from Evelyn come alive. The elderly woman whose family wanted
"natural" makeup, her wrinkled hands now holding concealer, dabbing
at my eyes. "We use this for the bruising," she intones, voice
crackling like old paper. Another, a middle-aged man from one of her anecdotes,
adjusting a tie that morphs into my own uniform's stiffness. They circle the
table, brushes and combs in hand, preparing me as they were prepared. The girl leads
them, leaning close: "You're one of us now—pretty for viewing." The
phrase choruses from all, overlapping, distorting.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the young girl.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the accident victim.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Echoing around the preparation room, growing until it drowns
out everything.
In the chamber, I lie still—too terrified to move. Chain
taut, thumbs numb from the ties. The room's smell intensifies: hanging
uniform's rot, my own emerging sourness, the parlour mattress's chemical ghost.
Dread compounds—morning will bring discovery, tally, shame. The phrase hammers
on, unceasing.
Eyes close once more. The wooden block feels harder, like
the headrest in Evelyn's preparation tales. Fatigue drags me under again, but
slower this time, resistance crumbling.
Third Awakening – The Viewing and the Circle
Wakefulness hits like a slap—body convulsing slightly, chain
jangling louder in the quiet. Dim bulb unchanged, room air heavier with my
accumulated sweat. Perhaps another hour gone; the night stretches endless.
This nightmare escalates, pulling from Evelyn's offhand
mentions of viewings—the families gathered, the bodies on display. Now I am the
centerpiece, lying in the open casket during a full viewing. The young girl
stands at the head, her family around her—but they are blurred, faceless,
murmuring approvals as Evelyn did in her stories: "She looks so
peaceful." The wig on my head itches unbearably, as if alive with the
residue of her night in it. Makeup cracks on my face with every imagined breath,
flakes falling like dead skin. The girl circles the casket, joined by others
from Evelyn's anecdotes: the accident victim whose features she reconstructed
with careful layers, now piecing my own face together with cold fingers; the
child from a tragic story, small hands holding the lipstick, applying it with
childish precision. They form a circle, each taking turns with the brushes,
narrating their own preparations.
"We wash first," one says, pouring imagined
rose-scented water over my uniform, soaking the pinafore until it clings like a
shroud. "Then the foundation—to hide what life did." Brushes drag,
heavy with product used on corpses before me. The phrase becomes their chant,
whispered in unison as they work.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the young girl.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
From the accident victim.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Echoing around the viewing room, growing until it drowns out
everything.
A sudden tremor runs through me—built from the horror of the
dream, the morbid weight of the makeup brushed on dead skin now cracking on my
own face, the wig heavy with the dead girl's overnight residue, the parlour
mattress and wooden block beneath me like relics from the viewing room itself.
Memories flash: the guests' hands violating the genital area earlier, probing
and pressing without mercy. Combined with the thumbs bound tight, palms and
fingers pressing hard against the tucked genitals, creating constant pressure.
Ankles tied, knees locked together—the indirect friction from legs rubbing
slightly with every twitch, every involuntary shift in the restraints. It all
accumulates, unstoppable.
A warm rush—small, involuntary ejaculation. Semen
pulses out in short spurts, directed rearward due to the tight tuck, shooting
backward along the confined shaft and pooling against the perineum and rear
gusset of the panties. Sticky and viscous against the skin, it clings thickly
in the posterior crotch seam, contained mostly there without forward escape.
Not wet like a spill, but thick, adhering to the cotton without quick spread or
soak-through. The panties and the heavy starched pinafore skirt draped over
everything trap the residue close to the body, preventing easy diffusion into
the air—the smell does not spread readily through the chamber, held captive
beneath the pinned blouse hem and pleated skirt fabric. No immediate stain on
the outer uniform, but inside, it clings, cooling slowly into a tacky film
pressed between the cleft of the buttocks, thighs, and the tucked base. No
flood, just enough to leave residue that I feel with every subtle shift, every
breath pressing the sticky warmth deeper against the skin behind.
I freeze. Do not rub. Do not shift to clean. Any motion
risks more friction, more betrayal. The safety pins at my waist dig sharper
now, as if sensing the violation, their points grazing through layers.
In the chamber, I lie still—too terrified to move. Chain
taut, thumbs numb from the ties. Dread compounds—morning will bring discovery.
The phrase hammers on, unceasing.
Fourth Awakening – The Return and the Possession
Another rude pull to wakefulness—heart stuttering, chain
clinking as if in response. Dim light mocks; night deepens, perhaps closer to
dawn now.
The fourth nightmare fuses everything from before: I am back
in the chamber, but the dead girl has followed. She emerges from the shadows
near the hanging uniform, stepping into the bulb's glow. Wig on her head,
makeup perfect yet cracking, she approaches the mattress. "This was
mine," she says, touching the wig on my head—Evelyn's story made flesh, the
same wig that spent the night on her corpse, the same makeup Evelyn layered on
us both. She climbs onto the mattress, cold body pressing against mine through
the uniform, her hands wielding invisible brushes. "We share now."
She reapplies the makeup, stroke by stroke, her touch icy. The coffin, the
preparation table, the viewing circle—all collapse here, on this mattress, with
her. The others join—ghosts from her tales, crowding the small space, chanting
the phrase as they prepare me anew.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Whispered into my ear.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Over my skin.
‘I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra.’
Until I am possessed, the words mine and theirs.
Reality asserts: no one there, but the fear clings. The
ejaculation residue from before has cooled to a sticky discomfort, clinging
thickly in the panties without spreading. Phrase hums subconsciously.
Fifth Awakening – The Sister on the Mattress
Another pull from sleep—less violent this time, more like a
gentle tug, as if someone is calling my name softly from very close. Chain
clinks with the small shift; I open my eyes to the same dim bulb, the same
yellow wash over the room. How many hours now? The night feels endless, dawn
still far. My body is heavy, pressed flat again after the last awkward wiggle,
the thin mattress conforming to my shape like it remembers another weight
entirely.
The nightmare slips in quietly, no jolt, just a slow
fade-in. I am lying on the mattress—the same one—but it's back in the
parlour, lights low, viewing curtains half-drawn. The foam beneath me is still
warm in places, deeply indented from the body that lay here since yesterday
night, all through the dark hours and into the afternoon until Evelyn arrived
and took it right away. The dead girl. The young one whose family wanted her
"peaceful and pretty." Her head rested on this very wooden block,
pressing the teak into the shape it holds now under my skull; her body cooled
slowly while the family waited outside, her weight sinking into the foam,
leaving an outline that hasn't sprung back yet. Evelyn spread new white sheets
over it, smoothing and tucking efficiently, but the underlying memory
clings—the faint chemical undertone laced with the merest tinge of purge
residue, that sour-sweet whisper of what her body once held, undercut by the
thin, sharp bite of lingering formaldehyde. It rises up like a quiet exhalation
from the depths of the parlour itself whenever I shift even slightly.
She appears beside me—not stepping out of shadows, but
simply there, lying parallel on the mattress as if it's wide enough for
two sisters to share. She's in the same uniform as me, makeup perfect (Evelyn's
careful layers: foundation to hide the pallor, concealer under the eyes, that
exact lipstick shade she chose for me tonight), wig braided tight just like
mine. No horror in her face this time—only a calm, knowing smile, eyes soft and
welcoming, like she's been waiting for me. She reaches over, cold fingers
brushing my cheek, then gently lifting a stray braid from my wig. "Your
hair is coming along so nicely," she whispers, voice light and
affectionate, like an older sister giving advice. "Evelyn did a good job
matching us. Feel how soft the strands are now? We both got the same
treatment—brushed out, braided fresh. No more messy boy hair. Just pretty
girls."
She moves closer, body pressing lightly against mine through
our matching uniforms—pinafore pleats overlapping, starched fabric rustling
softly. Her hand rests on my bound thumbs, covering them gently without
pulling, just holding. "Look at us," she says, tilting her head so
our braids touch. "Real girls together now. They made us both beautiful
for the viewing—foundation to smooth everything, lipstick to make the smile
last forever. And this mattress... it remembers us both. It held me all night
and all afternoon, kept me safe until the coffin. Now it's holding you. We're
bed-sisters, sharing the same place. Isn't that nice?"
The phrase starts from her lips, soft and inviting, not
mocking—almost like a shared secret, a lullaby we both know by heart. I am
Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. She says it slowly, eyes on mine,
encouraging. I feel my own lips moving in response, unbidden at first, then
willingly, our voices overlapping in quiet harmony. I am Master’s obedient
girly maid Cassandra. She smiles wider, squeezing my thumbs lightly through
the cable ties. "Say it with me, little sister. It's our name now. Just
Cassandra. Just us."
She nestles even closer, head sharing the wooden block,
braids intertwining slightly. "Feel how the mattress molds to us? It still
has my shape—my weight from overnight, from the long afternoon wait. When you
press down, it remembers me, releases that little breath of where I was. We're
part of it now. Pretty girls on the same death bed, waiting to be viewed
together forever." Her cold fingers trace my makeup—along the cheek where
Evelyn layered foundation, over the lips with the same gloss. "They'll say
we look peaceful. Sisters side by side. No one will know the difference
anymore."
"She leans closer, nose brushing near my neck, inhaling
deeply. 'I can smell you,' she whispers, not accusing, but pleased. 'That
little secret under your skirt, the warm tacky film in the back... it's the
same as mine when I lay here. Purge residue, perfume, and now your own. We're
marked the same way now, sister. No hiding it.' Her cold fingers trace the
pinned waistband, not lifting, just pressing the fabric closer, forcing the
faint musk upward with every breath. The smell doesn't spread far, trapped beneath
layers, but to her — to us — it's intimate, shared, undeniable."
The curtains part slightly in the dream; faint family
murmurs drift in—"They look so peaceful... so pretty..."—as if we're
both on display, side by side, uniforms matching.
In the dream-parlour mirror across the room, our reflections
merge — two identical Cassandras in the same uniform, braids touching, makeup
cracking in unison. No boy left in the glass. Just pretty girls waiting for
approval. The family murmurs grow louder: 'Such beautiful sisters... so
obedient.' I try to look away, but her hand on my chin turns my face back.
'See? No more pretending.
Phrase repeating softly between us like breathing. I am
Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. I am Master’s obedient girly
maid Cassandra. It becomes a gentle chant, her voice guiding mine, pulling
me deeper into the sisterhood. No fear now—just a warm, inevitable belonging.
The mattress compresses under our combined weight, releasing another soft
gust—faint chemical, tinge of purge residue, little formaldehyde—wrapping
around us both, sealing the bond.
I wake with a small gasp, body still flat, chain slack but
present. The mattress feels warmer beneath me, as if her weight lingered in the
foam — or rather, the weight of whoever lay here since yesterday night, the
body whose identity I don't know. A fresh compression from my own settling
releases another quiet exhalation—faint chemical undertone laced with the
merest tinge of purge residue, that sour-sweet whisper of what that anonymous
body once held, undercut by the thin, sharp bite of lingering formaldehyde. The
faint musky undertone from my own earlier residue mixes in quietly, trapped
under skirt and pinned blouse, not spreading far, just close enough for every
breath to remind me. The phrase hums low in my mind, no longer just mine.
I am Master’s obedient girly maid Cassandra. Sister
to the dead.
Eyes close again. Exhaustion deeper now. The wooden block
presses harder, as if sharing space with her head. Mind drifts, the sisterhood
lingering like perfume on skin, the invitation echoing softly.
Final Drift – Numb Endurance
Eyes close one last time. No more jolts. Fatigue claims
fully, mind numbing to the cycle. The chamber holds its breath—chain silent,
bulb humming, sticky residue a constant reminder, horrors fading to a low buzz.
Waiting for morning. Waiting to be under Master’s mercy. Waiting, as property
does.
No comments:
Post a Comment