Chapter Four – The Early Days
Rosie did not know if Sarah was attracted to males or females. But, as she never married, Rosie assumed she might be interested in female company.
Anyway, Rosie did like men, but if she could have Sarah to pleasure her now and then, that would not be so bad after all.
And maybe at the same time changing the life of Sarah to be more of a slave and not just a submissive maid, that could be a quite interesting project as well.
Rosie was well aware that after every spanking she gave to Sarah, she always made way to her room in order to pleasure herself.
Maybe that’s where to start, she mused.
Preventing Sarah from having as many orgasms as she does now. To increase her needs, to make her hornier, and through that, maybe make her more docile, more submissive.
The next morning, she told Sarah to come to her office as soon as she was finished cleaning the kitchen after her – Rosie’s – breakfast.
As expected, Sarah took some extra time, she did not pay attention to the part that she should come to the office after Rosie’s breakfast, not leaving time for Sarah to have a breakfast herself.
Rosie heard a knock on the door. Sarah entered, bowed, and waited 2 meters from Rosie’s office desk. She was looking at the floor, waiting. Rosie took her time, trying to build some “inner pressure” in Sarah.
After 10–12 minutes she raised her eyes and looked at Sarah. “You are late. Didn’t I tell you to be here as soon as you had cleaned the kitchen after my breakfast?"
Sarah, looking a bit nervous now, answered, “Yes, Mistress. I did. After my breakfast, I cleaned the kitchen as you told me to do, and then I hurried to your office.”
Rosie snapped, “I told you to clean the kitchen after MY lunch and then come here. Is there anything in that sentence that’s hard to understand?”
Sarah, now looking nervous, answered, “No, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress. But I usually - always…“
Rosie cut her off, “Shut up. When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand? And you do it as if your ass is on the line, which it is. I specifically told you to clean the kitchen after my–MY–breakfast and then to come here. Didn’t I?”
Sarah nervously stammered, “Yes, Mistress, I’m sorry, Mistress.”
“So, Rosie continued, one can say you stole breakfast from me, right? What punishment do you think would be appropriate for that offense?”
“I, I–I don’t know, Mistress, whatever you deem necessary, Mistress.”
“Strip, Rosie barked, now!”
Sarah hesitated — frozen not from cold, but from the crushing awareness that she no longer had the authority to hesitate.
Sarah looked at Rosie, and then she started to remove her clothing and her shoes. She hesitated briefly when she only had her bra and panties left, but then she continued.
She stood naked in her own office, no, not her office anymore, and no longer its mistress, not even its guest. The firelight traced her skin, now stripped not only of clothing but of status.
Rosie told her to put her hands on top of her head and to spread her feet to a shoulder-wide stance.
Sarah obeyed and lowered her eyes towards the floor. She noticed that Rosie went back behind the desk and sat down.
Sarah heard the faint noises from fingers moving on the keyboard. Several minutes passed, and then she heard Rosie rise, and approached her.
Rosie didn’t say a word. She had a measuring tape in her hand and started to measure Sarah.
She measured the circumference of Sarah’s neck, her waist, and her ankles and wrists. She even measured from her waist, down under and between her legs, and back up to the waist. And a lot more measurements.
When finished, Rosie returned to the desk, sat at the computer, and started writing.
After some minutes, Rosie raised her eyes and looked at Sarah. “Go stand at the wall, keep your hands at your head. Don’t fidget.”
How long she stood there, she didn’t know, but she got bored. Well, she used to get bored easily, and standing close to a wall leaves not much to look at.
She heard Rosie appear and say, “Turn around.”
Rosie was holding a small folded bundle: the maid’s uniform. A crisp, black cotton dress, a white bib apron. Atop it all sat the shoes — glossy, black patent leather pumps with a narrow six-inch heel.
Sarah took them with both hands, head bowed.
“Dress quickly,” Rosie instructed. “Then follow me. There is no room for dawdling in your new position.”
As Sarah stepped into the uniform, the fabric felt foreign, wrong in its fit — tailored to make her feel small. The apron tied tightly around her waist, emphasizing its narrowness, forcing her posture to adjust.
A description of her uniform might come in handy:
Her uniform for daily use is a one-piece black coarse fabric. No pockets and no buttons. It's one "square" piece at the back, and then at the shoulders, it divides into two smaller pieces, one going over each shoulder, and then those two pieces continue down the front. Those two pieces going over her shoulders are not connected to the back piece on the sides. To keep this "dress" – this uniform - in place, she uses the small white apron.
This apron keeps the two front pieces tight to her body so as to not reveal too much of her tits. It does, however, leave a large cleavage. And as it's not connected at the sides, there is an easy view to see some "tit-flesh."
At work, she has her hair up, with a white cap.
Her designated shoes are black with a one-inch platform. The heel is a stiletto at 6 inches. The shoes are open at the front, showing her toes, and have an ankle strap.
She slipped on the shoes last. The heels pushed her weight forward unnaturally, the new balance shifting how she stood and moved. With each step, her gait became one of cautious grace — a lesson in subservience, choreographed by pain.
Rosie took her by the wrist and led her from the room. They walked in silence down the grand hallway. The portraits of Sarah’s ancestors looked on, solemn and stately, now judges presiding over her descent.
They stopped at a narrow door she had passed a hundred times but never opened. There was a sign on the door: Maid Sarah. Rosie pulled it open to reveal a bare, utilitarian servant’s room — little more than a cell. A single narrow bed with plain sheets, a stool beside it, and a small shelf on the wall. A window high on the wall, but no curtains. No blanket, no closet, no personal items, no luxury.
“Welcome home, maid,” Rosie said with soft amusement.
Sarah stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her. There was no lock — there didn’t need to be. A moment later it reopened. Rosie appeared with a small wooden paddle, which she placed on the shelf.
“For reminders,” she said calmly. “You’ll earn your first one soon, I’m sure.”
Then she turned and left again. This time, the door closed with finality.
Sarah sank onto the stool, knees together, hands in her lap. She could feel the apron strings against her back, the ache beginning in her arches. She stared at the paddle and then at her hands — once adorned with jewels, now bare, obedient.
A single thought rose through the haze.
It’s done.
The Early Days
The sun had not yet risen on Sarah’s first full day in service, but she was already awake — roused by the cold, hard chime of a small bell outside her room. A bell Rosie had fixed to the wall just last night, with simple instructions:
"When it rings, you rise. No matter the hour. No matter your state. Understand, maid?"
Sarah had nodded, cheeks red with shame, and murmured a “Yes, Mistress.” It was the first time she had addressed Rosie that way. It would not be the last.
She rose from the narrow bed — no pillow, no comforter — still half-sore from her first night on the coarse mattress. Her feet slipped into the patent heels waiting beside the bed. The pain was immediate, a throb rising from her arches to her calves. But she stood, straightened, and adjusted her uniform. It was the same one Rosie had given her yesterday — no others yet offered.
There was a checklist posted inside her door:
1. Wash and prepare yourself.
2. Be present in the kitchen by 6:00 AM sharp.
3. No breakfast until Mistress has eaten.
4. No sitting unless permitted.
5. Daily duties will be posted on the board.
The house — her house, once — felt different now. Colder. The warmth of ownership had vanished. She no longer belonged to the home; the home now claimed her.
In the kitchen, Rosie sat at the breakfast table, immaculate in a deep emerald dressing gown, (formerly one of Sarah’s), trimmed with lace. Her legs were crossed, her slippered foot swinging lightly, a look of mild impatience on her face.
“You’re two minutes late, Maid,” she said without looking up from her tablet.
Sarah froze. Her heart sank.
“I —” she began, but then stopped herself.
Rosie looked up sharply. “Did you speak without permission?”
Sarah swallowed hard. “No, Mistress.”
Rosie stood, smooth and silent, and moved to a drawer. From it, she retrieved the paddle.
“Bend over the stool,” she said simply, gesturing to the wooden seat in the corner.
Sarah moved slowly, positioning herself. Her hands gripped the legs of the stool, her backside trembling in the tight cotton of her uniform.
She delivered three sharp swats. Not enough to injure — but enough to leave her stinging, gasping, and humiliated.
“This is how we teach discipline,” Rosie said, returning the paddle to its drawer. “Not because I enjoy it — though I might — but because you need it.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Sarah whispered.
“Good girl. Now make me tea.”
By mid-morning, Sarah was elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing baseboards. By noon, she had been made to crawl to retrieve a dropped pen. By evening, she was made to stand silently in the corner for speaking out of turn again.
Each act chipped away at what remained of her pride — and yet, with each order fulfilled, a strange calm settled into her limbs. The uncertainty of choice was gone. Her days now followed rules and routines. Expectations. And punishments.
It was exhausting.
But it was clear.
That night, as she undressed — alone in her cold room, her apron folded neatly on her lap — she touched her reddened skin and whispered softly, as if confessing to the darkness:
“I’m not Lady Sarah anymore.”
And then, even quieter:
“I think I’m glad.”
