Stenton Prison for Inexcusable Women: Chapter 1: Gillica of the Manse

[afictionalphile]

Hi there! This is a diaper prison story that I've been working on. It's supposed to be about a country that imprisons wealthy criminals in diaper prisons that include spankings and paddlings. More information about the complicated themes in the novel can be found here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/65185502 

I have about 10 chapters written, and am working on posting them here over time. 

Content Warnings

• Extensive Forced Diaper Wearing (Wetting/Messing)
• Extensive Public and Private Humiliation
• Extensive Corporal Punishment and Bondage
• Extensive use of the themes of fear, shame, guilt, and dread
• Some consensual sexual slavery/servitude themes
• Occasional Sexual Themes
• Occasional Sexual Intercourse
  
  ***I do not condone any of the events or themes in this story, and do
  not intend to glorify or advocate that anyone conduct their life in
  this way. Nobody should model any sort of erotic behavior on the
  events of this story.***

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Tonight’s entertainment would be small, but that still meant it required every minute of Gillica’s day.

It would require:

• Sweeping the inner foyer.
• Priming the Topiary promenade from valet dropoff to the main door.
• Scrubbing and shining all the windows of the Eastern and Western facing facades of Bisgrave Manse.
• Dusting all interior surfaces in the Hargrave room as well as the Opiante battle memorial room.
• Checking every piece of the ‘azure blue’ china set for imperfections and assembling it for the kitchen staff.
• And so much more of the long list of what was expected of her, and her fellow slave Penelope, every single day.

Densen Polliver, the majordomo of Bisgrave Manse, son of the former majordomo of Bisgrave Manse and also grandson of the majordomo of the very same Manse, in the time when the Opiante battle memorial room was called something else, came to wake her up. He entered the slave quarters not yet wearing his uniform for the day, and flicked on the switch. Gillica woke up immediately with the light, and was already wide-eyed by the time Densen Polliver was undoing the locking mechanism on Penelope’s cage.

Once Penelope’s cage was open, the slippers of Densen Polliver appeared by the entrance to Gillica’s cage, and he squatted down. He ignored all he saw as she stirred the cover off of herself. His sole focus was on the padlock. As soon as it was undone, he swung the door open and rose with a groan. Without a word, he closed the door to the slave quarters behind him, the only sign that he was there being the bright overhead light and the fact that the cage doors now swung open.

-freedom-

Penelope sighed above, rocking the stacked cages. Compelled by powers even Penelope would not tempt, she made her move, and Gillica knew to let her step out onto the small shared floorspace of the quarters before crawling out of her lower cage herself. The cage doors were oriented perpendicular to each other, such that Penelope could step down out of hers and Gillica could crawl out of her own at the same time, but Gillica had long ago learned that Penelope didn’t like that at all. Where the majordomo’s slippers had been, two pale and bare feet stepped onto the tiled floor.

A moment later, a diaper fell with a splat between the feet. It was wet, though from her place down in her cage on the floor, Gillica could see that it wasn’t as bad as the one she herself had woken up in.

The feet moved away, stepping across the tile floor with just the sticking sound that skin makes on cold surfaces. The feet walked to a table built into a wall, and now Gillica could see all the way up Penelope’s waist. The slave who slept above her, slave-one, found a container on the table and pulled out a square moist cloth. She drew it across her bottom, one cheek then the other, and then through her buttcrack. Another rectangle came out and she got the inside of her thighs. Another came out and she dealt with her frontside. These too, Penelope dropped on the floor when she was done with them.

Still, Gillica knew better than to stir.

Slave-one then hauled herself out of sight, onto the table. The sounds that came, the sounds of tearing, of a bottle hitting the top of a table, of the grunting and breathing of a woman dressing herself while laid down horizontal, were all immensely familiar to Gillica. They were sounds that had been her night and day for almost a decade, and figured to be sounds with her a lot longer.

Or forever.

No, not forever.

When Penelope’s body re-appeared in her view, her bare legs now facing away from the table instead of toward it, and her groin now covered in a new, fresh adult diaper, Gillica knew that it was time to flip over on her stomach and make her way through the mesh door of her cage. Her back didn’t hurt when she stood, but the tile was cool and her head was a bit cloudier than it had felt when Densen Polliver had first turned on the lights. It didn’t stop her from predicting what Penelope wanted, though. Gillica’s discipline-a hard acquired skill of survival-took over for her, and she made her way to the table where Penelope stood. Penelope allowed her to pull herself on the table and lay her head down on the cushion. At least there was a cushion.

She wished she could sleep here instead of on the mat on the bottom of her cage. Then her knees would not ache and she would not always have a persistent bruise on the top of her head.

It would surprise some to know that the cage was not the worst place she could remember sleeping. It would also surprise some, perhaps even more, to know that it was worse than where she had slept most of the last decade.

Penelope was wordless as she got to work. There was nothing to say between them. Penelope was slave-one and had at least the right to wipe herself. Gillica didn’t even have that right. It was a strange thing to think of as a right, and now and then it occurred to Gillica that, in this case, she was the one being served by the slave of higher rank. But it never felt that way. It was not supposed to seem that way. It was not that way. Gillica wore what she had been put in until someone put her in something else. What made it the way it was was the real and credible threat of what would happen if Gillica upset that order of things.

That’s what made Penelope’s role of sliding a wipe between Gillica’s own buttocks, and another down her shaven vagina, the role of privilege. The slimmest, most minuscule form of an edge anyone could have. The only sort of edge that Penelope had over anyone, anywhere, except maybe those still living behind the bars of Stenton. Penelope could be caged by anyone in the household at any moment, could be ordered to undress, and could be ordered not to dress at all. She was above no task in the Manse, and not even in public were the paid servants of the Bisgraves or the AG Bisgrave herself required to bestow any dignity upon her. And all the while, prison loomed over Penelope. Four more years of servitude to Bisgrave, four more years of proving that without the watchful eyes of guards and cameras and the impossibilities threatened by steel and cement, Penelope could learn her new place in the scheme of things. Until then, cages and diapers. Until then, only one small island of autonomy; the right to change herself. And until then, one small land-grant of privilege. The right to make Gillica squirm.

The diaper change was quick. Penelope was far less interested in Gillica’s cleanliness than she was her own, and that was fair. Gillica would require Penelope’s assistance many more times before the day was through, and the Bisgrave’s gave slave-one no credit for the additional labor.

Quick and without tenderness.

Gillica was clean and dry, and she hopped down off the table herself. She adjusted the tapes of her diaper, a small comfort nobody begrudged her. Penelope would expect her to clean Penelope’s piss-covered wipes that had been dropped on the floor, to ball up Penelope’s diaper by the cages where she had unceremoniously ripped it off, and to of course deal with Gillica’s own bloated and sodden mess that now lay discarded on the table. Gillica got to work, and washed her hands in a large sink-basin that appeared to be a holdover from when the slave quarters might have been a gardner’s storage room. Perhaps from before the north-side greenhouse was built.

All that they would wear around the house was a maid’s apron. Black with white frills, tied around the back but covering little else. It was the same apron as the regular servants, the paid servants, save for that the paid servants had the choice of dress pants or dresses underneath. And dress shirts, of course. The men wore tuxedos, of course. The women were expected to pull their hair back and affix a white bonnet there as well, and this included the slaves.

The apron did not cover what was most humiliating in her outfit, and anyone looking at her backside could not only see her diapers, but how much she had used them. But at least the gown covered her tits. Well, from the front at least.

Everyone knows what I am, Penelope had observed once. So I like the freedom. They’re the ones diapering me, so I don’t care if they’re forced to witness it, referring of course to the stipulation that she must wear them, and not the fact that it was her own hands that performed the task for her overlords. Perhaps because Gillica was not just forced by Bisgrave to wear one did she feel differently. Perhaps it was the torture of finally having access to her undergarments, but still being prohibited from tampering with them, was what made her miss those ratted orange jumpers.

“No matter how bad it is, just remind yourself of how much worse it could be.” Gillica tried to remember which cellmate had said that. It seems like something Saathia would have said. Out of self-pity, though, and not out of any attempt to comfort Gillica through one of those more uncomfortable nights.

Densen Polliver had the list, ordered with numbers and expected time-to-completions on all of them. By noon more than half the list needed to be done, and if it was not, they would be permitted only one of those viscous smoothies instead of any actual lunch.

“And dinner too,” Penelope asked, holding the paper.

“And dinner too. You will both be expected to support the wait-staff, though you are not to be seen in the dining hall, nor heard. Is that understood?”

Both slave-one and slave-two voiced their understanding.

“I will remind you that the attorney general will be entertaining the Mayor of Stenton herself this evening. The usual retinue will not be in attendance; this is a private gathering. The wait staff will be in their weekend attire to accentuate the leisure of their meeting, and the menu will be adjusted according to the Mayor’s expressed desires. After dinner, the Attorney General will retire to the Opiante Room with the Mayor, where they will enjoy cocktail service by myself, with you two in-support in the ready-room.

“Why not one of the servants?” Penelope asked.

Densen Polliver’s hairy eyebrows twitched, annoyed that Penelope had pre-empted what he was trying to say. “You will be in attendance to offer personal testament to the rehabilitative power of Mistress Bisgrave’s criminal justice system, if required by the attorney general. You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance expected of you and expected of any woman truly committed towards putting their lives of crime behind them.”

Penelope reddened, but said nothing.

Then Densen Polliver was gone. He was off to trade his slippers and nightgown for his tuxedo, and to shave the graying scruff off his neck.

The slaves were permitted to eat, and were allowed to do so in the slave hall, where a large bench occupied a narrow ante-chamber between the kitchens and the rest of the servant’s quarters. Like Densen, the servants wouldn’t be ready for a little while, and Penelope and Gillica used this time to find food from the kitchen and occupy the table-on opposite ends-in the brief and blessed time when nobody would begrudge their presence.

It was smart to eat in less than 10 minutes, and Gillica would eat faster if she could chew the dense protein bar any faster. And even with a thick adult diaper on, the servant’s bench was hard against her bottom, as if it joined with the Manse and all of society in prodding her to begin her work.

In prison there was nothing to do. Now there was too much.

Gillica started with preparations for the real servants. She washed any straggling dishes, she organized the fridge and made sure that their breakfast materials; milk, cereal, bars, vegetables, were in ample supply. She found the folder of servant orders and bulletined them to the board, making sure that each corner was square. She didn’t hate them. Not all of them, and those she did were for reasons of their own. They had their part to play. And Gillica…she had…

She had hers.

“Penelope, I’m wet already.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

Densen would paddle Penelope if he overheard slave-one say a think like that, and not just for the language. But if Gillica told on her, she’d get asked herself why she didn’t mark her wetness on the bulletin and cage herself to wait for a servant to send Penelope to take care of her. And there would be no answer to that, and they both would be paddled, and Penelope would have it out for her. So Gillica left Penelope to iron the servant suits, which they would not need until the mid-morning, and set herself to start on her list as far from the other servants as she could. Any that saw the growing yellow down below would order her to her cage to await Penelope, and give her no credit for falling behind on her chores. Ordered to her cage for soiled diapers too often, and she was spanked. But falling short on her tasks meant even surer and more frequent discipline. Gillica had learned that it was not a choice for her between winning and losing, but between losing, and losing harder.

It wasn’t fair, but when she answered to someone who was on parole herself, who was herself one of the very bottom human beings in all of Shamuria and yet still wiped Gillica’s ass, it was all the lot that Gillica could expect.

Gillica, wet, went out in the cool morning area to trim the hedges. It was almost a perfect temperature for her attire, and felt even better when she got down to work on the long line of green bushes. Trimming into a basket she went, ensuring that the bellies of the five-foot bushes were all uniform and that no leaves sprouted out like little branch boners. It was refreshing outside, and the smell of the sliced branches overpowered the smell of stale piss that had wallowed in the slave quarters since she and Penelope were caged for the night. When her basket was full she carried it across to the compost at the north Greenhouse, careful to not overfill it so none of the sliced branches tumbled onto the lawn that had been cut just yesterday. If she left any on the lawn and it was seen, a servant would hear of it and tell it to Densen, who would find which of the slaves took care of it, and bring a branch of considerably more heftiness and meanness upon her rump.

A basket only could hold the branches from two of the hedges, and in total there were sixteen hedges to clip. Eight times she waddled across to deposit her clippings into the compost. Once she had addressed them all she walked carefully through them to make sure that she had not missed a spot. She clipped a few more times, and then took her basket back to the compost a ninth time and then left it there, happy to have finished one of the more involved tasks of the day.

As she was returning to the Manse, which loomed tall and shadowy from the north in the morning sun, one of the delivery vehicles rumbled down the gravel path between the hedges. She stood out of its way, mindful of the submissive posture expected of a slave-servant. Hands at her back, head down. The delivery truck rumbled on, and whether the driver had seen or cared about her or not, she couldn’t tell.

By now her diaper was heavy with urine, and she knew it was yellow all the way up the back. It was no good denying herself water and coffee in the morning, and she hadn’t tried that since prison. No servant would do anything but order her to her cage, even the nice ones, but Gillica’s list was extra long, and working was worth the risk. Sometimes the servants forgot to log her sinful pee in the ledger of improvement.

Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave was not just her mistress, was not just her once-upon-a-time top jailer, and was not just Gillica’s punisher-in-chief. She viewed things more expansively. She viewed herself as something of a maverick and innovator to Shamurians, a mold cut from the stock of the Americans. She was all those things, mistress, jailer, and punisher, as well as goddess, granter, and mercy conditional. But over and on top of all these things, Angelina Bisgrave viewed herself as correctional.

There were eleven servants who were servants and not slaves of the Bisgrave Manse. Ten of them served the eleventh, the majordomo Polliver, to whom the two slaves also served. In the evenings, the slaves also served the servants, tending to their dishes and their occasional needs. It was not uncommon for Polliver to add the servants linens to the list of responsibilities that the two slaves had to handle, though most days one of the servants themselves handled the accumulated laundry of them all. The servants preferred to keep the slaves out sight. It was better to keep the smelly diaper-bound slaves on tasks that couldn’t contaminate their own spaces and autonomy, however meagre they were. They would send them on tasks into the town for personal errands. Some snacks from the grocery, some envelopes from the post-office, or something for the Manse that was needed. Any servant could task her if the slaves were not still working through their daily bill.

Finish the tasks too late, and get punished. Finish them too early and get sent into town without even an apron to cover her breasts.

There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated.

You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance.

Instead, it was Boris. The shimmering of his braces flickered through his smile. His coarse orange hair was unkempt, and if Densen Polliver found him he’d order him into his quarters to comb it. He probably already had, but it was a losing battle. Boris’s hair was as untamable as he was.being handcuffed, Gillica had seen the back of Yara’s diaper bow outwards as her slave’s laughter turned to pleading. They’d gotten Yara on a checkup violation, something about skipping parole meetings. There was a long court proceeding where Yara accused Gillica of preventing her from doing her obeisances to her overseers. That was the only court proceeding that Gillica had won, and Yara was sent down to prison again. But not, Yara celebrated on the day of her release, for as long as Gillica would be sent down. Not nearly.

Gillica wondered what happened to Yara. Probably back in front of a court again, she figured. She didn’t wish ill will on many. Not even on obnoxious Penelope and her persnickity lording of the slave quarters. Pick up my piss cloths, shitter.

It became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated.

But she did at least hope for discomfort for Yara. Maybe not all the way back to Stenton Prison, though that felt inevitable for that idiotic woman who would have fought Gillica off if Gillica had not kept her chained. Maybe just a harsh patron. A real upstanding elite who was unimpeachable and unyielding. Someone like Mistress AG Bisgrave.

A real correctional.

Gillica knew the servants were buzzing about the Manse now. Bisgrave had arisen and left in her car, driven by one of the servants, and they’d crunched up the gravel road while Gillica was emptying her bucket of twigs. She could see them in the windows, through the steam that came out of the western wing’s smokestacks, indicating that the labors of meals were well underway. Their maid uniforms, complete with dresses, flitted through the windows.

Wet, with a diaper that felt not just wet up the back but wet in the front too, Gillica headed back into the servant quarters to get the window cleaning supplies. She’d get her outdoor window cleaning done before one of them spotted her and caged her, so long as she could get in and get out without one of them noticing.

She entered the side door, which took her through the living quarters for the servants. It was a hallway of dorms, and the newer ones slept two to a room, while the more advanced servants slept alone. They would be empty at this time, Gillica guessed, and this morning she guessed correctly. Her diaper was sodden and sweaty, and she wanted out, but it barely registered as discomfort. Paddlings were discomfort. Wetness and itchiness were life. At least it wasn’t stewing underneath the old fabric of an orange jumper. At least she wasn’t in the cage. Yet.

Her guess having paid off, Gillica only had to cross the main area of the servant quarters, take a left, and open the closet. This was the danger zone, as by being in the closet and by facing the closet, her rump was facing the whole openness of the main area, including an open angle into the kitchen. The number of times a hey, slave! Had come to her when she was in this closet was innumerable. It was a gamble, and the last three consecutive days had seen her go from closet to cage. Being soiled at this closet probably got her caged 75% of the time, no matter what time of day. Those were good odds. All of her other chores took her into the main living areas, and into the teeth of the rest of the servants.

She looked both ways from the living area hallway, saw nobody, and made her move. She opened the closet, honed in on the extendable mop and the washbasin. She found the adjustable squeegee to stick on the end of it so she could reach the highest parts.

Footsteps.

There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated.

Exuberance.

You know what, a cage is a place I belong. A cage keeps me where I belong. A cage reminds me of where I’ve been and it doesn’t let me hide from where I’ve been. It’s not a box. It’s transparent, and by seeing through it they can see right into me. Onto what I’m wearing, and what I’m really worth.

The footsteps continued, and Gillica picked up her bucket and stick and headed back to the living quarters. She waddled crazily now, carrying her supplies and all of her pee. But she made it to the door without a shout from one of the servants down the hallway, without any of the servants stepping out of one of the bedrooms to see the worried face she wore.

She wasn’t worried about leaking. The attorney general she called her mistress, Angelina Bisgrave, the one who ruled her world, the one who sat on a throne of discipline that Gillica ministered within far below, had access to the best sort of diapers. PGV3000s, which Gillica worked out long ago meant Punishment Garments, Version 3000. They were designed to hold, because they were designed to become as uncomfortable as possible for the wearer before causing a problem for those that lorded over the wearers. Leaks hadn’t been a problem for her three years at the Manse. They hadn’t been a problem all throughout prison either. Only on her last night in jail, the night before they put her on the Ferry of Justice to take her where she belonged, to the cage within the cage within the cage and the true start of the life she deserved, did she make darkspots on her bed and jumper. The piss just kept coming that night.

Uncomfortable it became, and the ever-tropical weather of Shamuria began to take its effect. Cleaning the tall windows that lined the facade was difficult work, and it splashed soapy water down on top of her (the soap and water she was able to get from an outdoor shed hidden behind some bushes on the far side of the Eastern grounds.) Her bonnet was sprinkled, and now and then a dollop of soapy scum got in her eye, and she bent and struggled with the hem of her gown to dry it out. She had to get her back and hips into the scrubbing, and the curled up posture of her cage-bound sleep came to haunt her. The stamina in her legs bailed on her quickly. The rhythmic pumping of her thighs to reach the highest parts of the window made the bloated diaper swing between her legs. Still she worked, moving her bucket down the row of windows when each one was finished.

By the end, Gillica resolved to cage herself. Her body ached, and she guessed it was barely ten in the morning. She leaned the mop handle against the wall of the Bisgrave Manse, walls that were made of large stone blocks, and felt herself. Wetter than she had been, more than could be accounted for than just sweat. The cage was calling. The cage lurked around every corner. She packed up her equipment. She took the bucket and dumped its contents on the leafy floor of the palm grove that flanked one side of the grounds. She took the squeegee off and threw it in a trash bin by one of the sheds. It was covered in a brownish-green grime typical of the seaside tropics. Yara used to complain about that muck all of the time. Browner than my cocksucking diaper, she would curse.

She brought the bucket and the pole back to the closet, and this time, the servants didn’t fail to notice her.

She didn’t bother to tell them that she was going. She simply said. “Yes sir.” The servant who saw her had been sitting at the servant table, taking a quick break with the newspaper. He saw her come and and as soon as she turned her back on him, he barked at her. He was one of the mean ones. Male and eighteen and clearly the communist type, despite his role as a servant. At least what Bisgrave does keeps them in check, was something she’d overheard him say in the servants quarters. Them being her kind, them being the wealthy who were wrong. He relished humiliating Gillica and Penelope, finding any opportunity he could to take them leashed and in just diapers and sandals to the town.

Never thought it’d come to this, up there in your villas, all high and mighty. Did you?

Over and over again he’d make her respond. “Yes sir, I didn’t sir. But I’m glad sir. I need it sir. I was wrong sir. You were right sir. Whatever you say sir. This is my place sir. Humility is a lesson I still need to learn sir, and I appreciate your patience with me sir.”

You will execute this duty with the appropriate humility and exuberance expected of you and expected of any woman truly committed towards putting their lives of crime behind them.

“What are you doing, look at how much piss is in that thing,” he said, setting the newspaper down. Another servant, an older one, entered in from the kitchen, looked at Gillica, shrugged, and continued to the living corners. “What are you thinking? It seems like your disgusting ass likes it.”

“I don’t like it, sir. I’m still learning responsibility sir.”

“I think the cage is right for you then!”

“I agree sir. I’m going to my place now.”

Oh, how the little man enjoyed it. Boris was his name, and his teeth were still in braces and his hair was all mopped.

She walked herself into the slave quarters, aiming herself for the cage. She wanted the cage. Earlier she thought to approach her day with a mind to minimize the amount she took the paddle, but now she hardly cared. She was so tired, and her cage was calling. Penelope could take an hour to filter down and wipe her pussy, and thus absolutely doom her from finishing even most of her chores, but at least her legs could rest.

As she entered the quarters, something stirred next to her, and she saw that it was Penelope, on her back where she had been earlier. She was changing herself, and this time her diaper was far worse than Gillica’s. A pile of stained wipes grew to cover the open mess on the diaper. Gillica didn’t even flinch. This was life since the day they came for her, when she found herself with cold steel on her wrists, when Yara bricked herself because she knew she was going back.

Penelope looked at her, and then returned to her work. Her neck craned down her navel to observe the work cleaning the shit off of her ass. There was nothing to say between either of them.

“Don’t just fucking look at it, get in your cage and wait for me, you useless idiot.”

Wordlessly, Gillica did as she was told. Even the thin mat and blanket felt comfortable on her aching muscles. She watched Penelope’s progress, knowing that the job of packing the dirty diaper up and bringing it to the disposal a few yards away would be her job.

“Are you shitted?”

“No,” Gillica answered.

“Goddamn it,” Penelope answered. “You’re going to make me wipe your cooch all fucking day aren’t you?”

Gillica didn’t answer.

“You know. In four years. When I’m free of all this, I’m going to come and buy your ass off Bisgrave. You know I still have an estate, right? I’ll have enough if she’ll sell you. She’ll be tired of you by then. And then I’ll get back at your shitty ass. I’ll make it so miserable on you that you’ll finally learn to clench that wide open asshole you have.”

Both of them were required to use their diapers. Penelope’s requirement was a legal one, a stipulation for all former occupants of Stenton prison who were still on parole. Parole was not a post-punishment phase, it was a reintroduction phase. Penelope had to exist in the world while being seen as the least of it, the base and mean denominator of all of Shamuria. If she tried to escape her new role in things, if she was ever found clothing herself more than ordered, or if she was found using a toilet, she’d risk trading her steel mesh cage for a concrete cell again. Some owners were lenient, Gillica heard. The top cop of Stenton was no-nonsense. Correctional did not mean forgiving.

Gillica’s reasons were simpler.

Finally, Penelope rolled herself off the table, a new fresh diaper taking the place of the old one. Gillica once again understood her queue to get to work removing the detritus of the old one, doing her best to avoid touching any of the shit that her fellow slave left behind. She balled up the diaper, taking care that all of the soiled wipes were contained within it. She used the tapes to wrap it into a ball, a technique she’d learned from countless prison guards ages ago. She carried it like nuclear waste over to the bin, stepped on the foot locker, and deposited on top of her and Penelope’s overnight briefs. Then she washed her hands in the bin, and began to undo her gown, while Penelope re-did her own.

On the table once again, Penelope stood over her and got to work. Gillica felt the tapes of her PGV3000 come undone, exposing her pussy once again to the brick walls of the humble slave quarters. She tried to relax on the slab of the table, lowering her head and letting Penelope’s grunts and taps instruct her on whether to raise her legs or lower them.

Just then, the door opened. It could only be a servant, and Penelope dropped the cold wet cloth she had been drawing through Gillica’s buttocks to face the door at attention. Gillica turned her head on the slab to see who it was, but she did not feel that, in this position, her movement was required unless it was Bisgrave herself. And Bisgrave herself never came down here.

Instead, it was Boris. The shimmering of his braces flickered through his smile. His coarse orange hair was unkempt, and if Densen Polliver found him he’d order him into his quarters to comb it. He probably already had, but it was a losing battle. Boris’s hair was as untameable as he was.

“Got bad news for you idiots,” he said. “Penelope. The domo just came by, and I told the domo that I caught you taking a dump in the Opiante room. He’s very displeased.”

“Did you tell him that I was profusely sorry, and the need came over me and I couldn’t get out of the sacred room in time?”

“You know he doesn’t care. He expects more out of his slave-one.”

Gillica could feel the rage coming through Penelope, a quivering anger that threatened to rise up from her ankles into a fighter’s stance that would culminate in a savage punch to Boris’s askance teeth. And a trip back to Stenton prison, should she actually punch, and stripped of the small rights she had over Gillica, no matter how she begrudged them, and the cruel inevitability of the dock. What was more, Penelope had obviously tried to shit herself in the Opiante room on purpose, as a sign of disrespect. Gillica could see right through it, and could see that Penelope’s rage was half-directed at herself and the fury that her act of defiance had ended in capture. No room codified the brilliant patriotism and public service of the Bisgrave genealogy than the Opiante room. It was a room Gillica had heard of, and an event Gillica was very familiar with, long before her life changed and they came for her. The pride and joy of the Bisgrave family, the Bisgrave estate, and the Manse itself.

At least when Gillica was caught soiled in there, there was the defense that she couldn’t do much about it. Penelope had no such defense.

“I’m sorry sir,” Penelope said. She hid her anger well, but Gillica had known Penelope longer than Boris did. They’d overlapped at Stenton Prison, and Gillica knew the stance and tone of someone obeying a haughty guard. “I will accept whatever the majordomo deems necessary to correct my behavior.”

“He said to cage yourself.”

“I will do it gladly and await his further instruction, sir,” Penelope said. She turned briefly toward the cage, and then stopped. “Sir, should I finish changing slave-two?”

Boris’s face expanded into a wide grin. He looked at Penelope, and stared at her from sandals to bonnet. “No, slave-one. The domo made it clear that your caging should be interrupted for nothing. I’ll finish with Gillica,” he said.

The room was silent for a moment. The quivering anger that Gillica had observed in the twitching of Penelope’s calves, in the sway of the inches-deep padding of Penelope’s pristine white diaper, gave away. The anger was displaced by a stunned stiffness, stunned, like a small rodent paralyzed as the wheels of a mighty vehicle bear down upon it. Gillica’s pussy felt cold there on the slab.

“Yes sir,” was all Penelope could say. She said it stiffly, and she didn’t look at Gillica. Instead she turned on a heel, exposing her diaper to the two of them, and walked toward her cage. Gillica could tell it took all of Penelope’s effort to hold her head high.

Boris watched her go into her cage, and then stepped forward and found the key on a loop on the wall, and addressed the lock. Penelope was on her knees, her head bowed, her eyes staring blank out at the door to the slave quarters, as if hoping that by somehow watching, Densen Polliver would not arrive.

“And you,” Boris said, coming closer to the slab that Gillica still laid on. “How far along in this change are you?”

“Slave-one just started, sir,” she said, to the scruffy-headed eighteen year-old.

“Alright,” he said. He looked over her nakedness like a starving man viewed a five-course meal. If it was left to the servants to deal with Gillica’s diapering, it was generally one of the older, more established ones. Never in his short tenure had it fallen to Boris, the newest and youngest of the group. Gillica wondered if he’d ever touched a vagina, or touched a woman at all.

He seemed to know how it went, though. He found the wipes and got to work. He was not mindful of their coldness against Gillica’s skin. To his credit, he did not linger on her pussy, as she expected (and would have tolerated, no, would have enjoyed). Penelope treated her sex as if it were poisonous, even though Gillica knew for sure that Penelope had succumbed to the allure of tenderness during her incarceration. Gillica had no aspersions that her piss-covered pussy was romantic. She tried not to think about love at all, anymore, but sex was hard-coded into her body. The only way men touched her anymore was on a changing table, and her mind had learned enough to crave it. Even if the guards had discovered her sharing many cots in lockup, searching for the same tenderness that Penelope had sought, it was men she wanted, and it was changing tables where men found her. Even eighteen year old servants like Boris.

“I always wondered why you chose this,” he said as he wiped the piss off her groin. “You’re not under threat of prison anymore,” he said.

There were many answers to that. But Boris supplied his own. He took a wipe and held it up, showing to Gillica that there was more than pee, but less than poop on it. “Now I understand,” he said.

Yes, you dolt. At least you know the difference between a pissed on pussy and a moist one. And no. It’s not for you. It’s just that your hand is male. You’re not Penelope, that’s all. And it’s certainly not why I swear myself to Attorney General Angelina Bisgrave!

But she could do nothing but mutter a ‘yes sir,’ to him. It was a damn shame that she could not for a moment relish the cowing of Penelope before stumbling further into her own humiliation.

She tried to distract her mind as her legs went in the air and he dealt with her asshole. Penelope. Penelope is in for it. Maybe I’ll be wiping her ass again, as it was for the short while after she arrived, until she stole that job from me. Maybe the shoe was soon to be on the other foot. Maybe her station was rising in the Manse. It didn’t matter if where you rose wasn’t high, it did matter if where your rose was as high as you deserved to go. There was something to be said for that.

“You’re not out of the woods either,” Boris said, finding a fresh diaper for her. His words crushed her out of her brief reverie, and back into the disgusted awareness that his motions on her privates felt good. “You cleaned the windows, didn’t you?”

If there was anything that could dry her pussy up, it was that question. She would have squirted for the mop-headed fool if it meant he could never have asked it.

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Well unfortunately, you’re going to have to do it again. You left streaks, big ones, on every window.”

“I understand sir,” she said. Streaks, what streaks! Was this a joke? Her muscles cried out in rebellion. Cage, I just want to crawl into my cage. I thought it was going to be just me and my nice little cage!

“The mistress herself came back in her car and was outraged. All of the servants will have to work extra hard to pick up the slack from the both of you. She wants you to give the windows another shot, and if she isn’t pleased the second time when she personally inspects them…” Boris shined his braces once again. This time, his fingers did linger as he spread lotion on her crotch. She felt herself moisten again. Felt his strength and imagined his cock. It had been so long since she’d felt a cock go inside her. She didn’t care who owned the next cock, she’d fuck it if she had a chance. But to feel like this in this context was torture.

“Yes sir,” she muttered, again. “I will do the windows again, and accept the Mistress’s judgment,” she said.

All she felt was a warm, rushing sensation. A pooling, trickling, splashing one. Boris yelped and stepped back in surprise. Gillica sat up to see a fountain of piss exiting herself onto the opened and formerly dry diaper that Boris had been preparing for her.

“Disgusting, pathetic. Idiot. I can’t believe this happened to me on my first time!” Boris said, examining his shirt to see if she’d gotten pee on it. He continued to inspect himself, cursing and sputtering under his breath every time he found her urine on his servant’s uniform.

Gillica laid down her head on the slab once again.

There was no winning. This became easier to handle once you accepted that you’d already been defeated.

[D503]

Wow, phew, very hot ?, and also excellent world building and intro into the mind games that are played within each level of the society.