Curiously, I perused the walls of the department store, observing the massive array of clothing on display with a sense of awe. Glen had dropped me off in town and given me money for some proper clothes and a meal before continuing on his scheduled route. I’ll probably be a bit late this time, but I’m sure the boss will understand when I tell him I was helping a lovely lady such as yourself, he had said. I suddenly wished he was back, free to offer me some sort of guidance. I wasn’t simply spoiled for choice, I was overwhelmed by it. I still wasn’t fully accustomed to making decisions for myself.

Searching first for pants, I came across a section full of jeans. I’d seen many people walking the aisles with me wearing them, they seemed like a very normal thing to wear in the outside world. As I held a pair in my hands and held them in front of the mirror, however, I couldn’t bring myself to put them on. Master had trained us to wear either nothing at all or clothing that afforded him easy access to our bodies. If it were up to me, I’d discard the oversized flannel covering my body and walk out into the street naked as the day I was born. Thankfully, I was wise enough to know that wouldn’t go over well with the general public.

It wasn’t enough that I couldn’t find any pants I liked. The tops, too, were impossible to envision myself in, every single one seeming to completely cover my breasts. I shoved the shirt I was holding back onto the shelf in frustration. How was I meant to find normal clothing when I couldn’t even stomach the thought of wearing it?

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” a voice called out from behind me. I turned to see a young man in a store uniform, likely a college student by his looks.

“Yes, sir, sorry to bother you,” I began, before being struck by an idea, “Actually, could I request your help?”

“Of course, what can I do for you?” the employee offered with a polite smile. I returned one of my own.

“I’m looking for a new outfit, but I’m… Indecisive. Can you recommend something good for, um, hot weather?” I asked, trying to phrase my request carefully, hoping the employee would take the hint that I wanted an outfit with less coverage.

“Sure thing, our summer collection has some jean shorts that may be to your liking. I saw you looking at the jeans earlier and figured you might be interested,” he explained.

“Great, thank you M- Sir,” I quickly corrected myself.

“Perfect, follow me,” he ordered. That was good, I liked to be ordered. I followed him to a nearby shelf filled with shorts, ones that would, thankfully, show off my legs. None of them were short enough to show off my pussy, but that didn’t seem like it would be a possibility in the modest dress of the world outside the compound.

“These here are great for the summer weather,” the employee suggested, handing me a pair. I held them up in front of my waist, gauging their length. They extended all the way to my knees, there was no chance I could wear them!

“My, uh, thighs get hot. Do you happen to have anything shorter?” I asked.

“Sure thing,” the employee responded, rifling through piles of denim before producing a new pair, “What about these?”

Again, I held them up. They were much shorter, but still extended to my mid-thighs. That would be unacceptable, I felt it in my bones. “Actually, do you have a shorter pair?” I asked, no longer bothering to make up an excuse as to why.

“Um… Sure…” the employee said cautiously, moving even further down the shelf and handing me a dark piece of folded denim, “This is as short as we go.”

I held it up, hoping and praying that it would meet my needs. The jeans completely exposed my thighs, alleviating my initial fears, but I was still uneasy. “Can I try it on?”

“Absolutely,” the employee confirmed, directing me toward the change rooms. I walked inside one, just barely remembering to close the curtain behind me. Master was the only one entitled to privacy back at the compound.

With trepidation, I stepped into the jeans, pulling them up and buttoning them around my waist. I looked at myself in the mirror, but found the woman staring back at me looked completely alien. In that moment I longed to be back at the compound, where my body was free and what little clothing I did wear was dictated by Master. Life was so much simpler there…

No, I reminded myself. That wasn’t freedom, it was enslavement. I said these things, but as I stared at the woman in the mirror I couldn’t deny my disappointment. The freedom I’d been using to guide myself was beginning to feel overwhelming. My frustration grew as I glared at my reflection, scrutinizing at all the ways my outfit suppressed me.

As I began unbuttoning the shorts to remove them, my eye caught a glimpse of something reflective on the bench. Carefully I reached my hand out, clutching the silver object in my hands. It was a small knife with a thin, replaceable blade. It must have been left behind by a maintenance worker or another customer. I looked again at my reflection, then back at the blade as an idea formed in my head.

Several minutes later, I walked out of the change room. The employee’s eyes widened in shock as he saw me, but I didn’t care. I’d finally found something I could wear.

“M-ma’am,” the employee stuttered, ogling my bare ass, clearly visible through the jeans after my modifications, “Y-You can’t alter the merchandise.”

“Don’t you worry, sir, it’s not merchandise anymore. I’ll take it,” I reassured. “Now do you think you can help me pick out a top?”

I was walking down the street with renewed confidence, newly comfortable in my clothes, Having grown quite hungry during my shopping spree, I hoped to visit the diner Glen had suggested. Whether this was due to a genuine desire to follow up on his recommendation or my accidental interpretation of his advice as an order to be followed was unclear, but I was happy to get food regardless.

I passed by a man and a woman holding hands as I walked. The man’s gaze was fixated firmly on my chest, observing it as if it were an exotic animal. His companion gave him a light, disapproving smack before scowling at me as she passed. How strange, had I done something wrong? Wasn’t it normal for men to admire women’s bodies?

With the help of the employee, I’d ultimately selected a bright tube top that cut off just above the nipples, leaving ample visibility for my breasts and cleavage. While I still preferred the nudity I was accustomed to, it was nonetheless close enough for my programmed mind to accept. A number of men and women stared at me as I walked down the street, but there was little I could do about it. This was the limit of what my mind would let me wear, I’d just have to hope it didn’t make me stand out too much.

Eventually I rounded a corner and spotted a bright neon sign atop a windowed building on a street corner. “Dorothy’s” the lettering read. This was the place.

I walked through the doors to find the diner near-abandoned, save for tired-looking man at the front and a waitress in a faded yellow uniform. The only sounds were the soft bubbling of a coffee machine and the old television set in the corner airing a local weather report. The waitress, who had been mopping a section of the tiled floor, came over to greet me.

“Hi there hun, my name is Joan, what can I… Do…” she began, trailing off as she scanned my attire, “Sorry, what can I do for you today?”

Joan wasn’t the only one caught off guard. I stopped breathing for a moment as I beheld the woman in front of me. Between her curly blonde hair and her hourglass figure, she was the spitting image of a woman I’d known at the compound. Not just any woman—the one who’d trained me in my earliest days. The Head Slave.

“S-Sunday…” I murmured, eyes wide.

“Pardon? It’s Thursday, ma’am,” she remarked sharply. I blinked, then took a deep breath. No, this wasn’t Sunday. Sunday was back at the compound, serving Master. This woman just happened to resemble her.

“Sorry, of course. Could I get something to eat?” I asked calmly.

“Sure thing, go ahead and sit down,” Joan directed. My body moved before my mind did. Instead of moving towards the many seats she was clearly gesturing to, my legs buckled and I sat right there on the floor. One of the first things Sunday had taught me was not to sit on the furniture unless explicitly ordered to.

Unfortunately for me, this woman wasn’t Sunday. She glared down at me, face contorted in a perplexed scowl.

“...At the booth, hun,” the waitress clarified in a stern, unimpressed tone. I scurried to my feet, rushing over to the adjacent seat both out of a sense of embarrassment and an instinctive desire to follow her direction.

Hoping to move past that interaction as quickly as possible, I picked up the menu, keeping my eyes fixated on it while trying to avoid the waitress’ judgemental gaze. I’d spent so much time trying to find workarounds to my obedience to Master, but I never once considered needing to circumvent Sunday’s influence as well.

I’d first met Sunday around a week after my arrival at the compound. While our programming was extensive and powerful, it couldn’t account for every last thought that passed through our heads. We still needed guidance on the minutia of our service: The ways we spoke, walked, and stood in Master’s presence, not to mention the critical tasks we undertook when we weren’t serving him. As head slave, it was her responsibility to break us in.

Memories of our first meeting came flooding back to me. I remembered walking into her room, still in a daze from the obedience programming I’d been subjected to minutes earlier. She stood tall and straight, her back facing me while she gazed out the window.

“Stop right there,” she ordered firmly. Every muscle in my body tensed up, causing me to quite literally halt mid-step. My programming had made me completely obedient in her presence. Sunday turned slowly, looking me directly in the eyes. I still remembered the almost supernatural confidence on her face in that moment, like a lion about to pounce.

“Here are your mistakes,” Sunday began, slowly circling me. I felt a sudden, sharp jab around my lower back. “First, your posture. You are bent over. When in our Master’s presence, you must always stand with excellent posture. If he wishes to see you slouch, he shall order you to.”

I was shocked by her harshness, but had no idea what to do about it. Opposing her never crossed my mind, courtesy of the programming. All I could think to do was correct my posture.

“Second,” she interjected, snapping her arm out and placing her palm over my forehead, “Your eyes level with mine, as if you are my equal. You are not, and you certainly are not our Master’s.” With that, she pulled my head down, forcing my gaze to the floor. I’d only gotten one look at her piercing blue eyes before being corrected. It was enough to see how serious she was.

“Third, you did not announce your presence. Tell me now, what is your name?”

I remember searching hard for an answer, but being unable to produce what she was asking for.

“I think… M—”

“Wrong!” Sunday barked, getting in my face and gripping the underside of my chin. Slowly, she lifted my head up in a controlled motion until our eyes met once again, ensuring I was looking up at her while she did so.

“Your name is Tuesday. Your title is Slave,” she corrected, practically in a whisper.

“I- I—” I muttered, expecting another smack, but it never came. I looked once more into her eyes. They were firm, controlling, even somewhat frightening, but I also saw something else in them: Certainty. The woman in front of me knew exactly who she was and what she was supposed to do. If she knew my name, who was I to argue?

“Tuesday. My name is Tuesday, ma’am,” I uttered, letting the grounding sensation flood over me. My name was Tuesday.

“Good girl,” Sunday whispered, sending shivers throughout my body, ”I have so much to teach you.”

From then on, Sunday was my mistress and my mentor. She taught me the hierarchy of slaves and what my place in it would be, how to submit properly to Master, how to honor his wishes even when not in his presence, and so much more. Every moment of the next few weeks was spent in her presence. Master would always be my greatest priority, but I felt a strange sense of nostalgia for Sunday. She was the first person I truly submitted to.

I received ample sexual training from her as well. Master didn’t have time to educate every one of his slaves in the art of sex, so it often fell to her to fill in the gaps. She would have me fellate a dildo modeled after Master’s own cock, carefully observing and guiding my performance. She used a similarly-designed strap-on to prepare me vaginally and anally, guiding me through the best ways to make it enjoyable for Master and develop my stamina. I still remembered the sensation of her body behind me, the gentle sharpness of her fingernails as they dug into my rear…

“Have you made a decision, hun?” the waitress asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

“U- Uh… What would you recommend?” I asked the woman, subtly adopting a straighter posture.

“Coffee and BLT can’t hurt,” she responded nonchalantly.

“Very well, may I please have that?” I requested.

“Sure thing,” the waitress responded, turning around and walking lazily toward the adjoining kitchen. I let out a quiet exhale. This woman wasn’t Sunday.

As my eyes lingered on the passing cars just outside the diner, a thought occurred to me—I had all these powerful memories associated with Sunday, but she herself was still a slave. She, too, watched programming videos and attended to Master and bowed in his presence. The certainty in her demeanor I was so drawn to was almost certainly programmed into her brain by Master long before I ever arrived. If I had a whole life before the compound, then surely so did every other slave there…

“Here’s your coffee,” Joan said as she slid the cup onto the metal table in front of me.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I responded, realizing my mistake the instant the words left my mouth. I’d let my guard down, and the submissive impulses won out. The waitress paused, staring me down as an unbearable silence hung in the air. The moment was finally broken as the man in the corner, the only other customer, got up and walked out the door, the chiming of the attached bell signalling his exit.

Expecting the tension to drop, I instead felt the woman’s stare tighten. I watched as she scanned me up and down, studying my face and body with a judicious scowl. I was launched back into one of Sunday’s daily inspections, standing among a line of slaves as she examined us and corrected any deficiencies before we entered Master’s presence. Once again, I felt the line between memory and reality begin to blur. I stiffened my posture and placed my hands over my lap.

“Alright, what’s your game?” she asked suspiciously.

“Game, Ma’am?”

“Don’t play coy with me. You come in here dressed like a ten-dollar whore and act like you can’t do a damn thing for yourself? Did Brenda put you up to this? Because I told her quite clearly that I wasn’t looking to meet anyone right now.”

“I-I’m sorry Mis- Ma’am,” I sputtered, but she held a hand up in my face. My mouth shut on its own.

“Enough. Now here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m gonna get you your sandwich, you’re gonna eat it, you’ll pay for your meal, and then you’ll leave. Understood?” As if everything else hadn’t been enough, her stern, authoritative voice completely overtook me.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I uttered, trying to bury the arousal in my voice. After a few silent minutes, she brought out my BLT. It was greasy and delicious, a far cry from the carefully-curated meals of the compound, designed to maintain the bodies Master wanted for us. Some slaves were quite thin, while others were more heavyset, with a whole range in between. Master preferred to have a wide range of physical attributes to choose from when it came to his slaves.

“Goodness gracious, you’re devouring that thing like you haven’t eaten in days,” Joan remarked. She was surprisingly close to the truth, the last time I’d eaten was the night of my escape. Nonetheless, I felt her criticism wash over me. I paused, carefully setting the sandwich down on the plate.

“...How should I eat it?” I asked demurely.

Joan raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Slowly, in small bites. Use a knife and fork.”

As I reached for the cutlery, I realized just how little control I had over myself. I’d built all my programming up to oppose Master’s influence, but I hadn’t prepared at all to oppose Sunday or this woman who happened to resemble her. Slowly, I cut into the remainder of my sandwich, keeping a nervous eye on the waitress as she stood in front of the table, observing me.

“Sit up straight,” she ordered. My back stiffened. To think I had been slouching…

“And quit staring at me. Focus on the task in front of you,” she demanded, pointing a sharp finger at the remaining few bites of food on my plate. I lowered my gaze, restricting my stray glances to the legs of the waitress as she observed me.

Taking my last bite, she spoke up once more. “And what do you say?”

“Thank you, Mistress,” I uttered, no longer having the will to resist calling her anything else. I frantically tried to remember my mantra, hoping in vain it would help me resist her.

I had a name

I had a…

What was it again?

My independent thoughts came to a halt as the waitress leaned over the table, bringing her face tantalizingly close to mine, her firm, piercing eyes burrowing into my will. “I don’t know who put you up to this game, sweetie…” she said as she maneuvered herself into the booth opposite me, “...But I’ll have you know I’m very good at it.” She then held her hand out, palm open, and used her index finger to gesture me closer.

I felt myself shift towards her, my body stretching across the metal table, drawn in by the certainty in her eyes. My eyelids flickered, as if unable to sustain the weight of her gaze. As my movement began to falter, she stretched her hand just a bit further, cupping my cheek. I gave in completely, allowing her to use that hand to guide my lips to hers.

Her breath was sweet, with a faint trace of smoke and mint, likely a cigarette chased with a piece of gum. Her tongue was soon interwoven with mine, dancing in the space between our lips. I fell into a flow state, my body responding in tempo with hers. It was a unique skill, a marker of the training I’d received, that I could so easily follow the lead of another.

After a few blissful, timeless minutes, my mistress pulled back, though her hand remained on my cheek. “Get under the table, you know what to do.”

I did, I really did. To be able to follow even implied orders to the unspoken letter, I was truly a dedicated slave. I caught one last glimpse of my mistress’ eyes as I slinked beneath the table, crawling toward her outstretched legs.

It may come as a surprise to know I was experienced in sex with other women, given my Master was a man, but I was more than capable of satisfying anyone’s desires. Master often had us please each other for his entertainment, not to mention the secret affairs that occurred between slaves when he was preoccupied. He had never expressly forbidden such trysts, and sometimes we needed help to satisfy our ever-sustained arousal.

The waitress didn’t know who I was, of course, so she never even had the chance to doubt my skills. Still, I knew she hadn’t expected me to be so capable when I first brought my mouth to her pussy. I knew she had underestimated me when her whole body buckled within seconds of my tongue touching her clit.

“O-Oh, oh FUCK!” she exclaimed, reflexively trapping my head in a vicegrip between her thighs. It didn’t matter, the skin on my cheeks only motivated me further. Head held in place, I ran my tongue across her slit, worshipping her pussy in its entirety while being sure to keep my focus on the most sensitive part of her pussy.

“J-Jesus!” the waitress gasped, her hips buckling and pressing into my face. A grin formed on the edges of my lips. Even beneath her, I was regaining control. I’d eaten out the real Sunday hundreds of times, she never would have collapsed like this waitress had. Joan was confident, commanding, and beautiful, but she was no Sunday. I was in full control, and I would use that control to show her what real sex was.

With well-honed precision, I slid my middle and index fingers under her thighs, making just enough room to place them at the opening of her pussy. Joan, realizing what was about to happen, frantically grabbed onto my head with both hands, as if she were bracing herself.

It didn’t matter.

I slid my fingers inside her, stretching her pussy while I continued to stimulate her clit with my mouth. I heard her attempt to gasp, only to have it cut short as the sensation overwhelmed her. Between her hands and her thighs locking me in place, I could pretty well only move my tongue and fingers. As luck would have it, however, those were all I needed to reduce her to a puddle.

I began swirling my tongue around her clit while simultaneously exploring her with my fingers. Her whole body was shaking, but small gasps and jolts allowed me to pinpoint exactly where her weak points were. For a moment, I stopped, letting her take deep, ragged breaths as her body slumped in the booth.

There, at her perceived moment of respite, I made a final push. I massaged deep inside her pussy with my fingers and pressed my lips against her clit, holding it in place as I worked my magic with my tongue.

Joan’s reaction was immediate and telling. She squirmed in place, struggling to contain the pleasure as the sensations wracked her body. Far beyond moaning, the only vocalizations she could muster were the animalistic grunts and heavy breaths of a woman completely divorced from conscious thought.

Her final, massive orgasm began with the total seizure of every muscle in her body, the air catching in her throat as her legs twisted and her arms desperately clutched onto the surface of the table. After several seconds of breathless, paralyzing arousal, she came crashing back down to Earth. Her body fell limp across the red faux-leather cushions of the booth. She was completely spent.

Emerging from beneath the table, I stood up. My performance had left the waitress utterly spent, her golden blonde hair tangled and splayed across the seat where her head was resting. I smirked, wiping some of her pussy juices from the edge of my mouth. Once again, I’d overcome a powerful force compelling me to submit. Master had unwittingly trained me to be more capable than he possibly could have realized.

My satisfaction was interrupted when I heard a short, familiar musical cue. I whipped my head over to the corner of the room. The old television that had earlier featured a weather report was now transitioning to a scene I’d witnessed several months prior, one that I had worked tirelessly to remember.

The camera panned over to a curved desk, one occupied by a grinning, square-jawed man, and to his left…

“It looks like clear skies this weekend! Perfect time to get the family together for something fun!” the woman next to him beamed. It was her. It was my sister.

Limbs still trembling, Joan slowly brought herself to an upright position, slowly turning to look at me. “Who… Are you?” she asked in a daze.

I ignored her question, instead pointing at the television. “That woman, where is she?”

“The anchor?” the waitress questioned, leaning over to get a better look at the screen. “That’s a local station. It’s a few counties over.”

“Where does she live?” I asked, my voice quavering with a mix of fear and excitement.

“I don’t know exactly where, but—” the waitress gasped as she stood up, the movement alone sending aftershocks throughout her body. Regaining her composure, she looked up to me with a twinkle of admiration in her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The cab drove away, and I turned to face the house in front of me. I was in a residential neighborhood filled with rustic and modern houses alike, their only common trait being their evident multi-million dollar value. They were much smaller than the compound, but looked far more grandiose. I had to wonder what possible jobs the people who owned these homes would have. If my sister was living in one, did that mean she was rich? Was I rich?

Questions circled my mind, but I set them aside. I made my way up the ornate walkway to the front door, where I pressed my finger on the doorbell. My heart pounded in my chest as I waited. What if she wasn’t home? What if this was a trap somehow, and Master would be the one on the other side of that door? What if I was wrong, and this woman had no idea who I was? The waitress had pored through phone books and contacts to get me here, even setting me up with a ride into the city. I couldn’t bear to think of what I’d do if it was a dead end.

Every tempestuous thought of mine came to a halt when the door opened. It was her, the woman from the television. Her hair was like mine, but she had it in a chic bob cut instead of my own long, flowing style. Her face was a bit rounder than mine as well, but one look into her pale blue eyes eschewed all doubt that we were related. It was like a floodgate had opened, a lifetime of memories began bubbling up in my brain. I knew this woman. I knew her better than anyone.

“Oh my god, Maddie,” she uttered, her voice catching in her throat.

“Hi Tiff,” I whispered, joyful tears forming in my eyes.