Chapter 6: Martha’s Story

Mr. Daley’s predatory smile bored into her like he could see every secret she’d tried to bury. The air in his office was thick, and Elisa stared out the window at the city skyline beyond, trying to move past the uncomfortable silence hanging between them. Her question about “6”, about how Martha Plieems had become a servant, felt like a confession she hadn’t meant to make.

“Tell me, Elisa,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “how did you feel, watching that ceremony? Seeing Martha become ‘6’? It’s not every day you witness someone surrender everything.”

Elisa’s mouth went dry, her heart hammering. She forced a smile, but her voice betrayed her, quivering slightly. “It was… surprising, sir. I’d never seen anything like it. I was just curious about the process, legally speaking. How someone makes that kind of decision.”

Mr. Daley leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze unyielding. “Curious,” he repeated, the word dripping with amusement. “Is that all? You seemed… affected. Flustered, even. Don’t lie to me, Elisa. I’ve seen that look before.”

Her cheeks burned, shame flooding her. He *knew*. He saw the arousal she’d tried to hide, the fascination that had kept her up at night, touching herself to images of shaved heads and numbered tattoos. She wanted to deny it, to insist she was just a lawyer doing her job, but his eyes pinned her, stripping away her defenses. “I… it was intense,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t expect it to feel so… personal.”

He nodded, as if she’d confirmed something he’d already suspected. “Good. Honesty suits you. Since you’re so curious, let me tell you about Martha. Her story might… clarify things for you.”

Elisa clutched the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the leather. She wanted to run, to escape the pull of his words, but her body betrayed her, leaning slightly toward him, hungry for answers.

“Martha Plieems was a baker,” Mr. Daley began, his tone almost conversational, but with an edge that kept Elisa on edge. “Talented, independent, ran her own shop in the city. About a year ago, we hired her to cater an event at the estate. A gala, one of our bigger affairs. She did her job well, but my wife, Eleanor, noticed something. Martha kept lingering, watching the servants. Not just glancing—she was transfixed, like she was seeing something she’d been missing her whole life.”

Elisa’s breath hitched, images of the silent maids flashing in her mind—their starched uniforms, their downcast eyes. She could imagine Martha, flour-dusted and weary, staring at them with the same shameful longing she’d felt.

“I’ve got it somewhere here… yes let me give you Martha’s own words,” Mr. Daley said, his smile sharpening. “She wrote down her story for us, just so you could hear it”

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Martha’s Story (First Person)

I was 44, and my bakery was my world. Long hours, sore feet, the smell of yeast and sugar clinging to my skin. I’d built it up from nothing, but it was enough, until the Daley job. They hired me for a gala at their estate, a place so grand it felt like stepping into a dream. I baked for days. Pastries, cakes, tarts, everything was perfect. But when I got there, it wasn’t the chandeliers or the guests that stopped me. It was the servants.

They were… flawless. Young women, all in identical black dresses, moving like ghosts. Silent, obedient, their eyes never lifting from the floor. They served wine, cleared plates, knelt to wipe spills, all without a word. I couldn’t stop watching. I’d set up my dessert table, but I kept finding excuses to linger, to see them glide past, their hands quick and sure, their faces blank. It stirred something in me, something I didn’t understand. A pull, deep in my gut, like I was seeing what I was meant to be.

I was packing up when Mrs. Daley approached me. She was elegant, terrifying, her eyes sharp like she could see inside me. “You’ve been watching our girls,” she said, not accusing, but knowing. I stammered, tried to apologize, but she just handed me a card. Plain white, with a number and the words “Servants’ Evaluation Course.” “If you’re curious,” she said, “call this. It’s not for everyone.” Then she walked away.

I went home, the card burning a hole in my pocket. I stuck it on my fridge, telling myself it was nothing, just a weird moment. But every night, when I dragged myself home from the bakery, I’d see it there, glowing under the kitchen light. I’d pour a glass of wine, sit at my counter, and stare at it, my fingers tracing the numbers. I started dreaming about the servants, kneeling, serving, their lives so simple, so pure. No bills, no stress, just… obedience. It scared me, but it also made me ache, a need I couldn’t name.

Weeks passed, and I couldn’t shake it. The card was a magnet, pulling me back. One night, I caved. I dialed the number, my hands shaking. A woman answered, cold and clipped, and told me the course was a weekend intensive, no refunds, no questions. I signed up, not even sure why.

The course was in a stark, gray building, like a prison. There were ten of us—men and women, all nervous, all pretending we didn’t know why we were there. The instructors were brutal. They called us pathetic, said we were worms for wanting to be servants, that we deserved to be nothing. They made us scrub floors, polish silver, fold linens, all while barking insults. “You think you’re special?” one screamed at me. “You’re a speck, a tool, less than dust!”

At first, I hated it. I cried in the bathroom, my knees bruised from scrubbing, my hands raw. I wanted to quit, to go back to my bakery, my life. But then… something shifted. Their words sank in, like poison, but it wasn’t poison—it was truth. I *was* pathetic, chasing profits and pride when I could be free, serving something greater. I started whispering their taunts to myself: “You’re nothing. You’re meant to serve.” It felt… right. Like coming home.

By the end of the weekend, I knew what I wanted. I called the Daleys, begged for an audience. When they let me come to the estate, I crawled to them, my heart pounding, and pleaded to be their servant. I gave them everything—my shop, my savings, my name. And when they shaved my head, tattooed me as “6,” I felt whole for the first time.

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Back to Mr. Daley’s Office

Mr. Daley’s voice snapped Elisa back to the present, his eyes still locked on her. “That’s Martha’s story, Elisa. She found her place, her purpose. Not everyone does.” He paused, leaning back, his fingers steepled. “So, what do you think of that? Do you want to hear more? Where do you see yourself in five years—junior partner, or on your knees, scrubbing tiles?”

Elisa’s mind spun, Martha’s words echoing in her head. She saw herself in Martha’s story—staring at a card, consumed by a need she couldn’t explain. Her carefully planned future—courtrooms, corner offices—felt hollow, a script she was tired of reading. But the alternative… on her knees, shaved, numbered, nothing… it was unthinkable. Yet her body burned with it, her thighs pressing together under the desk, her breath shallow.

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “Junior partner, of course. That’s what I’ve worked for.”

Mr. Daley’s smile widened, predatory and knowing. “Is it?” he said softly. “You didn’t answer the other part. On your knees, Elisa.” He repeated the words, slow and deliberate, each syllable a command. “On your knees.”

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She slid from the chair, her knees hitting the plush carpet, her hands trembling in her lap. She stared at the floor, her face flaming, shame and desire warring inside her. *What am I doing?* her mind screamed, but her body stayed, submissive, waiting.

Mr. Daley laughed, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver through her. “Well, well,” he said, standing and circling the desk to stand over her. “It seems we’ll have to get you started on your new career path, won’t we?”

Elisa’s heart pounded, her eyes fixed on his polished shoes, unable to look up. She was a lawyer, a rising star, but in that moment, she was something else—something lower, something that craved the simplicity of surrender. And as Mr. Daley’s shadow loomed over her, she knew there was no going back.