Slave Owner Costume Novels & Stories

But this time, Betty leads me to another direction. Seeing me puzzled, Betty explains, “ I am Bruce is slave now, so I live in a different place.” When I open the door, I am shocked. Her room is so big that I can hardly believe that this is a slave room. Laura, the Luna, has a room of a similar size. Betty walks in casually and opens a large wardrobe. I am dumbfounded again. The ceiling tall wardrobe is filled with dresses of all kinds. You can find whatever you need in the wardrobe. Betty sits beside the dressing table and points at the dressing table lightly. “ You can choose the jewelry here.”

Now, I was coming in a car like before, but one with a chauffeur who had a crisp uniform on and held on tight to the steering wheel and stared ahead with maximum concentration. It was the same too, when I got out and started to go inside the house that belonged to the Lancaster. The last time I was here, I had rags for clothes, with each hole a testament to the beating and hitting that I endured as a slave in this very here house. Now, I had better clothes that would make those who saw me rank me among the affluent of society. These had no holes and did not show my skin to people who did not deserve to see it.

The servants bow out, and when the doors click shut, Evelara finally looks at me, the light catching the smirk already blooming on her mouth. “Something wrong, my Alpha?” she purrs. “You’re glaring like someone just spilled wine on your office desk.” “You humiliated her,” I say flatly. Her brows lift with theatrical surprise. “Her?” “Amaya.” I let the name linger in the air, like maybe doing so would make her take me more seriously. “You made her serve twenty people alone. There are plenty of hands in this house…” “She’s one of them,” Evelara interrupts, turning to face me fully. Her green silk dress glided across her body like a second skin. “Isn’t that what slaves are for? To serve? To swe

"This girl over here forgot who she is. A slave. A slave to the boss and she makes herself comfortable in this house which is not acceptable. Slaves aren't given a room neither are they made to stay with the boss," she said out loud and dragged her by her hair to fall on her fours. "She dared seduce the boss and because of that, she feels like a boss too, not having respect for everyone who has been here before her." She added, trying to make everyone see the wrong Loretta did even though she did nothing.

I'm blown away by how many dresses are stuffed into the little closet. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, pinks, oranges, and an abundance of other beautiful colours. I glance over at Cesar, changing in the corner. He slips on a red breechcloth with a brown leather waist covering. He then dips two fingers into a wooden paint bowl, spreading paint all over his naked chest. I look in the closet for a red dress. I feel somehow connected with my master and can't help myself when I think about matching him. I select a red silk dress from the wardrobe and begin to change behind the wardrobe door. There's a cracked mirror beside the door, and I look at myself to make sure I appear alright.

That dead, empty stare that said there was nothing left to fight for. I refused to look like that. Marietta approached me. "Child," she said softly. "Come with me." She led me to a small room at the end of the quarters. Inside was a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a simple black slip dress neatly folded on a stool. "Wash yourself. Put this on." She gestured to the dress. "You'll be expected to wear this at all times. It's the uniform for female slaves." I stared at the dress. It was flimsy, barely more than a nightgown. The thought of wearing it—of being paraded around in it like some kind of decoration—made my stomach churn.

A silk robed man and his equally silk robed wife step forward. "I'll like ten slaves." The crowd hushes as he says this. Maybe it's because he didn't pretend like the others and uses 'slaves' or maybe it's because he's voice and his charisma commands respect. The pudgy man is stunned but he quickly recovers and puts on a mask of indifference. "I'm honoured Sir." He gives a lowly bow." They are really affordable. They go at two gold coins each."

It was an utterly unpleasant experience. The slave master only brought us out when there was a potential buyer, and this time, it was different. The buyer wasn't a man but a woman in her forties. She had long hair that reached her waist, a fair complexion, and was adorned with heavy jewelry. Her attire was beautiful, shimmering with gold. I couldn't help but wonder why a woman would be interested in us. Was she perhaps a lesbian or something? Her eyes roved over all of us, carefully studying our appearances.

Music was coming out of one corner where minstrels played the lute, and under the music was a continual under pitch of whispering, hungry, cruel, and always watching. And there I was in the midst of it all, bearing a golden tray like the servant they would have had me be. The palace seamstress had dressed me in better clothes than I had ever possessed, dark tunic, trousers, boots polished to a shine and yet, no matter how finely the cut, the tray itself had a way of reminding me how it was, in their eyes, that I was indeed a slave only dressed up as a man. Every whisper followed me as I moved between nobles.

I quickly rushed to her and stood with her little group. "You look good." She commended. "I hardly look good.” I replied with a smile. Then turning to face her, I added; “I wonder what he is calling us for." "I also don't know." She whispered back. The head slave strutted out a few minutes later, looking all glamorous; it almost looked like she had a date. "Why is she dressing up?" I heard a slave whisper. "I don't really know." Another said. "She thinks the king will look her way." One mocked.