CHAPTER THREE: The Welcome Party

They dressed me in grey.

Not just grey, the exact same shade I’d seen on every woman we passed. The dress was stiff at the seams, high at the collar, tight at the waist, and cut long enough to feel restrictive. Not elegant. Not modest. Uniform.

It smelled faintly of starch and old perfume.

My hands trembled as I buttoned the collar.

I still felt a little dizzy and confused after the orientation.

I didn’t know why.

Carl was radiant. He looked made for this, charcoal blazer, crisp white shirt, gold cufflinks with a tiny sunburst emblem I hadn’t seen before. He smiled in the mirror, adjusted his collar, and turned to me with an approving nod.

“You look perfect,” he said.

I smiled, but didn’t answer.

Something inside me itched.

A strange, hot awareness beneath my skin. Like I was already too warm. Like something in the fabric was whispering.

Carl drove us to Harrow’s estate.

It was a mansion, really, white and grand and symmetrical, like everything else here, but… more. Every bush trimmed into a perfect sphere. Every lamp glowing the same warm gold. The path to the door lit by embedded floor lights, guiding us like stage directions.

At the door, Clara waited. Still in grey. Still blank.

She ushered us in without a word.

Inside, the world changed.

The light was low, amber-toned, glinting off brass and lacquered wood. The chandeliers were enormous, suspended like inverted wedding cakes of crystal and gold. The air smelled of spice and tobacco and something deeper, animal and male.

The hall was full of men in black and navy suits.

All talking, all laughing softly, all drinking from heavy crystal tumblers. Their movements were confident. Natural. At home.

Carl fit in instantly.

He walked like he belonged, his voice deeper, his posture broader, his smile sharper.

The women, there were women, moved like shadows. They glided between the men in identical grey dresses. Each carried a tray, or poured drinks, or knelt beside chairs to whisper unheard things into male ears. No eye contact. No smiles.

Just obedience.

Clara handed me a tray already full.

Six glasses, filled precisely to the rim.

I didn’t know what to do.

But my hands took it.

Carl didn’t even glance back.

“You’ll do great,” he said, like he’d already rehearsed the line.

And then I was in the room.

Walking.

The tray wobbled. My hands were slick. I was sweating, but the room wasn’t hot.

One man reached out and plucked a glass from my tray without a word.

Another waved a hand, sharply.

I flinched.

He pointed to an empty glass on a side table.

I walked over and poured the refill. My fingers trembled.

As I turned, a voice came from my left, sharp, flat:

“Eyes down. Smile.”

I stopped.

My head dropped instantly.

My lips moved.

I smiled.

I didn’t think about it.

It just happened.

A warm pulse bloomed low in my belly.

I took another step, then another.

“Faster, slut,” came a new voice behind me.

The tray wobbled again.

But I moved faster.

The word slut should’ve stung. Should’ve stopped me cold.

But my legs obeyed. My pulse quickened and I felt heat gather between my thighs. The panties stuck to me, barely separating me from that fabric-throb that made walking feel like a brush against need.

“Refill.”

“Straighten.”

“Knees together.”

Commands dropped from different mouths. Casual. Conversational.

I obeyed each one before I’d fully registered it.

The obedience buzzed through me.

Every command obeyed lit a fuse.

I didn’t understand it.

Obeying made my pulse quicken and my pussy wet.

I didn’t want to understand it.

But it was happening.

One man leaned back and said nothing, but crooked a finger toward the space beside his chair.

My feet moved.

“Kneel,” he said.

I did.

The tray balanced awkwardly in my lap.

He said nothing else.

I stayed there.

Another woman passed behind me, her dress clinging wetly to her thighs.

Wet.

Like me.

I adjusted my knees.

The heat inside me had grown unbearable, like I was leaking arousal just from standing here, from following orders, from existing as a quiet, useful body.

I looked across the room,

And saw Clara.

She was lowering herself to the floor.

Not gracefully.

Practiced.

Her knees touched the polished wood. She leaned beneath the white tablecloth of a long banquet table. Her dress disappeared under the hem.

Her shoulders moved.

Then another woman joined her.

And another.

The men at that table, three of them, leaned back in their chairs with obvious smiles.

I could see their hands on the arms of their chairs.

Knuckles tapping.

Relaxed.

Receiving.

The sounds were faint. Wet. Rhythmic.

No one stopped them.

No one said a word.

I felt my lips part. A tiny breath escaped me.

I was wet enough now to feel the fabric shift with each heartbeat. The heat in my clit pulsed so hard it almost tickled.

A man passed me.

Paused.

Looked down.

He smiled. “New one?”

I blinked up at him. Nodded. Maybe.

He nodded back, then snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor.

There was no chair.

Just floor.

He held a cloth in one hand. A boot in the other.

He dropped the cloth in front of me.

“Polish.”

My hand reached for it.

No thoughts. Just movement.

I pressed it to the toe of his boot.

Rubbed.

The leather was warm. Perfect. Gleaming.

Each circle made my cunt clench.

Each movement felt… right.

My chest rose. My thighs squeezed.

“Use both hands,” he said.

I did.

Rubbing now. Polishing. Breathing faster.

Obeying.

My pussy throbbed with every word.

I was kneeling at a stranger’s feet, and my body wanted to stay there.

When I stood again, Carl was at the bar.

He laughed at something Harrow had said.

His hand rested easily on a decanter.

He looked at me, once, and smiled.

“You’re fitting in perfectly,” he said.

Like he was proud.

Like I’d passed a test.

I looked down at myself.

My hands still clutched the tray.

My dress clung to my thighs.

And I realized,

My thighs were soaked.

My panties were a mess.

And I couldn’t tell if I was horrified…

…or pleased.