It took quite a while to get me adequately presentable to serve in the tavern of Lady Draca, my Mistress.
Tupp, my Lord and Overseer took me to a room containing a small tub of water. He had me stand in it, with my arms placed in my hair, then dipped a soft brush on the end of a long handle into the tub. and scrubbed me down, effectively as if I were livestock, or similar. The water was neither clean nor warm, and I was obviously not the first to be cleaned by it. However, the brush was reasonably effective, and whilst it hurt me a little as he roughly scrubbed, it seemed designed not to scratch or punish my body any more than was necessary to achieve an efficient cleansing.
With the worst of the grime and grease removed from me by these means, he took a sponge-like cloth and wiped me further. He applied the sponge efficiently; there seemed no intent on his part beyond the need to get me cleaned efficiently and quickly, despite the embarrassing intimacy attendant upon certain portions of the operation.
As a slave, no doubt his main purpose was to do his Mistress's bidding. I recalled that he had not tried to take advantage of me during the cleaning of the scullery, aside, perhaps, from a little unnecessary touching whilst he was helping me up onto the counters, so that I could clean higher on the walls.
My vanity was, if I am honest, somewhat piqued that he had done so little in this regard. After all, he was an ugly misshapen dwarf, and I was a beautiful blonde barbarian slave girl, effectively delivered into his clutches and at his mercy, as it were, yet he had not pressed his advantage home.
I wondered if he were somehow deficient in such natural urges. I concluded that this must almost certainly be the case, as to how else explain his lack of interest in my curves.
Getting my skin clean of the sweat and the dirt that had accrued on my body was not too difficult, with my Lord and Overseer's careful ministrations, but my hair proved a somewhat tougher nut to crack. My Lord and Overseer had me put my head into the water of the bucket, and then scrubbed and washed lengthily, but it was still greasier than it would normally be, and the lack of shampoo, conditioner, or similar products, meant that it was essentially simply rinsed, and only the worst of the grime removed.
I was initially aghast at the primitiveness of the cleaning facilities, but I had to admit that, with hard work, most of the effects of the range of expensive cleansing, conditioning, and moisturizing products that I normally used, could essentially be replicated. Too, the cleansing of my body served to wake me up a little. I could still feel various aches and strains, of course, from my arduous day's labour, but I was at least a little refreshed from the water, and the scrubbing down.
The brute work done, my Lord and Overseer fetched Lady Draca, my Mistress, who looked me over, tutted and grumbled about how filthy I had got myself, and then applied cosmetics to me.
These were not subtle, and were obviously designed to mask any residual effects from my hard day's work; perfumes that disguised any residual stench of grease, and some unguent for my face and hands.
Eventually, Lady Draca, my Mistress, seemed more or less satisfied that I was suitable to go onto the floor of the 'Juicy Pudding'. She handed me a scrap of yellow material.
"Put it on," she commanded.
"Yes, Lady Draca, my Mistress," I said, delightedly.
I was so glad that I was to be permitted a garment as I served!
I eagerly pulled it on over my head.
My joy was somewhat subdued once I had done this, and became cognizant of the garment's extent, or rather, lack of it.
I had never been averse to donning short mini-dresses on earth. I recalled, in particular, the little canary yellow number that I sometimes wore to go clubbing and such. That dress I had considered scandalously short and daring, and perhaps in earth terms that was indeed the case. Despite this, I had always felt a thrilling mixture of fear and exhilaration whilst wearing it, and loved to watch male heads turn in my direction whenever I went out in public with it on, sleeveless, plunging at my neck, tight on my hips, and very high upon my thighs, barely concealing my rear.
However, the so-called dress that I was exhibited in now, whilst in colour not entirely dissimilar to that garment that I had previously worn on earth, was several crucial inches shorter at the hem, and did not really properly cover me at all where it really mattered, so to speak.
Furthermore, whereas on earth I was afforded the luxury of matching my little dress up with lingerie and accessories, here there was evidently to be no such opportunity. I recalled the frisson of excitement that used to bubble up within my belly as I debated what colour panties to wear, knowing that, from time to time, when I was executing a dance move for instance, or an unexpected gust of wind caught the hem, that a glimpse of underwear might be presented to any casual bystander.
Would I be daring enough to wear red or green, that would contrast so strongly with the canary yellow, and be so striking? Or should I perhaps go for black, more conservative, yet the more likely to show through the thin fabric of the dress? Or perhaps a matching yellow, an element of camouflage. I knew that certain girls, some of them celebrities, would, on occasion, go out in short dresses without wearing anything underneath at all, but that was something I could barely even think about. I was not that sort of girl, by any stretch of the imagination.
In the end, I usually went for white, a relatively demure contrast to the garishness of the canary yellow of my outer garment, and perhaps a concession to my innermost inhibitions.
With the current outfit that I had been permitted to wear, despite the extreme, and rather impractical shortness of the hemline, it was obvious that no such considerations would be afforded me. I was 'on show', as it were, more than the most brazen of those celebrity starlets, and I blushed pink as I realised the implications of this.
It might have been better had I not worn anything at all, as the presence of such a dress half-clothing my body would lead instantly to the inference that, although the wherewithal to clothe me was available, it had not been deemed necessary or desirable to do so to any practical extent. The garment seemed, therefore, more of a cruel joke at my expense, a constant reminder of my status, than any sort of functional habiliment.
There was some writing on the front of it, in black, contrasting strongly with the overall colour.
I could not read it, of course.
My Mistress went behind me, and I felt cuffs put on both my wrists and snapped shut. I pulled on them a little, ineffectually.
It seemed that my hands were to be bound behind me, linked by about three inches of thin, yet obdurate, chain
My Mistress came back round to the front of me and looked me over.
"You'll do," she said, "I can still smell the kitchen on you, even through all the perfume, but your customer smells worse, so it shouldn't matter."
I suppose that these words were meant as an encouragement and a reassurance to me, but I felt the butterflies in my tummy stronger than ever. I was to be sent out, my private intimacies essentially uncovered, to be groped and pawed at by drunks, and, furthermore, my hands were now confined helplessly behind my back.
I swallowed hard, trying to think of ways to postpone my forthcoming fate.
"May I be permitted a question, Lady Draca, my Mistress?" I asked.
"Go on," she said, not pleasantly.
"Why have my hands been secured?" I asked.
"Customer preference," she said, "besides, it will keep you out of mischief."
I considered this rather unhelpful answer and thought of another question.
"What does it say on my dress?" I asked.
"It says 'I am a worthless, illiterate, barbarian. Whip me if I ask any more questions'," she replied.
"Yes, Lady Draca, my Mistress. Thank you, Lady Draca, my Mistress," I answered, quickly. It would seem that her patience with my inquisitions was ended.
Nevertheless, there did not seem sufficient lettering on my garment to account for the words that Lady Draca, my Mistress had informed me were inscribed thereupon. There were only four groupings of symbols, which I surmised would comprise four words. The first two were in larger type than the second two, which were beneath.
It seemed unlikely that just these four words could convey my Mistress's expression, which seemed somewhat lengthier, but I perceived that it would be foolish of me to pursue the matter further at that time. How I wished that I could read and write, and wondered when I might be taught to do so.
"Any more questions, sleenmeat?" asked Lady Draca, my Mistress.
"No, Lady Draca, my Mistress," I replied, softly.
