Angela and Vonda Ch. 07

All her meals followed the same monotonous script. Mary brought everything in on a tray, and placed it on a small child's table. Angela knelt on the floor, ass resting on ankles, hands folded in her lap under the table. Angela would bow her head, while Mary said grace. Then Mary took the food and either cut it up into bite sized morsels to be fork fed, or she'd ladle up the soup or porridge, spoonful by spoonful. If anything was spilled or dribbled from Angela's mouth, Mary reliably made a great show of stopping, getting a napkin, and wiping the other woman's nightgown and face. Every spill and every wipe was accompanied with its own unique remonstrance, always condescending in tone and maternal in content, and always Angela was expected to apologize for the spill and be thankful for the wipe and criticism.

Around mid-morning each day two new maids came in. They remade her bed, changed the sheets, and fluffed the pillows. Each day they drew her bath, and each and every day, as they left one or another, either Marge or Dorothy, came in and bathed her.

She'd noticed some subtle but significant shifts among the serving hierarchy. Mary no longer wore anything even remotely like a uniform. All her clothes were top of the line designer outfits, like what she, Angela, once wore. Usually she had on some designer dress, fully made up, and high heels, or occasionally she wore an expensive blouse with a pair of equally rich looking pleated slacks.

Mary was dressed as though she were the lady of the house, the way Angela used to dress, and always her hair was kept in a tight bun, and she always wore some piece of jewelry Angela recognized as having once been hers.

Mary seldom talked to her as an equal, always as though she were a child; Mary was the adult, Angela the little girl. Mary had several pet names for her 'one time' mistress. She was either 'my darling, 'my little angel, or sometimes just 'sugar'. When she wasn't talking down to her, she was stiff and formal.

Marge and Dorothy wore their own similar garb; never any type of servant's uniform. Their attire was always of the casual, relaxed genre, loose fitting jeans, T-shirts, tennis shoes, and an occasional sweater.

It was Marge and Dorothy who dressed her each day, and each day her clothing was like the day before, always a simple baby doll nightgown, day and night, never anything different except the color. They were the ones who made her up, if that was what it could be called; always a tad of red lip gloss, some bright pink cheek blush, and for some unknown reason a tad of dark brown henna on the end of her nose and the outer edges of her nostrils. She didn't like the henna because it never completely came off, and after the first day or two it seemed like her nose always had faint traces of brown on the tip.

Of course the girls took great pains to keep her fingers and toes manicured, her pussy thoroughly shaved, and her hair in two tightly braided pig tails each with its own large bow. She was always thoroughly washed and oiled with the same scented balm.

As the days dragged by, Angela was never allowed to leave her room. There were no magazines, books, or even pamphlets. There had been a television, but that had been taken out the first day. There wasn't anything for her to do except sit or lay around. To her chagrin, after the first several days, Mary started to bring in toys. They weren't really toys, only stuffed animals, some equipped with changes of clothes. Mary encouraged her to use her time to facilitate her recovering hand and eye coordination by dressing and undressing the stuffed animals.

The windows had been sealed shut, but were too high to see out of anyway. Every time she looked around it seemed like her room was more cluttered; filling with over stuffed pillows, loosely piled silken scarves, socks and shoes, and little glass figurines Mary liked to bring in. Angela's cupboards and closet where her adult attire was stored were all locked shut.

The only thing that kept Angela from going stir crazy was her ability to masturbate. Thanks to Marge and Dorothy she'd learned how to get herself off in such a way that the experience could last for hours. In fact that was all she did all day every day, masturbate, rub and tickle her vagina, and listen to the damn bells around her neck, on her wrists, ankles and the new ones hanging from her ears as they jingled and jangled all day and all night.

She stopped thinking about Brandon. Vonda never came upstairs, and that was all right with her. There was no place to go, nothing to do, nothing decent to eat. The only things she had to look forward were the one lousy piece of candy, and what she could do with her fingers. If she did think she only ended up fantasizing about things she wasn't allowed to see or do, like wearing real clothes, eating real food, and being free.

Eating, sleeping, and masturbating in her little room, her little golden cage, Angela couldn't imagine how things could possibly get worse. She had no idea.

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