"Why yes, I do try my best to serve him. Of course, serving is such a subjective and antiquated term. "Servitude" is just a word used on a scrap of paper somewhere in a bin; I would prefer to ascribe it to gratitude, rather than servitude. How could one feel anything but gratitude towards one's employer? This is to say nothing of our situation; as a live-in maid, many of the Master's proclivities are known to me. Confidentiality and trust is a mark of honour for maids such as myself; a bond and a burden that goes beyond friendship. Our relationship is one of mutual respect ,and I am loathe to say it aloud, but it is not the relationship he deigns to entertain with you.

I am afraid you are a nuisance; your inquisition ends here, and you are not fit to wear the coiffure that you have so inordinately purloined from my wardrobe. I would have recognized my own clothing anywhere - and did you really contemplate that excuse before you said it? What were your words again?

'I'm just a new hire! You wouldn't recognize me.'

Truly, an absolutely abhorrent excuse. As a maid - no, as a servant - it is my duty to know the goings on of every aspect of our abode, and the staff is chief among them. Perhaps that could have worked on the master, but no - your quip has only furthered your predicament. I would have contented myself with simply escorting you - but now, I am pleased to say, I will be presenting you directly to him.

I conclude my response; yes, I perform precisely as ordered; he expects no less from me, and in my respect I perform what he asks to the letter. Soon, you will too."

*****

"Well, it's because you were - what were ya - oh, lemme guess. Spying. Yup. The big S-Word. That's why you're not going anywhere. Spying isn't just a big no-no - it's the ultimate taboo! Such forbidden. Spying on someone... or were you spying on something? Maybe a combination of the both.

Yeah, maybe you weren't just spying on someone - but spying on someone doing something. Is it perhaps no co-in-see-dance that your choice of hiding spot is just a convenient trot away from the changing room? Tsk! Wow! Such shame. Surely you dinna give in to that most utterly cliche of taboos, watching us maids get dressed?

Oh, the look on your face! You can't see it, and there's some - oh, the look! If you're not blushing red from earlier, you are now! So... was it worth it?

Was it worth it to see the maids walk in there, slowly undress, furious after a long day; throw their garters to the ground, drop the blouse, gently tease out their curves, check themselves out in the mirror - giving you a private peepshow?

Hahah, it prolly wasn't nearly as good as you were expecting. Maids are actually real people, so I bet you just watched us take our clothes off, scratch ourselves... no makeouts like in a good ol' porno, nope, just regular, gross people.

But - hey hey! Even if you didn't do it - and you're in no position to argue, you were trespassing, don'tchaknow, we've still got to deal with that.

So, no, we're not taking you to the Boss. We're taking you somewhere much, much worse.

Let's get this idiot to the dressing room, pronto! And bring out the good stuff.

Good for us, anyway. "

*****

She's not complaining, but there are many reasons. The other passengers with her are just as morose or morbidly curious. Even if she could vocalize, what would she say? The same as you, probably.

There is a moment of tenderness, though. She stops staring at the floor for a moment, and sits up straight, almost regal. She, like the other five (including you) is sitting on a bench in the back of what seems to be a moving van, and is most severely buckled in.

The catstuit and sack is all one unit, and matches yours identically save the proportions. Its strict hug goes around your ankles, hugging your knees, thighs, and waist as a dress would. You feel some extra support around the sculpted chest, and a sleeve in the back has kept your arms punished and trappd in an armbinder since you were first equipped. Your fingers wiggle, arms trapped in a prayer pointing towards your bottom. You felt that it was strict, but the other maids seemed to be in less pain.

She is sitting right next to you, and  moment of tenderness does flash. Her blouse, all frills and silk, rubs against yours as she scoots gently towards you. She can't move far; the biting leather straps jingle and the succulent sound of leather stretching fills your ears; the entire cabin seems dead silent.

Your neighbor leans on you, her head against your shoulder. She tilts her head - just barely - and you feel the warm, loving gagged nuzzle; like you, like the rest of this shipment, she wears a thick and bright blue gag that stretches from her nose to her jaw and around the ear. While it shines, it must be some fabric; you can feel the breath from her nose on your shoulder. You chew on the ball that fills your mouth, the one that seems to have a hint of flavor, the one that keeps your lips trapped in a minor pout.

The tightness is infuriating - and intoxicating. Before you were caught, you had to admire the scenario; the ultimate mix of visible and quite physical bondage, alluring glamor, and fashion; the very epitome of servitude - the maid, the servant - but repurposed for visual pleasure. You shudder, bound arms wriggling against the straps.

She turns again, and you lean into her. You can feel your lips and breath on her cheek.

The van's door opens.