By now, the cellar was running like a well-oiled industrial machine, but the expansion was taking its toll. The “origin swapping” lines were becoming overwhelmed, and the four Thai overseers could barely manage the growing mass of castrated slaves. Another issue was that the heavy logistical work in the cellar could not be performed by the castrated boys (who lose muscle mass) or the young girls.
The presence of uncastrated men posed a potential danger to the young female overseers. Expansion was necessary. The mistresses therefore decided to recruit a new girl: Srey, a seventeen-year-old Cambodian who had been smuggled across the border illegally. Srey was not a victim waiting to be broken; she was a survivor of a brutal border war and possessed an innate, cold toughness.
To ensure the overseers’ loyalty, the mistresses granted them a new privilege. The young women were permitted to use castrated slaves for their own pleasure, provided the slaves remained shackled at all times. Later, this was extended to include the uncastrated slaves from the logistics team for their own perverse desires—though this was only permitted if the slave remained shackled at all times, and the overseers were required to work in pairs whenever transporting a slave.
The transformation of frightened teenagers into sadistic rulers was thus complete. Initially, everything took place within the dedicated torture chambers, but later, the girls began taking liberties with the male and female slaves entrusted to them wherever they pleased. In the shadow of the machinery, the overseers made the slaves kneel before them—not merely for sexual gratification, but for the sake of humiliation. Brutal sexual dominance.
The dependency born of power acted like a poison, binding the girls completely to the Mistresses. The girls grew increasingly distant from their former companions, and some even dreamed of a life like that of the Mistresses. Perhaps their dream of a better life would come true after all.
Wannapah held financial control over the company—or rather, actual control. Christiaan was responsible for the finances and day-to-day management, as well as the firm’s legal affairs, while Harry—Parichat’s ex—managed operations at the villa and handled the finances there. Wannapah also owned a brothel in Bangkok, where a niece of hers worked and handled the day-to-day management.
She only visited the villa to conduct personal sessions with her best clients; this served as part of her cover story, and it was also something she genuinely enjoyed. Unlike the other three women, Wannapah never lived at the villa; instead, she occupied a luxury apartment in central Bangkok, an hour’s drive from the factory.
She lived there with her slaves. In her neighborhood, Wannapah was known as a refined lady—always impeccably dressed—and only a few people knew she owned a brothel. Even fewer knew that she was also an SM mistress.
The view from the penthouse on the 42nd floor of the Millennium Residences in Sukhumvit was breathtaking. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, Bangkok shimmered like a sea of neon light. Inside, a serene, almost reverent quiet prevailed. A soft Puccini aria filled the room. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood candles and polished marble.
Aon, a fifteen-year-old boy from the northern province of Nan, knelt on the ice-cold floor. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped the baseboards of the minimalist living room with a damp microfiber cloth. Two meters away, May—a sixteen-year-old girl—stood motionless in the shadow of a designer cabinet, ready to pour a glass of ice water the moment it was requested. Both wore the prescribed attire—a simple, sleeveless black tunic—and were barefoot.
Both kept their gaze fixed firmly on the veins in the marble. Eye contact with Madam was forbidden. Aon swallowed with difficulty. His back burned beneath the tunic from yesterday’s welts. But in his mind, he repeated the calculation his father had given him: Six more months of hard labor for the moneylender, Aon, and then our debt of 200,000 Baht will be paid off. Then the farm will be ours again.
As far as he knew, this was simply the harsh reality of paying off a debt. Madam was strict, and Madam used the cane, but Madam kept the police at bay.
The heavy oak door of the master bedroom opened. Wannapah stepped into the living room. She was beautiful; her tight leather dress and perfectly styled hair made her look younger. She exuded the absolute authority of a successful businesswoman from Thailand’s elite circles. In her right hand, she held a cane—a slender, flexible rattan walking stick from her private collection—with an air of nonchalance. The soft *swish* of the cane against her dress instantly made the two young people’s breath catch in their throats. She didn’t look at them.
She walked to the glass wall and gazed out over the city, as if she were the queen of Bangkok.
“Water,” she said coldly. Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the aria. May moved instantly. She filled the crystal glass with ice water, walked to the bar with perfect, silent steps, and knelt beside Madam.
Her hands remained miraculously steady as she held up the glass. Wannapah took the glass, sipped it briefly, and then let it drop from her hand. May was too slow to catch it. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces on the marble. Water and shards of glass splashed against May’s knees.May didn’t flinch. She bowed lower, her forehead almost touching the wet shards.
“My apologies, Madam.”
“Your slowness irritates me,” Wannapah said boredly. She turned and looked down at the kneeling girl. Without warning, she struck out with the cane.
*Crack.*
The rattan cane sliced through the thin fabric of May’s tunic, right between her shoulder blades. The girl let out a short, stifled cry but immediately checked herself. She knew that crying would only prolong the punishment.
“Clean it up,” Wannapah ordered.
As May began gathering the shards with bleeding fingers, Wannapah turned her gaze toward Aon. A chilling, slow smile spread across her face. It was the look of a predator selecting its prey.
“Aon. To the bedroom. Now.”
Aon felt an icy shiver run through his gut. He knew what was coming. It was the ‘special service’ that Madam regularly demanded. A form of sexuality not about lust, but about his total submission. He rose mechanically, head bowed, and walked ahead of her into the dimly lit bedroom, where the heavy leather riding crop lay ready at the foot of the king-sized bed.
She closed the door behind him. May remained in the living room, carefully wiping the marble dry, in the absolute, tragic conviction that she would be free again in six months. She heard the rhythmic strokes of the whip and the muffled cries through the thick door, and went on cleaning.
Wannapah reveled in the fear and pain she inflicted upon the children.
The boy was skilled at preparing his Mistress—an innate talent that had allowed him to outlast all his predecessors in Wannapah’s residence. Lashes from the whip rained down powerfully on his back and thighs; jolts of pain shot through his body, yet he wept silently—something his Mistress appreciated.
Fortunately, the Mistress had other slaves, for he could not have endured this day in and day out; he did, however, have to use his tongue every day to bring his Mistress to climax, as the torment would at least cease once she had reached her peak multiple times. Eventually, he had to relieve May and send her inside. Now it was May’s turn to serve her Mistress; like Oan’s, her service was oral—involving both the vagina and the anus.
She was already sixteen, and—as with her colleague—Wannapah had grown quite fond of her, for fifteen and sixteen were considered quite old by the Mistress’s standards. Once Wannapah discarded them, the girls would disappear into the brothel to work off their parents’ debt—a debt that was never actually paid off. That was also the reason they were never punished too severely.
The vast majority of discarded boys disappeared into the factory, though a rare few ended up in prostitution. After climaxing a few more times—moving wildly and moaning softly—Wannapah had a fresh set of slaves bathe her thoroughly. Tomorrow, she would decide the fate of Oan and May.
The more sophisticated Wannapah was no less cruel than the brutal Tik or Parichat.
Tou, however, was of a different caliber.
The other three Mistresses had effectively moved from the villa to their own luxurious private quarters in the upper section of the factory’s administrative building.
Their wealth was immense, and their sex lives were a spectacle of absolute degradation. They visited the villa less and less frequently, although Parichat’s ex, Harry, still lived there; Harry had become increasingly important within the villa, and—unlike the cellar dwellers—years of life as a slave had actually done him good. He had grown leaner, learned to speak Thai, and revealed qualities no one had suspected he possessed.
The former rooms of Tou and Tik in the villa had been refurbished and were now occupied by new Mistresses—all of whom, essentially, came from the money-lending circuit; like Tik, these women had been trained as Mistresses from a young age. Only Parichat retained an apartment in the villa; she was its largest shareholder and, in principle, remained in charge of day-to-day operations.
Tik shared the penthouse atop the factory’s former office building with her mother and her conditioned brother. Although her mother enjoyed the wealth and the services of the resident slaves, she could no longer ignore the perverse reality. She was forced to watch as her own son—completely emotionally detached—lived like a naked, silent dog at his younger sister’s feet. Tik used him without mercy for her own sexual release; after all, his will had been excised long ago.
The mother felt like a prisoner within the factory; she had never even set foot in the villa. Her future was uncertain, and she had stopped asking about her husband. All depends on what her daughter would decide on her.
At sixteen, Tik was in charge of the entire factory staff, deciding the life and death of the slaves. She personally carried out most of the executions and punishments.
The most bizarre contrast, however, was found in Parichat’s household. Christiaan—her Dutch boyfriend and the seemingly successful businessman who managed exports to Europe an the US—turned out to be nothing more than her personal possession within the privacy of their bedroom. To the outside world, he appeared to be calling the shots in the international market, but the moment the doors closed, Parichat reduced him to a mindless object.
Parichat, who had proudly retained her male anatomy, used the Dutchman in the most brutal and humiliating ways. She demanded his total physical submission. She used him orally and anally while he was strapped into heavy leather harnesses, all the while reminding him who truly stood at the top of the pyramid. The man endured this cruel treatment with a mixture of fear and perverse addiction. He did not want to know the truth about the cellar, because his own sexual submission to Parichat kept him completely under her psychological control.