Slave Life Storyline- aftermath of the ‘big’ punishment

Day 6, morning to afternoon ( after the night of punishment)

“Answer me,” he says, voice low, not angry—just disappointed. Like I’m a kid who spilled milk. “When I say ‘girl,’ you say ‘yes, Master.’ Not nothing. Not staring. Say it.”

I swallow. The word sticks in my throat—thick, heavy. “Yes… Master.”

He tugs again—lighter this time. Just enough to remind me. The chain pulls forward, PVC sleeve scraping my chin. “Louder. Like you mean it.”

“Yes… Master.”

He lets go. Chain clinks back against my chest. “Better. But don’t test me again. You’re not done learning.”

He steps back—turns. “Stay kneeling. Think about how close you came to earning another night.”

I don’t move. Knee burns. Chain sways. Inside—everything tightens. Not just pain. Shame. Like I really did forget. Like I really am… his.

And yet—through the haze, the loop comes back. The one I clung to all night: Just six months. Fake it. Survive. Let him win the outside. Keep the inside mine. I told myself I’d play the part—nod, sip ladylike, stay still—until he thinks I’m broken. Until he stops looking for cracks. Until I am on safe ground.

He stops at the door. Turns back. Looks down at me—still kneeling, knee throbbing, chain swaying like a pendulum.

“Get up. Thirty minutes. Eat. Drink. Pee. Shit. All in the slave chamber. Go to the kitchen first—prepare your meal, put it in the dog bowl with the small plastic spoon,  bring it back. Bottle’s in the chamber—1.5 litres. Drink from it for now. Use the finished bottle with funnel in the storeroom for pee. Shit in the potty, also already in the chamber. Soon the pet bottle you used a few days ago will be attached, but not yet. For now, drink from the bottle I give you first!”

“Yes… Master.” … like how he wanted 

He pauses.

“Before you start eating—here.”

He hands me an unlocked padlock. Metal, cold.

“Lock yourself to the wall hook in the slave chamber. Use the 5m chain. Estimate 2m from the hook—plus your 1m of loose chain, that leaves 3m radius. Do it after you bring the food back. Then eat. Then the rest.”

I take it. Fingers numb. 

Nod—small.

“Yes… Master.”

Inside—nothing left. Just the loop again: accept it. Fake it. Survive. Let him win this one. Keep the inside mine. Let six months stays six months, no more!

He watches. No smile.

I stand—legs shake, knee flares sharp. Toes numb, curled from heels. I shuffle out—neck chain drags, PVC sleeve brushing my neck.

I walked to the kitchen. The morning light came in through the window, bright enough to see clearly. I opened the fridge—inside was one container of cooked rice, a small carton of milk, shredded lettuce in a bag, and a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. Master had pre-prepared it the day before, portioned for the whole week, but nothing was mixed yet.

I took the dog bowl—metal, dented, low rim—from the counter. I scooped the cold rice in first. Then I poured the milk over it—white liquid pooling on top. Shredded lettuce next—green strands scattered across. Finally, I grabbed the squeeze bottle and pressed hard—a thick, white stream squirted out, looping over the pile like frosting. It kept coming until the top was glazed, heavy enough to drip down the sides.

I picked up the small plastic spoon and stirred everything together—slow, careful circles—until the rice softened, the milk soaked in, lettuce wilted slightly, and mayonnaise coated it all in a creamy mess.

I held the bowl like a tray, back straight, arms level, as ladylike as possible. I walked back to the slave chamber, the neck chain clinking softly against my chest with every step.

I kept walking—slow, careful—back into the slave chamber. The chain tugged at my neck with each step, the PVC sleeve rubbing against my collarbone. I set the dog bowl down on the floor. It clinked once, metal on concrete.

The padlock was still in my hand—heavy, cold. I knelt. Knee flared again—sharp, familiar. I reached for the wall hook. The 5-meter chain lay coiled like a snake. I threaded the padlock through the link on my neck chain, then through the wall chain. I pulled it taut—about 2 meters from the hook, like he said. 

Click. Locked. 

Now I have just locked myself! 

I could stand, walk a little. Not escape!

Stupid. So stupid. I just locked myself. My own fingers clicked the padlock shut—like I was signing up for more. Why? Because he said? Because if I didn’t, he’d know? Because six months might stretch longer if I disobey? The thought looped: accept it. Fake it. Survive. But every clink of that chain felt like proof—I wasn’t surviving. I was building the cage. One lock at a time. And the worst part? I did it quietly. No fight. No scream. Just… click. Like it was normal. Like I belonged here. Stupid me!

I set the bowl back on the floor—right where it belonged. I knelt lower—face closer. Small plastic spoon in hand. I scooped one bite at a time—rice soft from milk, lettuce limp, mayonnaise thick and sticky. The smell rose up—oily, sour, wrong. I hated mayonnaise. Always had! 

Back before the contract, when we were still negotiating—when I thought I was being clever—I’d said it myself. “I hate mayonnaise,” I told him, “but if you want to make this real… maybe put it in my diet. Make me eat what I don’t like.” I thought it sounded edgy. Thought it showed I was serious. He nodded. And now it was here—every meal, every day—because I suggested it. Because I asked for it. I dug my own grave with my stupid idea!

Another bite. Slick, sour, heavy. Throat closed. I forced it down—chew slow, swallow hard. Trying to do it as ladylike as possible. But inside, it is terrible. And now I’ve got to eat this for the rest of my six months. Every day. Every serving. Because I told him. Because I wanted “real.”

I kept going—bite after bite. The spoon scraped the metal bottom, gathering the last clumps of creamy rice and wilted lettuce. Mayonnaise clung to everything—sticky, cold, like it was trying to stay in my mouth forever. I swallowed the final one. No crumbs left. Bowl empty.

I set the spoon down.. I stayed still—hands flat on thighs, back straight. No wiping. No touch. Ladylike. Even if it feels natural to wipe. I refrained. Just swallowed the aftertaste—oily, sour, lingering.

Done.

I stayed on my knees. Inside—the loop still hummed: accept. Fake. Survive. But now it tasted like mayonnaise.

The plastic bottle waited beside me—1.5 litres. I unscrewed the cap. I lifted it slowly—both hands. Ladylike. No gulping.I took small sips, lips pursed, throat working carefully. I kept going. Sip. Pause. Sip. Until every drop was gone.

No wiping. No back-of-hand. That wasn’t allowed. I felt the drop linger on my lip—cold, annoying. I refrained. Just let it dry. Just swallowed the rest. Ladylike. Even if it itched. 

Even if I wanted to lick it off like a normal person.

I set the bottle down. Quiet. No clatter. Hands flat on thighs. Back straight. Done.

Shit next. Potty in the corner—plastic, low, white. Squat again—knee screamed, concrete bit into my heels. I did it. Some came out—soft, warm, no control. No sound but breath. Then—I stopped. No wiping. I’d been specifically instructed: wiping is reserved for normal people. A slave is not allowed to wipe.

Pee next. The finished bottle with funnel sat on the rack. I pulled my panties down—just enough. One hand reached down—fingers careful, one finger pressing my penis in place. Still tucked flat, no bulge, but I had to keep it steady. No untuck. No mess. The skin felt slimy—five days of sweat and grime, warm and tacky under my fingertip, like touching something forgotten. I squatted. Thighs shook. Stream started—slow, stinging from earlier. I aimed it into the funnel—careful, precise. Funnel caught it all. No splash.

It felt uncomfortable—sticky, clinging, warm against my skin. But I forced myself to accept it. I pulled panties back up. The content stuck immediately—warm, thick, smearing against the fabric like paste. It pressed into my skin, no escape, no air between. Every shift, every breath, I felt it cling. Uncomfortable. Gross. But I forced myself to accept it. Just like everything else. And underneath, the grossness—the slime from five days of unwashed and the content, all clammy against my skin. Like I was wearing my own filth.

I stayed kneeling. And wait…

The door opened. He was back. He stopped in front of me. Close. I kept my eyes down. Knees numb. Chain tight.

“Friends are coming,” he said. “Five of them. Tomorrow. They want to see you, my new possession!”

“Yes… Master.” Sounds sweet outside, but not inside!

The words landed like a slap. I froze.

Friends. People. Strangers. My chest squeezed! Five pairs of eyes on me. On the GIRL uniform! On the chain!  Not just him anymore. More people! More who would know about me!

I wasn’t ready, and will never be ready! No one was supposed to see! This was supposed to be secret—his secret! My secret! Now it was… public. Like when he first said “show off” yesterday night! I remembered the panic then—heart racin. Same now! Worse! Because now it was real! It was happening! Not fantasy. Not pretend.

They’d laugh. Or stare. Or whisper. “Look at her. Look what he’s done.” And they’d see the uniform. The way I kneel. The way I obey. I wanted to beg—no. Please. Not them. But the loop kicked in: accept. Fake. Survive. Keep quiet. From last night’s reflection—better to say nothing. Better to let him talk. Better to stay small. 

I simply remained in position silent… 

He crouched. Voice low.

“So you’re getting a break. One-time only. Sleep today. All day. Rest up. Look presentable tomorrow. Not for you—for me. I don’t show off rotten goods. I show off something clean. Something good.”

“Yes… Master.”

Inside me, just blank. Like the words didn’t land yet. Then they did. Slowly.

Sleep. Rest. Just… lie down. Close eyes. Drift.

Good? Maybe. My body screamed for it, head spinning from no sleep. Relief. Immediate. Like someone cut the rope.

But bad too! Because it’s not free. Not mine. It’s his gift. His show. “Presentable.” Like I’m a doll he wants polished. For them. For five strangers. Tonight! 

Lost. Completely lost. Is this mercy? Or just another leash? Rest now—then parade later. Sleep—then wake up to eyes on me.

The loop tried: accept. Fake. Survive. But it felt thin. Like it didn’t fit anymore.

He continued: “I’m leaving for the office,” he said. “Before I go—change to canvas shoes and socks. They’re right there.”

He pointed. The storeroom rack.

“Yes… Master.”

I reached over. 

Canvas shoes—flat, white. 

Socks—thin, white. 

Slipped off the heels as gently as possible—feet burned, blood rushing back. 

Socks on. Shoes on. 

Better. Less pain.

“Now—sleep position. On your back. Hands flat over pubic area. Legs together.”

“Yes… Master.”

I lay down on the mat, head on the hard cover book. Arms down. Hands over pubic. Legs straight. Uniform damp, sticking to skin.

He knelt beside me. Took my thumbs. Pulled a cable tie from his pocket. Zip. Tight. Thumbs bound together. No shift. Secured.

Then ankles—double cable tie each. Plastic bit in. Not too tight, but firm. No wiggle.

Finally—another cable tie. Through both ankle bracelets. Pulled taut. Locked. Ankles secured.

“That is to keep you in position throughout the sleep,” he said. Voice flat. Like it was obvious.

He stood.

“You will only wake up when I come back. If you wake up before that—behave. Shut your eyes. Pretend you’re still asleep. Sounds stupid, but that’s the way.”

“Yes… Master.”

Then turned. Door opened. Closed. And he left!

Inside my mind, nothing at first.

Then it hit. “You will only wake up when I come back.”

What?!?!? Like I’m a machine? Like I can just… shut off? And if I open my eyes—because I’m human, because I’m scared, because I can’t sleep—then what? He comes back, sees me staring at the ceiling, and… punishment?! 

Stupid. So stupid. He knows I can’t control it. He knows I’ll wake up. But he says “pretend.” Pretend I’m asleep.

The loop tried: accept. Fake. Survive. But this time it sounded hollow. Like even the loop was tired.

I closed my eyes. Not because I was sleepy—because I was. Too tired. Sleepless night. Body heavy. Head spinning. No fight left.

And just like that—I fell asleep. On the spot. No pretending. No waiting. Just… gone….

Slave Life Storyline- the night of REFLECTIONS

Day 6, night before to morning (night of punishment and release)

Earplugs jam deep—sound gone, but not dead. Master’s voice still drifts in, warped, like from underwater:

“Now stay like this the whole night. Make sure you learn your lesson and be a better slave. Reflect on yourself—really think about it. Think of what is best. Think of how you should behave properly. And when the sun comes up, hope that you wake up different—hope that you wake up as a better slave. Hope that all this… pain… finally sinks in. Because if it doesn’t, we’ll just do it again. And again. Until you’re perfect. I hope you enjoy the reflection, girl.”

The words sink slow. Girl. My chest tightens—chain rattles once. No fight. Just quiet.

The night starts… 

Sweat pools under the raincoat. Every breath rustles loud. Arms locked straight, wrists raw under double cable-ties, padlocked. Calves cramp, toes curled numb in the heels. Binder clips throb dull under bra and blouse— digging deeper with each inhale. Rubber band loops around penis—stretched taut, pulling back, constant ache like a slow burn.

The tampon sits inside. Every breath presses it deeper, dull throb low in my gut, like a secret no one sees.

Head drops. Doze hits. Then snap—neck jerks forward, PVC sleeve grinds into chin, sharp bite up the throat. Awake.

The thought of running… it just sinks. Even picturing it feels pointless. One slip, one twitch—and it’s more chains, more nights, more like this. Better not. Better stay still. Better behave.

I try to scream, “hssshhh” leaks around the chopstick. Nothing. Raincoat crinkles. Drool splats on tile, tiny echo. Useless.

Normal life—friends, bed, freedom. It feels far, like a dream. I miss it… but thinking about it hurts more than the clips. Why did I want this? Why did I ask for “real”?

Back then, I was so idealistic—thought “real” meant edge, rush, that sharp thrill every time I pictured it. I pushed—no safe word. “Real slaves don’t get outs,” I said. “It’ll make it authentic.” He nodded, said fine. Contract stayed simple: one page, extension clause only. No “unnecessary” stuff. Verbal promises, nods, they’re official. Only way out? End of term.

But real… it’s not hot. It’s this—sweat, ache, silence that never ends. Fantasy was quick, safe, mine. Actual is endless, no off-switch. Why did I think “no safe word” would feel good? Why did I want to be trapped like this?

And now… I wish I’d kept the “unnecessary” things. A real exit. A safe word—hidden, anything. A limit on nights like this. Daily check-in, someone else watching. I thought it made me weak—now it just makes me stupid. I could have said no. I could have stopped. Instead, I said “real,” and here I am, really reduced! 

He took it—like he’d been waiting his whole life. I didn’t even blink. Just slid the key into his palm, laughing, still buzzing from our pre-contract talk. All those little whispers, the teasing, the way I’d spun my fantasy into something shiny… I thought he was playing along. Thought it was mutual.

But halfway through, mid-breath, it hit me—he’d said it. Just… “I’ve wanted a real slave. No pretend. Real. Mine.” And I’d brushed it off. Not because I didn’t care—just because I heard “real” wrong. To me, real meant the rush, the heat, the experience. To him? Real meant a slave. Not a scene. Not a game. A person. His. And I’d handed him the key—literal, dumb, trusting—thinking my version of real is the same!

And now he’s turning it. Satisfied. And I’m here, in this state, while watching him smile like he finally got what he’d always craved.

Because I didn’t listen. Because my fantasy… didn’t just let him in. It walked me right up to him. Like prey stepping into the den, eyes wide, handing over the ribbon on a gift he never asked for—but oh, HE WANTED! Me! Wrapped up! Delivered! His! Not a game! His present!

Pain waves roll. Muscles lock—short breath, lungs tight under plastic. I try screaming again, “hssshhh” again. Chain clinks. Silence mocks.

No matter how hard I push—throat raw, lungs burning—it’s all just… “hssshhh.” Little and pathetic. Like air leaking from a punctured tire. Nobody hears. Nobody’s seems to come. The chain doesn’t flinch. I’m alone—helpless, muffled, locked in my own head.

Master’s words loop: “Reflect on yourself… think how to behave properly… better slave… girl.” They loop. Can’t shake them. Like they’re inside me now. I signed six months… stupid. Signed away everything.

I try again—unbearable. Body jerks hard—chain yanks, raincoat screams. 

“Hssshhh… hssshhh…” Nothing. No sound. No help. Just wet air.

If I fight now—another jerk, another sting—six months may turn into forever. I am suspecting it.  I picture it: tomorrow, next week, next month… more nights like this. More “hssshhh.”

So I pause. Not because I’m weak. Because I’m tired. I tell myself—I’m stronger than this. I won’t let his words in. “Better slave,” “girl”—they’re just noise. I can resist. I can stay me. No brainwashing. No breaking.

But the math creeps back. Resist… and he doubles it. Obey—fast, quiet, no hesitation—and maybe… maybe it stops. 

Maybe he lets me breathe. Then I can finally end at 6 months. 

And if I do it right—no slip, no fight, no hint of me underneath—he won’t have anything to grab. No “bad behavior,” no “need for correction.” Just… perfect. Blank. So he can’t justify another extension. Can’t say “see? Still not ready.” Can’t turn my silence into a loophole.

I keep telling myself: obey like it’s nothing. Let him win the outside. Keep the inside mine. If he thinks I’m broken, maybe he’ll stop looking for cracks. Maybe I can make it through!

Feels like I’m playing chess with a ghost—every move calculated, every breath measured.

I know he’s trying. Brainwashing me. “Reflect,” “be better,” “girl.” But I can play it. Show him obedience on the outside: nod, sip ladylike, keep still. Let him think he’s winning. Keep the inside locked—mine. Just six months. I can endure. Fake it. Survive.

I will keep replaying it. “Just do it.” “Better start.” “No more trouble.” I try to fight the loop—tell myself “no, you’re not his,” “you’re not broken”.

Keep quiet. Keep still. Keep ladylike. Maybe he stops. Maybe he treats me better. Maybe my days get easier—no more nights like this, no more silence, no more ache. Maybe six months isn’t just pain—maybe there’s air, maybe there’s light, maybe there’s… something less intense.. 

I try again—throat raw, nothing left. “Hssshhh…” Fades.

Then again. Hssshhh… hssshhh… hssshhh… hssshhh… hssshhh.

Each one shorter, sloppier—like I’m leaking out. Body jerks—chain clinks—raincoat screams. But nothing carries. Nothing echoes. The room just… swallows it whole.

No one’s coming. No one’s listening. I’m screaming inside—full, furious—but out here? Just these pathetic little hssshhh’s. Helpless. Muffled. Gone.

Feels like my voice died before it ever started. 

I try again—hssshhh… hssshhh… hssshhh… hssshhh…—until my throat’s just raw heat, until the sound feels like it’s coming from someone else. Fades.

Then the words creep back: “Just do it.” “Better start.” “No more trouble.” “Reflect… be better… girl.” Over. And over. Like a broken record in the dark.

I tell myself—stay strong. Stay me. But the clips throb harder every time I think “I’m not his.” The rubber band bites deeper every time I think “six months.” The raincoat clings tighter every time I think “maybe he stops.”

The rubber band pulls—steady, stupid—every time I shift. The tampon presses, soaked, warm, like it’s part of the ache now. Not new. Just… always.

And then—another wave: muscles lock, breath short, chain pulls.

I catch myself—breath slows, body slumps a little. “Okay,” I think. “That’s enough. Night’s done.” But then the next throb hits. Clips grind. Rubber band tugs. And I realize—no. Not yet. Not even close.

I try to count—maybe it’s been hours. Maybe dawn’s close. But the dark doesn’t change. The goggles—painted black, lens sealed—stay pitch void. 

The pain just… resets. Like every “maybe” I let in gets snatched back. Like the night laughs at me. “You thought you were done? Try again.”

No clock. No light. No end. Just this. Round and round. Ache after ache. Hssshhh after hssshhh. The night doesn’t move. It presses down. Heavy. Like it’ll never lift. Like I’m stuck in the middle of it—forever.

Feels like hope’s just another chain—pulling me back every time I try to slip free.

Finally.

Something hits—sharp, sudden—right on my nipple! Like a finger snap, but harder! The clip jolts—metal teeth dig in, pain flares hot! I gasp, “hssshhh…”but it dies fast. Chain rattles once. Raincoat rustles.

He doesn’t speak. Just… presses. Palm flat over the blouse, over the bra, over the clip. Not slapping—just holding. Weight. Pressure. The ache spreads—throbs down my chest, up my spine. I jerk—body pulls—chain yanks—but nothing. Just more pain.

And that’s when I know: he’s back. No words. No light. Just his hand. Just the reminder!

I’m still here. Still his.

Then—quiet—his fingers move. First the goggles: peeled off slow. Light stabs—eyes water, blink blind. Then earplugs: out with a pop, sound floods in—too loud, too real. The room’s hum. Then the chopstick: tugged free—jaw creaks, drool floods chin, tongue numb.

I blink. There he is—smiling. Not cruel. Just… satisfied. Like he knew I’d look like this. Like he waited for it.

Next—wrists. Padlocks click open slow. Arms drop—heavy, dead. Shoulders scream like they’ve been asleep for years. But I’m not free. Wrists still bound together, cable-ties still binding my hands together. 

Then—the ceiling chain. Padlock unclasps. Slack rushes in—the neck chain dangles, still locked around my throat, PVC sleeve biting chin. Neck jerks forward—free from the pull, but not free. 

Legs buckle. I collapse—butt slams tile, raincoat puddles around me. No strength. Just… slump. Feels like my body’s forgotten how to stand.

Then—he snips the cable-ties. Plastic snaps. Wrists finally separate—raw, numb. But I’m still on the floor. 

He stands over me: “Stand up.”

I try—legs tremble, calves locked in cramps, toes curled numb inside heels. Push palms to tile—sweat-slick, slippery. Butt lifts slow—raincoat peels off floor with sticky rip. Neck chain tugs—PVC sleeve grinds into chin, loose end swinging. Knees wobble—balance gone. I sway, arms flail, catch myself on nothing. Finally upright—barely—legs shaking like jelly, breath ragged.

“Raincoat off.”

I peel it—slow. Plastic sticks to every inch: sweat-slick back, armpits, belly. It comes away with a long, sticky rip. Underneath—blouse soaked through, the pinafore trapped it all underneath, bra sticky on my skin with sweat. Air hits skin—cold, sudden. The sweat’s flushed everything out—no stink left. Just warm, heavy humidity, like steam off my body.

He sniffs. Nods. 

“That’s the smell you’re living with now. Like it or not.”

“Lift your skirt. Pull down panties. Slightly.”

Hands tremble—fingers stiff from hours bound. Skirt lifted, slightly damp. Panties slide down, damp and sticky—cool air hits skin, rubber band snaps against thigh. Tampon string dangles, heavy.

Next he instructed“Remove the rubber band. And the tampon. Yourself.”

I open my feet—shoulder-width, knees bent, thighs quivering like they might give out. Fingers fumble down—find the rubber band first. It’s stretched so tight, skin underneath red and raw, pulling my penis back like a cruel little leash. I grip the shaft—keep it pulled tight against my belly—then tug the band slow. It stretches… stretches… snaps back against my penis with a sharp burning sting before finally removing it! Penis stays back—throbs hot, blood flooding in, fire crawling into the penis like it’s been asleep too long. I hiss—small, helpless.

Then the tampon. String slick, warm, sticky between my fingers. I tug—slow—feel the pull inside, walls clench, dull ache blooms low in my gut, like something’s being dragged out. I flinch. Breath catches.

He immediately ordered: “pull back the panty”

I obeyed and did exactly, and making sure the penis is well pulled to the back, leaving a flat appearance at the front.

Next he simply said: “updress”

I responded instinctively, I start. First—the pinafore. Fingers find left side zipper, pulled just enough to free the pinafore. Grab hem at waist—pull upward. Whole thing slides up—over head, straps tangle on shoulders, skirt flips high, panties show. Fabric bunches tight at neck, heavy with sweat. 

Then—pull up the blouse. Fingers grip bottom edge—roll it high, no buttons undone. Fabric bunches, front opens wide. Bra shows—cups tight, straps digging shoulders, lace dark with sweat.

Then—pull up the bra. Fingers slide under cups—lift straight up. Elastic stretches, cups ride up—and there they are: binder clips still clamped on my nipples, metal jaws biting hard, skin puffed red around them. As I lift, my knuckle accidentally brushes one clip—sharp jolt, like teeth snapping shut again. Pain flares hot—nipple screams, throb shoots down chest. I gasp—tiny, real. Arms tremble harder. Hold—fingers grip bunched pinafore and blouse at shoulders. Keep them high. Exposed. Waiting.

He steps close. Fingers on clips—handle twists back, metal jaws open. First nipple—release hits like ice after burn: sharp rush of blood, pins-and-needles explode, throb doubles then fades slow, skin wakes raw, tingling. Second—same, but deeper, like nerves screaming back to life. I hiss—tiny, real. But finally relieved to be out of it! 

Then he ordered: “Kneel.”

I obey—slow. Legs bend. Knees hit tile—

And there it is. Sharp. Fresh. The back of my knee—still raw from last night’s cane. Skin split, muscle bruised, like someone dragged a hot wire across it. Pain flares—bright, white—up my thigh, into my hip. I bite back a whimper. Body sways.

He doesn’t blink. Just watches.

“See? Still tender. Good. Means you’ll remember.”

I stay down. Head bowed. Knee throbbing—hot, wet—like it’s bleeding again.

Inside….. inside it burns. Not just the wound. The fact that he knows. That he put it there. That every time I drop, it reminds me—his mark. 

He crouches. Voice low, calm—like he’s talking to a pet.

“Girl… did you enjoy the reflection?”

I breathe—shaky. Mouth numb, tongue thick. No words. Just… air.

He smirks—tiny, mean. “No? Too busy thinking about how pretty you looked all tied up?”

“Are you going to be a better slave?”

I swallow. Lips part. Voice slurs out—wet, soft, like I’m already melting:

“Yesh… Master.”

It slips—too breathy. Too needy. Like I’m begging without trying.

He chuckles, pleased. “Yesh? No, no. That’s sloppy. Say it right. ‘Yes… Master.’ Nice and clear. Girly. Like a good little doll.”

He taps my chin—gentle, but firm. “Again.”

I try. “Yes… Master.”

Voice still cracked—higher now, softer. Like I’m forcing it. Like I’m pretending.

He nods. “Better. Keep that tone. I like it when you sound… delicate.”

He leans in—breath on my cheek. “One more. Slow. Let me hear how much you want to be good.”

“Yes… Master.”

It comes out—breathier, sweeter. Almost singsong. Almost… a new person!

Inside…. inside it twists.

But now—saying it out loud, like this… it feels like the inside’s leaking. Like every “yes” is a little piece of me sliding into his pocket.

I hate it. Hate how good he feels. Hate how the resolution—six months, just six months—suddenly sounds… small. Like maybe I won’t make it. Like maybe I don’t want to.

He stands. Looks down. “Good. Keep practicing. You’ll need to sound like that every time I ask.”

Silence stretches. Too long.

Then he tilts his head. “Girl.”

No answer. My throat’s dry—words stuck. I just… stare at his shoes.

He sighs—fake, theatrical. “See what happens when you forget who’s talking?”

Before I can blink—he grabs the loose chain. One sharp tug. Neck snaps forward—PVC sleeve bites chin hard, like a collar tightening. I yelp—tiny, stupid—body lurches, knee grinds tile. Fresh pain shoots up my leg.

“Answer me,” he says, voice low, not angry—just disappointed. Like I’m a kid who spilled milk. “When I say ‘girl,’ you say ‘yes, Master.’ Not nothing. Not staring. Say it.”

I swallow. “Yes… Master.”

He tugs again—lighter this time. Just enough to remind me. “Louder. Like you mean it.”

“Yes… Master.”

He lets go. Chain clinks back. “Better. But don’t test me again. You’re not done learning.”

He steps back—turns. “Stay kneeling. Think about how close you came to earning another night.”

I don’t move. Knee burns. Chain sways. Inside—everything tightens. Not just pain. Shame. Like I really did forget. Like I really am… his.

And yet—through the haze, the loop comes back. The one I clung to all night: Just six months. Fake it. Survive. Let him win the outside. Keep the inside mine.

I told myself I’d play the part—nod, sip ladylike, stay still—until he thinks I’m broken. Until he stops looking for cracks. Until I am on safe ground..