Month 1, day 10.
The first night in the full regular uniform was a revelation — and not the kind I wanted.
Master's order was simple: “The uniform stays on. Sleep in it. No removal.”
The sleeping protocol had been explained earlier that day. It was not optional. It was mandatory from the moment the contract began.
Sleeping Protocol – Locked Rules
- Thin camping mat on the kitchen floor, near the sink and dustbin.
- Thicker hardcover book under the head (mandatory for neck support — no pillow allowed).
- Uniform worn fully (blouse, pinafore, tie, panties, bra, socks).
- Hands over flat front (palms down on flat pubic as reminder of my gender status).
- Legs must be touching (knees and ankles together, no spreading).
- Eyes closed, breathing slow.
- No blanket. No fan in the kitchen.
- Sleep max 4–5 hours — wake-up at Master's command.
I lay on the mat. The wooden block pressed into my skull. The kitchen floor was cold tile. No fan. Malaysia humidity at 90%. Air thick, heavy, like breathing through a wet cloth.
The pinafore straps dug into my shoulders. The skirt twisted around my legs. But the worst was the bra.
The demi-cup bra felt fine during the day. It held. It shaped. But at night, as I tried to find a position, it tightened.
First, a subtle squeeze across my chest. Then, as I rolled to my side, the straps pulled taut. The cups pressed in. It felt like the bra was alive — contracting with every breath, every twitch.
And below, the tug and pull. My genitals were well tugged and pulled — painfully stretched to the back, held in place by the tight panties. The position was mandatory: everything tucked away, flat, invisible — a reminder of my gender status, downgraded and hidden. It felt very uncomfortable — a constant, dull ache that radiated up, like a string pulled too tight.
I woke four times that night. Each time, my chest felt compressed, like someone was sitting on it. I thought it was the pinafore at first. I tugged the bib, adjusted the straps. No relief.
By the third wake-up, I realised: the bra was the culprit. The wiring dug in. The straps bit. Lying flat made it worse — gravity pulled everything down, the cups shifted, the whole thing gripped harder.
And the tug below woke me too. The stretch was responsible for pulling me from sleep — a sharp twinge when I shifted legs, a deep ache when I tried to roll. It was so tempting to untug — just a quick reach under the skirt, just a moment of relief. But I was fearful of the ultimate punishment. Untugging would be a big violation — Contract Baseline related, Exhibit traits of man – Physical. Points: 200–800 on Chart A, 300–600 on Chart B. I kept my hands flat on the pubic area. I endured.
And I had to consciously force my legs closed. First, to follow the protocol — legs must be touching. Next, to keep the tug in place — any spreading loosened the stretch, but also risked Master noticing the next morning (bulge, improper tuck). So I clenched. I forced. Even in half-sleep, I held the legs together.
And the heat. No fan. Humidity at 80–90%. Sweat started under the bra cups first — the demi design trapped it there. Then it spread: armpits, back, chest. The blouse absorbed it slowly. The fabric turned sticky, clinging to skin like glue. The pinafore became heavy, damp, pressing the blouse even tighter against my body.
One of those early nights — day 14 or 15 — I woke up thirsty. The heat was unbearable. Sweat had soaked through everything. I crept to the kitchen sink for a drink — still half-asleep, uniform rumpled, legs moving apart to keep balance.
I didn't hear Master. He was standing in the doorway.
“Move without permission. Legs apart. Thirsty without asking.”
He didn't shout. He simply clipped the neck chain to the ceiling hook. Standing position. Heels on. Neck taut.
Then the accessories: Blind Seal over eyes. Earplugs. Tongue Gate wedged in. Nipple clamps snapped on.
I stood there — chained, blind, muffled, clamped — for the rest of the night. No water. No rest. Only the burn in my legs, the pull on my neck, the throb in my chest.
From then on, I adapted fast. I had to. No more waking up for drinks. No more shifting. No more legs apart. I forced myself to stay still, to breathe slow, to ignore the bra's grip, to endure the humidity. Sleep became a discipline — not a rest. I trained my body to shut down quickly, to stay motionless, to accept the discomfort as part of the night.
The bra never stopped tightening. The heat never stopped. The sweat never stopped. But I stopped fighting it.
The sleeping protocol never changed. The mat stayed thin. The book stayed hard. The legs stayed touching. The uniform stayed on. The bra stayed tight.
It took weeks to adjust. But the grip never truly went away. It just became part of the night.
