Month 1, Day 4 (from midnight to ~6pm)
I woke in the middle of the night, yanked from sleep by discomfort. The mat was thin, the book under my head hard, but the real torture was the uniform — two layers of blouse and pinafore, sticky with dried sweat, clinging like a suffocating second skin. The chain around my neck shifted slightly with every breath, a constant tug. The canvas shoes squeezed my feet, the white ankle socks damp from trapped heat. My body ached from the forced position — legs straight, thighs clamped, palms flat on the genital area. I didn’t dare move. The fear of Master catching me out of position was too real; the last time he spotted even a slight bulge or slouch, the punishment had been brutal — chain yanks, extra points, hours kneeling. So I lay rigid, thighs squeezed hard, palms pressed firmly, constantly tugging and pulling with tiny hip movements to keep everything flat and hidden. The layers fought me — every small shift caused the fabric to bunch, restricting my hips, forcing my knees to bend slightly just to relieve pressure. I adjusted again and again, each time earning a soft rustle and a fresh wave of discomfort. The palms-on-genital rule was the worst — every tiny movement threatened to dislodge the tuck, so I clenched harder, repositioned discreetly, terrified of any outline showing.
As I lay there, wide awake in the dark, reflections flooded in — relentless, unfiltered, merciless.
Family first. My parents — what would they think if they saw me now? Kneeling in a stranger’s house, collared, layered, reduced to a thing in a pinafore. The shame was physical — a hot spike in my chest. They’d never understand. They’d blame themselves, wonder where they went wrong. My little sister — if she knew, that image would shatter. She’d be disgusted, confused, hurt. The family group chat would go silent. Holidays would become awkward, forced, or worse — avoided. I’d be the one they whispered about. The one they pitied. The one they didn’t know how to face.
Then career. The promotion I’d been chasing — gone. The team I led — someone else would take over. The clients I’d built relationships with — they’d forget me. How do you explain two months missing? “Personal reasons”? Too vague. “Health leave”? They’d ask questions. The truth was impossible. I could see the emails piling up, the HR meeting, the awkward “we’re letting you go” conversation. All those late nights, all those wins — erased. I’d have to start over, explain the gap, rebuild credibility. If I even could. The thought of interviews — “So what have you been doing the last two months?” — made me want to vomit.
And the isolation hit hardest in the dark. I had no phone. No laptop. No form of communication to the outside world. I hadn’t brought any of it with me — no wallet, no keys, no devices. I’d been so secretive, so careful, putting in a lot of effort to make sure Master never had access to my personal life. I’d left everything behind on purpose — hidden, locked away, disconnected — thinking it would protect my real identity, keep this fantasy separate, contained. Now that secrecy worked against me. No one knew where I was. No one could trace me. I was effectively cut off — a ghost to everyone I once knew. No one would look for me for weeks, maybe months. By the time anyone worried, it would be too late. The realization sank deep: I had erased myself. Not just from him — from the world.
I was Singaporean. I’d crossed the border into Malaysia for this session — a quick cross-border taxi ride, a few hours, thinking I’d be back home in 4 days. I’d hidden my passport somewhere outside his house before entering — tucked in a safe spot near the entrance, wrapped in a plastic bag, convinced I’d retrieve it after the session ended. I didn’t want him to see it. I didn’t want him to know my full name, my NRIC, my address. I wanted control. Now that “control” was my prison. My passport was still out there — if I could get to it, I could leave the country. But I couldn’t even leave the house. And the law — Singaporeans could stay in Malaysia visa-free for only 30 days. I was already overstaying. Every day past 30 would be illegal. Immigration would catch me eventually — at the border, at a checkpoint, or worse, if he decided to report me. The thought made my stomach twist: I was trapped not just by the chain, but by borders, by laws, by my own secrecy.
Escape plans flickered in and out. Tomorrow. When he goes out. The lock-up is only temporary — he has to leave sometime. I could scream through the gag, bang on the door, hope a neighbor hears. Or wait until he’s asleep, find something sharp, cut the cable ties, unclip the chain. Then get outside, get my passport, take another taxi back to Singapore before the 30 days are up. But the chain is locked. The plug is in concrete. The gag is tight. The blindfold is thick. Every plan crumbled under reality. Even if I got free, where would I go? No phone. No money. No clothes except this uniform. And the contract — stupid, illegal or not — he had copies, photos, proof. He could ruin me. The bitterness surged again — he’d planned this. Every extension, every point, every layer — all calculated to trap me deeper. I hated him. I hated how calm he slept while I suffered. I hated how he smiled like he’d won something precious. I hated myself most of all — for signing, for extending, for not fighting harder sooner.
I imagined life after release — two months from now. Walking out that door, back to my apartment, back to normal clothes, back to freedom. Showering off the filth, retrieving my hidden passport, crossing the border legally, returning to Singapore. Calling family, laughing it off as a “crazy sabbatical.” Returning to work, spinning a story about “recharging.” It would be hard, but possible. I'd rebuild. Forget. Move on. The thought was a fragile light in the dark — something to cling to, even if doubt whispered it might not be that simple.
Eventually, fatigue won. I dozed back to sleep, body still rigid, mind still racing in fragments.
I woke naturally at dawn, the discomfort dragging me from sleep again. The first light filtered through the window, soft and golden, a cruel reminder of the world outside. I sat up slowly, registering the unnatural feeling — the weight of the double uniform, the chain clinking, the canvas shoes still on. This was real. Two months of this. The realization hit like a wave — no dream, no escape. Somehow, instinctively, I sat up and kneeled on the spot. Surprised at the instinct — was I already breaking? Relieved I woke earlier than Master, I could prepare without rush.
Carefully, consciously trying to act ladylike — not because I was this way, but to prevent punishment if he woke and saw any sloppiness — I folded the mat away. The chain was a constant nuisance — the loose end hung from my neck, swinging and tangling with every movement, catching on my arms, dragging across the mat, clinking softly against the floor. It wasn’t taut or pulling — it was loose, heavy, a stumbling block that got in the way of every fold and reach. When I leaned forward, the dangling links brushed my thighs, tangled briefly in the pinafore skirt, forced me to pause and untangle. When I tried to lift the mat, the chain swung forward, hitting my chest, making me flinch. Folding it was awkward — I had to keep one hand free to push the loose chain aside, the other smoothing the corners, all while maintaining posture. The chain’s weight felt heavier in the morning light, a physical reminder that even folding a mat was no longer simple. I finished, placed the mat neatly aside.
Then I remembered the rule — heels before kneeling by Master’s bed. Not because I was obedient. Not because I wanted to. But because I had to protect myself from punishment. If he woke and saw me in canvas shoes, kneeling, it would be a violation — “not properly presented,” “disrespect,” more points. I couldn’t risk it. So I slipped off the canvas shoes, the brief flat relief vanishing, and forced my still-sore feet back into the black 4-inch formal stilettos. The arches screamed again, toes crushed forward, calves tightening instantly. I winced, but the fear of punishment was stronger than the pain. I kneeled again beside the bed — heels on, chain pooling loosely on the floor, posture perfect — waiting.
I waited for what felt like hours. Master still slept, breathing slow and even. Kneeling there, hands on thighs, back straight, eyes down, the silence gave my mind too much room.
Today could have been my day of freedom. If I hadn’t signed those extensions — if I’d just held out, just said no one more time — I could be waking up in my own bed right now. Coffee in my kitchen, phone buzzing with work messages, planning my day like a normal person. Instead, I was here — collared, layered, waiting on my knees like a pet. The thought twisted in my gut. One day. One refusal. And I’d thrown it all away.
What was I expecting for the next two months? Clueless. I could only guess — more of this. More chores. More points. More layers, more accessories, more humiliation. Would he break me completely? Would I forget how to speak without permission? Would I start believing I deserved this? The uncertainty was worse than the pain — a blank void ahead, filled only with his whims. Two months felt like forever. And yet, somehow, not long enough to erase who I used to be… or maybe too long.
Resentment burned low and steady. He did this to me. He saw my weakness and fed it, turned it into chains. Every smile he gave, every “good girl,” felt like mockery. He slept peacefully while I knelt in discomfort. He dreamed sweet dreams while I fought to keep my body “lady-like.” I hated him. I hated how calm he was, how in control, how happy he seemed to own me. The bitterness coiled tighter — I wanted to scream it, to spit it, to make him feel even a fraction of this suffocation. But I stayed silent. Kneeling. Waiting.
A silent tantrum raged inside me. This slavery — this wasn’t me. I wasn’t supposed to be on my knees, collared, layered, gagged, bound. I wasn’t supposed to be “property.” I wanted to kick the bed, yank the chain, tear the uniform off and run. I wanted to shout that this was wrong, that I was a person, not a thing. But all I could do was clench my fists against my thighs, breathe through my nose, keep my posture perfect. The tantrum stayed inside — silent, furious, powerless. Every second kneeling felt like surrender. Every second waiting felt like defeat.
Finally, Master stirred, waking with a smile, as if he’d had the sweetest dreams. I greeted him in the most lady-like and submissive manner possible, body bowed low, hands on thighs, trying hard to maintain a high, soft pitch despite the morning hoarseness: “Good morning, Master.” The words felt foreign, forced, my voice cracking slightly on the pitch.
He was satisfied, and surprisingly, greeted me back — his good mood evident. “Good morning, property.” He stretched, still smiling. “I’m very happy to own you now.”
His happiness was my uncomfort — a flood of negative feelings crashed over me. Owned. Property. The word stung, amplifying the chain’s weight, the uniform’s cling. His good mood clashed with my turmoil — he looked refreshed, content, while I knelt there, aching, desperate. I wanted to beg right then, but his smile made me hesitate; it felt wrong to shatter it, and fear of ruining the rare "kindness" kept my mouth shut.
On the bed, he reminded me that now I was a full-time slave, I must observe a daily routine of chores and duties. No more stint. A flood of negative thoughts came — this was my life now? Endless service? My mind, still foggy from morning, couldn’t react aggressively. I simply listened submissively, nodding, the words washing over me like numb waves. This was another opportunity — interrupt, plead — but the fog and his calm authority silenced me; I nodded instead, the plan slipping away in the moment.
He shared he was going out for a few hours to meet friends. Since I was still “wild,” he’d lock me up with proper gag and punishment accessories to ensure no stupid actions. He assured that once I was well brainwashed into slavery, I’d be left alone to do chores when he went out. But now, I wasn’t ready.
The words landed like a slap — “wild,” “brainwashed,” “left alone” only after I’m broken. My stomach twisted. A rush of reactive feelings crashed through me: humiliation at being called wild, like an animal that needed caging; fear at the casual promise of future freedom only after “brainwashing”; anger at how he spoke of it so matter-of-factly, as if it was inevitable, as if my mind was something he could reprogram; helplessness because he was right — right now, I wasn’t ready, I was still fighting inside, still planning escape in my head, still clinging to the person I used to be. But the thought ignited something fiercer: I never and will never plan to be ready! The idea of “brainwashed into slavery” made bile rise in my throat. I would never accept this. Never surrender. Never become the obedient thing he wanted. Even if it took every ounce of will, even if it cost more points, more pain, more time — I would keep fighting. I would keep the real me alive, buried deep, waiting for one crack, one mistake, one chance. I wasn’t ready now, and I would never be ready. That refusal burned hot inside me, a silent vow in the face of his calm certainty.
This was no dungeon; it was a normal house. Yet the methods he used were simple yet brutally effective on me. He led me to the small storeroom corner — a cramped, windowless space barely wider than my outstretched arms, shelves of old boxes and cleaning supplies looming overhead. The air was thick, stale, smelling faintly of dust, detergent, and the lingering sourness of my own sweat-soaked uniform. He secured my neck chain directly to the wall plug 1m above the ground — the chain’s PVC sleeve clinking coldly against the metal as he clipped a small padlock shut. The length gave me exactly 1m radius — enough to shuffle in a tiny circle, kneel, sit, or lie down if I curled tight, but nothing more. No reaching shelves. No pacing. No escape.
To ensure no tampering, he bound my hands behind my back with the cable tie bracelet method from the punishment protocol — two thick plastic ties looped around each wrist, then cinched together behind me, forcing my shoulders back and chest forward. The plastic bit into my skin, not cutting yet, but promising pain if I struggled. My fingers tingled almost immediately from the restricted circulation, palms pressed uselessly against my lower back.
Then the full punishment accessories — the ones he called “proper”: - The goggles — simple black swimming goggles, lenses painted over with thick black paint, turning them into a perfect blindfold. He pressed them over my eyes, the rubber seal tight against my skin, plunging me into absolute darkness. No light leaks, no shapes, just black void. - The earplugs — common 3M foam earplugs, rolled small and shoved deep into each ear canal. The world muffled instantly to a dull roar — my own heartbeat, my own breathing, the faint rustle of my uniform when I shifted. Everything else vanished. - The tongue bridle — a pair of simple Chinese wooden chopsticks and a few rubber bands. He ordered my tongue out. I complied, trembling. He placed the two chopsticks as close as possible to the opening of my mouth, clamping my tongue firmly between them. Rubber bands went on both ends, tightened until the chopsticks were secure. Anatomically, it forced my mouth closed — impossible to open, impossible to scream, impossible to speak. The wood pressed against my tongue, the rubber bands digging into the corners of my lips. Saliva pooled immediately, unable to escape properly, dripping slowly down my chin.
He stepped back. “Now — panties off.”
The command was quiet, casual. I hesitated — not out of defiance, but pure shock. Remove them? Here? Now? While kneeling? With the goggles painted black, earplugs muffling everything, tongue clamped in the bridle, mouth sealed shut, hands still free but soon to be bound? The absurdity hit me — I couldn’t even speak to protest, couldn’t see my own body, could barely hear my own breathing. But the chain was already secured to the wall plug — loose enough to move within the 1m radius, but not much leeway. Every shift pulled the collar gently, reminding me I couldn’t stand, couldn’t turn away, couldn’t escape the moment.
I reached down slowly, fingers fumbling in darkness, guided only by feel. The double skirts were messy — bunched, twisted, clinging in uneven patches from sweat and movement. I had to lift the outer pinafore skirt first — the fabric resisted, damp and clinging to my thighs in sticky folds, the chain’s loose end swinging forward, brushing my arms, threatening to catch on the hem. Then the inner skirt — more struggle, knees high in heels, thighs clamped tight to maintain the tuck, balance precarious. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the panties — plain white bikini style, soaked through with sweat and more, the fabric heavy, slimy, tacky against my fingertips. Pulling them down was agony. I had to rock my hips side to side, inch by inch, the wet cotton dragging against my skin, sticking, resisting every movement. The material peeled away slowly — sticky, clinging, the texture nauseating as it slid past my thighs. The heels made it worse — ankles locked in stilettos, legs couldn’t spread wide enough. I had to keep thighs pressed together, shimmy awkwardly, the chain dangling and tangling briefly in my arms, forcing me to pause, untangle, continue. The sensory deprivation amplified everything — no sight to guide me, no clear hearing to judge distance or sound, only the wet rustle of fabric, the muffled thud of my pulse, the sticky drag against my skin. Finally, the panties reached my knees — but they caught on the heels. Still kneeling, I couldn’t just slide them off. I had to lift one foot slightly — balancing on the other stiletto, knee trembling, thigh muscles straining to keep clamped — and wiggle that leg to free the fabric from the heel’s strap and high arch. The panties snagged again on the narrow heel tip; I rocked the foot side to side, small, frantic movements, feeling the fabric stretch and pull. Sweat dripped down my back, adding to the mess.
Then the other leg — same struggle, same precarious balance, same painful tug on sore arches. One by one, the panties finally slipped past the heels, dropping to the floor in a damp, crumpled heap with a soft, wet slap. The moment the inner crotch was exposed to air, the smell hit — extremely strong, pungent, overwhelming even through the earplugs. It had been unwashed for 4 days. The fabric had absorbed everything — layers of sweat from the first day’s heat, the second day’s extended labor, the third day’s layering and chain work, and now this fourth morning’s accumulated filth. The scent was thick, ripe, almost solid — a heavy, musky sourness mixed with the sharp tang of old urine traces, the cloying sweetness of trapped body oils, the faint metallic edge of skin bacteria blooming in the damp warmth, and a mild, salty undercurrent of seminal fluid from accidental leaks. It wasn’t just strong; it was intimate, unmistakable, the concentrated smell of my own neglected body, intensified by days of constant wear, no washing, no air, no relief. The moment it wafted up, it filled my nose completely — sharp enough to sting, heavy enough to coat the back of my throat, lingering like a cloud I couldn’t escape. I felt it settle on my tongue even through the bridle — a phantom taste of salt, musk, decay. Never ever wanting to imagine how it would taste for real. Never. The idea alone made my stomach churn harder, the disgust building, layering on the shame like another uniform. My stomach lurched; shame flooded hotter than the heat trapped in the layers. This was me — this smell, this filth, this evidence of 4 days without a single moment of cleanliness. Exposed. Undeniable. No hiding it now. Immediately, the moment the panties were gone, my penis — no longer held in place — sprinted outward, pushing against the inner skirt, creating an obvious bulge. Master saw it instantly. His voice sharpened. “Displeased.” He listed the violations — “failure to maintain flatness,” “exhibiting male traits,” “upkeep breach” — and awarded many, many punishment points. The tally climbed in his calm voice, each point a fresh stab. “Pull it back in place,” he ordered. “Now.” I tried to respond — to say “yes, Master,” to acknowledge, to buy a second of mercy — but the bridle turned it into a weird, muffled grunt, tongue clamped tight, mouth sealed, saliva bubbling around the chopsticks. The sound was pathetic, animal-like, humiliating. No words, no plea, just a wet, garbled noise that made my cheeks burn hotter. I fumbled blindly, thighs clamped tight, hands shaking as I reached down, tugged, repositioned, forced everything flat again. Kneeling made it a nightmare — my knees ground into the cold concrete, already sore from the earlier wait by the bed, balance precarious without sight or sound to guide me. The 1m chain radius limited my lean, the loose end dangling and brushing my arms, threatening to tangle in my fumbling hands. Sensory deprivation amplified every struggle: the goggles blacked out the world, leaving me to grope by feel alone; the earplugs muffled my own grunts into distant echoes; the bridle clamped my tongue, saliva dripping unchecked, adding slickness to my already sweaty thighs. I had to keep legs closed — no spreading for ease, or the tuck would slip further — so I worked in the narrow space between clamped thighs, fingers slipping on sweat-slick skin. The pulling itself was pain — sharp, intimate, radiating from the sensitive area. Each tug sent jolts up my groin, the skin raw from days of constant compression, muscles protesting as I forced the penis back, repositioned the balls, flattened everything under the skirt's pressure. It burned, a deep, aching sting that made my eyes water behind the goggles, my breaths coming in short, wet gasps through my nose. Every adjustment hurt more than the last, the pain a humiliating reminder of my reduced state — not just physical, but the shame of doing this blind, gagged, chained, like an animal fixing itself under orders. The panties lay discarded on the floor, a damp, forgotten heap — no longer there to hold anything in place. Without them, I had to rely on constant thigh pressure — legs always closed, muscles clenched tight — to prevent dislodging. Every movement risked it slipping again. The humiliation was complete — exposed, corrected, punished, reduced to manual control over my own body. The moment my fingers touched the gross panty on the floor — to steady myself or perhaps out of instinct — revulsion surged. The fabric was beyond damp; it was slimy, tacky, coated in a thick layer of 4-day-old sweat mixed with traces of body oils and the mild seminal fluid from accidental leaks. It clung to my fingers like glue, strings stretching between my fingers and the panty as I pulled away. The feel was intimate in the worst way — slippery, sticky, foreign yet unmistakably mine. Disgust rolled through me in waves; I wanted to recoil, to drop it, to wipe my hand clean anywhere but here. Instinct took over — I tried to wipe the slime off on the outer pinafore skirt, a quick, desperate motion before I could think. The fabric absorbed some, but left a visible dark smear on the crisp navy pinafore. Master saw it immediately. His voice turned ice-cold. “You dirtied the uniform. A new set — the outer one was clean. Upkeep violation. Disrespect to property. +300 points.” The anger in his tone was quiet, controlled, but it hit like a physical blow. The points stacked higher, the punishment looming larger. I froze, hand still hovering, slime still coating my fingers, shame burning hotter than any pain. I had made it worse — not just exposed, not just unable to control my body, but now I had ruined something he valued, something “clean.” The contradiction twisted inside me: I was filthy, yet punished for spreading filth to the uniform. The humiliation layered deeper — my own body’s mess, my own instinctual reaction, now costing me more suffering. I fumbled back to the task, thighs clamped harder, fingers slick and shaking as I reached between my legs again. The moment my fingers touched the exposed penis — hot, slick with sweat and a thin film of pre-cum from the sudden arousal of exposure — revulsion surged again, sharper and more visceral than before. The skin was warm, slippery, slightly sticky under my fingertips. It pulsed slightly against my touch — alive, disobedient, betraying me in the worst way. The feel was intimate in the most degrading sense — warm, slippery, slightly sticky, the mild seminal fluid from earlier leaks now mixed with fresh sweat, coating my fingers in a thin, greasy layer. I recoiled inside, stomach heaving, but I had to keep going — tug, flatten, press it back against my body, force it down under the skirt's pressure. Every contact sent a jolt of shame through me — this was my own body, yet it felt alien, gross, uncontrollable. My fingers came away coated, the slime clinging, refusing to let go. Instinct surged again — my hand, still slick from the penis and earlier panty contact, moved to wipe on the outer pinafore. A quick, desperate motion — the fabric absorbed some, but left another visible dark smear on the crisp navy. Master saw it immediately. His voice turned colder, fuming mad — the calm shattered for the first time. “You dirtied it again. A new set — the outer one was clean this morning. Repeated mistake. Over such short time. Disrespect to property. +800 points. Multiplied for repetition.” The points multiplied — the tally soaring to terrifying heights, punishment looming like a guillotine. I froze, hand still hovering, slime still coating my fingers, the panty still on the floor, the penis still threatening to slip. I had made it worse — again. The humiliation layered deeper: my body’s mess, my instinctual reaction, now costing me more than ever. Master’s disappointment — or rather, his rage at my repeated failure to stay clean, to stay controlled — felt heavier than any chain.
He stepped forward again.
The bridle loosened — chopsticks pulled away, rubber bands snapped off, tongue finally free, jaw aching from the brief but intense clamping.
My mouth was dry, lips cracked, tongue numb from the short time it had been held.
I gasped, tasting fresh air mixed with the lingering rubber and my own stale saliva.
“Pick up the panty,” he ordered.
“Fold the inside outwards.
Stuff it into your mouth.
Now.”
My worst nightmare realized.
The flood of thoughts crashed over me like a tidal wave:
No.
No no no.
Not this.
Not the thing soaked in 4 days of my own filth, the smell still thick in the air, the slimy texture still on my fingers from earlier.
I’d rather die than taste it.
I’d rather choke on my own tongue than have that in my mouth.
The thought alone made bile rise — salt, musk, decay, urine, body oils, seminal traces — all of it concentrated, warm, alive with bacteria.
I’d never be clean again.
I’d never forget the taste.
I’d carry it in my mouth, in my mind, forever.
This was the final degradation — not just wearing the filth, but consuming it, swallowing my own shame, literally.
My stomach heaved; panic clawed at my throat.
I wanted to speak out, to beg, to refuse — “Please, no, Master, anything but this” — the words forming on my tongue for the first time since the bridle came off.
But before I could utter a single syllable, his voice cut like a blade.
“Speak without permission — +100 points.”
He paused, letting the number sink in.
“Continue.
Or it doubles.”
The threat stopped me cold.
More points.
More punishment.
More suffering.
I had no choice.
Forced to action.
Still blind, I had to feel around — hands groping in darkness, fingers brushing concrete, chain links, until they found the damp heap on the floor.
The moment my fingers touched the gross panty — revulsion surged again, sharper this time.
The fabric was beyond damp; it was slimy, tacky, coated in a thick layer of 4-day-old sweat mixed with traces of body oils and the mild seminal fluid from accidental leaks.
It clung to my fingers like glue, strings stretching as I lifted it, the weight heavier than it should be from saturation.
The texture was sickening — cold, gelatinous in places, sticky everywhere, the inner crotch the worst: a concentrated patch of filth, warm from my body heat, slick with layers of discharge.
I wanted to drop it, to fling it away, to scrub my hands raw — but I couldn’t.
I folded it as instructed — inside outwards — the slimy crotch now on the outside, the smell intensifying as I brought it closer.
My hands shook violently.
Tears leaked behind the goggles.
I brought it to my mouth — lips trembling, breath hitching — and stuffed it in.
The experience was overwhelming.
The fabric filled my mouth instantly — thick, sodden, pressing against my tongue, cheeks, roof of my mouth.
The taste exploded — salty, musky, sour, bitter, metallic, with a faint sweet rot underneath.
The seminal traces added a mild, acrid note, the urine tang sharp and ammoniac, the sweat and oils coating everything in a greasy film.
It was warm from my body, alive with the day’s heat, the texture slimy and fibrous as it soaked my saliva further.
I gagged — reflexively, violently — but the wad was too big, too wet, too lodged.
Saliva surged, mixing with the filth, turning it into a pulpy, slippery mass.
Every swallow was torture — the taste sliding down my throat, coating it, lingering.
The smell travelled up my nostrils from within — rising from the back of my mouth, trapped in my sinuses, inescapable, concentrated, my own body turned against me in the most intimate violation.
Shame burned so hot it felt physical — tears streamed under the goggles, body shaking, mind screaming in silent horror.
This was it.
This was the lowest.
No coming back from tasting your own 4-day filth.
He stepped forward again. With the panty still stuffed in my mouth — thick, sodden, filling every corner — he reapplied the chopstick bridle. He pressed the two chopsticks back into place, clamping the already-full mouth even tighter, the wood squeezing the wet wad against my tongue and cheeks. Rubber bands tightened on both ends, securing it firmly. The bridle now prevented me from spitting it out — the chopsticks locked the panty in place, forcing my mouth to stay closed around the filthy mass. Saliva had nowhere to go but to mix with the mess, turning it into a pulpy, slippery sludge that coated my tongue, seeped into every crevice. The taste intensified tenfold — trapped, concentrated, inescapable. Every swallow pushed more of it down my throat, the smell travelling up my nostrils from within — rising from the back of my mouth, trapped in my sinuses, inescapable, concentrated, my own body turned against me in the most intimate violation. The bridle made it impossible to dislodge — the panty was stuck, squeezed, a constant, suffocating presence. I gagged again — muffled, helpless — the sound pathetic through the wood and fabric. The reapplication sealed my worst nightmare: not just tasting it once, but keeping it in, locked, for as long as he decided.
He stepped back, looking at my bound hands with a small, satisfied nod. “Not ready for hands in front yet,” he said calmly. “Too much freedom for you. You’d still try something stupid. Behind is safer — for both of us.”
Before he left, he paused, voice casual again. “Oh — and just so you know… your points for this little session alone.” He paused, as if tallying in his head — the ledger always an estimate, always higher for punishment earned, lower for anything paid. “Bulge: 200. Failure to tuck: 300. Dirtied the new uniform (twice): 800 × 2 = 1,600. Speaking attempt: 100. Repeated mistake: another 800. Failure to request permission to remove clothing: 400. Improper posture during undressing: 300. Allowing bodily fluid to drip on the floor: 500. Failure to thank Master for correction: 200. Hesitation and slow compliance: 600. Allowing the chain to touch the floor untidily: 200. Exposing the genital area to air without immediate covering: 400. Failure to maintain eye contact during correction: 300. General disruption of Master's peace: 1,000.”
He smiled. “Let’s call it… 10,000 points. Nice round number.”
I gulped — hard. The panty in my mouth shifted with the motion, releasing a fresh wave of taste. 10,000 points. A huge amount. The number echoed in my head — impossible to pay off, impossible to survive. He smiled, satisfied. “See you in a few hours, property.”
Then the door shut. A soft click of the lock. Silence swallowed me.
The first minutes were panic — heart hammering, breaths short and wet through my nose, trying to swallow around the sodden wad, saliva mixing with the filth. The chain tugged every time I shifted, the wall plug unyielding, forcing me to stay low. I tried to kneel upright — impossible with hands bound behind. I tried to sit — the chain pulled my neck down. I tried to lie on my side — the bound hands dug into my back, the uniform bunched painfully under me. Every position hurt. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating. The panties in my mouth throbbed with every swallow — taste intensifying, smell trapped inside my head. The painted goggles grew warm against my eyelids, sweat beading underneath. The earplugs made my own breathing loud, wet, obscene — a constant reminder I was gagged, silenced, reduced to animal sounds.
Time dissolved. Minutes? Hours? I couldn’t tell. My knees ached against the cold concrete. My shoulders burned from the bound position. My jaw and tongue throbbed from the pressure. The uniform clung, heavy, itchy, the layers trapping heat and moisture until I felt like I was stewing in my own filth. Thoughts circled endlessly — escape fantasies, regret, bitterness, fear of more points, fear of never leaving. But mostly, just waiting. Waiting for sound. Waiting for light. Waiting for release. In the isolation, I rehearsed my plea a hundred times — but the panties turned it all to muffled, wet gurgles, a cruel practice in futility.
Eventually, the door opened — a faint creak I felt more than heard.
Footsteps.
The chain rattled as he unclipped the small padlock.
The chain rattled as he unclipped the small padlock from the wall plug. The tension on my neck released suddenly; my head jerked forward, body following as gravity pulled me. I collapsed forward, hands — still bound behind — useless to catch myself. I twisted at the last second, shoulder slamming into the concrete, cheek scraping the floor, breath knocked out in a muffled grunt through the stuffed mouth. The pain was sharp but brief; the relief of no longer being tethered to the wall was immediate, intoxicating, even if only for a moment.
He knelt beside me, voice calm. “Hands first.”
The cable ties snapped — one by one — the plastic biting deeper for a split second before releasing. Blood rushed back; pins and needles exploded through my arms, shoulders, fingers. I gasped — muffled, wet — as sensation returned in burning waves. My arms felt foreign — heavy, numb, tingling, useless for long seconds as circulation fought to restore itself. I flexed my fingers weakly, wrists raw and red, the skin indented with deep grooves from the ties.
“Remove the rest yourself,” he ordered. “Neatly. On the floor.”
Still kneeling, I obeyed — hands trembling from pins and needles. First the goggles — fingers fumbled at the straps, rubber seal peeling away from sweaty skin, lenses lifting. Light stabbed my eyes after hours of black — sudden, blinding, painful. I blinked rapidly, tears streaming from the brightness, vision blurry and disoriented, colors too vivid, edges too sharp. The room swam for seconds; I swayed, knees grinding deeper into concrete.
Next the earplugs — I pinched one, then the other, pulling them out slowly. Sound rushed in like water — my own ragged breathing loud and wet, the low hum of the house, Master’s steady presence nearby, the faint clink of the chain still on my neck. The sudden clarity was jarring — every noise amplified after hours of muffled silence.
The bridle next — I reached up, fingers clumsy, unhooked the rubber bands one by one, pulled the chopsticks away. My jaw screamed in relief, aching muscles finally free, but the panty remained lodged — sodden, heavy, filling my mouth. I gagged slightly as the bridle came off, saliva surging around the wad, the taste flooding back in full force.
He watched every movement — silent, judging. “Panties last,” he said. “Take it out. Then wear it back.”
My heart sank. Still kneeling, I reached into my mouth — fingers hooking the sodden wad — and pulled. The panty came out with a wet, sucking sound, strings of saliva stretching and breaking. The taste lingered — thick, coating my tongue, my throat, my sinuses. I held the filthy thing in my shaking hand — warm, slimy, saliva-soaked now mixed with the original residue: sweat, oils, urine traces, seminal fluid — all of it slick and tacky against my palm. The smell rose again — pungent, intimate, but reduced significantly after hours trapped in my mouth. Saliva had soaked through the fabric, diluting the concentrated filth, washing away some of the sharpest edges. The odor was still there — musky, sour, intimate — but it no longer stung the nose like before. It had become muted, heavy, almost cloying rather than sharp — a constant, low hum of my own body’s residue rather than an assault. The reduction was small mercy, but it didn’t erase the shame; it only made the lingering scent feel more insidious, more personal, more inescapable in a quieter way.
Wearing it back while kneeling was a fresh humiliation. I couldn’t stand — not without permission, not without risking more points. I feared even asking — “May I stand, Master?” — the words forming but dying on my tongue. The fear of another violation, another point stack, kept me silent. So I stayed on my knees — thighs clamped, heels digging into my buttocks, balance precarious. I lifted one knee slightly, rocked my hips, used one hand to hold the skirt up while the other guided the panties. The fabric — now even wetter from my saliva — resisted, sticking to my fingers, sliding awkwardly up my thighs. The slimy texture dragged against my skin — cold in places, warm in others — leaving trails of mixed fluids. Pulling it over my hips was torture — knees high, thighs still clamped to hold the tuck, the panties catching on my skin, requiring small, humiliating wiggles to get them into place. The crotch settled against me — wet, sticky, clinging — a constant reminder of what had just happened. The elastic waistband snapped against my skin; I winced, but stayed silent, posture rigid, eyes down.
He watched every movement — silent, judging. Satisfied, he nodded.
He looked down at me. “You survived,” he said simply. “Now — your first meal of the day.”
The words landed flat, matter-of-fact. My stomach clenched — not from hunger (though it was there, gnawing), but from the reminder that even eating was controlled, ritualized, punishing. He pointed toward the kitchen. “Fridge. Dog bowl. Mix it. Same as always.”
Still kneeling, I rose slowly — knees screaming from hours on concrete, heels wobbling as circulation returned fully. The chain’s loose end dragged behind me like a tail, clinking softly with every step, catching on furniture legs, forcing me to pause and untangle. I moved to the kitchen — slow, careful, posture rigid, eyes down. Opened the fridge. Inside, pre-prepared portions waited: a small portion of plain white rice (cold, slightly dry), a small cup of milk (room temperature, no sugar), a handful of raw shredded cabbage leaves (washed but unseasoned), and a small dollop of mayonnaise in a cup. No seasoning. No warmth. No variety. The diet was designed to sustain, not satisfy — bland, utilitarian, humiliating in its simplicity.
I carried everything to the floor — no table, no chair. The dog bowl sat waiting — metal, shallow, low to the ground. Kneeled again. The chain pooled around me. Master watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression calm.
“Mix it.”
I emptied the rice into the bowl — cold clumps tumbling in. Poured the milk over it — the liquid soaking in slowly, turning the rice soggy and pale. Added the shredded cabbage — thin, fibrous strands scattering on top. Spooned the mayonnaise in last — thick, white, clinging, slowly melting into the mixture. I stirred with the small plastic spoon — the only utensil allowed — combining everything into a cold, wet, uneven mash: starchy rice softened by milk, bitter cabbage adding crunch and green flecks, mayo turning it greasy and slick. The texture was unappetizing — soggy, lumpy, oily, with sharp cabbage bits breaking through the mush.
“Eat.”
Still kneeling, I made a conscious attempt to eat ladylike — every movement deliberate, every bite controlled. I scooped a tiny amount of the mixture — the spoon barely holding the soggy mass — and brought it to my mouth slowly, gently. I parted my lips carefully, inserted the spoon with precision, closed around it softly. The cold mixture touched my tongue — starchy rice softened by milk, bitter cabbage shreds, oily mayo coating everything — and I held it there for a long moment, letting it rest before chewing. I chewed slowly, gently — small, measured bites, trying not to make noise, trying not to let bits fall. The cabbage resisted, fibrous strands catching in my teeth; the mayo made it slippery, greasy; the rice turned mushy in my mouth. Then, gently swallow — a careful, controlled motion, feeling the cold, heavy mixture slide down, coating my throat in a greasy, bitter film, hoping no trace showed on my lips or chin.
Master watched — silent, unblinking — keeping track of every violation, inevitable no matter how careful I was. A small lump of mixture slipped from the spoon — landed on the floor. A drop of mayo-milk liquid escaped the corner of my mouth — trailed down my chin. A shred of cabbage fell — tiny, but visible. A smear of mayo touched my lip — small, but there. Each tiny imperfection noted. His voice cut in, calm but sharp. “Messy. Violation — unclean eating. +150 points.” He listed more: “Allowing food to touch the floor: +100.” “Failure to maintain posture while eating: +100.” “Dribbling on uniform: +200.” “Smearing mayo on lip: +150.” “General sloppiness: +200.”
The points stacked — casual, inevitable. I froze mid-bite, spoon in hand, shame burning hotter than hunger. No matter how gently I ate, how ladylike I tried to be — the posture, the spoon, the kneeling, the chain — everything conspired against perfection. The meal — already degrading — became another punishment. I finished quickly, swallowing hard, the cold rice-milk-cabbage-mayo mixture sitting heavy in my stomach, the taste lingering like defeat — starchy, greasy, bitter, oily. The floor had small stains — rice clumps, milk drops, mayo smears, cabbage shreds. Another violation waiting to be noticed later.
Master’s eyes flicked down. His voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “Clean it.”
I blinked — confused for a second. No cloth, no tissue, no instruction to stand or fetch anything. Then it hit.
“Lick it up.”
The words landed softly, but they struck like a slap. My stomach twisted again — harder this time. The floor — cold concrete, dusty from the storeroom, now dotted with my own spilled food. Rice grains stuck here and there, milk pooled in tiny drops, mayo smeared in thin streaks, cabbage shreds scattered like confetti. All of it mixed with whatever dirt had accumulated since the last cleaning. I stared at it — the sight worse than darkness. This was the next layer: not just eating like an animal, but cleaning like one.
Master saw my hesitation. My body froze — head lowered, lips trembling, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the stains. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The command was too much, too degrading, too final.
His voice sharpened — calm still, but edged with displeasure. “Hesitation. Failure to obey immediately. Violation. +200 points.”
The points added — casual, inevitable. The number climbed higher, another layer of debt for nothing more than a second of frozen shock. No mercy for instinct. No allowance for horror. Only points. Always points.
I lowered myself — slowly, carefully — from kneeling to all fours. The chain dangled loosely from my neck, brushing the floor, clinking softly. My palms pressed against the concrete — cold, rough, gritty. I leaned down, face inches from the stains. The smell rose — faint traces of milk, mayo, cabbage, mixed with dust and my own lingering body odor from days without proper hygiene. I extended my tongue — slowly, reluctantly — and touched the first rice clump. The texture was gritty — rice stuck to the floor, picking up dust, tasting faintly of concrete. I licked — gentle, careful — gathering the grains, the milk drop beside it. The taste was a mix: cold starch, sour milk, faint bitterness from cabbage residue, oily mayo, and the underlying grit of the floor itself. It coated my tongue — slimy, dusty, humiliating. I swallowed — the mixture sliding down, joining the meal already in my stomach. Another spot — mayo smear — thick, greasy, sticking to my tongue like glue. I licked again — tongue dragging across the concrete, feeling the roughness scrape lightly, collecting the oily streak. Cabbage shred next — fibrous, bitter, tasting of raw earth and mayo. I worked methodically — spot by spot — licking, gathering, swallowing, the floor’s dirt mixing with the food residue in my mouth. Each lick was slower, more deliberate — not from care, but from dread. The concrete was cold against my lips, rough against my tongue, leaving a faint gritty aftertaste. Saliva mixed with everything — turning the mess into a thin, muddy slurry on my tongue.
Master watched — silent, arms folded. When I finished — the stains gone, only faint wet marks remaining — he nodded once. “Acceptable. But next time — no mess. +200 points for requiring floor cleaning.”
The points added — another layer of debt. I stayed on all fours for a moment — head bowed, tongue still coated in the mixed filth, shame burning deeper than ever. This was not just eating. This was erasure — of dignity, of humanity, of any separation between me and the floor.
Instinct took over again — my mouth still tasting of the floor, lips wet from licking, I reached up to wipe my mouth. My sleeve — the white blouse’s sleeve — came up automatically, brushing across my lips, chin, removing the last traces of saliva and residue. The fabric absorbed it — a small, damp spot spreading on the crisp white sleeve, darkening the material slightly, the stain visible against the pale cotton.
Master’s eyes narrowed instantly. His voice turned ice-cold, fury barely contained. “You dirtied the uniform again. The white blouse — the new set’s outer layer. With your mouth. After everything. Repeated violation. Disrespect to property. +1,600 points. Multiplied for repetition and for using your sleeve like a napkin.”
The number hit like a physical blow — 1,600 more, multiplied. The tally soared even higher, the debt impossible. I froze — sleeve still near my face, damp spot stark on the white fabric, shame so intense it felt like fire in my chest. I had done it again — instinctively, without thinking — and now the punishment was exponential. Master’s anger was no longer quiet; it was sharp, controlled, but unmistakable. He stepped closer, voice low. “You will learn. Or the points will keep multiplying until you do.”
He stepped back. “Now — chores.”
After the meal, he briefed me on the day’s chores and made me wear the chore accessories again. “From now on, the moment you wake up, put on the chore accessories to protect the surroundings and my nose from you.” The words hit hard — filthy, contaminating, something to be isolated. Feelings of degradation surged; I was no longer a person, but a hazard. Shame, anger, resignation mixed in a bitter wave.
I put on the chore accessories again — the second time in less than a day.
The white maid apron first. I tied it around my waist, fingers still trembling from pins and needles, the bow at the back feeling like another restraint. The frills rustled softly — mocking, feminine, ridiculous. The fabric was crisp, clean, contrasting sharply with the sticky double uniform beneath. But the contrast only made me feel dirtier — like the apron was a lie, a costume hiding the truth of my filth. Each knot pulled tighter than necessary, not from obedience, but from the lingering fear that if it looked sloppy, more points would come.
Next the wrist-length white maid gloves — plain white cotton, soft and breathable at first. They slid on easily, no snap, just a gentle hug around my wrists. But the cotton quickly absorbed the dampness from my skin, turning heavier, clammy, clinging in a different way from latex. The material was porous — sweat soaked in immediately, making my hands feel wrapped in a warm, wet cloth that grew stickier as I worked. No slick barrier; instead, a constant, soft, suffocating closeness — every movement made the cotton shift and rub, trapping heat and moisture against my palms and fingers. My hands felt confined, but in a softer, more insidious way — the cotton becoming damp and heavy, like wearing my own sweat as gloves.
The maid headdress — I pinned it in place, the ruffled cap sitting awkwardly on my matted hair. The frills framed my face like a mockery of innocence. Every pin prickled my scalp, a small sting that matched the sting of humiliation. It felt heavier than it should — not from weight, but from meaning: another layer of performance, another piece of the costume I was forced to wear.
Then the tight-fitting transparent raincoat. I slipped my arms in, buttoned it up one by one. The plastic immediately clung — crinkling loudly with every breath, every movement. It trapped the heat of the double uniform beneath, turning my body into an oven. Sweat that had barely begun to dry now pooled again, running in rivulets down my back, soaking into everything. The raincoat was supposed to protect the house from my “filth,” but it only sealed me inside it — suffocating, isolating, making every sensation more intense. I could feel the plastic sticking to my damp blouse, pulling with every inhale.
Finally, the face mask — regular, plain, covering nose and mouth. I tied it on, the elastic biting into my ears, the fabric pressing against my lips still raw from the panty and bridle. The mask muffled my breathing, trapped my exhales, made every inhale feel borrowed. It was the last barrier — the final reminder that even my breath was dangerous, dirty, something to be contained.
Each item added to the prison — not just physically, but mentally. The first time I’d put them on, it had been shock, resignation. This second time felt different — heavier, more final. There was no novelty left, no “maybe this is temporary.” This was routine now. This was my morning. The plastic clung tighter, the frills mocked louder, the elastic bit deeper. I felt the weight of repetition — the knowledge that tomorrow I would do this again, and the day after, and the day after. The accessories weren’t just clothes anymore; they were shackles, each one locking me further into this role. Shame burned low and constant — not explosive, but deep, grinding. I was dressing myself in my own cage, piece by piece, knowing full well what it meant. And I did it silently, efficiently, fearfully — because the alternative was more points, more punishment, more proof that I was still “wild,” still not ready, still deserving of this.
He watched every movement — silent, judging. Satisfied, he nodded. “Good. Now — chores.”
Thereafter, the chore routines consumed the day — cleaning, cooking, serving, washing, all in silence, all under his watch.
The experience of doing chores in the chore accessories — the second time — was suffocating in a way the first time hadn’t fully prepared me for. The transparent raincoat sealed everything in — every breath fogged the plastic in front of my face, every exhale trapped heat and moisture against my skin. Within minutes of starting to dust the living room shelves, sweat poured — thick, rolling beads running down my back, soaking the double blouse and pinafore underneath, pooling at my waistband. The raincoat turned it into a greenhouse: no escape for the heat, no air circulation, just a slow cooking of my own body fluids. The plastic clung tighter with every movement — sticking to my arms, my chest, my thighs — pulling and dragging like a second, suffocating skin. Every time I raised my arms to wipe a surface, the raincoat crinkled loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet house, a constant reminder of my confinement. By the time I finished the first room, the inside of the raincoat was slick with condensation — my own sweat dripping down the plastic, pooling at the hem, making every step feel heavier.
The plain white cotton wrist-length gloves were soft at first, but cotton absorbs — and it did. Within the first half hour of scrubbing the kitchen counter, the gloves had soaked through. They turned heavy, clammy, clinging to my palms and fingers like a second layer of skin made of my own sweat. The material darkened in patches, sticking to my skin with every grip — when I held the sponge, it squelched; when I wiped a surface, the glove dragged wetly. My hands felt confined, swollen, slippery inside the damp cotton — no slick barrier, but a constant, soft, suffocating closeness that grew stickier and warmer as I worked. Every task — polishing Master’s shoes, folding laundry, wiping down the dining table — became clumsier, slower, more frustrating. I dropped a cloth twice, the wet glove slipping; each time I braced for more points.
The face mask pressed against my lips and nose — already raw from the panty and bridle earlier. My breath bounced back hot and moist, fogging the inside of the mask, making every inhale feel thick and recycled. The elastic dug deeper into my ears with every movement, leaving red welts I could feel forming. The headdress shifted slightly as I bent and stretched — pins pricking my scalp, frills tickling my cheeks like constant mockery.
The apron’s frills rustled with every step — a soft, humiliating whisper that followed me through the house. It was supposed to look cute, innocent, ladylike — but on me, soaked and clinging, it felt like a joke. The raincoat made the apron stick to my waist, the frills plastered against the plastic, losing their bounce, becoming limp and pathetic.
Sweat poured faster now. It ran down my temples, stung my eyes, dripped off my chin inside the mask. It soaked through the double uniform, turning the layers into a heavy, sodden prison. The chain — still attached to my neck — grew warm from body heat, the metal links sticking to my collarbone. Every bend, every reach, every stretch made the accessories pull, cling, restrict. I moved slower, more carefully — not from grace, but from exhaustion and fear of dropping something again.
The house was quiet except for my breathing (muffled by the mask), the crinkle of plastic, the soft clink of the chain, the wet slap of gloves on surfaces. Master came in and out — checking, judging. He didn’t speak much — just pointed to missed spots, adjusted my posture with a finger, noted every small mistake for later points. Each time he entered, the shame spiked: I was performing, sweating, struggling, dressed like a parody maid in a plastic prison, and he saw everything.
By mid-afternoon, I was drenched — uniform, raincoat, cotton gloves, mask — all soaked through. The smell of my own sweat mixed with the faint mayo-cabbage residue still on my breath. Every task took longer because of the restriction — arms heavier, fingers clumsier, vision fogged by mask and sweat, balance precarious in heels. I felt like I was drowning inside my own clothes — hot, wet, trapped, constantly reminded that this was only Day 4.
And yet, the day dragged on. Cleaning every surface, scrubbing the kitchen until it gleamed, cooking his dinner with trembling gloved hands, serving it on my knees, washing dishes while the raincoat clung and the gloves squelched. All in silence. All under his watch. Until evening faded, the weight of it all pressing heavier than any layer.
