Month 1, Day 4
The moment I finished putting on the Chores Accessories, Master stepped back and looked at me — silent, judging. Then he spoke, calm and deliberate.
“Stand in front of me. Display Stand. Three minutes.”
The words hit like a slap. Display Stand. Again. But this time it felt different — heavier, more final. I froze. My knees locked. My hands stayed at my sides. I didn’t move.
Inside I screamed: No. Not again. Not like this. Not in front of him, dressed in this stupid, frilly, plastic prison. The raincoat crinkling, the mask muffling, the gloves sticky — I looked like a parody doll. A thing to be stared at. I didn’t want to obey. Not so fast. Not so easily. I wanted to refuse. I wanted to say something. Anything. But the points from earlier still burned in my mind — 700 already just for asking to drink. I could feel the debt climbing. I could feel the trap closing.
My feet wouldn’t move. My heart hammered. The chain clinked once — softly, mocking me. Master waited. No anger. Just patience. The kind of patience that says: I know you will obey. Eventually.
Seconds stretched. My legs trembled. The heels dug in. The itch in the panties flared — warm, wet cotton rubbing raw skin. I wanted to shift, to scratch, to run. But I couldn’t. I knew what refusal would cost. More points. More punishment. More time added. More of this.
Slowly — hating every inch — I stepped forward. One tiny step. Then another. Heels stabbing. Chain clinking. I positioned myself in front of him: feet together, hands behind back, eyes down, back straight, chest out. Display Stand. The posture he had used earlier. I obeyed. But it felt like surrender.
He circled me slowly, admiring his new found property. The double uniform clung, the Chores Accessories layered on top — apron bib pressing, gloves sticky, headdress frills framing my face, raincoat crinkling with every shift, mask muffling my breathing. The tight training bra squeezed my chest, the soaked panties squished below. The heels forced my posture, calves burning, soles aching. The chain clinked with every tiny tremble. I felt exposed, objectified, reduced — a thing on display for his pleasure. Shame burned deeper than ever. I was no longer a person. I was his property, something to be admired, inspected, controlled.
The three minutes felt endless. Every second felt like an eternity. The loose hanging chain clinked with every small shift, a constant reminder of my captivity. The raincoat plastic stuck to my damp arms, the gloves clung wetly, the apron frills rustled mockingly. Everything hurt, everything clung, everything reminded me I was owned.
Then he pulled out his phone. The camera lens pointed at me. Click. Click. Click. Photos — front, side, back, close-up of my face, my uniform, my posture. Photos of me in this stupid attire — frilly apron, raincoat crinkling, mask muffling, gloves sticky, headdress mocking. Weird. Illogical. Extremely humiliating. How am I going to face society when I come out? People will see these pictures — me in this parody maid outfit, chained, masked, reduced to a thing. My job, my friends, my family — everything ruined.
Panic surged. I protested — voice muffled by the mask, distorted, small, weak, barely audible, sounding pathetic even to my own ears.
“Master… no photos. We agreed no photos. Privacy… please…”
The mask crushed every word — turning my desperate plea into a thin, nasal whine. He didn't stop. Click. Another angle. Another shot of my chained neck, my trembling legs.
I protested again — louder, more insistent, but still muffled, still broken by the fabric over my mouth.
“No! We talked about this before the contract. No photos. Please stop!”
The sound was pitiful — strained, choked, like a child mumbling through a gag. My voice cracked under the mask, the elastic biting my ears, the fabric pressing my lips raw. He paused, phone still raised. His voice calm, third-person.
“The slave agreed to a stint. Now it is ownership. The slave is property. Property is documented.”
I protested a third time — tears welling, voice cracking even more under the mask, sounding small, defeated, ridiculous.
“This means everything to me. Privacy is all I have left. Please… don't do this.”
The words came out muffled, nasal, weak — barely intelligible. The mask turned my fear into something laughable. He stepped closer, phone lowered slightly, but not put away.
“Protest again. Behaviour – Violation involving defiance. Moderate. Base 200 points. Multiplier ×3 for repetition. Total: 600 points. Rounded up to 700. Debt now 28,900.”
The numbers hit like a blow. I froze — protests silenced, but inside screaming. The photos were taken. My face, my uniform, my shame — captured. The pre-contract verbal agreement broken the moment I signed the extension. My voice — muffled, pathetic, useless — couldn't stop it. I was too naive… I thought words mattered. Reality is nothing like imagination. I stupidly signed longer — now even my image is his forever.
Master stepped back. “Now — chores.”
I stood — heels digging deeper into my soles, calves burning, ankles wobbling — and began. The afternoon dragged on in full Chores Accessories: scrubbing the toilet with a toothbrush, wiping bathroom surfaces, organizing shelves, preparing simple dinner ingredients, while the raincoat clung and the gloves squelched. Every task took longer because of the restriction — arms heavier, fingers clumsier, vision fogged by mask and sweat, balance precarious in heels. I moved slower, more carefully — not from grace, but from exhaustion and fear of dropping something again.
The double-layered uniform was suffocating. The inner set — four days old, soaked with yesterday’s sweat, last night’s lock-up, and the accumulated grime of every previous day — clung to my skin like a wet rag. The outer set, new from yesterday night and lightly scented with rose and jasmine, rubbed over it in slow, grinding friction. The perfume clashed with the real smell underneath — sweet on the surface, rancid and heavy inside. Every inhale pulled the damp fabric closer; every exhale pushed it out again in a slow, sticky cycle. My thighs rubbed together inside the double skirts; the fabric dragged and stuck, making each step feel like walking through thick mud. The heels — already painful — sank deeper into my soles with the added weight, forcing my posture straighter, my steps tinier, my balance more precarious.
The soaked saliva panties made it worse. Still heavy from the night, now pressed tight against my pubic area — the wetness had long turned warm from body heat, turning into a thick, gluey layer that clung to every fold and crease. It felt like something alive — slowly seeping, spreading, coating me in my own warmth. Every tiny shift of my hips made the fabric squish softly, the soaked material dragging and sticking to my skin in a way that made me want to crawl out of my body. The tight bikini cut kept it sealed in place, the elastic biting into my hips, pressing the mess deeper. I could feel it pooling slightly in the crotch seam, the weight of it shifting with every breath. The tug and pull was constant — the warm, wet cotton yanking the penis back, the balls compressed upward, every step a reminder of how trapped they were. The itch flared with every kneel, every bend — warm fabric rubbing raw skin, no relief, no scratch.
The Chores Accessories layered on top amplified everything into a prison of layers. The apron bib pressed my chest, the gloves clung damp and heavy to my hands, the headdress pinned and frilled, the raincoat sealed it all in plastic, the mask muffled and fogged. The tight-fitting training bra squeezed my chest with every breath, pressing the padded cups against my skin, a constant, lowly reminder of the girlish shape he was forcing on me. Every movement amplified it: the apron rustled with frills, the gloves slapped wetly, the raincoat crinkled loudly, the mask dug into my ears, the bra restricted my inhale. The loose hanging chain clinked with every shift, tugging when leaning, warm from body heat. The plastic raincoat especially — it stuck to the damp skin on my hands and forearms where the gloves ended, pulling and clinging with every reach, trapping heat and making the already sticky gloves feel even more suffocating. Every movement tugged the plastic against my skin, a constant, wet friction that reminded me I was sealed in layers upon layers, a walking hazard, a thing to be contained.
The blouse kept riding up — the hem slipping out from the pinafore waistband with every bend, every reach. The cotton fabric, damp and clingy, crept higher, exposing a sliver of lower back. I tried to smooth it down with hands in front, eyes open, but it never stayed. The posture rule demanded it — knees together, back straight, hands pressing the skirt flat — but the itch surged with every adjustment, the warm cotton dragging across raw skin. The outer pinafore still looked neat — pleats sharp, bow centered — but the blouse underneath was a mess, darkened, sticking. The contrast was cruel: from outside, presentable; from inside, rotting.
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 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.
During dinner prep — opening instant noodle packet, measuring water, placing frozen dumplings in microwave — standing long periods in heels, balance precarious, chain clinking. Master watched. "From now on, the slave will learn how to cook. This thing is a real slave now — and officially a maid. Simple microwave food is no longer acceptable. The slave will study recipes, practice techniques, and prepare proper meals for Master." I don't know how to cook… never learned. Now he wants me to be a real maid? This is unacceptable. I was too naive… I thought four days wouldn't include cooking lessons. Reality is nothing like imagination. I stupidly signed longer — now even my meals are his to control.
By the end of the 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. 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.
I placed Master's foot on the table — gently, carefully, knees together, hands in front — and knelt to wait for dinner.
In that moment, the world narrowed to just this: the weight of his foot, the ache in my knees, the quiet hum of the house. No more scrubbing. No more bending. Just waiting. Just serving.
How I Feel in the Uniform, How Sweaty, How Smelly (End of Day 4 Afternoon)
To Me (inside the layers)
- I am thoroughly soaked and heavy — every fabric saturated, clinging like a warm, wet second skin that never dries.
- Heat is oppressive — trapped sweat can’t evaporate; core temperature elevated, breathing shallow and labored (mask + tight bra + raincoat).
- Weight drags on me — soaked cotton (panties, bra, blouse, gloves) adds pounds of wet fabric. Raincoat plastic sticks and pulls with every move.
- Itchy & raw — warm moist cotton rubbing sensitive areas (crotch worst).
- Achy & fatigued — heels burning soles/calves, chain tugging neck, knees sore from kneeling, back stiff.
- Smell — overpowering and inescapable: strong sour body odor (armpits/back/chest), heavy intimate/crotch musk (panties — warm, musky, slightly urine-like), faint foot odor (socks/shoes). All trapped and amplified by raincoat — I smell myself constantly with every inhale (intimate, suffocating cloud).
To Master (from outside)
- Faint but noticeable when close — especially if I bend or move a lot (odor escapes slightly from neckline, armholes, skirt hem).
- Perfume on outer layer still masks most of it, but he can detect the underlying rancid undertone when he stands near or circles me.
- During exhibition stand or when he leans in: he definitely smells it — warm, humid, personal filth.
- Overall smell profile: Not "rotten" yet (that's later weeks), but definitely unpleasant and human — sour sweat + intimate musk + faint cabbage/mayo residue on breath. Trapped and concentrated inside the raincoat.
