Slave Life Storyline- my mini ‘break and rest’ or is it?……

Day 5, Afternoon..

He turned, walked out without another word, door closing behind him with a quiet click.

The door locked. Footsteps gone.

Alone in the storeroom, walls close, concrete floor cold under knees, single bulb dim overhead. 

No windows. Air thick. Stuffy. Sweat already beading again.

I stayed kneeling — knees together, thighs pressed tight, butt touching heels (no gap), back forced straight by instinct and fear, hands together on lap (palms down, fingers straight, one resting over the other), head slightly bowed, eyes on the floor — because he said no move. 

Because the chain was there. Because I was still too scared to test him right away.

Minutes passed. Or what seemed like minutes. No clock. No way to know. Just the heat building. Just the stuffiness closing in.

I waited.

Still.

Breath shallow

.

Mind drifting in haze from the almost sleepless night before, the mummification keeping me awake in shallow dozes, constant tension draining everything.

Then a thought came — faint, slow: He’s gone. No eyes. No one watching. No immediate punishment.

I tested one small thing — fingers twitched, palms parted slightly. Nothing.

Comfort flickered. Small. Dangerous.

I waited more.

Then another thought: If I move slow… if I listen… I can fix it fast when he comes back.

I opened my hands — fingers spread, palms up. Just a little. 

Then knees parted — thighs separated a fraction. Butt lifted off heels. Weight shifted back. Soles eased slightly.

I waited again. Listening. Heart loud in my ears.

No footsteps. No key.

More bold now. Heels slipped off — one at a time, slow, careful. Bare feet flat on concrete. Cold. But relief. Arches relaxed. Calves stopped burning so hard.

I waited. Breath held.

No door. No voice.

Then uniform pin unclipped. Small metal pins on both sides released. Blouse-panty tension gone. Fabric slackened at waist. No more digging.

Blouse top button undone. Collar opened. Neck freer.

Pinafore unzipped on left side — waist and hip immediately loosened. Outer layer hung slack.

Then — panties pulled off — slowly, carefully. The boldest move yet. Completely removed, not just pulled aside. Thrown on the floor — no need to fold, no care for neatness, just tossed aside in a crumpled heap. 

No more cling. No more compression. Penis free.! Normal. Air on skin. Cool. No forced tuck. Feels like a man again!

The moment I pulled them down, the sliminess hit again — sticky, warm, from earlier sweat, pre-cum, and urine residue. Instinctively wiped it off on the pinafore skirt. No one faulted me!

Not like yesterday in this same room, rubbing anything on the fabric got me violation points and to clean the 2 outer layers of uniforms for that! 

But the thought came fast: I will hear the front door open and quickly put back everything and adjust back to position.

Still a man. Still a person. Why forced to girl? Why reduced to thing?

Before the session — four days, fun, walk away. Now two months. Day 5. Still a man inside. Really hoping it just a dream. 

What is becoming of me!

The tuck no longer pinches. The knees no longer ache. The posture no longer screams “not me” — but I know I will have to do it again. Because he says so.

I stood up. Door was unlocked! Opened slightly — air flowed in, room no longer stuffy. Can hear footsteps easier. Can react fast. Close door. Re-dress. Re-kneel.

Relief stronger than fear.

I stepped one foot outside—bare sole on the tile corridor floor. Cool. Smooth. Delicious after hours in heels. Second foot followed. Whole body outside the storeroom now. 

Standing. Free.! 

Two steps. Three. Corridor quiet.

Then the chain tugged.

Neck jerked back. Short length. Hook in storeroom held firm. Couldn’t go farther.

Reality snapped back.

I retreated immediately. Back inside the storeroom. Door left open just a crack—enough for air to flow in, cooling the stuffiness a little, letting me breathe fresher air while still hearing every sound from the corridor.

I could react fast. If the main door opened, footsteps approached—I could push the door shut in a second, re-dress, re-kneel, re-position before he reached the storeroom.

Safe distance. But not sealed shut.

Bra still uncomfortable—tight band squeezing chest. Hand reached under pinafore and blouse. Fingers found elastic band. Pulled it up—slowly, carefully—above the original squeeze point. 

Slight relief. 

Band now sat higher, right across the upper chest instead of digging into the ribs.

Thought master may not notice that too.

This is enough, I decided. Removing more would be too high risk. If he came back suddenly, blouse still on (top unbuttoned, collar open), pinafore still on (unzipped at side, hanging loose)—I could re-fasten, re-tuck, re-kneel in seconds. 

Panties off was already the line crossed. Bra shifted higher was subtle. Heels off was temporary. Anything beyond that—blouse fully off, pinafore completely removed—would take too long to reverse. Too dangerous.

I stayed like this: blouse open at top, pinafore unzipped and slack, panty discarded in a heap, bra pulled up slightly, bare feet flat on concrete, no heels.

I moved to the corner of the room. Back against the cool wall. Legs wide open—thighs apart as far as the chain allowed, knees bent, soles flat, no more forced togetherness.

The relief hit hard. Immediate. Deep.

Days of restriction—knees clamped, tuck pinching, posture rigid—melted away in that one moment. Thighs free. Genitals untouched, unrestricted. No compression. No ache. Just air. Just space. Just normal.

So good. So very good.

I sat there, legs splayed, feeling the cool concrete against my bare soles, the faint wind from the outside brushing my skin, the chain slack against my neck.

The only discomfort, the only remaining control, was the PVC-sleeved chain itself—still locked around my neck, still tethered to the side, the only reminder that freedom was an illusion. For the first time in 5 days, I felt like a man again. Not a thing. Not a girl. Just me.

Master leaving me here and go back to work is a good thing! 

I closed my eyes for a second. Let it sink in.

This is what I’ve been missing.

Exhaustion crept in fast from the sleepless night, the tension of the mummification, the emotional rush of this small rebellion—it all weighed down. 

My head grew heavy. Eyelids drooped.

Snapped my eyes open once, twice to Listen for any sound. Nothing. Just quiet. Just the faint draft through the cracked door.

I told myself: “Just rest for thirty minutes. Then wake up. Listen for the door. Fix everything before he’s close.”

My head tipped slowly to the side, resting against the wall. Legs stayed wide, knees bent, soles flat—no energy left to close them. Chain slack across my neck. Blouse still open at the top. Pinafore unzipped and loose. Panties still in a heap nearby. Bra still pulled higher.

I dozed off.

Not deep sleep yet. Just the body giving up. 

But the doze deepened. Slowly, my body gave in further. I slid down the wall, knees drawing up toward my chest, back curling forward. I ended up lying on the cold concrete floor in the COMFORTABLE fetal position, chain draped slack across my shoulder and neck.

Even the floor felt so comfortable when you can sleep anyhow. No forced straightness. No rigid posture. No restrictions. The chain tugged only lightly as I curled.

I drifted deeper. Unconscious. Defenseless.

Slave Life Storyline- Master Must Leave the House

Day 5, late morning (after released from being used as human dryer)

Master watched me, still kneeling, drenched, trembling. He stood calm, voice low and even.

“Before I leave for the office this afternoon,” he said, “I prepared your lunches for the whole week. This one’s already done — in the dog bowl.”

He paused, letting the words settle. Then, calm, flat: “Violation – Inconvenience. Base 200 points.”

My mind barely caught it. Unfair. I was locked, sealed, trapped — he did this for me, and still punished me for it. Why? Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Miss normal life — meals I chose, no dog bowl, no points for someone else’s effort. 

Miss freedom where food was just food, not a violation. Regret stabbed: should have been home by now. Stupid. Now even lunch costs me.

He continued, tone unchanged. “I’m going back to the office to settle some things. Business waits for no one.”

I ate the lunch from the dog bowl. Drank 1.5 liters of water from the bottle — straight from the rim, no pet bottle funnel, no awkward tongue lapping, because he wanted to rehydrate me after the wrap. For once, the flow was normal, direct, almost like a human drink. The cold water hit my throat in full gulps, rushing down without the slow, humiliating trickle from the pet bottle. Regret flickered: miss drinking like this. Miss normal life — water just water, not a task to survive. Stupid. Now even a normal drink reminds me what I lost. 

Urinated into the funnel and bottle — quick release, no struggle, just another task done.

He looked at me again, still kneeling. “Still not confident leaving you alone at home yet. Not confident you can do chores without supervision. You might escape. I don’t lose property. You’re not tame yet. Not fully trained. 

And you’re already posed like a maid and in uniform— knees together, hands flat, back straight. But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

He paused. “So — store room. Kneeling. Facing door. The entire time until I return.”

The words landed like the next lock. Just the next phase. Just the next reminder of my life for the next 2 months, still not trusted even after all this.

I am still a man. Still a person. Still not a maid. Still not tame.

Before the session, I thought it was supposed to be fun — four days, a stint, something I could walk away from. 

Now it’s two months. It should have ended. But why am I still kneeling like this, posed like a maid, tucked, uniform, heels, chain — everything I imagined as hot, now just heavy, wrong, endless. 

Why this stint becomes my life for 2 months. Why am I still being forced to become a girl? Why still reduced to a thing? 

Master grabbed the loose end of my collar chain — still dangling from earlier, PVC sleeve warm against my neck, carrying the day’s heat. “Come,” he said.

I stood, heels stabbing soles, legs wobbling like jelly after hours upright. Every step forward felt wrong — ankles burning, balance teetering, chain clinking softly in front of me, tugged along by his hand.

He led me to the store room, door already open, dim light from a single bulb. Inside, he replaced the previous chain — the short 1m one from before — with a longer one: 5 meters of slack, clipped to the wall plug. Enough to reach the door, even open it if unlocked. Not enough to leave the house. Just enough to feel the limit — close, but still trapped.

“Kneel like a maid,” he ordered. “Face the door. No move. The whole time I’m gone.”

I dropped to my knees — heels forcing arches high, calves cramping instantly. 

Knees together, thighs pressed tight, butt touching heels — no gap, weight pressing down on soles, stabbing pain shooting up. Back forced straight by instinct and fear. 

Both hands together on my lap — palms down, fingers straight, one resting over the other, no fidget, no clench. 

Chain dangling loose from collar — still not attached, PVC sleeve warm against my neck, swaying slightly with every breath. 

Head slightly bowed, eyes on the door floor, like a maid on display.

Alone.

PVC sleeved neck chain tugged. Heels dug deeper—no relief, no shift. Fatigue pressed like a weight—shoulders slumped, but I fought to keep the posture straight.

Still a man… kneeling like this… why? Still a person… why reduced to this? Why wait like this? How long before he comes back?

Why two months of this?

Normal life flickered—couch, TV, no chain, no knees on floor, no waiting for someone else’s return.

Should not have even come to this house. 

Should have left my fantasy as fantasy.