Slave Life Storyline- being a human hanger!

 Day 5, Late morning 

Master switched on two fans from both corners of the room, picking up speed with a low mechanical hum. 

Air began to move — not strong, not cool enough to dry anything quickly, just a steady, deliberate circulation that brushed across my sodden uniform and exposed skin. The breeze hit unevenly, one fan sweeping left to right, the other right to left, overlapping in the middle where I stood chained. Beginning to perform its drying process on the uniform

Air moved, the uniform started to shift from sticky to clammy, then back to sticky. 

Master stood over me, eyes moving slowly across the drenched uniform, the faint slick sheen on my skin, the way the fabric clung and dripped. He tilted his head slightly, almost studying me.

“The washing machine worked,” he said, voice low, even, like stating an obvious truth. “Sweat flushed it clean. Smell gone. Uniform washed in its own filth. Effective… almost elegant, isn’t it? The way you marinate yourself, degrade yourself, all on your own.”

He paused, letting the words settle, then leaned in just a fraction — close enough that I could feel the calm weight of his gaze.

“Do you agree?” he asked, quieter now, almost intimate. “Or are you still pretending you’re something more than a thing that cleans itself with its own body?”

The question wasn’t really a question. It was a blade, slipped in softly. Agree? Agree that I was nothing now but a self-washing machine, a tool that stank and sweated and obeyed until it was used up? My throat tightened, words died before they formed. I wanted to scream no, to deny it, but fear clamped down. Any wrong answer meant points, meant more debt, meant worse. So I stayed silent a beat too long, then whispered, small, instinctive: “Yes, Master.”

He nodded once. No smile. No satisfaction. Just acceptance. “Good,” he said. “Equipment knows its job. And it’s learning its place.”

He stepped back half a pace, posture relaxing just a fraction, like someone stepping out of a routine.

“But now,” he continued, voice dropping back to that quiet command tone, “I still have a few hours.”

He paused, letting it sink in. Then, calm, flat: “So for now, let’s hang you to dry.”

The words landed like the next task on a list. Just the next reminder that I was still equipment. Drying room. Machine. Me. Reduced even further — not just equipment, but laundry left to hang. Degraded more with every swing of the fans, every clink of the chain, every drip of sweat that refused to dry. 

And even then, in the haze, a thought slipped through: is this going to be my life from now on? Is that going to be how I am washed for the next 2 months? The question barely held shape, drifting away almost as soon as it formed, too exhausted to grip it. Just another distant echo, another layer of what I’d become. 

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

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

The fans kept humming, air sweeping over me in slow arcs. I stood chained to the ceiling hook in the middle of the room, neck tethered upward, wrists secured together and locked high to the same chain, arms stretched upward, shoulders pulled taut, uniform pin pulling up the panty tighter as arms raised. Heels still on — 4-inch black stilettos stabbing soles, uniform sodden and clinging,

Body tethered at two points — neck and wrists — unable to lower more than a few centimetres without pulling both chains taut. No sit. No kneel. No rest. Just standing, stretched, locked, waiting. Fatigue pressed down, body threatening to give, but the tethers held me up, forced me to stay straight. No escape. No slumping. Just this — equipment hung to dry.

The drying process started in earnest now — just the fans running, steady and low, brushing across my sodden uniform and exposed skin. The breeze hit unevenly from the two fans overlapping in the middle where I was suspended. Damp fabric fluttered faintly against my thighs and chest, cold where air touched wet patches, warm underneath where sweat still pooled and renewed. 

The uniform sleeve stretched tight from arms raised high, breeze reaching the armpit area, cooling the surface sweat there, fabric shifting slightly with each sweep, but moisture still trapped underneath the clinging material, giving periodic prickling irritation. Uniform never fully dried at first — just shifted from sticky to clammy, then back to sticky, heavy cling easing slightly in spots but returning stronger in others.

Heels dug deeper as the air movement made me rock helplessly back and forth, chain tugging lightly at the slack, the pvc sleeve pressing just enough to remind me not to lean too far.

Shoulders burned from arms locked high, neck felt the pvc sleeve weight more now with every small movement.

Fatigue made it all heavier — body already leaden, mind drifting in haze, each fan sweep pulling me awake just enough to feel the discomfort again, then letting me slip back into numb daze.

The first doze came fast — exhaustion pulling me under for what seemed like moments — head dipping slightly, knees softening, body wanting to sag. The chain caught immediately — sharp tug at the collar, pulling me back upright with a jolt! Neck jerked, throat pressed, heels stabbing soles as balance snapped back. Awake again.

Fear spiked, scared to let it happen again.

Tried to stay still, but fatigue dragged harder.

Another doze crept in — mind fogging, body sagging forward just a fraction. Tug again! Chain pulled taut! PVC sleeve biting my neck, forcing me straight. Jerked awake! heart pounding, breath hitching. No rest! Helpless!

Totally different from my fantasy before the session- felt high whenever I imagining this in my normal life! It is so far off! Stupid me!

Tried moving — small, futile shifts. Swayed side to side, testing slack — chain tugged back each time, reminding me the limit.

Leaned forward slightly — tug at neck, sharp pull upward.

Tried to lower knees a fraction — chain caught, forcing upright again.

Each attempt ended the same: tug, jolt, awake!

Heels stabbed deeper, arches cramping, calves burning from the constant tension.

No way to sit. No way to kneel. No way to relieve the ache. Just standing, tethered, trying and failing, each tug a reminder, stillness was the only option.

Adding on, panty was equally wet, clinging cold and heavy between my legs, the tuck held tight but now uncomfortable, fabric pressing against everything with every small sway.

With the little leeway the chain allowed, I stretched my legs a little open — just a fraction, trying to ease the tightness.

The movement lowered me slightly, chain tugging lightly at the neck, collar pressing just enough to remind me of the limit. For a moment, sudden comfort — the long tightness between my legs loosened a bit, pressure relieving just enough to breathe easier down there.

But the penis tuck dislodged! It shifted sideways, no longer flat and secure, now awkward, exposed under the sodden fabric, rubbing wrong.

Trouble. Immediate panic flicker, dulled by fatigue.

Hands bound high, wrists locked to the chain overhead, no way to reach down, no way to place it back.

Should I confess? Tell him when he returns? The thought looped weakly — confess and maybe points for the dislodged tuck, or stay silent and risk worse if he notices later. Too tired to decide. Too tired to panic fully.

Miss NORMAL life — standing in my kitchen. Miss days where fatigue meant rest, not punishment. But the thoughts barely formed — already dazing, mind too heavy from lack of sleep, the shallow doze that never truly rested, the constant tension draining everything.

Fatigue crushed deeper, thoughts slipping. Normal life flickered in fragments, distant, half-seen, then gone again. Too tired to dwell. Too tired to miss properly. Just the haze. Just the drag. Just the chain. Just the wait.

The drying continued slowly — fans still running, air brushing over me, surface of the uniform cooling more now, cling loosening in places, dampness starting to fade from the outer layers, sweat not renewing as fast, fabric feeling lighter, less heavy, almost drying in spots. The process had worked — uniform almost dry by now, just faint dampness left, no longer dripping, no longer sodden.

Master returned after what seemed like the full stretch. He walked in, eyes scanning me — still chained, arms high, uniform now almost dry, faint dampness lingering in creases, no more heavy drip.

He stepped close. “Almost dry. Effective, isn’t it? 

The fans did their job. Do you agree?”

The question cut again, same blade. Agree? 

He did it again! Agree that hanging like this, drying in my own sweat, was effective? My throat tightened, mind still foggy from fatigue. I wanted to deny but fear clamped down. Any wrong answer meant more trouble. 

So I whispered, small: “Yes, Master.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

He reached up, unlocked the padlock at wrists, chain disconnected from ceiling, loose 1m length now dangling from collar again. 

Wrists still bound together with the double cable ties. 

I simply let go — arms dropped heavy, body collapsed to the floor with a thud, knees hitting tile, heels stabbing soles as weight crashed down. 

No strength to hold position. No control. Just collapse.

“Collapse on release. Violation – Posture Major. Base 400 points.”

He would have expected me to hold. He always expects it. Feels ridiculous every time — released from chain, and still awarded for collapsing. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? 

Miss my life — falling to bed after long day, no points for exhaustion, no violation for natural drop. 

Miss normal nights where body just rested, no punishment for weakness. Regret floods: should have ended it. 

This life for the next 2 months! 

I quickly fumbled to kneel — body shaking, limbs weak, joints stiff, muscles protesting every inch as I pushed up from the floor. 

Heels stabbed harder with the shift. Balance unsteady, uniform still almost dry but heavy, dragging against skin. 

Finally on knees, waited submissive. 

Master continued, voice low, even, like reading from a list: “All these does not pay back any punishment point. Your tally is still close to fifteen thousand. Consider it your job. It also helps you avoid more punishment points.”

The words landed flat, no emphasis, no judgment. Just the number. Just the truth. Just the reminder that nothing washes away debt — not sweat, not drying, not obedience. Just adds to it.

After all that I’ve been through — the night in the wrap, the sweat, the drying, the constant ache — no reduction of points. Nothing paid back. That’s ridiculous. So unfair. Wanted to reason with him, to ask why nothing counts, why every ordeal just adds more, why it never subtracts. But the thought died fast — too tired, mind too heavy, too drained to form the words. And even if I could, it would probably cause more. More points. More debt. More punishment. 

So I just accepted….. “Yes, Master.”

Too exhausted to panic fully, too drained to let it crush me completely. Just numb acceptance. . Still trapped. Still nothing but tool. Mouth to wash panty, body to wash with sweat, now hung to dry — all the same cycle. All reducing me further. No person. Just thing. 

Slave Life Storyline- Chained to Dry

Day 5, morning. (Just released from the full night of wrap)

Master watched, calm. Nose twitched once. “Unladylike gulping. Violation – Service Attitude Minor. Base 150 points.”

He said it like noting a fact. No anger. Just the number. Just one hundred and fifty more points.

I was too weak to think about the points. The words landed, but my mind barely registered them — too exhausted, too thirsty, too drained from the night to let the dread fully sink in. Just a numb echo: more debt. Another mark. But the bottle was still in my hands, still half full, still needing to be finished. Body screaming for water, throat burning, stomach already protesting the rush. No room left for panic over points. No strength to care. Just keep gulping. Just obey. Just survive this moment.

Halfway through, the bloat hit. Stomach swelled, pressure building against the cinched waist memory, nausea tease returning. Gulps slowed — careful now, small sips, fighting the urge to stop. Bottle still heavy, water sloshing inside, but body rebelling. Meticulous mind noted: too fast at start, now too slow, still not perfect. Should have paced better. Should have sipped like a lady, not gulped like equipment. Regret flooded: miss drinking normal — glass of water, no command, no points for speed, no bloat from desperation. Miss vanilla mornings — thirst just quenched, no violation for gulping when parched. Miss freedom where water was relief, not punishment. Why did I extend? Why didn’t I stop? Weak. Stupid. Now even drinking costs me one hundred and fifty points.

I kept sipping, slow, deliberate, until the bottle emptied. Stomach bloated, heavy, uncomfortable. Set it down empty, hands shaking slightly. Waited submissive.

I shifted back to position gently, knees still aching on the tiles, heels stabbing soles as weight shifted. The fatigue crashed in harder now — lack of sleep from the night’s encasement, the shallow doze that never truly rested, the constant tension of tubes and wrap making every muscle feel like lead. Limbs heavy, mind sluggish, even this small bend felt exhausting, like lifting my own body through water. Placed the bottle down gently on the floor — plastic clinked softly against tile, a small sound that felt too loud in the quiet. Left it there, empty, cap loose, a reminder of the task just finished. Hands returned to thighs, submissive, waiting.

Inner churned. Even placing a bottle on the floor felt like a task — no casual drop, no normalcy. Miss setting a bottle on my kitchen counter, no command, no kneeling, no dread of placement. Miss my life — water finished, bottle tossed or recycled, no points, no inspection. 

Regret deeper: should have ended it. Should have said no. Weak. Desperate. Now even emptying a bottle costs dignity. And the fatigue makes it worse — no energy left to do anything perfectly, no rest to recover, just this dragging haze where every movement is punishment. Why did I let this become my normal? All because I extended. All because I’m still here, too tired to fight, too weak to stop.

Master stood over me. He looked down, calm, eyes scanning the sodden uniform, the way it clung, the faint slick sheen on my skin from the night’s sweat. He tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful.

“The washing machine worked,” he said, voice low, even, like stating a simple fact. “Sweat flushed it clean. Smell gone. Uniform washed in its own filth. Effective, isn’t it?”

He paused, letting the words hang. Then, quieter, almost curious: “Do you agree?”

The question landed soft, but it cut. Agree? 

Agree that I was reduced to this — a tool, a thing that washes itself in its own stink? Agree that the night’s torment was “effective”? 

My throat tightened, words stuck. I wanted to say no, to scream it, but fear clamped down — scared, refrained, the kind that freezes everything. Any wrong answer meant points, meant more debt, meant worse. So I stayed silent a beat too long, then whispered, small, instinctive: “Yes, Master.”

He nodded once. No smile. No satisfaction. Just acceptance. “Good. Equipment knows its job.”

He stepped back half a pace, posture relaxing just a fraction, like a businessman stepping out of a meeting.

“I’ve been away from the company for four days,” he said, tone conversational now, almost casual. “Meetings delayed, decisions on hold. Business doesn’t wait. I’m needed back this afternoon.”

He looked at me, still kneeling, drenched, trembling. “I’m a businessman, after all. Deals, numbers, people depending on me. Can’t stay here forever.”

The words felt strange — normal, almost human. 

For a second, I saw the man outside this room: suit, office, decisions that mattered in the real world. Not the calm figure who tallied points and wrapped me in saran. But the moment passed. He was still here. Still in control.

“But now,” he continued, voice dropping back to that quiet command tone, “I still have a few hours.”

He paused, letting it sink in. Then, calm, flat: “So for now, let’s hang you to dry.”

The words landed like the next task on a list. No drama. No threat. Just the next phase. Just the next reminder that I was still equipment, still owned, still paying.

Master held the reattached chain in his hand, loose 1m length dangling, PVC sleeve cool against his palm. He gave a small tug — gentle but firm, upward pull on the collar.

“Stand up.”

The tug came with the command. My body moved before thought could catch up — knees locked, fatigue crushing every muscle, limbs leaden from lack of sleep, from the night’s rigid hold. I struggled up tiredly, legs shaking violently, heels stabbing soles as weight shifted forward. A small stumble — knees buckled slightly, balance lost for a second. He tugged again, steadying me without force.

“Violation – Posture Minor. Base 100 points.”

Calm. Flat. Just the number. Just one hundred more points.

I was too tired to react. The words landed somewhere distant, muffled. No spike of dread, no sharp regret. Just numb echo. More debt. Another mark. Mind too sluggish, body too drained. Just the pull on the chain. Just the need to follow.

He tugged again — slow, deliberate, guiding me forward. I followed, dragged along because of fatigue, feet shuffling in the heels, legs barely cooperating, each step a heavy effort. No resistance. No strength left for it. Just moved where the chain led, body swaying, breath shallow, mind fogged thick. The chain stayed taut enough to direct, loose enough to sway with my wobble.

He led me to the wall. There — a wall plug, metal ring bolted high, another chain hanging down from it, short and waiting. The look sent chills. Hooking me to that? Standing again, but tethered, suspended, no escape until he decided. Fatigue dulled the fear, made it distant — body too tired to panic fully, just a cold weight in stomach, just the certainty that more was coming.
Master tugged the chain again — firm but controlled, pulling me backward until my back met the wall. The cool tile pressed against the sodden uniform, a sharp contrast to the trapped heat still radiating from my skin.
“Back face the wall,” he said, voice calm, flat, like adjusting an object into place.
I turned, slow, heels scraping faintly on the tiles as I pivoted. The chain stayed in his hand, guiding without yanking. My back now to the wall, face toward the room, but he shifted me slightly — shoulders square against the tile, heels together, hands still flat over pubic area. The wall chain hung down from the high plug, metal ring glinting, short length waiting.
Master to my side. He took the loose end of my collar chain, the 1m length still hanging slack in front. With one hand on my

 shoulder to keep me steady, he shifted the chain around to the back of my neck — slow, deliberate, no yank. The PVC sleeve brushed cool against skin as he moved it, faint scrape. Then he clipped it on chain hanging down from the wall plug at the back, snap secure. He adjusted the length carefully before he locked it — just enough so I could lower down 5–10 cm before feeling the tug. Not tight enough to choke or force upright, but short enough that any deeper bend or slump would pull the chain back against my throat, reminding me to stay straight.

The tug was immediate when I tested it — slight forward lean, and the chain caught, collar pressing firm from behind. No more than 5–10 cm of give. Practical. Precise. Just enough to hang me without full suspension, just enough to keep me standing against the wall, unable to sit, kneel, or relax.

I felt the shift — front slack, back fixed — body now tethered from behind, pressed lightly to the tile, heels still on, knees locked, hands flat over pubic area. Fatigue pressed harder, legs threatening to give, but the chain from behind held me up, forced me to stay straight. No escape. No slumping. Just standing, chained back to the wall, waiting.

The look of the wall chain, the ring bolted high, the short give — sent chills through me again. Hooking me to that? Standing tethered, suspended in place, 5–10 cm before the tug. No way to sit. No way to rest. 

Fatigue made the fear dull, distant — body too tired to panic fully, just a cold weight in stomach, just the certainty that more was coming. No strength left to react. Just the pull from behind. Just the wall. Just the wait. Just the next reminder that I was still equipment, still owned, still paying.

Master tugged the chain again — firm but controlled, pulling me forward toward another room. My legs moved on autopilot, heels stabbing soles with each forced step, fatigue making every motion heavy, sluggish. No resistance left. Just dragged along, body swaying, chain leading like a leash.

He led me through the doorway into a smaller room — bare walls, dim light, ceiling hook visible immediately. There — a chain hanging down from the ceiling, short and waiting, metal ring bolted high, length adjusted just enough for standing tether. The look sent chills. This was not the first time seeing it. Bad memories flooded back — last time, same hook, same chain, same helpless hours hanging, no rest, no escape. Guessing he was going to do the same again: hook the loose end of my neck chain to this hanging chain, barely enough slack for me, just enough to keep me standing without falling but no way to sit or relax.

Too tired to think too much. Mind sluggish, body drained from the night’s encasement, the shallow doze that never truly rested. No energy left for full panic, for resistance, for anything but allowing him. Just follow. Just endure.

He tugged the chain again — slow, deliberate, guiding me under the hanging chain. I followed, dragged along because of fatigue, feet shuffling in the heels, legs barely cooperating, each step a heavy effort. No strength left for it. Just moved where the chain led, body swaying, breath shallow, mind fogged thick. The chain stayed taut enough to direct, loose enough to sway with my wobble.

Master stopped me directly under the ceiling hook. He took the loose end of my collar chain (the 1m length still hanging slack in front). With one hand on my shoulder to keep me steady, he shifted the chain upward and clipped it directly to the hanging chain from the ceiling — snap secure. He adjusted the length carefully — just enough so I could lower down 5–10 cm before feeling the tug. Not tight enough to choke or force upright, but short enough that any deeper bend or slump would pull the collar back against my throat, reminding me to stay straight.

The tug was immediate when I tested it — slight forward lean, and the chain caught, collar pressing firm from above. No more than 5–10 cm of give. Practical. Precise. Just enough to hang me without full suspension, just enough to keep me standing under the ceiling hook, unable to sit, kneel, or relax.

I felt the shift — chain now connected from ceiling to my neck, body tethered upward, heels still on, knees locked, hands flat over pubic area. Fatigue pressed harder, legs threatening to give, but the chain from above held me up, forced me to stay straight. No escape. No slumping. Just standing, chained to the ceiling, waiting.

The look of the ceiling chain, the ring bolted high, the short give — sent chills through me again. Hooking me to that? Standing tethered, suspended in place, 5–10 cm before the tug. No way to sit. No way to rest. Fatigue made the fear dull, distant — body too tired to panic fully, just a cold weight in stomach, just the certainty that more was coming. No strength left to react. Just the pull from above. Just the ceiling. Just the wait. Just the next reminder that I was still equipment, still owned, still paying.

Miss normal standing. Miss being able to sit when tired, no chain holding me upright, no chain dictating how low I can go. Miss NORMAL life — standing in my kitchen. Miss days where fatigue meant rest, not punishment.

But the thoughts barely formed — already dazing, mind too heavy from lack of sleep, the shallow doze that never truly rested, the constant tension of tubes and wrap draining everything. Fatigue crushed deeper, thoughts slipping like wet soap, unable to hold. Normal life flickered in fragments, distant, half-seen, then gone again. Too tired to dwell. Too tired to miss properly. Just the haze. Just the drag. Just the chain. Just the wait. Just this.

And even the thought of being in this sweat saturated uniform was so distant — the cling, the heaviness, the reek, all felt like something happening to someone else, mind too fogged and drained to hold onto it fully. The saturation, the stickiness, the constant damp — it barely registered, slipping away from awareness, too exhausted to feel the full disgust or shame. Just there. Just happening. Just endured. Just another layer of what I’d become. Weak. Desperate.

Master stepped in front of me again. “Stretch hands forward. Place them together.”

Simply obeyed because of fatigue — no strength left to hesitate, no energy to question. Arms lifted slow, trembling as my hands stretched. Placed them together as ordered, wrists close.

He pulled out a double cable tie — thick plastic, black. Zipped it around my left wrist, sufficiently tight but not cutting to ensure no circulation block, binding it into a bracelet. Then another double cable tie for my right wrist — same way. Then another double cable tie — looped through both individual bracelets, securing the two together, locking wrists in place. Not too tight — no cutting, just secure hold.

Instructed me to raise bounded hands up straight until they touch the chain.

I raised them — arms lifting, shoulders screaming, bound wrists pulling against each other. The uniform pin did its effect pulled tighter as arms rose, fabric stretching across chest and abdomen, digging into skin, tighter effect restricting breath slightly, adding stretch sensation. 

Hands as hands rose, instinct took over — elbows bent slightly to reach the lower part of the hanging chain above instead of fully straight. The bend was small, automatic, just enough to touch without full extension.

Master noticed immediately. Calm, flat. “Bent elbows. Failure to raise straight. Violation – Posture Minor. Base 100 points.”

I corrected — forced arms straighter, elbows locking despite the ache, shoulders burning, uniform pin made the stretch, blouse pulling tighter across chest, breath hitching slightly. Master stepped up, pulled out another lock — small metal padlock, clicked it through the double cable tie securing the two bracelets and the hanging chain.

Snap. Secure. 

 Wrists now locked high, tethered to the ceiling chain, barely enough slack to lower 5–10 cm before the tug on neck and wrists combined.

I felt like I look like a motionless figure suspended in the middle of the room — a dark silhouette against the dim light, arms stretched high overhead, wrists bound and locked to the short chain hanging from the ceiling hook. 

My body hangs almost perfectly straight, heels still in those 4-inch black stilettos, legs rigid and slightly apart for balance, the sodden uniform clinging wetly to every curve and crease, fabric darkened and heavy-looking. Shoulders are pulled taut, blouse stretched tight from the pins at the waist, the overall posture rigid and unnatural, like a mannequin frozen mid-pose. 

No movement. No sway. Just a silent, chained shape waiting in the open space, small and isolated under the hook.

No sit. No kneel. No rest. Just standing, stretched, locked, waiting. Fatigue pressed down heavier than the chains, body threatening to give, but the tethers held me up, forced me to stay straight. No escape. No slumping. Just this — equipment hung to dry, still owned as a slave