Slave life storyline – Dinner Waiting & Humiliation

Month 1, Day 4

I knelt there, knees already burning from the hard floor, Master's foot resting heavily on the table in front of me. The chain hung loose against my chest, warm from my skin, clinking faintly whenever I breathed too deeply. The uniform was soaked through—inner layers heavy and clinging, outer pinafore still holding its crisp shape on the surface but damp underneath. The raincoat had trapped everything inside, and now even after its removal the heat lingered, sweat cooling into a sticky film that made every movement feel like peeling wet cloth off skin. The mask was still on—soggy and heavy by now, soaked from hours of breath and facial sweat, fabric clammy against my lips and nose, elastic biting into my ears, fogging my vision with every exhale. It muffled my voice to a pathetic whine, made every inhale feel borrowed, added to the suffocation. The headdress frills were damp and heavier, pins prickling my scalp with every tiny head shift. The gloves—white cotton maid gloves—were soaked and clinging, fingers slippery inside, the wet fabric chafing between each digit whenever I flexed my hand. The panties tugged with every small shift of my hips—warm, wet cotton pressing and pulling, the itch flaring sharper in stillness because there was no motion to distract from it. I wanted to scratch, to adjust, to do anything, but I forced my hands to stay in front, palms flat on my thighs. More points would come if I moved without permission. More debt. More time.

My stomach growled—low at first, then louder, a hollow cramp that made my vision blur for a second. This should have been my release day. Four days. The initial stint. I should have walked out tonight, back to normal life, back to freedom. Instead I was here, kneeling, starving, smelling my own filth, waiting for whatever came next. Why did I sign longer? Why did I believe his words? Reality is nothing like imagination. I stupidly signed more time—now even my hunger is his to control.

Master ate slowly. I fed him bite by bite—fork in my trembling hand, stretching upward from my knees to reach his mouth. The position was excruciating. Kneeling so low while he sat comfortably higher forced me to lean forward, balance precarious, arms straining at an awkward angle. The chain tugged my neck every time I stretched, the warm panties pulled tighter with each forward movement, the itch in my crotch flaring like fire. The gloves—wet and slippery—made the handle slide, food wobbled on the fork. I had to look at him the whole time, eyes up, eye contact unbroken. Humiliation burned hotter than the ache in my shoulders. I missed his mouth once—sauce dripped on his chin. I panicked, tried to wipe it with my sleeve but stopped mid-motion when his eyes narrowed. Points. Appearance – Minor. Base 100 points. Another spill on the table—Hygiene – Minor. Base 150 points. He said nothing, just watched me struggle, watched me feed him while my stomach twisted with hunger.

He finished. The plate was empty. I waited, stomach cramping harder, expecting my turn. Master leaned back, casual. "No more food for the slave. This is your life now. After all, you need to lose some weight."

The words landed like a slap. I stared at the empty plate, then at him. No food. Nothing. Today was supposed to be the end. I would have been freed by now. Walking out. Back to normal. Instead I was kneeling here, starving, while he decided my meals. Regret flooded me—hot, choking. Why did I sign longer? Why did I believe the words? This would have been my last day. I would have been free. Now nothing. Nothing at all.

Master pointed to the water bottle. "Drink. Double intake. No food, but water. Property must stay functional." He added, "Mask off—permission granted for drinking only." I removed the mask—soggy fabric peeled away from my raw lips, leaving a damp imprint, the elastic marks red on my ears. Licked from the bottle—awkward, humiliating, tongue lapping at the rim while kneeling. Double intake—longer, more swallows. Thirst eased, but hunger roared louder. Stomach cramps deepened, dizziness creeping in at the edges of my vision. "Water instead of food… this is my life now." Mask replaced immediately after—soggy again within seconds, muffling my breathing once more. Alteration of Uniform – Major. Base 300 points. Behaviour – Unauthorized removal timing. Base 200 points. Total: 1,500 points added. Debt now 34,400.

Master ordered the Chores Accessories removed. I took them off one piece at a time—kneeling, no naked moment. The position made everything harder than it should have been. Apron untied—arms reaching behind my back while knees stayed glued to the floor, shoulders straining, chain clinking with the twist. Gloves peeled off—fingers clumsy from the wet cotton, peeling slowly because the fabric stuck to my skin like glue, leaving hands clammy and dirty, still smelling of toilet grime and dust. Headdress unpinned—head tilted awkwardly, pins tugging at matted hair, scalp stinging as the damp frills finally came free, hair falling in sweaty clumps. Raincoat unbuttoned—kneeling upright, arms stretched upward to reach the buttons, balance wavering, the plastic crinkling loudly with every tug, heat escaping in a rush but leaving the uniform underneath just as soaked. Mask loosened—lips raw from hours of pressure, elastic marks burning as it came off, a moment of clean air before the uniform's own smell rushed in. Each removal felt like a small battle—knees aching more with every shift of weight, back stiff from maintaining posture, hands shaking from exhaustion. Relief washed through me—less layers, less suffocation. But the uniform remained, heavy, clinging, smelling of me.

How I Smell, What Is My Feeling in the Uniform Now, How I Look (After Chores Accessories Removal)

To Me

• Soaked and heavy — every fabric saturated, clinging like a warm, wet second skin that never dries.
• Heat oppressive — trapped sweat can’t evaporate; core temperature elevated, breathing shallow.
• Weight drags on me — soaked cotton (panties, bra, blouse) adds pounds.
• Itchy & raw — warm moist cotton rubbing sensitive areas (crotch worst).
• Achy & fatigued — heels burning (if still on), chain tugging neck, knees sore.
• Tug/pull in groin — constant compression, aching stretch on penis/balls.
• Smell overpowering and inescapable: strong sour body odor, heavy intimate/crotch musk (panties warm, musky, slightly urine-like), faint foot odor. All trapped — I smell myself constantly (intimate, suffocating cloud).
• Feeling: suffocated, raw, exhausted — no relief, just layers of my own filth.
• Look: from inside, I know I'm a mess — damp, darkened patches, hair matted, face flushed and sweaty.

To Master

• Faint but noticeable when close — especially if I move (odor escapes slightly from neckline, armholes, skirt hem).
• Perfume on outer layer masks most of it, but he can detect the underlying rancid undertone when near.
• Overall smell profile: unpleasant and human — sour sweat + intimate musk + faint cabbage/mayo residue on breath.
• Look: from outside, still presentable — pinafore pleats sharp, bow centered, blouse crisp on the surface — but he knows what's underneath.

Master leaned in, nose close to my neck. His face changed. "The slave smells unbefitting. So smelly." Points added—Hygiene – Major. Base 400 points. Appearance – Major. Base 500 points. Multiplier ×4 for repeated imperfection. Total: 3,600 points. Rounded up to 4,000. Debt now 38,400.

He reached for a small spray bottle—strong floral perfume, rose and jasmine. Sprayed generously over the uniform—overwhelming scent flooded everything, coating the pinafore, the blouse, even my hair. "Third layer. Heavily perfumed. Property must smell presentable."

Then the next order: "The slave will change panties. Remove the stinky one. Two new ones—layered on. Property must contain its filth."

I removed the soiled panty—brief air on raw skin, momentary relief. Two new tight white bikini panties layered on—heavily perfumed before wearing. I thought: "2 for 1… worth it. At least cleaner."

Then the shock: Master held the removed panty—the super smelly one, warm, wet, 4-day buildup of sour sweat and intimate musk—and ordered: "The slave will use the stinky panty as a mouth washing machine."

I froze. Unaware until that exact second. No. No. This can't be happening. My own panty? In my mouth? The smell was already rising from it in his hand, warm and rancid, hitting me like a wave. He pressed it in—warm, bulky, filling my mouth completely. Taste exploded instantly—salty from sweat, musky from crotch, faint urine trace, rancid from days of wear. The fabric pressed against my tongue, roof of mouth, cheeks—thick, wet cotton expanding with saliva, blocking air, forcing me to breathe hard through my nose. Gagging reflex surged—throat convulsed, tears streamed down my face, muffled whimpers escaped around the cloth. The smell was trapped inside my mouth—my own concentrated filth, warm and suffocating. I tasted every hour of the last four days. Every drop of sweat. Every moment of shame. Every kneel. Every violation. Every stupid signature that brought me here.

Why did I sign longer? This would be my release day… I would have been freed by now… tasting my own filth… this is my life now. I thought he was giving mercy. I was grateful for one second. Stupid. So stupid. He never gives real mercy. Only more layers. More shame. More of this.

Master watched, calm. "Not possible. Either the slave keeps layering… or learns to sweat less."

I knelt there, mouth full of my own soiled panty, tears running, stomach cramping, uniform heavy and perfumed, points stacking, hunger roaring. Dinner over. Waiting over. But this never ends. More tomorrow. More of this.

How I Smell, What Is My Feeling in the Uniform Now, How I Look (After Triple Layer and Mouth Washing Machine)

To Me

• Triple layers heavier — every fabric saturated, clinging like a warm, wet second skin that never dries.
• Heat oppressive — trapped sweat can’t evaporate; core temperature elevated, breathing shallow (muffled by panty).
• Weight drags on me — soaked cotton (panties, bra, blouse) adds pounds.
• Itchy & raw — warm moist cotton rubbing sensitive areas (crotch worst).
• Achy & fatigued — heels burning (if still on), chain tugging neck, knees sore.
• Tug/pull in groin — triple compression, aching stretch on penis/balls.
• Smell overpowering and inescapable: strong sour body odor, heavy intimate/crotch musk (panties warm, musky, slightly urine-like), faint foot odor — all mixed with heavy floral perfume, becoming cloying/nauseating. Trapped — I smell myself constantly (intimate, suffocating cloud).
• Feeling: suffocated, raw, exhausted — panty in mouth tastes of my own filth, no relief, just more layers of shame.
• Look: from inside, I know I'm a mess — damp, darkened patches, hair matted, face flushed and tear-streaked.

To Master

• Heavy floral perfume dominates when close — escapes from skirt hem/neckline when I move.
• Underlying rancid undertone still detectable when near — he smells "property scented but still filthy."
• Overall smell profile: unpleasant and human (sour sweat + intimate musk + faint cabbage/mayo residue) masked by strong perfume — better presentation for him.
• Look: from outside, still presentable — pinafore pleats sharp, bow centered, blouse crisp on the surface — but he knows what's underneath.

Slave life storyline – Afternoon Chores

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.

Slave life storyline – Chores Accessories Briefing

 Month 1, Day 4 (after meal)
 
The bowl licked clean, the floor stains gone, my tongue still coated in the gritty aftertaste of concrete and spilled mash. I stayed on all fours for a moment — head bowed, breathing shallow, shame burning deeper than ever. 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 spread instantly, cold at first, then warming 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. 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 smell — muted outside but overwhelming down there — rose up inside the uniform, trapped by the layers, filling my nose with every inhale. I wanted to gag again. I wanted to tear it off. But I couldn’t.

Master stepped back, his voice calm as always. “Now — chores. In Chores Accessories.”

The words landed like a final nail. Chores Accessories. The frilly apron, the wrist-length gloves, the headdress, the transparent raincoat, the face mask — all of it. Again. The last thing I wanted. The last thing I could bear. My stomach dropped. My breath caught. Shock and horror crashed over me — sharp, cold, overwhelming. Not again. Not more layers. Not more plastic clinging, more frills rustling, more mask pressing against my face. I was no longer just in uniform. I didn't want to be costumed... Objectified... A thing for display... Again...

Then he spoke again, voice low and deliberate:

“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.

Master watched me dress — silent, judging. Satisfied, he nodded. “Drink. You’re sweating too much. I don’t want property fainting.”

He pointed to the pet bottle clipped to the chain near the wall — 1.89 liters, the large size he now used to make sure I had enough, but also to make every drop feel like work. I knelt again (knees together, back straight), leaned forward awkwardly toward the bottle. But the face mask was still on — covering my mouth and nose completely. I couldn’t reach the ball tip with my tongue. I had to ask.

I opened my mouth under the mask, voice muffled and small.

“Master… may I remove the mask to drink?”

The words were out before I could stop them. Speaking without permission. I knew it instantly. This is unacceptable. This is utterly unacceptable. It was practical — I couldn’t drink through the mask — but still a violation. I reacted internally: "This is not logical. I need to drink, but I can’t because of the mask he just made me wear. How is this fair?" The frustration surged — hot, choking, familiar. I was too naive. I should have listened to the warnings — reality is nothing like imagination. I stupidly signed more time. Now even asking to drink is punished.

Master’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice remained calm, clinical:

“Speaking without permission. Behaviour – Violation involving speech & communication. Moderate. Base 100 points. Reacting to the violation. Behaviour – Unspoken defiance. Moderate. Base 80 points. This is the second instance of unauthorized speech today. Multiplier ×3 on both categories. Total: 540 points. Rounded up to 700. Debt now 28,200.”

The words landed like a physical blow. I froze again, the numbers sinking in slowly, heavily. "This is the second time today…" — he said it so calmly, so factually, as if it was just data, just numbers on a ledger. But inside me it landed like judgment. Second time. I had spoken twice already. Twice I had failed to stay silent, to be the thing he wanted. The shame surged — hot, choking, familiar. How could I be this person? How could I have let myself become someone who gets points for asking to drink? I wanted to disappear, to vanish into the floor, to be anywhere but here, kneeling in front of him while he calmly read out how much lower I had fallen. The debt number — 28,200 — echoed in my head. It wasn’t just a number. It was proof. Proof that I was sinking, deeper every day, and there was no bottom in sight. I hated him for tallying it so calmly. I hated myself more for speaking.

He didn't linger on it. He didn't need to. The words hung there, heavy and final, then he simply moved on.

Master stepped forward, reached out, and untied the mask himself. The elastic released from my ears, the fabric peeled away from my lips — leaving red marks and a faint dampness. He handed it back to me.

“Remove it next time before you speak. Put it back on after you drink.”

I nodded — silent, eyes down. I leaned to the bottle again, tongue on the ball tip, licking slowly. The valve was stiff, unforgiving. I had to press hard with my tongue just to get any water to trickle out — small, reluctant drops that came only after repeated effort. Each lick strained the muscle: the tip pushing against the ball, rolling it slightly, fighting the spring tension inside. The movement was unnatural — tongue extended forward, curled back to swallow, extended again. It quickly fatigued — the muscle burned, trembled, ached with every press. The angle was awkward too — kneeling, neck craned, head tilted, the chain pulling just enough to make it uncomfortable. My jaw tightened, lips chapped from the panty and earlier bridle, tongue already sore from the floor. Each small suck pulled only a tiny amount — a slow, teasing trickle that barely quenched the dryness in my throat. I had to keep going, lick after lick, the repetitive motion making my tongue feel swollen, heavy, overworked. The cold water was tasteless, metallic from the bottle, but it still felt like a reward I had to earn with effort.

Kneeling made it worse. The heels dug into my soles even harder in this position, the balls of my feet burning, calves cramping from the forced angle. The double uniform pressed against my thighs and chest, the tight training bra restricting every breath, the soaked panties squishing beneath. The Chores Accessories layered on top amplified everything: the apron bib pressed my chest, the gloves clung damp and heavy to my hands, the headdress frills tickled my cheeks, the raincoat plastic stuck to my damp arms and back, crinkling with every lean. The raincoat especially — the plastic clung to the skin on my hands and forearms where the gloves ended, pulling and sticking with every reach toward the bottle, 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.

I drank — not because I wanted to, but because refusal meant points, and I already felt the dizziness creeping in from dehydration. Each lick pulled more water, but also reminded me: even drinking is controlled, even thirst is not mine. My tongue strained harder with every push against the ball, the muscle cramping slightly, the effort humiliating. I could feel the fatigue building — the tongue becoming clumsy, less precise, making the next lick sloppier. The double uniform underneath trapped heat, sweat running down my back, the soaked panties squishing below. The heels stabbed my soles even while kneeling. Everything hurt, everything clung, everything reminded me I was owned — even the act of drinking water.

The regret spiked again: "This is Day 4. Tonight I could have been free… sipping coffee from a glass, not licking from a pet bottle like an animal." I used to just tilt a bottle and drink. Now every drop was work — tongue aching, neck strained, body layered and trapped. I was too naive. I should have listened to the warnings — reality is nothing like imagination. I stupidly signed more time. Now even water is punishment.

I drank until he said “enough” — never my decision.

I put the mask back on myself — tying it tight, elastic biting into my ears again, fabric pressing against my raw lips. The muffling returned, the trapped exhales, the borrowed inhales. Another layer of control snapped back into place.

Master stepped back. “Now — chores.”

Slave life storyline – Lunch Preparation & Eating

Month 1, Day 4 (late morning)
 
I moved to the kitchen, chain clinking with every step. The 1-meter length hung loosely from my neck — a constant, cold weight brushing against my collarbone, the links softly rattling against the blouse whenever I shifted. It only pulled taut if I stretched too far — reaching for something on the far side of the counter or bending low to the sink — a sharp reminder of how limited my world had become. Otherwise, it just dangled, clinking quietly, a passive but unending symbol of yesterday’s stupid decision.

Preparation was slow, humiliating. The mash was pre-made once a week — rice, milk, cabbage, mayonnaise — stored in sealed containers in the fridge to avoid spoilage. I pulled out the rice first — cold, clumped, slightly hardened from sitting. I emptied it into the dog bowl — the clumps tumbling in with a soft thud. Then the milk — poured slowly over the rice, the white liquid soaking in gradually, softening the grains, turning them pale and soggy. Next the cabbage — I took the container of pre-shredded strands, thin and fibrous, and scattered them on top. They looked raw, bitter, out of place. Finally the mayonnaise — a thick, white dollop spooned in last. It clung to the surface, slowly melting into the mixture, turning everything greasy and slick.

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 oily and sticky. The texture was unappetizing — soggy, lumpy, greasy, with sharp cabbage bits breaking through the mush. The smell rose — starchy, milky, slightly sour from the cabbage, with the oily sweetness of mayonnaise. It wasn’t strong, but it was familiar now — the smell of every meal since the beginning. I set the bowl on the floor.

Then eating. I knelt on the floor — knees together, back straight — the double layers making it harder; the inner pinafore bunched against the outer one, pulling at my hips, the wet inner fabric sticking to my thighs. The soaked panty beneath pressed tighter with the shift in position, the slimy crotch squishing softly against me, a private, revolting reminder that never left. I could feel the weight of it — heavy, clinging, never drying — every tiny adjustment of my hips making it drag and smear.

I stirred the mash again with the small spoon, then brought it to my lips. Lady-like — every movement deliberate, every bite controlled. I scooped a tiny amount — 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.

This is unacceptable. This is utterly unacceptable. Today is Day 4. Tonight I could have been free. Tonight was supposed to be the end — the contract over, me walking out, back to my life, back to being me. I could have been eating real food — sitting at a table, tasting something warm, spiced, actual. Laksa. Coffee. Anything. Instead I’m kneeling on concrete, chained, eating cold mush from a dog bowl while the taste of yesterday’s filth lingers in my mouth. I stupidly signed five extensions yesterday. Five. From four days to two months. Two months. The regret surged — hot, choking, overwhelming. How could I have let this happen? How could I have nodded, again and again, until I signed away everything? I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the bowl. I wanted to tell him to go away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The points would stack. The debt would climb. And I’d be right back in the storeroom, chained tighter, longer.

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 continued, listing each one: “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 lady-like 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 — another layer of debt. 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, reluctantly, knees trembling slightly — 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.

And in that moment, the thought crashed over me again — sharp, painful, unbearable: tonight I could have been free. Tonight was supposed to be the end. The fourth day. The contract over. I could have been eating properly — sitting at a real table, tasting real food, laughing with friends, being myself again. I could have been ordering laksa, sipping coffee, feeling normal. Instead I was here, on all fours, licking spilled mash off the floor like an animal. Now I am degraded to this status for two months. Two months. The words echoed in my head, heavy and final. Two months of this — of licking floors, of eating from a bowl, of being this thing. I stupidly signed five extensions yesterday. Five. From four days to two months. The regret surged — hot, choking, overwhelming. How could I have let this happen? How could I have nodded, again and again, until I signed away everything? I still wanted out. I still wanted my old life — the job, the apartment, the freedom to choose what I ate, when I slept, who I was. But the chain clinked. The debt climbed. And the thought felt farther away every day.

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. In Chores Accessories.”

The words landed like a final nail. Chores Accessories. The frilly apron, the wrist-length gloves, the headdress, the transparent raincoat, the face mask — all of it. Again. The last thing I wanted. The last thing I could bear. My stomach dropped. My breath caught. Shock and horror crashed over me — sharp, cold, overwhelming. Not again. Not more layers. Not more plastic clinging, more frills rustling, more mask pressing against my face. I was no longer just in uniform. I didn't want to be costumed... Objectified... A thing for display... Again...

Slave life storyline– Late Morning Release

Month 1, Day 4 (Late Morning)

 Eventually, the door opened — a faint creak I felt more than heard. Footsteps.

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. 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.

Master noted the struggle — the clumsy fall, the grunt, the uncontrolled twist — as a violation of not behaving submissively or in a manner befitting my status. He didn’t say it aloud then, but I felt it in the silence that followed. The way my body flopped like something wild, not something owned. Not graceful, not quiet, not accepting. A lady-like slave doesn’t collapse; she endures with poise. That grunt — too low, too masculine — was Exhibit traits of man – Behavior. The fall exposed the skirt riding up, panties visible for a second — Appearance violation. The twist risked tugging the chain — Upkeep tampering risk. I knew the points were stacking already. Behaviour, Appearance, Upkeep — all at once. Multipliers if he decided it was repeated defiance from last night. More debt. The shame burned deeper than the scrape on my cheek.

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. The panties caught on my skin several times, 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.

The moment the crotch fabric pressed fully against me again, the full reality hit. It was soaked — not just damp, but heavy, saturated — my own saliva from the night mixing with everything the panty had already absorbed: yesterday’s sweat, the oils from my skin, faint traces of urine from earlier holds, the sticky residue of seminal fluid that had never fully dried. The wetness spread instantly across my pubic area, cold at first, then warming 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. 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 sensation was revolting — wet, heavy, intimate, inescapable. No air could reach the area; the tight bikini cut trapped everything against me, 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 smell — muted outside but overwhelming down there — rose up inside the uniform, trapped by the layers, filling my nose with every inhale. I wanted to gag again. I wanted to tear it off. But I couldn’t. I stayed kneeling, silent, eyes down, the soaked panty a second skin I couldn’t escape.

My hand was still slick from pulling the panty out. The residue coated my fingers — warm, slimy, a mix of saliva and the original filth that had soaked into the fabric overnight. It felt gross, invasive, wrong. I could feel it between my fingers, stringy and tacky, clinging like it didn’t want to let go. My stomach turned. I wanted it off me — off my skin, off my hand, off my existence.

Without thinking, I tried to wipe it on the pinafore fabric. Just a quick swipe against the material near my hip. The slime streaked across the skirt — a faint, wet mark that darkened the fabric instantly. I froze. The stain was small but obvious, glistening under the light. I knew immediately it was wrong. The uniform must stay presentable. Master's rule.

Master saw it. His eyes flicked to the mark, then back to me. No anger, no shout — just that calm, cold stare. Then, quietly, he spoke the tally:

“Soiling uniform. Appearance – Major. Base 150 points. Spreading filth on pinafore fabric. Hygiene & grooming – Major. Base 200 points. Environment not neat. Upkeep – Major. Base 150 points. This is the fourth time this week you’ve soiled the uniform during accessory removal. Multiplier ×7 on all three categories. Total: 3,500 points. Rounded up to 4,000. Debt now 25,000.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I froze again, the numbers sinking in slowly, heavily. "This is the fourth time this week…" — he said it so calmly, so factually, as if it was just data, just numbers on a ledger. But inside me it landed like judgment. Fourth time. I had done this four times already. Four times I had failed to be neat, to be clean, to be the thing he wanted. The shame surged — hot, choking, familiar. How could I be this person? How could I have let myself become someone who soils his own uniform again and again? I wanted to disappear, to vanish into the floor, to be anywhere but here, kneeling in front of him while he calmly read out how much lower I had fallen. The debt number — 25,000 — echoed in my head. It wasn’t just a number. It was proof. Proof that I was sinking, deeper every day, and there was no bottom in sight. I hated him for saying it so calmly. I hated myself more for letting it happen.

He didn’t linger on it. He didn’t need to. The words hung there, heavy and final, then he simply moved on.

He watched me a moment longer, then pointed to the kitchen. “Prepare lunch first.”

Slave life storyline – Storeroom Lock-Up: My New Storage Space

Month 1, Day 4 (morning lock-up to release)**

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.  

But the sour was faint — mostly masked by the feminine perfume of the outer uniform, the light floral scent clinging stubbornly to the pinafore's crisp navy fabric, a cruel contrast that made the filth underneath feel even more intimate and inescapable.

He secured my neck chain directly to the wall plug 1m above the ground — the chain was exactly 1 m long, clipped with a small padlock.  

The short length gave me a tiny 1m radius — enough to shuffle in a small circle, kneel, sit, or curl up if I lay down, but nothing more.  

No reaching shelves.  

No pacing.  

No escape.  

The chain itself was a little in the way — its loose end brushed my arms or bumped my chest during any shift, a constant small annoyance rather than a major obstacle.

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 — the short 1m length limiting every movement, the loose end brushing my arms or bumping my chest during any shift.

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 short end brushing my arms again.  

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 single panty — plain white bikini style, soaked through with sweat and more, the fabric heavy, slimy, tacky against my fingertips.  

Pulling it 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 kneeling position already kept my legs bent and thighs pressed together — spreading wide enough was impossible anyway, but the heels made balance worse, ankles locked, calves straining, forcing me to shift weight carefully to avoid toppling forward or sideways.  

I had to keep thighs clamped tight, shimmy awkwardly, the chain’s short end brushing my arms or bumping my chest again, a constant small irritation.  

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.  

The panty reached my knees — then it caught on the heels.  

Still kneeling, I couldn’t just slide it off easily.  

The high stilettos with their narrow straps and pointed heels created a barrier — the panty leg holes snagged on the heel tips, the fabric bunching and twisting around the ankle straps.  

I had to lift one knee slightly — balancing on the other stiletto, thigh muscles burning to keep clamped — and wiggle that leg carefully to free the panty from the heel.  

The fabric stretched, tugged painfully at the skin, threatened to tear, but finally slipped free with a wet snap.  

Sweat dripped down my back, adding to the mess.  

Then the other leg — same struggle, same precarious balance, same painful tug on sore arches as the panty caught again on the heel tip.  

I rocked the foot side to side, small frantic movements, feeling the fabric stretch and pull until it finally slipped past.  

The panty finally dropped 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, the buildup of days without washing, no air, no relief.  

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.

Immediately, the moment the panty was 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 short end brushing my arms or bumping my chest during any shift, a constant small irritation.  

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 panty lay discarded on the floor, a damp, forgotten heap — no longer there to hold anything in place.  

Without it, 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 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 took over — this was the second time I did it — my hand, now dirtied from touching the slimy penis (and earlier panty), moved to wipe on the outer pinafore skirt, a quick, desperate motion before I could think.  

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.  

Second instinctive mistake in minutes.  

Repeated violation.  

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 repeated 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 dropped the gross panty on the floor — after folding it inside outwards — 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 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 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 in my mouth, taste flooding every sense.  

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.  

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 my 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 (three times): 800 × 3 = 2,400.  

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… 12,000 points.  

Nice round number.”

I gulp — hard.  

The panty in my mouth shifted with the motion, releasing a fresh wave of taste.  

12,000 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 panty 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 panty turned it all to muffled, wet gurgles, a cruel practice in futility.

Slave life storyline – Reflective Night and Morning 请安 Greeting

Month 1, Day 4 (midnight to ~morning)
 
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 the slightest imperfection, the punishment had been brutal. 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 — vivid, desperate, impossible. 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 with my bound hands, hope a neighbor hears the muffled thuds. Or wait until he’s asleep, find something sharp — a nail in the wall, a loose screw on the shelf — cut the cable ties, unclip the chain, slip out the door. Then run to my hidden passport spot, flag a taxi, cross the border before dawn. Back in Singapore by morning — shower, change, call family, pretend it was a bad dream. Or hide in the storeroom until he leaves, then pry the eye bolt from the concrete with sheer panic strength, steal his keys, take his car, drive to the border. Or play dead — stop breathing, let him think I choked on the gag, hope he panics and calls for help, then escape when the door opens. Or seduce him — act broken, obedient, wait for trust, then strike when he’s vulnerable. Every fantasy collapsed the moment I tested it: the chain is locked, the plug is in concrete, the gag is tight, the blindfold is thick, the hands are bound, the house is silent. No tools, no phone, no help. Just me, chained, layered, reduced. The fantasies looped — each one more desperate, each one more impossible — until they all blurred into one quiet, aching truth: I’m not getting out tomorrow. I’m not getting out at all.

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.

Could be waking up in my own bed tomorrow. Could be free tomorrow. Could be gone tomorrow. But I’m not. And every tomorrow after that feels like it belongs to him now, not me.

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.

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.

Could be waking up in my own bed tomorrow. Could be free tomorrow. Could be gone tomorrow. But I’m not. And every tomorrow after that feels like it belongs to him now, not me.

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. He stretched lazily, looked over at me kneeling beside the bed, and his smile widened — warm, satisfied, almost affectionate in a twisted way. “Good morning, property,” he said softly, voice still thick with sleep but already carrying that calm authority. “I slept so well knowing you were right here, waiting for me. You look perfect like this — quiet, obedient, ready.”

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet brushing the floor near my knees. He reached out and ran a finger along the chain at my collar, giving it a gentle tug — not painful, just a reminder. “You’ve been good this morning,” he continued, eyes scanning my posture, my heels, my bowed head. “No slouching, no fidgeting, no bulge. I’m proud of you. You’re learning.”

His words landed like a mix of praise and threat. Proud. Learning. Every compliment felt like another lock clicking shut. He leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Today is going to be special. You’re going to serve me all day, and when I go out, you’ll stay safe in your new space. No more wild thoughts. Just obedience. That’s what good property does.”

He stood, stretched again, then looked down at me expectantly. I knew what was expected. I bowed lower, hands on thighs, voice high and soft despite the dryness and hoarseness of morning: “Good morning, Master.”

He smiled wider, reached down and patted my head once — gentle, possessive. “Good morning, property. I’m very happy to own you now.”

Then he paused, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement. “Today… say it in Chinese. Just this once. Let’s see how it feels.”

His tone was light, almost playful — but the intent behind it was deliberate, calculated. This was a one-time test — a slow, intentional push to make me taste degradation in a new way. To let me feel the weight of Chinese words in my mouth, the historical echo of submission, without any promise of repetition. He wanted me to experience it now. To let the shame sink in gradually. To watch me struggle with it.

He leaned down closer, voice low and deliberate. “Say it properly. 像清朝的下人一樣 — like a servant in the Qing dynasty. Welcome your Master.”

The command landed softly, but it carried the same crushing force. Qing dynasty. 下人. He was invoking centuries of hierarchy — faceless servants, bowing maids, people born without agency — just to watch me squirm. It wasn’t a habit. It was a game. A slow, intentional degradation. He wanted to see how far he could push in this single moment.

My throat closed. The high, soft pitch I’d practiced felt impossible now — not because of hoarseness, but because saying it in Chinese made it real in a way English never could. It wasn’t just words; it was surrender in another language, surrender to a history he chose for me. I hesitated. My lips parted, but nothing came out. The silence stretched — long, heavy, dangerous. He didn’t speak. He just watched, patient, unblinking, letting the pressure build. I knew what came next if I refused: more points, more punishment, more proof I was still “wild.” The thought of another night in the storeroom, another round of bridle and blindfold, made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t risk it. Not today.

My voice cracked when it finally came — small, trembling, barely audible: “早上… 好… 主人。”

He tilted his head slightly, unsatisfied. “Louder. And properly. Like you mean it.”

I swallowed hard. The shame burned hotter with every second. I bowed lower — deeper than before — forehead almost touching the floor, hands gripping my thighs so tightly the nails dug in. The words felt like poison sliding up my throat. I forced them out again, louder this time, voice shaking but clearer: “早上好，主人。”

He nodded once, but he wasn’t finished. “And the end.” His voice was calm, almost gentle — the cruelty hidden in the softness. “Welcome your Master. In Chinese.”

I froze again. 歡迎下人。 Welcome, lowly servant. Saying it meant I was tasting the label. Accepting it — even if just for “this once.” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. Tears pricked behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

The silence stretched again — longer this time. He waited. Patient. Certain. I knew I would break. I always did.

Finally, voice barely above a whisper, cracked and raw: “歡迎… 下人。”

He smiled — slow, satisfied, victorious. “Good girl.” He reached down again, patted my head once more — longer this time, fingers lingering in my hair like he was petting something he owned. “Just this once… but you did it so well.”

The pat felt like a brand. The words — 早上好，主人… 歡迎下人 — echoed in my skull, self-inflicted, inescapable. I had just called myself 下人. In Chinese. In front of him. The Qing dynasty reference wasn’t casual — it was deliberate. He wanted me to feel the weight of centuries: the faceless maids, the bowing servants, the women and eunuchs who existed only to serve without name or will. I wasn’t just his property anymore. I was tasting what it felt like to be a living echo of that era — reduced, erased, reborn in submission. The degradation sank deeper than any chain. And he had done it intentionally — slow, gradual, “just this once” — to make the humiliation linger long after the moment passed.

His happiness was my discomfort — a flood of negative feelings crashed over me. Owned. Property. 下人. 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.