Slave life storyline – My first experience washing uniform as a slave

 Day 4 Night

Before stepping toward the pail, Master said: “Put the face mask back on,” he said.

I slipped it back—elastic snapped tight, fog rising fast. The mask smelled terrible: all-day breath, couch-like sweat, plus the underwear gag’s musk, salt, faint urine—thick, sour, trapped inside now. Every inhale pulled it deeper.

And I was already wearing double layer of white cotton panty underneath—one day old, previously second and third layer, now the base. Tight, crotch slightly warm and damp from body heat, still perfumed, soft but clinging.

The neckchain brushed my back — thin, PVC-sleeved, padlocked, one meter dangling loose — giving a soft, steady pressure as I stepped toward the pail. The padlock clicked faintly, like a heartbeat I didn’t want. Kitchen light buzzed. My hands—still trapped in cotton maid’s gloves under rubber—shook as I knelt beside it.

And I was already wearing double layer of white cotton panty underneath—tight, crotch heavy, perfumed but sour. The neckchain brushed my back — thin, PVC-sleeved, padlocked, one meter dangling loose — giving a soft, steady pressure as I stepped toward the pail. The padlock clicked faintly, like a heartbeat I didn’t want. Kitchen light buzzed. My hands—still trapped in cotton maid’s gloves under rubber—shook as I knelt beside it. …

The padlock clicked faintly, like a heartbeat I didn’t want. Kitchen light buzzed. My hands—still trapped in cotton maid’s gloves under rubber—shook as I knelt beside it. The uniform lay crumpled on the floor: blouse, pinafore — still crisp, barely a day old—already marked by a stupid, careless stain. The whole thing carried that faint feminine perfume — the master’s pick, not mine — still sweet, still floral, like nothing had happened.

I should’ve been home by now. Couch, tea, Netflix. Not here. Not this. Why did was I even convinced to extend to 2 months? I was supposed to be only 4 days! And now is day 4!

I turned the tap. Cold water hit the fabric, and the smell rose—sour, thick, like shame made solid. The master’s voice still echoed: “You let it show.” Like I’d betrayed him by sweating, by existing, that’s unreasonable, and now I have to leave with it for the next 2 months! The pinafore was still crisp, the whole uniform carrying that faint feminine perfume — the master’s pick, not mine — still sweet, still floral, like nothing had happened. And yet here I was, scrubbing. Because I had accidentally wiped the uniform, accidentally stained it a little. I didn’t expect him to be so particular about that.

The apron clung to my stomach, headdress itching my scalp. The raincoat—like a second skin—made every breath feel borrowed. I dropped to my knees on the tile — hard, cold — the neckchain swaying at my back, one meter loose, padlock brushing my spine with every lean. I filled the pail. Water slapped against plastic, sharp and hollow, echoing off the walls like it was mocking me.

I started with the blouse. Cotton maid’s gloves underneath, rubber ones over — double-layered, slippery from soap, fingers numb — I fumbled the collar, tried to wring it, but the raincoat bunched at my elbows, pinching skin, slowing every twist. Detergent foam bubbled up, white and useless. I scrubbed. Piece by piece. First the blouse from one set — heavy, stubborn, water splashing onto my lap, soaking through. Then the blouse from the other set. Then the pinafore from the first, then the second.

Kneeling hurt. Raincoat creaked with every shift. My knees burned after minutes, so I lifted them a little — thighs angling back, heels creeping closer — straightening just enough to ease the fire. Still on the tile, still “kneeling,” but really just a practical cheat- guessed this is allowable, master did not seems to react when I was doing it. I wanted to stand — just once — stretch my back, shake the water off. But no. Kneeling’s the rule. The chain’s slack let me move, but only so far — a reminder: you’re not free. Not even to wash.

By the last pinafore, my arms were jelly. Foam dripped down my wrists. I squeezed, rinsed, squeezed again — and finally, it was clean. Done. That tiny rush: “It’s over.” But the raincoat still trapped the stink — he couldn’t smell it, but I could. Every inhale pulled it back in. Then he handed me the hair dryer. “Finish it,” he said. He wanted me to complete the whole process without waiting aimlessly for them to dry normally. Like it was normal. Like drying my own prison was just another chore.

I plugged it in. Hot air blasted, loud and mean. Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripped into my eyes. The pinafore steamed under my hands, fabric stiffening as it dried slowly. My fingers burned. My back screamed. And still, I stood there—neckchain swaying at my back, padlock clinking—thinking of my mother’s kitchen, how she’d laugh if she saw me now. It is the first time I ever encountered someone needing to laboriously  dry any clothing with a hair dryer! And that person was me! That feels stupid! It feels stupid to be standing there on heels with all this equially stupid accessories and spend a long time trying to dry the uniform! 4 pieces- 2 blouse and 2 pinafore!

I could’ve been free. I should’ve been free.

The dryer droned on. The uniform smelled faintly of soap now, but the weight was still there. Not the cloth—the shame. The realization. This wasn’t about cleaning. It was about keeping me here- for the next 2 months! The thought bring about more regret.  

It took forever. The hot air kept blasting, minutes stretching into what felt like eternity—every second a reminder that time wasn't mine anymore. My arms ached, heels dug deeper into the tile, sweat trickled down my spine under the raincoat. I kept going because stopping meant I risked more violation. I had already clocked up astronomical points, and only in these short 2 days. Apparently he seems to have reset the points after the 2-month contract extension. Yes, maybe so—it feels like it. I remembered before that it was about 30 over thousand already, and now it's still hovering around there. He did not mention it, but likely so. Maybe. But of course, I am smart enough not to ask. Who wants more punishment? And even now, how am I going to pay back so many points? The thought of the value of punishment associated with them is really bone-deep dread—a cold, twisting knot in the stomach, the kind that makes every breath feel borrowed and every future hour heavier than the last.

Finally—after what must've been twenty, thirty minutes—the fabric stopped steaming. Stiff. Dry. Done.

He glanced at my hands. "Remove the rubber gloves," he said, voice sharp.

He looked at the cotton maid's gloves underneath—now soaked through, dark with sweat. "Disgusting," he snapped. "That's another 5,000 points."

Of course I'd sweated—the double layer, the rubber gloves trapping everything. It was logical. Why was he angry? Why was he angry? Unreasonable.

He handed me a fresh pair—cotton maid's, dry, soft. "Put these on. Hang the wet ones to dry. Next time, this is part of your washing regime."

I hesitated. But I forced myself to reply: “Yes, Master,” I said——soft, flat, muffled through the mask, words slurred, breath fogging the fabric, sound trapped and thick like underwater. Not because I wanted to. Just because I didn't want more problems. More points. More debt.

And I forced myself—gently, submissively—  to peel them off. No jerking. No sigh. Just slow, careful, like I was handling glass. I laid them on the stool as he pointed. And also not because I wanted to. Just because I didn't want more problems. More points. More debt.

Then ironing. He handed me the iron—old, heavy, cord dangling like another chain. I set it up on the table, heat humming. First blouse: I pressed, but the pleat crumpled. Again. Again. I fumbled. Flashback: in my old life, I'd barely iron. Once a month, maybe. And even then, I'd call the helper. "Make sure the lines are sharp," I'd say. "No wrinkles." She'd do it perfect—crisp collar, straight seams—while I scrolled my phone. Now? Now I'm the one standing here, heels aching, trying to get the pinafore's knife-edge pleats right. Three tries. Four. The fabric fought me, starch making it stubborn. But finally—on the fifth pass—the line held. Sharp. Perfect.

Then he stepped closer. "Hang it," he said. "Not folded. Not left on the table. On the rack—shoulders straight, pleats flat, two inches between each. This is part of the procedure now. Next time, you do it without me telling you."

"Yes, Master," I said—soft, flat, like before, muffled, breath fogging the mask. Not because I wanted to learn. Not because I was eager. Just because refusing meant points. More debt. More nights locked away.

I took the first blouse—still warm from the iron—fingers trembling under the new gloves. The hanger felt foreign, metal cold against my palm.

He stepped in. "Blouse inside first—shoulders aligned. Then pinafore over it, bib front-facing, pleats smoothed flat. No overlap on shoulders. Hang it as if the hanger is wearing the uniform. One hanger per set. Two inches between each. This is the procedure now. Next time, you do it without me telling you."

I tried. The blouse shoulder slipped, fabric bunching. Again. I smoothed it, then started buttoning—all the way up, top to bottom. Gloves thick, fingers numb, buttons tiny and slippery—one popped out, I fumbled to catch it, heart jumping. Why make me do this with gloves on? Why make it impossible? I kept going, slow, careful, like I was folding paper for a test. Finally done. Then I slipped the pinafore over, bib straight, straps draped symmetrically, pleats aligned. I reached for the left-side zipper—stiff, gloves catching—and pulled it up to just below the shoulder, locking everything in place. Like it was wearing itself. Stupid.

Same fumble on the second set. Same correction in my head: "Button all up. Shoulders aligned. Bib front. Pleats flat. Zip up. Two inches."

Then the pinafores—bibs stiff with starch, skirts fighting to crease. I hung them one by one over their blouses, spacing them, checking the gaps like my life depended on it. Because maybe it did.

They looked... perfect. Too perfect. Like they belonged to someone else. Like they were waiting for tomorrow—another day, another stain, another scrub. The neckchain clinked as I stepped back, a constant reminder for my current state now, more regret. The rack swayed slightly.

Then he handed me the bottle. "Spray it," he said. "Heavy. Floral. Feminine. Every inch—blouse, pinafore, even the hem. Next time, you do this too."

I took it. The nozzle was cold. I pressed—once, twice, three times. The mist hit the fabric, rose and jasmine and vanilla, sweet and thick, like candy mixed with flowers. It clung to the starch, soaked in, turning the air around me sticky. And as I did it, the thought hit: I'm a man. This isn't me. Wearing this soaked in the perfume—I'll smell like a doll. Like a girl. Degraded. Every breath will remind me: you're not who you were. You're whatever he wants. The scent filled my nose, sweet and wrong, and I felt it settle—another layer, another erasure. Not just cloth. Me.

I set the bottle down. The uniform hung there, glistening, reeking of roses and shame. The neckchain gave its soft pressure. He smiled.

“Wash is done.“

"Remove the two clean panties," he said, flat. "You'll wash them another day."

I slipped them down—white cotton, double layer, tight, crotch heavy, perfumed. I pressed my thighs together hard—legs squeezed shut, knees locked inward, every muscle in my groin straining. No bulge. No dislodgement. Sweat-slick skin slid, but I held it—thighs trembled, conscious effort like clenching a fist. Master watching. Points if it springs out. No slip. No mistake. No exposure.

After removal, disappointed, i folded them aside on the stool. Fresh, untouched. Not for me.

"Now wear back the one from the stool."

I picked it up—semi-dry by now, crusty, stiff. Four days' worth: salty sweat, musk, faint urine, my spit hardened into rough paste. Edges curled, crotch darkened, texture gritty like old bread. Why back on? Why not fresh? Why me?

I stepped into it—slow, reluctant. Fabric clung cold to skin, pulled tight over hips, the crust scraping lightly. Immediate chill, then warmth from my body—old smell rose up, thick, sour-sweet, coating my nose. Stomach twisted. Not clean. Never clean. Just... back.

Master's voice calm. “Take the pin. Pin the blouse to the underwear. Tight.”

I reached for the pin on the stool—cold metal, engraving rough under fingers. Pushed it through the bottom hem of the inner blouse and the waistband of the old panty—clip snapped shut, sharp tug at hips like a leash. Fabric fused, no slack. The blouse now pulled down tight, compressing everything inside—uniform felt tighter, layers pressed flat against raw skin, bloat squeezed harder, no room to breathe. No loose. No gap. Just sealed. Just owned.

Why must I pin it back? Why must it become compulsory? One day ago he said it was to stop riding up—keep everything in place during chores. But now? Now it's not about riding. It's about making the uniform tighter inside, no movement, no relief. The blouse hem locked to panty waistband—every shift pulls, every breath digs. Why always more? Why turn a simple fix into a lock? Debt climbs. No choice. Just thing.

“Time for the real Human washing machine! Let your sweat wash this stinky uniform below the raincoat. Time for mummification! ”

I glurped. First full night in mummification?...... That sounds devastating