Month 1, Day 3 (Evening)
The chicken rice was gone.
The dog bowl licked clean.
The taste still lingered — warm, greasy, humiliatingly good.
I stayed on my knees after finishing, head bowed, waiting for whatever came next.
My mind was a storm of exhaustion, shame, and stubborn refusal to accept what I’d done.
Two months.
I had signed for two months.
Five extensions in one single day.
Not blindly — not all of them.
Only the third one (from 2 weeks to 3 weeks) was truly blind — I was too broken, too numb, too desperate to even read the form.
The others… I had seen the words.
I had heard the offers.
I had nodded.
I had signed.
Out of desperation.
Out of a weakened mind that couldn’t think straight anymore.
The pain, the chain, the resets, the hunger — they wore me down until signing felt like the only way to breathe.
I hated that I did it.
I hated that I kept doing it.
But I still couldn’t accept it.
Two months.
Sixty days.
I kept telling myself it was a mistake — a bad deal I could still undo.
Tonight.
Right now.
I needed to talk to him.
Explain.
Negotiate.
Threaten.
Bargain.
Anything to claw back some control.
This wasn’t fate.
This wasn’t permanent.
I was still me.
I was still in charge of my own future.
I just needed one clear conversation — before the night ended, before he locked me in any deeper.
Master stood up from the table.
He looked down at me — calm, almost gentle.
He reached for the small lock on my neck chain — the 1-meter loose end sleeved in PVC hose that had been my constant companion since Day 1, pulling, restraining, reminding.
With a click, he unlocked it.
The chain slid free.
For a moment, my neck felt light, exposed, strange — like a weight lifted, but also a loss of something familiar in its cruelty.
“You’ve earned rest tonight,” he said.
“But first — put on the new layer.
The clean set.
One complete set over what you’re wearing now.
Shift the tie to the outer layer.”
He tossed the fresh uniform at my knees — white blouse, navy pinafore, red tie.
Still folded.
As I picked up the blouse, a soft, feminine scent rose — rose and jasmine, powdery vanilla undertone, light but deliberate.
Perfume.
Master had applied it to the new uniform.
The smell was sweet, elegant, pretty — everything I wasn’t.
It made my stomach twist.
This wasn’t just clean clothes.
This was scented.
Feminized.
Another layer of control, even in the fabric itself.
Thinking back to the day before, when Master had instructed me to heavily iron the two uniforms and perfume them, I had assumed it was for changing out when the current one got too smelly and dirty.
Maybe I had been too naive about that.
I did not know about layering of uniform.
The thought stung — another trick, another way to keep me trapped in my own filth.
For a second, relief flickered — desperate relief.
Not hope for freedom, not hope for escape — just relief from the ordeal.
The sticky, clinging filth that had been glued to me since the very beginning of the session — the sour sweat, the damp pinafore, the heavy blouse — could finally be covered, dulled, hidden from my own skin.
I wanted the constant reminder of my own body’s stink and stickiness to stop.
Even if just for a moment.
Even if it was only a mask.
A clean layer on top.
A way to feel less like I was drowning in my own dirty skin.
I reached for the tie first — the outer one, already knotted tight at my throat since the start of the day.
I loosened it slowly.
The knot came undone with a soft scrape against the collar.
I pulled the tie free.
The fabric was damp from sweat, slightly stiff.
I set it aside carefully.
Then I moved to the pinafore.
The outer pinafore I was wearing — the one that had been on me since the beginning of the session — had a zipper on the left side.
I reached to my left side, fingers finding the pull.
I tugged downward, ready to shed the filthy layer.
But Master’s voice snapped like a whip.
“Stop.”
I froze.
The zipper was only halfway down.
I looked up — confused, desperate.
He stepped closer.
Eyes hard.
“You do not remove anything.
You put the new set over what you’re wearing now.
Layering.
Not changing.
That is the rule.
Always has been.
Blouse first, then pinafore.
Do it correctly.
Upkeep violation — attempting to remove uniform without permission.
+100 points.”
The relief shattered like glass.
Layering.
Not changing.
The protocol had always been layering.
I just hadn’t realised it until that moment.
I’d assumed — naively, stupidly — that a “new set” meant replacement.
But no.
One complete set over the existing one.
The filth, the sweat, the stickiness — all still there, pressed against my skin, now sealed in by fresh fabric laced with perfume.
No air.
No escape.
The smell would be contained — Master wouldn’t smell the sourness.
But I would.
Every breath would mix the sweet floral perfume with my own trapped stink.
A constant, nauseating reminder that even “clean” was feminized, controlled, mocking.
The discomfort would multiply.
Heat doubled.
Weight doubled.
Stickiness doubled.
I felt like I was wearing my own prison.
I let go of the zipper.
Pulled it back up.
The old pinafore stayed on — heavy, damp, clinging.
I slipped the new blouse over the old stinky uniform.
The sleeves tugged against the inner sleeves.
Buttons strained over the doubled chest.
The collar stood higher, stiffer.
Next the new pinafore.
I stepped into it.
Pulled it up over my hips.
The straps settled across shoulders already sore from the afternoon chain.
I zipped it on the left side — the zipper glided smoothly, but the extra layer added weight.
The waistband cinched, compressing everything underneath.
The skirt flared slightly — but the bulk beneath made it sit wrong, heavy, lumpy.
Finally, I picked up the new red tie.
I draped it around my neck.
Pulled it tight — knot firm at the throat.
The sudden constraint hit like a jolt — a sharp, choking pressure that squeezed my windpipe for a split second as I cinched it.
My breath caught, throat constricted, a brief flash of panic before I loosened it just enough to breathe.
It wasn’t the constant pressure of the chain from earlier; it was the sudden, abrupt tightness — a quick reminder that even this simple act of dressing could steal my air, my voice, my control.
Another small noose.
I looked down at myself.
From the outside — perfect.
Crisp.
Presentable.
But inside — suffocating.
The clean layer wasn’t a replacement.
It was a prison built on top of the old one.
I’d been tricked again.
I’d thought the new uniform was relief from the stink, relief from the filth.
But it was just the beginning of something worse.
The double layers trapped the heat like an oven.
Sweat immediately began to bead again, pooling under the inner blouse and soaking into the new one.
The fresh fabric, once crisp, now pressed the inner uniform tighter against my skin, the perfume turning cloying and heavy in the trapped moisture.
My back, armpits, and thighs burned with trapped heat; every movement sent a fresh wave of sweat trickling down.
The waistband dug in deeper, the doubled skirts felt like a furnace wrapped around my legs, and the collar pressed against my throat, making each swallow feel labored.
The discomfort was immediate and relentless — not just physical, but psychological, a constant reminder that even “clean” was punishment.
Master watched the whole time.
Silent.
Unmoving.
When I finished, he stepped forward again.
He picked up the neck chain from the floor.
The PVC-sleeved metal clinked softly as he fitted it back around my neck.
Click — the small lock secured it once more.
A precaution.
A reminder.
The 1-meter loose end hung again, ready to be pulled at any moment.
The weight returned — familiar, heavy, inescapable.
The moment the chain settled back on my neck, I felt like an animal.
A collared thing.
Leashed.
Owned.
The metal was cold against my hot skin, the click of the lock echoing in my ears like a cage door shutting.
I wanted to claw it off, to scream, to run.
But I just stood there, head bowed, breathing shallow through the lingering perfume and trapped sweat, feeling the chain’s weight pull me lower — not just physically, but into something smaller, something less human.
He nodded once.
“Good.
Now — final chores.
Kitchen.
Parlor.
Spotless.
I will inspect.”
Then, suddenly, he added:
“And since you’re already so filthy today, you will wear the full chore set.
Maid apron, wrist-length white maid gloves, headdress, transparent raincoat, face mask.
All of it.
Now.”
My heart sank.
The regular uniform with heels for chores — the full protective layer meant to shield the house from me, the “filthy maid”.
I hesitated, fingers trembling at my sides.
The thought of adding even more layers made my skin crawl.
“Master, please… no more…”
My voice cracked.
He stepped closer.
“Refusal is disobedience.
Violation.
You know the consequences.”
I swallowed hard.
The threat was clear.
I lowered my head.
“Yes, Sir.”
He handed me the accessories one by one.
First the white maid apron with frills — I tied it around my waist, the bow at the back feeling like another restraint.
Then the wrist-length white maid gloves — they slid on, tight at the wrists, already warm from the room.
The maid headdress — a ruffled white cap — he placed it on my head himself, adjusting it so the frills framed my face like a mockery of innocence.
I felt ridiculous, degraded, exposed even though I was covered more than ever.
“Now you look like a real maid,” he said, stepping back to admire.
The words landed like a slap.
Uneasiness flooded me — sharp, cold, sinking deep into my chest.
I was no longer just in uniform.
I was costumed.
Objectified.
A thing for display.
But he wasn’t finished.
He threw the tight-fitting transparent raincoat at me.
“Put it on.”
I stared at the shiny plastic, already dreading it.
It was fully buttoned, clear, suffocating.
I hesitated again.
“Master, please… it’s too much…”
His hand moved to the chain.
A single tug — not hard, just a reminder.
I relented.
I slipped my arms in, buttoned it up.
The plastic immediately clung, trapping every bit of heat inside.
Then the face mask — regular, plain, covering nose and mouth.
I tied it on, feeling the elastic bite into my ears.
He stepped back again.
“That’s better.
Now you’re a small property, isolated from the surrounding.
Protected from your own filth.”
A downgraded, uneasy feeling flooded me.
I hated it — hated the plastic smell, the way it crinkled with every breath, the way it made me feel like a specimen, a thing to be contained.
The mask muffled my voice, the raincoat turned every movement into a sticky, sweaty prison.
Sweat already pooled under the layers, running down my back in rivulets, soaking into everything.
I felt small.
Insignificant.
Owned.
He pointed to the kitchen.
“Proceed.
One chore only tonight — the kitchen.
The whole day was wasted on extensions, so we’ll keep it simple.
But you will do it perfectly.
Go.”
I turned.
The transparent raincoat rustled loudly with every step.
The wrist-length gloves made my hands feel confined.
The headdress felt ridiculous on my head.
The mask restricted my breathing.
The black formal 4-inch stiletto heels clicked on the floor — the same ones I’d been forced to wear all day, no break, no relief.
The arches of my feet screamed, toes crushed forward, calves tight and burning from hours of enforced posture.
Every step sent a sharp jolt up my legs, the narrow heels forcing my weight onto the balls of my feet, making balance precarious and painful.
The additional discomfort from the heels was constant — a deep, throbbing ache that radiated up my shins and into my lower back, worsened by the extra layers and the raincoat’s weight.
I moved to the kitchen, each step heavier, hotter, more uncomfortable than the last.
When the kitchen was finally spotless, Master inspected silently.
Satisfied, he gave a single nod.
“Enough for tonight.”
I crawled to the mat, still in full chore gear — raincoat, mask, gloves, headdress, apron, everything.
The plastic stuck to my damp skin like a second, suffocating skin.
Sweat cooled in patches, then reheated with every shift.
The collar chafed.
The waistband bruised.
The mask made every breath feel borrowed.
I was hot.
Trapped.
Humiliated.
Owned.
Before sleep, Master allowed me one small mercy.
“Remove the chore accessories.
Change to tight canvas shoes with white ankle socks.
That is all.”
I peeled off the raincoat, mask, gloves, headdress, apron — each item a small release.
In my exhaustion, I simply dropped them to the floor in a careless pile, the plastic raincoat landing with a wet slap, the headdress tumbling sideways.
I didn’t think.
I just wanted them gone.
Master’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Cassandra.”
I froze.
He stepped forward, eyes narrow.
“You drop them?
On my floor?
Like trash?”
His tone was low, dangerous.
“Disrespect to property.
Not behaving lady-like.
Disruption to Master.
+150 points.”
I shrank.
“I’m sorry, Sir… I didn’t mean—”
“Pick them up.
Now.
Hang them properly.
As per protocol.”
My hands shook as I gathered the items.
The raincoat was still damp from my sweat, the apron crumpled, the gloves limp.
Still wearing the double regular uniform (pinafore over blouse, tie centered, skirt heavy and sticky against my thighs), I carried the chore accessories to the hanger.
I hung each piece exactly as required: apron straps draped symmetrically over a separate hook, gloves folded neatly beside, headdress placed beside it, raincoat fully buttoned and hung separately, face mask on its own hook.
Every movement was slow, deliberate, painful — the remaining layers tugged and pulled with every reach and bend, reminding me I was still trapped in them even while handling the chore set.
In my old life — my vanilla life — I had a household helper who did all this.
Laundry, ironing, hanging, tidying.
I never touched a hanger after 8 p.m.
Never folded gloves.
Never worried about creases or presentation.
Now I was the helper.
Worse — I was the filthy thing that needed containing.
The change felt unbearable.
Uncomfortable.
Wrong.
I hated how small it made me feel.
I finished hanging.
Master inspected silently.
Nodded once.
“Better.
Now — canvas shoes.
Sleep.”
I slipped off the black 4-inch stilettos — arches screaming in relief — and slid my aching feet into the tight canvas shoes, white ankle socks cushioning the raw spots.
The flat soles were a shock — no arch, no elevation, just simple pressure.
My feet throbbed in protest at first, then slowly settled into something almost like relief.
The heels had tortured me all day; the canvas shoes felt like freedom by comparison, even if tight and plain.
I curled up on the mat.
Book under head.
Now came the prescribed sleeping position — legs together, straight, arms at sides, palms flat touching each other resting on the flat genital area, no curling, no crossing, no comfort.
Master had drilled it into me from Day 1: “Sleep like a lady.
No fetal position.
No slouching.
No man’s habits.
Hands on your flat area — constant reminder of your status, even in sleep.”
I tried to obey.
I stretched my legs out straight, pressed my thighs tightly together, forced my arms flat against my body, palms pressed together and resting directly on the genital area.
The position felt unnatural, invasive — a deliberate flattening, a forced tucking, a constant reminder that even my body was no longer mine.
I had to tug and pull constantly, adjusting the penis and balls with small, discreet movements of my hips and thighs to keep everything flat and hidden beneath the layers.
Every time I relaxed even slightly, the position shifted, threatening to create a bulge.
I remembered the last time Master caught even the slightest outline — the punishment had been swift and brutal: chain yanking me down, points stacking, humiliation lasting days, forced to kneel for hours with the chain pulled tight until I learned.
I couldn’t risk it again.
Not tonight.
So I lay there, thighs squeezed hard, palms pressed firmly, body rigid, fighting the urge to curl up, fighting the ache, fighting the heat, fighting myself.
But the double layers fought me.
The pinafore’s skirt bunched and pulled, the doubled blouses twisted and tugged at every shift.
The waistband dug into my hips when I tried to lie flat, the extra fabric bunched under my back like a lumpy mattress of shame.
The collar pressed against my throat even in stillness, making each breath feel shallow.
The heat hadn’t left — trapped sweat cooled into damp patches that clung and itched, then reheated with every tiny movement.
Trying to keep my legs straight and thighs clamped felt impossible; the layers restricted my hips, forced my knees to bend slightly just to relieve pressure.
I adjusted again and again, each time earning a soft rustle of fabric and a fresh wave of discomfort.
The palms-on-genital rule was the worst — every small shift caused tugging and pulling down there, forcing me to consciously reposition, to flatten, to tuck, to keep everything “lady-like” and hidden.
I finally gave up fighting it.
My body was too tired.
My mind too empty.
I drifted off, legs still forced straight, thighs still clamped, palms still flat on the genital area, uniform still clinging, canvas shoes still on, chain still around my neck.
I closed my eyes.
I was too tired to think too much.
Too tired to plan.
Too tired to hope.
I just wanted to sleep.
To wake up tomorrow in a different reality.
Back to vanilla life.
Back to freedom.
Back to me.
Who was I trying to kid?
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