Day 5, evening (setting up of punishment)
From afar, I’d look like a broken doll on display — legs locked straight in those four-inch heels, body rigid. The chain’s a thin silver line from neck to beam, pulling everything up like I’m on invisible strings.
No movement. Just… hanging there, Like something forgotten in a warehouse.
Master remarked: “This is hanged slave.”
He stepped closer. Eyes on me, flat.
“
Pinafore up. Blouse next. Bra up. Hold it.”
I knew what he meant. No fancy word. Just the order.
Unzip left side of pinafore — just a bit. Grab hem at waist, yank upward over head. Fabric bunches at shoulders, straps tangle. Blouse visible, panty exposed.
Grab bottom edge of blouse — roll it high, no buttons undone. Front opens. Bra shows — cups tight.
Fingers under cups, lift straight up. Cups ride above nipples out, bare.
Hold onto pinafore and blouse — grip bunched fabric above and over my head. Keep high.
He doesn’t rush.
Pinches. My body reacts before my mind could catch up: a low involuntary hum trapped in my throat.
Flick next — Pain flares bright and fast, like a spark on wet skin. Nipple hardens instantly. Heat spreads from the point outward. Unwanted arousal coils low,m.
Tease continues — light circles, then harder tugs, alternating so the sensation never settles. It drags on.
Seconds stretch. Nipples throb now, swollen, hypersensitive — every brush feels like electricity. High creeps into me, my head lighten. Mind blanks — no thoughts, just the raw loop of sting-heat-pull-sting. Breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
For that short moment, I felt like paradise.
Then a sudden snap — small binder clips on both erected nipples!
The high shattered.
Sharp, cold metal jaws clamped down hard — no warning, no mercy. Pain exploded white-hot, like fire under skin, shooting from nipple to chest to gut in one brutal line. Nipples crushed, pinched, trapped.
Master next remove the handles of the clips. Now, the pain is permanent and inescapable. Those small metal handles are the only way to open the jaws again. Once they’re gone, the clips are locked shut, no way to pry them off with fingers or anything.
The metal teeth stay clamped tight, biting deeper with every heartbeat, and every tiny shift of my body.
The tease and initial snap were just the setup. Removing the handles is the real sentence: now the clips became part of me. No mercy. No undo.
Master continued: “Put the uniform back on.”
Bra down over the nipples — clips still bite underneath, hidden. Blouse rolled down. Pinafore zipped up left side.
Clips throb with every breath.
He looks me over.
“Too comfortable. Let me put on the raincoat for you.”
Throws the transparent tight-fitting raincoat (part of chore accessories) on me.
“Wear it. Now.”
I fumbled, wiggled my arms through sleeves (chain rattles), pressed each buttons tight. Takes forever.
Plastic clings like second skin. Seals heat. Sweat almost immediately, plastic traps everything.
Clips throb harder. Every breath fogs inside. Body heats up.
“Hands front.”
Palms up. Wrists together.
Double cable tie on each — clicks tight. Another to secure them as one.
“Lift.”
Arms straight up overhead.
Same ceiling chain — looped through wrist ties. Bitten shut. Arms locked high.
The moment after the chain is bitten shut, the world narrows to a single point: the pull.
Arms locked straight up overhead, wrists bound tight together, the thin metal chain from the ceiling now connecting directly to the wrist ties. The tension runs from the ceiling hook through my wrists, down the length of the chain, straight into my neck.
The PVC sleeve around my neck presses harder, reminding where every movement sends a small tug upward.
Shoulders burn immediately.
The pull is constant, unrelenting. Although there is a slight slag only neck for safety reasons, it was not sufficient for me for any natural body movement or reaction. I could not lower my body much without yanking the neck chain tighter.
My head drops forward instinctively — not by choice, by physics. The chain pulls from behind, forcing my shoulders back and my torso into a slight arch. Chin presses down, airway narrows slightly, every inhale feels restricted, like the chain is pressing from the rear.
Raincoat squeaks with every tiny shift — plastic stretched taut across my chest, trapping heat, sweat already pooling under the fabric.
The clips under my blouse throb in rhythm with my pulse, each heartbeat a fresh pinch.
Legs tremble. Four-inch heels made my calves locked tight to keep balance. Toes cramp inside the shoes, arches screaming.
I sway — just a fraction — and the chain answers instantly: a sharp jerk upward.
The whole body feels strung like a marionette, every part pulled in opposite directions.
Mind blanks for a second — white noise, then panic rushes back. This is real. Arms can’t drop. Neck can’t relax. Body can’t settle.
Sweat drips down my back, pooling under the raincoat, making the plastic slide against skin in slow, sticky waves.
I feel small. Reduced. Not even a person anymore — just a thing suspended, waiting for whatever comes next.
But that’s not all yet, he continued with the punishment accessories!
Goggles — black-painted lens, straps tight over head — total blind. Darkness drops instantly. World gone. Only sound and feel left, can’t see anything.
Next the earplugs — foam, pushed deep — total deaf. Muffled hum, then nothing. Silence.
Chopstick bridle next: the chopstick secured across mouth with 2 rubber bands on each end — rubber bands stretched tight, wrapped multiple times. He did not stop there!
Second chopstick added between my mouth and the first chopstick — pulled tongue forward, stretches it out further. The stretch forced my tongue flat and long, every tiny movement sending a sharp ache.
He’s not done with it yet. Then the third chopstick wedged between the second chopstick and my tongue — locked the stretch completely, no curl, no pull-back. Tongue literally stretched long, flat. Zero sound — no moan, no grunt, just hiss through sides.
“I hope you enjoy the time to be blind, deaf, and dumb.”
Blind, deaf, dumb—senses gone. Tongue stretched long between chopsticks, rubber bands biting, no sound, no words. Chain pulls upwards from behind, arms locked high, shoulders screaming, neck jerked forward. Heels making my calves cramp, every sway a sharp tug. Raincoat seals the heat, sweat sliding sticky, binder clips on nipple throbbing raw. I’m reduced to pure agony
I thought everything was done.
But no! I suddenly felt a hand on my hip—raincoat yanked up, pinafore skirt flipped aside. Cold air hits.
Panties dragged down just enough—fabric scraping skin, thighs exposed.
Suddenly—something blunt, cold, dry rams into my hole. No warning. No prep. It forces in, stretching me wide, burning like fire scraped raw.
My body jerks—muscles clamp tight, breath snagging in my throat. The push goes deeper, inch by inch, pain spiking sharp.
The sudden jerk inside me shove my penis forward, springing it out, untucked, exposed.
Panic floods—it’s free, dangling, no way to hide or tuck back. Shame burns hotter than the stretch.
Before I can even register it, his hand clamps around my penis—pulls backward hard, forceful, like he’s trying to rip it off. Pain explodes deep. He yanks it back—way back—stretching skin, muscles, everything until it feels like it’ll tear.
The tampon jams tighter, locking it in place.
He lets go. Panties snapped up, tucking it roughly in place with the uniform pins secured back. Pinafore smoothed. Raincoat tugged down. Everything sealed—except the ache stays, like something’s bruised inside.
Master’s voice cuts through: “Violation. Appearance Major, base 400. Decency Major, base 500. Obedience Minor, base 200.”
“Untucked. Exposed. No control. Stacked.”
“Base 1,100. Multiplied by 3 for cross-genre—attire, posture, behavior—final: 3,300. Add to debt.”
Though the earplugs are deep, but they don’t kill sound completely. I can still hear—his voice comes through soft, distant. The world isn’t gone. It’s just too far away.
But the agony is too much to react. Pain is everywhere, so overwhelming that my mind can’t even form a proper reaction. I simply hang there, reduced to sensation alone, body screaming while my thoughts dissolve into white noise. Just endure. Just agony.
Master stepped back, “You’re paying back about 1,000 points per hour in this position,” he said, voice even. “Neck chain, standing, hands bound high, tampon jammed in, raincoat sealed—all stacked. 13 hours tonight. That’s roughly 13,000 points off your debt. Slow, but it’s progress.”
He glanced at the clock, then back at me.
“Until morning. Seven now. 13 hours. Plenty of time to earn it down. And maybe you’ll need to do this almost every night—just like this—to earn back what you’ve racked up.
Night after night. Same pull. Same ache. Same dark.”
The words sank in like lead. Every night? Same chain. Same tampon. Same blind, deaf, dumb treatment? No break.?. Just this—over and over—until the debt’s gone. Or until I break? My mind reeled, but the pain was louder. Tongue sore from stretch. Binder clips still throbbed. I couldn’t even cry—just hiss through the bridle, drool dripping, body locked.
Thirteen hours felt like forever. And forever felt like every night.
Then he moved—quiet, deliberate. He reached behind me, fingers brushing the PVC sleeve, and simply turned the chain: rotated it around my neck, shifting the hook point from rear to front.
Now it yanked upward from the front, head forced back, chin lifted high, throat exposed and stretched.
My posture snapped: shoulders rolled back, chest thrust out, arms still high but now pulling my whole body into an arched, forward-leaning strain.
He stepped away. “This will be safer for you,” he said, almost casual. “Won’t snap your neck if you faint. Just… tighter.”
He gave a small, dry smile—almost amused.
“Enjoy your punishment.”
Footsteps faded.
Muffled silence settled—earplugs softening everything, but not enough. Just me now to endure the slow grind of hours.
And the chain—now pulling from the front—like he knew something worse might come. Like this wasn’t the end—just the start.
End commentary:
From the doorway—if anyone dared peek in—they’d see a maid in full uniform on display: pinafore zipped tight, raincoat shining wet under the dim light. Arms locked high overhead, wrists bound, chain now routed from front to ceiling—head thrown back, chin up, throat stretched open like a bowstring. Shoulders arched, chest thrust forward, binder clips on nipples with handles removed hidden but its shape bulging under the blouse. Legs straight in four-inch heels, calves knotted, toes curled inside.
Drool trails down chin, pooling on the raincoat in slow, shiny streaks.
Blind goggles black, earplugs buried, mouth pried wide with chopsticks—tongue flat and long, no sound but the wet hiss.
Body trembling, sweat fogging the plastic, every tiny sway jerking the chain.
Not a person. Just a thing. Suspended. Waiting. And somehow… still look like perfect statue.
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