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.”
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