Slave Life Storyline – First Full Night in Mummification: The Human Washing Machine

 Day 4 night to Day 5 morning

“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.

Heart slammed—lead drop in chest. Why tonight? Day 4 already crushed: the aftertaste of panty in the mouth still lingering, trapped in this uniform for 4 full days! Supposed to end by now. Home. Bed. Not sealed. Not this. Regret flooded: Why was I so stupid fall into extension trap? Why say yes to week two? Stupid. Weak. Now debt spikes again.

Master's voice cut calm but blade-sharp: “Laundry took forever. 1 a.m. already. Hesitation. Sloppy. Points added.”

My quick thought- Surprise hit first. 1 a.m.? Already? No clock anywhere. Master seems to deliberately removed all visual timing from this house, away from me. Time lost the moment I put on this uniform—only Master's word marks it. Thought washing would finish quick. The ultimate gross panty mouth-wash done, pail scrubbed, uniform rinsed and hung. Felt like half-hour. Maybe hour. Mental guess: 11-something at most. Not past midnight. Not this late. How did it stretch? Hesitation on folds? Extra spray for scent? Kneel-pause when tying apron? Every tiny drag counted. Master's calm tally never lies. 1 a.m. means hours slipped. Debt climbed while I thought "almost done."

Didn't expect to take so long. Thought 11-plus only. Stupid. Always underestimates. No clock means no control. Time belongs to him. I just wait in dark, guess wrong, pay more. Points added. Always added. Regret spike: Why slow? Why hesitate? Four days in—should know better. But body tired. Mind fogged. Now this. Mummification on top. No escape till morning. Debt impossible already. How many now? Past ten thousand easy. Laundry cluster alone—three thousand? Four? More tonight.

But yes, maybe to the master, he should not be surprised, he would have already known. My inner self wanted to argue.

But my reply came out:

“Yes, Master.”

A sudden instinct told me better not argue. Swallow. Obey.

That’s the best plan of action for now.

And forcing to maintain posture. Thighs pressed together, back forced straight, hands flat over pubic area—constant reminder of what I am now. Heels stabbed soles even on knees. Chain clinked soft—PVC sleeve slick from earlier sweat, loose 1m length swaying slightly with every breath.

Chores accessories still on. No break. No relief. Just transition to worse.

Master's voice came low. “Stand up.”

“Yes, Master.”

Again, the words came automatic, small, obedient. No pause. No question. Just the required answer. Everything tightened—relief that voice didn't crack, dread that standing meant worse coming. Dread that the wrap was next, saran inching up, sealing everything. No way back.

Legs trembled under the command. Knees had locked from the long kneel, heels biting deeper into soles, calves burning like fire under skin. Struggle came instant—shift weight, push up with hands free but clumsy from exhaustion, thighs quivering as they tried to straighten. A small grunt escaped before I could swallow it. Balance wobbled, raincoat plastic crinkling loud in the quiet, loose chain swaying slightly inside the raincoat and clinking soft against collar with the rise. Finally upright, swaying slightly, breath ragged behind mask fog. The word mummification echoed louder now—standing meant it was closer, no more delay, no more waiting in limbo. Fear sat heavy in stomach, constant, conscious, refusing to fade.

“Remove chores accessories. Raincoat first. Headdress next. Apron next. Facemask next. Gloves last. Fold each neatly.”

“Yes, Master.”

Raincoat first. Snaps popped—pop pop pop—plastic resisted at first, buttons stiff under clumsy fingers trapped in thin cotton gloves, flimsy fabric slipping on plastic, fatigue making each one harder to grip and release cleanly. Immediately a sudden release of heavy sour smell exploded outward in thick wave, four days of sweat and musk rolling out heavy. No real relief—uniform still clung cold and heavy, sweat just shifting, sticking differently in open air, humidity keeping everything damp.

Master glanced at the air, nose twitched once. Calm, flat. “Too strong. Violation – Hygiene Major. Base 400 points.”

He said it like reading from a list. No anger. Just the number. Just four hundred more points.

He would have expected this — he sealed it himself. Feels ridiculous every time he smells it and I get awarded. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Miss my life — no one punished me for my own smell, for breathing. No points for being human. Regret stabs: should have said no to extension. Should have ended today. Weak. Stupid. Now even my stink costs me four hundred points.

Gloves still on hands, cotton crisp-warming. Why did I ever say yes? Miss my old jackets — easy zippers, no snaps that fight back because of flimsy gloves. Miss shirts that didn’t cling or reek. Miss days where buttons weren’t a struggle, where hands just worked without this useless thin cotton making everything slip. Miss normal life of freedom— coffee in my own mug, driving without kneeling, sleeping without dread. Regret stabs: should have said no to the extension and not fall to desperation for the short term relief. Should have ended by today. Weak. Stupid. Now every snap reminds me what I lost.

Headdress next. Reached up—elastic snapped free, white ruffled cap peeled off head. Fabric slightly damp from scalp sweat, ruffles limp and crushed from hours under mask and raincoat. Folded it slow, careful not to flatten ruffles more, placed it on stack.

Head felt lighter, exposed — elastic left faint line on forehead. Miss my bare head. No pins digging scalp. No cap to adjust perfectly or lose points over.

Regret again—vanilla life had no head pieces to fold, no elastic marks. Just hair, wind, normalcy. All gone.

Apron next. Untied apron strings—fabric peeled away from hips. Folded it slow, careful creases, placed it down. The whole time anticipation clawed—scared, refrained, the kind that freezes everything inside. Each fold bringing the moment closer, each crease a step nearer to the inevitable seal.

Miss my normal life, folding normal laundry. No pressure. No “points added” if crease not perfect. Miss my apartment, my own washer, clothes that smelled like detergent, not me. Miss nights without this constant dread. Regret floods—normal life feels like a lie now. All gone because I was too weak to resist the master.

Facemask next. Reached behind head—elastic snapped free, mask peeled off face. Sudden rush of unrestricted air, nose and mouth no longer sealed, breath came easier, deeper, but stench clung to skin, lips, cheeks. Face felt bare, sticky from trapped sweat, elastic marks red on cheeks and ears.

Folded mask slow, careful not to smear inner dampness, placed on stack.

Free from the sealed smell against nose — air less foul now, but lingers everywhere. Regret floods: should have ended this before mask became normal. Weak. Desperate. All because I stupidly said yes to more time.

Gloves last. Peeled them slow—cotton damp-warm from body, thin fabric flimsy now, stretched and slightly limp from hours of trapped heat and sweat, clinging to skin like wet paper as I pulled them off. Faint stains transferred from touching the apron and uniform earlier, sour musk faintly clinging to the inner palms. Folded them neat as possible and placed on stack.

Master glanced at the gloves once they were folded on the stack. Nose twitched subtly. Calm, flat. “Stained. Transfer from apron. Violation – Upkeep Minor. Base 150 points.”

He would have expected stains — he ordered me to touch everything. Feels ridiculous every time he spots a mark and I get awarded. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Miss vanilla life — no one punished me for a stain on gloves, for touching my own clothes. No points for normal mess. Regret stabs again: should have said no to extension. Should have ended today. Weak. Stupid. Now even faint transfer costs me one hundred and fifty points.

Master stepped closer. “Position ready for mummification.”

“Stand up first. Back straight, heels together, hands flat over pubic area—keep them there, no shift, no lift.”

Master watched, calm, eyes on hands, on posture. No praise. No rush. Just the command. Just the position held.

He zipped the cable tie around thumbs, palms pressed flat together, no give, fingers useless, locked in front of me over the pubic area. The plastic bit into skin, immediate pinch, no room to flex or shift. Constant emasculation anchor, hands now bound in place.

“Stay standing. Ankles together. Saran starts now.”

Then standing wrap began. Ankles up. Saran tight, layer after layer. Legs fused. Hips locked. Waist cinched—breath shallowed. Master paused the saran roll at waist level, checking the tightness, the immobility.

He looked at me, calm, eyes steady. “Now that you are immobile, you will not do stupid things anymore. The chain no need for now.”

The words landed flat, matter-of-fact, like stating an obvious fact. No anger. No satisfaction. Just the quiet observation that I was now safe enough to be left without the tether.

He reached up, unclipped the loose 1m length from collar front—PVC sleeve slid free with faint wet scrape against skin. Chain clinked once as it dropped to mat, slack gone forever for the night.

Neck felt lighter, freer — but not free. Just less restrained from above. The PVC sleeve had left a slick, cool stripe on skin where it scraped free, a thin wet trail that cooled instantly in the open air, then warmed again from body heat. Neck itself surprising felt strange now — empty loop where chain had hung.

Continued wrapping upward. Chest compressed—bra cups bunched under pressure, straps twisting diagonal lines across shoulders. Arms pinned sides—palms down, thumbs bound.

Heat trapped immediate as the wrap continued. Uniform below already damp getting more damp, now no escape. Saran layer pulled tight across ribcage. Fabric underneath shifted with every turn, sweat pooling in creases, blouse sticking like second skin. Plastic crinkled softly with each pull, the sound sharp in the quiet room, every rotation adding weight, adding pressure, adding certainty that nothing below the waist could move.

Master kept the roll steady, eyes on the alignment, no wasted motion. Shoulders pinned next—saran crossed over collarbones, down arms again, locking elbows to sides. Thumbs bound tight against pubic area, palms flat, fingers useless, no give at all.

When the wrap reached shoulders and neck, he applied the goggles—padded black swimming goggles with lenses painted solid black, fully opaque. Pressed them tight over eyes, seal ring compressing around sockets, immediate blackout, complete dark, no light leak, no glimpse. Padding dug slightly into skin around eyes, pressure steady, eyelids pressed closed against the painted lenses. World gone — no more seeing Master's hands, no more watching saran roll, no more visual cue for what comes next. Just sudden, total void. Breath caught in throat, heart thudding louder in the dark. Fear spiked hard — scared, refrained, the kind that locks everything inside. Body rigid under saran, but mind reeling in black. No sight. No escape from the dark. No way to see if I’m doing it right or wrong.

Miss seeing anything normal. Miss opening eyes without black paint blocking everything. Miss vanilla life — no goggles, no blackout, no seal digging face. Regret floods: should have refused extension. Should have ended it. Weak. Desperate. Now even sight is taken, layer by layer. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Why does everything cost me?

Then breathing tubes taped to nostrils—passive flow. Mouth tube to 3L bag—suck required.

Continued wrapping upward. Chest already compressed—bra cups bunched under pressure, straps twisting diagonal lines across shoulders. Arms pinned sides—palms down, thumbs bound.

The wrap moved higher. Neck next—saran wound carefully around throat, not choking but firm, no room to turn head, no room to swallow without feeling the tension. Then upward still: chin, cheeks, forehead. Layer after layer over face, saran pulled smooth and tight, sealing eyes, nose, mouth under the thin plastic. Blind Seal (the goggles) already in place, but now reinforced, whole head encased, only small openings for breathing tubes at nostrils and mouth tube to the 3L bag. The plastic pressed against skin, fogging instantly from breath, world reduced to muffled dark and the constant crinkle of saran.

End result: fully encased. Whole body wrapped head to toe — ankles fused, legs rigid, hips locked, waist cinched, chest compressed, arms pinned, hands bound flat over pubic area, neck taut, head sealed under multiple layers of saran over the goggles. No inch uncovered, no movement possible, no air but the forced suck through tubes. Sweat trapped everywhere, heat building layer by layer, uniform sodden beneath. No escape. No relief. Just the complete, total encasement — body nothing but a saran-wrapped object standing in place, waiting for the guide down.

World reduced to muffled dark and the constant crinkle of saran with every tiny shift. Goggles pressed tight, painted lenses black void, seal ring digging into skin around eyes, eyelids squeezed closed against the padding. No light, no glimpse, no visual world left — just the sound of my own shallow breathing through tubes, the plastic crinkle echoing in the dark, the faint gurgle of air in nostrils.

Heat pressed in from all sides, uniform clinging heavier in the sealed space, sweat pooling where saran met skin, no way to wipe, no way to move. Fear sat deeper, refrained, the scared type that freezes everything. Body locked head to toe, but still upright, still under his gaze. No falling allowed. No slumping. No relief. Mind screamed inside: stop, breathe, move—just one inch—but nothing obeyed. Only the saran obeyed. Only Master obeyed.

Miss my life, without head sealed, without face pressed under plastic and goggles. Miss mornings where I could turn my head freely, swallow without tension, raise arms without resistance. Weak. Desperate. Now every layer reminds me what I chose. Now the whole body is gone, just this wrapped thing. Just this.

When the wrap was complete, head fully encased under saran over goggles, he guided me down slowly to the mat, hands firm on my wrapped shoulders, controlling the descent like handling fragile property. Heels — still on from chores, 4-inch black stilettos — stabbed deeper into soles as weight shifted forward during the bend, arches forced higher, ankles straining against the fused legs, calves burning sharper with every inch down. Balance teetered — rigid body like a tipped statue, heels digging in like spikes, no flex, no relief from the angle. Tiny wobble in ankles, knees instinctively bending to catch, but the wrap held everything locked. Heart pounded in the dark goggles void, fear refrained but screaming inside: don't fall, don't shift, don't earn more. But I did.

I had shifted slightly during the descent — a tiny bend in the knees to balance, heels pressing harder into soles, arches cramping from the forced elevation and rigid hold. Master noticed immediately.

“Shift during guide down. Violation – Posture Major. Base 400 points.”

He said it calm, flat, like listing a grocery item. No anger. Just the number. Just four hundred more points noted in the ledger.

He would have expected perfect rigidity. He always expects it. Feels ridiculous every time — heels stabbing deeper just to keep from toppling in this wrap, and I get awarded. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Miss my life — lying down without guidance, no points for heel strain, no violation for a wobble in stilettos I never chose. Miss normal beds where feet rested flat, no 4-inch spikes digging soles, no punishment for natural balance. Regret floods again: should have ended it. Should have resisted extension. Weak. Stupid. Now even descent in heels costs me four hundred points.

Finally flat on the mat, head significantly elevated — three pillows stacked under my neck and shoulders so my head was noticeably higher than my chest (prevents choking or reflux when sucking from the tube). The only comfort in this hell — slight elevation eased the neck strain just enough, head propped up like a broken doll, no flat lie-down that would crush tubes or flood throat. Pillows soft under saran layers, but pressure still dug in, shoulders aching from the angle, neck taut but not strangled. Body sank slightly into mat, but wrap held everything rigid, no roll, no adjust, sweat pooling under back already. Heels still on, soles throbbing from the earlier strain, arches cramped from the descent angle, no relief even now. Comfort? Ironic. Mockery. The only “soft” thing in hours, but still trapped, still owned, still paying. Miss real pillows. Miss my own bed, head flat or propped how I wanted, no three-stack rule, no reflux fear, no heels stabbing through it all. Miss vanilla nights — sink in, sleep free, no elevation because no tubes, no wrap, no stilettos. Regret deeper: why did I let this become my comfort? Weak. Desperate. All because I extended. All because I’m here.

The fear never left—conscious, steady pulse: it's happening now, it's starting now, no stop, no mercy, just the full encasement closing in.

What seemed like the first stretch: heavy but bearable. Wrap weight pressed even. Exhaustion pulled me into shallow doze — what seemed like 1–2 hours maybe, fragments of black, not real sleep, just numb fade. Body still, mind drifting in and out, but every drift ended in jolt, reminder of tubes, of suck required, of no way out.

Then discomfort woke me. Heat built slow but relentless. Sweat formed—no escape. Started underarms—salt beads, then rivulets down ribs. Crotch creases first—ferment against tuck, warm damp spread. Inner thighs where pinafore pleats bunched—prickling. Bra feels tight—soft cotton heavy now, clinging weights. Straps carved lines. Nipples abraded with each shallow breath—pump rhythm forced inhale-exhale against compression.

Fingers twitched—useless. Toes pain inside the heels—no shift. Hips wanted rock—locked. Fidget urge rose—mind screamed move—but wrap unbreakable. Panic spike: Can't. Trapped. Equipment. Human laundry. Sweat washing uniform. My sweat. My stink. Layering. No person. Just thing.

What seemed like longer now: intensity rose. Sweat saturated. Uniform clung—blouse sodden, pinafore heavy. Raincoat sealed—plastic crinkled faint with every micro-twitch. Thirst hit. Sucked tube—water trickled, gravity helped but active pull. Swallow bloated stomach against wrap—nausea tease. Thirst endless—heat dehydrated fast. Bladder quiet—massive loss kept it down.

Mind fractured. Time meaningless—no clock, no light, only the dark inside goggles and saran. Thought what seemed like hours passed—release soon? No. Minutes? Hours? Darkness stretched. Regret loops spun: Why here? Why extend? Should've stopped at 4 days. Home. Freedom. Not sealed filth. Not own sweat drowning me. Immobilized dread deep—body wanted roll, stretch, relieve. Nothing. Just wait. Helpless. Owned.

What seemed like longer still: itch migrated. Underarms burned—salt crystals re-wet. Crotch rash prickled full. Back slick fire. Bra tightened feeing settled. Heels throbbed soles. Calves tight. Shoulders strained—thumbs bound pulled upper back. Breath shallow—tubes gurgled faint. Drool wanted—mouth dry but swallow reflex fought.

Failed doze again. Drifted—jerked awake by pressure spike. Chest fire. Arch-foot burn from heels. Overall dehydration override. Sucked more—bloated worse. Inner: Washing machine worked. Sweat flushed. But smell? Saturating. Volume so high—odor disappeared? Slick skin, heavy cling—but not foul. Flushed instead of trapped. Like Cassandra nights—massive loss washed away most stink. Surprising. Not foul. Just... saturated. Equipment success.

What seemed like the longest stretch: dull burn generalized. Itch to irritation. Skin macerated—constant moisture. Mind numb loops: regret → dread → futility → empty. No fight. Just endure. Body learned what mind fought. No privacy. No comfort. Master's domain—unconscious hours too.

Time seems to crawl, it feels like eternity.

Until I felt the cutters snipping through the layers- like the skin of the fruit peeling off.

The moment of release hit like a wave. Cool air poured over skin that had been sealed for hours, a sudden rush of freshness against the hot, wet layers that had clung without mercy. Every inch felt alive again. Breath came deeper, freer, even heels felt a fraction less stabbing now that weight was shifting.

Relief flooded in waves, but twisted with shame — this coolness was the closest thing to comfort I’d had in days, and it was only because Master allowed it.

Sweat saturation had reached its peak inside the wrap — uniform soaked through, blouse and pinafore heavy like wet towels, clinging to every curve, every crease, every inch of skin. Heat had cooked it, fermented it, trapped it layer after layer until the smell should have been unbearable. But when the saran peeled away, the odor muted, almost disappeared. Massive volume of sweat had flushed it out, washed it clean in its own way — slick skin, heavy cling, but not foul. Surprising. Almost clean. Like the washing machine had done its job.

Master glanced at me still in the partially wrapped state, drenched and exposed. Nodded once. Calm, flat. “Washing machine worked. See? Sweat washed it. Reduced to equipment. No person. Just tool.” He paused, eyes on the sodden uniform. “But now you’re wet. Violation – Upkeep Minor. Base 200 points.”

He said it like noting a fact. No anger. Just the number. Just two hundred more points.

He would have expected this. He always expects the aftermath. Feels ridiculous every time — released from the wrap, cool air finally hitting, and still awarded for being wet. Can he be more reasonable? Just once? Miss my life — stepping out of shower clean, no points for being damp, no violation for natural wetness. Miss normal mornings where water was relief, not punishment. Regret floods: should have ended it. Should have said no. Weak. Stupid. Now even release costs me two hundred points.

He reached forward. Goggles peeled off—seal ring lifted from sockets, sudden light pierced the dark, eyes burned with adjustment, lids blinking against raw glare, world rushing back in harsh focus after hours of total blackout.

Cable tie snipped from thumbs—plastic cut, palms finally free, fingers stiff and numb from being locked flat over pubic area, skin marked with red lines where tie had bit in.

Neck chain reattached — loose 1m length clipped back to collar front, PVC sleeve cool against throat again, faint clink as it settled, hanging slack but present, reminder that limits were never truly gone.

Master spread open the wrap fully — saran peeled back in long strips, layers parting with sharp crinkle, uniform fully exposed, sodden and clinging, sweat-slick skin meeting open air for the first time in what seemed like forever.

“Kneel down.”

I rose slow. Drenched uniform stayed—no change. 4-inch black stilettos still on—legs trembled, balance unsteady. Moved like underwater. Every step reminder: equipment. Owned. Reduced.

I struggled kneel first—body shaking, limbs weak. Waited submissive. Inner: Washing machine worked. See? Sweat washed it. Reduced to equipment. No person. Just tool. Debt paid? No. Still high. Still trapped. But... it worked.