Day 5 Night (a mini break from full punishment, before being left there for the night)
The darkness is total. Black-painted swimming goggles seal my eyes shut, the foam earplugs block everything.
Transparent raincoat over everything—clear plastic, thin, shiny, buttoned tight from neck to hem. It’s supposed to be part of chore accessory standard, not punishment, but here it traps sweat, clings to the uniform like a second skin. Every shift makes it rustle loud, plastic sticking and peeling off damp fabric. Heat builds fast—no air, just muggy prison.
My neck is chained taut to the ceiling hook—PVC sleeve slick from accumulated sweat.
Wrists are bound high above my head, cable-tie bracelets linked and padlocked to the chain, arms stretched so straight the uniform blouse pulls tight across my chest, every breath tugging the training bra straps deeper into skin already raw from constant wear.
The blouse is pinned to the panties at the waist on both sides. They hold the blouse hem flush against the panty waistband, stopping any ride-up. Every shift pulls the fabric downward, yanking the waistband, dragging the tucked penis and balls harder into their trapped, flat position.
Four-inch black stilettos force my arches high; after five full days my toes are curled numb inside the shoes, calves burning, sharp pain with every tiny weight transfer.
Panties hold everything tucked back tight, the same pair that was stuffed in my mouth for washing, then mummified with the rest of me, sweat-flushed, hanged to dry this morning like laundry. The brief ‘illegal’ airing in the storeroom this afternoon didn’t help; the fabric is still heavy, sour, clinging.
Time has lost meaning.
Now I’m upright, chained, gagged with three chopsticks. Drool pours steadily down my chin, I can’t swallow properly. Every few minutes my throat convulses uselessly, more saliva escapes. The taste of my own panties from last night lingers faintly under the fresh drool—musky, salty, humiliating.
I don’t hear him come back.
The first thing I register is the sudden cool air on my right ear as one foam plug is pulled free. My head jerks instinctively—the chain snaps tight, loose end in front pulling forward-upward, PVC sleeve grinding under my chin, and my neck jerks back against the pull. Then the other plug pops out. Sound rushes in—my own wet breathing, the soft creak of the chain above me.
His voice, calm and close, slices through.
“Are you happy now that you’re mine for six months?”
The sarcasm is so thick it stings. My tongue is pinned forward, jaw locked—I can only manage a wet, strangled hiss through the gaps.
“Hssshhh.”
He exhales sharply. “I can’t hear you.”
I try again, desperate to make words, but it’s just another pathetic multiple hiss. “Hssshhh hssshhh hssshhh hssshhh.”
A pause. Then, flat: “Nod if you’re happy.”
My mind races. Nodding feels like surrender, but refusing means more pain—more time like this, or worse. I’ve learned already: the safer answer is obedience. I nod once, small, careful not to pull the neck chain.
“Good girl.”
He steps closer. I feel the heat of him even through the uniform layers.
“Now you’re going to be here for a long time. I’m going to brief you on the new arrangements. You just need to acknowledge. No questions. No discussion. Nod when you understand each point.”
I want to scream—wait, can we talk about this? Can we renegotiate? Maybe shorter? Anything but six months locked in like this. But all that comes out is frantic hissing. “Hssshhh hssshhh hssshhh.”
He snaps, voice suddenly cold. “I said acknowledge only. Stop that noise.”
I freeze. Silence.
“Do you understand the last instruction?”
I nod slowly. Terrified. Not sure if nodding is saving me or burying me deeper.
He begins.
“From now on, all the following rules apply as long-term basic admin routine. Morning and night, you will upkeep yourself exactly as instructed. Body hair shaved clean regularly—no stubble allowed. Once your hair grows long enough, it will be tied up at all times. Every morning and night, you will apply moisturizer to your whole body, everywhere. Full coverage. Keep skin soft, smooth, presentable—for my presentation. Not care. Just upkeep.”
Nod.
Storeroom converted to your slave chamber. I will get you a wooden pillow and thin mattress within a few days—for now, you still sleep on the mat with the thick, heavy book I gave you as a makeshift pillow. Sleep position standardized—face-up, hands flat over pubic area, legs together, full uniform with footwear, never removed. You sleep after I do, wake before I do.
Nod.
“Now that you’re going to be here for at least six months, the investment on a proper uniform—presentable, but also make you very uncomfortable—is worth it.”
“Uniform changes: regular uniform once a month. Panties once a week.”
“Formal uniform being tailored soon—I’ve already called my tailor, but he’s only free two weeks later to take your measurements. So I will be in this girl ‘school’ uniform as maid for the next few weeks.”
“As of now: daytime, you stay in heels—the four-inch black stilettos that makes you look good but uncomfortable. At night, you’re allowed to switch to canvas shoes with socks. Once formal uniform arrives: active hours in formal, admin and sleep in regular—alternating as required.”
Nod.
“Washing: formal once a week, regular once a month, panties once a week.”
Nod.
“Hygiene: shower once every two weeks—cold water only, ten minutes, door wide open so no privacy at all. You’ll only use a soap bar—rose-scented, cheap, floral—and cheap shampoo with strong conditioner to make sure hair is soft and nice. And this handkerchief—you’ll use only this, no towels allowed—to dry yourself whenever you shower. It will not be washed, and you’ll reuse it throughout the whole six months. Brush teeth once a day with my used toothbrush. Pee and shit unchanged—no privacy.”
I freeze. my mind snagged on that rose-scented, cheap floral soap. Rose. Like a girl’s shampoo. Like something I’d never touch. Sweet, cloying, sticking to me. Not just clean: feminine. Soft. Pretty. Reduced to a girl, scrubbed down like one, hair conditioned glossy, body reeking of flowers. I hate how it works—how fast it erases the man out of me, how the scent clings after, a reminder I’m just… this.
No nod yet. Master hmphs—short, irritated—like I’m dragging this out on purpose. The chain clinks as he yanks it once, forcing a sharp tug on my neck, metal rattling overhead. I snap back, nod once—slow, reluctant.
Food: I choose what you get—periodic normal food once every one to two weeks, proper meals, nothing fancy, just enough to keep you from wasting away. You don’t get to pick. Daily vitamin pills to enhance the decoration—keep skin soft, hair glossy, body presentable. Not welfare. Just upkeep. Everything from the dog bowl, kneeling, lady-like—with a small plastic spoon.
Nod.
“Breast pumping regime starts soon—once a day, thirty minutes. Your breasts are still flat—too flat, too male, nothing like a GIRL should have. This will change that. I want them enlarged, soft, presentable—proper for a maid. You’ll do it updress: pull the pinafore, blouse, and bra up over your chest, expose just enough for the cups. Put the bra back in place—cups stay on, straps adjusted, holding everything tight. Roll blouse and pinafore back down. Then kneel—on the floor, legs together, lady-like—for the full half hour while the pump works. Do it during your admin time—not chores or working time.”
“I don’t have the pump yet. I’ll buy it—an electric double-cup model, cheap but reliable, adjustable suction. Nothing fancy—just enough to pull and stretch. The moment it arrives, the regime starts immediately—no delay.”
Nod.
The words hang there: enlarged and presentable? My chest tightens, not from the chain, but from inside. Breasts? Flat now, but soon… bigger? I wasn’t ready for this—not even close! I got tricked for six months contract, not for… this. Not for cups sucking at me every day while they pull! not for looking down and seeing something that isn’t mine anymore!
The pump isn’t even here yet, but I can already feel it—tugging, stretching, turning me into something rounder, wrong. Panic rises! What if it works? What if it doesn’t? Either way, I’m gone! gone! just… a girl with tits, no me left!
“Off days will happen—but in slave context. Once every two weeks, not guaranteed. If it’s taken away, there’s no makeup—no second chance. You will only be notified that morning—of that day—if it’s confirmed. No advance notice. And it can be taken away anytime—even halfway through, if I require the service. You never leave the house. Your off day? Spent in the slave chamber, full regular uniform on like it’s admin time, canvas shoes and socks, that’s your version of rest, no escape. And don’t think this is for your welfare—it’s so you stay usable, so you don’t break down too soon. Like tuning up a toy.”
Nod.
I can’t believe it—I’m becoming like a real maid: off days! But still uniform, still nothing. Once every two weeks, not guaranteed. And even if they come—just only in the slave chamber? full regular uniform on like it’s admin time? No leaving? Just “usable.” Like I’m a tool that needs oiling? Rest? That’s a joke.
He steps back. A click—padlock on my wrists snaps open. Cable-tie bracelets fall away. My arms drop, numb, blood rushing back like fire. Still bound at the elbows, but at least I can move them.
Then the ceiling chain: another click. Slack rushes down—the neck chain pulls forward, PVC sleeve scraping under my chin. My legs buckle. I collapse—knees fold, butt slams tile hard, stilettos skid sideways. A sharp sting flares at the back of my knees—the cane marks throbbing raw.
He reaches down. Goggles ripped off—light burns my eyes, accumulated tears leak instantly, vision blurs. Then he grabs the chopsticks—three of them, removed from my mouth, saliva gushes down my chin in thick strings, tasting like yesterday’s panties mixed with metal.
He slides the three extension forms—three months, four months, six months—across the floor. Pen next to it.
“Sign!”
My eyes blur—then focus.
There it is: my full name, written in bold on each one. The one he knows now—from my passport. The one he found.
Tears sting, hot, fast—rolling down my cheeks. I’m shaking. That name… he has it. It’s not hidden anymore—he found the passport, dug out everything I buried. And now I’m signing these extensions all the way to six months, sealing me in for half a year. I can’t stop crying: not just because he knows who I am, but because I’m handing over more time, more of me gone. Just ink on paper, proof he owns me.
He leans in, voice low, amused. “Cry all you want—whether you like it or not, this is going to be your life. Learn to accept it and be comfortable with it.”
I grab the pen. Fingers tremble. Ink smears across the line—my own signature, wet with tears. I sign.
He takes it. Folds it. Stands.
I stare at the ink—my real name, no fake, no alias. He knows. All of it. I hid it so hard—gave him a made-up name, kept the passport hidden outside his house. But he found it. He has it. My real life! everything from Facebook! I am exposed! And now? Kneeling, signing away more time? Tears keep coming—hot, stupid, useless. I shake harder.
He’s not just owning my body anymore. He’s owning me—every secret, every shame. Can’t escape. No pretending. No more hidden identity!
He grabs a 1.5-liter bottle—cold, plastic. Unscrews. Tilts it to my lips. “Drink. I don’t want you useless tomorrow.”
I try—ladylike, slow sips, lips pursed. Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, it’ll spell more trouble. The moment I stretch forward, binder clips still on my nipples bite hard, sharp pain shooting through every pull. I flinch, but keep going—tongue numb from chopsticks.
Halfway through, he huffs—impatient. “Faster.”
I freeze. Dare not. Is it a trick? If I speed up, if I spill… more trouble. So I stay slow, careful—every tiny shift tugs the clips again, fresh twinge.
I finish.
He pulls it away and sets the water bottle aside. Then reaches for a plastic funnel—attached to the empty bottle. Holds it under me. “Pee. Now.”
I squat up slightly—knees bent, toes straining in stilettos, thighs trembling. One hand pulls the panties down—just enough, fabric catching on hips. The other guides my penis—tucked tight, rubber band still cinched, pinching skin. I hold the funnel bottle steady underneath, aiming careful.
Then it starts—slow, burning. The rubber band squeezes everything: no flow, just tiny, painful drops, warm and reluctant, dripping into the funnel. Each one stings—like forcing water through a knot. The bottle fills… barely.
He watches, then smirks. “With the rubber band, you pee like a girl. How fitting.”
I finish—last drop falls. I place the bottle down. Then, with the other hand, I pull the panties back up—slow, deliberate, panty sliding over hips. I push the penis flat behind, tucked tight, no bulge, no slip. Everything stays smooth, like it should.
He waits—then takes it away. No word.
He checks his watch. “It’s 10pm. Only three hours.”
Three hours? My mind blanks. I thought it was midnight—maybe later. The dark, the ache, the silence… it stretched like days. I can’t believe it—only three hours? And still my body screams like it’s been forever.
He tilts his head, almost thoughtful. “I was going to end this round. Let you down, let you breathe.” A pause. “But no. You need to learn. You need to know your real place.”
Then he grabs the neck chain, a sudden jerk, sharp tug forward, PVC sleeve biting into my chin. I gasp, body yanked upright, knees scraping tile as I rise. Stilettos wobble.
The chain tightens overhead—but this time he leaves some slack—more than before. Ceiling hook clicks back in.
Then, wrists grabbed—hands straightened high above my head again, cable-ties cinch tight around raw skin, padlock snaps shut. I feel the pull—shoulders strain, blouse pulls across chest again.
Last, goggles shoved over eyes—black total. Earplugs jammed deep—sound vanishes. Then one chopstick—only one this time—placed onto my stretched-out tongue.
A pause, then his voice filters through, low and even, almost gentle—like he’s speaking from the other side of glass.
“Now stay like this the whole night. Make sure you learn your lesson and be a better slave. Reflect on yourself—really think about it. Think of what is best. Think of how you should behave properly. And when the sun comes up, hope that you wake up different—hope that you wake up as a better slave. Hope that all this… pain… finally sinks in. Because if it doesn’t, we’ll just do it again. And again. Until you’re perfect. I hope you enjoy the reflection, girl.”
The words drip in—soft, warped, but clear enough. I try to hiss—gag pins my tongue, just a pathetic “hsssh.” Drool slides down.
They linger. Better slave. Girl. That word—girl—cuts deepest, like he just renamed me. I flinch inside, no way out. Not broken yet. But quieter.
Then—nothing. No sound, no warning. Silence.
I’m alone—stretched, blind, deaf, tongue pinned, drool dripping. Punishment continues….
No comments:
Post a Comment