Month 1, Day 4 (Late Morning)
Eventually, the door opened — a faint creak I felt more than heard. Footsteps.
The chain rattled as he unclipped the small padlock from the wall plug. The tension on my neck released suddenly; my head jerked forward, body following as gravity pulled. I collapsed forward, hands — still bound behind — useless to catch myself. I twisted at the last second, shoulder slamming into the concrete, cheek scraping the floor, breath knocked out in a muffled grunt through the stuffed mouth. The pain was sharp but brief; the relief of no longer being tethered to the wall was immediate, intoxicating, even if only for a moment.
Master noted the struggle — the clumsy fall, the grunt, the uncontrolled twist — as a violation of not behaving submissively or in a manner befitting my status. He didn’t say it aloud then, but I felt it in the silence that followed. The way my body flopped like something wild, not something owned. Not graceful, not quiet, not accepting. A lady-like slave doesn’t collapse; she endures with poise. That grunt — too low, too masculine — was Exhibit traits of man – Behavior. The fall exposed the skirt riding up, panties visible for a second — Appearance violation. The twist risked tugging the chain — Upkeep tampering risk. I knew the points were stacking already. Behaviour, Appearance, Upkeep — all at once. Multipliers if he decided it was repeated defiance from last night. More debt. The shame burned deeper than the scrape on my cheek.
He knelt beside me, voice calm. “Hands first.”
The cable ties snapped — one by one — the plastic biting deeper for a split second before releasing. Blood rushed back; pins and needles exploded through my arms, shoulders, fingers. I gasped — muffled, wet — as sensation returned in burning waves. My arms felt foreign — heavy, numb, tingling, useless for long seconds as circulation fought to restore itself. I flexed my fingers weakly, wrists raw and red, the skin indented with deep grooves from the ties.
“Remove the rest yourself,” he ordered. “Neatly. On the floor.”
Still kneeling, I obeyed — hands trembling from pins and needles. First the goggles — fingers fumbled at the straps, rubber seal peeling away from sweaty skin, lenses lifting. Light stabbed my eyes after hours of black — sudden, blinding, painful. I blinked rapidly, tears streaming from the brightness, vision blurry and disoriented, colors too vivid, edges too sharp. The room swam for seconds; I swayed, knees grinding deeper into concrete.
Next the earplugs — I pinched one, then the other, pulling them out slowly. Sound rushed in like water — my own ragged breathing loud and wet, the low hum of the house, Master’s steady presence nearby, the faint clink of the chain still on my neck. The sudden clarity was jarring — every noise amplified after hours of muffled silence.
The bridle next — I reached up, fingers clumsy, unhooked the rubber bands one by one, pulled the chopsticks away. My jaw screamed in relief, aching muscles finally free, but the panty remained lodged — sodden, heavy, filling my mouth. I gagged slightly as the bridle came off, saliva surging around the wad, the taste flooding back in full force.
He watched every movement — silent, judging. “Panties last,” he said. “Take it out. Then wear it back.”
My heart sank. Still kneeling, I reached into my mouth — fingers hooking the sodden wad — and pulled. The panty came out with a wet, sucking sound, strings of saliva stretching and breaking. The taste lingered — thick, coating my tongue, my throat, my sinuses. I held the filthy thing in my shaking hand — warm, slimy, saliva-soaked now mixed with the original residue: sweat, oils, urine traces, seminal fluid — all of it slick and tacky against my palm. The smell rose again — pungent, intimate, but reduced significantly after hours trapped in my mouth. Saliva had soaked through the fabric, diluting the concentrated filth, washing away some of the sharpest edges. The odor was still there — musky, sour, intimate — but it no longer stung the nose like before. It had become muted, heavy, almost cloying rather than sharp — a constant, low hum of my own body’s residue rather than an assault. The reduction was small mercy, but it didn’t erase the shame; it only made the lingering scent feel more insidious, more personal, more inescapable in a quieter way.
Wearing it back while kneeling was a fresh humiliation. I couldn’t stand — not without permission, not without risking more points. I feared even asking — “May I stand, Master?” — the words forming but dying on my tongue. The fear of another violation, another point stack, kept me silent. So I stayed on my knees — thighs clamped, heels digging into my buttocks, balance precarious. I lifted one knee slightly, rocked my hips, used one hand to hold the skirt up while the other guided the panties. The fabric — now even wetter from my saliva — resisted, sticking to my fingers, sliding awkwardly up my thighs. The slimy texture dragged against my skin — cold in places, warm in others — leaving trails of mixed fluids. The panties caught on my skin several times, requiring small, humiliating wiggles to get them into place. The crotch settled against me — wet, sticky, clinging — a constant reminder of what had just happened. The elastic waistband snapped against my skin; I winced, but stayed silent, posture rigid, eyes down.
The moment the crotch fabric pressed fully against me again, the full reality hit. It was soaked — not just damp, but heavy, saturated — my own saliva from the night mixing with everything the panty had already absorbed: yesterday’s sweat, the oils from my skin, faint traces of urine from earlier holds, the sticky residue of seminal fluid that had never fully dried. The wetness spread instantly across my pubic area, 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 sensation was revolting — wet, heavy, intimate, inescapable. No air could reach the area; the tight bikini cut trapped everything against me, 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. I stayed kneeling, silent, eyes down, the soaked panty a second skin I couldn’t escape.
My hand was still slick from pulling the panty out. The residue coated my fingers — warm, slimy, a mix of saliva and the original filth that had soaked into the fabric overnight. It felt gross, invasive, wrong. I could feel it between my fingers, stringy and tacky, clinging like it didn’t want to let go. My stomach turned. I wanted it off me — off my skin, off my hand, off my existence.
Without thinking, I tried to wipe it on the pinafore fabric. Just a quick swipe against the material near my hip. The slime streaked across the skirt — a faint, wet mark that darkened the fabric instantly. I froze. The stain was small but obvious, glistening under the light. I knew immediately it was wrong. The uniform must stay presentable. Master's rule.
Master saw it. His eyes flicked to the mark, then back to me. No anger, no shout — just that calm, cold stare. Then, quietly, he spoke the tally:
“Soiling uniform. Appearance – Major. Base 150 points. Spreading filth on pinafore fabric. Hygiene & grooming – Major. Base 200 points. Environment not neat. Upkeep – Major. Base 150 points. This is the fourth time this week you’ve soiled the uniform during accessory removal. Multiplier ×7 on all three categories. Total: 3,500 points. Rounded up to 4,000. Debt now 25,000.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I froze again, the numbers sinking in slowly, heavily. "This is the fourth time this week…" — 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. Fourth time. I had done this four times already. Four times I had failed to be neat, to be clean, 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 soils his own uniform again and again? 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 — 25,000 — 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 saying it so calmly. I hated myself more for letting it happen.
He didn’t linger on it. He didn’t need to. The words hung there, heavy and final, then he simply moved on.
He watched me a moment longer, then pointed to the kitchen. “Prepare lunch first.”
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