Month 1, Day 4 (late morning)
I moved to the kitchen, chain clinking with every step. The 1-meter length hung loosely from my neck — a constant, cold weight brushing against my collarbone, the links softly rattling against the blouse whenever I shifted. It only pulled taut if I stretched too far — reaching for something on the far side of the counter or bending low to the sink — a sharp reminder of how limited my world had become. Otherwise, it just dangled, clinking quietly, a passive but unending symbol of yesterday’s stupid decision.
Preparation was slow, humiliating. The mash was pre-made once a week — rice, milk, cabbage, mayonnaise — stored in sealed containers in the fridge to avoid spoilage. I pulled out the rice first — cold, clumped, slightly hardened from sitting. I emptied it into the dog bowl — the clumps tumbling in with a soft thud. Then the milk — poured slowly over the rice, the white liquid soaking in gradually, softening the grains, turning them pale and soggy. Next the cabbage — I took the container of pre-shredded strands, thin and fibrous, and scattered them on top. They looked raw, bitter, out of place. Finally the mayonnaise — a thick, white dollop spooned in last. It clung to the surface, slowly melting into the mixture, turning everything greasy and slick.
I stirred with the small plastic spoon — the only utensil allowed — combining everything into a cold, wet, uneven mash: starchy rice softened by milk, bitter cabbage adding crunch and green flecks, mayo turning it oily and sticky. The texture was unappetizing — soggy, lumpy, greasy, with sharp cabbage bits breaking through the mush. The smell rose — starchy, milky, slightly sour from the cabbage, with the oily sweetness of mayonnaise. It wasn’t strong, but it was familiar now — the smell of every meal since the beginning. I set the bowl on the floor.
Then eating. I knelt on the floor — knees together, back straight — the double layers making it harder; the inner pinafore bunched against the outer one, pulling at my hips, the wet inner fabric sticking to my thighs. The soaked panty beneath pressed tighter with the shift in position, the slimy crotch squishing softly against me, a private, revolting reminder that never left. I could feel the weight of it — heavy, clinging, never drying — every tiny adjustment of my hips making it drag and smear.
I stirred the mash again with the small spoon, then brought it to my lips. Lady-like — every movement deliberate, every bite controlled. I scooped a tiny amount — the spoon barely holding the soggy mass — and brought it to my mouth slowly, gently. I parted my lips carefully, inserted the spoon with precision, closed around it softly. The cold mixture touched my tongue — starchy rice softened by milk, bitter cabbage shreds, oily mayo coating everything — and I held it there for a long moment, letting it rest before chewing. I chewed slowly, gently — small, measured bites, trying not to make noise, trying not to let bits fall. The cabbage resisted, fibrous strands catching in my teeth; the mayo made it slippery, greasy; the rice turned mushy in my mouth. Then, gently swallow — a careful, controlled motion, feeling the cold, heavy mixture slide down, coating my throat in a greasy, bitter film, hoping no trace showed on my lips or chin.
This is unacceptable. This is utterly unacceptable. Today is Day 4. Tonight I could have been free. Tonight was supposed to be the end — the contract over, me walking out, back to my life, back to being me. I could have been eating real food — sitting at a table, tasting something warm, spiced, actual. Laksa. Coffee. Anything. Instead I’m kneeling on concrete, chained, eating cold mush from a dog bowl while the taste of yesterday’s filth lingers in my mouth. I stupidly signed five extensions yesterday. Five. From four days to two months. Two months. The regret surged — hot, choking, overwhelming. How could I have let this happen? How could I have nodded, again and again, until I signed away everything? I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the bowl. I wanted to tell him to go away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The points would stack. The debt would climb. And I’d be right back in the storeroom, chained tighter, longer.
Master watched — silent, unblinking — keeping track of every violation, inevitable no matter how careful I was. A small lump of mixture slipped from the spoon — landed on the floor. A drop of mayo-milk liquid escaped the corner of my mouth — trailed down my chin. A shred of cabbage fell — tiny, but visible. A smear of mayo touched my lip — small, but there. Each tiny imperfection noted. His voice cut in, calm but sharp:
“Messy. Violation — unclean eating. +150 points.” He continued, listing each one: “Allowing food to touch the floor: +100.” “Failure to maintain posture while eating: +100.” “Dribbling on uniform: +200.” “Smearing mayo on lip: +150.” “General sloppiness: +200.”
The points stacked — casual, inevitable. I froze mid-bite, spoon in hand, shame burning hotter than hunger. No matter how gently I ate, how lady-like I tried to be — the posture, the spoon, the kneeling, the chain — everything conspired against perfection. The meal — already degrading — became another punishment. I finished quickly, swallowing hard, the cold rice-milk-cabbage-mayo mixture sitting heavy in my stomach, the taste lingering like defeat — starchy, greasy, bitter, oily. The floor had small stains — rice clumps, milk drops, mayo smears, cabbage shreds. Another violation waiting to be noticed later.
Master’s eyes flicked down. His voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “Clean it.”
I blinked — confused for a second. No cloth, no tissue, no instruction to stand or fetch anything. Then it hit.
“Lick it up.”
The words landed softly, but they struck like a slap. My stomach twisted again — harder this time. The floor — cold concrete, dusty from the storeroom, now dotted with my own spilled food. Rice grains stuck here and there, milk pooled in tiny drops, mayo smeared in thin streaks, cabbage shreds scattered like confetti. All of it mixed with whatever dirt had accumulated since the last cleaning. I stared at it — the sight worse than darkness. This was the next layer: not just eating like an animal, but cleaning like one.
Master saw my hesitation. My body froze — head lowered, lips trembling, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the stains. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The command was too much, too degrading, too final.
His voice sharpened — calm still, but edged with displeasure. “Hesitation. Failure to obey immediately. Violation. +200 points.”
The points added — another layer of debt. The number climbed higher, another layer of debt for nothing more than a second of frozen shock. No mercy for instinct. No allowance for horror. Only points. Always points.
I lowered myself — slowly, carefully, reluctantly, knees trembling slightly — from kneeling to all fours. The chain dangled loosely from my neck, brushing the floor, clinking softly. My palms pressed against the concrete — cold, rough, gritty. I leaned down, face inches from the stains. The smell rose — faint traces of milk, mayo, cabbage, mixed with dust and my own lingering body odor from days without proper hygiene. I extended my tongue — slowly, reluctantly — and touched the first rice clump. The texture was gritty — rice stuck to the floor, picking up dust, tasting faintly of concrete. I licked — gentle, careful — gathering the grains, the milk drop beside it. The taste was a mix: cold starch, sour milk, faint bitterness from cabbage residue, oily mayo, and the underlying grit of the floor itself. It coated my tongue — slimy, dusty, humiliating. I swallowed — the mixture sliding down, joining the meal already in my stomach. Another spot — mayo smear — thick, greasy, sticking to my tongue like glue. I licked again — tongue dragging across the concrete, feeling the roughness scrape lightly, collecting the oily streak. Cabbage shred next — fibrous, bitter, tasting of raw earth and mayo. I worked methodically — spot by spot — licking, gathering, swallowing, the floor’s dirt mixing with the food residue in my mouth. Each lick was slower, more deliberate — not from care, but from dread. The concrete was cold against my lips, rough against my tongue, leaving a faint gritty aftertaste. Saliva mixed with everything — turning the mess into a thin, muddy slurry on my tongue.
And in that moment, the thought crashed over me again — sharp, painful, unbearable: tonight I could have been free. Tonight was supposed to be the end. The fourth day. The contract over. I could have been eating properly — sitting at a real table, tasting real food, laughing with friends, being myself again. I could have been ordering laksa, sipping coffee, feeling normal. Instead I was here, on all fours, licking spilled mash off the floor like an animal. Now I am degraded to this status for two months. Two months. The words echoed in my head, heavy and final. Two months of this — of licking floors, of eating from a bowl, of being this thing. I stupidly signed five extensions yesterday. Five. From four days to two months. The regret surged — hot, choking, overwhelming. How could I have let this happen? How could I have nodded, again and again, until I signed away everything? I still wanted out. I still wanted my old life — the job, the apartment, the freedom to choose what I ate, when I slept, who I was. But the chain clinked. The debt climbed. And the thought felt farther away every day.
Master watched — silent, arms folded. When I finished — the stains gone, only faint wet marks remaining — he nodded once. “Acceptable. But next time — no mess. +200 points for requiring floor cleaning.”
The points added — another layer of debt. I stayed on all fours for a moment — head bowed, tongue still coated in the mixed filth, shame burning deeper than ever. This was not just eating. This was erasure — of dignity, of humanity, of any separation between me and the floor.
Instinct took over again — my mouth still tasting of the floor, lips wet from licking, I reached up to wipe my mouth. My sleeve — the white blouse’s sleeve — came up automatically, brushing across my lips, chin, removing the last traces of saliva and residue. The fabric absorbed it — a small, damp spot spreading on the crisp white sleeve, darkening the material slightly, the stain visible against the pale cotton.
Master’s eyes narrowed instantly. His voice turned ice-cold, fury barely contained. “You dirtied the uniform again. The white blouse — the new set’s outer layer. With your mouth. After everything. Repeated violation. Disrespect to property. +1,600 points. Multiplied for repetition and for using your sleeve like a napkin.”
The number hit like a physical blow — 1,600 more, multiplied. The tally soared even higher, the debt impossible. I froze — sleeve still near my face, damp spot stark on the white fabric, shame so intense it felt like fire in my chest. I had done it again — instinctively, without thinking — and now the punishment was exponential. Master’s anger was no longer quiet; it was sharp, controlled, but unmistakable. He stepped closer, voice low. “You will learn. Or the points will keep multiplying until you do.”
He stepped back. “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...
No comments:
Post a Comment