Day 5, Afternoon (after dozing off in store room, before the actual punishment)
When I awaken, Master is already in front of me.
Door open. Footsteps silent or lost in my haze. He stands there, calm, eyes scanning the mess — door slightly open, panties crumpled on the floor, blouse unbuttoned, pinafore unzipped, pin unclipped, heels kicked aside, me slumped against the wall, legs open, posture collapsed, penis exposed.
Shock hit like a slap — I overslept. Dozed off. Not just a moment. Long enough for him to walk in and see everything.
Panic surged, heart slamming, mind blanking then flooding: how long? How much? I was supposed to listen for the door. I was supposed to fix it fast. But I slept. Like a fool.
Immediately, instinctively, I scramble to get into position — kneeling in front of him. But it’s too late. The state is badly dressed, the room exposed, the posture broken — and he saw it all.
I looked like a disheveled figure in this small storeroom, no longer the rigid maid pose, just a tired man caught in half-undress, head still slightly bowed from dozing, eyes wide now in panic. The whole scene a mess of loosened layers and failed rebellion, almost dry uniform hanging slack, but the body itself in total disarray.
He starts listing down all the violations and calculated in front of me, voice calm, flat, like reading a report. No anger. No pause. Just the breakdown.
“Pin unclipped. Uniform Compliance Major. Base 300. Appearance Major. Base 300. Decency Major. Base 400. Contract Baseline. Base 300.”
“Blouse unbuttoned. Appearance Major. Base 300. Uniform Compliance Major. Base 300. Decency Major. Base 400. Contract Baseline. Base 300.”
“Pinafore unzipped. Uniform Compliance Major. Base 300. Appearance Major. Base 300. Contract Baseline. Base 300.”
“Panties removed. Decency Major. Base 500. Uniform Compliance Major. Base 300. Appearance Major. Base 300. Contract Baseline. Base 300.”
“Not kneeling. Obedience Major. Base 300. Posture Major. Base 400. Contract Baseline. Base 300.”
“Back slumped. Posture Major. Base 400. Uniform Compliance Minor. Base 200.”
“Legs open. Decency Major. Base 400. Appearance Major. Base 300. Obedience Minor. Base 200.”
“Door open. Escape Attempt Major. Base 500.”
“Sleeping on duty. Obedience Major. Base 500. Vigilance Major. Base 400. Posture Major. Base 300.”
“All stacked. Total base 7,400. Multiplied by 4 for multiple faults — final tally: 29,600 points. Further multiplied by 2 for violations across genre of protocols — attire, posture, behavior, escape attempt, sleeping — final tally: 59,200 points.”
I protested, voice weak, shaking — “It was wrong calculation… that was not how it was calculated. How can I possible get so many. Previously I also did not get this much.”maybe already had sufficient sleep and just awoken, forgotten my expectation to behave. The protest came out before I could stop it — a flash of real me, the man who would have questioned, would have pushed back. But it was too late to take it back. The words were out. The challenge was there. And now he would answer.
He sternly explained the calculation methodology, laying it out like a lesson. “One act overlaps multiple categories — each category is a separate violation with its own base points. Stacked individually first, then consolidated sum, then multiplied for multiple faults. That’s how it works. No exceptions.”
Then explained, previously he also did stack, but for some he did not was just merely showing mercy and his convenience. “I let some slide before. Not anymore. You learn this way.”
Master continued, voice low and even, as if stating a simple fact: “Now that you know about the calculation, from now on this will be calculated this way. No more mercy. And you should know— there’s even more that I actually could have considered. The overall messy uniform. Not behaving girly enough in posture, in movement, in how you carry yourself. Each one can be considered a separate act, each one can stack its own categories. I could brief you on them right now if you want.”
The threat hung there, quiet but sharp. I could feel the weight of them waiting — all things I thought were small, all things he could turn into violations.
I wanted to ask. I wanted to push back. But the words died in my throat. Too scared. Too aware that questioning would only make him list them.
Only make the number climb higher. So I stayed silent. Just nodded once. Just accepted. Just let it sit. Still trapped under his crutches for this 2 months.
But then, on the spot, he suddenly decided: “You will never learn if I don’t consider all this, and you will never learn not to challenge me.”
So he said: “All stacked again. The new act of challenge adds 1,200 base points across four categories. The miscellaneous acts add another 2,400 base points. New consolidated base: 11,000. Multiplied by 5 for the increased number of faults — subtotal 55,000. Further multiplied by 2.5 for violations across even more genre of protocols — attire, posture, behavior, escape attempt, sleeping, challenge — new final tally: 137,500 points.”
The feeling like that of a death sentence on me — numb, crushing, the number echoing like a noose tightening. 137,500. More debt. Cannot imagine the punishments I have to endure just to pay this back!
Wanted to reason again. But know it will cause more. Just accept. Still trapped.
And next he stated the total I have accumulated, and that was he revealed that he reseted when I signed 2 month extension because he was so happy to have ownership over me. And he practiced 1 time waiver. But now, with this incident, the total is back to close to fifteen thousand from before — plus today’s 137,500. Accumulated: 152,500 points.
My mental reaction of not anticipating — I never saw this coming. The reset was supposed to be mercy, a fresh start, a sign of happiness. But now it feels like I blew it.
The numbers piled up again, faster than I expected. No warning.
Master suddenly said: “One minute. Put everything back on. Then kneel. I’ll be back.”
Panic surged, hands trembling.
Bra straps tugged tight first, cups re-adjusted to position back to position. Panties pulled up, tucked penis in — still half-hard from earlier relief, skin slick with sweat, fingers fumbled to push it down and hold flat while chain tugged my neck every time I leaned forward. Finally secured, but it cost precious seconds.
Pin secured back on both sides — waist tension restored.
Blouse top button fastened. Pinafore zipped up left side.
Heels slipped on last — chain caught on the edge of the low metal shelf, yanked collar hard, choked for a split second, rattled loud against the floor. I twisted free, stumbled once, but kept moving, chain slack again.
Fifty seconds gone.
Kneeled fast — knees together, butt on heels, back straight, hands stacked on lap, head bowed.
The chain draped loosely around my knees, hanging slack from the wall hook, but I froze still.
Master came back, door opening abruptly. He carried the dog bowl in one hand — rice soaked in cold milk, shredded lettuce and mayonnaise mixed in, and a 1.5-liter bottle of water in the other. He set the bowl down with the dull clunk on the concrete, then tossed the bottle beside it — water sloshing inside.
“Eat it,” he said, voice flat. “Drink the bottle too. I do not want a hungry slave for the punishment.”
The word punishment hit like ice. My stomach twisted — what kind? How long? How much more could I take before I broke? I pictured straps, chains, hours on knees, maybe worse.
The 137,500 points flashed again, heavier now. No way out. Just this. Just waiting my fate.
“Five minutes,” he added. “I’ll be back.”
Door slammed shut.
I dropped to all fours — he is not around, no rules now, no eyes looking, panicking. Spoon in hand, I shoveled the gloss rice mixture into my mouth, accidentally smearing some of greasy mixture across lips. Bowl scraped empty.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, then instinctively smeared the greasy mayo and milk dribble onto the pinafore — the fabric soaking it up, forming obvious dark spots on the pinafore.
Then I grabbed the bottle, gulped water straight — half gone in one go. But after that first liter, the bloat hit hard — stomach swollen, nausea teasing at the edges, gulps slowing to small sips, making every swallow heavier.
I tried to force it down, but the pressure built, belly tight. Time was slipping.
Door opened again. Master stepped in. I was still drinking — bottle still half-full, lips wet, hands shaking around the neck. Water dripped down chin. I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t finish on time. Some still sloshed inside. He glanced at the bottle, then at me. No words. Just the silence before the next tally.
Door opened again. Master stepped in. I was still drinking. I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t finish on time.
I froze mid-gulp, bottle clutched awkwardly in both hands, tilted up like a child refusing to put it down, water dribbling from the corner of my mouth in a very unglamorous way — not ladylike at all, not the poised sip of a maid, just desperate, messy gulping.
The bottle was held too high, too close to my face, elbows out, posture hunched forward over it, skirt ridden up slightly from sitting, legs still half-open, pinafore wrinkled, blouse collar gaping from the unbuttoned top.
Everything about how I looked screamed unrefined, ungraceful to the master— far from the controlled, delicate lady pose he expected.
Shock and late-for-exam panic flooded me. Again. And he saw it. Saw everything. No excuse. No time left.
He glanced at the bottle, then at me.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing on the dark stains blooming across the pinafore, the water trail down my chin, the way my hands trembled around the neck like I was clinging to it for dear life.
“Unfinished,” he said, almost amused. “And look at this.” He pointed at the greasy spots.
“Stained. Again.”
He circled me once, slow, deliberate.
“Drinking like a pig. Not a lady. Not even close.”
He crouched, face level with mine, voice low.
“And that posture- No grace. No poise. Just… sloppy.”
He stood up, voice calm again. “Let’s tally.”
“Unfinished hydration. Obedience Major, base 300. Vigilance Minor, base 200. Decency Major, base 400.”
“Unglamorous drinking. Appearance Major, base 300. Decency Major, base 400. Posture Major, base 400.”
“Staining uniform. Uniform Compliance Major, base 300. Appearance Major, base 300. Decency Minor, base 200.”
“Eating too fast — inferred from the smear. Appearance Major, base 300. Decency Major, base 400. Obedience Minor, base 200.”
“Overall lack of grace. Behavior Major, base 400. Appearance Minor, base 200.”
“All stacked. Base: 3,700. Multiplied by 4 for multiple faults — 14,800. Then by 2.5 for cross-genre violations — attire, posture, behavior, obedience, decency — final tally: 37,000 points.”
The number landed like a slap.
Master didn’t move. He just looked down at me — still hunched, bottle dripping, pinafore stained — and said, voice low:
“That’s today’s. But remember, you had 152,500 before. So now… 189,500 total.”
He let it hang, like he was watching the color drain from my face.
“Want to see what that means?”
He raised one finger. “Cane strokes. Twenty-five points per stroke — bare butt, no padding. 189,500 divided by twenty-five… seven thousand five hundred eighty strokes. You’d be raw meat before halfway.”
Second finger. “Mummification. Forty points per ten minutes — wrapped tight, breathing tube, no shift. 189,500 divided by four… forty-seven thousand three hundred seventy-five minutes. Seven hundred eighty-nine hours. Thirty-three days. You’d forget your name.”
Third finger. “Neck suspension to the ceiling. Fifty points per ten minutes — collar hooked high, toes scraping. 189,500 divided by five… thirty-seven thousand nine hundred minutes. Six hundred thirty-three hours. Twenty-six days hanging. Every breath a choke.”
He lowered his hand. “That’s not help. That’s your future. And it’s only growing.”
The number landed like a slap. More debt. More chains.
Master didn’t move. He just looked down at me and said, voice low:
“That’s today’s. But remember, you had 152,500 before. So now… 189,500 total.”
He let it hang, like he was watching the color drain from my face.
“Want to see what that means?”
He raised one finger. “Cane strokes. Twenty-five points per stroke — bare butt, no padding. 189,500 divided by twenty-five… 7,580 strokes. You’d be raw meat before halfway.”
Second finger. “Mummification. Forty points per ten minutes — wrapped tight, breathing tube, no shift. 189,500 divided by four… 47,375 minutes. 789 hours. 33 continuous days as a mummy. You’d become a really preserved mummy.”
Third finger. “Neck suspension to the ceiling. Fifty points per ten minutes — collar hooked high, toes scraping. 189,500 divided by five… 37,900 minutes. 633 hours. 26 full days hanging. Every breath a choke.”
Panic surged — sharp, hot, like a knife in my gut. Two months? That’s impossible. 7,580 strokes… 33 days mummified… 26 days hanging… I’d be broken, dead, or worse before week one. The chain creaked as I swayed. My throat burned already. Tears pricked — not from pain, but from the math. The trap. The end. No way out. Just… this.
He lowered his hand. “I’ll make sure you pay back within the contract end.”
Master continued, “Let’s not talk too much. Let’s start with the punishment.”
He turned away, reached for the wall hook — chain rattling softly — and unlocked the five-meter chain from it. The chain still dangled from my neck.
“Stand up.”
I pushed up — legs trembling from the strain, knees sore but not numb. He yanked the chain hard, once, twice — not gentle.
The collar bit forward. I lurched, heels scraping concrete, breath catching. He dragged me along, chain clinking, forcing me to stumble after him.
One pull — I nearly tripped.
Another — my head snapped back. No slack. No mercy.
“Move,” he said. “Hang slave room.”
Master calls this the hang slave room because it got its name from hangman rooms — those old execution chambers ropes. But this one has just a thick hook screwed into the ceiling beam, chain hanging straight down. Same spot he’d used earlier today to string me up like wet laundry — collar locked high, body dangling, feet barely brushing the floor. And that’s why he called the hang slave room…
He clipped the chain to the ceiling hook. This time barely enough for me to move a little — no slack at all. Previously there’d be enough to shift my weight or bend my knee a bit.
Now? Nothing.
Chain pulled tight, PVC sleeved neck chain digging in, forcing me straight up on the four-inch heels. Knees locked — can’t even flex them.
Just standing there, swaying if I breathe too hard.
From afar, I’d look like a broken doll on display — legs locked straight in those four-inch heels, body rigid. The chain’s a thin silver line from neck to beam, pulling everything up like I’m on invisible strings.
No movement. Just… hanging there, Like something forgotten in a warehouse.
Master remarked: “This is hanged slave.” …
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