Slave Life Storyline- Mouth-Washing Machine

 Day 4 Night – right after TV dies, post-dinner wait humiliation, pre washing of 2 other cleaner uniforms (irony right?). 

The TV screen went black. Static hum died. I stayed kneeling in ready—knees raw on the hard floor, raincoat creaking every breath. The pin from yesterday tugged the bib like a leash. Debt thirty-eight thousand four hundred, I think.

Master:

“Do you want to be in single layer?”

Instinct hit—layers suffocating, heat trapped, itch raw.

“Yes, Master.” Quick. No thought.

“Okay. I can meet you in single layer. I will introduce you as a washing machine.”

The words landed flat. No joke. No mercy. Reduced to equipment. Human laundry tool. Mouth for soaking, tongue for squeezing, stomach for bloating. No dignity. No name. Just thing. Shame burned hotter than heels.

“Stand.”

I rose—heels stabbed soles, calves screamed from day-long burn. Balance wobbled. Chain clinked once—loud in the quiet.

Master eyes narrowed. “Balance violation. Posture – Moderate. Base 200 points. Chain noise disturbance – Minor. Base 100. Total: three hundred.

Calm. Clipped. No raise in voice.

“Remove the raincoat and apron.”

I reached back—arms strained, gloves cotton with very light inner sweat damp (first day wear, just faint clammy between digits, no heavy slip). Apron bib pressed chest. Raincoat buttons popped slow—one by one, plastic crinkled loud. Heat rushed out. Worst staining layer off—dark sweat patches, mayo-cabbage ghost, crotch musk wave. Apron untied—bib fell loose, shoulders ached slight relief.

Stink exploded—sour body odor, heavy crotch musk, urine trace, faint cabbage/mayo breath. Overwhelming.

Master nose wrinkled. “The slave reeks. Hygiene – Major. Base 400 points. Appearance – Major. Base 500. Multiplier ×3 for repeated imperfection. Total: two thousand seven hundred.”

Calm. Clipped.

“Put the raincoat back on.”

I obeyed—plastic sealed stink in, heat returned like blanket. Crinkled loud.

“I will deal with the smell later.”

Ominous. No tease. Just fact.

All off. Kneeling again.

Stink exploded—sour body odor, heavy crotch musk, urine trace, faint cabbage/mayo breath. Overwhelming.

Master nose wrinkled. “The slave reeks. Hygiene – Major. Base 400 points. Appearance – Major. Base 500. Multiplier ×3 for repeated imperfection. Total: two thousand seven hundred. Debt now forty thousand one hundred.”

Calm. Clipped.

“Put the raincoat back on.”

I obeyed—plastic sealed stink in, heat returned like blanket. Crinkled loud.

“I will deal with the smell later.”

I peeled the cotton maid gloves off—fingers slid out slowly, light inner sweat damp from first day wear, faint clammy between digits but no heavy soiling yet. Placed them carefully on the stool beside the folded layers. Hands now bare—skin felt exposed, vulnerable.

“Remove the panty. All three layers.”

Hands bare now, skin prickling from sudden exposure,I reached under pinafore—raincoat tight, pin pulled. Hooked outer waistband (Day 4 musky). Slow pull—fabric dragged hips, peeled sticky from middle layer. Gusset heavy—salt, musk, urine trace, rose ghost. Drool string snapped lip to it. Groin ached as outer came free.

“Lay it nicely.”

Folded flat. Placed on stool—gentle, careful, no jerk.

“Next layer.”

Hooked middle. Pulled slow—clung tighter to base, warm damp against skin. Peeled away—crotch darkened, musky residue thicker. Compression eased slight, but ache lingered.

“Lay it nicely.”

Folded flat. Placed beside outer.

“Unpin first. The uniform pin.”

I reached up—hands bare, fingers found the pin between the panty and blouse. Small metal clip, engraving cold under touch. Unpinned carefully—fabric loosened slight, no tear, no rush. Placed the pin on the stool beside the folded layers. Blouse less fused. The pin waited, small but heavy with meaning.

“Last one. The inner.”

Four days old, tight to skin, fused with sweat/urine/saliva residue). Slowest pull—fabric resisted, scraped sensitive areas, chill then warmth as it freed. I pressed my thighs together hard—legs squeezed shut, knees locked inward, every muscle in my groin straining. No bulge. No dislodgement. Sweat-slick skin slid, but I held it—thighs trembled, raw spots burned, conscious effort like clenching a fist. Master watching. Points if it springs out. No slip. No mistake.

Gusset crusty, gritty like old bread—salty sweat, musk, faint urine, metallic chafing trace as the panty guided down the legs. This is the moment: as the last layer peels off, tuck must be tight—otherwise it pops free.

“Lay it nicely. The two outer. The dirty one—roll it like a ball, inside facing out.”

The two outer (middle and outer) already folded nicely—flat, gentle, careful. The dirty base: rolled like a ball—inside facing out, dirtiest gusset exposed outward—careful, submissive, like handling fragile glass. Placed on stool. No sigh.

“Now the outers. Put them back on.” I took the middle one first—cool, clammy fabric from folding, no fresh soak, just the lingering damp. Slid it up slow—waistband snapped against hips, crotch settled cold and gritty over raw skin, old musk still thick, urine trace clinging like memory. Then the outer—Day 4's musky layer—pulled over it, double pressure now, compressing everything, waistband digging into the fold marks. Not soaked, not clean. Just... restarted. Groin ached fresh under the layers. No relief. Just layers again.

“No pin this time. Leave it loose.” 

I nodded—bib and blouse now unpinned, layers looser at chest, no tug from the lock. The pin stayed on the stool, waiting. Loose felt wrong, exposed. But Master's word. No pin. Just the weight of the fabric, the chain, the panty in mouth. Ready for whatever came next.

Is it again? Something into my mouth... like what happened this morning. The same roll, the same inside-out, the same push deep. Repulsive. Last time was bad—filth pressed tongue, taste lingered hours, jaw ached, drool threatened, stomach turned. Hope not again. Please not again. But it is. Already rolling. Fingers on the crusty gusset, flipping it out. No escape. Not again. But yes.

He selected no new panty. Nodded at the balled dirty one. That’s his whole objective, my mouth as the washing machine!

“Do it yourself. Use the dirty one. Open.”

“Mask off first. For the mouth.”

“Mask off first. For the mouth.” I reached up—hands trembled, fingers brushed mask edge. Elastic snapped off ears—cool air hit raw lips, fog lifted sudden, panty smell bloomed outward in humid wave from breath. Mask placed aside on stool—soggy imprint left on cheeks, ears red from bite. Jaw now free for full stretch, no fabric barrier. A relief, no! the worst is coming!

Jaw forced wide—burned from prior clench.

I hesitated. Hands trembled over the balled panty on the stool. Fingers hovered, reluctant to touch it again. The smell already rising—sour, intimate, repulsive. Not again. Not this filth. Inner scream: Disgusting. Four days of me. Sweat, pee, spit, all crusty. Can't. Won't. But must. Points if refuse. Debt already impossible. No choice. Always no choice.

Slowly—very slowly—I picked it up. Fingers shook. Brought it closer to mouth. Gag reflex kicked early—throat tightened before contact. Stomach turned. Revulsion wave: This was inside me. Against skin. Now inside mouth. Again. Like morning. Worse. Hope died. Just disgust.

Reluctantly pushed the balled dirty panty deep—inside facing out, dirtiest surface pressed inward. Corner to throat first—gag tease stronger this time, retch almost escaped, eyes watered, head jerked back instinctive but chain tugged neck. Immediate rush of four days' filth: salty sweat crust, heavy musk, faint urine tang, spit-hardened rough patches directly against tongue. Sides stuffed cheeks—bulge swelled. Tongue pinned flat. Saliva soaked instant—taste exploded full force, no dilution, no mercy.

Inner loop: Repulsive. Bitter. Salty. Musky. Urine ghost burning throat. Can't breathe right. Drool wants out but clamp. No leak. No violation. But want to spit. Want to rip it out. Can't. Equipment. Laundry mouth. No person. Just hole for filth. Morning was bad. This worse. Not again. But is again. Tears pricked. Swallow reflex fought—held back. Disgust peaked. Hands clenched thighs. Body shook slight. No escape.

“Clamp. Hold.”

I clamped.

Jaw locked tight—muscles seized, corners pulled thin, burn deepened to steady throb. Panty sat heavy—sodden ball pressing everywhere: roof of mouth ached from upward force, tongue flattened numb under weight, cheeks bulged stretched, corners dry-cracked from strain. Saliva pooled fast—warm, thick, seeping into fabric weave, mixing with the crust: salty sweat turned brine, musk deepened to rancid earth, urine tang sharpened bitter, spit-hardened patches softened into slimy grit that scraped gums with every tiny shift. Taste cycled endless—first wave repulsive hit, then settled into constant assault, coating back of throat, forcing shallow swallows that barely cleared. Drool threatened corners—thick strings formed, quivered, one drop escaped but I sucked back instinctive, panic spike: no leak, no violation. Throat convulsed reflex—gag buried, chest heaved, chain tugged neck sharp. Breathing nasal only—mask still on, fog thick, each inhale pulled trapped stink deeper: my own breath mixed with panty ferment, sour cloud recycling. Inner churn: Can't hold. Jaw failing. Rip it out. Spit. Scream. Can't. Debt. Points. Equipment. Just hold. Tears streamed silent—hot tracks on cheeks. Body trembled—thighs clenched, heels dug harder into soles, calves burned fresh. Time stretched—seconds felt minutes. Disgust layered: filth in mouth, my filth, four days' worth, inside me again. Morning repeat. Worse. No mercy. No end. Just this.

He held a normal large plastic bottle—clear 1.5-liter mineral water type, room temperature plain water, long flexible straw inserted deep into the neck, straw tip clear and curved slightly.

“Drink.”

Leaned forward—the neckchain brushed my back — thin, PVC-sleeved, padlocked, one meter dangling loose — giving a soft, steady pressure as I stepped, faint clink with the shift, weight resting constant on spine like a quiet hand that never leaves, reminding without pulling, swaying gentle with every breath, no tug, no yank, just there, always there. Heels dug deeper into soles, calves flared fresh pain. Straw positioned into small gap between balled panty and right cheek corner—Master angled it first for control.

“Suck slow. Squeeze. Swallow. No leak.”

Sucked slow—water trickled past fabric weave, absorbed instant, panty swelled heavier against tongue/roof/cheeks. Jaw clamped deliberate—compressed sodden mass, forced thick mix (saliva + water + ferment residue) through to throat. Swallow burned down- Taste surged sharper with the swallow—salty brine from sweat crust flooded back of tongue, musk deepened to thick rancid earth coating palate, faint urine tang sharpened to chemical bite that stung throat walls, spit-hardened rough patches dissolved into bitter paste clinging everywhere. First trickle mild, but each forced mix amplified it—layers built fast, no dilution, no mercy, ferment residue turning sour-salty sludge that refused to clear. Inner: This is me. Four days' worth. Inside again. Worse than morning. Disgust rising, no spit, no rip out, just swallow more. No leak.

“Again.”

Cycle two. Same surge—taste thicker now, brine heavier, musk earthier, urine bite stronger, paste grittier on gums. Swallow reflex stronger—burn deeper.

“Again.”

Three. Four. Five. Each successive cycle layered more horror rising like cold sweat on spine, disgust so deep it felt like drowning in my own body, every swallow pushing the filth further in, no escape, no mercy, just endless repetition of my own degradation.

More horror piled on—gag reflex twitching harder with each forced swallow, throat clenching like it wanted to reject everything but couldn't, nausea wave rolling up from stomach in slow sick surges, threatening to rise but swallowed back down with the filth, shame loop spinning faster: this is me doing this to myself, my own degradation repeated, body betraying me by accepting it, no fight left, just obedience and revulsion in equal measure, repetition drilling deeper into mind, each cycle carving the humiliation permanent, no pause, no mercy, just more of the same endless fall.

Surge rolling—taste cycled endless, salty turning overpowering, musk rancid cloud in mouth, urine tang burning steady, spit sour paste coating teeth. Each swallow added layer, ferment building like bad wine gone wrong. Drool threatened corners—thickened, quivered, sucked back panicked. Inner: Can't stop. Taste everywhere. My filth. Equipment. No person. Debt climbs. Why this.

“Say 'Thank you, Master'.”

“Yehh... thahh...” Terrible—thick, wet, garbled, drool bubbled but clamped.

“Good. Continue.”

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Surge peaked—taste assault constant, brine overwhelming, musk choking, urine sting raw, paste slimy-gritty scraping gums with every clench. Panty sag heavier, slosh subtle with head tilt, constant slow drip down throat between cycles, nausea tease rising hard.

The water was already starting to dilute the raw edge slightly—salty brine less piercing, musk less choking, urine sting less raw, paste less gritty, ferment less bubbly, taste beginning to thin from sharp assault to a heavier but softer linger.

“Again.”

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Heavy drip constant—reflex swallow barely kept up, taste surge endless loop, ferment thick sludge coating everything, no relief, no clear. Uniform dug deeper, raincoat trapped heat amplified nausea.

Dilution building more—salty wash muting, musk hazy, urine whisper, sour rinse, ferment mild off-note, panty inside less sticky from rinsing, taste less crude, more persistent diluted background that clung without the full burn.

“Almost. Don't slow.”

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Panty fully sodden—slimy, sloshing with every breath, extreme saturation, fabric sagged against teeth/gums, drool threat high but clamped strict, no leak allowed. Taste surge absolute—salty, musky, urine, sour, ferment—all one overpowering wave.

But the taste started to water down noticeably as the cycles built—the water had rinsed and diluted the raw intensity over time, salty brine no longer piercing sharp but softened to a muted persistent salt wash that lingered without stabbing, musk rancid cloud thinned from choking thick to a hazy dull linger, urine tang burning less steady and fading to a diluted faint whisper sting that no longer scorched, spit sour paste coating teeth thinned from thick gluey to a watered-down sour rinse, ferment building like bad wine now diluted to a milder off-flavor slurry, still repulsive but the crude edge gone, panty inside mouth no longer as sticky and gritty, more slimy and rinsed, taste less overpowering and more constant background nausea that clung without the full initial assault, never clean, just washed-down filth that refused to disappear.

“One more. Bigger suck. Hold after.”

Sucked harder—larger volume pulled in, liquid pooled warm around saturated mass, taste surge final peak: everything intensified, no escape.

“Hold. Marinate. No leak. Ten minutes.”

Timer started. Mouth full—slimy, warm, sour, heavy. Panty marinated in pooled liquid—dirtiest inside-out gusset pressing filth deeper into tongue/palate/cheeks, crust softened to gritty paste, taste cycled endless: salty brine, rancid musk, urine burn, spit sour. Inner: Equipment. Washing machine. Mouth chamber full of my own filth.

Four days marinating inside me. No person. Debt climbs every second. Why extended. Why this, why me, why this again, why did I ever say yes to extensions, why did I kneel that first time, why didn't I run when I could, why is my mouth just a tool now, why does my body accept it, why does obedience feel like betrayal of myself, why does shame burn hotter than the jaw pain, why can't I stop the thoughts looping, why is every second stretching longer, why is debt the only thing that feels real anymore, why is this the only reality left.

Jaw throb peaked—muscles quivered, corners cracked further, drool strings thickened at edges but sucked back panicked. Inner continued: Jaw failing piece by piece, muscles screaming to release but locked by command, corners splitting like paper, pain radiating to ears, to temples, to neck, every quiver a reminder I'm not allowed to rest, not allowed to spit, not allowed to be human. Thought that was the point.. It I was totally opposite of what I thought would be as a fantasy! Stupid me.

Breathing shallow, recycled sour cloud in lungs. Inner: Lungs burning from shallow pulls, fog so thick I taste my own breath mixed with panty ferment, recycled stink like breathing through my own degradation, no fresh air, no relief, just loop of my filth in and out, suffocating slow.

This is hell. Morning was bad but at least it ended. This doesn't. Ten minutes feels like ten hours. Tears won't stop. Hot tracks down cheeks mixing with sweat, dripping to chin, to collar, to chain. Body shaking harder—thighs locked tight, knees grinding floor, heels stabbing soles deeper with every tremor, calves white-hot fire, back stiff from kneel, raincoat trapping heat like oven, uniform digging ribs from bloat, chain brushing soft but constant, reminding I'm leashed, owned, nothing.

Disgust absolute. Filth in mouth. My filth. Four days of sweat, pee leaks, spit, musk, all blended now but still me. Inside me again. Soaking. Marinating. Washing machine working perfectly—cleaning nothing, just diluting my shame into longer lasting poison. No relief. No end. Just hold. Just endure. Just be the thing. Debt climbing. Points ticking. Extensions stupid. Day 1 play. Day 4 this. Why didn't I see. Why did I extend. Why am I still here. Tears heavier. Silent sobs muffled by panty. Body convulsed slight—held back. No escape. No mercy. No person. Just hold.

Time dragged—seconds minutes, minutes eternity. Disgust absolute: filth in mouth, my filth, inside again, soaking, no relief. Morning was bad. This hell. No end. Just hold.

Timer ended.

“Wash is done.”

Master stepped closer. Voice calm.

“Remove it from your mouth. The dirty one. Fold it nicely on the chair.”

I reached up—gloves off earlier, hands bare—fingers trembled as they hooked the corners of the balled panty. Pulled slow—fabric dragged past lips, soggy, dripping, strings of saliva and pooled liquid breaking. Taste lingered heavy even after removal—diluted but still there, blended slurry coating tongue, throat, gums. Drool spilled slight—wiped instinctively on sleeve, panic spike: points?

Held the panty in palm—marinated, heavy, slimy, inside-out gusset still exposed. Folded it nicely—gentle, submissive, careful like handling fragile glass. Placed on the chair/stool beside the two outer layers—flat, neat, ready. The cleaned ones looked almost innocent now. But this one... this one was me. Four days' filth. Washed but not clean.

“Gloves on.”

I reached for the cotton maid gloves on the stool—fingers slid in slowly, material snug again over bare hands, light inner sweat damp from earlier, faint clammy between digits but still clean enough for task.

The gloves were there for a reason- keep my filthy hands from the surrounding, keep the white surface presentable for his eyes, but let me feel every stain and soiling inside, every damp spot, every crust, every trace of my own degradation. Everything around were his property, not mine. If I dirtied them too much, points. Violation. Debt. Another layer of humiliation—hands wrapped in white that stayed clean on the outside while inside they carried me. Which really suits the occasion now.

Gloves on.

Master's voice flat. “Mask back on too.”

I picked up the mask from the stool—soggy, heavy from one full day of wear, elastic straps stretched and damp, plastic fogged inside with layers of my own breath, sweat, and now the ferment from the panty. The fabric lining was clammy, soaked through with hours of recycled air, sour-sweet musk clinging to it, faint urine trace from earlier leaks mixed with spit and skin oil. Edges curled slightly from moisture, inner surface sticky against cheeks, nose, lips. Elastic bands bit into ears again, same red marks from morning still tender. Snapped on—tight seal, fog instant, every inhale pulled the day's trapped stench deeper: my own breath looped back, thick with panty residue, no fresh air, just suffocating recycle of my degradation. The mask felt heavier now, one day of constant wear making it part of my face, part of the uniform, part of the thing I had become. No relief. Just more layer. Just more seal.

The 'apparently cleaner' panty sat on the chair—folded nicely, waiting. Thought that the idea of human washing machine was done. But no! tonight... tonight was going to be more horrible.