Month 1, Day 4 (midnight to ~morning)
I woke in the middle of the night, yanked from sleep by discomfort.
The mat was thin, the book under my head hard, but the real torture was the uniform — two layers of blouse and pinafore, sticky with dried sweat, clinging like a suffocating second skin. The chain around my neck shifted slightly with every breath, a constant tug. The canvas shoes squeezed my feet, the white ankle socks damp from trapped heat. My body ached from the forced position — legs straight, thighs clamped, palms flat on the genital area. I didn’t dare move. The fear of Master catching me out of position was too real; the last time he spotted even the slightest imperfection, the punishment had been brutal. So I lay rigid, thighs squeezed hard, palms pressed firmly, constantly tugging and pulling with tiny hip movements to keep everything flat and hidden. The layers fought me — every small shift caused the fabric to bunch, restricting my hips, forcing my knees to bend slightly just to relieve pressure. I adjusted again and again, each time earning a soft rustle and a fresh wave of discomfort. The palms-on-genital rule was the worst — every tiny movement threatened to dislodge the tuck, so I clenched harder, repositioned discreetly, terrified of any outline showing.
As I lay there, wide awake in the dark, reflections flooded in — relentless, unfiltered, merciless.
Family first. My parents — what would they think if they saw me now? Kneeling in a stranger’s house, collared, layered, reduced to a thing in a pinafore. The shame was physical — a hot spike in my chest. They’d never understand. They’d blame themselves, wonder where they went wrong. My little sister — if she knew, that image would shatter. She’d be disgusted, confused, hurt. The family group chat would go silent. Holidays would become awkward, forced, or worse — avoided. I’d be the one they whispered about. The one they pitied. The one they didn’t know how to face.
Then career. The promotion I’d been chasing — gone. The team I led — someone else would take over. The clients I’d built relationships with — they’d forget me. How do you explain two months missing? “Personal reasons”? Too vague. “Health leave”? They’d ask questions. The truth was impossible. I could see the emails piling up, the HR meeting, the awkward “we’re letting you go” conversation. All those late nights, all those wins — erased. I’d have to start over, explain the gap, rebuild credibility. If I even could. The thought of interviews — “So what have you been doing the last two months?” — made me want to vomit.
And the isolation hit hardest in the dark. I had no phone. No laptop. No form of communication to the outside world. I hadn’t brought any of it with me — no wallet, no keys, no devices. I’d been so secretive, so careful, putting in a lot of effort to make sure Master never had access to my personal life. I’d left everything behind on purpose — hidden, locked away, disconnected — thinking it would protect my real identity, keep this fantasy separate, contained. Now that secrecy worked against me. No one knew where I was. No one could trace me. I was effectively cut off — a ghost to everyone I once knew. No one would look for me for weeks, maybe months. By the time anyone worried, it would be too late. The realization sank deep: I had erased myself. Not just from him — from the world.
I was Singaporean. I’d crossed the border into Malaysia for this session — a quick cross-border taxi ride, a few hours, thinking I’d be back home in 4 days. I’d hidden my passport somewhere outside his house before entering — tucked in a safe spot near the entrance, wrapped in a plastic bag, convinced I’d retrieve it after the session ended. I didn’t want him to see it. I didn’t want him to know my full name, my NRIC, my address. I wanted control. Now that “control” was my prison. My passport was still out there — if I could get to it, I could leave the country. But I couldn’t even leave the house. And the law — Singaporeans could stay in Malaysia visa-free for only 30 days. I was already overstaying. Every day past 30 would be illegal. Immigration would catch me eventually — at the border, at a checkpoint, or worse, if he decided to report me. The thought made my stomach twist: I was trapped not just by the chain, but by borders, by laws, by my own secrecy.
Escape plans flickered in and out — vivid, desperate, impossible. Tomorrow. When he goes out. The lock-up is only temporary — he has to leave sometime. I could scream through the gag, bang on the door with my bound hands, hope a neighbor hears the muffled thuds. Or wait until he’s asleep, find something sharp — a nail in the wall, a loose screw on the shelf — cut the cable ties, unclip the chain, slip out the door. Then run to my hidden passport spot, flag a taxi, cross the border before dawn. Back in Singapore by morning — shower, change, call family, pretend it was a bad dream. Or hide in the storeroom until he leaves, then pry the eye bolt from the concrete with sheer panic strength, steal his keys, take his car, drive to the border. Or play dead — stop breathing, let him think I choked on the gag, hope he panics and calls for help, then escape when the door opens. Or seduce him — act broken, obedient, wait for trust, then strike when he’s vulnerable. Every fantasy collapsed the moment I tested it: the chain is locked, the plug is in concrete, the gag is tight, the blindfold is thick, the hands are bound, the house is silent. No tools, no phone, no help. Just me, chained, layered, reduced. The fantasies looped — each one more desperate, each one more impossible — until they all blurred into one quiet, aching truth: I’m not getting out tomorrow. I’m not getting out at all.
I imagined life after release — two months from now. Walking out that door, back to my apartment, back to normal clothes, back to freedom. Showering off the filth, retrieving my hidden passport, crossing the border legally, returning to Singapore. Calling family, laughing it off as a “crazy sabbatical.” Returning to work, spinning a story about “recharging.” It would be hard, but possible. I'd rebuild. Forget. Move on. The thought was a fragile light in the dark — something to cling to, even if doubt whispered it might not be that simple.
Could be waking up in my own bed tomorrow. Could be free tomorrow. Could be gone tomorrow. But I’m not. And every tomorrow after that feels like it belongs to him now, not me.
What was I expecting for the next two months? Clueless. I could only guess — more of this. More chores. More points. More layers, more accessories, more humiliation. Would he break me completely? Would I forget how to speak without permission? Would I start believing I deserved this? The uncertainty was worse than the pain — a blank void ahead, filled only with his whims. Two months felt like forever. And yet, somehow, not long enough to erase who I used to be… or maybe too long.
Resentment burned low and steady. He did this to me. He saw my weakness and fed it, turned it into chains. Every smile he gave, every “good girl,” felt like mockery. He slept peacefully while I knelt in discomfort. He dreamed sweet dreams while I fought to keep my body “lady-like.” I hated him. I hated how calm he was, how in control, how happy he seemed to own me. The bitterness coiled tighter — I wanted to scream it, to spit it, to make him feel even a fraction of this suffocation. But I stayed silent. Kneeling. Waiting.
A silent tantrum raged inside me. This slavery — this wasn’t me. I wasn’t supposed to be on my knees, collared, layered, gagged, bound. I wasn’t supposed to be “property.” I wanted to kick the bed, yank the chain, tear the uniform off and run. I wanted to shout that this was wrong, that I was a person, not a thing. But all I could do was clench my fists against my thighs, breathe through my nose, keep my posture perfect. The tantrum stayed inside — silent, furious, powerless. Every second kneeling felt like surrender. Every second waiting felt like defeat.
Eventually, fatigue won. I dozed back to sleep, body still rigid, mind still racing in fragments.
I woke naturally at dawn, the discomfort dragging me from sleep again. The first light filtered through the window, soft and golden, a cruel reminder of the world outside. I sat up slowly, registering the unnatural feeling — the weight of the double uniform, the chain clinking, the canvas shoes still on. This was real. Two months of this. The realization hit like a wave — no dream, no escape. Somehow, instinctively, I sat up and kneeled on the spot. Surprised at the instinct — was I already breaking? Relieved I woke earlier than Master, I could prepare without rush.
Carefully, consciously trying to act ladylike — not because I was this way, but to prevent punishment if he woke and saw any sloppiness — I folded the mat away. The chain was a constant nuisance — the loose end hung from my neck, swinging and tangling with every movement, catching on my arms, dragging across the mat, clinking softly against the floor. It wasn’t taut or pulling — it was loose, heavy, a stumbling block that got in the way of every fold and reach. When I leaned forward, the dangling links brushed my thighs, tangled briefly in the pinafore skirt, forced me to pause and untangle. When I tried to lift the mat, the chain swung forward, hitting my chest, making me flinch. Folding it was awkward — I had to keep one hand free to push the loose chain aside, the other smoothing the corners, all while maintaining posture. The chain’s weight felt heavier in the morning light, a physical reminder that even folding a mat was no longer simple. I finished, placed the mat neatly aside.
Then I remembered the rule — heels before kneeling by Master’s bed. Not because I was obedient. Not because I wanted to. But because I had to protect myself from punishment. If he woke and saw me in canvas shoes, kneeling, it would be a violation — “not properly presented,” “disrespect,” more points. I couldn’t risk it. So I slipped off the canvas shoes, the brief flat relief vanishing, and forced my still-sore feet back into the black 4-inch formal stilettos. The arches screamed again, toes crushed forward, calves tightening instantly. I winced, but the fear of punishment was stronger than the pain. I kneeled again beside the bed — heels on, chain pooling loosely on the floor, posture perfect — waiting.
I waited for what felt like hours. Master still slept, breathing slow and even. Kneeling there, hands on thighs, back straight, eyes down, the silence gave my mind too much room.
Today could have been my day of freedom. If I hadn’t signed those extensions — if I’d just held out, just said no one more time — I could be waking up in my own bed right now. Coffee in my kitchen, phone buzzing with work messages, planning my day like a normal person. Instead, I was here — collared, layered, waiting on my knees like a pet. The thought twisted in my gut. One day. One refusal. And I’d thrown it all away.
Could be waking up in my own bed tomorrow. Could be free tomorrow. Could be gone tomorrow. But I’m not. And every tomorrow after that feels like it belongs to him now, not me.
What was I expecting for the next two months? Clueless. I could only guess — more of this. More chores. More points. More layers, more accessories, more humiliation. Would he break me completely? Would I forget how to speak without permission? Would I start believing I deserved this? The uncertainty was worse than the pain — a blank void ahead, filled only with his whims. Two months felt like forever. And yet, somehow, not long enough to erase who I used to be… or maybe too long.
Resentment burned low and steady. He did this to me. He saw my weakness and fed it, turned it into chains. Every smile he gave, every “good girl,” felt like mockery. He slept peacefully while I knelt in discomfort. He dreamed sweet dreams while I fought to keep my body “lady-like.” I hated him. I hated how calm he was, how in control, how happy he seemed to own me. The bitterness coiled tighter — I wanted to scream it, to spit it, to make him feel even a fraction of this suffocation. But I stayed silent. Kneeling. Waiting.
A silent tantrum raged inside me. This slavery — this wasn’t me. I wasn’t supposed to be on my knees, collared, layered, gagged, bound. I wasn’t supposed to be “property.” I wanted to kick the bed, yank the chain, tear the uniform off and run. I wanted to shout that this was wrong, that I was a person, not a thing. But all I could do was clench my fists against my thighs, breathe through my nose, keep my posture perfect. The tantrum stayed inside — silent, furious, powerless. Every second kneeling felt like surrender. Every second waiting felt like defeat.
Finally, Master stirred, waking with a smile, as if he’d had the sweetest dreams. He stretched lazily, looked over at me kneeling beside the bed, and his smile widened — warm, satisfied, almost affectionate in a twisted way. “Good morning, property,” he said softly, voice still thick with sleep but already carrying that calm authority. “I slept so well knowing you were right here, waiting for me. You look perfect like this — quiet, obedient, ready.”
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet brushing the floor near my knees. He reached out and ran a finger along the chain at my collar, giving it a gentle tug — not painful, just a reminder. “You’ve been good this morning,” he continued, eyes scanning my posture, my heels, my bowed head. “No slouching, no fidgeting, no bulge. I’m proud of you. You’re learning.”
His words landed like a mix of praise and threat. Proud. Learning. Every compliment felt like another lock clicking shut. He leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Today is going to be special. You’re going to serve me all day, and when I go out, you’ll stay safe in your new space. No more wild thoughts. Just obedience. That’s what good property does.”
He stood, stretched again, then looked down at me expectantly. I knew what was expected. I bowed lower, hands on thighs, voice high and soft despite the dryness and hoarseness of morning: “Good morning, Master.”
He smiled wider, reached down and patted my head once — gentle, possessive. “Good morning, property. I’m very happy to own you now.”
Then he paused, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement. “Today… say it in Chinese. Just this once. Let’s see how it feels.”
His tone was light, almost playful — but the intent behind it was deliberate, calculated. This was a one-time test — a slow, intentional push to make me taste degradation in a new way. To let me feel the weight of Chinese words in my mouth, the historical echo of submission, without any promise of repetition. He wanted me to experience it now. To let the shame sink in gradually. To watch me struggle with it.
He leaned down closer, voice low and deliberate. “Say it properly. 像清朝的下人一樣 — like a servant in the Qing dynasty. Welcome your Master.”
The command landed softly, but it carried the same crushing force. Qing dynasty. 下人. He was invoking centuries of hierarchy — faceless servants, bowing maids, people born without agency — just to watch me squirm. It wasn’t a habit. It was a game. A slow, intentional degradation. He wanted to see how far he could push in this single moment.
My throat closed. The high, soft pitch I’d practiced felt impossible now — not because of hoarseness, but because saying it in Chinese made it real in a way English never could. It wasn’t just words; it was surrender in another language, surrender to a history he chose for me. I hesitated. My lips parted, but nothing came out. The silence stretched — long, heavy, dangerous. He didn’t speak. He just watched, patient, unblinking, letting the pressure build. I knew what came next if I refused: more points, more punishment, more proof I was still “wild.” The thought of another night in the storeroom, another round of bridle and blindfold, made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t risk it. Not today.
My voice cracked when it finally came — small, trembling, barely audible: “早上… 好… 主人。”
He tilted his head slightly, unsatisfied. “Louder. And properly. Like you mean it.”
I swallowed hard. The shame burned hotter with every second. I bowed lower — deeper than before — forehead almost touching the floor, hands gripping my thighs so tightly the nails dug in. The words felt like poison sliding up my throat. I forced them out again, louder this time, voice shaking but clearer: “早上好，主人。”
He nodded once, but he wasn’t finished. “And the end.” His voice was calm, almost gentle — the cruelty hidden in the softness. “Welcome your Master. In Chinese.”
I froze again. 歡迎下人。 Welcome, lowly servant. Saying it meant I was tasting the label. Accepting it — even if just for “this once.” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. Tears pricked behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
The silence stretched again — longer this time. He waited. Patient. Certain. I knew I would break. I always did.
Finally, voice barely above a whisper, cracked and raw: “歡迎… 下人。”
He smiled — slow, satisfied, victorious. “Good girl.” He reached down again, patted my head once more — longer this time, fingers lingering in my hair like he was petting something he owned. “Just this once… but you did it so well.”
The pat felt like a brand. The words — 早上好，主人… 歡迎下人 — echoed in my skull, self-inflicted, inescapable. I had just called myself 下人. In Chinese. In front of him. The Qing dynasty reference wasn’t casual — it was deliberate. He wanted me to feel the weight of centuries: the faceless maids, the bowing servants, the women and eunuchs who existed only to serve without name or will. I wasn’t just his property anymore. I was tasting what it felt like to be a living echo of that era — reduced, erased, reborn in submission. The degradation sank deeper than any chain. And he had done it intentionally — slow, gradual, “just this once” — to make the humiliation linger long after the moment passed.
His happiness was my discomfort — a flood of negative feelings crashed over me. Owned. Property. 下人. The word stung, amplifying the chain’s weight, the uniform’s cling. His good mood clashed with my turmoil — he looked refreshed, content, while I knelt there, aching, desperate. I wanted to beg right then, but his smile made me hesitate; it felt wrong to shatter it, and fear of ruining the rare "kindness" kept my mouth shut.
On the bed, he reminded me that now I was a full-time slave, I must observe a daily routine of chores and duties. No more stint. A flood of negative thoughts came — this was my life now? Endless service? My mind, still foggy from morning, couldn’t react aggressively. I simply listened submissively, nodding, the words washing over me like numb waves. This was another opportunity — interrupt, plead — but the fog and his calm authority silenced me; I nodded instead, the plan slipping away in the moment.
He shared he was going out for a few hours to meet friends. Since I was still “wild,” he’d lock me up with proper gag and punishment accessories to ensure no stupid actions. He assured that once I was well brainwashed into slavery, I’d be left alone to do chores when he went out. But now, I wasn’t ready.
The words landed like a slap — “wild,” “brainwashed,” “left alone” only after I’m broken. My stomach twisted. A rush of reactive feelings crashed through me: humiliation at being called wild, like an animal that needed caging; fear at the casual promise of future freedom only after “brainwashing”; anger at how he spoke of it so matter-of-factly, as if it was inevitable, as if my mind was something he could reprogram; helplessness because he was right — right now, I wasn’t ready, I was still fighting inside, still planning escape in my head, still clinging to the person I used to be. But the thought ignited something fiercer: I never and will never plan to be ready! The idea of “brainwashed into slavery” made bile rise in my throat. I would never accept this. Never surrender. Never become the obedient thing he wanted. Even if it took every ounce of will, even if it cost more points, more pain, more time — I would keep fighting. I would keep the real me alive, buried deep, waiting for one crack, one mistake, one chance. I wasn’t ready now, and I would never be ready. That refusal burned hot inside me, a silent vow in the face of his calm certainty.
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