Month 1, Day 4 (morning lock-up to release)**
This was no dungeon; it was a normal house.
Yet the methods he used were simple yet brutally effective on me.
He led me to the small storeroom corner — a cramped, windowless space barely wider than my outstretched arms, shelves of old boxes and cleaning supplies looming overhead.
The air was thick, stale, smelling faintly of dust, detergent, and the lingering sourness of my own sweat-soaked uniform.
But the sour was faint — mostly masked by the feminine perfume of the outer uniform, the light floral scent clinging stubbornly to the pinafore's crisp navy fabric, a cruel contrast that made the filth underneath feel even more intimate and inescapable.
He secured my neck chain directly to the wall plug 1m above the ground — the chain was exactly 1 m long, clipped with a small padlock.
The short length gave me a tiny 1m radius — enough to shuffle in a small circle, kneel, sit, or curl up if I lay down, but nothing more.
No reaching shelves.
No pacing.
No escape.
The chain itself was a little in the way — its loose end brushed my arms or bumped my chest during any shift, a constant small annoyance rather than a major obstacle.
Then the full punishment accessories — the ones he called “proper”:
- The goggles — simple black swimming goggles, lenses painted over with thick black paint, turning them into a perfect blindfold.
He pressed them over my eyes, the rubber seal tight against my skin, plunging me into absolute darkness.
No light leaks, no shapes, just black void.
- The earplugs — common 3M foam earplugs, rolled small and shoved deep into each ear canal.
The world muffled instantly to a dull roar — my own heartbeat, my own breathing, the faint rustle of my uniform when I shifted.
Everything else vanished.
- The tongue bridle — a pair of simple Chinese wooden chopsticks and a few rubber bands.
He ordered my tongue out.
I complied, trembling.
He placed the two chopsticks as close as possible to the opening of my mouth, clamping my tongue firmly between them.
Rubber bands went on both ends, tightened until the chopsticks were secure.
Anatomically, it forced my mouth closed — impossible to open, impossible to scream, impossible to speak.
The wood pressed against my tongue, the rubber bands digging into the corners of my lips.
Saliva pooled immediately, unable to escape properly, dripping slowly down my chin.
He stepped back.
“Now — panties off.”
The command was quiet, casual.
I hesitated — not out of defiance, but pure shock.
Remove them?
Here?
Now?
While kneeling?
With the goggles painted black, earplugs muffling everything, tongue clamped in the bridle, mouth sealed shut, hands still free but soon to be bound?
The absurdity hit me — I couldn’t even speak to protest, couldn’t see my own body, could barely hear my own breathing.
But the chain was already secured to the wall plug — the short 1m length limiting every movement, the loose end brushing my arms or bumping my chest during any shift.
I reached down slowly, fingers fumbling in darkness, guided only by feel.
The double skirts were messy — bunched, twisted, clinging in uneven patches from sweat and movement.
I had to lift the outer pinafore skirt first — the fabric resisted, damp and clinging to my thighs in sticky folds, the chain’s short end brushing my arms again.
Then the inner skirt — more struggle, knees high in heels, thighs clamped tight to maintain the tuck, balance precarious.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the single panty — plain white bikini style, soaked through with sweat and more, the fabric heavy, slimy, tacky against my fingertips.
Pulling it down was agony.
I had to rock my hips side to side, inch by inch, the wet cotton dragging against my skin, sticking, resisting every movement.
The material peeled away slowly — sticky, clinging, the texture nauseating as it slid past my thighs.
The kneeling position already kept my legs bent and thighs pressed together — spreading wide enough was impossible anyway, but the heels made balance worse, ankles locked, calves straining, forcing me to shift weight carefully to avoid toppling forward or sideways.
I had to keep thighs clamped tight, shimmy awkwardly, the chain’s short end brushing my arms or bumping my chest again, a constant small irritation.
The sensory deprivation amplified everything — no sight to guide me, no clear hearing to judge distance or sound, only the wet rustle of fabric, the muffled thud of my pulse, the sticky drag against my skin.
The panty reached my knees — then it caught on the heels.
Still kneeling, I couldn’t just slide it off easily.
The high stilettos with their narrow straps and pointed heels created a barrier — the panty leg holes snagged on the heel tips, the fabric bunching and twisting around the ankle straps.
I had to lift one knee slightly — balancing on the other stiletto, thigh muscles burning to keep clamped — and wiggle that leg carefully to free the panty from the heel.
The fabric stretched, tugged painfully at the skin, threatened to tear, but finally slipped free with a wet snap.
Sweat dripped down my back, adding to the mess.
Then the other leg — same struggle, same precarious balance, same painful tug on sore arches as the panty caught again on the heel tip.
I rocked the foot side to side, small frantic movements, feeling the fabric stretch and pull until it finally slipped past.
The panty finally dropped to the floor in a damp, crumpled heap with a soft, wet slap.
The moment the inner crotch was exposed to air, the smell hit — extremely strong, pungent, overwhelming even through the earplugs.
It had been unwashed for 4 days.
The fabric had absorbed everything — layers of sweat, the buildup of days without washing, no air, no relief.
The scent was thick, ripe, almost solid — a heavy, musky sourness mixed with the sharp tang of old urine traces, the cloying sweetness of trapped body oils, the faint metallic edge of skin bacteria blooming in the damp warmth, and a mild, salty undercurrent of seminal fluid from accidental leaks.
It wasn’t just strong; it was intimate, unmistakable, the concentrated smell of my own neglected body, intensified by days of constant wear.
Immediately, the moment the panty was gone, my penis — no longer held in place — sprinted outward, pushing against the inner skirt, creating an obvious bulge.
Master saw it instantly.
His voice sharpened.
“Displeased.”
He listed the violations — “failure to maintain flatness,” “exhibiting male traits,” “upkeep breach” — and awarded many, many punishment points.
The tally climbed in his calm voice, each point a fresh stab.
“Pull it back in place,” he ordered.
“Now.”
I tried to respond — to say “yes, Master,” to acknowledge, to buy a second of mercy — but the bridle turned it into a weird, muffled grunt, tongue clamped tight, mouth sealed, saliva bubbling around the chopsticks.
The sound was pathetic, animal-like, humiliating.
No words, no plea, just a wet, garbled noise that made my cheeks burn hotter.
I fumbled blindly, thighs clamped tight, hands shaking as I reached down, tugged, repositioned, forced everything flat again.
Kneeling made it a nightmare — my knees ground into the cold concrete, already sore from the earlier wait by the bed, balance precarious without sight or sound to guide me.
The 1m chain radius limited my lean, the short end brushing my arms or bumping my chest during any shift, a constant small irritation.
Sensory deprivation amplified every struggle: the goggles blacked out the world, leaving me to grope by feel alone; the earplugs muffled my own grunts into distant echoes; the bridle clamped my tongue, saliva dripping unchecked, adding slickness to my already sweaty thighs.
I had to keep legs closed — no spreading for ease, or the tuck would slip further — so I worked in the narrow space between clamped thighs, fingers slipping on sweat-slick skin.
The pulling itself was pain — sharp, intimate, radiating from the sensitive area.
Each tug sent jolts up my groin, the skin raw from days of constant compression, muscles protesting as I forced the penis back, repositioned the balls, flattened everything under the skirt's pressure.
It burned, a deep, aching sting that made my eyes water behind the goggles, my breaths coming in short, wet gasps through my nose.
Every adjustment hurt more than the last, the pain a humiliating reminder of my reduced state — not just physical, but the shame of doing this blind, gagged, chained, like an animal fixing itself under orders.
The panty lay discarded on the floor, a damp, forgotten heap — no longer there to hold anything in place.
Without it, I had to rely on constant thigh pressure — legs always closed, muscles clenched tight — to prevent dislodging.
Every movement risked it slipping again.
The humiliation was complete — exposed, corrected, punished, reduced to manual control over my own body.
The moment my fingers touched the exposed penis — hot, slick with sweat and a thin film of pre-cum from the sudden arousal of exposure — revulsion surged again, sharper and more visceral than before.
The skin was warm, slippery, slightly sticky under my fingertips.
It pulsed slightly against my touch — alive, disobedient, betraying me in the worst way.
The feel was intimate in the most degrading sense — warm, slippery, slightly sticky, the mild seminal fluid from earlier leaks now mixed with fresh sweat, coating my fingers in a thin, greasy layer.
I recoiled inside, stomach heaving, but I had to keep going — tug, flatten, press it back against my body, force it down under the skirt's pressure.
Every contact sent a jolt of shame through me — this was my own body, yet it felt alien, gross, uncontrollable.
My fingers came away coated, the slime clinging, refusing to let go.
Instinct took over — this was the second time I did it — my hand, now dirtied from touching the slimy penis (and earlier panty), moved to wipe on the outer pinafore skirt, a quick, desperate motion before I could think.
The fabric absorbed some, but left another visible dark smear on the crisp navy.
Master saw it immediately.
His voice turned colder, fuming mad — the calm shattered for the first time.
“You dirtied it again.
A new set — the outer one was clean this morning.
Second instinctive mistake in minutes.
Repeated violation.
Disrespect to property.
+800 points.
Multiplied for repetition.”
The points multiplied — the tally soaring to terrifying heights, punishment looming like a guillotine.
I froze, hand still hovering, slime still coating my fingers, the panty still on the floor, the penis still threatening to slip.
I had made it worse — again.
The humiliation layered deeper: my body’s mess, my repeated instinctual reaction, now costing me more than ever.
Master’s disappointment — or rather, his rage at my repeated failure to stay clean, to stay controlled — felt heavier than any chain.
He stepped forward again.
The bridle loosened — chopsticks pulled away, rubber bands snapped off, tongue finally free, jaw aching from the brief but intense clamping.
My mouth was dry, lips cracked, tongue numb from the short time it had been held.
I gasped, tasting fresh air mixed with the lingering rubber and my own stale saliva.
“Pick up the panty,” he ordered.
“Fold the inside outwards.
Stuff it into your mouth.
Now.”
My worst nightmare realized.
The flood of thoughts crashed over me like a tidal wave:
No.
No no no.
Not this.
Not the thing soaked in 4 days of my own filth, the smell still thick in the air, the slimy texture still on my fingers from earlier.
I’d rather die than taste it.
I’d rather choke on my own tongue than have that in my mouth.
The thought alone made bile rise — salt, musk, decay, urine, body oils, seminal traces — all of it concentrated, warm, alive with bacteria.
I’d never be clean again.
I’d never forget the taste.
I’d carry it in my mouth, in my mind, forever.
This was the final degradation — not just wearing the filth, but consuming it, swallowing my own shame, literally.
My stomach heaved; panic clawed at my throat.
I wanted to speak out, to beg, to refuse — “Please, no, Master, anything but this” — the words forming on my tongue for the first time since the bridle came off.
But before I could utter a single syllable, his voice cut like a blade.
“Speak without permission — +100 points.”
He paused, letting the number sink in.
“Continue.
Or it doubles.”
The threat stopped me cold.
More points.
More punishment.
More suffering.
I had no choice.
Forced to action.
Still blind, I had to feel around — hands groping in darkness, fingers brushing concrete, chain links, until they found the damp heap on the floor.
The moment my fingers dropped the gross panty on the floor — after folding it inside outwards — revulsion surged.
The fabric was beyond damp; it was slimy, tacky, coated in a thick layer of 4-day-old sweat mixed with traces of body oils and the mild seminal fluid from accidental leaks.
It clung to my fingers like glue, strings stretching between my fingers and the panty as I pulled away.
The feel was intimate in the worst way — slippery, sticky, foreign yet unmistakably mine.
Disgust rolled through me in waves; I wanted to recoil, to wipe my hand clean anywhere but here.
Instinct took over — I tried to wipe the slime off on the outer pinafore skirt, a quick, desperate motion before I could think.
The fabric absorbed some, but left a visible dark smear on the crisp navy pinafore.
Master saw it immediately.
His voice turned colder, fuming mad — the calm shattered for the first time.
“You dirtied it again.
A new set — the outer one was clean this morning.
Repeated mistake.
Over such short time.
Disrespect to property.
+800 points.
Multiplied for repetition.”
The points multiplied — the tally soaring to terrifying heights, punishment looming like a guillotine.
I froze, hand still hovering, slime still coating my fingers, the panty still in my mouth, taste flooding every sense.
I had made it worse — again.
The humiliation layered deeper: my body’s mess, my instinctual reaction, now costing me more than ever.
Master’s disappointment — or rather, his rage at my repeated failure to stay clean, to stay controlled — felt heavier than any chain.
He stepped forward again.
With the panty still stuffed in my mouth — thick, sodden, filling every corner — he reapplied the chopstick bridle.
He pressed the two chopsticks back into place, clamping the already-full mouth even tighter, the wood squeezing the wet wad against my tongue and cheeks.
Rubber bands tightened on both ends, securing it firmly.
The bridle now prevented me from spitting it out — the chopsticks locked the panty in place, forcing my mouth to stay closed around the filthy mass.
Saliva had nowhere to go but to mix with the mess, turning it into a pulpy, slippery sludge that coated my tongue, seeped into every crevice.
The taste intensified tenfold — trapped, concentrated, inescapable.
Every swallow pushed more of it down my throat, the smell travelling up my nostrils from within — rising from the back of my mouth, trapped in my sinuses, inescapable, concentrated, my own body turned against me in the most intimate violation.
The bridle made it impossible to dislodge — the panty was stuck, squeezed, a constant, suffocating presence.
I gagged again — muffled, helpless — the sound pathetic through the wood and fabric.
The reapplication sealed my worst nightmare: not just tasting it once, but keeping it in, locked, for as long as he decided.
He stepped back, looking at my bound hands with a small, satisfied nod.
“Not ready for hands in front yet,” he said calmly.
“Too much freedom for you.
You’d still try something stupid.
Behind is safer — for both of us.”
Before he left, he paused, voice casual again.
“Oh — and just so you know… your points for this little session alone.”
He paused, as if tallying in my head — the ledger always an estimate, always higher for punishment earned, lower for anything paid.
“Bulge: 200.
Failure to tuck: 300.
Dirtied the new uniform (three times): 800 × 3 = 2,400.
Speaking attempt: 100.
Repeated mistake: another 800.
Failure to request permission to remove clothing: 400.
Improper posture during undressing: 300.
Allowing bodily fluid to drip on the floor: 500.
Failure to thank Master for correction: 200.
Hesitation and slow compliance: 600.
Allowing the chain to touch the floor untidily: 200.
Exposing the genital area to air without immediate covering: 400.
Failure to maintain eye contact during correction: 300.
General disruption of Master's peace: 1,000.”
He smiled.
“Let’s call it… 12,000 points.
Nice round number.”
I gulp — hard.
The panty in my mouth shifted with the motion, releasing a fresh wave of taste.
12,000 points.
A huge amount.
The number echoed in my head — impossible to pay off, impossible to survive.
He smiled, satisfied.
“See you in a few hours, property.”
Then the door shut.
A soft click of the lock.
Silence swallowed me.
The first minutes were panic — heart hammering, breaths short and wet through my nose, trying to swallow around the sodden wad, saliva mixing with the filth.
The chain tugged every time I shifted, the wall plug unyielding, forcing me to stay low.
I tried to kneel upright — impossible with hands bound behind.
I tried to sit — the chain pulled my neck down.
I tried to lie on my side — the bound hands dug into my back, the uniform bunched painfully under me.
Every position hurt.
The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating.
The panty in my mouth throbbed with every swallow — taste intensifying, smell trapped inside my head.
The painted goggles grew warm against my eyelids, sweat beading underneath.
The earplugs made my own breathing loud, wet, obscene — a constant reminder I was gagged, silenced, reduced to animal sounds.
Time dissolved.
Minutes?
Hours?
I couldn’t tell.
My knees ached against the cold concrete.
My shoulders burned from the bound position.
My jaw and tongue throbbed from the pressure.
The uniform clung, heavy, itchy, the layers trapping heat and moisture until I felt like I was stewing in my own filth.
Thoughts circled endlessly — escape fantasies, regret, bitterness, fear of more points, fear of never leaving.
But mostly, just waiting.
Waiting for sound.
Waiting for light.
Waiting for release.
In the isolation, I rehearsed my plea a hundred times — but the panty turned it all to muffled, wet gurgles, a cruel practice in futility.
No comments:
Post a Comment