Day 4 Night
The television snapped to black.
The room dropped into silence so thick I could hear my own pulse.
Master rose.
Sniffed the air once, sharp, like a dog catching rot.
“Christ, you stink.”
I flinched. The chain at my collar clinked.
He stepped close, bent, and peeled the outermost panty down my thighs—the one that had been pressed against the blouse all day, stiff with dried sweat, crotch yellow-crusted, edges curled.
He held it between thumb and forefinger, arm extended like it was toxic.
“My human washing machine, is it?”
Then the inner one—the one that had lived against my skin for four days straight, warm, damp, tasting of salt and musk and faint urine—he tugged it halfway out of my mouth.
Shoved it under my nose.
“Fermented. Perfect.”
I gagged.
He pushed it back in, deeper.
“Hold it. No tape. Your jaw learns.”
I was already in three layers:
blouse soaked through, dark at the armpits,
bra—white cotton from Day One—now yellowed, salt-crusted, straps cutting into shoulders, cups rubbing raw nipples that still leaked faint milk,
three panties: two tight white bikinis over the soiled one, crotch heavy, no air, perfumed but sour underneath.
He straightened, looked down.
“You want only one layer?”
Instinct.
Desperation.
I nodded—quick, eyes wide.
Yes.
His smile was thin. Cold.
“Fine. Wash them. All chore gear on. And I’ll give you two pins—so nothing rides out. Ever.”
Two metal pins.
Silver. Sharp.
He took the waistband of the inner panty, folded it once, pinned it to the bra band—left hip, right hip.
Click.
Cold steel against skin.
Suddenly the uniform locked.
No slip. No fall.
Pinned forever.
Every breath, every move, the pins tugged.
A quiet, constant reminder: this isn’t clothing.
It’s a cage.
“Kneel. Tap water. Now.”
I knelt.
Tile bit through socks.
Chain tugged neck.
Raincoat zipped.
Mask sealed over mouth.
Headdress pinned tight—frills scratching cheeks, pins pricking scalp.
Maid gloves on.
Rubber gloves over.
Every squeak, every crinkle, every tug—pinned in place.
Pail.
Tap.
Water sloshed.
I scrubbed the blouse first—dark patches, yellow rings under arms.
First time washing like this.
Clumsy.
How hard? How much soap?
Rubber gloves slipped.
Fabric slid.
Water splashed the raincoat, ran down collar, soaked bra band tighter.
The bra cups shifted—squeezed nipples—milk leaked again, warm, sour, mixing with sweat.
Every thirty minutes:
“Drink.”
I hooked a gloved finger under the mask—elastic snapped skin—lifted just enough.
Straw slipped between panty and cheek.
Water hit cotton.
It swelled.
Pressed tongue.
I squeezed cheeks, jaw—forced the liquid through.
Juice gathered:
spit,
musk,
urine trace,
sweat,
now milk from the bra, because the scrubbing motion pressed the cups again.
It wasn’t water.
It was syrup.
Thick.
Warm.
Slid down—coated the back of my tongue, stuck to the throat, burned slow.
I swallowed once—felt it crawl.
Twice—thicker.
Mask snapped back.
Fog worse.
Hair-dryer next.
Standing in four-inch heels.
Arms high.
Dryer whined.
Hot air blasted blouse and pinafore.
Calf cramps.
Soles burned.
Bra straps slid, cups squeezed—more milk leaked, pooled in the bra, evaporated, condensed back on skin.
“Drink.”
Lift mask.
Squeeze.
Swallow.
Starch.
Iron.
Burned the hem once—panic—smoothed it.
“Drink.”
Squeeze.
Swallow.
Forty cycles.
Forty swallows.
The panty in my mouth—started sour, sharp—now just wet cotton, faint salt, almost neutral.
Not clean.
Never clean.
Just… tolerable.
Finally, perfume.
Lavender sprayed over filth.
I knelt.
Jaw numb.
Pins cold.
He looked down.
“Out.”
I pulled it—slow, strings of spit and juice clinging.
Taste stayed.
Smell clung.
I reached for the two clean panties.
He stopped my hand.
“No.
Wash is done.
Now you wear them all again.
Inner one’s clean—so the others get fresh.
Cycle starts over.”
I stared.
“Human washing machine still works,” he said.
“Better than a real one.”
And then—
“Time for mummification.
First full night.
Lights out.
Tomorrow, we run again.”
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