Another morning that the two dressers barge in. Large muscular chaps doing their work, one cell at a time. They are casually dressed, t-shirt and jeans, and stone-faced professional. As they approach, they don’t interact or even look at the prisoner. They just loudly barge in and prepare another slave for their day of hell. Of course, they didn’t wake him; he never really slept that deeply.. Not locked to the posture rack overnight every night.
He finds himself in a brief reflection at how futile his life has become as he watches the dressers approach. For three months since his abduction, the slave has been a victim of this twisted industry. A system that takes men, and trains them for Masters and Mistresses around the world, feminising them, training them, and either selling them off, or remaining on this facility to provide paid-for experiences for the rich and cruel. This operation was the best at it’s game - a niche in the market - and fetishistas pay good money to enjoy it.
He felt embarrassed at the situation. Of course, when he signed a contract in a joking bet with his friends, he never thought for one minute the contract would be forcibly honoured. The paperwork appeared suddenly one day, and it seemed so absurd, he assumed it a well-written practical joke. Now it seems obvious that it would have been a strange joke. The lines he laughed at are etched in his mind. You consent to forced sex, you give up your rights, your family will receive disguised stock dividends in the region of X amount of zeros. It seemed too ridiculous to be true, but he signed it, and posted it back.
An element of him is relieved to be retrieved. The sleeping arrangement, like a few of the other slaves here, consists of being locked to a pole and held in strict posture bondage. His feet, locked into ballet boots, are cuffed to the pole. They take most of his weight. The pole has an emerging bar with a metal dildo upon which he is perched. The dildo isn’t too large, but it's uncomfortable all the same since some of his weight is reliant on it. His manhood is hidden inside a chastity cage, scarcely removed. As the pole begins to bend there is a metal belt that locks around the waist. It’s never revealed how tight it is to the slave. The belts are forged at multiple sizes, and it’s usually the smallest feasible one that fits that a slave has to endure. This belt painfully cinches him, gripping aggressively above the hips and beneath the ribs. He was a reasonably tall, slender man, so had the privilege of experiencing the tightest metalware. As the angle of the pole continues to curve backward, his arms are cuffed above the elbow and at the wrists, meeting behind the pole. Over time the slave grown used to having to flex this way, pulling my shoulders back and heaving his chest up. At the apex of the pole, a tall metal collar keeps his head fixed, looking upwards, but not so much that he can't patiently survey the door. The collar was a mainstay, something he wears 24/7, and it’s locked to the top of the pole with a pin.
The process of becoming a slave in this institution included having body hair lasered off, hormone supplements to curtail his manly features, and having his hair grow out, to a shoulder-length brown ponytail - albeit matted and stained with previous days’ training.
As his arms are unlocked, the dressers receive no protest or thanks. They operate robotically, and slaves are never listened to. Besides, the medium-sized dildo gag the slave has to wear muffles any attempts he once used to make. It’s not too intrusive, only absorbing a gag at certain unlikely angles, but it was a reminder of the male’s emasculation. The gag is eventually removed, however, and he loosens his jaw and tongue in relief. As the slave is lifted abruptly off from the dildo and lowered out of the frame onto a stool, he rolls his neck and shoulders and takes the limited opportunity to rub his sore, tender waist, marked and red from the metal. As he stretches and flexes, the dressers retrieve a wheeled box of clothing. Each day the slave has an ardous day of niche training - sometimes sexual, sometimes physical, sometimes a test of endurance and patience.
The dresser above the box pulls out a sheet of shiny black latex, edged with white frills. The material emits a viscous sticky sound as it unravels. The slave was unsurprised to see his maid costume reappear, but his heart sank nonetheless. It had been a week since this training was inflicted, where he had to tolerate a day of humiliation, obedience, posture and the sordid rest that he buried at the back of his mind. As he looked at the gleaming piece he glanced expectedly at the box, and sure enough the corset, nylon textured and rigid, emerged too.
The slave was launched to his feet by the other dresser, who pulled him up by the D-ring on the collar. The slave teetered and adjusted on the en pointe heels, and submitted as the maid overall is pulled over his head and rolled down his body, sticking tightly to his skin. The bottom of the dress flared out, bouncing with his movement. The skirt section covered him to just above the knees, and was complete with multiple layers of latex, with white frills and an apron to complete the look. His whole torso was covered by the costume, with a frilly neck meeting the bottom of his collar. The dresser donned upon his head the maid cap, a black piece of latex with more white frills. The slave would be humiliated, but this is something he’s worn before, and he’s been trained long enough for dignity to be left by the wayside. He was a play-thing, and until this point, it all seemed rather cute and playful.
The corset is an aspect that all slaves have to contend with. It’s a significant part of their training, and a key selling point to the punters. These slaves are all tightlaced and waist-trained, bringing their waists down to agonisingly small sizes. For this slave, it was a particular burden. His role meant that his waist had to be freakishly small, and the tight metal belt on the posture stand contributed to that end. His slender form meant that his waist was cinched down from a regular 28 inches, to 20. The curvature his torso was about to experience was extreme, and the abdominal pressure has been something gradually managed by the dressers at the behest of a director who’s taken a keen eye to this piece of meat.
As the corset is slipped down the slave, and the laces made taught, and then tighter, the slave focuses his breathing. He had grown to accept the corset as part of his routine, and while the shrinking of his waist had been unhealthily aggressive over the three month tenure, he knew he had to grin and bear it. The dressers had to force the matter, hooking the taut laces, bringing the the two ends of the boned material together. As it did, his ribs were folded in - something they had eventually become accustomed to, and his pinching waistline produced a dramatic hip-shelf. His breathing became light and brief, relying more on his shoulders lifting to inhale more. He no longer goes light-headed, but the tightlacing ordeal was always a shock to his body after the sleeping arrangement. It took a couple of hours to get used to the constriction, and a couple of hours later, his ribs would begin to ache and his guts churn as they navigate the wasp waist. Just as the slave thought the process was complete, another tug and a tightening slip of the lace would cause him to wince. At last, the corset was complete. It was almost completely closed, and crushed him like a vice as he stood, supported by the dressers in his heels, creaking within his latex costume.
He gathered his breath and composed himself to strut out of the room when one of the dresses pulled a metal belt lined with an inner layer of felt, accessorised with a ring on one side, and some kind of screw contraption on the other from the box. The belt was folded around his waist, and to his horror, the screw met the thread and was tightened by a ratchet to meet the circumference of his 20-inch waist. The dresser turned the ratchet again, and the belt forced the waist ever so slightly smaller. A third turn forces a groan of discomfort from the slave, and the dressers know to stop.
Gathering the new situation, the slave wears an expression of quiet pain. He notices the dresser already rooting around the bottom of the box, and pulls out a more familiar tool. An anal hook, with a chain. This had been a tool used in various exercises and games before, mostly chaining him to a pulley on the ceiling. He felt the cool air hit his buttocks as the skirt was lifted, and wasn’t perturbed by the procedural lubing and slip of the finger into his anus.
He had been sat upon the posture frame’s dildo for long enough for this to cause him no discomfort. Quickly afterward, the round end of the hook was slipped in and wiggled upward into position. The slave felt the member intrude deeper than the dildo did, and that feeling of presence in his ass was a necessary step most mornings. The chain was fed through a special hole in the skirt, then the ring of the waist belt and lifted up to his collar. The padlock at the end of the chain didn’t meet the D-ring of the collar with the slave standing normally. Despite back erected by the corset, it took the dress forcing the slave’s back to bend more to hook the padlock and finally fasten it. This was a shock. The maid - as he was dressed - hadn’t felt this level of rigid posture control before, and as his back strained against the chain, the hook lurched up, reaching deeper inside him.
It was a classic predicament bondage, but one that produced an elegant figure. A curvy, and feminine silhouette combined with a buxom, heaving chest. The slave tried to contemplate his position, not aware of the final elements of bondage being applied until his elbows were cuffed together behind him, and his shoulders pulled back. His wrists were uncuffed since his training would require the maid to use his hands to perform duties.
As a ball gag was fitted in his mouth, the slave began to sob, possibly because he was overwhelmed by the strains and stresses on his body, the cruel corsetry and the tight posture control, or possibly because he was reminded of his position and new status. It was likely a combination of both, but in that moment as the slave tearfully was led to the door, steadied by a dresser’s firm grip on the tight chain, he realised that this was a sensation he must cope with for the duration of the day. He didn’t think he could cope another minute.
As the dressers and the maid emerged through the cell door, the submissive didn’t pay mind to the various other sissy-like creatures performing menial duties, or being led - or wheeled - from one area to another. The facility was a cauldron of suffering that surrounded him, an occasional shriek of pain from an upper level, a regular strike of a whip in another layer of cells. The facility was circular, cells on 3 floors like the maid’s entering onto circular walkways. Every four cells were divided by corridors that hosted various other rooms, dungeons and training venues. The top levels of the facility were for clients who would come for the services, the lower levels for internal slave training. The yard 6 floors down was dotted with slaves trained to be ponies, or forced to exercise in similar cruel bondage. It had all become white noise. Once outside, the inflicted maid was left to balance himself. As the door, marked with Slave #2A5, was closed behind him, a voice addressed the effeminate figure.
“Good morning. My, my! You’ve come out well!”
2A5 looked up at the suited director, and gritted his teeth on the ball gag and his eyes filled with tears. Directors usually had custom plans, and they were never pleasant. The maid bravely tried to meet the Director’s eyes, but the man in black was too busy studying the curves and contours of his property. 2A5 tensed and tried to recoil, but the tall, slightly overweight chief slipped one hand across his hips, and another across his latex-sheathed back. 2A5 had no way to contest it. Breathing was a bigger priority than his pride.
The pomp moved in behind the maid and by tugging the chain, pulled the teetering maid easily into his space. Ignoring a muffled groan of agony, he delicately whispered, “you’re special. None of these other pieces of shit could look like the perfect woman quite like you.” He indicated at the other corseted sissies being pulled from their cells and taken to various areas. “Some of these cunts are to be sold, some of them tortured, but you look too good to keep down here. My guests will enjoy your entertainment today.”
The director wheeled and strutted down a corridor. Long after he had vanished, 2A5 could hear his shoes echoing into the distance. Panic set in. What could he have meant? Will he be violated, or will he just serve guests as a maid would? What had all his training been for? It had never involved actual sex acts, despite knowing other slaves had regularly been fucked or raped. A rush of blood entered his face at the thought, but that was rudely interrupted by a sharp stinging slap to the back of his smooth legs. He knew that was an instruction to move, and he steadily took small strides in the ballet boot, flexing his body alluringly to cope with the tugging posture. The dresser moved ahead and they made their way to the elevator. The maid was placed inside, a key inserted to the control pad outside the door, a number punched in, and soon enough, the maid - now alone - was sent up to the upper floors. A dresser wryly smiles as the maid raises, copping a glance up his skirt.
What awaits?