Jade Ch. 03: First Steps as a Slave

At 4:28 precisely, the alarm began to beep. Short, sharp tones echoed through the box, slicing through the silence. Then a calm, mechanical voice followed:

"Training begins in two minutes."

Jade stirred awake.

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the familiar complete darkness pressing against her eyes, the same impenetrable black she had grown used to inside the sealed box. Despite the confinement, despite the stiffness from three days of immobility, she felt something surprising.

Relief.

Her muscles ached. Her joints burned. But her mind... her mind was clear. Light. She felt good. More than good -- she felt free. Free of pretending. Free of doubt. Free of the weight of expectations that had never fit her.

Her confinement didn't feel like punishment. It felt like a rebirth.

And then the training restarted. The cycle. The lights. The mantras. The rules. Four and a half hours of steady rhythm -- obedience, repetition and reaction.

When the first break came, Fred appeared. He didn't speak. He passed a bottle of water and a banana through the hole.

Jade ate and drank quickly, gratefully, her movements automatic now -- practiced.

Then he left again. And the silence returned. The break felt unusually long. In the stillness, with no lights and no commands, her thoughts came rushing back. After eight hours of sleep, her mind had sharpened again -- and now, with nothing to distract her, it began to wander.

Three days. Three full days in this box, without once stepping outside it. And the smell -- it was overwhelming now. A mix of stale sweat, dried urine, and waste. The box was sealed. And at some point during the endless hours, she had stopped trying to hold it in. There was nowhere to go. No permission to ask.

She had simply... let go.

She was soaked in her own filth. The stench clung to her skin, her hair, her breath. But it was real. This was her world now. The dark. The heat. The stink. The training. This was her reality. And she accepted it fully.

During the second break, Fred returned once again. As usual, he passed through the bottle of water and banana -- but this time, there was something new: a piece of dry, slightly stale bread. No words were exchanged. She accepted it all without hesitation, chewing slowly in the darkness, grateful for every bite.

And so the days passed. Three of them, to be exact.

Each day followed the same rigid rhythm: four and a half hours of sleep, then four training cycles and three break in between -- morning, midday, afternoon.

The morning break always brought the same simple offering: one banana and a bottle of water. It was just enough to fill her stomach and hydrate her throat before the next cycle.

At midday, she received another banana, a fresh bottle of water, and the same dry bread. It tasted bland, nearly flavorless -- but to Jade, it was comfort. Routine. A sign she had earned another step deeper into her submission.

But it was the afternoon break she began to long for the most. Two chocolate cookies -- sweet, rich, and soft -- along with the usual bottle of water. The taste burst across her tongue like a revelation. After hours of repeating rules and mantras in silence and darkness, those few bites of sweetness felt like a reward, a celebration of survival.

It became her favorite moment of each day.

Even in the box -- filthy, aching, unseen -- she had begun to build her new life on these small rituals. This was no longer just training. This was becoming home. Fred had not spoken to her a single word during those three days. But on the lunch break of the fourth, his voice returned.

"By now, you should know the rules by heart. It's important for you to know your rules. So I've modified the training a little."

His tone was calm, instructional -- not unkind, but absolute.

"When the voice says, 'Rule number 2,' you must immediately recite that rule, word for word. If you get it wrong -- even slightly -- you'll receive a level 3 punishment. Then you'll be given a second chance. If you fail again, the correct version will be read aloud, and you must repeat it exactly. If you get it right on that third try, the second failure still earns you a level 6 punishment. But if you fail to repeat it correctly even then -- on the third attempt -- the punishment will escalate to level 8."

He did not ask if she understood. He did not need to. It wasn't a question. It was law.

And the training continued.

Four more days passed in the same rigid rhythm -- broken only by the voice, the rules, the shocks, and the short, silent breaks.

Jade was exhausted.

The four and a half hours of sleep each night were no longer enough to sustain her. Her dreams were fragmented flashes of lights and phrases. Her body ached constantly, her skin sensitive and raw from days soaked in filth. The smell inside the sealed box had become unbearable -- a heavy, inescapable cloud of sweat, waste, and heat that pressed against her with every breath.

But it wasn't just the physical decay.

Her hunger never left her. The food -- banana, bread, cookies -- barely filled the edge of her stomach. She was always aware of it. Gnawing. Empty.

And her mind... her mind was fraying.

Thoughts no longer formed clearly. During breaks, instead of resting, she rehashed the rules in a loop, repeating them in her head like a lifeline -- desperate not to make a mistake, terrified of the rising punishments.

She no longer thought in words of her own. Only in mantras. In rules. In commands.

She was still there... but barely.

Not Jade anymore. Just a voice that obeyed. A body that repeated. Each night she collapsed into sleep -- not rest. Each morning she woke more destroyed.

More hollow.

More hers.

More his.

But that morning, the routine broke. The alarm clock didn't ring at the usual 4:28. Instead, silence stretched until 8:30. A full night of sleep. And yet, the wake-up was brutal. Not the calm, mechanical voice. Not the warning tone.

A level 9 shock tore through her body.

It struck like lightning, nearly making her lose consciousness. Her muscles seized. Her vision burst into white. A soundless scream froze behind her teeth.

As the pain ebbed just enough to breathe, the voice followed:

"This morning you will have an exam. Review in your mind your mantras and rules. If you pass, you will be allowed to exit the box. If you fail, you will be showered, the box will be cleaned, and you will remain in this box for ten more days of training."

She was happy and scared at the same time. It was the first time in ten days that a way out had been offered. A glimmer of hope. And yet, the fear was equally strong. She knew her body couldn't endure ten more days in this box -- the cramps, the filth, the hunger. She needed out. Desperately.

But what if she fails?

Her heart raced. She had never wanted something more than leaving this box. And never feared something more than failing to earn it.

Two hours passed in complete silence.

Then, Fred entered the room.

She heard his footsteps draw near. He sat down beside the box.

"So," he said calmly, "the exam has two parts. The first is verbal -- just a few simple questions. The second will test your physical aptitude."

A pause.

"Are you ready to begin?"

Jade swallowed. Her throat was dry, her heart heavy. "Yes, Master," she whispered.

"You may take your time with each answer. Most of these have no right or wrong -- only what feels true to you."

"What is your full name?"

"Jade Maren," she said without hesitation. That part was still hers.

"What is Jade Maren?"

She froze. Her first instinct was to give the expected answer -- but something deeper stirred. She searched for what felt real. What she had become. Not just what he wanted, but what echoed within her.

"Jade Maren is an object. A slave. Your slave."

"Why does Jade Maren exist?"

The words came slowly, not from fear, but from clarity.

"To satisfy her Master's needs. She exists to obey."

"What does Jade Maren want?"

That one hurt. She hesitated -- not because she didn't know the answer, but because it demanded honesty. What did she want, beneath everything?

"Jade Maren wants to be a good slave for her Master."

"What is a good slave?"

She drew a breath, steadying her thoughts. She had repeated these ideas in her head so many times they felt etched into her. But now she weighed each one, as if seeing it for the first time.

"A good slave doesn't think -- she obeys. She knows her rules. She exists to please. She would do anything to satisfy her Master. A good slave makes her Master proud to own her."

"What rules does Jade Maren follow?"

Her voice was calm now -- firm. She recited all five rules perfectly, word for word. Not out of fear. Out of certainty.

"If Jade Maren misbehaves, what should happen?"

"She should be punished."

"How should she be punished?"

That wasn't a question she was meant to answer -- and she understood that.

"Master decides. Jade Maren obeys and accepts whatever Master chooses."

Fred was quiet. But she could hear it -- a trace of a smile in his voice.

"That's a very good answer."

Then came the final question.

"Do you believe you are ready to live as a slave outside the box?"

Jade paused. The air felt still. This wasn't about memorization. It was about who she had become.

She let the silence stretch as her thoughts slowly aligned. Her body was trembling, but her voice was steady.

"I don't think. I obey. It's not for me to decide if I'm ready. My Master decides -- and I trust his judgment."

Fred waited a long moment.

Then, softly:

"I believe you're ready to begin your life outside the box. But first, we'll see if you pass the physical test."

Fred remained silent after that. But she could hear movement -- soft shuffling, the rustling of straps, the subtle creak of something heavy.

Then, suddenly, the box shifted. It tilted, jostled gently as it moved. Fred's voice followed.

"I will move your box with the crate. Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

She felt the motion -- slow, deliberate. The box bumped against thresholds, turned corners, and finally came to a stop. She had no idea where she was. The holes in the box showed nothing.

Then came the click of locks, the creak of hinges.

Light poured in as Fred opened the lid.

She squinted. After so long in total blackness, it was blinding. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw tiled walls. A metal drain. The shimmer of water lines on the floor.

A shower.

Fred knelt beside the box.

"Your first task will be to clean the box. You have one hour to do so."

He reached in gently.

"Let me help you out."

He flipped the box carefully onto its side, then reached inside and eased her out. Her limbs screamed in protest, her joints stiff and locked.

"Don't worry about the collar," he said. "It's 100% waterproof. Just take your time. You've been folded up for a long time. It will hurt."

She winced as she began to stretch, her body slow and clumsy. But she was out.

Indeed, it was agonizing to straighten her legs. Her body felt weak -- barely responsive. Ten days without movement had drained her completely. Her muscles were limp and uncooperative, and her joints screamed with every inch of stretch.

Fred handed her a sponge and a bottle of bleach.

"You have one hour starting now," he said simply.

At first, one hour seemed excessive for such a small box. But every motion burned. Every gesture was clumsy and slow. She struggled to control her limbs, to focus her balance. Still, she worked. Quietly. Carefully. Methodically. And after forty minutes, the box was clean -- spotless.

Fred nodded with quiet approval.

"You did a good job," he said. "And I think you'll enjoy the next task."

She looked up at him, still panting softly from the effort.

"Now that the box is clean, it's time for you to clean yourself."

He handed her a bottle of shampoo and a small container of body wash.

"You have thirty minutes," he said gently. "Enjoy your shower. Take your time."

She stepped under the stream, and the warmth of the water hit her skin like a blessing. It cascaded down her shoulders, washing away layers of filth, tension, and the memory of darkness. She stood there for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the heat sink deep into her muscles.

The scent of the soap filled her lungs -- fresh, clean, unreal. She took her time lathering every inch of her body, carefully, reverently, as though rediscovering it for the first time. Her fingers trembled as she scrubbed the grime from her skin, worked the shampoo into her hair, rinsed until she could breathe without smelling herself.

She enjoyed every second. The touch of her hands, the feel of the water, the slippery smoothness of clean skin beneath her fingers.

It wasn't just a shower. It was a resurrection. She was slowly -- finally -- coming back to life, a new life, a life in which she will be able to be herself, fully.

The thirty minutes passed, and Fred returned to the bathroom.

He opened the door slightly and placed a folded towel, a hair dryer, and a hairbrush on a small bench just inside.

"Here is a towel, the hair dryer, and the brush," he said. "You have thirty minutes to dry yourself. When you're done, you may come out."

Then he stepped out and gently closed the door behind him.

She dried herself methodically, her fingers still clumsy but steadier now. The towel felt impossibly soft against her clean skin. The warm air of the dryer whispered over her scalp, and as she brushed out her hair, it began to feel like she was shedding the last fragments of her old self.

When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, she was met by something unexpected.

She stood at the threshold of a large room -- spacious and elegant, easily ten meters by seven. The soft light glowed against dark wood and aged stone. It was warm, richly decorated, with a lived-in sophistication.

To her left, a seating area with velvet-covered sofas surrounded a low table. To the right, an antique dining table with eight carved chairs, polished to a deep shine. At the far end of the room stood an array of BDSM furniture -- a St. Andrew's cross, a padded bench, stocks, chains -- all arranged with care, not menace.

But what struck her most was the atmosphere: it wasn't cold or clinical. It was decadent. Ornate. Like a salon from another century, with touches of red velvet and wrought iron, flickering sconces casting soft shadows on textured walls.

A dungeon -- yes. But also a home.

Fred was seated in one of the velvet-covered sofas, a drink in his hand. He gestured calmly.

"Come stand in front of me," he said.

She moved quickly, her body still adjusting to movement, but her obedience unwavering.

"The next test may sound easy," Fred continued, "but I can assure you, it will take effort to pass."

He gestured to the thick carpet before him.

"You see those two circles drawn on the rug? Place one foot in each of them. That's your position."

Jade looked down -- two faint but clear outlines, spaced just enough for a steady stance.

"The test is simple," he said. "You must stand with your feet in those circles. You are not allowed to touch the floor with anything else. No knees. No hands. Just your feet."

He took a sip of his drink.

"You must remain in that position for thirty minutes. Sounds easy, doesn't it? I promise -- it won't be. It will be a nightmare."

He nodded once.

"Get into position."

Then, almost ceremonially, he retrieved a small bottle and held it up between two fingers.

"This is a test of focus. A test of obedience. This bottle contains a highly concentrate of hot chili peppers"

Without a word, he stepped behind her, uncorked the vial, and gently applied the liquid to her clitoris. Then, as if marking the start of something inevitable, Fred turned a hourglass and returned to his seat.

At first, there was only a faint warmth where the liquid had touched. Almost nothing. But within moments, that warmth began to grow -- slowly at first, then insistently. Within a minute, it burned like a branding iron pressed on her abdomen, radiating outward with a dull, consuming fire.

She clenched her teeth. Her entire focus narrowed to staying upright.

The task -- so simple in theory -- now demanded every ounce of her will. Her muscles, still weak from confinement, trembled under her weight. Her balance faltered more than once. But she held.

Because that's what the test was: not just endurance, but purpose. It asked her how much she truly wanted this. How deeply she believed in her own obedience.

Fred watched in silence, sipping slowly from his glass, the hourglass marking time beside him.

For Jade, the challenge unfolded second by second -- not as stillness, but as a storm of sensation.

Her legs began to tremble first, weakened by days without movement. Each muscle ached under the effort to remain upright. Her arms hovered for balance, but she never let them fall. She couldn't. The rules were clear.

The burn in her crutch had grown unbearable, a rising heat that sharpened with every heartbeat. But it wasn't the heat alone -- it was the attention it demanded. The intensity forced her to focus on every breath, every nerve ending.

Unlike the box, where she had been a forgotten object buried in silence, here she was awake. Present. Her awareness was complete -- of her pain, her strength, her will.

This was different. This pain didn't dissolve her. It clarified her. She was not fading -- she was enduring.

She didn't count the minutes. She counted the grains of sand as they dropped, each one a promise: you are still here. You are still trying. You are still choosing this. And she would last. Because she must. Because she would be the slave Fred wanted her to be.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of pain and focus, the last grain of sand fell.

As if released from a spell, Jade collapsed to the ground, her legs giving out beneath her.

Fred rose from his seat with quiet purpose.

"Little one. You passed," he said, his voice warm with approval.

He picked up a small tube of cream from the table and knelt beside her.

With care, he applied a bit of the soothing balm to her pussy.

"This will help. Give it five minutes, and the burning will stop."

Jade breathed deeply, letting the coolness sink in, the pain slowly ebbing. Fred looked down at her with calm approval.

"You may rest now. Twenty minutes. Stay on the floor and let your body recover."

He stepped away and gave her space.

Indeed, after five minutes, the burn faded completely. But a dull ache remained, pulsing gently beneath the surface -- a final echo of the test she'd just endured.

Jade lay still, breathing deeply, feeling the ache settle through her limbs. The sharpest pain was fading, but a deep fatigue had taken its place. And yet, something else pulsed beneath it -- pride.

When the twenty minutes had passed, Fred remained seated on the sofa and gestured for her to stand.

"The next test," he said, "is once again a test of motivation."

He led her silently to a nearby wall where two cords, about a meter in length, were suspended. At the end of each cord dangled a paper clamp.

"You will clip one clamp onto each of your nipples. Then, walk back slowly from the wall until the tension pulls them off."

She looked at him, unsure -- but ready.

"You will do this multiple times," Fred added, "but I will not tell you how many. The number of required repetitions is written on a paper in my pocket. You will pass the test if you exceed it."

"You may start now," he said.

"Yes, Master," she answered.

Jade stepped forward and, without hesitation, fastened the metal clamps to her nipples. The first contact was immediate -- a cold, biting pinch that sent a jolt through her chest.

She stepped back slowly. The cords pulled tight. The pressure intensified, stretching the pain into something sharp and urgent.

Then -- snap.

The clamps sprang free with a sudden violent sting, ripping loose from her skin and slamming back against the wall with a metallic crack. The pain radiated outward, hot and lingering, as her breath caught in her throat.

She returned to the wall, reset the clamps, and repeated the test.

Each time, the pain deepened -- not in intensity alone, but in memory. Her nipples reddened, each repetition leaving its own echo. By the tenth time, her breath was ragged, and the pain began to radiate in her hole breast.

But she didn't stop.

Ten might be enough, she thought. Maybe it was the number written in Fred's pocket. But maybe not. And as long as she could still do more -- as long as the pain was still within her threshold -- she had no excuse to stop.

So she continued.

After fifteen repetitions, the pain was no longer fleeting -- it had settled into a dull throb that refused to fade. Each time she reached for the clamps again, she had to reach deeper inside herself for the will to continue. Her hands trembled, her breath came in short bursts.

But still, she did it. Again and again.

When she reached twenty, the pain had spread through her entire chest, her skin screamed with each new attempt. She paused briefly, staring at the cords, trying to listen to her body -- but her mind cut through the noise.

This wasn't her limit. Not yet.

Twenty wouldn't be enough.

She forced her hands to move, each one shaking as it clipped the metal back into place. It wasn't about pain anymore. It was about conviction.

She reached twenty-five, whispering silently to herself with every step. Just one more.

Just one more.

Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

The ache had turned to fire now, burning in her entire breast, her chest, even her shoulder. Still, she continued -- until thirty-two.

At last, her fingers trembled too much to grasp the clamp again. Her body said stop. Her nerves said stop. Her will, finally, agreed.

She let her arms fall to her sides, breathing hard. The test was over, she was physically incapable to continue. She turned toward Fred and spoke between gasps: "I can't take it anymore, Master."

Fred smiled softly. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small folded paper. He handed it to her.

"Read it out loud," he instructed.

She unfolded the slip with trembling fingers. Her voice cracked as she read the number aloud:

"Fifteen."

Her eyes filled with tears.

She had done thirty-two. Not out of fear. Not from pain. But because she needed to prove it -- to herself. The tears spilled freely, but they weren't of sorrow. They were the tears of someone who had found her place.

She cried because she was proud. Because she was strong. Because she knew now -- without question -- that she was where she belonged.

Fred looked at her with quiet pride.

"I am very proud of you," he said. "And you can be proud of yourself. Thirty-two is an achievement. A real one."

She nodded through her tears. "Thank you, Master."

Fred set his glass down gently on the table.

"Now, just one last test. This one is simpler. A test of concentration. It will measure your ability to focus on a simple task -- calmly and precisely."

He smiled faintly. "But after those thirty-two rounds, I suspect this one will feel like a breeze for you."

He stood and guided her toward a padded spanking's bench. Calmly, he helped her position herself on it -- not forcefully, but with the practiced ease of ritual.

"This will be your concentration test," Fred explained. "You will receive fifty strokes with the paddle. After each stroke, you will count the number aloud, followed by a phrase: 'Thank you Master, for helping me become a good slave.'"

He walked in front of her, voice calm and precise. "The test is passed if you make no mistakes in the count -- from one to fifty. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," she replied, her voice steady.

The first strike landed -- sharp and deliberate. It stung, more than she expected. Not cruel, but demanding. Not soft, but it wasn't as overwhelming as the last two tests.

She counted, clearly: "One. Thank you Master, for helping me become a good slave."

And again. "Two. Thank you Master..."

The repetition settled into rhythm, but each stroke added heat. By the twentieth, her breath was tight. By thirty, the burn across her skin had grown hot and deep. It was harder to focus now -- not because the pain was unbearable, but because her mind wanted to drift, to escape the repetition.

But she didn't let it. She stayed with each number. Each word.

The paddle cracked down, again and again.

At stroke forty, she gritted her teeth to keep her voice from faltering. Her bottom throbbed now, glowing with fire. The pain matched the ache in her nipples from earlier -- a different kind of challenge, but just as intense.

Still, she stayed present. She counted. She thanked.

And finally, with the fiftieth strike, it was over. Her voice steady. Her count flawless.

She had passed.

Fred moved slowly, setting the paddle aside.

"You've completed all your tests," he said quietly. "That means you no longer need to stay in the box."

Jade lifted her head slightly, not quite daring to believe it.

"You'll have your own room from today," Fred continued. "Come. Follow me."

She rose, her legs shaky but obedient, and followed him through the quiet space. He led her to a small, narrow door she hadn't noticed before. With a soft click, he unlocked it and pushed it open.

The room beyond was small -- no more than one and a half meters by two. But to Jade, it felt enormous.

Inside was a toilet. A simple shower. A small sink. And -- most unbelievable of all -- a tiny bed. A real bed. With a thin mattress, a pillow, and a clean sheet.

After days in the sealed box, the thought of lying on a mattress, of sleeping with a pillow, of having her own space, was overwhelming. To anyone else, it might have looked like a cell. But to her, it was luxury.

She stepped into the room, breath catching in her throat.

"You've earned this," Fred said, his tone softer than usual. "You deserve to rest. You have the rest of the day to recover. I'll bring you food later."

Then he turned and left her there -- alone, in a space she could call her own.

She heard the door close with a soft but definite click. Then the turn of the key.

She had passed.

She had passed.

And this... this was only the beginning.

She entered the box sure of her fantasy -- drawn to the idea of surrender, obedience, control.

She came out knowing what she was, an object.

Not a dream, not a role, but a reality made flesh. She had been reshaped, stripped down to the core -- and what remained was something absolute.

She no longer had a fantasy. She embodied it.

No hesitation. No question. Only obedience.

This was her first step as a slave.