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Griffin Barrows

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Insta: ohhhtrev

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Street hypnosis completely shutting down someone’s brain.

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Nick & Liam

Nick, a gay man who embraces a relaxed lifestyle, is a freelance graphic designer who enjoys the flexibility of working from home. His nocturnal tendencies often see him staying up until the early hours of the morning, surrounded by his creative projects. As the clock strikes noon, he finally stirs from his slumber, his tousled hair and sleepy eyes betraying his late awakening. With a yawn, he shuffles into the kitchen, craving the caffeine boost of his morning coffee to kickstart his day.

Later that evening, Nick decides to hit the local club for some fun. There, he meets Liam, and sparks fly instantly. They share laughs, drinks, and a passionate kiss on the dance floor. Nick feels a rush of excitement and possibility.

Liam and Nick begin dating, exploring the city's restaurants hand in hand. They share intimate conversations over candlelit dinners, discovering each other's likes and dislikes.

Movie nights become a regular occurrence for Liam and Nick as they cuddle up in the cozy seats of the theater, sharing popcorn and stolen kisses in the darkness.

As their love deepens, Liam and Nick decide to take the next step and move in together. They spend days packing and unpacking boxes, turning their new place into a home filled with love and laughter.

On a special occasion, Liam surprises Nick with a beautifully wrapped present, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

Nick eagerly unwraps the gift to find a crisp white business shirt inside. Though surprised by the unexpected choice, he smiles gratefully and slips it on, wanting to show his appreciation for Liam's thoughtful gesture.

ne evening, Liam invites a friend over for dinner, and Nick, wearing the white shirt, is tasked with bringing the wine. The friend chuckles at Nick's obedient demeanor, teasing Liam playfully.

Curiosity piqued, Nick discovers another present in the kitchen, this time containing a chastity device. He feels a mix of confusion and discomfort, unsure of Liam's intentions.

Liam patiently guides Nick through the process of putting on the chastity device, finding amusement in Nick's hesitant reactions. Despite his initial reservations, Nick complies, eager to please Liam.

Upon stumbling into the kitchen in the morning, Nick's eyes widen in surprise as they land on a neatly folded black waiter's vest, accompanied by a bow tie and a pair of white gloves. A note from Liam sits atop the ensemble, instructing Nick to don the uniform.

Nick hesitates before reluctantly deciding to comply with Liam's request. As he slips into the vest and ties the bow tie with uncertain fingers, he can't shake off the strange mix of discomfort and curiosity swirling within him. Yet, as he adjusts the white gloves, there's an undeniable sense of belonging that begins to settle over him, despite the oddity of the situation.

When Liam returns home, he is delighted to find Nick dressed in the uniform, his eyes lighting up with approval. They share a passionate evening together, their bond growing stronger with each passing moment.

In the quiet of the morning, Nick discovers a pamphlet titled "New House Rules" resting on the kitchen counter, alongside a box of hygienic masks. With a furrowed brow, he picks up the pamphlet and begins to read, his eyes scanning over the carefully outlined regulations. As he delves deeper into the document, he feels a strange sensation wash over him, as if he's being drawn into a hypnotic trance. Each word seems to imprint itself into his mind, shaping his understanding of his role within the household. With a sense of inevitability, Nick realizes that these rules are meant for him, dictating his actions and behaviors in service to Liam. Despite the initial disconcertment, a newfound clarity settles within him, and he accepts his fate with a quiet resignation, knowing that this is his path now.

Upon Liam's return, Nick greets him with a casual "Hey," but Liam's expression darkens as he observes Nick's demeanor. "Think about what I've said," Liam says firmly, his voice brooking no argument. Nick's eyes widen in realization, and he quickly corrects himself, "Good evening, Sir," he says, his tone now respectful and obedient. Liam then hands Nick a grocery bag, adding, "From now on, this will be your duty."

At 6:00 am, the soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains as Nick meticulously irons Liam's clothes, a task he's been at since 5 am. The kitchen is already spotless, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air. With a sense of purpose and dedication, Nick prepares and serves Liam's breakfast, his heart brimming with happiness at fulfilling his new responsibilities. It's a stark contrast to his previous habits of sleeping in until noon, a testament to the profound changes that love and devotion have brought into his life.

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The very submissive @tigidoggy reached out asking for an inspection. See what a good boy he is in uniform doing chores? If you can relate, send me a pic and get a caption like his.

This boy tells me, to the world, he and his husband are your average loving couple. But behind closed doors, he is his butler, his servant, his 50s spouse, his chaste submissive on his knees pleasing his boss. He takes care of the housework, the chores and errands in his cute little servant's uniform and then takes care of his man's needs at night. Seems like a perfect life.

I wonder boy - how did it happen? Did you start off resenting having to wear a collared shirt and tie to accompany your man at work events? Or did he start picking out your outfits? At first, slacks and polo instead of jeans, ties instead of an open collar. Did he gradually encourage you to make better, more subservient choices?

Did he teach you what he wanted in a man - how to dress, behave, carry yourself, how to submit and serve others? Or did you know it already, and you were just trained to his pleasing?

Did it take time to get used to Sir's dress code, or was it the physical reinforcement when you broke the rules that made it easier to stay in line? When I see you in this uniform boy, I do not doubt how submissive you must feel. Every detail must be prim and proper, restrained and obedient, all to serve the man in your life. I'm sure at first you were self-conscious, wondering why it had to be so formal, but these clothes are a reminder of the oath you took to love, honour and obey. Your sir, your husband owns you, and it is only right to show him this obedience daily.

He tells me:

"Today I woke up at 6am with the urge to get dressed in my butler uniform and serve my husband... I cleaned the whole house and did some laundry in bowtie with white gloves, hair pomade parted, freshly shaved.

"I feel submissive, docile, obedient. Even ironing bedsheets or underwear is humiliating because no one will see the work and time I spent in uniform doing it. And in between I have to serve coffee or anything my Daddy Boss wants."

People often say to me that traditions should be a thing of the past. Etiquette, presenting well, manners, servants and suits are all old-fashioned. But isn't marriage? There's a part of many of us, no matter how independent or slutty or modern we are, that craves those chains of matrimony. The ring on that finger shows you belong, you are bound.

And isn't being a good partner working, striving every day to make the other person happy? And if part of that is following orders, being caged, suiting up, getting spanked, sucking cock, getting fucked, swallowing, pleasuring his single friends, and then fetching the coffee afterwards then so be it. Most fags would say "I do" to that any day of the week.

Any other formally dressed boys who wish to be appraised are welcome to submit a photo or message me privately. I look forward to seeing you in uniform - whether it is a suit you wear for job interviews to white tie and tails. Get in touch boys.

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Such fantastic writing

Play The Hand You're Dealt

"Will that be all, Sir?" Jenkins said. "I can go straighten up your quarters if you wish?"

"Yes, Jenkins, a great idea. I see you're learning. You may take your leave," the Master said, his eyes dancing lit up by the fireplace. In his hand, a crystal, that sparkled, shimmering, radiating like moonlight. Wisps of black shadow and red sparkles gently floated around his elegant hands, strings of otherworldly power. The tall, imposing warlock relaxed on a throne-like armchair, feeling the power in his fingertips.

Jenkins felt the order shift his very being. He had been rooted to the spot, like a statue fixed in place. The magic that bound him at attention to the Master's side loosened, like a necktie unfurling. He turned swiftly on his heel and slowly walked, hands behind his back, up the stairs. As the distance grew, his pace quickened, his need to rush to the study. The invisible chains slacked a little bit more with every step he took. A deck of cards, a book, a chant, and a wish was the key to changing his life, the way out of his cage. This was his chance.

He knew not of magic before he was bound to the Master. Oliver Jenkins was previously a gardener, used to cutting grass not mixing cocktails. He used to go home and play video games and not spend his spare time ironing and shining silver. He had a life stolen from him when the Master invited him inside.

With some form of spell, that he couldn't even remember being performed, he was now forced to obey the man's every command. He pictured himself pressing his weight against the prison cell in his mind as the warlock forced him to bow, him helpless and out of control. The evil magic was a daily mortification - a fresh humiliation as he prostrated himself at the mercy of this monster. He would have fled if he had the free will and the ability. Or tried to do something, anything to get out. But the man's magic had instructed him to not leave the manor and to not injure his Master or himself.

He was locked in a cage of his body made to obey the warlock's commands: forced to say 'Yes, Sir', forcing him to wear strange formal clothes, answering to the sound of a bell. He was helpless.

But Oliver saw a chance. The warlock's power over his body was not as limitless. The invisible bond that tied him to the man was less tight, less felt, when they were far apart. With some distance, out of eyesight, he had some control over his actions. He remembered once when his captor had gone out for dinner and left him alone, he felt so free he could walk out the door. But like a dog afraid of an unseen electric fence, the mental block made him fearful. And even when he got to the door, he could not remember how to turn the key. He spent the evening trying, willing with all his might, to disobey the instruction but he couldn't help but do as he was told. As his prison guard returned, and Oliver hung his coat and made him a whisky and got on all fours to serve as his footstool, he kneeled and desperately planned his escape. There had to be something.

One day, when instructed to clean the Master's study, a page of an ancient tome was left open: to "find one's destiny". Oliver knew that whatever this life was, it was not what he was meant for surely? Freedom was in the palm of his hands.

The spell said anyone, even those without natural magical talents, could enchant a deck of cards for the ritual. All he needed to do was speak the words over a spellbook. Drawing a card would rewrite the caster's reality to direct him onto that path. His mind exploded with possibilities. Perhaps the magic would make him a drummer in a band, like his childhood wish, or just back at home with his video games. It didn't matter - it just had to be better than this life of his body being directed and ordered about while his mind screamed in silence. He just hoped it would work. Some of it was a weird language, he had no fucking clue what it meant. But it didn't matter - surely if magic had bound him to the crazed magician, then magic could end it?

Oliver had managed to wile away a deck from the drawing room. But the next part, getting away, was the hard part. So, he had to trick the warlock, offer his own suggestion, and hope the man would not give a direct order.

And as smart as he seemed, the idiot fell for it, "You may take your leave" was exactly what he needed to hear, to have the chance, to desperately chant over the man's own Grimoire. As he chanted, an otherworldly hand seemed to shuffle the deck.

"...Demiurgos I call, in perpetuum ligatus, in perpetuum servus, set my fate adrift ancient stars, cards of chance find my purpose, in perpetuum ligatus, in perpetuum servus..."

Purple shadows enveloped the playing cards blowing out the candles in the room - the reverse patterned side twisting into a galaxy, myriad suns shaping itself into a whirlpool that turned - and then silence. The storm of magic raged into a whisper. Oliver trembled at the sight of what appeared to just be a normal deck of playing cards, sitting mundanely on top of an old book.

A moment. Breath held. This was it. He drew a card, hoping, praying it would work, his eyes wide as it vanished into violet smoke in his hands. It was a two of diamonds - what did that mean? At first nothing. Then Oliver's entire plane shifted sideways, like being yanked by a hook. His body dissipated, blinking out of existence like through a black hole, and his vision crumpled down like a piece of paper.

And then he awoke: a stack of papers in his hands, files, the murmuring of people on the phone, an office.

Two of Diamonds - You are at the bottom of the ladder.

A voice thundered in his mind. Oliver looked side to side, the 'bottom of the ladder'? What did that mean?

"Jenkins, quickly, I need those files copied now!"

"Yes, Sir! Just done them, Sir!" A voice squeaked out - younger than his own. He was an office boy, an intern, he looked down at his store-bought three-piece suit, dressed to match the office dress code. The sleeves a little baggy past his wrists, his collar a little too tight, the tie a leash.

"Here you are, Sir," he said, eager to please, his voice betraying his mind, lost in the blur and sounds of the army of busy stressed out suited up men with large tie knots and tight jackets, wondering how he got here.

"Can I do a coffee run, Sir?" He said, his boss nodding.

His mind caught up, his past coming back, reckoning with this new life. He had cast a spell to change his destiny, and it was... this? An intern? An office lackey? This couldn't be right, could it?

Around him was the allure of masculinity, the yelling out of deals and sales. But there was almost like a script pushing at his mind, encouraging him to think things, do things, be a good boy for the boss.

His eyes lingered at the way some men had their cuffs rolled up, the vascular arms pumping down in victory on desks. If only, he thought, if only he could do anything to be like them.

He stepped carefully towards the kitchen, his brain racing. He caught his reflection - he was still him, a little younger and thinner, meeker and eager. Like his life had taken a different twist. But was it right? Was it him?

But there was a saving grace: a weight in his suit chest pocket. The cards! A reminder to before. He pulled the deck out - wondering, hoping. Perhaps his fate could change once again?

A voice in his mind urged him 'hurry up! The men need their coffee! Please the boss!" He tried to ignore it as much as he could as he drew the top card, his world collapsing on itself once again.

Three of Spades - We are united in brotherhood, we are a fraternity.

He was one of many, a group of clean-cut lads in pastel bowties, reciting the fraternity pledge. The voice echoed in his head - brotherhood, conformity, obedience. His brain felt fluffy, clean, like fresh laundry. Good boys didn't need to think. Good boys followed the rules. Good boys conform.

"Jenkins," a tall brunette muscly senior slapped him on the shoulder. "I'm so glad you decided to join us."

Of course, his father was a member. And his father's father. Good boys do what they're told. Good boys dress prim, proper and preppy. False memories flooded his brain - remembering etiquette classes, the humiliation of being a pledge, the glee of being given a letterman's jacket, being an escort at a debutante ball. They overtook his mind as he tried to parse what was what, what was real, what was not.

He attempted to bat away the strange thoughts, but soon he realised he was trying to forget his past - his real self - the man from before.

Yes. He was a conformist, he followed the crowd, he fit the mold. Every hair was in place, his bowtie telling the world who he was. He was a good boy, he was sure of it.

"Hey man, what you got here in your shirt pocket? Playing cards? Good boys don't gamble, bro."

"Sorry, uh, I don't know why I have them," Jenkins said, trying to grasp at a thought that wouldn't come. Oh wait, these cards....meant something. He struggled, his brain aching to find the word: change. A dirty word. But didn't he...have to?

Four of Hearts - Once a whore, always a whore.

Another transformation. Oliver felt his body balloon. And as the muscles grew, his brain shrank. He was a gym bro - a live-in naked butler, at the beck and call of another.

"Boy, come over here and pour us some champagne, my guest wants to get a good look at you."

"Coming, daddy!" Oliver used his gym-grown beefy muscles to open the bottle, catching the overspill with his towel.

He was nothing but eye candy, done up like a present in his chippendale bowtie and cuffs. All he did was work out and show off his hard-earned muscles for daddy and his guests. As the strange man grabbed onto his firm rear, probing fingers playing with his cock underneath his apron, he giggled and let it happen.

Again he felt like it was possible there was something in the before. He thought he was a pro athlete, who worked to the very top and trained his body to its best. But then an injury, his career collapsed, and now all his meat was good for was being fondled by strange men. No, that wasn't it. Was it? A small part of him pleaded to himself to stop but the pleasure that sent waves through his body made it hard to remember.

It was ok. Life was simple: he was a strong service top. His legs were built for thrusting, his arms for throwing around his bottom. He was a beefcake, his body worked to please his daddy and his friends. As long as he was in top physical condition, it didn't matter.

For his daddy liked to use him as his living dildo, a sex toy. He would be instructed to lie down as his cock was used. He'd be edged, he'd be played with, and all he had to submit. He loved the way the older man was salivating and licking up and down his shaft, he breathed "fuck yes sir" in a lazy, stupid, himbo way.

Dropping the champagne cork in his apron, he felt something unfamiliar. A deck of cards. But that's silly, daddy doesn't play cards. Daddy plays with Oliver's cock. Oliver shrugged his dumb massive shoulders, gasping as the man took his length to the base. Good job he didn't need to think, he just needed to surrender. He picked up a card, maybe his daddy would tell him why it was there. But before he could, he vanished once again.

Five of Clubs - You're a made man now, forever, it's a one-way ride.

"You-you fucked up Jenkins, ya know that?"

Again Oliver's world twisted into something new, something older, something in the past? It settled and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke, musk, danger filled the room. He looked down, a pinstripe suit, a tight thin silk tie.

The part of him that was real, that was not being taken and transformed by the spell, seemed stronger this time. Perhaps he'd just found himself in a body with some brains for once. It could not help him now. He was sat alone on a wooden chair in some dirty dive bar with flickering lightbulbs. Around him were men heavily armed, and an angry mafioso leaned against the table staring daggers at him.

"Jenkins, ya hearing me? You're a made man, people don't walk out of this. Ya know what, fuhgeddaboudit, with your track record, you speaking again seems like a...diminishing probability."

"I get ya, Boss is real mad, I get ya," Oliver responded, his words coming to him, the memories of being a newbie gangster, a green man on the street, prepared to prove himself. "What do I got to do to get back in with the family?"

Jenkins' throat swallowed, his tight tie squeezing his breath.

"I know Boss been mad stressed. You touched his shit, his property, and you gotta pay the price. All I'm thinking is, you gotta use that pretty boy mouth. Actions speak louder than words, capeesh? Now you head down to the bossman's office and hope you don't end up getting him madder."

Fuck. He nodded, he had to sweet talk his way out of this one he guessed. He got up under the watchful eyes of the gun-wielding goons and walking down the dark steps to the Boss' office to see what he wanted. Dank smoke filled through his lungs as he breathed heavily. No matter what happened, he didn't want to die.

As he walked slowly down the staircase, he tried to figure out what he could do. These cards were taking him, tripping through time and space, finding different fates for him. But...how? Magic, yes, but why...this? Where was the power? Why couldn't he be the CEO or the mafia boss?

A preppy frat bro? A gym bunny houseboy? And now this? A mafia goon whose job is to please the boss by whatever means necessary? He was caught in a catch-22. He realised that he had to keep moving - this felt like a threat to his life - but lived in fear of what new perversion might await him. Oliver breathed, shuddered, and let the hook of the card take him away again as it wisped away in purple smoke.

Six of Diamonds - Tricks are the practice of fools who don't have brains enough to be honest with themselves.

"And now for my next trick!"

Oliver's mind was floating, like a bubble drifting. He could feel his body, the hot spotlight illuminating him, his blindfold wrapped around him. But the body was not his own, it was an instrument of the hypnotist.

In a sense, he could tell it was him that was on his knees, barking like a dog, to the laughs and jeers of the audience. He could feel his body go rigid as he was a plank between the two chairs, the hypnotist standing on his chest for full effect.

But it was not his control, he was never in control, he was but an assistant, a tool, an instrument to be played with. Every show he was a plant - infused with a personality into the blank space, looking shocked as he was picked. And every night, the hypnotist would give him new triggers, new commands, new ways to make the show 'sparkle'.

"And finally, with a snap of my fingers, this young man will wake up!"

A snap. His eyes opened to the faceless crowd, the spotlight blurring vision, the weight of being watched, of being made to perform. In betwixt the hypnotist's fingers, a playing card: the seven of spades.

"Is this your card, young man?"

Seven of Spades - The most potent weapon of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.

"Do you get what I'm saying, Jenkins?"

"Yes, Sir! But why are you telling me this, Sir?"

He was receiving a kind word from his superior officer, his leader.

"You're a good boy, Jenkins. You fill out the uniform, you wear it well, but you've got to realise that when you wear a uniform you are that uniform. You're a cog in the machine. No one cares about those thoughts in that head of yours, when you're suited up you've just got to carry out orders."

"Yes, Sir, I understand, Sir."

"You've got to work hard, boy. You've got a long road still ahead on this journey of yours if you want to get back in with the big man, the chief commander."

His mentor's eyes was a piercing blue. He was right, he'd been fighting for too long, maybe it was time he relented.

A whisper. The man advised him: "The deck is in your chest pocket, boy. It's time to draw."

Eight of Clubs- Humiliate when necessary.

Oliver's world transformed once again, like a whirlwind of twisted realities. It was too much, it was like he couldn't win, he couldn't face being taken away again. His mind wondered if that was the point, confusing shadows enveloping his brain, making him not know where he once begun and once ended. He just hoped to stay resilient, but he felt like faltering.

This time, at least it felt a little familiar. He was a bellboy of a hotel. He was muscle hired to take suitcases up to the guests' bedrooms. He was obsequious, almost to a fault, for he feared the moment he would be instructed to take a tip.

Behind the guest room door, he would blush. "Of course, Sir. We provide a full service." He would tighten the strap around his bellboy cap, the same old dance. He would reach down to the man's suit trousers, open the fly, his white gloved hand running up and down the suited thigh. This was his tip, and he had to be grateful.

The Man was forceful, fucking his cock down the bellboy's mouth. He saw no reason to be gentle - he had rented this room. He would use the mouth until it was worn out.

In the penetration, the intrusion, of the cock thrusting into his throat, cum shooting down his gullet, Oliver didn't notice the last few cards falling out of his uniform. All but one was face down. The nine of hearts dissipated into smoke.

Nine of Hearts - Forever mine

Rags stuffed into his mouth. A tight gag only allowed grunts and moans to be heard.

But this was odd, the world almost felt clear. Like new glasses, like he was seeing the world in perfect view. It felt real. He was in his body again, his old body, the gardener who fell into the magician's trap! But he was bound.

"Do you remember this is how you came into my service, boy?" The Master! The warlock! His voice echoed in his brain!

"It was extremely easy. I offered you a job, a landscaping contract. You arrived to my manor wearing this old suit hoping to make a deal. Did you find this thing in the back of your wardrobe? Was the last time you wore it a wedding or something?"

Oliver struggled with his bonds, screaming for help. Maybe this was it, maybe this was his shot at escape?

"All I did was make these bonds a part of you. A few incantations: A gag binding you from speaking out; the handcuffs on your wrists manacling you from leaving my side; the tie locking you into my service, and a simple instruction to forget the day you landed in my lap. But it could not do everything: the spell did a good job of binding your body but not your mind.

"And I couldn't have that. So I fooled you, left this forbidden spell out for you to see. This is a lesson until how it works: each card you draw binds you deeper and deeper into my service. Every path leads to the same fixed point: being my boy. And I am your guide, each reality shaped by my control. This is the hand you've been dealt.

"The tricky thing with mind magic is that it must be done willingly. Or, at least, obliviously - they certainly didn't teach Latin in your school, did they? For your mind to be taken, you had to cast it yourself. And you fell into my trap."

Oliver's gag silenced his curses. The ties tightened against his wrists. He didn't know, he couldn't have known, how was it fair? There had to be another shot? But a part of him, his mind wondered, would it be so bad to submit? He's been journeying so long... no, no! He yelled into the muffling cloth, trying to muster up the willpower to fight.

The Master continued: "I suppose this reality must have been if my incantations didn't work. You'd be left here, suited and bound. But that is not what happened, did it? You fell into my power. Perhaps there will always be a part of your mind in this room, tied to a chair and screaming into a gag. Perhaps it will vanish like all the others. I have no idea, I've never personally performed a spell to bind my mind into servitude.

"I don't know why you're struggling so much, boy, you wanted this. You chanted, you pleaded to the universe to make you want to fall on bended knee to me. But no matter, once this is over, this reality, this past, this memory, will be so silenced there will be no concern."

Oliver gave up his efforts to struggle, the will to resist receding deep into a far corner of his mind. The new Oliver surrendered to the bound rope, and began to feel levels of pleasure he had never expected. Perhaps this was where he belonged, locked.

"But for now the last cards, the last realities, the last vestiges of your mind, boy, before you find your way back to me. Education, and then punishment, and you won't like either of them very much. Shall we see what the next card holds, hmm?"

Ten of Spades - Way back when men were men and boys were boys.

The cock crowed. Sunrise. Another 18-hour workday. Another day as footman. Today was the day Mr Cook the head butler would take him under his wing. He would learn everything there was to know about being an upper servant.

Chosen for his height, like all footmen, his goal was to be as attractive as he could be because it made the Lord of the Manor look better in comparison. He was a peacock feather, a prize. On his dress coat, brass buttons stamped with the lord's crest. He wore pumps, and three stockings, to make it look as if he had stronger legs than he did. His first training would be serving as valet to the eldest son, who was now 18, who liked to kick mud at the maids.

It would be long and difficult, serving the bratty boy. But it was his command.

"Boy, it is time you take the next step," the head butler told him. "You may be earning 26 pounds right now as your annual salary, but when you've completed your training perhaps in 1907 you could be earning double that. It is time you get your head down and learn. Now, I took the liberty of going through your bed and closet in the hallway - barren like a good boy's should be - save these."

In the head butler's hands, a deck of cards.

"Games like this are a distraction, boy. You will get these back when you've completed your training."

"Yes, of course, Sir," Jenkins said.

"Very good boy, now let's start."

Being a tall, handsome liveried footman, his posture always erect, his hair powdered on grand occasions, who learned the rules of etiquette. His role was to bring a certain prestige and status. He grew to enjoy it, and take pride.

Sometimes there was a lingering thought in his mind that it was not right, it was odd that he be at the service of another but he batted it away like errant dust. For there was always work to be done.

And finally, it did, a couple years past, his young Master had begun courting and was deserving of an under-butler. Jenkins had learned his role, always obedient and acquiescent, always ready to say yes to commands.

"You deserve these back, boy," the head butler said, handing back the set of cards Jenkins hadn't seen in many a season. "You've been a good boy. You've shown great promise. But do not let me see you now distracting the maids or stable boys."

"I won't, Sir. In fact, I'll dispose of these forthwith, Sir," Jenkins said, taking the cards with his gloved hands.

But the head butler glared, a suggestion - take a card?

Jack of Hearts - No jacking off, boy, not now, not ever.

"Your first cage, how does it feel boy?"

"It's all yours, Sir. I feel...pathetic. It's just a pathetic little nub. It feels so good, Sir. You own me, Sir. You own it, Sir. You own my nub."

"No erections, no orgasms, you're just my little sub now who can only get off by pleasing me."

"Yes, Sir, please let me please you, Sir."

"I can see you're straining a little bit in that cage even now - you'll have to settle down or it will hurt, boy."

"I'm trying, Sir, your hands, your body, you, I'm just so turned on, Sir."

"Well it doesn't matter how you feel boy, it's how you serve. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Now I'm going to keep the key - no more erections, no orgasms, just control - understand boy?"

"Yes Sir!" Oliver was just a needy slut who needed a strong dominant man to take control of his nub. He saw that now. This was the man he needed, no wanted. His brain raced to find memories of longing to serve this man, dreaming about becoming one of his boys. He wanted to be in one of his cages, the key added to his ring, as part of his harem. His need would only grow as his horniness grew, hoping he would impress with his obedience, and be rewarded with his Master's cum.

He understood what had come before. The previous realities: the gym bunny, the intern, the mafia goon, had coalesced. They were a part of him like past lives. His mind had flashed back, now in the present, and all he craved with his Sir to penetrate, to fuck, to degrade, to bind and tie him. He saw the deck of cards stacked next to his folded-up belongings, but he ignored them. For now, his Sir's cock had needs, and he was the submissive little bitch boy who was going to service him.

Queen of Diamonds - Forever pristine, forever clean, forever bound

Oliver stared at himself in the mirror - his forehead frozen, his jaw sore, his lips plumped. He was a human doll - a trophy, only there to look pretty. His face looked uncanny, familiar but off. His mind resigned to the idea his body was not his own. Every hair below his ear had already been lasered- the silky suit draped over him tailored to his washboard abs and muscular chest. If his Sir wanted him to get more plastic surgery, then so be it. His jawbone was shaved, and his arse was injected with silicone. His most latest treatments. Even though his body ached, he longed to work as hard as he could in the gym. For he knew even though he had been plucked and primped and dressed to his owner's exacting standards, any moment he could be replaced. That was the life of a trophy boy. Any moment his owner could spot a younger boy, someone he wanted, who could replace him.

This was the darkest of all realities, he realised. His service was the most temporary, the most fleeting. Yes, today, he was the pretty boy on the CEO's arm, sitting quietly at dinners and banquets and soirees. Yes, he had learned piano, studied French, and took up etiquette. But his Sir's eyes would one day wander.

The thought of it terrified him - he craved full-time ownership, he realised. Not just an employee, not just a sex slave, but to be owned, shaped, controlled, instructed. Someone who needed to be served, cared for, for as long as he lived, and he would do so as long as he was obedient.

He began to remember to so many lifetimes ago, before the Edwardian manor, before the mafia boss, even before the frat. He did have a Master, didn't he? But he abandoned him, who only asked him to do as he was told. This man had gifted him a lifetime of servitude and he ran away. How could he?

His surgically altered face struggled to show expression, but if you were to come across the trophy boy in his white tie and tails, all you would see would be a doll, a mannequin, broken. All he longed for was to be of use - forever.

Wait: a final card! He drew it from his suit jacket pocket and turned it over to see the face: a purple king. No suit - no house - just a Master sitting on his throne. It flashed with light - blinding the boy - returning him from whence he came.

The Purple King - Bend your knee

Jenkins stood at attention behind the Master, whose eyes danced with the light of the fire, still twisting and playing with the small quartz in his fingertips.

The servant tuxedo uniform and white gloves felt like comfort. Just a few moments had passed in this reality, the grandfather clock had told him so, but his mind was changed, altered, made. He'd reached the end of the road and found what he was looking for. He would dedicate his life to service, forever.

"Master, can I tell you something?"

"Of course, boy."

Jenkins stammered a little. "I dedicate my life to you, Master, in body, mind and spirit. I will do whatever I can to make your life easier, Master. Just please, let me be your servant forever. I will do anything, Master, as long as I can serve you."

He had taken the journey to get there. From a bumbling intern to a body-building slut to a broken doll, he realised he was happiest where he was now. His mind was certain - he would be a good boy.

The Master smiled. He won - he owned the servant in body and in mind. In his magical hands he grasped into the ether, touched the strings of reality, and created. The crystal in his fingers vanished. And with the sleight of hand he drew out the conjuration - a bowtie violet that shimmered in the firelight.

"This is the final Ace up my sleeve. It is a present for you boy, for completing your journey to get here, for learning well. This is your bowtie - your badge of office - to wear always."

Jenkins began to tear up in gratitude.

"This bowtie is enchanted, for it binds me to you as well, understand? I've taken a liking to you boy. The stars have directed it. See, this bowtie creates a bond, its knot tying us together, forever as Master and servant. Gentleman and boy. Lord and butler of this manor."

As Jenkins tied the silk around his neck, he could feel the collar clasp shut. The knot locking. The power binding him. And then, it was complete. He felt whole, with drive and action, purpose and conviction. Forever obedient.

"Forever bound, forever in service. In perpetuum ligatus. In perpetuum servus. You've found your purpose, haven't you boy?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

Without even a word, just a gesture, they understood each other, the Master ushered the boy with the purple bowtie round his neck to get on his knees. The servant would thank the Master for his gift, again and again and again.

[hypnostone]

A Simple Errand

It should be so easy to go outside in uniform, but for a formally dressed slave it becomes a firework of forbidden fears and fantasies.

When I meet a boy, in public, they get a taste. I expect them to come dressed as if they were at an interview for an office with the strictest of conservative dress codes. I expect a smart haircut, shaven or well-groomed facial hair, a sleek suit and a well-knotted tie with shined shoes. This is an opportunity to be trained by a Master of the sartorial, boy, I expect to be impressed. I will watch from the back a moment, them nervously waiting clutching the knot of their tie to make sure it's tight against the top button, hunched over a barely drunk coffee, hoping they suit my standards.

I tell them to call me Sir, I like it when boys call me Sir, and to certainly not whisper as we speak and begin to understand each other.

I can always tell when a boy is exploding with the possibilities: their mind is altered by formalwear. The tie makes them sit straighter. A modern day tight bondage. It is not a strange sight to see two suited-up businessmen in a coffee shop, it should be so relaxed, but the secrecy of the sexual energy of two formally dressed kinky men is enough to be sensed by anyone.

But that is why I take pity on the boy. Once he is given a uniform and is expected to wear it with his Master when performing chores or sexual service, the idea of taking it outside for the world to see is something else. It is no longer just a suit, it is a uniform. It is not only business attire, it is the shirt and tie you've been fucked in. And then if you want to push it further, wearing a servant's uniform in public? It is more erotic than any lingerie or thong in my mind - tailors knew what they were doing when the suit was invented in making any masculine presenting person so much more attractive.

The clinch is - it still rides the line of a possible out, there could be a plausible reason to be outside dressed that way. You're not a rubber puppy on all fours offending the pearl-clutchers. You're not in a harness and jockstrap making the prudes outraged. You're just in a very specific, very formal suit. Perhaps you've got a new job? Or you're going to a fancy party? Or you're an extra working on some Downton Abbey style production? Or, possibly, lying under that suit is a blushing submissive boy dressed by his Sir electrified by being ordered to wear what he instructed in public? It's no wonder Sirs cage boys to stop them from embarrassing themselves.

This is why, at least for the first time, we take small steps. Perhaps at first to that coffee shop where we met. Or to pick up Sir's dry cleaning. Or to walk my dog. But the more steps the boy takes in uniform, the secret feels like it's out: people can see him for the submissive formal bitch boy he is. If people were to see him, they would know any order they made he would have to obey.

Sometimes I'm feeling kind and gift them a face mask that attempts to anonymise them. Perhaps that acquaintance, that old school friend or work colleague, didn't spot you dressed up as a formal servant slave in the street? But sooner or later, be proud of the uniform that tells the world who you are. Could you identify as the formally dressed owned boy you want to be? For if you are to be successful in your position, that must mean performing the Master's errands. No one is saying it doesn't take a bit of bravery. Are you up for the challenge?

Alt pics:

[hypnostone]

I'm Mr James' chauffeur

I’m Mr James’ chauffeur.

It didn’t start like that of course. Just about a year ago the Labour Exchange sent me here as a handy-man and to be honest I wasn’t even qualified for that. I wouldn’t have come but if I hadn’t they’d have stopped my assistance, so no choice really. To begin with it was two days a week helping My Robinson, Mr James’ butler, with the heavier jobs about the house. Moving the furniture so the floors could be polished, that sort of thing. Then polishing those floors.  I wasn’t keen on it, but then it was cash and not hard work so I went back every week for a couple of months.

Then one day just as Mr Robinson was making a sandwich for our us in the scullery the bell rang and he left, bread still unbuttered, to answer it. He was back in less than a minute and said ”God knows why but Mr James wants to see you. Come along!”

So I followed him upstairs and into the dining room where Mr James was still sitting at the table even though lunch had been cleared some time before.

”Robinson tells me that you’re a good boy.”

I was somewhat taken aback by the ”boy”, but replied ”I hope so.”

Robinson murmured in my ear ”Address Mr James as ‘sir’ Bobby.”

”And he says that you can drive?”

”Yes sir.”

”I’m  dining out this evening, the other side of town.  Would you be willing to drive me there, wait and then bring me home again? There’d be ten shillings in it for you.”

”Yes sir. I’d be please to.”

”Very good.” Turning to Robinson he added ”See that the boy gets some tea before I go.” and waved us out of the room.

The driving was easy. Mr James gave directions and when we reached his destination told me to put the car in the news lane and wait until sent for. About 11 o'clock a footman tapped on the window and told me to take the car around to the front door and as I drew up to the kerb Mr James came down the steps from the front door and got in saying ”Home boy.”

He didn’t speak another word until we reached his house when he got out at the front door. ”Very good, boy.  Put the car in the garage then go home.  Robinson will pay you tomorrow.  Oh,” he added ”For next time you should wear a tie.”

True to his word Robinson handed me two half-crowns when I arrived the following morning. I had a tie in my pocket but it wasn’t called for that day or the next week.  When it was it was much like the first occasion except that this time Mr James’ parting comment was ”You really should be in a white shirt boy.”

There were a couple more evenings like that then one day Mr James interrupted us as we were moving the hall table saying ”Get the car out boy, front door. Chop chop!”

When he got in he said ”Harrods.  And I thought I told you to wear a white shirt boy?”

”I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid that I don’t have one.”

”Hm.”

I drove to Harrods and waited an hour or so before he came back. When he got in he said ”Marble Arch. Park the car somewhere near the bottom of Baker Street.” which I did but this time he told me to get out, lock the car and follow him. I did so and he lead me into Marks and Spencer, up to the first floor and the Men’s Wear department.

”What’s your collar size boy?”

”Fifteen sir.”

”Go fetch one of those basket things.”

I went and picked up a basket. When I found Mr James again he was standing by the shelves of shirts.  He picked out half a dozen bright white nylon shirts, tossing them one at a time into the basket I was holding.  He walked across to a display of ties, picked out two black ones and beckoning me closer, added them on top of the shirts.

In silence he strode off to the cash desk with me training him.  There he instructed that they be added to his account, signed the chitty and gesturing for me to pick up the packed bag, walked out onto the street and back to the car.

”There,” he said as he settled into the back seat, ”Those will make you a little more presentable when driving me.”

I was flabbergasted.  Six shirts at 35/- each and the ties had been 11/6.  I couldn’t possibly have afforded that but Mr James didn’t say any more so I drove him home praying that he’d not ask me to pay for them.

When we reached My James’ house he told me to garage the car and go in the back and take the bag to Robinson.

Mr Robinson emptied the bag onto the kitchen table and told me to unwrap the shirts.  As I did he explained.

”Mr James wants you here from Monday to Saturday from now on. You’ll get twelve pounds and ten shillings a week and meals.”

It struck me that he wasn’t asking if I’d like to, just telling me.  More than that ”12 10/- would be less a day than I was already getting.  But six days rather than two or three would be more money, so I shrugged and said ”Yes Mr Robinson.”

”Here Bobby, bring those things.”  He took me into the boot room beyond the scullery and told me to put the shirts and ties in a cupboard. ”From now on when you arrive you’ll come in here and change.  Clean shirt every day. Be ready in the kitchen by 8am. Understood?”

”Yes Mr Robinson.”

End of the day is 6pm when you’ll get your tea unless Mr James wants you to drive him in the evening. Dirty shirts in that box” he said pointing, ”Mary does staff laundry on Tuesdays and Fridays so there’s no excuse for being grubby.  Wash in the sink if need be.”

I wasn’t too impressed by that, the boot room sink, a giant thing set low, only had a cold tap but I said ”Yes Mr Robinson” as was clearly expected.

So it went the next few weeks.  If anything being there every day meant the work was actually less tiring and I’d spend time helping the gardener when there was nothing else to do.  Mr James had me drive him three or four times a week, but no bonuses now I was waged staff even when it kept me out well into the small hours.  Then one morning he had me drive him to Little Marlborough Street and park behind Liberty’s but instead of going in as he had on previous occasions he told me to accompany him and walked around the corner into Carnaby Street.

We stopped at an unsigned open door and went in, immediately down stairs into a basement tailor’s shop.

There was the tailor, tape measure around his neck, chalks peeping out of his waistcoat pocket and clearly he knew Mr James.

”Good morning sir.  How may we be of assistance this morning?

”Morning Mr Burran.  This young man,” he said pointing at me, ”Needs a uniform.  Would you measure him up?”

”Of course Sir.  What,” he asked as he started applying the tape measure to me ”Do you require?”

”Driver.” Mr James replied shortly. ”Full tunic.  Front bib.  High collar.  Breeches.”

”Very good Sir.” Mr Burran said, ”May Paul show you some fabric choices?”

As the measuring went on with Mr Burran seemingly using his tape on every probably and improbable part of me, pausing to make notes in a little pocket book and muttering to himself.  By the time he’d finished Mr James was waiting by the door.  

”It’ll be ready when?”

”By four this afternoon Sir, if you wish.”

”Good enough.  I’ll send the boy.”

Indeed a about half past three Mr Robinson told me to get off to the the tailor’s.  Walking I arrived just after 4 o'clock and Mr Burren shooed me into the back where his assistant was ready with the uniform.  I’d not had the chance to see the fabric that Mr James had chosen that morning so it was a surprise.  A fairly coarse weave in a lustrous blue-black, it was shiny under the fluorescent tubes of the work-room with matte black buttons.  Paul, the assistant, handed me the trousers which were strange: very high waisted, flaring out at the thighs, narrow tubes below the knee.

I hesitated looking for a changing room so Paul said ”You don’t get to use the cubicles in the shop, you’ll have to put them on here.” So I did, embarrassed because he was standing there making no pretence that he wasn’t looking.  I put my shoes back on and the trouser bottom didn’t quite meet, showing too much sock and making me regret I’d put electric blue ones on that morning.

Paul opened the tunic and handed it to me. ”You’ll have to put it on yourself so you might as well start now.” It was fairly tight and the material thinner than I’d expected with neither lining or interlining.  Paul showed me how to hook the collar so the shirt collar and tie just showed above it and the middle just to keep it together then gave me the bib, instructing how it should be buttoned up each side covering the front of the tunic.  The whole thing was exceedingly snug and definitely form fitting except for a little flare below the waist where it covered the breeches.

”It’s tight.” I complained. ”Is it supposed to be like that?”

”Yes.”  He laughed a little.  ”It’ll make you sit to attention behind the wheel and stand to attention when holding a door.  That’s the point.”

I’d not yet held open a car door, presumably this would be something I’d have to do from now on.

Paul tugged everything apparently not satisfied that the uniform has been put on quite correctly. Eventually he stood back and said ”It’ll do.  Bugger off then.”

It seemed that I wasn’t expected to change back so I picked up my trousers, folded them over my arm and left to walk back to Mr James’ house.

Mr Robinson explained that the tunic jacket was just for outside when with Mr James. Other than that I’d continue to work in shirt-sleeves as before.  I didn’t drive Mr James that evening and the following morning he wasn’t in evidence.  Instead Mr Robinson took me on a bus to Kilbun to a cobbler where I got a pair of tall black boots to go with the breeches.

A few days later Mr James called for the car and having brought it to the front I got out and stood ready to open the car door for him as he came out of the house.

When he was settled in the back I closed the door and returned to the driver’s seat.

”Good boy.  You’re learning and I’m pleased.”

The 'boy’ still rankled a little but in all the weeks since I’d arrived that house these were the first complimentary words Mr James had ever spoken to me. I felt ridiculously happy and grinning only just managed a quiet ”Thank you sir.”

It was a week later when Mr James had me drive him to his barbers on Chester Row.  As was often the case I waited in the car but Mr James did not appear. Instead one of the barber’s boys came out and told me I was wanted inside.

There was Mr James sitting in an armchair and the barber waiting with a cape over his arm.

”Take your jacket off boy and into the chair with you.”

I was a bit surprised but did as I was told.  The barber’s assistant took my jacket while the barber swung his chair around to face me and indicated that I should sit which I did.

”Sit back” he said and then pulled the nylon cape around my neck securing it tightly and smoothing it down over me.

Mr James rose from his seat and approached.

”Now, I want something very smart and short.” He said.

”Er…” I started.

”Be quiet boy, you’ve nothing to say here.”

So I kept silent while Mr James and the barber discussed options.

”It’ll have to be washed.” Said the barber with a distinct sneer as he fingered the top of my head.

”Yes, yes.  Now I want it short, traditional but very short you know?”

The conversation went on quite some time with all sorts of options considered while the barber increasing moved my head around seemingly demonstrating things although held not yet picked up any scissors.

I’d stopped paying attention and was day-dreaming a bit thus it came as a surprise as the barber adjusted the angle of the chair then without warning released some catch so I was tipped back over the sink and he began to wash my hair.

This was a new experience for me and despite the barber being a bit rough and the water just a bit too hot I was enjoying it when he wrapped a towel around my head and levered the chair-back into an upright position again.

A brief but vigorous rub with the rough towel, which was discarded for the assistant to pick up, the barber reached into the top pocket of his nylon jacket for comb and scissors.  He started right in without turning the chair so I couldn’t see a mirror, just the rear wall of the shop and out of the corner of my eye Mr James in the armchair watching what was happening.

After a first trim the barber reached for the clippers and pushing my head forward began clipping the hair of the back of my neck and head.  Then, holding the top of my head firmly he twisted me to one side to continue. First one side then the other, getting higher and higher until I was seriously worried I’d be shaved bald.

I wasn’t of course.  The barber set the clippers down and positioning me to his satisfaction again took up the scissors, combing, pulling my hair tight and cutting, cutting, cutting.

Eventually he stopped and there was a pause.  I didn’t see what he did next so was a bit surprised when he pushed my head forward again and started scraping my neck with a strait-bladed razor.  He went all the way round with the blade and although I still couldn’t see what was going on I could feel the cold air on bare scalp well up the back of my head an above my ears in a way that was quite alarming.  Lastly he combed and parted my hair and used the razor again on the parting line.

Eventually he finished with the razor and his lad brought him a small hot towel with which he wiped me down, more like wiping down a kitchen counter than a customer.  But then I suppose that I wasn’t really the customer, Mr James was.

He reached for something on the shelf behind and I saw it was a bottle.  He poured lavender brilliantine not into his palm but directly onto my head and then worked the oil in thoroughly.  Taking the comb he again combed my hair into place and, wiping his hands on a towel, turned to Mr James.

”Will that do sir?”

”Yes, excellent, thank you.” Turning to me, ”Well get up boy! Get your jacket on.”

I did as I was told as Mr James looked on and for the first time got to look at myself in a mirror.

I was quite shocked for a second.  I had the shortest short back and sides that I’d ever seen.  The hair didn’t start until well above the top of my ears leaving them sticking out all too obviously.  But the top wasn’t short; quite the opposite. My black hair was parted with a stark white line and the brilliantine oil made it shine as much as my uniform!

”What do you say boy?”

”Er, I don’t know Sir.” I murmured trying to suggest some doubt about the style.

”What you say is 'Thank you Mr Evis, sir’ and that’s what you’ll say every fortnight from here on. Got it?”

”Yes sir, sorry sir.  Thank you Mr Evis sir.” I said to the barber and then at Mr James’ gesture hurried out of the shop to unlock the car and hold the door for him.

Back at the house Mr Robinson looked approvingly at me and said ”That’s better. Now your room.”

”My room Mr Robinson?”  

”Yes Bobby, your room. Didn’t Mr James tell you?  He wants you living in from now on.”

”No Mr Robinson, he didn’t mention this.”

”Well you will be.  Your wages go down of course, it’ll be three pounds five shillings a week from now on, but all found.”

”What does that mean Mr Robinson and why so little? I’m not sure I can work for that.”

”All found means you get a roof over your head, all your meals and your clothes bought for you so you see you’ll have no expenses.  Chances are that it’ll leave you more money in your pocket than before, only it won’t be in your pocket.”

”What do you mean Mr Robinson?”

”Do you have a bank account Bobby?”

”No Mr Robinson.”

”I’m not surprised.  A bank account will be opened in your name and your wages paid into it.  I’m instructed to keep the bank book and let you have a reasonable amount if you need it.  Of course only if I think Mr James will approve whatever you intend to do with it.”

”Oh.” I said, more than a little bewildered as Mr Robinson lead me downstairs to the cellar, past the store rooms to a door at the end which he opened onto a room with a small window at the top of the wall, a single bed, a chest of draws, a small wardrobe and a sink on the wall.

”Right Bobby, you can bring your clean shirts down from the boot room then tomorrow morning after breakfast you may take the bus to your lodgings and collect anything you need. Not much I hope, you don’t need much and I don’t want you cluttering up the place.  Mr James will supply what is necessary.  You understand?”

”Yes Mr Robinson.”

”Good Bobby, now off you go and fetch down your shirts and then you wait in the servants room until you’re called. Get on with you.”

So I went.

And that’s how, bit by bit as it were, I became Mr James’ chauffeur and man of all work.

[hypnostone]

An Author's Note On AI (or an Excuse For A Photo Dump)

I know no one wants to really read a diatribe about the ethics of AI technology and the impact on self-image on a formalwear and kink-themed erotica blog. And I promise, just this once, you can ignore the words if you wish and just scroll through these (mostly) computer-created pictures. If you do read it, I'd be thrilled to hear your thoughts in the comments/messages.

So... what man looks like that? It is an algorithm's idea of male perfection, dressed and styled according to an instruction. I certainly don't look like that no matter how much I try. 99.99% of men in the world don't look like this either. In a sense, the unsettling thing with AI models are they are 'too perfect': Flawless skin, superhero cleft chin, hair always coiffed, high cheekbones etc. They're digital Ken dolls, there to be dressed as any mannequin. Could it damage someone's self-image?

But then it is also prone to odd mistakes. The above would be a perfect picture inspiration for a story, but why is there a random white glove on the Master here?

And in this, the button spacing is all off. (Plus I'm not sure that mammary-inspired cloche could exist in reality).

The reason why AI image creation is so exciting to me is threefold: one, I don't worry as much about real people being depicted with fictional stories, two, I prefer to write to my own idea than to depend on coming across the right picture, and three, it can be fucking hot. People have asked why I've come back after years, and the ease of creating images is a part of it. I could just post stories without pictures, but that's not really how this platform works. A picture tells a thousand words is an old adage for a reason. Like I imagine with the above this Master is smug having overpowered a former rival, who is forced now to wear a butler's uniform and obey his commands. His real self is behind a cage in his mind screaming, unable to stop watching his body from performing any and all requests, unable to stop himself from saying 'Yes, Sir', unable to stop himself from opening his Master's fly and performing his duties if told... (You get a little story as a treat, for being a good boy and reading all this.)

With a slight tweak to the script, I can change this from two handsome footmen standing at attention...

...to them being on their knees.

My argument for using it would be that this blog is an original work (the writing), other than the reblogs, and the AI imagery is an assistant tool. I also wish any creator, behind the data mine of photography which this technology has snapped up, stolen, and sampled, could be compensated by the big Silicon Valley companies. I guess the reason I'm writing this is to explain why the blog will be a bit different.

Ultimately I do wish to remind people that like the above image a touch of reality, even twisted into fantasy, is always hotter. This picture appeared in my viral post about servant positions (taken down/flagged by Tumblr, I believe, for god knows what reason considering the filth that was left up). This guy graduated from the International Butler Academy and is presumably somewhere serving some CEO on a private island.

Or this from @manservants, otherwise known as ChastitySuitAndTie: a lovely handsome guy I've met in person who I hope is doing very well. He took this alluring image of him being a houseboy, who changed into a servant's uniform to carry out chores while his roommates went out to party. I bet his cock was as hard as could be (which it might struggle with being confined to a cage) when he took this photo. Writing and reading fantasies is fun, and god knows we need to do what we can to get through the everyday, but the reality can give you material for life for self-pleasure.

So this formalwear kinkster encourages you to take that leap and play if and when you can. And don't be concerned if you don't look like an AI image or an airbrushed Instagram model (those people photoshop their pictures so much it might as well be AI). And well, if it turns out a slight push is all that is needed to create more formalwear slaves in the world, the better.

A final thought. Perfect isn't a reality: so imperfection will always be better because it can actually exist. But it can't go on forever. So in the meantime, for fun, we've got fantasies.

[hypnostone]

❤️ Philippe Bélanger