Houseboys

“Do you even understand what this company is built on, Dan?”

I was enraged.  My voice cut through the office like a scalpel. Across my polished oak desk, the VP of Marketing sat rigid, hands gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles blanched. He was humiliated, and I was making sure he’d never forget it.

“Execution. Precision. Control. That’s what I taught you. And yet, here we are, talking about this... this embarrassment.”

Dan swallowed. “It was a minor—”

“It was a disaster,” I corrected, pounding my fist on the desk. “A rounding error is minor. A drunk night with your intern is minor. A botched campaign that tanks investor confidence? That’s negligence.”

Dan opened his mouth to speak and immediately closed it again.

I glanced at the gleaming watch on my wrist. 4:55. I levelled my gaze at the overpaid nitwit.

"Here’s what you’re going to do. First, issue a revised statement—acknowledge the oversight, but spin it as a strategic pivot. Second, quietly survey our key demographics and find out exactly where this misfire hit hardest. We need targeted outreach to smooth this over. And last, get the design team to mock up a new campaign – tonight. I want options on my desk by 8 a.m.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. My tone was cold, clipped. A verdict already passed.

“Now get the hell out of my office.”

Dan didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried out, his only purpose in life now was defusing this bomb. If I smiled tomorrow morning, maybe he’d keep his job.

I barely waited for the door to shut before snapping my briefcase open and stuffing in a disorderly stack of reports. The edges crumpled, but I didn’t care. It was time to go. I threw on my coat, tugging the sleeves down in impatient jerks, and strode toward the elevator.

“Sir?” One of my assistants. Tony?  Or Tommy?

“What?” I snapped.

“Just checking—did you still want the Q3 deck formatted the old way, or should we update it to the newest brand guidelines?” He held up a printed sheet.  Trivial garbage. Normally I’d rip him a new one for fun, but it was 4:59.

“It’s fine,” I said as the elevator chimed.

I stepped inside just as the second hand ticked forward.

The doors slid shut. I almost didn’t make it.

I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls. A breath hitched in my throat. My posture faltered. My shoulders curled forward, like something inside me had snapped. I tried to meet my own gaze, but couldn’t. My pulse throbbed in my neck. My fingers twitched at my sides.

A shudder ran down my spine. Something had changed.

My chest caved inward, and my chin instinctively dipped down. My shoulders slumped. My hands hovered uselessly, hesitantly, fingers curling slightly like I was unsure where to put them. Even my breathing had changed—shallower, uncertain, as if I were waiting for permission to exist.

I dared another glance at my reflection, but my own eyes seemed foreign, hesitant, almost pleading. I looked smaller. Weaker. I swallowed, but the lump in my throat didn’t move. My heartbeat was no longer steady—it was erratic, fluttering like a trapped bird. My feet pressed together instinctively, like a child awaiting reprimand.

Whatever confidence had filled me mere moments ago was gone, leaving only a hollow shell in its place.

I needed my uniform. I needed to obey.

The parking garage was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents casting a pale, clinical glow on the concrete floor. My car idled near the exit, the driver already holding the back door open, his expression inscrutable.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward, my shoes clicking against the floor. I’d be okay. He wasn’t the best chauffeur, but he was paid well for his discretion.

I slid into the back seat, clearing my throat as I adjusted my briefcase on my lap. "Take me to Master... please."

"Yes, sir.”

The words sent a ripple through me, something uncomfortable. Something wrong. Sir. I wasn't a sir. A boy like me shouldn’t ever be called sir.

I stared blankly out the window as the driver moved smoothly into traffic. The partition between us slid up, granting me solitude. I exhaled, my breath fogging the cool glass as I watched the city dissolve into sprawling suburbs and, eventually, open countryside.

Half an hour later, we passed through the iron gates of the estate, a long driveway illuminated by the soft glow of antique streetlamps. The mansion loomed ahead, its grand facade a silent monument to the life I had built.

But we didn’t stop there. That wasn’t my life anymore. The driver didn’t need to be told.

He knew where I was going.

We passed the main house, following the curve of the driveway around the side until the pool house came into view. It was a small structure, tucked away from prying eyes, and yet, it was the only place that truly felt like home.

I stepped out, smoothing the front of my coat as I glanced toward the mansion’s darkened windows. I should look my best, just in case he glanced out the window.

"Thank you," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

The driver nodded once, then pulled away, leaving me standing alone in the quiet dusk.

--------------

Inside the pool house, I placed my briefcase on the table near the door. A CEO needs to go home with his briefcase, but it’s only for show. I wouldn’t be needing it again until the driver picked me up in the morning.

What I needed was a shower. The routine was second nature by now. I stripped off my suit with care, hanging each piece neatly for the cleaners. The tie was last, sliding through my fingers before I hung it on the rack.

I twisted on the shower and inhaled steam. The transformation began.

My persona washed away.

And with it, a deep, quiet relief settled over me. The tension that had gripped my shoulders, the rigid posture I had held all day, all of it melted and washed down the drain. I allowed myself a moment of luxury, letting myself enjoy the feeling of freedom.

A fresh towel to dry my body. A dime of hair clay between my fingers. A spritz of his favourite cologne over my naked chest.

Black fishnets slid up my legs, their tight weave hugging my skin in a way that made me shiver. The delicate compression was grounding, a firm yet gentle reminder of who I was in this space. As I smoothed them over my thighs, I felt my breath slow, the frantic energy of the day dissipating with the ritual.

A pair of shorts followed—black, about three inches long, with white piping along the seams. They fit snugly against my hips. The tightness gave me a quiet thrill, a soft pulse of anticipation beating beneath my ribs. I ran my fingers along the waistband, ensuring everything was perfectly aligned, perfectly presentable.

The shirt was a delicate lace, almost sheer, the intricate patterns barely concealing the skin beneath. As I buttoned it, a warmth spread through my chest— I felt deliciously vulnerable. I added the black pinstripe vest. I buttoned it carefully, then fastened my white bow tie.

A few finishing touches—a subtle blush of makeup across my cheeks, blending carefully to create the perfect illusion of youth. My fingers trembled slightly as I sculpted my hair. My daytime role demanded a professional combover, but now I could style it into a beautiful pompadour.

And finally, the black pumps. Slipping them on was an act of finality, of submission, of stepping fully into the part of myself that had waited patiently to emerge. As I straightened up, adjusting to the shift in balance, an empty grin settled on my face.

This was where I belonged, settling into this familiar stance.

Then, the bell rang.  Calling me to work.

I didn’t hesitate. I turned from the mirror, smoothing my vest one last time, and stepped toward the mansion.

-----------

The servant’s door creaked slightly as I pushed it open. The air was cooler here, the scent of polished wood and old books filling my senses. My heels clicked softly against the tile floor as I made my way toward his study.

The door was open just a crack, and through it, I could hear the hum of conversation. Master Lake’s voice was calm, assured. Another voice—softer, uncertain—responded hesitantly. I took a steadying breath and stepped inside.

Master Lake lounged in a high-backed leather chair, legs crossed, an arm draped casually over the armrest. He exuded the effortless dominance that I had come to know so well. Across from him sat a man about his age, mid-twenties, one knee bouncing up and down. His eyes flicked to me as I entered the room, and I saw the way his posture stiffened, his lips parting slightly in shock.

“Holy shit,” he blurted, staring at me as I stood by the door, hands folded neatly in front of me, waiting for instruction. “That’s Jack Simpson. He’s the CEO of—”

Master Lake cut him off smoothly. “During the day? Yeah, you’re right.” He leaned forward, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “But nights and weekends?” His gaze flicked toward me. “He belongs to me.  Say hello to Kyle... boy.”

“Hello sir,” I said, giving Master’s guest a half-bow.  “May I service you in any way?”

The young man—Kyle, I assumed—shook his head, disbelief etched across his features. “That’s impossible. I’ve seen this guy on the news. I’ve seen him on the cover of Newsweek.”

Master Lake chuckled, the sound rich and indulgent. “You believe everything you see in the media, Kyle?” He gestured toward me. “Tell him who you really are.”

I hesitated, the familiar warmth of submission settling over me. My pulse quickened, but not with fear. With something deeper. Something right.

I lowered my eyes and spoke softly. “I’m his.”

"Fix us a drink," Master Lake gestured lazily toward the bar cart in the corner of his study.

I smiled softly to myself, already moving toward the bar, eager to please. I knew exactly how he liked his drinks—just enough whiskey to be sharp, but with a smooth, polished finish. "Yes, sir," I murmured, my steps light as I moved across the room.

“Seriously Kyle, I cracked the code,” Master Lake was saying. “He’s a butler, a provider, a hole... everything I want in a man. Someone who knows their place and loves to follow orders.”

Kyle leaned forward in his chair, his eyes wide with curiosity.

I kept my attention on the drink as I poured, the soft clink of ice filling the silence. I could hear the conversation unfolding, and I listened with quiet interest, always attuned to what might come next.

“And you’re serious?  You mindfucked this guy into being your slave?”

I set the drinks down gently, making sure not to spill a drop.  I waited a moment for further instructions, then headed for my charging station in the corner.  I slipped down my shorts and pushed myself onto the glass dildo, modelled after Master Lake’s cock.

God... that felt so good.

Kyle raised his glass, glancing between Lake and me, his expression a mix of disbelief and awe.

"How did you get him?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “Just walked into his office and snapped your fingers?”

Master Lake chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. He took a slow sip of his drink before answering.

"Simple," he said. Every word made me fall deeper in love with his baritone. "With the right skills, it doesn’t take long. I bumped into him in an airport lounge, waiting for a delayed flight. I could see the tension in him — his body stiff, his eyes darting around, checking the clock. I could tell he hated being out of control. He was the CEO, after all. Too used to calling the shots."

Kyle’s brow furrowed in confusion as he listened. Lake continued, his voice smooth, hypnotic, almost as though he were replaying the moment in his head.

"He didn’t even notice me at first. But I knew. He needed someone to take charge.”

Master Lake leaned forward in his chair, his voice lowering slightly, drawing Kyle in. “It’s just hypnosis.  Just talking. Quietly, but with authority.

“‘Jack,’ I said to him. ‘You’re in a hurry. You’re tense. You’re waiting for something that isn’t in your control. But you can let go. You can let me take over. And when you do, it will feel good. You’ll feel lighter.’"

"And that worked?" Kyle asked skeptically, his grip tightening around his glass.

“His breath slowed. His shoulders dropped just a fraction. I knew then that the door was open."

Kyle glanced at me, then back at Master Lake. He didn’t interrupt.

"I kept talking," Master Lake continued, his voice smug. "Just low enough that he leaned in to hear me. ‘Relax, Jack,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to control anything. Let me do it for you. Just follow my words.’"

Kyle exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “Impossible,” he said.

Lake turned his gaze back to me, the amusement flickering in his eyes. "By the time he left that bathroom, he wasn’t the same man. He was mine."

Kyle blinked, clearly struggling to process the story. His gaze flicked over to me, his brow furrowing as he took in my appearance, still in the carefully curated outfit I wore for Master’s pleasure.

I focussed on the dildo inside me, shifting just enough to tease myself. There was a certain joy in this routine. I was content in my place, in being exactly what was asked of me. There was no doubt in my mind that this was where I belonged.

Kyle scoffed, shaking his head as he gestured toward me. "You can’t just snap your fingers and turn a CEO into… that."

Lake leaned back in his chair, utterly at ease. He shrugged, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a slow sip. "You can’t," he agreed. "I can."

Kyle let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. "Bullshit."

Master arched an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering something trivial. Then he grinned, his expression full of quiet amusement.

"Want one?"

The words were so casual, so effortless, as though he were offering Kyle a drink instead of something far more significant.

"What?" Kyle blinked.

"A houseboy. Just like him.” Master Lake lifted his glass toward him in a silent toast. “C’mon Kyle... I owe you one. When I tried to hypnotize that frat, you’re the guy who kept them from beating the shit outta me. Let me clear the debt.”

Kyle hesitated. His gaze flicked toward me again, taking in my perfect posture, my lowered eyes, my obedient stance. I saw the curiosity flicker behind his skepticism, the intrigue fighting with his better judgment.

"Of course I do," he said finally, his voice lower, more serious. "But there’s no way."

Master Lake smirked as he reached for a tablet resting on the coffee table. With a quick tap, he unlocked it and handed it to Kyle.

"Here," he said. "This is a list of the thousand most powerful CEOs in America. Take your pick."

Kyle took the tablet hesitantly, glancing at the screen. The list was long, each name accompanied by a small profile picture, company name, and estimated net worth. His brows lifted as he scrolled. "You’re serious?" he murmured.

"Completely," Master Lake replied, sipping his whiskey. "A dozen of them are already houseboys, owned by various friends of mine."

Kyle’s eyes widened as he flipped through the profiles. "No way. Who?"

Master Lake chuckled. "I don’t name names, but trust me, you’d be shocked. Of course, a hundred or so are untouchable—I’d never get close enough to Zuckerberg, for example. But that still leaves plenty of choices."

Kyle exhaled, still scrolling. "This is insane. Won’t somebody miss these guys?  They’re like... important?”

“That’s the thing about CEOs,” Master Lake said.   – they don’t have families or friends or anyone who really gives a shit beyond their paycheque.  So long as the shareholders make money, it doesn’t matter if they spend their weekends wearing pink thongs and serving us mimosas.  And besides... a year or two from now, whoever you pick will take a golden parachute, and you’ll get him full time.”

“Him?” Kyle said with a raised eyebrow. “You know I’m not gay, right?”

“Yeah, but statistically... it’ll be a guy. Besides, I only hypnotize guys – the female psyche doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Welcome to my world,” Kyle chuckled.

"Have a browse," Master Lake encouraged, leaning back into his chair. "Take your time."

Kyle did exactly that, his fingers pausing momentarily when he saw a particular face. A sharp jawline, short grey hair, a smirk that exuded pure confidence. He tapped the profile.

Master Lake glanced at the screen and grinned. With another quick tap, the man’s image filled the large TV screen on the wall. "Brian Brewer," Lake read aloud. "Fifty-six. CEO of a rising fintech company. Alpha frat-boy type, and one of the clowns responsible for the 2008 financial crisis. Perfect choice."

“He looks like a football player." Kyle smirked. “One of those jocks who beat me up in high school...”

Master Lake nodded. "He does have that cocky, all-American vibe, doesn’t he? Now, we just need a way to access him..." He trailed off, tapping a finger against his glass thoughtfully.

A moment of silence. Then, from beside them, I cleared my throat.

Master Lake turned. "Yes?"

I lowered my gaze slightly as I spoke. "I know him, sir. Brian Brewer. We met through the alumni network at Columbia. We used to get drinks together every week."

“Seriously?” Kyle looked at me with surprise. “You two were friends?"

Master Lake arched an eyebrow. "Why’d you stop the streak?"

I grinned sheepishly, my cheeks warming slightly.

"To serve you, sir. That’s my priority now."

Master Lake’s smile deepened with satisfaction. "Good boy." He turned back to Kyle. "I think it’s time to re-ignite that connection."

------------

The bar hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of glassware.  A jazz band was playing softly in the corner, backlit by the last rays of sunset. I waited, my gaze lingering on the dim lighting, the familiar polished wood of the bar, the well-dressed clientele murmuring over their cocktails.

This used to be my favourite place. Before everything changed. Before Master.

I’d been arrogant. Self-important. An undisciplined man, badly in need of a superior.  But I’d outgrown that life now. Master had sliced me open and reshaped my mind with surgical precision, healing me into the perfect houseboy you see today.

Dressed in a sharp navy business suit, I sat at a secluded table, my fingers tracing the rim of an untouched whiskey as I waited.

Right on time, Brian Brewer strode in, his presence commanding as always. His tailored suit hugged his athletic frame, his grey hair immaculately styled. He caught sight of me and smirked, making his way over with the same effortless confidence I used to command.

“Jack,” he said smoothly, settling into the chair across from me. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again. Three years. That’s one hell of a hiatus.”

“Yeah,” I smiled, raising my glass slightly in greeting. “I’ve been busy.”

We fell into easy conversation, just like old times. Mergers, acquisitions, industry gossip—Brewer always had something sharp to say, and I listened, nodding at the right moments. Time passed with the slow burn of good scotch. He takes his with ice.  I drink mine neat.

Eventually, Brewer leaned back, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Alright,” he said. “You didn’t call me just to catch up. What’s going on?”

“It’s… sensitive,” I said slowly, choosing my words. “Can we move this to my house? I need to talk off the record.”

Brewer glanced at his watch, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know, Jack. My schedule’s tight.”

“Please,” I said, leaning forward slightly and lowering my voice. “It’s important.”

He studied me for a moment before nodding.

“Alright,” he said finally. “For an old friend.”

-----------

The drive to my house was silent, save for the occasional clink of ice in his scotch.. Brewer sat beside me, his own driver following behind in his car.  Brian’s expression was unreadable, his fingers lightly drumming against his knee. He wasn’t one to be easily rattled, but I could see it—the flicker of curiosity, the faint tension in his jaw. He had no idea what he was walking into.

When we arrived, I led him through the foyer and into the dimly lit salon. The space was sleek, minimalist, with deep leather chairs and a bar cart stocked with top-shelf liquor. Brewer raised an eyebrow as he took it all in.  I poured us both a drink.

He took the glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip.

“Alright, Jack. What’s this all about?”

Before I could answer, another figure stepped into the room — Master Lake. He moved with effortless confidence, his sharp eyes settling on Brewer like a predator appraising its prey. Brewer turned, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected guest.

“Mr. Brewer, I’m Jeremy Lake,” he said, taking my drink from my hand and sipping it. “I’m here to help.”

“Help with what?” Brewer frowned, shifting his weight slightly.

Master Lake merely smiled, taking a seat across from him. “Just a conversation,” he said smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Brewer’s gaze flicked between us, suspicion creeping into his features.

“You two are being weird as hell,” he muttered. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“Tell me, Brian,” Master Lake leaned forward slightly, his voice calm and steady. “Do you believe in the power of suggestion?”

“What is this?” Brewer let out a short laugh. “Some kind of sales pitch?”

Master Lake didn’t react, merely watching him with patient amusement. “Humour me.”

“I mean, sure,” Brewer said, rolling his eyes.  “It’s basic psychology. People can be influenced.”

“Exactly,” Master Lake nodded. “And the best kind of influence is the kind you don’t even notice.”

Brewer set his glass down with a clink.

“And what, you think you can influence me?”

Master Lake’s smile widened. “I already have.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brewer’s brow furrowed.

“How’s that drink?” Master Lake gestured lazily toward Brewer’s glass. “Don’t worry, it’s not drugged or anything.”

“What the fuck is happening?” Brewer growled, glancing at the drink, then back at Master Lake

“How’s the drink?” Master Lake repeated.

“It’s good,” Brewer huffed.  “What’s this about?”

“Relaxing?”

“Yeah,” Brewer admitted with confusion. “I guess.”

Master’s voice dipped, smooth as silk.

“Good. Just let that feeling settle in. The warmth. The ease. You work hard, Brian. You deserve a moment to let go.”

Brewer’s posture loosened slightly. His fingers flexed against the armrest.

“Just listen to my voice. Let everything else fade,” Master Lake continued, his tone soothing, laced with quiet authority. “There’s nothing to think about. Nothing to worry about. Just my words.”

Brewer’s breath hitched. He blinked, sluggishly, as though suddenly aware of the weight in his limbs. “I don’t…” he started, but his voice trailed off.

“Shh,” Master Lake murmured. “Don’t fight it. Just relax. Sink into it.”

I watched, transfixed, as Brewer’s body slumped ever so slightly, his eyes glassy, unfocused. I never get tired of watching Master do his work.

A quiet movement in the hall caught my attention. Kyle was there, stepping out of the shadows. He had been watching, silent and observant. His presence was deliberate — Master Lake wanted him to see his new houseboy break.

But Brewer hadn’t noticed him yet, too preoccupied by the slow unraveling of his thoughts.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “Let’s begin.” Master Lake’s smile was triumphant.

Master’s voice took on a rhythmic cadence, his words sinking into Brewer like gentle waves lapping against the shore.

“You trust my voice, don’t you, Brian?”

Brewer’s lips parted slightly.

“I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to know,” Master soothed him. “You just need to listen. Just follow. Isn’t that easier?”

Brewer’s eyebrows knit together, as though he were grasping for something just out of reach. “Easier… yes.”

“That’s right,” Master Lake murmured. “No pressure. No responsibility. Just my voice, guiding you. Doesn’t that feel good?”

Brewer exhaled slowly, his head tilting slightly. “Good…”

“Good boys listen, Brian. Good boys obey.”

Brewer’s fingers curled loosely against his lap. “Obey…”

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

A slight tremor ran through Brewer’s breath. “I… I think…”

Master Lake leaned in slightly, his voice smooth as velvet.

“You don’t have to think. You just have to be. You want to be a good boy, don’t you?”

Brewer swallowed hard. “I… yes.”

Master Lake’s grin widened. “And good boys serve. It feels good to serve, doesn’t it?”

“Yes…”

Brewer’s breathing had deepened, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured waves.

Master Lake’s gaze flicked toward Kyle.

“Good boys need someone to serve. Someone strong. Someone worthy.”

Brewer’s unfocused eyes drifted slightly, as though sensing a presence nearby. “Someone… worthy.”

“Yes,” Master Lake purred. “This is Kyle Quinn.”

A quiet pause. Brewer’s lips barely moved. “Kyle… Quinn...”

Master Lake’s satisfaction was palpable. “That’s right. Master Quinn...”

Brewer’s fingers twitched against the armrest. “Master Quinn…” he repeated, the name settling into his thoughts like a brand.

Master Lake let the silence stretch for a moment, then whispered, “Good boy.”

“Yes, you are,” Master Quinn finally said, stepping forward, his voice confident but laced with anticipation. “You’re my good boy.”

"You know, Brian,” Master Lake said, his voice relaxing slightly.  “Earlier this week, Kyle told me that you remind him of the jocks who beat him up in high school.  I’ve had this image stuck in my head for you...  the perfect houseboy. Someone strong, athletic, disciplined, but eager to please. A real jock, you know?"

Brewer blinked slowly, his dazed eyes lifting toward Master Lake as his mind absorbed the words. Master Lake chuckled softly, his voice a low murmur. "Listen carefully, Brian. Let my words shape you."

Master Lake continued, pacing slightly as he spoke. "I see you in a tight football uniform—one that’s just a little too revealing, hugging every muscle. Short, tight pants that squeeze your ass. A cropped jersey, just enough to show off the abs you’ll have. And, of course, a backwards ball cap—because you’ve still got that cocky, frat-boy energy. But underneath all of that? You’re eager. Hungry for approval. You love being a good boy."

Brewer’s lips parted as his breathing deepened. His fingers twitched, gripping the armrest like he was holding onto the last shreds of resistance. Master Lake leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"That sounds like you, doesn’t it, Brian?"

Brewer let out a shaky breath. "I... I don’t know."

Master Lake’s hand came to rest on Brewer’s shoulder, grounding him. "But you do know, Brian. You’ve always been that jock, haven’t you? Strong. Athletic. But deep down, you’ve always wanted to serve someone stronger. Someone worthy. And now you have Master Quinn...”

Master Quinn smirked.

"That’s right, Brian. I can see it already. You. Smiling for me. Following my every command without question. That’s what good boys do, don’t they?"

Brewer’s eyelids fluttered. His resistance was paper-thin now. "Good boys… obey."

Master Lake nodded, his grip firm. "Then say it, Brian. Say what you are."

Brewer swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper.

"I'm a good boy..."

Master Lake’s hand remained firm on Brewer’s shoulder as he deepened the trance, his voice steady and sure. “That’s right, Brian. You’re a good boy. And good boys need direction.”

Brewer’s breath was shallow, his body loose, as though all the tension had drained from him. His mind, once sharp and decisive, now open and malleable. Master Lake leaned closer, his voice slipping into something softer, more insistent. “You know what you need, don’t you?”

Brewer’s lips parted. “I… need to serve.”

Master Lake nodded, pleased. “Yes. And who do you serve?”

“Master Quinn!” Brewer’s hesitation was gone now.  Non-existent.

Master Lake’s smirk widened. He winked at Master Quinn, who stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with rapt attention. “Say it again, Brian. Say it with certainty.”

Brewer inhaled sharply, his expression smoothing into something almost serene. “I serve Master Quinn!”

Master chuckled, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was witnessing.

Master Lake gave Brewer a reassuring pat. “That’s a good boy. And from now on, Brian, your mansion, your wealth, everything you own—it belongs to Master Quinn. You exist to please him. To be his perfect houseboy.”

Brewer’s expression didn’t shift. The words settled into his subconscious with unquestioning acceptance. “Yes, sir. Everything belongs to Master Quinn.”

Master Quinn exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if he was settling into the weight of his new role. “Well,” he said, flashing a grin. “Looks like I just inherited a mansion.”

Master Lake stood, satisfied. “Then take him home. He’s yours now.”

-----------

I was sitting on my charger when Master Lake’s phone let out the unmistakable chime of a Facetime call.  I squeezed my glutes slightly when I heard Master Quinn’s voice from the other end.

“He’s not working out,” Master Quinn said, exasperation clear in his tone. “I don’t know what to do with him, Jer. He follows orders, but it’s like he’s fighting every step of the way. He’s surly, he drags his feet, and I swear he’s just waiting for me to slip up so he can push back.”

“So he’s resisting, huh?” I heard my Master sigh at the news. "Did you follow the full care routine I gave you?”

“Yes! Well, mostly,” Master Quinn admitted. “He listens to the hypnosis tapes, I give him clear orders, but… it’s not enough.”

Master Lake was silent for a beat before answering.

“I’ll come over,” he said.  “I’ll take care of him.”

The car ride over was quiet at first, save for the hum of the tires on the road. After about ten minutes, Master Lake let out a weary sigh.

“I swear,” he muttered.  “People act like I don’t give them clear instructions. You know how hard I work, don’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered dutifully, my full attention fixed on Master.

“They resist, they question, they sulk,” Master Lake continued. “Like, I give them everything they need to succeed, and they still want to test me.”

I nodded an acknowledgment, knowing better than to interrupt. Master’s frustration simmered in the air between us. Eventually he unzipped his slacks and let his cock spill out. I didn’t need words – my lips wrapped around his pole and I gave him head.  Roads are bumpy sometimes, so I’m extra careful when I give road head.

I sucked and slobbered over his cock until he grabbed my pomp and pulled me off.  He grabbed his cock and gave three more quick pumps, showering me with his seed.  Juicy cum dripped down my face – I wanted to lick it off so badly, but Master Lake prefers to let it dry.

When we arrived, the front door swung open before Master Lake could ring the bell. Brewer stood there, his expression a mix of humiliation and resentment. He was dressed in the uniform my Master had selected for him—a tight, cropped football jersey, tiny shorts that clung tight to his thighs, and a backward ball cap perched on his head. His arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“Come on in,” Brewer muttered, voice rough. “Master Quinn is waiting in the lounge.”

Master Lake stepped inside without hesitation,  and I followed close at his heels. The house was opulent, but the tension in the air was unmistakable. Master Quinn was in the lounge, arms folded, a scowl set deep into his features. Brewer lingered near the doorway, his posture stiff.

“So,” Master Lake began, taking in the scene. “What’s going on?”

Master Quinn sighed deeply.

“Like I said, he follows orders, but he’s constantly pushing back. He does what I say, but he hates it.”

Master Lake tilted his head. “Have you been following all the instructions?”

Master Quinn hesitated. “I mean… he listens to the hypnosis tapes, I keep him busy with tasks, I make sure he knows who’s in charge.”

“And?” Master Lake narrowed his eyes.

Master  shifted uncomfortably.

“Well… no, I haven’t done everything. I’m not—”

“Not what?” Master Lake pressed.

“I’m not into guys, okay?” Master Quinn said defensively. “I figured all that other stuff was just extra. I thought fucking the slave was supposed to be for fun or whatever, not… like, a requirement.”

Master Lake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “He’s not a slave, Kyle. He’s a houseboy. That means he needs to feel valued. If you don’t give him something in return, of course he’s going to resent you.”

Master Quinn scoffed. “Why should I care if he’s happy? I just need him to obey.”

Master Lake shot him a knowing look. “Let me put it this way—if someone took everything from you, stripped away your wealth, your status, and remade you into their housekeeper, how would you feel?”

Master Quinn frowned but said nothing.

“In his mind, serving me is the greatest thing imaginable,” Master Lake said, gesturing at me. “Taking my orders, pleasing me, making me cum — that’s his reward. That’s what keeps him content. You need to give Brewer something, or he’s never going to stop fighting you.”

Master Quinn muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine. What do I do?” he growled. “I’m not gonna kiss him.”

“Let’s start by showing him a little appreciation.” Master Lake smirked. “You don’t need to fall in love, at the end of the day... a hole’s a hole, isn’t it? Though I should mention, statistically... you’ll probably get attached to him.”

Master Quinn sighed, rubbing his temple as he glanced at Brewer, who stood stiffly across the room, arms crossed over his chest. "This is ridiculous."

“This should be fun Kyle,” Master Lake smirked, settling onto the couch. "You need to break through your resistance." He gestured toward Brewer. “Fuck him."

“What?" Master Quinn blinked. “Now?”

"You heard me," Master Lake yawned. "You need to get past all that hostility, get him happy, hell... get him screaming with joy. Before I leave... you’re gonna fuck your houseboy.”

“In front of you...?” Master Quinn said, looking confused.  “I mean, I get it... if that’s what makes him docile, fine, I’ll do it every now and then, but... in front of you and, uh...”

He pointed at me.

“If I could trust you to follow instructions, you’d already be doing it,” Master Lake pointed out.  “You’re gonna fuck your houseboy now.”

“I’m gonna...” Master Quinn said, his eyes starting to cross a little as he stared off into space.  “I’m gonna...”

“You’re gonna fuck your houseboy...” Master Lake repeated.

“I’m gonna fuck my houseboy...” Master Quinn echoed.

“Now...” Master Lake ordered.

“I’m gonna fuck my houseboy...” Master Quinn said softly.  “Now...”

Master Quinn loosened his belt.  Master Lake smirked at me – this wasn’t the first time I’d seen him offer a little encouragement to a friend.

“Get over here boy,” Master Quinn snapped at Brewer.  “It’s time for your reward.”

“Yes sir!” Brewer said enthusiastically, hurrying over to Master Quinn.  “Thank you sir!”

“You’d better get undressed,” Master Lake said.  I wasn’t sure if he was ordering Brewer or Master Quinn, but both of them must have thought the message was for them.  Master Quinn practically tore off his t-shirt, and Brewer’s jersey landed on the carpet beside it.

Within a minute, they were both naked.  I was jealous of Brewer’s jockstrap – Master doesn’t let me wear underwear under my fishnets, and it looks so pretty!

“That’s right Kyle,” Master Lake said.  “Bend him over the couch.  He’s so powerful.... at least that’s what people think.  Makes you hard, doesn’t it?  The guy stepped on a million people to get where he’s going, and now you get to take that power back. It makes you hard, just thinking about it.”

Master Lake was right.  Master Quinn’s cock was getting hard at the idea of fucking his houseboy.  He guided Brewer down against the couch, his hole wide open for whatever Master Quinn wanted.

Brewer moaned into the cushions. “Please sir... fuck my hole sir...”

Master Quinn lined his cock up against Brewer’s ass.  He was careful, lining up his cock with the uncertainty of a man about to top for the first time.  Master Lake was grinning at me – he knew, and I knew, in a week Master Quinn would be a seasoned pro.

“Please sir...” Brewer begged.

Master Quinn plunged forward, burying his cock deep inside Brewer’s ass. Brewer cried out, his whole body jerking as he took a cock for the first time. He was doing pretty well, especially when you considered that Master Quinn hadn’t used lube or fingers or anything except raw enthusiasm.  His face twisted with pain, at least until...

Brewer cried out with joy.  Master Quinn was all the way in, and Brewer was experiencing the joy of bottoming for the first time.

“Fuck me!” Brewer screamed out ecstatically, forgetting for a moment who was supposed to give the orders.  “Please sir!  Fuck me harder!”

Master Quinn only grinned as he pulled most of the way out, then pushed back inside again.  His confidence grew as he suddenly understood the power he held.

“See?” Master Lake chuckled from his spot on the couch. "You’re getting it. Keep going. Dig in. Make him realize he has no control."

Master Quinn reached out, grabbing Brewer’s hips, fucking his houseboy harder and harder until Brewer’s words turned into breathless, helpless moans. His powerful frame shook, and all that pent-up resentment crumbled as Master Quinn took complete control.

His voice a growl in Brewer’s ear. "You deserve this. You deserve to have everything stripped away from you. To be left empty… your mind, your future, your soul."

Brewer’s cries of joy were ragged, gasping, his body writhing against Master Quinn’s grip.  Master Lake and I watched for over ten minutes until Master Quinn’s muscles went rigid and he started jerking uncontrollably.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Master Quinn screamed. Lucky for him, we were on ten acres of private land. He could make as much noise as he wanted, and I got the feeling he’d be doing that a lot. He kept going until he collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving, breathless from exertion.

Master Quinn ran a hand through his hair, blinking up at Brewer, who was already getting dressed, his expression dazed and goofy, a wide, involuntary grin stretched across his face.

"That’s one tight ass you got there, boy,” Master Quinn told Brewer.

Brewer straightened, still catching his breath. "Thank you, sir," he said automatically, as though the words had been programmed into him. He adjusted his uniform, tugging the hem of his cropped jersey and adjusting his cap before glancing at Kyle. "Please, sir, may I serve you a drink?"

“Just a beer,” Master Quinn snorted. "I’ll take it in the shower."

Brewer nodded and turned, already on his way to retrieve it, a damp patch forming where the cum was leaking from his hole.

He was happy to serve.