“Very amusing seeing you pop up on Good Morning Britain again today. If only they knew, eh?!”
I have recently been invited onto Good Morning Britain a few times. I’m an academic at one of the more prestigious London universities and my specialism is in demand at the moment, so I have had quite a few invites both for TV and radio. I’ve been on the Today programme a couple of times and on various LBC shows and I’m booked for BBC Breakfast next Monday (although that will be remote, as they film in Salford).
I suppose it helps that I’m not your stereotypical academic - I’m 34, in shape, from a working class background, and I tend to dress in a perhaps more approachable way than people might expect of an academic. But I’m not complaining, it’s good for my profile and will add to my case when I decide to apply to become a full professor in a couple of years.
But I do have another job. Well, I say job - it takes up almost as much time as my paid job, but I don’t earn anything from it. But it is equally, if not more, fulfilling. It sort of has to be, really, because it does mean that I can’t put in lots of extra time at work like quite a few of my fellow academics do. I generally work 8-5 Monday to Friday and a few hours on a Saturday when I’m marking, and it has to be something really important or urgent for me to work evenings or Sundays on my paid job. Apart from swimming most mornings in the University pool and a session with my PT three times a week, most of the rest of my time is spent on my other job.
I suppose I ought to explain what my other job is.
For the past five years, I have had a Master. We don’t live together, I live alone. In fact, I only see him in person once or twice a year. But he ensures that my ‘free time’ is well used.
Four evenings a week and all day on a Sunday, I visit men around London. I have visited some of these men regularly for years, including one whom I have been seeing for the whole five years I have had this ‘job’. I don’t have any say in who I visit, my Master arranges everything.
Perhaps I should explain better what I do and how this works.
I met Master Gavin online just over five years ago. We chatted for a couple of months. He knew more or less straightaway what I was and what I really needed. Despite my outward show of being a confident and proud gay man who holds down a good job, he knew that what I truly crave is to be a naked slave, labouring for real men. Neither he nor I are interested in the leather scene, or rubber or those public manifestations of submission. In fact, both of us find it much more arousing that the world doesn’t see me as submissive in any way.
Although Master Gavin is American, when we met he was living and working in Norway (he is now based in Vancouver in Canada). He had to come over to London for work and so he took an AirBnB where I was allowed to serve him in person. I spent a week living in his flat, kept naked at all times, doing all his cleaning, laundry, ironing, cooking, etc. He didn’t have to lift a finger for the whole week. He kept my bottom red and sore - the only uniform a slave needs in his view - with daily spankings over his knee and impromptu discipline either for poor performance or just because he felt like it. He trained me to act as his urinal, not something I had done before, kneeling before him with his cock just held between my lips while he emptied his bladder down my throat. At first, I found it hard not to spill, but having to lick any spillage up from the floor and feeling the cane across my already sore buttocks each time I failed encouraged me to try harder. Within three days I could swallow a full bladder of piss without spilling any and, more importantly, without Master Gavin having to pause his flow to allow me to catch up.
In the evenings when Master Gavin was back from his work, I would either be on my hands and knees in front of him acting as his footrest or kneeling in front of him licking and worshiping his sweaty feet. At night, I spelt on the floor beside his bed in case he needed to piss in the night. I was only allowed to suck his cock twice, although I spent quite some time under a rim seat he had borrowed from a friend, wearing my tongue out licking and worshiping his hole while he played games on the PlayStation. Master Gavin had no interest in fucking me, and none of the men I visit are allowed to do so either. I miss being fucked, but it is not up to me.
After that week, Master Gavin decided that I was wasted only serving very occasionally and not knowing when I would be able to be my true self. He’d required me to be naked in my flat for some time anyway, but it wasn’t the same.
So, he set up profiles on Recon, Fetlife and various other sites and apps, advertising my services. It was very clear what was on offer. The Recon profile gives a good idea.
I own this slave, but am not able to use him as often as he needs to be used. As you can see from the pictures here, the slave is in good shape and pleasing to the eye. Once vetted by me, he is available to any man who needs service on the following terms:
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The slave only travels. His nearest station is Southwark and he will travel up to an hour’s bike ride from there. He is generally only available between 7pm and 11pm Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. He is in relatively high demand, so you may have to wait for a while before he can report to you. If you are looking for regular service, we can discuss that after his first visit to you. In exceptional circumstances, the slave could be available during the day, but please do not ask for that as your only option. At certain times of the year, the slave can be available for longer travel or longer duration service, please contact me if you are interested in this.
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He only serves naked. No exceptions. He will undress as soon as he arrives at your home. He should undress at the earliest safe point, including outside the door, in a stairwell, or other suitable place. You should remain fully clothed while he is serving.
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He must be spanked over your knee on arrival until his bottom is bright red and he is squirming and whimpering. Do not hold back - the slave needs to display a bright red bottom at all times when working. If you feel that it is fading, you should put him back over your knee to top it up. Hand is preferred over the knee, and must be used initially. The hairbrush or slipper may be used for subsequent spankings.
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He must be put to work cleaning or labouring. This is his prime purpose. He can be put to work outside where possible, but must still be naked. He is trained to clean all areas of a property to a five star hotel standard, to do laundry (including hand washing and ironing), to empty and clean cupboards and wardrobes and to do any task that a servant in the 1920s may have undertaken. Please inspect his work to ensure it is of the highest standard. Modern aids to chores such as vacuum cleaners should be avoided where possible and hard floors should be swept and washed on his knees by hand. If the slave’s performance in any area of his work is not up to the highest standard, he must be punished. He will bring a cane with him on his first visit in case you do not own one suitable. Paddles, belts, tawses, crops, etc. are all also acceptable. Discipline may only be applied to the buttocks and upper thighs. No whips or floggers, please.
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The slave is there to work and to be disciplined. He should not be treated with affection or spoken to like an equal.
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The slave is a fully trained urinal and may be used as such at any time when in service. If he spills, he must lick it up and be appropriately punished.
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You may use the slave’s mouth sexually as you wish, but his anus is off limits. He will swallow your load, lick it up from the floor or elsewhere, or wear it. The slave may be sent home wearing your load if you wish.
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Unless separately agreed, the slave should not be allowed to ejaculate. His willy will almost certainly become, and remain, erect. Please ignore this. If he ejaculates without permission, he must be severely disciplined.
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The slave may be used as a foot rest for extended periods. He is also fully trained to worship the sweatiest of feet and pits for as long as you require. He has been trained to give a full tongue bath if required after exercise. If you have a rim seat, he will worship your hole for as long as you require.
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You should archive him in service to you and share photos and videos with me. No pictures or videos of the slave may be uploaded to profiles or social media without my consent. This is illegal in the UK and will be reported. Do not share any pictures of videos with the slave or allow him to see what you have archived.
Whilst Master Gavin discussed these ‘ten commandments’ with me, I didn’t see the final version for some time after they had been published. I was not given access to the profiles that he created and he had me delete all dating and hookups apps from my phone. Master Gavin has full access to my phone, my emails, my web history and my location at all times.
I’ll give you an example of a recent week of this other job and how it intersects with my paid one.
Monday starts with my getting up early as usual and, after breakfast, cycling to the outdoor pool near work where I swim my daily 2000m. I shower and am in the office for 8. I sort my email and then it’s meetings, teaching and supervisions until I see my PT, Ahmed, in the university gym for 40 minutes at lunch. Then more meetings, etc., until 5.
At 5 on the dot, I get a message from Master Gavin,
“Slave. You will report to Sir Steven and Sir Wen at 17 Muswell Hill Gardens, N10 3RV.”
This is the first time I know to whom I am to report each day. I have visited Sir Steven and Sir Wan a couple of times before, so at least I know what to expect!
I cycle home, undress as soon as I get into my flat, have a shower and eat dinner - a pasta salad with poached chicken and some yoghurt and fruit. I know the route to Muswell Hill and can cycle it in about 45 minutes, so I put on my cycling singlet and shoes and pick up the rucksack that contains my cleaning kit. I am expected to take a full set of cleaning kit with me on each visit so that the men I am serving don’t need to spend their money on it. My bag contains various sprays, cloths, scrubbers, etc. The only things I don’t take with me are those needed for washing dishes or clothes.
I leave the flat at 6:10, and cycle across town to get to Muswell Hill. I’m a bit early, so I wait at the end of the road before cycling to Sir Steven and Sir Wen’s house. I lock my bike securely to their fence, as I have done before. The house has a basement entrance, and I go down the steps and, outside the door, I strip off my singlet and shoes and put them into a plastic bag that I carry in the pocket of my rucksack and put this into the meter cupboard opposite the door. Putting my rucksack back on, I knock three times on the door and wait.
After a few minutes standing naked in this semi-public space, Sir Steven opens the door.
“In,” he says, curtly.
“Yes, Sir,” I reply as I step in and put my rucksack down beside the door as I close it behind me.
Sir Steven is in his mid-forties, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair and what is often called a ‘rugby’ build. Shorter than me (I’m 5’ 11”), stocky but not fat. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and has bare feet.
He leads me through the kitchen and upstairs to the living room where Sir Wen is sitting on the sofa watching TV with a glass of wine in his hand. He glances up when we enter, but doesn’t acknowledge. Sir Wen is younger than Sir Steven by about ten years. He is Eurasian, with thick black hair. He’s taller than me by a couple of inches. He’s in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and, like his husband, has bare feet.
Without a word, Sir Steven sits down on an upright chair and I get into position across his lap. Without any preamble or speaking, he begins to spank my bare bottom. He starts relatively gently, but the intensity soon increases and it’s not long before I begin to grunt and squirm on his knee. Sir Steven is a bespoke carpenter and has rough and heavy hands. I have no idea how long he spanks me for, but by the time he finally stops, I am whimpering and gasping and close to tears. My bottom feels like it is on fire. Considering I get spanked like this nearly every day of the week, you’d think I’d be used to it, but every time I am spanked it feels like the first time again. And I do not like pain - I’m not a masochist. It’s the humiliation that I need and crave; that and being useful to other men.
When I am allowed up, Sir Wen seems to have barely taken any notice of my spanking. He’s put the subtitles on the TV so that he can carry on watching it. I know, however, that he will have taken some pictures and video while I was over Sir Steven’s knee to send to Master Gavin after my visit.
“Kitchen first, then report back here,” Sir Steven says as he walks to sit beside his husband on the sofa.
“You can refill our glasses first,” Sir Wen says, holding his out to me and indicating Sir Steven’s on a side table.
I go down to the kitchen with the glasses, fill them from the open bottle of red on the kitchen side, and take them back up. After handing them to the two men who take them without even looking at me, I head back downstairs to the kitchen.
I get to work, washing and drying up first, then cleaning all the surfaces, then onto my hands and knees to scrub and dry the floor.
I’m on my knees with my red bottom on full show when I hear steps on the stairs and Sir Wen comes into the kitchen.
“Up,” he says.
I leave my cloth on the floor and kneel before him, hands behind my back. My willy begins to stiffen as he unzips his jeans and takes out his cock. I move forward and take it between my lips and it is only a few seconds before he begins to piss into my mouth. I swallow while the stream continues, the piss filling my mouth as I do so. He doesn’t pause or slow the stream, and I struggle a bit not to spill, but I manage it and eventually it peters out. When he has finished, he pulls his cock out of my mouth and I lick the head gently to ensure it is clean before he tucks it back into his jeans and zips himself up.
“Thank you for allowing me to drink your piss, Sir,” I say to his retreating back as he heads back upstairs.
Over the rest of the evening, I am used as a urinal twice more by him and once by Sir Steven.
Once the kitchen is cleaned, I am sent to clean the bathrooms and then to handwash a pile of underwear and several sets of sweaty gym kit. The two men ignore me other than when they need to piss or when, from time to time, they come to archive me in service for Master Gavin, when they don’t speak to me, they just take a picture or a video and then go back to what they were doing. I smell their dinner cooking and, while I am cleaning the downstairs toilet, I can hear them chatting as they eat.
I strip all the beds in the bedrooms and make them with fresh bedding, and then spend the last part of my evening shut in the smallest bedroom ironing and folding or hanging clothes, which I then put away. Because I have served them before, I know where things are and where they go, so the two men can relax and ignore me as I labour for them.
When I have put the iron and ironing board away at last, I report to the living room, where the husbands are on the sofa watching TV again. Sir Steven simply points at the floor and I kneel before them and begin worshipping their feet. I lick and suck and slaver over them, swallowing the lint from between Sir Steven’s toes. His feet are sweatier, shorter and wider than his husband’s long slender ones, but I make sure to devote equal time to both.
Eventually, Sir Wen speaks.
“Over the chair,” he says. My heart sinks and my willy, which has been rock hard and throbbing while I humbled myself at their feet, sags slightly.
I get up and go to the chair on which I was spanked and bend over the back. I know what is coming; it’s what has happened at the end of each session with them. Sir Wen stands behind me and I hear the unmistakable swish of a cane. Slowly and methodically, he lays twelve strokes across my already red bottom. After each one I count the stroke, thank him for it and ask for another. The last three make me yelp, but I hold still. Just.
I remain over the chair for a few moments while they archive my welted bottom until Sir Steven says,
“You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you Sir Steven and Sir Wen for allowing me to labour for you this evening. I hope to be of service to you again.”
Again, they barely acknowledge that I have spoken and I turn and head back to the kitchen where I pack my rucksack and leave the way I came, putting on my singlet and shoes before unlocking my bike. My sore bottom really feels it as I sit on the saddle to head home.
Once home, I strip immediately, have a quick shower and head to bed. Tired, but fulfilled.
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