The boy had been dusting the long oak console in the parlor when the Master’s voice carried across the room.
“I’ll be having a few guests this evening. Cocktails. They’ll expect the place to be immaculate—the bar set, the appetizers hot and ready.”
The words made his pulse quicken. He had only been in the house for one month, still learning its rhythms, still memorizing the Master’s expectations the way a pupil memorizes lines of scripture. Every command seemed simple, but the weight of obedience—of not making a mistake—felt immense.
“Yes, sir,” he replied softly, setting the cloth neatly down. He had grown accustomed to the house’s quiet, to the sense of being seen only by one pair of eyes. But the idea of outsiders stepping across the polished threshold unsettled him. Outsiders would notice things—his posture, his silences, perhaps even his presence itself.
There was another problem too, one that tied a knot in his stomach. His “uniform” here had never been cloth. His role was meant to strip him bare of pretense, to make him a symbol of openness and service. That arrangement, though difficult, had been private. Tonight would not be.
He hesitated before speaking, his voice careful not to sound defiant. “Sir… may I ask… with your guests—will I be… permitted clothing?”
For a moment the Master’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable. Then a faint smile crossed his features, though it carried no mockery. “Yes. You’ll be provided something suitable before they arrive.”
The boy exhaled, not realizing until that moment how tightly he had been holding his breath. Relief mingled with a nervous flutter in his chest. To be given clothing meant more than covering; it meant permission to step slightly back into the world of others, to appear as a servant rather than a symbol.
The Master continued, matter-of-fact. “Do not mistake this for leniency. Presentation is still everything. The house must shine, the trays must be timed, the bar in order. You’ll be judged—through me.”
The boy nodded, bowing his head in acknowledgment. Beneath the relief, a new layer of responsibility settled on his shoulders. He would be dressed, yes, but the garment would not shield him from scrutiny. If anything, it would make him more visible—as the one entrusted to uphold the Master’s image.
As he turned back to his work, he felt the shift inside himself: from fear of exposure to fear of performance. Somehow, the second was heavier.
Half an hour before the bell was due to ring, the Master appeared in the doorway. His tone was calm, businesslike, but there was a firmness beneath it.
“Go to your quarters. Shower. Make yourself presentable. Your attire for tonight will be waiting.”
The boy bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
When he emerged from the shower, towel clinging to damp skin, the boy’s eyes fell to the bed.
Laid out neatly, as though it were fine livery, was the outfit he had been promised. But it was not a jacket, not a shirt, not even a discreet pair of trousers.
It was a pair of blue mesh bikini briefs—minimal, ridiculously transparent, and wholly inadequate for the kind of evening he had envisioned.
His throat tightened. For several seconds he could only stare. This? In front of guests?
His first impulse was to wrap the towel back around himself and pretend he had never seen them. But the Master’s instructions rang too clearly in his ears: You’ll be provided something suitable before they arrive.
Suitable. The word now felt cruel, or perhaps deliberate. What the Master deemed suitable and what the boy thought bearable were not the same.
Slowly, with fingers that trembled more than he wished to admit, he lifted the garment. The open weave fabric left nothing to the imagination. Putting it on felt less like dressing and more like stripping away his last defense.
At the mirror he stopped, caught between disbelief and resignation. The reflection was jarring: a young man reduced to a uniform of blue mesh, standing on the edge of shame and obedience. He could hardly believe he was meant to greet anyone like this.
His jaw clenched. A part of him whispered that this was humiliation; another part whispered that it was a test. If he carried himself with poise, if he masked his fear, then perhaps he could transform the garment into something else: not mockery, but statement.
He inhaled slowly, squaring his shoulders. I cannot choose the outfit. But I can choose how I stand in it.
From the hallway came the sound of a clock chiming. The guests would arrive soon. And the Master would be waiting.
The boy padded softly down the hallway, each step toward the drawing room making him acutely aware of the mesh holding his limp dick and balls in place yet on full display. When he reached the threshold, the Master was already waiting, seated with a glass in hand.
“Come here,” the Master said.
The boy obeyed, standing just before him, spine straight but hands uncertain at his sides. The Master rose slowly, setting down his glass, and began to circle him like a craftsman assessing his work.
A fingertip brushed along the boy’s shoulder, down his arm, pausing at his wrist. “You’ve kept yourself neat,” the Master murmured, tone measured. Then he stepped closer—so close the boy could feel his breath near his ear.
“You understand, don’t you,” the Master continued, voice low, “that tonight you are not merely serving drinks or carrying trays. You are serving me. Every glance, every gesture, will reflect on this house. If you falter, if you embarrass me—”
He let the unfinished sentence hang in the air, heavy with implication. The boy swallowed hard and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
The Master’s hand came to rest briefly at the small of his back, pressing just enough to remind him who held control. “Good. Then be on your very best behavior.”
Before the boy could reply, the sharp sound of knuckles against the front door echoed through the hall. Both froze for a heartbeat, the moment between them taut as a bowstring.
The Master drew back, his expression now composed and almost amused. He gave the boy a swat to his mesh covered ass, the gesture both dismissive and commanding.
“Don’t keep my guests waiting,” he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Go on—see them in.”
The boy took a steadying breath, turned toward the door, and stepped forward, every nerve alive with dread and duty.
The boy’s hand hesitated for only a second on the door handle before he pulled it open.
On the other side stood three of the Master’s acquaintances—well-dressed men with the air of people accustomed to being at ease anywhere. Conversation paused as their eyes fell on the figure before them.
The boy stood tall, as he had promised himself he would, though his pulse drummed in his ears. The blue mesh briefs left no doubt that he was on deliberate display, more symbol than servant. He felt the silence stretch, each guest registering what the Master had chosen to present.
Then the Master’s voice rang warmly from behind him. “Gentlemen—welcome. Do come in.”
The tension broke. Polite smiles flickered, one guest clearing his throat as though to mask surprise. Another allowed himself the faintest lift of an eyebrow. None spoke openly of what they saw, but the glances exchanged carried unspoken acknowledgment: this was not ordinary hospitality.
The boy stepped aside, bowing slightly as the guests entered, acutely aware of how the mesh fabric offed him little to no coverage. Every movement felt magnified—how he held the tray, how he lowered his eyes, how he kept his composure while the air seemed to hum with their curiosity.
The Master closed the door with deliberate leisure and swept forward, placing a hand briefly at the boy’s shoulder as if to remind him of his place. “You’ll find the bar ready,” he said to his friends. Then, with a glance down at the boy: “And the staff attentive.”
A faint ripple of amusement passed among the guests, half-concealed behind their cordial manners.
The boy lowered his gaze, cheeks warm, but forced himself to breathe evenly. If this was to be his role tonight—to serve drinks, bear scrutiny, and uphold the Master’s pride—then he would endure it.
And yet, as he moved to fetch the first tray of cocktails, he couldn’t shake the thought that every eye in the room followed him, weighing not just his service, but the meaning of his presence in those transparent blue mesh bikini briefs.
The room had grown warm with laughter and the clink of glass. The boy moved quietly among the guests, offering cocktails and setting down small trays of appetizers just as he had been instructed. Each step felt measured, rehearsed, though he could feel the weight of their attention lingering longer than courtesy required.
At last, the Master raised his glass, his voice smooth but commanding. “Gentlemen, I see your eyes keep returning to him. You needn’t be so discreet. He is here for your inspection as much as your service.”
The boy froze, tray balanced in his hands. A ripple of amusement stirred among the men. One of them chuckled.
“Striking,” said the first, not addressing the boy but speaking over him. “Young, disciplined. You don’t often see staff presented so openly.”
“Remarkable bearing,” another added. “One would think he’d been trained longer than one month. Look at the way he carries himself.”
The third leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Athletic frame. And obedient. A rare combination.”
The boy kept his gaze lowered, cheeks hot, but remained steady on his feet. Their words landed on him as though he were a specimen, discussed but not addressed, praised yet diminished.
The Master, smiling faintly, gestured toward him with casual authority. “You see, he’s more than decoration. He understands what it means to serve—silence, composure, discipline. Qualities too often overlooked.”
The men murmured their agreement, sipping their drinks, while the boy stood motionless beside them. Inside, his thoughts churned: shame at being spoken of like fine china, pride that his discipline was recognized, fear of faltering under their gaze.
One guest swirled the amber in his glass, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Tell me, is that the usual attire you keep him in?”
The boy’s breath caught, though he kept his gaze down.
The Master chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Ordinarily, there’s no need for such things. Around the house, his uniform is nothing at all.”
The room erupted in laughter, good-natured but sharp enough to sting. Another guest raised his brows. “And yet tonight you’ve covered him albeit in that blue mesh bikini brief?”
The Master lifted his glass in a small salute. “We have company. Even in this house, modesty requires at least a token gesture, we wouldn’t twig and berries obscenely bouncing around.” He gestured idly toward the blue mesh, as if it were merely a napkin or tie.
The men chuckled again, one leaning toward another with a murmured jest, and the boy’s ears burned at the sound. He had never felt more conspicuous, nor more powerless, than in that moment: present, yet absent, standing silently as they dissected the rules of his existence.
The laughter had only just subsided when one of the guests leaned forward, amusement playing at his lips.
“So tell me,” he said, “if his standard attire is nothing at all, wouldn’t he be more comfortable in it now? After all, we’re hardly in mixed company.”
Another man chuckled, raising his glass. “A fair point. Why trouble with modesty when you’ve already dressed him in… well, hardly modesty at all, not let his twig and berries bounce around?”
The boy felt his throat tighten, every muscle taut. He did not dare to look up.
The Master let the words hang for a moment, sipping from his drink before replying. “Perhaps. But comfort is not his role. Discipline is. What he wears, or does not wear, is not for his comfort but mine.”
The guests murmured approval at the remark, though one could not resist adding, “Still, it would be something to see him in the state you keep him.”
The Master smiled faintly, eyes sliding toward the boy. He let the silence draw out just long enough for the boy’s heart to hammer, for the suggestion to root itself in the room like a dangerous possibility.
Then, with deliberate calm, he shook his head. “Not tonight. Tonight, you will have to content yourselves with the version of him I’ve chosen to present.”
The guests laughed again, half with disappointment, half with admiration, and the boy exhaled quietly, his relief mingled with a deeper unease. The line had not been crossed—but it had been placed in full view, and now he knew just how easily it could be.
One of the guests leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his drink, his eyes never leaving the boy who stood silently by with the empty tray.
“You spoke of discipline,” the guest said at last, directing his words to the Master. “I’m curious—how exactly does that come into play? He looks well-schooled, but surely he wasn’t so polished after one month?”
The Master smiled, unhurried. “Discipline is the foundation of service. He learns not only what to do, but how to hold himself while doing it. To maintain composure, no matter the circumstance.” His gaze flicked to the boy, steady and unreadable. “Even now.”
The boy’s stomach knotted. He kept his eyes low, his breathing quiet, every muscle carefully controlled.
Another guest leaned forward, voice smooth with amusement. “And if he doesn’t? If he falters—what then?”
The Master did not hesitate. “There are consequences. Always. A lapse in posture, a mistake in timing, a word spoken out of turn—they are corrected swiftly. He knows this.”
Laughter rumbled among the men, though not cruelly—more like patrons admiring the elegance of a craftsman’s tool. One of them raised his brows, glancing at the boy as though he were a specimen under glass. “And tell me—how often has he needed… correction?”
The Master’s smile deepened just slightly. “Less and less. He learns quickly. Fear of consequence is a strong teacher. But pride in approval—stronger still.”
The boy’s face warmed. He had been invisible in his former life; now he was more visible than he could bear. Yet the Master’s words stirred something unexpected beneath the humiliation: a tremor of pride that he had not failed, not yet.
The guests exchanged knowing looks, sipping their drinks. The boy remained still, tray in hand, his silence the very proof of the discipline they were dissecting.
The Master set down his glass and leaned back in his chair, watching his guests over steepled fingers.
“You ask about discipline,” he said, his voice smooth, “perhaps a demonstration is in order.”
He turned his eyes to the boy. “Fetch another round. But do it properly—no hesitation, no errors. Precision is everything.”
The boy bowed his head and moved quickly to the bar. His hands were steady enough as he measured the spirits and garnishes, but he could feel the weight of every eye on him. The silence behind him grew oppressive, broken only by the faint clink of glass against glass.
He balanced the tray carefully, three cocktails gleaming with condensation, and began the return. Each step echoed in his ears like a drumbeat. Do not stumble. Do not falter. Show them you are worthy.
But halfway across the room, as he shifted his grip, the nearest glass tilted. A single bead of liquid slid down the rim, followed by a small, betraying spill onto the polished wood of the tray.
It wasn’t much—but enough.
One of the guests gave a soft chuckle. Another raised a brow, exchanging a glance with the Master.
The boy froze, color rising hot in his face. He steadied the tray quickly, but the mistake could not be undone.
The Master’s voice cut through the quiet, calm but edged with steel. “You see? A single lapse is all it takes. He knows the rules. Flawless execution—or consequence.”
The guests murmured, nodding with polite interest. One leaned toward another, whispering with a smirk.
The boy stood stiffly, presenting the drinks as though nothing had gone wrong, but inside he was crumbling. The sting of failure burned deeper than the spilled drop. He had been tested, and in front of the Master’s guests—he had failed.
The Master accepted his glass, studying the boy for a long moment before turning back to his companions with an easy smile. “He will not forget this lesson.”
And the boy, though silent, knew it was true.
The Master let the silence drag on a beat too long, the boy standing rigidly, tray still in hand. Then he spoke, voice low but cutting through the room with ease.
“Place the tray down.”
The boy obeyed, setting it carefully on the low table, though his hands trembled faintly.
The Master rose, moving to stand before him. “You were given a task. A simple one. And yet you faltered. Do you remember what I said?”
The boy’s voice caught in his throat. “…Yes, sir. Flawless execution—or consequence.”
“Correct.”
The guests watched, expressions ranging from curiosity to mild amusement, as though they were witnessing a performance arranged for their benefit.
The Master stepped closer, invading the boy’s space, his tone sharp but calm. “Stand straighter. Shoulders back. Eyes front.”
The boy obeyed, heart hammering, every nerve raw with the knowledge that he was being scrutinized not just by the Master, but by three strangers as well.
“This is your correction,” the Master said, voice pitched for all to hear. “Failure is not only error—it is disappointment. And disappointment must be carried until it is made right.”
He let the words hang like a sentence. Then he gestured to the corner of the room. “You will stand there. Silent, motionless, until I decide you’ve reflected long enough. Do not move. Do not speak. You are here to learn.”
The boy bowed his head once, throat tight, and crossed the room to the designated spot.
The guests chuckled softly among themselves, one muttering, “Discipline indeed.” Another raised his glass in admiration.
And so the boy stood in the corner, rigid and exposed, while the evening carried on around him—his punishment not in blows or harshness, but in being displayed as a living reminder of what failure meant in this house.
Ten minutes passed. The boy’s back ached from standing so rigidly, but he dared not shift. Every word of the men’s conversation floated past him, half-laughter, half-curiosity, always circling back to him like a moth to a flame.
At last, the Master’s voice cut through. “Enough. Come here.”
The boy turned, crossing the room quickly, stopping just before the Master’s chair. He stood tall but tense, knowing that every eye was upon him.
The Master studied him in silence for a long moment, then spoke with the calm weight of judgment. “You failed. And when one fails, one must be reminded of their place.”
He gestured to the floor beside him. “Kneel. Hands behind your head. Eyes lowered.”
Heat flushed through the boy’s cheeks, but he obeyed, lowering himself onto the carpet. The laughter of the guests was low, indulgent, but he felt each note like a sting.
“Discipline,” the Master said, addressing his companions, “is not just about punishment. It is about presence. He must learn to inhabit his place, no matter who is watching.”
The boy knelt, still as stone, while the men observed. His humiliation deepened with each passing second, but so too did his resolve: to endure, to prove that he could withstand the Master’s expectations—even when they seemed unbearable.
The boy knelt and on display in silence, shoulders pulled back, eyes lowered, while the room carried on around him. Laughter and the clink of glasses filled the air, yet he felt like the true center of attention.
One of the guests leaned forward, resting his elbow casually on his knee as he studied the boy. “Tell me,” he said to the Master, his tone half-amused, half-genuine curiosity, “you speak of discipline so often. Does it extend only to postures and small corrections… or do you employ sterner measures?”
The boy’s breath caught. He did not dare move, but the words struck through him like a jolt.
The Master swirled the liquid in his glass, unbothered. “Corporal punishment?” he asked smoothly. “Of course. It has its place. A lesson ignored once is seldom ignored after a proper consequence.”
The men chuckled, nodding knowingly, but the boy felt heat rising in his face. Though he kept still, his thoughts raced—they are talking about me, as if I were a child, as if I had no ears, no will of my own.
Another guest tilted his head. “And he accepts this? Without protest?”
The Master smiled faintly. “Acceptance is not required. Obedience is. That is the difference between service and rebellion. And he understands it well—don’t you, boy?”
The boy’s throat tightened. He whispered, barely audible, “Yes, sir.”
“Louder,” the Master said, not turning his head but letting the guests hear the command.
“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated, voice steady though his stomach was knotted tight.
The guests exchanged looks of quiet amusement, satisfied by the display. One raised his glass in a small toast. “Remarkable. You’ve trained him quickly.”
The Master inclined his head. “Quickly, yes—but only because he knows the alternative.”
The boy lowered his gaze further, wishing he could disappear, knowing he could not.
The room had settled into a comfortable hum again, glasses refilled, smoke curling from one of the guest’s cigars. Yet their eyes continued to return to the boy, still kneeling at the Master’s side like a fixture meant for observation.
At length, one of the men spoke, his tone deceptively casual.
“You say he learns quickly because he knows the alternative. Tell us—what form does that alternative take? Surely words and posture aren’t enough. Would you not care to show us?”
The boy’s stomach dropped. A tremor passed through his chest, though outwardly he remained still.
The Master turned his head slightly, considering his guest’s request, before glancing down at the boy. “Do you hear them?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy whispered.
“They want a demonstration.”
The boy’s breath caught, though he dared not lift his head. A rush of heat spread through his face and chest. The idea of being corrected here, in front of strangers, was almost more unbearable than the correction itself.
The Master let the silence hang. He sipped from his glass, unhurried, making the boy wait, making the guests wonder.
Then, at last, he spoke—calm and measured. “No. Not tonight.”
A ripple of surprise passed among the men. One raised a brow, another chuckled softly.
The Master went on, his tone firm. “Discipline is not theater. It is not for amusement. When he errs, he is corrected. But that is between him and me. You may see the results, yes—but not the act itself. That remains private.”
The guests nodded, some with a hint of disappointment, others with appreciation for the restraint.
As for the boy, relief washed over him in a dizzying wave—relief tangled with something sharper. For though the punishment had been withheld, the possibility had been dangled in the open, the threat spoken aloud. He knew the reprieve was not mercy, but a reminder: that at any moment, by the Master’s will alone, he could be made an example.
The Master rested his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, steady but commanding. “You see, gentlemen. Discipline is most powerful when it does not need to be shown—because it has already been learned.”
The boy knelt lower, pulse still racing, as the laughter and talk resumed.
The hours stretched on like a test with no end.
The boy remained close at hand, summoned when needed, silent when not. He refilled glasses, cleared plates, replenished trays—all under the watchful gaze of men who seemed to see him less as a servant and more as part of the evening’s entertainment. Their conversation never quite left him behind; it circled back to him again and again, to his posture, his silence, his twig and berries, his “training.” Each remark landed like a pinprick, a reminder that he was not invisible, nor ever meant to be.
Yet he endured. He did not falter again, not with a tray, not with his composure. His failure earlier still burned in his chest, but he resolved it would be the only one.
At last, the gathering began to wind down. The clock in the hall struck the late hour, and one by one, the guests rose, exchanging handshakes with the Master and murmured pleasantries about the evening.
“An impressive display,” one said, nodding in the boy’s direction as though he were a well-bred hound.
“You’ve chosen well,” another added.
The third gave only a small, knowing smile, eyes resting on the boy for a moment longer than the others.
The boy bowed slightly each time, cheeks warmed by exhaustion and humiliation, yet grateful to see them depart.
When the final door shut and the sound of their voices faded down the drive, the house was quiet again.
The boy stood in the middle of the room, unsure whether to clear the glasses or remain still. His body ached with tension, but his greater discomfort lay in not knowing—had he passed tonight’s unspoken trial, or failed?
The Master set down his own glass and looked at him. For a long moment, he said nothing, only studying the boy in silence.
The weight of that silence pressed down harder than words.
At last, the Master spoke, voice calm but carrying the gravity of judgment. “You did well. Not flawlessly—but well.”
Relief flickered in the boy’s chest, but it was tempered by the earlier mistake. He lowered his head. “Thank you, sir.”
The Master rose, stepping close enough that the boy felt the presence of him like heat. “Do not think I’ve forgotten your lapse. Your training is far from finished. Tonight has shown me what must still be corrected.”
The boy swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes, sir.”
The Master let the words linger, then placed a hand at the boy’s chin, tilting his face upward just enough to meet his gaze. “But you endured. You held your composure under scrutiny. That is what I value most.”
He released him, stepping back. “Clear the room. Then report to me.”
The boy bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
As he moved to gather the glasses, his heart pounded with a mix of relief, dread, and something else he could not name. The night was not over. The real reckoning, he suspected, was yet to come.
The boy moved quickly, silently, clearing glasses, stacking plates, wiping down the bar until every trace of the gathering had been erased. The clinking of crystal, the faint scrape of porcelain—those were the only sounds in the great room now. Each task steadied his hands, but his mind raced: what would the Master say when all distractions were gone?
When the last tray was stowed, he drew a slow breath. He knew what “reporting” meant. The evening had ended, the guests were gone, and there would be no pretense of modesty now.
He returned to his quarters, still wearing the blue mesh briefs—the “uniform” for guests—. He removed them carefully, as though handling evidence of the night itself, then set them aside.
Naked once more—his standard state in the house—he felt exposed, though there was no one to see. He straightened his posture, willed himself calm, and walked back through the quiet halls to the Master’s study.
The door was ajar, a lamp burning low inside. The Master sat in his leather chair, a book open but clearly forgotten in his lap. His gaze lifted as the boy entered.
The boy stepped inside, closed the door softly behind him, and approached until he stood bare before the desk. His hands rested lightly at his sides, his chin lowered in deference.
“I am here to report, sir,” he said, voice quiet but steady.
The Master studied him for a long moment. “As you should be. And in your proper uniform, I see.” His voice carried a trace of amusement, but the authority beneath it was unmistakable.
“Yes, sir.”
The Master closed the book, setting it aside and giving the boy a physical cue to closer, and then closer until he was able to take the boys smooth low hanging berries in his hand and began rolling them as one might do with two orbs in a silk pouch. The boy’s twig immediately started to swell until it was at full mast and began to leak, no doubt a reaction being denied a sexual release sense he began the job. “Tonight, you were tested. The eyes of others are often more punishing than any correction I can devise. Yet you did not break. That is worth noting.”
The boy felt a flicker of pride but did not dare let it rise too high. “Thank you, sir.”
“Still,” the Master continued, “you faltered. You will need reminding of precision, of care. You must learn that even the smallest lapse, when seen by others, reflects on me as much as on you.”
“Yes, sir.” The words were automatic, but the weight of them sank deep.
The Master rose, stepping close. His presence filled the space, not with anger, but with command. He circled once, slowly, as though inspecting not only the boy’s body but his composure, his discipline, his readiness to be judged.
At last, he came to stand before him again. “Your service is improving. But you are not finished. Tomorrow, your training continues. For now—rest.”
The boy exhaled, bowing his head. Relief mingled with tension; spared for tonight, but reminded of what lay ahead.
“Yes, sir.”
The Master dismissed him with a flick of his hand. The boy turned, walked silently back through the halls, is twig rock hard, his bare feet against the polished floor. The house was quiet, but inside him, the echo of the evening remained: the eyes of strangers, the threat of punishment, and the knowledge that every day in this place was another test.
This story was inspired by this graphic: https://imgur.com/a/ZRFr5AB
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
