Sunday morning arrived, and with it came structure and servitude.
The slave woke before Tim, his body stiff from sleeping on the hardwood floor, his face still pressed into the now-cold fabric of his Master's laundry. He carefully gathered the clothes, folded them with reverent precision, and set them aside. Then he retrieved the garment bag he kept in Tim's closet that held his formal butler uniform.
He dressed in the bathroom, his movements practiced and efficient. The uniform was tailored to fit him perfectly, but that didn't make it comfortable. The starched white shirt was stiff and constraining, the collar tight around his throat. The black vest buttoned snugly across his chest, and the matching trousers were cut slim and formal, restricting his movement. White gloves completed the ensemble, along with polished black dress shoes that pinched slightly at the toes.
The slave looked at himself in the mirror and felt a surge of pride. This was what he was meant to be. Not a consultant in a business suit, not Brian's equal partner in a relationship. This. A servant. A butler. A slave in formal livery, ready to attend to his Master's every need.
He returned to the bedroom and stood at attention beside the bed, his posture perfect, his hands clasped behind his back. He waited in silence as Tim stirred, stretched, and finally opened his eyes.
Tim looked at him and smirked. "Sunday," he said simply.
"Yes, Sir," the slave replied, bowing deeply from the waist. "I am ready to serve you, Master."
Tim sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was naked, his cock half-hard from sleep, his hair tousled. The slave's mouth watered at the sight, but he kept his expression neutral, professional.
"Robe," Tim said.
The slave moved immediately, retrieving the plush terrycloth robe from its hook and holding it open. Tim stood and slipped his arms into it, and the slave carefully adjusted it over his shoulders, tying the belt at his waist with precise, reverent movements.
"Massage first," Tim said, settling back onto the bed on his stomach. "Then breakfast."
"Yes, Sir." The slave bowed again and moved to the side of the bed.
He began with Tim's shoulders, his gloved hands working into the muscle with firm, steady pressure. Tim let out a low groan of satisfaction, his body going limp under the slave's touch. The slave worked methodically, shoulders, upper back, lower back, each movement designed to relax and pamper his Master
*This is what I was made for,* the slave thought as he worked. *Not sitting in meetings or drafting reports or pretending to be Brian's boyfriend. This. Serving. Making my Master's life easier, more comfortable, more pleasurable.*
"Harder," Tim muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow.
"Yes, Sir." The slave increased the pressure, digging his thumbs into a knot near Tim's shoulder blade. Tim grunted in approval.
After twenty minutes, Tim rolled over onto his back. "Enough. Breakfast now."
The slave bowed. "Right away, Sir."
He moved to the kitchen and prepared Tim's Sunday breakfast with meticulous care: scrambled eggs cooked to perfect softness, crisp bacon, buttered toast cut into precise triangles, fresh fruit arranged artfully on the plate. He poured fresh-squeezed orange juice into a chilled glass and brewed Tim's coffee exactly the way he liked it. Dark roast, two sugars, a splash of cream.
He arranged everything on a tray and carried it back to the bedroom, where Tim was now sitting up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. The slave set the tray carefully on Tim's lap, adjusting the placement so everything was within easy reach.
Then he stepped back and stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
Tim took a bite of eggs, chewed, swallowed. Then he looked up at the slave with a frown. "These corners aren't sharp enough."
The slave's heart sank. He looked at the toast, the corners were slightly rounded, not the perfect right angles Tim preferred.
"I apologize, Sir," the slave said, bowing deeply. "I will correct it immediately."
He took the plate, returned to the kitchen, and carefully trimmed the toast with a knife until the corners were geometrically precise. Then he brought it back, bowing again as he set it on the tray.
"Better," Tim said dismissively, taking another bite.
The slave returned to his position, standing at attention while Tim ate. His feet ached in the tight dress shoes. The collar of his shirt dug into his throat. But he didn't move, didn't shift his weight, didn't let any discomfort show on his face.
*This is discipline,* he thought. *This is what it means to serve properly. Not just doing what he asks, but doing it perfectly. Anticipating his needs. Never making him wait or ask twice.*
When Tim finished eating, the slave immediately stepped forward to take the tray. "Coffee, Sir?"
"Yeah. And make sure it's hot this time."
The slave's stomach twisted with shame. Last week, he'd brought the coffee too soon, and it had cooled slightly by the time Tim was ready for it. He'd been corrected then, too.
"Yes, Sir. I will ensure it is the perfect temperature."
He returned to the kitchen and prepared a fresh cup, testing the temperature carefully before bringing it back. He set it on the nightstand within Tim's reach, then stepped back and bowed.
Tim took a sip, his expression neutral. "Acceptable."
Relief flooded through the slave. "Thank you, Sir."
"Shower," Tim said, standing and letting the robe fall to the floor. "Full service."
"Yes, Sir." The slave bowed and followed Tim into the bathroom.
He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it was exactly how Tim liked it hot, but not scalding. Steam began to fill the room as Tim stepped into the shower. The slave removed his gloves, rolled up his sleeves, and knelt on the tile floor outside the shower.
He reached in with a washcloth and began to wash Tim's body, starting with his feet and working his way up. He scrubbed between Tim's toes, massaged his calves, worked the soap into his thighs. Then his ass, his lower back, his chest, his arms. Every inch of Tim's body received the slave's careful, reverent attention.
Tim stood there passively, his eyes closed, letting the slave do all the work. He didn't have to lift a finger. He didn't have to move. The slave handled everything.
When Tim's body was clean, the slave shampooed his hair, his fingers working the lather into Tim's scalp with gentle, circular motions. Tim let out a low sound of pleasure, and the slave's cock twitched in his tight trousers.
*He's so beautiful,* the slave thought as he rinsed the shampoo away. *So perfect. And I get to touch him like this. I get to serve him like this. How did I get so lucky?*
When the shower was finished, the slave turned off the water and immediately held out a warmed towel. Tim stepped into it, and the slave dried him carefully patting, not rubbing, so as not to irritate his skin.
"Shave," Tim said, settling into the chair by the sink.
"Yes, Sir." The slave bowed and retrieved the shaving supplies.
He prepared the hot towel first, wrapping it around Tim's face to soften the stubble. While Tim relaxed, the slave mixed the shaving cream in a bowl, working it into a thick lather with the brush. When the towel had done its work, he removed it and began to apply the cream in smooth, even strokes.
Then he picked up the straight razor, his hand steady and sure. He'd practiced this hundreds of times, and he knew Tim's face as well as he knew his own. He worked carefully, methodically, shaving with the grain, rinsing the blade between strokes, making sure every pass was smooth and clean.
Tim sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, trusting the slave completely. The intimacy of it made the slave's chest ache with devotion.
When the shave was finished, the slave applied aftershave with gentle pats, then stepped back and bowed. "Complete, Sir."
Tim ran a hand over his jaw, checking the slave's work. "You missed a spot. Right here." He pointed to a small patch near his ear.
The slave's face flushed with shame. "I apologize, Sir. I will correct it immediately."
He re-lathered the spot and carefully shaved it, then checked again to make sure it was perfect. "My apologies, Master. It is done now.
"Better," Tim said, standing. He walked back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. "Toenails."
"Yes, Sir." The slave bowed and retrieved the nail clippers and file.
He knelt at Tim's feet and began the work, clipping each toenail with careful precision, filing the edges smooth, making sure everything was perfect. Tim scrolled through his phone, completely ignoring the slave's efforts.
*This is what Brian will never understand,* the slave thought as he worked. *He thinks I need someone who sees me as an equal. Someone who respects me. But that's not what I need. I need this. I need someone who lets me serve. Someone who takes my service for granted. Someone who expects perfection and corrects me when I fall short.*
When the toenails were finished, the slave gathered the clippings and disposed of them, then returned to stand at attention beside the bed.
Tim stood and stretched, the robe falling open to reveal his body. "Good. Now get me some water. Cold. With ice."
"Yes, Sir." The slave bowed and hurried to the kitchen.
He filled a glass with ice, added cold filtered water, and brought it back on a small tray. He presented it to Tim with another bow, and Tim took it without a word of thanks.
The slave returned to his position, standing at attention, his posture perfect despite the ache in his feet and the tightness of his collar.
Tim settled onto the couch, turning on the TV. "You can stand there until I need you again."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
The slave stood in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes forward. He didn't know how long he'd be standing there. It didn't matter. He would stand for as long as Tim wanted him to. He would wait, ready and attentive, until the next command came.
*This is my purpose,* he thought, his heart swelling with pride and devotion. *This is what I was made for. And I will serve him perfectly, every single Sunday, for as long as he allows me the privilege.*
Twenty minutes passed. The slave's feet throbbed in the tight dress shoes, but he didn't shift his weight. His collar dug into his throat, but he didn't loosen it. He stood perfectly still, perfectly ready, waiting for the next command.
Then Tim spoke, his voice casual and matter-of-fact: "Fartrag."
The slave's body moved before his mind could process the word. He dropped to his knees and crawled quickly to the couch, slipping behind Tim and ducking under the back of the plush terrycloth robe. The fabric was warm and soft, Tim’s comfort, Tim's luxury, while the slave knelt on the hard floor, his knees pressing into the unforgiving surface.
He reached up with both hands and carefully pulled Tim's ass cheeks apart, exposing the hole he'd eaten so reverently the night before. Then he pressed his face in close, his nose right against Tim's asshole, and waited.
Tim shifted slightly, getting comfortable. The slave could feel the tension in Tim's body, the way his muscles relaxed as he prepared to release. The slave opened his mouth slightly, ready to huff in whatever his Master gave him.
The fart came, a long, low rumble that filled the slave's nose and mouth with the thick, acrid scent of Tim's insides. The slave inhaled sharply, pulling the smell deep into his lungs, his eyes watering slightly from the intensity.
But it wasn't fast enough.
Tim's hand came down hard, slapping the side of the slave's head with a sharp crack that made his ears ring. "Faster, you fucking fartrag. Huff that shit in. I don't want to smell my own goddamn farts."
"Yes, Sir," the slave gasped, his face stinging from the slap. "I'm sorry, Sir."
Another fart came, and this time the slave was ready. He inhaled hard and fast, sucking the smell in with desperate enthusiasm, his nose pressed tight against Tim's hole. He huffed again and again, making sure every bit of the smell was pulled into his lungs and away from Tim's comfort.
*This is what I am,* the slave thought, his cock hardening despite the humiliation. *This is my purpose. I'm his fartrag. His toilet. His waste disposal. And I'm grateful for it.*
Tim let out a satisfied sigh, settling deeper into the couch cushions. He could feel the slave's face pressed against his ass, could feel the desperate huffing as the pathetic faggot inhaled his farts like they were precious gifts. It was exactly how it should be. Tim didn't have to smell his own gas, didn't have to deal with any discomfort. That's what the slave was for, to take the unpleasant things, to absorb them, to be grateful for the privilege.
Another fart, and the slave huffed it in immediately, his breathing loud and eager under the robe.
"Good," Tim said dismissively. "Stay there."
The slave remained in position, his face pressed against Tim's ass, his hands still holding the cheeks apart. His knees ached on the hard floor. His neck was cramped from the angle. But he didn't move. He waited, ready to huff in the next fart, ready to serve.
After a few more minutes, Tim shifted and the slave quickly pulled back, letting the robe fall as he crawled out from under it. He returned to his kneeling position beside the couch, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed.
Tim glanced down at him, then picked up his phone and checked the time. "My friends are coming over in two hours. Eagles game."
The slave's heart skipped. "Yes, Sir."
"They know I dominate guys," Tim continued, his tone casual. "They're leather-adjacent. They've seen this kind of shit before. But that doesn't mean you get to be sloppy or draw attention to yourself."
"No, Sir. Of course not, Sir."
Tim set his phone down and looked at the slave directly, his expression serious. "Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. When they're here, you are invisible. You serve, you anticipate needs, you keep drinks filled and food available. But you do not speak unless spoken to. You do not make eye contact. You do not insert yourself into conversations. You are furniture. You are a tool. You exist to make their experience comfortable, and nothing more."
"Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."
"If someone needs a beer, you bring it before they have to ask. If someone's glass is empty, you refill it. If there's trash, you clear it. You move quietly, efficiently, and you do not draw attention to yourself. You're a shadow. A ghost. They should barely notice you're there, but everything should run smoothly because of you."
The slave's cock throbbed in his tight trousers. The thought of serving Tim in front of his friends, of being seen in his proper place, used and ignored and treated like the servant he was, made his whole body flush with arousal.
"Yes, Sir," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I will be invisible. I will serve perfectly."
Tim's eyes narrowed. "You will not embarrass me. You will not fuck up. You will not spill anything, break anything, or make any noise that distracts from the game. If you do, there will be consequences. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir. I understand completely, Sir."
"And if one of them wants to use you. If they want you to suck their cock, or lick their boots, or huff their farts, you do it. No hesitation. No questions. You serve whoever I tell you to serve, however they want to be served. Clear?"
The slave's breath caught. The idea of being passed around, of being used by Tim's friends while Tim watched, made his head spin with a mixture of terror and desperate arousal.
"Yes, Sir," he whispered. "Crystal clear, Sir."
Tim leaned back, satisfied. "Good. You'll stay in uniform. The formal look is appropriate for this. But you'll move fast when needed. No stiff, slow butler shit when someone needs another beer. You're efficient. Quick. Invisible."
"Yes, Sir."
"And one more thing," Tim added, his voice dropping lower. "If you fuck this up. If you embarrass me in front of my friends, if you draw the wrong kind of attention, if you fail in any way, you will regret it. I will make sure you understand exactly how disappointed I am. And trust me, faggot, you do not want that."
The slave's stomach twisted with fear. He'd seen Tim angry before, the cold, controlled fury that came when the slave failed to meet expectations. The thought of disappointing his Master, especially in front of others, was almost unbearable.
"I won't fail you, Sir," the slave said, his voice shaking. "I promise. I will serve perfectly. I will make you proud."
Tim smirked. "We'll see. Now get the living room ready. I want the furniture arranged for optimal viewing. Couch facing the TV, extra chairs set up, side tables for drinks and snacks. And I want the kitchen stocked. Beer in the fridge, chips and dip ready, wings in the oven on a timer. You have two hours. Move."
"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." The slave bowed deeply and hurried toward the living room, his mind already racing through the tasks.
*I can't fuck this up,* he thought as he began moving furniture. *I have to be perfect. I have to show Tim that I can serve him properly, even in front of others. I have to prove that I'm worthy of this. That I'm worthy of him.*
His cock was still hard, straining against his trousers, but he ignored it. There was work to do. There was service to perform. And he would do it flawlessly, because anything less would be a betrayal of everything he was.
*This is my purpose,* he thought again, arranging the chairs with precise care. *This is what I was made for. And I will not fail.*
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