My Gentleman- Part 1
Authors: Doc and RIK
I used to enjoy a little harmless fun surfing the net and my favorite pastime was to look for sites that had pictures of men who wore suits and not just any man in a suit because some men look like a sack of potatoes no matter what they wear. What I looked for were men who could really wear a suit well, men who looked like real gentlemen, well tailored, smart and gave the impression that they were in full command of everything. Sadly for me, I didn’t fit that description because I always looked rather unkempt; I didn’t have the style to carry it off. The suits that I might be able to afford would be off the rail and I didn’t have the body for it; I was quite unshapely with a figure that didn’t cut much of a dash. If I wore a suit then somehow or other I seemed to ruin it, my hair looked rather lank and I didn’t have the deportment that a gentleman should have. I always thought one day I’d splash out on a fine suit of clothes tailored to my requirements. These sites often said that a tailor could work miracles.
I should perhaps tell you a little about myself before I go any further. I come from an ordinary background, nothing special, just Mum and Dad and a brother who was slightly younger than me. Dad worked in a car factory, he was semi-skilled and earned just about enough to keep us all and keep out of debt. We lived in a house that looked the same as all the other houses around us and I was just an ordinary kid who did so-so at school, not excelling but not at the bottom. I was not good at sports but preferred to draw pictures and create little stories that my toy soldiers would act out for me. I took most of my stories from movies that I had seen on television. These movies were usually black and white and from the 1930s and 1940s, usually period dramas, comedies or musicals with people like Fred Astaire, Ronald Colman and the like. My Mother said I was too much of a dreamer but she said I was always a good boy because I knew how to behave and I was always very biddable. I loved the old movies because I enjoyed the way people dressed in them and early on developed my passion for formal suits, dinner jackets, tailcoats and such like.
Dad was never very happy that I spent so much of my time in my little fantasy world. He wanted me to go out and play sports or games with other kids and although I did try it didn’t work out because no one really wanted to play my kind of fantasy games. I grew up into a teenager, tried hard at school but only managed to scrape by in exams and left at the age of sixteen to go and work in the office of a haulage company doing minor clerical work. It bored me stupid but at least pleased my parents because they thought being a white collar worker was a step in the right direction. At least I didn’t have to work in a factory.
I was a good-looking enough young man but skinny and a bit clumsy and even though I was working in a white-collar job I didn’t really look the part. I would have loved to wear a smart suit but I couldn’t afford it on my wages and even though I tried suits on in shops I didn’t look anything like Ronald Colman or Cary Grant so I figured a clean shirt and tie with ordinary slacks would have to do.
I did try dating for a while but girls just didn’t go for me that much—no car, a bit geeky and no money. It was better if I stayed on my own and when I’d saved enough money for a computer and an Internet connection I was able to enter a world that I never dreamed existed before. I learned a lot in a very short time and in particular I began to realize that some of the thoughts and feelings I had weren’t unusual. I wasn’t alone anymore and very importantly realized that I was gay. After scouring hundreds of sites about and for gay men I homed in on what really attracted me and that was older men, over forty anyway, and it didn’t matter if they were handsome. I liked masculine men, smartly dressed; I liked beards and mustaches, hairy chests, smooth chests, men with bellies and a bit of weight. I liked grey haired men, bald men, men smoking cigars or men smoking pipes. As long as they conformed to my ideal of perfection and that was a fatherly type, I was interested. I imagined falling in love with these men and them with me, taking me away from my life and showing me their world of sophistication and masculine pursuits. I would be groomed and changed from my ordinary self into a fine gentleman like them; we would eat at stylish restaurants, smoke cigars at our Gentlemen’s Club and travel to exotic places.
I discovered a site on the net that I really liked. It had some really good photos of real men in suits and one of my favorite members was one particular older man. He looked really great with his white beard and fringe of short hair surrounding his smooth, tanned bald scalp. Behind his Kissinger-style glasses he had sparkling green eyes and always a very stern expression, yet something about him showed kindness and sincerity. Whereas other men seemed to want to hide from their age, this man seemed to embrace it. He was dressed with style and elegance; something I could never manage. He had several photos showing him in conservatively cut, three-piece pinstriped suits that fit his body perfectly. His French cuffed shirts seem to be of the highest quality; medium-high spread collars hugged his neck so that no gap showed between and there was a little loose skin blousing out on top. He always wore a bow tie and co-coordinating pocket silk that puffed out just enough to show color without being flamboyant. In a few photos you could see a ring and a watch that looked as if this man was more than comfortable in his finances. Several photos showed him holding a pipe, which I found thrilling because I had always admired men who smoked a pipe and so this addition made him perfect in my eyes. His shoes were of a conservative style—wingtips or cap toes—and I imagined them to be of the highest quality, probably Johnston & Murphy, Florsheim or maybe even Alden. I imagined that he wore garters with his socks or knee-high stockings. There was no way a man like this would let himself become sloppy with his attire.
His profile itself was relatively bare. Other than basic information such as his screen name “SoigneOldtimer”, his age (72), his location (Northeast US), the only words he had to say were that he was interested in suits and the men who wore them. I even looked up the word “Soigné” and found it meant, “elegantly dressed.” Even though I visited the site regularly and enjoyed seeing others’ photos, I found myself disappointed if he had not posted anything new. I followed him in silence for months, barely even working up the courage to comment on his photos. Everything I could think of saying just sounded trite. Since his profile was bare, I began to create a back-story for him. In my mind his was a wealthy industrialist, self-made, having made millions upon millions by starting out companies and then selling them off. He was not one of those day trader investor types. He was a hands-on guy who needed to be at the reins. He was well respected but had managed to keep a low profile during all of his business dealings, mostly because he kept out of politics. He had an active social life and regularly attended charity fundraisers in particular, some out of altruism but most because they were black tie affairs. He had been married to a woman early on, as most men of his generation did, but it had ended childless after only a few years. He never had a partner after that, choosing instead to play the field. Maybe he could never find another man who shared his interests in fine dressing, as he indubitably was suited from morning until bed. He had graduated high school but not college, using his interest in suits and fine living to drive his ambition. Nonetheless, he was well read and well spoken. I wanted to make his name something English and old-fashioned like Gordon Bostwick but had to stick to his more humble roots and decided that his name was Harry Shields.
As the months passed, my desire for “Harry” grew, fuelled by the occasional new photo. Thinking about him and his life started to consume me. I tried to hold it back but all I could do was to think about this handsome, grandfatherly man and being at his side. I could see that he was relatively active on the website, commenting on various photos (never mine) and participating in several discussions. Why should he comment on my photos? I did not have the means to dress as he did; it was all I could do to get a blazer and slacks from the local thrift store. Although I tried to fluff up my profile to seem more attractive to him I was obviously out of his league. I would have to settle for loving him from afar. Then, one day, I noticed a change in his profile; it was only a one-sentence addition: “Looking for a Gentleman’s gentleman.” I had an image in my mind of what a Gentleman’s gentleman, or butler, might be. I envisioned the character, Mr. French, from the old TV show, “Family Affair,” a formally suited man, proper in every way, devoted to the care of the man he served. I was none of these things: late twenties, uncultured, too many rough edges and without any sort of formality at all (as much as I desired it).
For the next few days I ruminated over the possibility of being Harry’s butler. I envisioned myself suited and proper, bringing him his newspaper, making him lunch, selecting his attire, arranging his schedule, keeping his house, even being his driver. The possibilities were endless and I was having fun imagining myself in all sorts of situations. “Harry,” in his kind manner, would be very supportive and say, “Well done, Jeeves,” or some other butler-like name that he had given me. I found myself wearing my slacks and blazer more often when I thought about things like this; it made me feel a little closer to my imaginings. I began to compose a message to him in my mind. I knew that he was not interested in me so what I had to say would have to really catch his eye. After stopping and starting dozens of times, this is what I finally wrote:
I want to be you’re gentleman’s gentleman! I don’t have a lot of experience but I think I can do a real good job. I am honest and hard working and really motivated. I always get good reviews at work! I hope to hear from you.
Even now I shudder at the misspellings and grammar mistakes in that letter and why Master even deigned to write back is a testament to his kindness and generosity. But indeed he did write back although it was not for a few days. I was thrilled when the notification of his reply appeared. This is what his note said—I have memorized it pixel for pixel as it appeared on my screen:
Thank you for your note of application. I am currently entertaining several submissions but found yours to be very refreshing. All of the others, while more qualified than you, have spoken of pleasuring me but nothing about serving me. I perceive that you are genuine but you also appear to be very rough and not exactly what I was originally seeking. However, maybe I can make something of you. It will require a great deal of hard work, not only being my butler but also training for the job. We will be in daily contact and you will learn all the skills necessary to be a topnotch butler. By the time you enter into my service you will be a completely different person: refined in all manners, proper in your speech and deportment, capable in your expertise and service to me. I am jumping ahead of myself and will need to discover more about you before any firm commitment can be made. If I agree to take you on you will have long days and short nights with very little time to yourself as you first train and then attend to my needs as your lifelong commitment but I think you will find it to be rewarding. If you agree to continue to the next stage of your application then respond in the affirmative. I look forward to your response.
I certainly did agree to go to the next stage! I was excited just to have a response but to be groomed to be an elegant man such as him, to be trained as an expert butler, to be called Hobbs and to spend a great amount of time at his side, it was all I could hope for. He did not seem as interested in being pleasured as in being served but I entertained the hope that there would be times that he would allow me to function in that capacity. I responded as quickly as I could and said how happy I was to be considered further. I anxiously awaited his reply but it was two days that seemed to pass very slowly before I was alerted to a new message from him and I hungrily read it:
Thank you for your prompt reply. As I mentioned, I am still entertaining other candidates but want to get to know you better. You are to join me for a chat session tomorrow (Thursday) night at 9pm Eastern Time on the Interchat System. I have created a username for you, “hobbsservesSir” with the password “gentlemansgentleman”. Do not change the password. If you do not have that software you must download it and make sure it works beforehand. If you are not present at the scheduled time, your opportunity is lost. Until then.
I was partially relieved because I already had an account on that service and knew it functioned correctly. Nevertheless, I logged on with the new username and password over a dozen times just to make sure it was all working correctly. I just had to pray that my computer did not malfunction before the scheduled time.
The next day passed interminably slow. Working at my humdrum office job, I counted the minutes until I was able to head home and log on to the Interchat System. That Sir gave the time in the context of Eastern Time led me to believe that he lived on the East Coast, maybe in the northeast as I had imagined. Or he could just be using it as a frame of reference to make sure we were in synchrony. At any rate, living in California, I did not have much time to get home before it was time to connect at 6pm my time. I had so many butterflies in my stomach that I was not even able to eat any dinner. I logged on and made sure I was visible. The clock ticked slowly up to 6pm. Promptly at six, a message window appeared but he stayed invisible. My breath caught in my throat, I was actually going to chat with this marvelous man! The message read:
“Good Evening, Hobbs. I am pleased that you have appeared as requested.”
I responded that I was happy to do so and was looking forward to serving him. I knew that I was going to have to really convince him that I was the one for him but did not want to lay it on too thick, either. He asked if I had a camera attached to my computer, which I had to answer in the negative. I was kicking myself for not foregoing lunch for a week and getting a camera; how could I have been so stupid? Of course he would want to see me on camera (and maybe I would get to see him, too). It occurred to me that seeing me would perhaps put him off since I am not the stylish type and I didn’t want him rejecting me before finding out more. He seemed understanding but did point out that if I were to begin training; I would have to be on camera so that he would be able to inspect me. He advised me not to worry about it now, that we would revisit the issue later. He then proceeded to grill me on all sorts of subjects: my height and weight, upbringing, family life, work life including salary, where I lived, including address and telephone number, education, interests and finally, my desires and why I wanted to serve him. He was so compelling and direct and I told him the truth about everything. I had wanted to embellish a little to make me seem a more attractive candidate but it seemed the only thing I could do was tell the truth.
After about an hour of interview, he asked me if there was anything I would like to know about him. I was afraid of asking too much lest I seem like I was prying so I started out by asking his name. He replied that he was Emerson Barrington but I would usually address him as Sir, sometimes Master or, very rarely, Mr. Barrington. I asked where he lived and was told Chicago, Illinois. So I would have to move from sunny California to chilly Chicago! He told me he lived in a beautiful penthouse downtown and told me he owned some companies but now he was retiring, hence the need for a more constant houseman. He said he could just hire a butler from an agency but figured it would be more interesting to be able to train the man to his exact requirements and these were perhaps a little more specialized than an agency could provide. I told him that I was his man. He then said it was time to go and said that I must ask to be dismissed. I said:
“Can I be dismissed?”
“I will give you one more try, Hobbs.”
Oh no, did I ruin it right at the end? Think Hobbs. Oh wow, did I just call myself Hobbs? What did I say wrong? Got it!
“May I be dismissed, Sir?”
“You may be dismissed, Hobbs. I will see you here tomorrow night at the same time.
And with that, he logged off before I could say goodnight.
When he logged off, the afterglow continued. I opened up a folder of his photos that Ihad downloaded from the website and set it to play as a slideshow. I was painfullyhard from the onset and as his wonderful image flickered on my screen I thoughtabout being his right hand man and doing whatever he needed of me. I imaginedmyself as one of his possessions, existing only for his benefit and with that I releasedmy load in a very short time. I found myself quite empty now and missing Sir. I had itbad for this man, probably unhealthily so, but I did not care. Would tomorrow everget here?
During the night I dreamed of him; he had really gotten into my head. I did not know what I would do if he did not choose me to serve him. Needless to say, the day at work just plodded along. Finally, the day ended and I got home as quickly as I could. Even though I did not have a camera I still felt the urge to be dressed up for this man so I put on my slacks, shirt, tie and blazer. I logged on and waited for him to show up, looking at the slideshow of his photos to help me pass the time. Of course I got hard but I also noticed that I was really enjoying the feel of my clothes on me, especially the collar around my neck. I began to associate Sir’s handsome elderly image with being dressed and feeling this way. The clock inched its way to six pm and finally struck the hour. I waited for Sir’s greeting but none came. He did not seem the type to be late so I presumed he got tied up in something. I busied myself watching the slideshow more intently and paying closer attention to his dress: the way his suits fit him, noting that his white collars fit snugly around his neck and had almost a shine to them. I looked at his choice of colors and how he coordinated his accessories. 6:15 passed and still no Sir. I logged onto the suit site and checked his profile, devouring every pixel. Six-thirty and nothing. I began to wonder if he was OK; had I turned him off last night? I decided to Google him and found a few more photos, mostly of him in social situations. I also found a few articles about him, usually entailing the sale of certain businesses for tens of millions of dollars. There was not as much as I’d hoped though—for such a super-rich wealthy man he’d managed to stay out of the spotlight. Not by accident I’m sure. Six-forty-five, where was he? My stomach growled and I ran to the kitchen to grab an energy bar, fearful that he would log on during my absence. Seven o’clock. Seven-fifteen. Just before seven-thirty I ran to the bathroom to relieve my straining bladder. I returned to the desk just in time to see the message appear:
“Good evening, Hobbs.”
My heart raced as I frantically typed my response:
“Good evening, Sir. I’m happy to see you.”
“Thank you, Hobbs. Next time, though, just say “Good evening” and nothing else.”
No mention or apology for why he was late. I got a little upset at this but a little voice inside of me told me that he was the master and had no need to apologize to the servants. I, of course, forgave him. Especially when I looked at his handsome face still playing on the slideshow.
“Now then, let’s carry on from last night…”
He started out by asking what I was wearing and responded with, “Very good, Hobbs,” when I told him. I felt as if I had been patted on the head like a good dog and I delighted in the feeling. He asked if this was the dressiest outfit I owned and I told him yes. His response was just, “Hm.” After that, Sir dispensed with pleasantries altogether as he grilled me on all aspects of my life and desires. He ran me through several scenarios involving service situations to see how they would affect me and how I would respond to them: waking up in the middle of the night to bring him something, spending hours in the kitchen preparing meals or supervising catering crews for parties, managing the wine cellar, meticulously tending to his wardrobe (possibly spending hours trying to get a stain out of a favorite shirt), tending to the needs of his household including shopping for specialty items that might possibly require extensive searching, driving him places and possibly waiting for hours until he returned, and on and on. He seems to be trying to talk me out of the position by making it seem impossibly, ridiculously hard and tedious. I did not care. For him, I would do just about anything. I thought my responses were positive and sometimes creative but I could not tell what he thought, when I answered; he would just go on to the next scenario without any feedback. This went on for several hours until he told me to request dismissal. I was emotionally drained yet feeling good. He said he would meet me again the next evening at six and signed off.
Just like the night before, after he logged off I released my load in mere moments; just the thought of serving him was enough to send me over the edge. I could not stop thinking about him and ways of serving him. I fell asleep sitting in front of the computer and woke up in the morning to the doorbell ringing. It was a delivery service with a package addressed to me. The return address simply read, Emerson Barrington, Chicago, IL. Something from Sir for me! I tore right into the box. Nested inside was another package with a note on top in beautiful handwriting:
I expect you to be wearing this when we next converse.
I tore into the package hoping that it would be a fine morning suit or something similar but was disappointed to find only a set of clothes and a pair of shoes. There was a white shirt with button cuffs, a plain black three-piece suit of lesser quality (but still nicer than anything I’d ever owned), a black satin tie, black braces, white underwear and t-shirt, black socks and garters and a pair of black patent leather uniform shoes. I couldn’t imagine how Sir knew what size to get as well as being able to procure it and get it to me in only eight hours but had a feeling his wealth or influence had a lot to do with it. I quickly tried it all on and only with difficulty could I take it off but I had to head out to work; I felt a little naked in my regular clothes. I looked forward to the day when I would wake up and put on clothes like this for the whole day. I happened to glance into the box one more time and noticed something I had missed in my hurry to look at the clothes: a webcam. It was an older model that would probably work with my computer. I hoped so because I knew he would not like it if it did not and displeasing Sir was not something I wanted to do at any time, ever. Trying it out would have to wait until I got home as I was starting to run late. I hung up the clothes, ran through my morning routine and was off to work.
I managed to get away from work a little earlier that day; I made some excuse about a dental appointment. Anyway it gave me more time to set up the webcam and make sure it worked properly but it didn’t take too long and I positioned it so that I could be seen clearly on the screen. Now I had some time to dress properly for Sir. I bathed, shaved, and tried my best to make my hair look as neat as possible although it still looked a little like an untidy bird’s nest! Now came the time to don my new outfit of clothes, I wanted to enjoy this and was glad I had some extra time. I put on the underwear that consisted of white knee length trunks and a long-sleeved white vest ort-shirt. These felt different from my usual briefs and scrappy singlet and now I was eager to put on the socks and sock garters. I wasn’t too certain how they were worn but a couple of attempts satisfied me that I had done it correctly. I already felt quite formal and so put on the crisp white shirt to add to the feeling, it was wonderfully starchy and stiff and when I had secured all the buttons I stopped to admire myself in the mirror. I was becoming quite hard at the sight and the thought of me dressed in this way but I had to get on, no time for any sexy thoughts just now. I pulled on the trousers and tried to fasten the braces realizing that I should have attached the braces first; another attempt and they were fastened. I buttoned the flies and slid the braces over my shoulders and adjusted them so that I was forced to stand up straight. Next came the tie that I fastened in what I understood was called a “Windsor,” I had read about this on the suit site many times. I thought I had done a good job so now put on the black patent leather shoes and tied the laces securely. Nearly done I reached for the waistcoat and buttoned it then finally put on the suit jacket—at last I was dressed the way I had fantasized about for so long now. I was eager to see the full effect in the mirror and decided to push my shoulders back, chest out and see how much I could look like a formal butler suitable to enter Sir’s service. I loved the look of the clothes and how different they made me look. However, I was disappointed in me. I just didn’t have the look or bearing that I wanted; I still looked scrawny and immature. I looked at the clock and realized I had been longer at dressing than I thought—5.45pm, only a short time to get the computer and camera ready to meet with Sir. I had to hurry.
Just before 6pm I was seated and ready to be greeted by Sir. This time he greeted me promptly at six:
“Good evening, Hobbs.”
“Good evening, Sir.”
“I trust that you have received the package.”
“Ah yes, I can see you have attached the webcam I can see you. Please stand and move away from the camera so that I can see your suit of clothing.”
I did as he told me, stood and waited for a few moments before turning into profile on both sides and then a rear view; I guessed that he would have had a good chance to see me by now so sat down at the computer desk again. I thought I would ask what he thought but decided that this would not be the appropriate move so I waited for Sir to communicate first. There was a little delay I thought but I continued to wait until finally he said:
“You don’t carry the clothes very well.
I was very disappointed with that response; I thought I looked quite smart and a small compliment would not have gone amiss. Another message arrived:
“I will have to work on you a great deal. You will never do as you are. Your deportment is atrocious, your hair is a mess and your shoulders are quite stooped.”
I now felt totally despondent and replied:
“I apologize for my shortcomings Sir.”
“Well Hobbs you are a disaster but I enjoy a challenge. However, I perceive that you have the correct attitude and I will be in touch with you again tomorrow at six.”
With that Sir logged out without the now usual procedure of me asking to be dismissed, I had obviously displeased Sir and this left me feeling very low. I thought it was too much to hope for, that he might approve of my appearance and say how right I was for the job. I logged off and switched off the camera feeling very sad as I remove my suit of clothes and placed them on the hanger. At least Sir wanted to speak with me again although it would probably be only to say that I had come to the end of the line.
I was quite depressed the next day believing that I had failed and would never be allowed the opportunity to realize my fantasy. When I arrived home there was a package awaiting me. It was from Sir! I rushed to my room and ripped it open to find a typed letter at the top, I eagerly read it:
It was very disappointing to see you on the camera last evening. However, I believe you do have potential. I have decided to take you on as an apprentice butler but on strict conditions. These are not complicated but simply require you to agree to sign indenture papers committing yourself to my control. The control is absolute. In other words, you either accept these terms without question or there will be no contract. Once you have signed the papers and have returned them to me they will be legallybinding. Think carefully before you sign but these must be returned within seven days. You will be contacted with further instructions once the papers are received.
The papers were attached and consisted of one single sheet which read:
I, Brian Hobbs, agree to enter into an indenture agreement with Emerson Barrington that requires me to surrender all legal rights to work for any person or persons, company or organization at any time without the express consent of Emerson Barrington. I will become the sole property of the aforementioned and will allow and agree to any requirements made of me whether they relate to body or mind. In signing this agreement I waive any control over my possessions, rights and interests whether physical or mental. I understand that this agreement binds me irrevocably.
I wasn’t at all sure what all this meant beyond agreeing to work for Sir and no one else unless he agreed to it. I didn’t have many possessions and interests so there was nothing to lose there. I couldn’t really show this to Mum and Dad for a second opinion so I just signed it and put it in the envelope provided. I was eager to see what was in the rest of the package and so I put the envelope with the agreement in my pocket ready to post it the next day. I ripped open the rest of the package and inside was something that looked like an old-fashioned corset. Pinned to it was a short note that said I must wear this all the time from now on and that it would help me with my posture. It took me a while to work it out—how did it go on? This thing had armholes and a high collar; it went on like a vest but was stiff and rigged up with stays. I put it on and fastened the top around my neck, it was stiff and rigid, making my head stay upright; there were cords that had to be woven in and out through loops and then tightened. The instructions said to tighten fully and this took some doing. Eventually, pulling as hard as I could, I had the cords tied in a knot. I could hardly move and barely breathe. I had to stand upright and rigid; the corset wouldn’t allow anything else. I looked at the instructions again—I had put this thing on correctly but I read that I must wear this at all time underneath my usual clothing. My first thoughts were to take this thing off straight away but I knew that Sir wanted me to wear it and so I had to persevere.
I posted the agreement to Sir the next morning and I wore the corset all the next day. Soon I began to adjust my movements in order to cope and when anyone asked me what was wrong I told them I’d injured my back and that the doctor had told me to wear a support. After a couple of days I had got quite used to the constraint and it certainly had improved my posture and I thought I looked a lot better for it. With the effort it had taken to get used to this new piece of equipment I had almost forgotten that I hadn’t heard anything from Sir. He said he would send instructions, it was only three days since I’d returned the agreement and I realized I would have to be patient. Sure enough a letter was waiting for me when I returned home from work one evening.
I have since lost the letter but I can remember what it said. Sir was delighted to welcome me into his service and he hoped I realized what an honor it was for me. He said that the road ahead of me was going to be a hard one but eventually I would learn to appreciate what was going to be done to me (I remember that I questioned that bit because I was sure it should have been “for me” and not “to me”; I would later realize that Sir was correct.) There was a long list of instructions that started with telling me to resign from my job as soon as possible. I knew I would have to do that but I was a little concerned because nothing had been said about wages from Sir and I wondered how I was going to manage. I had to relocate to Chicago and accommodation had been found for me (details to follow later). I had to let my family know that I was leaving home and to find an appropriate excuse to be out of contact with them for the foreseeable future. I needed none of my possessions except those that Sir had provided. I was told to log on to chat with Sir in two days and any questions I had could be answered.
Two days later I had another on-line meeting with Sir and at the stroke of 6p.m. Sir’s greeting appeared on my screen:
“Good evening, Hobbs.”
“Good evening, Sir.”
“You will now address me as Master.”
The sight of that in writing was like a baseball bat to the head. Only then did I realize the seriousness of the arrangement I had gotten myself into: my life was no longer my own. I had to think, but in the meantime I replied:
“Good. Now let me see you.”
As I stood up for review my mind was racing. Was I this man’s slave? Would he beat me? Chain me up? Make me do unspeakable things or do unspeakable things to me? He already had me imprisoned in this corset! My mind was racing as I turned this way and that for his viewing. He finally posted that he had seen enough and to return to my seat. I replied:
“That corset has done wonders for you, Hobbs.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“I think there is hope for you yet but that hair of yours is atrocious. I made an appointment for you 9a.m. tomorrow at the salon with full instructions on how to cut it as well as some other treatments. Resign your work tomorrow.”
“I have you booked on an afternoon flight to Chicago. Wear your standard attire, including corset. Your ticket will be waiting at the United counter. Bring nothing else except what you have in your wallet, not even your phone. Tell your family and friends that you have an opportunity and had to accept immediately. I will take care of all the loose ends in California.”
“Yes, Master.” It was becoming easier to say—the thought of this man as my Master and controller was not so hard to take. I just knew he would take care of me.
“You will be met at the airport and taken to your temporary lodgings. You will not join my household until you are fit to serve. Is that understood?”
“At your lodging you will receive further instructions. You have a long way to go before being ready to serve me but I have faith in your ability and devotion.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Now, you are dismissed. You must prepare yourself and your clothing for your day tomorrow. Do not waste time pleasuring yourself. Shut off the computer and get to work. Then get a good night’s sleep.”
And with that, he logged off. I looked at his photo on the screen one last, loving time before powering the computer off and getting to my appointed tasks. I laundered my shirt and underwear then called my family and friends with the news of my impending “job change,” telling them I’d be in contact when I could.
The next day couldn’t come fast enough. Sleep came with difficulty as I thought about the new life awaiting me. I was to be another man’s servant for the rest of my life! I was giddy and tingly and wanted to pleasure myself but Master had forbidden it and I must abide by his decree. Remembering that he told me to get a good night’s sleep, I finally wound down and fell asleep. I awoke to the alarm with plenty of time to shower, eat and dress. I was waiting at the salon when they opened their doors and immediately got seated. The stylist just shook his head at the mop of hair and got to work. After a quick comb he got out the clippers and sheared off broad swaths from both sides of my head, tapering them as they fell back to the neckline. He continued on to the top of my head and in a symphony of scraping scissors had my hair trimmed to a very short length. He applied hot lather to my neck, shaped my neckline and then shaved off the excess hair left off my neck. A big dab of Brylcreem to hold it all in place and I was left with a sharp part and a short pile of hair on top, combed to the side. I was amazed at how much hair he had taken off and what it had done for my look. I looked more mature and in my suit, almost from another era. Images of Ronald Coleman danced in my mind.
The barber then sent me off to the manicurist who looked at my ragged nails and cuticles in disbelief. I only trimmed my nails when they got very long, sometimes just biting them off, and never paid attention to the cuticles. It took her quite a while to get things into order and when she did, I was amazed at how neat and proper my hands looked. I could not believe that I had never gotten a manicure before! She handed me a kit with all the tools and showed me how to use them. I knew that Master had pampered me just this once but from now on I’d be on my own and he would be expecting me to have good appearance at all times.
They sent me off to a waiting car, telling me that all had been taken care of. It belonged to one of the shop employees who had been paid to take me to the airport. I got into the car knowing that my life as I knew it had come to an end. Arriving at the airport, I went to the United counter and sure enough there was a ticket waiting for me. The attendant smiled at me in my getup and directed me to the gate. I looked at my boarding pass and realized that I was in a middle seat, near the rear of the plane. I would have to get used to this kind of travel from now on—servants never travel in style.