Shaved, Used, Owned – A Slave’s Submission

Prologue: The Shift in Mindset

It began with a simple notification.

A week before our session, I woke up to a new post on my Master's blog. As always, I rushed to read it. His words always stir something in me — admiration, submission, hunger. But this post struck me deeper than usual. It wasn’t just another reflection on dominance. It was a clear, cutting exploration of the difference between a submissive and a slave. And I saw myself reflected not in the submissive… but in the slave.

When I finished reading, I stayed still for a moment, letting the words settle. Then I saved the link. I knew I’d need to return to it.

Over the following days, I read it again and again. It became my daily ritual, revisiting it at least twice every day, especially during my metro rides. But more than the content itself, it was the realization that the description of the slave — not the submissive — resonated deeply with me. Not as a fantasy. Not as a kink. But as the most natural reflection of my instincts.

It explained so many things. Why walking a step behind my Master always felt right. Why offering to carry His backpack or coat never felt like service — just the obvious, respectful thing to do. Why addressing Him with formality and deference wasn’t a learned habit, but an instinct. Using informal language felt awkward and wrong. It felt like doing things the wrong way. And I cannot tolerate that in myself.

One paragraph hit me the hardest. It said a slave does not think, does not choose. He gives up the right to make decisions, and hands that power to his Master. I remember reading that line for the seventh time and feeling the impact. I realized I had made a mistake.

For months, I had been changing myself — my routine, my body, my behavior — to please my Master. But I had done it my way. I had decided what changes to make. I had judged what would please Him. And that was the mistake. I had acted from my will, not His. And there was only one way to correct that.

April 6th.

From that moment, I stopped making decisions about my body. I resolved to wait. To let my body hair grow as it pleased until He decided what to do with it. And eventually, He did.

My chest hair was growing thick again, and He made it clear: it was time to get rid of it. I took the opportunity to lean fully into my nature. “I’d rather someone else make the decision,” I said. And He did.

We planned to meet on April 6th, under the pretense of discussing body hair. I expected a quiet afternoon — a workout followed by the usual snack, listening to Him speak about how He plans to reprogram my body and mind in His image while crushing my caged cock under His boot. I love those moments. The mere sight of His boots pressing against my cage brings back images of me, on all fours, licking them clean like a loyal dog. Sometimes, I have to focus just to stop myself from falling to my knees and begging to serve.

But that day went far beyond my expectations.

We arrived at the gym. “Triceps day,” He said casually. My heart sank — I’d just destroyed my triceps the day before, and I knew I wouldn’t perform at my best. I didn’t want to disappoint Him.

I had done my homework, though. I had looked up prices for laser hair removal, just in case He wanted to discuss it. I like being prepared. But He had something else in mind.

He didn’t want a clinic to remove my body hair. He wanted to do it Himself. With His own hands. He wanted to strip away the trace of masculinity growing on my chest — the hair, the illusion of autonomy, the idea that any part of my body belonged to me. As soon as I understood that, a wave of excitement crashed through me. The message was clear: my body was His. And the transformation had begun.

His Will, Not Mine

I had shaved my body sometimes simply out of preference — aesthetics, convenience, or comfort during certain seasons. But this time, things were different. This time, I didn’t decide.

He did.

The Master made the choice, and He executed it when He pleased. That, to me, is one of His most powerful qualities. His presence crushes any attempt I could ever make to control the situation. With Him, things are done on His terms, in His time, and that brings me peace. What others might label as authoritarian or harsh, I see as the expression of complete trust — because when you trust a man fully, you want him to take control.

After training, we went to His place. As it often happens, our sessions begin with a ritual: after licking His boots, He uses my mouth to His satisfaction. It’s a process I’ve come to crave. My mind shuts off. I focus only on His cock. My sole goal is to take it deep, to hold it, to endure. That day, I was glad I had eaten early — there was no gag reflex, or maybe my throat is just learning to surrender to His shape.

Either way, everything else disappeared.

Just His voice. His cock. My purpose.

When His breathing shifted and His hips trembled, I knew I was about to receive my reward. His cum flooded my throat — thick, overwhelming, perfect. I had to pull back slightly just to keep swallowing it all. Wasting even a single drop would have felt like a sin. I cleaned His cock thoroughly, not just to savor it, but because it was my duty to leave Him clean.

And then came the first surprise of the day.

He brought out a new mask. I didn’t even get to see what it looked like. But I could imagine what He had in mind: something animal, something feral. And then, the transformation began.

He started shaving me — slowly, deliberately. His hands on my skin, the soft hum of the machine removing every trace of hair, every symbol of masculinity I had not yet surrendered. I should’ve kept my eyes down, but I couldn’t. I looked up at Him. He was smiling. That small, wicked smile He gets when He’s enjoying Himself — when He knows He’s reshaping me into what He wants.

And I was melting under His touch.

The machine was precise, but then came the blade — a straight razor and a brush. I don’t know how long it took. An hour? Less? Time didn’t matter. Then I felt His hands rubbing coconut oil into my chest, gripping my pecs, exploring my abs. I could feel how He scanned the progress of His work. And I, in turn, could only think: I need to grow more. I need to build this body for Him, shape myself into the beast He wants.

Once finished, I was ordered to clean the hair. I had expected this. And I approached the task with the same care and attention He had used on me — making sure no trace remained on the chair or floor. That was my way of saying thank You, as a grateful dog should.

Later, He sat on the sofa. It could have meant anything. But I knew — it was time for the foot massage. We had talked about it weeks before, and now the moment had come.

I took my time, got comfortable, and started with one foot. I don’t follow a specific technique — I let myself be guided by instinct, listening to my hands. I worked through pressure points, joint mobility, slow circular motions. Every time I saw Him lean back and sigh with contentment, my heart swelled. I was doing something right.

I moved to His other foot. Somehow, it ended up closer to my face. I could smell Him, taste the memory of the times I had worshipped His feet before. His toes brushed my lips again and again — maybe by accident, maybe not. I didn’t care. I just wanted more.

Eventually, He noticed. And He told me what I was waiting to hear.

“Lick them.”

Of course, Sir.

And I did — grateful, obedient, proud. I was right where I needed to be: at His feet, shaped by His will.

His Feet, My Purpose

There’s a particular kind of happiness that only comes when I’m serving Him. And in that moment, kneeling before Him, worshipping His feet with my tongue, I felt it fully.

I took my time.

I let my tongue slip between His toes, exploring each space with care, kissing and licking with devotion. I looked up at Him as I worked, and I noticed something: His cock was beginning to swell. Slowly, steadily, without needing to be touched. Just from the sight of me, at His feet, doing what I was born to do.

By the time I was on the second foot, His erection was nearly full — a beautiful, commanding presence between His legs. I wanted to focus on it. I needed it. But I kept my eyes low, reminding myself that my job wasn’t to chase my pleasure, but to give Him His. And I knew how much He enjoyed seeing me like that: on the floor, lapping at His boots or His feet, existing only to please.

Then, without a word, He gave me my reward.

His cock, rock-hard and imposing, was there for me to serve. I opened my mouth without hesitation, welcoming Him in. My mind shut off again, just like before. Only His voice and His cock remained — the two anchors of my world. This time, though, something was different. I was more sensitive, more aware, and I feared grazing Him with my teeth. I tried to focus harder, breathing through my nose, centering myself around His rhythm.

But then, He stopped.

He ordered me to sit on Him — something I hadn’t expected. I obeyed instantly, slightly confused at first, but trusting Him as always. What I received was more powerful.

A moment of intimacy. Of vulnerability. Of ownership.

My hands were bound. My chest exposed. I was completely at His mercy. He placed one hand over my freshly shaved chest, exploring the new smoothness with satisfaction. The other covered my mouth, silencing me without a word.

That’s when it happened. My mind dropped. I fell into subspace.

Everything slowed down. The world faded. There was no time, no worry, no thought — just the heat of His palm against my mouth, and the possessive touch of His other hand on my body. I felt safe, small, shaped. And for a few seconds, I thought I had fallen asleep from the sheer peace of it.

Eventually, the session wound down. We dressed. He had to work, and I realized we hadn’t eaten. There wouldn’t be time for dinner, so I moved quickly. I prepared a protein shake and some oats — the kind He always says He likes. Before dressing, I noticed His laundry had finished. Lately, He’s had too much work, so I offered to hang it for Him.

It was the least I could do. The least a good slave should do.

I brought His clothes to the room so He could dress easily, and took care of every task silently and efficiently. I heard His spoon hit the bowl as I cleaned up — that steady rhythm telling me He was enjoying the snack. That made me proud. I had served well.

And as I left His home, there was only one thought in my mind: I need more days like this. Days at His feet. Days where I am nothing else but His.