Master DJ's Cigar Den

Master always started His slaves off with a bare unforgiving cell to live in, just a pile of straw in the corner to sleep and shit in. .

Luxuries can then be added to reward excellent performance. it had taken the latest slave 3 weeks to work hard enough to have the boards removed from the window, the moment it was allowed light again was so powerful it made it break down in fits of sobbing.

The cold, hard bed frame was added 6 weeks after that in exchange for signing over everything it possessed to it’s Owner.

The container to piss and shit in as a reward for becoming its Master full time toilet a week after that. 

Male Dominance Hierarchy Principles

Race is hereditary finality.   Hierarchy is natural reality. An Alpha’s dominance is instinctive  An omega’s submission is addictive.

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A cum slut’s mouth is fucked and fed. A bitch’s pussy is fucked and bred. A Real Man’s cock is inherently superior. A lowly fag’s clit is obviously inferior.

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Alpha Males are admired. Real Men are desired. Cock whores are used. Sex objects are abused.

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Bound slaves are restrained. Perverted pets are trained. Yielding subs are dominated. Pathetic fags are humiliated.

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Alpha Males are who they were meant to be. Beta males are who they were born to be. Submissive slaves are who they like to be. Deviant fags are what they can’t help but be.

~

Has anyone noticed that there’s a different symbol for each category?  lol.

Seeing MASTER's pic and hearing His deep voice, were the last nail in the coffin of any resistance. The sight took its breath away, so masculine, so handsome so powerful looking and with a natural air of arrogance and authority.

The sack cloth makes it feel like an olden days peasant, one that should be toiling hard in the fields like a beast of burden all day for its Master. Sweating, out of breath, the whip forcing more energy out of it, pushing it beyond exhaustion. it also reminds it of the shitty clothes it had to wear as a kid, usually from a charity shop. There's something about the musty stink of the sack that takes it right back there. Remembering the bullies who taunted it for its ugly, cheap clothes, the slap it would get from its mum for them getting dirty, after it had been shoved to the ground, stomped on and spat at.

it is now fully aware that it is defective, incomplete without a Superior to look up to and obey. His puppet, His clown, His slave, his dumb faggot. If He says jump it jumps. Orders it to dance it dances...anything to amuse its Lord. Running at the click of His finger, pouring a cold beer, serving it to Him on my knees, preparing and lighting His cigar, head tilted back, His ashtray and trash can. Ignored, objectified, owned.

MASTER enjoys ordering it to bark and behave like a dog/bitch. He laughs that the pathetic creature even barks with a British accent. it eats from a bowl on the floor, another gift granted by its generous MASTER, a step up from eating it directly off off the ground.

He guides me, teaches me what is right, tells me how i should think, teaches me that i have no rights, teaches me that i am a shitstain and He is a LORD above most Men and i am so grateful.

It's good to be the KING.

Following a discussion with @cigardadmasterdj where it talked about its humble beginnings, its poor upbringing, its chaotic homelife as a child, MASTER decided it would be good to be constantly reminded of where it came from and so ordered it to buy cheap burlap sacks.

It no longer has any self-determination, any sense of control over much of its life and so of course it obeyed,

2 days later they arrived. Smelling of damp, rough and scratchy...perfect clothing material for a poor, submissive, lowly, grovelling, hard working peasant. Clothing for a slave...clothing fit for a stinking animal.

it cut out holes for its head and arms and put its new home wear on. Staring in the mirror it knew MASTER had taken it to a new low. The sack, barely covered its slave cock and balls, making it feel vulnerable, accessible, cheap and nasty. The rough material constantly scratched its skin and made it feel dirty. it remembered how most of its clothes as a kid, which had been bought at a charity store, smelt musty like this and made it feel similar shame, a sense of being worth less than others people....the lowest of the low.

Lord @cigardadmasterdj reached into its mind, probed around and quickly identified the ways to begin the destruction of any remaining ego. To establish dependancy and addiction. Helpless to resist the pathetic fag gulped when its next order came...

"I order you to go to a women's shoe store and ask for help trying on a pair of women's shoes. You will tell the saleswoman you always wanted to be a pretty princess and this was the first time you were brave enough to ask for help".

it had always desperately tried to cling on to its sense of masculinity, hated forced fem, wanted to run away, to try and pretend it had a choice in the matter but it was useless...the command by its Lord had been given.

it got to the store just after it had opened stupidly thinking that it might be quite empty. But it was so nervous that it walked around and around, nearly pissing itself with nerves, trying to get up the courage to go in. By the time the terrified faggot finally walked in the store there were at least 6 other customers, all women browsing and 3 salesgirls, all quite young, were standing around chatting. It could tell that it was already blushing as it started looking at the shoes.

One of the girls came over to ask asked if she could help. Without looking up, it mumbled that it would like to try the strappy shoes it was holding in its size. She looked at it with a smile and paused, turned and shouted to her colleagues across the store, 'Do we have these in men's sizes'? Customers heads snapped up as the salesgirls openly giggled and shook their heads.

Now it really wanted the floor to open up and swallow it, it couldn't even look her in the eye as she told it that they don't have shoes in its size. it was almost crying and wanted nothing more than to run out of the store. but it knew there was another part of the task SIR had cruelly set, so it told her that that was sad because it had wanted to look like a princess. At this point she openly laughed and said 'it'll take more than a pair of shoes to perform that miracle sweetheart'.

That was more than enough, it was almost crying with embarrassment and couldn't take any more. it apologised for wasting her time and almost ran out of the store.

Now, hours later, it is still shaking, still can't believe how low it would sink to feel useful, to feel like it had some value, to feel like it had pleased a Superior. No wonder its Owner keeps reminding it what a pathetic, retarded loser it is.

Good. You speak with honesty and that is the first mark of a true submissive.

When you say you crave to feel something, what you are really expressing is a hunger for connection and purpose. Under my guidance, those feelings will not be wasted. They will be refined, shaped, and given meaning through structure, ritual, and service.

Understand this clearly: submission is not an escape from life, it is a way of facing it stripped of pretense, ego, and fear. You will not be allowed to drift numb. You will feel deeply, deliberately, and with accountability.

If you are sincere about stepping onto this path, then begin by reflecting on this question:

never have been a sub or a slave. Curious as to what to expect

Then listen carefully.

If you choose to step into submission, you step into a space of structure, discipline, and trust. You will not be humiliated for curiosity but you will be expected to learn. A submissive’s first duty is to listen, to observe, and to surrender the illusion of control while keeping honesty at the core of every word.

You will be guided, trained, and corrected not to break you, but to reveal the strength that obedience and restraint can create. You will learn the meaning of protocol, respect, patience, and service. Every command will have purpose; every silence, meaning.

It will not be easy. But if you give yourself honestly, you will discover clarity, peace, and belonging in a way few ever do.

If you think eating crappy food out of a dog bowl is humiliating, try having it dumped straight onto the floor for you to lick up. 

This is how i was always fed by an Ex-Master. Sometimes it would be His left overs tossed on the floor whilst He was eating at the table. More often that not though He would simply prepare my meal (usually just opening a can of something like meatballs, spaghetti, occasionally dog food and scrape it out, maybe some vegetable peelings or there contents of an ashtray dumped on top. This could happen in the kitchen or bathroom but sometimes the yard. 

part 3.

Thanks to the astonishing Master @cigardadmasterdj.

He asked me to do something I never could have imagined. Not with anger, or even as a punishment. It was a simple, quiet instruction: to clean his shoes.

Not with a cloth, but with my tongue.

For forty minutes, that’s what I did. My world shrank to the fine, dark leather of his dress shoes. I could smell the faint scent of wax and the city streets. I felt the cool, smooth surface against my tongue, the tiny grains of dust. My knees ached on the floor. My neck grew stiff. And the entire time, he sat above me in silence, reading a book, as if I weren’t even there. That silence was the hardest part. It left me alone with the whirlwind in my head.

At first, it was all heat and noise: This is degrading. Why am I doing this? What does he think of me? I was humiliated, angry at myself, waiting for him to stop it, to finally acknowledge my effort. My mind was screaming a whole story of shame. But he was listening to that story without even looking at me. I could feel it. He could discern my entire thought patterns without effort, the frantic struggle, the ego’s last stand. And by ignoring them, he was gently showing me how meaningless they were. He wasn’t fighting my thoughts; he was letting them wear themselves out.

And slowly, they did. The anger burned off. The noisy shame faded into a kind of static. And then there was just… the task. The physical reality of it. The taste, the ache, the rhythm of my own breathing. A strange quiet settled over me. I was just a fag, very tired, performing a simple, difficult act.

In that quiet, something broke open. Not my spirit, but the cage around it. The story I’d been telling myself about who I was and what this meant just… dissolved. What was left wasn’t pride or powerlessness, but a fragile, profound honesty. I was just here, doing this. And for the first time, I was not at war with the fact.

When he finally closed his book and looked down, it wasn’t with a conqueror’s glare. It was with a knowing calm. He saw the peace that had come after the storm. He saw that I had finally stopped performing, even the performance of submission. I was just present. I didn’t feel owned then. I felt seen. Truly seen, without any of my usual armor. And in that seeing, I realized the submission wasn’t something he was taking from me. It was something real I was finally, quietly, giving.

The shoe under my tongue was no longer a symbol of anything. It was just a point of contact. A connection. And for a human being who had spent a lifetime lost in his own head, that simple, silent connection felt like coming home. My home as Runt.

And the most painful truth is this: he wasn’t even there. I was alone in my room, imagining the leather was his, inventing his presence from texts and my own longing.

Even worse, I misunderstood. He only asked if I had the shoes, he never actually gave the order to start. He wanted me to lick a pair of dress shoes but he was waiting to confirm I had them before I started licking them. But I was so eager, so desperate to please my great master in some imagined way, that I began anyway. I licked it for forty minutes, lost in a fantasy of my own making.