Imagine you've received your letter of acceptance, an invite, and instructions. You're one of the chosen - a boy given an opportunity to live out his fantasy as one of my treasured servants and houseboys. Your Zoom interview with my head butler was successful - and he has decided you deserve a shot at proving your obedience and learning about the joys of formal servitude at my manor.
You feel extra special because you live in a different country, far away, and your flight will be paid for out of my, the Master's, great generosity.
The letter of instructions includes a list you must fill out of skills you already possess, ones you wish to learn, and others that are a limit. They are some you might suspect are standard for any formal household: ironing, steaming, bartending, etc. Others are not: blowjobs, rimming, anal and so on. Some are of course compulsory: wearing the correct uniform at the right time of day, being groomed as per the Master's wishes, chastity, submission to daily hypnotic programming to ensure a peaceful, relaxed obedience.
The day of your flight and you are nervous. All you are told to wear is a suit and tie and bring no other clothes. You of course think a small carry-on would be fine - why wouldn't you bring a phone charger, changes of underwear, maybe a small bottle of cologne? But when you re-read the instructions on the flight - you realise any items like your phone and wallet will be removed by the head butler and deposited in a safe until your time at the manor is over. Everything will be provided for - down to toiletries and underwear. Nothing will be yours - you are a vessel, a body, to be dressed by the Master and told to serve.
You are expected to check in with the head butler. "Arrived at the airport, Sir", you will tell him. "On the flight, Sir." On arrival, you will seek out a man who looks like out of another time entirely - of masters and servants - not like the rest of the world in ugly, casual, loose-fitting clothes. You spy a man wearing a chauffeur's uniform - a tunic jacket with a long black tie and crisp white shirt underneath - and know he must be for you. Tight trousers tucked in long black boots. White gloves. A peaked leather hat. He will take your bag and he tells you to put everything inside - your phone, wallet, passport. In return, he hands you a box and a letter for you with your next instructions.
Inside is a welcome note from me, the Master, thanking you for following through and entering my service for however as many days as you are able. I will tell you your journey of being my boy has truly now begun, but there will be some changes first. Inside the box is the chastity cage that will be your prison during your length of service. If you are well practiced, then good, but if not, you will learn. The key will be deposited inside an envelope which my chauffeur will give to the head butler on your arrival, along with the rest of your things, who will then give it to your Master.
Your next visit will be a barbershop. In the letter, it states you will request exactly for your hair what the Master has told you to ask for - with no exceptions. You will identify yourself as a servant in training, they will know you as one of my boys and take care of you. I have already sorted out payment. This is your first proper order - failure is unacceptable. It will be preppy, conservative, old fashioned, but appropriate for your hair texture and attractive. For younger boys it may be their first time slicking their longer hair back with pomade or having a side parting grooved into the hair or dyeing their hair back to a natural colour, for older men it may mean saying goodbye to those last hairs and being shaved bald.
You will be driven from the barbers to a manor most splendid and ornate. Deep in the countryside with acres of green pasture and wildlife. But your world will be its hallowed halls, its corridors of power, its lord. And you will not be entering at its grand doors - you will be taken via a back road to the service entrance.
This is the last moment - as you stand in your suit and tie and new haircut before you leave the outside world. You could turn back and ask to be taken to the airport, pay for your flight home, ask for the key to the cage and be free. But you don't - you knock - and your service begins.
The door opens and a boy around your age answers. He is dressed as you will be very shortly in the day uniform - and it's perfect. Grey lined morning trousers. A dove waistcoat. White gloves. A black long tail coat. And a black necktie done with a large Windsor knot. A name badge at the chest, "Thompson", and underneath "at your service".
"Thank the lord you've arrived," he tells you. "I know Mr Grantham, the head butler, will want you uniformed and have your first lesson done as soon as possible. The Master has invited several friends over this evening and you'll have to be ready."
He ushers you in via a small corridor past a bustling kitchen where the head cook and his sous chef are preparing staff meals and tonight's delicacies. Down a flight of stairs, Thompson draws out a set of keys from his pocket.
"The Servant Quarters are usually locked," he says. "They are only open during Mr Grantham's morning instructions for the day, during switchover when we change to our evening uniforms, and bed. The shared bathroom for the servants is next door. Come - it's this one - you're sharing with me.
He opens a room, number five, and inside is barely anything. Two small single beds fastidiously made up. A wooden wardrobe and a little mirror. Bedside cabinets. Nothing else.
"You'll find all undergarments and uniforms in the wardrobe. Everything is in your size unless you told Mr Grantham porkies about your measurements. You have a journal and pen if you wish, as well as guides to domestic servitude if you need to brush up on anything. I know you're here for a week, but if you're anything like me I've extended my stay at least four times! Used shirts and undergarments will be picked up by the laundry boy every day, while uniforms are dry-cleaned weekly. Change into the day uniform now and, once you're ready, go to the end of this corridor. That's an entrance to Mr Grantham's office. Present yourself and he'll give you your next instructions. Don't be tardy. He hates laziness."
You're left in the middle of the small servant room wondering what you've done.
"Welcome to the manor! Do not be concerned - you'll serve the Master soon."
Thompson closes the door to let you get changed, and you hear him swiftly turn on his black patent leather oxfords to focus on his next duties. You realise very quickly that everything is intended to remove you from the outside world - there are no TVs or phones. As you remove the suit, it is like you're removing the last part of your past self. The last thing you own. The last items that identify you as your own person. Your boxers are already a little wet from the pre-cum leaking out of your caged cock. You try and dry the cage - your underwear now nothing more than a rag. Instead, the provided standard white briefs, a wet spot emerging.
You look at the uniform and it is unlike anything you've worn before. It is designed, much like the chastity cage locking your cock, to be a tool to achieve better servitude. Formal, restrictive, what the Master wants.
Sheer over the knee socks are buckled at the thigh, which also has a clip for the white collarless shirt so it stays neat and tucked. The shirt is starched and stiff - feeling more like armour that your body is forced to form around. Simple black cufflinks on your wrists. The trousers held up with white buttoned braces. The dove grey waistcoat tightens your posture further. The final pieces - the stiff starched white collar that must be buttoned to the shirt. You think for a moment you've given the wrong measurements, it fits only just. It forces you to hold your neck up - never, ever to slouch for fear of being strangled. The tie that drapes and collars you. And finally the jacket, the shoes. And the name tag. Brazen in bronze - your surname...at the Master's service.
A clock on the wall tells you you've taken far too long. But still, a moment, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You've actually done it - you look like a servant. No, you are a servant.
Out to the corridor you return, and make your way to Mr Grantham's office. Knock. Knock again and you hear a gruff low voice telling you to enter.
Before you a grander than yours bedroom. Still simple, still a servant's, but you suspect you might come to envy the head butler having his own double bed and bathroom. A spiral staircase upstairs to the office, which you gently climb.
A man, just a few years older than you, works diligently at his desk. Shifting paperwork. He is dressed identically to you. For while he is Mr Grantham, the Master's head butler, he is still at service.
"Now let's take a look at you," he says, not taking his eyes from his work. "Stand in the middle of the room. Position two."
You take it up diligently. You remember studying it in the list of instructions - you stand tall, facing forward, your hands at your back, like a soldier.
He still carries on with his paperwork. You...for a moment wonder if you've been forgotten. It makes you, for a moment, loosen your pose.
"Stand up straight boy." An immediate curt order sends a shock in the room. You immediately return to formal stillness.
Mr Grantham rises. His eyes fixed as a snake. He circles you three times. Once, he moves you as an instrument, pushing your chest further out correcting your posture. The next, he tightens the tie just an extra notch. And finally, he moves your chin side to side inspecting your haircut, your shaved skin, and nods. Good enough.
"A lesson," he says. "My goal is to transform you. This manor is a machine and you will be a finely tuned cog in that machine.
"My role as the Master's head butler is the house manager. I handle his diary, ensure his home is maintained, and manage full-time and temporary staff. You've already met Frederick, the chauffeur. Do not bother the chefs, they are extremely busy and don't like to be disturbed. Mr Birch is the Master's full-time valet, who dresses him, his personal assistant in every way. If you succeed and impress, you will have a chance at assisting him. At the moment we have two in-house servants, Smith and Thompson. We have been in need of a third. We also have day boys, those who live locally or near enough, who come for a few hours or a weekend of service, typically for parties. No matter who you are, or your role, the goal is the fine running of this household and the pleasure of the Master. Do you understand boy?"
"All you have to do is follow orders and you won't be punished. Do you understand boy?"
"Submission, obedience, conformity, honour and gratitude. That is all we look for here. Are you committed to these ideals?"
"The Master has dressed you as he wishes, groomed you as he pleases, this should bring you pleasure. Typically, I prefer to have boys come in a couple days before he returns from a trip, so they are trained for his arrival, but you are not quite so lucky. I haven't even shown you the estate yet. You will be thrown in the deep end."
You gulp - you hope this is a good thing.
"I will have you shadow Thompson this evening. He will be your guide. Follow and do exactly as he says.
"Tonight the Master is hosting drinks for three close friends for a black tie evening. There will be dinner and cocktails. Typically each guest will have one servant assigned to them. For you and Thompson it will be Mr Worthing, who Thompson is... familiar with. He takes an interest with the Master's newest boys so that will be his gift for the evening, having two of you.
You have a million. Until now you thought this would be a fantasy, playtime, a bit of dress up and a fuck. But this... this is real. At the start of the day, you were you, laying in bed, willing yourself bleary-eyed to get your flight. But now in a whirlwind you are in a working manor with formally dressed, identically attired servants. And you're one of them.
"Sir... this is too much. This is overwhelming. This is insane."
"It is a lot, I know. But be proud, boy. The Master sees potential in you. He wants you to succeed. When he had his windfall, many would have just gone to a deserted island somewhere. But no, he has created this paradise of formal service. He has provided us with a gift. We spoke online and you pleaded, begged for a chance at serving a real man, strict and formal, and now you're here. Take it with both hands, boy. Commit to submission, obedience, conformity, honour and gratitude. After all, it's only a week. Take a vacation from reality and live your fantasy."
You breathe as much as you can in that tight, starched collar and black tie.
"Yes, Sir. I just hope I don't disappoint," you say.
"You won't. I'll make sure of it," Mr Grantham replies.
"Now go along now and find Thompson in the kitchen and have your dinner. You'll need your strength for this evening. Be sure to be ready in the parlour at 7pm sharp for my inspection."
"Thank you, Sir," is all you can say. "Thank you, Sir."
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