Sixty-one years. That’s how long I had an opinion on male/female armpit hair. Now in my 62nd year, I woke up this morning realizing I’ve done a 180 degree turn!

Health becomes so much more of an important matter the older you get. Finally catching a glimpse of your mortality off in the distance is a great motivator. So I exercise. I exercise far more than I ever did when I was twenty or thirty! Back then my idea of a curl was lifting my beer off the table to my mouth and then back down (hopefully onto the table). Crunches where the sound potato chips made as I ate bags of them. And this new found drive to exercise and stay healthy extends to my mind as well, so I started to take classes to stave off hardening of the attitudes. 😉 In that vein, I decided to take Goddess Voltairine’s Obedient Love course on becoming a better male. In her course, she touches a bit on grooming… oral cleaning, using scentless products, and.. ehem… ‘man-scaping’. The latter as a practical matter since a woman may wish to place you in a chastity device on a whim and you should be ready to say goodbye to that portion of your anatomy for a while. 🙂 But I digress.

The confluence of these two ideals, exercise and grooming, led me at 62 to shave my armpits for the first time in my life. Studies show that amongst white people, a lucky 2% have stink-free armpits. It’s a gene thing. I’m never that lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t scare off the garbage men or anything, but since I was already now using scentless products I wondered if shaving would reduce my ‘smell footprint’ even further. Also, I take the Michelangelo approach to trying to look like a body builder – just chip away everything that doesn’t look like a body builder. And armpit hair was an easy step!

I can now tell you from experience, yes. Less hair, less smell. And I found I actually like the look on me!

As to women… my tastes long adhered to the modern beauty standard of a shaved legs and hairless armpits. But as I grew more ‘woke’ to feminism and associated with more and more strong, intelligent, articulate women, I came to see armpit hair as a silent protest of “My Body, My Rule”. It was defiance. It says, “Don’t like it? Don’t Care.” And coming from a woman, THAT is sexy.

So here I sit today, armpits freshly shaved so I look and smell good for the women around me and getting more than a little turned on while looking for an image of woman with unshaved armpit hair to share in this post.

Man how I’ve changed…. 🙂

An acquaintance of mine, Jiva, introduced the philosophy to me recently. Sometimes called ‘the quiet revolution,’ this approach to life involves providing for material needs as simply and directly as possible, minimizing expenditure on consumer goods and services, and directing progressively more time and energy towards pursuing non-materialistic sources of satisfaction and meaning.

It seems a noble goal. “According to this philosophy of living, personal and social progress is measured not by the conspicuous display of wealth or status, but by increases in the qualitative richness of daily living, the cultivation of relationships, and the development of social, intellectual, aesthetic, and/or spiritual potentials.”

I think I’m going to usurp this phrase and apply it to my personal sense of submission and slavery to women. My version of voluntary simplicity won’t be focused on reducing consumerism, but rather reducing myself. It recent years I’ve met (and married) several brilliant women. True born leaders and visionaries. Their ability to tackle difficult problems and absorb new ideas and adapt philosophies into their lives is nothing short of astounding. They try their best to educate me, but…

Thanks to Viola Voltairine’s Obedient Love course for men, I’ve been taught to appreciate the feminist movement and women’s struggles. From Ancient Greece to the fight for women’s suffrage to women’s marches and the #MeToo movement, I know a little about the various forms their fight has taken, it’s successes and failures. More importantly the living hell female-kind has endured at the hands of men. But I’m not learned in it by any means. I can be an ally, but with a lifetime of white male privilege, I can never truly understand the pain, fear, psychological and physical torture that comes with being female.

In my version of voluntary simplicity, I will leave the big picture always in the hands of the women around me. After all, I don’t need to have a grasp of physics and transfer of energy to be what most men are good at being – a hammer.

Every auto manufacturer in the world has a comfortable head office where aerodynamic engineers and aestheticians create beautiful automotive designs, gifted engineers who harness the available energy to power it with maximum efficiency. And the company employs thousands of assembly line workers. I want my submission to be modeled upon the guy who installs the seats on the assembly line. I don’t need to know the flame retardant rating of the the seat fill, what type of leather it is or where they sourced it from or even how the metal frame is crash rated. All I need to know my boss is pleased with me when I install 500 a day and I do my job right.

Please ladies. Stop trying to educate this minimum wage worker with talk of the benefits of a female-led future and world matriarchies and the hows and whys history proves it to be our only hope. Let me be one of your army of males how gets dirty and breaks his back for you installing the seats while you have your meetings in plush air conditioned offices to plan and design beautiful, efficient marvels of the future. I’ll do a good job for you, I promise.

And how Brett does all this relate to your kink and male slavery? Well in a form of synchronicity, the day before hearing the phrase voluntary simplicity I had just written in my journal ;

I am sick today.  I thought about skipping my morning prayer bow and pledge.  Then I strapped my collar over a painfully swollen infection on my neck as I thought about the ‘why’ of it all;

For an aspiring male object, every command is a test.

Obedience is a given. If he was not obedient, he would not be here. But obedience in itself is not enough.

Does he comply with enthusiasm? 

Does he eagerly toss aside any vestiges of dignity that might remain from his previous life as a fully-autonomous human? 

Does he shut out distractions and discomforts and focus solely on pleasing his owner?

Even when an individual task seems pointless, it has a purpose: To judge, to grade, and to measure his usefulness. Every male object knows that passing these tests are crucial, to avoid the inevitable punishments that result from failure, and to ensure his owner continues to desire to invest in his training. – Brett

The point is the same. I may need training, but not necessarily education. I don’t need to understand the purpose of the task, I simply need to obey to the best of my ability.

I volunteer to obey. And absolute obedience is pure simplicity. In return, it gives me my highest sense of satisfaction and meaning.

As per usual, feeling the cold draft on his bare buttocks made Pet’s stomach churn and sent shivers down his spine. The breeze indicated that someone has entered his cell, meaning his brief period of rest has ended and he was looking forward to some kind of use again.

At best, the visitor was one of his jailors who came to clean and feed him. In his case, “cleaning” meant a cold hosing, some rough scrubbing with a soapy horsehair brush and a through enema or two. Feeding was even less complicated: a bottle of liquid food was poured into the breathing pipe strapped into his mouth, leaving him without any oxygen until he swallowed it all. The meal was always the same: a thick protein soylent mixed with health supplements, aphrodisiacs and more often than not his own piss or enema fluid. He still hated the taste, even though by now he could barely recall the last time he tasted anything else.

Maintenance visits were few and far between, however, so it was way more likely that the draft announced the arrival of a guest. Which guest it was, he could never know until the session started. He had over a hundred regular visitors, mostly women but also some men, who varied greatly in kinks and temperament. He has never seen their faces and rarely heard their voice, but over time he gave some of them made-up names based on their usual behavior. 

Among the nicer ones there was Snow White, who was obsessed with making him cum repeatedly, or Big Bertha with her amazingly huge strap-on cock and tender attitude. The worst were probably Lady Cruella, the Sicko and the Professor, who never even fucked him. They just kept returning to torture his helpless body for hours on end, and they never seemed to run out of new, creative ideas. Between the two ends of the spectrum were the usual suspects who would tease him a bit with the whip, the cane or the cattle prod until his useless wriggling made their pussy wet, use his mouth or ass, then vacate the room for the next visitor.

Pet heard his earphones switching on. This narrowed down the list of possible guests considerably – most of them liked him as a headless fuckdoll, but a few would take pleasure in saying mean things to him while watching his reactions on the screen. It could be the the German… Lady Cruella…

“Hello, Pet!” the female voice said into his ears. A smiling voice, a voice full of fake sugar syrup and happiness. A voice Pet hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Surprise, it’s your Goddess! You know what day it is, sweetie? It’s your Queendom anniversary! You are 1 now, can you believe that? Have a very happy anniversary, honey!”

—

Pet had lived a relatively ordinary life until age 62 when his wife died and he found himself in a modern fairytale – in this case, “Cinderella”. He was ‘adopted’ by Goddess Voltairine and her two live-in slaves. After he agreed to sign a power of attorney and transfer all his financial affairs to her, she spent no effort anymore to hide her disdain towards Pet – he was called old, fat and dumb, shouted at and slapped day after day. He was made to wear the old clothes of his step-slave brothers, oftentimes the same clothes for days, while denied of soap and shampoo – then ridiculed for being filthy and disgusting. His after-work hours and weekends were filled with grueling housework while Goddess and her slaves were enjoying movies in the living room. Goddess threatened him that once his ‘trial period’ was up he will be made to “earn his keep”. Pet didn’t know what she meant by that exactly, but he assumed he’d continue on as their slave forever.

It didn’t quite work out as he thought.

On his 1 year ‘adoption’ anniversary, Viola drugged his drink, knocking him out for several hours. By the time he regained his consciousness he was naked and shaven completely hairless. Secured in a kneeling position, his head and wrists were stuck through a wall, shamelessly exposing his ass and genitals to any visitors on the other side. 

It was the same position he has spent the next year of his life in.

—

“You know, I’ve put others in your place once or twice, honey” Viola told Pet, taking a seat on his buttocks. “The first boy I arranged to be the star in a BDSM flick of this crazy German woman called Hanna Fitzgeralt. She is a frequent guest of the Queendom. She called it “The Fuckbooth”. It seemed like a weird idea but turned out to be, like, really popular. Later I hired him out twice for gay gangbangs, locked into the Fuckbooth all night. The guys just loved it. Hanna once told me: “Voila dear, if I had heem as meine sklavin, locked up in zee booth all day, I’d make a zouzand dollars ein veek!” So when you were about to reach the one year mark with me, I called Renee at the Queendom and told her: “Let’s say we can have an old dude locked up in a cage all day, every day. No one will have to see his ugly old face, just his ass, cock and balls. Could you help me make a thousand dollars a week out of him?” Needless to say, she said she’d love to try! She took care of both the booth construction and the clientele… all guests and slaves of the Queendom. Me and the boys only need to keep you, like, clean and fed, and enjoy the free cash. 

She laughed and whirled the ice cubes around in her cocktail. She took a sip, then continued.

“It worked out even better than I thought. You had over 7500 visitors in the past year, did you know that? Like, twenty a day on average. Your tip jar over-floweth my dear! You have already paid all the college fees for Mun, next year you’ll cover me as well. I’m thinking I’ll go back for a Ph.D. And after that… I dunno, I’d like a yacht. Perhaps a private jet. You know, ha ha, I better plan ahead, because I don’t think you’ll be able to do this for more than, like, seven years. After 70 you are going to, you know, fall apart by the seams, as they say. Your ass gets loose, your bruises heal slower, you just can’t take being fucked and whipped all day the way you used to. Believe me, I know. So I guess eventually I will need to get rid of you. By then, however, you will be the boy who has served, like, fifty thousand very evil women and men, which will make you sort of famous, I guess. I can imagine a big auction… crazy rich perverts from all around the world… Ladies and gentlemen, the next item is the legendary Fuckbooth! Ha ha ha!”

“Nah, don’t worry Pet. That won’t happen. As a matter of fact, I have some… rather extreme plans in mind for you.”

“When you arrive back home to Cathexis, you will be knocked out with sleeping gas and by the time you wake you will have your vocal cords removed. Since you have never used your safe word even once in the past, I think you will have no need for it in the future either. From then on you will be just a pet, something that has no say in whatever happens to it. You will be a pony, a cow, a mule, a dog, a guinea pig… anything but a human.”

“Then after a few years maybe, your transformation will proceed to the next stage. Once we have a woman surgeon at the Queendom, I will arrange to have your limbs amputated right above the knees and elbows, turning you into a true boypet! Your life will consist of crawling around on your stumps, fetching stuff, licking boots and pussies, those sort of things. I guess it will be a lot of fun to watch and it will entertain us all for a few more years, but eventually I’ll decide it’s time to retire you…” She let that thought linger in his mind.

“Ah, fuck me, I’m sorry. It’s your anniversary, after all. I even brought you some chocolate cake, even though I have no idea how I’m going to feed you with it. Ah well, I’ll just blend it down with some of my pee. The best way is the usual way, right? That’s it… bon appetite, sweetie!”

Pet heard the pump working and soon a sticky, disgusting, salty-bittersweet puree filled his mouth. Trying to fight down his “birthday cake” before suffocating finally broke something in him and as soon as he finished with the last gulp, he erupted in hysterical weeping. Even though no sound seeped through the walls of the Booth, even Viola could see his desperation as he started to struggle against his bonds with all his strength, trying everything to break free. All his efforts were in vain, of course.

“There, there”, his tormentor consoled him. “Everything is all right. Look at what my ugly little slavling grew up to. Imagine! At 63 he is already one of the most booked BDSM whores in the world, with 7500 guests in a single year! Goddess is so very proud of you! You have a very, very exciting future ahead of you. And your Goddess will make sure you get everything you deserve from life.”

She stood up and patted Pet’s backside.

“And now I’ll leave you to your friends. There are plenty of ladies and gentlemen outside who just can’t wait to celebrate your anniversary with you…”

Pet (formerly known as Brett before she had him legally change his name as proof of his devotion) twitches and gives out a muffled moan as the shock butt plug activates inside him, sending a harsh jolt into his ass. As the shocks keep repeating his face twists into a pained grimace, but he can’t help feeling relieved a little. The shocks mean his Goddess needs his services, which in turn means he can leave the damn cell under the staircase where he was made to stare at it’s blank walls, silent and unmoving, for several hours now. 

When he came to Cathexis, his Goddess made it clear there would be a trial/training/indoctrination period before he would be trusted to work around the house freely with the other slaves. The training period was necessary as she had learned men are best trained by teaching them only one task at a time, forcing them to master it, then adding a new task. Their simple minds were to small to deal with it any other way. And it allowed her to examine his patience and obedience, pure and simple. Now in his second month, he has been trusted with a three minor tasks. Acting as her toilet, preparing her tea, and learning how she preferred her oral pleasure. When not being used for any of those, he was to wait silently and unmoving in his cage beneath the stairs. She had told him when he arrived to get used it as it would be his room for the foreseeable future. And because he was yet a fully trusted slave of the household, he would be locked in at night, only to be unlocked by one of the other slaves during their morning chores.

Now summoned by the shocks in his ass, he crawls across the living room on his knees, towards his Goddess’s workspace, his chains rattling and whimpering in pain all the while. He knew the shocks would only get ever stronger until he reached her workspace and then a few minutes more if Goddess finds him too slow or just feels like taking pleasure in his helpless wriggling. 

Fortunately, she has no time for playing with him right now. When he finally gets to the workroom, Goddess stops the shocks and utters a single word without taking her eyes off the screen: 

“Tea.”

Pet turns around and crawls back to the kitchen. The Nespresso machine has been moved to a stool where he can actually reach it and luckily for him, Goddess likes her classic black tea, not too dark, hot but not scalding, with just a squirt of MCT oil. All he has to do is put a capsule into the machine, place a cup on the holder and push the button. As it filled, he stared at the caption written boldly across the mug – ‘On Wednesday’s We Smash the Patriarchy’. The more challenging part, in fact, is getting the cup to her workroom careful enough not to spill it and quick enough to keep it hot. He’s done it more than enough times to get good at it but he still fucks it up every now and then, earning himself quite a few strokes of her cane.

By the time he gets back to Goddess she’s in a conference call. She takes the tea cup from him, then pulls up her silky skirt and spreads her thighs, revealing her naked crotch. She doesn’t even need to glance at her slave for him to know what is expected from him. He crawls closer, pushing his ball gag against Goddess’ divine pussy, then as she unbuckles the gag he covers her peehole with his open mouth. 

He rightfully dreads the punishment for spilling as much as a single drop. Goddess would never put up with her workroom smelling of piss! 

Once his Goddess relieved herself, Pet cleans her pussy with his tongue, then proceeds with eating her out. He keeps pleasing his superior to the best of his abilities but he’s in no hurry; Goddess will let him know when she wants to cum, and it won’t be before the conference ends. Besides, eating pussy is Pet’s favorite pastime by far. He’d be much rather doing it all day than staring at the blank walls of his cell by any rate.

In the end he is allowed to tease his Goddess’ pussy and clit for about half an hour before she says goodbye to her female colleagues and quits the call. She stretches her arms and gives out a weary sigh, then pulls her slave boy closer with her left leg and holds him there tight, burying his face deep into her pussy. Pet gets the hint and starts to move his tongue faster, doing his best to get his Goddess to the climax before he runs out of breath. Almost a minute later, just as he starts suffocating, he finally feels Goddess’s body go rigid with pleasure, her thighs trembling. Pet keeps licking, choking and suffocating, until the waves of the orgasm fade and he’s tossed down to the floor wheezing, disheveled, his face covered with her vaginal fluid.

For a minute or two Goddess simply lays back in her chair, eyes closed and a heavenly bliss on her face. Then she regains her composure; stands up, smooths down her skirt and runs her fingers through her hair. At last she looks her poor slave in the eye for the first time that afternoon and slowly raises an eyebrow. 

As if she’s asking if he has anything to say.

Pet would have so, so much to say. He wants to tell Mistress how sick and tired he is of this ruthless bondage he has been kept in non-stop for over a month now. How desperately he needs to stretch his legs and shift the position of his arms. How gravely he needs a good night’s sleep, a warm shower and fucking soap and shampoo instead of that cruel cold hosing he gets every morning. And he wants to tell her how horny and frustrated his cock is, how it’s writhing and swelling in the unforgiving steel cage of his chastity belt right now. How hopelessly he wants to experience just a tiny fragment of the pleasure he gives his Goddess day by day.

But here is the thing: he knows that his Goddess’ raised eyebrow does not mean “you may speak”. Not at all. It means “I dare you to speak.” And he also knows what the punishment would be for speaking without permission – the extension of his predicament for another 24 hours.

What Pet does not know is how long it’s supposed to go on. He only knows he can’t stand it for a day longer! So day after day he gulps down his complaints, hoping this would be the last day, even though night after night he keeps tossing and turning and sobbing in his cage, still cuffed, belted and chained the same way.

His pleading eyes fill with tears and he opens his mouth. He opens it real wide and keeps it that way, asking for his gag.

Mistress straps the rubber ball back between his jaws and pats his head.

“Cage.” she says before returning to her work. Pet crawls back through the living room, into his cage under the stairs and resumes staring at the blank wall without making a movement or a sound. He bites down hard on his gag to hold back the weeping, and only his tears flow in silence as he tries his best to cling onto those two words:

Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow it will surely end…