Play The Hand You're Dealt
"Will that be all, Sir?" Jenkins said. "I can go straighten up your quarters if you wish?"
"Yes, Jenkins, a great idea. I see you're learning. You may take your leave," the Master said, his eyes dancing lit up by the fireplace. In his hand, a crystal, that sparkled, shimmering, radiating like moonlight. Wisps of black shadow and red sparkles gently floated around his elegant hands, strings of otherworldly power. The tall, imposing warlock relaxed on a throne-like armchair, feeling the power in his fingertips.
Jenkins felt the order shift his very being. He had been rooted to the spot, like a statue fixed in place. The magic that bound him at attention to the Master's side loosened, like a necktie unfurling. He turned swiftly on his heel and slowly walked, hands behind his back, up the stairs. As the distance grew, his pace quickened, his need to rush to the study. The invisible chains slacked a little bit more with every step he took. A deck of cards, a book, a chant, and a wish was the key to changing his life, the way out of his cage. This was his chance.
He knew not of magic before he was bound to the Master. Oliver Jenkins was previously a gardener, used to cutting grass not mixing cocktails. He used to go home and play video games and not spend his spare time ironing and shining silver. He had a life stolen from him when the Master invited him inside.
With some form of spell, that he couldn't even remember being performed, he was now forced to obey the man's every command. He pictured himself pressing his weight against the prison cell in his mind as the warlock forced him to bow, him helpless and out of control. The evil magic was a daily mortification - a fresh humiliation as he prostrated himself at the mercy of this monster. He would have fled if he had the free will and the ability. Or tried to do something, anything to get out. But the man's magic had instructed him to not leave the manor and to not injure his Master or himself.
He was locked in a cage of his body made to obey the warlock's commands: forced to say 'Yes, Sir', forcing him to wear strange formal clothes, answering to the sound of a bell. He was helpless.
But Oliver saw a chance. The warlock's power over his body was not as limitless. The invisible bond that tied him to the man was less tight, less felt, when they were far apart. With some distance, out of eyesight, he had some control over his actions. He remembered once when his captor had gone out for dinner and left him alone, he felt so free he could walk out the door. But like a dog afraid of an unseen electric fence, the mental block made him fearful. And even when he got to the door, he could not remember how to turn the key. He spent the evening trying, willing with all his might, to disobey the instruction but he couldn't help but do as he was told. As his prison guard returned, and Oliver hung his coat and made him a whisky and got on all fours to serve as his footstool, he kneeled and desperately planned his escape. There had to be something.
One day, when instructed to clean the Master's study, a page of an ancient tome was left open: to "find one's destiny". Oliver knew that whatever this life was, it was not what he was meant for surely? Freedom was in the palm of his hands.
The spell said anyone, even those without natural magical talents, could enchant a deck of cards for the ritual. All he needed to do was speak the words over a spellbook. Drawing a card would rewrite the caster's reality to direct him onto that path. His mind exploded with possibilities. Perhaps the magic would make him a drummer in a band, like his childhood wish, or just back at home with his video games. It didn't matter - it just had to be better than this life of his body being directed and ordered about while his mind screamed in silence. He just hoped it would work. Some of it was a weird language, he had no fucking clue what it meant. But it didn't matter - surely if magic had bound him to the crazed magician, then magic could end it?
Oliver had managed to wile away a deck from the drawing room. But the next part, getting away, was the hard part. So, he had to trick the warlock, offer his own suggestion, and hope the man would not give a direct order.
And as smart as he seemed, the idiot fell for it, "You may take your leave" was exactly what he needed to hear, to have the chance, to desperately chant over the man's own Grimoire. As he chanted, an otherworldly hand seemed to shuffle the deck.
"...Demiurgos I call, in perpetuum ligatus, in perpetuum servus, set my fate adrift ancient stars, cards of chance find my purpose, in perpetuum ligatus, in perpetuum servus..."
Purple shadows enveloped the playing cards blowing out the candles in the room - the reverse patterned side twisting into a galaxy, myriad suns shaping itself into a whirlpool that turned - and then silence. The storm of magic raged into a whisper. Oliver trembled at the sight of what appeared to just be a normal deck of playing cards, sitting mundanely on top of an old book.
A moment. Breath held. This was it. He drew a card, hoping, praying it would work, his eyes wide as it vanished into violet smoke in his hands. It was a two of diamonds - what did that mean? At first nothing. Then Oliver's entire plane shifted sideways, like being yanked by a hook. His body dissipated, blinking out of existence like through a black hole, and his vision crumpled down like a piece of paper.
And then he awoke: a stack of papers in his hands, files, the murmuring of people on the phone, an office.
Two of Diamonds - You are at the bottom of the ladder.
A voice thundered in his mind. Oliver looked side to side, the 'bottom of the ladder'? What did that mean?
"Jenkins, quickly, I need those files copied now!"
"Yes, Sir! Just done them, Sir!" A voice squeaked out - younger than his own. He was an office boy, an intern, he looked down at his store-bought three-piece suit, dressed to match the office dress code. The sleeves a little baggy past his wrists, his collar a little too tight, the tie a leash.
"Here you are, Sir," he said, eager to please, his voice betraying his mind, lost in the blur and sounds of the army of busy stressed out suited up men with large tie knots and tight jackets, wondering how he got here.
"Can I do a coffee run, Sir?" He said, his boss nodding.
His mind caught up, his past coming back, reckoning with this new life. He had cast a spell to change his destiny, and it was... this? An intern? An office lackey? This couldn't be right, could it?
Around him was the allure of masculinity, the yelling out of deals and sales. But there was almost like a script pushing at his mind, encouraging him to think things, do things, be a good boy for the boss.
His eyes lingered at the way some men had their cuffs rolled up, the vascular arms pumping down in victory on desks. If only, he thought, if only he could do anything to be like them.
He stepped carefully towards the kitchen, his brain racing. He caught his reflection - he was still him, a little younger and thinner, meeker and eager. Like his life had taken a different twist. But was it right? Was it him?
But there was a saving grace: a weight in his suit chest pocket. The cards! A reminder to before. He pulled the deck out - wondering, hoping. Perhaps his fate could change once again?
A voice in his mind urged him 'hurry up! The men need their coffee! Please the boss!" He tried to ignore it as much as he could as he drew the top card, his world collapsing on itself once again.
Three of Spades - We are united in brotherhood, we are a fraternity.
He was one of many, a group of clean-cut lads in pastel bowties, reciting the fraternity pledge. The voice echoed in his head - brotherhood, conformity, obedience. His brain felt fluffy, clean, like fresh laundry. Good boys didn't need to think. Good boys followed the rules. Good boys conform.
"Jenkins," a tall brunette muscly senior slapped him on the shoulder. "I'm so glad you decided to join us."
Of course, his father was a member. And his father's father. Good boys do what they're told. Good boys dress prim, proper and preppy. False memories flooded his brain - remembering etiquette classes, the humiliation of being a pledge, the glee of being given a letterman's jacket, being an escort at a debutante ball. They overtook his mind as he tried to parse what was what, what was real, what was not.
He attempted to bat away the strange thoughts, but soon he realised he was trying to forget his past - his real self - the man from before.
Yes. He was a conformist, he followed the crowd, he fit the mold. Every hair was in place, his bowtie telling the world who he was. He was a good boy, he was sure of it.
"Hey man, what you got here in your shirt pocket? Playing cards? Good boys don't gamble, bro."
"Sorry, uh, I don't know why I have them," Jenkins said, trying to grasp at a thought that wouldn't come. Oh wait, these cards....meant something. He struggled, his brain aching to find the word: change. A dirty word. But didn't he...have to?
Four of Hearts - Once a whore, always a whore.
Another transformation. Oliver felt his body balloon. And as the muscles grew, his brain shrank. He was a gym bro - a live-in naked butler, at the beck and call of another.
"Boy, come over here and pour us some champagne, my guest wants to get a good look at you."
"Coming, daddy!" Oliver used his gym-grown beefy muscles to open the bottle, catching the overspill with his towel.
He was nothing but eye candy, done up like a present in his chippendale bowtie and cuffs. All he did was work out and show off his hard-earned muscles for daddy and his guests. As the strange man grabbed onto his firm rear, probing fingers playing with his cock underneath his apron, he giggled and let it happen.
Again he felt like it was possible there was something in the before. He thought he was a pro athlete, who worked to the very top and trained his body to its best. But then an injury, his career collapsed, and now all his meat was good for was being fondled by strange men. No, that wasn't it. Was it? A small part of him pleaded to himself to stop but the pleasure that sent waves through his body made it hard to remember.
It was ok. Life was simple: he was a strong service top. His legs were built for thrusting, his arms for throwing around his bottom. He was a beefcake, his body worked to please his daddy and his friends. As long as he was in top physical condition, it didn't matter.
For his daddy liked to use him as his living dildo, a sex toy. He would be instructed to lie down as his cock was used. He'd be edged, he'd be played with, and all he had to do was submit. He loved the way the older man was salivating and licking up and down his shaft, he breathed "fuck yes sir" in a lazy, stupid, himbo way.
Dropping the champagne cork in his apron, he felt something unfamiliar. A deck of cards. But that's silly, daddy doesn't play cards. Daddy plays with Oliver's cock. Oliver shrugged his dumb massive shoulders, gasping as the man took his length to the base. Good job he didn't need to think, he just needed to surrender. He picked up a card, maybe his daddy would tell him why it was there. But before he could, he vanished once again.
Five of Clubs - You're a made man now, forever, it's a one-way ride.
"You-you fucked up Jenkins, ya know that?"
Again Oliver's world twisted into something new, something older, something in the past? It settled and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke, musk, danger filled the room. He looked down, a pinstripe suit, a tight thin silk tie.
The part of him that was real, that was not being taken and transformed by the spell, seemed stronger this time. Perhaps he'd just found himself in a body with some brains for once. It could not help him now. He was sat alone on a wooden chair in some dirty dive bar with flickering lightbulbs. Around him were men heavily armed, and an angry mafioso leaned against the table staring daggers at him.
"Jenkins, ya hearing me? You're a made man, people don't walk out of this. Ya know what, fuhgeddaboudit, with your track record, you speaking again seems like a...diminishing probability."
"I get ya, Boss is real mad, I get ya," Oliver responded, his words coming to him, the memories of being a newbie gangster, a green man on the street, prepared to prove himself. "What do I got to do to get back in with the family?"
Jenkins' throat swallowed, his tight tie squeezing his breath.
"I know Boss been mad stressed. You touched his shit, his property, and you gotta pay the price. All I'm thinking is, you gotta use that pretty boy mouth. Actions speak louder than words, capeesh? Now you head down to the bossman's office and hope you don't end up getting him madder."
Fuck. He nodded, he had to sweet talk his way out of this one he guessed. He got up under the watchful eyes of the gun-wielding goons and walking down the dark steps to the Boss' office to see what he wanted. Dank smoke filled through his lungs as he breathed heavily. No matter what happened, he didn't want to die.
As he walked slowly down the staircase, he tried to figure out what he could do. These cards were taking him, tripping through time and space, finding different fates for him. But...how? Magic, yes, but why...this? Where was the power? Why couldn't he be the CEO or the mafia boss?
A preppy frat bro? A gym bunny houseboy? And now this? A mafia goon whose job is to please the boss by whatever means necessary? He was caught in a catch-22. He realised that he had to keep moving - this felt like a threat to his life - but lived in fear of what new perversion might await him. Oliver breathed, shuddered, and let the hook of the card take him away again as it wisped away in purple smoke.
Six of Diamonds - Tricks are the practice of fools who don't have brains enough to be honest with themselves.
"And now for my next trick!"
Oliver's mind was floating, like a bubble drifting. He could feel his body, the hot spotlight illuminating him, his blindfold wrapped around him. But the body was not his own, it was an instrument of the hypnotist.
In a sense, he could tell it was him that was on his knees, barking like a dog, to the laughs and jeers of the audience. He could feel his body go rigid as he was a plank between the two chairs, the hypnotist standing on his chest for full effect.
But it was not his control, he was never in control, he was but an assistant, a tool, an instrument to be played with. Every show he was a plant - infused with a personality into the blank space, looking shocked as he was picked. And every night, the hypnotist would give him new triggers, new commands, new ways to make the show 'sparkle'.
"And finally, with a snap of my fingers, this young man will wake up!"
A snap. His eyes opened to the faceless crowd, the spotlight blurring vision, the weight of being watched, of being made to perform. In betwixt the hypnotist's fingers, a playing card: the seven of spades.
"Is this your card, young man?"
Seven of Spades - The most potent weapon of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.
"Do you get what I'm saying, Jenkins?"
"Yes, Sir! But why are you telling me this, Sir?"
He was receiving a kind word from his superior officer, his leader.
"You're a good boy, Jenkins. You fill out the uniform, you wear it well, but you've got to realise that when you wear a uniform you are that uniform. You're a cog in the machine. No one cares about those thoughts in that head of yours, when you're suited up you've just got to carry out orders."
"Yes, Sir, I understand, Sir."
"You've got to work hard, boy. You've got a long road still ahead on this journey of yours if you want to get back in with the big man, the chief commander."
His mentor's eyes was a piercing blue. He was right, he'd been fighting for too long, maybe it was time he relented.
A whisper. The man advised him: "The deck is in your chest pocket, boy. It's time to draw."
Eight of Clubs- Humiliate when necessary.
Oliver's world transformed once again, like a whirlwind of twisted realities. It was too much, it was like he couldn't win, he couldn't face being taken away again. His mind wondered if that was the point, confusing shadows enveloping his brain, making him not know where he once begun and once ended. He just hoped to stay resilient, but he felt like faltering.
This time, at least it felt a little familiar. He was a bellboy of a hotel. He was muscle hired to take suitcases up to the guests' bedrooms. He was obsequious, almost to a fault, for he feared the moment he would be instructed to take a tip.
Behind the guest room door, he would blush. "Of course, Sir. We provide a full service." He would tighten the strap around his bellboy cap, the same old dance. He would reach down to the man's suit trousers, open the fly, his white gloved hand running up and down the suited thigh. This was his tip, and he had to be grateful.
The Man was forceful, fucking his cock down the bellboy's mouth. He saw no reason to be gentle - he had rented this room. He would use the mouth until it was worn out.
In the penetration, the intrusion, of the cock thrusting into his throat, cum shooting down his gullet, Oliver didn't notice the last few cards falling out of his uniform. All but one was face down. The nine of hearts dissipated into smoke.
Nine of Hearts - Forever mine
Rags stuffed into his mouth. A tight gag only allowed grunts and moans to be heard.
But this was odd, the world almost felt clear. Like new glasses, like he was seeing the world in perfect view. It felt real. He was in his body again, his old body, the gardener who fell into the magician's clutches! But he was bound.
"Do you remember this is how you came into my service, boy?" The Master! The warlock! His voice echoed in his brain!
"It was extremely easy. I offered you a job, a landscaping contract. You arrived to my manor wearing this old suit hoping to make a deal. Did you find this thing in the back of your wardrobe? Was the last time you wore it a wedding or something?"
Oliver struggled with his bonds, screaming for help. Maybe this was it, maybe this was his shot at escape?
"All I did was make these bonds a part of you. A few incantations: A gag binding you from speaking out; the handcuffs on your wrists manacling you from leaving my side; the tie locking you into my service, and a simple instruction to forget the day you landed in my lap. But it could not do everything: the spell did a good job of binding your body but not your mind.
"And I couldn't have that. So I fooled you, left this forbidden spell out for you to see. This is a lesson on how it works: each card you draw binds you deeper and deeper into my service. Every path leads to the same fixed point: being my boy. And I am your guide, each reality shaped by my control. This is the hand you've been dealt.
"The tricky thing with mind magic is that it must be done willingly. Or, at least, obliviously - they certainly didn't teach Latin in your school, did they? For your mind to be taken, you had to cast it yourself. And you fell into my trap."
Oliver's gag silenced his curses. The ties tightened against his wrists. He didn't know, he couldn't have known, how was it fair? There had to be another shot? But a part of him, his mind wondered, would it be so bad to submit? He'd been journeying so long... no, no! He yelled into the muffling cloth, trying to muster up the willpower to fight.
The Master continued: "I suppose this reality must have been if my incantations didn't work. You'd be left here, suited and bound. But that is not what happened, did it? You fell into my power. Perhaps there will always be a part of your mind in this room, tied to a chair and screaming into a gag. Perhaps it will vanish like all the others. I have no idea, I've never personally performed a spell to bind my mind into servitude.
"I don't know why you're struggling so much, boy, you wanted this. You chanted, you pleaded to the universe to rewrite reality to make you want to fall on bended knees to me. Maybe, despite your struggle, you wanted this. But no matter, once this is over, this reality, this past, this memory, will be so silenced there will be no concern."
Oliver gave up his efforts to struggle, the will to resist receding deep into a far corner of his mind. The new Oliver surrendered to the bound rope, and began to feel levels of pleasure he had never expected. Perhaps this was where he belonged, locked.
"But for now the last cards, the last realities, the last vestiges of your mind, boy, before you find your way back to me. Education, and then punishment, and you won't like either of them very much. Shall we see what the next card holds, hmm?"
Ten of Spades - Way back when men were men and boys were boys.
The cock crowed. Sunrise. Another 18-hour workday. Another day as footman. Today was the day Mr Cook the head butler would take him under his wing. He would learn everything there was to know about being an upper servant.
Chosen for his height, like all footmen, his goal was to be as attractive as he could be because it made the Lord of the Manor look better in comparison. He was a peacock feather, a prize. On his dress coat, brass buttons stamped with the lord's crest. He wore pumps, and three stockings, to make it look as if he had stronger legs than he did. His first training would be serving as valet to the eldest son, who was now 18, who liked to kick mud at the maids.
It would be long and difficult serving the bratty boy. But it was his command, his job, his life.
"Boy, it is time you take the next step," the head butler told him. "You may be earning 26 pounds right now as your annual salary, but when you've completed your training, perhaps in 1907, you could be earning double that. It is time you get your head down and learn. Now, I took the liberty of going through your bed and closet in the hallway - barren like a good boy's bedroom should be - save these."
In the head butler's hands, a deck of cards.
"Games like this are a distraction, boy. You will get these back when you've completed your training."
"Yes, of course, Sir," Jenkins said.
"Very good boy, now let's start."
Being a tall, handsome liveried footman, now in training for greater service, his posture was always erect, his hair powdered on grand occasions, learning the rules of etiquette. His role was to bring a certain prestige and status. He grew to enjoy it, and take pride.
Sometimes there was a lingering thought in his mind that it was not right, it was odd that he be at the service of another but he batted it away like errant dust. For there was always work to be done.
And finally, it did, a couple years past, his young Master had begun courting and was deserving of an under-butler. Jenkins had learned his role, always obedient and acquiescent, always ready to say yes to commands.
"You deserve these back, boy," the head butler said, handing back the set of cards Jenkins hadn't seen in many a season. "You've been a good boy. You've shown great promise. But do not let me see you now distracting the maids or stable boys."
"I won't, Sir. In fact, I'll dispose of these forthwith, Sir," Jenkins said, taking the cards with his gloved hands.
But the head butler glared, a suggestion - take a card?
Jack of Hearts - No jacking off, boy, not now, not ever.
"Your first cage, how does it feel boy?"
"It's all yours, Sir. I feel...pathetic. It's just a pathetic little nub. It feels so good, Sir. You own me, Sir. You own it, Sir. You own my nub."
"No erections, no orgasms, you're just my little sub now who can only get off by pleasing me."
"Yes, Sir, please let me please you, Sir."
"I can see you're straining a little bit in that cage even now - you'll have to settle down or it will hurt, boy."
"I'm trying, Sir, your hands, your body, you, I'm just so turned on, Sir."
"Well it doesn't matter how you feel boy, it's how you serve. Isn't that right?"
"Now I'm going to keep the key - no more erections, no orgasms, just control - understand boy?"
"Yes Sir!" Oliver was just a needy slut who needed a strong dominant man to take control of his nub. He saw that now. This was the man he wanted, no, needed. His brain raced to find memories of longing to serve this man, dreaming about becoming one of his boys. He wanted to be in one of his cages, the key added to his ring, as part of his harem. His need would only grow as his horniness grew, hoping he would impress with his obedience, and be rewarded with his Master's cum.
He understood what had come before. The previous realities: the gym bunny, the intern, the mafia goon, had coalesced. They were a part of him like past lives. His mind had flashed back, now in the present, and all he craved was his Sir to penetrate, to fuck, to degrade, to bind and tie him. He saw the deck of cards stacked next to his folded-up belongings, but he ignored them. For now, his Sir's cock had needs, and he was the submissive little bitch boy who was going to service him.
Queen of Diamonds - Forever pristine, forever clean, forever bound
Oliver stared at himself in the mirror - his forehead frozen, his jaw sore, his lips plumped. He was a human doll - a trophy, only there to look pretty. His face looked uncanny, familiar but off. His mind resigned to the idea his body was not his own. Every hair below his ear had already been lasered- the silky suit draped over him tailored to his washboard abs and muscular chest. If his Sir wanted him to get more plastic surgery, then so be it. His jawbone was shaved, and his arse and pecs were injected with silicone. His most latest treatments. Even though his body ached, he longed to work as hard as he could in the gym. For he knew even though he had been plucked and primped and dressed to his owner's exacting standards, any moment he could be replaced. That was the life of a trophy boy. Any moment his owner could spot a younger boy, someone he wanted, who could replace him.
This was the darkest of all realities, he realised. His service was the most temporary, the most fleeting. Yes, today, he was the pretty boy on the CEO's arm, sitting quietly at dinners and banquets and soirees. Yes, he had learned piano, studied French, and took up etiquette. But his Sir's eyes would one day wander.
The thought of it terrified him - he craved full-time ownership, he realised. Not just an employee, not just a sex slave, but to be owned, shaped, controlled, instructed. Someone who needed to be served, cared for, for as long as he lived, and he would do so as long as he was obedient.
He began to remember to so many lifetimes ago, before the Edwardian manor, before the mafia boss, even before the frat. He did have a Master, didn't he? But he abandoned him, who only asked him to do as he was told. This man had gifted him a lifetime of servitude and he ran away. How could he?
His surgically altered face struggled to show expression, but if you were to come across the trophy boy in his white tie and tails, all you would see would be a doll, a mannequin, broken. All he longed for was to be of use - forever.
Wait: a final card! He drew it from his suit jacket pocket and turned it over to see the face: a purple king. No suit - no house - just a Master sitting on his throne. It flashed with light - blinding the boy - returning him from whence he came.
The Purple King - Bend your knee
Jenkins stood at attention behind the Master, whose eyes danced with the light of the fire, still twisting and playing with the small quartz in his fingertips.
The servant tuxedo uniform and white gloves felt like comfort. Just a few moments had passed in this reality, the grandfather clock had told him so, but his mind was changed, altered, made. He'd reached the end of the road and found what he was looking for. He would dedicate his life to service, forever.
"Master, can I tell you something?"
Jenkins stammered a little. "I dedicate my life to you, Master, in body, mind and spirit. I will do whatever I can to make your life easier, Master. Just please, let me be your servant forever. I will do anything, Master, as long as I can serve you."
He had taken the journey to get there. From a bumbling intern to a body-building slut to a broken doll, he realised he was happiest where he was now. His mind was certain - he would be a good boy.
The Master smiled. He won - he owned the servant in body and in mind. In his magical hands he grasped into the ether, touched the strings of reality, and created. The crystal in his fingers vanished. And with the sleight of hand, he drew out the conjuration - a bowtie violet that shimmered in the firelight.
"This is the final Ace up my sleeve. It is a present for you boy, for completing your journey to get here, for learning well. This is your bowtie - your badge of office - to wear always."
Jenkins began to tear up in gratitude.
"This bowtie is enchanted, for it binds me to you as well, understand? I've taken a liking to you boy. The stars have directed it. See, this bowtie creates a bond, its knot tying us together, forever as Master and servant. Gentleman and boy. Lord and butler of this manor."
As Jenkins tied the silk around his neck, he could feel the collar clasp shut. The knot locking. The power binding him. And then, it was complete. He felt whole, with drive and action, purpose and conviction. Forever obedient.
"Forever bound, forever in service. In perpetuum ligatus. In perpetuum servus. You've found your purpose, haven't you boy?"
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
Without even a word, just a gesture, they understood each other, the Master ushered the boy with the purple bowtie around his neck to get on his knees. The servant would thank the Master for his gift, again and again and again.
