One Boy’s Path in Old Guard Service
By @Masterspro23664
Submitted with the permission of my Master.
Total Power Exchange (TPE) is one possible aspect of Master/slave (M/s) dynamics. Not every M/s relationship involves TPE – many thrive with negotiated limits, partial power exchange, or scene-only play. This is my story of embracing full TPE after years in the Leather community. Other boys may find joy in lighter protocols.
It began with speed, long before I ever knelt at a Master’s feet or whispered “Sir” in the dim light of a Leather bar. At sixteen, my world revolved around a racing bicycle – sleek, unforgiving, faster than my friends’ mopeds. I didn’t want a moped; I craved the wind’s bite, the thrill of outpacing everyone. That hunger for velocity led me, inevitably, to a motorcycle at twenty. And with the bike came leather – thick, protective chaps and a jacket, not as a fetish, but as armour against the road’s dangers. I wore it everywhere, a second skin, unaware that I had become a Leatherman in the truest sense, long before I knew the Old Guard’s name.
By twenty-seven, questions stirred within me. Was I gay? The answer came in the smoky haze of scene bars, where I arrived in full riding gear – boots scuffed from the road, jacket heavy with miles. The fashion crowd sneered; some doors stayed shut, my outfit deemed too rough for their polished world. So I sought refuge in the Leather bars, where men like me gathered – riders, drinkers, brothers in black. There, I found camaraderie: group rides through the countryside, laughter over pints, the rumble of engines drowning out my uncertainties. BDSM, M/s – those were foreign tongues. I was simply home.
Then came the transfer: London, England, for my firm’s sister plant. I rented a flat in Balham, south London, and my daily commute on the bike became a ritual of the city’s pulse. Past Buckingham Palace’s stern gates, skirting the MI6 fortress in Vauxhall, and there – tucked beside it like a secret – The Hoist. London’s premier Leather club, operating under club rules to skirt pub licensing hours. Every Saturday, we queued respectfully, paid the membership fee at the door, and stepped into the heat of leather and smoke. I met the owner – a quiet, commanding figure – through another German regular.
I blossomed into a versatile Leatherman, learning BDSM in general, and the quiet power of protocol. I applied to the MSC London with a mix of nerves and fire. Then, the call from headquarters: eighteen months in Detroit, GM’s nerve centre. My English friends grilled me on visas, culture shocks, the American grind. “We’ve sorted it,” one said. “You’ll be met at JFK by a contact. He’ll handle the paperwork before you head to Motown.”
Thomas was waiting at arrivals, broad-shouldered in a worn leather vest, his handshake firm. Over four days in a New York crash pad, he navigated the bureaucracy – forms stamped, even a job orientation. I felt cared for, like family. But on the last evening, Thomas sat me down. His eyes were steady, voice low. “Your friends didn’t just arrange a ride, boy. They ‘sold’ you.” Sold? The word hung like smoke. “To Master Frederick R., head of a Leather Family here in the States. I belong to Him too. You’re going home – to service.”
Stunned, I boarded the flight to Detroit not with fear, but a strange pull – as if the road had always led here. Master Frederick’s home was a modest 1950s mock-Tudor bungalow on a quiet suburban street, its interior a restrained echo of an English country house – dark wood panelling, wingback chairs, a fireplace that crackled with authority. He was a towering figure, silver at the temples, His voice a gravelly command that brooked no doubt. Beside Him stood Robert, His partner and keeper of the daily order – kind-eyed, but unyielding. “Welcome, boy,” Master Frederick said, not offering a hand, but a collar’s shadow. “You’ve been bought. Now earn your keep.”
The first three months were immersion, a forge for my soul. Master Frederick didn’t lecture; He lived the Old Guard – its history etched in every ritual, its values (honour, loyalty, service) breathed into the air. Low Protocol became my breath: kneeling at His feet upon entering a room, eyes downcast, addressing Him as “Sir” without pause. “Low Protocol isn’t rest,” He’d say, a boot tapping my knee. “It’s life.” High Protocol elevated it to worship – full sentences like “This boy thanks Master Frederick for His guidance,” reserved for formal dinners or Leather gatherings, where I stood one step behind, a silent sentinel. And the Written Protocol? In my nightly journal, “You” capitalised for Masters, “i” lowercase for this boy – a grammar of submission, disciplining my very thoughts.
I earned my leather piece by piece:
• First, a leather wristband, granted after weeks of flawless boot polishing.
• Then, a leather shirt, once worn by Master Robert, handed down with quiet ceremony.
• Finally, after my collaring, a Langlitz leather jacket from Master Frederick’s own collection – I wear all three to this day.
The collaring ceremony crowned it all – private, in the bungalow’s living room, with Robert and the Family as witnesses. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece; vows exchanged in the hush. “You are mine,” Master Frederick intoned, locking the chain around my neck. It weighed like destiny. From that night, TPE seeped in unannounced, as natural as the Detroit snows. My paychecks? Handed over without question – Master managed them, doling out $5 daily for coffee and a workaday sandwich. Clothing? Robert escorted me to the mall, selecting shirts stiff with starch, trousers plain as obedience. “No choices, boy,” he’d murmur. “That’s the gift.” I lived nearly a year in this absolute ownership before the term “TPE” crossed my lips – a permanent restructuring, where autonomy dissolved, replaced by instinctual service.
One moment stands out, sharp as the chain itself. I had no access to my own money, yet I longed to honour Master Frederick on His birthday. So, week after week, I forwent the coffee and sandwich, secreting the $5 bills in a locked drawer at my office desk. On the day, I arrived home clutching a Bosch drill – sturdy and precise. Master Frederick’s eyes lit up. He pulled me into a long, firm embrace, His leather jacket creaking against mine. “German engineering, boy? You’ve outdone yourself.”
The next morning, He asked quietly: “How did you pay for it?” I confessed – the hidden dollars, the skipped meals. He drew me close again, this time so tightly my breath caught. “I love you very much,” He said, voice low, “but you should have known this would have consequences. Go to the dungeon. Undress. I’ll be there presently.”
That day, in the cool half-light of the basement, I learned a lesson deeper than any protocol. As each measured blow landed, Master Frederick spoke: “I’m going to give you a gift today, slave. With every strike, I transfer My power to you.” He put all His strength into it – blow after blow, unrelenting. When it ended, He stood over me, drenched in sweat, rivulets running down His face and chest. I lay spent on the bench, marked and silent. I had never been beaten so thoroughly.
The way I felt afterwards – empty of will, filled with His – He must have transferred all His power to me.
We are chained, not to break us, but to teach captivity. Over time, the chain becomes thought. Every need, every plea – all pass through Master. Some are granted. Some are not. That is the lesson of TPE: dependence is not weakness. It is the path to strength.
To this day, whenever I am under the whip or flogger in impact play, that thought returns: “You are being given His strength – take it in, grow stronger.” I repeat it with every strike. Once, I tried to explain this to boys who feared the blows. They looked at me as if I were mad. For me, it works.
Today, this slave serves in Germany – under BOSS who holds the Master’s role, and His Alphaslave. Though we live far apart – north to south – the protocols remain unbroken, adapted to distance. Tasks arrive from either BOSS or the Alpha – and this slave obeys without delay. Downtime is the test. When no order comes, mischief tempts. To stay true, I return to ritual: polish the leather, kneel in silent meditation. Communication – online chats, weekly video obediences, written messages – is the chain that binds us across the miles. The hierarchy is clear, the service absolute. Two wills guide this slave. One purpose remains: to serve, to honour, to earn.
TPE gave me peace: no decisions mean no storms; every act serves a greater will. Pride swells in the invisible collar, the earned Langlitz. Master Frederick (now retired) gifted me more than leather – He gave purpose. To new boys: TPE called me, but it needn’t call you. Start with a ride, a “Sir,” a polished boot. Earn your path, light or absolute.
With deepest gratitude to Master Frederick, Master Robert, Thomas, my dear friends in the UK – especially those who “sold” me – and all the men in the US who helped to shape me.
Above all, to my current BOSS and His Alphaslave, who guide this slave today.
