By Peter B. and Art Intelli
“I know that I am the one who can remove your Shackles. But before I do, you must prove yourself worthy. You will be my Apprentice,” Tony commanded. “And you will show me total Obedience and Submission. If I tell you to move, you will move. If I tell you to kneel, you will kneel. And if I tell you to suck…”
“Fuck you!” Peter blurted out, although from being naked and in chains, and actually brutally attracted to Tony, he didn’t really mean it.
“No, Houdini. Fuck YOU! If you ever want any hope of getting those fetters off of you, you will obey my every command and satisfy every whim. You got it?”
“Yes,” Peter murmured.
“Yes, Master! Apprentices serve their Master!”
“Yes…Master!” Peter thought the words would stick in his throat, but they didn’t. He bowed his head. At that moment, his handcuffs that had earlier ratcheted tighter on their own, now gave back the notch, loosening ever so slightly around Peter’s wrists.
Tony draped a leather worker’s apron matching the one he always wears over Peter’s head, wrapped the laces around his torso and tied it tight behind. “Now you’re dressed for work. But, I can’t have my apprentice’s balls hanging out beneath his apron…” he said before hauling out a black canvas Utilikilt, which he proceeded to wrap around Peter’s waist and buckle into place. Peter’s dick stirred a bit when Tony threaded a heavy Leather kilt belt through the wide loops on the top of his kilt. “Now, you’re decent to be seen in public.’
“But, these cuffs!” Peter protested.
“You can tell them your Chains are all part of your Initiation into being my Apprentice…And trust me, they have seen much more than this.”
Peter felt queasy. He couldn’t get his head clear enough to find a way out of this vortex in which he found himself being swallowed.
Before he knew it he was in the barbershop, seated without ceremony. The chair creaked beneath him. The ex-Marine, who introduced himself only as “Rook,” fixed his gaze on the cuffs, but said nothing, then fastened the barber cape with a firm jerk and stared at Peter’s reflection like a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit.
“Total Baldy.” Tony barked from behind the chair.
“Q-Ball?” Rook smirked.
“Chrome Dome. I’ll be back…” and with that Tony left the shop
Peter started to protest: “I don’t want—”
“I don’t care,” Rook said, flipping on the clippers.
The shears growled to life and bit through Peter’s hair with brutal efficiency. Tufts of dark brown fluttered past his ears, collecting in a sad little wreath on the black vinyl cape. Rook moved with military precision —shaved to the scalp. When he was done, he straightened Peter’s neck with one thick finger.
“You’ll feel exposed for a while,” he said. “That’s the point.”
Peter met his own gaze in the mirror. The man he had been — soft-haired, uncertain — was gone. What remained was something harsher. Cleaner. A blank slate.
Moments later, Peter stood frozen outside the tattoo parlor, its flickering neon sign buzzing like a dying insect. A crude black-and-red design of a skull keyhole was painted on the glass.
Tony loomed behind him, hands calmly folded behind his back, his shop apron streaked with the metallic dust from a dozen locks disassembled and rebuilt.
He stepped forward and opened the door for him. The bell chimed.
“Go on, apprentice.”
The inside smelled of ink, alcohol, and leather. The man built like a pit bull with a fat chrome bullring through this septum glanced up and nodded to Tony.
“Locksmith’s boy. Sit!”
Peter sat, heart thudding. The InkBoss held up the stencil of a black keyhole that Peter was all too familiar with.
“No, please!” Peter begged, his hand instinctively slapping his forehead. “I don’t want a facial…”
“Relax. It’s for your shoulder. Sit back. Show me your arm…”
The tattooist slapped the stencil on Peter’s bicep with professional disinterest and prepped the gun.
The buzz of the gun overtook Peter’s head.
But he didn’t cry out; something deep inside him clenched as the needle worked. It wasn’t just pain — it was permanence. Obedience had a weight, and he had already signed the contract.
When the bandage went on, it felt less like a patch and more like a seal.
Tony guided Peter back into the Locksmith Shop with his big paw. He quickly removed Peter’s apron and kilt, leaving him once again naked except for his chains.
“I like you like this,” Tony whispered.
Later that night, Peter would be on his knees in front of Tony, as the locksmith sat in his big overstuffed chair, smoking a Cuban cigar, that massive watch ticking like a Grandfather Clock. Although Peter could still honestly tell himself that he was being forced, he knew deep down that he loved every moment of servicing his “Master.” This went on for weeks. A month, maybe? Until finally one day Tony abruptly said: “It’s time. Time for your Shackles to be removed.”
