I can't believe it Daddy

Mufasa couldn’t believe I posted the pictures of him in the hat.

He’s never let me show that much of his face before—never dared.

Of course, I’ve seen every inch of him, every shameful expression he tries so hard to hide. But out there, for the world to see? That’s different.As a Muslim, he’s always been careful, terrified of someone he knows finding out.

Terrified they might see what he really is.

But no fear could ever outweigh his need to please me.

No humiliation too great if it means making me happy.

He saw those pictures go up—saw just a hint of his face but more than he ever thought he would be comfortable with—and he just swallowed hard and thanked me.

Thanked me for claiming him.

Thanked me for reminding him who he belongs to.

He knows now:

If I want to put him on display, he’ll let me.

If I want to expose what a desperate, submissive little fag he really is, he’ll take it.

He’ll endure anything—shame, fear, exposure—just for the chance to hear me call him a good boy.

Because that’s all he lives for now.

To please me.

To be seen exactly as I made him: owned, used, and utterly mine.