White

Mufasa is bringing out the white in the red, white, and blue, and he's doing it perfectly. Looking all sexy and virginal in a crisp white shirt and tight white undies, he's a walking contradiction. It's a perfect, cruel joke, a beautiful lie. He's meant to look pure, but we both know the truth. The white isn't a symbol of innocence; it's a blank canvas, ready to be stained with his own depravity and my cum. It's a reminder that he is pure—purely Daddy's fag. There is no other part of him left.

He's begging to be fucked like a bitch on her wedding day, a sacred act of defilement, a consummation of his devotion. He wants to be ruined, to have his purity stripped away in the most brutal way possible, to be marked and claimed so thoroughly that there's no going back. He's nothing more than a whore in need, completely corrupted, his brain rewired to need Daddy and only Daddy. The old life, the old beliefs, the old man—they're all gone, a ghost haunting the edges of this new, glorious reality. In its place is this: a perfect, obedient slut, ready to be claimed on America's birthday, his independence day a celebration of his complete and total enslavement.