Worn 2 full days. No deo. No wash.
Just the raw scent of your gay Master, soaked deep into the cotton.
Built for the mind of a true gay slave.
Marked. Owned. Signed by Master.
169,00 $
description
This isn’t a t-shirt. It’s a gay Master’s command.
It started with me getting up, no rush. No plan. Just my body, heat still inside from the night before, reaching for the Nike tee laying there. Simple. Grey. Not fresh. Not ironed. Not sprayed. Just real. I pulled it on over my bare chest—skin sticking slightly from the sweat that never really dried. No deodorant. I don’t mask what I am. I let it speak on its own, like every true gay Master does.
Owned by a gay Master. Marked by real life.
I didn’t wear this to impress. I didn’t wear this to perform. I wore it to live. Two full days in this shirt. On the streets. In the metro. On my seat. My back pressed against hot plastic. My arms brushing doors, men, air. It absorbed the weight of my world—the streets of the 93, the heat, the friction of movement. That’s what makes it worthy of being worshiped by a slave. It holds everything your weak life doesn’t: presence, odor, and power.
A slave doesn’t deserve clean. He deserves truth from his gay Master.
I didn’t shower much. I didn’t need to. My body doesn’t stink. It commands. And this shirt absorbed every signal I sent. The kind of scent that makes submissive gay slaves breathe deeper. That kind of unspoken domination only a true Master can radiate.
Every thread soaked in power, for the slave to inhale.
This shirt was there when I spat at a wannabe in the street. It was on me when I gave orders by phone to a begging slave. It stretched over my chest while I ignored useless glances from men below me. It soaked up my body, my mood, my silence. And it’s now yours—if you can afford to serve.
No deodorant. No perfume. Just gay Master essence.
The armpits? They’re real. No fake scent. No gimmick. Just the raw mark of a man who knows what he is. My body. My sweat. My movement. Yours to sniff. Yours to kneel to. Yours to memorize like the slave you are.
Signed by Master. You don’t wash power.
I don’t just wear clothes. I mark them. This shirt carries my heat and my name. Inside. Discreet. For your eyes only. The mark of a gay Master, inside a shirt that trained no one, but was worn by someone you’ll never be. A real man. A Master. And you? A buyer. A sniffer. A submissive slave.
The signature isn’t a detail. It’s an order.
You read it, and you obey. That’s how it works. No need for a whip. No need for chains. Just my red ink inside fabric, and your place below it. Fold the shirt? No. You place it on your bed like a relic. Or in your drawer like a secret weapon. But you never forget: it’s signed. It’s mine. And now, it owns you.
A gay slave knows: his nose is closer to truth than his eyes.
Take it out of the packaging. Breathe. That air hitting your face is real. It’s not marketing. It’s not cologne. It’s what a Master smells like after 48 hours of owning the streets. You’ll choke a little. That’s normal. Weakness always reacts to real power. That’s what you paid for, slave.
This isn’t fashion. This is psychological training for gay slaves.
This isn’t merch. This isn’t hype. This is submission. Woven. Pressed. Soaked. This is what gay slaves dream about when they close their eyes at night: something used, owned, and signed by a real gay Master. And now, it’s yours.
The price of humiliation. The cost of truth.
169$. That’s the cost of reality. That’s what it takes to smell who you are not, and who you wish you could serve. That’s the price of guilt, arousal, and surrender—packaged and shipped by your Master.
