To my readers......

SITE UPDATE NOTICE

Thanks for visiting mitchmen, home of Mitchell's Gay Art

For Artwork by Mitchell click on the 'Mitchell's Gallery Hub' tab just below
The Caps and Collars/ Flat Cap Gang story at Google Groups is presently paused. (see Group News for link)

Link to the Royale Studio Archive in the right sidebar


Message updated 26th Jun 2025
Showing posts with label enslavement fantasies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label enslavement fantasies. Show all posts

Thursday, 14 August 2025

Art by David Angelo


 
 The vintage gay art of the sixties that was printed in beefcake magazines of the time often seems quite amateurish, however this example by David Angelo has a pleasing blend of technical accuracy and sensuality. 
 
Inevitably, the model is clad in a posing pouch, a garment that often attracts derision in our own time, but the artist's treatment gives us a sense of size inside and entrapment, a straining to escape that shows us how the men of the time really saw it. Something truly erotic. 

More on vintage pouches 

 Angelo's drawing is based on a photograph of course, the model's physique and face looks rather like the great Rick Wayne.

 

David Angelo - Gunslinger
 
Cowboys were big in popular culture in the sixties, replete with handsome heroes. Angelo has given this one another idealised treatment, with prominent pecs and nipples straining at his tight shirt. The gun belt fulfils a similar restraining role below the waist. This last detail was not pure invention....
 
81 Jess Harper ideas | robert fuller, laramie tv series, robert fuller actor
Robert Fuller as Jess Harper in 'Laramie'
  

Robert Fuller sneaking up behind John Smith in 'Laramie' 


 
David Angelo - Wrestlers

For this image of two wrestlers, Angelo has cleverly used the same stark lighting to cover up a bold erotic statement. 
 
One of the fighters is caught in a position where he's off-balance and vulnerable. His flimsy pouch inevitably draws the eye, but it's also attracted his opponent's hand. It's groping underneath, in the shadow of his groin. This hold has nothing to do with wrestling! 

In addition, the fighter in the foreground is totally naked, and the dark shadow that hides his far leg accentuates the impression that he's presenting his backside to us. 

It's not simply the sexuality that is so daring, it's the homosexuality. In 1960, just putting men together in a picture was suspect.
 
The lattice pattern in the corner is not part of Angelo's picture, it's part of an adjacent image in a magazine spread
 
 
David Angelo - Pop Star's Finale

In 1963 when this picture was published, pop music was starting to shed its veneer of respectability with Beatlemania converting music concerts into manic, adoration events. With its focus on young love, however, it was (and still is) relentlessly heterosexual. Not many pop stars dressed in transparent shirts and matador pants like this (not yet). 
 
Nevertheless, many gay artists tried to incorporate pop into their images. Tom of Finland's 'Ringo' openly sought to subvert the idea of straight entertainers and I suspect Angelo is doing that here too, by showing us his rear view, tensed above opened legs, raised up on tip toes. The singer seems to be ignoring his female fans, who are noisily lusting after his front profile. He's casting aside, too, the female shape of his guitar*. "Come and get me", he seems to be saying. To us, not them.
 
Ultimately these images fail to capture the magical attraction of pop stars, because away from the mic', he's just another bloke. I think I have seen art images of a star being seduced on stage, but I can't cite it at present. Sex in front of a horde of screaming women is a bit niche for me!
 
*The singer's own shape has interesting undulations at waist level, with an odd fit into his pants at the left. It's almost as if Angelo couldn't quite decide how slim, how masculine to make him look.
 
 
Angelo - Slave Auction 

Ever since Victorian times, the Slave Auction has been a 'go to' for artists seeking to portray gender power play and sexploitation in a semirespectable way. It fitted readily into the adoption of classical settings by gay artists seeking to avoid censure in the 50s and 60s. 
 
Angelo's Romanesque take has a very unusual night setting, giving him an opportunity to play with light effects*. The physiques of the two spectacularly muscular men who are manacled and up for sale, are greatly flattered by it - to the benefit of their value too, I suppose.  
 
A key ingredient in this scenario is the depiction of the slaves' emotions. One is proudly displaying himself, seemingly indifferent to the fate which might await him. His companion is, if anything, more muscular, but seems to be cast as a younger servant. He reaches forward, holding up the cloth which screens their groins (for the time being). 
 
The bidders we can see in the audience seem to have their own favourites, suggesting these two will not remain united after the sale.
 
*Angelo seems to have achieved this night effect using chalk or crayon on black paper. It gives something of an etched effect. Some of the detailing is spectacular - the creases of the toga for example. Unfortunately, his characterisation of the second slave, using voluminous hair and rounded cherub cheeks is very much of it's time and doesn't work for us, even if we believed in such improbable muscularity to go with it. With a man's head and face, the whole image would work much better.
 
~
 
More Angelo in Part 2 

 


 

 

 

 

FOOTNOTE 

Friday, 8 August 2025

Recent Art by Planet Gay

Presented to the Harem
 
An atmospheric image of a new arrival, anxiously appraising his new home and master. His new 'family' seem to be enjoying a candle-lit bath, unaware of the beautiful young man about to join them. Maybe it's not such a bad life after all.
 
United by Fate

It makes a nice picture, but I'm not quite sure what the logic is in chaining slaves up together like this, unless it's a frustration torment. But even in 'no hands' mode, they ought to be able to work something out eventually!
 
 
Musketeers

The three musketeers seems to be PG's current focus, and this image is a lift straight out of the 19th Century literature that inspired modern movies on the subject. The slightly sentimental staging, taking time out for a reunion, instead of focussing on getting the poor devil out, is very much of that era. 
 
An all male version of 'La Bohème' might finish like this, with the distraught comrades in arms standing at a respectful distance while the fated lovers bid a final farewell. 
 
In mitchmen land, the interpretation would be completely different, with the captive being told in no uncertain terms that he's there for the duration and that the guards have come to start his punishment. More Tosca than Bohème, in fact. Scarpia cutting out the middle woman and propositioning Cavardossi instead.
 

Games of Thrones 

This variant on the slavery theme of the first image has a more edgy feel. The captive looks a lot more mature and his chain is held personally by the King, not a guard, implying a very personal interest. 
 
The ostentatious wearing of a crown, coupled with the title, suggests politics is at the back of this situation, not domestic service. This prisoner is not a casual pick-up, a handsome man snatched from his usual job and pressed into the king's personal service. No, he is a defeated rival. A dangerous man to have in your bed, even if it is a very satisfying vengeance.
 
The dark, gothic decorating scheme here is a far cry from the splendour of picture 1 and bodes ill for conditions below stairs.
 
 
The Gladiators

The same theme is unexpectedly adapted to the Roman Arena here. Usually, beaten men meet their death here. End of. Still, you can't blame this victor for wanting to hang onto his hunky conquest. In the cruel way of this genre, he might well be one of his training buddies. 
 
Unfortunately, the lack of wounds might arouse the suspicion that there's a conspiracy going on. Notice the queer look another Gladiator is giving them. He won't be happy at them getting off scot-free. No fear, if Caesar suspects there hasn't been enough foul play, it'll be thumbs down for both of them.
 
 
Love against the wind 

The old beefcake books often included public statues of muscular men in their pages to underline their claim of artistic intent and legitimacy, back in the bad old days. They also drew on the ideas of classical Greece which furnished the idea of men being turned into stone as a punishment, sometimes with the possibility of being returned to fleshiness under the right conditions. 
 
Planet Gay gives us not just a statue, but two men turned into a statue, preserving their love for all time against the headwinds of fate. Planet Gay's blogging often has a 'Pride' angle and you can see it in this imagery. But it's a double-edged sword. I'm not sure if this is symbolic of enduring strength - or defiant defeat, with the lovers neutralised and relegated to being an interesting 'feature' in a corner of a garden. I suppose it's better than ending up sitting alone on a horse in the middle of a roundabout. 
 
Other statue references at mitchmen -  
 ~

There are several other posts of Planet Gay on mitchmen,
simply search for PlanetGayComic for the latest additions 
 

Planet Gay's current work is video oriented and web locations include PlanetGayComic on X and PlanetGay onYouTube, but I prefer his non-video, Deviant Art Gallery

Sunday, 20 April 2025

Meet The Spartans by Moosemind (AI)

A collection of images by Moosemind with a Roman/Greek/Spartan theme.
I have strung them together with a narrative of my own that is pure mitchmen.
It tells the untrue story of the renowned Spartan Army. 

The Shaming of the Spartans

1

In Sparta, lovers are parting,
 
"Farewell, my love, the Army is assembled.
Today I must march on Throbos*".
 
*A city about 10 leagues from Troy, it was reputed to be the home 
of some of the greatest treasures of the Trojan Empire. 
With an equally renowned, lively nightlife. 
 
 
2

The Army departed from Sparta to the accompaniment of fireworks and celebrations.
Proudly, they bared their weaponry in the traditional way, for which the city was famed. 

 
2
 
The Spartan army stopped off in Homos on the way, to replenish their provisions.
There, the second in command was interrupted, while pillaging one of the locals.
 
"Sire, you must come quickly! 
The Throbbers have sent emissaries!"
 
The General was informed and hastily made himself decent to receive the delegation,
but he was mindful that all Trojans would be still be seething 
from the humiliation they had recently suffered at the hands of other Greeks.
'It will take more than a Trojan Horse to catch me out', he resolved.

 
 
2

Wary of such trickery, the Spartans took no chances with the Ambassador,
They stripped him naked and tied him hands and feet.
 
"Sire, we have come in peace, our only desire is to serve you", he protested.
It was true, he had not come bearing gifts. Instead, his gifts were bared.
 
The General was impressed by the hunky Ambassador.
And turned on by his submissiveness in bondage
He sent him to his personal tent for a private meeting of minds.
 
 

A more relaxed atmosphere spread through the camp.
The emissaries were soon mingling with the ordinary soldiers
and quickly made many friends with their openness.
 "See, I bring a peace offering, for anyone that wants it"
 
 


That evening, to the dismay of sceptics amongst the Spartan officers,
the emissaries produced multiple emissions throughout the camp.
Including groans from the luxurious Commander's quarters.
 
 

The commanders were rudely wakened the next morning by an Aide de Camp.
 
"Infamy General! It's infamy!" he declared, (camply, as custom dictated).
"The Trojan emissaries have infiltrated the entire army during the night,
and they have stolen all our clothes and weapons!
All I have left is my dagger, which I always keep well hidden".
 
"I fear, I too was infiltrated last night", the Officer replied, 
"It was my first time, and it was bloody brilliant!".
 
"I’ll tell the General, But without our weapons, we cannot go on. 
Sound the withdrawal! Everyone withdraw!"
 
 

And so the long march home of the demoralised Army began. 
It was embarrassing returning naked through the same villages that had feted them.
But, unhindered by possessions or clothes, they made good progress. 
 
Their officers rallied their men and kept them going.
"Courage lads! Once we're through the next pass, we'll be safe!
I'll buy you all a beer, when we're back in Sparta"! 

But the Throbbers had taken a shortcut and reached the pass before them.
 It was no good, they were trapped.
 
 

And so the proud Spartan army, in its entirety,
passed into captivity without a blow being struck.
300 blow jobs had brought 'The 300' to their knees.
 
 
 
They entered Throbos, not as conquerors, 
but as humbled, angry prisoners.
 
 
 
The Spartan General voluntarily offered himself to the King of Throbos,
hoping to spare his men the worst of the Throbbers' revenge.
He was taken to the city square and punished severely, like a common criminal.
 
 

Other Officers had also bravely identified themselves
A few with impressive-looking credentials were picked out by the King personally.
To be held in his personal household as hostages and for ransom.
He made them pay a humiliating price for their mistake. Nightly.
 
The rest shared the fate of the ordinary soldiers..... 

 

"Citizens of Throbos! Behold the proud sons of Sparta!"
 
"Three hundred of them dared to challenge us, but confronted by real men,  
they meekly surrendered without a fight, without a stitch on.
We, in Throbos, do not make prisoners of cowardly hooligans like these.
To pay for their pillaging, they must be sold to the highest bidders.
Citizens! Get out your purses! "
 
 


The captive, young Spartan soldiers were horrified.
"They can't do this to us, Sir, can they?" they pleaded with their Sergeant,
"We didn't do any pillaging, well, not much anyway".
 
"I'm afraid they can" the wise old hand told them.
"There's a convention on the treatment of Prisoners of War,
but we don't count as POWs, because we didn't even have weapons.
Legally, we're just tourists, an anti-social gang of foreign louts".

 


The once proud fighters, realised they had no choice.
Engulfed with shame, they hung their heads, 
It was an agreeable gesture to on-lookers, who increased their bids.
 
One by one, they went under the hammer
 and were led away by new masters. 

 



Sold into slavery, the Spartan boys were dispersed far and wide.
 
In Egypt :- "I am bored with this Spartan vassal, bring me my whip!"
 
 

 
In Rome:- "Get up, dog!"
 
"Tonight you will serve me in my bedchamber
and, by Jupiter, you will regret your insolence!"
 
 

In Britannia, a young conscript, toiled in the fields, 
still naked as he had been the day he was captured.
Far from home, parted from his lover,
his only rest and solace was a nightly dose of the farmer's lust.
 
~
 
Such was the disgrace of the Spartan Army, defeated by deception.
Not by a Trojan horse, but by a crack squad of Trojan whores. 

See also: Roman Prisoners of war by 'Gay-Roman-Fantasy'
 
More Moosemind and link next time

Sunday, 23 March 2025

Targeted


Colin's in a fix after being kidnapped at gun-point on a quiet country road.
Not only abducted but his tighty-whitey's ripped to shreds in the process.
Now, collared and chained, he finds himself up for sale to the highest bidder.
The solid gold collar they gave him suggests these are very wealthy buyers
It's scary, but kinda exciting too. All these people want to buy him!
They'll never believe it when he tells them about it, back at work. 
 They've even promised he can keep the collar, no word about new briefs, though.
 
~

This photo-manip is by Herodotus, whose work can be found at Telemachus 12 
Telemachus 12's site boasts an incredible collection of gay art with edge

Monday, 17 March 2025

Targeted Hunk


 

Brock checked the time for the hundredth time that morning. Where were they? The Pick-up Squads had a reputation for strict punctuality and woe betide any man who wasn't ready for them, exactly as stipulated, when they called.

Officially it was called 'The Agricultural Levy' but ordinary people knew it as 'Farm Slavery'. Five years of work in the fields of the South for any man who was a 'burden on society'. Brock had been unemployed too long and accepted this would be his fate. His wife and kids would get his wages while he was away. He just had to be ready for the pick-up at the designated time wearing nothing but underwear for decency's sake. They'd probably strip him of that too once he was in the van and shackle him, along with the rest of the men on that morning's list.

Hardly anyone volunteered for the Slave Corps, so discipline was necessarily tight to keep them all in line. Stories of harsh punishments for the smallest infringements circulated in the social media. Brock didn't intend to make waves and hoped to avoid that fate. He'd kept himself fit and healthy and didn't mind hard work, which ought to get him a good, straightforward posting. In five years time, he could make a new start.

He jumped as the doorbell suddenly rang and quickly went to the door. Two men in dark uniforms were there and immediately pulled him out. They twisted his arms painfully up behind his back and frog-marched him down to the street. “What's this?” one of them said, “A wristwatch? You were told to bring no personal possessions!”.

“I thought this one looked like a trouble-maker” the other one said, “That's the third one I've had to sort out this morning”. As they hustled Brock roughly into the darkness of the van, he heard his kids calling “Bye Bye Daddy” from the windows above. 

~

Click on the labels below for more tales of enslavement and hairy hunks @mitchmen.


Friday, 14 March 2025

Mercenary Nick - Part 2

 
Day 4

8

After a night of humiliation at the hands of the Guards, I had to face my torturers the next day clad only in underpants. Even they were not my own clothes, for my guards had either destroyed, or taken for souvenirs, every item of clothing that I had on. As a sop to my modesty, they gave me a pair of underpants taken from another prisoner. He had no further need of them, they said and out of spite, they told me his name. It was one of my comrades who had disappeared some 3 months earlier, while on the same mission as myself. I was trained not to react to barbs like this or dwell on the truth of them, but the symbolism of losing the last of my possessions did hit me hard. 
I felt like I had been condemned to extinction.

Having been suspended by my wrists during those long, cruel hours of darkness, it was a perverse pleasure to be taken down and spread-eagled on an X-cross instead. I was still tied up and defenceless, but able to stand on my feet again. It was obvious that this restraint would enable the interrogator to attack all parts of my body, if I continued to deny him the information that he wanted. However, he surprised me by producing, not some ferocious flesh destroyer, but an incongruous, small batten of wood. It looked like it was fresh from a DIY shop, an unwelcome reminder of the normal world that was carrying on outside the walls of my prison, oblivious of my plight. 

The Interrogator complimented me on my physique, running his hands over my abs and acknowledging that I had been well-trained. Then he proceeded to apply his stick to my torso, landing vicious blows on it from all angles. That batten might have been small, but by heavens it stung! As time went by, the cumulative effect of hundreds of blows from it, switching between the flat sides and the sharper edges, generated a fiery furnace of pain all over my body. He beat me with it patiently, conserving his energy, so my agony might last as long as possible.
 
 
9

After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside. 

Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.

After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.


 
10

When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me. 

I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.  

Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.

 

11

 It was a long, long day and it left me raw, bruised and physically exhausted. My borrowed underpants were sopping wet from profuse perspiration, but thankfully, the relatively low level of brutality had spared me the humiliation of losing all control of my organs. I was glad it was over, but, tomorrow would be another day of torment and before that, I faced another night at the mercy of the Guards.
 
 Day 5
 
 
12
 
My Guards must have lost interest in me that night, for I slept right through. There had been visitors, I could tell, for when I awoke, my underwear was round my ankles and there were deposits on my skin. But I hadn't been treated badly enough to wake me up. Perhaps some other unfortunate soul had claimed the attention of the brutalisers. 
 
As usual, the Guards took me straight from my cell to the interrogation room after I had eaten. This time, however, instead of tying me to the cross or a post, they simply shackled my ankles, tethered my wrists to a dangling chain and left me standing in the middle of the room. I stood like that for about an hour, puzzling over this turn of events. Had something happened? Was my torture ended?
 
These foolish thoughts were immediately extinguished when my tormentor returned to resume his painstaking exploration of my inner reserves. To my horror, he was brandishing a bull-whip which made the reason for the changed restraints perfectly clear - he was going to work all over my body and wanted no obstacles to impair his lashes. The ploy of keeping me waiting had softened me up nicely, for I immediately began to tremble with fear. He gleefully used the stock of the whip to lift my chin and make his usual request, was I going to talk?
 

13
 
It took all my courage to refuse once again. 
Seconds later, the whip fell across my body and all the previous bruises re-erupted.
It was just the start of a slow-paced barrage of lashes that spared no part of my body. 


14
 
Before long, I was on my knees blubbering. 
But I had the strength to refuse to give in and tell them what I knew.
 

15
 
My reward was a barrage of kicking and whiplashes which sent me sprawling. 
I lost consciousness.
 

16
 

I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.

As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us. 

In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.

 


17

It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.

I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly. 

So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die. 

I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two. 

 ~

Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.

The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique. 

Go to Part 1


 

Tuesday, 11 March 2025

The Tie Game by Cybertied


 This is a brilliant fantasy about a 'sports centre' where men can go to experience being tied up. Luckily for us, they are all extraordinarily cute or handsome and there's a shop full of sexy gear for them to wear while they live out their bondage fantasy. You can see it's the first time for some of them, and they are plainly surprised and sometimes shocked by the unexpected reality of being in the hands of an unseen and none-too-gentle rope-master. There's even a hint that his work goes on, after the centre is closed for the night, leaving you wondering just what happens in the end to all those 'rope-curious' men.

~

I'm full of admiration for all the creative effort that has been put into this by Cybertied, negotiating the restraints and wilful disobedience of the AI Art engine and creating a storyline that is tantalisingly sketchy and vague about what is really going on.

Visit Cybertied at 'X'.  and  Cybertied @ Tumblr