Late Sunday morning sunlight poured through the wide windows of Master Kratos’s bedroom, bathing the space in a bright, unrelenting glow. The room was a fortress of power, its sleek black furniture and pristine white walls reflecting Kratos’s commanding presence. He reclined on his bed, the black silk sheets a stark contrast to his muscular frame, exuding dominance in every sinew. On his feet, the Air Jordan 4 Military Black sneakers reigned supreme, their design a seductive blend of strength and style that made his blood surge. The sneakers’ white leather uppers gleamed in the sunlight, smooth and unblemished, like armor forged for a king. The grey suede overlay on the forefoot was plush yet defiant, a nod to the original 1989 Military Blue colorway, its texture begging to be worshipped. Black accents—bold, uncompromising—adorned the TPU eyelets, the molded heel tab, and the iconic Jumpman logo on the woven tongue tag, each detail a proclamation of supremacy. The breathable mesh panels on the sides and toe whispered of precision engineering, while the visible Air-Sole unit in the heel promised comfort that only amplified Kratos’s control. The two-tone polyurethane midsole, white and black, stood resolute, and the herringbone traction outsole was a labyrinth of grip, ensuring every step he took owned the ground beneath him. These Jordans were not mere shoes; they were a fetishized extension of his dominance, their premium materials—leather, suede, mesh, and rubber—crafted to perfection, igniting his deepest desires.
Kratos’s attire was simple yet commanding: a long-sleeve white t-shirt hugged his chiseled torso, the fabric taut against his muscles, and black sweatpants hung low, hinting at the raw power within. His arousal pulsed through him, a primal heat that demanded release. He adjusted the MX black helmet with its tinted goggles, the sleek gear intensifying his horniness, casting the sunlit room in a predatory haze that sharpened every sensation. He lay back, the silk sheets cool against his skin, the weight of his Jordans grounding him as their pristine soles beckoned for devotion.
“Fag!” Kratos’s voice thundered, a commanding roar that cut through the morning air. “Get in here, now!”
In the bathroom, the slave—known only as “fag” in Kratos’s domain—froze mid-scrub, the toilet brush in his hand. The sound of his master’s voice sent a jolt through him. He hurriedly set the brush down, the clatter muffled by his urgency, and rushed to the sink, scrubbing his hands clean with soap and water, the suds washing away the grime of his task. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and eagerness as he dried his hands and hurried to the bedroom, ready to serve.
Kratos’s eyes, shadowed by the goggles, locked onto the fag as he entered the sunlit room. “On your knees,” he growled, his voice thick with authority. The fag dropped to the floor at the end of the bed, his gaze drawn to the Air Jordan 4 Military Blacks. In the bright light, the sneakers were a vision of power: the white leather uppers glowed like polished marble, the grey suede toe box a soft yet commanding contrast, and the black accents—TPU eyelets, heel tab, and Jumpman logo—absorbed the light with an almost menacing allure. The soles, with their intricate herringbone tread pattern, were a challenge, a privilege, a canvas for worship.
“Lick the soles,” Kratos ordered, his tone unyielding. “Make them perfect.”
The fag leaned forward, his freshly washed hands steadying him as his tongue met the rubber outsole. He dragged it slowly, deliberately, across every tread, tasting the clean, faintly earthy texture of the herringbone pattern. Each groove was a test of his devotion, the black and grey sole demanding his full attention. He worked meticulously, his tongue tracing the contours, ensuring no tread was left untouched. The sneakers’ design—functional yet regal, with their Air-Sole cushioning and premium materials—felt like an extension of Kratos himself, and the fag’s task was both humbling and sacred.
Kratos watched, his hand slipping beneath his sweatpants, stroking his hardening nine-inch cock as the fag worshipped his Jordans. The sight of his slave’s tongue gliding over the Military Black soles, the white leather and grey suede gleaming in the sunlight, sent a surge of heat through him. The sneakers were an altar to his power, their craftsmanship—leather, suede, mesh, and rubber—fueling his arousal.
“Enough,” Kratos snapped, his voice heavy with lust. “Come here, fag. Suck me.”
The fag crawled forward, his lips parting as he approached Kratos’s imposing length, already glistening in the morning light. He treated it like a delicacy, his tongue swirling around the tip as if it were candy, savoring every inch. He moved lower, sucking gently on Kratos’s balls, his movements reverent yet eager, driven by the need to please. Kratos groaned, the sound muffled by the helmet, his hand gripping the fag’s hair through the goggles’ haze.
Without warning, Kratos seized the fag’s head, forcing his cock deep into the slave’s mouth. He thrust hard, the full nine inches claiming the fag’s throat, holding it there as the slave gagged and struggled to accommodate him. Kratos repeated the motion, each thrust a declaration of dominance, his grip unrelenting. The fag’s eyes watered, but he endured, his devotion unwavering as he served his master.
Finally, Kratos’s body tensed, and with a primal roar, he unleashed a torrent of cum into the fag’s mouth. The slave swallowed every drop, his tongue darting out to lick any remnants from Kratos’s cock, ensuring nothing was wasted. Kratos, still panting, delivered a sharp kick to the fag’s face with the sole of his Jordan 4 Military Black, the herringbone tread leaving a faint mark as a twisted reward for his service.
“Get back to cleaning the toilet,” Kratos commanded, his voice cold and final. “I’m going to play Call of Duty.”
The fag nodded, scrambling to his feet and retreating to the bathroom, the taste of his master lingering. Kratos adjusted his helmet, the goggles reflecting the glow of his gaming setup in the sunlit room, the Air Jordan 4 Military Blacks still on his feet, their sleek design a constant reminder of his unyielding power.
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