The air is thick with the scent of gasoline and churned earth as Kratos roars up to the house on his dirt bike, the engine’s snarl slicing through the dusk like a predator’s growl. His black MX helmet, scratched and battle-scarred, gleams faintly under the fading light, while his black MX goggles hang loose around his neck, streaked with trail dust. His black jacket clings to his broad shoulders, soaked with the sweat of a relentless ride, paired with black pants that grip his powerful legs. On his feet, the Fox Racing Instinct boots dominate the ground, their microfiber synthetic leather uppers a sleek, indestructible armor, molded to his feet like a second skin, flexing with every step yet unyielding in their brutal authority. The ULTRATAC™ rubber compound on the outsole and burn guards is a savage beast, its aggressive tread pattern clawing through mud and rock with predatory grip, each lug a testament to the boots’ unrelenting power. The composite nylon-fiberglass insole board and TPU plating on the shin, toe, and heel are forged for war, deflecting impacts with merciless indifference, while the patented hinge lockout system locks his ankles in an iron grip, ready to crush anything—or anyone—in their path. These 1,947-gram boots are not just footwear; they are a declaration of supremacy, built to dominate the track and subjugate all who kneel before them.
At the door, his fag waits, kneeling on the cold floor, head bowed, trembling with desperate devotion. “Welcome, Master,” the fag whispers, voice quivering with need. Kratos’s lips curl into a sneer as he strides forward, his boots slamming against the ground with a heavy, authoritative thud. “Pathetic,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down the fag’s spine. “You’re barely worth the dirt on my soles.” Without warning, he swings his leg, the TPU toe cap of his Instinct boot connecting with the fag’s face in a swift, brutal kick. The impact echoes, the ULTRATAC tread leaving a cruel imprint on the fag’s cheek. Kratos stomps down on the fag’s chest, the full weight of his boot pressing into flesh, the aggressive lugs biting into skin like teeth. “You think you’re worthy of greeting me?” he snarls, grinding his heel slightly, the tread scraping painfully. “You’re nothing but a worm under my boot.” He rips off his black jacket, revealing a chiseled upper body, muscles glistening with sweat, each ridge and vein a testament to his raw power. With a flick of his wrist, he throws the jacket over the fag’s face, the heavy leather reeking of sweat, gasoline, and the wild, untamed scent of the ride. “Smell it,” Kratos commands. “That’s the scent of a real man, something you’ll never be.”
The fag clutches the jacket, inhaling deeply, the musky, primal aroma overwhelming his senses as he trembles under Kratos’s gaze. Kratos strides into the living room, his boots leaving faint trails of dirt, each step a reminder of his dominance. He drops onto the couch, legs spread wide, the Instinct boots planted like twin fortresses. “Crawl to me,” he orders, his voice dripping with contempt. The fag scrambles forward on his hands and knees, eyes locked on the boots that embody his Master’s power. “Look at you, groveling like a dog,” Kratos mocks, leaning forward slightly. “You’re only good for cleaning my boots. Get to it, filth.” The fag’s heart pounds as he lowers his face to the boots, his tongue tracing the microfiber leather upper, still warm from the ride. The surface is gritty with dust and sweat, the faint metallic tang of the TPU plating mixing with the earthy musk of the trail. Moving to the sole, his tongue navigates the ULTRATAC tread, its deep, aggressive lugs caked with dried mud and gravel. The texture is rough, scraping against his tongue, the taste a brutal cocktail of dirt, rubber, and the salt of Kratos’s sweat soaked into the material. Left boot, then right, he licks with feverish devotion, each swipe pulling in the raw, savage essence of his Master’s ride. “You call that cleaning?” Kratos barks, grabbing the fag’s hair and shoving his face harder against the sole. “Taste the ground I’ve conquered. You’re lucky to even touch it.”
Satisfied, Kratos leans back, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Enough,” he snaps. “Get my Jordans. The Hightop Black and White. Don’t make me wait, you worthless fag.” The fag crawls away, his body low to the ground, disappearing into the sneaker room. The Jordan 1 Hightop OG Black and White is a legend of the streets, a brutal fusion of style and dominance. Its premium full-grain leather upper, in stark black and white panels, is a fortress of unyielding strength, the hide thick and polished, built to endure the urban jungle with the same ferocity Kratos brings to the track. The rubber outsole, with its iconic concentric circle tread pattern, grips concrete like a predator’s claws, commanding every step with ruthless precision. The Air-cushioned midsole absorbs impact with cold efficiency, while the padded high-top collar locks the ankle in a vice-like embrace, ensuring every move is deliberate, unstoppable. These sneakers are a throne for Kratos’s feet, radiating power and legacy, their sleek design a silent promise of supremacy.
The fag returns, crawling back with the Jordans clutched reverently in his hands. “You took too long,” Kratos growls, his voice laced with disdain. “You think you’re allowed to waste my time? You’re nothing but a footrest.” The fag trembles as he kneels before Kratos, reaching for the Instinct boots. He unlaces them carefully, the heat radiating from Kratos’s feet hitting him like a wave. As he pulls off the left boot, a rush of warm, musky air escapes, thick with the scent of sweat-soaked leather and the faint rubbery tang of the insole. Kratos’s feet, clad in thick white Nike socks, are damp with sweat, the fabric clinging to his powerful arches, the heat almost scalding the fag’s hands. The right boot follows, releasing another burst of that intoxicating, primal scent, the socks now fully exposed, their white fibers stained slightly from the ride’s intensity. “You like that, don’t you, you disgusting little freak?” Kratos taunts, flexing his toes in the socks. “Massage them. Earn your place.” The fag’s hands tremble as he kneads Kratos’s feet, feeling the heat and dampness through the socks, the muscles beneath firm and unyielding. Each press releases more of that heady, addictive scent, a mix of sweat and masculinity that makes the fag’s head spin.
With trembling hands, the fag slips the Jordan 1s onto Kratos’s feet, the leather creaking softly as it molds to his form, the high-top collar locking in his ankles like a crown. “Better,” Kratos says, inspecting the sneakers with a nod. The fag, overwhelmed by the lingering scent of the Instinct boots, drops to his knees, voice shaking with desperation. “Master, please,” he begs, unprompted, his eyes fixed on the boots. “Please let me sniff them. I need your scent. I need it more than air.” Kratos laughs, a cruel, booming sound that fills the room. “You’re that pathetic, huh? Begging for my sweat like it’s your lifeblood? Go on, drown in it, you filthy worm.” The fag grabs the left Instinct boot, pressing his nose and mouth to the top, inhaling with a frantic, almost feral intensity. The interior is a furnace of sweat and leather, the musky, salty aroma flooding his lungs, so potent he feels it coursing through his veins, replacing oxygen with the pure, addictive essence of Kratos’s scent. He sucks in harder, desperate to consume every trace, as if he could pull all of Master’s sweat perfume into his bloodstream, his body craving it more than life itself, the damp insole leaving a faint, intoxicating residue on his lips. “Look at you, choking on my stench,” Kratos sneers, leaning forward. “You’d rather die than breathe clean air, wouldn’t you, you disgusting slave?”
Without warning, Kratos rises, planting the sole of his Jordan 1 on the back of the fag’s head. The concentric tread presses hard, forcing the fag’s face deeper into the boot, the leather and sweat enveloping him completely. The pressure is unrelenting, the rubber outsole grinding against his scalp painfully. “Stay down,” Kratos growls, his voice dripping with dominance. “You belong under my feet.” The fag inhales with the same desperate fervor, the scent even stronger now, a drug-like rush of sweat, leather, and power that consumes him entirely. He breathes it in, willing it to fill his lungs, his bloodstream, his very being, as if Kratos’s scent is the only thing keeping him alive. “You live for this, don’t you?” Kratos taunts, grinding his Jordan harder, the tread biting into the fag’s scalp. “My smell is your heaven, you filthy fag.” The fag’s body trembles, overwhelmed, every breath a testament to his submission. For him, this is paradise—another day under Kratos’s brutal, addictive reign.
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Lucky is the fag that gets to smell Master Kratos’s jacket.
You should be lucky too! 😈