In the sprawling suburbs of a bustling city, where fortunes were made and lost in the shadowy underbelly of high-stakes gambling and illicit dealings, stood a luxurious modern white house that screamed opulence and power. This architectural marvel, with its sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, pristine white exterior walls, and manicured lawns, was funded entirely by Master Kratos’s ruthless ventures in casinos and darker businesses—ventures that involved everything from underground poker rings to extortion schemes that left men like Eli in eternal servitude. The house featured multiple levels with expansive decks overlooking a private pool, state-of-the-art security systems hidden behind elegant facades, and interiors decked out in minimalist luxury: marble countertops, custom leather furniture, and high-end appliances that hummed quietly in the background. It was a fortress of dominance, a symbol of Kratos’s unyielding control over his world.
Eli, a once-free man now bound as Kratos’s house slave due to a staggering 100 grand debt from a fateful night at one of Kratos’s casinos, had just completed his grueling task in the garden. His hands were calloused and dirt-streaked from pulling weeds, trimming hedges, watering the exotic plants imported from distant lands, and ensuring every blade of grass in the vast lawn was perfectly aligned. Sweat dripped from his brow under the relentless afternoon sun, soaking into his dirty white t-shirt that clung to his lean frame like a second skin, stained with soil and grass clippings. His black skinny pants, tight around his legs, were dusted with earth, and his black Converse sneakers—worn and scuffed from months of endless labor—squished slightly on the pavement as he moved. Now, he turned his attention to cleaning the driveway, a wide expanse of smooth, interlocking pavers that led from the automated gate to the three-car garage. He scrubbed vigorously with a brush and hose, removing every speck of dirt, leaf, or stray pebble, knowing that any imperfection could earn him a severe punishment from his master.
The distant hum of an engine grew louder, signaling the approach of something formidable. The gate, a towering wrought-iron structure with electronic locks and surveillance cameras, swung open with a mechanical whir. Into the driveway rumbled a black RAM 1500 truck, its massive frame exuding an aura of cruel dominance. This beast of a vehicle, with its aggressive grille that looked like bared teeth ready to devour, oversized tires that crushed gravel under their weight like insignificant insects, and a deep, throaty exhaust note that growled like a predator on the hunt, was no ordinary truck. It was a symbol of Kratos’s power—intimidating, unyielding, and built to dominate the road, much like its owner. The tinted windows hid the interior like secrets in the dark, and the matte black paint absorbed the light, making it seem like a shadow come to life, ready to trample anything in its path.
Eli’s heart raced at the sound. He dropped his cleaning tools immediately—the brush clattering to the ground, the hose spraying water wildly for a moment before he shut it off—and sprinted toward the driver’s side door. His black Converse pounded against the pavement as he ran, his dirty white t-shirt flapping slightly in the breeze. Reaching the truck just as it came to a halt, Eli dropped to his knees on the hard driveway, the impact jarring his bones, positioning himself right beside the door to await his master’s orders. His head bowed low, eyes fixed on the ground, hands clasped behind his back in submission.
The driver’s door swung open with force, the heavy metal panel slamming directly into Eli’s face. A sharp pain exploded across his cheek and nose, drawing a thin trickle of blood from his lip. Eli reeled back slightly but forced himself to stay kneeling, his stupidity glaringly obvious—he had knelt too close, right in the arc of the door’s swing, blocking its path like a fool who hadn’t learned from past mistakes.
From inside the truck, a deep, mocking laugh erupted. Master Kratos, the epitome of commanding presence, sat there in the driver’s seat, his broad shoulders filling the space. He was dressed in a black New Era cap pulled low over his brow, casting a shadow over his piercing eyes; a black Supreme hoodie adorned with the iconic black Supreme box logo across the chest, the fabric soft yet imposing; loose jogger blue jeans that hung casually but hinted at the muscular legs beneath; and on his feet, the classic Timberland 6-inch boots. These boots were the stuff of legends in the world of rugged footwear—crafted from premium waterproof nubuck leather in the signature wheat color, a warm golden tan that evoked the harsh, unforgiving fields where dominance was asserted through sheer force. The nubuck material, soft to the touch yet incredibly durable, resisted water and wear like a tyrant shrugging off rebellion. But it was the soles that truly embodied cruelty and dominance in a fetishistic way: thick rubber outsoles with aggressive, deep-lugged treads designed for unyielding grip on any terrain, each groove and pattern like jagged teeth ready to bite into the earth—or a slave’s flesh. These soles, made from high-traction rubber in a wheat hue that matched the upper, could crush gravel, mud, or bones with equal indifference, carrying an inherent sadistic allure, their weight and texture promising pain and humiliation, a fetish object for those who craved the stomp of authority underfoot.
Kratos leaned out slightly, his laugh echoing like thunder. “You careless idiot, Eli. How many times do I have to tell you? Kneel where you won’t risk scratching my truck, you worthless fool. I don’t care about your face. I care about my RAM—my beast doesn’t deserve a single mark from your stupidity.”
Eli winced, his face throbbing, but he kept his eyes down. “I’m sorry, Master Kratos. I’m so stupid, sir. Please forgive this worthless slave.”
Kratos chuckled again, his voice dripping with condescension. “Forgive? Ha! You’re lucky I don’t drag you behind the truck and run over your idoit face. Did you finish the garden, fag? Or were you slacking off again, dreaming about your old life?”
“Yes, Master Kratos,” Eli replied quickly, his voice trembling. “The garden is perfect, sir. Every weed pulled, every plant watered. I cleaned the driveway too, just as you ordered.”
Kratos smirked. “We’ll see about that. Now crawl over here properly, slave. Kneel like the dog you are.”
Eli didn’t hesitate. He dropped to all fours, his hands and knees scraping against the rough pavement, and crawled the short distance around the open door to Kratos’s side. He knelt again, this time positioning himself carefully next to the side footstep of the truck door, his face mere inches from it, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the vehicle.
Kratos, still seated in the high truck cab, swung his legs out slowly, dangling them over the edge. He placed his left Timberland boot—the wheat nubuck upper gleaming in the sunlight, the rubber sole with its deep, aggressive treads hovering menacingly—directly onto Eli’s upturned face. The weight pressed down, the lugs digging into Eli’s cheek, imprinting their cruel pattern into his skin. “Lick it, slave. Clean my boot like the loyal little bitch you’ve become. Show me how grateful you are.”
Eli’s training kicked in immediately. He had been punished relentlessly in the early days—stomping and kicking every part of his body —until he broke, becoming this tame, obedient creature. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured, extending his tongue to lap at the sole. The boots weren’t filthy, just carrying the remnants of a normal street walk: fine dust from sidewalks, tiny specks of grit from asphalt, a hint of urban grime like dried gum residue or faint oil stains. The taste of the rubber soles was bitter and earthy, a mix of rubber’s chemical tang, salty dirt, and a subtle metallic bite from whatever particles clung to the treads. It coated his tongue like humiliation itself, gritty and unyielding, with a faint waxy aftertaste from the rubber’s composition.
He licked every inch meticulously, starting from the heel and working forward. His tongue traced the deep grooves of the lugs, digging into each tread to dislodge the dust, enduring the flavor with each stroke. “Thank you, sir,” he repeated after every few licks, his voice muffled against the boot. Slowly, methodically, he cleaned the entire left sole, ensuring not a speck remained, his saliva leaving the rubber glistening.
“Good boy,” Kratos said, lifting the left boot and replacing it with the right. “Now the other one. Don’t miss a spot, or I’ll make you eat the dirt off the tires next.”
Eli obeyed, shifting slightly to accommodate the new boot on his face. The right sole tasted much the same—dusty rubber with a faint acrid note from street pollutants, the treads just as demanding as he tongued every ridge and valley clean. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir,” he chanted, his devotion etched into every word, born from the scars of past corrections.
Once both boots were spotless, Kratos didn’t remove his foot. Instead, with a grin, he reared back and delivered a sharp kick to Eli’s face with the freshly cleaned right boot. The impact of the sole sent Eli tumbling backward onto the driveway, pain blooming across his jaw. But Eli scrambled up immediately, kneeling again. “Thank you, sir. One.”
Kratos laughed heartily. “Count them, yeah? That’s my trained puppy.” He kicked again, the boot connecting solidly. Eli fell, rose, and thanked: “Thank you, sir. Two.”
This continued, Kratos still seated in the truck, swinging his legs playfully but with force. Each kick was deliberate, the cruel, dominant Timberland sole—its rubber lugs like instruments of torment—slamming into Eli’s face, bruising his cheeks, splitting his lip further. Eli counted every one: three, four, up to twenty, falling and rising each time, his dirty white t-shirt now smeared with boot prints, his black skinny pants ripped slightly at the knees from the pavement. “Thank you, sir. Twenty.”
Satisfied, Kratos finally stood, but not without using Eli as a human step. He placed one boot firmly on Eli’s back as the slave lay prone, the weight crushing down, the treads digging into his spine like a conqueror’s mark. Kratos stepped off the truck fully, grinding his heel for emphasis before lifting off.
But he wasn’t done. With Eli still on the ground, Kratos stomped down on his chest, the boot’s sole compressing his ribs, forcing the air out in a wheeze. “Pathetic,” Kratos sneered. Then he moved lower, stomping on Eli’s groin, the wheat nubuck and rubber crushing his balls and dick hard, pain shooting through Eli like fire. “You don’t need these balls or that useless dick anymore, do you, slave? They’re mine to ruin.”
Eli gasped, agony twisting his features, but he forced out, “Thank you, sir.”
Kratos burst into laughter, twisting his boot for extra measure before stepping off. “Get up, worm. Grab my duffle bag from the back seat—it’s got today’s winnings—and follow me into the house. Crawl if you have to, but don’t keep me waiting.”
Eli, battered and humiliated, pushed himself up, retrieved the heavy black duffle bag from the back seat—filled with cash bundles and who knows what else from Kratos’s dark dealings—and trailed his master into the luxury white house, every step a reminder of his enslavement.
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