It’s late morning, and the sun spills lazily through the large windows of a cozy cafe tucked away in the heart of the city. Warm lights cast a golden glow over brown couches and wooden tables, creating an inviting atmosphere. But the air shifts when Kratos strides in, his presence commanding attention. His muscled frame fills out a black Supreme hoodie with a bold red box logo, paired with baggy blue jeans and a red New Era NY cap tilted just so. On his feet, the Air Jordan 5 Retro ‘Raging Bull’ sneakers dominate the scene—vibrant red suede uppers, rich and buttery, catching the light with a luxurious sheen. Black accents weave through the design, with the iconic shark tooth detailing on the polyurethane midsole, red-tipped for extra flair. The reflective silver tongue gleams, and the black Jumpman logo on the heel screams authority. The soles, icy translucent rubber with a herringbone pattern at the toe and heel, are dusted with the grit of the city streets, a testament to their power. The black rubber midsole, stamped with the word “Jordan,” adds a rugged edge, making the sneakers feel like they could crush anything in their path.
Milo, the barista, stands alone behind the counter, his black short hair neatly combed, his slim frame clad in a crisp white polo, black pants, a black apron, and simple black Converse. His name tag glints under the cafe’s warm lights, but his composure falters the moment Kratos walks in. Milo’s eyes lock onto the Jordan 5s, their red suede radiating dominance, and his knees weaken. Kratos’s aura—hot, handsome, and unyielding—hits Milo like a wave, stirring something deep and primal. His heart races as he stammers, “H-hello,” but Kratos doesn’t acknowledge the greeting, his voice low and commanding as he orders a hot Americano. Milo, flustered, asks for Kratos’s name, citing cafe protocol, but his curiosity burns for reasons beyond customer service.
Kratos saunters to a seat by the large windows, propping his Jordan 5s on the wooden table with a casual arrogance. The icy soles, with their herringbone tread and black Jumpman logos peeking through, are streaked with street dust, a gritty invitation that makes Milo’s pulse quicken. He stares, transfixed, imagining his tongue tracing the rugged texture, tasting the city’s raw essence on the soles. Kratos catches Milo’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with knowing amusement. Milo snaps back to reality, cheeks burning, and hurries to prepare the coffee.
When Milo approaches with the ceramic cup, he doesn’t just set it down. Instead, he kneels beside the table, inching closer on his knees, bowing slightly as he places the coffee before Kratos. The Jordan 5s, still on the table, loom like trophies of dominance. As Milo moves to retreat, Kratos’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding: “Stay.” Milo freezes, his breath catching. Kratos leans forward, his gaze piercing. “Your eyes are disturbing me. What do you want?”
Milo stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “I-I like your Jordan 5s.” Kratos smirks, lowering his feet to the floor near Milo’s knees. He raises his left sneaker, the red suede glowing, the icy sole inches from Milo’s face. “How do you like my J5s?” he asks again, his tone daring Milo to confess. Unable to hold back, Milo blurts, “May I lick your soles, sir?” The cafe is silent, the air thick with tension. After a deliberate pause, Kratos says, “Make them clean.”
Milo’s tongue darts out, dragging across the sole from heel to toe. The tread is rough, the herringbone pattern scraping against his tongue, gritty with street dust that tastes of asphalt and earth—a sharp, mineral tang that sends a shiver through him. He grips Kratos’s foot, steadying it as he licks again and again, each stroke cleaning the sole until the icy rubber gleams. His heart pounds, the act both humbling and exhilarating, the texture of the tread leaving faint imprints on his tongue.
Milo glances up, seeking permission. “The right one, sir?” Kratos lifts his right Jordan 5, and Milo dives in, licking with fervor. The taste is the same—gritty, raw, powerful—but the act feels even more intimate, each pass of his tongue a surrender to Kratos’s dominance. Suddenly, Kratos presses the sole against Milo’s head, pinning his cheek to the wooden floor. The cold, hard rubber presses into Milo’s skin, the herringbone tread biting slightly as Kratos applies pressure. Milo’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t resist, his world narrowing to the weight of the Jordan 5.
Kratos sips his coffee, nonchalant, as he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of Milo beneath his sneaker. He posts it to Instagram with the caption: “Some guys know their place. #RagingBull #Jordan5 #SneakerKing.” Within minutes, the post explodes—hundreds of likes, comments flooding in: “Damn, wish that was me under those J5s!” “Bro, that fag is living the dream!” “Those soles are fire, and your slave’s worshipping them right!” The comments drip with envy, each one fueling Kratos’s ego as he keeps his foot firmly on Milo’s head, oblivious to the online frenzy.
The cafe door swings open, and Leo, the owner, steps in. He’s handsome, with a confident stride, wearing a black T-shirt, blue jeans, a black cap, and Nike Air Force 1 High ‘Wheat Flax’ sneakers. The AF1s are a masterpiece of rugged elegance—premium wheat-colored suede uppers, rich and earthy, with tonal flax accents that scream understated dominance. The thick, matching wheat rubber sole, textured with a classic basketball tread, is dusted with street grime, adding to their commanding presence. The Nike Swoosh, embossed in the same wheat hue, curves along the sides, while the high-top design and ankle strap exude authority. Milo’s eyes flicker to Leo’s sneakers, his crush on his boss reigniting, but he’s still pinned under Kratos’s Jordan 5.
Leo freezes, taking in the scene. “Milo, you okay? What’s going on?” Kratos, still trampling Milo’s face, responds coolly, “He’s fine.” Milo, voice muffled, confirms, “I’m okay, Leo.” Leo’s brow furrows. “What the hell’s happening?” Kratos presses harder, the tread digging into Milo’s cheek, and beckons Leo closer. “Come see for yourself.” Standing, Kratos lifts his sole from Milo’s face but orders him to stay down. “You want to know what’s up?” Kratos says to Leo. “Step on his face.”
Leo hesitates, glancing at his Air Force 1s, then at Milo. Kratos stomps once on Milo’s face, the impact firm but controlled. “It’s fine,” Kratos says. Tentatively, Leo places his wheat-colored AF1 sole on Milo’s other cheek. Milo’s hands instinctively grip the sneaker, urging Leo to press harder. Leo’s eyes widen. “What the fuck, Milo? You like this shit?” Milo’s voice is soft but earnest. “Yes, Leo. I really like this.”
Kratos laughs, a deep, knowing chuckle. “You should know your barista better.” Milo, emboldened, asks, “Can I lick your soles, Leo?” Leo, new to this dynamic, feels a rush of power he hadn’t expected. He nods, and Milo’s tongue glides over the wheat-colored rubber sole, the gritty texture scraping his tongue, the taste earthier than Kratos’s Jordans—a mix of dust and faint leather undertones. Leo watches, intrigued, as Milo cleans the tread meticulously.
Curious, Leo turns to Kratos. “Is this some gay shit or what?” Kratos shrugs, smirking. “I’m straight. No idea about Milo.” Leo nudges Milo’s face with his AF1, a playful kick. “You gay or something, Milo?” Milo, still on the floor, murmurs, “I don’t know. I just love guys with hot sneakers.” Leo laughs, a mix of disbelief and amusement, but the thrill of dominance lingers. He exchanges a look with Kratos, a silent agreement forming. “Yo, bro! Teach me more about this,” Leo says, and Kratos nods, knowing he’s found a new ally in this unexpected game of power.
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