The cozy cafe, bathed in the soft glow of warm lights, feels anything but comforting as Milo lies sprawled on the wooden floor, his face pressed upward, tongue dragging across the wheat-colored sole of Leo’s Nike Air Force 1 High ‘Wheat Flax.’ The premium suede uppers, a rich, earthy tan, exude a rugged dominance, their tonal flax Swoosh curving with quiet authority. The thick rubber sole, textured with a circular basketball tread pattern, is gritty with street dust, scraping Milo’s tongue with a raw, leathery taste—earthy and sharp, like soil mixed with worn asphalt. Each lick sends a shiver through him, the texture of the tread biting into his tongue, amplifying his submission.
Without warning, Kratos leaps onto Milo’s chest, his Air Jordan 5 Retro ‘Raging Bull’ slamming down with a heavy thud. The vibrant red suede glows under the cafe lights, the icy herringbone soles—still flecked with city grit—digging into Milo’s skin. The black Jumpman logo and shark tooth midsole details scream power, each stomp a testament to Kratos’s 195-pound muscled frame. Milo gasps, the air forced from his lungs, but his tongue doesn’t falter, still worshipping Leo’s AF1 sole. Kratos smirks, lifting one Jordan 5 and stomping hard on Milo’s groin, the herringbone tread grinding painfully against his sensitive flesh. Milo screams, a sharp cry that echoes in the empty cafe, but he doesn’t resist, his hands gripping Leo’s sneaker tighter, licking faster as if the pain fuels his obsession.
Leo’s eyes widen, a mix of shock and exhilaration. “Bro, I had no fucking idea you could just do this to someone,” he says, his voice thick with awe, his black cap tilted as he stares down at Milo. Kratos laughs, his red New Era NY cap catching the light as he shifts his weight, the Jordan 5s creaking. “Oh, you can definitely do this to your barista, man. This fag’s a born slave. Bet he’s been drooling over your AF1s for months, too pathetic to say shit. Probably took this job just to stare at your kicks all day.”
Leo’s gaze drops to Milo, whose face is flushed, tongue still tracing the circular tread. “That true, you little freak? You been jerking off in your head over my sneakers this whole time?” Milo pauses, his lips trembling against the gritty sole, and mumbles, “Kinda… yeah, I can’t deny it, Leo.” His voice is small, dripping with shame, his eyes fixed on the wheat-colored AF1s. Kratos sneers, stomping Milo’s groin again, the black rubber midsole leaving a faint red mark. “Told you, bro. You can do whatever you want with this worthless fag. He’s begging for it.”
Leo’s muscled frame—190 pounds of lean power—tenses under his black T-shirt, his chest swelling with a rush of dominance he’s never felt before. “Yo, let me try that,” he says, nodding toward Milo’s groin, his voice eager. Kratos grins, stepping to trample Milo’s chest. “Go for it, man. Break him in.” Kratos shifts, planting one Jordan 5 on Milo’s head, the herringbone tread pressing into his cheek, leaving a faint pattern, while the other sneaker rests on his chest, his full weight crushing Milo’s slim frame. Milo groans, the pain intense, but he holds it together, his mind reeling. He never imagined this fantasy—being trampled by both Kratos and Leo—would become reality.
Leo steps between Milo’s legs, his AF1s looming ominously. “You like this, huh, you sick little bitch?” he taunts, kicking Milo’s groin with the toe of his sneaker, then stomping down hard with the circular tread. Milo yelps, his body jerking, but his head and chest are still pined under Kratos’s Jordan 5 soles. Leo stomps again, harder, relishing the power. “Fuck, this feels good,” he mutters, then steps onto Milo’s stomach, his full 190 pounds sinking into the soft flesh. Milo gasps, his abs straining under the weight. Kratos joins in, bouncing lightly on Milo’s chest, the two men using him like a human trampoline, their sneakers—red suede and wheat flax—leaving red marks on his skin.
Kratos steps down, his Jordan 5s gleaming. “Let’s fuck up his back now,” he says, smirking. Leo nods, stepping off Milo’s stomach. “Hell yeah.” But before Milo can turn over, Kratos ordered, “Strip off that polo, you pathetic fag.” Milo, trembling, complies, peeling off his white polo to reveal his pale, skinny torso. Kratos doesn’t wait—he kicks Milo hard in the side, the red suede Jordan 5 connecting with a thud, forcing him to roll over. Another kick flips him face-down on the cold wooden floor. Kratos steps onto Milo’s back, the herringbone tread grinding into his skin, scraping and scratching. Milo screams, the pain sharp as the treads tear at his flesh, leaving red, patterned welts. Tiny beads of blood seep from the abrasions, the Jordan 5’s sole imprinting its dominance. Kratos stomps once, hard, then steps off, admiring the patchwork of red herringbone marks across Milo’s back. “Your turn, bro,” he says to Leo.
Leo grins, his AF1s poised. “Look at you, Milo, bleeding like a fucking loser,” he mocks, jumping onto Milo’s back. The circular tread of his wheat-colored soles digs in, scratching new patterns into the already raw skin. Milo screams again, the pain overwhelming, but his submission deepens, his body trembling under Leo’s weight. Leo stomps again, harder, leaving a fresh set of red marks, the circular treads contrasting with the Jordan 5’s herringbone imprints. Kratos notices Leo’s pants tightening, a clear bulge forming, but he says nothing, his smirk confirming Leo’s newfound obsession with this power. “Your dick’s telling the truth, man,” Kratos thinks, knowing Leo’s hooked.
They step off, and Kratos kicks Milo again, flipping him face-up. “Back to the front, slave,” he growls. Milo’s chest and abs are already bruised, but Kratos steps onto his chest again, grinding the herringbone soles into his skin. “You’re nothing but a doormat, you know that?” Kratos taunts, his voice dripping with disdain. Leo joins in, stepping onto Milo’s abs. “Yeah, you’re just a fucking rug for our kicks, Milo. Bet you love every second of this, don’t you, fag?” Milo whimpers, unable to respond, his body aching under their combined weight.
Kratos shifts, planting his full 195 pounds on Milo’s right cheek, the herringbone tread pressing deep, leaving a red, patterned “tattoo” on his face. “Look at this fag’s face, marked by my J5s,” Kratos laughs. Leo follows, stepping onto Milo’s left cheek with his AF1, the circular tread imprinting its own distinct mark. “Now you’ve got both our brands, you little bitch,” Leo sneers, grinding his sole harder. Milo’s face, now a canvas of contrasting sole patterns, burns with pain and humiliation, but he doesn’t resist, his eyes glazed with a mix of agony and devotion.
Kratos steps off, chuckling. “Well, Leo, you’ve got yourself a good slave now. Use this piece of shit however you want. I gotta go now.” He pulls out his phone, showing Leo his Instagram—dozens of photos of other “slaves” under his Jordan 5s, their faces and bodies marked by his soles. Captions like “Another fag broken in #SneakerKing” and “Know your place #Jordan5” flood the feed, with thousands of likes and comments: “Fuck, I’d kill to be under those kicks!” “Bro, you own these losers!” Leo’s eyes light up, and he hits follow. “Man, I’m your apprentice now,” he says, grinning. “Teach me this shit. I’ll text you.”
Kratos nods, tossing back the last of his Americano before striding out, his red suede Jordan 5s gleaming. Leo turns to Milo, still sprawled on the floor, bruised and marked. “Hey, stupid,” Leo spits, stomping Milo’s face one last time with his AF1, the circular tread biting into his cheek. “You’re not my fucking employee anymore. You’re my slave, got it? Get your pathetic ass up and get ready for customers. If you sell less than 100 cups of coffee today, I’m stomping you into the fucking ground tonight.” Leo’s voice is sharp, but inside, he’s buzzing with exhilaration, the words spilling out naturally. He doesn’t know why it feels so good to degrade Milo, but the power is intoxicating, and he’s already craving more.
Milo, trembling, nods weakly, his body aching, his face and back branded with the treads of both men’s sneakers. As he struggles to his feet, the reality sinks in: his life at the cafe has changed forever, and Leo, his new master, is just getting started.
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