In the dimly lit garage of Master Kratos’s sprawling estate, Jamie knelt beside the gleaming red Ducati Panigale V4, his hands trembling with a mix of reverence and envy as he polished its sleek, aerodynamic curves. The bike, a 2025 model, was a masterpiece of Italian engineering, its 1,103cc Desmosedici Stradale V4 engine capable of unleashing 216 horsepower at 13,500 rpm, a beast that could hit 196 mph with effortless grace. Its glossy red fairings, accented with sharp, aggressive lines and integrated winglets, shimmered under the fluorescent lights, exuding a primal, almost sexual allure. The Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa SP-V4 tires, 120-section front and 200-section rear, hugged the ground with a promise of unyielding grip, while the Brembo Hypure calipers gleamed like polished steel claws, ready to bite into the 330mm semi-floating discs.
Jamie’s cloth glided over the bike’s tank, his fingers tracing the contours with a lover’s care, yet his heart burned with jealousy. “Oh, Mr. Ducati,” he whispered, his voice low and bitter, “you’re perfect, aren’t you? All that power, that speed, that… dominance. He chooses you to ride, to feel your strength beneath him, to command you through every curve. Why can’t it be me? I’d carry him, I’d roar for him, I’d be everything you are and more.” His eyes lingered on the bike’s sculpted seat, imagining himself as the machine, Kratos’s weight pressing down, his thighs gripping tight, the vibration of raw power surging through them both. “I’d be flawless for him,” Jamie muttered, “not just some slave wiping your curves. I’d be the one he trusts, the one he rides.”
The Ducati, silent but imposing, seemed to mock him with its flawless finish, its carbon-fiber accents glinting like a taunt. Jamie’s cloth moved faster, almost frantic, as if he could erase his envy with each swipe. “You don’t deserve him, Mr. Ducati,” he hissed. “You’re just metal and rubber. I’m flesh, I’m devotion, I’m his.” But the bike’s presence overwhelmed him, its racing DNA and MotoGP-inspired engineering a constant reminder of its superiority, a machine built to be dominated by a man like Kratos.
The garage door creaked, and Jamie’s heart lurched as Master Kratos strode in, his presence filling the space like a storm. At 6 feet tall and 195 pounds, Kratos moved with predatory confidence, his outfit a study in calculated rebellion. His black AGV Pista GP RR helmet, sleek and matte with a tinted visor, hung loosely in one hand, its carbon-fiber shell promising unyielding protection. On his hands, he wore black Alpinestars gloves, their premium leather construction adorned with carbon-fiber knuckle protectors, the gloves’ rugged texture and race-inspired design adding a layer of menace to his aura. A black Supreme hoodie with a bold red box logo clung to his broad shoulders, the cotton blend soft yet defiant, a streetwear icon that screamed exclusivity. Baggy blue jeans, faded just enough, hung low on his hips, their relaxed fit contrasting the taut energy of his frame. On his feet, the Air Jordan 6 Carmines commanded attention—vibrant red leather panels paired with crisp white overlays, black accents, and translucent rubber soles, their retro design evoking a bold, nostalgic swagger. The Carmine’s red hue popped against the garage’s sterile concrete, each step a statement of dominance.
As Kratos approached, Jamie dropped to the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold concrete, inches from the gleaming Jordan 6s. The sneakers’ red leather seemed to pulse with authority, their translucent soles scuffed just enough to hint at Kratos’s unapologetic stride. Jamie’s breath hitched, his body trembling under the weight of his submission. Kratos paused, towering over him, then pressed one Jordan-clad foot onto Jamie’s back, the sole’s texture biting into his skin through his thin shirt. “Well, slave?” Kratos’s voice was a low growl, laced with amusement, as he flexed his gloved hands, the leather creaking softly. “Is my bike ready, or have you been slacking again?”
Jamie’s voice quavered, muffled against the floor. “It’s perfect, Master. I’ve polished every inch of Mr. Ducati. It shines for you.”
Kratos chuckled, a dark, mocking sound, and nudged Jamie’s head with the toe of his Jordan, the rubber sole grazing his cheek. “Get up and let me see, slave.” Jamie scrambled to his knees, keeping his eyes low as Kratos circled his Ducati, his gloved fingers brushing the tank, the carbon-fiber knuckles catching the light. He stopped, squinting, then delivered a sharp kick to Jamie’s face, the Carmine’s sole connecting with a dull thud. “What’s this?” Kratos snapped, pointing to a smudge near the gas tank—a fingerprint, left by Jamie’s careless touch during his fervent polishing. “You call this clean? You’re useless, slave.”
Jamie’s cheeks burned, his heart sinking at his mistake. “I’m sorry, Master! I’ll fix it!” He leapt to his feet, clutching his towel, and wiped the smudge frantically, his hands shaking as he restored the Ducati’s flawless sheen. When he finished, he dropped back to the floor, bowing low, his forehead grazing the concrete near Kratos’s sneakers. “It’s perfect now, Master. Please.”
Kratos smirked, his Alpinestars gloves tightening as he clenched his fists, the leather molding to his hands with a satisfying snap, the carbon-fiber knuckles glinting under the lights. He stepped closer until the toe of his Jordan rested against Jamie’s cheek. With deliberate pressure, he pressed down, pinning Jamie’s head to the ground, the sneaker’s sole grinding slightly. “You’re pathetic, slave,” Kratos said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think you’re worthy of my Ducati? You’re barely worthy of my shoes.” He lifted his foot, only to swing his leg over the Ducati, using Jamie’s head as a step, though his height made it unnecessary. The act was pure power, a reminder of Jamie’s place, the gloves knuckle guards flashing as he gripped the handlebars.
Jamie’s heart raced, his face flushed with humiliation and longing. “Master,” he ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, “may I… may I clean your soles before you ride?” He glanced at the Jordan 6s, their red and white panels gleaming, the translucent soles speckled with faint dirt from Kratos’s earlier steps.
Kratos tilted his head, his smirk widening beneath the shadow of his helmet, the Alpinestars gloves flexing as he leaned forward. “You want to lick my shoes, slave? Fine. Left one first. Make it quick.” Jamie crawled forward, his tongue darting out to lap at the left Jordan’s sole, the rubber’s texture rough against his lips, the faint grit of dirt a humiliating sacrament. He worked meticulously, tracing the grooves, his cheeks burning as Kratos watched, one gloved hand resting on the handlebar. “Look at you, slave,” Kratos taunted. “Groveling for a taste of my soles while I sit on something actually worth my time. You’re nothing compared to my Ducati.”
Jamie nodded, his voice muffled as he moved to the right side, crawling behind the Ducati to reach Kratos’s other foot. The bike’s exhaust loomed above him, its polished metal a silent rival. He licked the right sole, savoring the bitter tang, his body pressed low to the ground. “Thank you, Master,” he mumbled, his words slurred with devotion. “I only want to serve you.”
Kratos laughed, a cruel edge to it, and delivered one final kick to Jamie’s head, the Jordan’s toe catching his temple with a sharp sting, the Alpinestars gloves adding weight to his relaxed posture. “Enough, slave,” he said, pulling on his AGV helmet, the visor snapping down with a click. He fired up his Ducati, the Desmosedici Stradale roaring to life, its 216 horsepower vibrating through the garage like a primal challenge. “Stay here, slave,” Kratos called over the engine’s growl. “Maybe I’ll let you polish my Ducati again when I’m back—if you’re lucky.”
With that, he twisted the throttle, and the Ducati surged forward, its red body a blur as it vanished through the garage door. Jamie remained on his knees, staring after it, his head throbbing from Kratos’s kicks, his heart heavy with envy for the bike that carried his master. Like a loyal dog, he settled by the garage door, waiting for Kratos’s return, the taste of rubber and dirt lingering on his tongue, the Ducati’s roar echoing in his mind.
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