The clock in Kratos’s mansion ticked toward midnight, its soft chime swallowed by the vastness of the living room. The space was a modern marvel, a testament to Kratos’s ill-gotten wealth. Polished hardwood floors gleamed under recessed lighting, reflecting the stark white walls that soared upward to meet a double-height ceiling. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the night beyond, their heavy glass panes offering glimpses of a starless sky, while the room itself radiated a sterile opulence, cold and unyielding, much like its master. A sleek black leather sectional dominated one corner, paired with a glass coffee table that bore no trace of fingerprints—thanks to the labor of the room’s only occupant, Eli.
Eli, Kratos’s house slave, knelt naked on the hardwood, his bony knees aching against the unyielding surface. His skinny frame, a mere 125 pounds, trembled as he scrubbed the floor with a small, threadbare towel, each swipe a silent plea for reprieve. His skin, pale and marked with faint scars, glistened with sweat despite the cool air. Once a man with modest dreams—a small apartment, a beat-up sedan, a life of his own—Eli had gambled it all away in Kratos’s underground casino. The debt, a crushing 100 grand, was the noose around his neck. Kratos’s casino was a predator’s lair, its games rigged to ensure no one walked away a winner. Eli had borrowed from the house to chase a desperate win, only to lose everything—his home, his car, his freedom. Kratos had seized it all, claiming Eli’s life as collateral. But in truth, Kratos got it for free; the casino’s unfair odds guaranteed victims like Eli, one after another, fell into his trap.
Eli’s nakedness was no accident. Clothes were a privilege he no longer deserved, Kratos had decreed. Stripped bare, his vulnerability was a constant reminder of his place—less than human, a possession to be used and discarded. The towel in his hand, barely larger than a washcloth, was a cruel joke, forcing him to crawl inch by inch to clean the expansive floor. His arms shook with exhaustion, his breath shallow, but stopping wasn’t an option. Kratos’s orders were law. Deep inside, Eli felt a churning mix of despair and humiliation, his mind a whirlwind of regret—how had he let himself fall so low? Every scrub reminded him of his lost freedom, a burning shame that made his cheeks flush even as fear knotted his stomach at the thought of Kratos’s impending wrath.
In the adjacent gaming room, the sounds of gunfire and explosions had just faded. Kratos, a hulking figure at 200 pounds of chiseled muscle, had spent hours dominating Call of Duty, racking up kills with the same ruthless precision he applied to his real-life empire. Now, sated by virtual carnage, he was ready for bed. He emerged into the living room, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. His attire was a curated display of power: a white NY New Era cap tilted slightly to one side, its pristine logo a crown of authority; a white Supreme hoodie stretched taut across his broad chest, the bold red box logo screaming exclusivity; grey Jordan sweatpants that hung low, their soft fabric swishing with each confident stride; and white Jordan socks peeking out above his Jordan 11 Legend Blue high-tops.
The Jordan 11s were the crown jewel of his ensemble, a fetishistic embodiment of cruelty and dominance. Their premium white leather uppers gleamed with an almost divine purity, unmarred and untouchable, while the glossy white patent leather mudguard wrapped around the base like a serpent’s coil, reflective and menacing, ready to mirror the fear in a victim’s eyes. The Legend Blue accents—a frigid, icy hue on the Jumpman logo and translucent outsole—evoked a cold, merciless authority, as if the shoes themselves could freeze a man’s soul. The carbon fiber spring plate and full-length Air cushioning gave Kratos’s steps a predatory lightness, each stride effortless yet devastating. The frosted outsoles, with their jagged, herringbone traction, were designed for grip but doubled as instruments of pain, their texture perfect for scraping flesh raw. These were not just sneakers; they were tools of subjugation, their high-top silhouette towering over the broken, their design a cruel promise of suffering.
Kratos’s eyes locked onto Eli, crawling pitifully across the floor. A sneer curled his lips. “Look at you, you disgusting little roach,” he spat, his voice a low growl laced with venom. “Scrubbing my floor naked like the broke-ass nobody you are. A hundred grand, Eli—that’s what you thought you could steal from my casino? You’re dumber than you look, and that’s saying something. I own you now, every worthless inch.”
Without warning, Kratos swung his leg back and drove his Jordan 11 into Eli’s stomach with a sickening thud. The force sent Eli collapsing forward, gasping, the towel slipping from his grasp. Pain radiated through his core like fire, a deep, nauseating agony that made him feel as if his insides were tearing apart. He screamed in anguish, “Ahhh! Please, no!” but before he could curl into himself, Kratos leaped onto his back with both feet, landing with the full weight of his 200-pound frame. The icy blue soles pressed into Eli’s spine, the frosted tread biting into his skin like shards of glass. Eli’s arms and legs buckled, trembling violently under the crushing load, his breath hitching as he fought to stay upright. Terror gripped him, his heart pounding wildly, a sense of utter helplessness washing over him as he begged, “Master, please! I can’t take it—have mercy on my life!”
“Feel these Jordans, slave?” Kratos taunted, shifting his weight to grind the soles deeper, the patent leather edges catching the light. “These Jordans are worth more than your life, and they’re reminding you exactly where you belong—under my feet.”
Kratos began to walk along Eli’s back, each step deliberate, the Air cushioning absorbing his weight only to transfer it as pain into Eli’s frail body. The hardwood floor gleamed beneath them, a cruel contrast to Eli’s marred skin, now red and scraped from the textured soles. Eli whimpered with every press, his body screaming in protest, waves of sharp pain shooting through his back as he felt his bones strain under the assault. Kratos paused at Eli’s shoulders, then stepped one Jordan 11 onto his head, pressing his face into the floor. The frosted outsole dug into Eli’s scalp, leaving angry welts, while his limbs shook uncontrollably, threatening to collapse. “Stay down, dog,” Kratos sneered. “Your face looks better kissing my floor than it ever did dreaming of freedom.” Eli’s vision blurred with tears, a sob escaping him as he pleaded weakly, “Please, stop… I’ll do anything, just spare me!”
Finally, Kratos stepped off, but his cruelty was far from sated. He drew back and delivered a vicious kick to Eli’s groin, the impact wrenching a choked scream from Eli’s throat—”Nooo! God, no!”—as excruciating pain exploded between his legs, making him curl in fetal agony, his mind blank with shock and fear for his very survival. “That’s for reminding your place, stupid piece of shit,” Kratos mocked. “Your balls are useless” Not pausing, he stomped down on Eli’s groin again, the hard sole grinding mercilessly, eliciting another piercing scream from Eli, who begged hoarsely, “Please, Master, I’m begging you—don’t kill me! I want to live!” Then Kratos moved to his chest and abs, stomping repeatedly with rhythmic brutality. Each blow left purple bruises blooming across Eli’s skin, a canvas of Kratos’s dominance, and with every stomp, Eli felt his ribs protest, a deep ache spreading, fueling his panic that this might be the end.
Kratos then planted both feet on Eli’s chest, standing tall, his Jordan 11s sinking into the tender flesh. Eli’s ribs creaked under the weight, his breaths shallow and desperate, a suffocating pressure that made him gasp for air, his mind racing with dread. Kratos shifted, placing his right sole over Eli’s mouth, the clean, frosted tread hovering like a gag. “Lick it, piece of shit,” he ordered, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. “These soles are cleaner than your soul because you’ve been licking them all damn day.”
Eli, broken and obedient, extended his trembling tongue, dragging it across the right sole’s textured surface, the icy blue accents mocking his degradation. The taste was faintly rubbery, the tread unyielding. He moved to the left sole at Kratos’s gesture, repeating the humiliating ritual, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, a profound sense of worthlessness and self-loathing consuming him as he complied, silently praying for it to end.
Kratos lifted his foot and stomped down on Eli’s face, drawing a sharp yelp from Eli, who whimpered, “Please… no more…” “Good dog,” he jeered. “That’s your reward for being my foot cleaner. Now get up and crawl on all fours. You’re my ride tonight.”
Eli struggled to his hands and knees, his body screaming in protest, bruises throbbing, skin raw, every movement amplifying his exhaustion and pain, leaving him feeling like a shattered shell of a man. Kratos straddled his back, settling his weight like a rider on a broken horse. “Move, you sorry piece of trash,” Kratos shouted, slapping Eli’s flank. “Crawl to my bedroom, nice and slow. You’re nothing but my property now.”
Eli crawled, each movement agony, his knees scraping the hardwood, his arms barely supporting Kratos’s bulk. The journey from the living room to the bedroom felt eternal, the mansion’s corridors lined with more white walls and modern art that mocked Eli’s fall. His mind swirled with despair, tears streaming down his face as he panted, feeling utterly defeated and longing for escape that would never come.
Finally, they reached Kratos’s bedroom, a cavernous space with a king-sized bed draped in black silk, a sleek chrome nightstand, and a wrought-iron cage in the corner—a prison for Eli.
Kratos dismounted with a final kick to Eli’s ribs, sending him sprawling and drawing one last scream—”Aaaah! Mercy!”—as fresh pain lanced through his side. “In the cage, slave,” he growled, shoving Eli toward the bars. Eli crawled inside, his naked body curling into the cramped space, the cold metal biting into his skin, a wave of resignation and fear settling over him as he begged faintly, “Please, let me live… I don’t want to die like this.” Kratos locked the door with a heavy clank, the sound final and unforgiving.
Satisfied, Kratos climbed onto his bed, not bothering to undress. He lounged in his full attire—the white NY New Era cap still tilted, the Supreme hoodie wrapped his chiseled torso, the grey Jordan sweatpants rumpled, the white socks snug, and the Jordan 11 Legend Blues still on his feet, their icy soles gleaming in the low light. This was how he always slept, a king in his castle, his dominance never shed, not even in slumber.
As he settled against the pillows, Kratos cast a final glance at Eli, curled in the cage. “Sleep tight, you worthless shit,” he sneered. “Tomorrow, you’ll lick other Jordans clean” The room fell silent, save for Eli’s quiet, shuddering breaths, trapped in the dark with the weight of his 100-grand mistake, his body aching and his spirit broken, haunted by the endless cycle of torment.
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