The 1st Platoon of 50 privates had just wrapped up their grueling morning training session, a punishing running test consisting of four laps around a 400-meter track. Each private pushed their limits, their bodies glistening with sweat under the relentless sun, soaking through their simple green plain T-shirts, black shorts, and black sneakers that pounded against the dirt path. Among the group, Renn, the platoon leader, emerged victorious with the shortest time, his powerful strides and unyielding endurance marking him as the strongest and fastest. Teddy fell squarely in the middle of the pack, his performance average but steady, neither excelling nor faltering dramatically. Duke, however, lagged far behind, his legs heavy and breaths ragged, earning him the unfortunate title of the weakest and slowest in the platoon.
As they caught their breath at the finish line, Renn clapped Teddy on the back, grinning through his exhaustion. “Not bad out there, Teddy. You kept a solid pace—better than last week. We’ll get you pushing harder next time.”
Teddy wiped sweat from his brow, nodding with a half-smile. “Yeah, thanks, Renn. Felt like my lungs were on fire by the third lap, but I hung in. You, though? Man, you’re a machine. No one even came close.”
Duke stumbled over, doubled over and gasping, his face flushed red. “Guys… that was brutal. I thought I was gonna collapse on the last stretch. How do you make it look so easy, Renn?”
Renn chuckled lightly, helping Duke straighten up. “Practice and grit, Duke. You’ve got the heart for it; just need to build up that speed. Stick with us—we’ll drag you through if we have to.”
Teddy smirked, punching Duke’s arm playfully. “Drag you? More like carry you next time. Come on, slowpoke, lunch is calling. Maybe some food will give you the energy boost you need.”
Now it was lunch time, and the platoon filed into the cafeteria, each private grabbing a food tray laden with the day’s menu: steaming spaghetti bolognese topped with rich meat sauce, crispy garlic bread on the side, and a fresh Caesar salad drizzled with dressing. They arranged themselves at the three long metal tables, designed to seat the full 50 of them in orderly rows. No one dared touch their food yet; they sat rigidly, trays in front of them, waiting for every last private to take their seat and for Master Sergeant Kratos to grant permission to eat. Renn, Teddy, and Duke claimed spots together at the middle table, their trays aligned neatly as they exchanged quiet glances, the aroma of the meal teasing their hunger after the intense run.
Once everyone was seated and the room fell into tense silence, the doors swung open. Master Sergeant Kratos entered first, flanked by Lieutenant Chaz on his right and Lieutenant Stryker on his left. They moved with an air of absolute authority, their outfits exuding raw power: black New Era caps perched low over their brows, long-sleeve Jordan T-shirts hugging their muscular frames, camo pants tucked crisply, and dominating their presence were the Air Force 1 Flax Wheat boots—high-top masterpieces rising to an imposing 8 inches, crafted from premium nubuck leather in a warm wheat hue that evoked rugged, unyielding terrain. The nubuck uppers, soft yet durable with a subtle velvety texture, wrapped around the ankles like a vice, secured by wide and loose lacing threaded through hex nut eyelets that gave off a workboot-inspired menace. But it was the soles that truly embodied cruelty and dominance, a sadistic fetish in footwear form: thick rubber outsoles in a gum light brown, etched with Nike’s iconic circular tread pattern—deep, concentric grooves designed for merciless traction and durability on any surface, capable of grinding down obstacles with sadistic efficiency. These treads, engineered for multisurface grip with foam cushioning and full-length Air units hidden within, promised to crush and dominate whatever lay beneath, their patterns ready to imprint pain and humiliation like a torturer’s tool, reveling in the destruction they could inflict.
Renn, spotting them immediately, shot to his feet and bellowed, “Attention!” The entire platoon rose as one, snapping sharp salutes, their eyes fixed forward in disciplined fear and respect.
Kratos stepped up from the bench at the front of the room, his massive frame ascending effortlessly as he planted one boot on the middle table’s edge, then hoisted himself up to stand directly on the surface, his soles hovering menacingly over the row of food trays belonging to the privates below. Chaz mirrored the move on the right table, his boots claiming the metal expanse with authority, while Stryker took the left, their combined presence turning the cafeteria into a stage of intimidation.
“Sit,” Kratos commanded, his voice booming like thunder.
“Thank you, sir!” the privates chorused in unison, lowering themselves back into their seats, eyes wide as the three superiors began to walk along the tables.
The privates were forced to watch those Air Force 1 boots in rapt, horrified fascination as they strode past, the cruel soles seeming like an unwelcome addition to their menu—dominant intruders that demanded attention, their treads poised to claim and destroy. Kratos, Chaz, and Stryker moved deliberately, their boots trampling every food tray in their path, verbal abuse raining down like blows. “You face-fucks think you deserve this slop? Look at you, sweating like pigs after a little run,” Kratos snarled at one private, his boot slamming down into a tray of spaghetti bolognese, the thick rubber sole grinding the noodles into a mushy paste, sauce squirting out in crimson splatters as the circular treads embedded meat chunks deep into the grooves. The private below flinched, his face paling as he stared at the devastation, feeling a wave of nausea and humiliation—this was the first time any of them had to confront eating food trampled under such sadistic soles, the once-appetizing meal now reduced to a smeared, boot-marked mess that mocked their hunger.
Chaz laughed cruelly at another, “Pathetic worms, can’t even outrun your own shadows. This salad’s got more spine than you!” His boot crushed into a Caesar salad, the gum sole’s deep grooves pulverizing lettuce leaves into wilted shreds, dressing oozing like blood as croutons cracked audibly under the pressure, embedding into the tread like captured prey. The private’s stomach churned, a mix of dread and revulsion washing over him; the fresh greens now looked violated, tainted by the dominant boot’s imprint, forcing him to grapple with the degrading reality of consuming it.
Stryker joined in, stomping on a garlic bread slice with glee. “Losers like you should be grateful for crumbs. Chew on this!” The bread compressed flat under his sole, buttery garlic seeping into the circular patterns, crust fracturing into crumbs that scattered across the tray, some trays suffering a full assault where spaghetti, bread, and salad mixed into a chaotic slurry under the relentless treads. Privates whose trays got everything trampled felt the deepest shame, their meals transformed into indistinguishable slop, the boots’ sadistic design ensuring every step left behind grooves filled with food remnants, a fetishistic display of power that made their hearts pound with fear and submission. For all of them, this initiation into eating trampled food stirred a cocktail of emotions—disgust at the desecration, helplessness under the superiors’ dominance, and a budding resentment buried deep to avoid punishment.
With the tables fully traversed and every tray bearing the marks of their boots, the platoon awaited the next command. In unison, they began the chant, voices rising in a rhythmic pledge of loyalty: “We vow to serve with unbreakable will, for Kratos is the law that binds us still. In his orders, we find our bond and might. Thank you, God Kratos, for this food.”
Kratos nodded approvingly. “Eat. Every last bit. Leave anything in your tray, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The privates dove in reluctantly, utensils scraping against the crushed remnants. At their spot, Renn, Teddy, and Duke muttered complaints in low, hushed voices, careful not to draw attention.
Renn poked at his spaghetti, now flattened and sauce-smeared from Kratos’s pass. “This is messed up. My noodles are like paste now, and I can taste the grit from those soles—rubbery, earthy, like chewing on tire tracks mixed with meat.”
Teddy grimaced, biting into his trampled garlic bread. “Yeah, mine’s got this weird chew to it, all soggy and imprinted. Tastes dominant, almost… like the boot’s flavor overpowers everything. First time dealing with this—feels wrong.”
Duke whispered shakily, his tray a mix of everything crushed. “Guys, it’s disgusting. The salad’s wilted and slimy, bread’s crumbs, spaghetti’s everywhere. That sole taste… it’s cruel, lingering on my tongue like punishment.”
As they ate, Kratos circled back along the middle table, his boots thudding ominously. He stopped directly in front of Duke, looming like a storm cloud, then stomped hard into Duke’s tray. Bolognese sauce erupted in a spray, splattering across Duke’s face in warm, sticky streaks that dripped down his chin.
“So, you’re the weakest one in this platoon,” Kratos growled, his eyes boring into Duke.
Duke bolted upright, sauce stinging his eyes, and stammered, “Sir, I’ll do better, sir! I promise!”
He watched in frozen horror as Kratos twisted his boot deeper, the gum sole’s circular treads churning the spaghetti into a tangled mash, grinding garlic bread crumbs into the sauce whilepulverizing salad leaves, mixing it all into a viscous, boot-imprinted sludge that oozed around the edges.
“Sit,” Kratos ordered.
Duke dropped back into his seat, trembling.
“Now, lick the food from my sole.”
Duke hesitated, his body freezing in shock, mind reeling at the command.
Kratos’s boot lashed out in a swift kick to Duke’s face, the impact snapping his head back with a sharp crack. “Lick. Now.”
Shaken, body quivering like a leaf in the wind, Duke leaned forward slowly, his tongue extending tentatively to the sole. The taste hit him like a assault—salty spaghetti sauce mingled with the rubbery, gritty essence of the gum tread, earthy nubuck hints from the edges, and a sadistic tang of dominance that made his stomach lurch, each lick pulling in bits of crushed food trapped in the grooves.
Kratos wasn’t done; he trampled deeper into the tray, sole embedding fully, sauce bubbling up around it. “Lick the food in the tray around my boot.”
With no choice, Duke complied slowly, his tongue darting around the boot’s perimeter, lapping up the mixed slop—noodles slurping wetly, salad greens sticking to his lips, bread crumbs crunching—each motion deliberate but agonizing, his hands gripping the table edges as humiliation burned through him.
“Too slow,” Kratos snarled, dissatisfaction etched in his voice. His boot shot out again, kicking Duke’s face hard this time, the force sending him tumbling backward off his seat to the floor with a thud, stars exploding in his vision.
Kratos followed with a kick to the tray, sending it flying after Duke, messy contents spilling across the cold floor in a splatter of sauce, greens, and crumbs. Then, he jumped from the table, landing squarely on Duke’s chest with both boots, the full weight compressing his ribs. Duke screamed out loud, air whooshing from his lungs in agony.
On the floor, Kratos crushed the scattered food and overturned tray under his soles, treads grinding spaghetti strands into paste against the tile, salad leaves shredding further, garlic bread reduced to buttery dust embedded in the grooves, sauce smearing in wide arcs as he twisted for maximum destruction.
“Lick. Fast.”
Duke’s mind had broken already, shattered under the cumulative weight of the humiliation and pain, his brain now issuing relentless internal orders to follow whatever Kratos said without hesitation, compelling him to obey instantly to prevent any more attacks from Kratos and the torment they brought. He acted with desperate speed, scrambling on all fours, tongue lashing out like a hungry dog’s, slurping up every splatter—sauce pooling in his mouth with gritty sole residue, greens wilting on his tongue, crumbs sticking to his teeth—in frantic laps across the floor, devouring the mess without pause, body low and submissive.
“Make a sound like a dog,” Kratos ordered, amusement creeping in.
“Woof! Woof!”Duke let out a pitiful woof, mimicking a dog’s bark.
Kratos burst into laughter, deep and mocking. “Now, lick my boots clean.”
Duke obeyed, his tongue working over every square inch: starting at the toe, lapping sauce from the nubuck upper, then the sole’s circular treads, dislodging embedded food bits with careful swipes, moving to the midsole’s edges where crumbs clung, polishing the gum rubber until it gleamed spotless, the taste a relentless barrage of rubber, earth, and crushed meal that numbed his senses.
Satisfied, Kratos stomped down on Duke’s face, sole pressing into his cheek, grinding the weight slowly, treads imprinting red marks. “This is the price of being the loser from a test. There’s no place for the weak and losers like you. Do better next time.”
He continued trampling, twisting slightly for emphasis, Duke’s cheek flattening under the dominant pressure.
Chaz and Stryker sauntered over, joining the spectacle, their boots still flecked with remnants. “Look at this pathetic mess under your boot, Kratos,” Chaz jeered. “Squirming like a dying dog.”
Stryker chuckled. “Yeah, total loser. Hey, your boots look cleaner now.”
Kratos grinned, glancing down. “Yours too.”
Chaz nodded. “Yeah, got a loser over there to lick mine spotless. Felt good making him work for it.”
Stryker added, “Same here—forcing that guy to tongue every groove. These soles were made for this.”
Kratos laughed heartily, then stomped Duke one last time, the impact jarring his head, before stepping off. The three turned and walked away, their laughter echoing as they headed to the officer restaurant for their untouched meals.
Once they were gone, the cafeteria buzzed with subdued murmurs. Renn hurried over to Duke, who lay sprawled and dazed on the floor. “Duke, you okay? Get up, man.”
“Woof! Woof!” Duke, eyes glassy, responded with a weak woof, mimicking the dog sound again, his mind fractured from the ordeal, reality slipping into a broken haze.
Renn and Teddy exchanged horrified looks, both face-palming in disbelief. “What the…?” Teddy muttered.
Renn, frustration boiling, slapped Duke’s face sharply, the crack snapping through the air. “Snap out of it!”
Duke blinked rapidly, the slap jolting him back like a wake-up call. Tears welled up instantly, spilling down his sauce-streaked cheeks as he lunged forward, hugging Renn tightly, sobbing. “Renn… it was awful. I couldn’t… the taste, the pain… I thought it’d never end. Why me? I feel so broken.”
Renn held him awkwardly at first, then patted his back. “Hey, easy. You survived it. That’s something. Just… don’t lose yourself like that again. We all ate that crap today; you’re not alone.”
Teddy knelt beside them, shaking his head. “Duke, man, you scared us with that dog thing. Pull it together—we’ve got more training ahead.”
But Duke’s mind had already shattered under the weight, fragments of obedience and fear dominating his thoughts, leaving him clinging to Renn like a lifeline in the storm of Hell’s Gate. Renn glanced at Teddy, sighing. “Teddy, help me get him together. He’s not himself right now.”
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