Hi! You all have been eating up my fantasy stories with AI pics for a month, but now it’s time to dial up the heat with a real, raw session. I hope my Alpha Log Series can be your ultimate jerk-off fuel. Some sessions get caught on video—available for purchase to keep this site running and snag me some fresh kicks—but this sub didn’t consent to filming, so I’m spilling every gritty, sneaker-obsessed detail here. Btw, I’m 100% master—no switching, no vers, no sub bullshit. Just pure, unfiltered control.
Picture my Jordan 11 Breds: glossy black patent leather wrapping around like a predator’s hide, bold red accents screaming authority, and that herringbone sole built to grip and destroy. Released in 2019, my pair’s been pounded for six years, the leather creased, the soles etched with the filth of countless sessions. I wear them loose, laces dangling, radiating untamed energy. Slipping them on, my cock twitches, the weight of their dominance fueling my horniness. These Jordans aren’t just sneakers—they’re an extension of my power, ready to crush and command.
This sub hit me up, begging to serve. Not a looker, but his lean, gym-honed body was built for punishment. We met at his apartment, me in blue jogger jeans and my trusty Jordan 11s, their soles pulsing with six years of sweat and control. He met me in the lobby, fresh from the gym, his body glistening with sweat that made my pulse race. Up in his place, he ditched his shoes—his house rules—but my Jordans stayed on, their worn soles claiming his space. The room was a stifling sauna, no AC, just primal heat. His sweat, my sweat, the musky scent of my kicks—it had me throbbing.
“On your knees, you pathetic fuck,” I snarled, my voice cutting through the humid air. He dropped instantly, eyes wide, already trembling. The power surged through me, a rush that made my blood pound. Seeing him cower, knowing I was about to break him under my Jordans, felt like holding lightning in my veins. “You think you’re worthy of these kicks?” I mocked, lifting one foot and hovering the herringbone sole over his face. His whimper, the way his eyes locked onto the gritty tread, made my dick twitch. I love this—reducing a sub to nothing but a toy for my pleasure, his submission feeding my dominance.
I shoved him to the floor, pinning his head under my Jordan’s sole. My 210 pounds pressed the black-and-red tread into his cheek, the pattern biting into his skin. “Look at you, squirming like a fucking worm under my sneaker,” I taunted, grinding harder, watching the herringbone etch red marks across his face. The sight of him, face twisted in pain and lust, was pure sadistic joy. I could feel his heat through the sole, his body tensing under my control. My Jordans, every crease and scuff a badge of my power, marked him as mine, and I relished every second of his torture. His pathetic struggles under the sole, the way his breath hitched, made me feel like a god.
“Strip, you worthless slut,” I commanded, kicking him to the living room’s center. He scrambled to obey, peeling off his clothes, his lean body slick with sweat. Naked and vulnerable, he was nothing but prey. “You’re my fucking doormat,” I sneered, stepping onto his back, my Jordans sinking into his spine. The herringbone left angry red patterns, branding him as mine. His moans—half pain, half desperation—stoked the fire in my gut. I stomped his chest, his abs, each impact a claim of ownership. The sole patterns blooming across his flesh were like my signature, and seeing him writhe under the torture of my soles sent waves of pleasure through me. His body was a canvas, and my Jordans were the brush, painting his submission.
“You like that, don’t you, you pathetic slut?” I mocked, hovering the toe of my Jordan over his nipple and rubbing the rough tread against it. His body arched, a choked groan escaping as the texture scraped his skin raw. The torture in his eyes—pain battling his desperate need to please me—was fucking intoxicating. I could see his struggle, his pride crumbling under the relentless pressure of my sole, and it made my cock strain against my jeans. I pressed one Jordan onto his chest, pinning him, and shoved the other over his mouth. “Lick it, you filthy pig,” I ordered, my voice cold and commanding. He grabbed the sneaker, tongue lashing across the sole, worshipping every gritty inch of my six-year-old Breds. The sight of him licking the sweat and dirt, tracing the herringbone like it was his salvation, had me rock hard. “That’s right, clean my fucking kicks,” I sneered, leaning forward to watch his humiliation. His dick—six, maybe seven inches—stood rigid, begging for punishment. I flattened it under my sole, grinding the mushroom head with the rough tread, no mercy. His muffled screams, stifled by the sneaker over his mouth, were music to my ears, each cry amplifying my power.
I ordered him to flip face-down, his back a canvas for my destruction. Jumping onto him, I bounced, my Jordans carving their sole pattern into his skin like a topographic map of dominance. “You’re nothing but a stain under my soles,” I growled, stomping his ass, pinning his cheek to the floor. The scent of worn leather and sweat filled his lungs as I ground his face down, his whimpers fueling my arousal. Seeing him tortured under my Jordans, his body marked and trembling, was pure ecstasy. I sprawled on the couch, legs spread, and ordered, “Lick my soles again, you desperate fuck.” He attacked them like they were his last meal, tongue swirling over the glossy patent leather and gritty treads, savoring the musky flavor. I stood, my cock throbbing, and shoved the toebox of my Jordan 11 into his mouth. “Take it, bitch,” I snarled, watching him stretch his jaw wide, desperation in his eyes as he managed half the toebox. His muffled scream, choked by the sweaty leather, made my pulse race, the power of his submission coursing through me.
I had him get on all fours, his arms and legs trembling under my weight as I walked across his back, stomping for good measure. “You’re barely holding up, you weak little shit,” I taunted, relishing his struggle to bear my 210 pounds. His strength held, but I wasn’t done. I made him lay his head on the couch, stomping his face, each impact drawing a moan that sent shivers down my spine. The sound of skin meeting sole, his desperate whimpers, was pure bliss. I ordered him to peel off my Jordans, starting with the left. He buried his face in the sneaker, inhaling the ripe, sweaty scent of six years of wear. “Smell that, you fucking pervert,” I mocked, watching him lose himself in the musk. My white Jordan dry-fit socks, soaked with sweat, came next—he sniffed them like a man possessed, his tongue desperate for more. The right sneaker followed, then my socked feet trampled his face, the damp fabric smearing my scent across his skin. Seeing him so utterly degraded, tortured under my soles and socks, made me feel invincible, every moment of his submission feeding my dominance.
This session was just the start. Part 2’s coming, and it’s gonna get even nastier.
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