*This is perfect,* the slave thought as he worked. *This is exactly where I belong. On the floor. Beneath him. Serving him while he does whatever he wants.*
Tim's attention was completely on the screen now. He shifted slightly, spreading his legs wider, one hand absently stroking his cock as he played. He was keeping himself hard, edging himself, enjoying the slow build of arousal without any urgency to finish. The slave had learned that Tim liked to stay hard for hours sometimes: playing games, watching TV, scrolling through his phone, enjoying the feeling of his own arousal while the slave serviced him in whatever way Tim felt like using him.
The slave's hands moved reverently over Tim's feet, massaging each toe, pressing into the heel, working his thumbs along the sole. His own cock was still hard, still leaking, but he ignored it. His pleasure didn't matter. Only Tim's comfort mattered.
"Harder," Tim said without looking down, his eyes still on the screen.
"Yes, Sir," the slave whispered, increasing the pressure. His fingers dug deeper into the muscle, and Tim let out a satisfied grunt.
The slave's mind drifted as he worked, his hands moving automatically now. He thought about how natural this felt, how right it was to be on the floor while Tim sat above him. He thought about Brian, who would never understand this. Brian, who thought relationships were supposed to be equal, who thought love meant partnership and respect and mutual consideration.
*But that's not what I need,* the slave thought. *That's not what I am. I need this. I need to be beneath someone. I need to serve. I need to worship. And Tim, God, Tim understands that. Tim knows exactly what I am and exactly how to use me.*
Tim's cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy against his stomach as he played. He stroked it lazily with one hand, his thumb swiping over the head, smearing the precum that had gathered there. The slave's mouth watered at the sight, but he didn't move. He hadn't been given permission. He just kept massaging, kept serving, kept existing in his proper place at his Master's feet.
Hours later, when Tim finally stood and stretched, the slave felt a spike of panic. The evening was ending. Tim would dismiss him soon, send him back to his apartment, back to Brian and the pretense of normalcy. The thought made the slave's chest tighten with something close to desperation.
"Master," the slave said quietly, his voice trembling. "Please. Please don't make me leave."
Tim looked down at him with mild curiosity, one eyebrow raised. "What?"
The slave dropped his forehead to the floor, pressing his face against the hardwood. "Please, Sir. Let me stay. I don't want to go home. I want to stay here. I want to sleep here on the floor, at the foot of your bed. I don't need a blanket or a pillow. I just… please, Master. Let me stay close to you."
Tim said nothing for a moment, and the slave's heart pounded in the silence.
"I could sleep with your dirty underwear," the slave continued, his voice breaking slightly. "And your socks. The ones from today. I could… I could huff them all night, Master. I could fall asleep breathing in your scent. Please. I need that. I need to be near you. I need to stay in your presence."
He pressed his face harder against the floor, his hands spread wide in supplication.
"Going home to Brian feels wrong," the slave whispered. "It feels like a lie. Like I'm pretending to be something I'm not. But here… here I'm exactly what I'm supposed to be. I'm yours. I'm your faggot, your slave, your property. Please don't make me leave that behind. Not yet. Please, Master."
Tim let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Fine. Floor of my bedroom. Don't make any fucking noise."
"Thank you, Master," the slave breathed, his voice thick with relief and gratitude. "Thank you so much. I promise I won't disturb you. I'll be silent. I'll—"
"Shut the fuck up," Tim said, already walking toward his bedroom. "And bring my laundry with you."
"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."
The slave scrambled to gather Tim's discarded clothes from the day, the socks he'd been massaging earlier, the underwear Tim had stripped off before the ass-eating, the t-shirt that still smelled like Tim's sweat and deodorant. He clutched them to his chest like precious artifacts as he followed Tim into the bedroom.
Tim climbed into bed without another word, pulling the covers over himself and turning toward the wall. The slave stood there for a moment, holding the bundle of laundry, his heart racing with a strange mixture of shame and profound contentment.
*This is better,* he thought as he carefully arranged the clothes on the floor beside Tim's bed. *This is so much better than going home. This is where I belong.*
He spread Tim's socks out first, positioning them so he could press his face directly into the fabric. Then the underwear still damp with sweat from the day, still carrying the rich, musky scent of Tim's cock and balls and ass. The slave inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed, his cock hardening again despite how many times he'd been aroused and denied throughout the day.
*Brian would never understand this,* the slave thought as he curled up on the hard floor, his face buried in Tim's dirty laundry. *He'd be horrified. Disgusted. He'd think I was sick, broken, pathetic.*
*But I'm not broken. I'm exactly what I'm supposed to be. And Tim knows that. Tim sees me for what I really am. A slave, a servant, a faggot who exists to worship and obey.*
The slave took another deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of his Master. Above him, Tim's breathing had already evened out into sleep. The slave smiled against the fabric of Tim's socks, feeling a deep, bone-deep sense of rightness settle over him.
*This is home,* he thought. *Not the apartment I share with Brian. Not the life I pretend to live during the week. This. Right here. On the floor. Breathing in my Master's scent. Waiting to serve him again.*
He closed his eyes and let himself drift, his face pressed into Tim's underwear, his body curled small and submissive on the floor beside his Master's bed.
Feedback? [email protected]
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
