Tim's cock rested against his forehead, hard and leaking, but the slave didn't touch it. He hadn't been given that gesture yet. He stayed focused on his task, on pleasuring Tim's balls with single-minded dedication.
Then a snap.
The sharp sound of Tim's fingers snapping together cut through everything. The slave's entire body responded instantly, a Pavlovian reaction trained over weeks of conditioning. He pulled back from Tim's crotch and prostrated himself, forehead pressed to the floor between Tim's feet, arms stretched forward in complete supplication.
"You are everything, Sir," the slave began, his voice fervent, worshipful. "You are perfection. You are a God among men. A King. The lord of everything I am and everything I'll ever be."
"Keep going," Tim said, his voice bored. The game sounds continued.
"You are magnificent, Sir. Perfect in every way. Your body is a temple I'm blessed to worship. Your cock is divine. Your commands are law. I exist only to serve you, to please you, to be used by you however you see fit."
The words poured out of him, desperate and sincere. This was truth. This was reality.
"I am nothing without you, Sir. Nothing but a worthless slave, a hole for your use, a toy for your amusement. You are my Master, my owner, my God. Everything I have belongs to you. My mouth, my ass, my body, my will. All of it is yours. You are supreme. You are absolute. You are everything."
"Damn right," Tim muttered. His foot pressed against the slave's head, grinding his face into the floor. "Now get back on my cock. Full service this time."
The slave scrambled up, recognizing the gesture Tim made. A fist moving up and down. Full blowjob. He took Tim's cock in hand, guided it past his lips, and sank down until his nose pressed against the thick hair at the base. He swallowed around the head lodged in his throat, suppressing his gag reflex, and began to work in earnest.
His head bobbed steadily, taking Tim deep with every stroke, his tongue working the underside, his lips sealed tight. Saliva dripped down his chin. His eyes watered. His jaw ached. And he didn't stop, didn't slow, giving Tim everything he had.
Above him, Tim played his game, occasionally muttering commands to his teammates, completely absorbed. His hand rested on the slave's head again, not controlling the pace, just... there. Owning him.
The slave sucked harder, desperate to please, desperate to be good, desperate to earn even the smallest acknowledgment from his God.
The shrill buzz of the dryer cut through the room.
Tim's foot connected with the slave's shoulder, shoving him backward. The slave's mouth slipped off Tim's cock with an obscene wet sound, and he sprawled on the floor, gasping.
"Dryer's done," Tim said flatly, not even looking down at him. "Go fold my shit and iron it. Everything better be perfect, or you'll regret it."
"Yes, Sir," the slave breathed, scrambling to his feet. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, denied and aching, but that didn't matter. What mattered was Tim's laundry.
He hurried to the small laundry room off the kitchen, his heart still racing from the worship, from the taste of Tim still coating his tongue. When he opened the dryer, the wave of heat and scent that hit him nearly made him moan aloud. Tim's clothes. Still warm. Still carrying that masculine scent. Detergent and fabric softener, yes, but underneath it, the ghost of Tim's body. His sweat. His skin.
The slave pulled out the first item, a plain white t-shirt, and brought it to his face without thinking. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing, and his cock leaked in his jeans. This had been against Tim's body. This had absorbed his sweat during a workout, had clung to those broad shoulders, that hairy chest.
He was pathetic. He knew it. Standing here in another man's laundry room, getting hard from smelling his clothes like some kind of pervert. But he couldn't help it. This was Tim. This was his Master. His God.
The slave carried the basket to the ironing board Tim kept set up in the corner and began to work methodically, reverently. Each piece of clothing was handled with care, smoothed out, examined for wrinkles, pressed with precise attention. A pair of Tim's boxer briefs came next, dark gray Calvin Kleins, and the slave's hands trembled slightly as he folded them. These had cupped Tim's cock and balls. These had been intimate with the parts of Tim's body that the slave worshipped most desperately.
He could feel it in his bones, in the way his entire body responded to Tim's presence, to Tim's commands, to the simple act of serving him. This was the natural order of things. Tim was superior, objectively, undeniably superior. A real man. Confident, dominant, completely secure in his masculinity and his right to be served. And the slave was... what he'd always been, really. A servant. A worshipper. Something meant to kneel.
He thought about Brian, his boyfriend, and felt a wave of contempt mixed with guilt. Brian with his gallery openings and his artistic temperament, his carefully curated wardrobe and his opinions about theater and wine. Brian who wanted to hold hands in public, who talked about their "relationship" like it was something equal, something mutual. Brian who was soft and effeminate and completely undeserving of respect.
The slave had tried. God, he'd tried to be a good boyfriend, to care about Brian's latest installation piece or his thoughts on some experimental film. But every conversation felt hollow. Every touch felt wrong. Because Brian wasn't a real man. Not like Tim.
Tim didn't need to perform masculinity or talk about his feelings or ask for validation. He took what he wanted, used what was offered to him, and demanded complete submission. And that was exactly what the slave needed. What he craved. What he'd been missing his entire adult life while trying to pretend he was someone's equal.
The iron hissed as he pressed it against one of Tim's work shirts, a blue button-down that Tim probably wore to the lab. The slave imagined Tim in it, imagined his colleagues seeing him as just another scientist, having no idea that this man was a God. That he had a slave at home who would do anything, anything, for the privilege of serving him.
I would scrub his toilets, the slave thought, and the idea sent a thrill through him. I would get on my hands and knees and scrub his toilet with a toothbrush if he told me to. I would clean his bathroom floor with my tongue. I would thank him for letting me do it.
It wasn't hyperbole. It was simple truth. There was no task too degrading, no service too menial. If Tim wanted it, the slave would provide it. Eagerly. Gratefully. Because being useful to Tim, being of service to him, was the highest purpose the slave could imagine.
He finished the shirt and hung it carefully on a hanger, then reached for the next item, a pair of Tim's jeans. As he smoothed them out on the ironing board, his fingers traced the denim, imagining Tim's legs filling them out, Tim's ass in them, Tim's cock pressed against the fly. His own cock throbbed again, and he had to pause, breathing hard, fighting the urge to unzip and touch himself.
No. He hadn't been given permission. His pleasure didn't matter. Only Tim's pleasure mattered.
The slave continued his work, falling into meditative motions. Iron, fold, set aside. Iron, fold, set aside. Each piece of clothing was a prayer, an act of devotion. This was worship in its purest form, not the dramatic groveling, not even the sexual service, but this. The quiet, humble labor of caring for his Master's belongings.
This is real, he thought. This is honest. With Brian, I'm pretending to be something I'm not. But here, with Tim, I can finally be what I actually am.
A slave. A servant. A thing to be used.
And he'd never felt more grateful, more complete, more perfectly aligned with his true nature than he did in this moment, standing in Tim's laundry room, ironing his Master's clothes with shaking hands and a hard cock and a heart full of desperate, worshipful love.
When he finished, the stack of perfectly folded and pressed clothes sat on the counter like an offering. The slave stood back and looked at his work, hoping it would please Tim, praying it would be good enough. Knowing that even if it wasn’t, even if Tim found fault and punished him for it, he would still be grateful for the opportunity to try again.
Because this was where he belonged. In service. In submission. In the presence of a man who was everything the slave could never be.
The slave carried the stack of clothes back to the living room, his heart pounding with anticipation and nervousness. Tim was still on the couch, controller in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. He didn't even glance up as the slave approached.
"Put them away," Tim said flatly. "Then get your ass back in here."
"Yes, Sir," the slave breathed, hurrying to Tim's bedroom. He placed each item in its proper place, shirts hung in the closet, jeans folded in drawers, underwear and socks organized precisely. His hands trembled slightly as he worked, knowing Tim was waiting for him, knowing something was coming.
When he returned to the living room, Tim had paused his game and was sprawled on the couch, legs spread wide. He looked at the slave with that casual contempt that made the slave's cock throb painfully in his jeans.
"Strip," Tim commanded. "Everything off. Now."
The slave obeyed immediately, fumbling with his clothes in his eagerness to comply. His shirt hit the floor, then his jeans, then his underwear. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and he felt a flush of shame at how desperately aroused he was.
Tim smirked. "Pathetic. Look at you, hard as a rock just from doing my laundry. You really are a fucking faggot, aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir," the slave whispered. "I am. I'm your faggot."
"Damn right you are." Tim stood up and stripped off his own clothes. The t-shirt and sweatpants he'd been wearing, revealing that perfect, hairy body. The slave's mouth watered. "Get on your knees."
The slave dropped immediately, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a thud that sent a jolt of pain through his legs. He didn't care. He was exactly where he belonged.
Tim turned around, presenting his ass to the slave's face. "You know what to do, bitch. Get your tongue in there. Deep. And don't you dare stop until I tell you to."
He leaned forward, his face inches from Tim's ass, and inhaled deeply. The scent was masculine, musky, slightly sweaty from Tim's day. It was the smell of a real man, not the carefully groomed, cologne-soaked presentation Brian always maintained, but raw and honest and utterly dominant.
The slave spread Tim's cheeks with trembling hands and pressed his face between them, his tongue finding Tim's hole. He licked tentatively at first, then more eagerly, pushing his tongue against the tight ring of muscle, trying to work it inside.
"Deeper, faggot," Tim growled. "I said deep. Get that tongue all the way up my ass."
The slave redoubled his efforts, his tongue pushing past the resistance, sliding into Tim's ass. The taste was bitter, earthy, humiliating and the slave's cock leaked steadily as he worked. This was degradation in its purest form. This was submission. This was worship.
Brian would never ask for this, the slave thought as he tongued Tim's hole with desperate enthusiasm. Brian would think this was disgusting, degrading, beneath him. But that's because Brian doesn't understand what it means to be a real man. Tim knows. Tim knows that a real man takes what he wants, uses what's offered to him, and expects complete service. Even this. Especially this.
The slave's jaw ached, his tongue was getting tired, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't. This was his purpose. This was his place. Kneeling behind his Master, face buried in his ass, tongue working to bring him pleasure.
"That's it," Tim said, his voice casual, almost bored. "Just like that, bitch. Keep going."
The slave moaned against Tim's ass, the vibration making Tim chuckle. And then PFFFFT.
The fart hit the slave directly in the face, hot and rank and utterly unexpected. The slave gagged, his stomach lurching, his first instinct to pull away. The smell was overwhelming, sharp and acrid and completely disgusting.
But he didn't pull away. He couldn't. This was Tim. This was his Master. And he'd been trained for this.
It's just a fart, the slave told himself, fighting down the nausea. It's a natural thing. Men fart. Real men fart. And Tim is the realest man I've ever known. This is just another part of him. Another part of his dominance. Another way he uses me.
The slave took a shaky breath, inhaling more of the foul smell, and forced himself to speak, his voice muffled against Tim's ass.
"Thank you, Sir," he said, the words coming out automatically, conditioned into him through months of training. "Thank you for your fart, Sir. Thank you for letting me breathe it in."
Tim laughed, a genuine, delighted laugh that made the slave's heart soar despite the humiliation. "You're fucking welcome, faggot. Now get back to work."
The slave pressed his face back between Tim's cheeks, his tongue finding Tim's hole again, licking and sucking and pushing inside. The taste was worse now, tainted by the fart, but the slave didn't care. Or rather, he did care, he was disgusted, his stomach was still churning, but that didn't matter. What mattered was Tim's pleasure. What mattered was serving his Master.
This is what I am, the slave thought, his cock still achingly hard despite everything. This is what I'm meant to be. Not Brian's boyfriend, pretending to be an equal. Not a consultant with a career and a life of my own. But this. A slave. A toilet. A thing for Tim to use however he wants.
And then Tim farted again, another hot blast directly into the slave's face, and the slave gagged again but didn't pull away. He kept his tongue working, kept his face pressed against Tim's ass, and when the smell hit him he forced himself to inhale deeply, to take it into his lungs, to accept it as a gift.
"Thank you, Sir," he gasped. "Thank you so much. Thank you for using me like this."
"Shut the fuck up, fag," Tim said, his tone dismissive. "I didn't tell you to talk. I told you to eat my ass."
The slave's cock jerked at the words, that casual cruelty, that utter contempt. He was thanking Tim, praising him, and Tim's response was to tell him to shut up. Because the slave's words didn't matter. The slave's feelings didn't matter. Only Tim's pleasure mattered.
The slave went back to work with renewed desperation, his tongue pushing as deep as it could go, his hands gripping Tim's ass cheeks to spread them wider. He was nothing. He was a tool. He was a mouth and a tongue and a willing body for Tim to use.
And he'd never been more grateful, more aroused, more perfectly aligned with his true nature than he was in this moment. On his knees, face buried in his Master's ass, breathing in his farts and thanking him for the privilege.
Tim pulled away abruptly, the slave's tongue sliding out of his ass as Tim stepped forward. The slave knelt there, face wet with spit, breathing hard, his cock still painfully hard between his legs.
Tim turned around and looked down at him with that expression of casual contempt that made the slave's heart race. Then he snapped his fingers.
The slave's body responded before his mind could catch up. He dropped forward, pressing his forehead to the floor, his ass in the air, arms spread wide in complete prostration.
"Master Tim," the slave began, his voice trembling with genuine reverence, "you are a God among men. You are perfection incarnate. Every breath I take in your presence is a blessing I don't deserve. You are the King of my pathetic existence, the Lord of everything I am and everything I'll ever be."
He took a shaky breath, his cock grinding against the hardwood floor.
"Your body is a temple, Master. Your ass is sacred. The fact that you let a worthless faggot like me put my disgusting tongue inside you is a miracle. I should be grateful for every fart you grace me with every smell, every taste, every humiliating moment of breathing in what comes out of your perfect body. You could shit directly into my mouth and I would thank you for the honor. You could piss down my throat and I would worship you for choosing me as your toilet."
The slave's voice grew more desperate, more fervent.
"I am nothing, Master Tim. I am less than nothing. I am a tool for your use. A hole for your cock. A tongue for your ass. A face for your feet. I exist only to serve you, to worship you, to debase myself for your amusement. You are strength and power and masculine dominance made flesh. You are what every man should aspire to be but will never achieve. You are a deity, and I am the dirt beneath your feet."
He pressed his face harder against the floor, his words coming faster now.
"Thank you for letting me serve you, Master. Thank you for using me like the worthless fag I am. Thank you for your farts in my face, for your cock in my mouth, for your feet on my body. Thank you for treating me like the subhuman piece of shit I am. I don't deserve your attention. I don't deserve to breathe the same air as you. But you in your infinite generosity, in your godlike mercy, you allow me to worship you anyway. You let me touch your perfect body. You let me taste you. You let me exist in your presence."
The slave's cock was leaking steadily now, a puddle forming on the floor beneath him.
"I worship you, Master Tim. I worship your strength, your beauty, your absolute superiority. I worship your hairy chest, your thick cock, your perfect ass. I worship the sweat on your skin and the cum in your balls. I worship every part of you because every part of you is divine. You are my God. You are my King. You are my Master and my owner and the only thing in this world that matters."
"Shut the fuck up, faggot," Tim said, his voice flat and bored. He walked past the slave without another glance, settling back onto the couch. The TV flickered to life as he picked up his controller, and within seconds he was absorbed in his game again.
The slave stayed frozen in his prostrate position for a moment, his heart pounding, his cock throbbing. Then Tim made a casual gesture with his free hand, a flick of his fingers toward his feet.
The slave scrambled forward on his hands and knees, positioning himself at the foot of the couch. Tim's bare feet were right there, relaxed and spread slightly apart. The slave reached out with trembling hands and began to massage them, his fingers working into the arches, his thumbs pressing into the balls of Tim's feet.
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.
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