The Throne of Power

The room was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the flicker of candles that cast golden hues across the walls. At its center sat my master, an Arab man whose presence was a force unto itself. His skin was a rich olive, his dark hair falling in waves over a brow furrowed with authority, and his eyes—deep, commanding—pinned me where I stood. I was his slave, a pale white boy trembling with anticipation, my gay heart pounding at the sight of him lounging on a plush velvet chair, one leg draped over the armrest, his bare feet exposed.

“Come closer,” he said, his voice a low rumble with that thick accent that made my knees weak. I obeyed, stepping forward on shaky legs, my pale skin stark against the dark rug beneath me. Being gay had always been my truth, but serving this master was a revelation—a descent into submission that consumed me. He smirked, his gaze raking over me, and I felt small, insignificant, yet alive under his scrutiny. “Kneel,” he commanded, and I dropped instantly, the rug soft against my knees, my eyes level with his feet.

His feet were strong, calloused from a life of command, the arches high and the toes slightly curled. “You’ll worship me tonight,” he said, his tone leaving no room for defiance. I nodded, my throat tight, my hands itching to touch him but knowing better than to move without permission. This was my place as his slave—to serve, to adore, to give myself entirely to my Arab master. The air was thick with his scent—leather, spice, and the faint musk of his skin—and I was already lost to it.

The First Taste

My master shifted, extending one foot toward me, the candlelight catching the sheen of sweat on his skin. “Start here,” he said, his voice a velvet order that sank into my bones. I leaned forward, my breath catching as I pressed my lips to the top of his foot, the warmth of him against my mouth sending a shiver through me. He chuckled, a dark sound that made my gay soul ignite. “Good boy,” he murmured, and those words were a drug, flooding me with pride and need.

I kissed again, my lips lingering, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint grit of the day he’d walked through. “Lick,” he commanded, and I obeyed, my tongue darting out to trace the curve of his arch, the texture rough yet intoxicating. My slave instincts took over, driving me to please him, to worship him as he deserved. His foot flexed under my touch, the muscles shifting, and I felt his power in every movement, a master who owned me completely.

“Harder,” he said, his tone sharpening, and I pressed my tongue flat, lapping at his heel, the taste stronger there—earthy, primal, a mark of his dominance. My pale hands hovered near his ankle, hesitant, until he growled, “Touch me.” I did, my fingers wrapping gently around his foot, holding it as I licked, my mouth working over every inch. The gay connection between us deepened with every stroke, a bond forged in this act of submission, my white skin a stark contrast to his darker flesh.

He watched me, his eyes half-lidded, a king on his throne enjoying the devotion of his slave. “You’re eager,” he said, amusement lacing his voice. “That’s how a slave should be.” I nodded against his foot, my tongue never stopping, tracing the lines of his toes, the spaces between them, tasting him fully. This was my purpose—to serve my Arab master, to give him pleasure through my surrender.

The Second Foot

Satisfied with my work, my master pulled his foot back, resting it on the chair and offering the other. “Don’t disappoint me,” he said, his voice a warning wrapped in silk. I shifted closer, my knees aching but ignored, my focus solely on him. This foot was dirtier, the sole smudged with the day’s dust, and he knew it—his smirk told me he relished making me taste it. “Clean it,” he ordered, and I bent to the task, my lips pressing first, then my tongue sweeping over the grit.

The flavor was sharper, more intense, a mix of earth and sweat that made my head spin. My gay desire surged, the act of licking his dirty foot a twisted thrill that bound me tighter to him. I worked diligently, my tongue dragging across the ball of his foot, the roughness scraping against me as I cleaned him for my master. “That’s it,” he said, his voice a rumble of approval. “A slave should know how to serve.”

I sucked gently at his toes, drawing them into my mouth one by one, my pale hands cradling his foot as I worshipped. He groaned, a low sound that vibrated through me, and I redoubled my efforts, my tongue swirling, tasting every crevice. The master leaned back, his head tilting, pleasure etched into his features as I gave myself to him. This was power—his over me, mine in pleasing him—and it was everything my gay soul craved.

“Deeper,” he said, pushing his foot against my mouth, and I opened wider, taking more, my lips stretching around his toes. The taste was overwhelming, the act humbling, but I reveled in it, my role as his slave never clearer. He watched, his dark eyes gleaming, a king satisfied by the devotion at his feet. “You’re learning,” he said, and I glowed under the praise, my tongue tireless in its worship.

The Heat of Dominance

The night stretched on, the candles burning lower, the air growing heavy with our shared heat. My master pulled both feet back, resting them on my thighs as I knelt before him, my pale skin marked with faint red from the pressure. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice softer now, but still commanding. I looked up, my mouth wet from my efforts, my gay heart swelling at his approval. “Thank you, Sir,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but fervent.

He reached down, his hand gripping my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “A slave who worships my feet deserves a reward,” he said, and my pulse quickened, anticipation curling in my gut. He pressed one foot against my chest, the warmth of it searing into me, and I leaned into it, craving more of his touch. “Lick again,” he ordered, and I did, my tongue tracing the arch once more, tasting him anew, my devotion unwavering.

The master watched, his breathing heavier now, the sound a rhythm that matched my licks. “You’re mine,” he growled, his foot sliding up to my shoulder, pressing me down until my face was inches from the rug. I licked harder, my mouth working over his toes, the act a surrender that bound me to him. The gay dynamic was electric, a current of power and need that flowed between us, my white skin a canvas for his dominance.

“Enough,” he said finally, pulling his foot back, leaving me panting, my lips tingling with the taste of him. He stood, towering over me, his presence a storm that swallowed me whole. “You’ve pleased me,” he said, and those words were a crown, a mark of my worth as his slave. I stayed on my knees, my body aching but alive, every nerve singing with the memory of his feet against my tongue.

The Eternal Bond

As dawn crept through the curtains, my master sat again, pulling me to rest at his feet, my head against his leg. “You’re a good slave,” he said, his hand resting on my hair, fingers threading through it with a gentleness that belied the night’s intensity. I leaned into him, my pale skin pressed to his darker flesh, the taste of his feet still lingering on my tongue, a gay sacrament of our bond.

“You’ll serve me like this again,” he said, his voice a promise that sent a thrill through me. I nodded, my eyes closing, content in my place at his feet. “Yes, Sir,” I murmured, my devotion absolute, my role as his slave etched into my soul. The master had claimed me, his feet a throne I’d worshipped, and I was his—body, mind, and heart.

The room was silent now, the candles guttering out, but the connection between us burned bright. My gay surrender had found its home in him, an Arab master whose feet I’d lick forever if he asked. As I rested there, his hand still in my hair, I knew this was only the beginning—a lifetime of worship, a bond sealed in the taste of his skin.