Sweaty. Stained. Full of gay Master scent.
Worn during real slave training, trample and worship.
Gay slave, your place is here — under my feet.
No wash. No mercy. Just power. Signed by Master.
89,00 $
description
Used White Socks – Trained by Feet, Owned by Master
These socks aren’t just dirty. They’ve been broken in under domination. Trample. Step. Drag. Rub. Everything a gay Master does when training a gay slave — these socks were there. Under me. Between me and the floor. Between my skin and the slave’s face. They were soaked in sweat, rubbed against leather insoles, stomped flat on begging mouths.
2 Days of Real Use. No Wash. No Excuse.
I wore them raw. I wore them hard. I wore them while humiliating weak boys who called themselves slaves. They begged under me, lips pressed against the fabric. Some were ordered to lick the sweat out of the heel. Others sucked them whole while my foot crushed their chest. No clean. No fake. Just the brutal truth of submission, embedded in cotton.
From Master’s Skin to Your Mouth
This is not fantasy gear. This isn’t roleplay. These are real socks, marked by the feet of a real gay Master. My toes pressed into them for hours. My soles rubbed them raw. They carry skin, sweat, and power. You’ll feel it the second you open the sealed bag. It’ll hit your face. You’ll drop to your knees. Just like they all do.
Not Made for Wearing. Made for Worship.
You don’t wear these. You kneel before them. You sniff them. You cry into them. You press them against your face and forget who you are. These socks don’t warm feet anymore — they heat your shame. Your hunger. Your place. Under your Master, like every good gay slave.
One Size. One Use. One Purpose.
They’re soft. Worn thin. Yellowed from use. Especially around the heel and toes — where all the domination lives. They’re shaped by steps and power, not style. One size fits all, but they weren’t made to be worn by you. They were made to crush you.
You’re Not a Man. You’re a Sock Sniffer.
If you’re reading this, you’re not dominant. You’re not in control. You’re a freak who wants to inhale another man’s feet. You want proof of your weakness. You want to pay to feel useless. And these socks give it to you. Fully. They reek of what you’re not — strength. Command. Truth.
Sweat. Salt. Skin. Signature.
I don’t wash. I don’t rinse. I don’t pretend. I sign what I wear. Red ink. My name. So when your lips touch the fabric, they also touch your Master’s mark. That’s the difference. You’re not buying from a store. You’re buying from me. The source. And that makes the humiliation deeper.
Delivered in Silence. Opened in Submission.
You’ll get them sealed. Pressed tight in a plastic bag. No air. No fakeness. When you tear it open, it’s like opening a punishment. The scent escapes. The heat rises. The memory of every step, every insult, every stomp comes with it. You’ll kneel. Maybe shake. Maybe cry. But you’ll never forget the smell of your gay Master’s feet.
Some Slaves Get More. If They Deserve It.
Sometimes, I spit in them before sealing. I don’t warn you. I don’t promise. I decide. Like every real Master. If you deserve it, you get it. If not, you don’t even get my moisture. That’s how this works. Want more? Prove it. Serve harder.
The Price of Weakness
89$. For humiliation in cotton. For the truth of your place. For something soaked in my domination. And for a chance to feel close to me — even if it’s just through the sweat between my toes. Cheap? No. Worth it? Ask your hard dick.
