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.

The Slave’s Arrival

The room was stark, its concrete walls echoing with the sound of my bare feet as I stepped inside. I was pale, my skin almost luminous under the harsh fluorescent light, a stark contrast to the man who awaited me. He stood there, tall and imposing, his olive skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my knees tremble. He was my master, an Arab man whose presence filled the space, and I was his slave, a white boy who’d come to serve. The air was thick with the scent of him—musk, spice, and something raw that set my gay heart racing.

I’d known I was gay since I could remember, but this was a new frontier—a surrender to a man whose dominance was as natural as breathing. “Kneel,” he commanded, his voice a deep growl with an accent that rolled over me like thunder. I dropped instantly, the cold floor biting into my knees, my head bowed in instinctive submission. “You’re mine now,” he said, stepping closer, his boots thudding against the ground. I nodded, my throat tight, already lost to the power of my master.

He circled me, a predator assessing his prey, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he tilted my chin up with a rough hand. “Look at me,” he ordered, and I did, meeting eyes that burned with control. “You’re so pale,” he murmured, almost to himself, his fingers tracing my jaw. “A perfect slave to mark.” My breath hitched, anticipation curling in my gut—this was why I’d come, to be claimed by him in ways I’d only dreamed of.

The First Command

My master stepped back, his gaze never leaving me as he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest covered in dark hair, muscles rippling with every move. “Strip,” he said, and my hands moved before my mind caught up, peeling off my clothes until I was bare before him, my white skin stark against the gray room. He smirked, a flash of teeth that sent a shiver through me. “Good,” he said. “A slave should be naked for his master.”

The gay hunger in me flared as he approached again, his scent overwhelming—leather, sweat, and something uniquely him. He grabbed my hair, tugging my head back, forcing me to look up at him. “You’ll learn to please me,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered, the title slipping out naturally, a pledge to my Arab master. His grip tightened, a spark of pain that made me gasp, and I felt myself sinking deeper into his control.

“Crawl to me,” he commanded, stepping back to a low bench against the wall. I obeyed, my hands and knees scraping the floor, my pale body moving toward him like a moth to flame. He watched, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with something dark and possessive. When I reached him, he patted the bench. “Up,” he said, and I climbed onto it, kneeling again, my heart pounding as I awaited his next move. This was my role as his slave—to follow, to submit, to be his.

The Mark of Ownership

The master stood over me, his shadow swallowing me whole as he unbuckled his belt, the sound of metal clinking sending a jolt through my spine. “You’re too clean,” he said, his voice a rumble that vibrated in my chest. “A slave should bear his master’s mark.” I didn’t fully understand until he stepped closer, his hands moving to his pants, undoing them with a deliberate slowness that made my mouth dry.

My gay desire surged as he towered over me, his presence overwhelming, his intent clear. “Look at me,” he said again, and I did, my eyes wide as he positioned himself above me. Then it came—a warm, steady stream, his piss hitting my chest, running down my pale skin in rivulets that glistened in the light. I gasped, the shock of it mingling with a strange, twisted thrill. “Take it,” he growled, and I did, tilting my head back, letting it splash across my face, my lips, marking me as his slave.

The heat of it was intense, the scent sharp and primal, a claim that sank into my very being. My master watched, his expression fierce, satisfaction etched into every line of his face. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice thick with possession as the stream slowed, leaving me drenched, my white skin stained with his mark. I trembled, overwhelmed, my gay soul reveling in the degradation, the ownership, the sheer power of his act.

He stepped back, admiring his work, the way my body glistened with his essence. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and that word—coming from my Arab master—was a reward, a validation of my surrender. I stayed there, dripping, my knees pressed into the bench, a slave baptized in his dominance, every inch of me his to command.

The Aftermath of Submission

The master didn’t touch me right away, letting me feel the weight of what he’d done, the wetness clinging to my skin like a second layer. “You took it well,” he said, his tone softer now, but still laced with authority. I nodded, my voice lost to the haze of submission, my pale body a canvas for his desires. “Thank you, Sir,” I managed, the words shaky but sincere, a gay prayer to my Arab god.

He sat on the bench beside me, his thigh brushing mine, the heat of him a contrast to the cooling liquid on my skin. “A slave must know his place,” he said, his hand finally resting on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. “You’ve learned yours.” His fingers slid down, tracing the path his piss had taken, and I shivered under his touch, the intimacy of it cutting through the rawness of the act. My master was pleased, and that was everything.

The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the aftermath, the scent of him mingling with mine. “You’ll wear this for me,” he said, smearing the wetness across my chest, a possessive gesture that made my pulse race. I nodded again, my white skin no longer pristine but marked, claimed, a slave transformed by his will. The gay connection between us deepened, a bond forged in this act of dominance and surrender.

The Bond Eternal

As time stretched on, my master pulled me closer, his arm wrapping around me, pulling my damp body against his. “You’re mine,” he repeated, the words a mantra that sank into my bones. I leaned into him, the warmth of his skin a comfort against the chill of my own, my pale flesh pressed to his darker frame. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered, my voice steadier now, buoyed by the certainty of my place as his slave.

The gay dynamic we’d built was undeniable, a power exchange that left me marked in more ways than one. He tilted my head up, his lips brushing my forehead—a rare tenderness that contrasted the roughness of before. “You’ll serve me again,” he said, a promise and a threat, and I nodded eagerly, craving more of his dominance, more of his mark.

The room faded around us, the concrete and light irrelevant compared to the heat of his body, the weight of his claim. My master had taken me, broken me, rebuilt me with his piss and his will, and I was grateful. As his slave, I’d found my purpose—white skin stained by an Arab hand, a gay surrender that would bind us forever.