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Slave in Sneakers Touches Feet

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Slave Gay Master: A Sneaker Fetish Surrender

In a dimly lit room, a gay slave knelt before his master, sneakers still laced tight on his feet. His hands trembled with anticipation as he ran them over his own soles, tracing the worn rubber edges for his master’s twisted pleasure. The slave gay master dynamic pulsed in the air, thick with unspoken commands.

The Slave’s Kinky Offering

The master loomed above, eyes locked on his slave’s every move. The gay slave pressed his fingers harder against his sneakers, massaging the fabric as if it were an extension of his submission. His breath hitched—he knew this kinky act was only the beginning of his absolute obedience to the master’s will.

“Harder,” the master barked, his voice a whip cracking through the silence. The slave obeyed instantly, hands slick with sweat as he indulged in the sneaker fetish ritual, offering his feet as a tribute in this slave gay master game.

Master’s Gaze, Slave’s Shame

The master leaned closer, his presence suffocating yet intoxicating. He watched the gay slave degrade himself, hands caressing his sneakers with desperate reverence. This wasn’t just a fetish—it was a test of required positions, a silent oath to serve.

The slave’s cheeks burned with shame and lust, knowing his master relished every second of this perverse display. The slave gay master bond tightened with each stroke, a chain forged in submission and control.

A Vow of Total Submission

Suddenly, the master seized the slave’s wrists, pinning them above his head. “You’re mine,” he growled, forcing the gay slave to recite the oath of obedience. The sneakers stayed on, a symbol of the slave’s surrender to this brutal slave gay master world.

Marked by the Master

The master stepped back, unzipping his pants with deliberate slowness. A hot stream of piss rained down, soaking the slave’s sneakers and hands—a mark of ownership straight from my piss. The gay slave moaned, drowning in the humiliation and ecstasy of being claimed.

“You’re mine,” the master repeated, his voice a low rumble as the liquid pooled around the slave’s knees. The slave gay master ritual reached its peak, a testament to their unbreakable power exchange.

The Final Test

The night ended with the master towering over his soaked, trembling slave, sneakers now dripping with the evidence of his dominance. This was the ultimate examination—a slave gay master scene where submission met sneaker fetish in a brutal, unforgettable climax.

The gay slave stayed on his knees, hands still lingering on his feet, knowing he’d passed the test. For his master, this was more than pleasure—it was total control.

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German Master Shows Feet to Slave

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Dieter, the German Enforcer – A Slave Gay Master Odyssey

Dieter was a man forged in discipline. A towering German with a jawline sharp enough to cut through steel, he carried himself with the quiet menace of a storm brewing over the Black Forest. By day, he managed a small auto repair shop in Munich, barking orders at grease-stained mechanics with a voice that brooked no dissent. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, Dieter shed his oil-stained overalls for a different kind of authority—one that pulsed through the dimly lit basement of his home, where his true dominion lay.

Tonight, that dominion would be tested. He descended the creaking wooden stairs, each step a deliberate echo in the stillness, until he reached the concrete floor below. There, kneeling in the shadows, was Lukas—his slave. A lean, wiry man with eyes that flickered with both fear and hunger, Lukas had surrendered himself to Dieter’s will months ago. The air between them crackled with anticipation, a silent promise of the absolute obedience Dieter demanded and Lukas craved.

The Unveiling of Power

Dieter stopped a few paces from Lukas, his heavy boots thudding against the cold floor. He towered over the kneeling figure, his presence filling the room like a physical force. Without a word, he bent down and unlaced his boots, pulling them off with slow, deliberate movements. The scent of leather and sweat wafted into the air as he peeled off his thick wool socks, revealing feet that were broad, calloused, and undeniably commanding.

“Look at me,” Dieter growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Lukas’s bones. The slave’s gaze lifted, locking onto the German gay master’s bare feet. It wasn’t just an act of exposure—it was a declaration. Dieter’s feet, hardened by years of standing firm, were tools of dominance, and tonight, they would assert his reign over Lukas in a way that words could never capture. This was the slave gay master dynamic at its rawest—a dance of control rooted in the primal allure of foot fetish power.

Lukas’s breath hitched as he stared, his hands twitching against the concrete. He knew the rules, the required positions Dieter had drilled into him over countless nights. Kneeling, head bowed, hands flat—submission was not optional. Yet the sight of those feet, arched and unyielding, stirred something deeper in him, a hunger that Dieter had cultivated with ruthless precision.

A Test of Devotion

Dieter stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating toward Lukas. He lifted one foot, hovering it just above the slave’s face, the toes flexing with quiet menace. “You want this,” he said, not a question but a statement, his German accent thickening the words with authority. “Prove it.”

Lukas didn’t hesitate. His lips parted, brushing against the rough skin of Dieter’s sole, a tentative kiss that quickly deepened into worship. The taste of salt and earth flooded his senses, a gritty testament to the day Dieter had spent commanding the world above. Each lick, each press of his tongue, was an offering to the German gay master who owned him—body, mind, and soul. The slave gay master bond tightened with every movement, a chain forged in sweat and surrender.

Dieter’s eyes narrowed, watching with a predator’s focus. He shifted his weight, pressing his foot harder against Lukas’s face, pinning him to the floor. “More,” he commanded, his voice a whip crack in the silence. Lukas obeyed, his tongue tracing the ridges of Dieter’s arch, his breath ragged with effort. This wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about the oath of obedience Lukas had sworn, a vow to serve without question, to bend beneath the weight of his master’s will.

The Weight of Control

The basement grew warmer, the air thick with the musk of dominance and submission. Dieter pulled his foot back, only to replace it with the other, forcing Lukas to start anew. The slave’s hands remained pressed to the floor, trembling with the effort of restraint. He knew better than to reach out, to touch without permission. Dieter’s rules were ironclad, and any breach would mean punishment—something Lukas both feared and secretly craved.

“You’re mine,” Dieter said, his voice low and possessive as he ground his heel into Lukas’s cheek. The words were a brand, searing into the slave’s mind as deeply as the physical pressure marked his skin. This was the essence of their slave gay master dynamic—Dieter’s ownership was absolute, and Lukas’s submission was his lifeline. The German gay master stepped back, planting both feet firmly on the ground, and gestured for Lukas to crawl forward.

Lukas moved, his knees scraping against the concrete, until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating from Dieter’s legs. The master’s feet loomed above him, twin pillars of power that demanded reverence. “Clean them,” Dieter ordered, and Lukas dove in, his mouth working feverishly to please. The act was degrading, humbling, and yet it filled him with a strange pride—knowing he was chosen to serve a man so unyielding, so utterly in control.

A Deeper Claim

Time blurred as Lukas lost himself in the task. Dieter watched, his expression unreadable, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He enjoyed this—the slow unraveling of his slave, the way Lukas’s devotion grew more desperate with each passing minute. But Dieter was not a man to settle for half-measures. He wanted more than worship; he wanted to mark Lukas in a way that would linger long after the night ended.

“Enough,” he barked, pulling his feet away. Lukas froze, his chest heaving, his lips glistening with effort. Dieter turned and strode to a corner of the basement, where a steel chair sat beside a small table. He sat, crossing one leg over the other, and pointed to the floor in front of him. “Here. Now.”

Lukas scrambled to obey, positioning himself at Dieter’s feet once more. The German gay master leaned forward, his eyes glinting with intent. “You think this is all I demand?” he asked, his tone deceptively soft. “You’re wrong.” He stood abruptly, towering over Lukas, and unbuttoned his trousers. What followed was a display of dominance as raw as it was intimate—a stream of piss, hot and forceful, aimed at the floor just inches from Lukas’s face. This was Dieter’s my piss, a liquid claim that underscored his mastery in a way no words could.

The Mark of Ownership

Lukas flinched as the scent hit him, sharp and acrid, but he didn’t pull away. He knew this was part of it—part of being a slave to a gay master like Dieter. The puddle spread across the concrete, a glistening testament to the German’s power, and Dieter stepped forward, dipping one foot into it. He lifted it, dripping, and pressed it against Lukas’s chest, smearing the mark of ownership across his skin.

“You’re mine,” Dieter said, his voice a growl of satisfaction. Lukas nodded, his throat tight with a mix of shame and exhilaration. The slave gay master dynamic had never felt so visceral, so complete. Dieter’s foot slid up, resting against Lukas’s neck, the wet pressure a constant reminder of who held the reins. The master’s gaze bore into him, stripping away any pretense of resistance, leaving only the truth of their bond.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time lost meaning in the haze of submission. Dieter finally stepped back, his trousers still undone, his stance relaxed but no less commanding. He gestured for Lukas to rise, and the slave did so on shaky legs, his body marked by the night’s trials. “Good,” Dieter murmured, a rare note of approval in his voice. “You’ve earned your place.”

The Final Trial

But the night wasn’t over. Dieter had one last test, a finale ultimate examination to push Lukas beyond his limits. He led the slave to a corner of the basement where a wooden bench stood, its surface worn smooth by use. “Lie down,” he ordered, and Lukas complied, his back pressing against the cool wood. Dieter loomed above him, his feet once again the focus of the scene.

He stepped onto the bench, planting one foot on Lukas’s chest, the other hovering over his face. “You’ll take it all,” Dieter said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He lowered his foot, pressing it against Lukas’s lips, forcing them apart. The slave’s mouth opened, accepting the weight, the taste, the sheer dominance of the German gay master. It was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet Lukas felt a strange peace—a clarity that came from knowing his place in the slave gay master hierarchy.

Dieter shifted, grinding his heel into Lukas’s chest, leaving red marks against pale skin. “This is what you are,” he said, his voice a steady drumbeat. “Mine to command. Mine to break. Mine to keep.” Lukas moaned, the sound muffled against the foot in his mouth, his body trembling with the weight of surrender. The basement seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them—master and slave, locked in a bond that defied explanation.

A Bond Forged in Submission

When Dieter finally stepped off, Lukas lay there, breathless and spent, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The German gay master stood over him, a colossus of control, his feet still glistening with the remnants of their night. He reached down, gripping Lukas’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’ve done well,” he said, the words a rare gift. “But you’ll do better next time.”

Lukas nodded, too exhausted to speak, his mind reeling from the intensity of it all. The slave gay master dynamic had carved itself into his very being, a mark as permanent as the bruises on his skin. Dieter turned away, leaving Lukas on the bench, a silent promise hanging in the air—there would be more nights, more tests, more chances to prove his worth.

As the sound of Dieter’s footsteps faded up the stairs, Lukas closed his eyes, the taste of his master’s feet still lingering on his tongue. He was owned, claimed, and utterly devoted—a slave to a gay master whose dominance was as unyielding as the German steel he worked with by day. And in that submission, he found a twisted kind of freedom, a purpose that would carry him through until the next encounter.

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Slave Sucks Master’s Feet

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Luca, the Italian Taskmaster – A Slave Gay Master Tale

Luca was a man of precision, an Italian leatherworker whose hands had shaped hides into art in the narrow streets of Florence. His workshop smelled of tannin and wax, a sanctuary of craft where he ruled with an artisan’s eye and a tyrant’s will. By day, he stitched boots and belts, his fingers deft and unyielding, his voice a quiet command to apprentices who scurried under his gaze. But when dusk painted the Arno gold and the shop fell silent, Luca’s dominion shifted—to a hidden attic above, where his true mastery unfurled.

Tonight, that mastery would burn bright. He climbed the creaking stairs, his polished boots echoing in the stillness, until he reached the attic’s low-ceilinged expanse. There, kneeling on a worn rug, was Matteo—his slave. A wiry man with olive skin and eyes that flickered with eager submission, Matteo had surrendered to Luca months ago, drawn by the promise of a bond as unyielding as the leather Luca tamed. The air thrummed with anticipation, a prelude to the absolute obedience Luca demanded and Matteo yearned to give.

The Attic of Submission

Luca stopped a few paces from Matteo, his boots gleaming faintly in the dim light of a single bulb overhead. He towered over the kneeling figure, his presence a quiet storm that filled the attic’s tight space. Without a word, he bent down and unlaced his boots, pulling them off with the same care he gave his finest work. The scent of leather and sweat wafted into the air as he peeled off his socks, revealing feet that were strong, calloused, and undeniably commanding—feet that had walked the cobblestones of Florence and now stood as pillars of his power.

“Look at me,” Luca said, his Italian accent curling around the words like smoke. Matteo’s gaze lifted, locking onto the gay master’s bare feet. It wasn’t just an unveiling—it was an invitation, a command wrapped in silence. A gay slave eagerly sucks his master’s feet in this kinky BDSM scene, and Matteo was no exception. His breath quickened, his lips parting as Luca flexed his toes, the movement a subtle taunt. The slave gay master dynamic shimmered in the air—a raw fetish act waiting to ignite.

Matteo knew the rules, the required positions Luca had etched into his soul. Kneeling, hands flat, head tilted just so—submission was a craft here, as precise as Luca’s stitching. The sight of those feet, arched and unyielding, stirred a hunger in him, a need that Luca had cultivated with the patience of a master at his trade.

The Worship Begins

Luca stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against Matteo’s bowed form. He lifted one foot, hovering it just above the slave’s face, the toes curling with quiet menace. “You want this,” he said, his voice a low hum that vibrated through Matteo’s core. “Show me.”

Matteo didn’t hesitate. His lips pressed against the rough skin of Luca’s sole, a tentative kiss that blossomed into fervent worship. The taste of salt and leather flooded his senses, a gritty testament to the day Luca had spent shaping the world below. Each lick, each brush of his tongue, was a tribute to the gay master who owned him—a ritual of devotion that deepened their slave gay master bond. The master revels in the slave’s foot-worshipping obedience, and Luca was no exception, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction as Matteo surrendered to the act.

“More,” Luca commanded, his voice a sharp stitch in the silence. Matteo obeyed, his tongue tracing the ridges of Luca’s arch, his breath ragged with effort. The attic grew warm, the air thick with the musk of dominance and submission. This wasn’t just pleasure—it was the oath of obedience Matteo had sworn, a vow to serve without question, to bend beneath the weight of Luca’s will. The gay slave sucked harder, his lips closing around a toe, a moan escaping as he lost himself in the raw fetish act.

A Master’s Pleasure

Luca shifted his weight, pressing his foot harder against Matteo’s face, pinning him to the rug. The gay master’s smirk widened, a rare crack in his stoic facade, as he watched his slave’s dedication unfold. He enjoyed this—the slow unraveling of Matteo, the way his eagerness grew more desperate with each passing moment. The slave gay master dynamic shone through every movement, a light that burned brighter with Matteo’s submission and Luca’s control.

“You’re good at this,” Luca murmured, his tone laced with approval as he pulled his foot back and offered the other. Matteo dove in again, his hands trembling against the rug, restrained by the unspoken rule not to touch without permission. The gay master’s feet were tools of dominance—broad, firm, and unyielding—and Matteo’s mouth was their altar. The act was degrading, humbling, yet it filled him with a strange pride—knowing he was chosen to serve a man so precise, so utterly in command.

Luca tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he studied Matteo’s work. “Deeper,” he ordered, and Matteo pushed himself further, his tongue exploring every curve, every callous. The attic seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them—master and slave, locked in a dance of power and surrender. The gay master reveled in the control, his chest swelling with the quiet thrill of ownership, while Matteo’s obedience fueled the fire of their bond.

A Deeper Surrender

Time blurred as Matteo lost himself in the task, the taste of Luca’s feet a constant anchor in the haze of submission. The gay master stood still, his stance unwavering, though his breath grew heavier with each stroke of Matteo’s tongue. He wanted more than worship—he wanted to test the limits of Matteo’s devotion, to push the slave gay master dynamic into uncharted depths. With a sudden movement, he pulled his foot away, leaving Matteo gasping, his lips wet with effort.

“Enough,” Luca barked, his voice cutting through the fog. Matteo froze, his chest heaving, his eyes darting up to meet Luca’s. The gay master turned and strode to a wooden chair in the attic’s corner, its surface scarred by years of use. He sat, crossing one leg over the other, and pointed to the floor in front of him. “Here. Now.”

Matteo crawled forward, his knees scraping against the rug, until he knelt at Luca’s feet once more. The gay master leaned forward, his eyes glinting with intent. “You think this is all?” he asked, his tone deceptively soft. “You’re wrong.” He uncrossed his legs, planting both feet firmly on the rug, and gestured for Matteo to resume. The slave obeyed, his mouth returning to its task, but Luca wasn’t done. He lifted one foot, pressing it against Matteo’s shoulder, forcing him lower—a living pedestal for the my piss of dominance that flowed through every act.

The Mark of Control

Matteo’s world narrowed to the texture of Luca’s soles, the weight of his master’s foot a constant reminder of his place. The gay master shifted, grinding his heel into Matteo’s shoulder, leaving a faint red mark against the slave’s skin. “You’re mine,” Luca said, his voice a growl of possession. Matteo nodded, his throat tight with a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration, the slave gay master dynamic pulsing through him like a heartbeat.

Luca pulled back, standing abruptly, his boots still discarded in the corner. He towered over Matteo, his shirt clinging to his frame with the faint sweat of the night. “Stand,” he ordered, and Matteo rose on shaky legs, his body marked by the hours of worship. The gay master gripped his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’ve pleased me,” he said, the words a rare gift. “But there’s one last step.”

The Final Trial

Luca had a final test, a finale ultimate examination to seal Matteo’s submission. He led the slave to a low bench against the attic wall, its wood worn smooth by time. “Lie down,” he commanded, and Matteo complied, stretching out on the cool surface, his heart pounding with anticipation. Luca loomed above him, a craftsman of control, his feet once again the focus of the scene.

He stepped onto the bench, planting one foot on Matteo’s chest, the other hovering over his face. “You’ll take it all,” Luca said, his tone leaving no doubt. He lowered his foot, pressing it against Matteo’s lips, forcing them apart. The slave’s mouth opened, accepting the weight, the taste, the sheer dominance of the gay master. It was overwhelming, suffocating, yet Matteo felt a clarity—a peace that came from knowing his role in the slave gay master hierarchy.

Luca shifted, grinding his heel into Matteo’s chest, leaving red marks against pale skin. “This is what you are,” he said, his voice a steady rhythm. “Mine to command. Mine to break. Mine to keep.” Matteo moaned, the sound muffled against the foot in his mouth, his body trembling with the weight of surrender. The attic seemed to pulse, the world shrinking to just the two of them—master and slave, bound by a fetish act as raw as it was profound.

A Bond Etched in Leather

When Luca finally stepped off, Matteo lay there, breathless and spent, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The gay master stood over him, his feet still bare, his presence as unyielding as the leather he worked by day. He reached down, brushing a calloused hand against Matteo’s cheek—a rare tenderness that softened the night’s intensity. “You’ve done well,” Luca murmured, his tone a quiet reward. “But you’ll do better next time.”

Matteo nodded, too exhausted to speak, his mind reeling from the depth of their encounter. The slave gay master dynamic had carved itself into his being, a mark as permanent as the bruises on his skin. Luca turned away, leaving Matteo on the bench, a silent promise hanging in the air—there would be more nights, more tests, more chances to prove his worth under the gay master’s rule.

As the attic fell silent, Matteo closed his eyes, the taste of Luca’s feet still lingering on his tongue. He was owned, claimed, and utterly devoted—a slave to a gay master whose dominance was as precise as his craft. In that submission, he found a twisted freedom, a purpose that would carry him through until the next call to worship.

Explore More Slave Gay Master Depths

Craving more tales of absolute obedience and raw control? Dive into required positions, swear your oath of obedience, and submit to my piss and mine at Xgaymaster. The ultimate examination awaits.

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Slave Sucks Master in Warehouse

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Dimitri, the Russian Overseer – A Slave Gay Master Chronicle

Dimitri was a man carved from the cold, a Russian whose broad frame and steely gaze had long dominated the industrial sprawl of St. Petersburg. He managed a sprawling warehouse on the city’s edge, a cavernous maze of rusting steel and forgotten crates, where he ruled with a fist as hard as the machinery he oversaw. By day, he directed workers hauling cargo under flickering fluorescent lights, his voice a low growl that cut through the clang of metal. But when night draped the warehouse in shadow and the last truck rumbled away, Dimitri’s true empire emerged—a realm where he reigned as a gay master, his authority absolute and his desires untamed.

Tonight, that empire would flex its might. In the deepest corner of the warehouse, far from prying eyes, Dimitri descended a metal staircase, his heavy boots ringing against the steps. Below, kneeling in the gloom, was Alexei—his slave. A lean man with pale skin and eyes that glinted with a mix of fear and need, Alexei had pledged himself to Dimitri’s will under the weight of countless nights. The air buzzed with tension, a prelude to the absolute obedience Dimitri demanded and Alexei craved to offer.

The Warehouse Shadows

Dimitri stopped a few paces from Alexei, his silhouette looming against the faint glow of a distant bulb. The warehouse stretched around them, a dark cathedral of steel beams and stacked pallets, its silence broken only by the drip of a leaking pipe. The gay master unbuttoned his heavy coat, letting it fall to the concrete floor, revealing a body hardened by labor and command. His presence filled the space, a storm brewing in the stillness.

“Kneel proper,” Dimitri ordered, his Russian accent thickening the words with menace. Alexei adjusted, his knees pressing harder into the cold concrete, his head bowed low. A gay slave kneels to suck his master in a dark warehouse setting, and Alexei was ready, his breath shallow as he awaited the next command. The slave gay master dynamic pulsed in the shadows—a raw, industrial scene primed to erupt into something visceral and unyielding.

Dimitri stepped closer, the scent of oil and sweat clinging to him, a testament to the day spent wrestling the warehouse into submission. He unfastened his belt with a slow, deliberate clank, the sound reverberating off the metal walls. Alexei’s eyes flickered upward, catching the glint of Dimitri’s intent, and the gay master smirked. “You know your place,” he said, his voice a blade in the dark. “Show it.”

The Act of Submission

Dimitri dropped his trousers, his stance wide and unyielding, his cock already half-hard in the cool air. “Suck,” he commanded, the word a whip crack that snapped Alexei into motion. The gay slave leaned forward, his lips parting as he took Dimitri in, a tentative brush that deepened into fervent obedience. The taste of salt and musk flooded his senses, a gritty echo of the warehouse itself—raw, unpolished, and overpowering. The master commands total submission from the slave in this BDSM act, and Dimitri did so with relish, his hand gripping Alexei’s hair to guide him deeper.

Alexei’s throat tightened, his breath hitching as he worked to please, his hands pressed flat against the concrete per the required positions Dimitri had drilled into him. The gay master’s grip tightened, pulling Alexei closer, forcing him to take more. “Good,” Dimitri growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the slave’s core. The slave gay master dynamic thrived here, in this dark, industrial corner, every thrust a testament to Dimitri’s control and Alexei’s surrender.

The warehouse echoed with the wet sounds of Alexei’s efforts, a counterpoint to the distant hum of machinery cooling in the night. Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, watching with a predator’s focus as his slave submitted fully, his head bobbing with desperate precision. This wasn’t just pleasure—it was power, the oath of-obedience Alexei had sworn etched into every movement, every gag, every moment of yielding.

A Master’s Dominion

Dimitri shifted, planting one boot firmly on the ground, the other nudging Alexei’s knee—a silent reminder of who stood above. The gay master reveled in the control, his chest swelling with the quiet thrill of ownership as Alexei’s lips stretched around him. The attic grew colder, the air thick with the musk of dominance and submission, but neither noticed—lost in the rhythm of their raw exchange. The slave gay master scene burned with intensity, a fire stoked by Dimitri’s unyielding will and Alexei’s eager compliance.

“Deeper,” Dimitri ordered, his voice cutting through the haze. Alexei pushed himself further, his throat burning, his eyes watering as he fought to obey. The gay master’s hand tightened in his hair, holding him in place, a living anchor in the storm of submission. “You’re mine,” Dimitri said, the words a brand searing into Alexei’s mind as deeply as the act marked his body. The warehouse seemed to close in, its steel walls a witness to their power play, a cathedral to their bond.

Alexei’s hands trembled against the concrete, restrained by the unspoken rule not to touch without permission. Dimitri’s rules were ironclad, and any breach would mean punishment—a prospect that both terrified and thrilled the slave. The gay master pulled back slightly, only to thrust forward again, testing Alexei’s limits, pushing the slave gay master dynamic into a realm where control was absolute and surrender was total.