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The Roommates & An Emperor

by SubBoysWorld

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"Hahaha," They each laughed at my pain.

Three pairs of feet: Marcus' 13.5s, so freshly kicked out of his new white Nike high-tops that they still fumigated through his white socks; Daniel's size 12, both in white and gray socks, one of which planted on my back, the other's toes pinching my side; and of course Charlie's bare size 10.5s, meaty and muscled from years of hockey, the captain held his one foot over my neck and fed the toes of the other, one by one, into my lips.

Marcus got up from the couch, withdrew his socked feet from my back. I would only be a human footstool to two, trying to sustain all the weight to the best I could. Marcus came around and grabbed his Nike high top he had just flopped off. Shoving in in my face, my face went from full of Charlie's toes to lost within the black expanse within Marcus' shoe. "Smell it, bitch!" I wouldn't have heard either way my soft breaths within his shoes. Marcus didn't even have practice today, his shoe just reeked of a full day of classes and walking, a lot like the first time he had me under his feet. "Yeah bitch!" He loved to taunt. He held out his phone and started playing some hip-hop I couldn't even pretend to know. I couldn't see but could tell he was moving around the beat while moving the shoe in different angles about my face. He had to make sure I got the entire experience. "You should be dreaming about licking my feet right now, I know you crave it bitch." He shoved his shoe even harder about my nose. "There ain't nothing to you like my feet."

Daniel seemed relatively disinterested. His feet still on my back, he was down in his tablet with his headphones on, seeming to be reading something. Charlie took as much pleasure out of watching Marcus torment me as he does when he does it himself. Charlie rarely says too much about it, Marcus is much more vocal. Though, Charlie, as he was doing right now, enjoyed even just clamping his bare feet down on the top of my head, holding me in place as I'm forced to worship my masters. I could tell he was dreaming about the next moment he'd get to shove his toes, and the crevices between them up around my tongue. I think of all of them, Charlie enjoyed the sensation the best.

There was only one pair yet to claim my back at that moment. We heard the key unlock the door, and those footsteps coming in. My face was still in the dark abyss of Marcus' shoe sweat, but I knew Master was finally home. "Heyy, G," not even Marcus, this 6'3" football player, was able to measure up to Master. "The King is home!" even Marcus had to remember to give Gustavo a certain amount of respect. All of a sudden my closed eyes became light. Marcus had returned to the couch, his feet up on my back, taking the shoe away with him. I tried to look up at Master about to take his seat, but Charlie held my head back down toward the carpet floor.

"Look what we have here..." he said all seemingly friendly and excited, in that proud Master way. I could only see his just somewhat dirty, brown Doc. Marten shoes, and his gray, pinstriped socks which I know run up to his kneecaps despite them being covered by his nice pants. Gustavo had the best fashion sense of them all. Gustavo was essentially the smartest of them all, if not tied with Daniel. Master is a 6'5", built, Brazilian jock. He tried out for the football team on campus, but didn't make it. He's still a gym buff, there just about everyday. He's the most impeccable, amazing, intelligent, and sexy guy I've known. Master's slept with at least twice as many women as the others, maybe except for Marcus, who's somewhat still beneath him. Master is home, he bent in from the recliner and brought to my neck my collar and leash. After fastening it tight, he tugged me so that I flew to him just in front of his recliner, and rolled around face-up. I could see him raise one shoe and proceed to peel it off with the tip of his other shoe. His right foot, in those thin, gray socks, came hauling down onto the right side of my face. A few minutes later, the left, and my face was merely a plate for Master to rest his massive size 15 feet, fully sweaty and raunchy after such long day.

I felt his sweat ooze around my cheeks. His foot heat gave warmth to my cold face. I was finally calm, at peace, happy, protected. I eagerly smelled the raunch of Master's feet after his long day. I craved to worship them but knew better than to disobey Master's routines and orders. Gustavo is my almighty. To the house in general, the 6'5" stud is 'King,' uncontested in his priority for the master recliner, always given the most respect as the others understood he could kick each of their asses, if not all at once. Yet he was their friend, their best friend, just that friend you so slightly fear. Master is 'King,' but to me, as he had instructed from the beginning, he is 'Emperor.' King just isn't appropriate enough of a word. A King has his kingdom, his realm, his subjects, and may be benevolent or not. Yet, and Emperor, an Emperor, is the Master of his known universe, the end-all-be-all of everything in his path. He is my absolute.

I continued to smell his massive feet, "the King is finally home," as he rubbed his huge soles over my face, clamping my chin with his toes, sort of clawing around my face, owning it, assuring it is his. Gustavo was the innovator, my original captor into slavehood. He was the first roommate to detect I was gay, and for that, he claimed me as his. I kept smelling his feet, the feet that gave me shelter, a place of belonging, giving him the respect of acknowledging and welcoming the most lowly of smells. Gustavo believes that a boy best show his man, his Master, the respect of his total Overlord and God. Being under a man's feet, according to him, is the ultimate gesture: that you acknowledge and thank your Master for his superiority and therefore ownership over you.


Every morning I am to wake up Master by licking his bare feet and toes, lulling him peacefully awake. I am to sleep in a cage in his room that he leaves unlocked. I know the consequences if I am to leave without his permission. Sometimes, Master is generous, and holds me in a tight cuddle all night. His wake up time varies between 7 and 8 am. I am to always lick his feet from the floor, which never poses an issue as he is so big they often dangle off. As he awakens, he crawls into an upright position, sitting on the front ledge of his bed, where I am obediently awaiting his orders down below him. "Time to eat your breakfast." The usual was that I lick and suck the crap off his feet and out of his toes. I am to savor the stale flavor of his morning feet and eat off all the dead skin and lint. Upon his satisfaction, usually after about ten minutes while he checks his morning texts, he proceeds to shower. I am usually not invited in with him.

After his shower I am to watch Master dress, and then watch him go downstairs. After about two minutes, I am to crawl downstairs and greet my Master in the kitchen where he usually serves himself cereal. While he eats, seated at the table, I am to reduce myself underneath, to the floor, and continue to kiss his feet, usually socked by now, as a form of morning worship, all while the others prepare for their day around us. As he finishes eating I am to have his shoes ready, usually once he instructs me what he would like to wear that day, and slide them onto his massive feet, tying them.

At the end of the day I am to await each master one by one. I am to obey them completely. Marcus, Daniel, and Charlie, the three are free to use me however they need until the King comes home, usually later in the night. However, there are some rules. 1. I am not allowed to be fucked, that is a privilege reserved for Master. 2. I am not allowed to give blow jobs without Master's consent. 3. I am to be maintained in decent shape until Master gets home. Only Master bears the right to fearlessly beat and torture me. For the most part, the boys obey these rules. However, when they don't, I am forbidden to tell anyway.

Master comes home usually around 9:00, usually after working out at the gym. Master takes his throne. I am to kneel in front of the recliner and kiss each off his workout sneakers. After a few weeks of slavery to him, he decided that he would no longer where socks to the gym. When he comes home, my 'dinner' is to suck the crap, the sweat and grime, out of his worked out mammoth feet. He would have me under his feet from anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, usually with a drink, a beer, watching TV. The others were forbidden to acknowledge or distract me whilst performing evening worship. The King, my Emperor, usually eats dinner afterward, apart from me, allowing me to be shared with the rest of the house in various ways. Master then continues to shower. I am to return to my cage, in his room, by the end of his shower, so that I might once again bask in the presence of my naked Emperor, exposing the entirety of his supreme masculinity. I am to remain in my cage until he is ready for bed, when I am to give him a last foot worship, and usually also a blow job. Sometimes Master aggressively fucks my mouth, other times he sits back and enjoys it.

Whenever Master has substantial homework to do, I am to lay on the ground beneath him, silent, with his feet planted in my face for the entirety of the time, either in his room, or downstairs near the guys. If Master comes home dressed up, in a suit after a career fair or day of importance, he is usually fast to pick me up and carry me to his room. Master enjoys such intimacy in private, when presents himself to his aesthetic fullest. Leaning back in his chair, his dress shoes get kicked off and his massive feet, in black or shear socks, get plopped onto his desk, angled just so that I can dig my face. I worship him, treat his tired, professional feet with the fullest of my tongue until I notice the spike in his testosterone. What might start with a blow job, him grabbing me by the head and dragging me into a kneel before his chair, my lips onto his 11" member, usually ends in a fuck. Master waits until certain moments to really express to me the fullest of his testosterone, masculinity and absolute control the way he'll do with women.

I am in love with my Master. Despite how much I have given up to assume this submissive life to him, I secretly thank him for having exposed me...for the true fag I am.


Marcus' first moment with me was only about a month ago, mid-October. I remember laying on the floor beneath his bed, slid under it all but my face, watching him kick off his cleats after coming home from football practice. Landing to either side of my head, I barely had a moment to hope they wouldn't land on my face before master brought his feet to a firm press on my face. I thought my nose was about crack, both from the weight and absolute putridness of Marcus' post-football feet. Marcus' feet did not have the same mesmerizing aroma as did Master. "Yeah, bitch. Take that!" He rubbed those socked soles over my cheeks and nose. I smelled, as Gustavo had recently disciplined me to always respect the other masters. He dragged one foot along my face, opening my mouth. He shoved his sock, tight, white but stained with dirt and sweat, into my non-too-eager tongue. I licked the underside of his socked toes, truly understanding the might of a football player and the might of his many different post-practice smells and tastes. Fucking my mouth with his foot, I felt pieces of lint snowflake onto my tongue, the sour taste, I was forced to swallow them all. He face-fucked me then with his other foot. He then surprised me by ripping off one sock and planting his firm, hot, steamy bare foot onto my face. Then came the other one. My head moved up and down as I tried my best to tongue his sweaty feet in their entirety. The taste of his bare foot was much better than I thought, the right stingy taste of sweet and sweaty heat. You could see the redness under his sole from overuse. You could see him, from through his toes, his shut eyes and reclined head, clearly enjoying the service I was giving him.

Charlie played a little differently. Coming home, I was often dragged into his room, or the living room couch, where he pulled down the back of his pants and fed my face into his ass crack. His ass never smelt so putrid as it was sweaty. He would lean over, hold onto something as I plagued his asshole with my tongue. He would moan when I would penetrate. The rim-job would a few minutes before he would collapse, turned around. Lowering now the front of his pants, a blow job was usually in order. He often broke Master's rules and had me give him head upon his order. I would suck the grime and sweat out of his moist, stenchy, average, yet girthy cock. I could often even feel the semen shoot up through before it splattered into my mouth. I was never allowed to spit.

Some days Charlie was more about foot worship and self-idolization. He'd almost always drag me into his room, and lay on his bed around the countless posters of his Hockey successes dating back several years. Kicking off his shoes, he never spent too much time dominating my face with socks on. He was always quick to feed me his bare feet. His reactions were always the most extreme: rolling his head back and sticking his tongue out, especially when I licked in between his toes. He'd often hog me, have me stay after his foot worship while he did homework, doing what Gustavo would do and have me firmly planted under his feet for a while, usually until Master got home.

Daniel was the least interested in having a sex slave. He rarely used me at all, with a notable exception. Like Gustavo, Daniel valued showing off for the different women he'd bring home, passive dominantly forcing me to clean his big, bare, white size 12s. I always felt humiliated. That was the point.


Master rhythmically beat his feet on my face as he conversed with the others. Laughing, talking about girls, their long day, my only interaction would be being firm on the floor while Master continued to dominate me with his socked feet. Those Doc Marten shoes I took off were not so far away, and their lingering stench added to already intense smell from being directly under his sweaty size 15s. The others would occasionally eye me hoping to get to share, but with Gustavo's presence, I would be absolutely no one's but his.

"Alright boy, turn around." I flipped over so that my head was over his feet. I knew what I had to do. Leaning in, digging in between his sweaty soles, I dragged my tongue along his sweaty socked feet, over and over, watching my tongue gray from the tint of the socks. Only once his soles were sufficiently damp did he hold up each knee, reach down to peel off his socks, tossing them aside. I would fetch them later. His bare sweaty feet down on the ground before me, arched up so that his toes pointed to my face, I knew what to do.

I eagerly dug in, going to down on my big Master's big, sweaty bare feet, I had been waiting all day for.