I squeeze his hand—I want him to know we’re moving away from where we’re equal. I want him to get a taste of me overpowering him. He nods eagerly like, like I’m a top client of his Japanese company.
I step into my flat with a thud. I want him to hear my heft on the wooden floor.
The door shuts. He takes off his shoes, then stands—
“Down!” I shoot in basso. He collapses, then folds into a black cube. I know his heart is racing. In our texts he said he yearned for a “strict dominant, but gentle.” I relish my big shadow on his puny body, and my heart starts chasing his.
I tap the floor with my Timberland boot.
“What’s this,” I ask, monotone.
“Your—your boot, sir—”
“King—yes, sorry!” He squeaks, “Your boot, Ki—”
“What do you wanna do with it?”
“I want to, I want to…” his porcelain fists clench. First-timer. It’s in him. I’ll yank it out.
“Look at me.”
He timidly turns up his face. I take off my sweater, and now he’ll see that I have the muscularity of a barbarian blacksmith.
He stutters; I can smell his awe. I want to crush his composure; his pride.
“I’ll ask again. What do you wanna do with my boot?”
He swallows, “I w-w-want to kiss it, K-King.”
Almost there. I bring my boot forward. He moves in to kiss—
I step on his head, pinning him to the floor.
“Did I say kiss?!” I boom, and he stops squirming.
“I’m sorry King! P-please can I kiss your foot, King?”
That desperate song thrills me. “You wait for my command. Understood?!”
“Yes King! Sorry King!”
Am I being too harsh?
I raise my leg then stomp next to his head. He flinches.
“Five seconds. Kiss!”
His black-haired head jumps over my boot and starts hopping with kisses.
The head freezes, then retreats into the cube.
“So good, King!”
“Thank you, King!” His last word a few notes higher, he’s surprising himself, relieving himself.
He’ll be rewarded.
I walk to the bedroom. His knees knock on the floor behind.
Images flash: his quick bow, so natural, purging the world and submitting to the instinct that tells him I’m The King.
Tenderness smothers me like a lukewarm tide. I must resist.
I stretch on my bed and kick off my boots. There’s something primal about bare skin on fur.
I crackle my toes. “What’re these?”
“My-m-my King’s feet,” he swallows, kneeling at the edge of the bed.
My dick stirs as I imagine the possibilities: I want to mold him, relish the pain he’ll endure to please me, drink from his tears—but my heart nags.
What is it about this guy?
It slips off my tongue: “Ten seconds. Do what you like.”
He closes his eyes and delves, kissing my toes sensually, lovingly, like the pious would kiss the pope’s ring. His hot breath is on my skin. I lift my foot and he carries it humbly with both hands, nuzzling the sole. Usually they reach for my calves and worship my muscles, but he’s elated at my feet.
My dick pushes against my jeans.
“Yes—yes, King!” the notes shiver—he’s on the verge of tears.
I want to ask what’s wrong, but that would mean I’m not worth crying for.
“So amazing, King!” he says conscientiously, like I could flick him off my feet and kick him into hell. His eyes reflect the afternoon filtering through my curtains. I get a glimpse of his adoring soul. Not a drop of lust.
The fat kid in me smiles, but all he will see is an intense stare. I must be dominant and manage my feelings later.
I pat the bed.
“Get naked. Come up here.”
I breathe down his thin milky neck. He coos.
I nibble his earlobe—thin—chewy flesh and make him play a few moans.
I plant my tongue under his neck, then run it down his smooth back. His body rattles.
I reach the hills of his ass: full and tender.
“Relax,” I whisper. His cheeks collapse.
I nuzzle my beard across the cheeks.
“Hoohhhh,” he goes, electrified. “Thank you, King.”
I nibble around his ass, looking for that sweet spot where he moans louder and clenches the blanket.
My nibble expands, slowly, more skin between my teeth.
My primal side takes over. I ravage his body like flesh after a long hunt. His moans grow sharper—pain and pleasure—sweat calls from his ass—begging me to enter—yeah—dick throbbing—ready to fuck.
I must be careful: If I give too much, he won’t come back. He’ll think I’m not dominant enough.
Subs are tricky.
His ass marked with my teeth, I spank again and slide my dick on his cheeks—teasingly—just brushing his hole.
“Oh, my King…” his body rattles. There is the falsetto squeeze of a tiny sob.
I want to hug him. I fall on his slight body and embrace him, my hands meeting my elbows twice.
My will to make him endure dies.
He turns, and pearlescent tears trail his face, “I’m so happy, King.”
I gather myself quickly and smirk (for visuals/strategy), “You should be.”
I reach for the condom under my pillow. He kisses my arm and it’s alright.
I lose control and dive tongue-first into his mouth.
He hands me the envelope.
He bows awkwardly, “Thank you. King,” then opens the door.
He turns, eyes wide. I let myself smile.
“Dinner? My treat.”
He nods, beaming.
Intesar Toufic was dealt homosexuality, Arabic, and rhythm. While in the Middle East, he was an activist for LGBT+ rights, and worked as translator. He’s been published by The Gay and Lesbian Review, and Haunted Waters Press. He’s also bitched in podcasts with Dylan Marron and Talk Funny. He lives in East Asia, where he pursues studies in International Affairs, sexual and otherwise. He is currently seeking representation for an upmarket LGBT romance novel. You can follow him on on his facebook page.