His bedroom was softly lit by a single designer table lamp, with the only furnishings being a king-size bed, the lamp's side table, and a black armchair where he sat. He was completely naked, his legs wide open, showing how his soft cock and heavy balls hung over the edge. I bit my lips at that sight. Dressed, he resembled a model from a Tom of Finland illustration, but naked, he looked like a Greek god, though in his case, a Basque god. His name sounds like Akerbeltz, a god from Basque mythology associated with the devil. At least, that's what he told me when we first met.

    Naked and kneeling, I awaited his first command. Although I could sense his gaze, I didn't dare look up until instructed. My eyes remained fixed on the well-worn oak floor beneath me, and I couldn't help but wonder how many bodily fluids it had absorbed over the years. My Master likes it when things get a bit messy.

    It was my first time serving my Master in person, and I was both nervous and scared. But I couldn't let this opportunity slip away. I was determined to prove to my Master that I was a worthy pet. I wanted to be his.

    "Look up," he said.

    I slowly raised my head, and there he was, seated before me, the god he was for me. The sight was undeniably intimidating, yet it felt as though I had finally found my place: beneath the feet of my Master. In the past, I had been afraid of revealing my submissive side and facing judgment from others. But at that precise moment, I felt like I could shout from the rooftops that I was his property. I felt so happy.

I had just accepted my role as a lesser being, existing solely to be dominated by him.

    "Accept your calling and do what you were born for," he said as soon as our eyes met.

    For most people, that order might be confusing, but to me, it was the clearest task I had ever received. I crawled a few centimeters closer until my nose touched his feet. They smelled a little sweaty. Without needing any further cues or hints from him, I instinctively knew what I had to do: lick his feet.

    As I began tasting them, embracing the slightly salty flavor, I felt an odd sensation and suddenly, I was crying. After 30 years of denial, I finally accepted my purpose in life: I'm simply a man born to serve.

    "Cry all you want, but keep licking my feet. I expect them to be spotless," he said.

    I obeyed.