themes: cucking, feet worship, defeat, submission, surrender, foot fetish, chastity, forced bi, degradation, humiliation, inferiority.

I still remember the day our world changed. Not just the election - everyone expected that after the chaos of 2024 - but our personal universe. Sarah and I had been the typical progressive couple, our Berkeley degrees hanging proudly on our apartment wall, our social media full of activist hashtags and protest photos. I'd always felt lucky to have her - with her flowing brown hair, gentle smile, and that fierce intelligence that lit up her eyes during debates. She was way out of my league, but our shared values had brought us together. Every time she'd grab my hand during protests, or kiss me after another successful activist meeting, I felt validated. Her choosing me, loving me, felt like proof I was on the right side of history. We thought we were untouchable in our moral certainty, our love a testament to progressive values triumphing over shallow appearances and traditional roles.

That was before Brad.

We first encountered him at what would become one of the last liberal protests in our city. He stood there, towering at 6'4", blonde hair perfectly styled, wearing an expensive suit with a MAGA pin that seemed to gleam in the sunlight. While we chanted about democracy, he just smirked, recording us with his phone.

"You know, you two would look better in red," he called out, his eyes lingering on Sarah. I noticed her slight pause, the way her breath caught. At the time, I dismissed it.

Over the next few weeks, Brad seemed to appear everywhere. At our local coffee shop, at the grocery store, even at the gym. Each time, he'd make a point to engage us, particularly Sarah. His arguments were delivered with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, each word dripping with condescension.

"The problem with you liberals," he'd say, "is that you don't understand natural order. Some people are meant to lead, others to follow." His eyes would lock with Sarah's during these moments, and I'd notice her cheeks flush.

The first real crack in our resistance came when Sarah started watching conservative news, claiming she wanted to "understand the other side." I'd catch her pausing on Brad's social media posts, lingering over photos of him at MAGA rallies, commanding crowds with his presence.

One evening, Brad "coincidentally" appeared at our apartment building. He invited himself up, taking command of our space like he owned it. He sat in my favorite chair, his expensive shoes resting on our coffee table. Sarah's face showed a mix of disgust and something else... something that worried me. “you’re not welcome here” Sarah said crossing her arms, putting on her best activist face; but her voice wavered

"Your place could use a real man's touch," he commented, watching Sarah's reaction. "Why don't you get us some drinks, sweetheart? And you," he turned to me, "my shoes are a bit dusty from walking here."

"Don't you dare call me-" she started, but he cut her off. "Now." One word, spoken with such authority that her protest died. She looked at me apologetically, then moved toward the kitchen.

"Leave her alone," I demanded, trying to sound tough. Brad's laugh made me feel like a child.

"Or what?" He turned to Sarah, returning with his drink. "On your knees, princess."

Her legs trembled. I could see the internal struggle in her eyes - her ideology fighting against something deeper, more primal.

"We won't-" I started, but Sarah's sharp intake of breath stopped me. She was sinking to her knees, her face flushed with shame and arousal.

"Sarah, don't!" But my words sounded weak, even to me.

Brad smiled, reaching out to stroke her hair. "Good girl. See how natural this feels?" Sarah tried to pull away, but her resistance was weakening. "Now, your boyfriend needs to learn too."

"I won't-" I started, but Brad's movement cut me off. He grabbed my shirt, trying to yank me down. I stumbled but caught myself, pulling away. "Get your hands off me!"

"Sarah first. Show your man how it's done."

Sarah hesitated for just a moment, her last fragment of resistance dissolving as Brad's hand guided her head down. The moment her tongue touched his expensive leather shoe, something changed in her eyes. The struggle vanished, replaced by a glazed look of pure submission.

"Oh god," she moaned, no longer playing at resistance. Her tongue traced every curve of his shoes, working with desperate enthusiasm. She shifted position to reach the soles, licking the dirt and grime with obvious relish.

"Look at your woman," Brad told me, his hand stroking her hair as she worked. "This is what she was always meant for."

I watched in horror as my feminist girlfriend, who just last week had led a women's rights rally, began sucking on the laces of Brad's shoes. She was lost in her own world, completely ignoring my presence, focusing entirely on worshiping every inch of his footwear.

"Please stop," I begged, my voice cracking. "Sarah, this isn't you!"

She didn't even look up, just moaned louder as her tongue collected the dirt from the bottom of his shoe.

"Your turn," Brad commanded me. "On your knees."

"No," I said, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in my voice. "I won't-"

Brad cut me off by grabbing Sarah's hair, pulling her up onto his lap. She went willingly, eagerly, her lips parted in anticipation.

"Last chance," he warned, his hand sliding under Sarah's shirt. "Beg to lick my shoes, or watch me take what's mine."

"I... I can't..." My resistance was crumbling as Sarah arched into his touch.

"Tell him what he needs to say, princess," Brad commanded.

Sarah's eyes opened, fixing on me with a mix of pity and arousal. "Beg him properly, baby. Say 'Please, Sir, let me lick your shoes.'"

"I won't-" My protest was cut short as Brad's hand slipped into Sarah's pants, making her moan loudly.

"Say it," he ordered again. "Or watch me make your woman cum right here."

My entire world was crashing down. Every principle, every belief I'd held dear was crumbling in the face of this primal display of dominance. Sarah's eyes rolled back as Brad's fingers worked their magic.

"P-please..." I choked out.

"Please what?" Brad prompted, his other hand unbuttoning Sarah's blouse.

"Please... Sir..." Each word was agony. "Let me... let me lick your shoes."

Sarah's laugh cut through me like a knife. "God, he looks so pathetic," she giggled, then moaned as Brad rewarded her cruel observation with his fingers.

"He does, doesn't he?" Brad agreed. "Tell him how natural he looks down there."

"You belong there, baby," Sarah purred. "On your knees, begging to serve Sir... oh god..." she trailed off as Brad's fingers moved faster.

"Sir?" I repeated weakly.

"That's right," Sarah managed between moans. "You will address him as Sir from now on. Now get down there and lick his shoes clean while he fingers me."

I sank to my knees, my last shred of dignity dissolving as my tongue touched leather. The taste of dirt and leather filled my mouth as Sarah's moans filled my ears. Each lick felt like an admission, each stroke of my tongue acknowledging my place in this new hierarchy.

"Good libcuck," Brad praised mockingly. "You're learning. Sarah, tell him how proud you are."

"So proud," she gasped, grinding against his hand. "Such a good little shoe cleaner... oh fuck, Sir, please..."

That night, Brad claimed our bedroom like he'd claimed everything else. I knelt naked in the corner, his shoes placed before me as a reminder of my place. Sarah was bent over our bed - the same bed where we'd once planned protest strategies - her face pressed into a MAGA hat while Brad took her roughly from behind.

"Thank me," he growled, spanking her ass hard enough to leave a handprint.

"Thank you, Sir!" Sarah cried out. "Thank you for showing me my place!" Each thrust made her grip the sheets tighter. "Thank you for putting this liberal whore in her place!"

"Clean deeper," Brad commanded me, noticing I'd slowed my worship of his shoes. "Get your tongue between every crevice." When I hesitated, he grabbed Sarah's hair. "Should I make her suffer for your disobedience?"

My tongue worked faster, probing the stitching of his expensive shoes, gathering every speck of dirt. The taste of leather and filth was becoming frighteningly familiar.

"Good boy," he mocked. "Now crawl over here and clean my feet while I fuck your woman."

I crawled, my resistance warring with my growing submission. Brad's feet were sweaty, the space between his toes dark with lint and grime. As Sarah moaned in pleasure, I was forced to suck each toe clean, swallowing whatever I found there.

"Tell him how much better this is," Brad ordered Sarah.

"So much better than your weak liberal dick," she gasped. "Sir knows how to treat a woman... how to make her serve..."

The next weeks were a blur of escalating submission. Brad moved us to his house, claiming our apartment was "too liberal." He burned our progressive books, replacing them with conservative literature. Sarah was made to read them aloud while servicing him.

One morning, Brad presented Sarah with a MAGA hat. "Your new uniform," he declared. She not only wore it but kissed it reverently before putting it on. My protests earned me a week in chastity - the first of many.

"The cage stays on until you learn," Brad informed me. "Sarah, show him what good behavior earns."

I watched as he pissed in her eager mouth, her thank yous mixing with her swallows. When she finished, she looked at me with pity. "It's so much better when you accept it, baby. His piss tastes better than your cum ever did."

The day we voted was particularly humiliating. Brad made us wear MAGA gear to the polling place, Sarah in a tight red dress, me in a collar and leash. Our former activist friends saw us, their disgust evident. But when we returned, Brad rewarded us by letting us clean his feet with our tongues.

"Look what I found," he said one evening, holding up nail clippers. "Sarah first."

I watched my former girlfriend eagerly eat his toenail clippings, thanking him for each one. When my turn came, I tried to resist.

"Fine," Brad smiled cruelly. "Sarah, bend over. Each time he refuses, you get the belt."

The crack of leather on flesh broke me. Soon I was begging for his toenails, thanking him as each one crossed my lips.

Our transformation continued relentlessly. Brad would host MAGA parties where we served drinks naked, our bodies written with conservative slogans. Sarah took to it eagerly, while I had to be motivated with threats and punishment.

"Please, Sir," Sarah would beg each morning, "let me drink your piss. Let me show you how grateful I am."

When I resisted similar requests, Brad would make me watch as he pleased her in ways I never could, until I broke and begged too.

The final surrender came on a quiet Sunday evening. Brad had the papers ready - property deeds, bank accounts, everything we owned. Sarah knelt eagerly beside his chair while I stood, that last ember of resistance still flickering.

"Time to make it official," Brad announced, patting his lap where the papers lay. "Who wants to sign first?"

Sarah crawled forward immediately. "Please, Sir, let me sign everything over to you."

"Not yet," Brad smirked. "First, tell me who you love most in this world."

Sarah looked at me apologetically, then turned to Brad with devotion in her eyes. "You, Sir. Only you. You've shown me what real love is - serving, obeying, worshiping."

"And you?" Brad turned to me. I stayed silent, that last bit of pride keeping my tongue still.

"Strip," he commanded. "Both of you."

As our clothes fell away, Brad stood and turned, presenting his ass. "You want to sign? Earn it. Show me how much you love serving a real man."

Sarah dove in first, her tongue eagerly probing his ass. Her moans of pleasure were genuine - she'd grown to crave this degradation. I watched, trembling, as my former girlfriend worshiped our Master's hole with passionate dedication.

"Your turn," Brad commanded me. When I hesitated, he grabbed Sarah's hair. "Maybe she needs motivation to leave you completely? To never speak to you again?"

"No, please," I begged, falling to my knees. My face pressed against his ass, tongue extending. The taste was humiliatingly familiar now - we'd done this so many times, but this felt different. Final.

"Tell me you love me," Brad demanded. "Both of you. Tell me I'm your god."

"I love you, Sir," Sarah breathed between licks. "You're my god, my everything. Thank you for saving me from weak liberalism."

My resistance crumbled as Brad spread his cheeks wider. "I... I love you, Sir. You're my god. Thank you for showing me my place."

"Prove it," he commanded. "Prayer position. Both of you."

We fell into the familiar pose - foreheads touching the floor, asses raised, hands stretched toward his feet.

"Dear Sir," Sarah began praying, "thank you for breaking us, for showing us true purpose. Thank you for every drop of piss, every speck of dirt between your toes, every moment of humiliation..."

"Join her," Brad ordered me.

Tears fell as I prayed, my former self finally dying completely. "Thank you, Sir, for destroying my pride, for showing me what I really am. Thank you for taking Sarah from me, for making her yours..."

Brad made us alternate between rimming him and praying for an hour before finally allowing us to sign. Sarah went first, kissing each page before signing away everything she owned. When my turn came, Brad had me sign while continuing to lick his ass.

"Now you're both officially property," Brad declared. "And property doesn't own property."

"Thank you, Sir," we said in unison, falling back into prayer position.

That night, he took Sarah while I cleaned their sweat with my tongue. But something had changed - the last walls were gone. When Brad ordered us to kiss his feet and thank him for freeing us from the burden of ownership, of identity, of liberal weakness, our gratitude was genuine.

We were finally, truly home.