You walk up to the megalithic gym shoe, your face only reaching the second or third row of shoelaces which are dirt-stained and raggedy. Back on the couch, Trip is watching intently for the show to begin. One hand sits in his lap, lightly massaging every now and then.
You bring your face right up to the giant, red swish symbol marking the side of your master's shoe, and drag your tongue across the cracked Nike sign. You lick the wall-like shoe, trying to ignore the way his foot stench fills your throat whenever you open your mouth. You climb onto the toe, scrubbing at the giant tongue with your own. You lick the filthy treads, swallow copious amounts of dirt and grime, all while Trip sits on the couch stroking himself and taunting the fact that you're his very own little bitch.
"Mmmm, how does that taste, faggot? How does that feel, licking Master's shoes for him, huh?" Trip is in a state of bliss as he orders you around.
Now he reaches into his gym shorts and pulls out something that looks like a third leg. You almost stop licking and go into shock when you witness the tall, thick, rock hard pole sitting in your master's lap. His eyes closed, he goes on stroking faster and faster, his first wrapped tight around the unbeliavable tool which seems to be thicker than an average man's wrist.
You're still gawking in horror when Master opens his eyes, still drunk on power, and orders:
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