Earbuds wake the boy–a mild but constant alarm. He’s quite cold, now; he struggles to unwrap himself from his blanket. As his alarm transitions from waking bells to his Master’s voice, at first his sleep-addled brain fails to parse the words. Eventually, his mind is awake enough to parse them:
“Hurry. You’re not to be late preparing my breakfast, nor in being my alarm clock. You’re just a slave; your discomfort doesn’t matter. Stop hiding under blankets. You have work to do, work I, your owner, deserve from you. You’re my property. There’s no defensible reason for you to dawdle in bed. You have a schedule to keep, to serve me…”
By this point, the slaveboy has already thrown back his blanket and is pulling the earbuds out. He silences his alarm, and looks up from his place on the floor at his Master, still asleep in His bed. After gazing at his Owner for a moment, he crawls out of the room to the bathroom. There, he quietly brushes his teeth and checks his pussy for cleanliness–shaving is to be done later–and re-lubes himself.
Finished prepping his body, the slaveboy next crawls to the kitchen. There are plenty of leftovers this morning which his Master instructed him to prepare as today’s breakfast. The slaveboy hasn’t even begun to hunger yet; his body is used to eating later, after his Owner has been fed, as it always should be. He sets out the breakfast tray, a plate, and silverware, occasionally rising to his feet but always falling back to his knees after. Finally, he microwaves the food and sets it out to present nicely.
His Master’s breakfast made, the boy walks on his knees, tray in hand, back to his Owner’s room and quietly slips in. He’s pleased to hear his Master still snoring; it has taken quite a while for Him to adjust to the slave’s presence and activity in the morning. It used to always wake Him, which his Master found off-putting. Setting the breakfast to the side, the slave crawls down to the foot of the bed and gently lifts the bedsheets just enough to slip his head and shoulders in.
The boy quickly begins to nuzzle his Master’s feet; as he runs his cheek up and down his betters’ sole, he breathes in his owners smell and feels his nub start to expand in his chastity cage. He gently, dryly kisses his Owner’s feet absentmindedly, mentally revelling in the thought that this man, his Owner, is so much his better that it is right for the boy to know the smells and body odor of His feet and be able to recognize Him through such a humiliating device. The slave’s kisses become more passionate, though he is still careful to keep from wetting his superior’s feet with saliva, as his cage throbs. The slaveboy’s naked body finally stops shivering in the cold air of a house in the early morning, but he no longer notices–the boy is fully absorbed now with the rightness of revering his Owner and being in his place beneath Him. The unpleasantness of the smell of his Master’s feet has by now passed; this is his place, it is what he deserves to smell, it is a privilege to be able to humiliate himself beneath so superior a man.
Many other slaveboys are certainly not so lucky. To know that, as his Owner wakes, he will serve Him breakfast, prepare His shower, if lucky suck His cock or feel Him in his pussy–the boy knows well that many other boys, inferior, as he is, to such men, do not have the privilege of an owner.
Painting with Knifestrikes 