Hank had been so wrong when he’d walked into the leather bar that evening, in his new, shiny pants and jacket, scanning the room. He’d imagined himself a master. He had thought that looking the part was enough to gain a slave–to gain respect. He’d been wrong–the Masters had been kind enough to show him that.

No, his place, where he belonged, was beneath them. Not next to them, on his knees like their many slaves, waiting to be called upon and served. No, he was lower than even them, only worthy of crawling along the filthy floor, licking up their spilled beers, piss and cigar butts, but most importantly, cleaning the filth from the bottom of their boots. 

They stepped on him without paying him any regard, and he bore their weight like a good worm, orgasming helplessly whenever their soles crushed his worthless groin. One day, maybe, one of these leather gods would take him as a slave. Perhaps, even later, he might earn the right to become a Master himself, but for now, he finally knew his place. 

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