“Begging for pay” (Part 1)
About a week ago, this tiny little fucker showed up desperate for work — trembling, fragile, barely holding himself together. I let him in anyway, told him to get on his knees and start scrubbing. Since then, he’s been my pathetic little slave, mopping floors, scrubbing dirty dishes caked with grease and leftovers I barely bother to rinse, folding my gym-stained briefs and handling my filthy socks soaked with sweat and musk. At one point, I even threw one of my used, sweaty briefs right on top of him while he was cleaning, trapping him under that thick, musky fabric — a reminder that he’s nothing but my little rag, to be dirtied, crushed, and dominated. The suffocating stench of my used clothes clings to him like a brand no shower can wash away. I watch him crawl around, bruised, sore, exhausted, desperate to please, his tiny body breaking under the weight of serving a real giant.
Today, after a week of humiliating drudgery, he had the nerve to interrupt my peace — quietly begging for his pathetic little payment. I barely remembered he existed. So I pulled out a single penny, let it dangle over his tiny head, just out of reach, watching his eyes go wide with desperate need. Why pay him when I can make him earn it? In my world, a weak little worm like him should be grateful just to lick the dirt near my feet, to inhale the sweaty musk trapped in my socks and briefs. That’s where this starts — with my feet, with him begging to touch, to worship, to be nothing more than a scent-addicted slave to my giant self. He’ll have to prove himself worthy of even a crumb from a giant like me. But this is just the beginning. And I’ve only just begun to play.
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