This one is definitely not for everybody, but just right for @phagster
I guess I truly didn’t find myself until college.
Ok, I know a lot of people say that, but my experience was certainly unique. For starters, I was an exchange student from Germany, although the Americans were never able to guess that at first glance. My Turkish parents had gifted me with many things: their dark curly locks, their caramel-rich skin, their native tongue, and a stable childhood in Berlin. But I was living in two separate worlds, their Turkey and the physical Germany. So when I chose to study abroad, the United States was my first choice.
I know the United States is no longer the “playground of dreams” it used to be seen as, but I thought it would give me a chance to explore my own life. I was 21 with a complete grasp of English, meaning that it would be easy to socialize in any setting. And not to brag, but I didn’t regard myself as unattractive. I was around the average height but lean with incredible cheekbones. I’d had no problem finding men in the past, and I wasn’t going to stop that in a new country. Will taught me the error of my ways however. He has graciously taught me everything.
Will was the first person I met when I had come over to the United States. He was assigned as my roommate, at first to my dismay. Will was the exact stereotype I had been nervous about actually experiencing. The typical masculine American douchebro, he was everything Europeans despised about this country. When I got to our apartment, it was already decorated with American and MAGA flags everywhere. The place reeked of boy too, the stale layer of sweat and cum hung heavy in the air. His dirty laundry was basically the carpet. As soon as I entered the room, I immediately addressed the issue.
“Uh, yeah whatever,” Will dismissed. “You’ll get used to it. Probably come to like it soon enough.”
Nothing with his statement seemed wrong, but it still had the tinge of homophobia that very soon made itself apparent in every conversation. “Fag,” “Homo,” “Fairy”: it was like he knew the entire dictionary of gay slurs. Luckily however, our class schedules were different enough that we barely saw each other. The only time that it was guaranteed we’d both be in the apartment was Thursday nights. Neither of us had activities or plans after 3:30, so we’d both get home and be stuck in one another's presence.
It was one of these Thursday nights where Will showed me what I was destined to be. We’d been living with each other for about three weeks and I was in the living room working on my biology lab homework. He was in the kitchen, having just gotten home from the gym and flexing for himself. And somehow, over the musky enchantment he’d already placed over our apartment, I could still distinctly point out the fresh addition to it.
“Yo, queerdo,” he called from the kitchen. “Can I borrow you a sec?”
Rolling my eyes, I walked over to the table he was seated at. If he wasn’t such a dick, Will could have actually been hot. He was tall, muscular, and good-looking–the trifecta. But as soon as you added the personality, the book’s cover was lost to history.
“Look man, I’m gonna be honest with you.” I was already predicting some right-wing homophobic crap to spill out of his mouth. “My feet are absolutely killing me right now.”
I blinked, honestly a little caught off guard.
“Can you just give them a rub or something? I was doing squats and followed it up with some cardio, and now for some reason they’re all sore and stiff.”
I hoped my crossed arms and raised elbow displayed my thoughts appropriately.
“Dude, come on!” Will persuaded. “This could just be like a bonding experience or something! We can talk and learn more about each other’s roles. Maybe you can even educate me.”
“You’ve got to be joking.” But Will wasn’t, and I knew he was going to keep bothering me all night if I didn’t just do it now. With a dramatic sigh, I took a seat at the table, watching as he kicked his massive feet up in front of me.
“Haven’t washed them in a few days,” Will bragged cockily as he flexed his arm. “Ain’t got time to shower when you’re conquering those sorority sluts down the street every night.”
His feet were absolutely disgusting. Never in my life had a scent been more powerful, more pungent. And with the dirt, grime, and cheese all accumulating onto the hardened skin of the sole, it felt like I could be on the verge of vomiting. But I was strong, and after a deep breath (which I quickly realized was a mistake) put my fingers to the task.
What I didn’t expect was for this occurrence to quickly become a habit for us. Every Thursday, Will would come home from the gym and I would massage his feet. I don’t know why it started, or why I had surrendered to this fate so quickly, but every night I just found my place at his feet and began working on his soles. At first, Will would just mutter out some groans or the occasional “Oh yeah, right there fag”. But when the sessions began getting longer, he engaged more. I didn’t even realize the foot rubs had started going from minutes to hours–I was just so physically engaged that my mental state always found a place of ease.
Along with the foot rubs came the “bonding” Will had promised. Our conversations at first were a little heated, with Will saying something controversial or hateful and my arguing of the progressive point back to him. For some reason though, I could never win. He always had unique ways of manipulating around my arguments that I just couldn’t battle.
“You can't listen to the other side when you're protesting.”
“Biden should have stepped aside and let Kamala take the lead. If he really thought a woman could be in power, then why doesn’t he let her?”
“Just because fags don’t have all our rights doesn’t mean they can’t fulfill a useful role in society.”
Overtime, my arguments became smaller and quieter. With the overpowering smell, the plush atmosphere, and the kneading, it was sometimes just easier to shake my head or give a grunt. Eventually, I stopped making noises or using body language all together, besides attending to Will’s feet of course. Our conversations had morphed into lectures, with Will speaking lengths about conservative viewpoints, white superiority, and his role over mine in the male hierarchy.
With my improving muscle memory of the contours of Will’s massive, hard-worked feet, my mind was able to wonder. And with nothing else to focus on, it slowly began to soak up Will’s lectures like a sponge. At one point, he had suggested that I should start taking care of the chores around the apartment, considering how busy he was with his business degree and social life. I was in the lab everyday for my degree, but that left me with open nights, a point that Will argued he did not have.
It started off rather simple, just dishes and trash. Will tacked on recycling immediately after; it came the same day as the trash anyway. After another week Will said I should just handle all the cooking. “It would make life much easier,” Will said. “You’re already doing the part after the eating, so why not do the work before too?” I picked it up rather quickly and figured that Will had been right; I could just make his food and then clean up immediately after.
Cleaning was next, and soon the apartment was decluttered and free of Will’s musky haze that you’d been surrounded by for months. But for some reason, I found that I actually missed the fog. I didn’t understand why, but the dominating scent of Will’s funk had become a part of my home.
“I don’t see what’s so weird about a foot fag like you enjoying the smell of a real man,” Will shrugged when I brought it up. This was when I came to realize that he had an answer for everything. “I knew this was gonna happen when you started cleaning. You will start doing my laundry now too, that way you can get your fix.”
Laundry was simple, but a new issue arose that I hadn’t been expecting. Now that I had access to all of Will’s dirty, sweaty clothes (again), it dawned on me how much I had missed their constant presence. It made me oddly addicted, and I soon found myself taking a sock here or there to get a nice whiff. Will must’ve known, but he didn’t say anything. I appreciated him for this silent agreement to ignore my “fag desires” as he would later inform me about, and because of this appreciation I was able to admire him more than I had before.
Like how naturally attractive Will was. Physically it was undeniable, but deep down I always knew that Will was the perfect alpha male. He was confident and a true Adonis. And eventually the reason I had stopped arguing with his points became clear as day. Through Will’s teachings, I discovered he was right all along. His conservative standpoints were what was best for everyone. And as a Red-blooded heterosexual white American, he was inherently born superior. I however was anything but.
“Will,” I finally asked one day as winter was coming to an end, my eyes pointed towards the floor. Will had said I should start bowing my head while speaking to those above me. “What is my purpose?”
Although I couldn’t see it, I could feel the maniacal grin that spread across Will’s face. I’d passed the point of no return.
“You can start by addressing me properly,” Will replied, to which I gave a quick nod and “Sorry Sir.” After that was cleared up, he set aside the rest of his day to educate me on who I was–or more appropriately, what I was. He covered the errors of my past life, the misconceptions I had deluded myself with due to the progressive media and European politics. I’d been woke-ified by my upbringing, and Will explained he had redpilled me and was my savior. I could only suck his massive 9 inch cock as he went over my identity and purpose as a faggot.
My mission, as Will so graciously covered, was to have the knowledge, skills, and training necessary to serve a straight, white, conservative man like himself. As he was a natural alpha, I was a natural omega. The world was not a simple binary, but a hierarchy of positions in which he was at the top and I sat at the bottom. The “Homo Psyche” as Will called it illustrated the devolution of the queer brain from immature queer, to the developed cocksucker, into a complete descent into the faggot. I had in fact endured that transformation since I had first landed in the United States.
At the end of the school year, I almost came when Will offered me a permanent place as his personal faggot. I had already been filling the role since my awakening. My list of responsibilities included all the chores, paying for Will’s half of the rent, nightly blowjobs if he didn’t get any action, complete attention whenever requested, and of course, his weekly foot rubs (which now lasted around 3-4 hours each). Will said it would be best if I did not enroll for the next year, saying it would be much easier to devote myself completely to him by doing so.
At the beginning of the year, this proposition would have sent me into a rage. But now all I could do was feel my shrunken cock strain at its chastity cage as I came to fully accept my position in life. I wasn’t some smart and affluent gay European. I was a faggot, a mere servant of straight, white, conservative alpha men like my American roommate.
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