2 Survival of the Fittest
Of course I was only thirteen when I started the seventh grade, but it was already obvious that I was a jock. I had been a pitcher for several years on my little league team, and I played hockey, tag-football, and soccer. It was very apparent early-on in my life that I would be the type of guy who did well at any sport. It was just in my nature to succeed. I've always been competitive, and there is nothing I like more than defeating an opponent.
One of the things that I learned when I was very young, was that success in sports pretty much trumps all other accomplishments. I mean think about it. When's the last time you saw a school hold a pep rally for the debate team? Have you ever seen a science fair get front-page news in the paper? But when it comes to athletes, they are the heroes. Everybody worships the jocks. That's why pro sports pay their stars millions of dollars every year. That's why huge companies hire the jock celebrities to endorse their products.
In school it is the same way. The jocks are always the ones voted class president and homecoming king. They're the kings of the school, after all. They're the best looking. They have the best bodies, the best girlfriends, the best clothes. They get special treatment from the teachers. Everybody else is jealous of them and wants to be like them.
I loved the fact that I fit into this category when I was in school. My status as a jock entitled me to respect that other people didn't get. It was something I could take for granted, and ultimately I realized that it was my right. There is a kind of natural law that is Darwinian. They call it Survival of the Fittest. The strongest and most powerful beings in every species are the ones who become the leaders. They're the ones who are superior by nature.
In our society everyone always talks about equality. Every single group of people demands the right to be treated the same. We hear it so much that we start to deny the reality of what we all know by our own nature. Some people are truly born superior. Some people are natural-born leaders and others are followers. I happened to figure out early-on that I was one of the leaders. I knew back in grade school that I could always get the things I wanted simply by demanding them. I knew that there were people weaker than me who were born to submit to my will.
Most people think of themselves as neither superior nor inferior. The vast majority are simply average. That's not so say that they cannot be subtly manipulated, but in general they just mind their own business and it doesn't bother them that they're nothing all-that special.
There are, however, a group of people who are what I call "low-lifes". I'm not talking trailer-trash either. They are not low because they're lacking in intellect or because they are in the bottom-level social or economic status. They're low simply because they feel inferior. They think of themselves as being less important. They recognize that they're weak. They expect to be given orders and then they obey those orders because they don't really want to make decisions for themselves.
In high school we used to call these people fags. A lot of them were really gay, but even if they weren't, they still got the label. The reason was very simple. There is nothing more insulting or demeaning to a guy than to be tagged as a queer. You can't get any lower than that. Straight guys like me-especially jocks-all know that dudes who do sexual shit with other dudes are sick. It's gross to think of a dude letting another guy put his junk in his mouth or up his ass. It's worse than gross-it's perverted.
Personally I don't really think that fags have much choice. It was like Scottie. He always was a sissy. That's how he was born. Doesn't mean I hate him any less. It just means that he was born inferior. From his perspective it probably really sucks to be who he is. Oh well, better him than me. One thing I know is that I love being me. I love the fact that I'm superior and that I am entitled to shit. I don't waste any time feeling sorry for losers like Scottie. His purpose in life is to make me happy, and why shouldn't I exploit that reality? It's just a part of nature. If you can't enjoy being superior, then what's the point? I'm the shit and I know it. Period.
It was back in the seventh grade that I was first introduced to the term paper. It was actually a very brief introduction, and I didn't get to know it all that well because to be honest, I've never written so much as a single word of any of my term papers. I got every single one of them completed, turned in on time, and received straight A's on each and every one of them.all through junior high and high school. Fags wrote all my term papers for me, and none of my teachers ever suspected a thing.
It wasn't that I was just some dumb jock who was incapable of doing my own work. I'm not stupid by any means. I always aced all my tests. I always understood the material. But when it came to doing homework and term papers and shit, why should I waste my valuable time when there are people like Scottie who are just dying to do my bidding?
A lot of kids who were like me had to get summer jobs to pay for the shit they wanted. If they had cars, they had to work in order to have gas money. Lot of em even had to pay for their own insurance. Not me though. When I couldn't get bucks from my parents, I just leaned on one of the fags. Miraculously they always found a way to come up with the cash I needed.
The first time I ever took money from a fag was when I was fourteen. There was this fat kid named Ben who was in my gym class. He had pimples all over his face, and all us jocks used to torment him, calling him "zit boy". We flushed his head in the toilet one day just for kicks and there wasn't a damn thing that fatboy could do about it. I was gonna do the same thing the next day just for the hell of it, but he started cryin and beggin me not to. He offered me twenty bucks. I took the money and flushed him anyway. I told him I'd expect twenty every week from him thereafter just cuz I was superior. If he didn't come up with the cash, his fate would be far worse than a swirly. It was easy money.
Eventually I began to refer to Ben's weekly payments to me as "fag tax". It was a concept that I was surprised had never been thought of previously. Its purpose actually was multi-faceted. Ben was a good-for-nothing, useless faggot. His existence was meaningless before he started paying me. But now that he began to serve me, he suddenly had a reason for living. It also made life easier for me. It was a steady income that I could take for granted. And probably most importantly, it was a constant reminder to both of us who was Superior and who was the pussy.
You probably are thinking about now that I've always been some sort of cocky bully who preyed upon weaker people and then exploited them. Bingo. I guess there is no denying that fact. However, I'm not as narcissistic as you probably think. Using Scottie and Ben as examples so far, it may seem that I have just gone around forcing faggots to obey me against their will. I won't sit here and lie to you, denying that I enjoyed making those bitches do shit that frustrated and infuriated them. I love watching them squirm like little puppets on a string, but you have no idea how many fags there are out there who would have loved to be in their place.
It really sounds crazy, and there is a part of me that doesn't fully understand it myself. I would tend to think that anyone who was like Scott or Ben would hate themselves so much that they'd rather just crawl in a hole somewhere and die than to be turned into the slave boys of other men. But I eventually discovered that there are a lot of fags who go out and actually seek superior men like me to abuse them.
What I discovered is that most of the fags who are like this are guys who started out like Ben and Scottie. They were bullied and abused by their superiors when they were young. As they got older they started to realize that serving a superior actually did give them a purpose in life. I won't pretend to understand exactly how a faggot thinks, and truthfully I don't really even want to know. My guess is that since they're fags, they always have idolized jock guys like me. They always fantasized about being noticed by someone who was superior and better looking. They always wanted a real man to pay attention to them. When I finally did recognize their existence, even if it was only to exploit and humiliate them, they were somehow turned on by it.
It's some sick shit, I know. They must realize that I have no interest in them other than to use them, yet they continue to crawl back and beg for more. It seems the longer that the process goes on, the more addicted these sick fucks become to this treatment.
I'm not complaining, though, cuz now I'm 25 years old and pretty much have everything that anyone could want. I go on trips when I want. I have sex whenever I want. I get head when I want. I have all the best clothes, furniture, and toys that I want. I have the best computer money can buy. I have a college degree and a great job, and a huge savings account. The money keeps pouring in and all I do is sit back and enjoy every second.
Fags and Feet One thing that cracks me up about fags is how so many of them are obsessed with feet. At first it was puzzling to me, and I thought it was just another crazy perversion like cocksucking and butt-fucking. I guess if you'd stick a dude's dick in your mouth, you'd be willing to do anything.
Eventually I discovered that the whole concept of worshipping feet was not really a sexual fetish as much as it was an act of servitude. Can you honestly think of any single thing that would demonstrate humility more than being ordered to bow down and kiss another guy's feet? And even more than being humbling, it also is humiliating. A man walks on his feet. They're the lowest part of his body. They get sweaty and stinky and nasty. Most guys don't even like to touch their own feet, let alone someone else's.
Think about the symbolism of it. If you are willing to bow down and worship another guy's feet, you are reducing yourself to the lowest possible level. You are admitting that you are beneath the lowest part of that person you're serving.
And on the contrary, it is an absolute power trip from the perspective of the person being worshipped. I first discovered this whole scene by accident when I was fifteen. There was this wimpy fag named Trevor who lived next door to me. He used to have to walk by our house every morning on his way to school. You could tell just by the way he walked that he was a wuss. He always looked straight down at the sidewalk in front of him, like he was afraid to hold his head up.
One day I stepped out in front of him, just to startle him. He hadn't even seen me coming and ended up slamming right into me. When he did, he dropped everything he was holding, including his brown paper bag lunch. When it hit the pavement, a chocolate pudding broke out of the bag and burst all over the sidewalk. A little bit of it splattered onto my new pair of Nike Shox. Obviously I was pissed.
Trevor just stood there terrified, and started apologizing. He dropped down to his knees and began picking up his books and lunch.
"You stupid faggot!" I yelled. "Why don't you watch where the fuck you're goin!"
"I'm so sorry. really, I'm sorry Derek."
"Look at my fuckin shoes!" I screamed. "You moron! These are brand new too. This shit is messed up! You fuckin got your shit all over my goddamn shoes!"
"I'm sorry Derek," he whined. "I. um. I'll run home and get a cloth or. um.a napkin or something. I'll ."
"Shut up, fag!" I yelled. "I don't have time for this shit. Just clean your shit off my shoe."
He looked up at me confused, not seeming to understand.
"You heard me! Clean em up!"
Timidly he then reached over and tried to wipe the streak of chocolate off the top of my sneaker. Of course he succeeded only in smearing it worse than it was to begin with. "You dumb fuck," I said, "you just made it worse. If you don't get that shit off my shoes I'm gonna personally kick your faggot ass!"
"Can I go get a towel or something?" he pleaded.
"No bitch! I said I don't have time. Just get em clean! Use your tongue."
"What?" he asked, shocked by the mere suggestion.
"I said, use your faggot tongue. Lick your shitty pudding off my shoe before I have to make you do it."
Trevor looked around nervously to make sure no one was watching. Then quickly he bent his head forward and lapped his tongue across the brown streak on my white sneaker. "Again!" I said, staring down at him. "Make sure it's all completely off of there. And check the other one too."
Trevor obeyed my every word, and when he was done I shoved him backwards onto the ground. I stood over him and placed my newly shined shoe on top of his chest just below his chin. "You're pathetic," I said sternly. I stepped down on him, pressing about half my weight into his wimpy little chest. He gasped as I stood there towering over him. "Next time something like this happens I'm gonna kick your ass." Then I spat into his face.
After this incident I incorporated some sort of foot worship in almost every situation where I dominated a fag. There were many times when I made fags kiss my feet publicly in front of my friends. Their reactions of shock and disgust only added to the humiliation. In every case, my friends laughed at the fag while it pathetically knelt there kissing my shoes.
I was seventeen the first time I let a fag actually worship my bare feet. The pathetic faggot was not some school kid either. He was like thirty years old. I'd met him on the Internet and at first I didn't even know he was a fag. When I found out, I lied to him about my age. I said I was 20. When he started talking about foot worshiping I knew he was one sick fuck. He offered to pay me to see my feet on webcam.
At that time I didn't have Paypal or anything. I told him he was sick and to get the fuck away from me. But then I got to thinking about it. I sent him a private message, informing him that if he wanted to drive up to my town and rent a hotel room, I'd let him worship my feet for a fee. I told him I wanted two hundred bucks. Can you believe that he actually agreed to it?
That faggot bastard drove for a hundred fifty miles just to lick the soles of my feet. Then he paid me 200 bucks and bought me a case of beer. The whole time we were together I insulted him and called him a faggot and a bitch. I made him take off my sweaty socks and lick between my toes. I hadn't showered since the morning before-like 20 some hours previously. I just leaned back in a comfortable chair with my beer in hand watching the hotel room TV while he licked on my feet.
It was this fag who told me about Paypal and what a cash Master was.
I guess it's logical that if fags are obsessed with superior jock feet, then they also would be into shoes. Again, I think that this whole obsession goes beyond a perverted fetish. True, it seems to excite these homos when they actually are given the privilege of worshipping a real man's feet. Their little dicks get all hard and they start to tremble. Sometimes I have to slap em upside the head to remind them to quit touching themselves and concentrate on their job-cleaning my sweaty feet.
I think there are a lot of people who don't care much about what kind of shoes they're wearing, but in my case it's all about status. Maybe it's a jock thing, but I've always had to have the best, most expensive shoes. I've always believed that you can tell a lot about a person and how they view themselves by the shoes they're wearing. If you are content in some old grubby pair of knock-off Wal-Mart sneakers, then you can't really think too much of yourself.
When I was a kid, I was always one of the first, if not THE first to get the newest and hottest sneakers on the market. Being the leader that I am, I guess it didn't matter much. No matter what kind of shoes I decided to buy would result in a new trend. If the most emulated and idolized jock in school is wearing something, pretty soon everyone else will start copying him. Such is life.
So I've always owned a lot of shoes. I have so many different kinds and styles that I don't have to wear any of them too long, so none of em seem to ever get worn out. If I do particularly prefer a specific style, I'll get myself two or three pair. The cool thing about it is that I almost never spend a single dime of my own money on em.
Back when I was in school my parents bought all my clothes, including my shoes. By the time I started college I already was raking in enough fag tax to get whatever I wanted. Eventually I decided that my shoes really should be an expense separate from my fag tax income. Why should I have to use this money that I am entitled to for shoes? My superior feet deserve to slide into the best, most-expensive shoes on the market, and I shouldn't have to use my own money to pay for them, especially when I have a bunch of fags working hard to please me.
The Internet is a pretty handy tool when it comes to this sort of thing. Whoever it was who came up with the idea for the Amazon wishlist was a genius. Bet it was a superior jock like me. The way it works is that when I'm in the mood for some new shoes (or anything really) I just log into my Amazon account. I go shopping, scrolling through page after page of items. I simply flag the items I want and they're added to my wishlist.
All that is left is to get a fag to buy the items. Then the items are shipped directly to me at no cost to me whatsoever. The faggot even has to pay the shipping costs. The other cool thing about it is that my account is set up to give me complete anonymity. The faggot never sees my address or my full name unless I authorize it. So when I start talking to fags online, I can order them to buy me shit and not have to worry that they're gonna become so obsessed with me that they start to invade my privacy.
At this point I have a closet full of shoes. Hundreds of pairs of Nikes, Converse, Etnies, Dr. Martens, Adidas, Reebok, Puma, you-name it-some of them are still in their original boxes. I've got sneakers, boots, dress shoes, oxfords, sandals, and the list goes on. If you added up the total value of my shoe collection I'm sure it would be in the tens of thousands of dollars.
The other cool thing about being who I am is that my shoes never depreciate in value. In fact, simply by sliding my feet into them, it doubles, triples, or even quadruples their value. After I start to get tired of a particular pair of shoes, I put em up for sale. There are all these stupid faggots out there, often the same fags who bought the shoes for me in the first place, who are just fuckin dying to buy them off me.
Who knows what these cunts do with my used sneakers once they get em. Probably sniff and lick em while they jack off. One bitch told me that he actually sleeps with a pair of my used Nikes. Just goes to show you how pathetic these fags really are. I think the fag bought that pair of sneaks for me to begin with for about 170 bucks. After I'd worn em for a couple months I sold em back to him for $350. Cha ching!
During my freshman year of college there was a faggot who lived a couple doors down from me in the dorm. I only was in that dorm for one semester. After that I moved into my own apartment, funded of course by fags. This fag's name was Terry, and he still serves me to this day, eight years later. At the time I lived in the dorm Terry was a senior. After he graduated from college he continued his education and got a master's degree (how ironic, huh?). He's now a social worker or some shit like that.
Terry is this incredibly geeky-looking fag. He reminds me of Bill Gates. He's about six feet tall and only weighs about 115 lbs. He wears big, dorky glasses and cheap polyester pants. He also always wears dress shirts that I think he irons himself-- always plain, solid colors and always kept tucked in.
Of course I knew immediately when I saw him the first time that he was a lowlife. Everything about him conveyed inferiority. We ran into each other one day in the hall when I was just getting back from one of my classes. He just stood there staring at me and so I told him to come in. He started mumbling something, but I ignored him and just walked in my room leaving the door open behind me. I knew that he'd follow.
Once he was inside I stepped behind him and closed the door. "Look," I said, "I'm not gonna waste any time playin games. We both know you're a fag. We both know you fantasize about serving and obeying a jock like me. So how do you wanna start?"
Terry's mouth dropped open. "Um. I'm sorry. I don't know what you're. um what you mean.look.um. I'm gonna just leave.."
As he stepped towards the door I moved in front of him. "I'm not done talking to you bitch," I said. He froze, immediately dropping his head to look down at my feet. "Yeah," I said, "look at em. Size 12. You should be on your knees kissin em."
Terry stepped back, his face turning beet red. "You. um.are you comin onto me or something?"
Instantly I cuffed the bitch upside the head. "I'm not a fag! Can't you tell that just by lookin at me? Why the fuck would I be comin onto you?"
He was shocked, just like any other bitch I've ever hit. He was too stunned to even move. For a second I thought he was gonna start crying. Now this is the point where it becomes most obvious that a fag like this is truly inferior. If another guy were to suddenly deck me, I'd react immediately. I'd fuckin beat the bastard to within an inch of his life. But when you slap a fag their reaction is completely the opposite. Instead of reacting in a defensive manner, the wuss did what every faggot does. He apologized to me.
"I'm sorry.um. I didn't mean anything. I. um.I just didn't."
"Shut up!" I said. "Like I said, I don't have time for games. You've got a choice here. This ain't high school. I'm giving you the opportunity of your dreams here, and you have only one chance to take it. If you're ready to admit who you are and begin serving me, get on your knees and crawl over to that chair. If not, then get the fuck out. I gotta take a piss. If you're still here when I come back you'd better not be standing."
I then turned and walked into the bathroom. As I stood there draining my vein I listened for the door to see if he'd left. After a few seconds I did hear the door open and close. It surprised me a little, cuz I was pretty sure I'd nailed the fucker. It was no skin off my ass though. Maybe the pussy was still in denial about who he was.
I was still zipping up when I walked back out into my dorm room. There he was, kneeling in the middle of the floor, facing my recliner. "Thought you'd left, bitch" I said. "I heard the door close."
"Um.I don't even know your name.I was gonna. but-"
"But you changed your mind. You realized that what I said was true. You're a fag."
He nodded, looking down at the floor shamefully.
"My name's Derek, but you'll be calling me Sir. Got it?" Again he nodded. "Huh?" I said. "Can't hear you!"
"Um. yes. yes sir," he said quietly.
"Good. Now let's talk about the rules." I walked over and sat in the chair in front of him. "Push that crate over here, bitch. I need a stool. Now I'm gonna let you have the privilege of serving my superior jock feet, but it's a privilege that isn't free. You're gonna be payin me a tax. First payment was due five minutes ago when you walked through my door."
He looked up at me wide eyed. "Um. how much. um.sir?"
I couldn't help myself. I laughed. "Fuck! You are really such a fag." He just looked so pathetic there on his knees and his voice was so whiney. "Hmm. I think we'll start with fifty bucks a week. Plus you'll be doing everything I say."
"I don't know." he whimpered. "I um. I don't make very much money right now."
"Where do you work?" I demanded.
"I'm a. um.a waiter. I work at Applebees."
"Shiiit! Fifty bucks is nothin. You oughta be able to rake in that much in one night. Price just went up to seventy- five."
Then just like with Scottie all those years ago in the sixth grade, the fag actually surprised me. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Shakily he handed over eighty bucks to me. Apparently he didn't have exact change. Of course, once it was in my hand, the entire amount was mine forever. Then the bitch knelt there and licked the soles of my sweaty feet for the next half hour while I watched TV. Of course, I made the fag crawl over to my fridge to get me a soda, but other than that, his tongue never left the bottom of my feet.
In the months that followed, that cunt spent a good deal of time on its knees. I came to enjoy not only the feel of the warm tongue lapping the sweat, dirt and toe jam off my feet, but also the rush of power I felt when he forked over his hard earned money to me, his master.