A new master emerged, his aura undeniable. This badmasterboy was ready to play.
No words were needed. The slave instinctively fell, his identity erased beneath a hand, ready to serve.
The alpha boy presented his feet-smooth, powerful. A silent command for worship.
With eager reverence, the slave licked the soles, each stroke a testament to his surrender.
But the master craved more. A cascade of spit followed, a mark of true ownership. This was BAD MASTERS 13.
The British master settled back, observing his work. The slave remained kneeling, utterly bound.
The master-s foot found its mark, pressing firmly against the slave-s face-a heavy, undeniable weight.
With a final glance, the badmasterboy confirmed his absolute reign. His slaves were truly his.
