Faggot Humiliation

Master Santana Loves Faggot Humiliation

It’s morning and I fancy a latte before heading to the office. I’m strolling leisurely in Mayfair, London. It’s a pleasant day. I’m dressed in my usual black bespoke tailored suit, white slim fit shirt. My shirt hugs my rippling muscles perfectly, and I love the way it feels on me. My aviator glasses sit just where my shirt opens at the top to reveal some upper chest muscle. My tanned smooth chest feels great under this shirt, I worked for this body, and the ladies love it. I walk into the café and inside the fresh brewed coffee aroma wafts in the air. It’s packed and full of chatter.

Faggot Humiliation And A Latte

I scan my phone for work emails as I stand against the wall, waiting for my latte to be delivered to me by the pretty girl behind the counter.  As I gaze up my eyes land on you  faggot. I can smell a lamb from miles away. The first thoughts that come to mind are: what can I get this little lamb to do for me, I know this faggot has seen me, or shall I just ignore it... hmmm I wonder. I look upon the faggot again, pathetic excuse for a man. I am disgusted just to look at you. Why do men, sorry I meant faggots like you even exist, whats natures purpose for you, other than to serve men like me? Perhaps that is your entire purpose, and as I think upon this, my mind wonders back over all the faggots I have used and trained and taken advantage off over the years. 

You glance back at me again... puta madre... what are you looking at faggot, you stare, so I walk over to you, give you a menacing look and knowing all the thoughts shooting through your mind, I tell you to pay for my latte and then bring it outside. I walk out and take a seat. 

I feel the urge to oppress you and take advantage, exert power and control over your weak flesh, so I stare at you when you arrive to the table with my latte. My nostrils are flared and I can see you shrinking just looking at my imposing and oppressive frame.

Unbutton your trousers bitch. Push them half down, hahaha… the cool freezing aircon is biting your scally skin, isn’t it? It is torture for you? Stupid whore. Why are you still breathing, I wonder?  

Next, get down on all fours and lick the spot in front of you. Do it fast, otherwise Master Santana’s black Italian leather brogues are coming out to play. Or do you want a permanent mark as a reminder of our encounter, bitch? You are so pathetic faggot. Keep doing it. It’s entertaining from where I am standing. 

Now, stop. Get up and push your trousers up, but make sure you do not pollute the air with any toxic gas coming from your culo, motherfucker.  

As you are standing now still, Master Santana turns around and leaves you. You are shaking like a leaf and your knees are trembling so hard that you have to lean into the near wall to stabilize your useless body. 

Until the next time faggot.