The Devotion of the Worm
My transformation into the ‘worm’ was complete, and there was no turning back. I was utterly captivated by Jordan. It wasn’t just a fear of him; it was the raw power and authority he wielded over me. His dominance had become a drug, a necessity for my very breath. I found myself addicted to his commands, craving the security that came with being entirely under his thumb.
My obsession extended to his feet. I could no longer conceive of my existence without the opportunity to adore them with a devotion that eclipsed everything else. Jordan was nearly three years younger than I, yet he possessed a decisive, commanding nature that demanded total servility. I rendered a silent cult to him, happy to be lowered in status not only before him but before his small circle of friends.
Jordan had granted the other boys power over me, allowing them to use me for their amusement and punish me whenever they felt the urge. He had set only one condition: they could slap me or kick my backside, but any other punishment required his explicit permission. I was grateful for this small mercy, seeing it as a sign of his ownership. I became the primary object of diversion for these sadistic youths, who grew increasingly creative in their methods of humiliation.
One afternoon in the shelter, Jordan ordered me to buy sweets. When I returned, I dutifully knelt to lick Jordan’s feet while the others gorged themselves. Wil, laughing with cruelty, suggested that the ‘worm’ must be hungry. Jordan pushed me toward Wil, who ordered me to kneel. Wil chewed a piece of cake slowly, his eyes filled with mockery, before spitting the masticated mass directly into my open mouth.
Disgusted, I spat the mess onto the floor. This was a mistake. Wil’s face twisted in fury, and he delivered two sharp slaps to my face. I looked to Jordan for clemency, but my master only shouted for me to obey or face a beating. With tears of humiliation in my eyes, I leaned down and licked the cake, mixed with saliva and dust, from the floor. This sparked a chain reaction; Andy and Philip followed suit, forcing me to clean the floor with my tongue.
To finish the ordeal, Jordan spat a thick, greenish glob onto the mess and commanded me to swallow it. I did so with total docility, sobbing as the others erupted in laughter. The game evolved into ‘the little fool.’ I had to crawl on all fours, attempting to retrieve a ball of cake and dust with my lips while the boys kicked it between them. I was forced to lick their sweaty, rough feet to beg for the prize, eventually swallowing the filth from the sole of Wil’s foot.
The final humiliation came when Jordan offered me a drink to soothe my dry tongue. He poured a small amount of soda into a glass, but before I could drink, he added a thick glob of phlegm. He then forced me to beg Wil, Philip, and Andy to ‘improve’ my drink with their own saliva. Finally, Jordan stood over me, unzipped his jeans, and filled the remainder of the glass with a warm stream of urine.
“Now your drink is ready, worm,” he mocked. “Drink every drop.”
Hiccuping with sobs, I swallowed the viscous, warm mixture. I drank until the glass was empty, fighting the urge to vomit out of terror of Jordan’s wrath. Despite the horror, the admiration I felt for Jordan’s authority kept me bound. I remained his most rendered and docile slave, finding a dark, twisted peace in my absolute submission.