The Rise of Scally God

Author's Note

This is a story of Karl, an unkempt, uncouth teen "scally" White lad and his cultivated and sophisticated but willing, mature Pakistani slave, Gulzar, centred around one November night, 2018 in the British city of Birmingham. The master-slave relationship they both enjoy is consensual and mutually respectful. How they engage with each other in "play" is not how they would conduct themselves in the wider society.

The interracial domination aspect is part of their shared fantasy and here the purpose is to share some of the erotic experiences they gain together. It is in no way intended to hurt the feelings of, insult or belittle any group of people.

It is with some regret I feel the need to explicitly say this, The Rise of Scally God is an erotic fictional story of interracial domination, written in the format of an autobiographical account, nothing more or less than that. If the theme is not in keeping with any reader's sensitivities, please read other material that is more in line with your taste.

Neither is this a story of mainstream sexual fantasy (if there is such a thing), the theme here will interest those who want the everyday "real life" niche stuff of the world of some of those who, otherwise successful and thriving in their everyday life, submit and surrender to the dominant demeanour of others and of the mentally strong and determined young men who delight in having complaint slaves under their feet.

Just so readers are aware before they commit their time, bare feet domination and a strong raceplay theme feature prominently in the story. Large sections of the story seek to provide detailed background to the main character, Karl. The erotic aspects of it are interspersed in and against the backdrop of the overall narrative rather than brazenly scattered everywhere.

Readers are urged to note, the entire text of the story is Karl himself speaking, not only where his direct speech or thoughts are quoted, so the style of language and attitudes expressed in it are to be seen as his personal views.

The sections of the story written in italics font between brackets are Karl providing supplementary background information. While this enriches the story, particularly for first-time readers, it is not strictly required to follow the flow of the story. Readers preferring brevity may skip these sections.

The story is told from Karl's perspective. As a consequence, the reader gains a much deeper insight into the drivers behind his mind while Gulzar is very deliberately relegated to a minor cardboard cut-out role. This is also done to, subtly, further highlight the importance of the superior male, Master Karl while diminishing the role of the story's inferior male, Slave Gulzar.

Depending on feedback and demand, there remains the possibility of a follow-up novella where Gulzar expresses his side of the story and takes the centre stage but the story as told and as it is, with Karl the undisputed superior male, cannot and will not change. (Karl has no concept of "switch").

Any follow-up story will just be an account of the build-up to and an unfolding of the night's events as seen through Gulzar's eyes...... or rather, as much as the young scally stud Karl's power-hungry, insatiable bare feet permit Gulzar's eyes to see past the splayed-out toes as they the crush to insignificance his face................

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Prologue

The weather is far bleaker than I had hoped for. It would've done no harm to have checked the forecast and rescheduled tonight's meet-up outdoors. Heavy rain lashed down, creating puddles all over the long-neglected, narrow side road. The odd flash of lightening the only time I catch a brief clear glimpse of the surrounding environment in this otherwise poorly lit, derelict industrial estate situated between Aldridge and Brownhills in the northern reaches of Greater Birmingham.

Unable to smoke unsheltered in the downpour, my only recourse to nicotine is a mouth full of chewing tobacco. Each time I gather up a large glob of saliva, I spit it out onto the street, adding to its general wetness in my own small, insignificant way. Nicotine and alcohol are hardly consistent with the lifestyle of an aspiring young martial arts instructor but I find it hard to do a clean break from some of my most-loved pleasures.

As is often the case with me, I'm inadequately clothed to fend my small, slim boyish body against the November evening chill. A single layer to protect my upper body, an old worn-out grey Nike hoodie top and one of my only two Umbro track bottoms, both items of clothing completely soaked through, clinging to my body. Footwear is nothing more suitable for the weather than a pair of borrowed, undersized, fit for the scrap heap, red Adidas trainers stretched over a pair of once-white ankle socks, both holed at the heels and toes, which have now become drenched and heavy with the water. If anything, my feet are colder with my socks on.

I kick off my trainers and socks. I'm a barefoot boy by nature anyway, it is how I am most comfortable. It is how I feel free and ready for action, ready to take on any challenge life throws at me. Now I stand waiting barefoot on the hard, wet, uneven concrete pavement, close to a field of overgrown bushes outlining the perimeter of a deserted plastic injection moulding factory's carpark. There is no CCTV coverage in this spot of the street.

My Casio watch shows 23:40. Very late and pitch-black dark. But then again, it is not without reason I had carefully chosen this time and place. A secluded, quiet spot, late at night, almost deserted but with enough potential to give me a few spectators for the planned performance.

A time and place where anything-goes and passers-by, if they dare to be on foot at all, do not intervene in others' business or are otherwise busy driving to their place of work in time for the midnight shift change. The eminent Dr Gulzar Asfand Khan should be here within 5 minutes. He is a disciplined, punctual man at the best of times but when under my express orders he knows better than to disappoint.

* * * * * * * *

Twin light beams eventually pierce through the darkness, getting ever brighter as the car moves along the road towards me. I can already make out the shape of Gulzar's Volvo XC90 at hundred or so meters due to its gleaming crystal white paintwork. It comes to a smooth, gentle stop alongside me.

Gulzar steps out of the car, heavy rain pattering and as quickly flowing off his glistening shaved head. I beckon the tall, sturdy, Cambridge PhD graduate towards the bushes, close to the only working street light so we will be easier to spot. He follows until we are a safe distance from the roadside but at the same time deliberately in clear view of drivers passing by.

No time to waste. I instruct the PhD engineering doctor to remove his shoes and strip off his shirt and trousers to reveal his wife Foziah's black frilly knickers, stockings and suspenders stretched over his hairy brown legs. I had ordered him to be dressed to impress. I catch his ankle with my small bare foot and drop him to his knees.

From the plastic bag I'm carrying I pull out an eBay "make an offer", cheap £4, used blond wig, dripping wet and clumpy, and unceremoniously plop it onto Gulzar's head, completing his blond bimbo look. I have converted Gulzar from a "him" to a "she". Positioning her with her back to the road so onlookers have a clear view of the slut's frilly-knickered brown ass, I stand legs apart, hands on hips in front of the kneeling bitch.

I lightly tap my small, bare scally feet. The trained dog responds. She leans further forward and places a paw each on the tops of her scally god's bare feet, rubbing them, warming them. I drop down my track bottoms just enough to release my raging hard 8.5" White weapon of control and domination.

I issue a one-word instruction, "Suck!" The slut awkwardly reaches up with her head, paws still resting on my bare feet, takes my Gypsy scally cock like a starving whore. I'm invading her mouth, destroying the last remnants of her pride and dignity. She never once takes her hands off my scally feet. I stand akimbo, relaxed, at ease with my conquest.

"Suck that scally fucking dick, Paki bitch! Worship it like the devout Muslim whore you are," I tell her, grabbing a large knot of blond hair to shove her mouth in harder against my cock, "Gypsy Karl is your one and only true God now. Scally Cock and Feet your new religion."

Without a word, she continues to suck the steel rod that is reducing her to a worthless piece of shit, humiliated and de-Islamized by a small, scruffy 18-year-old scally, council-estate atheist Gypsy boy. She lovingly grasps and rubs my bare Gypsy feet all the time while sucking cock, acknowledging her inferiority.

I count no less than twenty cars drive by, with at least half of them slowing down to a near stop to witness the live street show before driving on. Several mobile camera flashes have also been observed. This public display of my Gypsy scally power hardens my cock even more. I reach for my own stolen mobile and after taking a few pics, shielding it from the rain under the plastic bag, browse the free porn site where I have exposed Gulzar's Muslim wife and daughter under the "Interracial" category, his old fucking mother under "Trampy Granny" category and both his young adult sons under "Gay" category.

Soon enough, sure enough, what felt like gallons of Gypsy cum discharge deep into the married mouth of the warrior-tribe Pakistani, a mouth I have reduced to my cum-receptacle cunt, a urinal. The blond bimbo does not need to swallow much, most of the hot cum I have already jetted down under high pressure to line and warm her stomach and throat. I pull out and wipe clean my tip across her wide forehead. I then wipe my dirty, wet bare right sole all over her face. I repeat with my dirty, wet bare left sole. Her face is beautifully smudged over.

Just to finish off with one final mark of respect, I gather up a huge glob of tobacco and saliva, take aim and shoot it on-target onto the middle of the whore's forehead, letting gravity and rain do the rest. Mission accomplished.

"Leave!" I issue the command. She gets up to leave. As she reaches for her trousers, I place my bare left foot on it, denying it to her.

"Walk to the car with stockings, panties in full view, slut. Wiggle your hips back and forth. Give me your best slutty walk," I instruct her, "I want to see those brown desi buttocks jiggle -- show me what you got, whore."

She starts to walk with a teasing wobble of the buttocks in full view of several grubby Lithuanian truckers who have pulled up and braved the rain for an unhindered view. I kick up my right leg and hook bare toes under her knickers from the right buttock side, sliding the foot in one smooth, slick move, twist and yank off her panties, ripping them. In the process I smear her right buttock, giving it a nice, grimy, elongated footprint. The jolt she received with the sharp tug of her panties has caused the wig to slip.

Her buttocks and hairy crack, getting pelted by rain, are now fully exposed for the viewing pleasure of the small audience. The blond wig shifted to one side, held down in wet clumps, clinging to her tobacco and spit covered face. A pathetic, pitiful sight. The excited, horny truckers, all seven of them now, wolf-whistling, yelling and applauding, follow and video her all the way to the car.

I pick up my water-filled trainers, aiming, hurl one of them, on-target again, catching her hairy crack. Smack! She looks back just in time to catch the other across the brow, knocking her wig off and water from it washing down her face. She finally slips into her car and drives off, stripped and fucked, face covered in cum, foot-dirt, spit and tobacco.

I remove the dick-slut's wallet from the trousers, count the cash. £1,000 in £50 bills as instructed. Picking up Gulzar's shirt, I make my way back barefoot to where my best buddy Neil had been instructed to wait in his car. Drying (not a lot with a wet fucking shirt) and wiping worst of the grime under my bare soles with the shirt, I step into the front passenger side of Neil's car, discarding the shirt on the roadside.

I give Neil £50 and thank him. £950 net income for me and my mum. Not exactly a sum doing justice to god's scally cock and feet but then, to be fair, no amount ever could do justice. Still, not at all bad for ten minutes of compassionately feeding two full ball-loads of my hot, tasty cum to a hungry, shivering woman, getting my fucking feet massaged and warmed up out in the cold. Give and take, that's what it's all about, the golden principle by which I live my life.

* * * * * * * *

Neil races his impeccably-maintained, classic 1978 red VW Golf with dark-tinted window home towards Handsworth, taking the slightly longer route via Aldridge Road under my instructions. I reach back to the rear seat, grab Neil's favourite Ted Baker cosy fleece top and wipe dry my wet body with it after removing my hoodie, passing the towel-like fleece under my arms, down my track bottoms to dry that annoying, damp and itchy crotch area.

Finally, I properly dry and wipe clean my dirty, wet feet with Neil's handy fleece. Nice, dry and clean soles. Now we're in business. I guess Neil's not exactly too happy but fuck him, he's just earned £50 cash-in-hand for a little over an hour's round drive and max £10 worth of fuel.

I wind down the window to spit out the last of the lingering tobacco taste. Spreading Neil's dampened fleece onto the dash, I slide back my seat to get comfortable and kick up my cold, still slightly damp bare feet onto the now nicely cushioned dash of Neil's car to get them fully dry and warm.

"Music!" I shout and snap my fingers. Neil responds. The car fills with deafening death metal music -- Intent to Kill by the Danish band, Dawn of Demise. I help myself to one of Neil's cigarettes, he holds his lighter ready for me. I lean back, clasp hands behind the head, inhale long and deep on the cigarette, blow out smoke rings, tapping, hammering rather, bare feet on the dash to the rhythm of drum beats. Pure bliss. Casio time check -- 00:10. We would be home by 00:35 at the latest.

* * * * * * * *

Barely ten months ago I and Gulzar were nothing more than good friends and martial arts training partners. Our friendship was marked by but not at all affected by the thirty-year age difference. Why did I let it come down to this? How did I succeed in making an enviable, near 50-year-old, Cambridge-educated, tall and strong, proud Pashtun married family man, a born-warrior by tribal descent with a career, wealth, good looks and status get caught in my poor, jobless Gypsy scally, teen boy's barefoot trap and lose it all, become my dicksucking, foot-worshipping little pay-pig slave girl?

Why and How I made it happen I do not particularly fucking give a shit. That I made it happen is all that fucking matters to me because Dr Gulzar Asfand Khan's loss and fall under my powerful Gypsy foot is my gain, my rise...... The Rise of Scally God!

1: The Making of Hard Scally Lad

Growing up in a broken family home, a tiny 2-bedroom ground-floor flat in one of Birmingham city's most neglected, roughest council estates, a lone child raised by my single mother, I had always felt the full weight of the entire world on my small shoulders since my earliest memories.

I'm a young man of what to some would appear to be a shameful pedigree but it's a source of limitless pride to me. My maternal grandmother was, like my mum, a prostitute working all over the rougher streets of Liverpool. She became pregnant with my mum, "Slut Sarah" after a night of unguarded sex with an Irish Gypsy bare-knuckle boxer. The Irish fighter was camped out nearby at the time. He had come to Liverpool just for the night's fight and after winning it, my grandmother was his celebratory fuck. After that night he was never seen again. Even his name is not known.

On my paternal side, I have my trucker Italian dad, Lorenzo. From what I have learnt from my mum, though she is not too sure of the smaller details herself, my dad was not full-blood Italian. His mother was a Romanian Gypsy who along with her parents had moved to Italy seeking a better life after spending her earlier years as a toilet cleaner at Romania's main international airport north of Bucharest.

So, there you have it -- by descent, I have the English/Irish/Romanian/Italian blood of Gypsies and prostitutes, of a bare-knuckle boxer, a trucker and a toilet cleaner. Born in Liverpool, raised in Birmingham -- a Liverpudlian scally, a Brummie chav, a ruthless street fighter and damn fucking proud of who I am and my background.

I rarely address my mother as "mum", preferring instead to affectionately call her "Slut Sarah" and far from angering her, she seems to take some kind of pride and twisted pleasure from it, not least when I do it in front of and encourage my local, fellow working-class youth buddies to address her by the same name. She is now widely known as Slut Sarah. The name I gave her has stuck. It suits her too.

Slut Sarah was born and raised in the slummy Kirkdale district of Liverpool. I have inherited her strong Scouse accent and identify myself primarily (but not exclusively) as a Liverpudlian. A true scally lad, a real hard young kid of quality British steel, physically and mentally forged in to shape by the hammer of some of England's toughest criminal gangs, in the furnace of some of the country's most forbidding no-go zones.

Never in my life did I ever have the concept of "Dad". To me, my mum alone was "the parent". Slut Sarah was both my mum and my dad. What little time she could spare for me from her hectic schedule, I went cycling with her, had fun fights with her, we played video games together. I learnt the basics of home DIY from her and later, as a young adult, she taught me some advanced sex techniques. (Yeah, you've guessed it right, with tons of practical exercises.)

Regardless, as tough a young man I am, I do at times feel this void, this something missing. I can't quite put my finger on it but there is this emptiness, a longing for a father figure, an older male buddy to talk to, to be partners in crime with.

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I love Slut Sarah to bits and would never blame her given her situation but in all honesty, I was dragged up, not raised up. So, if any readers find my mannerisms lacking refinement, please forgive me. The positive aspect of this unprivileged upbringing has been I learned to be independent and strong at a much younger age.

Despite my boyish, innocent look I easily punch (and kick for that matter) way above my weight, both literally in karate, taekwondo and kickboxing but also the confident manner in which I engage with people who are "above my social class" or are much older than me.

Despite my poverty, small stature and lack of education, I have never once envied the majority of youth in my life who all seemed to have more money, better clothes, better lifestyle than me. So, whenever someone "superior" looks down their nose at me (and God, I can never list the hundreds who do), the only emotion I ever feel is anger, never dismay or depression. I am second to nobody.