You've spent days imagining the moment. Your cashmaster wrote you two words: "You're coming today." There's no negotiation. You arrive at his apartment with a full wallet and your head hung low, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb the stairs. When the door opens, there's no greeting: he throws a pair of sweat-drenched socks in your face, the smell so strong it clouds your vision. No time to protest. "Get on the floor, pig." You crawl like a beast, sniffing his dirty shoes, full of dust and marks from being kicked against the asphalt. He makes you kiss every crevice, every sole, as his laughter echoes above.

Without letting you get up, he rips the wallet from your hand, pulls out the bills one by one, looking you in the eye, throws them in your face, and then puts them in his pants. He spits on your forehead, the saliva slides towards your eyes. "You don't need money, just my contempt. Today you're my bank and nothing more."

You're not alone: his friends are sitting on the couch, beer in hand, laughing at the sight of you so debased. The cashmaster leans on the table, takes off his shoes, and plants his sweaty foot on your face. "Breathe deeply, I have something for you." He brings a popper bottle closer and orders you to inhale while he steps on you with increasing force. You're just his doormat. The popper goes to your head, everything spins, and at that moment, he jams the sole of his foot into your mouth, pushing you to lick it nonstop.

One of his friends approaches, pulls out a bag of cocaine, and sprinkles the white powder on the sole of the cashmaster's shoe. "Let's see if you dare to sniff from here, faggot," they say amidst laughter. The laughter mixes with screams and insults. You grab the shoe and, with your humiliated nose, sniff the line of cocaine directly from his sweaty foot, swallowing dust, dirt, and residue stuck to the skin. The rush is immediate, total chemical and physical submission.

They put you on all fours, surround you, each one rubbing their shoes on your face, forcing you to suck the soles full of shit. They use you as a doormat and a bank at the same time. The cashmaster orders you to open your mouth, pulls out his cock, and starts pissing directly into it, while his friends applaud and record you with their phones. The stream of urine fills your mouth, throat, drips down your chin, and soaks your t-shirt. You can't pull away, only swallow as you choke on your own misery.

When he finishes, they grab your hair and make you clean their dirty, blackened nails, full of residue, with your tongue. The bitter taste mixes with sweat and urine. They spit on you, insult you, call you a bank, trash, useless, a dragged faggot. The cashmaster counts the money you've given him in front of everyone, waves it in your face, and throws it back at your feet. "Everything you earn, I keep. You're my personal ATM."

As a finale, they write on your forehead with a thick marker:...