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NEW: Artwork of characters can be found >>HERE<<
PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Boot Camp Boot Licker Part 02
Synopsis: After a submissive stoat is dared by his fellow boot camp recruits to sneak into the husky drill instructor’s barracks at night, he falls fast in love with the sleeping instructor’s paws and risks everything to secretly worship them. But will he get away with it?
Disclaimer:
–Paw Worship
–Musk/Filth/Sweat
–Unaware/Asleep
–Stoat Sub
–Husky Dog Dom
The office is decorated with more authority than the drill instructor’s own sleeping quarters. Here there is abundant varnish and value to all the wooden furniture, decorated to Garret’s expensive liking. Upon entering the room the canine first unlaces his boots and drags them off his tired, sweat-soaked legs thumping them down on the floor in the corner where they are left to steam and ventilate. Heady is the stench from a long and active day in the campsite; a stench like matured oily cheddar and burnt cardboard. Garret does little more than abandon the boots, knowing that Peter has meekly entered the room behind him eyeing the boots like a thief eyes a museum jewel. He had stood in the doorway hiding behind the frame, watching the husky bare his paws from the footwear. His nose had automatically started sniffing the staleness risen in the air. Now Peter watches in silent sheepishness while Garret moves the office desk far forward granting ample space behind it to fit both him and his foot-crazed stoat. A large swivel armchair with a matching footrest is then occupied by Garret, who nestles in for a long comfortable sit. In all this preparation the stoat’s eyes dart between the musk misted boots and the now-barefoot drill instructor relaxing across the room. He is summoned in by several demanding finger clicks and it’s easy to obey whenever the husky’s creamy vanilla covered pads are in sight.
“Don’t dawdle. Grab the claw file from my desk drawer and come sit on this footrest in front of me. You’d better give me the best pedicure you can, grunt, or you’ll be gagging on all the foot I can fit down your throat.”
A blushing Peter does as asked, equipping a flat metal file he finds buried under papers and envelopes in one of the drawers. He then approaches this beast of flawless white and brooding black fur and places his still-naked rump on the footrest, sitting a leg stretch’s length away from his instructor who lounges in his swivel chair with cocky grace turned at a slight degree.
The icy stare from Garret is followed by an obnoxious smirk. He rolls his trousers higher up his shins and then slumps back again, lifting both sleek legs with a gentle peeling sound as pads separate from floor. Peter gasps as they drop down into his lap, warming his tender thighs, sliding and grazing forward softly until the two heels are invasively close to his crotch. The sight of them invokes the happy memories made only one night prior, worshipping these same soles blissfully all night long.
Without saying anything the inexperienced enlistee takes hold of a warm, beefy paw in one hand. He clenches his fingers around its generous contours feeling the malleable nature of relaxed foot muscle and damp heated fur. The smell is wafting from here but Peter tries not to let it coax him from duty. He receives a nod from his instructor and starts grooming the toe claws with the nail file, lightly but gradually effectively.
Hot flushes travel his body whenever he tenderly gropes those feet, using the moment as a cheap excuse to fondle Garret’s paw padding and soft fuzzy arch, forcing the toes to spread right under his nose and release hours’ worth of trapped boiled musky vapours. Perfectionism is an alibi for the long duration spent on each claw. Peter would feel guilty not shaping or downsizing the claws to the best possible standard, after all.
The instructor is nestled cosily in his chair gazing on while his hefty heels anchor into Peter’s thigh flesh, who holds his legs steady while he grooms. The pads in all their sumptuous quantity are squashed deep against the palm of his hand too; sharing their rubbery sweaty texture.
Garret tries to throw Peter off his focus by teasing him with quotes of sweet mental imagery. “I know you can smell my boots from here, grunt. The scent really circulates and fills the room fast, doesn’t it? I imagine it must be hell being in the same room as those boots and not being able to shove your face in their hot channels of leather. If you weren’t grooming my claws I bet that’s the first place you’d be… deep in my stinking footwear. You did an okay job licking them clean but don’t be fooled by their relatively spotless exteriors. They don’t reflect the state of the interiors. You can only imagine the savagery my insoles have endured being hammered into shape, forced to form and melt around my paws month after month, year after year; its fabric barely surviving the vicious heat or the bogs of grime and sweat. Fuck. Your nostrils might fuse shut later when I do eventually shove your head inside them.”
Peter covers up a potential moan by clearing his throat. He stays quiet and remains focused but his cheeks burn a brighter tone of red. He can tell that Garret is toying with him but he knows if he stops the pedicure he’ll fail the loyalty test.
Relentlessly the husky keeps at it. “I’m almost glad I let a little paw-loving queer into my grounds, if only so you can do this. My claws needed a trim, they keep tearing through my socks. Not that I can prove it with my latest pair, since you pinched them from my barracks last night.”
Garret fans out his toes making Peter hum softly with arousal. With a non-subliminal smirk Garret says, “You would enjoy them when they get really ripe. Back in my old job I used to go through a pair every month so I never bothered washing them. I just wore them for weeks at a time until they were saturated and sour. After that I chucked them all in the same locker which I called the sock locker; a little project of mine for punishing disrespectful recruits.”
Peter’s intensity grew the more he listened, squeezing the paw in hand running his nimble fingers into those stocky, sweat-marinated pads while filing still. “Th-that must have smelt something fierce, sir.”
“Yep. When you opened the door the smell was like a cheesy salsa burrito fresh out the microwave. It hits you hard. You'd believe me if I’d had the chance to shove you in there for a few hours, confined and breathing nothing but my toxic socks for air."
Pre-cum swells involuntarily at the stoat’s groin but the husky cares little for anything beyond the scope of his own personal needs to notice. He yanks his paw out of Peter’s grip, if only to cross his legs in Peter’s lap so they can tend immediately to the other set of claws. Those on the now released paw are supposedly trimmed fine enough in the husky’s opinion.
Breaching from his timid shell the stoat asks a burning question. “So… uh… did you ever shove anyone in this sock locker?” Mid-sentence Peter gently digs his fingers into the supple cream pads. He monitors his filing speed to keep the claws evenly groomed, too.
“Why else would I get demoted to this run-down boot camp? Pft. Apparently hazing recruits isn’t star conduct for a military superior, but damned if I didn’t enjoy it. It helped me find my niche.”
“What happened?”
“Some punk Dalmatian with wealthy parents joined the training academy and got lippy with me, so I stuffed his mutt mouth with socks one day to shut him up but the wimp kept spitting them out and refused to apologize. That’s not how you address a superior. So I bound my army boot to his face instead with a roll of duct tape and threw him in the sock locker to teach him a lesson. When I finally let him free I saw plenty of dents on the inside since he’d spent the time trying to kick the door open. Too bad all that money to his name couldn’t buy him any real strength!"
Peter listens eagerly, and enviously, but continues to scrub the metal file gently along the claws, dulling the sharp tips and refining their shapes.
Garret continues his story. "The rookie got in a huff. Still wouldn’t apologize. That’s when I made him lick off every paw print on the locker room floor until I broke him down enough to show me some respect. It was hilarious but the general didn’t seem to see the funny side of it when the mutt and his fistful of lawyers filed a report issuing for my demotion a few days later, so, here we are now.”
Nodding quietly, Peter finishes pedicuring the final toe. He breaks eye contact to look down and blow a gentle stream of air across each claw, cleaning away any residue. Eager to hear some form of praise from the instructor who candidly leaves his heavy canine legs resting in Peter’s lap, the stoat looks back up at those piercing blue eyes and asks: “Did I do a good job, sir? Have I impressed you?”
From afar, from leaning back lazily in his swivel armchair, Garret Fords shows little emotion as he stares down his own legs at the tops of his paws, staring at the claws for inspection. After a while he shrugs and replies, “I don’t care. I didn’t order you to trim them because I needed it done, I only wanted to test your commitment to a commanding officer. Loyalty is sometimes everything that matters in my field, and even though you’ve got no other recommendable qualities at least you’ve got loyalty. Since you fail every other category my boot camp tests on its recruits I can’t grade you as the kind of person who grows into a worthy soldier… but that doesn’t mean you can’t ‘serve’ in other ways.”
“F-for example?” Peter asks, feeling a prickle in his nerves when the husky sends back a coy wink.
“For example, that footrest you’re sitting on just doesn’t entertain me enough. I need one that’ll do more than support my feet for hours on end. I need a footrest that licks. Sniffs. Massages. What good is an inanimate mute object when I could replace it with a weakling grunt like you who I can wrestle down and hump all night whenever I’m feeling randy? Unless you’d rather leave this place a lousy loser; no certificate, no honour, no demanding dog like me to serve under. Otherwise you can stay and finally make real use of yourself here, at my feet, and get to lap at my soles while I sleep… with my permission this time. Hell if you really want to commit, maybe on graduation day I’ll confirm just what a lowly slut you are in our ranks by keeping you on a leash, naked up on stage, kissing the boots of all your fellow recruits while they graduate and shake my hand. Can you imagine the humiliation?”
When the tides inside Peter’s mind crash together hissing and foaming in his head he stirs from his hypnotic concentration and feels lightheaded. His tongue is hanging out, panting. The two thick bare husky soles are pressed warmly into his groin and abdomen sealing in his shaft in a sandwich of dense fur, naturally heated, still glazed from a day-long sweat. This physical tether is the only thing convincing the stoat that he isn’t dreaming. His lips feel numb and his fingertips tingle while he wraps his hands around the backs of his drill instructor’s feet and holds them firm into his groin like two lithe pillows.
“So will you do it?” Garret goads, smirking insatiably from his own chair with auburn dusk light showering softly over his head and shoulders from the window behind. “Will you stay on as my uhh… ‘drill instructor’s assistant’ as it’ll look on paper, serving me any which way I command? Or will you leave here a disgraceful nobody and lose your daily access to my boots, socks, soles and cock?”
Slowly his toes curl forward against the orange fur of the stoat’s stomach. The husky’s soles are self-promoting, caressing up and down the stomach passively like soft, pliant clothing irons. It makes it easy to forget who exactly Garret is, and only how recently the two have met, but right now Peter is too lost in foggy stupor to understand anything outside of his own primal lust. He nods, proactively nodding to promise his devotion, and begins to beg for the promised role. “I’ll stay, sir! I never wanted to be a soldier b-but I’ve always wanted to be a soldier’s plaything! I’ll remain here, under you, no matter how many new groups of recruits come and go. Let me lick the tension from your feet at the end of every day and I’ll remain the one constant in this boot camp! Please sir!”
What he receives back is another cock-sure stare from those blue husky eyes, framed in black and white contrasts of fur. Garret scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re too easy, grunt. You’re like weakness served on a silver platter. That’s something I’ve been waiting to have all this while. I’d consider myself lucky that you snuck into my barracks, but I think all the luck falls to you.”
And at long last the pressure from Garret’s soles eases off the stoat’s trapped crotch, as if ready to depart from it fully. “Good,” He simply remarks, sliding his camo-clad legs away from the naked animal and setting his soles down to the office floor with a sticky cushioned impact. He can feel Peter physically shudder as they pull away. The final command Garret has is one that will speak to the stoat’s full future purpose here at the boot camp. He says, and with no shortage of authority, “Get down on the ground, lie at my feet and prove yourself useful. My soles will need a good few hours adjusting to the shape of your face before they find their groove. Later tonight I’m going to think about building a new sock locker when I send you back to your barracks for the night… and I refuse to accept any complaints from a frisky little foot slut like you so be on your best behaviour, grunt! I promise you’ll be compensated plenty.”
THE END
PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Boot Camp Boot Licker Part 02
Synopsis: After a submissive stoat is dared by his fellow boot camp recruits to sneak into the husky drill instructor’s barracks at night, he falls fast in love with the sleeping instructor’s paws and risks everything to secretly worship them. But will he get away with it?
Disclaimer:
–Paw Worship
–Musk/Filth/Sweat
–Unaware/Asleep
–Stoat Sub
–Husky Dog Dom
The office is decorated with more authority than the drill instructor’s own sleeping quarters. Here there is abundant varnish and value to all the wooden furniture, decorated to Garret’s expensive liking. Upon entering the room the canine first unlaces his boots and drags them off his tired, sweat-soaked legs thumping them down on the floor in the corner where they are left to steam and ventilate. Heady is the stench from a long and active day in the campsite; a stench like matured oily cheddar and burnt cardboard. Garret does little more than abandon the boots, knowing that Peter has meekly entered the room behind him eyeing the boots like a thief eyes a museum jewel. He had stood in the doorway hiding behind the frame, watching the husky bare his paws from the footwear. His nose had automatically started sniffing the staleness risen in the air. Now Peter watches in silent sheepishness while Garret moves the office desk far forward granting ample space behind it to fit both him and his foot-crazed stoat. A large swivel armchair with a matching footrest is then occupied by Garret, who nestles in for a long comfortable sit. In all this preparation the stoat’s eyes dart between the musk misted boots and the now-barefoot drill instructor relaxing across the room. He is summoned in by several demanding finger clicks and it’s easy to obey whenever the husky’s creamy vanilla covered pads are in sight.
“Don’t dawdle. Grab the claw file from my desk drawer and come sit on this footrest in front of me. You’d better give me the best pedicure you can, grunt, or you’ll be gagging on all the foot I can fit down your throat.”
A blushing Peter does as asked, equipping a flat metal file he finds buried under papers and envelopes in one of the drawers. He then approaches this beast of flawless white and brooding black fur and places his still-naked rump on the footrest, sitting a leg stretch’s length away from his instructor who lounges in his swivel chair with cocky grace turned at a slight degree.
The icy stare from Garret is followed by an obnoxious smirk. He rolls his trousers higher up his shins and then slumps back again, lifting both sleek legs with a gentle peeling sound as pads separate from floor. Peter gasps as they drop down into his lap, warming his tender thighs, sliding and grazing forward softly until the two heels are invasively close to his crotch. The sight of them invokes the happy memories made only one night prior, worshipping these same soles blissfully all night long.
Without saying anything the inexperienced enlistee takes hold of a warm, beefy paw in one hand. He clenches his fingers around its generous contours feeling the malleable nature of relaxed foot muscle and damp heated fur. The smell is wafting from here but Peter tries not to let it coax him from duty. He receives a nod from his instructor and starts grooming the toe claws with the nail file, lightly but gradually effectively.
Hot flushes travel his body whenever he tenderly gropes those feet, using the moment as a cheap excuse to fondle Garret’s paw padding and soft fuzzy arch, forcing the toes to spread right under his nose and release hours’ worth of trapped boiled musky vapours. Perfectionism is an alibi for the long duration spent on each claw. Peter would feel guilty not shaping or downsizing the claws to the best possible standard, after all.
The instructor is nestled cosily in his chair gazing on while his hefty heels anchor into Peter’s thigh flesh, who holds his legs steady while he grooms. The pads in all their sumptuous quantity are squashed deep against the palm of his hand too; sharing their rubbery sweaty texture.
Garret tries to throw Peter off his focus by teasing him with quotes of sweet mental imagery. “I know you can smell my boots from here, grunt. The scent really circulates and fills the room fast, doesn’t it? I imagine it must be hell being in the same room as those boots and not being able to shove your face in their hot channels of leather. If you weren’t grooming my claws I bet that’s the first place you’d be… deep in my stinking footwear. You did an okay job licking them clean but don’t be fooled by their relatively spotless exteriors. They don’t reflect the state of the interiors. You can only imagine the savagery my insoles have endured being hammered into shape, forced to form and melt around my paws month after month, year after year; its fabric barely surviving the vicious heat or the bogs of grime and sweat. Fuck. Your nostrils might fuse shut later when I do eventually shove your head inside them.”
Peter covers up a potential moan by clearing his throat. He stays quiet and remains focused but his cheeks burn a brighter tone of red. He can tell that Garret is toying with him but he knows if he stops the pedicure he’ll fail the loyalty test.
Relentlessly the husky keeps at it. “I’m almost glad I let a little paw-loving queer into my grounds, if only so you can do this. My claws needed a trim, they keep tearing through my socks. Not that I can prove it with my latest pair, since you pinched them from my barracks last night.”
Garret fans out his toes making Peter hum softly with arousal. With a non-subliminal smirk Garret says, “You would enjoy them when they get really ripe. Back in my old job I used to go through a pair every month so I never bothered washing them. I just wore them for weeks at a time until they were saturated and sour. After that I chucked them all in the same locker which I called the sock locker; a little project of mine for punishing disrespectful recruits.”
Peter’s intensity grew the more he listened, squeezing the paw in hand running his nimble fingers into those stocky, sweat-marinated pads while filing still. “Th-that must have smelt something fierce, sir.”
“Yep. When you opened the door the smell was like a cheesy salsa burrito fresh out the microwave. It hits you hard. You'd believe me if I’d had the chance to shove you in there for a few hours, confined and breathing nothing but my toxic socks for air."
Pre-cum swells involuntarily at the stoat’s groin but the husky cares little for anything beyond the scope of his own personal needs to notice. He yanks his paw out of Peter’s grip, if only to cross his legs in Peter’s lap so they can tend immediately to the other set of claws. Those on the now released paw are supposedly trimmed fine enough in the husky’s opinion.
Breaching from his timid shell the stoat asks a burning question. “So… uh… did you ever shove anyone in this sock locker?” Mid-sentence Peter gently digs his fingers into the supple cream pads. He monitors his filing speed to keep the claws evenly groomed, too.
“Why else would I get demoted to this run-down boot camp? Pft. Apparently hazing recruits isn’t star conduct for a military superior, but damned if I didn’t enjoy it. It helped me find my niche.”
“What happened?”
“Some punk Dalmatian with wealthy parents joined the training academy and got lippy with me, so I stuffed his mutt mouth with socks one day to shut him up but the wimp kept spitting them out and refused to apologize. That’s not how you address a superior. So I bound my army boot to his face instead with a roll of duct tape and threw him in the sock locker to teach him a lesson. When I finally let him free I saw plenty of dents on the inside since he’d spent the time trying to kick the door open. Too bad all that money to his name couldn’t buy him any real strength!"
Peter listens eagerly, and enviously, but continues to scrub the metal file gently along the claws, dulling the sharp tips and refining their shapes.
Garret continues his story. "The rookie got in a huff. Still wouldn’t apologize. That’s when I made him lick off every paw print on the locker room floor until I broke him down enough to show me some respect. It was hilarious but the general didn’t seem to see the funny side of it when the mutt and his fistful of lawyers filed a report issuing for my demotion a few days later, so, here we are now.”
Nodding quietly, Peter finishes pedicuring the final toe. He breaks eye contact to look down and blow a gentle stream of air across each claw, cleaning away any residue. Eager to hear some form of praise from the instructor who candidly leaves his heavy canine legs resting in Peter’s lap, the stoat looks back up at those piercing blue eyes and asks: “Did I do a good job, sir? Have I impressed you?”
From afar, from leaning back lazily in his swivel armchair, Garret Fords shows little emotion as he stares down his own legs at the tops of his paws, staring at the claws for inspection. After a while he shrugs and replies, “I don’t care. I didn’t order you to trim them because I needed it done, I only wanted to test your commitment to a commanding officer. Loyalty is sometimes everything that matters in my field, and even though you’ve got no other recommendable qualities at least you’ve got loyalty. Since you fail every other category my boot camp tests on its recruits I can’t grade you as the kind of person who grows into a worthy soldier… but that doesn’t mean you can’t ‘serve’ in other ways.”
“F-for example?” Peter asks, feeling a prickle in his nerves when the husky sends back a coy wink.
“For example, that footrest you’re sitting on just doesn’t entertain me enough. I need one that’ll do more than support my feet for hours on end. I need a footrest that licks. Sniffs. Massages. What good is an inanimate mute object when I could replace it with a weakling grunt like you who I can wrestle down and hump all night whenever I’m feeling randy? Unless you’d rather leave this place a lousy loser; no certificate, no honour, no demanding dog like me to serve under. Otherwise you can stay and finally make real use of yourself here, at my feet, and get to lap at my soles while I sleep… with my permission this time. Hell if you really want to commit, maybe on graduation day I’ll confirm just what a lowly slut you are in our ranks by keeping you on a leash, naked up on stage, kissing the boots of all your fellow recruits while they graduate and shake my hand. Can you imagine the humiliation?”
When the tides inside Peter’s mind crash together hissing and foaming in his head he stirs from his hypnotic concentration and feels lightheaded. His tongue is hanging out, panting. The two thick bare husky soles are pressed warmly into his groin and abdomen sealing in his shaft in a sandwich of dense fur, naturally heated, still glazed from a day-long sweat. This physical tether is the only thing convincing the stoat that he isn’t dreaming. His lips feel numb and his fingertips tingle while he wraps his hands around the backs of his drill instructor’s feet and holds them firm into his groin like two lithe pillows.
“So will you do it?” Garret goads, smirking insatiably from his own chair with auburn dusk light showering softly over his head and shoulders from the window behind. “Will you stay on as my uhh… ‘drill instructor’s assistant’ as it’ll look on paper, serving me any which way I command? Or will you leave here a disgraceful nobody and lose your daily access to my boots, socks, soles and cock?”
Slowly his toes curl forward against the orange fur of the stoat’s stomach. The husky’s soles are self-promoting, caressing up and down the stomach passively like soft, pliant clothing irons. It makes it easy to forget who exactly Garret is, and only how recently the two have met, but right now Peter is too lost in foggy stupor to understand anything outside of his own primal lust. He nods, proactively nodding to promise his devotion, and begins to beg for the promised role. “I’ll stay, sir! I never wanted to be a soldier b-but I’ve always wanted to be a soldier’s plaything! I’ll remain here, under you, no matter how many new groups of recruits come and go. Let me lick the tension from your feet at the end of every day and I’ll remain the one constant in this boot camp! Please sir!”
What he receives back is another cock-sure stare from those blue husky eyes, framed in black and white contrasts of fur. Garret scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re too easy, grunt. You’re like weakness served on a silver platter. That’s something I’ve been waiting to have all this while. I’d consider myself lucky that you snuck into my barracks, but I think all the luck falls to you.”
And at long last the pressure from Garret’s soles eases off the stoat’s trapped crotch, as if ready to depart from it fully. “Good,” He simply remarks, sliding his camo-clad legs away from the naked animal and setting his soles down to the office floor with a sticky cushioned impact. He can feel Peter physically shudder as they pull away. The final command Garret has is one that will speak to the stoat’s full future purpose here at the boot camp. He says, and with no shortage of authority, “Get down on the ground, lie at my feet and prove yourself useful. My soles will need a good few hours adjusting to the shape of your face before they find their groove. Later tonight I’m going to think about building a new sock locker when I send you back to your barracks for the night… and I refuse to accept any complaints from a frisky little foot slut like you so be on your best behaviour, grunt! I promise you’ll be compensated plenty.”
THE END
Category Story / Paw
Species Unspecified / Any
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
Listed in Folders
Holy shit the detail and the emotions that went into this is phenomenal❤️ I love every word~
I especially love the dialogue and the hardcore degradation!!! Great job!❤️
I especially love the dialogue and the hardcore degradation!!! Great job!❤️
Thank you for putting so much heart into this response the feedback really means a lot to me :)
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