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Commission for ChrisB1200
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Twice the Slaves, Twice the Pleasure
(Part One)
Synopsis: Two human slaves encounter a change of schedule when their usual anthro master leaves for the weekend and asks his stallion friend to house-sit in his absence. The stallion may be new to dominating slaves but he quickly discovers its benefits.
Disclaimer:
–Foot Worship
–(Mostly) Clean Feet/Socks
–Multiple Subs
–Objectification
–Verbal/Physical Taunting
–Anthro vs Human
To meet the unspoken expectations around them a suburbanite must keep their home to a particular impeccability; mandated to manicured lawns, cleanly painted exteriors and an absence of disarray if only to earn a satisfied nod from their superficial neighbours. Of this particular suburb, Wilkeswood Glade, there sits such a home in a pristine quality earned not through the labours of its owner – nor of any hired service – but of two human slaves named Neil and Marco. Over many months these humans have been tyrannized into perfect servitude for their burly lion master, who maltreats them as the discount products of a society divided by status. Willing obedience from a human is not always automatic but the two in question have undergone an infallible training to earn their place. Others in their stead have tried, failed and been consequently banished from the lion’s service for the smallest infraction but the lion has found an indignant loyalty in these humans, (a rare commodity), which is invaluable to any domineering anthro. In a rare instance however the lion is summoned away to a weekend work conference outside the city limits, which prompts him to call a trusted stallion friend and ask for their house sitting – and slave sitting – favour.
* * *
The lock jiggles cacophonously into submission and the front door bunts open to a reveal a spacious living room. Brett is a candid witness to his friend's home decor which immerses itself in a contemporary clash with traditional African aesthetic. Quilts, tassled cushions, colourful rugs and wall prints imbibe in cultural patterns which disguise the modernity of the furniture. Vivacious potted plants provide a pleasing greenery to break up the splashes of brown, beige, copper, cream and orange seen in plentiful numbers. A tribal shield mounts above the stone fireplace. Monochrome photos of anthro elephants posed stoically - or paintings of anthro zebras amid a sandy backdrop - hang about the walls. There is nary a crinkle in the rugs or a stain in sight. Citrus incense lingers in the air greeting the horse’s big nostrils upon arrival.
In spite of their luxury all these details Matter very little in comparison to the bare skin humans Brett finds awaiting him at his feet the moment he enters the room, noticing first and foremost the intensity of anticipation simmering within their bodies. They kneel side by side a foot apart from one another each with their own characteristics barely worth the horse’s attention. Marco is recognized by the black bristles of his shaved head, the dark hazel tint of his eyes and the curious black letters fittingly inked along his torso, reading only one word: 'WELCOME'. Neil, howbeit, has short blonde hair and a set of mint-green eyes. This is a newer slave for the lion homeowner with a lacking résumé of experience in serving anthros’ every whim and summon however he has yet to disappoint his original master. Both slaves are naked from head to toe wearing nothing other than a tight black collar around their necks, though Neil’s is pinned with a crumpled note addressing the stallion's name on the front.
The eyes of both slaves glimmer at the visage of their newcomer. They see before them a tall and fruitfully young shire horse equipped the typically brawny and laboured allure of his breed’s body type. Brett's satin skin is as brown as roasted pecan though the end of his muzzle, (around his nostrils and lips), is a charcoal grey. There are caramel coloured spots on his shoulders and backside with matching patches around his eyes. Black locks of mane curl and flow down his head. Every part of this horse, though rugged in nature, is carefully groomed; his palms are moisturized, the hairs on his chin are trimmed, his fingernails are clipped short... yet none of this can prevent the basting of sweat upon him now giving lustre to his skin and hair. This is the aftermath of his morning gym workout; a workout which was subtly encouraged by the African lion in their earlier phone call.
The stallion throws the house keys into a black bowl upon a nearby dresser. He hooks the toe of his running shoe around the door and kicks it shut behind him. When he folds his arms in front of the slaves, long veins bulge visibly along his muscled biceps. Brett stares down at the two and rips the note suddenly from Neil’s collar, causing the duo to flinch. They bow their heads with palpable meekness and use the spell of silence to gawk over every detail of their master’s friend. Their eyes roll down the shapely abs sealed behind a red Lycra tank top; then scanning further to the toned legs trapping an organic bulge in a pair of black running shorts until at last their eyes pause on the lofty running shoes. There is a readable wanting in their expressions combated by a sense of restraint. Brett looks up from the note, smirking at the instructions left behind. As a natural show-off with a history of flexing his perfections to the weaker males in his gym Brett appreciates their fixation, even if he cannot understand the interest in another man’s shoes. His are built with white and black exteriors, scarlet red laces and finely structured shapes keeping his humanoid feet cosy inside. At last the silence is broken. The stallion clears his throat loud enough to establish authority as he begins reading the note aloud:
"House rules:
1. Humans are not allowed to wear clothes, only leashes.
2. Feed them from bowls on the floor. They are not worth a seat at dinner table.
3. Do not let them walk on two legs. Must crawl on all fours!
4. Humans know their house chores but our pleasure comes first. Don’t believe any excuses they make to get away. Keep them busy too. A slave doesn’t get time off!
6. Humans only speak when spoken too. Make sure they address you with superior titles. Insulting them is encouraged.”
The note is lowered marginally, only enough to expose the stallion’s judgemental eyes. “Urgh… I was hoping Caden would keep you lot in a cage or something, maybe one in front of the sofa so I could kick my feet up on top and forget about you. You there – with the body writing – make yourself useful and throw yourself down. I took a run through the park to get here and my shoe soles need a wiping! You look about right for the job.”
Marco gulps and timidly points at himself. It isn’t that he misunderstands the command; it’s simply that the human is too awestruck by the raw attractive dominance of the new anthro.
"You waiting on a formal invitation in the mail or something, you subhuman filth? You realize that it’s -you- who's going to be in the shit if your master's house isn’t spotless when he returns… so unless you want my dirty shoe prints scuffing up the place you ought to put your nuts to the floor and sprawl out for me! Else, what's in the point in being the resident doormat?"
When Marco frightfully fulfils his namesake and crawls onto his belly in front of the stallion his heart pounds with the usual adrenaline one feels before succumbing to an anthro's full body weight. He braces. He clenches his teeth, as well as his pale bare buttocks. Upon exposure to the weak spindly backside Brett sees the 'WELCOME' word is similarly written into this side of their body too.
"Damn..." Brett mutters to himself, "Caden doesn't miss an opportunity."
The shaved headed person stammers out an invitation. "I-I'm ready for you, sir! You can step on me now! Sorry for my hesitance!"
Suddenly both slaves flinch again when the brutish shire horse drops his foot heavily on the back of Marco's head twisting their skin and buzzed hair follicles under his tread, squishing Marco's face uncomfortably against the floor. Groans are outmatched by the stern squeaky gripping of the footwear as it grinds him. The stress in their crinkled features is visible but the horse is barely exerting himself. He simple slings an arm lazily over the raised leg and leans forward, smirking at his naked plaything.
"Did you just tell me what to do?" Brett threatens.
"No sir! Sorry sir!"
This apology allows the pressure to ease off his skull but seconds later the stallion’s running shoe scrapes down the nape of Marco's neck, swivels between his tensing shoulder blades and plants itself heavily into the flesh of his back inside. Caucasian skin is pinched and squished tightly into the tread lines, turning rosy pink. The weight then increases more and more until the humans ribs are forced into the hardwood. Marco hisses with stifled discomfort. In a sweeping instance the stallion launches his other leg up from the floor and lands it harshly into the small of Marco's spine, riding them like a human surfboard. The back tries desperately to arch and avoid the burden but Brett's stature and mass keep his body pinned into stiff, reddening submission.
Being so new to the craft of domination, Brett must wobble and maintain his steady balance atop the sumptuous surface. He expresses a delighted grin as if discovering a new fascination for the first time, ignoring the lowly wheezes of a breathless slave below. Brett's feet knead into sunken grooves across the width of Marco's back pressing the air out of him with every thumping footfall. In the meantime Neil kneels patiently in front of them both, still blushing shyly at the fearsome authority of those stallion legs pounding up and down like industrial pistons in front of him. When Brett feels settled in his position of lordly power he begins to wipe his feet in backwards strokes between the interludes of his trampling, scraping each grippy tread and pulling the skin until it braises pink. With every motion, peppery crumbs of old shoe dirt are loosened from the grooves defacing the human instead. Marco's wheezes turn to subdued moans. Stinging numbness travels through his flesh tracking the whereabouts of the horse's feet as they drag back and forth. Marco keeps his face obediently low to the floor kissing the light pool of drool between him and the hardwood. His face is cherry red, much like the shoe prints left in his flesh, and his eyes water from the enduring encumbrance. Neil, dutifully ignoring the noises of his brethren, feels eager compulsions to reach out and lovingly caress the tops of the horse's running shoes but he denies himself the temptation, echoing his feline master's mentoring in the back of his mind. Neil holds his own knees with whitening knuckles and chews his lip coquettishly, trying not to smile whenever he looks up and sees the warmth in Brett's smirk.
The last few shoe scuffs are deliberately grinding and heavy wherein Brett tenses himself, bends at the knees to compact his weight and takes upon the stance of an ice-skater. It's enough to make the doormat human groan at least until the legs fall still and simply entrench in his skin against, condensing the frail muscles below.
"Not bad for my first living doormat... kind of hard to stand balanced at first but it's pretty fun feeling you squirm and twitch around down there."
"Thank you, sir!" Marco gasps with tight lungs and a throbbing backside already preoccupying his mind. From here he remains stood upon but the horse now ignores him for his fellow slave instead.
"You," Brett now commands, cracking his knuckles only for the sake of intimidation. This causes him to scrunch the note in his sweaty fist which he then biffs against Neil's face, where it bounces lightly off his cheek and rolls across the floor. "I know I'm pretty much a handsome god compared to some dirt-cheap loser like you but you can't expect to sit there like a dope and stare at me all day... I was promised two slaves for the weekend so you be better be worth my time."
"Forgive him sir, he's new; barely a month into his training, I-"
For speaking out of term once again Marco is swiftly punished by a meaty stomp which smacks on his hip bone and churns side to side until a rosy shoe print is left infixed on the spot. "What the fuck is this? You're still making noise down there? Listen buzz cut, last time I checked doormats aren't used for scintillating conversation... they're only good for getting walked on, and cleaning filthy shoes. Don't make me tell you again."
To illustrate his point Brett proceeds to wipe his feet several more times always emanating a rustling graze and adding to the resulting, irritated skin marks.
Neil quickly distracts the horse by saying, “Um, sir, please allow me to take off your shoes? I’m sure you’ll be relieved to kick them off and air them out!”
Brett’s grin in soaked with amusement. He harbours less resentment for this blonde slave already, whereas Marco feels more deserving of scorn. “I like the way you think, bitch. You can do me the honours and untie ‘em for me! I think I’ll stay standing on your friend until you’re done. Little runt deserves some discipline. Can you do that simple task for me?”
Neil nods excitedly and shuffles closer until his knees rub against the side of Marco’s body. The slave bows over the two sneakers and quickly unthreads their scarlet laces. He embraces every moment, every texture, and cups his palms over the shoe tops to feel the exact moment their materials soothe out into a state of loosened leisure. Under his palms and buried beneath the thick ceiling of rubber and cushioning, ten stocky horse toes squirm in their dark hot caverns. Brett smirks the entire time. He even forgets about the human body lying underneath him, when all his concentration relays to Neil instead.
“I bet I can read your mind. You want to kiss these big shoes, don’t you?” Brett asks. He snickers when the naked male paralyzes into icy stillness when the softly spoken words hit his ears.
“Y-you’d let me? Oh… please! Please sir! I’d do anything to kiss the shoes of a god like you! Would you want me to lick them clean? I can do that too! Anything you ask!”
“Pft, alright calm down, perv. You can kiss ‘em for now but let’s take things one step at a time.”
Elatedly the blonde slave bends down and puckers his lips. His mouth is moments from connecting with the white shoe top when suddenly a meaty brown hand swoops down and grabs him by the forehead, covering his entire brow in warm palm while preventing them their desire.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brett exclaims, pushing Neil’s head away. The trembling human looks away in shame, disgusted at his own over-eagerness which would’ve been punishable if his lion master were here as witness. Then the horse melts his fears with smug grin and says, “I never said you could kiss them on the outsides. I think a subby little face like yours should be smooching the insides instead!”
With his laces now unfastened the stallion has all the freedom to lift his legs one at a time and shake off the slackened footwear which cannot maintain its previous grip around his feet. Below Marco grunts and squeaks as the weight is shifted and interchanging into his sore back muscles, squeezing and pulping the air from his lungs. Neil watches with wonderment as the right leg shakes in front of him. Gravity helps to wrestle off the footwear, eventually flicking the heavy item and its flaccid laces straight off the foot where it falls with a thump into Neil’s naked lap, conveniently and accurately landing inverted so that the soft lips of the shoe gawp around his groin. The human tenses. He blinks in shock, unsure if he should apologise and roll the shoe away or leave it there to expel its claggy heat against his manhood. Neil is barely given the time to make a conscious choice before his blinking eyes become bulging instead at the sight of the lengthy horse foot sheltered so snugly inside a low-cut starch white ankle sock. Its cotton skims over the five distinct toe shapes like a coating of white paint barely thin enough to hide the dark brown tones and flavours stewing within. While Brett has this foot raised above Marco all his mass is anchored solely through his other leg, placed flat and profoundly across the middle of the doormat’s backside. Knowing better than to earn another demerit from their temporary master Marco gnaws his lip and keeps his dehumanized grunts to a minimum.
Finally after a taunting, slow descent the bottom of Brett’s socked foot soaks back into the same fleshy indent as before only this time triggering the doormat’s skin to tingle and fidget to the newer damper sensation. Brett never breaks eye contact with Neil even when he raises his opposite leg, now relieving the other trodden human from the pain which had begun pulsating between their shoulder blades. He is largely ignored and unacknowledged even though he is serving Brett with more conviction and sacrifice than the flustered blonde. This time as Brett starts to shake and rattle his foot about in the air inches from Neil’s infatuated face he reaches down and captures the sneaker in his fist just as it begins sliding free and cliff-hanging over his toes. The stallion gives neither of the slaves any time for processing before he thumps this now liberated foot again into Marco’s spine and then lowers himself into a squat condensing his entire body weight into his lower half; squashing both socked feet firmly into these sunken pools of tenderized sinew. Marco’s eyes sting with salty tears and creases line his sweating forehead but he bites his tongue and deposits all his energy into staying submissively quiet, so as not to disturb the horse above him.
Once Brett is at eye level with Neil standing primarily on the balls of his feet he grips the toe-end of his own sneaker and shows it to the human, enchanting them with its expansive size and dizzying beauty. By holding it at this end he can effectively level the shoe’s beaten weary mouth with the human’s face, treating them to the pollutant blast of fumes spilling out the hole. The odour however isn’t repulsive or fetid in its flavour. Instead it smells like a milky vanilla pudding which only bewitches the human more. The smirking stallion extends his arm and shoves his shoe deep against the blushing face, ensconcing nose and mouth and chin wholly inside its cushioned frame until Neil snorts the crispy airwaves and his stomach turns to liquid slop. His face is continually stowed until the shoe structure rumples against his cheeks, crumpling under the applied pressure.
Brett starts to grit his teeth baring them in a fuelling of testosterone. He ignores the burning heat still ventilating through his sock bottoms, knowing that Marco is at work absorbing it into his skin, and cares only for cramming Neil’s delicate features into his stuffy shoe oven. The slave sniffs every whiff not out of duty but out of personal obsession. He feels unsteady as he draws in a long lungful of the horse’s footwear and swabs the shoe’s rim in drool. Neil wraps his hands around Brett’s wrist – twice as thick as his own arms – and helps them hold their shoe in his face. He feels a firm density rub against the tip of his nose but as his face is shoved deeper inside the bridge of his nose is quickly flattened into this unique texture; one like impassable clay. It is the jet black insole fashioned over time to fit the paunchy proportions of Brett’s foot. Neil can nose around in this dip and smell every fibre of the thin mesh skin overlaying the insole, particularly where a heel imprint has left its indelible mark. The darkness of this interior has helped to store the circulation of heat which Neil is now inheriting.
“Go on,” Brett persuades, eager to see results. “If I’m going to put my expensive shoe in the face of some third-rate human I want something out of it. Kiss it… like we agreed.”
In an instant reaction to the order Neil puckers his lips again and presses them forthrightly into the heel dent, moaning through the kiss until his lips cannot tighten any more. Without the due permission he daringly sneaks his tongue out onto the surface too and coasts it along the mesh bumps trying to taste every lost speck of perspiration. All the while his nose is busy inhaling the unshakeable vanilla odour until it fills his head, at which point he completes the kiss with a noisy ‘mmwa’ to satisfy the horse’s ego. At first the shoe is not pulled away and the human is left to sniff longer and stare over its heel to the coy equine face on the other side, with its half-lidded eyes partly shielded behind Brett’s fringe of black hair.
“You freaks really like this funk, don’t you?”
Neil nods, towing the shoe along with his movements.
“Y’know I feel nothing when I look at either of you? No sympathy, no remorse… nothing. I could slap you around with my big hunky feet all day and then the moment I look away I’d forget you were ever there. You want to know why us anthros can be this way? Because animals are prideful no Matter their species but then you dumb humans give up everything just to be some perverted little foot bitch. You think that makes us respect you? Pfft. Well… at least you put your inferiority to use.”
The running shoe is yanked away and Neil gasps as if a respirator was just removed from his face. As if he were playing with a pet Brett then throws his shoe deeper into the living room. He then lunges his hand closely to Neil’s eyes and clicks his fingers with thunderous volume. “Go on boy, get the shoe! Go get the shoe!”
The blonde slave scrambles to chase after it and in doing so he knocks away the other upturned shoe left lying over his crotch, which exposes a naked erection that had taken shelter under the cover of this other footwear. Brett observes this as the human crawls away but he decides not to punish Neil for having such simple human tendencies.
“Ahhh,” The stallion sighs as he rises off his haunches and stands back to full height, stretching his arms above his head for one limbering pause and allowing his weight to distribute evenly amongst his parted legs, into the human doormat beneath. By then Neil has returned, crawling back to his original place with the horse’s shoe dangling heavily from his maw. With nonchalant certainty and a lack of hesitancy Brett grabs the shoe aggressively from their clamping teeth and throws it again, this time even further away into the room. Once again Neil’s naked rump is the last he sees disappearing behind a sofa before Brett glares down at his vocally withdrawn doormat instead.
Without a word said the horse steps down from their shoe-print-skidded body and grants them a brief blissful vacation away from the crushing weight. When he steps onto the floor however his footfalls are soft thuds of cottony contact which endow a faint peeling as they walk around to the front of Marco’s face. Marco gazes tiresomely up from the floorboards to see the span of socked toes directly under his nose. He hasn’t the energy for craning his head and staring any higher up the toned body before him so Marco’s vision consists strictly of the feet and brown shins, which he suspects is intentional regardless.
“Look at that,” The horse tuts, “Once you actually listened to me and started doing your job the proper way I almost forgot you were down there. Now that’s exactly what I expect from a doormat. Doesn’t Matter if it’s some dickless perv like you or just a flat bristly ornament, a doormat doesn’t speak for itself. You’re lucky I don’t walk back outside now, get my socks muddy as fuck and then march back in here and wipe them off your face… but you’re still just an object to me either way, so keep acting like one and we won’t have a problem. I’ll allow to say ‘yes sir’ like some snivelling servant but that’s about it.”
“Y-y-yes… sir,” Marco mutters with fatigue.
“Good. Now piss off to the kitchen and bring me some food. Your master, Caden, he’s got a wicked set up here and I’m not going to waste my time babysitting you when I could be kicking back and watching shit on the big widescreen over there… since the one in my apartment’s got none of those fancy movie channels.”
“Yes sir,” The shaved headed human parrots, quickly pulling himself up onto all fours where his arms and knees wobble with violent dilapidation. Before the horse can change their mind and inflict more cruelty he hobbles away past them and enters into the adjoining kitchen. Brett glares at them on their departure but once Neil approaches again gripping the back of the running shoe between his jaws the biased horse softens his countenance into another grin and he pats the top of their blonde head affectionately.
“Come on you, I need a sit down and you’re going to keep my feet in good company until your loser friend returns with my snacks.”
“Oh, gosh, thank you!” Neil blushes, dropping the shoe back to the floor only when the horse signals for it with a hand gesture. Already he misses the steaming vanilla scent which had been venting into his nostrils all the while, but obeying Brett’s commands takes precedence over his own wants or needs.
After strolling past the human Brett leaves a trail of faint footprints in the floor following him over to the large sofa, which he throws himself upon and grooves a cosy formation into its dark leather cushions. Neil is distracted by each remaining footprint as he crawls after the horse, eventually kneeling ahead in a place of awaiting servitude. Brett spreads his legs and sighs. He flicks the locks of hair out of his eyes and rests both elbows up on the backrest, tightening the streamline of torso muscles and exposing his mouth-watering bulge for the slave to eyeball. In time Marco returns hobbling awkwardly; carrying in one hand a tray of requested snacks such as corn chips loaded with salsa and cheese, a cold can of rum and cola and a bowl of salted peanuts too. Before he can finish resting it on the wicker side table Brett snatches the drink and takes a long glugging swig. Simultaneously he grabs hold of the television remote with indolent disposition, slowly flicking through the channels one by one as if this property and its possessions were his own. Notably he offers no gratitude for the services provided. Marco can detect the stallion staring his way so he looks diffidently to the floor, hoping to avoid incurring any more of their bullying taunts and remarks. The efforts of course are a failure.
"Hey, buzz cut…" Brett coos with a condescending smile.
"Yes, sir?" Marco asks, rubbing their arm.
"My legs are tired as hell so guess what? You're getting a promotion from doormat to foot stool! Come park yourself in front of me like a good little piece of furniture. Just don't start bitching if your back's still sore from earlier ‘cause I don't care for it. You should be grateful, really. My first time domming a human is a special occasion, don’t ya think?" Brett demands.
"Yes sir... thank you very much for this opportunity..."
Neil holds his breath with veneration as Brett’s sterling legs are peeled off the floor and lifted high. He watches the other human crawl shamefully over to the foot of the sofa where he aligns himself and waits for the weighty legs to drop against his haggard back. Some of the black marker writing that once decorated him as a welcoming doormat is now smudged and smeared by shoe prints.
The moment strikes. Brett dumps his legs with an excessive force of gravity directly across the width of the backside, connecting bare skin with the brown toning of his calf muscles. The impact is deliberately more-so than expected as a test to Marco’s durability, permitting them to use every fibre of their body strength to stay upright and keep his trembling limbs from buckling beneath him. In spite of being the clearly un-favoured underdog between him and Neil, Marco is still a slave at the crux who remains committed to the lifestyle. His original owner, Master Caden, may treat him more sympathetically but the stallion’s crude treatment has its own appeal and its own attraction. Marco enjoys being treated like dirt to a superior anthro, just as much as Neil enjoys their affection.
“Ooph!” Marco grunts, suddenly planting his palms and knees into the hard ground as his back bows to the weight of two legs.
“Having trouble down there, foot stool?” The horse asks, nestling himself to exaggerate his supreme comfort over the human’s.
“N-no sir!”
“Really? I’m not too heavy for you?” Brett grins, raising his legs and thumping them back into place causing a tremor in the human’s bones.
Meanwhile Neil is obsessively focused on the horse’s big soles now revealed plainly publicized in view as they prop atop Marco’s body with the backs of their heels hooked over Marco’s ribs and pelvis. The soft hilly undulation of the soles is an addictive sight; enwrapped so warmly in their white socks. Neil’s throat parches like a desert gulch. He scans the soles and their lightly browned footprint imprints to memory, whilst trying to keep his erection tucked out of sight between his squeezing thighs. Marco – while on all fours – sports an erection of his own which he is ashamed to flaunt so early in the day. Master Caden has taught him better self-restraint than this, thereby making him feel insecure and disloyal to his original training.
“Don’t worry about me, sir,” The human mumbles back as his body regains a trickle of strength. “It’s an honour to be your footstool! I promise I won’t let your feet touch the floor until you command it!”
“Uh oh, is my furniture flapping its stupid mouth again? Tsk, tsk, I thought that wasn’t going to be an issue anymore…” Brett jeers wiggling his toes and forming rippled shapes in the fabric, like a row of small snowballs squeezed together that keeps Neil’s dozy eyes locked in one direction. Excluding the vibrant blush in his cheeks, the colour drains from Marco’s face when he realizes his mistake.
Brett looks over to Neil and raises his brow. “Well, I’m all comfortable now so it’s your job to help me out and silence this piece of trash for me. Go ahead and yank off one of my socks then stuff it in his mouth. That ought to shut him for a while. I’ll even let you sniff my feet afterwards for being so well behaved. Bet that perks you up, doesn’t it you horny little slut?”
Before the horse can blink the blonde human drags himself directly in front of their meaty soles still wafting with that sweet pudding scent. Neil excitedly grabs at the sides of Brett’s right foot and lovingly pushes his hands together, whispering out a hushed praise of awe as the sock ripples and foot sinew within squeeze into creasing ripples up the centreline of the sole.
“Ohh fuck that feels good,” Brett comments, “I’ve wasted a lot of years refusing to put my feet near a human because but your smooth claw-less hands are the best thing to have against these tired soles.”
Neil receptively rolls the sweaty sock fabric up the foot exposing a round brown unblemished heel. He continues rolling and scrunching the cotton in small edging movements while simultaneously ploughing his thumb digits into the ball of Brett’s foot. Incontestably the pseudo-massage has an outward effect on the stallion. A throaty groan rumbles in the air and Brett tosses his head back, semi-crumpling the can of rum and cola in his fist as the tension overrides him. Inside the remainder of the sock each toe fans out and curls so densely that their knuckles give off a light crackle.
Withholding of any specific command or communication, Brett silently allows Neil to massage him for several minutes more indulging in each therapeutic rub made by the human's thumb digits, sensually driving up and down the ball of his foot, working through the thin sock fabric. Only grovelling this intimately to the big feet would allow Neil to feel the horse's body warmth seeping through his hands and smell the distinct cologne tip-toeing his nostrils. The blonde human rests his elbows lightly against Marco's bare back to support a constant rubbing without his arms tiring. Before long the shire horse acclimates to his own pampering and each ticklish yet relaxant grooving through his firm manly foot flesh starts to grow familiar enough to relax the twitching of his toes. Neil is too sheepish to speak out of term so he simply kneels in loyal quietude grabbing tenderly and pliantly into the foot as if he were playing the joysticks of a game controller. Brett doesn't turn his head away from his gaunt servant but he does shove his hand into the bowl of corn chips and then transfers this flavourful handful into his maw, sprinkling cheddar crumbs along his chin. He washes it down with a slurp of his rum and smirks heavily.
"You getting stuck into a routine there, huh?"
"Pardon, sir?" Neil asks after a particularly hard digging of his thumb digits pushing both foot flesh and sock cotton up into dense ripples. The horse curls his toes forward condensing these wrinkles into deeper prominent creases that waver along the width of his arch.
"Did your dumb slut brain forget the instructions I gave you? I mean, shit, the massage feels good and all but what did I ask you to do with that foot?"
"You told me to um... take off your sock and shove it in your other slaves mouth," Neil says thusly reminding himself out loud.
Brett nods, "Good, so how about you hurry up? Don't think about it, just do it. I don't want to fry your little human brain with all these big orders but you're a slave so you're only worth keeping for as long as you can obey my orders. I'm sure your lion master would agree. Next time I ask you to do something you better make sure the result meets the demand... Else I might have to test out how possible it is to deep-throat a human with my whole foot."
"Yes sir, sorry sir! You're worth much better servitude!" Neil praises, tensing between the legs at every erotic demeaning insult.
Brett responds only through the tinny glugging of his drink can. Until this moment he'd deliberately treated Neil with more fairness and affection for the purpose of making Marco feel less humanised; valued only as a living practical object by comparison. Brett savours the envy and humiliation of his currently eavesdropping footstool because domineering over any human had addictive qualities, and a biased treatment always helps to break the spirit of one. At least, this is the gossip heard over the years from various anthro friends, neighbours and work colleagues who were never too shy to boast about dominating the underclass citizens of their mixed society.
As ordered, Neil tucks his thumbs underneath the rolled lip of the half-removed sock and feels the warm toasty dimples between the stallion's bare toes. He uses this leverage to help peel away the very last of the sock inverting it to a linty inside-out visage in his hands baring the finality of Brett's ball and toes. Neil spares no time in soaking in the gorgeous sight, viewing the bare foot in all its supremacy. The skin is leathery tough but not calloused, and like leather any wrinkles set into its surface remain ingrained for long exposures of time. Brett's feet are mostly clean offering a feast-able palate of unblemished brown skin with a rosy blush from the internal body heat. Only faint threads or linty remainders - and perhaps the rare gleam of perspiration - mar the otherwise priceless exterior.
Awkwardly Neil shoves Brett's sock into Marco's mouth which opens expectantly the moment the fabric is presented to his lips. Neil doesn't feel he is allowed to apologise to his friend for aiding in their disgrace thus no words are exchanged between them as one human prods and fingers the white footwear into the mouth of the other. As the sock begins to cluster inside Marco’s cheeks and form into one soft musky ball he rolls his tongue underneath it and gently clamps his jaws shut after a muffled sound of gagging, noting that the sock is thick enough to stop his teeth from touching. A baggy, fluffy tail of sock is left to prolapse between his puckering lips.
Neil re-shuffles, returning himself in front of the two feet vertically propped in front of his face, sinking their heels into pink indents on Marco's back flesh. There is now a stark contrast between the undressed chocolaty sole and the white socked sole though Neil is observably attracted most to the first; engaged to every contour of the long toes and their glossy brown toenails, (familiar in all their humanoid shapes but belong to a forever more perfect equine instead). Brett is back to smirking at the blonde male again, wiggling his toes if only to gain amusement from Neil's dilating pupils and tranquilized expression. They have both already forgotten about Marco once again with immediate dismissal, even though this shaved headed person is now sucking a whole mouthful of stallion sock just to try and earn his rightful place.
"Y-your feet are so beautiful, sir!"
"Tell me something I don't know, freak," The horse retorts.
"Can I please have permission to sniff them?" Neil simpers.
"You better do it quick. Won't be long before they finish airing out."
The comment draws the blood to Neil's cheeks. He suddenly grabs Brett's appendage in both hands lifting it a couple inches off Marco's back with all his strength, right as his face swoops into its hardy crop of toes. Neil's thumbs return to their homely place upon the plump ball of foot. His fingertips redden after pressing so devotedly into the flesh. Toes crawl and climb and hug fast around Neil's nose when he brings his face into their reaches, stuffing himself into the extremities and toe gaps with all his avarice. Even with one nostril clamped down by one toe and his other nostril corked by a different toe Neil still sniffs indulgently huffing long and hard until his breath expires. He is lost in that milky vanilla bean 'gym stink' even as the fumes become more impotent in the surrounding fresh air.
"Heh.." Brett chuckles quietly. He sprawls his toes higher up the nose and vices them together tucking the nostrils deep into his cosy digits, spreading warmth between them. "You're too easy. If you had any complaints about it, try being a less pathetic species."
For a rare change - ignoring the horny vacuuming of air that sucks and huffs under his toes - Brett then looks over and speaks to Marco instead. "You agree on being pathetic don't you, footstool?"
"Mm ffr!" Marco agrees immediately, trying but failing to speak even one coherent syllable. Speech, he finds, is less obtainable when the sock lint has rolled so immeasurably over his tongue that he feels a mossy texture in his mouth. As Marco's limbs continue to quake unsteadily and his back still deadens to the leg weight lopped upon it he remains stout in his position here on all fours, only able to hear the snorting antics of his fellow human without seeing exactly how they are debasing themselves for the horse. As the more experienced slave, Marco worries that any poor quality servitude from Neil will also reflect badly on him too, (as if there is an unspoken expectation that Marco must lead by example).
"Tch, see what I mean? The bitch is so pathetic he can't even get a word out past my sock." The brawny horse demonstrates, trying to gesture with his arm yet nearly spilling the final fizzing RTD contents out of its can.
Neil cannot appropriately respond in his current smothered state. Brett's toes are in constant motion clawing and groping, furling up and down, over and over, letting the red faced human melt into molten putty against his sole. Neil tries to moan but any vocalisation he makes is blended into the squelches of his drooling, smearing lips. He is losing lucidity with each passing second trying to sniff every molecule of air in the brief moments when his nostrils are permitted to inhale. The big toe often invades under his nose pushing the supple feature up on a snout-like tilt only for the horse's amusement.
"Such a hungry little foot pig. Caden sure knows how to pick out the good slaves."
Moments after one of Neil's hands slips down the back of the strong rigid foot and his fingers curl over the shin, Brett drags in his other still-socked leg from the small of Marco's back and crosses each limb together without ever plucking his bare sole from Neil's face. Neil chooses not to react when his hand is suddenly squished and squeezed under the propped weight of that other foot now digging its heel into his hand bones as the horse's legs cross. Neil's attention is only targeted on the new foot now mounted in place on a leaned angle, so close to his face, blessing him with another up-close view of the toes veiled under tight white cotton.
Now satisfied with his choice of teasing domination, Brett settles deeper into the ample sofa cushions and flicks through the TV channels again stopping on a black and white Noir film with a moody saxophone score. On screen is a discerning but handsomely mature German Shepherd in fedora and long detective trench coat – snub-nose revolver drawn – smoking as he traipses suspiciously down a rainy alleyway unaware of the elongated shadows skulking behind him. Seemingly content with this movie, Brett tosses the remote down and nests. He takes a final sip of his drink, crunches the can swiftly and tosses it to the floor knowing that any mess he creates is strictly the responsibility of the slaves whom he has already begun ignoring. Idly he wobbles his socked foot up against the other, subtly adding to the pressure against Neil's face until their nose is planted flat and centred against the ball of his bare foot.
“You wanna serve a purpose for once? Stay right there and keep sniffing. Your face is in a real comfy place for me to leave my feet for a while. Keep still, too. I don’t want any distractions when I’m watching my movie.”
Neil is instinctively close to nodding but instead he follows the command to be an immobile foot prop, for the horse’s maximum comfort. This is not a sour deal for the human either as he can comfortably nuzzle into the stacked appendages and burrow their soft malleable soles for sanctuary. The only member of this trio who still suffers an aggrieving purpose is Marco, who understands unquestionably that the ‘keep still’ rule applies perhaps even more so to him, no matter the wearing he feels in his joints. Each of the slaves at least has enough intuition to know this service will be long lasting, and equally demanding of them as the horse plies his newfound interest in human subjection.
(To be continued)
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Twice the Slaves, Twice the Pleasure
(Part One)
Synopsis: Two human slaves encounter a change of schedule when their usual anthro master leaves for the weekend and asks his stallion friend to house-sit in his absence. The stallion may be new to dominating slaves but he quickly discovers its benefits.
Disclaimer:
–Foot Worship
–(Mostly) Clean Feet/Socks
–Multiple Subs
–Objectification
–Verbal/Physical Taunting
–Anthro vs Human
To meet the unspoken expectations around them a suburbanite must keep their home to a particular impeccability; mandated to manicured lawns, cleanly painted exteriors and an absence of disarray if only to earn a satisfied nod from their superficial neighbours. Of this particular suburb, Wilkeswood Glade, there sits such a home in a pristine quality earned not through the labours of its owner – nor of any hired service – but of two human slaves named Neil and Marco. Over many months these humans have been tyrannized into perfect servitude for their burly lion master, who maltreats them as the discount products of a society divided by status. Willing obedience from a human is not always automatic but the two in question have undergone an infallible training to earn their place. Others in their stead have tried, failed and been consequently banished from the lion’s service for the smallest infraction but the lion has found an indignant loyalty in these humans, (a rare commodity), which is invaluable to any domineering anthro. In a rare instance however the lion is summoned away to a weekend work conference outside the city limits, which prompts him to call a trusted stallion friend and ask for their house sitting – and slave sitting – favour.
* * *
The lock jiggles cacophonously into submission and the front door bunts open to a reveal a spacious living room. Brett is a candid witness to his friend's home decor which immerses itself in a contemporary clash with traditional African aesthetic. Quilts, tassled cushions, colourful rugs and wall prints imbibe in cultural patterns which disguise the modernity of the furniture. Vivacious potted plants provide a pleasing greenery to break up the splashes of brown, beige, copper, cream and orange seen in plentiful numbers. A tribal shield mounts above the stone fireplace. Monochrome photos of anthro elephants posed stoically - or paintings of anthro zebras amid a sandy backdrop - hang about the walls. There is nary a crinkle in the rugs or a stain in sight. Citrus incense lingers in the air greeting the horse’s big nostrils upon arrival.
In spite of their luxury all these details Matter very little in comparison to the bare skin humans Brett finds awaiting him at his feet the moment he enters the room, noticing first and foremost the intensity of anticipation simmering within their bodies. They kneel side by side a foot apart from one another each with their own characteristics barely worth the horse’s attention. Marco is recognized by the black bristles of his shaved head, the dark hazel tint of his eyes and the curious black letters fittingly inked along his torso, reading only one word: 'WELCOME'. Neil, howbeit, has short blonde hair and a set of mint-green eyes. This is a newer slave for the lion homeowner with a lacking résumé of experience in serving anthros’ every whim and summon however he has yet to disappoint his original master. Both slaves are naked from head to toe wearing nothing other than a tight black collar around their necks, though Neil’s is pinned with a crumpled note addressing the stallion's name on the front.
The eyes of both slaves glimmer at the visage of their newcomer. They see before them a tall and fruitfully young shire horse equipped the typically brawny and laboured allure of his breed’s body type. Brett's satin skin is as brown as roasted pecan though the end of his muzzle, (around his nostrils and lips), is a charcoal grey. There are caramel coloured spots on his shoulders and backside with matching patches around his eyes. Black locks of mane curl and flow down his head. Every part of this horse, though rugged in nature, is carefully groomed; his palms are moisturized, the hairs on his chin are trimmed, his fingernails are clipped short... yet none of this can prevent the basting of sweat upon him now giving lustre to his skin and hair. This is the aftermath of his morning gym workout; a workout which was subtly encouraged by the African lion in their earlier phone call.
The stallion throws the house keys into a black bowl upon a nearby dresser. He hooks the toe of his running shoe around the door and kicks it shut behind him. When he folds his arms in front of the slaves, long veins bulge visibly along his muscled biceps. Brett stares down at the two and rips the note suddenly from Neil’s collar, causing the duo to flinch. They bow their heads with palpable meekness and use the spell of silence to gawk over every detail of their master’s friend. Their eyes roll down the shapely abs sealed behind a red Lycra tank top; then scanning further to the toned legs trapping an organic bulge in a pair of black running shorts until at last their eyes pause on the lofty running shoes. There is a readable wanting in their expressions combated by a sense of restraint. Brett looks up from the note, smirking at the instructions left behind. As a natural show-off with a history of flexing his perfections to the weaker males in his gym Brett appreciates their fixation, even if he cannot understand the interest in another man’s shoes. His are built with white and black exteriors, scarlet red laces and finely structured shapes keeping his humanoid feet cosy inside. At last the silence is broken. The stallion clears his throat loud enough to establish authority as he begins reading the note aloud:
"House rules:
1. Humans are not allowed to wear clothes, only leashes.
2. Feed them from bowls on the floor. They are not worth a seat at dinner table.
3. Do not let them walk on two legs. Must crawl on all fours!
4. Humans know their house chores but our pleasure comes first. Don’t believe any excuses they make to get away. Keep them busy too. A slave doesn’t get time off!
6. Humans only speak when spoken too. Make sure they address you with superior titles. Insulting them is encouraged.”
The note is lowered marginally, only enough to expose the stallion’s judgemental eyes. “Urgh… I was hoping Caden would keep you lot in a cage or something, maybe one in front of the sofa so I could kick my feet up on top and forget about you. You there – with the body writing – make yourself useful and throw yourself down. I took a run through the park to get here and my shoe soles need a wiping! You look about right for the job.”
Marco gulps and timidly points at himself. It isn’t that he misunderstands the command; it’s simply that the human is too awestruck by the raw attractive dominance of the new anthro.
"You waiting on a formal invitation in the mail or something, you subhuman filth? You realize that it’s -you- who's going to be in the shit if your master's house isn’t spotless when he returns… so unless you want my dirty shoe prints scuffing up the place you ought to put your nuts to the floor and sprawl out for me! Else, what's in the point in being the resident doormat?"
When Marco frightfully fulfils his namesake and crawls onto his belly in front of the stallion his heart pounds with the usual adrenaline one feels before succumbing to an anthro's full body weight. He braces. He clenches his teeth, as well as his pale bare buttocks. Upon exposure to the weak spindly backside Brett sees the 'WELCOME' word is similarly written into this side of their body too.
"Damn..." Brett mutters to himself, "Caden doesn't miss an opportunity."
The shaved headed person stammers out an invitation. "I-I'm ready for you, sir! You can step on me now! Sorry for my hesitance!"
Suddenly both slaves flinch again when the brutish shire horse drops his foot heavily on the back of Marco's head twisting their skin and buzzed hair follicles under his tread, squishing Marco's face uncomfortably against the floor. Groans are outmatched by the stern squeaky gripping of the footwear as it grinds him. The stress in their crinkled features is visible but the horse is barely exerting himself. He simple slings an arm lazily over the raised leg and leans forward, smirking at his naked plaything.
"Did you just tell me what to do?" Brett threatens.
"No sir! Sorry sir!"
This apology allows the pressure to ease off his skull but seconds later the stallion’s running shoe scrapes down the nape of Marco's neck, swivels between his tensing shoulder blades and plants itself heavily into the flesh of his back inside. Caucasian skin is pinched and squished tightly into the tread lines, turning rosy pink. The weight then increases more and more until the humans ribs are forced into the hardwood. Marco hisses with stifled discomfort. In a sweeping instance the stallion launches his other leg up from the floor and lands it harshly into the small of Marco's spine, riding them like a human surfboard. The back tries desperately to arch and avoid the burden but Brett's stature and mass keep his body pinned into stiff, reddening submission.
Being so new to the craft of domination, Brett must wobble and maintain his steady balance atop the sumptuous surface. He expresses a delighted grin as if discovering a new fascination for the first time, ignoring the lowly wheezes of a breathless slave below. Brett's feet knead into sunken grooves across the width of Marco's back pressing the air out of him with every thumping footfall. In the meantime Neil kneels patiently in front of them both, still blushing shyly at the fearsome authority of those stallion legs pounding up and down like industrial pistons in front of him. When Brett feels settled in his position of lordly power he begins to wipe his feet in backwards strokes between the interludes of his trampling, scraping each grippy tread and pulling the skin until it braises pink. With every motion, peppery crumbs of old shoe dirt are loosened from the grooves defacing the human instead. Marco's wheezes turn to subdued moans. Stinging numbness travels through his flesh tracking the whereabouts of the horse's feet as they drag back and forth. Marco keeps his face obediently low to the floor kissing the light pool of drool between him and the hardwood. His face is cherry red, much like the shoe prints left in his flesh, and his eyes water from the enduring encumbrance. Neil, dutifully ignoring the noises of his brethren, feels eager compulsions to reach out and lovingly caress the tops of the horse's running shoes but he denies himself the temptation, echoing his feline master's mentoring in the back of his mind. Neil holds his own knees with whitening knuckles and chews his lip coquettishly, trying not to smile whenever he looks up and sees the warmth in Brett's smirk.
The last few shoe scuffs are deliberately grinding and heavy wherein Brett tenses himself, bends at the knees to compact his weight and takes upon the stance of an ice-skater. It's enough to make the doormat human groan at least until the legs fall still and simply entrench in his skin against, condensing the frail muscles below.
"Not bad for my first living doormat... kind of hard to stand balanced at first but it's pretty fun feeling you squirm and twitch around down there."
"Thank you, sir!" Marco gasps with tight lungs and a throbbing backside already preoccupying his mind. From here he remains stood upon but the horse now ignores him for his fellow slave instead.
"You," Brett now commands, cracking his knuckles only for the sake of intimidation. This causes him to scrunch the note in his sweaty fist which he then biffs against Neil's face, where it bounces lightly off his cheek and rolls across the floor. "I know I'm pretty much a handsome god compared to some dirt-cheap loser like you but you can't expect to sit there like a dope and stare at me all day... I was promised two slaves for the weekend so you be better be worth my time."
"Forgive him sir, he's new; barely a month into his training, I-"
For speaking out of term once again Marco is swiftly punished by a meaty stomp which smacks on his hip bone and churns side to side until a rosy shoe print is left infixed on the spot. "What the fuck is this? You're still making noise down there? Listen buzz cut, last time I checked doormats aren't used for scintillating conversation... they're only good for getting walked on, and cleaning filthy shoes. Don't make me tell you again."
To illustrate his point Brett proceeds to wipe his feet several more times always emanating a rustling graze and adding to the resulting, irritated skin marks.
Neil quickly distracts the horse by saying, “Um, sir, please allow me to take off your shoes? I’m sure you’ll be relieved to kick them off and air them out!”
Brett’s grin in soaked with amusement. He harbours less resentment for this blonde slave already, whereas Marco feels more deserving of scorn. “I like the way you think, bitch. You can do me the honours and untie ‘em for me! I think I’ll stay standing on your friend until you’re done. Little runt deserves some discipline. Can you do that simple task for me?”
Neil nods excitedly and shuffles closer until his knees rub against the side of Marco’s body. The slave bows over the two sneakers and quickly unthreads their scarlet laces. He embraces every moment, every texture, and cups his palms over the shoe tops to feel the exact moment their materials soothe out into a state of loosened leisure. Under his palms and buried beneath the thick ceiling of rubber and cushioning, ten stocky horse toes squirm in their dark hot caverns. Brett smirks the entire time. He even forgets about the human body lying underneath him, when all his concentration relays to Neil instead.
“I bet I can read your mind. You want to kiss these big shoes, don’t you?” Brett asks. He snickers when the naked male paralyzes into icy stillness when the softly spoken words hit his ears.
“Y-you’d let me? Oh… please! Please sir! I’d do anything to kiss the shoes of a god like you! Would you want me to lick them clean? I can do that too! Anything you ask!”
“Pft, alright calm down, perv. You can kiss ‘em for now but let’s take things one step at a time.”
Elatedly the blonde slave bends down and puckers his lips. His mouth is moments from connecting with the white shoe top when suddenly a meaty brown hand swoops down and grabs him by the forehead, covering his entire brow in warm palm while preventing them their desire.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brett exclaims, pushing Neil’s head away. The trembling human looks away in shame, disgusted at his own over-eagerness which would’ve been punishable if his lion master were here as witness. Then the horse melts his fears with smug grin and says, “I never said you could kiss them on the outsides. I think a subby little face like yours should be smooching the insides instead!”
With his laces now unfastened the stallion has all the freedom to lift his legs one at a time and shake off the slackened footwear which cannot maintain its previous grip around his feet. Below Marco grunts and squeaks as the weight is shifted and interchanging into his sore back muscles, squeezing and pulping the air from his lungs. Neil watches with wonderment as the right leg shakes in front of him. Gravity helps to wrestle off the footwear, eventually flicking the heavy item and its flaccid laces straight off the foot where it falls with a thump into Neil’s naked lap, conveniently and accurately landing inverted so that the soft lips of the shoe gawp around his groin. The human tenses. He blinks in shock, unsure if he should apologise and roll the shoe away or leave it there to expel its claggy heat against his manhood. Neil is barely given the time to make a conscious choice before his blinking eyes become bulging instead at the sight of the lengthy horse foot sheltered so snugly inside a low-cut starch white ankle sock. Its cotton skims over the five distinct toe shapes like a coating of white paint barely thin enough to hide the dark brown tones and flavours stewing within. While Brett has this foot raised above Marco all his mass is anchored solely through his other leg, placed flat and profoundly across the middle of the doormat’s backside. Knowing better than to earn another demerit from their temporary master Marco gnaws his lip and keeps his dehumanized grunts to a minimum.
Finally after a taunting, slow descent the bottom of Brett’s socked foot soaks back into the same fleshy indent as before only this time triggering the doormat’s skin to tingle and fidget to the newer damper sensation. Brett never breaks eye contact with Neil even when he raises his opposite leg, now relieving the other trodden human from the pain which had begun pulsating between their shoulder blades. He is largely ignored and unacknowledged even though he is serving Brett with more conviction and sacrifice than the flustered blonde. This time as Brett starts to shake and rattle his foot about in the air inches from Neil’s infatuated face he reaches down and captures the sneaker in his fist just as it begins sliding free and cliff-hanging over his toes. The stallion gives neither of the slaves any time for processing before he thumps this now liberated foot again into Marco’s spine and then lowers himself into a squat condensing his entire body weight into his lower half; squashing both socked feet firmly into these sunken pools of tenderized sinew. Marco’s eyes sting with salty tears and creases line his sweating forehead but he bites his tongue and deposits all his energy into staying submissively quiet, so as not to disturb the horse above him.
Once Brett is at eye level with Neil standing primarily on the balls of his feet he grips the toe-end of his own sneaker and shows it to the human, enchanting them with its expansive size and dizzying beauty. By holding it at this end he can effectively level the shoe’s beaten weary mouth with the human’s face, treating them to the pollutant blast of fumes spilling out the hole. The odour however isn’t repulsive or fetid in its flavour. Instead it smells like a milky vanilla pudding which only bewitches the human more. The smirking stallion extends his arm and shoves his shoe deep against the blushing face, ensconcing nose and mouth and chin wholly inside its cushioned frame until Neil snorts the crispy airwaves and his stomach turns to liquid slop. His face is continually stowed until the shoe structure rumples against his cheeks, crumpling under the applied pressure.
Brett starts to grit his teeth baring them in a fuelling of testosterone. He ignores the burning heat still ventilating through his sock bottoms, knowing that Marco is at work absorbing it into his skin, and cares only for cramming Neil’s delicate features into his stuffy shoe oven. The slave sniffs every whiff not out of duty but out of personal obsession. He feels unsteady as he draws in a long lungful of the horse’s footwear and swabs the shoe’s rim in drool. Neil wraps his hands around Brett’s wrist – twice as thick as his own arms – and helps them hold their shoe in his face. He feels a firm density rub against the tip of his nose but as his face is shoved deeper inside the bridge of his nose is quickly flattened into this unique texture; one like impassable clay. It is the jet black insole fashioned over time to fit the paunchy proportions of Brett’s foot. Neil can nose around in this dip and smell every fibre of the thin mesh skin overlaying the insole, particularly where a heel imprint has left its indelible mark. The darkness of this interior has helped to store the circulation of heat which Neil is now inheriting.
“Go on,” Brett persuades, eager to see results. “If I’m going to put my expensive shoe in the face of some third-rate human I want something out of it. Kiss it… like we agreed.”
In an instant reaction to the order Neil puckers his lips again and presses them forthrightly into the heel dent, moaning through the kiss until his lips cannot tighten any more. Without the due permission he daringly sneaks his tongue out onto the surface too and coasts it along the mesh bumps trying to taste every lost speck of perspiration. All the while his nose is busy inhaling the unshakeable vanilla odour until it fills his head, at which point he completes the kiss with a noisy ‘mmwa’ to satisfy the horse’s ego. At first the shoe is not pulled away and the human is left to sniff longer and stare over its heel to the coy equine face on the other side, with its half-lidded eyes partly shielded behind Brett’s fringe of black hair.
“You freaks really like this funk, don’t you?”
Neil nods, towing the shoe along with his movements.
“Y’know I feel nothing when I look at either of you? No sympathy, no remorse… nothing. I could slap you around with my big hunky feet all day and then the moment I look away I’d forget you were ever there. You want to know why us anthros can be this way? Because animals are prideful no Matter their species but then you dumb humans give up everything just to be some perverted little foot bitch. You think that makes us respect you? Pfft. Well… at least you put your inferiority to use.”
The running shoe is yanked away and Neil gasps as if a respirator was just removed from his face. As if he were playing with a pet Brett then throws his shoe deeper into the living room. He then lunges his hand closely to Neil’s eyes and clicks his fingers with thunderous volume. “Go on boy, get the shoe! Go get the shoe!”
The blonde slave scrambles to chase after it and in doing so he knocks away the other upturned shoe left lying over his crotch, which exposes a naked erection that had taken shelter under the cover of this other footwear. Brett observes this as the human crawls away but he decides not to punish Neil for having such simple human tendencies.
“Ahhh,” The stallion sighs as he rises off his haunches and stands back to full height, stretching his arms above his head for one limbering pause and allowing his weight to distribute evenly amongst his parted legs, into the human doormat beneath. By then Neil has returned, crawling back to his original place with the horse’s shoe dangling heavily from his maw. With nonchalant certainty and a lack of hesitancy Brett grabs the shoe aggressively from their clamping teeth and throws it again, this time even further away into the room. Once again Neil’s naked rump is the last he sees disappearing behind a sofa before Brett glares down at his vocally withdrawn doormat instead.
Without a word said the horse steps down from their shoe-print-skidded body and grants them a brief blissful vacation away from the crushing weight. When he steps onto the floor however his footfalls are soft thuds of cottony contact which endow a faint peeling as they walk around to the front of Marco’s face. Marco gazes tiresomely up from the floorboards to see the span of socked toes directly under his nose. He hasn’t the energy for craning his head and staring any higher up the toned body before him so Marco’s vision consists strictly of the feet and brown shins, which he suspects is intentional regardless.
“Look at that,” The horse tuts, “Once you actually listened to me and started doing your job the proper way I almost forgot you were down there. Now that’s exactly what I expect from a doormat. Doesn’t Matter if it’s some dickless perv like you or just a flat bristly ornament, a doormat doesn’t speak for itself. You’re lucky I don’t walk back outside now, get my socks muddy as fuck and then march back in here and wipe them off your face… but you’re still just an object to me either way, so keep acting like one and we won’t have a problem. I’ll allow to say ‘yes sir’ like some snivelling servant but that’s about it.”
“Y-y-yes… sir,” Marco mutters with fatigue.
“Good. Now piss off to the kitchen and bring me some food. Your master, Caden, he’s got a wicked set up here and I’m not going to waste my time babysitting you when I could be kicking back and watching shit on the big widescreen over there… since the one in my apartment’s got none of those fancy movie channels.”
“Yes sir,” The shaved headed human parrots, quickly pulling himself up onto all fours where his arms and knees wobble with violent dilapidation. Before the horse can change their mind and inflict more cruelty he hobbles away past them and enters into the adjoining kitchen. Brett glares at them on their departure but once Neil approaches again gripping the back of the running shoe between his jaws the biased horse softens his countenance into another grin and he pats the top of their blonde head affectionately.
“Come on you, I need a sit down and you’re going to keep my feet in good company until your loser friend returns with my snacks.”
“Oh, gosh, thank you!” Neil blushes, dropping the shoe back to the floor only when the horse signals for it with a hand gesture. Already he misses the steaming vanilla scent which had been venting into his nostrils all the while, but obeying Brett’s commands takes precedence over his own wants or needs.
After strolling past the human Brett leaves a trail of faint footprints in the floor following him over to the large sofa, which he throws himself upon and grooves a cosy formation into its dark leather cushions. Neil is distracted by each remaining footprint as he crawls after the horse, eventually kneeling ahead in a place of awaiting servitude. Brett spreads his legs and sighs. He flicks the locks of hair out of his eyes and rests both elbows up on the backrest, tightening the streamline of torso muscles and exposing his mouth-watering bulge for the slave to eyeball. In time Marco returns hobbling awkwardly; carrying in one hand a tray of requested snacks such as corn chips loaded with salsa and cheese, a cold can of rum and cola and a bowl of salted peanuts too. Before he can finish resting it on the wicker side table Brett snatches the drink and takes a long glugging swig. Simultaneously he grabs hold of the television remote with indolent disposition, slowly flicking through the channels one by one as if this property and its possessions were his own. Notably he offers no gratitude for the services provided. Marco can detect the stallion staring his way so he looks diffidently to the floor, hoping to avoid incurring any more of their bullying taunts and remarks. The efforts of course are a failure.
"Hey, buzz cut…" Brett coos with a condescending smile.
"Yes, sir?" Marco asks, rubbing their arm.
"My legs are tired as hell so guess what? You're getting a promotion from doormat to foot stool! Come park yourself in front of me like a good little piece of furniture. Just don't start bitching if your back's still sore from earlier ‘cause I don't care for it. You should be grateful, really. My first time domming a human is a special occasion, don’t ya think?" Brett demands.
"Yes sir... thank you very much for this opportunity..."
Neil holds his breath with veneration as Brett’s sterling legs are peeled off the floor and lifted high. He watches the other human crawl shamefully over to the foot of the sofa where he aligns himself and waits for the weighty legs to drop against his haggard back. Some of the black marker writing that once decorated him as a welcoming doormat is now smudged and smeared by shoe prints.
The moment strikes. Brett dumps his legs with an excessive force of gravity directly across the width of the backside, connecting bare skin with the brown toning of his calf muscles. The impact is deliberately more-so than expected as a test to Marco’s durability, permitting them to use every fibre of their body strength to stay upright and keep his trembling limbs from buckling beneath him. In spite of being the clearly un-favoured underdog between him and Neil, Marco is still a slave at the crux who remains committed to the lifestyle. His original owner, Master Caden, may treat him more sympathetically but the stallion’s crude treatment has its own appeal and its own attraction. Marco enjoys being treated like dirt to a superior anthro, just as much as Neil enjoys their affection.
“Ooph!” Marco grunts, suddenly planting his palms and knees into the hard ground as his back bows to the weight of two legs.
“Having trouble down there, foot stool?” The horse asks, nestling himself to exaggerate his supreme comfort over the human’s.
“N-no sir!”
“Really? I’m not too heavy for you?” Brett grins, raising his legs and thumping them back into place causing a tremor in the human’s bones.
Meanwhile Neil is obsessively focused on the horse’s big soles now revealed plainly publicized in view as they prop atop Marco’s body with the backs of their heels hooked over Marco’s ribs and pelvis. The soft hilly undulation of the soles is an addictive sight; enwrapped so warmly in their white socks. Neil’s throat parches like a desert gulch. He scans the soles and their lightly browned footprint imprints to memory, whilst trying to keep his erection tucked out of sight between his squeezing thighs. Marco – while on all fours – sports an erection of his own which he is ashamed to flaunt so early in the day. Master Caden has taught him better self-restraint than this, thereby making him feel insecure and disloyal to his original training.
“Don’t worry about me, sir,” The human mumbles back as his body regains a trickle of strength. “It’s an honour to be your footstool! I promise I won’t let your feet touch the floor until you command it!”
“Uh oh, is my furniture flapping its stupid mouth again? Tsk, tsk, I thought that wasn’t going to be an issue anymore…” Brett jeers wiggling his toes and forming rippled shapes in the fabric, like a row of small snowballs squeezed together that keeps Neil’s dozy eyes locked in one direction. Excluding the vibrant blush in his cheeks, the colour drains from Marco’s face when he realizes his mistake.
Brett looks over to Neil and raises his brow. “Well, I’m all comfortable now so it’s your job to help me out and silence this piece of trash for me. Go ahead and yank off one of my socks then stuff it in his mouth. That ought to shut him for a while. I’ll even let you sniff my feet afterwards for being so well behaved. Bet that perks you up, doesn’t it you horny little slut?”
Before the horse can blink the blonde human drags himself directly in front of their meaty soles still wafting with that sweet pudding scent. Neil excitedly grabs at the sides of Brett’s right foot and lovingly pushes his hands together, whispering out a hushed praise of awe as the sock ripples and foot sinew within squeeze into creasing ripples up the centreline of the sole.
“Ohh fuck that feels good,” Brett comments, “I’ve wasted a lot of years refusing to put my feet near a human because but your smooth claw-less hands are the best thing to have against these tired soles.”
Neil receptively rolls the sweaty sock fabric up the foot exposing a round brown unblemished heel. He continues rolling and scrunching the cotton in small edging movements while simultaneously ploughing his thumb digits into the ball of Brett’s foot. Incontestably the pseudo-massage has an outward effect on the stallion. A throaty groan rumbles in the air and Brett tosses his head back, semi-crumpling the can of rum and cola in his fist as the tension overrides him. Inside the remainder of the sock each toe fans out and curls so densely that their knuckles give off a light crackle.
Withholding of any specific command or communication, Brett silently allows Neil to massage him for several minutes more indulging in each therapeutic rub made by the human's thumb digits, sensually driving up and down the ball of his foot, working through the thin sock fabric. Only grovelling this intimately to the big feet would allow Neil to feel the horse's body warmth seeping through his hands and smell the distinct cologne tip-toeing his nostrils. The blonde human rests his elbows lightly against Marco's bare back to support a constant rubbing without his arms tiring. Before long the shire horse acclimates to his own pampering and each ticklish yet relaxant grooving through his firm manly foot flesh starts to grow familiar enough to relax the twitching of his toes. Neil is too sheepish to speak out of term so he simply kneels in loyal quietude grabbing tenderly and pliantly into the foot as if he were playing the joysticks of a game controller. Brett doesn't turn his head away from his gaunt servant but he does shove his hand into the bowl of corn chips and then transfers this flavourful handful into his maw, sprinkling cheddar crumbs along his chin. He washes it down with a slurp of his rum and smirks heavily.
"You getting stuck into a routine there, huh?"
"Pardon, sir?" Neil asks after a particularly hard digging of his thumb digits pushing both foot flesh and sock cotton up into dense ripples. The horse curls his toes forward condensing these wrinkles into deeper prominent creases that waver along the width of his arch.
"Did your dumb slut brain forget the instructions I gave you? I mean, shit, the massage feels good and all but what did I ask you to do with that foot?"
"You told me to um... take off your sock and shove it in your other slaves mouth," Neil says thusly reminding himself out loud.
Brett nods, "Good, so how about you hurry up? Don't think about it, just do it. I don't want to fry your little human brain with all these big orders but you're a slave so you're only worth keeping for as long as you can obey my orders. I'm sure your lion master would agree. Next time I ask you to do something you better make sure the result meets the demand... Else I might have to test out how possible it is to deep-throat a human with my whole foot."
"Yes sir, sorry sir! You're worth much better servitude!" Neil praises, tensing between the legs at every erotic demeaning insult.
Brett responds only through the tinny glugging of his drink can. Until this moment he'd deliberately treated Neil with more fairness and affection for the purpose of making Marco feel less humanised; valued only as a living practical object by comparison. Brett savours the envy and humiliation of his currently eavesdropping footstool because domineering over any human had addictive qualities, and a biased treatment always helps to break the spirit of one. At least, this is the gossip heard over the years from various anthro friends, neighbours and work colleagues who were never too shy to boast about dominating the underclass citizens of their mixed society.
As ordered, Neil tucks his thumbs underneath the rolled lip of the half-removed sock and feels the warm toasty dimples between the stallion's bare toes. He uses this leverage to help peel away the very last of the sock inverting it to a linty inside-out visage in his hands baring the finality of Brett's ball and toes. Neil spares no time in soaking in the gorgeous sight, viewing the bare foot in all its supremacy. The skin is leathery tough but not calloused, and like leather any wrinkles set into its surface remain ingrained for long exposures of time. Brett's feet are mostly clean offering a feast-able palate of unblemished brown skin with a rosy blush from the internal body heat. Only faint threads or linty remainders - and perhaps the rare gleam of perspiration - mar the otherwise priceless exterior.
Awkwardly Neil shoves Brett's sock into Marco's mouth which opens expectantly the moment the fabric is presented to his lips. Neil doesn't feel he is allowed to apologise to his friend for aiding in their disgrace thus no words are exchanged between them as one human prods and fingers the white footwear into the mouth of the other. As the sock begins to cluster inside Marco’s cheeks and form into one soft musky ball he rolls his tongue underneath it and gently clamps his jaws shut after a muffled sound of gagging, noting that the sock is thick enough to stop his teeth from touching. A baggy, fluffy tail of sock is left to prolapse between his puckering lips.
Neil re-shuffles, returning himself in front of the two feet vertically propped in front of his face, sinking their heels into pink indents on Marco's back flesh. There is now a stark contrast between the undressed chocolaty sole and the white socked sole though Neil is observably attracted most to the first; engaged to every contour of the long toes and their glossy brown toenails, (familiar in all their humanoid shapes but belong to a forever more perfect equine instead). Brett is back to smirking at the blonde male again, wiggling his toes if only to gain amusement from Neil's dilating pupils and tranquilized expression. They have both already forgotten about Marco once again with immediate dismissal, even though this shaved headed person is now sucking a whole mouthful of stallion sock just to try and earn his rightful place.
"Y-your feet are so beautiful, sir!"
"Tell me something I don't know, freak," The horse retorts.
"Can I please have permission to sniff them?" Neil simpers.
"You better do it quick. Won't be long before they finish airing out."
The comment draws the blood to Neil's cheeks. He suddenly grabs Brett's appendage in both hands lifting it a couple inches off Marco's back with all his strength, right as his face swoops into its hardy crop of toes. Neil's thumbs return to their homely place upon the plump ball of foot. His fingertips redden after pressing so devotedly into the flesh. Toes crawl and climb and hug fast around Neil's nose when he brings his face into their reaches, stuffing himself into the extremities and toe gaps with all his avarice. Even with one nostril clamped down by one toe and his other nostril corked by a different toe Neil still sniffs indulgently huffing long and hard until his breath expires. He is lost in that milky vanilla bean 'gym stink' even as the fumes become more impotent in the surrounding fresh air.
"Heh.." Brett chuckles quietly. He sprawls his toes higher up the nose and vices them together tucking the nostrils deep into his cosy digits, spreading warmth between them. "You're too easy. If you had any complaints about it, try being a less pathetic species."
For a rare change - ignoring the horny vacuuming of air that sucks and huffs under his toes - Brett then looks over and speaks to Marco instead. "You agree on being pathetic don't you, footstool?"
"Mm ffr!" Marco agrees immediately, trying but failing to speak even one coherent syllable. Speech, he finds, is less obtainable when the sock lint has rolled so immeasurably over his tongue that he feels a mossy texture in his mouth. As Marco's limbs continue to quake unsteadily and his back still deadens to the leg weight lopped upon it he remains stout in his position here on all fours, only able to hear the snorting antics of his fellow human without seeing exactly how they are debasing themselves for the horse. As the more experienced slave, Marco worries that any poor quality servitude from Neil will also reflect badly on him too, (as if there is an unspoken expectation that Marco must lead by example).
"Tch, see what I mean? The bitch is so pathetic he can't even get a word out past my sock." The brawny horse demonstrates, trying to gesture with his arm yet nearly spilling the final fizzing RTD contents out of its can.
Neil cannot appropriately respond in his current smothered state. Brett's toes are in constant motion clawing and groping, furling up and down, over and over, letting the red faced human melt into molten putty against his sole. Neil tries to moan but any vocalisation he makes is blended into the squelches of his drooling, smearing lips. He is losing lucidity with each passing second trying to sniff every molecule of air in the brief moments when his nostrils are permitted to inhale. The big toe often invades under his nose pushing the supple feature up on a snout-like tilt only for the horse's amusement.
"Such a hungry little foot pig. Caden sure knows how to pick out the good slaves."
Moments after one of Neil's hands slips down the back of the strong rigid foot and his fingers curl over the shin, Brett drags in his other still-socked leg from the small of Marco's back and crosses each limb together without ever plucking his bare sole from Neil's face. Neil chooses not to react when his hand is suddenly squished and squeezed under the propped weight of that other foot now digging its heel into his hand bones as the horse's legs cross. Neil's attention is only targeted on the new foot now mounted in place on a leaned angle, so close to his face, blessing him with another up-close view of the toes veiled under tight white cotton.
Now satisfied with his choice of teasing domination, Brett settles deeper into the ample sofa cushions and flicks through the TV channels again stopping on a black and white Noir film with a moody saxophone score. On screen is a discerning but handsomely mature German Shepherd in fedora and long detective trench coat – snub-nose revolver drawn – smoking as he traipses suspiciously down a rainy alleyway unaware of the elongated shadows skulking behind him. Seemingly content with this movie, Brett tosses the remote down and nests. He takes a final sip of his drink, crunches the can swiftly and tosses it to the floor knowing that any mess he creates is strictly the responsibility of the slaves whom he has already begun ignoring. Idly he wobbles his socked foot up against the other, subtly adding to the pressure against Neil's face until their nose is planted flat and centred against the ball of his bare foot.
“You wanna serve a purpose for once? Stay right there and keep sniffing. Your face is in a real comfy place for me to leave my feet for a while. Keep still, too. I don’t want any distractions when I’m watching my movie.”
Neil is instinctively close to nodding but instead he follows the command to be an immobile foot prop, for the horse’s maximum comfort. This is not a sour deal for the human either as he can comfortably nuzzle into the stacked appendages and burrow their soft malleable soles for sanctuary. The only member of this trio who still suffers an aggrieving purpose is Marco, who understands unquestionably that the ‘keep still’ rule applies perhaps even more so to him, no matter the wearing he feels in his joints. Each of the slaves at least has enough intuition to know this service will be long lasting, and equally demanding of them as the horse plies his newfound interest in human subjection.
(To be continued)
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Category Story / Paw
Species Horse
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
Listed in Folders
*bites lip* I wanted to get into this but the more the world was established the more.. I began to dislike the anthro characters in it. You wrote it really well though, almost too well because I was really really sympathizing with those humans in the end and just wanting to beat the shit out of that horse.
Just got a little too speciesist for me.
Just got a little too speciesist for me.
I get what you mean the commissioner did want specifics included though like degrading dialogue and a bullying demeanour from the horse so everything was really based on meeting those customer needs.
I'll try and do better next time : )
I'll try and do better next time : )
Oh no you didn't do bad at all.
And it's not the demeanor of the characters that had me thinking while trying to fap haha.
It was the othering that the horse was doing. There was world specifics pointed out that made the world they lived in sound modern, but from the sounds of it that also willfully engaged in classism which I felt was an odd duality, it was hard to focus on the sex related parts and be contrary to the parts where they made it appear as though they were glorifying true, classism based slavery - which didn't feel sexual. I had to stop and think about things that were abit unsettling.
And it's not the demeanor of the characters that had me thinking while trying to fap haha.
It was the othering that the horse was doing. There was world specifics pointed out that made the world they lived in sound modern, but from the sounds of it that also willfully engaged in classism which I felt was an odd duality, it was hard to focus on the sex related parts and be contrary to the parts where they made it appear as though they were glorifying true, classism based slavery - which didn't feel sexual. I had to stop and think about things that were abit unsettling.
Basically what I am saying is that the tone, the content and the world details made if difficult to understand who the intended audience was and what I was trying to get out of it. Definitely not critiquing your skills. You're an excellent writer.
I mean, I do appreciate the compliments in there so I don't want to seem like I'm making a fuss, but to be brutally fair, in the story's defense the target audience is the commissioner who paid and trusted me to bring these specific ideas to life and it's a bonus for anyone else who enjoys it too. Plus ultimately these are completely -consenting- characters who have this masochism fetish in the privacy of their own home as I haven't gone out of my way to make this a lecture on real life metaphors of societal subjugation.
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