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Commission for ChrisB1200
PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Twice the Slaves, Twice the Pleasure
(Part Two)
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
(The story continues)
Neil and Marco serve their temporary master with diligence long into the afternoon, whether they play the role of an ottoman weight support or an engrossed foot sniffer. Cold nervous sweat eventually begins to trickle down Marco’s forehead splashing on the tops of his plastered hands below, which themselves are stinging from the tangential blood circulation. He would speak, in theory, and ask if he could switch positions with Neil but still the baseball sized wad of sock keeps his mouth impaired. The other human however is mentally inane after keeping himself lodged in the same ball of foot for what feels like an hour. Beyond the mechanical rhythm of Neil’s exhales pumping through his compacted nostrils and dispensing into the congregate toes the only noises the two slaves have heard lately are the mawkish dialogue and orchestrated sound effects of the Noir film playing behind them. After a crescendo of music plays for minutes on end Marco – who at least is more cognizant – realizes that the film credits are rolling. This affirms the egregious amount of time they have spent serving the horse since he first claimed the sofa. Brett is suspiciously limp and heavier than usual against Marco’s backside. The shaved headed human is correctly sceptical about whether Brett is even awake; confirmed when the equine rolls his head to one side and forces a gargled snore.
Daringly Marco cranes his neck to peek back over his shoulder, where in his periphery he catches sight of a senseless Neil devotedly rubbing their face side to side across the wide alcove between Brett’s ball and toe digits. The stallion’s feet have yet to uncross. Desperately Marco then rolls his tongue and rams it against his mouth gagging each time pushing the sock further out of his lips until finally he can cough it out onto the floor.
“Psst!” Marco whispers, hoping to break his colleague from their fantasy. “Neil! Can you wake him up? My back’s about to give out and I don’t know if I can handle being down here the whole time he’s asleep! Even Master Caden hasn’t gone unconscious on top of me before!”
Neil stirs and bats his eyes. He slowly awakens and hesitantly pulls back a few inches away from Brett’s toe hug leaving each extremity to slink off his face and wriggle subconsciously. With a worried frown he whispers back to Marco, “I… I can’t do that! Newer slaves like me don’t earn any trust if we break the rules! Let him sleep, you’ll survive!”
Marco glares. “I covered for you when you stole one of Master Caden’s socks recently without his permission, remember?! Please, just do something, anything, to make this big lug move!”
Neil sighs in dismay and stares longingly at the large bare foot looming against his face. Though dread spreads through his heart like a dark rot he devises an idea to help out the other slave. Bravely and with exceptionally delicate care Neil slides his palms away from the bare foot apprehensive to leave the warm dry touch of its skin. His thumb and finger marks are evidently squeezed into its flesh for only a moment afterwards until these imprints fade out. Each step is taken between long pauses and attentive observation but Brett’s eyes remain closed and the heavy breaths of slumber are his only movements. Neil clenches his teeth. He reaches over past the bare leg and gently hooks his fingers around the socked foot crossed overhead. It takes longer than Marco would prefer but eventually that doubled-up weight is dispersed somewhat after Brett’s leg is uncrossed against his will – and against his knowledge – and carried slowly over back to the small of Marco’s back. It is rested down gently but the task of waking the horse remains unfulfilled, which Neil is reminded of through scolding whispers.
“I can’t just scream and wake him!” Neil protests, “I need to make it look like an accident or he’ll tell Master Caden and then I’ll get way more punishment than this is worth.”
“Fine, but hurry!”
Neil winces in suspense as he pinches the end of Brett’s only remaining sock. He begins to pull slowly at first letting the initial elastic banding slip over the horse’s heel but then in a gambit of deliberate risk he rips the remainder of sock cleanly off the left foot baring it suddenly to the room temperature air; a cooler atmosphere than the foot had grown used to inside that old used sock. Brett snorts in his sleep and rolls his head to the opposite direction but he does not wake even as his newly naked toes curl and splay subconsciously.
“Do something else!” Marco pleads.
“Shh! I’m not ever supposed to pull off an anthro’s socks without permission! I’m freaking out!”
“Then… I don’t know, lick his feet! He might like that so much he won’t even mind being woken!”
This at last is a convincing argument to motivate the blonde human. Neil’s short breaths imply his obvious excitement as he stares over both bare stallion soles and ponders the pleasure. Nothing else more needs to be discussed. Neil lowers a shaky hand on top of the now bare left foot and pries the toes apart after inserting his fingers in between each digit head. Warm chimney currents of vanilla-esque fragrance waft up against his hand. Once again his erection is present below and the slave groans at its rising tension. Those broad, smooth, flawless soles are all too delectable; all too irresistible. The left one blushes with body heat all along the pertinent areas. Neil leans into this foot first and plants his drooling lips against its ball suckling the spot with leech-like hunger until rivulets of saliva trickle off down Brett’s instep. This hasn’t yet stirred the big equine but Neil is more grateful now just to have mouthy access to their unconscious soles, hopefully for as long as possible before the slurping and suckling wakes them, even if this does not assuage the other human’s impatience.
Neil closes his lips against the ball tasting the faint traces of perspiration and then licks against the same place. His fingers curl tighter between Brett’s toes until he grips them by their very webbings, holding the foot steady so that he can lap his tongue up and down its arch tracing the instep with his lubricated tongue; collecting every molecular residue of the horse’s workout sweat. The foot still tastes clean and relatively plain but it’s the very contact between tongue and sole that ignites every synapsis in Neil’s brain like a July 4th fireworks show. There is no wasted time, no loss of attention, as the horny human starts to wet Brett’s foot top to bottom over and over constantly reapplying a new coat of saliva before the last one dries into the pecan skin. Even as the flesh gently ripples or dimples along the arch there is no crease too barricading for the human’s tongue which glides effortlessly soaking his taste buds with satisfaction. The human becomes ‘handsy’ as he indulges too much and gropes the foot in many different manners or strategies that best help him expose the foot for more licks, such as gently pulling the toes back on a recline so Neil can stow his face into them and treat each length of toe to its own individual slurping. Exhales and grunts and moans are omitted between these laps giving the sordid ordeal its own audio track. After having pulled back these toes to a strain Neil lets them flick back into place one by one and plugs his lips with said toe for a quick once-over suckle each time until he finishes on the horse’s big toe; a digit privy to an extra few minutes of salivated sucking. Marco listens to every decibel of the worship waiting eagerly for the wrathful waking of the stallion, only it never occurs and he is left on all fours to bear the unbearable weight even longer.
“Ngh… I wish he was awake too now, so he could ridicule me a-and tell me how pathetic I am licking his feet,” Neil stammers, appearing drowsy and discombobulated while a globule of saliva hangs from his bottom lip.
At this time the foot, as if yearning for that refreshing wash once again, juts forward and plants back over the slave’s face slipping both the big toe and index toe back between his lips for a dual sucking, which Neil accommodates with loving compulsion. Marco sighs in the foreground and tries to wriggle his aching shoulder plates, hoping for any modicum of relaxation. Now that the film has concluded the television a series of adverts play to fill the space before the next daytime programming begins. Marco however is less attuned to these jingles and sounds as he is to the constant mouth sides made by Neil who is no example of grace when it comes to neat, precise worship. Neil leaves drool sitting between Brett’s toes and licks the soles in abstract patterns leaving some portions of the skin untouched and others glazed in curvaceous trails of saliva.
Neil pulls the toes out of his mouth with a delightful shudder, kissing them once at the very summit of their digits just under each toenail before shifting his focus over to the other foot awaiting a similar reverence. Immediately he strokes the sensitive instep with feathery fingertip movements to try and revive Brett from his slumber through the faint tickles but again the horse continues snoring blissfully. His body however still detects the sensations as they happen and thusly he curls all his toes tightly in an aggressive forward scrunch until more deep, wavy wrinkles span across the sole. Here Neil leans back into this foot which he has already sniffed and nuzzled so often today and treats it with the dedicated slurps he felt only too nervous to give earlier when Brett was awake. Intrusively the tongue tip inserts into one end of the ball creases and once permeated Neil licks all the way to the right sliding his tongue through until there is nothing left to lick. This condenses the perspiration caught in his taste buds making the human shiver and moan each time. Occasional flecks of sock fluff are also scrounged from Brett’s foot during this repeated method.
Afterwards Neil continues satiating his needs over Marco’s by gently coursing a path around Brett’s entire sole with the front of his dewy, slimy tongue until he loops over the heel, up the arch, around the ball, down the instep and back to his starting point on the salivated heel. Actions like this continue for ten more minutes repeatedly and shamelessly, trekking every inch of the two soles, around and between their extremities, and even sometimes along the side edges of edge foot where the soft pliant sole firms into taut foot-top skin. Any salt grain flavours that once existed on the bottoms of Brett’s feet are now elatedly ingested by his weekend slave without him ever waking to truly acknowledge the pleasure he might’ve received with this pseudo footbath. This leaves both his appendages dripping with fresh gleaming moisture and smelling of clean human breath, groomed and pedicured and pampered all by the use of one lucky tongue after which Neil is panting and slack at the jaw from all this exhaustive cleaning. Marco sighs to himself unable to overstate the trembling in his forearms and the nagging pains in his kneecaps, yet he has given up trying to convince Neil to help him. Pressuring them to lick Brett’s feet turned out to be less helpful than he’d hoped, at least up until now when there is suddenly a loud extensive yawn from the sofa to his right sparking joy in the shaved headed human at last.
“Hmph,” Brett grunts sleepily, rubbing his eyes and their surrounding caramel yellow fur patches underhand. When he opens them he stares in disorientation down the length of his lounging body, noticing that both his legs are bare and the human kneeling at the ends of them is dispelling a look of guilty embarrassment. Brett knows immediately what it means when his soles feel cooled, soaked and tickle faintly from fresh droplets oozing down between his toes on both sides of his feet. “Ugh, did I fall asleep? Even big fellas like me get tired after the gym I guess.”
“Yes sir, you did,” Neil mumbles meekly.
“My feet are saturated… did you lick them while I was out?”
“…Y-yes sir,” Neil confesses, fearing the outcome.
Brett stares directly into the slave’s eyes for an intimidating amount of time but finally – without so much as changing his expression – the stallion says, “Good boy, I was hoping you’d know your place well enough to keep these big things pampered. They really needed a bathing too. I’m actually kinda glad you did it without me needing to be awake guiding you through every fucking little detail. Saves me from having to get all twitchy and weirded out by the feeling too since I’ve never had anyone do that to me before. Did you have fun with them?”
“Yes, oh god yes! Thank you sir!”
“Heh, thanking me for letting you lick my feet… I’ll never get used to how depraved you stupid sluts are. Serves you right for being born a human I guess, you just naturally submit to alpha gods like me.” After Brett says this he glances incredulously over to the side where he sees a drool-soaked sock discarded on the floor under Marco’s head. Brett inquires further. “And what’s your excuse, footstool? You think you’re allowed to just spit my sock out on the floor like it’s worth nothing? My socks are your whole fucking life… and I don’t remember giving you any permission to spit it out.”
Marco can feel the horse’s glare burning into the back of his head. He reddens in the cheeks and looks down on the sock too. “Sorry, sir, I just… I just thought-”
“You’re not supposed to think, you’re supposed to serve,” Brett cuts him off. “At least I can wipe off these wet feet on your worthless back, still.”
Brett does as he threatens. He brings in his legs away from Neil’s gazing face and bends his knees, planting his two wet soles flat on the shaky surface of Marco’s spine. Pressure and gradual speed are used by the horse as he wipes the moisture off his feet once again using this diminished human’s skin as a doormat even now as they kneel on all fours. Over the course of many dragging wipes Neil’s saliva is eventually cleaned from the soles. Marco’s wish to be relieved of this position is then somewhat granted when Brett steps down on him with enough pressure to purposefully collapse him loudly to his stomach where he lands without any cushioning once his arms and legs slide out from under him, unable to stave off the sinking weight of both stallion legs. Upon collapse the wind is knocked back out of his lungs again but when Marco’s stomach and ribs falls against the hard living room floor he hasn’t a moment to gather his senses before those same feet travel down afterwards and land hard into his trampled backside, squeezing and pinching small hills of pink flesh between their toes. Marco’s lungs rasp and wither and empty what little air remains in them for a second time in a row, though this time the exhale is a wheezy squeak as Brett’s comely figure stands upright with all its might upon the languid slave. Luckily, unlike his previous encounter being the horse’s rug, Marco only needs endure the crushing pressure behind his ribs and spine for a finite few seconds. Brett is considerate enough to step down off his body and thump his bare, slobbered soles to the floor instead. He hears Marco gasp with relief at the enlightening alleviation. This leaves the cocky stallion standing between the two humans with his crotch readily pressed up against the blushing face of Neil, who leans back only slightly to accommodate the bulge. A gulp travels slowly down the blonde male’s throat. He isn’t sure if he should be gazing at the bulge with lascivious interest or if he should politely look away until commanded otherwise.
“You probably thought you were going to get a lot more flavour in your mouth by now, huh?” Brett interrogates, looking so downwardly that his long equine muzzle brushes against his chest where his arms have crossed tightly.
“M-master Caden often walks bare-paw in the dirt and grass out in the backyard, so… I guess it was a surprise to pull off your socks and see clean feet underneath but it makes sense too… you’re perfect! You need to stay perfect all the time! I get it!” Neil praises.
“Still though, clean or not, I reckon you need something to wash your mouth out, so open up wide and look me in the eye!” Brett commands.
Neil looks far up the hardened torso until his neck creases under the weight of his tilted head. He opens his mouth as far as his jaw will hinge. He is curiously eager about what the shire horse means until they bend down – hands on their own knees – and bring their handsome face inches away from Neil’s. Brett first puts a finger in the cusp of the human’s mouth and pushes their jaw down further even as it pulls painfully on the corners of their lips. He then incurs a shudder from both humans in the room when he gargles up a raucous mouthful of spit that seeps first into the wet amphitheatre underneath his tongue before gathering and bubbling copiously in his roomy maw. By the time Neil understands what was meant by ‘washing his mouth out’, the horse has already spat loudly onto him. A fritter of spittle splashes against Neil’s lips and the main share of warm wet froth shoots into his maw splashing only at the back of his throat. Neil winces. His eyelids flutter and his chin quivers when he swallows instinctively, ingesting horse spit like he duly deserves. He can only respond with a weak smile demonstrating gratitude.
Brett chuckles to himself, never quite bored of abusing these living toys and their reciprocating attitudes. “You can piss off for now. Go crawl in a corner and sniff my running shoes or whatever you humans do. I’ve gotta hit the shower. Just for the record… even though I have to scrub off all your scummy human saliva off my feet doesn’t mean I don’t like it. Also doesn’t mean that’ll be the last time you sluts lick my soles, since I’m going to have to make you do it again some time when I’m awake just so I know what’s really going on down there.”
Marco glances shyly to the side and looks at the backs of those strong brown legs; admiring their tensing calves, ankles and heavy heels. He overhears what the horse is saying to Neil and realizes he can use this opportunity to earn more favour with Brett and coddle to their ego.
“S-sir, if I may?”
Brett barely turns his head enough to glare over his shoulder, down at the rug-like person with the ‘WELCOME’ word now totally smeared incoherently over their backside skin. He can barely muster any effort to make eye contact with this degenerate slave. “…What?” The stallion grunts.
“If you’re going to use the bathroom, m-maybe I can serve my purpose as your floor mat and lie outside the shower for you, so you have something to wipe your feet on afterwards?”
Brett’s lifelessly apathetic expression doesn’t change but he does scratch his chin thoughtfully. “Hm… guess that’s not a bad idea, even coming from a brainless object like you. Fine, your friend can stay out here with my shoes and you can follow me there. Saves me using an actual towel I suppose.”
A sharp whistle blows through the horse’s lips wordlessly commanding the battered and enervated Marco to spring up off the floor and return to all fours. It’s demoralising to assume this same position again so soon but at least he can do so without being used as a footrest at the same time. Already Brett has shoved Neil out of the way onto their rump and started walking with heavy bare footfalls across the living room, leaving for the adjoining corridor lauding nothing more than the correct expectation that Marco will hurriedly crawl after him. As the two leave the room Neil does not squander the opportunity to grab one of Brett’s big running shoes and stuff his face back into its soft pillowed opening to breathe that valuable scent over and over again.
Later in the bathroom Marco quietly waits on his knees for the stallion to undress in front of him. The downpour from the high-pressure shower head helps drown the tension in the room. No words are spoken between them as Brett strips off his clothes one by one down to the starch white underwear. He smirks, however, as he wants to keep this slave unnerved by their differences. Marco does not talk for fear of disobedience. He only rocks gently on the spot and watches the sweaty clothes slap onto the floor in front of him, followed lastly by that pair of underwear landing atop the crumpled pile. Slyly the human flicks his gaze up to the sculpted body hoping to see genital magnificence, but Brett has his back turned as he climbs into the modernistic shower and gives them a view of his muscled backside, buttocks and tail instead. Rapids of water are quick to stream slickly through those muscle grooves and aqueducts, glimmering off the brown skin. Even after the biased abuse Marco still finds himself gnawing his lip in arousal and tucking his thighs together to hide his stiffening crotch whenever he remembers the attractive nature of this anthro.
Water courses down the stallion’s body soaking his black mane into tangled wet tassels; dripping off his refined form into a pool around his feet. Brett’s groan of relief is masked by the sizzling hiss of water and steam dancing behind the glass. Marco shuffles across the tanned tiled floor and lays himself down along the base of the shower, gulping as existential thoughts flood his mind. His aching back touches on the cold floor. His eyes stare at the ceiling above. He listens and he waits until his next purpose will soon be fulfilled.
Eventually after a lengthened amount of bathing and washing the sliding door squeaks ajar. The sounds of raining water rescind into silence but for all the bodily dripping. A soaking, dewy brown arm sticks out above and blindly pats the wall where several towels hang freshly in wait. Marco watches this from his lowly position on the floor, wincing again when that door slides completely open inches away at the left of him. He tenses his stomach and sinks himself further against the unyielding floor.
No consideration is given by the horse who steps out through the opening and immediately stamps his soaking feet straight into Marco’s organs pushing and stuffing them down like foam insulation until the human cannot help but squeak in discomfort. Brett does not care. His other leg promptly swings forward and rockets down into Marco’s chest rubbing itself in like a mortar and pestle; grinding a drizzled footprint into the white and reddening skin above their ribcage. Long trickles of moisture are squelched underfoot. They weave and wend down Marco’s skin – faintly ticklish in their travels – while that now familiar weight dispenses itself evenly across his torso plying his stomach and lungs with all their uncaring pressure.
As that same pressure sets in deeper and his organs shift inside him like a pulpy tide the watery footprints erode that same ‘WELCOME’ word his front side too. Marco rations his breaths through small gasps, only in the windows when the horse shifts or teeters their weight. His bulging eyes prickle and water. This is the definition of suffering but suffer he must if it means improving rapport with the stallion brute.
“Bet you’re loving this, huh, bitch? You wouldn’t have those words written on you like a doormat if you didn’t love feet rubbing over you every damn day.”
Brett illustrates his taunts with a physical demonstration that mimics the first interaction he’d had with Marco earlier, by pressing in hard and wiping off his feet on their consistently supple skin without any traction to grip the soles down this time. The noises are watery and squelching; music to Brett’s ears and all but a reminder of inferiority to the human’s ears. Marco wonders if he should regret offering to be their floor mat. The horse snickers and grins smugly upon them, twisting his foot until the belly chafes underneath and the skin is churned. At the very least, Brett’s soles are softened by standing in moisture for so long. Their skin – once firm and rugged – is now silky and smooth.
“M-hmph!” Marco grunts back, unable to speak when the horse leans all their weight into his lungs and compacts his breath. He can already feel light pink marks in the shape of those lofty feet leaving imprints in his flesh.
“You gotta remember, buzz cut… if I treat you worse it’s because you’re worth less. You’re a slave who worships feet and lets animals trample you. You don’t get any lower than that…”
Marco nods against the floor behind his head. He holds his breath through bloated, blushing cheeks and exhales strongly through his nostrils when the horse turns to stand directly on his chest both feet at a time and curl their soaking toes over Marco’s collar bone, pressing their rounded digits into the unprotected neck. The sheer span of each foot’s ball and heel flattens against his skin yet Brett can each row of fragile rib underfoot, like a street grating that forms grooves across his soles the longer he stands here. Shower water starts to expunge and drizzle down Marco’s neck now too. One by one those big feet slip backwards and dry themselves off on the slave’s chest never relenting on his poor treatment. Droplets are flicked off the soles each time they sweep up into the air before squelching back down into the sternum again creating a hostage atmosphere where Marco realizes he won’t be able to get away or even move until this stallion is finished defiling him.
Brett’s grin is eclipsed out of view when he slides one of his feet forwards without lifting its usual expenditure of weight, smothering Marco’s neck at first and then riding up his chin, pushing his back on an angle until the toes scrunch slickly over the ridge of his chin and idly position themselves under his lips. Would that he could, the human would be panting with rapid breaths right now. Instead he is strained and rasping for air while he is slowly submerged under the ever-moving foot until it steamrolls its undulant wet underside over his lips, then nose, then eyes and brow squishing him into its cleanly doused sole. The brown skin moulds over his facial features ever so lightly pruned from the water but this gives it an extra tissue-soft texture.
Marco’s moan is cushioned under a thick layer of sole meat that wraps over his face with suffocating expansion. He can feel the dampness in his cheeks; feel the droplets racing over his clenched eyes and nose. Some droplets even settle between his closed lips waiting for his mouth to open so he can consume this foot water. Most pertinently of all is that compact squeezing sentenced into his skull which Marco can only hold out against for so long. He is allowing this stallion – perhaps hundreds of pounds in weight – to use him like a mat once again all so that his normal master, the lion, will return him with a positive review of his slaves’ behaviours.
“I can feel you pulling a sour face down there, buzz cut,” Brett says with dire warning in his tone, (conflicting with the giddiness in his smile). “Don’t chicken out on me now and beg to get released from underneath these perfect feet. You were the dickhead who wanted this. That’s like… the first rule; don’t lie down in front of anthros if you don’t want to get walked on.”
There is a long wet sliding sound as Brett mops his foot down Marco’s face leaving dewy trails over their brow and nose bridge until the horse’s toes clamp around Marco’s nostrils and pinch them shut. After they squeeze long enough to sandwich the cartilage between them the toes slip backwards and wipe their wet gaps dry on either side of the nose. The human is hopeful this will end with the foot removing itself completely from his face so that he can muster a breath but instead it looms back over him and splays its toes widely over his partly-opened eyes, giving him a look of their dexterous grace before the entire sole embeds him back into its refreshing depths. Brett stands here victoriously; one leg dug into the human’s chest and the other on their head, capturing it under his curling foot like a prize.
“Maybe Caden treats you different, I don’t know, I don’t care. He put me in charge of you for the weekend and I’ve never had a human to play with before now so I’m not going to let you waste a second of my time, even if you are a waste of a slave. You’re going to have to work real damn hard to impress me. Your other friend, that little foot licker, he’s still new to this so I let him off easy… but not you. You’re going to be my doormat, my foot rest and anything else I demand until your master comes home. And you’re going to love every moment my feet use your unworthy face or body, no matter how they use you, so you better remember all your training and serve me like a god. Now I’m going to walk out of here and play with the other guy some more before your filthy human skin taints my freshly washed feet, but you’re going to stay behind and lick all my wet footprints off the tiles until this room looks spotless again. Have fun, loser. I’ll see you at dinner time when I need another footrest. Got it?”
A nod subtly rolls up and down the scrunched contours of Brett’s sole from below, followed by a puff of air between his toes. This is all the horse needs to grin again and trust that his weekend is going to be full of deified worship and servitude from these two lower-class species. It’s a concept he has been enjoying so much already that ideas for owning a slave of his very own begin to brew in the back of his mind. Until then however, he has Marco and Neil to tend to his every cruel demand for many days ahead.
* * *
(Several days later)
The door to the suburban home is unlocked and swings open to welcome the striding steps of the homeowner himself, returned at last with a countenance of eager anticipation. The lion, Caden, is tall with champagne tinted fur, rigid prideful features and a white patch on his chin. His mane – with braided locks down one side – sweeps luxuriously like a mass of golden threads. He has a serious but calm demeanour as he wanders into his living room gazing around at the empty furniture, curiously aware that neither his equine friend nor his slaves are present. He leaves his luggage by the door and loosens off the tie around his neck, tossing it to the floor. The feline then slides off his black dress shoes, content to pad his sockless paws into the firm hardwood that welcomes each heated impression he leaves with each footfall. He unbuttons the cuffs on his white shirt sleeves and sighs at the realization his work conference is at last finally concluded. Yet still the absence of his slaves bewitches him. He had expected to step into his home greeted by the body of Marco behind the front door to cushion his heavy steps, with Neil eager to wrench off the lion’s shoes for him.
Caden hears a noise from the back yard so he wanders towards the ranch sliding doors, which he pulls open to reveal the missing company at last when he sees the back of Brett’s head. The horse is lounging in a recliner on a contemporary patio overlooking the oasis themed pool, its rocky surroundings, gravel paths and landscaped tropic gardens. A small speaker plays a list of low-volume music near a platter of chocolate drizzled strawberries.
Aviator sunglasses shield the sun from Brett’s eyes and although he pays no attention to the entrance of his friend his two slaves react differently to the new but familiar presence. Neil looks up from the stallion’s foot with a set of five toes shoved deep in his mouth, slathered in drool and wedging tightly to plug that orifice shut. When Neil’s eyes cast upon the smirking lion standing behind Brett’s recliner he tries to abandon post and excitedly break away, pulling the toes from his mouth with a wet suckled *plop!* intending on racing over to greet his true master with devoted bows and paw kisses. Instead when he tries to move he is suddenly jerked back and yanked to his original place of servitude; tethered chokingly to the leash that extends from his collar to the horse’s hand. Brett’s grip is impenetrable. The leash is wrapped tightly around his fist in many layers to ensure that Neil cannot escape no matter how eagerly they want to greet their feline master. Caden, knowing the stubbornness of his friend only too well, is instead amused by the scene and does not make any effort to stop Brett from taunting the desperate human, (who acts like an over-energetic pet waiting for their owner’s return). The lion leans down and rolls his dark trousers up his shins. He saunters around to the other recliner next to Brett’s and lowers himself into with a relieved exhale.
Now in this position Caden can see Marco lying on the ground with his body stowed mostly underneath the horse’s recliner. Only Marco’s head peeks out from underneath lodged between Neil’s knees. Marco is crammed against the horse’s other foot huffing along its scrunched wrinkles and lavishly licking the instep in between the smushing of his features, while the foot constantly rubs and rolls over his face in messy movements that keep Marco demeaned. Both humans are made to serve the equine together taking on one foot each at a time, which Caden is impressed to see.
The lion stretches his legs out to the end of his striped recliner, crossing each meaty paw and letting the sunlight lap against his tired, rough pads. Neil is still obediently sucking Brett’s toes but his attention has veered away to Caden, staring lovingly at the big animal wishing he could verbally express his excitement at their return.
Caden tucks his hands behind his head and says to the stallion, “You tamed them pretty fast. I shouldn’t be surprised but last time I had to go away for the weekend I got my zebra neighbour to look after them. Got a pretty bad report from him afterwards about how the slaves were too scared to worship anyone’s feet that weren’t my own. In their defence they were brand new to the household and I was still breaking them in myself.”
The stallion grins toothily and looks over to the side. “In their defence? Are you going soft on them? They’re human foot sluts. They’re made to do one job and one job only; serve superior dudes like us.”
“Listen to you talking, I’d have thought you were a pro at this by the way you seem to act after only one weekend.”
Brett scoffs, “What took you so long to invite me for the job? I bet if I was here last time I’d have whipped these bitches into shape a lot better than that dumbass zebra.”
“Just hurry up and pass me the blonde one’s leash already you ass, before he busts a nut just thinking about me,” The lion chuckles back, waving his hand out for control of Neil’s leash. “You can keep the other one under your seat.”
Brett rolls his eyes playfully and slings the limp length of leather over to the lion, who grabs it in the air and tugs so hard that the human is dragged cleanly away from Brett, (yanking those long brown toes from his mouth expeditiously). Neil is not offended by the transfer of ownership. In fact he is ecstatic to return to his original master again, bearing a dependence on their large lithe paws. Hastily Neil crawls over to the other recliner and kneels in front of the crossed lion legs without so much as a blink of hesitation. The moment he sees those prized appendages lopped and stacked in front of him begging the touch of his tongue with their sumptuous brown pads he complies to the longing and lunges his face into the tucked space between ball pad and toe pads; surrounding himself – immersing himself – in those glorious parcels of humid meat and delicate toe gap fur. Marco meanwhile is greeted by a second and now lonely stallion foot that competitively seeks for his attention. Both feet hang over the recliner edge together and embrace the shaved headed human with ferocious patting smothers up and down different portions of their face splaying their toes around its girth until Marco cannot be seen under the thickness of these creasing brown arches, yet his impassioned sniffs can still be heard faintly from beneath.
Wet suckles and slurps rise into the air disturbing the peaceful silence that had only just settled amongst the animals and their naked slaves. Brett looks over to see Neil now ravenously stuffing his mouth with all ten of the lion’s toes at once as he holds their two paws like an over-packed burrito and tries to stretch his lips around the plump digits and their protruded claws. The toes are too large in size and number both for the one human’s mouth however so several digits flick out from under his lips as others cram in to be slobbered over with glee. Already streaks of saliva are running off the ball pads of each crossed appendage and soaking into the blonde fur of the arches below. Caden keeps his legs extended and tightly closed together to allow his human this impromptu ‘welcome home’ worship. He tugs the leash harder but Neil only murmurs out a drunken mumble of gratitude. The feline then turns his head slowly aside to smirk smugly at the horse, clearly gloating in his organic control over the slaves he rightfully owns. Even though Marco is likewise eager to greet his master too he cannot move under the smothering pressure of Brett’s dual feet that pin his head to the paved patio ground, hence he will have to wait to shower the lion with splendour in the private hours of the night. He cannot wait to return to the more simple servitude of the lion where he will not suffer quite the humiliation the horse has given him this weekend. For now he can only breathe straight from the horse soles and melt his face against their waxy heat.
Ignoring Neil’s tongue movements squirming between his toes, Caden asks, “So did they actually behave or do I have to punish them again?”
“I made them behave,” Brett retorts, curling his big toe into Marco’s mouth for a moment to make them suck it like a pacifier before flexing his toes out across their cheek again. “I thought it’d be hard at first but they submitted to me so fast it took me by surprise. The one that’s under me now, who I just called ‘buzz cut’ because I couldn’t be fucked learning his name, he was annoying at first until I put him in his place, over and over and over. Turns out he’s more useful as a piece of furniture than anything so I made him my footstool all weekend. His back gave out a few times so I uhh ‘treated’ him to those back massages where a person tramples all over you. That’s what I said I was doing, at least, but really I was just in it to trample him flat. It’s just a lot of fun standing on someone when they’re begging me to get off.”
“Huh,” Caden nods, subconsciously wiggling his toes as saliva drips through them. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve trained him to be a lot better than that. He wouldn’t dare collapse during footrest duty when he’s with me, but nobody can resist the sexiness of a lion dom, it’s basic fact.”
“Pft, or your slaves are spineless little pussies. If I go get my own slave someday he’ll be built tough so he can handle my weight all day long. Maybe you can loan me this fucker underneath me so I can play with him at home? That blonde one’s going to town on your toes so I doubt you’ll need both sluts at once.”
“They belong to me, so they stay with me. You can get your own,” Caden responds stubbornly, closing his eyes to the pleasurable sensation of Neil’s tongue lapping up his toe pads repeatedly. He ignores the grumble of frustration from the stallion.
“Hey,” Brett asks, (after slapping his drooled foot down against Marco’s cheek leaving a pink imprint in their stinging skin), “What’d you do without these guys around when you were at that conference shit? It must suck to go anywhere without a paw loving pervert following you around once you get used to being served all day.”
The question ignites a bawdy smirk on the lion’s face. Before replying he stacks his paws vertically pushing the heel of one behind the toes of the other and creates a towering wall of plump sole for Neil to rummage their face into; waiting for the human’s tongue to soak into one foot and slowly lick a lengthy trail up the combined lengths of both feet, snaking a salivated pathway over his different pads. “You think a dish like me with all my good looks and wealth goes anywhere without some gay freak eyeballing me? C’mon Brett, you don’t give me enough credit.”
Both animals share a laugh before the lion then vainly mutters, “First night there I get off the plane, go straight to the hotel bar and see some runty orange fox guy from my work sitting a few seats down. I didn’t want to small-talk with some lousy intern like him but he was blushing like a sunset sky every time he looked at me. Typical. I got up and pretended to walk away to the suites but on my way past him I grabbed his tie and pulled him after me, telling him to follow. Brought him back to my room and made him strip. Little simp followed every my every command like he’d been fantasizing about it for weeks. You should’ve seen him. He polished my work shoes with his tongue then did the same for my paws all night until I passed out in bed and woke up the next morning with him still tongue-fucking my toes. Gifted him the only pair of socks I brought that trip too, on the condition that I better come into work tomorrow and find him waiting under my desk so I have something to rest my paws on through the work day. Simple as that.”
The stallion shakes his head in humoured disbelief, now keeping his soles still and calm over Marco’s smothered face to save himself the energy of teasing them too religiously. “Foot fags are the best for alphas like us and I say that wishing I’d known it earlier. You enjoy your new fox rug then, I’m personally going to stick with human sluts from now on. There’s nothing better than a human serving us anthros to remind us how superior we are…”
The lion mumbles in agreement and nestles comfortably back into his own recliner. The horse does the same following a long exhale. The two animals lounge there by the pool in rightful sovereignty, enjoying the wave of serenity that settles over the suburban scenery; contented by the noises of wet lapping slurps against the lion’s padded soles and the moaning huffs trapped under the stallion’s feet. After all, this is the bliss any anthro deservers in the company of humans.
THE END
PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Twice the Slaves, Twice the Pleasure
(Part Two)
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
(The story continues)
Neil and Marco serve their temporary master with diligence long into the afternoon, whether they play the role of an ottoman weight support or an engrossed foot sniffer. Cold nervous sweat eventually begins to trickle down Marco’s forehead splashing on the tops of his plastered hands below, which themselves are stinging from the tangential blood circulation. He would speak, in theory, and ask if he could switch positions with Neil but still the baseball sized wad of sock keeps his mouth impaired. The other human however is mentally inane after keeping himself lodged in the same ball of foot for what feels like an hour. Beyond the mechanical rhythm of Neil’s exhales pumping through his compacted nostrils and dispensing into the congregate toes the only noises the two slaves have heard lately are the mawkish dialogue and orchestrated sound effects of the Noir film playing behind them. After a crescendo of music plays for minutes on end Marco – who at least is more cognizant – realizes that the film credits are rolling. This affirms the egregious amount of time they have spent serving the horse since he first claimed the sofa. Brett is suspiciously limp and heavier than usual against Marco’s backside. The shaved headed human is correctly sceptical about whether Brett is even awake; confirmed when the equine rolls his head to one side and forces a gargled snore.
Daringly Marco cranes his neck to peek back over his shoulder, where in his periphery he catches sight of a senseless Neil devotedly rubbing their face side to side across the wide alcove between Brett’s ball and toe digits. The stallion’s feet have yet to uncross. Desperately Marco then rolls his tongue and rams it against his mouth gagging each time pushing the sock further out of his lips until finally he can cough it out onto the floor.
“Psst!” Marco whispers, hoping to break his colleague from their fantasy. “Neil! Can you wake him up? My back’s about to give out and I don’t know if I can handle being down here the whole time he’s asleep! Even Master Caden hasn’t gone unconscious on top of me before!”
Neil stirs and bats his eyes. He slowly awakens and hesitantly pulls back a few inches away from Brett’s toe hug leaving each extremity to slink off his face and wriggle subconsciously. With a worried frown he whispers back to Marco, “I… I can’t do that! Newer slaves like me don’t earn any trust if we break the rules! Let him sleep, you’ll survive!”
Marco glares. “I covered for you when you stole one of Master Caden’s socks recently without his permission, remember?! Please, just do something, anything, to make this big lug move!”
Neil sighs in dismay and stares longingly at the large bare foot looming against his face. Though dread spreads through his heart like a dark rot he devises an idea to help out the other slave. Bravely and with exceptionally delicate care Neil slides his palms away from the bare foot apprehensive to leave the warm dry touch of its skin. His thumb and finger marks are evidently squeezed into its flesh for only a moment afterwards until these imprints fade out. Each step is taken between long pauses and attentive observation but Brett’s eyes remain closed and the heavy breaths of slumber are his only movements. Neil clenches his teeth. He reaches over past the bare leg and gently hooks his fingers around the socked foot crossed overhead. It takes longer than Marco would prefer but eventually that doubled-up weight is dispersed somewhat after Brett’s leg is uncrossed against his will – and against his knowledge – and carried slowly over back to the small of Marco’s back. It is rested down gently but the task of waking the horse remains unfulfilled, which Neil is reminded of through scolding whispers.
“I can’t just scream and wake him!” Neil protests, “I need to make it look like an accident or he’ll tell Master Caden and then I’ll get way more punishment than this is worth.”
“Fine, but hurry!”
Neil winces in suspense as he pinches the end of Brett’s only remaining sock. He begins to pull slowly at first letting the initial elastic banding slip over the horse’s heel but then in a gambit of deliberate risk he rips the remainder of sock cleanly off the left foot baring it suddenly to the room temperature air; a cooler atmosphere than the foot had grown used to inside that old used sock. Brett snorts in his sleep and rolls his head to the opposite direction but he does not wake even as his newly naked toes curl and splay subconsciously.
“Do something else!” Marco pleads.
“Shh! I’m not ever supposed to pull off an anthro’s socks without permission! I’m freaking out!”
“Then… I don’t know, lick his feet! He might like that so much he won’t even mind being woken!”
This at last is a convincing argument to motivate the blonde human. Neil’s short breaths imply his obvious excitement as he stares over both bare stallion soles and ponders the pleasure. Nothing else more needs to be discussed. Neil lowers a shaky hand on top of the now bare left foot and pries the toes apart after inserting his fingers in between each digit head. Warm chimney currents of vanilla-esque fragrance waft up against his hand. Once again his erection is present below and the slave groans at its rising tension. Those broad, smooth, flawless soles are all too delectable; all too irresistible. The left one blushes with body heat all along the pertinent areas. Neil leans into this foot first and plants his drooling lips against its ball suckling the spot with leech-like hunger until rivulets of saliva trickle off down Brett’s instep. This hasn’t yet stirred the big equine but Neil is more grateful now just to have mouthy access to their unconscious soles, hopefully for as long as possible before the slurping and suckling wakes them, even if this does not assuage the other human’s impatience.
Neil closes his lips against the ball tasting the faint traces of perspiration and then licks against the same place. His fingers curl tighter between Brett’s toes until he grips them by their very webbings, holding the foot steady so that he can lap his tongue up and down its arch tracing the instep with his lubricated tongue; collecting every molecular residue of the horse’s workout sweat. The foot still tastes clean and relatively plain but it’s the very contact between tongue and sole that ignites every synapsis in Neil’s brain like a July 4th fireworks show. There is no wasted time, no loss of attention, as the horny human starts to wet Brett’s foot top to bottom over and over constantly reapplying a new coat of saliva before the last one dries into the pecan skin. Even as the flesh gently ripples or dimples along the arch there is no crease too barricading for the human’s tongue which glides effortlessly soaking his taste buds with satisfaction. The human becomes ‘handsy’ as he indulges too much and gropes the foot in many different manners or strategies that best help him expose the foot for more licks, such as gently pulling the toes back on a recline so Neil can stow his face into them and treat each length of toe to its own individual slurping. Exhales and grunts and moans are omitted between these laps giving the sordid ordeal its own audio track. After having pulled back these toes to a strain Neil lets them flick back into place one by one and plugs his lips with said toe for a quick once-over suckle each time until he finishes on the horse’s big toe; a digit privy to an extra few minutes of salivated sucking. Marco listens to every decibel of the worship waiting eagerly for the wrathful waking of the stallion, only it never occurs and he is left on all fours to bear the unbearable weight even longer.
“Ngh… I wish he was awake too now, so he could ridicule me a-and tell me how pathetic I am licking his feet,” Neil stammers, appearing drowsy and discombobulated while a globule of saliva hangs from his bottom lip.
At this time the foot, as if yearning for that refreshing wash once again, juts forward and plants back over the slave’s face slipping both the big toe and index toe back between his lips for a dual sucking, which Neil accommodates with loving compulsion. Marco sighs in the foreground and tries to wriggle his aching shoulder plates, hoping for any modicum of relaxation. Now that the film has concluded the television a series of adverts play to fill the space before the next daytime programming begins. Marco however is less attuned to these jingles and sounds as he is to the constant mouth sides made by Neil who is no example of grace when it comes to neat, precise worship. Neil leaves drool sitting between Brett’s toes and licks the soles in abstract patterns leaving some portions of the skin untouched and others glazed in curvaceous trails of saliva.
Neil pulls the toes out of his mouth with a delightful shudder, kissing them once at the very summit of their digits just under each toenail before shifting his focus over to the other foot awaiting a similar reverence. Immediately he strokes the sensitive instep with feathery fingertip movements to try and revive Brett from his slumber through the faint tickles but again the horse continues snoring blissfully. His body however still detects the sensations as they happen and thusly he curls all his toes tightly in an aggressive forward scrunch until more deep, wavy wrinkles span across the sole. Here Neil leans back into this foot which he has already sniffed and nuzzled so often today and treats it with the dedicated slurps he felt only too nervous to give earlier when Brett was awake. Intrusively the tongue tip inserts into one end of the ball creases and once permeated Neil licks all the way to the right sliding his tongue through until there is nothing left to lick. This condenses the perspiration caught in his taste buds making the human shiver and moan each time. Occasional flecks of sock fluff are also scrounged from Brett’s foot during this repeated method.
Afterwards Neil continues satiating his needs over Marco’s by gently coursing a path around Brett’s entire sole with the front of his dewy, slimy tongue until he loops over the heel, up the arch, around the ball, down the instep and back to his starting point on the salivated heel. Actions like this continue for ten more minutes repeatedly and shamelessly, trekking every inch of the two soles, around and between their extremities, and even sometimes along the side edges of edge foot where the soft pliant sole firms into taut foot-top skin. Any salt grain flavours that once existed on the bottoms of Brett’s feet are now elatedly ingested by his weekend slave without him ever waking to truly acknowledge the pleasure he might’ve received with this pseudo footbath. This leaves both his appendages dripping with fresh gleaming moisture and smelling of clean human breath, groomed and pedicured and pampered all by the use of one lucky tongue after which Neil is panting and slack at the jaw from all this exhaustive cleaning. Marco sighs to himself unable to overstate the trembling in his forearms and the nagging pains in his kneecaps, yet he has given up trying to convince Neil to help him. Pressuring them to lick Brett’s feet turned out to be less helpful than he’d hoped, at least up until now when there is suddenly a loud extensive yawn from the sofa to his right sparking joy in the shaved headed human at last.
“Hmph,” Brett grunts sleepily, rubbing his eyes and their surrounding caramel yellow fur patches underhand. When he opens them he stares in disorientation down the length of his lounging body, noticing that both his legs are bare and the human kneeling at the ends of them is dispelling a look of guilty embarrassment. Brett knows immediately what it means when his soles feel cooled, soaked and tickle faintly from fresh droplets oozing down between his toes on both sides of his feet. “Ugh, did I fall asleep? Even big fellas like me get tired after the gym I guess.”
“Yes sir, you did,” Neil mumbles meekly.
“My feet are saturated… did you lick them while I was out?”
“…Y-yes sir,” Neil confesses, fearing the outcome.
Brett stares directly into the slave’s eyes for an intimidating amount of time but finally – without so much as changing his expression – the stallion says, “Good boy, I was hoping you’d know your place well enough to keep these big things pampered. They really needed a bathing too. I’m actually kinda glad you did it without me needing to be awake guiding you through every fucking little detail. Saves me from having to get all twitchy and weirded out by the feeling too since I’ve never had anyone do that to me before. Did you have fun with them?”
“Yes, oh god yes! Thank you sir!”
“Heh, thanking me for letting you lick my feet… I’ll never get used to how depraved you stupid sluts are. Serves you right for being born a human I guess, you just naturally submit to alpha gods like me.” After Brett says this he glances incredulously over to the side where he sees a drool-soaked sock discarded on the floor under Marco’s head. Brett inquires further. “And what’s your excuse, footstool? You think you’re allowed to just spit my sock out on the floor like it’s worth nothing? My socks are your whole fucking life… and I don’t remember giving you any permission to spit it out.”
Marco can feel the horse’s glare burning into the back of his head. He reddens in the cheeks and looks down on the sock too. “Sorry, sir, I just… I just thought-”
“You’re not supposed to think, you’re supposed to serve,” Brett cuts him off. “At least I can wipe off these wet feet on your worthless back, still.”
Brett does as he threatens. He brings in his legs away from Neil’s gazing face and bends his knees, planting his two wet soles flat on the shaky surface of Marco’s spine. Pressure and gradual speed are used by the horse as he wipes the moisture off his feet once again using this diminished human’s skin as a doormat even now as they kneel on all fours. Over the course of many dragging wipes Neil’s saliva is eventually cleaned from the soles. Marco’s wish to be relieved of this position is then somewhat granted when Brett steps down on him with enough pressure to purposefully collapse him loudly to his stomach where he lands without any cushioning once his arms and legs slide out from under him, unable to stave off the sinking weight of both stallion legs. Upon collapse the wind is knocked back out of his lungs again but when Marco’s stomach and ribs falls against the hard living room floor he hasn’t a moment to gather his senses before those same feet travel down afterwards and land hard into his trampled backside, squeezing and pinching small hills of pink flesh between their toes. Marco’s lungs rasp and wither and empty what little air remains in them for a second time in a row, though this time the exhale is a wheezy squeak as Brett’s comely figure stands upright with all its might upon the languid slave. Luckily, unlike his previous encounter being the horse’s rug, Marco only needs endure the crushing pressure behind his ribs and spine for a finite few seconds. Brett is considerate enough to step down off his body and thump his bare, slobbered soles to the floor instead. He hears Marco gasp with relief at the enlightening alleviation. This leaves the cocky stallion standing between the two humans with his crotch readily pressed up against the blushing face of Neil, who leans back only slightly to accommodate the bulge. A gulp travels slowly down the blonde male’s throat. He isn’t sure if he should be gazing at the bulge with lascivious interest or if he should politely look away until commanded otherwise.
“You probably thought you were going to get a lot more flavour in your mouth by now, huh?” Brett interrogates, looking so downwardly that his long equine muzzle brushes against his chest where his arms have crossed tightly.
“M-master Caden often walks bare-paw in the dirt and grass out in the backyard, so… I guess it was a surprise to pull off your socks and see clean feet underneath but it makes sense too… you’re perfect! You need to stay perfect all the time! I get it!” Neil praises.
“Still though, clean or not, I reckon you need something to wash your mouth out, so open up wide and look me in the eye!” Brett commands.
Neil looks far up the hardened torso until his neck creases under the weight of his tilted head. He opens his mouth as far as his jaw will hinge. He is curiously eager about what the shire horse means until they bend down – hands on their own knees – and bring their handsome face inches away from Neil’s. Brett first puts a finger in the cusp of the human’s mouth and pushes their jaw down further even as it pulls painfully on the corners of their lips. He then incurs a shudder from both humans in the room when he gargles up a raucous mouthful of spit that seeps first into the wet amphitheatre underneath his tongue before gathering and bubbling copiously in his roomy maw. By the time Neil understands what was meant by ‘washing his mouth out’, the horse has already spat loudly onto him. A fritter of spittle splashes against Neil’s lips and the main share of warm wet froth shoots into his maw splashing only at the back of his throat. Neil winces. His eyelids flutter and his chin quivers when he swallows instinctively, ingesting horse spit like he duly deserves. He can only respond with a weak smile demonstrating gratitude.
Brett chuckles to himself, never quite bored of abusing these living toys and their reciprocating attitudes. “You can piss off for now. Go crawl in a corner and sniff my running shoes or whatever you humans do. I’ve gotta hit the shower. Just for the record… even though I have to scrub off all your scummy human saliva off my feet doesn’t mean I don’t like it. Also doesn’t mean that’ll be the last time you sluts lick my soles, since I’m going to have to make you do it again some time when I’m awake just so I know what’s really going on down there.”
Marco glances shyly to the side and looks at the backs of those strong brown legs; admiring their tensing calves, ankles and heavy heels. He overhears what the horse is saying to Neil and realizes he can use this opportunity to earn more favour with Brett and coddle to their ego.
“S-sir, if I may?”
Brett barely turns his head enough to glare over his shoulder, down at the rug-like person with the ‘WELCOME’ word now totally smeared incoherently over their backside skin. He can barely muster any effort to make eye contact with this degenerate slave. “…What?” The stallion grunts.
“If you’re going to use the bathroom, m-maybe I can serve my purpose as your floor mat and lie outside the shower for you, so you have something to wipe your feet on afterwards?”
Brett’s lifelessly apathetic expression doesn’t change but he does scratch his chin thoughtfully. “Hm… guess that’s not a bad idea, even coming from a brainless object like you. Fine, your friend can stay out here with my shoes and you can follow me there. Saves me using an actual towel I suppose.”
A sharp whistle blows through the horse’s lips wordlessly commanding the battered and enervated Marco to spring up off the floor and return to all fours. It’s demoralising to assume this same position again so soon but at least he can do so without being used as a footrest at the same time. Already Brett has shoved Neil out of the way onto their rump and started walking with heavy bare footfalls across the living room, leaving for the adjoining corridor lauding nothing more than the correct expectation that Marco will hurriedly crawl after him. As the two leave the room Neil does not squander the opportunity to grab one of Brett’s big running shoes and stuff his face back into its soft pillowed opening to breathe that valuable scent over and over again.
Later in the bathroom Marco quietly waits on his knees for the stallion to undress in front of him. The downpour from the high-pressure shower head helps drown the tension in the room. No words are spoken between them as Brett strips off his clothes one by one down to the starch white underwear. He smirks, however, as he wants to keep this slave unnerved by their differences. Marco does not talk for fear of disobedience. He only rocks gently on the spot and watches the sweaty clothes slap onto the floor in front of him, followed lastly by that pair of underwear landing atop the crumpled pile. Slyly the human flicks his gaze up to the sculpted body hoping to see genital magnificence, but Brett has his back turned as he climbs into the modernistic shower and gives them a view of his muscled backside, buttocks and tail instead. Rapids of water are quick to stream slickly through those muscle grooves and aqueducts, glimmering off the brown skin. Even after the biased abuse Marco still finds himself gnawing his lip in arousal and tucking his thighs together to hide his stiffening crotch whenever he remembers the attractive nature of this anthro.
Water courses down the stallion’s body soaking his black mane into tangled wet tassels; dripping off his refined form into a pool around his feet. Brett’s groan of relief is masked by the sizzling hiss of water and steam dancing behind the glass. Marco shuffles across the tanned tiled floor and lays himself down along the base of the shower, gulping as existential thoughts flood his mind. His aching back touches on the cold floor. His eyes stare at the ceiling above. He listens and he waits until his next purpose will soon be fulfilled.
Eventually after a lengthened amount of bathing and washing the sliding door squeaks ajar. The sounds of raining water rescind into silence but for all the bodily dripping. A soaking, dewy brown arm sticks out above and blindly pats the wall where several towels hang freshly in wait. Marco watches this from his lowly position on the floor, wincing again when that door slides completely open inches away at the left of him. He tenses his stomach and sinks himself further against the unyielding floor.
No consideration is given by the horse who steps out through the opening and immediately stamps his soaking feet straight into Marco’s organs pushing and stuffing them down like foam insulation until the human cannot help but squeak in discomfort. Brett does not care. His other leg promptly swings forward and rockets down into Marco’s chest rubbing itself in like a mortar and pestle; grinding a drizzled footprint into the white and reddening skin above their ribcage. Long trickles of moisture are squelched underfoot. They weave and wend down Marco’s skin – faintly ticklish in their travels – while that now familiar weight dispenses itself evenly across his torso plying his stomach and lungs with all their uncaring pressure.
As that same pressure sets in deeper and his organs shift inside him like a pulpy tide the watery footprints erode that same ‘WELCOME’ word his front side too. Marco rations his breaths through small gasps, only in the windows when the horse shifts or teeters their weight. His bulging eyes prickle and water. This is the definition of suffering but suffer he must if it means improving rapport with the stallion brute.
“Bet you’re loving this, huh, bitch? You wouldn’t have those words written on you like a doormat if you didn’t love feet rubbing over you every damn day.”
Brett illustrates his taunts with a physical demonstration that mimics the first interaction he’d had with Marco earlier, by pressing in hard and wiping off his feet on their consistently supple skin without any traction to grip the soles down this time. The noises are watery and squelching; music to Brett’s ears and all but a reminder of inferiority to the human’s ears. Marco wonders if he should regret offering to be their floor mat. The horse snickers and grins smugly upon them, twisting his foot until the belly chafes underneath and the skin is churned. At the very least, Brett’s soles are softened by standing in moisture for so long. Their skin – once firm and rugged – is now silky and smooth.
“M-hmph!” Marco grunts back, unable to speak when the horse leans all their weight into his lungs and compacts his breath. He can already feel light pink marks in the shape of those lofty feet leaving imprints in his flesh.
“You gotta remember, buzz cut… if I treat you worse it’s because you’re worth less. You’re a slave who worships feet and lets animals trample you. You don’t get any lower than that…”
Marco nods against the floor behind his head. He holds his breath through bloated, blushing cheeks and exhales strongly through his nostrils when the horse turns to stand directly on his chest both feet at a time and curl their soaking toes over Marco’s collar bone, pressing their rounded digits into the unprotected neck. The sheer span of each foot’s ball and heel flattens against his skin yet Brett can each row of fragile rib underfoot, like a street grating that forms grooves across his soles the longer he stands here. Shower water starts to expunge and drizzle down Marco’s neck now too. One by one those big feet slip backwards and dry themselves off on the slave’s chest never relenting on his poor treatment. Droplets are flicked off the soles each time they sweep up into the air before squelching back down into the sternum again creating a hostage atmosphere where Marco realizes he won’t be able to get away or even move until this stallion is finished defiling him.
Brett’s grin is eclipsed out of view when he slides one of his feet forwards without lifting its usual expenditure of weight, smothering Marco’s neck at first and then riding up his chin, pushing his back on an angle until the toes scrunch slickly over the ridge of his chin and idly position themselves under his lips. Would that he could, the human would be panting with rapid breaths right now. Instead he is strained and rasping for air while he is slowly submerged under the ever-moving foot until it steamrolls its undulant wet underside over his lips, then nose, then eyes and brow squishing him into its cleanly doused sole. The brown skin moulds over his facial features ever so lightly pruned from the water but this gives it an extra tissue-soft texture.
Marco’s moan is cushioned under a thick layer of sole meat that wraps over his face with suffocating expansion. He can feel the dampness in his cheeks; feel the droplets racing over his clenched eyes and nose. Some droplets even settle between his closed lips waiting for his mouth to open so he can consume this foot water. Most pertinently of all is that compact squeezing sentenced into his skull which Marco can only hold out against for so long. He is allowing this stallion – perhaps hundreds of pounds in weight – to use him like a mat once again all so that his normal master, the lion, will return him with a positive review of his slaves’ behaviours.
“I can feel you pulling a sour face down there, buzz cut,” Brett says with dire warning in his tone, (conflicting with the giddiness in his smile). “Don’t chicken out on me now and beg to get released from underneath these perfect feet. You were the dickhead who wanted this. That’s like… the first rule; don’t lie down in front of anthros if you don’t want to get walked on.”
There is a long wet sliding sound as Brett mops his foot down Marco’s face leaving dewy trails over their brow and nose bridge until the horse’s toes clamp around Marco’s nostrils and pinch them shut. After they squeeze long enough to sandwich the cartilage between them the toes slip backwards and wipe their wet gaps dry on either side of the nose. The human is hopeful this will end with the foot removing itself completely from his face so that he can muster a breath but instead it looms back over him and splays its toes widely over his partly-opened eyes, giving him a look of their dexterous grace before the entire sole embeds him back into its refreshing depths. Brett stands here victoriously; one leg dug into the human’s chest and the other on their head, capturing it under his curling foot like a prize.
“Maybe Caden treats you different, I don’t know, I don’t care. He put me in charge of you for the weekend and I’ve never had a human to play with before now so I’m not going to let you waste a second of my time, even if you are a waste of a slave. You’re going to have to work real damn hard to impress me. Your other friend, that little foot licker, he’s still new to this so I let him off easy… but not you. You’re going to be my doormat, my foot rest and anything else I demand until your master comes home. And you’re going to love every moment my feet use your unworthy face or body, no matter how they use you, so you better remember all your training and serve me like a god. Now I’m going to walk out of here and play with the other guy some more before your filthy human skin taints my freshly washed feet, but you’re going to stay behind and lick all my wet footprints off the tiles until this room looks spotless again. Have fun, loser. I’ll see you at dinner time when I need another footrest. Got it?”
A nod subtly rolls up and down the scrunched contours of Brett’s sole from below, followed by a puff of air between his toes. This is all the horse needs to grin again and trust that his weekend is going to be full of deified worship and servitude from these two lower-class species. It’s a concept he has been enjoying so much already that ideas for owning a slave of his very own begin to brew in the back of his mind. Until then however, he has Marco and Neil to tend to his every cruel demand for many days ahead.
* * *
(Several days later)
The door to the suburban home is unlocked and swings open to welcome the striding steps of the homeowner himself, returned at last with a countenance of eager anticipation. The lion, Caden, is tall with champagne tinted fur, rigid prideful features and a white patch on his chin. His mane – with braided locks down one side – sweeps luxuriously like a mass of golden threads. He has a serious but calm demeanour as he wanders into his living room gazing around at the empty furniture, curiously aware that neither his equine friend nor his slaves are present. He leaves his luggage by the door and loosens off the tie around his neck, tossing it to the floor. The feline then slides off his black dress shoes, content to pad his sockless paws into the firm hardwood that welcomes each heated impression he leaves with each footfall. He unbuttons the cuffs on his white shirt sleeves and sighs at the realization his work conference is at last finally concluded. Yet still the absence of his slaves bewitches him. He had expected to step into his home greeted by the body of Marco behind the front door to cushion his heavy steps, with Neil eager to wrench off the lion’s shoes for him.
Caden hears a noise from the back yard so he wanders towards the ranch sliding doors, which he pulls open to reveal the missing company at last when he sees the back of Brett’s head. The horse is lounging in a recliner on a contemporary patio overlooking the oasis themed pool, its rocky surroundings, gravel paths and landscaped tropic gardens. A small speaker plays a list of low-volume music near a platter of chocolate drizzled strawberries.
Aviator sunglasses shield the sun from Brett’s eyes and although he pays no attention to the entrance of his friend his two slaves react differently to the new but familiar presence. Neil looks up from the stallion’s foot with a set of five toes shoved deep in his mouth, slathered in drool and wedging tightly to plug that orifice shut. When Neil’s eyes cast upon the smirking lion standing behind Brett’s recliner he tries to abandon post and excitedly break away, pulling the toes from his mouth with a wet suckled *plop!* intending on racing over to greet his true master with devoted bows and paw kisses. Instead when he tries to move he is suddenly jerked back and yanked to his original place of servitude; tethered chokingly to the leash that extends from his collar to the horse’s hand. Brett’s grip is impenetrable. The leash is wrapped tightly around his fist in many layers to ensure that Neil cannot escape no matter how eagerly they want to greet their feline master. Caden, knowing the stubbornness of his friend only too well, is instead amused by the scene and does not make any effort to stop Brett from taunting the desperate human, (who acts like an over-energetic pet waiting for their owner’s return). The lion leans down and rolls his dark trousers up his shins. He saunters around to the other recliner next to Brett’s and lowers himself into with a relieved exhale.
Now in this position Caden can see Marco lying on the ground with his body stowed mostly underneath the horse’s recliner. Only Marco’s head peeks out from underneath lodged between Neil’s knees. Marco is crammed against the horse’s other foot huffing along its scrunched wrinkles and lavishly licking the instep in between the smushing of his features, while the foot constantly rubs and rolls over his face in messy movements that keep Marco demeaned. Both humans are made to serve the equine together taking on one foot each at a time, which Caden is impressed to see.
The lion stretches his legs out to the end of his striped recliner, crossing each meaty paw and letting the sunlight lap against his tired, rough pads. Neil is still obediently sucking Brett’s toes but his attention has veered away to Caden, staring lovingly at the big animal wishing he could verbally express his excitement at their return.
Caden tucks his hands behind his head and says to the stallion, “You tamed them pretty fast. I shouldn’t be surprised but last time I had to go away for the weekend I got my zebra neighbour to look after them. Got a pretty bad report from him afterwards about how the slaves were too scared to worship anyone’s feet that weren’t my own. In their defence they were brand new to the household and I was still breaking them in myself.”
The stallion grins toothily and looks over to the side. “In their defence? Are you going soft on them? They’re human foot sluts. They’re made to do one job and one job only; serve superior dudes like us.”
“Listen to you talking, I’d have thought you were a pro at this by the way you seem to act after only one weekend.”
Brett scoffs, “What took you so long to invite me for the job? I bet if I was here last time I’d have whipped these bitches into shape a lot better than that dumbass zebra.”
“Just hurry up and pass me the blonde one’s leash already you ass, before he busts a nut just thinking about me,” The lion chuckles back, waving his hand out for control of Neil’s leash. “You can keep the other one under your seat.”
Brett rolls his eyes playfully and slings the limp length of leather over to the lion, who grabs it in the air and tugs so hard that the human is dragged cleanly away from Brett, (yanking those long brown toes from his mouth expeditiously). Neil is not offended by the transfer of ownership. In fact he is ecstatic to return to his original master again, bearing a dependence on their large lithe paws. Hastily Neil crawls over to the other recliner and kneels in front of the crossed lion legs without so much as a blink of hesitation. The moment he sees those prized appendages lopped and stacked in front of him begging the touch of his tongue with their sumptuous brown pads he complies to the longing and lunges his face into the tucked space between ball pad and toe pads; surrounding himself – immersing himself – in those glorious parcels of humid meat and delicate toe gap fur. Marco meanwhile is greeted by a second and now lonely stallion foot that competitively seeks for his attention. Both feet hang over the recliner edge together and embrace the shaved headed human with ferocious patting smothers up and down different portions of their face splaying their toes around its girth until Marco cannot be seen under the thickness of these creasing brown arches, yet his impassioned sniffs can still be heard faintly from beneath.
Wet suckles and slurps rise into the air disturbing the peaceful silence that had only just settled amongst the animals and their naked slaves. Brett looks over to see Neil now ravenously stuffing his mouth with all ten of the lion’s toes at once as he holds their two paws like an over-packed burrito and tries to stretch his lips around the plump digits and their protruded claws. The toes are too large in size and number both for the one human’s mouth however so several digits flick out from under his lips as others cram in to be slobbered over with glee. Already streaks of saliva are running off the ball pads of each crossed appendage and soaking into the blonde fur of the arches below. Caden keeps his legs extended and tightly closed together to allow his human this impromptu ‘welcome home’ worship. He tugs the leash harder but Neil only murmurs out a drunken mumble of gratitude. The feline then turns his head slowly aside to smirk smugly at the horse, clearly gloating in his organic control over the slaves he rightfully owns. Even though Marco is likewise eager to greet his master too he cannot move under the smothering pressure of Brett’s dual feet that pin his head to the paved patio ground, hence he will have to wait to shower the lion with splendour in the private hours of the night. He cannot wait to return to the more simple servitude of the lion where he will not suffer quite the humiliation the horse has given him this weekend. For now he can only breathe straight from the horse soles and melt his face against their waxy heat.
Ignoring Neil’s tongue movements squirming between his toes, Caden asks, “So did they actually behave or do I have to punish them again?”
“I made them behave,” Brett retorts, curling his big toe into Marco’s mouth for a moment to make them suck it like a pacifier before flexing his toes out across their cheek again. “I thought it’d be hard at first but they submitted to me so fast it took me by surprise. The one that’s under me now, who I just called ‘buzz cut’ because I couldn’t be fucked learning his name, he was annoying at first until I put him in his place, over and over and over. Turns out he’s more useful as a piece of furniture than anything so I made him my footstool all weekend. His back gave out a few times so I uhh ‘treated’ him to those back massages where a person tramples all over you. That’s what I said I was doing, at least, but really I was just in it to trample him flat. It’s just a lot of fun standing on someone when they’re begging me to get off.”
“Huh,” Caden nods, subconsciously wiggling his toes as saliva drips through them. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve trained him to be a lot better than that. He wouldn’t dare collapse during footrest duty when he’s with me, but nobody can resist the sexiness of a lion dom, it’s basic fact.”
“Pft, or your slaves are spineless little pussies. If I go get my own slave someday he’ll be built tough so he can handle my weight all day long. Maybe you can loan me this fucker underneath me so I can play with him at home? That blonde one’s going to town on your toes so I doubt you’ll need both sluts at once.”
“They belong to me, so they stay with me. You can get your own,” Caden responds stubbornly, closing his eyes to the pleasurable sensation of Neil’s tongue lapping up his toe pads repeatedly. He ignores the grumble of frustration from the stallion.
“Hey,” Brett asks, (after slapping his drooled foot down against Marco’s cheek leaving a pink imprint in their stinging skin), “What’d you do without these guys around when you were at that conference shit? It must suck to go anywhere without a paw loving pervert following you around once you get used to being served all day.”
The question ignites a bawdy smirk on the lion’s face. Before replying he stacks his paws vertically pushing the heel of one behind the toes of the other and creates a towering wall of plump sole for Neil to rummage their face into; waiting for the human’s tongue to soak into one foot and slowly lick a lengthy trail up the combined lengths of both feet, snaking a salivated pathway over his different pads. “You think a dish like me with all my good looks and wealth goes anywhere without some gay freak eyeballing me? C’mon Brett, you don’t give me enough credit.”
Both animals share a laugh before the lion then vainly mutters, “First night there I get off the plane, go straight to the hotel bar and see some runty orange fox guy from my work sitting a few seats down. I didn’t want to small-talk with some lousy intern like him but he was blushing like a sunset sky every time he looked at me. Typical. I got up and pretended to walk away to the suites but on my way past him I grabbed his tie and pulled him after me, telling him to follow. Brought him back to my room and made him strip. Little simp followed every my every command like he’d been fantasizing about it for weeks. You should’ve seen him. He polished my work shoes with his tongue then did the same for my paws all night until I passed out in bed and woke up the next morning with him still tongue-fucking my toes. Gifted him the only pair of socks I brought that trip too, on the condition that I better come into work tomorrow and find him waiting under my desk so I have something to rest my paws on through the work day. Simple as that.”
The stallion shakes his head in humoured disbelief, now keeping his soles still and calm over Marco’s smothered face to save himself the energy of teasing them too religiously. “Foot fags are the best for alphas like us and I say that wishing I’d known it earlier. You enjoy your new fox rug then, I’m personally going to stick with human sluts from now on. There’s nothing better than a human serving us anthros to remind us how superior we are…”
The lion mumbles in agreement and nestles comfortably back into his own recliner. The horse does the same following a long exhale. The two animals lounge there by the pool in rightful sovereignty, enjoying the wave of serenity that settles over the suburban scenery; contented by the noises of wet lapping slurps against the lion’s padded soles and the moaning huffs trapped under the stallion’s feet. After all, this is the bliss any anthro deservers in the company of humans.
THE END
Category Story / Paw
Species Horse
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
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