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PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Winner Takes All
(Part Two)
Synopsis: After losing a high-stakes bet to his feline friends one human is subjected to a week of binding subservience, obeying their every demand.
Disclaimer:
–Forced Paw Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Lost Bet
–Food on Feet
–Non consenting (At first!)
–Multiple Doms (Tigers)
–Human (sub)
(The story continues)
There is at first the vain hope that he’ll get to wait some time before any paw licking commitments begin; some idyllic reprieve before degenerating himself once again, though that hope is cut down fast when Gryff lifts his head and then feels one of Kenta’s legs slide heavily along the nape of his neck and over his head before the very side of its heel and instep slides down his forehead, carving a lush warm line down the bridge of his nose too. This very marginal and narrow edge of the foot has little grime compared its sole but still the human’s face scrunches and twitches to the ticklish tussocks of blue fur rubbing between his eyes. It isn’t long before this side of the foot becomes the full frontal face of the foot and all its oily lilac padding once again, when Kenta curls his toes one at a time then pivots his paw, favourably curling it, challenging Gryff’s vision with another unblemished view of its sole again. Kenta at least keeps his other leg mounted on Gryff’s backside, (along with Kian’s ever-indolent paws), but this is little comfort for the human who has to recoil at the ramifying stenches already re-entering his lungs.
The pale skinned human feels that indicative twitch between his legs again. His stomach groans. His lips parch. Gryff eyeballs every visible inch of the ample tiger foot and he tries to resist that beckoning voice within telling him to serve, as if Kenta were silently implanting thoughts into his susceptible mind. Gryff is secretly being seductive into submission but not with telepathy. Instead the suggestive lures are more nuanced, more manipulative and subtle; all coded into the way that beastly feline sways and scrunches his toes right in front of Gryff’s batting eyes. Perfectly groomed claws extend from their sheath-like slits and slowly retract every so often, parodying the idea of an erection mid-arousal.
The pads fold into themselves as the toes curl against them, pushing and rubbing these leathery adornments. First the pads crease at contact. Then those creases bend and curve as the tiger’s toes curl tighter, culminating in a soft release that leaves sweaty dimples reinstituting back into their full plump shapes over and over again, inches away from Gryff’s lips.
It’s slow… deliberately so. A method in hypnosis. Expertly the tiger doesn’t even show any acknowledgement or fixation he simply keeps his appendage dumped in front of the human and expects them to stare with unbreaking captivation. One by one the toes take a turn to bow and shy away their warm pastel coloured pads before rising again until Gryff feels an understandably shameful intoxication.
Meanwhile Kenta and Kian are back to the character selection screen preparing for a more ordinary and platonic rematch. The human under their legs or breathing in their pad fumes is too small-time to warrant any recognition, at least for now.
The background sounds are erratic and discordant again but Gryff sighs into the onslaught of textured pads and matted arch fur watching the ripples so soft they could missed upon a blink. There is no wager between the two anthros for this match so Gryff has no reason to try and distract Kenta again, yet his tongue still tingles from the licks he had laid into their heel moments before and the urge to reignite those waning tingles compels him again.
‘Just a few licks… it doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean I’m falling for Kenta… I just… I just want to see what happens if I do it again,’ The human tells himself internally, ignoring the blips of blush reforming in his cheeks again.
Kenta says nothing when a wet tongue brushes against his linty ball pad, like a wet serpent grazing up against its leather. His awareness to the human’s crumbling willpower is instead established only in the knowing smirk spreading from his muzzle. Once again Kian is not alerted to the on-going worships happening right under him. He needn’t know anything yet, Kenta decides, or else they might get jealous that their paws get nothing but the prop of a human rump footrest. Kenta has to stifle his amused and domineering chuckle when that first small lick – so cautious and meek in its approach – then becomes a more tasteful slurp silently rolling up the width of his tilted paw.
The sensation is so enlivening that Kenta’s eyes flare with colour and dilation. His toe claws reflexively splay out again. As for his foot planted sole-first into the human’s bony backside, he clamps his toes into their shirt fabric and pinches pockets of their skin underneath, grabbing hold, jabbing four claws gently into their back. This rewards him with a third lick, this time running up the ravine of messy salted fur densely packed between his ball pad and toe pads. The tip of the human’s nose is accidentally bumped into each toe one after the after as they move their head upwards and ascend up the stack of thick digits. Gryff keeps telling himself to stop - pleads himself to stop, even – but each lap he gives to Kenta’s foot the quiet that voice becomes until his tongue feels like an old lint roller and that voice of stern complaint is but a barely audible cry in the back of his mind.
Notes of sandal leather still cling to every molecule of grime that gets slathered against the surface of Gryff’s tongue. It reminds him of memorable yet indescribable feelings he’d had in the past whenever Kenta was visiting, and how they’d always leave their sandals at the door upon entry. Gryff could never walk straight from his room to the kitchen or back again without subconsciously glancing over at the sandals. He’d always take a moment to stare at the finely grooved paw prints pressed into each insole before shaking himself from the stupor and continuing onward to the next room, forgetting already the strange pattern of heartbeats he felt in his chest during that stupor.
For the next while Gryff continues debasing himself for no good logical reason, other than to make a mockery of himself in the eyes of this elitist anthro. Dishonour and disgust even start to deplete; a surprising notion when he –should- be wretching at the tastes of Kenta’s exercised sole. He does not indulge too obsessively but several matches are played between the two tigers before Gryff has finished plucking off small shreds of black filth from the lilac ball pad, with his lips.
A sudden chime sings into the room, coming from the front door bell. Gryff has his tongue stuck out ready to implant another splotch of saliva against Kenta’s foot when instead the appendage pulls away and smothers the floor under its sole instead. The weight of three different legs all lift and scuff back from his spine allowing his body a shuddering relief of lightness at last. Foolishly Gryff assumes that the tigers retracting their legs from atop him means that one of them will answer the door themselves. Instead he feels two gentle kicks against his pelvis bone from Kian, followed by an arrogant command.
“Go get the door, slave. Us gods don’t do petty chores like that. We shouldn’t have to tell you though, you should be jumping at the opportunity to serve us in every petty way.”
“Guess he was distracted by something,” Kenta murmurs with a smirk.
“Sorry, masters, sorry,” Gryff croaks. He decides it is best to stay on all fours and crawl his way to the door, so as not to anger the felines or receive any more demeaning mockery.
The human kneels and gropes at the door handle, only realizing just now how sweaty and clammy his palms have become. He sighs quietly then opens the door, greeting the eye-level crotch of a pizza delivery worker. The humiliation of acting this perversely in front of a complete stranger is immeasurably worse than simply whoring himself for his own friends. With hot flushed cheeks the human looks up into the brassy eyes of a confused Irish Setter dog, looking down on him with a frown. Their red shirt, red cap, black trousers and black shoes are cleaner than expected. Their shaggy bronze-orange fur and trim body are also surprisingly attractive for a pizza worker, which further leaves Gryff lost for words. He wants to explain why he is here on his knees but instead all he can do is bat his wide eyes and croak out an effortless, “Sorry!”
The Setter sighs, sick of his job, and hands the pizza down to Gryff who sets it to the floor and digs around in their pocket and searches for cash notes, after hearing Kian shout from the sofa: “Pay the poor dude already.”
Reluctantly the setter takes the money and mutters, “Third freak this week…” under his breath.
“Wait up a minute!” Kenta hollers, stopping the pizza worker in their tracks. “The human just lost a bet is all, so it’s just him who’s the weirdo, not us. We get to treat him like shit all week. If you wanna help out, we can toss another ten bucks your way if you let him kiss your shoes.”
“Uhhh,” The dog’s eyes widen. His muzzle crinkles at first and he stares right into Gryff’s petrified eyes. There is a quiet pause – notably without any denial – before the humiliated Gryff reaches back into his pocket and pulls out another ten dollar note.
The Irish Setter stands in a stout and defensive pose but he is evidently hiding a smile when he watches the human awkwardly bend over in front of him. Once more Gryff finds his face draped in his own black hair while he plants his hands on either side of an anthro’s feet. He can only imagine the dog paws crammed tightly and heatedly inside these footwear when he lowers his head with lips a-puckering. This is soul destroying and yet his body isn’t trembling this time even with the shoes of a total stranger under his face. Kenta and Kian have both turned around in their sofa; arms crossed on the backrest as they watch with insidious excitement.
A single smooch is expressively planted into the toe caps of the shoe, once per each, and the rigid leather taste on his lips is complimented by the vague wriggle of dog toes shielded within, which Gryff can narrowly feel through the material. Shyly the human lifts his head and pulls his hair away from his eyes, simultaneously averting his gaze from theirs.
“Huh,” Says the Setter, “Didn’t feel too weird. It’s kinda cool to see a human doing that, if I’m honest.”
“You’re only seeing him on his very first day of ‘bitch recruitment’. If you want to see what a real perv’ he can be at his full potential, don’t wash your socks all week then come back here with another pizza on Sunday. You’ll never be able to look another human the same way again. That’s the goal, anyway. We just gotta break him in more and tame him to our needs by then,” Kenta explains.
To Gryff’s utmost worry, instead of being repulsed the Setter bares his teeth in an ecstatic grin and turns to take his leave. Through the doorway, as they walk back to their beat-up car, Gryff can see their bronze tail wagging to and fro. The human’s heart is undecided on whether it wants to sink like an anchor or pound with exhilaration. On a normal day the sight of an attractive male like that is enough to stir his loins regardless, yet never before has he been stirred by the idea of stowing his face into those overworked and presumably steaming soles after such a brief interaction. When Gryff turns back to face the sofa he is meet with the leering smug faces of his two feline masters.
Naturally, as he so often does, Kenta chimes in with another offensive instruction before Gryff can even move. “Hey, foot slut; quit dreaming about the pizza boy and bring us our grub. But before you take another step away from that door, why don’t you bring my sandals back over here too? Might save you fetching yourself a real dinner plate,” Kenta winks. That wink is enough to drop a boulder inside the human’s stomach.
Meekly Gryff picks up Kenta’s sandals and stacks them together, giving their warmed leather a squeeze before raising them to his mouth. The heels of both footwear slip between his lips and then wedge into his maw. He sinks his teeth into insole and tread alike, biting just hard enough to keep the sandals dangling freely from his face. Even the edges of these heels have enough musty flavour to make his eye twitch. Gryff hears the tigers laugh at the collapse of his integrity. They needn’t even utter a command for him to debase himself voluntarily, which to them is a positive affirmation that the human spirit is easily malleable.
Kian and Kian are in synch when they turn back around, resume their usual places in the sofa and plant their padded soles firmly to the floor. In moments their human plaything crawls awkwardly around the bend of the sofa with the pizza box gripped in one hand and the sandals still suckled. Kian snatches the box from their hand moments before the sandals are spat to the floor from the unhinging jaw, landing with a clap in front of Kenta who merrily uses their extended toe to push and prod at each footwear, until they turn around to an orderly and easily wearable position.
Gryff clears his throat. His teeth ache from biting into the sandal heels but he does not complain. He glances over the blackish indents of the insoles; how the glimmer with his drool at the ends closest to Kenta. With a gulp he then gazes across to the white paws pressed happily on the floor; toe rings catching flickers of overhead light. Kenta’s smirk is now suggestive. With one eyebrow tilted and his eyes lidded, it seems the big cat is waiting for servile praise.
“Thank you, masters,” Gryff mumbles.
Kian – while pulling out a slice of pizza oozing in hot stretchy cheese and handing it over to Kenta – replies, “You should pay for our food more often, slave. We deserve to be lavished with gifts and offerings, right?”
“Yes Master Kian, my… my wallet is yours.”
Kenta then takes his slice and observes with suspicious glee. He looks down on the kneeling creature with an absence of pity and says, “This piece is shit, there’s barely any toppings. You can have this one, bitch.”
Gryff isn’t sure what he expected but the food is not handed into his palms – which cup together like a beggar seeking change – but instead the stripy animal hunches forward and lowers it down all the way to his own sandals. Gryff winces at the sight yet his heart beat accelerates. Pupils dilate when that cheesy, supple slice is bedded against the dirty insole, pressing paw indents into the greasy dough base. Small dapples of cheese are caught on the toe bands and stretch when pulling down past. Gryff’s stomach clenches inside him but it gargles too, reminding him how starved he is for a filling meal after missing breakfast this morning.
“Here’s my question, how long can you last staring at all that delicious food in my sandal before you cave and slam your hungry face into it?” Kenta queries, “’Cause you aren’t getting any other slice so sooner or later you better make a decision.”
Gryff’s vision starts to ripple and blur. The stress, the anxiety, is all-consuming. He stammers out a nervous noise which substitutes as his response.
Kian snickers excitedly at the unsanitary sight. He exacerbates the situation by saying, “Pft, that’s all you had in mind? He’ll have eaten off all the good parts before he even gets to the sandal. There’ll just be gnawed dough left behind.”
Kenta accepts the musing as a challenge. “Yeah Then lemme’ show you a trick I know to put some real meat on this meal, then you’ll shut your mouth.”
In an instant swoop – slamming cleanly through the bated tension in the air – the tiger pulls his paw from the floor and hurtles it down into the pizza-inlaid footwear with every ounce of strength driving its force. Gryff only registers the action after hearing a loud splat of impact followed by a long slow squelch of foot weight descending into the various substances, forming another newer paw print over the previous. The pliant layer of cheese is first affected. It sinks and spreads in gently steamy ripples around the paw contours, pressuring and bubbling up between Kenta’s toes. It glazes over his pads; stretching like a gooey maw as the paw grinds it deeper inward. Oils are soaked between the locks of blue fur. Dough becomes sandwiched and contorted out of shape; moulding into the pre-set imprint of Kenta’s foot below as it succumbs to the sheer cumbrance above. The groan of satisfaction trilling from the tiger hits Gryff’s ears but does not compare to the moist noises of trampled food content. For a moment Kenta eases his toes out fanning them until the cheese and sauces in between is spread thin. He then lifts his sole slowly from the stewing squishing mess stretching the cheddary residue yet again until it pales and drips from the contours of his large foot paw.
*Sschhhlurp-sqwich-shlp!*
A crushed coil of onion and capsicum slop off and land back into the devastated pizza face a few inches beneath. The mushy remains of something pink trickle off the ball pad while various drizzles of cheese remain plastered around the dense edges; clinging and stuck in amid the particles of sweat and lint. Gryff realizes when he stares at it with an intense, pounding adrenaline in his veins that he isn’t pulling away or gagging in disgust as he might’ve traditionally reacted. An impulse in the deepest undertones of his mind still urges him to flee the room but by now the ideas of servitude and having a purpose to these tigers are louder than any rational protest.
*SPLACK!*
Droplets of tomato paste and melting cheese are spat out under the crushing collision of Kenta’s paw once again as it plunges back into its place this time wriggling its toes underneath the sodden toe band; tucking that leather strap prisoner between his digits, to be permanently stained and squeezed lifeless. The grinning animal is not only stepping on the pizza, he is now actively wearing it like a cushy insole support that gargles underneath him. The tapered end of this slice is firmly flattened under Kenta’s heel while the arch of puffy crust and crispy toppings is mostly buried under his toes and ball pad.
“Go on, runt,” Kenta growls, “I know that look in your eyes. You know you want to submit to this. I bet you’ve never seen a more erotic sight in your life.”
Kian pulls out his own slice of pizza and balances it delicately between his two hands, as if inspecting it with his own dose of sadistic consideration. “You wouldn’t want to upset your gods by refusing to eat it, would you? Especially after Kenta’s gone to all this effort?”
“Heh, yeah,” Kenta agrees, “I mean… you paid for it after all. At least dip your head in for a good long sniff. Let us know how much you love it.”
Gryff’s breath is caught in his throat, almost causing a distressed splutter when he tries to inhale. He does not speak a word – no words would escape him if he tried – so instead he cowardly bows and feels a new heat wafting up towards him now even hotter than the blush in his own cheeks as he brings his face closer to the rugged top of Kenta’s foot. Specks of hot cheese have been sprayed up between his toes now resting amid that dishevelled fur. He breathes inward drawing whatever strength is left in his frail human body, drawing in exotic fumes which make his eyelids flutter. He suppresses a moan but the idea he is willingly sniffing Kenta’s pizza encrusted foot is already proof enough that the anthros have successfully whittled down his willpower.
The stench is irreplaceably cheddary and greasy. Now at this close vicinity Gryff can hear even more of the subtle squelches, slippery squeaks and damp gurgles of pizza smooshing into flat paste underfoot.
“Louder!” Kenta demands.
Gryff flares his nostrils far and wide, snorting in a stronger gust of his trampled lunch. He lowers his head even more until the ends of his sweeping black hair tickle against the tiger’s foot. Kenta lifts the sandal-strapped paw higher off the floor bringing his chunky toe digits and their oozing mattress of cheese and crust directly into Gryff’s eye level. The human does not wrench his head away even when the sandal rim presses up against his lip, softly slipping the tip of his nose into the middle toes’ crotch, where the toe band is clenched between, and where a piece of plant-based meat has been grinded into glistening chunks.
“Do it like you really mean it!” Kian commands from the side.
Gryff mumbles a whimper, forgetting to subdue the lustful tones before it leaves his mouth. He reaches up and grabs the bottom of Kenta’s hardy sandal feeling the tread patterns against his palms while his fingers curl weakly around the edges. With the foot now antagonistically taunting his senses Gryff rubs his face into the tops of each toe sniffing from digit to digit and making sure to dip his nostrils in between each one for a forceful huff of that sticky pizza smell.
“M-may I please lick it?” Gryff stutters; his voice cracking from the crushing nervousness.
“You wanna lick it?” Kenta scoffs; keeping his smirk stalwart and his eyes unblinking.
‘Fuck, why am I saying this! God, fuck, I need help!’ Gryff thinks before his mouth overpowers his mind and replies, “Yes, yes master! Please!” He winces at his conflicting inner voices but the tigers have not dominated him just to be let down, so he feels a natural binding obligation to keep them in happy spirits even at the cost of his own.
“Did you hear that, buddy?” Kenta asks to Kian, who nods impishly and brings their lithe white legs up onto the sofa, transitioning into a more meditative sitting pose.
“Sure did. Sounds genuine too, since it came straight from him!”
“Took him long enough. Didn’t think a human could hold out against a hunk like me this long. Poor guy, look at him, he thinks he got away with it every time he stared at our feet in the past.”
The two tigers laugh and jeer. Gryff doesn’t bother to fight them back, he simply rubs his palms up and over the sandal tread in slow rhythmic massages while moving his nose around the top of Kenta’s foot; avoiding the strap but sniffing almost everywhere else.
“You lucky slut,” Kenta chides, “I don’t have the heart to reject someone so horny over my feet, so fine… dig in. But you only have permission to lick the ends of my toes for now. I’ll give you the rest later when I peel off this cheesy sandal.”
“Thank you, master kenta, you’re so generous. I’m… I’m going to serve you like my whole world revolves around you!”
“You better…”
Gryff watches the toes splay in front of his eyes. He watches them furl and tilt back and expose the thick streams of cheesy decimation sticking like a golden glue to every lilac coloured pad. Timidly Gryff pulls down on the tongue of toe-imprint leather, bending the pizza crust too, before divulging into a trance of unlikely intoxication. He stows his face in against the four toes pushing each one back until their thick bone knuckles strain from the force. The four pads are consequently smeared into his lips and nose actively wriggling against his mouth as if trying to grope his lips. Flecks of red sauce and cheddar start staining immediately against the human’s skin. Gryff grunts. He tries to hold the paw still but Kenta continually shoves it in his face feeding him small tastes of pizza remnants and glazed pad leather. The protracted claws are the first to be bathed in saliva – cleaned of any cheesy crumbs still lodged under their sharp curves – when the human starts mouthing desperately over each digit. At first he is only confident enough to lick each claw one at a time without touching the blue toes too, until Gryff realizes he has the freedom to suckle on an entire toe at a time without Kenta pulling away or kicking him in the teeth. So he does just that; sucks on each toe with leech-like enthusiasm until he can physically feel the thick cheeses being slid back and cleaned off every pad. A tongue rolls slickly out underneath all these digits, sliding over the bumpy paw-printed pizza too and cleaning off any sweat-infused sauce from this region of the crust.
“You’re such a foot pig,” Kenta berates. He spreads his arms along the sofa backrest and gets comfortably settled, enjoying this barrage of wet slimy tongue movements squirming around his toes. The stickiness is gradually replaced by a fresh coating of drool which drops from his toes much more lightly than condensed pizza toppings.
“M-mhm, I’m… I’m such a foot pig,” Gryff gargles back, swallowing a mouthful of flattened vegetable skin and juicy cheese. The self-aware voice in his head which he so sternly ignores now mutters back, ‘I hate myself.’
“So that’s it? You like paws now, already? No stubborn bullshit about faking your disapproval?” Kenta interrogates while forcing multiple toes into the human’s mouth for a gargling suckle before yanking them back out and feeling the saliva clinging between them.
“I do, I’m sorry, I love paws! I’ve always loved being embarrassed by stronger guys, I just needed your forceful guidance! Please forgive my attitude from before, I… I’ve dishonoured myself every time I said those other feelings.”
“You broke faster than I thought you would, slut.”
“A-anything for you, master Kenta!”
Kenta relaxes as the tongue constantly swipes inside one gap in particular trying to dredge out the yields of salty greasy cheese lodged in between the two toes. He turns his head and arrogantly smiles at his fellow feline. “See what I mean about humans? They’re so pathetic, it almost feels like a charity service letting them work out their kinks at my big handsome feet.”
“That looks so hot man, I’ve got to admit,” Kian purrs as he watches the display of degradation. “Don’t mind if I try it out too. He is my slave after all. It’s only fair I feel those glorious licks.”
With this the smaller tiger lowers their own pizza slice between his two paws resting on their sides, at the lip of the sofa seat cushion. He drops the slice and lets it flop indolently in the narrow alley of space between his two soles, which he promptly slams shut the moment the pizza is squarely on target. Those pale paws and their sky-blue pads are instantly greeted with a warm oily moisture splattering in that tightly viced space. The singular splat noise is then ground and desecrated into a series of slick squishing discordance when the white tiger rubs his feet together trying to flatten out the slice into a paper-thin fusion of ingredients. Eventually the cheesy doughy mass begins to roll and fold out of shape while its essence is painted in thick gold and red splashes across Kian’s soles.
Like a feral animal Gryff’s ears pick up on the sound and he lifts his head from the slobbered blue and lilac toes. Saliva drips down his chin diluting some of the food colours staining him.
“Go to your other master, boy, you’ll finish up with me afterwards,” Kenta commands, leaning forward just far enough to wrap a warm hand over Gryff’s head. He pushes their face in Kian’s direction and leans back again; generously allowing Kian a turn of the human’s services. “You should all be thankful I’m in a good mood, since I should be getting all the licks after that big fight win.”
Gryff gently lowers Kenta’s paw back to the floor as if it were a precious, expensive artefact before he drags his kneeling body over to the left and positions himself in front of his monochrome friend. Both of Kian’s paws are still walling together, sole to sole, and squeezing that slice with enough pressure to break it down by its very atoms. Oozing splurges of ingredients dribble out between his appendages, like the spilling centre of a grilled cheese sandwich.
*Splack, splack!*
Small droplets hit the living room floor at the foot of the sofa. Gryff is at first mesmerized by the sight. His stomach grumbles eagerly once again. The human, now lost in these tamed thrall behaviours, then becomes tranquilized when he watches the tiger smugly peel apart their feet pulling away synchronously until the dead-weight of the pizza detaches enough that it can flop out and slap limply to the carpet; bruised and mangled by the two different paw prints embedded on each side of its being.
Kian’s bright red eyes meet with the human’s, locking in eye contact. It is followed by an easily understood gesture; Kian extends both his legs out straight again and reveals his soles to the kneeling human’s face. It’s almost a shame for Gryff to see the now tainted, besmirched colours dressing from heel to toe… the yellow greasy staining on the white arch and the Pollock art style of various colours all blending and breeding and bleeding together across the tiger’s blue pads. Strings of cheese hang trapped from some of their toe gaps. Smidges of sauce and onion cling around the toe claws. Crumbs and smears decorate the centres of each region while a fainter more oily glaze shimmers around the sole edges. This accounts for both feet presented in Gryff’s face; each awaiting the tongue bath they had first earned after that fateful poker game.
Gryff closes his eyes and teeters forward, trying to conceal a smile. He only needs his sense of smell to guide himself into that simmering aura of melted Edam. Kian chuckles to himself and pulls back just as Gryff tries to blindly plant their nose in between the soles. When the disruption causes the human to stumble and plant one palm to the floor, Kian shoves his feet back where they rightfully belong; plastering them hard and hot into the humanly features with an audible impact.
*Squelk!*
Gryff shudders at the torrid airwaves fanning him with furnace-like temperatures. The many pads sinking across his eye sockets and forehead are indistinguishable from each other, feeling like molten butter spreading gloriously into his skin.
“Mmmh…mh…mhhh,” They mumble into the insulating thickness. Kian keeps pushing and pressing and smearing his slippery pizza-coated soles into the face until there is not an hair’s width of free space between him and Gryff.
There is no traction. Holding one same position proves a struggle. Red sauce is wiped and slipped upon. Strings of mozzarella and granules of topping start to pull and tear variously when Kian’s two feet slide up and down the face in different directions at a time. During this time Gryff bravely sticks his tongue out even as it is barged over and run down by the steamrolling soles. Gryff keeps his mouth hanging open wide so that he doesn’t accidentally bite into his own tongue. When it freely flaps over his chin, (and his eyes clench fiercely), the movement of Kian’s feet starts to target his lower face specifically.
The human is so busy defending himself from the barrage of paw smacks and gritty cheesy wipes that he cannot concentrate on keeping his limbs steady. His legs, even as he kneels upon them, quiver turbulently. Grunts and groans can be heard infrequently between the slopping of pseudo-meat and dairy contents. With his tongue now hanging Gryff serves the expected purpose of cleaning Kian’s feet bottoms, which drag over his nose leaving a greased trail before swiping over the full length of his tongue, over and over. Because of this Gryff has to taste the textures of heel fur, instep grooves, pad meat and claw undercarriage repeatedly, becoming ever-more messy in the process.
“I’m trying to decide if he’s really performing to our high standards,” Kian ponders to Kenta whilst rubbing his toes off against the curled and wet, dripping tip of Gryff’s tongue. The sound of saliva wavering under the scraping force of his toe pads is both noisy and slurping. “He’s taking the easy way out for sure, just flopping out his flaccid tongue and making me do all the work… but oddly, I’m not all that pissed off. It makes him feel more like an object this way, like a rag that just sits there waiting to be used. Plus it gives me a sense of control. He can’t move until my soles are glistening fresh.”
Kenta nods and expresses a growl of purring satisfaction, as he watches. His pupils thin into razor sharp lines. He stares at the vague imprints being warped out of shape with every new face-planting of foot sole that Gryff receives; distorting the food stains even more. The human is in such a trance they have not even realized their own erection has returned to full vigour, jutting like a rock feature from between his legs.
“I’m better off making him wait for me. I know I rightfully earned his worship first but fuck it, at least now I get to marinate and tenderize my own slice into my sandal,” Kenta explains.
* * *
Gryff is dormant and obedient for the next eleven minutes which it takes to clean Kian’s paws; not through manual licking but through stationary devotion, allowing his friend to scrape their soles off against his mouth in what felt like an endless ordeal. A trailing presence of cheese still exists around the outer margins of each sole but through commitment and lustful intuition the majority of each pad now gleams again in its usual sky blue tones, barely showing a streak of oil or sauce left and instead revealing the thick sheen of a slave’s saliva instead.
While emasculating, the taste isn’t altogether bad considering the consistency of regular pizza had mostly overridden the flecks of linty dirt already lodged in amongst the finer recesses of Kian’s feet.
The white tiger draws his leg in, pulling his dripping appendage into his own lap. He smirks at the state of their bathed undersides. His pads feel more youthful and pliant now that they’ve been softened in saliva. His arch is the same, beaming from side to side in jubilant creases that glisten with dew drops. “Not a bad effort for his first time. He’s a quick learner!”
“It’s because he’s been secretly fantasizing about this before, idiot,” Kenta leers. The bigger tiger then clicks his fingers and summons the human’s attention. “Now get back over here, bitch. Your other god demands your audience!”
Kenta tries to raise his foot out of the pizza-soaked sandal but there is a resistance – a determined stickiness – keeping his sole attached. With his own eyes Gryff can see the cheese fusing into the blue fur and lilac pads, keeping hold and staining their surfaces in a permanent miasma of flavour. By witnessing this that inner voice of anguish returns inside Gryff’s mind once again with bolstered strength, convincing him he should feel sick or unclean for even indulging in these tigers’ unhealthy sadism.
Instead of listening to this inner voice however the rattled human concedes all his willpower to the whims of his masters, when Kenta says, “Hope you enjoyed the taste of my cheesy toes before you fleshy little creep, because there’s a lot more left and I’m not leaving this sofa ‘till you munch it all off.”
*Sschlurp!*
This time the paw heaves its way out of the suckling bubbling surface of body-heat broiled cheese; a noise that both upsets and delights Gryff’s stomach at the same time. By now he is able to completely ignore these conflicts of reason and arousal, submitting easily to the latter.
“C’mon on closer pig, I know you can smell this. You want it so badly. Don’t deny it,” Kenta purrs.
Gryff is transfixed, lowering his head to stare into the heatwave gap between Kenta’s sole and the trampled pizza lying flat in his insole. Cheddary vapours waft into his inhaling nostrils. Chunks of saucy toppings slop sluggishly off the feline’s paw unable to maintain their grip on his pads any longer. The remaining layer of cheese still hanging from his sole drips downward like the stalactites in a cavern. There are wheat grains and tiny morsels of meat smudged into the tiger’s toe gaps, looking darkened and moist like a putrid toe jam, only more edible. Kenta flicks his toes outward, flinging small droplets of cheese that dapple against Gryff’s blushing skin. Kenta then clenches his toes providing an audible display of the foods crushing and wringing between them. Gryff gulps as the juices drizzle out between each toe gap along with several of the aforementioned crumbs after the toes flex apart again. Kenta is deliberately and proudly showing off every inch of his irresistible paw before making any demands. He wants Gryff to savour the view and salivate, as they already are.
“Go on…” Kenta coos, “What’s it going to be? You gonna eat out that sandal pizza first or are you going to give your god the worship he deserves?”
The answer seems one-sided; directed towards Kenta’s egotistical goals. Gryff tries to gulp but he can still taste all the condiments and other rich flavours licked from Kian’s feet earlier. “I’ll worship you, always you, first! The sandal never comes before the paw!”
“Huh, you really -are- learning fast. I can barely recognize the stubborn shit you were once were, less than 24 hours ago.”
These remarks easily deflect off the subservient creature, who is too distracted to be irked by small comments. Without any lamentation he wraps his hands around the one great paw curling his fingers into its bluish fur, digging deep so he can roll the appendage on its side in the air and stow his face ravenously into Kenta’s messy arch. Another splat is heard by all parties, followed by an incoherent moan. Gryff starts mouthing at the dip in Kenta’s arch using his lips like a mop, bathing through swathes of fur and then sucking back shut with the tasty crud in tow. Kenta pats the top of his head, reminding him of his place, and simply keeps his leg hoisted – bent at the knee too – for Gryff’s accessibility.
Kian’s eyes light up too at the spectacle. While he uses a napkin, (found inside the pizza box), to wipe that humanly drool away from his now-cold pads he cannot pull his gaze away from the sight of his broken, brainwashed roommate lapping languidly up and down Kenta’s arch in zig-zag strokes; bulldozing cleanly paths through the runny globules of cheese. Kian retrieves another slice of pizza, now with the ordinary intent of eating it satisfactorily instead of slamming it between his bare feet.
Kenta’s toes twitch when his foot responds to the ticklish yet slimy glazing of his slave’s tongue pushing down his fur into matted trails of dew. Any essence of body odour or perspiration from his morning workout have now been absorbed in amongst the pizza slice… soon to be absorbed again into the mouth of this obsessive human. The wriggling toes catch Gryff’s attention in the far corner of his periphery. Longingly – unable to control himself – he shifts his head over past the ball bad which he sniffs and strokes with his nose until a mozzarella strand is stretched and broken away from that sweaty flesh.
Even now, or perhaps especially now after being soaked in hot grease juices, the tiger’s ball pad is extra malleable to the touch. It feels like a cushion of tender silk against the tip of Gryff’s nose. The toe pads are similarly textured when he reaches them though the presence of sodden, crushed peppers and onion are firmly spread in amongst the bog of cheese still clinging around every pad and claw. Gryff sighs against the foot, listening to every drip and squelch as it moves lively before his face.
Even as he resides into the comforting and proportionately generous sole cupping against the width of his face for another combination of sniffs and timid slurps those faint drips continue, splashing quietly against the violated pizza based insole. Worse still are the wetter sounds of Gryff’s tongue trying to pry its way through the flavourful mush in order to clean those pads duly. The deeper he is baited into those folds of leather, rich in their odour, the tighter his nose is caught in a trap of scrunching toes that squeeze so hard the cartilage within begins to throb. Every stretchy sticky tendril between them feels like a net against his skin. Gryff is too lost in this haze of subservience that again he fails to comprehend any of his surroundings outside of the big foot; unaware of the felines returning to their casual platonic conversations while Kenta is passed his own slice to chew through and Kian taps a clawed thumb over the television remote, surfing through various sports and premium movie channels while they let the human do their part below.
An hour could have passed, or a minute. Gryff would never know until he could break himself out of this fervent behaviour. ‘I really am pathetic,’ He thinks, ‘But I just don’t care anymore. This is the best tasting pizza I’ve had in years and it’s coming from the bottom of an anthro’s foot! That spells my doom already… might as well give in to it now.’
And so the human does just that. They forfeit their last hope for dignity and start painting those meaty pads in saliva up and down, applying primers and double coats of more and more drool until bit by bit the crispy cheese crust is diluted and disintegrated enough that he can lap up the individual broken down bits and ingest them heartily. The toes only release their clench long enough for him to slather them in rapid serpentine licks and kisses clearing out the filth until gleaming lilac hues show through. Gryff can taste tiger fur follicles and even genuine paw grime stuck in between his teeth but he is too inebriated to care for these trivial distinctions and swallows them down anyway, along with the remnants of real cuisine.
Unlike Kian, Kenta is content to make the human do all the work while he relaxes like a pampered deity. Over time Kenta stops keeping track of every movement he feels against his feet; be it flaring snuffling nostrils, waggling tongue strokes, determined forceful licks, slobbery suckles or smooching kisses. Eventually Gryff is kneeling here for so long his back starts to set into poor posture and his shoulders ache. He feels weak; a shallow shadow of himself. Is it really worth this much energy and exhaustion just to honour some silly poker bet? Gryff decides it is indeed worth that price, especially when he is allowed to mop up every possible crumb and flake and splatter from the sole for which he has the withstanding energy to slurp.
“He’s so tuned out,” Kenta chuckles, while his toes are aggressively spread and manipulated by the tongue scavenging between them for any tiny morsel of food. “He can’t even hear what we’re talking about. He’s in his own world down there.”
“Yeah?” Kian grins, taking his gaze momentarily away from the television screen to witness the proof. “Hey, Gryff, bet’s off. You don’t have to lick our paws anymore. No more wager. No more worship. You can go now.”
“Uhnhh-mh-” Gryff responds drunkenly, unaware of what was said or what he even intended to mumble back. His brain has not registered anything other than the need to keep those pads soaking in fresh streams of spit. Both tigers laugh jovially but cruelly at the evidence of his liquefied willpower.
Kenta has his turn teasing the poor human too. “And my gym’s looking for a new caretaker to clean the floors. There’s too much dust, paw prints and dirty shoe marks at the moment. I’ll sign your name up for the job and make you lick the entire gym floor clean, yeah?”
“Mmmhfm,” Gryff grumbles back; still none the wiser to any of the context. Once again the tigers are well humoured.
“Total loser,” Kenta says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“But a useful one at that,” Kian smiles. Both of the felines turn their attention back to the TV and resume their habit of ignoring Gryff’s existence until it is necessary.
Midway through a long winding lick up the length of Kenta’s sole, Gryff’s hands and head are crudely detached from their cosy foot flavoured environment when Kenta’s other paw is raised and then rested like a musky crown against the top of Gryff’s skull. Force is applied as the sole fits to the curvature, flattening out the long black hair underfoot. In moment the human is made to succumb to this new weighty pressure until his head is lowered more and more towards the tiger’s sandal; a sight bearing the depressed and thoroughly squished remains of the original pizza slice. Once Gryff is pushed down to meet the slice face to face, the other paw – doused in saliva – joins its brethren atop his head and the two paws nuzzle side by side together, to suppress the human out of sight and make a footrest of their skull.
“Eat, slut.”
Only these simple two words are grunted above. Gryff needs no convincing any longer. He is already mouthing over the deep pad-like craters in the pizza dough before Kenta had spoken. While the combined weight of both soles feels crushing and throbbing over his head, Gryff keeps his opinions reserved and his obedience displayed. The felines can hear a new sound; that of the bedraggled, tired chomping and swallowing glugs of sandal pizza.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine down there, just don’t put a dent in his skull with your jacked legs. They probably weigh a tonne for someone like him, y’know,” Kian advises.
“And ruin his rhythm of worship? Nah, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kenta replies with a lidded look of vanity. “Hope you’ve still got that spare bedroom set up because after all this, I can’t imagine going back to my own place and letting you have all the fun with him.”
“I think deep down Gryff knew I was never going to let him go after the week ended. I just said it at the start so he wouldn’t wuss out of the poker game. That poor, gullible guy. I’d almost feel bad for him if he wasn’t having such a good time,” Kian muses. Lastly, before they resume their daytime movie in contented silence and godly disposition, he dries his slobbered white soles into the carpet below and says: “I was never all the hungry either, so I’m going to save a couple slices. When it hits peak heat out there this afternoon, we’ll shove those last few slices in our flip flops and take our new pet out for a walk to the park. I don’t think it’s right to keep a human locked indoors all day. They need constant and public reminders that they belong underneath us anywhere we go, am I right?”
“Too right,” Kenta agrees, relaxing his toes out suffusing them through the locks of human hair and firm skull below.
The felines share their familiar smirks once again but instead of listening to the servile symphony any longer Kian turns up the volume of the television, just enough to drown out the sounds of their slave and its pitiful feasting. They both know that they aren’t missing out on anything, least of all because the human is now their property – shared, mutual ownership – and the human has a long stay of servitude before they get to act the part of a functioning individual, (if ever again!)
THE END
Winner Takes All
(Part Two)
Synopsis: After losing a high-stakes bet to his feline friends one human is subjected to a week of binding subservience, obeying their every demand.
Disclaimer:
–Forced Paw Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Lost Bet
–Food on Feet
–Non consenting (At first!)
–Multiple Doms (Tigers)
–Human (sub)
(The story continues)
There is at first the vain hope that he’ll get to wait some time before any paw licking commitments begin; some idyllic reprieve before degenerating himself once again, though that hope is cut down fast when Gryff lifts his head and then feels one of Kenta’s legs slide heavily along the nape of his neck and over his head before the very side of its heel and instep slides down his forehead, carving a lush warm line down the bridge of his nose too. This very marginal and narrow edge of the foot has little grime compared its sole but still the human’s face scrunches and twitches to the ticklish tussocks of blue fur rubbing between his eyes. It isn’t long before this side of the foot becomes the full frontal face of the foot and all its oily lilac padding once again, when Kenta curls his toes one at a time then pivots his paw, favourably curling it, challenging Gryff’s vision with another unblemished view of its sole again. Kenta at least keeps his other leg mounted on Gryff’s backside, (along with Kian’s ever-indolent paws), but this is little comfort for the human who has to recoil at the ramifying stenches already re-entering his lungs.
The pale skinned human feels that indicative twitch between his legs again. His stomach groans. His lips parch. Gryff eyeballs every visible inch of the ample tiger foot and he tries to resist that beckoning voice within telling him to serve, as if Kenta were silently implanting thoughts into his susceptible mind. Gryff is secretly being seductive into submission but not with telepathy. Instead the suggestive lures are more nuanced, more manipulative and subtle; all coded into the way that beastly feline sways and scrunches his toes right in front of Gryff’s batting eyes. Perfectly groomed claws extend from their sheath-like slits and slowly retract every so often, parodying the idea of an erection mid-arousal.
The pads fold into themselves as the toes curl against them, pushing and rubbing these leathery adornments. First the pads crease at contact. Then those creases bend and curve as the tiger’s toes curl tighter, culminating in a soft release that leaves sweaty dimples reinstituting back into their full plump shapes over and over again, inches away from Gryff’s lips.
It’s slow… deliberately so. A method in hypnosis. Expertly the tiger doesn’t even show any acknowledgement or fixation he simply keeps his appendage dumped in front of the human and expects them to stare with unbreaking captivation. One by one the toes take a turn to bow and shy away their warm pastel coloured pads before rising again until Gryff feels an understandably shameful intoxication.
Meanwhile Kenta and Kian are back to the character selection screen preparing for a more ordinary and platonic rematch. The human under their legs or breathing in their pad fumes is too small-time to warrant any recognition, at least for now.
The background sounds are erratic and discordant again but Gryff sighs into the onslaught of textured pads and matted arch fur watching the ripples so soft they could missed upon a blink. There is no wager between the two anthros for this match so Gryff has no reason to try and distract Kenta again, yet his tongue still tingles from the licks he had laid into their heel moments before and the urge to reignite those waning tingles compels him again.
‘Just a few licks… it doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean I’m falling for Kenta… I just… I just want to see what happens if I do it again,’ The human tells himself internally, ignoring the blips of blush reforming in his cheeks again.
Kenta says nothing when a wet tongue brushes against his linty ball pad, like a wet serpent grazing up against its leather. His awareness to the human’s crumbling willpower is instead established only in the knowing smirk spreading from his muzzle. Once again Kian is not alerted to the on-going worships happening right under him. He needn’t know anything yet, Kenta decides, or else they might get jealous that their paws get nothing but the prop of a human rump footrest. Kenta has to stifle his amused and domineering chuckle when that first small lick – so cautious and meek in its approach – then becomes a more tasteful slurp silently rolling up the width of his tilted paw.
The sensation is so enlivening that Kenta’s eyes flare with colour and dilation. His toe claws reflexively splay out again. As for his foot planted sole-first into the human’s bony backside, he clamps his toes into their shirt fabric and pinches pockets of their skin underneath, grabbing hold, jabbing four claws gently into their back. This rewards him with a third lick, this time running up the ravine of messy salted fur densely packed between his ball pad and toe pads. The tip of the human’s nose is accidentally bumped into each toe one after the after as they move their head upwards and ascend up the stack of thick digits. Gryff keeps telling himself to stop - pleads himself to stop, even – but each lap he gives to Kenta’s foot the quiet that voice becomes until his tongue feels like an old lint roller and that voice of stern complaint is but a barely audible cry in the back of his mind.
Notes of sandal leather still cling to every molecule of grime that gets slathered against the surface of Gryff’s tongue. It reminds him of memorable yet indescribable feelings he’d had in the past whenever Kenta was visiting, and how they’d always leave their sandals at the door upon entry. Gryff could never walk straight from his room to the kitchen or back again without subconsciously glancing over at the sandals. He’d always take a moment to stare at the finely grooved paw prints pressed into each insole before shaking himself from the stupor and continuing onward to the next room, forgetting already the strange pattern of heartbeats he felt in his chest during that stupor.
For the next while Gryff continues debasing himself for no good logical reason, other than to make a mockery of himself in the eyes of this elitist anthro. Dishonour and disgust even start to deplete; a surprising notion when he –should- be wretching at the tastes of Kenta’s exercised sole. He does not indulge too obsessively but several matches are played between the two tigers before Gryff has finished plucking off small shreds of black filth from the lilac ball pad, with his lips.
A sudden chime sings into the room, coming from the front door bell. Gryff has his tongue stuck out ready to implant another splotch of saliva against Kenta’s foot when instead the appendage pulls away and smothers the floor under its sole instead. The weight of three different legs all lift and scuff back from his spine allowing his body a shuddering relief of lightness at last. Foolishly Gryff assumes that the tigers retracting their legs from atop him means that one of them will answer the door themselves. Instead he feels two gentle kicks against his pelvis bone from Kian, followed by an arrogant command.
“Go get the door, slave. Us gods don’t do petty chores like that. We shouldn’t have to tell you though, you should be jumping at the opportunity to serve us in every petty way.”
“Guess he was distracted by something,” Kenta murmurs with a smirk.
“Sorry, masters, sorry,” Gryff croaks. He decides it is best to stay on all fours and crawl his way to the door, so as not to anger the felines or receive any more demeaning mockery.
The human kneels and gropes at the door handle, only realizing just now how sweaty and clammy his palms have become. He sighs quietly then opens the door, greeting the eye-level crotch of a pizza delivery worker. The humiliation of acting this perversely in front of a complete stranger is immeasurably worse than simply whoring himself for his own friends. With hot flushed cheeks the human looks up into the brassy eyes of a confused Irish Setter dog, looking down on him with a frown. Their red shirt, red cap, black trousers and black shoes are cleaner than expected. Their shaggy bronze-orange fur and trim body are also surprisingly attractive for a pizza worker, which further leaves Gryff lost for words. He wants to explain why he is here on his knees but instead all he can do is bat his wide eyes and croak out an effortless, “Sorry!”
The Setter sighs, sick of his job, and hands the pizza down to Gryff who sets it to the floor and digs around in their pocket and searches for cash notes, after hearing Kian shout from the sofa: “Pay the poor dude already.”
Reluctantly the setter takes the money and mutters, “Third freak this week…” under his breath.
“Wait up a minute!” Kenta hollers, stopping the pizza worker in their tracks. “The human just lost a bet is all, so it’s just him who’s the weirdo, not us. We get to treat him like shit all week. If you wanna help out, we can toss another ten bucks your way if you let him kiss your shoes.”
“Uhhh,” The dog’s eyes widen. His muzzle crinkles at first and he stares right into Gryff’s petrified eyes. There is a quiet pause – notably without any denial – before the humiliated Gryff reaches back into his pocket and pulls out another ten dollar note.
The Irish Setter stands in a stout and defensive pose but he is evidently hiding a smile when he watches the human awkwardly bend over in front of him. Once more Gryff finds his face draped in his own black hair while he plants his hands on either side of an anthro’s feet. He can only imagine the dog paws crammed tightly and heatedly inside these footwear when he lowers his head with lips a-puckering. This is soul destroying and yet his body isn’t trembling this time even with the shoes of a total stranger under his face. Kenta and Kian have both turned around in their sofa; arms crossed on the backrest as they watch with insidious excitement.
A single smooch is expressively planted into the toe caps of the shoe, once per each, and the rigid leather taste on his lips is complimented by the vague wriggle of dog toes shielded within, which Gryff can narrowly feel through the material. Shyly the human lifts his head and pulls his hair away from his eyes, simultaneously averting his gaze from theirs.
“Huh,” Says the Setter, “Didn’t feel too weird. It’s kinda cool to see a human doing that, if I’m honest.”
“You’re only seeing him on his very first day of ‘bitch recruitment’. If you want to see what a real perv’ he can be at his full potential, don’t wash your socks all week then come back here with another pizza on Sunday. You’ll never be able to look another human the same way again. That’s the goal, anyway. We just gotta break him in more and tame him to our needs by then,” Kenta explains.
To Gryff’s utmost worry, instead of being repulsed the Setter bares his teeth in an ecstatic grin and turns to take his leave. Through the doorway, as they walk back to their beat-up car, Gryff can see their bronze tail wagging to and fro. The human’s heart is undecided on whether it wants to sink like an anchor or pound with exhilaration. On a normal day the sight of an attractive male like that is enough to stir his loins regardless, yet never before has he been stirred by the idea of stowing his face into those overworked and presumably steaming soles after such a brief interaction. When Gryff turns back to face the sofa he is meet with the leering smug faces of his two feline masters.
Naturally, as he so often does, Kenta chimes in with another offensive instruction before Gryff can even move. “Hey, foot slut; quit dreaming about the pizza boy and bring us our grub. But before you take another step away from that door, why don’t you bring my sandals back over here too? Might save you fetching yourself a real dinner plate,” Kenta winks. That wink is enough to drop a boulder inside the human’s stomach.
Meekly Gryff picks up Kenta’s sandals and stacks them together, giving their warmed leather a squeeze before raising them to his mouth. The heels of both footwear slip between his lips and then wedge into his maw. He sinks his teeth into insole and tread alike, biting just hard enough to keep the sandals dangling freely from his face. Even the edges of these heels have enough musty flavour to make his eye twitch. Gryff hears the tigers laugh at the collapse of his integrity. They needn’t even utter a command for him to debase himself voluntarily, which to them is a positive affirmation that the human spirit is easily malleable.
Kian and Kian are in synch when they turn back around, resume their usual places in the sofa and plant their padded soles firmly to the floor. In moments their human plaything crawls awkwardly around the bend of the sofa with the pizza box gripped in one hand and the sandals still suckled. Kian snatches the box from their hand moments before the sandals are spat to the floor from the unhinging jaw, landing with a clap in front of Kenta who merrily uses their extended toe to push and prod at each footwear, until they turn around to an orderly and easily wearable position.
Gryff clears his throat. His teeth ache from biting into the sandal heels but he does not complain. He glances over the blackish indents of the insoles; how the glimmer with his drool at the ends closest to Kenta. With a gulp he then gazes across to the white paws pressed happily on the floor; toe rings catching flickers of overhead light. Kenta’s smirk is now suggestive. With one eyebrow tilted and his eyes lidded, it seems the big cat is waiting for servile praise.
“Thank you, masters,” Gryff mumbles.
Kian – while pulling out a slice of pizza oozing in hot stretchy cheese and handing it over to Kenta – replies, “You should pay for our food more often, slave. We deserve to be lavished with gifts and offerings, right?”
“Yes Master Kian, my… my wallet is yours.”
Kenta then takes his slice and observes with suspicious glee. He looks down on the kneeling creature with an absence of pity and says, “This piece is shit, there’s barely any toppings. You can have this one, bitch.”
Gryff isn’t sure what he expected but the food is not handed into his palms – which cup together like a beggar seeking change – but instead the stripy animal hunches forward and lowers it down all the way to his own sandals. Gryff winces at the sight yet his heart beat accelerates. Pupils dilate when that cheesy, supple slice is bedded against the dirty insole, pressing paw indents into the greasy dough base. Small dapples of cheese are caught on the toe bands and stretch when pulling down past. Gryff’s stomach clenches inside him but it gargles too, reminding him how starved he is for a filling meal after missing breakfast this morning.
“Here’s my question, how long can you last staring at all that delicious food in my sandal before you cave and slam your hungry face into it?” Kenta queries, “’Cause you aren’t getting any other slice so sooner or later you better make a decision.”
Gryff’s vision starts to ripple and blur. The stress, the anxiety, is all-consuming. He stammers out a nervous noise which substitutes as his response.
Kian snickers excitedly at the unsanitary sight. He exacerbates the situation by saying, “Pft, that’s all you had in mind? He’ll have eaten off all the good parts before he even gets to the sandal. There’ll just be gnawed dough left behind.”
Kenta accepts the musing as a challenge. “Yeah Then lemme’ show you a trick I know to put some real meat on this meal, then you’ll shut your mouth.”
In an instant swoop – slamming cleanly through the bated tension in the air – the tiger pulls his paw from the floor and hurtles it down into the pizza-inlaid footwear with every ounce of strength driving its force. Gryff only registers the action after hearing a loud splat of impact followed by a long slow squelch of foot weight descending into the various substances, forming another newer paw print over the previous. The pliant layer of cheese is first affected. It sinks and spreads in gently steamy ripples around the paw contours, pressuring and bubbling up between Kenta’s toes. It glazes over his pads; stretching like a gooey maw as the paw grinds it deeper inward. Oils are soaked between the locks of blue fur. Dough becomes sandwiched and contorted out of shape; moulding into the pre-set imprint of Kenta’s foot below as it succumbs to the sheer cumbrance above. The groan of satisfaction trilling from the tiger hits Gryff’s ears but does not compare to the moist noises of trampled food content. For a moment Kenta eases his toes out fanning them until the cheese and sauces in between is spread thin. He then lifts his sole slowly from the stewing squishing mess stretching the cheddary residue yet again until it pales and drips from the contours of his large foot paw.
*Sschhhlurp-sqwich-shlp!*
A crushed coil of onion and capsicum slop off and land back into the devastated pizza face a few inches beneath. The mushy remains of something pink trickle off the ball pad while various drizzles of cheese remain plastered around the dense edges; clinging and stuck in amid the particles of sweat and lint. Gryff realizes when he stares at it with an intense, pounding adrenaline in his veins that he isn’t pulling away or gagging in disgust as he might’ve traditionally reacted. An impulse in the deepest undertones of his mind still urges him to flee the room but by now the ideas of servitude and having a purpose to these tigers are louder than any rational protest.
*SPLACK!*
Droplets of tomato paste and melting cheese are spat out under the crushing collision of Kenta’s paw once again as it plunges back into its place this time wriggling its toes underneath the sodden toe band; tucking that leather strap prisoner between his digits, to be permanently stained and squeezed lifeless. The grinning animal is not only stepping on the pizza, he is now actively wearing it like a cushy insole support that gargles underneath him. The tapered end of this slice is firmly flattened under Kenta’s heel while the arch of puffy crust and crispy toppings is mostly buried under his toes and ball pad.
“Go on, runt,” Kenta growls, “I know that look in your eyes. You know you want to submit to this. I bet you’ve never seen a more erotic sight in your life.”
Kian pulls out his own slice of pizza and balances it delicately between his two hands, as if inspecting it with his own dose of sadistic consideration. “You wouldn’t want to upset your gods by refusing to eat it, would you? Especially after Kenta’s gone to all this effort?”
“Heh, yeah,” Kenta agrees, “I mean… you paid for it after all. At least dip your head in for a good long sniff. Let us know how much you love it.”
Gryff’s breath is caught in his throat, almost causing a distressed splutter when he tries to inhale. He does not speak a word – no words would escape him if he tried – so instead he cowardly bows and feels a new heat wafting up towards him now even hotter than the blush in his own cheeks as he brings his face closer to the rugged top of Kenta’s foot. Specks of hot cheese have been sprayed up between his toes now resting amid that dishevelled fur. He breathes inward drawing whatever strength is left in his frail human body, drawing in exotic fumes which make his eyelids flutter. He suppresses a moan but the idea he is willingly sniffing Kenta’s pizza encrusted foot is already proof enough that the anthros have successfully whittled down his willpower.
The stench is irreplaceably cheddary and greasy. Now at this close vicinity Gryff can hear even more of the subtle squelches, slippery squeaks and damp gurgles of pizza smooshing into flat paste underfoot.
“Louder!” Kenta demands.
Gryff flares his nostrils far and wide, snorting in a stronger gust of his trampled lunch. He lowers his head even more until the ends of his sweeping black hair tickle against the tiger’s foot. Kenta lifts the sandal-strapped paw higher off the floor bringing his chunky toe digits and their oozing mattress of cheese and crust directly into Gryff’s eye level. The human does not wrench his head away even when the sandal rim presses up against his lip, softly slipping the tip of his nose into the middle toes’ crotch, where the toe band is clenched between, and where a piece of plant-based meat has been grinded into glistening chunks.
“Do it like you really mean it!” Kian commands from the side.
Gryff mumbles a whimper, forgetting to subdue the lustful tones before it leaves his mouth. He reaches up and grabs the bottom of Kenta’s hardy sandal feeling the tread patterns against his palms while his fingers curl weakly around the edges. With the foot now antagonistically taunting his senses Gryff rubs his face into the tops of each toe sniffing from digit to digit and making sure to dip his nostrils in between each one for a forceful huff of that sticky pizza smell.
“M-may I please lick it?” Gryff stutters; his voice cracking from the crushing nervousness.
“You wanna lick it?” Kenta scoffs; keeping his smirk stalwart and his eyes unblinking.
‘Fuck, why am I saying this! God, fuck, I need help!’ Gryff thinks before his mouth overpowers his mind and replies, “Yes, yes master! Please!” He winces at his conflicting inner voices but the tigers have not dominated him just to be let down, so he feels a natural binding obligation to keep them in happy spirits even at the cost of his own.
“Did you hear that, buddy?” Kenta asks to Kian, who nods impishly and brings their lithe white legs up onto the sofa, transitioning into a more meditative sitting pose.
“Sure did. Sounds genuine too, since it came straight from him!”
“Took him long enough. Didn’t think a human could hold out against a hunk like me this long. Poor guy, look at him, he thinks he got away with it every time he stared at our feet in the past.”
The two tigers laugh and jeer. Gryff doesn’t bother to fight them back, he simply rubs his palms up and over the sandal tread in slow rhythmic massages while moving his nose around the top of Kenta’s foot; avoiding the strap but sniffing almost everywhere else.
“You lucky slut,” Kenta chides, “I don’t have the heart to reject someone so horny over my feet, so fine… dig in. But you only have permission to lick the ends of my toes for now. I’ll give you the rest later when I peel off this cheesy sandal.”
“Thank you, master kenta, you’re so generous. I’m… I’m going to serve you like my whole world revolves around you!”
“You better…”
Gryff watches the toes splay in front of his eyes. He watches them furl and tilt back and expose the thick streams of cheesy decimation sticking like a golden glue to every lilac coloured pad. Timidly Gryff pulls down on the tongue of toe-imprint leather, bending the pizza crust too, before divulging into a trance of unlikely intoxication. He stows his face in against the four toes pushing each one back until their thick bone knuckles strain from the force. The four pads are consequently smeared into his lips and nose actively wriggling against his mouth as if trying to grope his lips. Flecks of red sauce and cheddar start staining immediately against the human’s skin. Gryff grunts. He tries to hold the paw still but Kenta continually shoves it in his face feeding him small tastes of pizza remnants and glazed pad leather. The protracted claws are the first to be bathed in saliva – cleaned of any cheesy crumbs still lodged under their sharp curves – when the human starts mouthing desperately over each digit. At first he is only confident enough to lick each claw one at a time without touching the blue toes too, until Gryff realizes he has the freedom to suckle on an entire toe at a time without Kenta pulling away or kicking him in the teeth. So he does just that; sucks on each toe with leech-like enthusiasm until he can physically feel the thick cheeses being slid back and cleaned off every pad. A tongue rolls slickly out underneath all these digits, sliding over the bumpy paw-printed pizza too and cleaning off any sweat-infused sauce from this region of the crust.
“You’re such a foot pig,” Kenta berates. He spreads his arms along the sofa backrest and gets comfortably settled, enjoying this barrage of wet slimy tongue movements squirming around his toes. The stickiness is gradually replaced by a fresh coating of drool which drops from his toes much more lightly than condensed pizza toppings.
“M-mhm, I’m… I’m such a foot pig,” Gryff gargles back, swallowing a mouthful of flattened vegetable skin and juicy cheese. The self-aware voice in his head which he so sternly ignores now mutters back, ‘I hate myself.’
“So that’s it? You like paws now, already? No stubborn bullshit about faking your disapproval?” Kenta interrogates while forcing multiple toes into the human’s mouth for a gargling suckle before yanking them back out and feeling the saliva clinging between them.
“I do, I’m sorry, I love paws! I’ve always loved being embarrassed by stronger guys, I just needed your forceful guidance! Please forgive my attitude from before, I… I’ve dishonoured myself every time I said those other feelings.”
“You broke faster than I thought you would, slut.”
“A-anything for you, master Kenta!”
Kenta relaxes as the tongue constantly swipes inside one gap in particular trying to dredge out the yields of salty greasy cheese lodged in between the two toes. He turns his head and arrogantly smiles at his fellow feline. “See what I mean about humans? They’re so pathetic, it almost feels like a charity service letting them work out their kinks at my big handsome feet.”
“That looks so hot man, I’ve got to admit,” Kian purrs as he watches the display of degradation. “Don’t mind if I try it out too. He is my slave after all. It’s only fair I feel those glorious licks.”
With this the smaller tiger lowers their own pizza slice between his two paws resting on their sides, at the lip of the sofa seat cushion. He drops the slice and lets it flop indolently in the narrow alley of space between his two soles, which he promptly slams shut the moment the pizza is squarely on target. Those pale paws and their sky-blue pads are instantly greeted with a warm oily moisture splattering in that tightly viced space. The singular splat noise is then ground and desecrated into a series of slick squishing discordance when the white tiger rubs his feet together trying to flatten out the slice into a paper-thin fusion of ingredients. Eventually the cheesy doughy mass begins to roll and fold out of shape while its essence is painted in thick gold and red splashes across Kian’s soles.
Like a feral animal Gryff’s ears pick up on the sound and he lifts his head from the slobbered blue and lilac toes. Saliva drips down his chin diluting some of the food colours staining him.
“Go to your other master, boy, you’ll finish up with me afterwards,” Kenta commands, leaning forward just far enough to wrap a warm hand over Gryff’s head. He pushes their face in Kian’s direction and leans back again; generously allowing Kian a turn of the human’s services. “You should all be thankful I’m in a good mood, since I should be getting all the licks after that big fight win.”
Gryff gently lowers Kenta’s paw back to the floor as if it were a precious, expensive artefact before he drags his kneeling body over to the left and positions himself in front of his monochrome friend. Both of Kian’s paws are still walling together, sole to sole, and squeezing that slice with enough pressure to break it down by its very atoms. Oozing splurges of ingredients dribble out between his appendages, like the spilling centre of a grilled cheese sandwich.
*Splack, splack!*
Small droplets hit the living room floor at the foot of the sofa. Gryff is at first mesmerized by the sight. His stomach grumbles eagerly once again. The human, now lost in these tamed thrall behaviours, then becomes tranquilized when he watches the tiger smugly peel apart their feet pulling away synchronously until the dead-weight of the pizza detaches enough that it can flop out and slap limply to the carpet; bruised and mangled by the two different paw prints embedded on each side of its being.
Kian’s bright red eyes meet with the human’s, locking in eye contact. It is followed by an easily understood gesture; Kian extends both his legs out straight again and reveals his soles to the kneeling human’s face. It’s almost a shame for Gryff to see the now tainted, besmirched colours dressing from heel to toe… the yellow greasy staining on the white arch and the Pollock art style of various colours all blending and breeding and bleeding together across the tiger’s blue pads. Strings of cheese hang trapped from some of their toe gaps. Smidges of sauce and onion cling around the toe claws. Crumbs and smears decorate the centres of each region while a fainter more oily glaze shimmers around the sole edges. This accounts for both feet presented in Gryff’s face; each awaiting the tongue bath they had first earned after that fateful poker game.
Gryff closes his eyes and teeters forward, trying to conceal a smile. He only needs his sense of smell to guide himself into that simmering aura of melted Edam. Kian chuckles to himself and pulls back just as Gryff tries to blindly plant their nose in between the soles. When the disruption causes the human to stumble and plant one palm to the floor, Kian shoves his feet back where they rightfully belong; plastering them hard and hot into the humanly features with an audible impact.
*Squelk!*
Gryff shudders at the torrid airwaves fanning him with furnace-like temperatures. The many pads sinking across his eye sockets and forehead are indistinguishable from each other, feeling like molten butter spreading gloriously into his skin.
“Mmmh…mh…mhhh,” They mumble into the insulating thickness. Kian keeps pushing and pressing and smearing his slippery pizza-coated soles into the face until there is not an hair’s width of free space between him and Gryff.
There is no traction. Holding one same position proves a struggle. Red sauce is wiped and slipped upon. Strings of mozzarella and granules of topping start to pull and tear variously when Kian’s two feet slide up and down the face in different directions at a time. During this time Gryff bravely sticks his tongue out even as it is barged over and run down by the steamrolling soles. Gryff keeps his mouth hanging open wide so that he doesn’t accidentally bite into his own tongue. When it freely flaps over his chin, (and his eyes clench fiercely), the movement of Kian’s feet starts to target his lower face specifically.
The human is so busy defending himself from the barrage of paw smacks and gritty cheesy wipes that he cannot concentrate on keeping his limbs steady. His legs, even as he kneels upon them, quiver turbulently. Grunts and groans can be heard infrequently between the slopping of pseudo-meat and dairy contents. With his tongue now hanging Gryff serves the expected purpose of cleaning Kian’s feet bottoms, which drag over his nose leaving a greased trail before swiping over the full length of his tongue, over and over. Because of this Gryff has to taste the textures of heel fur, instep grooves, pad meat and claw undercarriage repeatedly, becoming ever-more messy in the process.
“I’m trying to decide if he’s really performing to our high standards,” Kian ponders to Kenta whilst rubbing his toes off against the curled and wet, dripping tip of Gryff’s tongue. The sound of saliva wavering under the scraping force of his toe pads is both noisy and slurping. “He’s taking the easy way out for sure, just flopping out his flaccid tongue and making me do all the work… but oddly, I’m not all that pissed off. It makes him feel more like an object this way, like a rag that just sits there waiting to be used. Plus it gives me a sense of control. He can’t move until my soles are glistening fresh.”
Kenta nods and expresses a growl of purring satisfaction, as he watches. His pupils thin into razor sharp lines. He stares at the vague imprints being warped out of shape with every new face-planting of foot sole that Gryff receives; distorting the food stains even more. The human is in such a trance they have not even realized their own erection has returned to full vigour, jutting like a rock feature from between his legs.
“I’m better off making him wait for me. I know I rightfully earned his worship first but fuck it, at least now I get to marinate and tenderize my own slice into my sandal,” Kenta explains.
* * *
Gryff is dormant and obedient for the next eleven minutes which it takes to clean Kian’s paws; not through manual licking but through stationary devotion, allowing his friend to scrape their soles off against his mouth in what felt like an endless ordeal. A trailing presence of cheese still exists around the outer margins of each sole but through commitment and lustful intuition the majority of each pad now gleams again in its usual sky blue tones, barely showing a streak of oil or sauce left and instead revealing the thick sheen of a slave’s saliva instead.
While emasculating, the taste isn’t altogether bad considering the consistency of regular pizza had mostly overridden the flecks of linty dirt already lodged in amongst the finer recesses of Kian’s feet.
The white tiger draws his leg in, pulling his dripping appendage into his own lap. He smirks at the state of their bathed undersides. His pads feel more youthful and pliant now that they’ve been softened in saliva. His arch is the same, beaming from side to side in jubilant creases that glisten with dew drops. “Not a bad effort for his first time. He’s a quick learner!”
“It’s because he’s been secretly fantasizing about this before, idiot,” Kenta leers. The bigger tiger then clicks his fingers and summons the human’s attention. “Now get back over here, bitch. Your other god demands your audience!”
Kenta tries to raise his foot out of the pizza-soaked sandal but there is a resistance – a determined stickiness – keeping his sole attached. With his own eyes Gryff can see the cheese fusing into the blue fur and lilac pads, keeping hold and staining their surfaces in a permanent miasma of flavour. By witnessing this that inner voice of anguish returns inside Gryff’s mind once again with bolstered strength, convincing him he should feel sick or unclean for even indulging in these tigers’ unhealthy sadism.
Instead of listening to this inner voice however the rattled human concedes all his willpower to the whims of his masters, when Kenta says, “Hope you enjoyed the taste of my cheesy toes before you fleshy little creep, because there’s a lot more left and I’m not leaving this sofa ‘till you munch it all off.”
*Sschlurp!*
This time the paw heaves its way out of the suckling bubbling surface of body-heat broiled cheese; a noise that both upsets and delights Gryff’s stomach at the same time. By now he is able to completely ignore these conflicts of reason and arousal, submitting easily to the latter.
“C’mon on closer pig, I know you can smell this. You want it so badly. Don’t deny it,” Kenta purrs.
Gryff is transfixed, lowering his head to stare into the heatwave gap between Kenta’s sole and the trampled pizza lying flat in his insole. Cheddary vapours waft into his inhaling nostrils. Chunks of saucy toppings slop sluggishly off the feline’s paw unable to maintain their grip on his pads any longer. The remaining layer of cheese still hanging from his sole drips downward like the stalactites in a cavern. There are wheat grains and tiny morsels of meat smudged into the tiger’s toe gaps, looking darkened and moist like a putrid toe jam, only more edible. Kenta flicks his toes outward, flinging small droplets of cheese that dapple against Gryff’s blushing skin. Kenta then clenches his toes providing an audible display of the foods crushing and wringing between them. Gryff gulps as the juices drizzle out between each toe gap along with several of the aforementioned crumbs after the toes flex apart again. Kenta is deliberately and proudly showing off every inch of his irresistible paw before making any demands. He wants Gryff to savour the view and salivate, as they already are.
“Go on…” Kenta coos, “What’s it going to be? You gonna eat out that sandal pizza first or are you going to give your god the worship he deserves?”
The answer seems one-sided; directed towards Kenta’s egotistical goals. Gryff tries to gulp but he can still taste all the condiments and other rich flavours licked from Kian’s feet earlier. “I’ll worship you, always you, first! The sandal never comes before the paw!”
“Huh, you really -are- learning fast. I can barely recognize the stubborn shit you were once were, less than 24 hours ago.”
These remarks easily deflect off the subservient creature, who is too distracted to be irked by small comments. Without any lamentation he wraps his hands around the one great paw curling his fingers into its bluish fur, digging deep so he can roll the appendage on its side in the air and stow his face ravenously into Kenta’s messy arch. Another splat is heard by all parties, followed by an incoherent moan. Gryff starts mouthing at the dip in Kenta’s arch using his lips like a mop, bathing through swathes of fur and then sucking back shut with the tasty crud in tow. Kenta pats the top of his head, reminding him of his place, and simply keeps his leg hoisted – bent at the knee too – for Gryff’s accessibility.
Kian’s eyes light up too at the spectacle. While he uses a napkin, (found inside the pizza box), to wipe that humanly drool away from his now-cold pads he cannot pull his gaze away from the sight of his broken, brainwashed roommate lapping languidly up and down Kenta’s arch in zig-zag strokes; bulldozing cleanly paths through the runny globules of cheese. Kian retrieves another slice of pizza, now with the ordinary intent of eating it satisfactorily instead of slamming it between his bare feet.
Kenta’s toes twitch when his foot responds to the ticklish yet slimy glazing of his slave’s tongue pushing down his fur into matted trails of dew. Any essence of body odour or perspiration from his morning workout have now been absorbed in amongst the pizza slice… soon to be absorbed again into the mouth of this obsessive human. The wriggling toes catch Gryff’s attention in the far corner of his periphery. Longingly – unable to control himself – he shifts his head over past the ball bad which he sniffs and strokes with his nose until a mozzarella strand is stretched and broken away from that sweaty flesh.
Even now, or perhaps especially now after being soaked in hot grease juices, the tiger’s ball pad is extra malleable to the touch. It feels like a cushion of tender silk against the tip of Gryff’s nose. The toe pads are similarly textured when he reaches them though the presence of sodden, crushed peppers and onion are firmly spread in amongst the bog of cheese still clinging around every pad and claw. Gryff sighs against the foot, listening to every drip and squelch as it moves lively before his face.
Even as he resides into the comforting and proportionately generous sole cupping against the width of his face for another combination of sniffs and timid slurps those faint drips continue, splashing quietly against the violated pizza based insole. Worse still are the wetter sounds of Gryff’s tongue trying to pry its way through the flavourful mush in order to clean those pads duly. The deeper he is baited into those folds of leather, rich in their odour, the tighter his nose is caught in a trap of scrunching toes that squeeze so hard the cartilage within begins to throb. Every stretchy sticky tendril between them feels like a net against his skin. Gryff is too lost in this haze of subservience that again he fails to comprehend any of his surroundings outside of the big foot; unaware of the felines returning to their casual platonic conversations while Kenta is passed his own slice to chew through and Kian taps a clawed thumb over the television remote, surfing through various sports and premium movie channels while they let the human do their part below.
An hour could have passed, or a minute. Gryff would never know until he could break himself out of this fervent behaviour. ‘I really am pathetic,’ He thinks, ‘But I just don’t care anymore. This is the best tasting pizza I’ve had in years and it’s coming from the bottom of an anthro’s foot! That spells my doom already… might as well give in to it now.’
And so the human does just that. They forfeit their last hope for dignity and start painting those meaty pads in saliva up and down, applying primers and double coats of more and more drool until bit by bit the crispy cheese crust is diluted and disintegrated enough that he can lap up the individual broken down bits and ingest them heartily. The toes only release their clench long enough for him to slather them in rapid serpentine licks and kisses clearing out the filth until gleaming lilac hues show through. Gryff can taste tiger fur follicles and even genuine paw grime stuck in between his teeth but he is too inebriated to care for these trivial distinctions and swallows them down anyway, along with the remnants of real cuisine.
Unlike Kian, Kenta is content to make the human do all the work while he relaxes like a pampered deity. Over time Kenta stops keeping track of every movement he feels against his feet; be it flaring snuffling nostrils, waggling tongue strokes, determined forceful licks, slobbery suckles or smooching kisses. Eventually Gryff is kneeling here for so long his back starts to set into poor posture and his shoulders ache. He feels weak; a shallow shadow of himself. Is it really worth this much energy and exhaustion just to honour some silly poker bet? Gryff decides it is indeed worth that price, especially when he is allowed to mop up every possible crumb and flake and splatter from the sole for which he has the withstanding energy to slurp.
“He’s so tuned out,” Kenta chuckles, while his toes are aggressively spread and manipulated by the tongue scavenging between them for any tiny morsel of food. “He can’t even hear what we’re talking about. He’s in his own world down there.”
“Yeah?” Kian grins, taking his gaze momentarily away from the television screen to witness the proof. “Hey, Gryff, bet’s off. You don’t have to lick our paws anymore. No more wager. No more worship. You can go now.”
“Uhnhh-mh-” Gryff responds drunkenly, unaware of what was said or what he even intended to mumble back. His brain has not registered anything other than the need to keep those pads soaking in fresh streams of spit. Both tigers laugh jovially but cruelly at the evidence of his liquefied willpower.
Kenta has his turn teasing the poor human too. “And my gym’s looking for a new caretaker to clean the floors. There’s too much dust, paw prints and dirty shoe marks at the moment. I’ll sign your name up for the job and make you lick the entire gym floor clean, yeah?”
“Mmmhfm,” Gryff grumbles back; still none the wiser to any of the context. Once again the tigers are well humoured.
“Total loser,” Kenta says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“But a useful one at that,” Kian smiles. Both of the felines turn their attention back to the TV and resume their habit of ignoring Gryff’s existence until it is necessary.
Midway through a long winding lick up the length of Kenta’s sole, Gryff’s hands and head are crudely detached from their cosy foot flavoured environment when Kenta’s other paw is raised and then rested like a musky crown against the top of Gryff’s skull. Force is applied as the sole fits to the curvature, flattening out the long black hair underfoot. In moment the human is made to succumb to this new weighty pressure until his head is lowered more and more towards the tiger’s sandal; a sight bearing the depressed and thoroughly squished remains of the original pizza slice. Once Gryff is pushed down to meet the slice face to face, the other paw – doused in saliva – joins its brethren atop his head and the two paws nuzzle side by side together, to suppress the human out of sight and make a footrest of their skull.
“Eat, slut.”
Only these simple two words are grunted above. Gryff needs no convincing any longer. He is already mouthing over the deep pad-like craters in the pizza dough before Kenta had spoken. While the combined weight of both soles feels crushing and throbbing over his head, Gryff keeps his opinions reserved and his obedience displayed. The felines can hear a new sound; that of the bedraggled, tired chomping and swallowing glugs of sandal pizza.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine down there, just don’t put a dent in his skull with your jacked legs. They probably weigh a tonne for someone like him, y’know,” Kian advises.
“And ruin his rhythm of worship? Nah, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kenta replies with a lidded look of vanity. “Hope you’ve still got that spare bedroom set up because after all this, I can’t imagine going back to my own place and letting you have all the fun with him.”
“I think deep down Gryff knew I was never going to let him go after the week ended. I just said it at the start so he wouldn’t wuss out of the poker game. That poor, gullible guy. I’d almost feel bad for him if he wasn’t having such a good time,” Kian muses. Lastly, before they resume their daytime movie in contented silence and godly disposition, he dries his slobbered white soles into the carpet below and says: “I was never all the hungry either, so I’m going to save a couple slices. When it hits peak heat out there this afternoon, we’ll shove those last few slices in our flip flops and take our new pet out for a walk to the park. I don’t think it’s right to keep a human locked indoors all day. They need constant and public reminders that they belong underneath us anywhere we go, am I right?”
“Too right,” Kenta agrees, relaxing his toes out suffusing them through the locks of human hair and firm skull below.
The felines share their familiar smirks once again but instead of listening to the servile symphony any longer Kian turns up the volume of the television, just enough to drown out the sounds of their slave and its pitiful feasting. They both know that they aren’t missing out on anything, least of all because the human is now their property – shared, mutual ownership – and the human has a long stay of servitude before they get to act the part of a functioning individual, (if ever again!)
THE END
Category Story / Paw
Species Tiger
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
Listed in Folders
You know he's going to swipe up the opportunity every time he gets that address for delivery ;) he might even 'forget' to wear fresh socks in case they call back again another day!
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