File type: Word Document(.docx) [Download]
-----------------------------------------
Could not generate preview text for this file type.
-----------------------------------------
Could not generate preview text for this file type.
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Lucky Charm
PART ONE
Synopsis: A motocross-enthusiast hyena assumes his good luck in dirt bike tournaments comes from the ‘lucky’ micro he keeps squashed inside his boot. Once home, the hyena explores other ways to amuse himself with his tiny captive.
Disclaimer:
-Forced Paw Worship
-(Extreme) Filth/Musk/Sweat
-Micro/Regular
-Squashing/Living Insole
-Size & Weight Play
-Non-con
-Hyena (dom)
-Squirrel (sub)
An anarchy of noise; savage engines rev and grunt competitively joined by the screech of brakes during each drift or the clunk of a rider and their untamed machine landing against firmly formed dirt, after taking air. Mud is carved, crunched and churned under spinning wheels. Gritty rock radio crackles through the outdoor wall speakers. Advertisement banners plotted around the track flap in rapid offense with each passing bike. Exhaust fumes and dust clouds fill the air, entwining the stench of unleaded gasoline and raw earth. Together they make a grungy hue which matches the rain clouds above, (still creeping in at the sky's periphery, waiting eagerly to drench the tracks and send these riders home for the evening.)
Kirk Decker - a rider streaking through the course on a 250cc 4-stroke bike - is a regular attendant to this dirt track. It consumes his every weekend. From lap times to trick efficiency, Kirk's records are infallible. He hasn't yet fallen or crashed his bike in any known occasion; in spite of the regularity other riders face these same humiliating incidents.
After a long day of successfully shredding dirt Kirk finishes his current lap taking the last of the undulant terrain slowly before pulling into a spacious patch of puddle-ridden dirt, outside the small utility office. Here several exhausted riders sit about unwinding together on an old picnic table. Kirk's eye is caught by their waving beckons and so he puts his bike in neutral, kills the burbling engine and swiftly kicks down the stand. The other anthros - rookies by comparison - have each removed their helmets by now exposing looks of timid surprise and honour when they see their local celebrity approaching them.
For now all they witness is a body dressed head to toe in protective riding gear, gloves and boots each adequately padded and also smattered in a visual orgy of sponsorship logos. The garnet reds, greys, whites and blacks of his uniform are now sprayed in dirt… particularly across the legs where his boot treads are saturated in a thick, gloopy layer of mud. His helmet and reflective goggles conceal a vaguely canine shaped anatomy below, adding mystery to his status.
When complimentary greetings fill the air excitedly yearning for his attention, Kirk removes his headwear accessories with no shortage of a difficult wrestle. His helmet-goggle combo is slowly wrenched up until his head is freed revealing a snarky, attractive hyena face that wallows in the freedom away from its stuffy, muggy prison. Kirk has spent hours in these insulated confines fogging up his visor with each breath, steaming his face until condensation had formed on his big snout and his ragged mohawk/mane had become awash with greasy dew.
The striped hyena is young and undeniably cocky. He is all too aware of his stunning looks and so he relishes in the subtle gasps or gulps from his on-looking fans. Daring chocolate eyes are set amid a face of light copper-beige fur with dark hickory brown accents, lacerating across his limbs in particular. His slender frame is defined in tender muscle. He stands in a pose cradling his helmet under arm, showing a half-cocked grin. Tiny droplets of sweat hang on the forward-tufting peaks of his mohawk, ready to drop and drizzle lightly down his brow.
Two of the resting riders - a variety of gender - blush and look away suddenly when they make unexpected eye contact with the hyena. The others chirp over one another to praise Kirk's riding, hoping to impress him with their devoted observations of his technique while also vying for personal tips.
"Ah c’mon, what I do out there... it's nothing. Wait until the next tournament comes up. I'll eclipse the fuckin' sun with my jumps, take each corner like an Olympic cheetah and run down anyone who thinks they can top me. Sorry dudes but Kirk Decker doesn't come second to anyone."
More overlapping chatter commences. The hyena raises his brow and listens only for the responses that satisfy his ego. A punkish wolverine girl in the group asks, "So what's your dirty secret out there, huh? How you ridin' so good without ever making one slip?"
The others fall silent to hear his answer.
"Secret?" Kirk ponders. Unbeknownst to the others, his sodden toes wriggle together inside one of his boots, reflexively in response to the question. His digits slide against one another without any traction to slow their dexterity, shifting the currents of stifling air from their gaps. "Ahh, no secret..." He mumbles; the glint in his eye saying otherwise. "Just depends whether you believe in lucky charms or not. I got mine for sure, and it’s been wicked-lucky for me ever since."
"Like.. like a special memento or something you wear around your neck? Or like a lucky ring?" A black and bronze pinscher seated on the very end of the bench asks, (still somewhat rosy in the cheeks).
Kirk snickers to himself, doing well to disguise and bury any sadistic tones in his amusement. "Nah, not around my neck. Just... somewhere else on me."
These anthros aren't inquisitive enough to assume the movements in Kirk's left foot are anything other than innocent and subconscious. All they can see from their position is a subtle grinding left and right, twisting a treaded indent in the dirt. They cannot see how his toes are scrunching forward condensing the crisp heat and the stewed salty juices, while curling fondly and possessively around a specific ‘shape’ inside his shoe. Something is clamped between the two middle toes, imprisoned, unable to fend off the damp fuzzy toe gap splaying against it… providing it with a constant source of run-off refreshment. This 'shape' extends further under the hyena's paw, pinned evermore; feeling sticky and pliant and squelching underneath his foot’s weight like a stick of oozing butter. It gives off lively twitches and perverse squirms whenever his sole settles or rubs too heavily into the bog of sock fabric and insole indents, but these squirms only make the hyena clench his toes tighter or squeeze down more unbearable amounts of pressure to calm the shape into subservience.
As Kirk grinds his foot into the dirt he keeps his heel ever so slightly raised, shifting his weight into his supple ball pad instead. He clenches his jaw pleasurably at the fragility of the shape in his shoe; squashing its bony frame into oblivion and feeling that tiny, overclocked drum beat of its heart pounding beneath his ball pad. Its ribs submit and its lungs act like a pedal he can push to force airflow between his toes at any desired time. Kirk never feels more alive than when he steps onto this insignificant thing, sensing its every bodily process underneath him while it cooks helplessly in the broth of his stagnant paw sweat and mushy sock lint soup. No empathy is allowed... not when its existence serves him with this much fortune and confidence on the track.
A curt gust of air blows through the nostrils of this self-humouring hyena. "So, yeah... lucky charm, that's all I can say for now. It's with me every step of the way and just like other people and their lucky charms, I wear mine -all- the time."
A feline on the opposite side of the table jealously regards him by saying, "Man, I wish I was in your shoes, living that good life.
This prompts a smirk and a devious flitter in the hyena's eyes. Before he lowers his helmet back over his head and seats himself back on his bike, ready to ride home, he makes one final quip. "Not everyone can handle 'being in my shoes'. Some guys would do anything to get out of 'em..."
The anthros are oblivious to the double meaning and so instead they graciously wave the canine goodbye. His engine awakens with a cantankerous growl. Fuel pumps through its veins. A plume of dust splutters up from behind him. With that, Kirk careens away across the rugged rural roads keeping moderate pressure applied to his foot pegs; playfully compacting every possible iota of pressure down into that lumpy formation inside his shoe, savouring every stifled spasm it makes underfoot.
Over the deafening noises a muffled hyena voice shouts the words, "Don't worry my lil' dude, we'll be home soon! Can't wait to kick back and have some real fun together!"
* * *
On an open patch of sun-baked Nevada land, out in the barren outskirts of Las Vegas, Kirk's home sits amid orangey dirt, dust and spiky succulent plants. The structure itself is a one-floor mobile home with a grass-less yard bordered by wonky grey picket planks. When he parks his bike under the corrugated metal bay and enters his home, Kirk is met with the same dingy darkness and stale atmosphere that has festered since early this morning when he’d forgotten to crack the windows, or open the peach-pink curtains before heading to the track. Old pizza boxes - empty aside from the grease stains and crusted cheese residue - and crushed cans of energy drinks scatter the interior, joined by stray laundry. With one hearty sniff Kirk can already smell the ripeness of an old sock pair hiding elsewhere in the room. It brings a warm smile to his face. These are the small joys of returning home.
As he scuffs his boot soles across the face of a well-used doormat, (using deliberate force and slow, patient scrapes along its abrasive material), Kirk spreads his toes until they rub against the sides and ceiling inside his footwear. The humidity between them is palpable; like a wet thick steam desperate for more room to spread. Even as the toes settle back down, fitting perfectly into aged insole grooves, he senses a honeyed squelch. The twitching sensation underfoot is less energetic than earlier; more lethargic and docile now. The consistency of that shape however still feels like a large wad of gum that has been chewed up and spat out, where it has remained roasting beneath the length of his plump sole all day long.
Instead of removing his boots at the door the hyena struts over to a recliner armchair; one with paled sheen imprints where a sweaty body has rubbed against its faux leather over the years. He startles the chair suspensions by dropping himself lazily into its embrace, wasting no time in hoisting up his legs. Each booted foot is dumped heavily upon the edge of a timber coffee table. The sight of his shoe soles and self-assured smirk mirrors back at him in the reflection of his TV screen ahead but the intricate detailing of his treads is lost under a layer of drying dirt slop. After sighing jovially to himself, the hyena flicks on the television to a retrograde daytime-TV show which offers little in the way of interest.
Even in this destitute domain Kirk feels kingly here, living alone at the age of 24, unfettered by rules or expectations. More importantly it gives him all the privacy he needs to make a sport out of teasing and tormenting his unfortunate micro friend, Neal. Their friendship hadn't always been founded on indulgent cruelty. After high school ended the two had become close pals - amicable jokes and platonic hang-outs aplenty - despite their vast difference in size. A dusty photo frame on the walls preserves this very idea, showing the striped hyena with a height-deficient red squirrel standing proudly on the palm of his hand. Somewhere along the way after so many size related comments, near-accidents and physical taunts of stepping on the small critter, Kirk's thirst for superiority became the sovereign feature of their friendship. Intensity ignited, partly fuelled by Neal's submissive but still back-talking personality. Before the squirrel knew what kind of ego had been fostered he was already nothing more than a target for derision and a product of Kirk's entertainment. At his size, what could he do to stop it?
Kirk is currently slumping lower into his seat, extending his legs further onto the coffee table. He stares with dreamy conceit at the tops of his own boots with each foot balanced upright on its heel. His cheek rests softly on his supporting fist. A sleazy smile spreads cheek to cheek. With heedful attention he begins to bump his heel into the table's edge using each impact to help loosen the footwear fraction by fraction, starting with the foot that does not contain Neal because Kirk wants his micro to spend as much time fermenting underfoot before releasing them. When the hyena's heel is unplugged from its indent and the heavy motocross boot feels limp around his shin he drops it against the edge one last time, snagging it and pulling down, levering the boot at just the right angle so that he may slide his whole foot free. This topples the hollow footwear down over the edge where it thuds clumsily to the carpet floor shedding small flakes of dirt from its treads.
Kirk releases a provocative sigh. He raises the freed paw into view. He tips his head to one side and stares at the taut, affixing contours of his compression sports sock hugging his leg; insulating every molecule of musk, clinging greedily, containing the day's heat and moisture and curried fumes which want only to filter through the jet black nylon but are denied this very right to breathe. Usually the one pair alone couldn't hold in his odours but Kirk never goes a day of riding without wearing two socks per foot, doubling down on comfort over practicality. The other sock, worn first underneath the compression sock, is an article of lush synthetic wool which feels like soft moss bristling against his sole, absorbing the extremes of his sweat and warmth. Both socks are blacker than night, meaning double the heat retention and double the suffering for anyone trapped within.
When changing to his right foot to repeat the same process Kirk barely acknowledges the squirrel's alarmed, jolting reaction each time he lifts his leg and crashes his boot heel down on the timber edge. He can feel their scrawny legs jerk against the wall of his arch fur. Their upper body however has much less mobility; plastered under the hyena's unwieldy pads like mortar paste smeared beneath a brick. The hours spent here have left the squirrel sunken deep, swallowed in by the succulent, light grey flesh. Their torso is now pressed into a gulch-like indent up through the ball pad's centre.
Neal's nauseated and half-squashed organs jump inside him each time the footwear - and respectively his whole world - rise, plunge and then vibrate erratically during this shoe-removal ritual. At first it besets him with confusion and agitation until he realizes he might finally be allowed out from this rancid hell. Hope glimmers in his pounding heart although by now the red squirrel has lost all understanding of time; trapped in this soaking darkness, surrounded by traces of sensory deprivation with no visual stimulation... only the skull-numbing intake of toxic, repulsive stench and the physically exerting pressure to remind him that he still exists.
Neal cannot breathe without huffing lungfuls of hyena musk. It reeks with a distinct flavour of deep-fried beer batter, splashed in pungent petroleum. Salty moisture cascades down the light grey pads in forever-forming trickles each leaving long and slick wriggly trails which eventually matte into brown fur. These trickles slither beside Neal and over him too, sometimes pooling around the edges of his fluffy face and body whenever the acrid moisture slips into the grooves around him.
In this position the critter cannot consider himself comfortable, not when the thick wool sock behind his back is acting like a drenched bedroll gluing him against the sole, aided by the nylon sock behind that, (followed by the spongy insole and boot sole layers too). This depraved suffocation - this lack of agility - has drained the squirrel's energy and left their limbs like useless, aching noodles. Combined with the abyssal darkness and the faint-inducing heat, it's the perfect tactic to keep him broken and obedient underneath his friend.
*Ca-thunk!*
Much like the other, the right foot tugs and slides its way back out of the boot's mouth, abandoning the footwear to the floor where it tumbles and lays gasping against the first.
"Oh yeeeah," Kirk groans, propping and spreading both feet out across the table surface while his arms spread along the recliner armrests. The liberation is riveting. Riding the dirt track all day often means stuffing his feet into these tight, guarded deadweight boots but nevertheless Kirk lives for the moment he gets to kick off his shoes and 'release the hounds'. It doesn't take long for his steaming socks to imbue the atmosphere with that savoury nose-crinkling scent of beer batter and gasoline. Kirk - prideful as can be - flares his big nostrils and inhales the mystifying waft of musk. It hits like an injection of pure euphoria. It's therapy for his tired body. His muscles tighten first and relax second, easing him into meditative narcissism.
"Heh," He chuckles quietly, wobbling his right foot side to side. "So crispy-fresh. Dude, I can almost feel the heat waves from here. I bet you're totally drowned in sweat down there! Shit, like... my toes can barely keep your head still between 'em without sliding all over the place."
While he speaks Kirk leers at his TV's reflection. Every so often whenever the show transitions to a dark scene he catches glimpses of the micro-shaped lump vacuum-sealed inside those double-layered socks. This undulant formation is positioned like a distorted starfish spanning from heel to toe. The roundness of Neal's head wedges in, tightly fitted between the big juicy digits that huddle around him and keep his muzzle buried in the feeding-bag crevice of their fluffy, raunchy, grimy and salty toe crotch fur. Neal's body looks so helpless and inanimate, like a little wax figurine melted cosily into the sole.
Kirk is feeling frisky and playful. Slowly and gratuitously he curls his toes forward one by one, starting from the furthest right then wavering the rhythm over to the left. The fabric rustles when it scrunches, tucking itself into several curvaceous folds that bend and swerve widely across the width of Kirk's ball pad. The small skull is sandwiched and squeezed painfully between the digits. Smooth-tipped toe claws dig against the malleable thickness of the ball pad, managing to avoid digging into the squirrel's sodden back fur. The grunts and groans of the critter's marinated body go unheard, never knowing any mercy.
Neal's cheeks are rubbed unwillingly against the sides of both toes, abrasively massaging his skull into a scruffy, dishevelled, heated, drooling mess all-the-while keeping him face-planted into the thick bushel of gap fur... which itself feels like the bristled tip of a paintbrush pushing directly against his face. The fur follicles poking against his snout keep him perpetually sniffling as a way to try and avoid the ticklish sensations, which thus keep the squirrel drunk on a rich deposit of dizzying musk. A shudder runs down his body; a body basted in an oily film. In the blackness of this unwanted sauna Neal is vulnerable to his friend's torments.
"You look so cute and comfy in there," The hyena remarks, succinctly flicking his toes up and down, constantly disrupting the sock between states of rippled rungs or taut smoothness. "I almost don't wanna release you. It's like you're at peace in there, man."
Despite double-socking, the bottoms of Kirk's jet black socks still exhibit a lustrous, discoloured gleam over the most grounded regions of his paws; marking each toe pad, ball pad, arch and heel in pale patches of moisture, interrupted only by the outline of Neal's figure.
Kirk then says, "It's pretty rad that you just take this every weekend, always getting stuffed in my rank-ass boots, roleplaying as my puny sweat-sponge insole for the day... you must reeeeally love it in there. Hell, maybe I'd be doing you a favour keeping you in there. Personally I could go a whole month between every sock change if I really wanted. You'd probably sizzle like a honey-soy stir fry but fuck you'd be keeping my feet comfortable 24/7, like only a true friend would."
His teases are uttered just loud enough for the squirrel, (as dazed as he is), to hear and comprehend. Neal's heart rate spikes. His body reacts as if threatened; joints locking and sweat-soaked fists clenching somewhere in the toasty darkness. Neal's eyes want to bulge alertedly but he knows they will only sear and water if he opens them now. Tears have already streaked his cheeks enough today after inhaling this quantity of musk. To express his protests he can only wriggle his shoulders against the slippery pad leather and weakly paddle his legs in a feeble attempt to kick at the hyena's heel. His movements are restricted by the sock layers pinning him down, like fluffy cling film.
"Keep wriggling all you want, see if I care. Feels good to me; like a struggling insect I’ve got full control over," The hyena jeers, cockily toying with the head between his toes which persistently jerks itself free but the digits only ruffle or squeeze it more feverishly each time, adding to Neal's headache.
Kirk pushes his fist deeper into his own cheek as he settles more comfortably. His lidded eyes drift over to focus on the television show and its tinny audience reactions; splitting his attention away from the sock-bound micro. With an almost lackadaisical boredom he then mumbles, "Ah fiiiine, fuck it, you've been a good lucky charm lately; I even beat an old lap record today! Only trouble is... I haven't felt much of those precious licks you always do. How's about you give your tongue a workout between my tasty toes and then you might actually -earn- a break? Gives me time to chill and watch this brain-rotting show, at least."
The command barely filters through the socks' insulation. Neal croaks out a discontented grunt after listening, clenching his bright orange face before corking his muzzle deeper into the toe pit, parting the drenched dark tufts until his snout and mouth touches against tender toe web. He tries to fight back against the putridity of that petroleum stench but his eyes are already reddening and watering profusely. When he is burrowed deep enough into that frizzy crescent Neal can feel every movement made by the toes around his skull. He swallows his pride, withdraws himself emotionally and opens his mouth. From the moment his jaw unhinges a tussock of salty fur protrudes into his maw, making him wince and gag. Nonetheless the squirrel commits to his own punishment and rolls his tongue up the toe webbing, soaking its underside with saliva first before flicking over the flexible flesh and then licking smoothly up the rest of the gap. His tongue tingles already; coated in perspiration. His jaw clenches. A sharp jolt courses through his torso. His fingers stiffen and wriggle down by the sides of his body.
"Ourgh... blrrgh-ack!" Neal heaves after ingesting a mouthful of saline flavour. His stomach twists. He goes in for a second lick, once again lapping up the full length of the hyena's filthy toe gap. The process requires tilting his head backwards for maximum licking coverage but those bulky digits often try to clamp him in one rigid position. Each consecutive slurp only numbs his tongue more and more. Neal cannot trust his own warped senses but right now, the taste overpowering his mouth is similar to that of stale pretzels.
Time and time again this petrified creature smears his saliva through the crevice, wetting the webbing and diluting the bitter build-up of toe jam. The daily presence of Neal's head is the only thing stopping this specific toe gap from compacting with a soggy, sour black mulch of sock lint... unlike the other unattended gaps which brim with that exact filth. Kirk himself has grown used to that dense and gritty texture between his toes because he knows he can weaponize it against his micro plaything if they ever need an unforgettable discipline.
After a slow ten minutes the young hyena yawns to himself. His eyes blink heavily and slowly while his big round ears tune out to the infomercials on screen. Infrequently his gaze darts over to his foot wherein a gaudy smugness spreads across his face. Throughout the passing time his hand has idly slipped into his motocross trousers, candidly combing his finger claws back and forth through his bushy pubic fur beneath. At the same time Sock nylon has inadvertently tucked tightly down between each extremity. The toes on his right paw have been in a constant squirm for several minutes using minimal energy to slide together; entirely subconsciously. Their rhythm has gradually matched the flow of those insignificant slurps ploughing his toe gap repeatedly, desperate for his approval but even more desperate to meet their end of the ‘deal’.
Eventually Kirk finds a sense of sympathy. He sits himself up with a more proper posture and steadies his foot upon its heel, (still atop the coffee table), and pauses to inhale his own paw musk letting the spiciness settle fondly in his nostrils first before wrapping his bare hands around his appendage. His foot has a palpable and malleable density; thickest around his pads. His palms squeeze around the sides. Fingers settle against his sole, meeting together over the squirrel-shaped lump. Contentedly he rubs up and down for a moment, knowingly caressing up Neal's backside and pressing them deeper into his adhesive pads. Soft squelches emanate under his touch.
Kirk's pupils are dilated. He exhales and calmly strokes his way back up his shin until he stops at the top of the compression sock, which is first to roll downwards and wrestle over his heel exposing the black woolly sock beneath. "Ugh, damp already? I can't imagine how gnarly it must be for you in there," Kirk simpers.
The first sock is pinched and tugged and slithered up the hyena's sleek foot proportions until it yanks away entirely, though the difference so far is indistinguishable for Neal. The removal of one thin nylon layer does not forgive a day's worth of saturation and boiler-room heat, or the smothering pressure sealing him to his fate.
Kirk coughs when a waft of musk chokes the atmosphere in front of him; an impure stench that can at least ventilate more easily now. He repeats the same to his other paw and peels away the second sports sock, throwing the long loose items together onto the table top.
"You better be grateful for this," The hyena grumbles as he digs his fingers inside the mouth of the final sock, stretching out the wool just enough that hot gusts sweep out into the air. He extends the elasticity to its limits forcing the sock to gape and gawp before it pulls over his heel exposing perfectly rounded dimensions and silky brown fur. The linty scraps already stuck to this heel are telling of how grimy and unsightly the rest of the paw will appear. More tepid air seeps out around the hyena's hands but to the micro's relief Kirk does not linger. He rolls back the sock forming thick bundles and abundant creases, exhibiting more and more bare sole… and more naked squirrel in the process.
Neal puffs out a sigh of exhausted relief breathing into a faceful of toe fur when fresh air - cool air – suddenly breezes around his legs for the first time today. His heart accelerates. He feels giddy; likewise feeling shameful that this irregular moment counts as an 'exciting experience' these days. His backside and bushy orange/white tail are next to be freed, though streams of hyena sweat still trickle down his back in the meantime. Finally with one violent force the rest of the sock is whipped away, sliding heavily over his shoulders and head, exposing the squirrel's entire 6 inch body squished and mushed so aggressively against the sole. Neal's ears twitch at the sound of a wet thump, (of the sock joining the small pile nearby). His nerves tingle all across his back. His tail actively perks and swishes, enjoying its liberation while the rest of his body hasn't yet reanimated. Not even his adrenaline can restore all his lifeless, defeated energy so soon.
From Kirk's perspective the instant that sock wrenches over his toes and becomes nothing more than a dangling stinky sleeve, countless litters of black lint tumble out and flitter weightlessly down around his paw, like leaves falling in autumn.
"Oof-urgh!" Kirk splutters and waves away the rising raunchy fumes of deep-fryer stench from in front of his face, (although he grins wickedly while doing so). "You really love breathing this funk all day? You sick perv'," He taunts, knowing all too well that the micro never consents to this deviancy.
The hyena proudly flexes his toes far apart limbering them and letting the air flow between each cramped linty gap. The hyena doesn't deny the slight tenting in his pants when he finally lays eyes on his own bare paw once again. His eyes flare with livewire energy. Mischievous glee fills his mind. His leer shows every sharp white tooth. "Time to take a peek at your messy living conditions, heheh," The hyena chuckles.
Kirk brings his leg inward into his lap, bending his knee until he can gaze upon his own meaty sole and the ‘lucky charm’ attached. When the foot pulls in close to his crotch and leans against his thigh his toes either furl or spread unevenly to avoid cramps, sending wrinkles wavering through his ball pad flesh and arch too though Neal's plastered body conceals most of this distortion.
The visual imagery alone is enough to make Kirk's eyes bulge. His sole and his micro included are a bomb-site of lint sloshed together with copious sweat. It varies from thick pasty shreds to stringy smears, or loose sporadic threads. All the lint is caked-on and fried into the moist veneer across his entire sole. The woollen darkness wedges into the alcoves of space between Neal's body and the manipulated ball pad flesh that he indents. The squirrel's fur is unnaturally darkened by the dampness, too, from head to toe.
The muck enriches the recesses under his toe claws and in between his other toe gaps as well. It gives an appearance like pepper grains amassing around the perimeters of every pad, filling the ravines between toe and ball pads in particular. The same lint is etched in thin lines across his arch as if drawn on by a graphite pencil wherever it has been trapped between scrunch-creases for long periods of time. The sweat content - much like a cheap hair mousse - has left his fur spiking or matted in stale locks. The pads, (bulging densely from the sole in typical hyena fashion), are especially glossy and gleam in a cascade of slick sweat oil across their grey flesh. Even bringing his palm near the sole – and hovering it over Neal's backside - allows Kirk to feel the radiating heat. This is all the culmination of double socking while wearing un-breathable motocross boots, while keeping his legs positioned closely to the hot engine of a dirt bike without any reprieve.
Eager to exploit the moment, the hyena deploys his phone and aims the camera towards his upturned sole waiting for the lens to focus on a perfect snapshot of Neal's humiliating, filth-festered, sole-stuck position while wisps of heat fume up around the groaning critter. Kirk opens his social media page and makes a photo post, thumbing the screen hastily to tag the relevant labels such as 'master, dom, pet, micro, bitch, foot, paw, slave, lucky'. He then types a cocky caption which reads, "So what if I don't wash my pads every day? Your job isn't to complain.... it's to serve! [Winking emoji]."
A quick reminiscent scroll down the hyena's feed shows his other recent posts. One is a POV photo taken from the inside of his boot; the flash mode having illuminated the heavily stained or heat-faded dips and bumps of his insole terrain.
Then there is a posed photo where the hyena sits outside under the bright Nevada sun in front of his mobile home, having propped his camera a few feet ahead while he sits in a cheap lawn chair, extending his crossed legs onto an overturned bucket. In this shot the hyena is mostly naked showing off his alluring physique and copper/hickory striped pelt. The only apparel he does wear is a pair of aviator shades giving him a stern demeanour, a tight green speedo tenting high from his turgid phallus within and a pair of loose black flip flops. The tips of two orange squirrel ears are visibly peeking out from beneath his toes, while the fuzz of an orange tail peeks out the side in the sliver of space between his instep and his flip flop rubber. The caption here reads, "When you see me like this... you kneel on all fours."
The next post is simply a status stating, "Thinking about securing my camera up at the foot of my bed one night...livestream these godly paws sticking out under the covers all night, right in your face? [Thinking emoji]."
The last post Kirk scrolls past is a top-down view image of Neal lying strenuously in the middle of a bare, compressed paw print in the sand. His orange fur is speckled in grains and dirt. His expression is fatigued. The topsides of the hyena's toes also protrude into view at the very bottom of the frame; each foot spread an even distance apart from the centred squirrel. This is captioned: "Only a few hours underfoot and this bitch is already begging me to stop. Anyone else want to take his place? [Tears-of-laughter emoji]."
Kirk closes the app and tucks his phone away though his ego is already inflated after seeing the busy traffic on his profile, particularly in the horny comments of his online fans who either yearn for more content or plead masochistically to be his paw slave. He need only reply a single winking face to their comments to send them in a frenzy.
Once the phone is out of view Kirk stares smugly at his sole again, realising his friend is firmly stuck and will need to be scraped off his foot indignantly if they want any freedom at all. He adjusts himself by extending his leg back out to the table, flattening his other foot to the floor for stability, and then angles the squirrel-squashed paw forward a few inches above the table top hoping gravity will pull the critter down out of the sticky indentation. Nothing happens. Kirk then bends his toes back until they're taut at the joints, pronouncing his ball pad forward into Neal's chest. Still the squirrel does not unstick. Kirk's leg begins to ache from being held aloft without yet settling onto a solid surface.
"My dude you're either glued on good or you're holding on and don't wanna let go. Just holler the word and I'll totally put my sock back on and forget about you 'till tomorrow."
The canine snickers to himself. He shakes his appendage ruggedly over the table. Oozing sweat trails are shaken, dripping off his pad instead leaving small splash stains on the timber. Next he pats his paw down hard to the surface crushing the squirrel below. Had this table top been glass the perspective from underneath would have shown the squirrel compressing under the weighty breadth; head swallowed between the slowly suffusing toes while pad meat and squirrel body flatten into pale, glassy pressure-marks.
These seemingly gentle footfall taps feel nauseating for the micro whose world is disorientated by the elevating motions, each time concluding in a squelch that snuffs him back under the familiar warmth, darkness and encumbrance. In these brief interims his lungs are flattened under the ball pad. Oxygen is funnelled out of his mouth but at the same time he impulsively inhales more musky malodour.
The process finally works to scrape him free. After each smother the squirrel feels himself loosening more and more from the leathery grip. When the paw lifts up again Neal's head, tail and legs dangle downward. The paw then drops him down into another grinding step. On the final lift the squirrel's body limply unpeels and begins detaching from the sole in all places aside from his shoulders and pelvis, until they cannot sustain against the gravity and he loosens completely; falling away from the foot with a noise of slow adhesive separation. Strands of sweat briefly stretch from his torso to the ball pad above, like a viscous drool, before dissipating.
*Shwack!*
Neal lands on his back, juddering as his already bruised, flaccid body collides with the wood. His face is flushed with bright red blush. His jaw is slacked and drooling involuntarily. His chest heaves painfully. He lies over the sweaty sheen of a paw print, (muggy with condensation), left on the table after Kirk's concentrated presses. In his current hazy state of mind the squirrel is transfixed on wheezing out every last musk-laden breath and replacing it with fresh gulps of oxygen, as his body attempts to recover some strength in its withered muscles.
Although Neal's blood runs hot with humiliation, for now he'd rather conserve his energy than use it to reprimand the big canine or growl about their failed hygiene. Neal is even willing to obey Kirk slavishly if it means avoiding any more time spent as his insole. Though, regardless of looming size-difference threats, talking wouldn't achieve anything more than arrogant quips and snarky teases anyway. He knows his friend too well.
Without that puny body in the way Kirk's pads can reform back to their usual sumptuousness, though the outline of a body amid its surrounding grime is still an obvious reminder of Neal's place. The smirking animal lowers his bare foot down out of sight, planting it to the floor instead where he can enjoy a change of texture for once. As soon it settles many blots of carpet fluff and small hairs are quickly magnetised to the hyena's pads.
Kirk uses this moment to reach down to his other foot and awkwardly jostle the final woollen sock away leaving both legs completely bare from the shins down; free to breathe and stink up the stuffy mobile home with their ripened aroma. During the removal of this sock Kirk is hunching forward until his head closely levelled to the coffee table. His eyes are locked on the 6 inch critter squirming exhaustedly before him. Just as his left heel scuffs backwards and that stretched, elasticated sock, (gripped at the end in one fist), finally pings forward he has an especially sadistic idea about how to get even more entertainment from his micro's torment.
Kirk restores his usual posture; raising his arm back into view until Neal's frightened eyes fill with the looming view of a sock pinched in one hand and draping high above him. Though his throat is scratchy and hoarse Neal manages down a gulp of dread. He doesn't want to wait to find out the sick ploys of his friend so he attempts to crawl away, dragging his enfeebled legs after him. The squirrel wouldn't have made it far regardless but Kirk still throws his spare hand down casting a shadow before swatting and pinning Neal under his palm. A squeaky yelp is muffled. Pressure strains, burying the whiskered face into Kirk's palm pads, (a doughy consistency not unlike those on his sole, albeit much cleaner).
"Don't you dare sneak away, bitch. What would I be without my lucky charm?" Kirk doesn't need to ask his plaything if they'll behave or not. He already feels their dejected sigh against his hand and the nodding submission of their head before he uncovers them again.
Glary light re-enters the squirrel's eyes. Neal furrows his brow and croaks out a question: "W-why are we still doing this? A day in your boot is enough! You don't need to torture me afterwards!"
"Eh, shut up. You're just in a sulk because you're so thirsty. Don't worry, I got you sorted right here, man!" Kirk gestures with the sock, shaking it so the toe-end flaps heavily to and fro like a pendant, an inch above the squirrel's grimacing face. Both animals' sensitive ears pick up on the sound of the leftover moisture absorbed and integrated into the fibres, weighing the material down. The movement only encourages more musk to filter out and sting the animals' nostrils. Kirk smirks and mumbles the words, "Sounds like this one's got a lot of tasty beverage left to give! Open wide, dude."
Without any further warning the hyena clamps one hand around each end of the sock gripping the textile tighter, strangling it, stretching it out like a damp twisted bridge in the air and then churning each end in opposite directions. This contorts the sock, forcing it to wind tight. The moisture embedded within has nowhere to hide. In a matter of seconds old stagnant sweat is strained out to the rippled surface. He stretches the sock wider; twists it tighter. The hyena's expression is one of salacious smugness.
Like the early precipice of rainfall, small droplets drip out and shower down across the squirrel who lies vulnerably beneath, upon his back. He shudders and wretches audibly, as if pretending this isn't a familiar situation. One droplet lands squarely over Neal's muzzle. The dew shimmers in a thin film across his nostrils. The flavour seeps into his mouth. This prompts him to jut his arms forward and cover his face, begging for any protection. Beads of sweat fall into his palms breaking into rivulets that run down his arms.
"Mm-mmm, drink up! It's good for you!" Kirk gleams. He gives the sock a moment of slack before wringing it once again, forcefully evacuating every last droplet. He can feel residue sweat in his hands now too, leaked from the sock's ends.
When the material is tapped and the moisture stops dripping the hyena scowls and tosses the now-useless sock aside into the corner of the room. Playfully he then wraps his hand around Neal's midriff and hoists them suddenly into the air, leaving them breathless in the process when all their organs clench inside the big warm fist. Neal's eyes are shut defensively. His heart pounds like a jackhammer. His entire body shivers in the grip which only serves to arouse the hyena. Kirk holds his micro up to eye level appearing like a behemoth god in their perspective. Slowly his toes curl below, massaging the carpet.
"Mnnghmff," Neal groans deliriously.
"More? You want -more-? Look at you, you're drunk on the stuff! Fuckin' glutton..." The hyena sneers, shaking his head in a farce of disapproval. "I’ve got a lot more to give you, if you really want it that bad!"
(To be continued!)
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Lucky Charm
PART ONE
Synopsis: A motocross-enthusiast hyena assumes his good luck in dirt bike tournaments comes from the ‘lucky’ micro he keeps squashed inside his boot. Once home, the hyena explores other ways to amuse himself with his tiny captive.
Disclaimer:
-Forced Paw Worship
-(Extreme) Filth/Musk/Sweat
-Micro/Regular
-Squashing/Living Insole
-Size & Weight Play
-Non-con
-Hyena (dom)
-Squirrel (sub)
An anarchy of noise; savage engines rev and grunt competitively joined by the screech of brakes during each drift or the clunk of a rider and their untamed machine landing against firmly formed dirt, after taking air. Mud is carved, crunched and churned under spinning wheels. Gritty rock radio crackles through the outdoor wall speakers. Advertisement banners plotted around the track flap in rapid offense with each passing bike. Exhaust fumes and dust clouds fill the air, entwining the stench of unleaded gasoline and raw earth. Together they make a grungy hue which matches the rain clouds above, (still creeping in at the sky's periphery, waiting eagerly to drench the tracks and send these riders home for the evening.)
Kirk Decker - a rider streaking through the course on a 250cc 4-stroke bike - is a regular attendant to this dirt track. It consumes his every weekend. From lap times to trick efficiency, Kirk's records are infallible. He hasn't yet fallen or crashed his bike in any known occasion; in spite of the regularity other riders face these same humiliating incidents.
After a long day of successfully shredding dirt Kirk finishes his current lap taking the last of the undulant terrain slowly before pulling into a spacious patch of puddle-ridden dirt, outside the small utility office. Here several exhausted riders sit about unwinding together on an old picnic table. Kirk's eye is caught by their waving beckons and so he puts his bike in neutral, kills the burbling engine and swiftly kicks down the stand. The other anthros - rookies by comparison - have each removed their helmets by now exposing looks of timid surprise and honour when they see their local celebrity approaching them.
For now all they witness is a body dressed head to toe in protective riding gear, gloves and boots each adequately padded and also smattered in a visual orgy of sponsorship logos. The garnet reds, greys, whites and blacks of his uniform are now sprayed in dirt… particularly across the legs where his boot treads are saturated in a thick, gloopy layer of mud. His helmet and reflective goggles conceal a vaguely canine shaped anatomy below, adding mystery to his status.
When complimentary greetings fill the air excitedly yearning for his attention, Kirk removes his headwear accessories with no shortage of a difficult wrestle. His helmet-goggle combo is slowly wrenched up until his head is freed revealing a snarky, attractive hyena face that wallows in the freedom away from its stuffy, muggy prison. Kirk has spent hours in these insulated confines fogging up his visor with each breath, steaming his face until condensation had formed on his big snout and his ragged mohawk/mane had become awash with greasy dew.
The striped hyena is young and undeniably cocky. He is all too aware of his stunning looks and so he relishes in the subtle gasps or gulps from his on-looking fans. Daring chocolate eyes are set amid a face of light copper-beige fur with dark hickory brown accents, lacerating across his limbs in particular. His slender frame is defined in tender muscle. He stands in a pose cradling his helmet under arm, showing a half-cocked grin. Tiny droplets of sweat hang on the forward-tufting peaks of his mohawk, ready to drop and drizzle lightly down his brow.
Two of the resting riders - a variety of gender - blush and look away suddenly when they make unexpected eye contact with the hyena. The others chirp over one another to praise Kirk's riding, hoping to impress him with their devoted observations of his technique while also vying for personal tips.
"Ah c’mon, what I do out there... it's nothing. Wait until the next tournament comes up. I'll eclipse the fuckin' sun with my jumps, take each corner like an Olympic cheetah and run down anyone who thinks they can top me. Sorry dudes but Kirk Decker doesn't come second to anyone."
More overlapping chatter commences. The hyena raises his brow and listens only for the responses that satisfy his ego. A punkish wolverine girl in the group asks, "So what's your dirty secret out there, huh? How you ridin' so good without ever making one slip?"
The others fall silent to hear his answer.
"Secret?" Kirk ponders. Unbeknownst to the others, his sodden toes wriggle together inside one of his boots, reflexively in response to the question. His digits slide against one another without any traction to slow their dexterity, shifting the currents of stifling air from their gaps. "Ahh, no secret..." He mumbles; the glint in his eye saying otherwise. "Just depends whether you believe in lucky charms or not. I got mine for sure, and it’s been wicked-lucky for me ever since."
"Like.. like a special memento or something you wear around your neck? Or like a lucky ring?" A black and bronze pinscher seated on the very end of the bench asks, (still somewhat rosy in the cheeks).
Kirk snickers to himself, doing well to disguise and bury any sadistic tones in his amusement. "Nah, not around my neck. Just... somewhere else on me."
These anthros aren't inquisitive enough to assume the movements in Kirk's left foot are anything other than innocent and subconscious. All they can see from their position is a subtle grinding left and right, twisting a treaded indent in the dirt. They cannot see how his toes are scrunching forward condensing the crisp heat and the stewed salty juices, while curling fondly and possessively around a specific ‘shape’ inside his shoe. Something is clamped between the two middle toes, imprisoned, unable to fend off the damp fuzzy toe gap splaying against it… providing it with a constant source of run-off refreshment. This 'shape' extends further under the hyena's paw, pinned evermore; feeling sticky and pliant and squelching underneath his foot’s weight like a stick of oozing butter. It gives off lively twitches and perverse squirms whenever his sole settles or rubs too heavily into the bog of sock fabric and insole indents, but these squirms only make the hyena clench his toes tighter or squeeze down more unbearable amounts of pressure to calm the shape into subservience.
As Kirk grinds his foot into the dirt he keeps his heel ever so slightly raised, shifting his weight into his supple ball pad instead. He clenches his jaw pleasurably at the fragility of the shape in his shoe; squashing its bony frame into oblivion and feeling that tiny, overclocked drum beat of its heart pounding beneath his ball pad. Its ribs submit and its lungs act like a pedal he can push to force airflow between his toes at any desired time. Kirk never feels more alive than when he steps onto this insignificant thing, sensing its every bodily process underneath him while it cooks helplessly in the broth of his stagnant paw sweat and mushy sock lint soup. No empathy is allowed... not when its existence serves him with this much fortune and confidence on the track.
A curt gust of air blows through the nostrils of this self-humouring hyena. "So, yeah... lucky charm, that's all I can say for now. It's with me every step of the way and just like other people and their lucky charms, I wear mine -all- the time."
A feline on the opposite side of the table jealously regards him by saying, "Man, I wish I was in your shoes, living that good life.
This prompts a smirk and a devious flitter in the hyena's eyes. Before he lowers his helmet back over his head and seats himself back on his bike, ready to ride home, he makes one final quip. "Not everyone can handle 'being in my shoes'. Some guys would do anything to get out of 'em..."
The anthros are oblivious to the double meaning and so instead they graciously wave the canine goodbye. His engine awakens with a cantankerous growl. Fuel pumps through its veins. A plume of dust splutters up from behind him. With that, Kirk careens away across the rugged rural roads keeping moderate pressure applied to his foot pegs; playfully compacting every possible iota of pressure down into that lumpy formation inside his shoe, savouring every stifled spasm it makes underfoot.
Over the deafening noises a muffled hyena voice shouts the words, "Don't worry my lil' dude, we'll be home soon! Can't wait to kick back and have some real fun together!"
* * *
On an open patch of sun-baked Nevada land, out in the barren outskirts of Las Vegas, Kirk's home sits amid orangey dirt, dust and spiky succulent plants. The structure itself is a one-floor mobile home with a grass-less yard bordered by wonky grey picket planks. When he parks his bike under the corrugated metal bay and enters his home, Kirk is met with the same dingy darkness and stale atmosphere that has festered since early this morning when he’d forgotten to crack the windows, or open the peach-pink curtains before heading to the track. Old pizza boxes - empty aside from the grease stains and crusted cheese residue - and crushed cans of energy drinks scatter the interior, joined by stray laundry. With one hearty sniff Kirk can already smell the ripeness of an old sock pair hiding elsewhere in the room. It brings a warm smile to his face. These are the small joys of returning home.
As he scuffs his boot soles across the face of a well-used doormat, (using deliberate force and slow, patient scrapes along its abrasive material), Kirk spreads his toes until they rub against the sides and ceiling inside his footwear. The humidity between them is palpable; like a wet thick steam desperate for more room to spread. Even as the toes settle back down, fitting perfectly into aged insole grooves, he senses a honeyed squelch. The twitching sensation underfoot is less energetic than earlier; more lethargic and docile now. The consistency of that shape however still feels like a large wad of gum that has been chewed up and spat out, where it has remained roasting beneath the length of his plump sole all day long.
Instead of removing his boots at the door the hyena struts over to a recliner armchair; one with paled sheen imprints where a sweaty body has rubbed against its faux leather over the years. He startles the chair suspensions by dropping himself lazily into its embrace, wasting no time in hoisting up his legs. Each booted foot is dumped heavily upon the edge of a timber coffee table. The sight of his shoe soles and self-assured smirk mirrors back at him in the reflection of his TV screen ahead but the intricate detailing of his treads is lost under a layer of drying dirt slop. After sighing jovially to himself, the hyena flicks on the television to a retrograde daytime-TV show which offers little in the way of interest.
Even in this destitute domain Kirk feels kingly here, living alone at the age of 24, unfettered by rules or expectations. More importantly it gives him all the privacy he needs to make a sport out of teasing and tormenting his unfortunate micro friend, Neal. Their friendship hadn't always been founded on indulgent cruelty. After high school ended the two had become close pals - amicable jokes and platonic hang-outs aplenty - despite their vast difference in size. A dusty photo frame on the walls preserves this very idea, showing the striped hyena with a height-deficient red squirrel standing proudly on the palm of his hand. Somewhere along the way after so many size related comments, near-accidents and physical taunts of stepping on the small critter, Kirk's thirst for superiority became the sovereign feature of their friendship. Intensity ignited, partly fuelled by Neal's submissive but still back-talking personality. Before the squirrel knew what kind of ego had been fostered he was already nothing more than a target for derision and a product of Kirk's entertainment. At his size, what could he do to stop it?
Kirk is currently slumping lower into his seat, extending his legs further onto the coffee table. He stares with dreamy conceit at the tops of his own boots with each foot balanced upright on its heel. His cheek rests softly on his supporting fist. A sleazy smile spreads cheek to cheek. With heedful attention he begins to bump his heel into the table's edge using each impact to help loosen the footwear fraction by fraction, starting with the foot that does not contain Neal because Kirk wants his micro to spend as much time fermenting underfoot before releasing them. When the hyena's heel is unplugged from its indent and the heavy motocross boot feels limp around his shin he drops it against the edge one last time, snagging it and pulling down, levering the boot at just the right angle so that he may slide his whole foot free. This topples the hollow footwear down over the edge where it thuds clumsily to the carpet floor shedding small flakes of dirt from its treads.
Kirk releases a provocative sigh. He raises the freed paw into view. He tips his head to one side and stares at the taut, affixing contours of his compression sports sock hugging his leg; insulating every molecule of musk, clinging greedily, containing the day's heat and moisture and curried fumes which want only to filter through the jet black nylon but are denied this very right to breathe. Usually the one pair alone couldn't hold in his odours but Kirk never goes a day of riding without wearing two socks per foot, doubling down on comfort over practicality. The other sock, worn first underneath the compression sock, is an article of lush synthetic wool which feels like soft moss bristling against his sole, absorbing the extremes of his sweat and warmth. Both socks are blacker than night, meaning double the heat retention and double the suffering for anyone trapped within.
When changing to his right foot to repeat the same process Kirk barely acknowledges the squirrel's alarmed, jolting reaction each time he lifts his leg and crashes his boot heel down on the timber edge. He can feel their scrawny legs jerk against the wall of his arch fur. Their upper body however has much less mobility; plastered under the hyena's unwieldy pads like mortar paste smeared beneath a brick. The hours spent here have left the squirrel sunken deep, swallowed in by the succulent, light grey flesh. Their torso is now pressed into a gulch-like indent up through the ball pad's centre.
Neal's nauseated and half-squashed organs jump inside him each time the footwear - and respectively his whole world - rise, plunge and then vibrate erratically during this shoe-removal ritual. At first it besets him with confusion and agitation until he realizes he might finally be allowed out from this rancid hell. Hope glimmers in his pounding heart although by now the red squirrel has lost all understanding of time; trapped in this soaking darkness, surrounded by traces of sensory deprivation with no visual stimulation... only the skull-numbing intake of toxic, repulsive stench and the physically exerting pressure to remind him that he still exists.
Neal cannot breathe without huffing lungfuls of hyena musk. It reeks with a distinct flavour of deep-fried beer batter, splashed in pungent petroleum. Salty moisture cascades down the light grey pads in forever-forming trickles each leaving long and slick wriggly trails which eventually matte into brown fur. These trickles slither beside Neal and over him too, sometimes pooling around the edges of his fluffy face and body whenever the acrid moisture slips into the grooves around him.
In this position the critter cannot consider himself comfortable, not when the thick wool sock behind his back is acting like a drenched bedroll gluing him against the sole, aided by the nylon sock behind that, (followed by the spongy insole and boot sole layers too). This depraved suffocation - this lack of agility - has drained the squirrel's energy and left their limbs like useless, aching noodles. Combined with the abyssal darkness and the faint-inducing heat, it's the perfect tactic to keep him broken and obedient underneath his friend.
*Ca-thunk!*
Much like the other, the right foot tugs and slides its way back out of the boot's mouth, abandoning the footwear to the floor where it tumbles and lays gasping against the first.
"Oh yeeeah," Kirk groans, propping and spreading both feet out across the table surface while his arms spread along the recliner armrests. The liberation is riveting. Riding the dirt track all day often means stuffing his feet into these tight, guarded deadweight boots but nevertheless Kirk lives for the moment he gets to kick off his shoes and 'release the hounds'. It doesn't take long for his steaming socks to imbue the atmosphere with that savoury nose-crinkling scent of beer batter and gasoline. Kirk - prideful as can be - flares his big nostrils and inhales the mystifying waft of musk. It hits like an injection of pure euphoria. It's therapy for his tired body. His muscles tighten first and relax second, easing him into meditative narcissism.
"Heh," He chuckles quietly, wobbling his right foot side to side. "So crispy-fresh. Dude, I can almost feel the heat waves from here. I bet you're totally drowned in sweat down there! Shit, like... my toes can barely keep your head still between 'em without sliding all over the place."
While he speaks Kirk leers at his TV's reflection. Every so often whenever the show transitions to a dark scene he catches glimpses of the micro-shaped lump vacuum-sealed inside those double-layered socks. This undulant formation is positioned like a distorted starfish spanning from heel to toe. The roundness of Neal's head wedges in, tightly fitted between the big juicy digits that huddle around him and keep his muzzle buried in the feeding-bag crevice of their fluffy, raunchy, grimy and salty toe crotch fur. Neal's body looks so helpless and inanimate, like a little wax figurine melted cosily into the sole.
Kirk is feeling frisky and playful. Slowly and gratuitously he curls his toes forward one by one, starting from the furthest right then wavering the rhythm over to the left. The fabric rustles when it scrunches, tucking itself into several curvaceous folds that bend and swerve widely across the width of Kirk's ball pad. The small skull is sandwiched and squeezed painfully between the digits. Smooth-tipped toe claws dig against the malleable thickness of the ball pad, managing to avoid digging into the squirrel's sodden back fur. The grunts and groans of the critter's marinated body go unheard, never knowing any mercy.
Neal's cheeks are rubbed unwillingly against the sides of both toes, abrasively massaging his skull into a scruffy, dishevelled, heated, drooling mess all-the-while keeping him face-planted into the thick bushel of gap fur... which itself feels like the bristled tip of a paintbrush pushing directly against his face. The fur follicles poking against his snout keep him perpetually sniffling as a way to try and avoid the ticklish sensations, which thus keep the squirrel drunk on a rich deposit of dizzying musk. A shudder runs down his body; a body basted in an oily film. In the blackness of this unwanted sauna Neal is vulnerable to his friend's torments.
"You look so cute and comfy in there," The hyena remarks, succinctly flicking his toes up and down, constantly disrupting the sock between states of rippled rungs or taut smoothness. "I almost don't wanna release you. It's like you're at peace in there, man."
Despite double-socking, the bottoms of Kirk's jet black socks still exhibit a lustrous, discoloured gleam over the most grounded regions of his paws; marking each toe pad, ball pad, arch and heel in pale patches of moisture, interrupted only by the outline of Neal's figure.
Kirk then says, "It's pretty rad that you just take this every weekend, always getting stuffed in my rank-ass boots, roleplaying as my puny sweat-sponge insole for the day... you must reeeeally love it in there. Hell, maybe I'd be doing you a favour keeping you in there. Personally I could go a whole month between every sock change if I really wanted. You'd probably sizzle like a honey-soy stir fry but fuck you'd be keeping my feet comfortable 24/7, like only a true friend would."
His teases are uttered just loud enough for the squirrel, (as dazed as he is), to hear and comprehend. Neal's heart rate spikes. His body reacts as if threatened; joints locking and sweat-soaked fists clenching somewhere in the toasty darkness. Neal's eyes want to bulge alertedly but he knows they will only sear and water if he opens them now. Tears have already streaked his cheeks enough today after inhaling this quantity of musk. To express his protests he can only wriggle his shoulders against the slippery pad leather and weakly paddle his legs in a feeble attempt to kick at the hyena's heel. His movements are restricted by the sock layers pinning him down, like fluffy cling film.
"Keep wriggling all you want, see if I care. Feels good to me; like a struggling insect I’ve got full control over," The hyena jeers, cockily toying with the head between his toes which persistently jerks itself free but the digits only ruffle or squeeze it more feverishly each time, adding to Neal's headache.
Kirk pushes his fist deeper into his own cheek as he settles more comfortably. His lidded eyes drift over to focus on the television show and its tinny audience reactions; splitting his attention away from the sock-bound micro. With an almost lackadaisical boredom he then mumbles, "Ah fiiiine, fuck it, you've been a good lucky charm lately; I even beat an old lap record today! Only trouble is... I haven't felt much of those precious licks you always do. How's about you give your tongue a workout between my tasty toes and then you might actually -earn- a break? Gives me time to chill and watch this brain-rotting show, at least."
The command barely filters through the socks' insulation. Neal croaks out a discontented grunt after listening, clenching his bright orange face before corking his muzzle deeper into the toe pit, parting the drenched dark tufts until his snout and mouth touches against tender toe web. He tries to fight back against the putridity of that petroleum stench but his eyes are already reddening and watering profusely. When he is burrowed deep enough into that frizzy crescent Neal can feel every movement made by the toes around his skull. He swallows his pride, withdraws himself emotionally and opens his mouth. From the moment his jaw unhinges a tussock of salty fur protrudes into his maw, making him wince and gag. Nonetheless the squirrel commits to his own punishment and rolls his tongue up the toe webbing, soaking its underside with saliva first before flicking over the flexible flesh and then licking smoothly up the rest of the gap. His tongue tingles already; coated in perspiration. His jaw clenches. A sharp jolt courses through his torso. His fingers stiffen and wriggle down by the sides of his body.
"Ourgh... blrrgh-ack!" Neal heaves after ingesting a mouthful of saline flavour. His stomach twists. He goes in for a second lick, once again lapping up the full length of the hyena's filthy toe gap. The process requires tilting his head backwards for maximum licking coverage but those bulky digits often try to clamp him in one rigid position. Each consecutive slurp only numbs his tongue more and more. Neal cannot trust his own warped senses but right now, the taste overpowering his mouth is similar to that of stale pretzels.
Time and time again this petrified creature smears his saliva through the crevice, wetting the webbing and diluting the bitter build-up of toe jam. The daily presence of Neal's head is the only thing stopping this specific toe gap from compacting with a soggy, sour black mulch of sock lint... unlike the other unattended gaps which brim with that exact filth. Kirk himself has grown used to that dense and gritty texture between his toes because he knows he can weaponize it against his micro plaything if they ever need an unforgettable discipline.
After a slow ten minutes the young hyena yawns to himself. His eyes blink heavily and slowly while his big round ears tune out to the infomercials on screen. Infrequently his gaze darts over to his foot wherein a gaudy smugness spreads across his face. Throughout the passing time his hand has idly slipped into his motocross trousers, candidly combing his finger claws back and forth through his bushy pubic fur beneath. At the same time Sock nylon has inadvertently tucked tightly down between each extremity. The toes on his right paw have been in a constant squirm for several minutes using minimal energy to slide together; entirely subconsciously. Their rhythm has gradually matched the flow of those insignificant slurps ploughing his toe gap repeatedly, desperate for his approval but even more desperate to meet their end of the ‘deal’.
Eventually Kirk finds a sense of sympathy. He sits himself up with a more proper posture and steadies his foot upon its heel, (still atop the coffee table), and pauses to inhale his own paw musk letting the spiciness settle fondly in his nostrils first before wrapping his bare hands around his appendage. His foot has a palpable and malleable density; thickest around his pads. His palms squeeze around the sides. Fingers settle against his sole, meeting together over the squirrel-shaped lump. Contentedly he rubs up and down for a moment, knowingly caressing up Neal's backside and pressing them deeper into his adhesive pads. Soft squelches emanate under his touch.
Kirk's pupils are dilated. He exhales and calmly strokes his way back up his shin until he stops at the top of the compression sock, which is first to roll downwards and wrestle over his heel exposing the black woolly sock beneath. "Ugh, damp already? I can't imagine how gnarly it must be for you in there," Kirk simpers.
The first sock is pinched and tugged and slithered up the hyena's sleek foot proportions until it yanks away entirely, though the difference so far is indistinguishable for Neal. The removal of one thin nylon layer does not forgive a day's worth of saturation and boiler-room heat, or the smothering pressure sealing him to his fate.
Kirk coughs when a waft of musk chokes the atmosphere in front of him; an impure stench that can at least ventilate more easily now. He repeats the same to his other paw and peels away the second sports sock, throwing the long loose items together onto the table top.
"You better be grateful for this," The hyena grumbles as he digs his fingers inside the mouth of the final sock, stretching out the wool just enough that hot gusts sweep out into the air. He extends the elasticity to its limits forcing the sock to gape and gawp before it pulls over his heel exposing perfectly rounded dimensions and silky brown fur. The linty scraps already stuck to this heel are telling of how grimy and unsightly the rest of the paw will appear. More tepid air seeps out around the hyena's hands but to the micro's relief Kirk does not linger. He rolls back the sock forming thick bundles and abundant creases, exhibiting more and more bare sole… and more naked squirrel in the process.
Neal puffs out a sigh of exhausted relief breathing into a faceful of toe fur when fresh air - cool air – suddenly breezes around his legs for the first time today. His heart accelerates. He feels giddy; likewise feeling shameful that this irregular moment counts as an 'exciting experience' these days. His backside and bushy orange/white tail are next to be freed, though streams of hyena sweat still trickle down his back in the meantime. Finally with one violent force the rest of the sock is whipped away, sliding heavily over his shoulders and head, exposing the squirrel's entire 6 inch body squished and mushed so aggressively against the sole. Neal's ears twitch at the sound of a wet thump, (of the sock joining the small pile nearby). His nerves tingle all across his back. His tail actively perks and swishes, enjoying its liberation while the rest of his body hasn't yet reanimated. Not even his adrenaline can restore all his lifeless, defeated energy so soon.
From Kirk's perspective the instant that sock wrenches over his toes and becomes nothing more than a dangling stinky sleeve, countless litters of black lint tumble out and flitter weightlessly down around his paw, like leaves falling in autumn.
"Oof-urgh!" Kirk splutters and waves away the rising raunchy fumes of deep-fryer stench from in front of his face, (although he grins wickedly while doing so). "You really love breathing this funk all day? You sick perv'," He taunts, knowing all too well that the micro never consents to this deviancy.
The hyena proudly flexes his toes far apart limbering them and letting the air flow between each cramped linty gap. The hyena doesn't deny the slight tenting in his pants when he finally lays eyes on his own bare paw once again. His eyes flare with livewire energy. Mischievous glee fills his mind. His leer shows every sharp white tooth. "Time to take a peek at your messy living conditions, heheh," The hyena chuckles.
Kirk brings his leg inward into his lap, bending his knee until he can gaze upon his own meaty sole and the ‘lucky charm’ attached. When the foot pulls in close to his crotch and leans against his thigh his toes either furl or spread unevenly to avoid cramps, sending wrinkles wavering through his ball pad flesh and arch too though Neal's plastered body conceals most of this distortion.
The visual imagery alone is enough to make Kirk's eyes bulge. His sole and his micro included are a bomb-site of lint sloshed together with copious sweat. It varies from thick pasty shreds to stringy smears, or loose sporadic threads. All the lint is caked-on and fried into the moist veneer across his entire sole. The woollen darkness wedges into the alcoves of space between Neal's body and the manipulated ball pad flesh that he indents. The squirrel's fur is unnaturally darkened by the dampness, too, from head to toe.
The muck enriches the recesses under his toe claws and in between his other toe gaps as well. It gives an appearance like pepper grains amassing around the perimeters of every pad, filling the ravines between toe and ball pads in particular. The same lint is etched in thin lines across his arch as if drawn on by a graphite pencil wherever it has been trapped between scrunch-creases for long periods of time. The sweat content - much like a cheap hair mousse - has left his fur spiking or matted in stale locks. The pads, (bulging densely from the sole in typical hyena fashion), are especially glossy and gleam in a cascade of slick sweat oil across their grey flesh. Even bringing his palm near the sole – and hovering it over Neal's backside - allows Kirk to feel the radiating heat. This is all the culmination of double socking while wearing un-breathable motocross boots, while keeping his legs positioned closely to the hot engine of a dirt bike without any reprieve.
Eager to exploit the moment, the hyena deploys his phone and aims the camera towards his upturned sole waiting for the lens to focus on a perfect snapshot of Neal's humiliating, filth-festered, sole-stuck position while wisps of heat fume up around the groaning critter. Kirk opens his social media page and makes a photo post, thumbing the screen hastily to tag the relevant labels such as 'master, dom, pet, micro, bitch, foot, paw, slave, lucky'. He then types a cocky caption which reads, "So what if I don't wash my pads every day? Your job isn't to complain.... it's to serve! [Winking emoji]."
A quick reminiscent scroll down the hyena's feed shows his other recent posts. One is a POV photo taken from the inside of his boot; the flash mode having illuminated the heavily stained or heat-faded dips and bumps of his insole terrain.
Then there is a posed photo where the hyena sits outside under the bright Nevada sun in front of his mobile home, having propped his camera a few feet ahead while he sits in a cheap lawn chair, extending his crossed legs onto an overturned bucket. In this shot the hyena is mostly naked showing off his alluring physique and copper/hickory striped pelt. The only apparel he does wear is a pair of aviator shades giving him a stern demeanour, a tight green speedo tenting high from his turgid phallus within and a pair of loose black flip flops. The tips of two orange squirrel ears are visibly peeking out from beneath his toes, while the fuzz of an orange tail peeks out the side in the sliver of space between his instep and his flip flop rubber. The caption here reads, "When you see me like this... you kneel on all fours."
The next post is simply a status stating, "Thinking about securing my camera up at the foot of my bed one night...livestream these godly paws sticking out under the covers all night, right in your face? [Thinking emoji]."
The last post Kirk scrolls past is a top-down view image of Neal lying strenuously in the middle of a bare, compressed paw print in the sand. His orange fur is speckled in grains and dirt. His expression is fatigued. The topsides of the hyena's toes also protrude into view at the very bottom of the frame; each foot spread an even distance apart from the centred squirrel. This is captioned: "Only a few hours underfoot and this bitch is already begging me to stop. Anyone else want to take his place? [Tears-of-laughter emoji]."
Kirk closes the app and tucks his phone away though his ego is already inflated after seeing the busy traffic on his profile, particularly in the horny comments of his online fans who either yearn for more content or plead masochistically to be his paw slave. He need only reply a single winking face to their comments to send them in a frenzy.
Once the phone is out of view Kirk stares smugly at his sole again, realising his friend is firmly stuck and will need to be scraped off his foot indignantly if they want any freedom at all. He adjusts himself by extending his leg back out to the table, flattening his other foot to the floor for stability, and then angles the squirrel-squashed paw forward a few inches above the table top hoping gravity will pull the critter down out of the sticky indentation. Nothing happens. Kirk then bends his toes back until they're taut at the joints, pronouncing his ball pad forward into Neal's chest. Still the squirrel does not unstick. Kirk's leg begins to ache from being held aloft without yet settling onto a solid surface.
"My dude you're either glued on good or you're holding on and don't wanna let go. Just holler the word and I'll totally put my sock back on and forget about you 'till tomorrow."
The canine snickers to himself. He shakes his appendage ruggedly over the table. Oozing sweat trails are shaken, dripping off his pad instead leaving small splash stains on the timber. Next he pats his paw down hard to the surface crushing the squirrel below. Had this table top been glass the perspective from underneath would have shown the squirrel compressing under the weighty breadth; head swallowed between the slowly suffusing toes while pad meat and squirrel body flatten into pale, glassy pressure-marks.
These seemingly gentle footfall taps feel nauseating for the micro whose world is disorientated by the elevating motions, each time concluding in a squelch that snuffs him back under the familiar warmth, darkness and encumbrance. In these brief interims his lungs are flattened under the ball pad. Oxygen is funnelled out of his mouth but at the same time he impulsively inhales more musky malodour.
The process finally works to scrape him free. After each smother the squirrel feels himself loosening more and more from the leathery grip. When the paw lifts up again Neal's head, tail and legs dangle downward. The paw then drops him down into another grinding step. On the final lift the squirrel's body limply unpeels and begins detaching from the sole in all places aside from his shoulders and pelvis, until they cannot sustain against the gravity and he loosens completely; falling away from the foot with a noise of slow adhesive separation. Strands of sweat briefly stretch from his torso to the ball pad above, like a viscous drool, before dissipating.
*Shwack!*
Neal lands on his back, juddering as his already bruised, flaccid body collides with the wood. His face is flushed with bright red blush. His jaw is slacked and drooling involuntarily. His chest heaves painfully. He lies over the sweaty sheen of a paw print, (muggy with condensation), left on the table after Kirk's concentrated presses. In his current hazy state of mind the squirrel is transfixed on wheezing out every last musk-laden breath and replacing it with fresh gulps of oxygen, as his body attempts to recover some strength in its withered muscles.
Although Neal's blood runs hot with humiliation, for now he'd rather conserve his energy than use it to reprimand the big canine or growl about their failed hygiene. Neal is even willing to obey Kirk slavishly if it means avoiding any more time spent as his insole. Though, regardless of looming size-difference threats, talking wouldn't achieve anything more than arrogant quips and snarky teases anyway. He knows his friend too well.
Without that puny body in the way Kirk's pads can reform back to their usual sumptuousness, though the outline of a body amid its surrounding grime is still an obvious reminder of Neal's place. The smirking animal lowers his bare foot down out of sight, planting it to the floor instead where he can enjoy a change of texture for once. As soon it settles many blots of carpet fluff and small hairs are quickly magnetised to the hyena's pads.
Kirk uses this moment to reach down to his other foot and awkwardly jostle the final woollen sock away leaving both legs completely bare from the shins down; free to breathe and stink up the stuffy mobile home with their ripened aroma. During the removal of this sock Kirk is hunching forward until his head closely levelled to the coffee table. His eyes are locked on the 6 inch critter squirming exhaustedly before him. Just as his left heel scuffs backwards and that stretched, elasticated sock, (gripped at the end in one fist), finally pings forward he has an especially sadistic idea about how to get even more entertainment from his micro's torment.
Kirk restores his usual posture; raising his arm back into view until Neal's frightened eyes fill with the looming view of a sock pinched in one hand and draping high above him. Though his throat is scratchy and hoarse Neal manages down a gulp of dread. He doesn't want to wait to find out the sick ploys of his friend so he attempts to crawl away, dragging his enfeebled legs after him. The squirrel wouldn't have made it far regardless but Kirk still throws his spare hand down casting a shadow before swatting and pinning Neal under his palm. A squeaky yelp is muffled. Pressure strains, burying the whiskered face into Kirk's palm pads, (a doughy consistency not unlike those on his sole, albeit much cleaner).
"Don't you dare sneak away, bitch. What would I be without my lucky charm?" Kirk doesn't need to ask his plaything if they'll behave or not. He already feels their dejected sigh against his hand and the nodding submission of their head before he uncovers them again.
Glary light re-enters the squirrel's eyes. Neal furrows his brow and croaks out a question: "W-why are we still doing this? A day in your boot is enough! You don't need to torture me afterwards!"
"Eh, shut up. You're just in a sulk because you're so thirsty. Don't worry, I got you sorted right here, man!" Kirk gestures with the sock, shaking it so the toe-end flaps heavily to and fro like a pendant, an inch above the squirrel's grimacing face. Both animals' sensitive ears pick up on the sound of the leftover moisture absorbed and integrated into the fibres, weighing the material down. The movement only encourages more musk to filter out and sting the animals' nostrils. Kirk smirks and mumbles the words, "Sounds like this one's got a lot of tasty beverage left to give! Open wide, dude."
Without any further warning the hyena clamps one hand around each end of the sock gripping the textile tighter, strangling it, stretching it out like a damp twisted bridge in the air and then churning each end in opposite directions. This contorts the sock, forcing it to wind tight. The moisture embedded within has nowhere to hide. In a matter of seconds old stagnant sweat is strained out to the rippled surface. He stretches the sock wider; twists it tighter. The hyena's expression is one of salacious smugness.
Like the early precipice of rainfall, small droplets drip out and shower down across the squirrel who lies vulnerably beneath, upon his back. He shudders and wretches audibly, as if pretending this isn't a familiar situation. One droplet lands squarely over Neal's muzzle. The dew shimmers in a thin film across his nostrils. The flavour seeps into his mouth. This prompts him to jut his arms forward and cover his face, begging for any protection. Beads of sweat fall into his palms breaking into rivulets that run down his arms.
"Mm-mmm, drink up! It's good for you!" Kirk gleams. He gives the sock a moment of slack before wringing it once again, forcefully evacuating every last droplet. He can feel residue sweat in his hands now too, leaked from the sock's ends.
When the material is tapped and the moisture stops dripping the hyena scowls and tosses the now-useless sock aside into the corner of the room. Playfully he then wraps his hand around Neal's midriff and hoists them suddenly into the air, leaving them breathless in the process when all their organs clench inside the big warm fist. Neal's eyes are shut defensively. His heart pounds like a jackhammer. His entire body shivers in the grip which only serves to arouse the hyena. Kirk holds his micro up to eye level appearing like a behemoth god in their perspective. Slowly his toes curl below, massaging the carpet.
"Mnnghmff," Neal groans deliriously.
"More? You want -more-? Look at you, you're drunk on the stuff! Fuckin' glutton..." The hyena sneers, shaking his head in a farce of disapproval. "I’ve got a lot more to give you, if you really want it that bad!"
(To be continued!)
PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Category Story / Paw
Species Hyena
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
You're very welcome! I hope this one is a satisfying read with likeable characters :)
It has always been fascinating. I've always loved your stories, which I've enjoyed collecting... Maybe one day I'll even try to write such a story myself, dedicating it to you.
Aw well thank you again I really encourage more people to explore their creative side! It certainly helped to bring me happiness and purpose long ago :)
More stories?! I can't wait to check it out! Really, your stuff will always be missed, but still, I can tell this will be just as good as the others!
Thanks for the supportive words Hero! I'd sure love to know what people thought after reading it too just so I know if I've gotten rusty or not yet, lol
Just wanted to thank ya for inspiring me to post a couple stories of my own on here. Reading your stories all this time and seeing how vividly you visualize and express everything has helped me realize that I want to try my hand at that too. If only so I can make other readers blush as much as your stories make me.
I'm enjoying these surprise stories and pieces a lot. FA will be a little less magical when you finally do decide to stop posting. I've enjoyed it while it's lasted though <3
I'm enjoying these surprise stories and pieces a lot. FA will be a little less magical when you finally do decide to stop posting. I've enjoyed it while it's lasted though <3
Thank you so much to you too for being a big supporter all this time :) I'm at my proudest when I see my work has influenced the community and allowed more writers to explore the craft! I really wish the best for you there!!
Book: just one more page.
Series: just one more episode.
Chocolates: just one more piece.
French: just one more revolution.
Grang: Just one more submission.
(Though definitely keep this up I luv it 😛)
Series: just one more episode.
Chocolates: just one more piece.
French: just one more revolution.
Grang: Just one more submission.
(Though definitely keep this up I luv it 😛)
I'm a sneaky one that's for sure! I imagine people will echo that when I post my next story after this one ;) obviously one day soon there will come a time where I don't post anymore and this page truly goes quiet but I figure hey right now I've got a fun idea that just came a little too late, but I don't want it wasted lol
Its always a very pleasant surprise seeing you put out another story here and there. Always love em. Also hope life is going good too!
That's very kind of you thank you! Things are going well here at the moment at least enough that I had time to work on these projects! I hope it pays off and you enjoy the read! :)
Haha thats awesome to hear. Hope it continues to be going well. And thank you I certainly am enjoying the read, just like all your stories.
This is so lovely! I don't know your situation but I hope you're well, and I hope that you're happy with wherever you're at. You don't need to be producing content to be a furry c:
Thank you wafflemouse I really appreciate that! You're quite right too, it's proven more difficult to shake off my furry smut inspiration than I'd originally thought :)
Casually dominated by a handsome young twenty something dude with everything going for him in life
This is the dream
This is the dream
It's enough to make someone jealous of that damn lucky micro that's for sure!
Comments