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PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<
Aroma Therapy
PART TWO
Synopsis: Your co-worker at a spa/salon – a butch, unmannerly rhinoceros named Tyson – uses blackmail to punish you and exploit your fetishes, after discovering you shameful secrets.
Disclaimer:
-Willing Foot Worship
-Filth/Musk/Sweat
-Degrading Domination
-Verbal Abuse
-Rhinoceros (dom)
-POV Perspective (sub)
Stifling heat chokes the sauna atmosphere. Thickened steam rises toward the ceiling and circulates perpetually in the unventilated air. It's balmy and tropical; loaded with moisture. Tyson the rhinoceros sits in the corner of the tiered wood benches, meditating on his own aura of body heat and the body odour broiling around him. His eyes remain closed. His burly body fills much of the small room. His muscled arms extend leisurely along the timber behind him. One leg is extended far along the connecting, perpendicular bench stopping only a short distance away from the vessel of smouldering basalt stones from which the room's heat and steam is derived. His other foot is reared back on its heel, tilting its sole marginally off the black tile floor.
All across his body Tyson's flesh - while still very dense and coating over impenetrable sinew - now radiates a heat that keeps his skin surface tender. His breaths are much heavier now in this artificial atmosphere. Sweat cascades over every visible contour in his body and face like a salty waterfall. The rhinoceros is dripping droplets all around him. Dew is sprinkled upon his brow while streams of perspiration sieve through every pore and trickle over his chiselled physique. Large water tracks gleam visibly down his pecs and armpits. His condensed abs are marinated in the juices, each with a line of moisture squeezed against their edges.
Despite their hardy roughened textures, Tyson's soles are deceptively sensitive. He can feel the tingle of each bead slowly slithering down his ball and heel, curving to the arc of the arch in between. Often the perspiration begins in his toe gaps where miniature pools will form and soak down in his toe webbings, before spilling gently down the underside, (or topside), of the feet. Rivulets make a path down the depths of his back muscles too, slipping down the crack in his rump. Any attempt to mop the sweat from his brow proves useless when it rapidly reforms again and again.
Tyson opens his eyes when he hears the shrill *be-beep, be-beep!* of his wristwatch alarm marking the passing of one full hour since he’d first shoved you in that stink-trap locker. He exhales a stiff breath through his nostrils and clambers slowly to his feet, limbering his tired arms with short rotational exercises that flick sweat across the floor. When the beast strolls across the sauna to fetch the white towel hanging by the door his footfalls clap the tile with a sound of sheer wetness; squelching and peeling from the wake of each sodden, fogged footprint.
"Time to go let the perv' loose I suppose..." He grumbles to himself in monotonous displeasure.
* * *
The darkness, the humidity, the sedative stench numbing you into a comatose trance... you're starting to drift between states of consciousness unaware of how much time has meandered by while you've been spending it all in a faceful of the strongest smelling gym sneaker you've ever had the pleasure to snort. Moaning murmurs and weak hums of pleasure have kept the silence at bay between long periods of nosing into Tyson's toasty insole.
Right now your elbow joints are aching. Your arms have been bent upright all this time cradling the burdensome weight of the big shoe. Your fingers continue to tremble as they were at the beginning. Your grip is feeble. Your legs had given out under you some time ago, persuading you to press your backside flat against the locker wall while you've sunken down into a cosy squat; your shins and knees now pressing up against the locker door.
All this time you've been sniffing on a rhythm that replays itself over and over, never knowing when the rhino might return. You hope Tyson won't mind - or won't know - that throughout this taming process you've also been suckling the shoe's rim, lapping the sour indents like a starving dog, turning the shoe around to pamper its treads and even wriggling your hand deep inside the footwear just to feel the sacred footprint in its furthest depths… or to finger-comb out any old lint and grime once trodden into the insole fibres.
*Sshluck, sshluck, sshluck!*
The sound of muggy, moist-laden footfalls padding over tile encroaches from the distance. The squeaky door to the staff locker room flings open and the rhino's approach becomes ever louder until it stops directly outside the locker. A burly silhouette blocks out the few slates of light in the door. With the clunk of a turning lock and the shriek of hinges the locker door is yanked open flooding the narrow space with light and fresh air, eradicating the growing claustrophobia.
Your eyes are widened - glinting with awe and adoration - at the sight of this profoundly handsome animal towering over you in the threshold, staring bluntly down upon your withered figure. There is nothing but a passive lethargy in his expression. Still, you're star-struck by his mostly naked body exposing all its perfect proportions in a sweaty, slippery downpour. He wears naught but that fleecy white towel around his waist and the waterproof watch around his wrist.
Your breath catches in your throat. You try to inhale the shoe stink one last time but the rhino reaches down and grabs the footwear by its tread once again, now tugging it away from your powerless clutches.
"Out," He grunts, thumbing the air with authoritarian demeanour.
Meanwhile, as you amble out of your confinement and flop pathetically onto the floor at his feet, Tyson reclaims the sneaker-fermenting ziplock from the backpack on the floor. This time he unseals it hastily; shoving the sneaker back inside to hopefully recuperate all its lost vapours and malodour. The crinkly plastic bag and its treasured contents are shoved deep into backpack again, which he tosses into the very locker space from which you have just crawled.
You curl up on the floor in a defeated position, only realising just now how breathless and winded you feel. You stare at his feet and the moisture slowly gathering around the perimeters of his soles like a thin puddle, while other droplets plummet from his body above and splash against the tile. Your wheezing breaths begin to catch up to your belaboured heartbeat. Upon trying to move into a more subservient kneel you understand how jellied and frail your legs have become over the past hour.
"Well, tell me about it. Did my aroma therapy change you? Do you want out... or do you want me even more than ever?" Tyson asks as he stands over you, basking in the control he has over your entire being.
You're about to open your mouth and respond verbally but then you pause and consider what this animal -really- wants from you, as someone he can bully and dominate for fun. In this moment you realize Tyson is the kind of person who might appreciate a physical gesture more than the hollow words he presumably hears all the time from horny queers who fixate on buff, straight males like him. To amend this you do not speak and instead you lower onto all fours directly over his left foot, planting your hands shyly on either side of it. His muscles tense but he does not pull away.
You then lower your face directly to the top of this foot and run your tongue up its firm grey surface. The first few licks are so fearful of rejection that your tongue quivers and dryly scrapes along the appendage. When you realize moments later that the rhino is standing still and contentedly watching you degrade yourself for him, you drop your inhibitions and dress his tasty appendage in a coat of saliva. You start slurping with impassioned fervour across the top of the foot; adoring the wisps of apple cider B.O wafting up into your nose. The salty granule flavours sticking to your taste buds make it seem like the rhino has spent his hour in a detoxifying salt-water bath - a service provided in some of the day spa's tubs - rather than in a sauna. You don’t complain either way.
Tyson, who is pleasantly surprised you chose to answer his question with raw worship, says, "Hmph. That settles that then... seems I’ve got me a foot slut of my very own. Don't think you're the only contender though. You lot always wanna drop at my feet, like you're fuckin' magnetised to 'em or something. You're at least standing out though from the others, that much I can say. Ain't nothing that pisses me off more than a sissy who just gawks and waits for every single instruction. You gotta be intuitive to impress us real men. Lucky for you, you passed the test. If you'd said ‘you wanted out’ I'd have just pull out that other gym sneaker from the bag and shoved you back in there for round two."
You're listening to his every word but now that you're in the peak of your sexual fantasies lavishly touching tongue to foot, you channel your focus into lapping his skin over and over until it pulls and ripples gently under the traction of your oral muscle. You begin to shuffle backwards, aiming your mouth over the tops of his toes now instead. Gloriously his digits are suffused into the floor just enough that small gaps have opened between each toe. You cannot hesitate for another moment. Drunkenly you slather up his big toe first starting on that thick smooth toe nail, making it gloss with saliva until your tongue reaches the digit's knuckle.
You move along to the side one after the other, licking in the acrid crotches between each digit before painting the digit itself under the path of your warm wet tongue. Tyson enjoys the sensations so much that he spreads his toes out even further enticing you to poke your tongue inward and clean their pits, all so that he can close his digits tight and feel your spongy tongue pulling out from between them. It's rare for that brutish deadpan face to be lit up by an arrogant smirk.
Your slurping goes unbroken for several more long, lustful minutes until the rhino asks you a question directly: "Here's another test for you. I'll make a general statement about me coming home. You then tell me what you'd fix about it. So... say I'm coming back to my dorm. You're inside waitin' for me to return. I come in; wipe my boots on the doormat, fetch a beer and sit down to watch the game. I kick my feet up and click my fingers to summon my collared bitch over for a long evening of pampering on my sore feet… Anything wrong with that?"
Through panting breaths you finish your current slurp and raise your blushing head to look him in his sterling, light blue eyes. You wipe your drool-soaked lips and chin against the back of your hand, clear your throat, and think about the question before answering.
"I uh... um," (You're still trying to catch your breath), "You'd come inside but… you wouldn't wipe your boots on some boring doormat because I'd already have laid down there. You'd wipe your boots on me instead, then kick them off and wipe your feet all over me too because they matter just as much! I'd take all your weight and be thankful! N-next you'd go straight to your favourite seat since I'd be the one fetching you the beer. After I give it to you I... I'd ask if you wanted to kick your feet up on me, or if you'd rather use a proper surface and have be worship them instead. Then I'd ask if you wanted me to kneel between your legs and suck you off while you watch the whole game?"
Your heart has already skipped several beats during this fantasised explanation. Now you hold the surging tension deep inside you as you wait for his reaction.
Once again Tyson scratches his bristly chin, imagining the scenario for himself. "Pretty bold to assume I'd let your whore mouth anywhere near my dick but the rest of it hits the mark. It’s lucky for me that you've got such low self-esteem. That’s essential in a pet who lives to serve. I also know you'll say anything I want to hear just 'cause you just don't wanna lose the chance to be at my feet... but hey, maybe you still got more to prove until then... and that gives me a new idea. I'm taking you over to one of them massage suites now so you can show me more of your tricks. Goes without saying that a good pet doesn't walk on two legs, so I better see you crawling behind me."
Tyson turns and wanders from the room, once again walking with damp meaty impacts that lull you into a giddy smile. Your head turns to ogle the view of his sculpted backside clenching sweat streams amid its muscles. Moisture catches in the backs of his knees and drizzles down his stony toned calves, later gliding behind his ankles. By now you might hold the record for 'longest lasting blush'. Your cheeks haven't stopped showing their rosy tinge since first entering the day spa this morning.
Before pushing through the door the rhino glares back over his shoulder to instruct you one last time. "Don't skimp on my footprints either, foot slut. I know you gotta by thirsty after being in that locker for so long. If you can live off shoe stink you can live off my sole sweat, too."
Your dizzy sway is indicative of the chemical warfare occurring inside your brain. You're still high on the dosage of sneaker fumes - unable to filter anything other than his debasing commands - and now you have a mouth-watering trail of stagnant, slick footprints each as big as your entire face, guiding you forward.
You want to scamper hastily after the anthro but you're compelled to stop crawling every few paces and lower your face against the shimmering residue of tracks; each so perfectly defined with distinct toe imprints and long sole marks. Raspy breaths flow from your lips, rippling the footprint dew. Though it's likely nothing more than the under-floor heating at work, you indulge the idea that Tyson's prints radiate their own intensive heat. This prompts you to lean forward and smush your lips against the floor, puckering them and pressuring them down for a long smooch somewhere over the ball and toes region. You pull back with a stunted grunt of pleasure. Your spine feels weak. Your limbs quake. You decide not to linger to test that instability, so you crawl forward only to stop at another print a few feet ahead. This time you bend over and lick along its slim arch stain before gliding a second lick back over its heel.
Your pattern of selectively worshipping the ground where Tyson walks shepherds you along down the corridor, past the reception counter, across the foyer and into one of the corresponding massage suites. Your palms sting from the constant compression. Your knees throb after so much servile crawling. Gradually the severity of these footprints begins to wane the further they travel along. Soon the shapes become less distinctive. Their saturation becomes nothing more than flat, dried stains on the ground. Regardless you follow them until the end of their trail planting kisses desperately into their surfaces even as your lips begin to adopt small specks of floor dust.
By the end you find yourself hobbling into the suite stopping in front of the rhinoceros himself who stands patiently in wait, leaning against the massage table. This is a spacious room which copies that contemporary design of wood slates, pale back-glow lights and white plaster. Sleek plants flank a side table covered in rolled towels, therapeutic oils and incense.
The massage table itself is an expensive surface of teak and thick, quilted white padding; extended to meet the demands of anthro clientele who are often very tall and heavy animals such as stallions, bulls, cervines, alligators or large canine/feline species. Sitting in the room's corner is a matching massage chair with vibration and self-heating controls, (a chair more-so reserved for hand and foot massages specifically). Beside this there sits an optional foot spa unit, currently lacking any water, used to soften the client's feet and soak their toenails or claws for an easier pedicure.
"About time you arrived," Tyson snorts under his breath.
"Sorry, I was busy… kissing your footprints," You sheepishly explain.
"Why?" He asks, not out of confusion for reason – considering he ordered you not to waste his prints – but instead he asks this question because he wants to wring a specific answer out of you.
Your eyelids flutter sensuously and you mutter what he is waiting to hear, "...because I'm a foot slut?"
"Huh, couldn’t agree more," The rhino smirks. He then extends his upturned hand and unfurls his fist, revealing the pair of white-grey socks from earlier and a small wooden clothes peg resting in his palm. He then says, "Gonna make you peg these socks over your nose for the rest of our day together. Aroma therapy doesn't stop at my rank sneakers y'know. I know a bitch like you already comes broken-in, pre-assembled to serve, but it's fun to watch you squirm anyhow."
Without protest you tip your head back and flare your nostrils when the half-naked rhino steps forward, looming over your kneeling body like a cliff of musculature. His hand aggressively grabs your jaw squeezing your head in its grasp. A silent spell lingers as the rhino stares down into your eyes. You look up at him with bated breath, letting him examine you as if you were an item for purchase. His hands then work together to smother your nose under the neatly folded socks, clamping them around your nostrils and cartilage without letting the fabric drape too far over your mouth. The clothes peg is pinched around the end squeezing tightly over the bridge of your nose, affixing the socks into place. Your nostrils are once again squished but the textile insulation protects you from the pain of the peg. Regardless of breathability, sweet scents still conquer your senses and become a part of your respiratory cycle. The smell is much less assaulting than the vaporous gym shoe. It reminds you of Tyson's ordinary B.O but mixed with the aroma of old cotton. Your nose is trapped inside the fluffy cast and the peg stands vertically in the way of your vision but you still beam with a simpering smile when the rhino releases your face.
Tyson's hands then interlock together, entwining his fingers before extending both arms for a hearty stretch. His broad palms expose themselves to you while his fingers crackle therapeutically. He groans, content to unravel the towel protecting his innocence without so much as a warning. Out of timid respect you look away to the side when you see a flash of hung rhino groin baring itself in the flesh.
Tyson strips himself naked and tosses the towel across the room. He then seats himself up on the massage table, draping his legs heavily over the front. His heels rise off the floor but his toe tips still press warmly into its surface. Tyson is evidently familiar with undressing in front of other people through years of using communal showers and locker rooms, (after each rugby match played on his university grounds). He observes your timid behaviour with a humoured scoff. He shakes his head in disbelief and proceeds to lie down across the padded table top until he is extensively spread from end to end. His stocky arms cross together under his chin. His legs loll out straight but limp, keeping his bare soles upturned into view.
"You can get up now, my dick is out of sight… you soft-bellied wimp," He mumbles.
You squeak out a quiet apology. At long last you stand up to your usual height, balancing on legs of shaken jelly. When you gaze at the prostrate animal you see a thick current of grey brawn flowing across the table. The overhead lighting illuminates his rocky physique and the deep flesh trenches between his back muscles, leading down to a dense rump of perfectly defined cheeks. Naturally as your eyes scan across him you're gravitated towards his feet waiting at the far end. The same lighting maintains a brightened focus on his soles and the nature of their rugged, unwieldy arch creases.
His horned head is turned slightly in your direction, giving you a glare of expectation. "You know what I want... get to it. It's about time I deserved some pampering in this place."
Were it not for the peg obstructing your eyesight you might have already forgotten his worn socks are folded around your nose re-introducing every breath to the mulled flavour of masculinity. You sniff the cotton with lusty purpose but you subdue the sounds you make, so that the noise of your obsession doesn't irritate Tyson.
Autonomously you drag your lead-heavy legs over towards him, first applying a slick sheen of citrus scented body lotion to your palms. You then stand alongside his rested figure, near his hip. You gulp. You clear your throat. Nothing helps to muster back the courage you once had before being subjected to his sovereign dominance. Both he and you know you'll forever be a shaking husk in his presence, inside and outside of the workplace. From now on, the true test will be trying to endure his teases whenever you're in the midst of other people, (be they co-worker or client), so that you don't publicly blow your cover and expose your fetish to outside sources.
Tyson raises a brow as he waits for your touch. His ear turns reflexively at the sound of squelching lotion followed by the sheepish shuffle of you leaning over his body. Your hands stretch forward and grope across his deltoids; smearing trails in, out and around the deep recesses of muscle between shoulders and neck. His proportions make your hands look dwarfed in size reminding you of your inferiority by contrast. With enough persistence these massaging motions eventually roll further down his backside where you begin to surge your palms forward and back with grinding force, skating the heel of each palm up and down the meat either side of his spine before swirling the pressure around his shoulder plates in wide circles.
You begin to sweat nervously at the brow. Even with all your strength you can hardly burrow a dent in his leathery thick skin. You begin to wonder if Tyson can feel your efforts at all. As you lean and veer directly over his upper body you begin to breathe more heavily and slowly, trying to compose yourself even with a terrain of grey sweaty beast beneath you. The mere sight of his deepened muscle margins glimmering with sweat beads makes you wish you could lean down and lick them clean. At the very least, his effortlessly drenched backside is still festered in sauna warmth and the moisture gives your hands plentiful lubrication to compensate for his tough skin texture.
"Harder!" He commands, never deigning to lift his head up from atop his criss-crossed hands.
Your stressed grunting is followed by rushed obedience. You begin chopping rhythmically and rapidly along his upper back with the sides of both hands, like a chef flexing their prowess with two knives. You then lean down further - hovering inches above his back until he can feel your nervous breath on his neck - and one by one you drill your elbows down deep behind each shoulder, finally indenting the sinew. You know you've succeeded when a satisfied groan rumbles heavily from the rhino's lips. Your hands later mop down the surface in synchronized lines, (scrunching your fingers repeatedly along the way), until you reach his lower back where you pump your flattened palms into him with pressured timely pushes, like a defibrillator. It makes sense now why stronger co-workers such as Tyson are assigned to massage the larger more robust anthros, when people like you are usually assigned to the svelte, skinny, agile and lightweight anthros. The differences in clientele between a greyhound runner athlete, as opposed to a stallion race-horse champion for example, are immense.
Soon enough Tyson has settled completely into a leisurely mind-set. His body has now slacked from its usual tension allowing you to rub him down more effectively. This means you can plant your palms on his plump rump and squeeze handfuls of firm cheek flesh, groping them with scrunching fingers and therapeutic intent. Similar processes continue down the rhino's thighs and calves though these muscles require a more involved and generous spread of rubs, ingraining the sweaty skin with that citrus scented oil. Small fisted impacts gently pummel down the centres of Tyson's calves before you pause suddenly. Your beady eyes drift over his two ample feet upturned under your face like a ravishing feast upon a plate. Their bulk and ferocity continues to stun you no matter how many times you see them.
With an icy, excited shudder you stroll around to stand at the end of the table coyly positioning your groin as closely to his ten toes as you dare. You reach forward and lower your hands over his heels like a cloche, concealing them out of sight. Your palms press intimately around their rounded shapes. Your fingers bend softly over their girth. Friction sustains between his skin and yours. You breathe out slowly into the air and churn your hands against them over and over with careful twists, as if polishing them to a shine. A moan accidentally escapes through your opened lips but the rhino makes no scathing comment, even after opening one eye in response to the effeminate noise.
"Your skin feels kind of dry around your heels," You remark, testing the waters to see if Tyson will berate you with more arousing, degrading comments.
"So then make 'em wet for me, you damn idiot," The anthro retorts.
Bingo. Your heart flutters on wings of bliss. Compliantly you slip your hands away to the sides and grip the edges of the table padding as you lower your head down into the deep bowl-like curve of one foot's arch, perching your chin lightly atop rows of instep wrinkles. The airs captured right here is the same aromatic crispness you've come to expect from his soles. Nonetheless, spellbound licks and full-mouth suckles instantly commence. Your lips stretch voraciously around his calloused heel sucking at its salty, tangy surface as if this heel is your source of nutrition. Your eyelids are shut but your eyes still roll beneath them. You draw your lips shut at the centre with a watery slurp before extending back around the girth again, hungry for more. Your fingers clench tighter around the quilted padding.
"Mmhn, mmhn, mmhhhmn..." Your moans are suppressed by your panting breaths torrent out of your nostrils.
At the opposite end of the table a buttery smirk of knowing superiority spreads across Tyson's face. "At least I guessed the right foot slut this time. Red macaw who used to work here last year wasn’t so lucky when I thought he was nicking from my locker, too. Not socks, mind you, but I still felt the need to punish him. The guy got six whole hours of that good old 'aroma therapy' to get a confession out of him. Turns out I was wrong and he was innocent the whole time but I didn't find that out 'till afterwards... and the feathered dumb-fuck was so desperate to get out he still confessed when he weren't even guilty, thinking the fake honesty was gonna help him. Didn't help shit, I can tell you that much. He might not have been a thief but liars still get what’s coming to ‘em."
You let the rhino wade in his ego-driven nostalgia. Meanwhile you retreat back from the one heel towing a short-lived strand of drool from your mouth to his foot. You then start working on the other.
Before sucking his heel and exfoliating its salted skin under your saliva, your sock-clasped nose cruises along his arch sniffing in that pinching tang of apple cider smell. The cotton bunches and hangs down on either side of your nostrils, interrupting and guarding against the majority of this musk. In this current predicament, only the very tip of your nose can peek out from under the sock folds hence this is the only portion capable of touching his flesh. This tip sinks further into the arch and slides unhindered up towards the heel in a wobbly, ticklish line. Thankfully you've grown numb to the tightness of the clothes peg. It's simply an accoutrement added to the pleasurable trance in which you're held.
As captivating as these socks feel and smell in their close proximity you're still growing desperately antsy with an unstoppable yearning to un-peg them, toss them aside and plant your nose in its raw nativity all across these exalted soles. Until that opportunity comes you'll have to settle for applying tongue-baths instead. For now your mouth openly pants against his right heel. Your tongue drapes out, gliding up the rough skin over and over like a paint roller. Your laps glaze directly against the burnished patch of dirt-darkened heel surrounded in littered spit speckles. You keep licking until the dew gathers enough to start trickling back down the slope of his furrowed arch. Every time your tongue returns to your maw to refresh itself you can taste the flavours of musty, trodden floor dust particles.
Next you shift your head back across to the left leg again snorting sock fuzz into your nostrils. You groan; showing your weakness for this better, bigger male. Briefly you put your face back into his humid arch space, this time jubilantly scraping your chin up and down the thickened ball of the foot before planting a shy kiss into the arch itself.
In the frenzy of lust and heaving breaths you hear a muttering declaration from the rhino who says, "Hmph... for a masseuse you give a lot more interaction than you're allowed. You should be grateful that I like it so much. Keep it going for now but don't forget why I'm on this table..."
The command is all you need to nuzzle the entire side of your face into his arch and rub yourself into him, adoringly. Your cheek feels fuzzy and slick with rhino sweat whenever you pull back. After a throaty gulp you turn your face back into the sole and probe your tongue between the arch creases, sliding it side to side along their widths until tiny granules of grime stick to the end of your tongue. A smooch is planted on the blackish heel dirt. Once again you reposition to the right foot now, trying your best to provide equal reverence for both appendages. During this move you become aware of the turgid bulge in your pants and just how much you've been subconsciously pressing this into the front of the table, grinding the padded edge beneath the rhino's toes.
Passionately you bring your face towards the sole on an angled tilt, nosing and mouthing at the doughy perimeters of the foot itself. Once you've caught your breath you unroll your tongue again, stroking it up the side edge of the sole starting at his ball and ending at the heel. You pamper this same area with multiple overlapping licks but eventually you transition to the other side - the inner side - which allocates your blushing head in between both feet at once. You want to assume the 'gym locker room B.O' infiltrating your airways is wafting off the soles but often it's hard to tell while you’re simultaneously breathing from the pegged socks too.
Ignoring the distraction of your haywire thoughts, you turn your head in on that same low angle and begin painting saliva up the inner side of Tyson's foot. Your tongue is too slack to make the flesh yield beneath its pressure but you aren’t deterred. From this perspective you now get to lick his softer instep instead of the meaty arch. Subtly, even for an animal of his gruff expanse, the foot twitches and his toes jolt lightly as if triggered by a sensitive tickle. From here a volley of kisses are planted down each of the two soles separately, ending with a long suckling kiss against the ball of each foot. Here the flesh is more supple and plump. Its surfaces are naturally oily and coated in a film of slow-drying sweat. Your urges to do away with the muzzling socks and bury your nose deep like a spade into this meaty mass become ever stronger.
When your tongue attempts to squirm over the hump of ball and slather along the undersides of Tyson's toes you're halted by a stern grunt from beyond: "Ain't much of a massage happening at the moment. Did I say you could turn this into one of your pervy fantasies?"
You mumble a bashful apology and straighten your back, embracing the burning in your cheeks. Your chin glints with moisture. Tyson accommodates you by raising his upturned feet off the table surface, balancing the weight into his knees while his appendages hover up freely near your chest. Your docile hands slip underneath, (wrapping and cradling them by their topsides), keeping them levelled so the soles stretch out before you like an undulant plateau of grey. You can only see the back of Tyson's head in the foreground which renders you unaware of his toothy grin.
You're desperate to please his needs. With your hands under his feet tops you lock your thumbs around each appendage pressing the thumb tips harshly into his ball. Divots are formed. When you drill these thumbs deeper you manage to touch on his nerves, provoking a sudden stimulus in the rhino's bulky toes. All ten extremities flex apart sharply, only closing together after you ease the pressure on his ball.
"I-is that hurting you?" You ask with worry in your widened eyes.
"What are you, my girlfriend?" He scoffs. "Keep rubbing, bitch. You couldn't hurt me if you tried."
Curiously you repeat the action again, nudging your thumbs firmly through the flesh and crushing any stray sweat beads down into the depths. Once again his toes suffuse in the air below your chin, reacting to the pulse of sensation. They're spread so broadly that for a moment you see glimmering sweat strands hanging between them. The sight is so enthralling you cannot help but play with his sensitivity; rolling your thumbs around the ball of each foot albeit now with less intensity. Each time your thumbs revolve full-circle the rhino will curl or flex his toes responsively. You simper at the sight and chew your lip. Despite all this activity over the past couple hours you can rarely comprehend that this is now your reality; one marinated in fetish and obsession in ways you could've only ever imagined.
Eventually the tenderising slows to a stop. Your finger joints ache. The warmth emanating from the cowl of socks over your nose has blended with the rosy warmth of your cheeks. Decidedly you cannot resist the urges any longer. You bend your knees and lower your face down to meet the row of toes laid out side by side in front of your mouth. You try to huff but you only inhale the sock cotton and its stale muted stench of old laundry.
"I want to suck them -soo- badly," You whine. "Please let me, Tyson, please!"
This at least serves to amuse the horned animal. He wriggles his toes directly near your drying lips, knowing how badly you want them. "So you foot sluts have no decency, huh?" He asks, "You lay eyes on anthro toes and your gut reaction is to want 'em deep in your mouth? You need help."
Impatiently Tyson lifts one his hands out from under his resting chin and he rubs his palm over his face, processing his choices through frustration and thinly veiled disgust. "You get one suck per toe. You put your lips around it, you pull back, you move on. Got it?"
Your words of gratitude flutter out on a whisper. After taking hold of the rhino's shins you open your mouth and target one of his small toes, pursing your lips around its curling roundness for a suckle that lasts several seconds. You draw yourself back and move along the toes one after the other, each time swallowing it into your cosy maw and letting its calloused top-side lay over your tongue before pulling back with a sealed, hearty suck down the digit's length.
This deviant pattern continues until you finishing mouthing and drooling around the index toe, at which point you unsheathe it from your lips and take a pause for air. Tyson can feel every gust of hot breath particles flowing over and in between his saliva soaked digits. He wriggles them together to erode the slick moisture trapping in their gaps. When you return to the process you skip past the rhino's big toes and instead focus on the other foot, once again wetting your palate on the four smaller toes one by one, taming their squirming or curling movements each time they slip through your lips and bathe on your taste buds. Once you have finished this set you pull back again for more oxygen, realising that you subconsciously hold your breath each time you take in a mouthful of digit. By now you've sucked all but the two big toes.
"You don't know how long I've waited for a day like this," You speak mid-drool.
"Don't get too excited," He warns, "It ain't like I'm dragging you home after this to fuck your brains out or make you my dorm room footstool. Not yet, anyways. You'll slink off back to your own place after this and probably spend all night jerking your meat to thoughts of me. Then you'll come back to work day in and day out knowing I'm here and you won't know if I'm gonna tease you all day or ignore you just for fun... it'll drive you wild."
Your huff of stunted breath merges with a soft sexual groan. Your knees want to collapse out from under you. Your masochism rises to the surface when you suggest, "Y-you should definitely film me worshipping your feet, on your phone, so you can show your friends and laugh at me whenever you want. O-or to blackmail me into doing what you say?"
Tyson scoffs. He glances back over his muscled shoulder, hosting a mild smirk. "Don't need to," He mutters. "I'll make sure people know you're my bitch, video proof or not. Blackmail ain't necessary neither when I can just click my fingers and you'll drop to your hands and knees, no matter who else is around. What you need is a leash and a shoe muzzle to shut you up."
Your hands tense around the girth of his sturdy shins, squeezing them tightly. "Oh god, yes!" You wheeze.
"That was a joke... but don't tempt me," He grumbles back, rolling his eyes.
You gulp down any diluted dirt molecules and sweat droplets lapped from the bottoms of his feet or toes, (still swishing or settling like sediment around the various spaces of your mouth). Swiftly your lips return to the last of his unattended toes, culminating in a wider swallow as these two biggest digits plough together into the depths of your maw. Sprinkles of black floor dust grinded into the minute grooves of his skin become swept by currents of oozing drool. The thick toenails touch against your taste buds. You focus not on each toe individually but on cleaning them together as one unit, even when they shift around your maw separately. The surfaces of his digits rub up and down the wrinkled roof of your mouth, or poke against your inner-cheeks. You indulge them and suck around them, flicking your tongue about until they drip from every contour. A full five minutes is spent on sucking these toes alone, which defies the rhino's rule yet he seems content to keep you in your current place regardless.
It's only when you do retract - blinking slowly and feeling groggy with dopamine - that Tyson finally checks his wristwatch and says, "Janitor comes by in an hour. You got that long to keep rubbing my feet -with your hands- then we call it a day. I ain't ready to show off my new foot slut to anybody else just yet, and that old Irish Wolfhound doesn't wanna see some measly human getting hard over my feet. No more mouth stuff, either. My soles are gonna prune if you don't tone it down. You just put your mitts to work and sniff my socks 'till then. Otherwise, you so much as breathe on my feet and I'm stuffing you back in that locker with my gym sneakers all night, okay?”
You heed Tyson's words with a nod he cannot see and you stand quickly to your full height, finishing the awkward joint-aching posture that has kept you levelled with his toes until now. You stumble on numb legs towards the side table for a second application of citrus-scented body lotion, (due to be rubbed ‘ordinarily’ into Tyson's body and feet once again). Admittedly you feel disappointed at the no-worship rule, however at this point a special bond has been fostered between you and the rhino where he knows your deepest secrets and your sexual impulses. He has indefinite power over you, with the unchallenged intent to exploit that power. Though you must act like a regular masseuse for the next hour, both you and Tyson know there will plenty more perversions together in the coming days.
* * *
(One week later)
You huddle on your hands and knees, cascaded in shade, seeing only the dimensions of wood around you. You are currently tucked out of sight into the alcove under the wide reception counter, expected - by demands from above - to remain still and inconspicuous. To your left is a wall of curved timber. To your right is the chair of white faux leather and silver frame, groaning under some behemoth weight. You can empathise with the chair. You’re also struggling with a burden which props on your back like two heavy, felled logs. It strains your spine but still you're forced to sustain your tolerance and play the role of the well-behaved footrest.
Your nose - finally free from those pegged socks - twitches whenever a particular zesty smell shoots directly up your nostrils, filling your lungs like a flammable gas. The root of this malodour is a pair of large, brown, overused sandals spread leisurely down on the tiled floor directly in the vicinity of your nose. You can tell by their vigour that Tyson has been wearing this footwear much more regularly, in recent days. They fume with a smell redolent of his usual ‘apple cider B.O’ only mixed with the newer flavours of buttered - and slightly burnt - popcorn.
This in particular is the smell of sandal insoles worn for too many hours at once, absorbing sweat into their already pummelled, shapely imprints. The bottoms of each crater made by the rhino's enormous feet have become an assembly of black sodden smears, bowing soft leather, plastered fluff motes and ashy microscopic seasoning. Outside of these grooves and perky bumps, (in the areas unaffected by weighty foot friction), the leather gleams from old perspiration stains.
You've been forbidden to lick across these delectable landscapes for at least another week as their wearer wants to fester more filth into their insoles first before allowing you a sacred taste of his labour. This inability to mop your tongue into those heated black pits pains you more than any of the rhino's previous torments. Your desperate moans mean nothing to him, whatsoever. This morning you have only been given permission to sniff and snuffle over the flat footwear like a truffle pig, inhaling every particle of stench possible without ever putting lips to leather.
As the rhinoceros wreaks control over your life he often notices what kinky behaviours you're most interested in that day, such as licking for example, and then he deliberately restricts you from exploring said behaviour just to see you squirm helplessly under his command. To earn the right of free worship again you often have to find a way to appease him such as buying him food and drink from the day spa vending machines, or by opting to do all his work chores such as the end-of-shift floor sweep, so that Tyson can leave early. Finding an opportunity to seek out these ‘offerings’ isn’t always easy, especially on days like this when you’re spending your shift as a living piece of furniture.
While your nosy is hard at work dodging the sandal straps to hover over his footprints and breathe their glory, you hear the main foyer doors opening as a client enters the spa. By the resonance of their thudding footfalls approaching from the other side of the counter you can tell they are a person of lofty size. Tyson's body language does not change upon seeing them approach. He continues sitting behind the desk with impassive apathy, crossing his feet over your back and airing out his toes above you with candid splaying scrunches.
A baritone voice says, "You Tyson? Got that private email you sent out to us registered members. I'm keen to try out that 'special service' you mentioned. Got so excited about it I didn't wash for a few days now."
The rhino responds to the mysterious voice with a nod, (after looking left and right to ensure the boss is nowhere present), and he says, "Yep. I'll only charge the normal spa fee to your card like everyone else but the rest we do in cash, as agreed."
Sounds of papery rustling and low, under-breath coughs ensue. You glance to the side, watching Tyson's hand reach down into view and pocket a bundle of cash bills. At first you aren't sure what to expect of the situation until your eavesdropping pays off, and your eyes bulge nervously.
"So, uh... is the human ready or what?" The voice queries, eagerly.
Tyson slides his cumbersome feet off your back one by one, dragging them by their heels until they press firmly on the tile. You gulp. Your eyes dart about. A cold shiver runs down your back. "Sure is," Tyson mutters, "He's been under me all this time, getting himself worked up on pure stink."
“Heh, he doesn’t know anything about stink yet, I tell ya,” The voice muses.
A knowing chuckle is shared between him and the client. Tyson then wheels his chair back and steps out from behind the counter. He whistles sharply summoning you out from the dingy space. Self-consciously you crawl out on all fours, standing with a chaste hesitance beside your horned co-worked. Your face is red and flustered. Your hands twiddle awkwardly in front of your groin covering the bulge that has swelled there over the past half hour. Your alerted eyes stare up and down the newcomer.
The client is another momentous anthro boasting a stalwart body; this time a burly St Bernard canine with heavy jowls and brow weighing on their furrowed, tired face. Their tri-colour coat of black, bronze and white is extra shaggy. Belted black jeans pair with a light blue denim shirt, rolled at the sleeves and flecked in dry white paint. Voluminous mustard-yellow work boots seal around his paws. A name tag reading 'Hank' is pinned into their breast pocket. The hound stares back at you with desirous intentions buried deep in those hazel eyes.
"What's going on?" You ask, looking up to Tyson for direction.
"Nothin' much," He bluntly replies, "Just a special client for you to work on. First of many I'd reckon. See, while you're down there sniffing shoes like a freak I'm up here making new opportunities and utilising your... 'passions'. Because of that I got a growing list of clients out there who know about a certain human who'll fawn over their feet for an extra fee, off the books of course. I pocket the cash, you get to worship more anthros. We all win."
Tyson concludes his entrepreneurial pitch with an impactful pat on your ass that jolts your entire body and coerces you one step closer towards the St Bernard. Before you know it, you're following the two anthros across the foyer and being led into the very same massage suit where you'd pampered Tyson a week ago.
The atmosphere is tense as the door closes behind you. This beefy St Bernard comfortably takes his place in the massage recliner chair. Tyson leans against the wall nearby crossing his arms over his chest. He stares at you with unblinking indifference as you lower cautiously onto the small stool in front of the dog. Your breath catches in your ever-tightening throat. Without any hesitance to speak off Hank casually thrusts up one leg and dumps his booted foot right into your lap, heavily nestling it between your thighs. His heel tread edges forward until it stops a few short inches away from your groin. Your mouth hangs open but words are yet to make an exit. You’ve come to expect brash behaviour like this from clients in the past, who simply expect everything from you without offering so much as the slightest consideration but now the tone in the environment is wholly different.
Tyson begins to explain the situation more clearly: "Hank here works all day fixing up houses and making bank on their renovations. Hard working fella like that's gotta have some pretty sore tired paws, right? Show him what you're gonna do about that. I'll stand in this time and keep an eye on you, so I know you're not ripping off our special client here with subpar worship."
You, with your colour-flushed face, look up into the St Bernard's eyes directly ahead. He raises a brow and smirks, having seemingly been told what to expect from this 'exclusive service'. Without any words worth uttering, you wrap your hands around the chunky boot hoping that if you squeeze it tightly enough your shivering arms will evade their attention. A subtle gulp travels down your throat. Your fingers struggle around the worn, sawdust-imprinted shoe laces. These laces finally tug loose after various awkward handlings and the pinching of frayed knots. Once untied the footwear expels a breath of relief around the big dog's shin, ventilating traces of funky odour. One whiff pumps you with adrenaline. You seize the boot in your hands and fight it off the paw with slow wobbles, shakes and upward tugs. Firstly a heavy heel thumps back into your lap. Secondly the footwear wrenches up into the air, beheld with piety. A lustrous foot paw is left out in the open leaning vertically towards your abdomen, marvelling in its freedom from that stuffy cramping internment. Steamy aroma is whisking off the thick, sullied and heat-faded greyish-green socks hanging ragged around these paws. Frayed holes big and small have torn through the sole where its material has eroded underfoot.
You're anxious to begin. When you attempt to set the dog's boot down to the floor Tyson clears his throat loudly and asks, "Forgetting something, foot slut? Where do boots go first before they're put out of sight?"
Blush immediately strikes your cheeks. You whisper a hushed apology and lift that work boot back towards your face, turning it until you confront the mouth of the shoe; a tunnelled dark hole exhaling a strong stinking breeze back at you, adrift with pollutants that make you crinkle your nose on instinct. The two anthros chuckle when you squeeze your face inside this footwear as far as it'll reach, at least until the rim indents a ring around your cheek flesh. You add volume to your raspy inhales and exhales, compensating for the muffled sound while also trying to show your superiors that you're dedicated in subservience. The stench that then sizzles in your nasal passages and resorts you into spluttering fits is a stench of crushed garlic aerating its zest. You continue holding this heavy item in both hands for three long minutes, living off the dog musk, shuddering and moaning inside it each time the paw in your lap nudges its heel up against your groin.
During this display of reverence you hear Tyson mutter to the hound, "He's still in training and a little co-dependant on your demands… but that's just part of the fun."
Once instructed to move on, (by Hank himself), you heed his every word and set the boot down politely; already feeling slightly tipsy on its fumes. He points down at the tip of his own paw where the sock hugs around his large toe digits, showing water-logged darkness staining the material over the place of every paw pad. Here the sock makes a canopy between each tenting claw shape, too. You can only imagine the dank dampness embedded for years in its fibrous cloth.
"Go on," Hank instructs, "Have a smell of a -real- working man. Might show you what a pussy you are by comparison."
It's fortunate you're already sitting as your knees might have buckled already at this command. You waste no time. You lift his weighty foot by the ankle and lower your face, plunging your nose eagerly inside the rich endless pockets of raunchy garlic stench and luscious soft fuzz, targeting the deepest and most centred space between his ball pad and toe pads. The softness envelops you completely. You try to huff with exaggerated volume again but your nose is probed so far in that your blocked nostrils cannot produce enough noise without immediately sucking in the cotton. The smell is as potent as pure ethanol. One horny huff and you're knocked into an intoxicating stupor, losing all the strength in your hands.
You have to pace yourself and take smaller, less intrusive whiffs while nuzzling his scrunching digits. When the toes splay around your nose they stretch and thin-out the veils of fabric against you, letting you cast your sedated gaze through the threads and into the rank toe gaps hidden within. The movements of the toes writhe against your face setting their dampness against your skin yet they never dislodge you from your faceful of pliable, cotton covered pads. It's an incomparable heaven. You could snort that garlic flavour all day and slurp the years-old stains right off his sock soles… at least with enough time, dedication and saliva.
Tyson checks his wristwatch and states, "Looks like you know how to handle the human well enough on your own. You're free to do whatever you want to him, so long as it won't go over the two hour mark... the bitch has another special client then, too; big reindeer fella who owns some luxury car dealership so he’s gonna have high expectations."
Hank nods, turning his smirk to the rhino for a moment while he crams his paw forcefully into your face, plastering you under the wall of sweaty meat and holey fabric, shifting your head left and right wherever the paw intends if only to find amusement in your laughable weakness.
Hank then says, "Pft, I can see you got yourself a crafty business plan there, bud. Two hours ain't enough to properly get my rocks off so you know I’ll have to come back for more later. Dammit, I know I will, too. Feels so good already I might spend this first hour just smothering him under these foul work socks. Heh, always wanted to do this to a human perv... kinda makes me want one of my very own waiting for me at home, after a day of busy reno'. Shoving your feet in another anthro’s face just ain’t anywhere near the same experience. Muzzles are good for hanging boots or socks on but they block the way for a good even smothering, you know? But these freaks got nice, flatter faces perfect for turning into a floor mat."
Tyson scratches his chin and says, "I can tell you know your stuff. Truth is, finding a foot slut takes no effort at all especially with his kind. This loser basically exposed himself to me just because he kept seeing my feet and wanted to be under 'em that badly. I didn’t have to do nothin’. Now I get to whore him out to guys like you so he's all broken in and supple by the time I get him back, later. That's the beauty of being an anthro ourselves, I guess. It's our world and we get to do anything or have anyone we damn want."
Tyson lingers for another few minutes watching your face stow deeper into the socked paw sole, eclipsed out of sight by its all-consuming proportions and depth. The sound of your insulated breaths flowing in and out of this cottony, musky wall has become an automated rhythm. As the rhino walks past you he decides on a charitable push against the back of your head, clenching your skull in his palm all so that he can sandwich you so much deeper into the dog’s suffocating sole that rivers of sweat and oozed out through the sock holes and trickle down the front of your face, fighting to find space amid the constraining pressure. You begin panting and moaning but the noises are buried out of ear shot. Rancid smells compel you to lose consciousness but you persist in sniffing the St Bernard, even when the rhino’s hand finally eases off the back of your now-throbbing head.
“Treat him well, bitch,” Tyson reminds you, “Or else you disappoint -me- and that’s the last thing you wanna do…”
When he grips the door handle ready to leave the room, he looks at the back of your ruffled head, (where a hand print marks the matted and scruffy areas of your hair). Tyson watches the way you engross yourself in the faceful of odorous dog foot, lovingly smooching and salivating against its orange ball pad through the sock holes while your nose traps itself deeper between the sweltering toe gaps. Hank shares a wink. Tyson grins to himself, knowing you'll be performing the very same embraces to his own feet later today after every client and co-worker has left at last. Teasing you will never grow old. In his mind, you're just a sissy human serving their true, destined purpose... and you'll never have a shortage of anthro feet in your life... especially when those feet are grey, coarse and belong to this apathetic rhinoceros.
THE END
Aroma Therapy
PART TWO
Synopsis: Your co-worker at a spa/salon – a butch, unmannerly rhinoceros named Tyson – uses blackmail to punish you and exploit your fetishes, after discovering you shameful secrets.
Disclaimer:
-Willing Foot Worship
-Filth/Musk/Sweat
-Degrading Domination
-Verbal Abuse
-Rhinoceros (dom)
-POV Perspective (sub)
Stifling heat chokes the sauna atmosphere. Thickened steam rises toward the ceiling and circulates perpetually in the unventilated air. It's balmy and tropical; loaded with moisture. Tyson the rhinoceros sits in the corner of the tiered wood benches, meditating on his own aura of body heat and the body odour broiling around him. His eyes remain closed. His burly body fills much of the small room. His muscled arms extend leisurely along the timber behind him. One leg is extended far along the connecting, perpendicular bench stopping only a short distance away from the vessel of smouldering basalt stones from which the room's heat and steam is derived. His other foot is reared back on its heel, tilting its sole marginally off the black tile floor.
All across his body Tyson's flesh - while still very dense and coating over impenetrable sinew - now radiates a heat that keeps his skin surface tender. His breaths are much heavier now in this artificial atmosphere. Sweat cascades over every visible contour in his body and face like a salty waterfall. The rhinoceros is dripping droplets all around him. Dew is sprinkled upon his brow while streams of perspiration sieve through every pore and trickle over his chiselled physique. Large water tracks gleam visibly down his pecs and armpits. His condensed abs are marinated in the juices, each with a line of moisture squeezed against their edges.
Despite their hardy roughened textures, Tyson's soles are deceptively sensitive. He can feel the tingle of each bead slowly slithering down his ball and heel, curving to the arc of the arch in between. Often the perspiration begins in his toe gaps where miniature pools will form and soak down in his toe webbings, before spilling gently down the underside, (or topside), of the feet. Rivulets make a path down the depths of his back muscles too, slipping down the crack in his rump. Any attempt to mop the sweat from his brow proves useless when it rapidly reforms again and again.
Tyson opens his eyes when he hears the shrill *be-beep, be-beep!* of his wristwatch alarm marking the passing of one full hour since he’d first shoved you in that stink-trap locker. He exhales a stiff breath through his nostrils and clambers slowly to his feet, limbering his tired arms with short rotational exercises that flick sweat across the floor. When the beast strolls across the sauna to fetch the white towel hanging by the door his footfalls clap the tile with a sound of sheer wetness; squelching and peeling from the wake of each sodden, fogged footprint.
"Time to go let the perv' loose I suppose..." He grumbles to himself in monotonous displeasure.
* * *
The darkness, the humidity, the sedative stench numbing you into a comatose trance... you're starting to drift between states of consciousness unaware of how much time has meandered by while you've been spending it all in a faceful of the strongest smelling gym sneaker you've ever had the pleasure to snort. Moaning murmurs and weak hums of pleasure have kept the silence at bay between long periods of nosing into Tyson's toasty insole.
Right now your elbow joints are aching. Your arms have been bent upright all this time cradling the burdensome weight of the big shoe. Your fingers continue to tremble as they were at the beginning. Your grip is feeble. Your legs had given out under you some time ago, persuading you to press your backside flat against the locker wall while you've sunken down into a cosy squat; your shins and knees now pressing up against the locker door.
All this time you've been sniffing on a rhythm that replays itself over and over, never knowing when the rhino might return. You hope Tyson won't mind - or won't know - that throughout this taming process you've also been suckling the shoe's rim, lapping the sour indents like a starving dog, turning the shoe around to pamper its treads and even wriggling your hand deep inside the footwear just to feel the sacred footprint in its furthest depths… or to finger-comb out any old lint and grime once trodden into the insole fibres.
*Sshluck, sshluck, sshluck!*
The sound of muggy, moist-laden footfalls padding over tile encroaches from the distance. The squeaky door to the staff locker room flings open and the rhino's approach becomes ever louder until it stops directly outside the locker. A burly silhouette blocks out the few slates of light in the door. With the clunk of a turning lock and the shriek of hinges the locker door is yanked open flooding the narrow space with light and fresh air, eradicating the growing claustrophobia.
Your eyes are widened - glinting with awe and adoration - at the sight of this profoundly handsome animal towering over you in the threshold, staring bluntly down upon your withered figure. There is nothing but a passive lethargy in his expression. Still, you're star-struck by his mostly naked body exposing all its perfect proportions in a sweaty, slippery downpour. He wears naught but that fleecy white towel around his waist and the waterproof watch around his wrist.
Your breath catches in your throat. You try to inhale the shoe stink one last time but the rhino reaches down and grabs the footwear by its tread once again, now tugging it away from your powerless clutches.
"Out," He grunts, thumbing the air with authoritarian demeanour.
Meanwhile, as you amble out of your confinement and flop pathetically onto the floor at his feet, Tyson reclaims the sneaker-fermenting ziplock from the backpack on the floor. This time he unseals it hastily; shoving the sneaker back inside to hopefully recuperate all its lost vapours and malodour. The crinkly plastic bag and its treasured contents are shoved deep into backpack again, which he tosses into the very locker space from which you have just crawled.
You curl up on the floor in a defeated position, only realising just now how breathless and winded you feel. You stare at his feet and the moisture slowly gathering around the perimeters of his soles like a thin puddle, while other droplets plummet from his body above and splash against the tile. Your wheezing breaths begin to catch up to your belaboured heartbeat. Upon trying to move into a more subservient kneel you understand how jellied and frail your legs have become over the past hour.
"Well, tell me about it. Did my aroma therapy change you? Do you want out... or do you want me even more than ever?" Tyson asks as he stands over you, basking in the control he has over your entire being.
You're about to open your mouth and respond verbally but then you pause and consider what this animal -really- wants from you, as someone he can bully and dominate for fun. In this moment you realize Tyson is the kind of person who might appreciate a physical gesture more than the hollow words he presumably hears all the time from horny queers who fixate on buff, straight males like him. To amend this you do not speak and instead you lower onto all fours directly over his left foot, planting your hands shyly on either side of it. His muscles tense but he does not pull away.
You then lower your face directly to the top of this foot and run your tongue up its firm grey surface. The first few licks are so fearful of rejection that your tongue quivers and dryly scrapes along the appendage. When you realize moments later that the rhino is standing still and contentedly watching you degrade yourself for him, you drop your inhibitions and dress his tasty appendage in a coat of saliva. You start slurping with impassioned fervour across the top of the foot; adoring the wisps of apple cider B.O wafting up into your nose. The salty granule flavours sticking to your taste buds make it seem like the rhino has spent his hour in a detoxifying salt-water bath - a service provided in some of the day spa's tubs - rather than in a sauna. You don’t complain either way.
Tyson, who is pleasantly surprised you chose to answer his question with raw worship, says, "Hmph. That settles that then... seems I’ve got me a foot slut of my very own. Don't think you're the only contender though. You lot always wanna drop at my feet, like you're fuckin' magnetised to 'em or something. You're at least standing out though from the others, that much I can say. Ain't nothing that pisses me off more than a sissy who just gawks and waits for every single instruction. You gotta be intuitive to impress us real men. Lucky for you, you passed the test. If you'd said ‘you wanted out’ I'd have just pull out that other gym sneaker from the bag and shoved you back in there for round two."
You're listening to his every word but now that you're in the peak of your sexual fantasies lavishly touching tongue to foot, you channel your focus into lapping his skin over and over until it pulls and ripples gently under the traction of your oral muscle. You begin to shuffle backwards, aiming your mouth over the tops of his toes now instead. Gloriously his digits are suffused into the floor just enough that small gaps have opened between each toe. You cannot hesitate for another moment. Drunkenly you slather up his big toe first starting on that thick smooth toe nail, making it gloss with saliva until your tongue reaches the digit's knuckle.
You move along to the side one after the other, licking in the acrid crotches between each digit before painting the digit itself under the path of your warm wet tongue. Tyson enjoys the sensations so much that he spreads his toes out even further enticing you to poke your tongue inward and clean their pits, all so that he can close his digits tight and feel your spongy tongue pulling out from between them. It's rare for that brutish deadpan face to be lit up by an arrogant smirk.
Your slurping goes unbroken for several more long, lustful minutes until the rhino asks you a question directly: "Here's another test for you. I'll make a general statement about me coming home. You then tell me what you'd fix about it. So... say I'm coming back to my dorm. You're inside waitin' for me to return. I come in; wipe my boots on the doormat, fetch a beer and sit down to watch the game. I kick my feet up and click my fingers to summon my collared bitch over for a long evening of pampering on my sore feet… Anything wrong with that?"
Through panting breaths you finish your current slurp and raise your blushing head to look him in his sterling, light blue eyes. You wipe your drool-soaked lips and chin against the back of your hand, clear your throat, and think about the question before answering.
"I uh... um," (You're still trying to catch your breath), "You'd come inside but… you wouldn't wipe your boots on some boring doormat because I'd already have laid down there. You'd wipe your boots on me instead, then kick them off and wipe your feet all over me too because they matter just as much! I'd take all your weight and be thankful! N-next you'd go straight to your favourite seat since I'd be the one fetching you the beer. After I give it to you I... I'd ask if you wanted to kick your feet up on me, or if you'd rather use a proper surface and have be worship them instead. Then I'd ask if you wanted me to kneel between your legs and suck you off while you watch the whole game?"
Your heart has already skipped several beats during this fantasised explanation. Now you hold the surging tension deep inside you as you wait for his reaction.
Once again Tyson scratches his bristly chin, imagining the scenario for himself. "Pretty bold to assume I'd let your whore mouth anywhere near my dick but the rest of it hits the mark. It’s lucky for me that you've got such low self-esteem. That’s essential in a pet who lives to serve. I also know you'll say anything I want to hear just 'cause you just don't wanna lose the chance to be at my feet... but hey, maybe you still got more to prove until then... and that gives me a new idea. I'm taking you over to one of them massage suites now so you can show me more of your tricks. Goes without saying that a good pet doesn't walk on two legs, so I better see you crawling behind me."
Tyson turns and wanders from the room, once again walking with damp meaty impacts that lull you into a giddy smile. Your head turns to ogle the view of his sculpted backside clenching sweat streams amid its muscles. Moisture catches in the backs of his knees and drizzles down his stony toned calves, later gliding behind his ankles. By now you might hold the record for 'longest lasting blush'. Your cheeks haven't stopped showing their rosy tinge since first entering the day spa this morning.
Before pushing through the door the rhino glares back over his shoulder to instruct you one last time. "Don't skimp on my footprints either, foot slut. I know you gotta by thirsty after being in that locker for so long. If you can live off shoe stink you can live off my sole sweat, too."
Your dizzy sway is indicative of the chemical warfare occurring inside your brain. You're still high on the dosage of sneaker fumes - unable to filter anything other than his debasing commands - and now you have a mouth-watering trail of stagnant, slick footprints each as big as your entire face, guiding you forward.
You want to scamper hastily after the anthro but you're compelled to stop crawling every few paces and lower your face against the shimmering residue of tracks; each so perfectly defined with distinct toe imprints and long sole marks. Raspy breaths flow from your lips, rippling the footprint dew. Though it's likely nothing more than the under-floor heating at work, you indulge the idea that Tyson's prints radiate their own intensive heat. This prompts you to lean forward and smush your lips against the floor, puckering them and pressuring them down for a long smooch somewhere over the ball and toes region. You pull back with a stunted grunt of pleasure. Your spine feels weak. Your limbs quake. You decide not to linger to test that instability, so you crawl forward only to stop at another print a few feet ahead. This time you bend over and lick along its slim arch stain before gliding a second lick back over its heel.
Your pattern of selectively worshipping the ground where Tyson walks shepherds you along down the corridor, past the reception counter, across the foyer and into one of the corresponding massage suites. Your palms sting from the constant compression. Your knees throb after so much servile crawling. Gradually the severity of these footprints begins to wane the further they travel along. Soon the shapes become less distinctive. Their saturation becomes nothing more than flat, dried stains on the ground. Regardless you follow them until the end of their trail planting kisses desperately into their surfaces even as your lips begin to adopt small specks of floor dust.
By the end you find yourself hobbling into the suite stopping in front of the rhinoceros himself who stands patiently in wait, leaning against the massage table. This is a spacious room which copies that contemporary design of wood slates, pale back-glow lights and white plaster. Sleek plants flank a side table covered in rolled towels, therapeutic oils and incense.
The massage table itself is an expensive surface of teak and thick, quilted white padding; extended to meet the demands of anthro clientele who are often very tall and heavy animals such as stallions, bulls, cervines, alligators or large canine/feline species. Sitting in the room's corner is a matching massage chair with vibration and self-heating controls, (a chair more-so reserved for hand and foot massages specifically). Beside this there sits an optional foot spa unit, currently lacking any water, used to soften the client's feet and soak their toenails or claws for an easier pedicure.
"About time you arrived," Tyson snorts under his breath.
"Sorry, I was busy… kissing your footprints," You sheepishly explain.
"Why?" He asks, not out of confusion for reason – considering he ordered you not to waste his prints – but instead he asks this question because he wants to wring a specific answer out of you.
Your eyelids flutter sensuously and you mutter what he is waiting to hear, "...because I'm a foot slut?"
"Huh, couldn’t agree more," The rhino smirks. He then extends his upturned hand and unfurls his fist, revealing the pair of white-grey socks from earlier and a small wooden clothes peg resting in his palm. He then says, "Gonna make you peg these socks over your nose for the rest of our day together. Aroma therapy doesn't stop at my rank sneakers y'know. I know a bitch like you already comes broken-in, pre-assembled to serve, but it's fun to watch you squirm anyhow."
Without protest you tip your head back and flare your nostrils when the half-naked rhino steps forward, looming over your kneeling body like a cliff of musculature. His hand aggressively grabs your jaw squeezing your head in its grasp. A silent spell lingers as the rhino stares down into your eyes. You look up at him with bated breath, letting him examine you as if you were an item for purchase. His hands then work together to smother your nose under the neatly folded socks, clamping them around your nostrils and cartilage without letting the fabric drape too far over your mouth. The clothes peg is pinched around the end squeezing tightly over the bridge of your nose, affixing the socks into place. Your nostrils are once again squished but the textile insulation protects you from the pain of the peg. Regardless of breathability, sweet scents still conquer your senses and become a part of your respiratory cycle. The smell is much less assaulting than the vaporous gym shoe. It reminds you of Tyson's ordinary B.O but mixed with the aroma of old cotton. Your nose is trapped inside the fluffy cast and the peg stands vertically in the way of your vision but you still beam with a simpering smile when the rhino releases your face.
Tyson's hands then interlock together, entwining his fingers before extending both arms for a hearty stretch. His broad palms expose themselves to you while his fingers crackle therapeutically. He groans, content to unravel the towel protecting his innocence without so much as a warning. Out of timid respect you look away to the side when you see a flash of hung rhino groin baring itself in the flesh.
Tyson strips himself naked and tosses the towel across the room. He then seats himself up on the massage table, draping his legs heavily over the front. His heels rise off the floor but his toe tips still press warmly into its surface. Tyson is evidently familiar with undressing in front of other people through years of using communal showers and locker rooms, (after each rugby match played on his university grounds). He observes your timid behaviour with a humoured scoff. He shakes his head in disbelief and proceeds to lie down across the padded table top until he is extensively spread from end to end. His stocky arms cross together under his chin. His legs loll out straight but limp, keeping his bare soles upturned into view.
"You can get up now, my dick is out of sight… you soft-bellied wimp," He mumbles.
You squeak out a quiet apology. At long last you stand up to your usual height, balancing on legs of shaken jelly. When you gaze at the prostrate animal you see a thick current of grey brawn flowing across the table. The overhead lighting illuminates his rocky physique and the deep flesh trenches between his back muscles, leading down to a dense rump of perfectly defined cheeks. Naturally as your eyes scan across him you're gravitated towards his feet waiting at the far end. The same lighting maintains a brightened focus on his soles and the nature of their rugged, unwieldy arch creases.
His horned head is turned slightly in your direction, giving you a glare of expectation. "You know what I want... get to it. It's about time I deserved some pampering in this place."
Were it not for the peg obstructing your eyesight you might have already forgotten his worn socks are folded around your nose re-introducing every breath to the mulled flavour of masculinity. You sniff the cotton with lusty purpose but you subdue the sounds you make, so that the noise of your obsession doesn't irritate Tyson.
Autonomously you drag your lead-heavy legs over towards him, first applying a slick sheen of citrus scented body lotion to your palms. You then stand alongside his rested figure, near his hip. You gulp. You clear your throat. Nothing helps to muster back the courage you once had before being subjected to his sovereign dominance. Both he and you know you'll forever be a shaking husk in his presence, inside and outside of the workplace. From now on, the true test will be trying to endure his teases whenever you're in the midst of other people, (be they co-worker or client), so that you don't publicly blow your cover and expose your fetish to outside sources.
Tyson raises a brow as he waits for your touch. His ear turns reflexively at the sound of squelching lotion followed by the sheepish shuffle of you leaning over his body. Your hands stretch forward and grope across his deltoids; smearing trails in, out and around the deep recesses of muscle between shoulders and neck. His proportions make your hands look dwarfed in size reminding you of your inferiority by contrast. With enough persistence these massaging motions eventually roll further down his backside where you begin to surge your palms forward and back with grinding force, skating the heel of each palm up and down the meat either side of his spine before swirling the pressure around his shoulder plates in wide circles.
You begin to sweat nervously at the brow. Even with all your strength you can hardly burrow a dent in his leathery thick skin. You begin to wonder if Tyson can feel your efforts at all. As you lean and veer directly over his upper body you begin to breathe more heavily and slowly, trying to compose yourself even with a terrain of grey sweaty beast beneath you. The mere sight of his deepened muscle margins glimmering with sweat beads makes you wish you could lean down and lick them clean. At the very least, his effortlessly drenched backside is still festered in sauna warmth and the moisture gives your hands plentiful lubrication to compensate for his tough skin texture.
"Harder!" He commands, never deigning to lift his head up from atop his criss-crossed hands.
Your stressed grunting is followed by rushed obedience. You begin chopping rhythmically and rapidly along his upper back with the sides of both hands, like a chef flexing their prowess with two knives. You then lean down further - hovering inches above his back until he can feel your nervous breath on his neck - and one by one you drill your elbows down deep behind each shoulder, finally indenting the sinew. You know you've succeeded when a satisfied groan rumbles heavily from the rhino's lips. Your hands later mop down the surface in synchronized lines, (scrunching your fingers repeatedly along the way), until you reach his lower back where you pump your flattened palms into him with pressured timely pushes, like a defibrillator. It makes sense now why stronger co-workers such as Tyson are assigned to massage the larger more robust anthros, when people like you are usually assigned to the svelte, skinny, agile and lightweight anthros. The differences in clientele between a greyhound runner athlete, as opposed to a stallion race-horse champion for example, are immense.
Soon enough Tyson has settled completely into a leisurely mind-set. His body has now slacked from its usual tension allowing you to rub him down more effectively. This means you can plant your palms on his plump rump and squeeze handfuls of firm cheek flesh, groping them with scrunching fingers and therapeutic intent. Similar processes continue down the rhino's thighs and calves though these muscles require a more involved and generous spread of rubs, ingraining the sweaty skin with that citrus scented oil. Small fisted impacts gently pummel down the centres of Tyson's calves before you pause suddenly. Your beady eyes drift over his two ample feet upturned under your face like a ravishing feast upon a plate. Their bulk and ferocity continues to stun you no matter how many times you see them.
With an icy, excited shudder you stroll around to stand at the end of the table coyly positioning your groin as closely to his ten toes as you dare. You reach forward and lower your hands over his heels like a cloche, concealing them out of sight. Your palms press intimately around their rounded shapes. Your fingers bend softly over their girth. Friction sustains between his skin and yours. You breathe out slowly into the air and churn your hands against them over and over with careful twists, as if polishing them to a shine. A moan accidentally escapes through your opened lips but the rhino makes no scathing comment, even after opening one eye in response to the effeminate noise.
"Your skin feels kind of dry around your heels," You remark, testing the waters to see if Tyson will berate you with more arousing, degrading comments.
"So then make 'em wet for me, you damn idiot," The anthro retorts.
Bingo. Your heart flutters on wings of bliss. Compliantly you slip your hands away to the sides and grip the edges of the table padding as you lower your head down into the deep bowl-like curve of one foot's arch, perching your chin lightly atop rows of instep wrinkles. The airs captured right here is the same aromatic crispness you've come to expect from his soles. Nonetheless, spellbound licks and full-mouth suckles instantly commence. Your lips stretch voraciously around his calloused heel sucking at its salty, tangy surface as if this heel is your source of nutrition. Your eyelids are shut but your eyes still roll beneath them. You draw your lips shut at the centre with a watery slurp before extending back around the girth again, hungry for more. Your fingers clench tighter around the quilted padding.
"Mmhn, mmhn, mmhhhmn..." Your moans are suppressed by your panting breaths torrent out of your nostrils.
At the opposite end of the table a buttery smirk of knowing superiority spreads across Tyson's face. "At least I guessed the right foot slut this time. Red macaw who used to work here last year wasn’t so lucky when I thought he was nicking from my locker, too. Not socks, mind you, but I still felt the need to punish him. The guy got six whole hours of that good old 'aroma therapy' to get a confession out of him. Turns out I was wrong and he was innocent the whole time but I didn't find that out 'till afterwards... and the feathered dumb-fuck was so desperate to get out he still confessed when he weren't even guilty, thinking the fake honesty was gonna help him. Didn't help shit, I can tell you that much. He might not have been a thief but liars still get what’s coming to ‘em."
You let the rhino wade in his ego-driven nostalgia. Meanwhile you retreat back from the one heel towing a short-lived strand of drool from your mouth to his foot. You then start working on the other.
Before sucking his heel and exfoliating its salted skin under your saliva, your sock-clasped nose cruises along his arch sniffing in that pinching tang of apple cider smell. The cotton bunches and hangs down on either side of your nostrils, interrupting and guarding against the majority of this musk. In this current predicament, only the very tip of your nose can peek out from under the sock folds hence this is the only portion capable of touching his flesh. This tip sinks further into the arch and slides unhindered up towards the heel in a wobbly, ticklish line. Thankfully you've grown numb to the tightness of the clothes peg. It's simply an accoutrement added to the pleasurable trance in which you're held.
As captivating as these socks feel and smell in their close proximity you're still growing desperately antsy with an unstoppable yearning to un-peg them, toss them aside and plant your nose in its raw nativity all across these exalted soles. Until that opportunity comes you'll have to settle for applying tongue-baths instead. For now your mouth openly pants against his right heel. Your tongue drapes out, gliding up the rough skin over and over like a paint roller. Your laps glaze directly against the burnished patch of dirt-darkened heel surrounded in littered spit speckles. You keep licking until the dew gathers enough to start trickling back down the slope of his furrowed arch. Every time your tongue returns to your maw to refresh itself you can taste the flavours of musty, trodden floor dust particles.
Next you shift your head back across to the left leg again snorting sock fuzz into your nostrils. You groan; showing your weakness for this better, bigger male. Briefly you put your face back into his humid arch space, this time jubilantly scraping your chin up and down the thickened ball of the foot before planting a shy kiss into the arch itself.
In the frenzy of lust and heaving breaths you hear a muttering declaration from the rhino who says, "Hmph... for a masseuse you give a lot more interaction than you're allowed. You should be grateful that I like it so much. Keep it going for now but don't forget why I'm on this table..."
The command is all you need to nuzzle the entire side of your face into his arch and rub yourself into him, adoringly. Your cheek feels fuzzy and slick with rhino sweat whenever you pull back. After a throaty gulp you turn your face back into the sole and probe your tongue between the arch creases, sliding it side to side along their widths until tiny granules of grime stick to the end of your tongue. A smooch is planted on the blackish heel dirt. Once again you reposition to the right foot now, trying your best to provide equal reverence for both appendages. During this move you become aware of the turgid bulge in your pants and just how much you've been subconsciously pressing this into the front of the table, grinding the padded edge beneath the rhino's toes.
Passionately you bring your face towards the sole on an angled tilt, nosing and mouthing at the doughy perimeters of the foot itself. Once you've caught your breath you unroll your tongue again, stroking it up the side edge of the sole starting at his ball and ending at the heel. You pamper this same area with multiple overlapping licks but eventually you transition to the other side - the inner side - which allocates your blushing head in between both feet at once. You want to assume the 'gym locker room B.O' infiltrating your airways is wafting off the soles but often it's hard to tell while you’re simultaneously breathing from the pegged socks too.
Ignoring the distraction of your haywire thoughts, you turn your head in on that same low angle and begin painting saliva up the inner side of Tyson's foot. Your tongue is too slack to make the flesh yield beneath its pressure but you aren’t deterred. From this perspective you now get to lick his softer instep instead of the meaty arch. Subtly, even for an animal of his gruff expanse, the foot twitches and his toes jolt lightly as if triggered by a sensitive tickle. From here a volley of kisses are planted down each of the two soles separately, ending with a long suckling kiss against the ball of each foot. Here the flesh is more supple and plump. Its surfaces are naturally oily and coated in a film of slow-drying sweat. Your urges to do away with the muzzling socks and bury your nose deep like a spade into this meaty mass become ever stronger.
When your tongue attempts to squirm over the hump of ball and slather along the undersides of Tyson's toes you're halted by a stern grunt from beyond: "Ain't much of a massage happening at the moment. Did I say you could turn this into one of your pervy fantasies?"
You mumble a bashful apology and straighten your back, embracing the burning in your cheeks. Your chin glints with moisture. Tyson accommodates you by raising his upturned feet off the table surface, balancing the weight into his knees while his appendages hover up freely near your chest. Your docile hands slip underneath, (wrapping and cradling them by their topsides), keeping them levelled so the soles stretch out before you like an undulant plateau of grey. You can only see the back of Tyson's head in the foreground which renders you unaware of his toothy grin.
You're desperate to please his needs. With your hands under his feet tops you lock your thumbs around each appendage pressing the thumb tips harshly into his ball. Divots are formed. When you drill these thumbs deeper you manage to touch on his nerves, provoking a sudden stimulus in the rhino's bulky toes. All ten extremities flex apart sharply, only closing together after you ease the pressure on his ball.
"I-is that hurting you?" You ask with worry in your widened eyes.
"What are you, my girlfriend?" He scoffs. "Keep rubbing, bitch. You couldn't hurt me if you tried."
Curiously you repeat the action again, nudging your thumbs firmly through the flesh and crushing any stray sweat beads down into the depths. Once again his toes suffuse in the air below your chin, reacting to the pulse of sensation. They're spread so broadly that for a moment you see glimmering sweat strands hanging between them. The sight is so enthralling you cannot help but play with his sensitivity; rolling your thumbs around the ball of each foot albeit now with less intensity. Each time your thumbs revolve full-circle the rhino will curl or flex his toes responsively. You simper at the sight and chew your lip. Despite all this activity over the past couple hours you can rarely comprehend that this is now your reality; one marinated in fetish and obsession in ways you could've only ever imagined.
Eventually the tenderising slows to a stop. Your finger joints ache. The warmth emanating from the cowl of socks over your nose has blended with the rosy warmth of your cheeks. Decidedly you cannot resist the urges any longer. You bend your knees and lower your face down to meet the row of toes laid out side by side in front of your mouth. You try to huff but you only inhale the sock cotton and its stale muted stench of old laundry.
"I want to suck them -soo- badly," You whine. "Please let me, Tyson, please!"
This at least serves to amuse the horned animal. He wriggles his toes directly near your drying lips, knowing how badly you want them. "So you foot sluts have no decency, huh?" He asks, "You lay eyes on anthro toes and your gut reaction is to want 'em deep in your mouth? You need help."
Impatiently Tyson lifts one his hands out from under his resting chin and he rubs his palm over his face, processing his choices through frustration and thinly veiled disgust. "You get one suck per toe. You put your lips around it, you pull back, you move on. Got it?"
Your words of gratitude flutter out on a whisper. After taking hold of the rhino's shins you open your mouth and target one of his small toes, pursing your lips around its curling roundness for a suckle that lasts several seconds. You draw yourself back and move along the toes one after the other, each time swallowing it into your cosy maw and letting its calloused top-side lay over your tongue before pulling back with a sealed, hearty suck down the digit's length.
This deviant pattern continues until you finishing mouthing and drooling around the index toe, at which point you unsheathe it from your lips and take a pause for air. Tyson can feel every gust of hot breath particles flowing over and in between his saliva soaked digits. He wriggles them together to erode the slick moisture trapping in their gaps. When you return to the process you skip past the rhino's big toes and instead focus on the other foot, once again wetting your palate on the four smaller toes one by one, taming their squirming or curling movements each time they slip through your lips and bathe on your taste buds. Once you have finished this set you pull back again for more oxygen, realising that you subconsciously hold your breath each time you take in a mouthful of digit. By now you've sucked all but the two big toes.
"You don't know how long I've waited for a day like this," You speak mid-drool.
"Don't get too excited," He warns, "It ain't like I'm dragging you home after this to fuck your brains out or make you my dorm room footstool. Not yet, anyways. You'll slink off back to your own place after this and probably spend all night jerking your meat to thoughts of me. Then you'll come back to work day in and day out knowing I'm here and you won't know if I'm gonna tease you all day or ignore you just for fun... it'll drive you wild."
Your huff of stunted breath merges with a soft sexual groan. Your knees want to collapse out from under you. Your masochism rises to the surface when you suggest, "Y-you should definitely film me worshipping your feet, on your phone, so you can show your friends and laugh at me whenever you want. O-or to blackmail me into doing what you say?"
Tyson scoffs. He glances back over his muscled shoulder, hosting a mild smirk. "Don't need to," He mutters. "I'll make sure people know you're my bitch, video proof or not. Blackmail ain't necessary neither when I can just click my fingers and you'll drop to your hands and knees, no matter who else is around. What you need is a leash and a shoe muzzle to shut you up."
Your hands tense around the girth of his sturdy shins, squeezing them tightly. "Oh god, yes!" You wheeze.
"That was a joke... but don't tempt me," He grumbles back, rolling his eyes.
You gulp down any diluted dirt molecules and sweat droplets lapped from the bottoms of his feet or toes, (still swishing or settling like sediment around the various spaces of your mouth). Swiftly your lips return to the last of his unattended toes, culminating in a wider swallow as these two biggest digits plough together into the depths of your maw. Sprinkles of black floor dust grinded into the minute grooves of his skin become swept by currents of oozing drool. The thick toenails touch against your taste buds. You focus not on each toe individually but on cleaning them together as one unit, even when they shift around your maw separately. The surfaces of his digits rub up and down the wrinkled roof of your mouth, or poke against your inner-cheeks. You indulge them and suck around them, flicking your tongue about until they drip from every contour. A full five minutes is spent on sucking these toes alone, which defies the rhino's rule yet he seems content to keep you in your current place regardless.
It's only when you do retract - blinking slowly and feeling groggy with dopamine - that Tyson finally checks his wristwatch and says, "Janitor comes by in an hour. You got that long to keep rubbing my feet -with your hands- then we call it a day. I ain't ready to show off my new foot slut to anybody else just yet, and that old Irish Wolfhound doesn't wanna see some measly human getting hard over my feet. No more mouth stuff, either. My soles are gonna prune if you don't tone it down. You just put your mitts to work and sniff my socks 'till then. Otherwise, you so much as breathe on my feet and I'm stuffing you back in that locker with my gym sneakers all night, okay?”
You heed Tyson's words with a nod he cannot see and you stand quickly to your full height, finishing the awkward joint-aching posture that has kept you levelled with his toes until now. You stumble on numb legs towards the side table for a second application of citrus-scented body lotion, (due to be rubbed ‘ordinarily’ into Tyson's body and feet once again). Admittedly you feel disappointed at the no-worship rule, however at this point a special bond has been fostered between you and the rhino where he knows your deepest secrets and your sexual impulses. He has indefinite power over you, with the unchallenged intent to exploit that power. Though you must act like a regular masseuse for the next hour, both you and Tyson know there will plenty more perversions together in the coming days.
* * *
(One week later)
You huddle on your hands and knees, cascaded in shade, seeing only the dimensions of wood around you. You are currently tucked out of sight into the alcove under the wide reception counter, expected - by demands from above - to remain still and inconspicuous. To your left is a wall of curved timber. To your right is the chair of white faux leather and silver frame, groaning under some behemoth weight. You can empathise with the chair. You’re also struggling with a burden which props on your back like two heavy, felled logs. It strains your spine but still you're forced to sustain your tolerance and play the role of the well-behaved footrest.
Your nose - finally free from those pegged socks - twitches whenever a particular zesty smell shoots directly up your nostrils, filling your lungs like a flammable gas. The root of this malodour is a pair of large, brown, overused sandals spread leisurely down on the tiled floor directly in the vicinity of your nose. You can tell by their vigour that Tyson has been wearing this footwear much more regularly, in recent days. They fume with a smell redolent of his usual ‘apple cider B.O’ only mixed with the newer flavours of buttered - and slightly burnt - popcorn.
This in particular is the smell of sandal insoles worn for too many hours at once, absorbing sweat into their already pummelled, shapely imprints. The bottoms of each crater made by the rhino's enormous feet have become an assembly of black sodden smears, bowing soft leather, plastered fluff motes and ashy microscopic seasoning. Outside of these grooves and perky bumps, (in the areas unaffected by weighty foot friction), the leather gleams from old perspiration stains.
You've been forbidden to lick across these delectable landscapes for at least another week as their wearer wants to fester more filth into their insoles first before allowing you a sacred taste of his labour. This inability to mop your tongue into those heated black pits pains you more than any of the rhino's previous torments. Your desperate moans mean nothing to him, whatsoever. This morning you have only been given permission to sniff and snuffle over the flat footwear like a truffle pig, inhaling every particle of stench possible without ever putting lips to leather.
As the rhinoceros wreaks control over your life he often notices what kinky behaviours you're most interested in that day, such as licking for example, and then he deliberately restricts you from exploring said behaviour just to see you squirm helplessly under his command. To earn the right of free worship again you often have to find a way to appease him such as buying him food and drink from the day spa vending machines, or by opting to do all his work chores such as the end-of-shift floor sweep, so that Tyson can leave early. Finding an opportunity to seek out these ‘offerings’ isn’t always easy, especially on days like this when you’re spending your shift as a living piece of furniture.
While your nosy is hard at work dodging the sandal straps to hover over his footprints and breathe their glory, you hear the main foyer doors opening as a client enters the spa. By the resonance of their thudding footfalls approaching from the other side of the counter you can tell they are a person of lofty size. Tyson's body language does not change upon seeing them approach. He continues sitting behind the desk with impassive apathy, crossing his feet over your back and airing out his toes above you with candid splaying scrunches.
A baritone voice says, "You Tyson? Got that private email you sent out to us registered members. I'm keen to try out that 'special service' you mentioned. Got so excited about it I didn't wash for a few days now."
The rhino responds to the mysterious voice with a nod, (after looking left and right to ensure the boss is nowhere present), and he says, "Yep. I'll only charge the normal spa fee to your card like everyone else but the rest we do in cash, as agreed."
Sounds of papery rustling and low, under-breath coughs ensue. You glance to the side, watching Tyson's hand reach down into view and pocket a bundle of cash bills. At first you aren't sure what to expect of the situation until your eavesdropping pays off, and your eyes bulge nervously.
"So, uh... is the human ready or what?" The voice queries, eagerly.
Tyson slides his cumbersome feet off your back one by one, dragging them by their heels until they press firmly on the tile. You gulp. Your eyes dart about. A cold shiver runs down your back. "Sure is," Tyson mutters, "He's been under me all this time, getting himself worked up on pure stink."
“Heh, he doesn’t know anything about stink yet, I tell ya,” The voice muses.
A knowing chuckle is shared between him and the client. Tyson then wheels his chair back and steps out from behind the counter. He whistles sharply summoning you out from the dingy space. Self-consciously you crawl out on all fours, standing with a chaste hesitance beside your horned co-worked. Your face is red and flustered. Your hands twiddle awkwardly in front of your groin covering the bulge that has swelled there over the past half hour. Your alerted eyes stare up and down the newcomer.
The client is another momentous anthro boasting a stalwart body; this time a burly St Bernard canine with heavy jowls and brow weighing on their furrowed, tired face. Their tri-colour coat of black, bronze and white is extra shaggy. Belted black jeans pair with a light blue denim shirt, rolled at the sleeves and flecked in dry white paint. Voluminous mustard-yellow work boots seal around his paws. A name tag reading 'Hank' is pinned into their breast pocket. The hound stares back at you with desirous intentions buried deep in those hazel eyes.
"What's going on?" You ask, looking up to Tyson for direction.
"Nothin' much," He bluntly replies, "Just a special client for you to work on. First of many I'd reckon. See, while you're down there sniffing shoes like a freak I'm up here making new opportunities and utilising your... 'passions'. Because of that I got a growing list of clients out there who know about a certain human who'll fawn over their feet for an extra fee, off the books of course. I pocket the cash, you get to worship more anthros. We all win."
Tyson concludes his entrepreneurial pitch with an impactful pat on your ass that jolts your entire body and coerces you one step closer towards the St Bernard. Before you know it, you're following the two anthros across the foyer and being led into the very same massage suit where you'd pampered Tyson a week ago.
The atmosphere is tense as the door closes behind you. This beefy St Bernard comfortably takes his place in the massage recliner chair. Tyson leans against the wall nearby crossing his arms over his chest. He stares at you with unblinking indifference as you lower cautiously onto the small stool in front of the dog. Your breath catches in your ever-tightening throat. Without any hesitance to speak off Hank casually thrusts up one leg and dumps his booted foot right into your lap, heavily nestling it between your thighs. His heel tread edges forward until it stops a few short inches away from your groin. Your mouth hangs open but words are yet to make an exit. You’ve come to expect brash behaviour like this from clients in the past, who simply expect everything from you without offering so much as the slightest consideration but now the tone in the environment is wholly different.
Tyson begins to explain the situation more clearly: "Hank here works all day fixing up houses and making bank on their renovations. Hard working fella like that's gotta have some pretty sore tired paws, right? Show him what you're gonna do about that. I'll stand in this time and keep an eye on you, so I know you're not ripping off our special client here with subpar worship."
You, with your colour-flushed face, look up into the St Bernard's eyes directly ahead. He raises a brow and smirks, having seemingly been told what to expect from this 'exclusive service'. Without any words worth uttering, you wrap your hands around the chunky boot hoping that if you squeeze it tightly enough your shivering arms will evade their attention. A subtle gulp travels down your throat. Your fingers struggle around the worn, sawdust-imprinted shoe laces. These laces finally tug loose after various awkward handlings and the pinching of frayed knots. Once untied the footwear expels a breath of relief around the big dog's shin, ventilating traces of funky odour. One whiff pumps you with adrenaline. You seize the boot in your hands and fight it off the paw with slow wobbles, shakes and upward tugs. Firstly a heavy heel thumps back into your lap. Secondly the footwear wrenches up into the air, beheld with piety. A lustrous foot paw is left out in the open leaning vertically towards your abdomen, marvelling in its freedom from that stuffy cramping internment. Steamy aroma is whisking off the thick, sullied and heat-faded greyish-green socks hanging ragged around these paws. Frayed holes big and small have torn through the sole where its material has eroded underfoot.
You're anxious to begin. When you attempt to set the dog's boot down to the floor Tyson clears his throat loudly and asks, "Forgetting something, foot slut? Where do boots go first before they're put out of sight?"
Blush immediately strikes your cheeks. You whisper a hushed apology and lift that work boot back towards your face, turning it until you confront the mouth of the shoe; a tunnelled dark hole exhaling a strong stinking breeze back at you, adrift with pollutants that make you crinkle your nose on instinct. The two anthros chuckle when you squeeze your face inside this footwear as far as it'll reach, at least until the rim indents a ring around your cheek flesh. You add volume to your raspy inhales and exhales, compensating for the muffled sound while also trying to show your superiors that you're dedicated in subservience. The stench that then sizzles in your nasal passages and resorts you into spluttering fits is a stench of crushed garlic aerating its zest. You continue holding this heavy item in both hands for three long minutes, living off the dog musk, shuddering and moaning inside it each time the paw in your lap nudges its heel up against your groin.
During this display of reverence you hear Tyson mutter to the hound, "He's still in training and a little co-dependant on your demands… but that's just part of the fun."
Once instructed to move on, (by Hank himself), you heed his every word and set the boot down politely; already feeling slightly tipsy on its fumes. He points down at the tip of his own paw where the sock hugs around his large toe digits, showing water-logged darkness staining the material over the place of every paw pad. Here the sock makes a canopy between each tenting claw shape, too. You can only imagine the dank dampness embedded for years in its fibrous cloth.
"Go on," Hank instructs, "Have a smell of a -real- working man. Might show you what a pussy you are by comparison."
It's fortunate you're already sitting as your knees might have buckled already at this command. You waste no time. You lift his weighty foot by the ankle and lower your face, plunging your nose eagerly inside the rich endless pockets of raunchy garlic stench and luscious soft fuzz, targeting the deepest and most centred space between his ball pad and toe pads. The softness envelops you completely. You try to huff with exaggerated volume again but your nose is probed so far in that your blocked nostrils cannot produce enough noise without immediately sucking in the cotton. The smell is as potent as pure ethanol. One horny huff and you're knocked into an intoxicating stupor, losing all the strength in your hands.
You have to pace yourself and take smaller, less intrusive whiffs while nuzzling his scrunching digits. When the toes splay around your nose they stretch and thin-out the veils of fabric against you, letting you cast your sedated gaze through the threads and into the rank toe gaps hidden within. The movements of the toes writhe against your face setting their dampness against your skin yet they never dislodge you from your faceful of pliable, cotton covered pads. It's an incomparable heaven. You could snort that garlic flavour all day and slurp the years-old stains right off his sock soles… at least with enough time, dedication and saliva.
Tyson checks his wristwatch and states, "Looks like you know how to handle the human well enough on your own. You're free to do whatever you want to him, so long as it won't go over the two hour mark... the bitch has another special client then, too; big reindeer fella who owns some luxury car dealership so he’s gonna have high expectations."
Hank nods, turning his smirk to the rhino for a moment while he crams his paw forcefully into your face, plastering you under the wall of sweaty meat and holey fabric, shifting your head left and right wherever the paw intends if only to find amusement in your laughable weakness.
Hank then says, "Pft, I can see you got yourself a crafty business plan there, bud. Two hours ain't enough to properly get my rocks off so you know I’ll have to come back for more later. Dammit, I know I will, too. Feels so good already I might spend this first hour just smothering him under these foul work socks. Heh, always wanted to do this to a human perv... kinda makes me want one of my very own waiting for me at home, after a day of busy reno'. Shoving your feet in another anthro’s face just ain’t anywhere near the same experience. Muzzles are good for hanging boots or socks on but they block the way for a good even smothering, you know? But these freaks got nice, flatter faces perfect for turning into a floor mat."
Tyson scratches his chin and says, "I can tell you know your stuff. Truth is, finding a foot slut takes no effort at all especially with his kind. This loser basically exposed himself to me just because he kept seeing my feet and wanted to be under 'em that badly. I didn’t have to do nothin’. Now I get to whore him out to guys like you so he's all broken in and supple by the time I get him back, later. That's the beauty of being an anthro ourselves, I guess. It's our world and we get to do anything or have anyone we damn want."
Tyson lingers for another few minutes watching your face stow deeper into the socked paw sole, eclipsed out of sight by its all-consuming proportions and depth. The sound of your insulated breaths flowing in and out of this cottony, musky wall has become an automated rhythm. As the rhino walks past you he decides on a charitable push against the back of your head, clenching your skull in his palm all so that he can sandwich you so much deeper into the dog’s suffocating sole that rivers of sweat and oozed out through the sock holes and trickle down the front of your face, fighting to find space amid the constraining pressure. You begin panting and moaning but the noises are buried out of ear shot. Rancid smells compel you to lose consciousness but you persist in sniffing the St Bernard, even when the rhino’s hand finally eases off the back of your now-throbbing head.
“Treat him well, bitch,” Tyson reminds you, “Or else you disappoint -me- and that’s the last thing you wanna do…”
When he grips the door handle ready to leave the room, he looks at the back of your ruffled head, (where a hand print marks the matted and scruffy areas of your hair). Tyson watches the way you engross yourself in the faceful of odorous dog foot, lovingly smooching and salivating against its orange ball pad through the sock holes while your nose traps itself deeper between the sweltering toe gaps. Hank shares a wink. Tyson grins to himself, knowing you'll be performing the very same embraces to his own feet later today after every client and co-worker has left at last. Teasing you will never grow old. In his mind, you're just a sissy human serving their true, destined purpose... and you'll never have a shortage of anthro feet in your life... especially when those feet are grey, coarse and belong to this apathetic rhinoceros.
THE END
Category Story / Paw
Species Rhinoceros
Gender Male
Size 120 x 120px
Listed in Folders
I like the way we are essentially made the hero of events, and we can imagine ourselves at the monsieur of the hero. Thank you again, it was wonderful.
POV perspective stories have always been a really fun way to get the reader involved in the plot so it means a lot that you enjoyed it!
excellent story x3
It was exciting to breathe in the scent of this rhino's feet.
Thank you very much for this story, you will always be welcome here
It was exciting to breathe in the scent of this rhino's feet.
Thank you very much for this story, you will always be welcome here
Thanks Yalin that's always appreciated! :) I'm happy you had a good time with this one!
Yup, im absolutely in love and you done it again, I really like Tyson and this Saint Bernard character too theyre both so manly and dominant, I love how overpowering Tyson is
The best part about writing these is seeing how people respond after reading from start to end and thank you again for your kind observations :) we all need a man like Tyson in our lives that's for sure!
I always drop whatever I'm doing when you drop a surprise story. Excellently written, and I hope you're doing well <3
Thank you Chris that means a lot! It is hard work to produce these stories especially these days so it's nice to see people appreciating the end result :)
I am definitely not upset that you keep dropping surprise stories! You really do have a way with words that is rare!
Thank you too, VoodooFrog! Sadly I can confirm this is the last I have planned for a while at least so I do hope it ends on a good note :)
Oh that's incredible, icing on the cake! Being rented out to worship the paws of other anthros <3
If that doesn't teach a sub their place I don't know what does! ;)
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