Work From Home (Chapter 5) (Patreon)

“Well, would you look at that,” Larissa purred, having sidled up close to her friend on the couch to observe the proceedings. She raised an eyebrow, then pointed at the diminutive fellow’s waist. “Guess I was right. As usual.”

Sure enough, to Carl’s absolute horror, his member was standing at dutiful attention. Looking guiltily down at it felt like an out-of-body experience.

“Jesus, I haven’t even let him touch it yet,” Blair said, more amazed now than disgusted. Her eyes boggled at the undeniable mini-hard-on her parent was sporting in mere proximity to her foot. “He really must’ve been dying to be close to it all this time, huh?”

“No doubt,” Larissa confirmed.

“I was almost starting to feel bad for him a minute ago. When he was crying and calling me sweetie and stuff. Yeah, I know that’s just how he talks and it’s not real, but it still seemed so pathetic coming from such a helpless little thing. Like watching a mouse try to get away while its leg is stuck in a trap. But now… well, I’m over that feeling.”

“Good.”

“There’s nothing left to do, is there?” Blair said. She licked her lips, then redirected her attention from Larissa to her father, in a rare act of charity. “But I’ll tell you what. If you can change my mind about this, Dad, and show me how you really feel, that you’re not really just a disgusting horny little piece of pond scum who wants to fuck his daughter’s feet forever, then maybe we’ll talk about how to help you. But not before. And if you lose this chance now, then I’m sorry, but… you’ve lost the right to be anything or anywhere else except under my foot. Deal?”

“That sounds fair to me,” Larissa concurred, jumping in to speak before Carl could’ve even had a hope of screaming his dissent. “He’d be stupid not to take that deal.”

“I think so too. So be careful what you wish for, Dad. You just might get it. A lot of it.”

With that, Blair’s hand slapped firmly to her sole and stayed there, like a Venus flytrap closing, its jaws constructed from palm and sole.

The moment of the shrunken man’s contact with the titanic mass of his daughter’s foot was nothing short of a revelation. It was transcendent. Every instinct told him to revolt, to wriggle away, to fight his obvious feelings, but it would’ve been just as possible to overpower Blair’s fingers as it would be to resist these primordial urges. Like flopping onto a fresh mattress, his entire front-side sunk full-steam ahead into the fragrant, damp wall of foot-skin. From scalp to ankle, and everything in between, Carl was absolutely smothered flush and unforgiving to the bottom of his grown-up child’s foot.

The experience of being absorbed into Blair’s bare foot bore several similarities to doing the same under Larissa, and yet was vastly different in so many crucial ways. The redhead’s tender flesh was nigh-angelically perfect and creamy in its every atom, even buttery while producing sweat, while Blair’s remarkable softness was dotted with humanizing patches of blemish, where the skin was more rubbery or tougher, thanks to so many days spend standing at the bank to support the household. Somehow these variations in texture and tension served only to remind Carl more tangibly that this was an actual gargantuan foot, his daughter’s foot, that he was currently being forced to embrace via the gentlest possible pressure from her cupped hand, and not just a dreamlike wasteland of velvety pleasures. This omnipresent knowledge, coupled with the inescapable reality that his needful erection was being held captive specifically against his own “little” girl’s sacred bare sole, made this a far more tortuously traumatic, and yet simultaneously enriching, trip than he’d had while under Larissa.

For the hapless little man, life had never been more real than it was in this moment. He was, almost literally, ripped in half by yin-yang desires to both freeze at this erotic pinnacle forever, and also speed up time to skip this family bridge-burning abomination.

“You feel it?” Larissa questioned, picking at her cuticles. “And by it, I mean him.”

“Ohhhh, yeah,” Blair responded with a roll of her eyes. She curled her fingers in toward her palm, concentrating the tips around her shrunken parent’s back, and instead used these to keep him pinned in place. This, she found, was far easier as opposed to her palm for applying as much pressure as she liked to a particular location, in this case, the powerless frame of her overweight good-for-nothing father.

She alternately pulsed and retracted his body on the buoyant, pudgy wall of criss-crossing flesh crinkles; she pressed on him like an elevator button that wouldn’t start, only adjusting the compression by differentials of a fractional inch, yet for a man as small as Carl was, this made a dramatic difference. To shake up the pattern, she smudged him back and forth, up and down, in all cardinal directions: never actually moving him to new regions of her arch, but relying on the malleable terrain and natural springiness of her sole brawn to service her exhausted foot. Following the anchor point of Carl’s splayed body, the latticework of wrinkles and ID-prints on the pink bulwark adjusted themselves, inflating and stretching to match the purposeful directions of Blair’s fingers. She withdrew her digits one at a time, curling them into a fist for added strength, until only her thumb remained pressed to her father’s back. But this was all it took to keep him hopelessly imprisoned on her foot’s underbelly, his face breathlessly raked along the and his desperate cock buried deferentially in an especially raw, wide-set sole riverbank.

“P-Please… darling, sweetie, baby… don’t do this…” he croaked, half-pleading for the release of his body and half for the release of his genitals. Carl’s voice was lost completely to the ever-sifting behemoth of his daughter’s foot anyway, the sound swallowed by layers of peach flesh and muscle, and his voice had become hoarse from defeat. Not that the girls would’ve even thought to heed him at this point, and the hopeless man knew it. Worst of all, he just couldn’t believe how good this felt. Nothing compared to this: not vanilla sex, not his time shrunken in Larissa’s stocking, and not even way back years before when Tamatha showed apparent interest in him, and used to indulge her kinky husband with lubed-up footjobs that lasted half the night. This was where it was at. Withering resolve made it impossible for Carl to protest further using his voice. With each successive push from his daughter’s thumb, methodically mining her own punished foot, he felt his dick descending ever-deeper into her flaxen sole lines: places he would’ve given his left nut just to stroke with his finger or tongue in days past, but that now he was being forced in sight of his offspring and her friend, to hump, he knew he was mistaken in that wish.

It was here that Blair discovered firsthand for herself now, no longer just relying on Larissa’s endorsement, the true benefit of having a twenty-four-seven shrunken slave to exist underfoot. The way her insectoid father’s pitiful manhood reached so pointedly under the lapping wave-shaped curls of her scrunched sole wrinkles, it was like scratching an itch she didn’t even realize she had her whole life until now. It just clicked. Satisfaction, both sensory and borne of self-confidence, surged inside the young woman; it prickled across her as goose bumps and tingles. And once Blair did catch wind of this sublime truth, however, she didn’t hold back, squeezing Carl even harder to her upturned foot, more focused than ever now. Proportionally, the sensation grew.

“I think you’ve got the idea now,” Larissa chuckled. “Haven’t you?”

“I… I think I do,” Blair muttered, somewhat distant. Like a master violinist, she worked her finger upon the little man with extreme precision and intent, literally playing him as an instrument of her foot: excavating her weariness, picking, plumbing it from the depths of her whiffy, richly fibrous wrinkles. The harder she applied pressure, the hotter her foot became under the Carl-shaped stamp, in time leeching salty secretion that glossed the wrinkles and clung like morning dew across the tiny man’s whole front, until every part of him linked to his daughter’s divine arch was also gummy with her viscous sweat.

And both of them knew exactly how much he was loving it. Blair sighed, finding her personal universe falling comfortably into place, where once it had been out of balance, enjoying the ticklish pleasures and foreign benefits of having a lowly being assigned to serve her poor overworked feet; Carl, meanwhile, turned to human putty, going limp as a starfish sandwiched between his daughter’s thumbpad and sole landscape. His mouth wobbled open, inadvertently inviting in globules of Blair’s sticky foot sweat to slide down his throat, but once the little man noticed, he was either too depressed or too complete to shut his lips again. Lower down, his publicized manhood, a bona fide medal of degradation right on his body, continued swabbing through the most difficult-to-reach sole grooves and getting harder by the second. Soon it was at capacity, making him sore with the need to let go. Only the very last vestige of Carl’s humanly pride kept him from falling over the precipice, and finally cumming onto the yawning plain of his daughter’s indescribably sexy ped. With every molecule of his being, he resisted it.

“He must be fighting you,” Larissa said. “Or he’d have jizzed already.”

“I think he’s trying not to.”

“That’s so funny. It’s like he thinks he has a chance. Honestly, I sort of miss that about the one I’ve got now. Just that last little bit of fight. It would be kind of cute, if it wasn’t so sad.”

“Yeah, really. Maybe it just hasn’t sunk in for him yet,” Blair agreed. “I mean, I don’t know how he can look at a foot this much bigger than him, something that I could use to just squash him like a bug in like one second if I wanted, and not see that I already won, but I guess dragging it out like this will only make it stick better in the end.”

“Oh, it will. Trust me,” Larissa teased. “I know.”

These prophesized words came true as efficiently for Carl as though they were a magic spell spoken by the girls in tandem. At his absolute zenith of riotous euphoria and bone-deep self-contempt, the little man could do no more to ward off the inevitable. He was outmatched physically in every way by his maturing child’s powerful thumb, and he had run out of mental and emotional refuges from which to deny what was coming. When it all broke loose, it happened like an eruption. Carl’s seed was proffered to the tempting wall of soft skin like a godly offering, doing its part to revitalize Blair’s sole; the little creature wrenched and quaked as violently as though he’d had a seizure, and one that was miraculously ongoing while the orgasm wracked his body with tenfold the force it had under Larissa’s foot earlier.

“Whoops, Dad. Looks like you just lost to your sweetie-baby-honey-darling little girl,” Blair laughed, seemingly empowered by maximizing his humiliation to the last drop. Even Larissa, dispassionate as she usually was, joined her friend in raucous chortling that echoed throughout the house and down to the fractured core of Carl’s soul. As the last ghostly drag of the climax rocketed through his bloodstream, he could practically see the branches of the family tree cracking: himself, left broken on the ground, at the base of his daughter’s own towering citadel of self.

That was his last chance. And he blew it. Literally.

There was no coming back now. This, now, was the abyss of Carl’s life.

And his body grimly ached to do it all over again.