Work From Home (Chapter 7) (Patreon)

Carl had never known any environment could be this vividly textured with olfactory layers, so simultaneously enticing like a fresh bakery, yet repellent as a bacterial colony; with each breath, he both wanted to gag and choke in a bid to keep the fog out, and also inhale until his lungs were filled to capacity like balloons with his daughter’s prime foot-stink. This metric of most powerful sensory experiences included, too, his relatively brief time spent in Larissa’s shoe, as that occasion had been plagued by so much confusion and forced arousal, his brain couldn’t even settle down long enough to notice the stench, which regardless was far less pungent and earthy for the privileged upper-crust university student than for his overworked, underappreciated young daughter.

Blair’s aroma was unique, as specific as the sound of her voice or her spiraling toeprint. An ever-evolving cornucopia of flavors flowed through the little man’s brainstem, some from the stench alone, and some because he’d semi-willingly swallowed her sweaty discharge. He sensed salt-cured rubbery foot flesh, acrid sour excretions, lilac fabric softener, water-logged shoe leather, the distinct simulation of some weird fusty European cheese, dirt-encrusted earth, and most inexplicable of all, piercingly sweet sugar. Every one of those elements combined to form something new, like an invented color outside the standard rainbow wheel. As Carl found to be uncomfortably true, smell was the most potent of the five senses for storing memory. The longer Blair walked on her puny father, the deeper entrenched this rancid treat became in him, literally hammering it into his mind and replacing other scent-based flashbacks, everything from hints of angry skunk and moldy meat, to the delights of melty chocolate cookies and fresh verdant pine, and Carl both loved and hated the personality of his daughter’s foot reek just as much as those wild extremes.

Subliminally, located somewhere between the madness of flooding his interior with sweat-cloud zest and feeling his exterior pounded to hamburger beneath his daughter’s unyielding sole plateau, another horrifying realization infected Carl. This was perhaps the most heinous of all. From the time Blair had first strapped him into the custom stirrup of the stocking and put it on, up to the relentless present, there had been no breaks in his heightened lust. Not even during the most agonizing moments of the journey, be it a particularly hard crash from Blair’s foot or a miserable gulp of brackish air, did Carl’s fetish give him peace. He was more turned on than he’d ever been, and there was no sign of stopping. At every single second, which his daughter was fully aware of thanks to the sewn hole in the stocking that hugged his hips to her naked sole flab, the man was either in the process of ejaculating or getting firm again to the pulsating texture of her almighty arch.

They had been at this for more than an hour now. While Blair kept herself invested as she strolled with music, magazines, her phone, and even idle gazing out the window, Carl had no escape from the infinite two-second repetition of being molested and coaxed to orgasm over and over and over again by his daughter’s thunderous, sweaty, muscular foot.

Early on, it took a surprisingly short number of Blair’s footsteps to wrinkle and scrunch her sole to the point of inducing an easy spurt from her hapless dad; she was a natural prodigy at it, after having watched Larissa perform the deed only once. She was able to enter a room, shuffle around, and exit less than two minutes later having extracted another helping of organic lotion to soften her skin. As the marathon wore on, however, and Carl stacked more forced climaxes up on his personal scoreboard, the steps it took to cum technically lengthened, even while it didn’t feel like it, as his sense of time was warped by so much violent trampling and brain-bending fragrance. He couldn’t hope to keep track of the number he’d “achieved” after almost two hours of Blair stomping him to oblivion, though Carl had to assume it was in the multiple dozens.

If he’d woken up today for another normal relaxing ten-hour session of Warcraft, and some celestial force had informed him that later this same day, he’d be receiving forty never-ending full-body footjobs from his own lovely daughter while at the exact same time having his life threatened every four heartbeats by that same foot, Carl would’ve just scoffed and returned to his usually scheduled “me” time. Even if that bizarre concept would’ve probably inspired him to take a break from gaming to jack off to pictures of women’s feet that looked suspiciously similar to his daughter’s, but weren’t actually, so he could maintain some self-respect. Now, however, that oddball fantasy had supplanted all other hope of a future beyond the vast, smelly, velvet, insanely sexy wasteland of Blair’s stocking-wrapped foot. He understood that she had made up her mind; his daughter was never letting him go, ever, and intended to use him up in this manner until he had no more to give. There was nothing of substance to his life now, except eternal servitude to his daughter’s tortured sole wrinkles.

Knowing that, Carl could only pray that blair kept this damning shame of his incestuous allegiance to her feet between the two of them alone; after all, the only way this situation could spiral to an even lower ring of hell would be if she shared her mini-dad’s wretched new existence with someone else. Not only to participate, but to spread awareness of his sins. Larissa, it seemed, kept her own foot-slave boy in relative secrecy, concealing him in her shoe and not making much of a deal about him at all, except when she had an itch to scratch or just felt like scraping him along a floor to torture-jack him. With any luck, or whatever of it remained after Carl’s dignity had been completely stripped this afternoon, he could live out his cursed days under the pocket universe of his daughter’s regal sole, invisible and unable to harm anyone else with his perversions. That wasn’t ideal, but things could certainly be worse.

“Blair? Are you home?” called a female voice seemingly from the divine host, though Carl then had to recall that every voice seemed like a deity’s from this low a vantage. Groggy and addled as he was, worse than if he was hooked on narcotics after just two hours of punishment from his giant daughter, the little man had a hard time parsing out the booming words, but when Blair at last came to a merciful halt in her militaristic stride, he could just hear through the crack of space between the girl’s nyloned instep and the hardwood.

“Mom? I’m in here, Mom!” Blair replied, giddy as a schoolgirl.

“There you are! Did you have an okay day at work? What have you been up to?”

“Work was boring and kind of hard, but things have been looking up… or down, maybe, depending on how you look at it… since I got home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got… something to show you, Mom.”

“Oh, all right! Just give me a second.”

Carl recognized the distorted voice even through the filter of luminous black nylon and megaton foot standing atop him like the Statue of Liberty’s taller cousin. His wife Tamatha was home. Then and there he understood, without exaggeration, that the tribulations he’d endured up to this point were an actual fairy-tale cakewalk by comparison to the storm on the horizon. Wordlessly, by his own feeble will, he begged anonymous spirits and his daughter’s powerful aura itself to have mercy, just this once: to step on him for the rest of his days without stopping, crushing and jacking and suffocating him in the haze of foot-pounding savagery, if it would only keep this from happening. If only Blair would hold him and his unconscionable transgressions secret from her mother, perhaps the one woman on Earth who had better reason than Blair to see Carl pay for his selfish, kinky existence.

Yet this new reality remained consistent in that it didn’t offer a single reprieve, even in the shrunken sinner’s most dire hour. No deus ex machina descended for rescue. He heard Tamatha’s footsteps approaching, growing louder in his ears, turning the floor into a seismic expanse and shivering him to his bone marrow. Though he couldn’t see her while his face was masked deep in Blair’s sweat-laced nude stocking at the center of her arch, he noticed the slightest tweak in the distilled light gushing through the material and her sole wrinkles, like a shadow had fallen outside and eclipsed the glow. Tamatha was just beyond, tall and intimidating like never before, no-doubt smiling at her beloved daughter and expectantly awaiting whatever it was Blair had to say. Carl was willing to bet though that even given infinite time and guesses, his estranged wife couldn’t possibly conceive of the “surprise” that lay in store for her, shrunken and sole-smacked to within an inch of his worthless little life just below their golden-haired tyrant of a child.

“What is it, honey?” Tamatha questioned.

“You… might want to sit down, Mom.”

“Sit down? Blair, is something the matter?” The woman shuffled closer, concerned; the chunky heels of her mules clacked flatly on the shuddering earth.

“Nothing’s the matter. Actually, I think things are going to be better than ever from now on. Still, it’s gonna take you a second to get used to it, so I think you should sit. Go on. It’s all right, Mom.”

“All right. I trust you, sweetie,” Tamatha said. Carl heard the sound of a building-sized chair being dragged squeaking across the floor, followed by the slumping of his voluptuous wife’s enviable rump into the seat. “Tell me. What is it?”

“Well…” Blair sighed. Before she continued, however, her shrunken father noticed his muggy environment shifting again. The oval isle of foot currently resting atop him arched off the ground, flooding light through the stressed fibers and bathing him in it again. Stocking strings pulled tight over Carl for lift-off. Hanging at an inverted angle, the man still couldn’t get a full glimpse of his wife’s titanic body yet, but as Blair carefully lifted her foot completely off the ground and crossed it over her knee, standing like a crane in the center of the room so as to prop her justice-wielding foot over her leg in demonstration, the little fella finally got the picture. All was revealed, and it made his stomach quadruple-knot. Through the shadowy netting, between the sweat-crusted fibers, he could see her: his beautiful wife Tamatha, resting deservedly in the chair, still in her late thirties and sexy as ever, and very much the model for which Blair was the spitting image, but also possessing more ethereal, almost mythic qualities of delicacy and beauty that belonged more to their elder daughter August, compared to the more athletic and girly-girl Blair.

He dared not move, hoping to stretch out the time of Tamatha’s ignorance of his tiny presence as long as possible, but still Carl felt her eyes searching upon their daughter’s upturned foot. It was only a matter of time now. Those deep blue oceanic irises, which he found so alluring at their first meeting and still did, would now serve his first undoing in her presence. Several times, he felt Tamatha’s gaze pause, and expected her eyebrow-raising look of anticipation to contort into pure disgust and explosive rage, only for her scrutinizing attention to continue searching across the oblong landscape of Blair’s sole, the ruddy skin tamped-down by stocking mesh like pressed flowers, and the little victim-stroke-perp at the center.

“Did you get new stockings, sweetie?” Tamatha asked. “Those look new. I’m sure you must be exhausted after another day at that terrible old bank, making you stand up on your feet for eight hours straight like a bunch of barbarians. Is that what you’re showing me? Did you get another blister, honey?”

“Not quite,” Blair said. “Look closer.”