mother's feet abuse

After receiving a rather heated text from your former sister, now owner, about how she still found traces of unsightly dirt sullying her cleats that you hadn’t properly cleaned with your toothbrush you rushed to her room in a cold sweat to apologize and kneel before her to receive whatever dubious punishment she surely had planned for you. But as you opened her door you saw not your sister waiting to use you and break you further but instead the sight of your mother, playfully and seductively dangling her work pumps from her nylon toes. She knew.

If your sister treated you as a punching bag, a toy to be used and pushed to just before the point of breaking then your mother was far more maternal, treating you like a dog to be taken care of, generously letting you satisfy the long list of humiliating pleasures that your sister told her about despite very few being actually true. She thought that you wanted all of this, that the only way to satisfy her son’s desires was for him to be nothing more than a lowly possession of his former family. Before doing anything your mother would consult the devious, humiliating handy guide that your sister had written up on how to care for you, what you enjoyed the most, and the best ways to punish or reprimand you. Normal drinking water in your new doggy bowl on the cold, tile kitchen floor? Your sister says you’d much prefer a far more fresh... processed drink: a dirty concoction of generously soaked socks and stockings, a murky tea fermented and flavored with nothing more than the dirt and grime from yesterday's legwear. You should really leave the house more often for exercise but your sister suggests that you’d much rather be collared and leashed, led around the park as nothing more than your mother’s dog, enduring the humiliation and degrading gazes from onlookers, further ruining any chance of normality outside of your home turned prison. Your mother would generously let you explore her fermented, putrid shoe closet, guiding your puppy nose into each and every one of her old work shoes, trashed gym sneakers, and even a vast collection of filthy, moldy smelling shoes she’d worn back in her early years. When you were an especially good boy which typically meant putting up with whatever humiliation the pair put you through on any given day without much gagging or complaining, you were allowed to sleep at the foot of your mother’s bed. She’d tighten one of her belts a few notches too tight, holding your face firmly against her tired, odorous soles, the pressure of your skin squeezing out the sweat and grime from them into your pores. Drifting off to sleep as your salty tears mixed with your mother’s equally bitter sweat.

Family meals were still eaten together although you were no longer allowed to sit at the table or any other “human” furniture for that matter. Your mother’s cooking was placed in a dog bowl under the table but before you could dig into whatever she had made for you, which in today’s case pancakes with drizzled on thick, runny syrup, your pair of teasing owners would slide off their slippers or socks to help... prepare your food. You’d listen in on their casual idle conversations as they ate above paying no mind to your lowly existence below them while you’d watch as they absentmindedly smashed and mashed your former food into nothing more than a runny, dirty pulp coating their feet in a vile, syrupy sticky mixture of pancakes mixed with the rotten grime and filthy sweat of the lowest parts of their body. You grimace at the squelching sound that their toes made as the slimy slop became nothing more than a nauseating entree combined with the existing toejam and dirt to be eaten, slurped up, and cleaned out of each toe gap and wrinkle on their feet turned serving trays. Once your food was properly composed for that of a slave, warmed up by their stuffy, humid feet, you would begin to clean off and pick out each and every fetid, rank crumb and drop that stained and coated them as the pair above played footsies for priority of your mouth, forcibly cramming in their greasy, mucky toes as you sucked down the remnants of what used to be your breakfast. You broke down your “food”, the now gritty texture nearly making you gag as you tried to think back of the life you used to live... but after much deliberation, you struggled to remember a time when you weren’t at the feet of your sinister sister and menacing mother.

After receiving a rather heated text from your former sister, now owner, about how she still found traces of unsightly dirt sullying her cleats that you hadn’t properly cleaned with your toothbrush you rushed to her room in a cold sweat to apologize and kneel before her to receive whatever dubious punishment she surely had planned for you. But as you opened her door you saw not your sister waiting to use you and break you further but instead the sight of your mother, playfully and seductively dangling her work pumps from her nylon toes. She knew.

If your sister treated you as a punching bag, a toy to be used and pushed to just before the point of breaking then your mother was far more maternal, treating you like a dog to be taken care of, generously letting you satisfy the long list of humiliating pleasures that your sister told her about despite very few being actually true. She thought that you wanted all of this, that the only way to satisfy her son’s desires was for him to be nothing more than a lowly possession of his former family. Before doing anything your mother would consult the devious, humiliating handy guide that your sister had written up on how to care for you, what you enjoyed the most, and the best ways to punish or reprimand you. Normal drinking water in your new doggy bowl on the cold, tile kitchen floor? Your sister says you’d much prefer a far more fresh... processed drink: a dirty concoction of generously soaked socks and stockings, a murky tea fermented and flavored with nothing more than the dirt and grime from yesterday's legwear. You should really leave the house more often for exercise but your sister suggests that you’d much rather be collared and leashed, led around the park as nothing more than your mother’s dog, enduring the humiliation and degrading gazes from onlookers, further ruining any chance of normality outside of your home turned prison. Your mother would generously let you explore her fermented, putrid shoe closet, guiding your puppy nose into each and every one of her old work shoes, trashed gym sneakers, and even a vast collection of filthy, moldy smelling shoes she’d worn back in her early years. When you were an especially good boy which typically meant putting up with whatever humiliation the pair put you through on any given day without much gagging or complaining, you were allowed to sleep at the foot of your mother’s bed. She’d tighten one of her belts a few notches too tight, holding your face firmly against her tired, odorous soles, the pressure of your skin squeezing out the sweat and grime from them into your pores. Drifting off to sleep as your salty tears mixed with your mother’s equally bitter sweat.

Family meals were still eaten together although you were no longer allowed to sit at the table or any other “human” furniture for that matter. Your mother’s cooking was placed in a dog bowl under the table but before you could dig into whatever she had made for you, which in today’s case pancakes with drizzled on thick, runny syrup, your pair of teasing owners would slide off their slippers or socks to help... prepare your food. You’d listen in on their casual idle conversations as they ate above paying no mind to your lowly existence below them while you’d watch as they absentmindedly smashed and mashed your former food into nothing more than a runny, dirty pulp coating their feet in a vile, syrupy sticky mixture of pancakes mixed with the rotten grime and filthy sweat of the lowest parts of their body. You grimace at the squelching sound that their toes made as the slimy slop became nothing more than a nauseating entree combined with the existing toejam and dirt to be eaten, slurped up, and cleaned out of each toe gap and wrinkle on their feet turned serving trays. Once your food was properly composed for that of a slave, warmed up by their stuffy, humid feet, you would begin to clean off and pick out each and every fetid, rank crumb and drop that stained and coated them as the pair above played footsies for priority of your mouth, forcibly cramming in their greasy, mucky toes as you sucked down the remnants of what used to be your breakfast. You broke down your “food”, the now gritty texture nearly making you gag as you tried to think back of the life you used to live... but after much deliberation, you struggled to remember a time when you weren’t at the feet of your sinister sister and menacing mother.