Already three years later the peep-toe pumps became a little too outworn for the office. So Rebecca opened the soles and pulled out her pale worms. The question was now, which shoes will be our next prison. And while discussing it with her mother, we were confronted with two terrible facts.
1. Meanwhile living insole fittings were available in all shoe stores for about fife pound pairwise, what meant, for my daughter I became less important.
2. In preparation Heather bought boots alike the one I gave her for Christmas, now equipped with upgraded insoles and forcing a much more effective smell absorption to the detriment of the men's lifespan.
Now I turned rebellious like never before, what normally wouldn't have been a significant thing. But I, the man in the house, was too amusing to went out ignored.
Smirking they thought about how to solve the little problem until Rebecca came up with a mean idea. Objectifying me she said: “The mother of my old school friend owns a small shoe store. And when it doesn't want to worship you, we should let her but it on the shelve between all the other cheap fittings. That'll open it's tiny eyes – but then its to late.”
My copper blond witches nodded in unison. Then Heather turned her face to me and said: “Any time you must accept what you are. You're one of the best foot care products a woman can get, made for smelly feet and therefore most useful in cuddly lined boots!”
The very next day Rebecca brought us to the store, and behind the counter stood one of the now grown bitches I worshipped at the club. We couldn't understand what the girls talked about, but she agreed sternly and put us in one of several cages filled with naked men. The slaves were between 18 and 40 years old and wore a number on their chests – the shoe size. And while the girl closed the lid, my daughter vanished.
She was right with the opening of my eyes, because to the customers one insole was like the other. There was no further inspecting, no thoughtful handling and not the slightest bit of empathy. And again some I knew from school and of course from the office where I worked several years. Former associates and even relatives like my sister-in-law turned into serious predators!
Mostly the buddies of the biggest cage, wearing a 7 ½ on the chest, vanished pairwise in handbags and shoes. It must have been fifty in only four hours.
Suddenly the blonde financier of my bank came in, wearing a gray suite with wide trousers, matching high heeled pumps and no stockings, showing off veins and sinews albeit she was at most 25 years old. But my experiences told me that at younger ages the feet show the true maturity of a woman and at older ages contrariwise.
Mrs Butler was looking for patent leather pumps, again with fife inch stiletto heels and comfortable insoles containing men. And as the clerk brought some, coincidentally size 5 ½, she sat down and removed sweaty feet with professional pedicured nails. But as sexy they may have been, she couldn't try-on these pumps without two of us. So Rebeccas friend opened the cage, fumbled around and nearly caught me.
I watched my fellows vanish in the steep shoes, getting stomped flat under strong toes and walked on for a minute. Then she abused them to try another pair of pumps, sandals and also fluffy mules for at home.
At last the slim lady bought black pumps together with the already exhaust duo and mules combined with a pair of youths from another cage. And as always, when buying expensive footwear, the men were for free.
That of course was the pedagogic nutrition of it, to be absolutely nothing. At home I would've been at least a husband and father!
The worthlessness of my sex became even more visible when the clog showed 13:00. It didn't take long and three youths with white, red and blue sneakers entered the store. The about 14 years old kids jumped around giggling, not sure, which kind of adult's shoes to try-on first. It turned out that the blonde, physically a cheerleader, was a birthday girl and got money for her first high heels.
As she raised her right foot to try-on black pumps, I saw a relative wide sole encased in a white sock with a dark spot under the toes. And after a long day at school this spot could be nothing else but soaking wetness!
I watched her lower the toes to the place where a tiny face should protrude from the insole and violently shifting the heel left and right, trying to drive the broad ball of the foot forward. Imagining to be the slave inside caused me to shiver with disgust. Even on the shelve I could smell the intoxicating acrid stench!
Quickly the saleslady, once a bitch like them, came over and said: “First I want to see if you're able to buy something, because our shop isn't Disney World!” And as that was cleared she added: “OK, but these shoes are made for human insoles, which you seemingly need sorely. Are these socks of yours always that drenched? Well, I have to know, because over there on the shelve are different articles. Some are made especially for sweaty feet.”
Getting it the girl looked straight in our direction and replied with a nasty grin: “Sweaty isn't the right word! My feet are cheesy, my toe are much more cheesy and between my toes... Well, a suitable description has yet to be invented. I hope you can offer me two matching subjects anyway.”
My daughter's school friend turned and neared smiling the cages. Opening the lid she fumbled around and acted like snatching anyone. But her eyes were fixed on the two newcomers.
My disgust magnified when I watched the almost full grown child from a worm's-eye view, seeing clearly her youthfulness. And a second later I saw the wet darkness in front the unusual wide ball of the foot.
The blonde repeated her brutal shifting, bringing the roller almost upon my body. The wet texture already surrounded my face and stunk like a mix of Limburger cheese and vinegar essence. But the shoe wasn't wide enough. So the clerk said: “Either you try another pair, or you take of these socks.”
Of course, she did and tried a third time to slip in. And as the foot came down I had to believe to vanish under very cheesy toes, because under the wool she wore black nylon stockings. Maybe she also wore these two hellish layers during her practice.
Now the smooth steam roller could do his job, carrying about 100 pounds prospective womanhood to the entrance and back. First she was a little unstable but learnt quickly to stomp me flat like a full grown woman. It wasn't as painful as expected. But maybe it only seemed so because of the unbearable stench between her hot toes.
After sitting down the girl kept me in suspense and asked: “Is this stuff strong enough for a whole day in solid leather sneakers? I mean, like all cheerleaders I wear shiny nylon stockings combined with socks. That's part of our uniform.” And the clerk said: “Absolutely no limitation! If you want, you can wear these items in rubber boots or latex-stockings.”
With that I got the fresh air I needed and was carried to the counter. I looked ahead a future under the drenched woolen socks of a bitchy schoolgirl and feared the sour smell forming in sneakers. And when I was behind the counter, I felt a hit on the back of my head. Then all turned black.
*
When I came true, all was dark except of the heel area high above. It was dimly lit as if being inside of a shoe cabinet. But I heard heavy feet step all around me.
Then there was a shushing noise. I saw toes encased in wool enter the heel section and coming down the almost vertical sole. And as I tried to move, I couldn't, because there was a sheet above me, revealing only my face. Somehow it felt familiar.
Quickly the socked toes came over me, settled and banished my nose in the moist cleavage. I heard and felt the jolt of the heel slipping in, and to my surprise the next sound war the rattling of a zipper walking around the voluptuous female calf and further up, definitely reaching the knee and not stopping there.
At last I accepted my fate and took a deep breath, expecting the deadly sour mist of the girl. But it smelled much more feminine and burned my brain with nothing but intense cheese. Instantly my dick became stiff!
Finally the foot lifted, accelerated like a plane and stomped down about twelve yards ahead with more than 100 pounds. Then came the next step and another, faster and faster, leading down some stairs, hitting the hard pavements and turning into a common ladylike pace. Meanwhile the smell climbed up to a suffocating level and showed no intentions to stop anywhere. The cheese became stronger and stronger, dominating all my senses.
At last I received the suspicious sound of a hall, and some steps later I felt like placed in the feeding dish of a dog. Then it hit me. My owner forced her foot into the mouth of a human shoe cleaner!
Later I thundered over the dance floor, where the massive toes emitted more sweat and stink. And there was only one way to attenuate it a little – my nose!
After hours, to me an eternity, the foot slipped out and thundered away. I literately could see the damp rising from me and the wide surface I was sealed in. Not hearing a single word I relaxed until the foot came back. The earthquakes, the heat and the acrid toe cheese returned, but this day I listened to the sounds of an office.
Eight hours later, when the foot had vanished, there again was silence for about 11 hours. Then the heavy monstrosity returned, encasing my face with nylon mashes of unknown colour.
The giantess told me nothing, as if it should be a punishment. But there were other people calling her name. Now I knew for sure where I was imprisoned. Women simply call it boots.
The futile rebellion was my biggest mistake, because now my wife treats me really like a cheap article from the discounter. I guess, she don't even think about me. And my experience in the shoe store was nothing but a put-up affair to teach me a lesson. I think, after leaving the store Rebecca asked the three girls to play along. Especially the blonde enjoyed her role!
Well, here the circle closes. Sometimes I need a minute or two to become aware that the coarse gray texture surrounding me is the lining of Heather's right over-knee boot. She'll wear me until I'm exhausted and ready for the waste bin!
From time to time the odour of the merciless stomping foot becomes a “little” stronger. And then I know, that my beloved daughter wears me – a really bad girl.
THE END