Unknown and Unlucky (Chapter 7)

With her fingers and toes working to tighten the binds from heel to digit, that thin sliver of bittersweet air previously keeping my nakedness from the stranger’s foot was at last rescinded with a vengeance. Her bare arch skin was malleable and moist, warmer than the air and doubly as flavorful even though I had my lips pursed shut, though I could’ve guessed that much from the way the light dappled off the wrinkle geometry before. After such an aggressive barely-controlled thrust, it was a marvel that she’d managed to keep a minus-quarter-inch-tall passenger from being tossed helter-skelter to any given precipice of her foot. Yet I stayed right where I’d awoken after springing directly up into a full-frontal face-plant with that damp salty-floral sole brawn, in the pale and plush center.

            As was becoming customary in these dream-like circumstances, the reason for my maintained position only became obvious long after I should’ve noticed it, especially since she’d blatantly told me earlier. In this case, it was a specially-crafted series of ultra-fine strings that knotted around my upper thighs and scrotum before dipping back into the stocking from which they’d originated, effectively tethering me to her footwear via my genitals. The uber-thin lashes were more loosely tied than my prior leather cuffs, which helped them go unfelt before, but now with the limited space yanked taut to her foot’s underbelly skin, those makeshift ropes made from nylon were tested. Eventually I could feel the beginnings of strain around my hips and penis: not quite pain, but enough pressure to remind me that whatever pleasures I was about to have squeezed out of me by her actions and her actions alone, I was only marginally meant to enjoy it, and even that was entirely secondary to her purpose of lotioning her foot.

            Hell, if there actually was a way to make me orgasm without even the slightest hint of good feeling in my loins, I had no doubt she’d have already done whatever it took to arrange it. She’d evidently already gone to the trouble of painstakingly stitching loose strings around a quarter-inch-tall man while I was unconscious to make me an ornament of her garment, likely requiring a magnifying glass just to make the loops and keep from stabbing me with a needle comparatively thick as a broadsword. It was quite plain already that any amount of busywork was not too much for this mysterious figure, if only it meant further warping my perceptions and amusing herself. And that just made it sting all the more when I wasn’t allowed to learn a single thing about my tormentor, except that she had chosen me through a dating app because of my semi-public foot-themed predilections, and also that she was prepared to go to unusual lengths to make my time down here a strange, odorous, and frightfully enrapturing purgatory.

            “Gotcha!” she teased, though her normally godlike voice was muffled slightly while my face was so heavily clasped into the ripply pad of her sole. As she spoke, her fingers and curled toes held their wrung-out poses, giving no sign I was to be released from this arch pancaking any time soon. “How do you like my work? The lady in the bookstore didn’t teach me that part, actually, my mom did, years ago, but I never thought I’d get such good use out of those lessons. If I hadn’t done such a good job, you’d be tossed all over the place, like a pebble in my shoe, and then I’d have to just take the stocking off and dump you out. That stitching was something I had to practice too, getting all the little threads exactly right to fit you, and like I told you earlier… I wasn’t expecting to have you this small, so there was definitely some guesstimating on my part. But, practice made perfect, it feels like, because you’re not screaming in pain, which is good, I guess.”

            I had to agree with her there, though I still wasn’t a fan of having my dick padlocked by intertwined stocking strings, especially because those binds and the intense stretch on her nylon meant that neither my junk nor my head had any hope of escaping being cupped into a furrowed pleat in her musty, misted sole.

            Granted, the contact on my micro-shaft was every bit as tantalizing as I’d been promised by that earlier split-second stroke through the mesh, when her foot peeled off of me after the first faux-suffocation. She was no longer actively flexing her sole, but I didn’t need something so extreme to receive the benefits of that foot in action. Ever-so-slightly altering the angle of her pull on the stocking, viced in her fingertips and clamped betwixt toes, even by a couple degrees, was enough to give me the most visceral footjob of my life, but what else did I expect, with such a shrunken nub of an erection pressed so boldly to a seemingly endless supply of sexually fulfilling wrinkles?

            North of my waist, though, it was a different story. Setting aside an involuntary moan at the foreplay below, I was quickly finding myself in distress again. I’d gotten used to the smell during those intervening minutes while she showed off the russet-and-peach evolutions of her sole crease architecture, and yes even started to savor it, but it could’ve been the most delicious flavor in the universe and still meant nothing while air wasn’t flowing, as it wasn’t now.

            Using my nose and mouth at once, I was forced to huff directly against skin, clammy and a bit brinier in taste profile. I was kissing a ceiling of fleshy mass and getting nothing in return for trying stupidly to suck oxygen out of sole pores, when I was only sure to get beads of her sweat coating my lips instead. This time my limbs weren’t bound, which gave me just enough freedom to try bracing against the onslaught, but it was impossible to raise my arms enough to create an air pocket around my lips, hot and stale as that space would’ve been anyway. Naturally, writhing didn’t do anything either, except give my captor reason to giggle and shimmy the fabrics a little quicker, all without relinquishing any of the pressure keeping me suspended.

            It was an alien sensation indeed, to have such a shriveling powerlessness wracking most of my body while I was deprived of oxygen, except for the gratification localized only to my member, though I was hardly aware of this, as the endorphins were largely lost to the shivers and lung-scorching need.

            Her nylon scrubbed back and forth by a differential of fractional-inches along her foot, rocking me securely with the sway of her terrifyingly tight stocking prison and promising at no point was my head to be given a break to catch up. The netting scratched my back, leaving behind rug-burns and making me wish for cooling relief, though this desire was still nothing compared to the limb-twisting yearning for oxygen I was facing in front.