PART TWO CAN BE FOUND HERE

From Peasant to Pet 01

Synopsis: A wealthy wolf merchant takes offence when you refuse to serve his needs. He and his brutish bodyguard then teach you the error of your ways with their persistent and impatient demands.

Disclaimer:
–Forced Paw Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Soft Trampling
–Ancient Setting
–Wolf and Labrador (Doms)
–POV Perspective

(390 BC)

Hunks of virgin stone stack the courtyard of your masonry workshop, drying under the scorn of the Mediterranean sun. Among them stand the visions of your handiwork; elaborate statues carved and sculpted to the images of mighty gods and modest heroes alike. Each is a boast of your craftsmanship. You stand in the shade of a tattered blue and white stripe canopy, overlooking your work. A warm Greek breeze carries the salt of the nearby sea and the sounds of the busy market nearby. You and your neighbouring vendors are not blessed with bountiful coin by any means, but you are an honest worker with pride in your art. Pale dust marks your arms and face. It’s a freedom you’ve earned. However, not all are noble in this community. This fact comes not as a stray thought but as an intimate reminder when you hear a knock upon the timber threshold of your workshop, followed only by a distinctly pretentious *Ahem!*

With a sag in your shoulders you sigh under-breath and turn to greet the customer, laying eyes on their unspoiled visage. You recognize him immediately. Deo is a scholarly face atop an athletic body refined in muscled beauty that even outmatches the detail in your stonework; taut and gripping yet lissom like an Athenian soldier, dressed in a pelt of lilac-lavender fur. His citrus-gold eyes contrast the shaded interior of the room, (as do the pearly whites in his know-it-all smirk).
A white himation-style robe embroidered with a gold trim - pinned over the left shoulder by a golden fibula - demonstrates his illustrious wealth. The garment falls to knee-height and drapes in such a way to expose his pectoral, teasing hint of abs. His plantigrade paws are covetously clasped inside a pair of fine brown leather sandals. Most merchants are too eager to receive his coin but you have known this wolf too many years and you see the darkness behind his perfection. Deo possesses a repellent sense of superiority and cruelty; savouring the humiliation of people he deems ‘beneath him’. His narcissism nourishes him whenever he sees a person grovelling at his feet. Yet despite your feelings towards him you cannot deny your body its natural impulses. Quickly you find yourself looking up and down his figure, holding back salivation. Your pounding heart is also the brazier that keeps your blood hot.

As he meanders closer the wolf strokes his hand over the voluptuous marble of an unfinished statue. Sandal bottoms clap quietly on the dusty floor. He subtly observes the tension winding your body tight as he stands before you, folding his arms across his chest. Though the light-purple wolf is no taller than you, he manages to make you feel small.
“My workshop is closed this day,” You defiantly mutter, (too cowardly to reject him outright).
“Oh?” Deo queries, “Even for the gods? I intended on a statue of Poseidon to overlook the vast ocean behind my estate… I expected a commoner like you would have more respect for our deities.
Gulping, you look to the floor and with an itching meekness you respond, “This place is not open to the likes of you… have a servant come by later if you must please the gods so desperately. I wish not their wrath but we are far from friends, Deo… and I know you are only here in person to taunt me again.”
“Such gall, such spite!” The wolf leers, mocking you with a gentle clapping of padded palms, “We have shared this island all our lives. Are you petty because my family owns the vineyards and olive groves where you peasants often toil? Or are you jealous of the tender affection my image has earned me?” A vapid gesture accompanies the remark.

You avoid his smirk and stare only at the floor, though your gaze will often magnetise back to the sight of his long, luscious lilac paws fitted into their sandal beds. Deo calmly watches the bead of sweat trickling down into the neckline of your tatty beige tunic. He tilts his head condescendingly. His toes fan in their footwear just enough to show the blackened toe-band of his sandal now twisted and trapped in punishing perpetuity between his digits. You make indiscreet glances to his opal-white toe claws hanging gingerly over the rim of this sunken, softened and stressed leather. If nothing else they are imposing, reminding you of Deo’s immature relationship with power and vanity.
A sudden firm pat on your shoulder, emanating with natural warmth, is met with a startled jolt. You look back up into his golden eyes, momentarily mesmerised, and listen to his words of warning: “No matter. The gods have enough statues of themselves as it is… they needn’t be offended by one lowly mason. Though I fare differently to them; insults upon me are always met with retaliation. Fortunately I have a witness waiting nearby. Perhaps he can persuade you better than I?”

A fluent whistle blows sharply between the wolf’s teeth, summoning a figure who has been hidden from view until now; leaning against the cobbled stone wall outside your workshop. You realize Deo is not here idly browsing your services; he is here to bully and harass it from you instead. So soon after that whistle pierces the air does a staunch mercenary step into frame in the doorway behind Deo, clad in the bulky bronze Corinthian armour of a hoplite soldier. This familiar presence is a black Labrador who, for all the years you have known him, wields a bitter lack of sympathy as fondly as he wields his sense of loyalty. His stoic jowls and frosty glare are a contrast to the smarmy grin of his employer. Felix – the mercenary – is nothing more than a handsomely paid bodyguard, intimidating the wolf’s every foe or competitor into servile silence.

You find yourself stumbling back out into the sun-baked courtyard, moving on trembling knees, yet your property is walled off from public view with no easy escape route. Deo and his ham-fisted hound block your only exit, (unless you find the agility to vault those walls). Your heart is already squirming in your chest. Your stomach is as rigid as an apricot pip. You’ve been cornered into a trap. “W-wait! P-perhaps I spoke too loosely! I… I thought you came here alone,” You stammer, cowering down onto your knees. “I’ll do what you wish, I’ll carve you your statue in the finest detail… j-just don’t sic that mutt on me, I beg!”
Felix’s lip rears and a baritone growl enters the air. Deo throws back a glance to his guard before they both approach your meek stance. Deo stands to your left. Felix stands to your right. Together they stare down on you with laughable pity. You close your eyes upon hearing a rough scrape of the Labrador’s lifting foot, which promptly swings up and plants itself with avidity into the hunch of your upper back. The sheer weight of this sinewy beast bores into your shoulder plate. You grunt and fidget but the Labrador’s foot does well to keep you in place. A dusty sandal print will be surely ingrained in your tunic afterwards, if the material does not rip under the abrasive surface.
“Pathetic, is he not?” Deo grins, (clearly amused by your panic), “I ought to have led with Felix at the start and saved you from wasting my precious time. At least now we have reason to… ‘play’ with you, and show you the error of your disrespect.”
“I just wanna mince him underfoot, like a crunchy insect. Don’t need no reason,” Felix grunts, twisting his sandal against your back until you feel the chafe of your skin underneath. Your forehead glows in a glistening red tint. Veins bulge in your temples.
“D-don’t hurt me,” You croak. “I’ll… I submit!”
“Lay down and maybe we won’t... no promises, though,” The Labrador threatens.
Guided by the dragging force of his foot as it slips away, you nervously unfurl from your hunched position and lay shakily upon your back, gawking up at the two canines looming closely overhead and casting you in their shadows. Your watering eyes flitter from the figures of lush lilac purple to that of glossy, jet black. Their smugness and sullenness remind you of your inferiority.

While they contemplate your fate you’re spared enough time to gaze along at the bottom of the soldier dog's footwear – still raised in the air though now it hovers dauntingly over your neck – studying its frayed, grime-smacked tread. The paw within is slack and relaxed yet clearly too heavy a burden to keep raised for so long, instilling the rightful fear in you that Felix might drop his leg and step on your throat at any given moment; undoubtedly without any care for your wellbeing. The very tips of that black toe fur and charcoal-grey pads overhang the sandal end, emphasising how aged and ill-fitted the footwear have become over years. Sunlight catches on the silver claws.
Deo then mutters, “Your confidence earlier was a hollowed shell. You’re not strong. Like all other peasants you’re soft and malleable; a dirt path for better men to walk over and over until we see nothing but footprints when we look at you. Felix, show him what I mean.”
The Labrador obeys his order without complaint. He lowers his paw harshly stepping onto your neck, angling his foot so it wraps over widthways and settles its weight across your windpipe. The texture is immediately coarse and unyielding but the temperature cooked into the sandal leather is surprisingly warm. You gulp. You gasp. You wheeze uncomfortably yet neither Deo nor his guard deign to care. You lay between them still and silent, considerably nothing more than an inanimate rug for them to wipe their feet upon. Your lungs tighten when Felix grins down at the shimmering glaze in your eyes and he pushes his leg weight further into your neck, squeezing oxygen and tears out of you. You feel his dark toes scrunching over the sandal tip. Your breathing is fast but diminished in airflow.
“Hmf… yep, just like dirt,” The grizzled dog agrees.

Your focus is snagged when you hear a leathery squeak to your left and you spy the wealthy wolf lowering into a squat. Deo cups one hand over your chin and strokes your jaw with his thumb. The motions are gentle yet patronizing. You look into his golden eyes - into his honeyed smile - and you whisper another apology hoping it might release you from that brute’s pressure. Instead, Felix pushes more incremental force against your windpipe warning you not to speak. You choke and splutter lightly sending spittle against his ankle. His expression is as stony as the very statues in your courtyard. He stands with flawless posture while sunbeams idly dance across the glorious bronze of his armour pieces.
After another minute of fuzzy facial-gripping from the wolf, Deo stands back to full height and shakes his head. You find yourself blushing yet glaring back at him in the meanwhile. "You should be thankful for this punishment,” He says, “Your kind always ought to stay humbled, squirming under the heel of us privileged few. You’re safer down there than you are with clenched fists and a puffed chest. Don’t you feel right at home on the floor?"
You make a struggled attempt to push Felix's appendage up from your neck, (clutching with a slippery, weak grip at his heel and around his toes with each hand), only to find his strength deftly outweighs your own. His foot fur feels like velvet wrapping around dense, stiff meat. He keeps you easily pinned against the floor with no external effort. The big hound barely needs to change his stance in order to keep you suppressed.
"Ergh! Ggh! W-what would… you have… me do?" You reply in stunted grunts.
“Everything we desire, and more,” Deo leers. “I came here in search of a mason willing to slave away at the stone for me, though I’ll settle for making a real slave out of you instead.”
Felix chimes in with the taunting, too, "Hades cares not how flat nor how mangled you are once I send you to his underworld. So what’ll it be, scum? You going to serve my master or am I gonna have to wash your pulpy remains off the bottoms of my feet?”
With barely enough oxygen reaching your brain you feel dizzy and lost in thought. All you can do is nod your head in groggy compliance and wade in the regrets of your earlier attitude. Your knees tremble weakly on the courtyard stone, merely at the mental image of a Labrador this cumbersome standing on your skull and stomping you into wine.

Cued by a gesture from Deo – who seems satisfied with your repentance – the guard draws his foot back slowly until it slides off your neck and slaps flat into the ground once again; relieving your aching throat but leaving a grazed sandal mark in its place. Felix is nothing if not dutiful but now when the wolf claps his lavender hands and orders you to pose on all fours, he expects you to be equally well trained.
Only now that you understand the risks, you hastily scramble from one degrading position into the next. In spite of the fear your blood still burns molten with a deeply buried rage. Never have you felt so humiliated around a pair of power-lauding anthros. Felix has conveniently positioned himself directly behind you, as you shift onto your hands and knees, to ensure you cannot crawl or wrench away at any time. You know that he’s reading your body language, looking for any excuse to maim you again.
A conceited chuckle from the wolf sends shivers scattering up your spine. He strolls around to stand in front of you, levelling your bowed head in front of his thighs and artfully positioning his paws beneath your gaze once again. “A peasant on all fours is such a… natural sight. Pleasing to the eyes, one should think. If only we could freeze you in that position forever, like one of your statues, and keep you moored as a footrest in my chambers. Even that existence is an improvement upon your current life, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” You whisper timidly, feeling the scorch in your cheeks.
Deo looks to the Labrador and nods, unbeknownst to you.

The next sounds you hear are the rush of air and a clanking of shin-plate armour when Felix swings his leg upward again only this time his sandal lands against your centre backside with startling impact, melding against your spine, sending a shudder through your unstable body. Both arms wobble but you maintain your structure for now having no choice but to let this dog pose victoriously over you, claiming you underfoot. At first you expect Deo to raise his own foot too and rub it under your nose. Instead, for but a moment he wanders away back into your workshop. There he finds a small knee-high crate of tools and carries it outside, placing it directly underneath your head. There is only near about seven inches of free space between your chin and its timber topside.
Once more you listen to the sandal claps as the animal meanders away this time returning with a crude wooden chair that he scrapes across the ground and places just ahead of you. You have little time to be confused. Deo calmly seats himself in the chair ahead, smirking as he languidly lifts his slender legs one by one and props them atop the small crate, crossing them at the ankles. The crate becomes his makeshift footstool and his paws slide into the space beneath you, tilted just enough to barely avoid nudging your face against his toes. Subconsciously you try to raise your head higher to avoid contact but the fact remains that these feet will inevitably meet your face no matter how much you refuse.

Sweat tickles your brow. Your clear your throat and blush some more. Soon your eyes drift downward, eagerly curious to see the feet crossed below. Quickly your vision is locked on brown sandal straps and lilac fur. Deo’s toes curl forward, tightly vicing the lips of the sandals a sheer inch away from your chin, teasing you with visual foreplay. Each appendage is so close you can hear the imprisoned leather scrunching. The tip of your nose traipses the air over Deo's paws. Your head lingers in place, unable to find any freedom. Now you can smell a dry piquant musk rising on invisible wafts of heat. You can peer into the narrow fissures between his toes, observing how sweat has darkened the purple fur amid them. One toe is content to tap against the sandal and demand your attention. Beyond, Deo runs his tongue slowly over his lips. All his toes then start to spread apart opening the gates of toasty fragrance. For a moment it makes you forget the Labrador is stepping on your back, keeping you captive.

"Smell them," The wolf slyly commands. "I want to feel your nose pushing through these toe gaps, like a boat slicing through calm waters. Show to me how low and worthless you are in this moment, that you would sniff these toes just to earn my favour."
Having understood your lack of choice or agency, you lower your face down. Your palms press hard to the floor. Deo begins to relax and lean back into his seat, creaking the wood. His toes fan again this time with a playful, inviting spirit. He closes his eyes, gracing the air with a soft exhale. With blood-rushed cheeks you nuzzle the tips of Deo's toes until your nose naturally slips between them. You descend the narrow gap hesitating when your nose dips into a pocket of fluffy toe webbing. The airspace is cosy. Humid odours fizzle inside your nostrils.
“Mmmh,” Deo moans, “Do not assume that this counts as your apology. This is nothing more than justice does right!” Playfully he squeezes his toes together leaving no spare room for you to wrench away. Your nose is suddenly viced between them as tightly as two toes can physically clench. "Recognize that this is an honour for someone like you. Show your gratitude by sniffing each and every toe crotch until your lungs grow tired, and I –might– be satisfied.”
With your chin grazing his sandal tip - and your nose ensnared between his grippy, furry, sweaty toes - you try to nod obediently in response. Each nodding motion wedges your nose up and down the toe crotches with more enthusiasm. Occasionally this allows you to feel the heated, sticky embrace of Deo’s insole leather. You dread the thought of another customer walking into your workshop and discovering you in such a demoralizing position between these two canines. Perhaps for that reasons alone you want to finish worshiping the wolf and rid your space of his egotistical character, rapidly if possible.

A furrowed-browed Felix continuously watches over your back sensing the aches under the pressure of his foot yet doing nothing to alleviate the strain. His presence is forever daunting. One foul spout of attitude from you and you'll become his personal trampoline. Perhaps without all that armour the black Labrador wouldn't be so cumbersome, yet the more discomfort he brings people the more it pleases him. For now you simply endure, hoping a sandal-shaped bruise will not imprint on your flesh. Eventually you cannot help but to grunt in dismay. Even a noise as subtle as this earns another low growl from the hound. You hate to think how different this scenario would play out if the Labrador was the one in control. Deo may be pretentious and obnoxious but you’d still prefer to grind your face against his plump paw soles day and night, pampering them at the expense of integrity, than be left alone in a room with his bodyguard.
"Go on. Show me your true value. Keep sniffing," The wolf commands once more.
In the likeness of pampered royalty, Deo lounges here exerting no effort yet reaping all the luxury. You grimace while your nose ploughs those lush depths, smearing deep amid the succulent shapes and snorting the flavours of roasted, salty cashews. Digits push and sway under the flow of your face. Whenever you try to sneak out of the toe crotches they close tighter again and hold you still. The only exception is when the wolf allows you to shift from one gap to the next; plunging your nose back in for a fresh assault of this stale aroma. Whilst you're unable to move your body, Deo kindly shuffles and adjusts his paws to ensure every individual gap receives the mandatory visit from your nose. Not once does he ever loosen or remove his sandals during this fetishistic ritual. He prefers to let the perspiration trapped between sole and insole ripen for a little while longer.

Puffs of disconcerted air re-enter the toe gaps, bristling the floral fur. After one more rigorous, pummelling wriggle around the sides of your nose Deo slides his paw back on its heel and lets his legs rest lazily underneath your panting face. Drool glimmers on your lips as you breathe in and out with morbid impatience; soon forming a droplet that dangles on your chin before dropping and splashing against Deo’s flexing digits. As a second droplet falls small splashes of spit land against his deep, midnight-purple pads; scantily visible in that tight airless space above the sandal insole. When silence befalls the courtyard you finally understand the intensity of your pounding heart. You grimace and try to pull away when that same paw rises again for a brief moment, affectionately petting your chin with his sandal tip.

“Look at you,” Deo taunts, “So besotted by your new master that you’re already drooling at the mouth. And here I did not think you could look any more desperate.”
“T-to spare myself, only,” You mumble defensively, “I can take any shame if it helps you leave sooner.”
Deo grins, impishly delighted with the power he holds over you. "Why the rush? Are we a strain on your hospitality? You should be delighted to have us here, finally kicking up our feet and giving you something to do with your day. Be grateful your store has privacy… enough that we can toy with you until sunset without your neighbours hearing of it. Dare insult me or Felix again however, and we’ll make an example of you where all the townsfolk can see.”
“This scum isn’t convinced yet,” The Labrador grumbles; his dark eyes flaring with sick excitement. “I got a sense he’s still spiteful about our company. Spite ain’t good for his health. Do I get to trample it out of him yet?”
You gulp, desperately fearing Deo’s response to the question. Calmly the wolf drags his feet to the ground and stands from his seat, kicking the small crate out from beneath you. You breathe a covert sigh of relief, hoping the other canine will remove himself from your backside too. With drifting steps Deo moves about the workshop eyeing the various structures and décor as if he were here to purchase the property. After a long and daunting silence he finally gestures to the Labrador with a flimsy back-wave of the hand. Your entire body is visibly trembling on all fours. At first you don’t understand what this command means… though you find out soon enough.

Like an industrial piston slamming down between your shoulder plates, Felix’s big meaty paw pushes down with instant effect. You’re fallible to the surprise; limbs instantly buckling to the magnitude of that one stomp. You wheeze and whimper, landing on your ribs against the floor; shielding your collision only by the panicked chicken-wing bending of your arms. You feel a vibration in your pelvis as you sprawl outwards. The wind is swiftly knocked out of you for a second time, and then a third, when two sandal-strapped paws climb onto your levelled backside and crunch their immensely packed weight atop you. The pain and asphyxiating pressure comes in three stages; first is the bearable treading of one paw, second is the unbearable distortion of his masculine frame as one leg lifts into the air and the other sinks deeper into your spine… and third is the strange relief of both his paws standing on you at once; combining their force in a way that balances out evenly.

A slow tendril of drool connects your lips and the stone flooring below while your face blisters in red-hot combustion. Tears are squeezed from your eyes by force. You gasp and gargle, tensing every muscle in your back as the big dog steadies himself. The pain is only subsided by the numbness. You’d never before wondered how a rug feels beneath a person, though now you know. You hear a hoarse groan which you first believe to be the sound of air expelling through your open mouth. The sound, instead, is the dog above succumbing to long-awaited relief. He takes pleasure too much pleasure in the thought of tenderizing you underfoot. It’s his own definition of ‘breaking you in’. Admittedly you wish he was naked right now, (simply to alleviate the weight of all that bronze hoplite armour).
*Ssschrp! Sschrrrp!*
The day’s dust and dirt is painfully scraped from the bottoms of Felix’s sandals with every momentous wipe you now feel travelling over your body, as though they were two small steamrollers flattening out your muscle tissue and awakening your every nerve. Frays begin to form in the raggedy material of your tunic; some even opening into marginal rips under the track marks of his wiping feet. You cannot muster anything to say other than grunts and rasps. Like a loose roll of fabric your body ripples and shifts underneath him, subconsciously trying to guide his steps away from your spine or ribcage while he treats you like a worthless doormat. Your tailbone has already become entirely numb under the mass of his right heel.

After what seems an endless torture the stout Labrador finally stands still, balancing with one paw plastered across your upper and lower spine. Winded gasps quietly whizz in and out of your clenching mouth. Your fingers are so tensed they ache at their joints. Through the sporadic blurring of your vision you watch Deo’s lavender legs stroll towards you once again from several feet away. His cocky strutting comes to a stop some two inches away from your face. Your lips are closer to his sandal bases now than earlier. Deo can feel your breaths wafting against the fronts of his toes once again. From here you can easily observe how the sandals dip under the weight of each toe, forming a concave hammock of greasy leather to hold those dark violet pads.
“When may I stand on his head?” Felix asks earnestly; his deep voice freezing your bloodstream.
"Not yet, you fool. He cannot use it to worship me if you’ve already crushed it flat,” You hear Deo respond. They speak using the bare minimum to acknowledge you, referring to you more as an object they own rather than a person they abuse. Despite the angst you feel to this wolf, if it weren’t for his interventions you might already be a sticky paste squelching inside the insole imprints of Felix’s footwear.

The wolf stares down at you, despite your limited ability to return the eye contact. “You’ve tasted the divinity of my toes but I’m far from satisfied. I’m yet to feel the authenticity of your apology. Perhaps you ought to adore the other ends of my feet, too? My toes are too popular and my heels are too neglected by whoring beggars like you.”
By choice or by expectation, you make no audible complaints. Expectedly Deo turns his back to you offering a glimpse at the back of his legs. His calves embrace a bondage of sandal straps. His heels – a much softer shade of lilac – are at first burrowed in the leather until they peel and pry upward when Deo stands firmly on the balls of his paws. As though secretly captivated you see the up-close recesses of hot vaporized air spreading open under the wolf’s rising arches. You cannot hold your breath forever so when you hesitantly inhale the smell of fire-roasted nuts and salt tickles your throat. A mass of silken sweat tendrils stretch between his blackened insole and purple foot sole. Like a bread oven, these new spaces expel a blast of torrid temperature. Deo grins at the sound of your spluttering. Contentedly he balances on each ball pad squishing them deeper into their own grooves, mushing flat any stray lint or grime into the craters of sizzling sweat.

With nothing more than a quiet snicker the wolf slides one leg backwards towards you, slips the now vacant slab of insole leather under your jaw, parking your chin atop his oily heel indent. Before you can fathom a reaction his heel – a pliant ball of supple softness – crams into your mouth nudging left and right until your lips yield and stretch around its shape. Your alerted noises are quickly muffled. While the Labrador leans his weight forward and digs his curling toes into your shoulder plates, Deo wriggles and punts his foot some more forcing it ever deeper into your maw. First your speech is limited, followed by your breath. Deo’s heel settles comfortable down against your bottom row of teeth, anchoring your jaw against his sandal.
"MMRMphrmm!" Your voice is unintelligible.
Your upper row of teeth pushes against the back of his heel somewhere near the ankle. You have to quell the impulsive urge to bite his foot. All you can do is mouth its girthy roundness and let your tongue thrash about like a wet eel. You're locked in and forced to suckle on the unpadded region. Your saliva dampens his unwashed fur. At the very least Deo’s weight is conducted down through his ball pad, preventing your jaw from cracking underfoot.
"Mmmphmrh..." You stubbornly and unsuccessfully attempt to groan out another plea.
“How fitting,” The wolf murmurs, “You’ve always been below me… though now you might learn to find pleasure in your place. Oh the things I’ll do to break you in, peasant…”

(To be continued!)