PART ONE IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<

Lucky Charm
PART TWO

Synopsis: A motocross-enthusiast hyena assumes that his good luck in dirt bike tournaments comes from the ‘lucky’ micro he keeps squashed inside his boot. Once home, the hyena explores other ways to amuse himself with his tiny captive.

Disclaimer:
-Forced Paw Worship
-(Extreme) Filth/Musk/Sweat
-Micro/Regular
-Squashing/Living Insole
-Size & Weight Play
-Non-con
-Hyena (dom)
-Squirrel (sub)

(The story continues!)

Before Neal can comprehend or recollect his surroundings he is stuffed deep inside a long sleeve of raunchy steamy blackness; the familiar interior of another discarded sock, this time a nylon sports sock, plucked from the pile to engulf him like a voracious snake. The hyena's fist only releases him after plunging him down into the furthest depths, dropping him off somewhere against a surface of tangy paw pad stains. The pliant, springiness of this fabric means the squirrel's hands and knees quickly sink into elasticised recesses, feeding him a sense of helplessness and claustrophobia. The potency of beer batter and gasoline flavoured odours burn in his lungs. Kirk’s sock smell is too strong to forget; harbouring a nostalgia all on its own.

Kirk repeats the same method as earlier; winding the sock ends in his fists until the body of nylon stretches taut and tightens into rigid, sopping twirls only this time with a lump of squirrel anatomy trapped at the centre. Neal feels the textile pulling out and straightening from underneath him. This is hastily followed by the atmosphere thinning as walls of silken darkness close in around him, clinging over his backside, drawing closer and tighter and hotter until his arms tremble and he collapses face-down in a stain which pulls like a vacuum-sealed bag around his muzzle. Creases arc, wend and constrict around his body until Neal's arms are trapped against his sides and his thighs clasp together. The sound of moisture being forced to pursue along these crease lines would normally make him shudder but Neal is too focused on inhaling stunted mouthfuls of miasma, and trying not to breathe any lint litters in the process.
Neal is in a rotisserie rotating slowly in the sweltering temperatures. All he can do is compose his blood pressure and wait while sock juices are pumped around his body, sifting through the nylon surrounding him before dripping quietly to the coffee table below. Inevitably but regrettably he swallows a mouthful, tasting its mulled mustiness and inadvertently obeying Kirk's commands to ‘drink his foot sweat’.

The hyena tightens his grip, staring intently at the quivering lump in the middle of the sock. He keeps both hands evenly levelled and brings the dripping footwear to his own face, flaring his nostrils curiously. An incoherent squeak is heard from within after the hyena presses his big nose firmly into the bulged shape - over the squirrel's torso - and inhales feverishly.
*Hhhhhphfffff!*
"Mmhhh..." Kirk moans. His own rich scent sends a pleasured convulsion down his spine. His eyes roll in his head. "You must really feel insignificant right now, huh? I could do anything to you and you know it. Who's gonna stop me if I wanted to work you into my maw and mush you up like a juicy, seasoned morsel?"
Kirk has no intention of voring his tiny friend though he relishes in taunting them nonetheless. To pump his prey with adrenaline he slacks his jaw and stretches out the wringed sock across the width of his opened mouth; front teeth bearing down a fraction of an inch away from Neal's nylon-wrapped figure. Trickles of sweat leak out and run over the hyena's already glistening tongue. He is grinning while holding this pose, listening to the rapid wheezes within which consume what little air remains inside that toxic mummification trap.

The thrill at last passes. The hyena decides on an ulterior sense of mercy instead of perpetuating their fears. From here the sock is gently unwound returning it to its regular lengthy dimensions, (although deeply crinkled), and a flimsy fragile squirrel with frightened eyes, heaving lungs and bedraggled fur is then tipped out back onto the table top where they cower on all fours; rattled with confusion.
"P-please... n-n-never... again! I'll play along! I'll obey! Just... just not that!" The micro splutters weakly. His throat is sore. His chest aches. Black and silver spots dance in his unadjusted vision.
These are the words Kirk wanted to hear. The young hyena says nothing in response. He merely leans back into his recliner refitting old grooves. His hands tuck behind his head and interlock. Dispassionately he skids his right leg up from the floor. It veers into view over the table's front edge but does not fully display itself. Instead only the padded upper half looms over the kneeling critter. The foot kicks inward, planting its arch into the table rim and vibrating the surface. The very bottom of that pillowy ball pad - in all its dense, sweaty, fuzzy, linty glory - parks atop the timber directly in front of Neal. Its flesh boasts a supple dexterity when it creases effortlessly, and deeply, when the four toes begin scrunching back and forth above. Neal is being beckoned closer.
Kirk's eyes drift back to the television but his demeanour is now more expectant than ever. He confirms this by muttering one terse command: "You know what to do."

A mutual understanding between the animals benefits them both. Kirk can now settle back after his long day on the tracks, saving his dominance for later. Neal however is working overtime to please the cocky canine; now provoked to hobble forward on his knees and hug his trembling upper body against the pad. With small arms outstretched across its width, Neal grinds his chest into the warmth and clutches handholds of the slick leather. Hesitantly he turns his head into the padding, keeping his nostrils sealed so that he can stow his muzzle into a cosy indent. He cringes when the rough smears of lint graze against his snout and lips. To satisfy the waiting hyena he begrudgingly puckers his lips. The sound of smooching, gagged gulps and slow slurps is drowned out by the television but what matters most is the sensations tingling over the nerves of Kirk's foot.
Neal ignores the demeaning, "Good boy," comment from his friend and continues laying kiss after kiss; each time requiring him to probe his face against the pad and smear himself deep against the squelching sheen of glaze, imprinting his own face. A string of drool follows him when his head withdraws, connected at the lip. Idly the hyena's toes still furl and flex at their own discretion, rumpling the ball pad enough that the squirrel's hands occasionally lose their grip and must grope the dense ripples instead.

Minutes pass by at a snail's pace. Neal interjects his smooches with a frequent lick that slathers long and slow over the ample flesh, often times wiping over threads or fluffy specks but never owning enough strength to erode them off the sole. The salt content dries his mouth and leaves his tongue itching, forcing him to nuzzle the supple surface between cycles until he can properly salivate again.
Using all his vigour the squirrel soon utilises these grips to help pull himself up on wobbling legs; uncertain about his ability to stay upright. At least here he has the height to stand and stare between the hyena's round plump toes which splay apart with garish glee, to welcome the view of the squirrel's frowning face between them. Neal groans. His spirit puddles around him when he looks down into the three toes pits, each showing off their troves of grim mossy darkness and glints of perspiration.
Although Kirk is not staring in his direction or paying him any acknowledgement, Neal knows what's expected of him. He tries to argue his situation inside his own head by pondering: 'It's bad, but at least I'm not working on the treads of those filthy motocross boots again. I'll take little mouthfuls of toe jam over hours of wet mud any day... I think...'

Saying is easier than doing. Neal places his little hands against the inner sides of one toe gap. With a morose disposition he closes his eyes and bows his head into the space, pushing through humid fumes until his mouth meets a trough of textured grime and stale fur. All the while he stands with his groin and torso leaning against the ball padding. The next few moments are a gruelling force of effort. The micro extends his mouth across the toe webbing, bulldozing a bundle of gritty muck into his maw as his teeth close together. His eye twitches. The essence touches every side of his mouth and oozes into his taste buds. It's soft but crumbly at the same time. The teeth sliding down the toe crotch is merely ticklish to the hyena. For the micro's sake Kirk tries to keep his toes spread widely, no matter how much he wants to sandwich that puny head between them again.
Swallowing the toe jam is no small challenge. It glugs slowly down Neal’s throat like a lump in motion, tasting akin to soy sauce left in the sun. Instantly his knees want to buckle. He hunches and clamps one hand over his mouth; eyes watering as he forces it down. Tortured moans murmur from him afterwards. The squirrel is so focused on the flavour that he manages to mentally block out the smells sizzling around him.

Neal isn't sure what bothers him most: the idea that he's lost his will to fight back or the idea that this wild dog can act so casual and unperturbed while a micro feasts from their toes. Kirk isn't even paying attention to the television, either. He has now pulled out his phone once more to help pass the time; his expressionless canid face illuminated in screen light while he watches videos of dirt bike tricks. The audio rattles aloud with a tinny, overcooked quality but the hyena is still innocently enjoying himself.

Neal sighs and returns to his assignment. His head lowers back into the same toe gap. He mouths at the webbing again this time with much less quantity to eat. Instead he suckles on the dark brown fluff until salty particles are extracted from the follicles. He gulps down traces of crud before resorting to licking up the crevice repeatedly until it feels refreshingly dewy against his muzzle and cheeks. Neal licks around his lips clearing away any dark diluted smudges, while simultaneously tasting a zap of flavour. Against his better judgement the grunts, moans and mouthy noises made between licks have begun sounding sexual in nature. Neal tries to pant more quietly, so as not to give the hyena any notions.
It is already too late. Kirk's eyebrows have raised and he peers over the top of his phone. "C'mon, just admit you like 'em already," He suggests with a playful overtone.
"I...I'm not going to say that! It's been years since we met and I've never talked about having a gross fetish in all that time! Why would I start now?!" The squirrel retorts; his voice is quiet, breaking and scratchy.
Kirk shrugs and obnoxiously responds, "Hey it's never too late to start, man. Besides... you've got none of the power here. I can trap you between these meaty mincers every day then rub 'em back and forth all over your body until you cream yourself. Friction makes stimulation, after all. If I do that enough times and you keep creaming yourself on the daily you're bound to start loving 'em. I'm callin' it now: In a year's time I won't have to make you do anything. You'll be so broken in you'll be begging to munch on that scrumptious toe jam by the spoonful!"
"I'm not enjoying this," Neal retorts with a blush. "I'm... I'm just doing what you say so you go easy on me..."
Kirk's gaze has scrolled back down to his phone. Languidly he gestures his hand in the air like a flapping mouth, insinuating a response of, 'Yada, yada, blah-blah-blah, get back to work.'

It takes a full quarter of an hour for the squirrel to dredge his way through the other toe gaps. His experience is haunting each time his head must stow into those fetid alcoves. He barters courage and integrity for a mouthful of hyena toe jam, swallowing it in small nibbles like an unsavoury medicine. In one scenario - in one gap - the grime is so stubbornly stuck deep it requires five whole minutes of salivation until it would eventually wear down and stain Neal's pulsing tongue black. He'd never hoped the adage "You can get used to anything" would come true in this degrading situation yet he'd begun to take less and less notice of those tangy soy sauce flavours. His body had stopped wanting to instinctively reject everything he ingested. The micro refused to admit it, even to himself, but he had been subconsciously inhaling each time he pampered between the hefty digits.

The cue to stop licking is simply a gentle kick from Kirk's paw, nudging the 6 inch squirrel just enough that they stumble back a step and blink in dazed perplexity. Neal watches as the rest of the foot scuffs up the table's edge and towers into view. A horizontal dent is softly embedded across the arch directly under the ball pad, matting the hickory fur where this table had been digging in all this time. Just as before, Kirk's paw dumps onto its heel and rests vertically in front of the squirrel, eclipsing him from view.
By now that deep fried stench has ventilated enough that a mere faintness of odour lingers around the paw, in its aura of natural heat. The sweat drizzles have mostly dried into the pad flesh too leaving only translucent gleams when caught in the light. The copious scatters of peppery filth and linty scraps are still firmly plastered into place, though. At this point it would take a sanding tool to scrub these hyena soles clean, Neal figures.

Nervously the micro asks, "Should I... um, lick your heel for you?" Instinctively he feels ready to lower onto his knees. More than anything he hates himself for nearly uttering the word 'sir' at the end of his sentence. The canine would've never let that ‘Freudian slip’ go. Addressing an anthro with masterful pet names is a point of no return for any micro.
Kirk lowers his phone away to reveal a toothy leer that spreads from cheek to cheek. "Heh, dude, you're so lucky you said that instead of bitching about 'unfairness' again. If you'd started pouting I totally would've worn my boots to bed tonight with you squirming inside 'em just to teach you a lesson... so you just saved yourself from one hot sleepless night. Instead, I'm gonna reward you! You get some free time to kick back. For real. No need to sniff or lick for my approval, at least for now."
As if a terrible weight has been lifted from his shoulders, Neal lets out a gusty sigh and his body muscles all loosen at once. Despite the hyena's generosity Neal can't help but feel a little cautious, at least. "What's the catch?" He asks.
"No catch," Kirk responds. His grin and lidded eyes don't do anything to put Neal at ease. "Except... I'll need you to chill on top of my paw while you have this break, of course. Like I say, I can't have my lucky charm sneaking off so I wanna feel you nearby at all times. We don't want a repeat of -that one time- do we?"

Kirk's inflection turns cold during these last few words, deliberately bringing back a memory of Neal's first escape attempt which ended in an hour-long disciplinarian trample - hard and pummelling - which took days for the squirrel's joints to recover.
"No, n-never again! I've learnt my lesson!"
The squirrel sincerely wants these words to be a lie. He wants to believe he can flee from this musty mobile home one day, never to be worn as some brash punk's insole again, though a part of him refuses to accept that this will ever be a successful reality.
Kirk replies, "Good, then climb on up. You can lie back on the topside of my paw like a hammock. Don't you worry, I'll keep it steady."

Something about the undercurrent of mischievous excitement in this hyena's voice riddles Neal with paranoia but nevertheless he steps around to the side of the big paw and climbs up over the ankle, straddling his scruffy little body over the base of Kirk's shin. The appendage is teetered forward enough over the table that Neal can shyly wriggle himself back and recline against the foot's topside. Long thick bone structure, rigid muscle and a bed of fur can be felt under the squirrel's backside. His legs are spread over the curvature and dangle partly down by the sides. The rear of his head nestles against the tops of the very toes which have been toying with him all day. This is an unnatural perspective, (being atop a foot instead of under), but he tries to find some degree of comfort.
Strangely it reminds Neal of simpler times before the hyena discovered their fetish, when he could candidly rest beside these burdensome paws without a second thought about them. Neal even recollects one memory of a summer-break holiday when Kirk was lying on their stomach upon a beach towel, basking in sun rays, eyes closed delicately behind his aviators, chin propped atop his crossing arms, all while his soft sumptuous paws were left upturned. Wrinkles arced along the gentle bend in his arches. The pads were toasting comfortably. They listened to the sound of ocean waves whispering into the ear of the shore. Muscled jocks played volleyball nearby. Kirk's flip flops, with their deepened paw prints, were criss-crossed to the side; still teeming in the warmth of being recently worn. Amid this luxury the squirrel - dressed in his own tiny sunglasses and swimming trunks - was reclining back in the curvature of Kirk's sole using it like a sun bed, crossing his legs over the plump ball pad and sunbathing peacefully. No kinks were involved, no threats of being an unwilling captive underfoot… only a platonic bond at play.

Reminiscence can only bring him so much relief. Neal knows that his reality has changed significantly from this memory and soon he will realize the hyena's promises for a peaceful respite are hollow, at best. Kirk patiently waits for the squirrel to settle and wallow in cautious optimism. When their guard is truly lowered the other bare leg takes the opportunity to peel up from the floor. Neal's ears are attracted to the rustle of traction followed by a whoosh of air but his delayed reaction costs him dearly.
Suddenly his perspective is consumed by the mass of Kirk's left paw; flexing and bulky like the sole of an ancient, gargantuan predator about the squash him into pulp. It blocks the glow of ceiling light behind it before descending hastily over his frightened frame. With the right paw already buoyant beneath him, Neal has nowhere to flee.

Regardless of the twitching, convulsions between them Kirk's feet form into a tight stack atop one another. One sole smothers the topside of the other, rubbing together, adhering fast and heavy until Neal feels like nothing more than the oozed filling of a grilled cheese sandwich. Once again his entire front-side is flattened into a muggy sole; his orange and white pelt now lacquered in pad grease. Neal is more vulnerable in his positioning now more than ever. With his legs so haphazardly splayed apart his groin makes for a perfect landing spot. As the two feet layer together the hyena's heel treats the shinbone like a ramp, sliding down its contour before parking itself right into the spread between Neal's legs. In an instant that precious fuzzy sheath is compressed under heel. The squirrel hasn't any time to expel any squeamish groans or startled gasps before the rest of him is likewise entombed underfoot. Pressure is deliberately concentrated over him, cramping him down in a meaty furry hug until the squirrel feels disfigured between these surfaces. His head is turned awkwardly to the side; one half of his face branding directly under the ball pad while the other half is grinded against the knuckle of a toe below.
"Gmnngh!" A gargled noise escapes from the squirrel.
The tectonic movements above and beneath him shift and smear about, searching for the place of optimal comfort. The upper paw is particularly fidgety, wiping back and forth with enough grip to tow the squirrel's body around underneath. Against his best control, drool spills from one corner of Neal's mouth. One of his arms sticks freely out the side of the paws while his other arm is extended upwards and caught tightly inside one of the new toe gaps. Neal has to tell himself not to struggle or thrash, for fear that this arm could break if the hyena makes too sudden a movement. Kirk is well aware of his plaything's predicament. He can see their orange hand protruding up between his toes, flexing in panic.

Kirk exhales through his nostrils, lounging back in his seat with vanity and fulfilment written over his expression. "Chill out, man, you're safe in there. Just figured I'd double-down and make extra sure you don't escape. ...You know what, though? Every time I step on you I still get that same overdose of feelings I got the very first time. It never gets old! Maybe I just love having a living, sentient little twerp slotting like the perfect puzzle piece under my sole and sticking there for good. Your fragile bones... those inferior pleas you make... shit, dude, I'm surprised I don't pop a boner every time we go riding together."
"MmmNNmph!"
The unintelligible noise has an irritated inflection. Kirk knows just what to do to calm his plaything down. He begins rubbing his stacked appendages together at an interchanging rhythm, abrasively sliding the upper foot forward while dragging the lower one backwards, mashing the squirrel flat between them. Over and over the paws rub, scraping fur and meat until their friction becomes a soundtrack of shuffling rustles.
*Sshhk-sshhk-sshhk-sshhk!*
The squirrel is subdued into silence after this ravaging process, (aside from his laboured breathing).
"Theeere we go," The hyena coos condescendingly, "Now lie still, enjoy your break and remember how good you've got it here. As a pipsqueak micro you could've been living at the bottom of -anyone's- footwear; an athlete's running shoe, the work boot of some big butch guy who sweats all day in a steel works factory, or the dress shoe of some uppity rich CEO. Instead you get to be the prized possession of a mad-sexy, 24 year old motocross champ. Lucky you!"

Kirk taps his thumb at the TV remote surfing through channels until he lands on the sports network. Nothing inherently appeals to him but the live rally car racing is enough to satiate his boredom. It's also an excuse to refuse his micro any further acknowledgement.
Neal learns that no part of this purported 'break' will follow his own rules or ideas of leisure. Everything down to his body positioning and his access to oxygen is still determined by the regular sized anthro, no matter what. It succeeds in rendering him helpless, even reliant, on those contentious feet. The worst of this realization comes to light some time later long after the squirrel has stopped squirming and has become nothing more than a limp flat rag, rasping pathetically, losing a grasp on his individuality.
By now the hyena is engrossed enough in his show that his legs move in subconscious flow; heeding his well-trained muscle memory for degrading worthless critters. The warm, repetitive steamrolling up Neal's body - always starting with the heavy heel grinding their groin and smudging their abdomen - becomes such a routine that the squirrel cannot anticipate what else will come next.

Without so much as a considerate warning the hyena repositions both his feet in a cacophony of sliding, turning and tipping movements which rolls the dizzy micro off to the side. Light blinds the micro's eyes when the upper paw drags away to the left pulling on his fur and facial features painfully. In his panic Neal tries to grab any tuft of fur beneath him, but to no avail. He expects to roll painfully onto the table top but instead he falls into a dark soft fissure wafting in warmth. The two feet finish shifting into place, greedily cradling around the squirrel. Neal's eyes flitter open. Big pads bloat in his vision, boasting the buffet of crud still ingrained in their leather. To his horror Neal can feel another set of pads behind him too, gently wrapping against the back of his head with toes crowning heavily atop his skull. The squirrel whimpers and writhes. He cannot budge. He is stuck lying on his side; right arm and leg pinned under his own weight deep in the cosy ‘V’ of these enclosing paws, (which are poised sole to sole like prayer hands clasped together). Only a narrow sliver of light intrudes into the space from above where the edges of Kirk's two feet have not fully sealed shut.

Tightness. Darkness. Temperature. Density.
The acrid stink feels like burning incense sticks rammed up the squirrel's nostrils whenever he breathes. For Neal this is an intolerable hell. Typically his days are spent under one paw, not baking into a creamy mush between two paws conjoined at the sole. For Kirk this is a luxury. He finally implants his feet completely together shutting the squirrel out of sight in the hazy blackness once again. Not even the fibrous tip of their tail is visible between his arches. Kirk groans delightedly to himself. That squishy lump running perfectly between the lengths of his soles, (having so little room it cannot even twitch or spasm between the oily suffocating walls of meat), is a bliss better than sex.
The canine's paws - lying on their sides against the coffee table wood - have no intention of unsticking for a long while. He wants them affixed until the animal between them becomes nothing more than a forgettable substance. The hyena keeps his legs outstretched straight and far but for a moment he hunches his upper body forward, blindly pawing a hand around the floor below for a grasp of his riding boot without taking his eyes off the television. Fingers snag on the opening. He drags this clunky shin-high white and black footwear into view.
Without so much as a glance or a pause of hesitation the hyena brings his boot straight to his snout, hiding the end of his muzzle inside the insulated interior. It's a tunnel of dank sweat stains and entrapped stench molecules but this doesn't stop the hyena from inhaling long and hard; fuelling his incorrigible narcissism with a sniff that persists until his nostrils sting. His lower jaw hangs slack. A giddy exhale shudders out but quickly thereafter he is back to sniffing more, keeping the boot held in place by its dirty tread. These enthralling whiffs inspire the hyena to sandwich his feet together with even more pressure and friction.

Kirk doesn't know where the time goes but unexpectedly an hour and a half of the afternoon is lost. The daunting rainclouds from earlier have now filled the sky above, sending down a calming din of droplets on the roof. Streams of water wriggle down the window panes. The hyena is slumped in his recliner, staring without focus at the on-going shows and adverts melting into his brain. Small raspberry noises putter from his bored mouth. His senses are only enlivened every few minutes when inhaling from his boot, which has been continually gripped in his left hand. Alternatively his other hand will lower down the side of the chair and rummage into a day-old bag of stale, sweet-chilli flavoured corn chips, (ruggedly shoved into his maw). As intended, in all this time his paws have remained immobile sustaining Neal in a stasis of deprivation and humiliation. Only the small, withered breaths sucking at a bushel of his toe gap fur reminds Kirk of his micro's existence down there.
Finally Kirk peers over at his legs with a sly smirk, giving the micro the most basic effort of recognition. "You think you've got it rough in there? Pft, you don't know shit," He mocks, merely hoping Neal can hear a single word. "You should see this guy I follow online; the guy who got me all frisky over micro abuse in the first place. He's this rich gazelle - dashing as fuck - but lately he's been brewing his ankle socks for four months straight and his micro is totally encrusted into 'em at this point. Dude's socks used to be white but you wouldn't even recognize 'em now! They look like they've been left in a coffee pot for a year! I'm no pussy simp like you but hell; even I'd totally give 'em a whiff just to see what he's putting his micro through 24/7."
The tone of Kirk's voice is clearly enamoured and reverent, though it also hints at the threat of wanting to mimic his idol... an act which could break the squirrel's willpower well and truly. Neal - who indeed can hear the muffled resonance of his friend's taunts - cannot help but feel blame towards this gazelle, for possibly providing the inception to Kirk's dominant kinks.

A yawn bellows in the air. After this, the hyena is charitable enough to withdraw his soles from another finally dissipating the atmosphere of cramped, swampy heat and musk when the appendages slowly peel apart. The squirrel's flaccid body flops onto the table top of its own volition, sparing him the trouble of being scraped out from underfoot as he had earlier. Neal's limbs drape and bend indolently. His head remains turned on its side; tongue hanging out of his aching mouth. If it wasn't for the twitching of his leg and his eye, Neal would've looked unconscious at the very least.

As he lays here sprawled and enfeebled, (little legs practically dangling over the edge of the table), Neal assumes the worst must surely be over. How much entertainment can he provide in one afternoon? Mere moments later one of the hyena's feet sits vertically on its heel but instead of staying propped upon the table it swings its mighty anatomy above the micro and plunges down, anchoring the entire orb of its heel squarely over Neal's torso.
A winded gasp is shot out of his mouth. His entire body jolts from the impact. Internal organs become the footrest of this weighty, massive circumference squashing down just deep enough not to cause any medical harm but enough to make the squirrel break out in a flushed sweat. Only his sternum, head, arms and legs are visible outside the range of Kirk's heel.
Next the other foot sweeps and crosses over the first with burdensome indifference. The legs are stacked. The soles tower like a steep insurmountable cliff high over the trodden critter. From this low, lowly angle Neal is able to scan his watering eyes up the hyena's sole contours and see the curving depth of their arch, topped by the sumptuous bulk of those light grey pads. The glow of the ceiling light overhead is divided by the silhouette of Kirk's toes, (mounted highest of all, wriggling and catching the light on their claws).
The view of these crossed soles occupies the squirrel's entire vision; a vision which itself is blurring every so often as he struggles to maintain composure between the multiplied weight. Kirk couldn't care less about his friend's situation. He continues tossing crunchy chips into his maw, sipping the scented airflow from his own boot and enjoying his pint-sized footstool while the TV does its bare minimum to amuse him.

Another half an hour... another limbo of crushing magnitude turning Neal's organs into putty. His heart rate is jumping in his chest. His molten blood races in his veins. His body overheats as agitation rises. His view never changes; steep sole and an overhang of paw pads searing their image into his memory. Choked grunts slip from the squirrel's clenching face. A lone bourn of sweat can be seen slowly rolling down the ball pad, nearing ever closer to him with each passing minute.
The words 'Wait until he's asleep, wait until he's asleep... just a few more hours... he can go find a new lucky charm for all I care...' echo in Neal's mind.
Perhaps the stillness and patience of these crossing feet pain him the most as the lack of movement keeps their weight pinpointed, numbing the squirrel's belly. At least when Kirk actively pats or mops him around underfoot it's a form of productive exercise.

That dulling numbness soon spreads like an infection around the squirrel's body, ensuring he never rebuilds the energy to fight back against his oppressor. Were it not for the sight of those lanky appendages dispatching and dragging apart Neal may not have even felt his body freeing from beneath the heels. Regardless, he lies in the open exposure of the table surface once more; his bruising torso gradually mending back to its original organic density. More drool soaks around Neal's mouth. His exasperated eyes drift left to right surveying the now-parted paws on either side of him. He weakly lifts his head and gazes at the grinning hyena, through the space between their legs. Kirk is clearly waiting for his plaything's reaction. He values their opinion on every torment they're put through, at least for the purpose of earning a laugh and debasing them for their vulnerability. Unnervingly, Kirk's leer is unflappable and his dark predatory eyes never break eye contact, even for moment.

"S-some break that was..." Neal groans.
"Didn't seem too bad in my eyes, man," The hyena remarks. "Shit, sometimes I barely remembered you were down there getting cooked like the soft little pancake you are. You totally gotta learn to lick me more so I don't forget you exist."
The squirrel coughs and grunts. "Yeah... thanks for the tip..."
The hyena snickers, amused by their lack of affection. “Chill, would you? How about this: I'll compensate and not wear my boots tomorrow, at all. Dirt track's gotta be some kind of mudslide mess after this rain anyway. No promises that I won't slip you in my nasty flip-flops though..."
Though the promise is still indiscreetly veiled in dominance, Neal puffs a sigh of relief nonetheless. At least insoling a pair of flip flops provides him with plenty of breathability. His nostrils might be invaded by a stink like microwaved rubber but anything is better than being enclosed under musk clouds, inside those insulated riding boots.
Kirk hears the sigh from his seat. It prompts him to raise the boot in his hand, glancing into its depths contemplatively. Kirk licks his bottom lip slowly, never faltering in his grin, and then says, "But that's tomorrow. Today I can still use my boots on you however I want without breaking my word, and you can't do squat."

The recliner squeaks and scuffles when the hyena sits upright, yanking his legs down off the table and sinking them flat into the carpet again. He gropes his boot by its sturdy neck. With his other hand Kirk reaches down suddenly for the small animal, grabbing hold of their leg without their permission. Hastily Neal tries to wrench himself free the moment those big fingers pinch around his calf and knee. His eyes bulge. He tries clawing his hands into the wood. It's already too late. In one easy tug Kirk pulls him by his leg directly into the air, dangling the critter in a nauseating invert at a height that makes him lightheaded. Neal is as powerless as a plush toy in an arcade crane machine. Predictably the hyena carries his prize over to the boot's gaping mouth where he lets them dangle and hover in the rising currents of thick, musky vapours. Neal can only gulp the lumpy dread in his throat, while hanging upside down.

Without any witty words to precede his actions, Kirk releases the micro from his grasp. Neal's frightful squeak is quickly incoherent as he plummets down inside the boot, landing with a soft but loud thud against the tatty indents moulded at the bottom of his fall. He lies in a mangled yet unharmed heap before gathering himself onto his hands and knees; his lungs already itching as they fill with the fumes around him. Sodden patches form beneath his palms as he presses his weight into the insole. Neal grimaces. He blinks rapidly in the darkness, squinting at the cavernous end of the footwear several inches ahead. The tickling in his throat compels him to cough and gasp in the same boot stink he'd been breathing all day prior on the dirt bike course. His only solace is the light pouring down through the opening above, though Kirk quickly sees to this as well.
The hyena reaches over to the small pile of socks discarded nearby. He calmly hums to himself while proceeding to snatch these socks one after the other, feeding them slowly into the boot's opening, stuffing it until it becomes clogged with the wrinkled bundles of raunchy black fabric. Inevitably this snuffs out the last sources of light inside the footwear, dooming the squirrel to more darkness. Neal's tail twitches when one of the socks burrows down closely against his backside as the next few are crammed into the opening too, competing for space. He reflexively tries to crawl away yet this only leads him deeper into the end of the boot where his head rubs against the shallow ceiling and his hands sink deeper into Kirk's pad prints. The floor here is evermore squelching and spongy; it's firmness deteriorated overtime by over-use. It's here that the squirrel collapses face-first into one such indent, groaning exhaustedly as the stained mesh welcomes his muzzle.

The hyena tests his trap by lowering a fist into the boot afterwards; pushing on the compacted sock wads to reassure himself that Neal has no possible exit. With his ego assuredly boosted, Kirk deploys a satisfied sigh. He stands slowly to his feet, arching his spine forward and bending his arms in a brief, limbering stretch. His bones crackle. He groans. He shakes himself loose, (boot still held and containing its prisoner). Kirk then begins padding out of the musty living room making his way barefoot across the mobile home.
The door to a small bedroom squeaks open exposing a cluttered space occupied by an unmade double bed, a computer desk and a floor smattered in old laundry. The aroma wafting through this room smells more like B.O and corn chips than the rest of the house. Soon after entering, Kirk places the boot on top of his desk. He then unzips his motocross jacket and trousers tossing them over a standing mirror. This leaves the skinny hyena in nothing but a pair of white underwear, (and his striking, striped pelt of course).
He now lowers himself into his computer chair. The PC glows to life in front of him. The boot housing the suffered squirrel sits with quiet stillness, acting more like a room decoration than anything. Kirk busies himself with his technology, doing all he can to ignore Neal. Keeping them fermented in foul flavours until nightfall ought to help break their spirit, he decides. Neal doesn't yet know that he won't be acknowledged for hours to come so he rolls onto his back inside the insole imprint, panting and blocking his snout with both hands. A part of him expects the canine to wrench him back out, tie him to a stick via old shoelaces and utilise him as a toe-gap scratcher... but instead he remains an unimportant side-thought in Kirk's mind.

Kirk boots up an intense first-person shooter game on his PC, ready to spend his evening furiously tapping keys and clicking impatiently, as he so often does in his downtime when away from the dirt track. However this time he decides to upgrade his online presence not by streaming the game but by setting his phone camera to record and then bending down to place it under his desk, leaning it against the back wall. The lens focuses directly towards his bare legs and the fronts of his feet in particular. Kirk sits upright leaving the phone in this demeaning place. He cracks his fingers and starts his game but keeps the phone camera entertained with constant playful feet movement. His big toes plumb the carpet, curling into its depths or kneading it sensuously under his pads. He'll occasionally tease and tilt back these digits for an explicit view of his soles. Other times the hyena simply crosses his lint-speckled feet in full view, beckoning would-be watchers by the frisky furls and splays of his toes.
Despite focusing intently on gunning down virtual enemies, hiding in the forestry and healing between combat Kirk speaks aloud so that the micro in the bottom of his boot can hear every word.
"Testing out something new, my dude. My phone's at my feet recording every second of these vicious, delicious hounds. Gonna upload it my socials later and watch the horny comments pour in. I've seen that gazelle guy I mentioned do the same thing except he's got an online wallet linked to his page. Wicked move, right? So I figure, fuck it, I'm gonna do the same... and I'm gonna demand a certain amount from my fans if they want to see -you- under the desk too. They'll be creaming at the thought of seeing a micro being smacked around between my pads and smothered like a bitch 'cause they'll all want to pretend they're you. Might even fuckin' jerk you off between my toes, groping your puny dick until you bust live on camera. Sounds like heaven, right?"
One of the hyena's big round ears perks, listening for the slightest sensitivity of noise inside his boot. He picks up on the muffled trace of a dejected moan somewhere near the toe cap of the footwear and he smirks vapidly. His feet skid forward on both heels. All eight of his toes spread apart, suffusing so closely to his phone that a misty condensation briefly fogs against the lens until the toes pull back and wriggle seductively instead.

Kirk continues talking about the future that will be shared between them: "Heh, if it's lucrative, expect that to happen a -lot- more often. Just don't expect me to go easy on you anymore. When you see what I've seen online, you'll know people pay big bucks for kinky vids. I might have to jerk myself off too but with you in my hand... or catwalk trample you over reinforced glass with my camera underneath for that perfect POV. Don't fret, though. You should be honoured; you're not just a lucky charm for me on the tracks... you're bringin' all kinds of benefits to my life! I'm glad to have you supporting me with every step I take, no matter how sweaty or heavy the step. Good thing you'll be with me for a looong, long time... Buds for life, dude! No regrets!"
With that permanent statement released into the world, the micro groans and wretches hoping he could thump his fists against the roof of these wretched confines repeatedly until the hyena lets him out for a breather. His please, as always, are denied. Neal is growing ready to lower his expectations and submit to his fate. He no longer feels like his own person. He is not the hyena’s friend he is their toy, their tool, and their lucky charm forever.

THE END