Cat Got Your Tongue

Synopsis: The godly feline Beerus makes two mortals' deepest wishes come true when he makes eternal objectified foot slaves of them both, setting them to a competitive spirit of worshipping and adulating their new deity together.

Disclaimer:
–Willing Foot Worship
–Musk/Filth/Sweat
–Competitive Slavery
–Multiple Subs
–Dragon Ball
–Beerus (Dom)
–You (Sub)

Lord Beerus - a lilac sphinx cat of cadaverous skinniness and sleekness, whose hairless silken skin clings to every muscle – is a most universal and ultimate being many tiers above the comprehensions of mundane mortals. He is a true living god; not of creation but of destruction. As such he wields near limitless unquestionable powers capable of erasing solar systems with a yawn. This mightiness exudes in every step he calmly takes, echoing on the chamber floor of his skyward palace. The reverberations of every footfall bounce against the glass of the large crystal orbs floating about this vast room like distant celestial bodies, each housing their own time-frozen hourglass inside. Effortlessly the feline controls the room and conquers the attention of both his two new playthings – freshly caught – who kneel before their almighty and observe him pacing with inquisitive intimidation to and fro before them, (festering fear and obedience from his would-be subjects). They know why they are here in a god's private pocket realm, worlds away from their own. They understand the gravity of their situation. All they can do is hope to appease this insurmountable ego and comply with their newly destined contracts drafted by this bored narcissist of a deity. They listen to his footfalls pounding and chiming like the ancient hourly song of a grandfather clock. Beerus's serpentine tail whips behind him in fussy, annoyed flickers. His hands cross behind his back, curled in plump fists. His tall jackal-like ears twitch. He stops his pace standing side-on to these inferior beings and narrows his overly large, bagged, amber eyes in their direction.

Both subjects have come from the planet earth, particularly chosen out of all the galaxies under Beerus’s domain due only to his condescending fondness for earth people, their mixed races and their power-struggle cultures. One is a very lean and gentle bodied creature named Koga; an anthropomorphic otter whose fur is a harmony of light turquoise green and white underbelly. His eyes are a hue of jade. As per Beerus’s recently declared policy no indoctrinated house slaves are allowed to wear any clothing aside from their undergarments, however Koga has been allowed to keep his one anklet made of miniscule white beach shells at the very least.
The other subject is you, simply... you.
Both you and the otter have been instant-transmissioned here simultaneously experiencing Beerus's domain - particularly his bedroom chambers - for the very first time together, following your impromptu bump-in with the god of destruction. Both of you are lifelong friends who first bonded over your equally secretive sexual inferiority towards other men, particularly fetishizing the feet and paws of earth’s human or anthro populations. You’d always had a competitive edge against one another; light-heartedly fighting over who would be a better foot slave should either of you ever get so lucky. Neither of you are heroes or important figures. You are both simply nobodies; just gullible refuse of the population whose aura of submissiveness was so vivacious the deity couldn’t help but offer you a place under his demeaning ownership.

"Are you pitiful wretches sure you have what is necessary to serve a god? Mortals are not known for their usefulness, after all. Bear in mind the deals we struck to be here together; that any life you previously lived on that insignificant zit you call 'earth' is forfeit; traded for something better and longer lasting in my service. I confess… when I visited your world on official business only to befall to the sudden, embarrassing public harassment of your snivelling pleas - your offers to live as my permanent, perfectly obedient house slaves - I thought about squashing you both like two insects under my boot. How lucky you are that I gave it some extra thought and found those offers too tempting to pass up. Either you made them in selfless sacrifice to pamper my needs recognising I was lacking in slaves, or as a selfish indulgence of your own interests. Whichever is the truth, you now supplicate to a divine being for all time; a truly labour-intense existence that knows no pause. How splendid for me. I do deserve a little pampering, if I do say so myself," The sphinx cat chortles in his dry, profound voice. "And just at the right time, too! My assistant Whis is away for a few meagre centuries to deal in petty universal matters and monotonous appointments and yada-yada. Ugh. I've been ever so lonely and bored to tears without anyone to play with in his absence... now I have you two all to myself! Maybe I’ll discover who is the better slave amongst you? What fun!"

You and Koga glance at each other with expressive worry only for a second but when you look ahead again you jump at the sudden bony purple cat face right in front of your eyes nearly putting his snout to your nose with such intimate proximity. Beerus is now standing in front of you bending over to stare you down. His blunt, apathetic scorn fills your entire vision.
"You have something to share, mortal?" He asks. “Not feeling homesick already, hm? You and your otter friend did make tremendous fools of yourselves, throwing yourselves at my feet right there in the middle of that ‘West City’ park and kissing my holy shoes upon my arrival. So eager, so ripe for manipulation… you even delayed my appointment with people far more important than you, just so I could bask in the amusement of such a bottom-feeding spectacle. An entrance worthy of my status, at least. Now you dare to look hesitant? Unwilling, even?”
"N-no, my lord! It’s nothing like that!" You whisper back, stifling a scared gulp. “This is all so new, so hard to process, I… I only want to make sure I’m the best slave I can be! Koga too!”
He stares unblinking for a tense moment. Once he finally stands upright and gives you room to breathe he puts the sole of that burlap textile shoe right on your groin to teach you better manners in his presence. You blush in surprise. It's only natural. Koga shifts enviously to your right, annoyed that he’s spared the humiliation. Though the bottom of this shoe is still firm with insulation, by design it's soft and loose enough that you can feel the feline's humanly clawed foot inside it curling forward and finding its ideal placement over your awoken genitals. It makes you feel targeted. You recede the air into your lungs, inhaling tighter the harder that gaunt cat punishes your bulge.

"Go on, speak; what do you suspect a god of my calibre would want from two weak insects like you?" Beerus asks, making his foot comfy in your lap.
"R-respect?" You offer indecisively. Beerus's brow twitches with disdain. He twists the tip of his shoe deeper onto the nexus of your crotch and growls quietly.
"Slavery?" The otter speaks up, seizing the deity's approval where you could not.
Beerus clicks his finger at Koga who flinches, well aware that such a hand gesture has presumably dissolved entire planets into dust. He now steps off your groin which you immediately cover with both hands. "One point to the river dweller! What is a god without their most loyal and depraved servants? It's written in all the fables. Now I finally have two sordid slaves of my own and I will not be squandering your uses. You will bow or you will break. First order of business, I want you to lick every bare inch of my body; both of you at once, working together to preen me clean and lap at my glory. A servant's tongue must be intimately familiar with every inch of their master if they ever hope to worthy of the title. Ahh, and I do so like to be bathed by mouth. It’s in my nature! Just remember your place here remains at stake, should you ever refuse me or show any incompetence."

Snapping both his fingers at his two mortal toys, Beerus turns and strolls to a large round cat bed befitting his divinity. It looks like a regal golden bowl filled to the brim with plush red cushioning, hosting enough diameter to cradle his entire body. Ever delighted with himself he throws himself back upon it sprawling sensually into a starfish shape, then tucks his hands behind his head. Glimmers of light from above warm his sunken lilac abs and shut-eye smile. He emits a lazy groan and lies here still dressed in his usual garb of blue baggy pants fitted to the shin, colourful neck piece, golden jewellery bands and brown burlap shoes.
From here on the floor you find yourself staring at the soles of both footwear, (presumably Koga is doing the same), unable to avoid the stirring feelings for their filthy states. Possible millennia have passed since Beerus last wore a different pair. Their usage is portrayed by the grimy footprints that have sieved through from within appearing visible on the exterior; like black scorch marks that somebody has tried to wash out with cups of water only to result in a soggy, blurred distortion. It's too late for these soles to ever be cured. What's there is there forever. You could suck them for a week straight and yield no result whatsoever. Given this feline's unconcealed arrogance you suspect you might be given just such a task one day.
If this is only the outside surface you can't imagine how foul and besmirched the shoe's insides must appear. Beerus hasn't worn socks once in all his existence meaning those raw feet are free to steam and sweat in containment every day escalated by their own growing body heat the longer the bare and organic surfaces rub together. At least a litre of sweat per day gets soaked into those spongy blacker-than-black insoles that sizzle like slates of burning coal. Any sweat that isn't absorbed congeals with its linty accoutrements before that too is mashed and melted down out of existence. Even just trying to think about how they must smell is making your nostrils feel fuzzy and warm.

You and the otter both shyly approach the bed like members of a small harem, taking to one side each. You choose the god's right. He takes the left. Even after years of friendship there's little to say in this unique situation so instead you huddle around the superior being lounging so leisurely between you, focusing on him instead of yourselves.
"Come, my slaves. Let your tongues memorise the taste of greatness. Bathe me. Treat me. You know you’ll never get any better than me. Start at my face and work your way down. Just don't lick my snout." Beerus commands assertively.
"Yes, Lord Beerus," You both mutter out of synch.
Tentatively you both climb onto his bed around him and kneel in the velvet padding, bending over to run your tongues against his cheeks. He snickers, smiles and purrs. Without any fur that light purple skin is so delicate and soft. It creases and pulls over his cheekbones with every stroke of your tongue. At different paces and rhythms you lap your way down his face and neck wetting the skin as you both straddle over him variously, getting in each other's way at first as you both seek to impress the deity. It’s hard to say if your libidos or your fears of his otherworldly powers are your biggest drive. The otters head fur and small ears brush against you making you pause and glare. You’re already jealous of their unabashed confidence and seemingly natural expertise in licking another man's body clean, as if he's done this many more times than you. You're red in the face, feeling heated in the chest. You made this perverted deal to be the god's house slave because you'd felt an impenetrable lust for his handsome appearance the moment he'd entered your vicinity. You wrongly hoped that Beerus would only choose you and not your friend; that you'd be his one and only slave living out a fantasy of eternal kinky subservience. You never wanted competition.

You neglect your duties for a moment to watch and seethe quietly. The otter slips their webbed turquoise hand under the feline's neck piece, splaying their fingers under the fabric and over Beerus's beating heart. The two animals share a sly smile before the otter lowers down and licks over the nipple, adding more fond strokes to the pec as well before moving onto the left armpit. Your heart rate triples. It's unfair! You didn’t think you could invade the spaces under the god’s clothes, only what was already bared! You realize you have to catch up now and try match the other slave's abilities before the difference is noticed.
You shuffle back enough to dip your face down into the right armpit where a gale of stale warmth greets you. His sinewy body shows the shallows between his ribs and the taut but high arch of pit where fresh B.O is fermented. You nudge and nuzzle deeper eventually hitting the depths with your nose while his underarm cosies the top of your head. Eager to please both his ego and your libido, you sniff the luxurious aroma loudly. You invite it home into your airways and let it hug your lungs. The smell is bliss. The skin is so warm and supple against you. This has to work; this has to please your new lord.
"Did I say you could sniff that?" Beerus scolds, lolling his head and thinning his amber eyes your way. "Is the mortal such a simpleton it can't determine smell from taste, hm? Must I really shut you in my shoe cabinet for a hundred days with a boot bound to your face, just to teach you the difference while this more competent slave gets to enjoy my body all to himself? Don’t tempt me. I’ve done worse for less..."
Your face burns enough to reciprocate the armpit warmth. "No, sorry, sorry my lord! I didn't mean any wrong-"
He interjects. "Keep licking. You're the weakest link right now and I challenge you to try change my mind."
You swallow hard and nod shyly. Koga peeks up at you amid his own armpit slurping just for a moment; just long enough for you to catch the smugness in his smirk and that glimmer in his gorgeous teal eyes.

For the next few minutes all but the sound of licks and kisses and slurps and sloshes dance in the air contesting one another each time. Both you and your opponent rinse out the two armpits in tandem, slurping every available contour until the salty tasting skin glimmers and drips. You're happy at least to have that flavour lining your tongue, especially knowing it's the essence of a real living god. When it comes to licking the abs next the territory is a free-for-all between you. You start by lapping little wet strokes over the cat's right hip but when you try drag your tongue into the middle to swirl it around the navel you bump heads with Koga who is doing the same.
You consider trying to get along and just taste the abs elsewhere to him until he puts a webbed hand in your face and holds you back, pushing you from the torso, gripping your startled mouth and nose against his dark teal-padded palm. This gives him enough time and room to mop his tongue all over the abdomen flicking off saliva after every refreshing trail. He's trying to make you look bad and it's working. Beerus has had his eyes peacefully closed, unaware to anything. By the time he opens one eye it's too late to witness the otter's intrusions but not too late to catch you sitting there dumbfounded and not participating. He sighs with weighted disapproval. You can't help but feel like a third party to their mingling; like some variation of cuckold.

The otter then leans back towards Beerus's resting upper body and seductively eases out their arm from behind their head, lengthening it out limply so he can rub its forearm in both hands therapeutically and put the feline's hand in his own mouth, suckling gingerly on each of those very plump thick purple fingers and their black claws.
"Oh!" Beerus chirps with pleasant surprise.
Enviously you observe them sucking up and down on each finger with slow erotic insinuation, always leaving them glistening in drool before moving onto the next. You follow suit. You take the other arm and wend your tongue along its bicep then up the forearm eventually lapping like a hound at the soft abundant palm flesh that sinks to every wet caress.
"You will make a fine toe sucker," Beerus remarks towards Koga, who thanks him graciously after his next mouthful. Beerus then looks at you like a stranger and adds, "I've yet to say the same about you. I haven't decided whether this performance earns you more training or less privileges."
You let the feline curl his thumb and fingers past your lips which splay and toy around in your maw for a moment before pulling out moist. You then say with flustered arousal, "I'm... I'm trying my best, my lord."
The otter is still suckling away in the background. Beerus replies, "Then try harder. Of course I'll still be putting my toes in your mouth whenever I please, though it'd please me more if you did a better job. In fact, I'm eager to see how you both fare at my feet. They'll be the crux of your worship, you should know. Now be a dear, get down there and help me out of my shoes. Show me which one of you wants it the most."

Both of you climb down to the cool stone floor and come to kneel before the two shoe-clad legs sleepily overhanging the bed's rounded edge. Beerus grins to himself beyond, already relishing his command over his two devotees knowing the splendours you'll give him without question. For a moment you and the otter look at each other again but in unity not spite nor competition, as though remembering you’re friends and not enemies. Together you'll feed your gods hunger for dominance and put him before your own squabbles. Once again you take the right leg and he takes the left. Your hands close around the shoe squeezing burlap-entombed foot outlines. You can barely register the touch; too anesthetised by the abstract and dreamy detachment. You can't believe you're really here experiencing the orientation day of your eternal service, groping godly feet at their behest in a world outside of time itself when days ago you were nothing special; nothing more than the average forgettable face in the crowd.
Beerus makes a grunty moan. He clearly enjoys feeling two pairs of hands rubbing around his feet. It's enough encouragement to curl your fingers around the tip and hold it in a gentle chokehold, pulling upwards so you can audibly hear the papery rustling friction of bare foot sliding off bare insole. You snag the back of the shoe with two hooked fingers and flip it over the ankle, enough to show the very warm back of his heel. When you then pull the shoe off in one quick yank you're suddenly breathless and dizzy at the beauty before your eyes. Your hand tightens around the now empty vessel collapsed in your grip.

The appendage is just as slender as you'd been imagining; long toes and flawless proportions all baked in a warm periwinkle purple skin. It looks smooth to the touch yet already you can see how the soles crinkles so easily and softly, exactly like a thin silk tissue. Fresh air is invited between their toes but it's an ambush. The foot exudes sauna-levels of steam from every edge and pore. Compressed sweat glosses the lengthy shape making its texture as slick and wet as creek bed stones, easy for any tongue to slide right over without any pull-back. This cascade however is overwhelmed by a full frontal sheet of grime so dark that light cannot penetrate through its utter blackness. It is an edible turf layer with a carpeted fuzz texture of tiny trodden follicles that cling loosely together like well-cooked brisket. The stench that kicks you straight under the nose and almost knocks you to the floor is exactly like a heavily salted, oven-roasted 'sweet potato' turning crispy on the skin with a hint of grated provolone over top. The smell itself has dominance; pulling down the clean air just to climb higher and spread wider. You feel as if you've just lifted the cover from a billowing street vent. Amid your suppressed coughs and watering, fuzzy vision you can see the turquoise otter reacting the same way at their own undressed feline foot. His whiskers scrunch like wiry zig-zags. He looks as if he might be sick in his mouth but he gulps down the impulse and tries with difficulty to look undisturbed. This might be your advantage. He clearly expected he'd be licking a much cleaner sole... as if surely an almighty deity like Lord Beerus would have higher hygiene standards. You, however, are deeply enabled. This is exactly what you wanted in life. You want to be lesser than foot dirt itself; to let that dirt have power over your very dignity. The thicker the grime, the better the feast.

Overjoyed at the bounty, you stick your nose right in the centre of the foot just below the ball letting all that round weight and humid percolation lean up on your nose's bridge. The deeper you push between the muscles the more it envelopes you until a scratchy graphite line of grime is drawn vertically along the nose, especially smudged at the squashing tip. You open your mouth wide over the arch but instead of letting your tongue out you angle your jaw and pry your teeth gently against the flesh, above the heel that now blackens your chin.
You turn your head upwards closely following the sole's verdant slopes always dragging your bottom teeth up like a plough so that you scrape and collect the weaker forefront layers of grime against the edges of every tooth, turning the flat matted layer into combed and rolled crumbles of gunk that tumble into your maw like so many varied morsels. A slimy crust sticks to the crown of every tooth but its build-up helps shovel the smaller unstable scraps down to the pool under your tongue. The taste is dour and bitter like chalk, dirtied eraser shavings, and the crumbs from a stale cheese scone. It's equally the worst and best thing you've ever had in your mouth.
There are teeth tracks combed in the sole filth but your chin accidentally buffs their sharp clean edges and turns them back into opaque smears instead. Your teeth get one last good scoop under the bottom of the ball but this rotund area of foot is too thick and supple to gnaw against so you gulp back the murky helping and let your tongue finish the rest. Its movements slap and streak around the ball like a window wiper, swiping a shimmering glaze aside with every lick. The filth gels together with the moisture, looking like spit in the bottom of an ash tray. After another stupor of slurps its waxy blackness starts to drip down towards the arch. Your horny mind controls every moment. You suck at the ball with docile little gapes which begins dragging linty grime to the lips like an acrid lipstick. Beerus splaying his toes half-curling them with pleasurable tension. It’s a good read of his reactions to the mouth activity.

You can barely recognize that your chin, lips, nose and now tongue are all holding the muck in reserve. You don't care. Nor do you care that your tongue feels fuzzy with microscopic hair and shoe fibres. The chunkier splotches of lint speckling your bottom lip are worn with pride. Unbeknownst to you you've been making ecstatic noises the entire time with every mouthy gawp, suck, smear and slather. Even your nostrils have been actively sniffling like a pig in mud, huffing every roasted wisp of sweet potato stink that still escapes from the overheated pores. It's worthy to die for; a portfolio of scents and tastes and temperatures and textures that you'd let suffocate you to the brink of turning blue any day, if only to remind you of your fickle mortality compared to his natural superiority.
Realistically this level of grimy puree isn't watering down or erasing any time soon regardless of how efficiently your teeth chip it away or how eagerly your tongue mops it up and down into black sediment juice. Even now your mouth is dyed a range of foul unhealthy colours but the wriggling lilac foot is only a fraction cleaner than it was before the shoe came off. You can feel the sphinx cat shifting in his bed and waggling his legs in both your faces more and more, indicating restlessness and a possible change in duties, soon. Somehow all these dual tongue strokes and brushes travelling both his soles hasn't so much as sent a tickle through his legs but the cranky god is undeniably impressed, even if he refuses to admit it.

Like watercolour paint the diluted lickings turn into long-legged trickles that droop and slither all the way back down the sole, raking the cleaner purple instep, then meeting at the bottom of the heel where they dangle and drip hesitantly knowing it's a long fall to floor. You like to hunch lower and extend your tongue beneath the heel to catch these splashes on your now filth-insulated taste buds, (which only clear away after you suck your tongue clean with such boisterous and intense suctions that your gums itch from the strain). A helpless slave to your sex drive; you give one last slurp over the heel, retract your tongue to kiss the arch, then stick it back out to lick across the ball with preparations for sucking the toes clean afterwards except this is the moment when Beerus yawns loudly and sits upright stopping you in your tracks. The feet level out and lower, not quite touching the floor but certainly dripping all over it.

"Ahh, foot baths are always better when they come from a place of enslavement. Now let's see which one of you earns my favour and which one of you is a predictably pitiful disappointment..." Beerus side-eyes you in particular.
The heavy taste of filthy foot soot clinging to your mouth gives you hope that you did the better job. You and your platonic competitor exchange looks to preview the other's confidence. You celebrate early by giving a smirk of your own this time. Koga’s face reveals nothing, yet. The lilac cat then pulls his left leg - worshipped by the otter - into his lap first and brings his toe-furling sole into view inspecting its cleanliness. You kneel higher to steal a glance. Your jaw drops suddenly. Your eyes widen. The sole is freshly basted in saliva, virtually cleaned from top to bottom! Light rays refract off the glaze of shiny spit. That jet black carpet imprint is nothing more than a smear of diluted ash-water across the sole, catching in coloured beads and flowing to the current angle.
Even the toes are sucked and polished now webbing with fragile partitions of saliva. How could Koga be that much faster than you?! How does his tongue have enough grip strength to peel off that stubborn grime when you could barely soften with saliva? It's impossible! You're stunned out of words and thoughts alike; your chest pounding as you shoot your ire over to the other slave who cockily winks back. A sweaty ruffled footprint marks the front of his face resorting to chaotic smudges around his muzzle, dripping its dew from his chin. Even Beerus's eyes bug out when he witnesses the result.

"Huh... would you look at that? The river dweller makes for an exceptional foot slave! Any god would be satisfied putting their feet in a mouth that earnest. I'd sure hate to follow that performance."
"Thank you, my lord! I live for your pleasure. No matter how thick and rancid, I will always swallow down the gruel from your feet. Any *true* slave would do the exact same." Koga beams, kissing up to the feline.
You gulp again, now more nervous than ever. You can feel a ring of sweat around your neck. Beerus switches feet over now against his lap though it only takes a short glance to determine his preference of service. Without a word Beerus swings the leg back down and stretches it straight at your face. On reflection the sole doesn't look nearly as polished as your optimistic mind had first thought, at least in comparison to the other. There's fury in the way those toes splay across your vision showing char and sticky marks between their untouched gaps. Your nostrils cook in the gaseous stench of sweet potato and grated provolone.

"What is this?" Beerus asks with icy intonation.
Your jaw quivers. "An unfinished job? My deepest apologies, my lord, I'll learn to lick faster, I will!"
You consider sucking the toes out of apology right here and now but the leg swings back down again out of reach. "You're right," He tuts, "An unfinished job is exactly the issue. Poor servitude only admonishes my reputation. Imagine hearing that the imposing Lord Beerus in all his greatness, god of destruction to the 7th universe, consumer of planets, cannot even wrangle command over his foot slave. Are you trying to make a mockery of me? Hmph! One day I shall have you lick clean the floors of every room in this castle, lapping away hundreds of years’ worth of my bare footprints remembered in the timeless tiles. Perhaps that'll remind you how a tongue ought to be utilised?"
You nod your head with honest motivation. Koga pipes up, all too eager to overshadow you. "May I crawl over there and lick what my friend could not, my lord, to fix their mistakes?"
"Quiet, filth-muncher! Don’t overstep your boundaries." Beerus hisses angrily, reminding the room that he is the ultimate authority and will not be interrupted at any cost. "Although... all this talk of slurping and consuming is making me starved. Yes, let's attend to that! I expect a feast of your finest earthly cuisine – pronto – and from there I'll decide what to do with you both."
(The humbled otter is hushed and bows his head in apology).

***

Within the hour Beerus is sat at the forefront of his banquet table. A ‘wall aquarium’ backdrop casts shimmers of blue swathe light across the dining chamber. Before him is a sparkling culinary buffet of colourful deserts, fresh fruit and cheese platters, or steaming meats galore. The sounds of munching, gulping and messy slurping feasting are combated by the clinks of glasses and the scraping of cutlery. Instead of sitting on his usual comfy cream chair today Beerus has opted to reward his better performing slave - Koga - with the privilege of being his royal seat. The naked turquoise and white otter is prostrated on all fours trying to maintain his balance and keep the feline's rump cushioned by the straight of his back. Beerus sits with perfect posture atop him, paying him no mind when the lavish foods are more deserving of attention. Koga's limbs may shake and his brow may sweat but he capably sustains this pose - proud to be a god's living furniture - even disregarding the brown burlap shoe against his face socketing his muzzle deep within its soft rancid depths.
The golden ring which engirdles the neck of the shoe just below its overfilled opening creates a very tight bonding circle around the muzzle structure, keeping the shoe secured in place; no need to tie the footwear on with any lace or strap. The otter's eyelids flutter with every slow, deep breath of roasted potato stink which chars the edges of his nostrils and makes his nose feel runny with fever. Every exhale of Beerus's shoe causes its shapely textile to expand and bloat like a paper bag used for hyperventilation. Every inhale causes it to suck and collapse and crinkle inward. The otter has no need for hunger in this realm so the musky shoe nutrition is all he requires for sustenance. A small wither of lint either tumbles towards the nostrils or gusts away back across the insole, following the gestations of air.

You've been designated to kneeling in front of the barefoot deity under the shadow of the table, brushing the top of your head against its uncomfortably low hard underbelly. You cannot see Beerus from the waist up, nor can he see you. Your mouth stays permanently opened as per his cruel demands accepting the playful tomfoolery of his foot that roams around your face toying with you whenever and however it pleases. While Beerus eats away above gnawing and gnashing his teeth or chugging down fine gravies and slick juicy noodles he makes you stare at the grimy ineptitude of your unfinished cleaning job from earlier; fanning the toes open and curling each one forward just enough to scritch at your cheeks or nose with their claws.
You sit still and wait for those supple long lilac toe heads to press on your skin and slide down towards your mouth; the middle digits taking the high slope of your nose compared to others that warmly brush around the sides. Eventually they all re-join at your lips, tickling the soft pinkness with small prying flaps up and down. He starts experimenting with your limits. He lands the ball of his foot right on your bottom teeth sifting all five toes into your maw, daubing your molars and tongue-sides with their silky berry-esque shapes. For just a moment he pushes down and exerts pressure through this ball which lowers your jaw even further, distressingly so. The tendons and joints start to stretch. The corners of your mouth burn a little the more they're forced open. Just as you groan and choke in pain - and saliva runs down your sloping tongue only to hit the foot and dribble all around its sleek dimensions - Beerus eases the weight off yet he still keeps his foot in your mouth of course.
The spread of each toe gap spilling humidity inside your mouth is like an open invitation to wash them clean except you won't risk trying anything until your lord gives express verbal clearance. You're already on thin ice. For the next ten minutes it seems the toes adopt a strong interest in your tongue. Beerus tries flipping it up or flicking it side to side via the rolls and knocks of his wriggling digits. He taps its spongy succulence with his big toe forming a soft mushy well of saliva in the centre indent, squelching in tiny splashes with every press or otherwise forming a shiny ring around its warm oval head. Again you do nothing in response, offering no input. He does what he wants with you, no question.

Another ten minutes trundles by once the sphinx cat changes operation, now wrangling and lassoing your squirmy fidgety muscle in the forceful grip between big and index toes once again clenching it by its very sides. The texture in the deep pit between them is immediately recognisable for its frizzy, lint-glued chalkiness. Your heart skips at the sudden bitter taste you loved so much from before. You don't tense your tongue you simply let it be lax and lazy like a slimy ribbon being squeezed and wrestled. The toes are explorative; curious. They slip under the tongue to pinch at the webbing connecting it to the bottom of your mouth. They make it rear up by barging forward and clamping it at the very back-end. Once they've blindly felt around over every usable inch they settle again and conform back to trapping the tongue on either side, hard enough to make it curl inside the width of their gap. Once locking in this position both digits start greasing back and forth in slow slippery slides stroking the pink muscle from end to end as if pretending it was a very flaccid phallus. By doing this they gradually scrape away small tracks of black toe jam against your tongue's edges, using you as an inert tool to wipe themselves clean. The other three toes curl over your bottom lip in wait, subtly flexing and furling to the same rhythm as those molesting that salivating instrument of pleasure.

The time passes by in a flash. You feel as if you've barely blinked yet in reality you've spent the time kneeling under the table with flushed red cheeks and zombified eyes perpetually rolling back and fluttering in absent-minded lust, receiving a footjob inside the mouth for a change instead of between your legs. Even after all that teasing the feline's toes still aren't altogether clean. Only the sides of this particular gap and its webbing have had the chance to graze against you leaving both the outlines and the veiny undercarriage of your tongue dressed in dark gritty smears. Beerus presses his partially slobbered sole back to the floor among the other, knowing he could easily set his feet on your thighs or knees or torso or face and dry them off there with lewd wipes but he doesn't believe you've earned the honour of being his rag just yet. Ultimately it doesn’t matter where he wipes his feet, you or Koga will always inevitably nourish yourselves on the residue and imprints left behind.

Beerus probes a tender meatball, (dripping in herby marinara), with his fork and shoves it deep in his gob unafraid to slurp and grunt vocally. He - halfway through the mouthful - smirks and says with volume clear enough not to be mistaken; "Mmh, you know... I've been thinking. You're not the dud of a slave I first thought you to be, mortal. But that’s because... you're not a slave at all. You're a *pet*. A slave is deprived of their potential for dignity. They still think and want like sentient beings only delivered unto degrading injustice. A pet is mindlessly obedient, happy in ignorance, with no concept of dignity. I believe that describes you perfectly. What do you say?"
"Uhm... woof, woof?"
The words flop out of your mouth insecurely. Your face burns hotter than fire itself. You want to die inside when that skinny, hairless cat cackles loudly as if you'd just dragged a feather up his sole. He almost drops his fork from his fist. In the involuntary lurch of his amused reaction his bare foot kicks you in the lower stomach then accidentally steps on your groin before finding its place back on the floor. Koga would've laughed at you too was he not so busy being Beerus's seat and huffing their shoe like an oxygen mask. Admittedly it feels nice to be laughed at by a higher being. It makes you feel less like a person.
"You simple-minded buffoon," Beerus chastises, mockingly. "I asked for your opinion not for dog-play, though it is rather fitting; me being a superior feline and all. I know that embarrassed you, too, so I want to consecrate that forever. You will be my pet dog. I will now refer to you by that as your new namesake. When Whis returns I'll even have him summon you a golden dog bowl and collar. My word… dogs are dumb creatures who just love licking feet and chewing shoes, aren't they?"
Your frozen chest instantly thaws with relief. You keep blushing but you're overjoyed at your demotion of role. "Y-yes they do, master! Woof! They- ... I do! I do!"
Beerus holds the table for support and leans back to stare you in your dilated eyes. "Hm. Good boy. I know you'll enjoy bringing my shoes to me by mouth every morning, while your web-fingered friend here will have spent the nights prior rubbing my feet liquid tender, hour after hour. For now though, show me you're a well-trained pet... crawl around this living chair beneath me and give his paws a nice fond lick, then come back to heel in front of me. I want you to feel so inferior that even a slave has dominance over you. Maybe you'll even earn a pat on the head afterwards."

The command unearths a deeply buried fascination in your mind. It makes you realize you've never once gotten to lick your friend's paws before despite thinking about it many times, largely accosted by the hesitation to ask because you'd always known him to he as submissive as you so it'd felt somehow taboo. The closest you'd ever come was licking the sweat and sand grains out of his flip flops several times over the years when he either wasn't looking or wasn't conscious during a hang-out at either of your apartments. When the latter was true, you admit you'd at least taken a sneaky sniff or those white soles or teal pads but had been too terrified and shy to endanger your friendship with anything more. Now that the idea's been proposed, you can't help but wriggle all over with a giddy new attraction; being the sub to another sub. It makes sense. It perfectly encapsulates you as a lowlife pervert on the bottom rung of society.

With a gulp you meekly crawl out from under the table's shade moving on all fours past Beerus's legs and around towards the back of Koga's naked furniture-turned body, shyly eyeing both those upturned and completely vulnerable otter soles. Your lips are so dry even licking them doesn't help. There's no way to apologise to your subby friend for the alarming and invasive discomfort he's about to feel so instead you just accept your place in this new life and you do as you're told, for Beerus's sake for than anything. You draw your face low immediately feeling the warm hovel of air permeating from the soles. They're soft and innocent. They still generate a summery beach sand odour as they always have. Your nose crinkles. Koga starts to suspect what's going on behind him, (having not heard the original command due to being isolated in sweet roasted shoe stink).
As soon as your tongue laps over one of his heels like a round scoop of melting mint ice cream Koga's toes protectively curl and clench forward in an ultra-tight cluster as if trying to hide from your sudden slurps. His body jerks about and writhes but the cat's weight atop him keeps him in place. Beerus continues eating happily to himself almost uncaring of whatever else is happening in the room. You lick repeatedly over a batch of taut creases along the pale furry arch softening them after the third or fourth turn wherein the otter begrudgingly relaxes himself, unable to escape his fate. The toes soon unfurl and finally stop crushing his own ball pad. It's nerve-wracking for him too because Koga has never had his paws licked by anyone. Of course he remembers old memories of play-wrestling you and scoring an easy win whenever he'd smother a sole over your face and make you lock up in stiff defeat but as he later understood his own submissiveness more he'd labelled those feelings as 'incorrect'.
You have a second-hand blush for him whenever you lean back in for another lick, now having access to his teal toes beans and the ball pads too. It's a secret euphoria. You slurp over every leathery bump and keep mowing upwards until you retrace old glossy marks on the wrinkly arches and heels too, moving from paw to paw. They taste like cured meats; briny and saline. It's like licking the flavouring from sea-salt potato chips only on a much more gummy and malleable surface. Though his toes still jolt during every lap you find an opportunity to lick straight over the thin fleshy ottery webbing walls between the digits which dip like trampoline material but feel slick to the touch. These are extra salty deposits and even still contain the odd sandy grain or two from when he'd last visited the coast before Beerus's arrival. You lick until there's a consistent layer of drool everywhere in sight - and until your taste buds sting - before lifting your head up gracious to have finally given these animal soles a try after so many withdrawn years.

Once finished you crawl the long way around him dodging eye contact completely but knowing that he's glaring at you with a look of humiliated annoyance as you pass by. Before you can come to a stop in front of the tall sphinx cat again - with earnest anticipation to lick his long lean feet again the moment he gives the order - Beerus interjects these plans when he stands upright relieving Koga's numbing spine from the burden at long last. He steps out. You halt where you are and wait watching him stretch so elegantly and enthusiastically; standing on the balls of his feet, extending his arms skywards and interlocking fingers so they pop and crackle blissfully. The god of destruction then places one bare foot on the otter's ass cheek scrunching it to its turquoise roundness. Claws pinch little indents in the plumpness. Beerus then thrusts momentum through this raised leg kicking Koga forward so they topple and trip onto their belly in alarm.
"Well?" Beerus asks expectantly, "Are you going to fetch my real chair or do I have to do everything myself? If that’s the case I'll have to make you two lie along the floor in turns and slowly cat-walk along the tops of you, like my living carpet, one by one until I reach it."
You hope for this option but Koga takes the selfish choice instead after he scrambles up from the floor: "I will do as you ask, my lord! You mustn't lift a finger around your true slave!"
"Indeed. You'd better."
The otter scampers away to retrieve the large cream chair left discarded near the lively aquarium wall adrift with many mindless sea life and wavering kelp. In Koga's absence you crawl up to your owner's side and affectionately lick his hand after he puts it to your face for a patronising petting, (still adhering to your new role as his 'pet dog'.) His hand transfers to the top of your head which he rubs and pats. Beerus otherwise ignores your presence even though you kneel and snuggle up beside his leg supportively nuzzling his blue baggy crinkled pants.

After the chair is dragged back into its rightful place ahead of the table the impatient Beerus - tapping a foot on the floor and crossing his gaunt arms - takes his seat like a cosy kingly throne. Several unclean plates of food are emptied atop while others remain waiting to feed the bottomless hunger of this supreme entity. He temporarily raises and arcs his legs pressing both heels to the tables edge and he commands the otter to take their place beneath him across the floor, like the willing foot rug he is.
Obliging, Koga gleefully lays himself down on his back spanning the floor in prime position for those light purple feet to descend back down and cast contended smothers across his face and body, simultaneously. The left sole curls right over the top half of Koga's face pinning down his eyes and the temples of his skull, weighing with much more mass than anyone would assume from such a lithe and sleek species. All that's left of the face in view is a whiskered muzzle and its ajar jaw, gasping in little breaths of excitement. He is blinded underneath the ever wrinkling, silk tissue sole but its intense warmth and sweet potato fragrance is a worthy trade even if it’s taunting him by not rubbing over his mouth or nose just yet. The right sole spreads over Koga's pelvis for a time, bridging and flattening across the exposed genitals pinning them flat down along his furry white belly. There is no movement nor act or intention of stimulation, only the hard and patient squash keeping it suppressed at its beck and call.
Beerus's clawed hands suffuse around the fronts of his chair's arms. He purrs to himself and says, "Ahh, that's better than any cold rock floor. My feline feet much prefer something warm, something worth kneading and plying. You two will have to work together as slave and pet to ensure I spend more time standing upon you than I do the floor itself. It seems your earth has proved itself a worthy planet to keep around... so long as it remains capable of providing excellent cuisine and fine foot slaves for the likes of me."

"W-what can I do, master?" You chirp, not wanting to be left out of the fun.
Beerus leers smugly and replies, "You can crawl back under the table at my feet like a good dog waiting for your scraps. Kneel before this river dweller rug who keeps my soles toasty warm and gaze at the rewards of enslavement it has earned. Toil in envy as I play with their body and face underfoot, which you don't get because you're nothing more than my moronic drooling pet. If you're lucky I'll let you have a treat."
You scoot back to your rightful place in front of the feet out of sight and out of mind, now jealously gazing left and right over the lateral expanse of lucky otter body getting reservations as the dining god's footrest. You watch the two sets of long toes squirming over their caught prey like a perch. Beerus resumes his feast above starting with swigging back a tall glass of pulpy orange juice then grabbing a hot fresh turkey leg by the bone. Koga can't see you steal a glance of his outstretched straightened legs leading to your left where his two bare paws stand side by side, upright, so vulnerable for you to curl up against and lap unrepentantly if you so found the courage.
After a few minutes of gawking you notice Beerus drag his right foot aside off the genitals which spring upwards once their pinning anchor is removed. The foot travels all the way along the white torso dishevelling the fur in its wake. Finally it plucks up then places down across the muzzle this time re-joining the other foot for a full scrunching face mask, crinkling at both arches as each foot bends together in teamwork over the supple huffing features and orifices. There isn't an inch of face left aside from the round ears and frizzy turquoise hair tuft. You can see the intensity of pressure Beerus is exerting through his legs by the tightness of his skin atop his feet around the toe knuckles and upper bones. Koga's back arches a little off the floor in raw pleasure.

Beerus barks but one word: "Lick."
Neither you or the otter are sure who the instruction is directed towards so from your different vantage points you both obey at the same time. Koga wrestles his tongue out of his warmly blanketed lips and emphatically slurps all around the available sole stroking each crease in slick dew. You work the tops of both feet, lapping without restraint above all ten slender toes one after the other making them flex reflexively to the hot slobber and quick tongue strokes that surpass onto the foot itself. There's only a couple inches of foot anatomy buffering the gap between your slurps and Koga's slurps. Unawarely you work in tandem; you wetting the tops in the same area he wets the bottoms, both turning and straining your heads in a matching rhythm above and below. Koga gets more flavour from his perspective but you're happy to be allowed participation. He even gets to finish clearing out the black from between Beerus's toes which you failed to suck clean in a timely manner, earlier.

This dual foot washing is a god's true treatment. The feline is both entranced by the pampering but also kicking himself for not claiming two mortal souls like this any earlier in his existence. Once his sole is slippery and soaked enough he starts rubbing his feet around unpredictably over the otter's unresisting face squelching and scuffing it between the two soles interchangeably, giving Koga an opportunity to run his drying tongue over the second one too. You barely let the appendages settle before you resume your long striding slurps and kisses against the glistening lilac tops.
At one point while Koga is wincing under the saliva-drenched slapping and patting of one foot bullying his face, the other leg swings up and shows you its curvaceous underside dripping and oozing with viscous varnish from top to bottom. The old linty thick sight of jet black grime is now nothing more than a low-opacity imprint weakened by the constant mouthing. You take the presented sole as an offering so you lean into it and sled your tongue up along its already pre-licked landscape, waxing over Koga's spit and breathe smell with your own secondary layer. Your tongue slips on the extra lubrication. Still, you manage one rounded lick against the heel and five tasteful laps up the ball and toe digits before the drool-dripping appendage kicks you away softly, returning to the moaning otter muzzle again for more joyful suppression yet neglecting you all the same.
You decide you can't hold back your urges. Even without Beerus's consent you lay on your side salaciously towards your friend's bare legs once again bestowing yourself a grateful view of his padded soles. All eight of his round unsuspecting toes are ripe for the sucking. You sneakily lower your gaping mouth around them all once again triggering the squirms and uncomfortable tremors of his legs but the otter is too distracted at the opposite end of his body - getting his face reshaped under the orgy of foot movement and moisture - to keep you away.

You devour the sea salt essence out from every rubbery toe webbing which accidentally opens or slides over your oral muscle. Your lips stretch to accommodate every tender teal digit but in his haste to shake your leech-like hunger away Koga tilts his paws together stacking them as one which makes it much easier to fit them both in your maw. He hasn't the energy to thrash much longer. Eventually he submits, busily licking and snorting the god's silk-soft soles one after the other while you occupy his own feet, sucking up and down two sets of otter toes with liberty and dousing them in a cascade of warm drool. At the unused middle portion of Koga's body his genitals have now reached full stimulation, unable to deny the barrage of sensations at either end of him; some dreamy and destined, others perplexing and perverse.
The sphinx cat side-eyes downward whilst chewing a mouthful; peeking the sight of you worshipping his slave's feet seemingly with zero presence of self-control. He smirks in the corner of his mouth. He could easily admonish and punish you for disobedience but then again, you are just a dumb dog to him now. You're born with a taste for feet and you aren't cognisant enough to have any power over your urges. If anything, it's helping spur the otter's nervous lick speed even more which benefits everybody. Beerus does however spy Koga's stimulation which makes him narrow his big amber eyes and tut-tut. Slaves aren't allowed that kind of sexual freedom, not without asking permission first. Pets can do that all they want, but not slaves.
Beerus moves his now mopped right foot back to where it originally rested across the width of genitals and pelvis. It's more stubborn this time but eventually he manages to flatten it on its back and smother the undercarriage underfoot again, trapping the illegal phallus against its bed of abdomen fur once more. This only leaves the left foot to scrunch and seep its dilution over his imprinted muzzle, cramming it between the teeth so that tongue within can figure out how to apologise against the smoothened, rippling sole.

The arrogant god sets down his knife and fork. He wipes his messy mouth with a handkerchief and sighs at the pleasurable tune of two different tongues expelling their moisture where it matters most. He doesn't intend to move from this place anytime soon, not until you've both finished serving, though he does have one last warning of what happens to underperformers.
"Slave - and pet too - remember to enjoy your luxuries while they last. I am an almighty god after all but sometimes gods get bored of their subjects, especially those who fail to remain entertaining. Should that day come I will use my powers to shrink you both down small enough to tuck under my bare feet until you can remember what makes you special. You'll be so small your head will feel like a pea under my arches. Each of my toes will be big enough to quash and cover your entire legs leaving your pitiful genitalia as the only visible thing between them, standing up against a beach of my purple toe webbing. Oh, yes. I'll press you under there long enough until you stick to that very supple and absorbing warmth, and then peel each foot off the floor with you stuck upside down against my soles indulging in a faceful of flesh. Naturally I'll slide my feet inside my shoes and seal your fates inside them for as long as I please. Could be centuries, or millennia, if I so choose. It'll be a sweaty, fuming, stinking pandemonium in there… that much I can promise. The longer you're treated as a worthless insole the more likely I'll forget you even exist. Your backsides will be matted in so much overcooked grime and you'll be so indented into my divine flesh I simply won't be able to distinguish you from my sole or feel you when I walk anymore, leaving you down there for good forgotten for all time. Silver lining is; so long as that doesn't happen, I'll peel you both off like old gum and return you to full size again... just so you can resume your original service. All in all, your god awaits plenty more worship going forward. To show your true worth you must be willing to do anything to serve me. Anything. I for one can't wait to watch that reality unfold. Together, we three can enjoy a very prosperous eternity together. The taste, smell, weight and feel of my feet are all you have left in your futures, so enjoy them wisely."

THE END