Live Reaction

Synopsis: A brash and handsome streamer with foot cams rigged beneath his desk live-streams himself playing games while toying with a once-loyal micro, using his feet to explore and humiliate the small helpless creature in front of an active audience.

Disclaimer:
–Foot Worship
–Musk/Filth/Sweat
–Micro/Regular
–Insoling/Trampling
–Exhibition/Public Humiliation
–Goat (Dom)
–Sheep (Sub)

“Hey, is my face cam good? One of you floor lickers tell me if it’s good. I still haven’t adjusted it since it got accidentally kicked yesterday.”
Cole adjusts the mounted camera half-attentively, gazing instead at his monitor for its honest replication of the results. He fiddles for a perfection; testing this first by propping his elbows on the desktop and centering his face languidly between two cupped hands, separating his fingers across his cheeks in a self-adulating but photogenic pose. In the bottom corner a live chat housing at least 300 viewers compete to answer him with haste; each message scaling over the last. Behind this rapid flow of communication the feed shows a 22 year old goat – sable black all over – with horns that arch upwards like the fangs of a Stygian beast. He blends to the various blacks of his gaming chair, sleek computer desk, the light grey walls and the charcoal grey carpet. The one colour setting him apart is a baggy dark purple t-shirt bearing his own merch symbol; a black jagged crown inscribed with the word ‘Bow’. Hazy violet LED strips line the margins of his ceiling, complementing the mood. His converse are kicked off to the side strewn about the floor around his chair. His other shoes – like a spare pair of fitness trainers and used navy blue Slides – are left lined at the foot of a sliding closet door in the background, ignored for now. This goat is carelessly scruffy but it’s a bed-hair variety of hotness that pairs well with his skinny runner’s build. His hazel eyes are glinting in the soft fanning glow of RGB computer lights. The controlled mechanical hum of this device dances in his floppy ears.
The chat – as always - is keen to serve him with compliments and emotes bearing bulging love-heart eyes whenever they first see his face appear across their screens. Knowing what’s to come, some chatters have already lowered the bar of dignity and sent their usual requests: “Uncage the dogs! We’re dying of thirst over here!”
Cole sinks back grinning with verve and gives his camera its second test; a sudden and unprompted faceful of feet that stuns his audience now rendering twice the flurry of incoherent messages and wet droplet emojis. He knows his audience. He knows his ‘draw’.

Foot fetishists are the easiest prey to bait and lure; a veritable gold-rush for narcissistic doms anywhere. It’s a fundamental lesson Cole taught himself one night during his post-graduate house party days after stumbling into a stranger’s unlit upstairs bedroom with a subby, half-boozed meerkat hanging onto him like a wet blanket. Drunkenly shoes and clothes fell away like autumn leaves. Together they tumbled giggling against the bed. Cole had kept trying to pull him forward for another mashing of lips and trading of hot breath but soon the wriggly meerkat slid down the black goat’s legs until kneeling at them, giddily showing off his ‘other’ uninhibited interests. Too drunk to resist, Cole let himself melt into the cradle of pillows while his leg was picked up by the shy silhouette and massaged romantically. Every grope and squeeze and pressuring adjustment those small hands gave was enhanced by the alcohol. Sweet bliss was the warm wetness of a mouth in the darkness welcoming his toes and sucking back on them until their scrunching tips hung against the dewy lip. Little else could be remembered after that, though it had already safely unlocked a longing in his mind. Likewise, it opened the possibilities of mistreating fetishists on stream for his own power gains, whilst simultaneously making a job out of playing games and offering snarky punkish commentary.

Both legs swing almost weightlessly into view gracefully sliding up the smooth wood stopping just before his keyboard, dressed in loose light grey pyjama pants with a soft plaid pattern hiding the ankles which are suckled by the mouth of each sock. These socks are old, crusty, fuzzy and white. He gropes a controller and nestles himself comfy. He turns himself just enough to partake in his viewers’ perspective of a screen half dominated by the bottoms of his braggart soles. Now and forever a mass of quintessential LGBT slang is always common in the chat, usually referring to him as some denomination of royalty.
“OUR FEET KING!”
“LORD PUT ME TO WORK!”
“Micro viewer here, you’re a GOD to me!!! :3”
“DAMMMMN KING WE ONLY TWO MINUTES IN!”
“Omfg yessssss!!! Been refreshing all night for this! [Overheating face emoji]”
“Steppies?”
“Feed the peasants!”
“WE EATING GOOD TONIGHT!” - Is another shared sentiment.

“Calling it right now, I know at least one of you softies already blew your load. One look is all it takes, right? Pft… total lightweights.” Cole mocks, playing into his nonchalant role. He ignores the slew of tongue licking emojis that follow. “If you’re new here, get used to what you’re seeing. Don’t like it? Piss off. Whole chat’s full of unworthy sock sniffers and I’m their king, that’s all that matters. If you’re not new, you already know who I am – CrownofHorns – and we’re in for another sweaty night of gaming. You also know I’m never alone… got my little buddy with me, like always! He’ll be keeping my soles company while I stomp out the competition. Heh, if you all behave I might even switch on the feet cam down below so you can see what you’re all missing out on!”
He gives an affirming toe curl, nodding each digit warmly inside the shifting bulges of cotton and driving everybody just a little more crazed with every tease. Short blurs indicate the camera’s inability to decide its focus on them or on his smug caprine face instead. Although the lighting rig of his set-up somewhat mollifies the sooty gritty linty imprints of visible wear, tear and sweat stains under its brightness it also reveals the exact narrowness and location of each gap between his sylphlike toes, through the threadbare translucency. Cole’s feet as a whole are long and lean, big for his build, (at least one shoe size above that of all his peers). This makes them indomitable and imposing when casually left lurking right in one’s face as they are now to this camera.
Fortunately for the feet-starved viewers, Cole’s entire internet personality is based on flaunting them often enough that his gameplay becomes a mere peripheral. Sexually frustrated beggary and masochistic offerings befitting of his superiority become the priority source of engagement. Some days he dolls out the foot exhibition in small cruel teases. Other days he’ll spend hours at a time keeping them crossed on the desk either bare, socked or sealed away in his converse shoes stirring a frenzy of messages. When engagement needs boosting he might try something different like sticking his muzzle inside one converse for a long sniff, winking at the camera. Most days however, the goat does something even more indulgent and erotic than any self-play could achieve… something only possible because his streams are privatised with entry permitted only through a paid membership, to keep out the rabble.

“Look at them, chat. Look at them,” The young goat says; eyeballing the backs of his appendages with deep intent while bluish monitor glow forms a radioactive halation around their edges.
His toes wriggle slowly like ripples in midnight water. The fire of his ego is kept lit by the arousal of his watchers who crave to see his socks stripped away. Unified in agenda, they form a resounding vote for a ‘sock ban’. Cole humours them for a few minutes keeping those appendages front and centre while he loads up a fantasy style assault-and-defence game, enlivening the room with the catchy menu screen melodies of lutes, flutes and drums. Casually he rocks his feet about or subtly scratches one with the other or continues furling toes at odd intervals while he takes a long sip of his energy drink can. At last he conforms to the masses and leans forward encouraging many sing-song squeaks and grunts from his gaming chair. Lazily he pinches at the soft lips of each sock rejecting them off his ankles, causing them to lose their tightness. He then reclines back again and lets his feet work the rest of the job themselves; scuffing their heels up and down on the desktop which begins edging the cotton up in slow insatiably taunting developments. The rustling stops only after the socks are left bundled and wrinkled around the middles of his lanky arches, (once the heels are left exposed and sexualised in smooth bare black audacity).

“Peep this. You can get a *glimpse* of my heels for now, like an appetiser. Main meal’s still cooking. I’m only doing this because they need airing out and I can’t play at my peak until I’m comfy. Now thank your king for his generosity… and get ready to watch me dominate in team mode… like always.” Cole confidently announces, burping loudly and sipping from his drink can.
His eyes lock to the gameplay underway. He joins a lobby scrolling for the best pick in the character selection. He chooses a strapping gruff rhinoceros donning gladiator styled armour and sandals – a ‘tank’ build – who bellows flavourful dialogue about trampling opponents until they’re creamy enough to be used as foot lotion. Only a few viewers are watching the main content. The rest merely wish that the face-cam had more real estate on the screen so that they could see his crossed soles on a bigger scale. Undoubtedly some are preserving the moment with screenshots.
In his peripheral vision Cole catches some more of the messages:
“NOOOO HE KEPT THE SOCKS ON!”
“How can we concentrate on the game when they’re RIGHT THERE?!”
“Fr, ditch the game just stream the feet!”
“New here, this cutie got any social media? Links, anybody??”
“How many micros have u ever stepped on? Can I be the next one? :3”
“Tried licking my screen but it’ll never be like the real thing [Heartbreak emoji]”

Roughly twenty five minutes into the stream, (after some wins that are egotistically attributed to the goat or some loses that are blamed on lousy team mates), Cole inhales softly and finally drags his feet off the table returning them down to the depths below where another camera waits ready to record the animal’s more indignant forms of entertainment. Below in this shadowy recess the crispy heat wafting throughout the small room, (from his high-spec PC), necessitates a change in apparel. A playful uproar is caused when Cole reaches down and begins peeling his socks off out of sight where no audience member is permitted to witness those sweet liquorice toes unwrapping from their hot tight packaging. After undressing the feet make a specifically squelchy meaty impact as they land on something unseen, accompanied by the squeak of friction paving aggressively against smooth plastic.
“Hot damn; feels sooo nice to take ‘em off for the first time today!” He arrogantly teases.
The wall of tearful emojis is at least placated when Cole turns one sock inside out and puppeteers it with his hand bringing it to the face cam boasting the sheer sight of its abused interior condition. The drying moisture within has made the cotton threads tighten and wrinkle over the patches of footprint stains, each a slightly browned tint but with blacker halos around the edge of each different mark. Hundreds of linty buds either cling onto the fabric from static energy or because they’ve been paved into it as part of their damnation.

“Any bidders?” The goat snickers, wriggling his fingers out of the balled wad and choosing to hold it preciously instead like a miner’s first chunk of gold. His snout hovers coyly behind it. He sniffs the sock quietly and withdraws a wince.
“How much would rent cost if I wanted to live in there?” A viewer named ‘smoldoormat’ asks, only to be ignored.
This is followed by at least ten different iterations of: “TURN ON THE FEET CAM! PLS DON’T FORGET!!!”
Cole smirks, pulls the finger and dunks the sock to the floor. “Quit with the spam you filthy nerds, you’re overworking my moderator. Feet cam’s coming on, just chill! But… only on the condition my friend down there doesn’t get any performance anxiety. It’s a championship match coming up next and if his worship is *anything* less than perfect I might not rank up and that’ll be reeeeal bad for him…”

Down below, out of sight, is where Cole’s favourite little living plaything had until now been dreadfully and anxiously awaiting the return of those warm weighty stompers ever since they first unstuck from his groggy body and swept up out of range. Every time those legs visit the desktop it’s a vacation. Now that they’ve come back down, the true work begins again. It would’ve been a folly not to take full advantage of the fresh air while it was still possible.

Owen is by many considerations the ‘co-host’ to all of Cole’s livestreams; a constant collaborator who endures long gruelling hours, exhausting physical demands, indignity and embarrassment whilst entirely unpaid for his efforts except for the so-called ‘life experience’. Owen is a sheep of 5 inch height, (a height only useful for being trodden on, walked over and forgotten, as he is constantly being reminded). His body is a combination of fluffy cream-white wool with delicate white skin elsewhere. He has a light pink snout, big brown eyes and his originally coiled horns are now filed down to flat stumps so that they don’t crack under the goat’s weight or act like a sharp hard pebble in their shoe.
With little other choice Owen currently squirms and thrashes with slug-like ineffectiveness beneath both his friend’s newly bared feet offering them all the malleable, soft, squishy consistency that defines him as a cosy foot pillow. In a truly Faustian and ironic twist of fate this little ovine used to be an avid paw and foot fetishist just two years ago, long before he’d ever had any measure of real experience underfoot. Owen had always sought to be an insole and serve a regular sized anthro with endless devotion, much like some of Cole’s audience wish upon themselves, fetishizing his own micro size as a mechanism to avoid feeling useless in such a big world. He’d spent his otherwise uneventful life aroused by these daydreams.
Learning the hard way, Owen discovered that the physical and mental toll of being a micro toy is often far more punishing than anyone should ever reasonably withstand. The constant stench, taste, sweat, humiliation, weighty pressure, pain, sensory deprivation, stifling heat, sheer darkness, loneliness and inert state of being sealed inside socks or shoes for hours if not days – or even weeks – at a time are not factors he ever practically considered in all his fantasies. Thanks to the goat wearing him day in and day out, breaking him in, the sheep had started believing that being insoled is nearly torturous enough to make him doubt his entire fetish altogether, putting him off the original allure as though all along this perverted interest was just an erasable veneer for his low self-esteem. Though his perspective has been forcibly changed, his libido still reacts on cue because his body cannot deny its natural habits or its stimulations regardless of what the conscious mind begs.

Elevated about 5 inches off the floor is a clear stool-like stand fabricated from thick transparent plastic, supported by four stubby legs that burrow indents in Cole’s carpet. It’s positioned neatly at the centre of floor space beneath the desk directly where the goat’s feet naturally come to a rest. Underneath this stand a camera lies on its back voyeuristically staring upwards straight through a so-called ‘glass floor’ POV. From here it captures every moment of utterly subjugating indecency that poor Owen suffers as his captive body is contained across the flat surface, with his naked backside to the camera. He is gruesomely pinned below two brash feet whose velvet blackness and sumptuous density spread wide upon full-surface contact, like sticky shiny tar pools against the see-through plastic fogging imprints around their edges. Their colours are a shade brighter than normal under the camera’s light source. It’s a garish, humiliating sight. Almost every inch of sole, (excluding the insteps), and the undersides of those black bean toe digits are smothering as flat as they can press, snuffing out any oxygen source beneath their curvaceous shapes. All the leftover sock fabric debris mushes down, pulverised into little grey-white specks. Sweat gives a smudgy lustre. Owen, of course, is laterally stretched and covered at the centre of it all like a garnish pampering both feet at once with his fleecy pelt.

While selecting his character once again, Cole brings this grounded camera feed into his stream overlay so that it can stack under his face cam and reveal its viewpoint to everyone watching. The audience is already berserk; fixated on the sights from below as if they were lying right under his feet themselves. Cole candidly curls his ten toes right over the top of his micro’s trembling body covering each inch from left to right, from sheep feet to sheep face. He is delicately savouring the way their girth tucks and wedges so perfectly up inside the dank doughy bending trenches of space between toes and ball. Using only his digits he grips the entire length of Owen’s anatomy and leans his weight forward until he feels the sheep start to tenderise slowly against their will, lifting his heels up from their misty ring-like imprints on the plastic for added leverage. The balls of his feet crease even as they plaster down harder. The toes are slippery with perspiration but do not struggle to pin the micro down against this stool like a buried rotisserie hostage. Every toe clamps together in a tight row viciously suffocating and seizing the prey, yet still unable to completely snuff Owen’s tiny laboured breaths and groans.

Owen is forced to accept his place inside this insufferable fleshy trench accompanied by a thin sprinkle of salted fur deprived of sunlight yet still roasting warm. He is being constantly wrapped and gripped under the heavy dexterous mounds that use him like a perch, smouldering in heat waves while a slick lacquer of sweat soaks into him. He wriggles like a trapped, stretched out bug in the torrid darkness unable to do anything but face upwards into the lanes of each toe knowing his only purpose is to provide comfort like some gummy plump object compacted into shape. The very tips of Cole’s toes performatively massage the plastic closer towards the front edge of this footprint-stained stool.

God… the smell. Cole’s feet have a cultured tang of sharp white cheddar with acidic notes like pear cider, simmered down and sautéed together. It’s the kind of fragrance which encrusts into all his socks and shoes too. It’s nothing Owen isn’t used to these days however it used to be his favourite poison of choice, now it’s merely a poison he has to filter into his lungs every day until he can hopefully – eventually – develop an immunity. So far this hasn’t been achieved in almost two years of being an insole slave but it’s one of the sheep’s few remaining hopes he has left.
The gusts of air this sheep has to inhale are so dry and crispy they dehydrate his lungs and make them feel stapled with every heavily drawn breath. His ears bellow with the comparatively deafening tune of squelches. He can hear the friction and the fleshy groans or the plastic grinding under his own lubricated body. He can hear sweat being slid around as drizzles and rivulets get wrung through the digits before drooling all around his doused, deflated body and face. His wool densely absorbs a large quantity of the moisture. He feels matted and thick and dirty all over, desperately wishing he could shower it out. Though it’s been so long since Owen saw his own reflection he knows that he must look less like his old self and more like some sweat-drowned vermin compressed and squeezed amid the vicing crevices, while simultaneously fondled into raw putty which yields to the toe indents across his figure.
Owen's chest inflates and crackles with every tired breath. His head spins in nausea. His teary eyes camouflage with all the salted drips caressing over him from the structural feet contours above him. He lays disoriented and blinded and lightheaded too. He is so frazzled, so defeated, from staying awake all night crawling around Cole’s towering or slumped appendages in that sweltering stuffy bedroom and licking them until sunrise all while the obnoxious beast snored loudly at the other end of the bed. His arms and legs are also limp from all the hours of inactivity that had followed all day prior to the stream; a common routine of being tied to the goat’s foot via shoelaces from an abandoned pair of gym sneakers… then walked over nonchalantly with every bone-flattening step while the goat happily went about his day.

Perhaps most insultingly of all, these extra details of his unfair life are hidden to the outside world. His mistreatment is used and monetised as entertainment several hours a night to a deeply submissive audience who think they want what he has, if they only knew. Still, it’s a helpless argument barely worth the mental energy. Cole clearly pays it no such mind as he busily button-mashes and maintains verbal commentary completely unrelated to Owen’s existence. The sheep remains juiced against this plastic ‘stomp stool’ serving himself up as a cushiony sole comforter to absorb all the goat’s excited erratic tramples or adrenaline-fuelled sweat as he fights to excel his character to victory in a ruthless battle of online carnage.

Cole’s only true acknowledgment of his micro is the continually groping toe movements, the repetitious squeezes or even the more degrading acts of sliding his feet apart and then together again ironing left and right over and over to stretch and iron Owen into a moaning stringy flatness before dragging their foot weight back to a halt over his centre-mass again.
“Someone on my fuck-ass team better kill that healer hiding all the way in the back. I’m too busy carrying on the frontlines!” The goat grumbles. His toes arch upwards for a moment showing a cosy band of ten different circular toe imprints fogged on the plastic, looking like the outline of large beads.
Cole has a near-miss with death and jolts in his chair. His feet spring up into the air and peel off the solid surface with a damp noise hovering over the stunned micro for just a moment before carelessly smashing down plastering the full widths of each ball so hard the impact makes a *slap!* and the sheep’s body is engrossed deep into the plump, black and seasonally warm flesh which all the viewers can see in real time through the foot cam’s POV. Owen’s eyes shoot open. His slackened sore mouth engulfs a rubbery mouthful of foot that keeps his jaws pried apart in a docile bite pose. All his muscles feel rightfully pounded. They sizzle with a near indescribable ache. He feels less like a sheep and more like a doll made of bendy wire and wool clippings.
“Pussy snuck up on me!” The goat uses as his flustered excuse. “Too bad he didn’t know who he was up against. I make bitches out of my enemies. Don’t get any ideas, chat.”

Just as the numbness had started to set in providing an odd relief for Owen’s panting buried body, Cole relaxes his tension and begins lazily wiping his soles up and down the stool slowly at different intervals easing the pancaked sheep unstuck from across the balls. In this moment Owen feels as thin as a stain. His coughs are muffled while those heavy plates of foot flesh slide up and down with enough traction they nearly twist him or roll him over onto his belly. Stream nights are never easy. At least then when Owen is simply being used as an insole calmly braised inside Cole’s shoe the environment is predictable, (given that the activity of the feet that so love to torment him are neutered by their lack of mobility). No matter the situation though, Owen only his himself to blame. It was after all his own naive decision to approach a then 20 year old Cole and beg to be his plaything, promising a borderless relationship where the scruffy egomaniac could treat him however he wanted. He created for himself a dark fable about chasing fetishes when he should've just left it to his imagination instead.

Although from the audience’s perspective the transparent plastic is starting to steam and smudge directly and strictly underneath Cole’s soles creating a perfectly stark outline of clarity verses cloudy, the chatters are still ever so fanatical with lust and envy of all kinds:
“Gaaahhh SO HOTTTT!!! [Overheating emoji]”
“Is he winning? Can’t take my eyes off the second cam for… reasons lol [Eyes peeping emoji]”
“BLASPHEMY ^ OUR KING ALWAYS WINS!! TO THE SHOE DUNGEON WITH YOU!”
“Thought I heard a crack when sheep dude got the stomp!”
“Fml I wanna b that micro sooo sooooo bad.. [Crying emoji]”
“Lucky omg”
“How tf has bro not came yet LOL I’d be a jizz puddle rn!!”
“mannnn I bet that room *reeks* so good!”
“Seriously tho anyone want to do that me? 26(m) ferret micro here I would go fkn nuts for a dom like CrownofHorns! DM me!!!”
“32(m) black lab here, work boot insoles just BURNT the f*ck out from so much abuse. 60hr week welding trade job for me.. and good paw ppe like you micro runts would be a godsend so consider urself dm’d ^ [Winking emoji]. Gonna be rough as all get-out though, so don’t be a pansy and back out last minute”
“HOLY FUCK for real?? ^^ Love this community omgomg”

Cole leans back in his computer chair and cracks his knuckles with an interlocked stretch. His expression is written in smugness as the victory graphic shines valiantly across his screen. As part of his celebration the goat wriggles his extremities in a wave pattern starting from the smaller outer toes and leading to the big inner toes, shifting them playfully over his plaything. He hears Owen's rushed gasps whenever the digits unstick from their face. Cole taps his left big toe over the tiny groin over and over using its supple nature to daub down and pressurize the region, stimulating Owen into a series of tired whimpers. The taps morph into humiliating spiralling rubs that smush the little testicles and shove the shaft side to side under its tidal pull.
The nine other toes curl so hungrily around the spongy sheep that their all-black toenails point directly into the plastic, clacking against it. Tiny droplets of perspiration have squeezed and secreted out from the soles streaming through any errant crinkles in the flesh and dripping down to form a few dewy splotches on the stool visibly shimmering to the camera below. Owen meanwhile switches from panicked inhales to softer more wispy sniffs which helps dissolve that white cheddar and pear cider stink in his nostrils, rather than bloating his lungs. This more controlled processing is doing its part to relax him. For the goat, that sheepish insulation is all the relaxation he could ever need. Even now he relishes the fact that his soles have produced so much natural heat that the plastic is not only warmed to meet his temperature but has also developed a slippery sheen that makes foot traversal easier.

Owen sometimes feels like nothing more than living clustered toe jam but there’s still a sadistic joy in toying with him beyond his capabilities, knowing he can't fight back, that's too addicting to quit. In spite of this he chooses to show a modicum of empathy by dragging his appendages off the micro sliding them away on a squeaky sliding trail of sweat smears to expose the raggedy emaciated life left in their wake; a cream-white drenched husk of servitude whose slacked body and drowsy countenance describes their experience in a snapshot. Wet wool hangs onto Owen dearly. Moisture dribbles around the edges of his twitching form. Brown eyes are glazed over in dazed submission staring up at the underside of the desk high above him. Those little nostrils and that indolent jaw realize they can finally gulp down the rare fresh air which is quickly inhaled in strides, (even hurting Owen’s previously steamrolled lungs as they find vigour once again). His eyes flicker like old film reel. His heavy head rolls side to side exercising his stiff neck. The stench of goat feet is musty and hovering all around him. At first he hopes he might be blessed another break from insole duty… but Cole has different plans.
*Pschhlrp!*
The sound of peeling is louder this time when Cole gracefully unsticks his feet. Because the stool is so durable and solid it lacks any breathability thus when detached after a long session of clammy gamer soles – which now incline onto their heels like opening jaws - a muggy and lightly steaming recess is revealed and a fresh array of thinned sweat threads are seen stretching between the organic and the inorganic surfaces, only for so short a duration. The ten toes are also keen to fan open and spread apart like the mandibles of a ferocious monster looming overhead the tiny prey. When the appendages pat down on the soft dry carpet a hand swiftly replaces them, scooping the limp and floppy Owen into a tight fistful as though he were an action figure. In his other hand Cole snatches the stomp stool by its leg careful not to erase any of the imprints established atop.

An open-mouth smirk of pure boyish cruelty is what the viewers see when their idol reappears from under the desk sitting up fast in order to shove this embarrassed sheep, (squeezed from the midriff), into the re-focusing camera above.
"Say hi to the chat, Owen. They're big fans of your work! You're a star," Cole mocks.
A small impatient shake of the fist for Cole is a seismic event for Owen whose brain and eyeballs rattle like balls in a bingo roller. The dazed creature holds onto the edge of the thumb closing around his abdomen. He wishes the fresh air would feel cool against him for a change but the space heater in Cole's room keeps it at a perpetually summery boil all the time.
Unable to escape the spotlight he bashfully avoids eye contact with the lens before him and mumbles with a croak, "U-um, hi..."
Some of the rapid chat messages are struck with a dose of empathy after seeing this shy fetishized victim up close. They call him adorable and spam, "Awww!"
Other chatters are in hysterics making fun of the fact Owen must permanently stink like acrid goat feet, or they utter a spiteful jealousy, or they request he be dropped and trampled hard instead of being allowed to speak.

*Thunk*
Cole's other hand lifts that square 13x13 inch footstool up onto the desk for everyone to fawn over. It's set down on its side converting its usually flat surface into a vertical canvas of lechery instead; a partition between face cam and the scruffy horned face behind it. Cole turns it, emphatically conceited and proud with himself when viewers go feral at the upfront sight of those foggy condensation footprints lathered and stampeded into the clear plastic. Oily ripples of squashed sweat sweep the inner edges and ooze down the balls or arches of each stain, now dragged by gravity. Notably there is a clear unaffected strip across the widths of them where Owen's body had originally protected the surface, absorbing the grime instead. Aged, faint prints from the past are more traceable now that the bright lighting set-up exposes their errant toe prints or smudgy forgotten sole outlines. It shows just how often Cole steps on this furniture and films the 'glass floor' POV of his soles.
"Ugh," The goat scowls, turning the tipped footstool to face back towards Owen in the opposite hand. As he speaks, down below on the floor he is simultaneously rubbing one foot over the foot cam’s face wriggling his dark toes around its aperture. "You don't keep your workspace very clean do you? Filthy lil’ fucker! Like, come on, where's the work ethic?"
"I... I'll clean it now? With my tongue? P-please?" Owen stammers, not so much because he wants to but because he feels he needs to as part of his performance. History has taught him it's safer to be agreeable on stream and be treated nicer afterwards than to refuse service and spend the rest of the night suffering the most demeaning punishments.
Cole side-eyes the camera narrowly. "Do we let him?"
Unsurprisingly the responses are a volley of:
"YESSS KING YES!"
"Wish I could :("
"Omg yes!!!!"
"PLSPLSPLSPLS!"
"Do it!"
"What else are micros good for lol"
"FUCK YEAH BOIS"

"The masses have spoken," The goat addresses with regal flair.
The grip around the sheep not only tightens but also wrings the trapped sweat from their wool letting warm rivulets seep between the goat's fingers. Owen wheezes as air is clenched from his lungs. His little white feet splay and paddle awkwardly out under the bottom of the fist. Every inch of him is controlled against his will as he is suddenly pivoted, turned and carried through the air directed immediately towards the vast span of upturned plastic. A leering Cole holds it steady in one hand while bringing the sheep's face right up to the heat-wafting markings left by his soles.
Owen's wince means little when his face is crudely smeared and squished and wiped around the middle of one of the prints dragging with such traction his cheek wavers and compresses and his right eye has to close shut. The plastic squeaks in shrill alarm to the sliding friction. His head is being used to mop through the imprint inch by inch. He's too busy clenching his teeth to stick out his tongue and lick the damp grease as expected. The smell once again has lost its effect on him specifically after having been trampled against it for so long but this doesn't mean it is any less rich or funky. Because of the material and its reaction to constant body heat it produces a slightly different aroma to usual, more similar to a milky B.O like when an anthro goes sockless in a sports shoe fitted with slippery rubber-gel insoles.
Owen grunts and shudders when his snout is dragged up towards the ball of the print. This time Cole holds him a fraction of space away giving him enough room to stick that tongue out and put it to work. He grimaces with every slurp. The salt content ingrained in this hard sheet is a lot for one mouth to consume. A whole sluggish droplet droops onto his taste buds and disperses through his gums, making his eye spasm. Owen decides it’s best not to look, yet the moment he closes his eyes he accidentally laps against an embedded sour bud of old sock lint which prefers sticking to his tongue more than the plastic. He gags on the unexpected fluffiness and spits it back out, coughing timidly.

Of course the audience sees everything but they cannot fathom the extent of the micro's existence. This is all just pornography to them. They don't know how many times or how many surfaces Owen has wasted hours upon hours licking clean for his friend's sick amusement... from unwashed socks to muddy grassy shoe soles or pungent insoles, to footprints pressed into the floor, to layers of earthy mucky dirt from the appendages themselves. Other horny micros in the chat wouldn't understand, they'd just call him soft and weak and disloyal if he ever had a chance to warn them. Owen’s thoughts are wrenched from him when he is slid and grazed against a set of circular toe marks. A slim gap separates the index toe and the more oval shaped big toe imprint. Forever a hostage to his obligations; his tired jaws part and gyrate while his drying tongue sloshes against them like a living window wiper. A scalding tear rolls from his eye. Humiliated beyond words, the sheep can't help but let his body submit when his groin stiffens naturally against the stack of Cole's fingers.

Five minutes passes. The goat's game has gone idle on the match finder screen but this is irrelevant now. He has made his face cam full-screen so nobody misses out on the bullying. Cole has also smothered the other camera completely into the abyss of his arch, forgetting its existence for the meantime. Owen is still being moved up and down the slowly dissipating footprint lengths which fade without any renewal of pressure and warmth. The sheep had so far been trying to get away with small docile licks until Cole instructed him to keep his tongue unrolled at all times so that he could swirl the micro around in circular rhythms and really sandpaper the surfaces with his exposed taste buds. Petite streaks of drool are now visible. Mostly it's been a smooth ride to slurp against but there have been some grainy textures imparted onto the helpless tongue too.

For a last bit of fun Cole drops the sheep onto his belly against the desk then lowers his hand flat against them, sandwiching them under his palm while his arcing fingers tap a nonchalant melody into the wood. His eyes scan the chat, selectively reading. "Lizardwizard616 asks what I feed Owen off stream. A lot of healthy, nutritional toe jam... duh. I've got this one pair of workout socks that moult everywhere, black wool ones, and they get naaaasty real fast. You'd have to scrape all the swampy lint off the bottoms of my feet with a spatula. No kidding, I wore 'em too long once and the gunk got so bushy between my toes I still couldn’t see in between them when I splayed them. Wasn't sure it was even digestible at first but hey… Owen proved me wrong, heheh."
"Wasn't even fapping and just came SO hard in my pants ffs [Shocked emoji]" Another user types.
The goat continues: "Real talk though, for anyone out there who wants your own micro you still have to feed them real food too otherwise they won't last very long. Doesn't have to be dignified, just has to be real. I've wedged some between my toes before and had him eat it out like a trough. It'd be mad tickish if your micro has whiskers but it's so fucking funny. Most times I just sprinkle his food on this half-rotted insole that came out of my old gym shoes when they fell to pieces and had to get trashed. It's sentimental though because those were the gym shoes I first ever dropped him inside the day I met him. Still makes for a great dinner plate, though."

Content with himself and his advice, Cole moves the plastic stomp stool out of sight displacing it to the floor down beside his desk away from its usual resting place. He then moves his hand off the sheltered sheep and leisurely loafs back in his chair showing little more than apathy when he lifts one skinny bare leg up onto the desk. He drops his heel down on Owen's spine with a small vibration, making their eyes bulge and pinning them once again on their belly under all that vertical foot weight. The face cam is now privy to a complete view of that soft supple black sole in all its beautiful bareness. Painfully Owen chokes on his own breath under this vice and squirms in a way that mimics a person learning to swim. His own drool forms a puddle against the wood.

Casually wriggling his five toes in tensed independent curls, Cole asks aloud: "Anyone in chat have any good hiking boot recommendations? Later this year your boy's gonna fly out on vacation and take one of those long hiking trails through the Swiss Alps, solo style. Don't nobody call me a ‘mountain goat’ either or I'll time you out! I just want a trusty pair to wear because you can bet I'll be stuffing this squishy sweat guzzler in them all the way throughout, every step of the way... I mean, you know my feet are too perfect to ruin with all that rough steep trekking."
Owen overhears these words and falls into a familiar sensation of dread that feels like acupuncture in his lungs. Out of anyone in Cole’s life he is the most familiar with just how steamy the goat’s feet can get after long walks, let alone multi-day hikes. His footwear would be nothing short of an onsen bath… not to mention the goat will be bleating on incessantly about the burning rawness on his soles or the tightness in his leg muscles; something only remedied by the mandatory massages of a micro. Cole’s viewers however would adore hearing more details. Unable to control themselves even in the wake of a serious question, some of them plead to occupy the other boot so his gait won't go unbalanced. Their chances of convincing the stubborn animal will be left teetering on high stilts of hopeless fantasy, (if he doesn’t first kick those stilts out from under them with an outright rejection).
Cole swigs another sip of energy drink, still fervently scrunching his toes letting them roll and rub together, occasionally interrupted by the infrequent splay. "Psh, don't even try it. I know a bunch of WEAK wimps like you couldn't handle that. Hiking insole duty is for *experienced* micros only. Don’t get angry at me though, blame it all on Owen. He loves my feet so much he couldn’t dream of sharing them with anyone, isn’t that right, Owen?"

Groggily the sheep manages to sway and jerk himself free from under the weighty heel which slips and thumps to the desktop instead. Cole notices of course but pays it no ire. He merely keeps his foot upright towering before the diminutive ovine, who exhaustedly clambers up kneeling before the lower arch, gathering their breath. Seemingly of his own volition Owen spreads his shaking arms and hugs the width of his friend's sole nuzzling his face deep into the firm thick cushion of flesh just above the heel. Again, despite his personal shift in preferences overtime he’s smart enough to keep up his reputation as a loving pervert for the cameras. Submissively Owen scrapes the whole side of his face up and down until its resistance wanes and a malleable ripple of furry skin ebbs to the indenting movements. Tiny kisses and obedient licks or lengthy snout-ploughing sniffs embellish the arch.
The face cam watches Owen from behind, capturing his unspoken worship while Cole acts none-the-wiser entirely used to the servitude. As if in devout prayer the sheep stays kneeling but raises his arms up combing his hands through the slick darkness, rubbing them all around and groping nodes of muscle. It's reverence and therapeutic treatment all at once. Cole's toes finish wriggling, now sitting still so he can enjoy his plaything’s attempt to please him while he ignores them in lieu of talking with his audience instead. Owen does not mind being ignored. It gives him the concentration he needs to eventually stand on two wobbling collapsible legs and continue hugging, groping, mouthing and nosing around against the upper regions of this tranquil foot. He even occasionally grinds his groin against the arch; a relic of his old lusty self before this life became a routine chore. The fetish is not easy to scrub out even after so much hardship spent underfoot.

The goat's hazel eyes drift to the backside of his skinny foot once again silhouetted by the bright monitor behind it. He stares down the grooves of each bone ridge while gradually spreading his toes until fuzzy blue light glows between them all. From here he can't even see the micro he can only feel their tender effects. It's familiar to all the times he lays in bed with his legs stretched out and Owen is leashed to his silver index toe ring by a piece of thread, graciously bathing every inch of his sole in messy licks while Cole watches a movie or an online video from his phone. Owen's worship is the perfect passive activity to enjoy while focusing on other more important things, like answering chat's simpering questions about Cole's shoe size, his stories involving regular sized foot subs and ex-boyfriends, his first memories of realising he was a dom, etcetera.

He confesses that his first proper boyfriend, when he was 19, was likewise strictly a dom and thus they only lasted 3 months due to this incompatible clash. It had been an aesthetic attraction only; a crush on such a studious, astute and emotionally reserved blonde rabbit who wore smart-casual attire and reading glasses. Cole even admits he'd tried being that rabbit's floor-mat at their insistence once or twice but had zero attraction whatsoever to having those cotton-soft padless bunny paws wrapped over his face or stuck deep in his mouth. He did however find a thrilling raw pleasure in making the rabbit gag on a mouthful of rancid running socks, tying a shoe to their face and pulling on the laces like reins while pounding them from behind, or foot-jobbing them to completion always vainly hoping it might break and convert them… alas. Perhaps it could have been more amicable if they'd found a third mutual partner - a truly subservient play pet for both doms at once - though again this would've been too conditional to last. Predictably, once again, he receives a slew of replies daydreaming to have been in that described play pet role.

Eventually Cole scuffs his heel a little further down over the front edge of the desk, letting it hang here. The frame digs laterally across his instep while his one leg stays mounted. He does this so that his toes are easier to reach for the sheep who stands with demure, polite awkwardness in front of the spanning digits that poke into his woolly chest and tickle under his chin with every subtle flex. The foot cam on the ground below continues to project a pointlessly black image, still buried underfoot with its lens now fogged over. Blushing, Owen rubs the very tips of the goat's big toe and pinky toe at the same time just below their smooth-cut nails. They fan him with warm cheddary air and rustle his fleece, making his eyelids flutter.
While Owen starts kissing each toe one after the other and fighting to keep them from cramming into his small mouth, he hears the goat read a message out loud with a loud snarky laugh. "...What about micro rights? Hah! Yeah, what about them?? Micros have every right to keep my soles from ever touching solid ground again, that's what!"
Owen even smirks a little at Cole's response, (trying not to admit to himself that he can at times enjoy his friend's wit). The sheep goes back down onto his knees though this time he reaches his hands deep into two different toe gaps and he handles the very soft flexible toe crotch flesh; a flesh both blacker and warmer in here than anywhere else on the foot.

In this stance the goat's slender index and middle toes lean up against Owen's shoulders keeping his head trapped between them. With a gulp of anticipation Owen dips his head down further until his cheeks start grinding between the digits and he becomes tightly clamped, lacking the strength to pry them aside any further. His nostrils, eyes and teeth sizzle in the rank air currents. Regardless, he purses his lips over the crescent webbing and starts suckling on it pacifying himself completely, licking its hot sodden underside. Cole welcomes the dedication and tries closing these two digits even tighter together, crushing the little white sheep face but not so much that the pressure pushes him back out of the crevice. The other two webbings in Owen's hands receive half-attentive massages. The micro still feels immense shame and some partial regret but he hides these feelings under the thought that he is living out his lifelong dreams even if the reality doesn't align with the expectation.
Cole grabs his controller from his lap and reassures his viewers that gaming night isn't over. He enters another online match this time selecting a stunning archer stallion character, shirtless but for the leather straps of his bow quiver, with a flowing luscious blonde mane. He knows the captivated micro will continue suckling on his salty sweet toe jam until the match is over, which will provide him all the support and focus he needs to succeed. Only a couple of viewers have been observant enough to point out the rock hard bulge in Cole's felt pyjama pants. Soon enough dewy saliva starts trickling down this webbing and then between the ridges on the back of the foot.
While tapping buttons rapidly and tensing himself throughout the competitive combat Cole idly mutters, “I hope you all know but when I’m doing that Alps trip you pervs won’t have any foot cams to drool over every night. Don’t panic though, your king will return and then my dogs will be so sore I’ll probably have to swap out that stomp stool for a cushy pillow instead… and no doubt trample the fucking goo out of my micro when I do.”

By the time the match is already a sure victory Owen has only amounted enough time to shuffle over and stow his face into the generously flexed crotch of the big and index toes, where he’d selflessly grovelled on his hands and knees wedging his mouth full of webbing. He’d spent a decent few minutes suckling and lapping and feeding on its tangy jam-gunk granules until they slipped out the glossy fur follicles, gluing to his tongue instead. A very stringy coiled band of stagnant tasting sock fluff had needed to be bitten down on before it could be dragged out from the sweat matting it against the side of the big toe. The sheep is then taken aback and rejected out of his trance-like state when he hears the goat loudly cheer for himself and shame any viewers who thought he couldn’t win once all his other team mates had died pitifully. Owen had even tried leaning in for another smooch of the big toe’s humid but pliant surface when the foot suddenly wiped itself off against the desk’s edge before him, slipping and extending tiresomely back to the floor again.
Cole’s other bare foot finally relinquishes the stomped camera and its lens finally dehumidifies. The goat is then able to scoop it up and clip it onto the low lateral support bar spanning between the desk’s back legs, facing directly forward toward the fronts of those two humanly and teasing feet for an alternate view of the situation below. Everyone can at last see through its slightly blurred POV again. What they see is two long nimble goat feet turning onto their sides and clapping together, spreading a rush of hot rubbing friction between them. They then part a little, at least at their inner edges, prying to create a tight black ravine of smushed sweat and blushing sole. From the camera’s new perspective it can see two vertical rows, five toes rich, stacking atop each other and fondly caressing together.

“Hey, last thing before I head off tonight… you guys ever seen me make an Oreo sandwich?” Cole asks with an obvious smirk, lidding his hazel eyes.
Regardless of whether they know or not, heart-eye and water splash emojis promptly overflow the chat box. The goat chuckles. He seizes the kneeling sheep off the desktop and lowers his writhing groaning body down under the desk, between his parted legs. Owen is dangled upside down, now held securely by his legs in the harness of Cole’s tightly gripped fingers. Sweat drizzles down the sheep’s inverted face though he isn’t sure if it’s his or the goat’s. His heart pounds louder and faster the more he is slowly descended towards the two cupping feet below. When his head is only a couple inches away from their parting – enough to feel the stuffy white cheddar fragrance permeating all around him – Owen realizes his fate for the next few hours. The hand lets go. A tiny cry of surprise and a burst of erratic flailing is witnessed during the free-fall.

*THWCK!*
This one wet soft fleshy sound is caught on camera when Owen slams and rolls in a harmlessly mangled but suffocating pose on his side between the two soles, which catch him and then slam shut an instant later closing him in like a mutton Panini in a sandwich press. Interlocking toes seal together. The feet condense. They clench. They wait… then they start to steamroll together in small rhythms of sensual upheaval. The sounds of mumbled protests and moaning are too insulated to be anything but a muffled and ignorable noise.
“Get it?” The arrogant animal beams, “Creamy white filling between two black surfaces! His favourite snack! Funny part is, all I have to do is keep the friction going and eventually it’ll get *real* creamy in between ‘em!”
His viewers cannot even see a trace of Owen now aside from the rare glimpse of white messy wool when the stacked toes fan apart at just the right angle, for just a second. They express all the envy their entranced minds can handle.

The goat skulls down the rest of his energy drink, crunching the can in his fist before tossing it over his shoulder. He then wipes his dew-dotted chin and says, “Well… anyway, I did what I came here to do; destroy foes and prove my superiority once again. That’s about all the gaming I’ve got in me tonight. My pits, my balls and my soles are just waiting on a sloppy tongue bath from Owen now so… I dunno, you’ll just have to miss out on the view and use your dirty imaginations! As always, thank your king for allowing you to be in his mighty presence… and go bust a nut to the thought of my sexy cheesy grippers if you haven’t already. Tune in tomorrow for even more. You know where to find me. Peace!”

***

(Two years ago)

With his heart in his throat, the nervous and star-struck micro sheep finally mustered the courage to approach the regular sized goat he’d been watching across the laundromat for some time; a scruffy, skinny, sable-black beauty. If this student facility, (based just outside the university campus grounds), had been crowded at the time Owen could have been accidentally crushed into a crunchy sanguine paste at any moment. It was not a ‘micro approved’ facility for this exact reason… but Owen couldn’t resist when he saw the familiar goat entering. They were the spitting image of a much unknown streamer Owen had recently started watching; one who often almost knowingly played games with their bare or socked feet kicked up on the desk of their shoddy dorm-room setup. As a horny fetishist Owen had quickly become infatuated but even more so when he started recognizing the background as a one of his campus’s own dorms, down to the very detail.
Biting his lip and blushing fiercely, he stumbled towards them even meandering right past a chiselled zebra in front of a washing machine stowing his clothes within. The zebra was wearing black leather sandals on his feet and for a moment Owen snuck a glance but when he looked under their white heel he noticed two shapes sticking out, barely in view, from underneath the heavy bedding of foot flesh. They were the padded paws of another micro furiously splayed and rigidly posed from suffering the zebra’s crushing body weight likely for the entire day inside that raunchy sandal leather. The rest of their body was buried out of sight. The sheep double-took, for a second imagining himself quickly kneeling behind that heel and slurping up and down the (possibly canine) micro’s paws while they were easy, vulnerable and defenceless targets. He chose not to risk it in case the towering zebra stepped backwards without warning. Instead he peered now to their other foot where the tip of a bushy red-panda tail was found twitching out from the side of the opposite foot’s arch too. Double insoles.

Owen’s heart skipped a beat. He knew right away he was in the best possible environment; a place where insoling pancaked people of his size for personal gain was at least common enough to be worn casually in public. This gave him hope as he roamed closer to the currently unaware goat, who stood with a look of apathetic malaise as they folded their laundry. The person he recognized as CrownofHorns was standing there in black long socks on the bare tile floor. His steaming white gym sneakers were kicked off beside him likely for relaxation purposes despite the implied rudeness, freshly removed as evidenced by the wisps of curdling heat inside them.
Owen’s whole body quivered at the sight of Cole's socks seeped from the bottom-up in at least a half-inch of drenched dark foot sweat, so much so that it looked like the sole had been stitched from an entirely different shade of cotton. He’d just finished playing basketball with his friends right before coming here, it seemed. Faint misty footprints were traced on the tiles around him indicating every shift in his step. Owen got close enough without Cole noticing that he clamped his hands over the spongy rim of the sneaker and leaned forward sticking his muzzle in its muggy maw; knocked back by an eye-watering stench of white cheddar and pear cider. He wanted to sneakily climb inside this sauna-like footwear spreading himself out inside it with lustful hypnotism, barbecuing himself on the grill of odorous memory-foam insole without the goat’s knowledge or permission. Instead he found faith in himself to step back, avoiding suspicion, and clear his throat loudly to spark the caprine’s attention.

Upon turning with a raised brow and seeing such a docile 5 inch creature standing at his feet Cole immediately dropped his blank expression and smirked cheek to cheek. It was his first time seeing a micro in this laundromat, let alone anywhere in the campus usually patrolled by big anthros.
“Whoa,” Cole mumbled. He wasn’t sure why but his toes curled ecstatically inside his socks the longer he stared at this woolly pipsqueak. “What do you want, bro? Kinda dangerous for you to be in here don’t you think?”
“S-sorry, I… oh god, uh, sorry if this sounds weird but are you a… streamer? CrownofHorns? I watch your streams a lot, they’re really special to me, heh,” Owen stammered, silently sniffing the vapours of the two lengthy shoes before him.
“Huh… uh, yeah, shit that is me? My channel’s so new I barely get like 5 people watching a night… you’re one of those five?! That’s way crazy.”
Owen almost giggled with rapturous glee. “Never miss a stream! They’re so… compelling, you know? It’s hard to take my eyes of those f- uh, the screen! Off the screen! Sorry, sorry, I’m just such a big fan! I never thought I’d go to the same university as CrownofHorns!”

Cole thinned his eyes, still leering confidently. The sheep was trying to be extremely subtle but he immediately noticed them leaning into the sneaker fumes and edging closer to the shoe’s edge every now and again. He never thought he’d see a micro dare to get that close to a shoe bigger than their entire body, especially given the rumours of micro insoling around town. Just thinking about it made the goat’s groin tingle. He thought for a long moment, then picked up the startled sheep in his hand without consent – a taboo in this mixed-size society – and massaged their trembling fleecy form in his grip as if inspecting a product in a store rather than a living person.
“Hey, since you were cool enough to approach me, wanna go back to my dorm and chill together, just you and me? You can even join in on my stream tonight… feature as my special guest, or whatever? Looking at you, I’m getting a lot of special ideas cooking that I think you and my audience might *reeeally* like. Heh… might even keep you on as a permanent guest… if all goes well.”
The sentiment carried an ominous overture but that handsome wink and that warm possessive handhold around him made Owen melt like butter. He nodded ecstatically, agreeing unconditionally, unaware of how this one interaction would forever shape his and Cole’s futures.

THE END