The King’s Guard

Synopsis: Year 900AD: A medieval lion guard is stationed at the kingdom’s border gate and watchtower to oversee the arrival of travellers; however the slow and tedious job is thankfully distracted by the amusements of his fetishistic torments and slavery enforced upon the dragon recruit in his company, (whose hot fire breath provides all sorts of uses in this snowy landscape).

Disclaimer:
–Forced Paw Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Heavy Trample (No Gore)
–Food on Feet
–Non-con
–Medieval Setting
–Lion (Dom)
–Dragon (Sub)

Sven - stalwart as the fortifications around him - stands guard upon the stony border battlements like a sculpture sealed inside ornate knight’s armour, behind the merlons capped in snow. The masonry of these walls and watchtowers is a cold grey tone. Frost glazes and glints on its surfaces. The lion himself is well-postured and sinewy in form, with crystal-like beauty in his silver eyes. Sven's features are sharp. His appearance is roguish but suave. His mane - as pure white as the rest of pelt - is choppy and wild, swept back behind his ears. His chin is a scruffy goatee-like tuft. At 6ft 4" with his status of sleek combat-honed muscle he is not one to be trifled with, as bandits have learned or failed to learn in the past. As such his forever-cutthroat glare stays directed out towards the darkened dirt road leading through his portcullis and travelling on into the kingdom beyond, (watching for oncoming threats or unwelcomed travellers).
The land around him is rugged and demanding. The snow blanketing the ground and the jagged cliffs is visibly scarred by wounds of rock. Clouds sleep around the feet of distant mountains. A castle of grim austerity is built upon one such mountain, far along the well beaten path. Snowflakes flitter down in dainty dances throughout the day and night. Lightly howling gales blow through Sven's fur and hair carrying icy particles on their breeze which nip at his skin. He is at least protected by the fur lining the interior of his silvery armour suit, or the woollen cushioning at the bottoms of his boots. A large deadly claymore sword is sheathed upon his back for other means of protection.

Despite these isolated, wintry conditions far from the pleasance of warm taverns and crowded city streets the lion is not alone. His company is shared by the newest recruit to the King's Guard, one recently assigned to this post against their will. His name is Osric but it is the origin of his species that matters most in this climate for Osric is a fire-breathing dragon with a constant source of internal self-heating, offering eternal uses for this natural hereditary ability. One may think such a creature would be revered and adulated in these parts. While this may be true in other individuals this particular dragon is a meek and grovelling shame to his species. He is neither the brawny hero nor the powerful fiend of tale's past, he is simply servile filth so easily claimed and conquered by the volumes of dominance in his fellow feline guard, ever since his arrival, without any other guardsmen present to stand in his defence. Osric's body is slender and short decorated in a palette of tough, light blue scales and white accents cascading his torso. His deep blue eyes are often furrowed with the grief of this degrading lifestyle; one akin to that of a mistreated slave. Beautiful pearlescent white horns used to spiral from his head but they have been sawed and sanded down to flat stumps barely two inches tall to remind him of his inferiority here; an act that brings him no physical harm, only spiritual defeat.

Sven's vapid smirk curls on his face while he stands here overlooking his territory, candidly listening to the soft raspy scraping of something half dry yet half damp below. The day has been long and slow with hardly anyone approaching the border gate, aside from a familiar badger merchant hauling his cart of goods. This has meant hours upon hours of dutiful monotony which means the young dragon has had plenty of time to kneel and submit at the lion's feet; a daily ritual with which he is involuntarily accustomed. Sven glances down to observe his servant's loyal but begrudging licks over the tops of his snow and dirt speckled boots. Osric bows and kneels in pitiful disgrace, clenching his eyes and holding each ends of the sternly planted foot with his weakened grip, polishing the metal footwear with slow fluent licks which repeat across the same glimmering tracks over and over again. Every breath the dragon makes blows steamy evaporation into the air, briefly marking the boot with condensation as the elements of cold and heat fight for occupation. This same internal heat stops the dragon's raw, aching tongue from sticking to the frosted boot metal allowing for smooth uninterrupted worship by the hourly rate.

Sven draws in a contemplative breath, exhaling torrents of cold mist back through nostrils. "Why are we here, wretch?" He inquires.
The dragon sprawled coquettishly at his feet tightens his handholds over the toes and heel of the lion's boot, pausing his slurping so that he might catch his panting breath and respond. "To stay the deviants and enemies of our king from our gate, sire? For all his reign to resume?"
"Nay," Sven growls solemnly, irked by the dragon's incompetence. "We are here but for different reasons. Mine is a discipline... I am stationed away to this barren waste of rock, ice and dirt all for the slight of raising my voice to our king's pedant son, during his sword training. One measly tick of frustration over a butter-handed brat and my prize of promoting to ‘captain of the guard’ is torn from me. Yet still, his majesty shows some mercy for he has sent you to me as a gift; a gift to stave off my boredom and the gathering storms of my lust. Your purpose now is whatever I deem. Who is to tell us otherwise, hm?"
Osric blushes and looks down, offering a mournful expression at his own shimmering reflection in that saliva polished boot top. He closes his eyes and dips his head, planting a continuous row of kisses into the metal that travel up from the toe cap all the way to the top of the shin plate. When the dragon stops once again he sits up on his knees looking up into his master's eyes with a plea, nervously asking, "Need I be naked all day though, sire, without even a loincloth to shield my manhood?"

Sven smirks and steps an inch off the floor, nudging the raised tip of his boot over the top of the dragon's exposed sheath, stroking it with its snow-crushed underside. He holds his weight down here keeping the pale balls firmly condensed and throbbing with numbness, squeezing like ripe plums underfoot. Osric winces when the lion's hefty boot tip nearly squashes his testicles flat. Sven waits until he hears a whimpering grunt before he eases the pressure and steps back to the floor.
He smugly replies, "You complain of your nudity? Tosh! You needn't any garments at all. You're a dragon who feels no cold. Your only focus should be on displaying your shame and weakness to the kingdom so that I ought to revel in my greatness every time I see you down there. You want that for me, don't you? To feel higher than some lowly dragon scum?"
"Y-yes sire..." Osric whispers shamefully, lying for the animal's satisfaction.
"Tell me in your own words, you witless puppet." The guard sneers.
"F-felines are superior to dragons! I beg of it! My duties to this border are but a shadow of my service to your glorious body! Do with me as you will, and I will receive with joy!" Osric stammers, still lying through his teeth. These zealous words are well practiced. He has found the easiest way to sate the lion’s mood is by constantly nourishing their narcissism and rejecting his own integrity. Come nightfall domination will prevail regardless. He would rather avoid the lion’s fury when that time comes, even if it means committing many displeasing acts that would have him judged or relentlessly mocked by other dragons for his spinelessness.

Excluding the wind's forlorn whistles, a silence falls over the watchtower. Sven then twists one foot contemplatively and ponders a thought. "The cold is getting through my boots. Why is that? Were my commands not understood or were they simply disobeyed? You're to wake at dawn’s early crest, leagues before the sun itself, and use that dragon breath to heat my boots. Paws like mine deserve better... deserve warmer. Need I strap my reeking boot to your face all night and -make- you heat them whilst I slumber?"
Osric shakes his head, terrified at the thought of huffing any more pungent lion paw stink than he already does. In spite of all his time spent belittling himself at Sven's feet, day or night, the dragon's snout can never bond with the musk and accept its highly acrid flavours which are kindred to hot curdled spinach stew where the leaves have darkened, shrivelled and become limp with sogginess amid the steam and salty vegetative broth.
"Tut, tut," The roguish lion continues, grinning with dripping condescension when he sees the dragon blush and bow their head. Snowflakes flitter around him landing gently on his pink snout or his white choppy mane as he calculates his next words. "Dragons who misbehave and cannot keep their master's feet warm must be reminded of their place. We must away back inside now so I might consider what to do with you. 'Tis a good time for my midday rest. There is nary a soul out today and I constantly hear your stomach growling for the sweet taste of my paws."
Osric gulps. He designs a false smile and nods but truly a lump of dread sits in the bottom of his belly. He hates meal times, and for good reason...

Sven strolls forth along the battlements walkway, stepping on the dragon’s tail as though it were nothing more than a useless twig on his way past. His shrill whistle beckons the dragon to crawl behind him on all fours, hobbling pathetically after the guardsman's thudding footfalls that crunch over the snow drift. Osric gets a view of Sven's boot soles each time they kick up near his face gifting him the view of their swarthy, warped leather. It is the only section of the footwear not clad in steel. It is only the only section where the frosted, gritty stale mud and grass of the outdoors can firmly plaster and grip upon without eventually sliding away. He knows this well enough already, for on the final night of every week he must lick them ingesting the layer of trodden sooty filth until the leather gleams new, (usually while heavy paws mount him like a dehumanized footrest.)

The lion approaches the sturdy iron-bolted door to the watchtower they call home, which scrapes opens heavily. A billow of hot cosy air invites them inside the chambers. The large squared room is decorated with medieval furnishings mostly in crude timber, flooding the eye with shades of brown. A hearth on the rear wall crackles with fiery logs that split and spit the occasional flurry of embers. A regal armchair-like seat occupies the space before the hearth's glow. Flickering candles and torches light the walls as well as showering illumination from the iron chandelier. A dining table with bench seats is present at the room's foreground. A circular wooden bathtub sits upon a grated stone platform far to one side, guarded by foldable partitions and linen drying rags. Barrels or crates of mead and provisions fill the periphery. Fur throws and rugs litter the place often made from the fur shaved from castle keep prisoners or willing servants. Weapon racks, armour mannequins and insignia-embossed shields bearing the kingdom's colours - dark grey and muted blue - remind any viewer that this is the home of a seasoned warrior.
The environment brings about different feelings and memories to the dragon who drags the door shut behind them. When he sees that bathtub he sees the times Sven has bathed naked with his legs kicked over the edge, grotesque dirty paws hanging outside the water for Osric to kneel nearby and lick clean instead. When he sees that dining table he sees all the times he has laid beneath it eating scraps tossed to the floor at Sven's feet, more often than not using the soles as a dinner plate. When he sees that regal seat he sees the many quiet evenings during snowstorms or rainfall where he has knelt and given long paw massages, or simply inactive facefuls of smothering appendage warmth while Sven sits and reads to himself.
In his first week here Sven broke the dragon in by stationing him laterally in front of said chair like a footstool kept on his hands and knees relentlessly. His wrists and ankles were shackled in heavy metal manacles each locked to a bolted latch on the ground to ensure he could never move from this one position. Whole nights were spent keeping the lion's paws afloat and extended over his backside while his muzzle was bound tight in the stained gauze-like wrappings Sven sometimes binds around his feet arches all day, (as an early form of sock). To add insult Osric’s sawed horns were mounted upon a wall plaque above the roaring fire and presented as a trophy, always in view from that objectifying position.

Sven seats himself on the closest dining bench facing himself outwards, resting his back and elbows upon the table top behind him. His well-trained pet crawls to a stop at his feet, looking up with emasculated self-pity. The two stare into each other's eyes - blue to silver - and contemplate their situation together. No words are exchanged when Sven leans over and reaches behind his right leg and yanks loose the buckled straps holding the boot together, feeling steel relax its hold at long last. After dipping a clawed finger into the boot collar – pulling it even looser around his shin – a torrent of blistering hot vapours starts to rise out enough to fog the steel of his knee guard. He then takes the liberty to extract his entire leg out of the steamy orifice and stick its bare dripping paw straight onto the dragon's face without so much as an apology.
Osric tries not to recoil or instinctively turn away. Before the impact hits he first watches the heel slip and ride up onto the ledge of the boot's rim drizzling a trail of sweat down its backside, then pulling up higher until the dangling pendulum toes rise into view last of all each allowing ghostly fingers of musky steam to wind and swirl through their gaps while runny droplets slip and drip down the light pink pads, falling from each digit back into the boot depths. Blazing air waves ripple around it. The appendage is lofty, hefty, muscular and vascular. It has big toes with rugged knuckles and snow-white fur bedraggled by moisture. The next thing Osric sees after this is a sudden onslaught of glazed ham-coloured pads as plump as they are damp, pushing forward until they smack squarely on the front of his scaly muzzle with a squelch.
*Ssshqueck!*
Panicked nostrils and lips are buried under flesh so deep and giving and pronounced that he feels his face sink an inch into the ball paddling, which itself is wider and more substantial than the dimensions of his muzzle’s front. This is the worst part of any day when the knight removes these boots that provide no breathability. Once the dragon spends his early mornings breathing into them and exhaling fiery heat the boots become like spas for Sven's paws to soak and pool in all day. As evidenced by the sweltering humidity seeping from every pad and pore pressing against his face, there is no such thing as ‘feeling cold’ inside those boots, even in this merciless northern tundra. The lion had only used this as a flimsy lie as an excuse to abuse the dragon more, it seems.

Sven produces an infuriating grin of rich vanity, curling his toes forward so that they leak their abundant juice down from each tuft of toe webbing, running the salty streams over and around the pads like aqueducts. Sven swirls his paw sole into Osric's muzzle though his pads have too much clammy friction thusly sticking and gripping around the breathless features like tree resin. Hot spinach stew stink hooks into his flattening nostrils and throat, drying out his mouth and making his chest burn hot inside him. The scaly creature holds his ground, keeping his head level and pushing forward into the spacious sole that outmatches him both in size and power. Perhaps what disturbs Osric more than these sauna-esque levels of trickling slippery sweat is the mossy clumps of fleece and lint that went from once lining Sven's footwear interior to lining every pad and crease and crinkle over the paw like packed reserves of soggy splattered grime. Heat, saturation and other influences have changed the composition of these fleece bits from white to sullen black. It traps a vinegary odour within. Even now black motes glue to the thin sweaty residue forming in a large bean shaped outline around the perimeter of his muzzle’s front, where the ball pad presses into like a water-heavy sponge. The source of this gunk - the woollen boot insoles - have equally been corrupted into black squishy bogs melted under countless battery and paw print shaped oppression, only to be fried in igneous breath again the next morning.

Soon enough Osric feels queasy by the sound of pitter-patter droplets squeezing out under his chin and dripping onto his lap. The heat-lamp of a paw and all its putrefying smell is making him dizzy. Weakly his hands adorn the lion's leg holding it with a fur-pinching grip as if to beg for release from the musk prison, before his face fuses with its leather.
"Does this feel hot to you? Suffocatingly so? You might say aye, but nay... it is mild compared to what you promised me on your arrival here. You boasted your fire breath making claims you'd keep my paws smoky as a tavern’s cooking pot. Said you'd done as much for all the other recruits in the castle barracks, especially for that pompous buck who trained me too. Pft… I’ve yet to be impressed. Are all dragons this underwhelming or are you a particular shame to your species? Either way you have earned my scorn. I will have to trample you later and pound in my lesson so that you know better, in future. You shan't expect much mercy. You have already seen the ferocity in which I trampled that drunken bandit four nights prior. I’m sure you marvelled at the way my feet expertly bruised him until he limped away into the night, sorely with a swollen eye and with half his teeth littered across the dirt."
The dragon trembles there on his knees unable to speak his response with a mouthful of feline foot. Firelight refracts its amber glow against his scales as he kneels here aquiver, fearing this punishment he has been sentenced simply because the lion's boots had fallen one or two degrees cooler than his overly heightened expectations. Or perhaps this is the very point; to give an unreasonable demand and then discipline the dragon for his inevitable failure. Osric knows he can never beg his way out of an idea once it enters Sven's head, he can only follow the same survival tactic that has kept both him and the guard happy during his imprisonment; impure adoration.

Osric slides his encircled hands down the fuzzy shin until he holds the ankle in an affectionate strangle, keeping the foul foot merging against him. He aids its face-mopping smothers up and down his muzzle using its sweat and grease for lubrication. It pains his dignity but he must pretend to be a willing pervert who craves every inch of this beefy broad appendage even as it sheds fleecy streaks over his lips and snout. He sniffs the fermented vegetable stench even when it feels like a punch to the chest. His eyes water. His cheeks are but blazing infernos, like pools of magma risen to the surface. He hates himself for it but his resistant lips crack open. Out slips a long tapering tongue which slathers up the arch fur creating one long tufted line of wet fur locks leading towards the padding. The grinning lion watches the back of his large white paw sliding gradually up and down; gravity still anchoring it heavily into the obscured face of that worthless recruit. The muzzle ironing up and down his ball pad - and his flat dense arch - feels therapeutic. When that demure tongue starts lapping at his sole and softening the crud lost in his fur Sven lets out a deep baritone purr from the hollows of his chest. The codpiece of his armour shifts but holds firm pinning his hardening loins below.
"Mmh," Sven grunts, splaying his toes and extending their retractable claws when the tongue tickles his pad flesh around the edge, snaking and slithering all the way around to the toes, flicking the bottoms of their bulky digits in spittle.
"Do not think this excuses you," He warns, "Reptilians are breed to lick the feet of better species and so the currency of your worship holds very little value to me, dragon. This is an expectation, not a specialty. You could lick my soles clean for ten hundred hours and I would still trample you into the ground. You remain my whore and my word remains law."

Osric nearly wretches when his tongue brings home a frilly, soggy length of linty amalgamation that separates in his maw and lodges between many of his teeth. While he resumes the gingerly licking of that salt brick ball pad and waters down a particularly stubborn smudge he hears the sound of unbuckling beyond this vision-blocking paw partition. Sven is leaning down again this time pulling the back straps of his second boot. Much like before, it collapses open allowing his toned leg to pull free and vent a thick cloud of steamy musk so hot it curls and crisps the air currents around it. Sweat rinses over its gleaming pads, still ham-pink and steak-thick in lieu of all the necrotic wool and fluff trying to eclipse them in black gunk. The smell doubles, now ripened and soupy in the atmosphere.
Osric has nary a moment to brace himself before the second leg rams into his face jamming and twisting its entire pliable sole all the way across one half of the scaly head, blanketing it out of view and diminishing Osric's blurry vision. The first paw skids up over his nostrils and slides with brutish force over to the opposite half of his face; now angled, nearly touching their innermost toes together against that compressing forehead smothering every visible fraction of the dragon's face all but for the stained and saturated muzzle sticking out between their conforming insteps. Osric can feel the blast of fresh cool air against his lips and nostrils at last, which he intimately huffs and swallows desperate to rid that lion musk from his stinging airways. His eyes clench whilst wearing the two ball pads like blinders squashing their toasty wads over his eyeballs. The arches sandwich the protruding muzzle tightly, almost crushing it amid their angled edges. Their coverage spans Osric's cheek bones and scaly jowls. Plump heels overhang under his jaw on each side with such force of weight he worries the bone will crack or unhinge. The texture of both soles in full is like bulky dough pulled from an oven and slammed into his skull. Already, glistening paw print outlines form over the face expunged and glazed here in perfect definition of Sven's feet. He is currently a more satisfying footrest than any inanimate, soulless furniture.

Both Sven's weighty legs are completely straightened out. The ridges and dips and grooves of the recruit's face fit perfectly into those of his soles like a custom made mould. The grip of his sticky pads is enough to keep these appendages plastered here without any slip or any tiring of his own joints. He can stay seated here like this for eons while the miserable creature does all the work holding up the burden and maintaining his fragile kneeling posture. The blue muzzle caught in the midst is now drooling and panting exhaustedly. It is a small mercy to breathe fresh air which Osric does not take lightly.
"Where would you be, if not for me?" Sven asks.
"L-likely licking the feet of another, sire," The dragon responds in self-effacing language, "As us dragons are want to do. It is all we are worth!"
"Tis true," Sven agrees, licking his fangs. "I haven't met one yet whom I didn't want turned into a pair of boots, preferably curing their tongue to use as an insole. How fortunate for you I saw your potential as my foot slave instead... and as a show of my generosity I will keep you here under my feet until the next hour passes. I want you to repeat our mantra until then, without cease."

As the majority of his face is forged under the soles and their showering bourns of sweat that seep between the sandwiching surfaces Osric gulps a breath and follows the command, uttering the words, "You are the master, I am the slave. You are the master, I am the slave. You are the master-"
This repetition becomes the only sound to complete with the crackling of fire and logs in the hearth, or the muffled wintry winds outside the reinforced stone walls. The same words are continually spoken over and over and over, much to the lion's entertainment. Time starts to slow for the disinterested dragon the more he mutters the monotonous sentence until eventually he begins feeling every second of every minute.
"You are the master, I am the slave. You are the master, I am the slave."
Even the big paws squishing his face into numbing oily oblivion are fixated into one position over the next hour, never patting him down or smearing him around underfoot. The most interaction Osric receives is the occasional scrunch and suffusing of padded toes across his forehead, sometimes curling over the stubs where his majestic horns used to proudly mantle.
"You are the master, I am the slave. You are the master, I am the slave."
Soon enough Osric enters a rhythmic zombified trance speaking on auto-cue, rambling the mantra so often his own voice starts to sound foreign and the words become a meaningless buzz in his ears, yet he never falters to repeat them exactly as needed even when he is numb to the experience. Meanwhile Sven relaxes back against the table. His shoulders droop and his head tips back; that sweeping choppy mane of bright white draping in the air down the nape of his neck. Fingers curl in their steel and leather gauntlets. He has the disposition of a worshipped king, fondly enjoying the embrace of that scaly head nuzzling beneath both feet.

An hour more of this abuse passes by. Sven ends it at last after he languidly pours himself a tankard of wine from the ceramic and wicker flask upon the table. He swigs the entire drink back in one crude, glugging swig splashing crimson droplets over his scruffy chin fur in the process.
"Enough of this now, wretch. I hunger!" He barks, "Make some use of yourself at last and fetch me a bowl of frumenty porridge. If you've any worth at all you'll boil it properly this time."
Notably Sven does not drag his bare paws off the recruit's face himself. Instead Osric must inherit all the responsibility of wielding both weighty legs in each hand and pulling his face away out from beneath the imprinting soles. It is like peeling two hot pans off a sticky encrusted stove top. The soles detach with a wet peel, releasing a hazy musk from the scaly surface which now glimmers in a coat of paw print shaped perspiration. Multiple strands of moisture stretch between sole and skull.
Osric had forgotten that his blushing cheeks possess an abnormally high temperature as per his genetic birth right, thus while he'd spent that hour hoping the paws would eventually cool down against him they were instead kept in sweltering degrees the longer they'd dressed his face. Perhaps now they are even more baked than when they'd initially tugged out from those knightly boots. Regardless, the wincing dragon gets to grimace now when he wrenches them from his features, lowering both legs respectfully until the soles touch the stone floor once again… all while the haughty lion watches from above. The dragon's eyes open to a blurry disorienting world eliciting a flurry of blinks. Osric would prefer to avoid any reflective surfaces for the rest of the night lest he witness all the condensation, damp branding, black litter and soured flavours destroying the innocence of his face.

* * *

While Osric grinds down the cracked wheat, barley grain and current fruits into a pot of water applying his heat and boiling it into a mixture with measured breaths, stirring and waiting for the substance to thicken like gelatine, he has a faraway look in his eye. Osric considers how he'd applied to the King's Guard as a way to prove valour and earn respect from his kin, to show he was a battle-ready defender of his home land, but the job that promised so much led him here to become a laughable house maiden instead who lives at the feet of another animal. To flee means to commit desertion and incur a fatal punishment. To stay means to become a broken shell of himself who will spend years if not whole decades beneath the lion. Even when their assignment to this border post is completed he knows Sven will continue to keep him as an indignant pet back at the castle, flaunting him for all to witness. These thoughts plague him as the porridge is gradually prepared.

The smell of steaming oats right under his nose thankfully adds some competition to the radiation of paw stink coming from the nearby table, where Sven still sits and waits, (now sitting at the table ordinarily with his bare paws slapped down flat under its recess, near his vacated boots that continually dispel faint fumes like dormant volcanoes,) Once fully cooked the bubbling slop is then poured into two large wood bowls. One is gracefully served atop the table without a word of gratitude. The other bowl, (knowing its place), is lowered down below and placed right at the knight's feet like a wash-bowl only filled with pale glistening wheat pulp. Ingloriously the dragon creeps down here on his hands and knees under the shadowed canopy of table timber; his view of his master now cuts off above the waist as he lowers into a kneel before them. The top of his hornless head scrapes against the wood.

It takes nary a moment for the lion to lift both his paws off the stone floor in synch leaving behind light damp prints but taking away a layer of ashy floor dust contrasting so vividly on his white soles. The dragon contorts his face into a displeased frown at the sight of those chunky pink pads looming right over his bowl but he knows Sven's laws and behaviours. He knows he cannot eat a nibble until those paws are fully bathing in his meal.
*GLOP-schlrrp-glrp!*
Sven delightfully lowers his feet into the porridge letting its grainy slimy thickness consume both entire paws at once; its volume disturbed and distorting around their anchoring weights. It's like stepping into slimy marsh mud. The porridge gurgles and bubbles and flows up around the edges until it floods between his splaying toes melding with all the lion's sweat and grime, eventually sucking down both paws into its pasty density. Sven's face is out of sight while he calmly enjoys his own food at a leisurely pace but Osric still knows the feline is grinning sadistically up there. The paws disappear into the white bog, swimming around under its surface wriggling his toes and trapping hot sludgy textures between them. Steam wafts up around his truncated shins. The bowl is large and accommodating enough to act as Sven's foot bath. It tips and gyrates ever so lightly when he swishes his feet back and forth in the depths, pushing up milky mounds when his toes fan and breach the surface, playing lackadaisically in this lumpy edible goop with no regard for the recoiling dragon watching it all with a gargling stomach.
*Sssshhhlrrp-glp!*
Heavily do those paws ascend out from the porridge noisily producing thick sounds of suction and sloppy dripping moisture as the caked appendages rise in all their messy glory; socked up to the ankles by white treacle-like muck that oozes with gravity's pull. Packed gunky wheat is sluiced out from his actively wiggling toes. His claws drip freely in boiled fluids.
"Lick it off, wretch. You WILL savour and swallow every drop. Every single drop. This is your only meal until supper. Enjoy it and remember how pitiful you are to this kingdom. Remind yourself my feet are your only rulers now."

Compliant but disgruntled as ever, the dragon hesitantly grabs the lion's heavy furry ankles again this time feeling droplets raining off the heels and splattering white on his forearms. Were it not for his broken spirit the dragon may have hesitated longer but he cannot deny his own hunger. Regardless of the appendages they coat, this porridge is much needed nutrition for his withering frame. Furiously his tongue cracks the oozing layers over Sven's heel and strokes quickly through the barley chunks like a wet whip. His entire body clenches and shudders. He tries not to think about what he's doing. He closes his teary eyes and shoves his entire face up against one of the scrunching soggy soles, painting his muzzle in porridge residue as he nuzzles and grovels and openly mouths over the heel until a watery patch begins to replace the layered food. His lips and chin quickly become smeared, trickling with milk, splattered in seedy grains that quickly dry and stick to his scales. Osric juggles between forceful licks up along the masked soles or pursing his lips and suckling away large areas at one time until slobber conquers the targeted area.

*Splat!*
Sven plants his soles forward over the moaning panting creature and wrestles their slippery face down under his breakfast flavoured feet, splattering them with gooey imprints and hindering their attempts to speed through the slurping process.
"You are the luckiest of your kind," The lion goads, "For whomever else can say they receive their meals from the bottoms of such divine feet? I am sure you're speechless for your love of me."
Osric grunts and gags. His tongue is submerged in mouthfuls of sweat-laced food still dripping and sliding down off the now excessively sticky paws whenever they peel back from his open lapping lips and slap him around under the table sometimes combing their gunky toes down his mouth leaving four trails of creamy goodness, or they curl into his maw and feed him a sudden deep-throating of foot that glazes his entire tongue from front to back while toe claws tickle the rear lining of his throat. The enslaved dragon trembles and whimpers at the mercy of the paw barrage. They pummel his snout and sprinkle out grains from between their glued toes, dispersing it over the bridge of his muzzle. Other times Osric is but a canvas for the feet to wipe over and decorate with playful rubs and scrunches of all angles and pressures. He is getting more mess around his face now than in his maw though this is a familiar situation. Twice a day Osric is fed and always from underfoot, no matter the food, even if that means Sven trampling it to a paste first.

"You'd best work faster, the porridge is already setting," Sven warns, licking his spoon clean above with complete nonchalance to the constant squirming tongue motions trying desperately to scour his soles and scavenge every morsel.
Sven isn't wrong. The frumenty meal is quick to harden like a wet cement mix if not properly lubricated. The smears and smudges around Osric's muzzle already feel like an adhesive collecting those drying oat flakes. Sven solves this issue by dunking his eight toes back into the porridge bowl, whisking it around until all digits are replenished with a fresh whipped coating of its dense matter. They pull out with another blood-curdling squelch and shove themselves forward into Osric's view like an array of sopping white indistinguishable lumps.
He groans under his breath and leans in again, suckling the big nodes one by one until the porridge layers his tongue and teeth with grits and bits gradually revealing more and more pink toe padding. He works in a sequence. Before moving onto the next toe in the row he delves into the gap between which has become a festering pit of goopy honeyed sludge blending with the lint of woollen toe jam. It's a hot tight pocket which Osric must insert his tongue inside licking away the gossamer-like mess all the way until his tongue tip docks with the lion's sensitive toe webbing. Sven starts to purr once again. He always relishes the bliss of that peasant tongue scraping out his toe crotches; finally slurping up the day's heaped and heat-infused grime though its typically bitter flavours are now subdued by the meal's gratuitous thickness.

The dragon's back hunches in poor posture as he suckles around these toes, gulping down every small mouthful of sustenance. He puffs long series of stunted breaths between each and every digit bracing his courage to enter the different toe gaps. It takes a long time to saturate these digits enough before they can be considered clean, especially when Sven will always dip them back in the bowl for another topping whenever he feels them becoming light on gunk. Swallow after swallow, lick after lick, the dragon feels every second of his willpower decaying inside him. When all four toes of one paw stick inside his maw and wedge his lips shut urging him to suck and vacuum them spotless Osric starts to wonder why he never refuses the lion's sick, demeaning demands. What would happen? Has he ever tried to say no, even one time since his arrival here? He is distracted from the thought when the gang of clawed toes tormenting his helpless tongue slips back out with saliva streams towing after their exit, only to be replaced by the other foot parking its meatiness deep inside his scalding maw. The dragon has to control his flustered breathing. If he were to blow a torrent of incinerating flames from the depths of his molten chest right now he could maim the lion and torch their paw to a crisp. The consequences he would suffer could be unimaginable torture he dares not to entertain.

These moments are only snippets in a long excursion of force-feeding worship, altogether lasting at least another twenty five minutes. By the end Sven eventually plops one paw back into the depths of the bowl keeping it stomped down under the swirling porridge currents enjoying the constant texture and wetness around his paw. The dragon is forced to bow his head low to the bubbling, steamy surface whereupon that second paw – now soaked in saliva with clear shimmering drool bridging its toe gaps after many a laborious effort – moulds warmly over the top of his skull fitting its width into the space between his horn stumps, until toes curl over his crown and the heel smudges an indent against his forehead. The pressure coerces him low, keeping him suppressed.
“Drink,” Sven abruptly instructs, holding the table’s rim and leaning back to peer down underneath. He steps down harder on the dragon’s skull until their muzzle plunges into the syrupy slushy breakfast until all but his nostrils are submerged.
Osric slurps and gargles. He gulps and sucks. The noises are slow and muffled under the shifting of porridge as its volume slowly decreases minute after minute. Smoky mist blows from the dragon’s nostrils as he fights to drink down entire mouthfuls. Thick bubbles rise and pop. Oats line the inside of his throat and the glue-like consistency drags on his tongue. The taste is no different from its usual stale creaminess but there is still a sweaty unwashed paw basking at the bottom of this bowl, slowly revealing itself like an excavation in desert sands when the porridge is glugged down and down some more. Finally – when there is still at least a third of the bowl’s contents remaining – Sven peels this paw out leaving a sternly defined paw print hammered into the mixture and he slides it all the way into Osric’s mouth, silently demanding another full clean. This delays the end of ‘meal time’ by at least another ten minutes of off-putting noises like the watery slippery sloshing sounds of drool polishing the foot until it shines white and pink again, (with hardly an oat or lump to be scene plastering its masculine contours). Osric is left breathless and humiliated by the end; droplets of white streaking down his neck and chest from his already splattered jawline.
Flexing his wet slobbered toes, the knight sighs happily and withdraws himself from the table, standing to his majestic height amidst the light clanking and clattering of his armour plates rubbing together. Curiously he peers at the remaining substance yet to be eaten and he strokes his scruffy chin. “Hearing you drink down that muck makes me want to fondle myself and fill another bowl with my own white seed, for you to drink down in one sitting. Perhaps I ought to save that for another time… for now, my paws itch to feel your body beneath them. Crawl to the trample mat, wretch, and ready yourself.”

With a sunken heart and shallow breaths the dragon gazes over by the main doorway where a rough, scratchy burlap cloth is laid out like a rectangle rug laterally before the door's width. Its beige surface is pummelled and marked by countless paw and boot prints of old all overlapping and intersecting and facing various directions but always in the lion's four toed, wide ball magnificence. At each end of this rug there is a burdensome and thick wooden slate sporting three holes each. It is the headpiece of a pillory stockade only set low to floor, facing one another with enough distance between them to trap any unfortunate person. His body tingles with alarm as he obeys the order, crawling on all fours until he lays himself out on his back between the slates spreading himself out like a starfish. His body is tense and his face is sweating as Sven watches him insert his own wrists into the pillory holes behind his head. Osric then extends his legs and feeds his feet through the opposite holes down at the end of his body. His heart pounds faster when the lion saunters over, looking taller and more fearsome than ever.

Sven squats down on the opposite side of each imprisonment device and applies chained metal shackles to both the dragon's wrists and his feet locking them into place, preventing him from pulling out the holes. The saliva in Osric's mouth runs dry. His entire body shivers; laid out like a doormat. This is where the aforementioned bandit lynx had been held while the lion broke him down with disciplinary tramples of raw rage and sadism. Osric remembers clenching his eyes and covering his ears but still hearing the yelps, pleas, pained whimpers and bloodied coughs between the loud crushing pounds of bare paws on bare body and face. He also remembers being surprised by the lynx's survival afterwards, (though mangled and flattened and half-choking on his own swollen tongue). Osric need only pray that the guardsman will not play so rough with him.
Sven - whose paws are now cooled down by the saliva glazing their surfaces, whilst still presenting the odd swathe of encrusted oats around their edges - stands inside the space between Osric's spread ankles. A scaly tail of blue and white sprawls down the length of this leg gap like a roll of carpet stopping at his feet. It urges Sven to walk up its tender length towards the naked groin waiting ahead. The lion listens to these urges, communicating his intentions to the dragon by simply grinning maliciously. It starts with a tentative hovering of a paw over the tail's base, followed by a relishing curl of toes in the air. Sven drops his heel on the flickering tail tip plunging down and crushing it on the stone floor until its girth absorbs the bulk of his heel in a painful, squeezing indent. The floor-bound Osric lets out a small cry that drags into a long moan when the rest of that feline foot flattens down and balances the weight distribution. Osric squirms and grits his teeth. Sven steps down hard enjoying the wild thrashes of the pinned tail as he sweeps his other leg forward in a fluent cat-walk, planting it down further up. Stinging numbing pains pulse from underneath the lion who stands tall and proud upon him.
It's difficult for Osric to hold in his yelps but his body still jolts and jerks with each new footfall trampling his tail flat like a ribbon against the unyielding blows. Despite its ample walking space Sven treats it like a tight rope moving one foot in front of the other several more times until he encroaches on that helpless prostrated body lying before him. The heavy lion stands still at the very end of this tail right between the thighs and abdomen, towering and imposing and spreading throbs of electric pain through the malleable appendage, curling his toe claws into its fleshy white underside.

"Ah, my most favourite toy..." The white knight mocks as he thumps his sole down hard on the dragon's sheath.
A network of nerve-tingling pain and vivid shudders spreads and sprawls suddenly from the dragon's smothered crotch all the way through his body. Doughy pink pads press and grind and rub their grippy weight across the slit-like opening of the sheath, disturbing the dormant sleep of the barbed red dragon shaft protected inside.
"Mmmmnnfff!" Osric whimpers through clenched teeth. His legs buck and kick over the floor but his ankles knock effortlessly against the stockade holes. The metal shackles binding his feet jangle loudly.
*Pat, pat, pat, pat!*
Sven finds mirth in stepping on the groin over and over always dropping his paw from such a height that the sheath and balls wobble and jiggle to each pounding vibration, all while his other foot remains sinking into a faint bruising paw print on the girthy tail base.
*THWACK!*
The foot stamps down one last time entombing the groin underfoot again, holding it under its furry and fleshy warmth. Osric is gasping his breaths in panic while the lion teases him with a slow toe scrunch, raking one toe in particular over the sheath slit tracing its opening with his claw that slips in by a fraction and glides its tip over the genitalia inside.
"Mantra! Say it!" Sven growls.
"Y-you... you are the master, I am the slave!" Osric squeaks, curling his toes as well as his sweaty palms in the stockade behind his head.

Purring, Sven walks up onto the dragon's quickly deflating abdomen channelling immense pressure through both feet side by side atop shallow intestines, thankfully removing the warm coverage away from the sheath before Osric's body could react to the forced stimulation. He begins kneading on the spot between the pelvis bones, up and down, up and down; extended toe claws pinching and jabbing at firm scales while full soles push and peel repeatedly tenderising the lower abdomen. The dragon's groin is close enough to feel each vibration.
Sven chuckles quietly and says, "Dragons are not nearly as comfortable to trample as other species but you have the aid of durability. Your body will last where others would squish and mulch beneath me. What say you?"
Osric is weary and his bladder throbs while being treaded down, making him feel weaker between the knees as the dreaded urge to urinate grows stronger. He gulps, grimaces and hates himself for his own submissiveness when he replies: "H-how did you come to be so skilled at trampling, sire?"

Before the nonchalant lion answers he walks forward trampling deep indents into the dragon's stomach making them lurch and wretch and tense themselves without any breath to spare. Their trapped body wants to fight its way out from the sudden plummeting weight making mince-meat of his organs, (or so it feels at the very least). He feels the trodden porridge in his stomach slosh inside him as the lion resumes his kneading now here higher up the torso than ever before.
"How darling of you to notice... perhaps this would be a worse experience for you if I wasn't such a seasoned trample enthusiast. In my past station I was deemed the dungeon master, working the jails of the keep. For years prisoners were all but playthings to me and my charge of recruits. Whilst the guards of old before my time opted for traditional and mechanical tortures I preferred inflicting humiliation at my lawful feet. Prisoners learned their place, shackled to cell floors becoming walk-in trample mats by the daily for myself or the younger guards all of whom found such amusement. I spent the years honing my ability to stretch out a prisoner's endurance. My favourite was a scrawny thief mongoose who would later become my own footrest to trample idly underneath my desk, where he lay bolted and chained all throughout the day."
The story rings true. Even with his cumbersome additive of knightly armour the lion evidently knows his way around a subject's body; where to stand and how hard and for how long. Thus, Sven feels confident to jump on the spot smashing his paws down over the pliable torso striking an organ-rocking impact from the small altitude, taking advantage of its vulnerability, using the reptilian for their one destined purpose. Armour clanks loudly at the sudden leap. Osric's back arches violently and his reddening eyes bulge from his skull! The air is knocked out of him. A croaky gasp of draining strength launches a spray of spittle from his mouth.

*Thwomp, thwomp, thwomp! Schhhrk!*
The exhausted Osric listens to himself being turned into a living doormat. The sounds of being walked over without remorse is like meat being whacked by mallets followed by the dehumanising drag and grind of bare soles wiping themselves clean against his numbing body. It drowns out his helpless incoherent whimpers. Sven smirks and marches forward one more time now onto the brittle rib cage and shoulder joints where he wipes his feet some more, slowly and heavily, as if trying to erase a large insect from existence. The dragon's bare toes and fingers splay out again this time with such extreme tension that he pulls a muscle in the arch of one foot and sheds a stream of tears at its inconsolable cramping. The wooden stockades restraining him on the floor are too heavy to budge as he rattles his limbs about seeking any reprieve from the raw, pink bruising paw indents tracking up his figure.
While standing squarely over the rack of slowly bowing ribs and claustrophobic lungs, Sven gently see-saws his weight back and forth between the fronts and the heels of his feet, testing the dragon's chest capacity for weak spots. Light pops and crackles underfoot interlace with the dry gasps and grunts from the flustered head parked within stomping distance. Osric wheezes when eight toes curl over the perch of his collar bone. The paw pads against him have a most apparent warmth; like waxy splotches of bodily heat melding against his scales. His underbelly feels like fresh clay pounding down and moulding around his rib bones, especially so when the lion temporarily rises off his heels and leans every iota of weight through his pads instead, (a move that threatens to crack his sternum like an old biscuit). Osric's eyes beg for mercy at the towering tippy-toe visage of the feline but none is granted. He can only lie here in bated breath waiting for the paws to smoothen out again and equalize their pressure points.

Finally the lion's legs wobble and he is forced to rebalance himself just as his curling toe claws had nearly pierced right through Osric's flesh. Sven lets out an amused scoff when he sees how slack the dragon's jaw has become oozing drool and hot panting breaths. Sven slides his soles outward across the ribs' widths and stands with parted legs implanting his weight onto both blue shoulders and exposed armpits. He bounces playfully on the spot yet without ever detaching those fuzzy, meat-packed soles from the dragon. This shifting of mass only helps to squish Osric harder into the floor and weaken his arm joints in their sockets, very nearly popping them loose. Toes wriggle over the azure form appreciating Osric's supple consistency.
The lion is not finished playing with his prey. He spins around on his axis sweeping his bushy white tail tip across the dragon's muzzle and he marches back up the length of their indolent body thumping footfall after footfall back over the chest, stomach and abdomen, ending by stamping each foot on the tender thigh meat and pinning those squirming legs flat preventing their panicked movements. Sven's legs take turns one at a time peeling up and dropping hard on the sensitive groin, pressing the balls until they sandwich between cold floor and humid pads. Splaying suffusing toes grope at the genitals amid each twist of the foot before returning to Osric's aching femur.
Osric is sweating a storm. His anxiety and heart rate is spiking. He fears the lion will jump up and land on his crotch with both feet castrating him with an unimaginable crushing impact though thankfully Sven stops bullying his groin and turns around a second time, once again facing towards him. Sven does still kick the groin on his way back but lightly so; barely enough to give any feeling through the already anaesthetised pelvis region. Osric feels drowsy and drifting. Random pulses of pain echo through his body wherever the heavy feline has sauntered and stomped... more than ever now when Sven cockily cat-walks up the centre of his stomach and ribs yet again, wearing down the already pulped areas as if making extra sure to leave bruises all over his body.

Once again Osric's lungs are like squashed balloons squeezing and whistling out their narrow air reserves when two big paws slam and stop overhead. The left lung in particular becomes suddenly strained and exerted by ripples of compressing pain when Sven stands on the one leg and hovers the other over the recruit’s face, boasting the ample portrait of soft pink pads all plump as pillows and equally possessive of inferior dragon faces. The paw - mostly slurped clean earlier aside from the remaining odd smudge or grimy blemish - still produces the steamy spinach stew smell though now in lighter amounts. Peculiarly it makes the dragon's stomach gargle hungrily rather than knot tight, as much as he hates to admit it. Timidly Osric waits for the wide ball pad to lower down an inch from his muzzle before he gives it a servile lick from bottom to top, painting it in warm saliva. The toes flex at the intimate touch of tongue against sole, stroking oh-so gently over the rosy leather bumps.

Six more licks glide up and slip off the ball pad until a large droplet gathers and hangs from the flesh, dripping back onto the dragon's chin. Osric tries to go for a seventh but his face is stepped on instead. For a flicker of a moment his muzzle is tucked back inside the warm crevice depths between ball and toe pads however his head is promptly wrestled down onto its side wherein the paw releases its hold and repositions itself entirely now settling over the exposed side of the muzzle and vicing it flat against the stone. The arch irons over the corner of Osric's lips. The toes furl forward over the bridge. Aggravated breaths hiss and squeeze from the smushing mouth and nostrils. His head is turned so sharply to the left his neck begins to strain.
"Feels like home down there... under me... does it not?" Sven asks, rapping his toes over the muzzle's top one by one. "A dragon doormat is your natural calling, after all. Bear in mind that my expectations of you may grow stricter after today all so that I might have more excuse to flatten you underfoot."
Though his teeth are aching under the log of foot weight slapped across them and his mouth is partly sealed Osric wheezes back another subservient lie of a response, tailored to the lion's ego. "You needn't any excuse, sire, I... I am your doormat always! Shackles or not I will lie at your stead cleaning the snow from your boots and the dirt from your soles! I am duty-bound by my oath to the King’s Guard!"

The smirking Sven does not respond immediately. First he lifts and plunges his other paw over the rest of this side of the head conquering jaw and cheek and right eye and temple all under one cosy whack. This extinguishes the dragon's vision but more than anything it buries his skull under the glorious might of both hot padded paw bottoms, slowly conforming it and testing its durability underneath a couple hundred pounds of lion brawn and armour burden. Osric's brain is sizzling hot inside the confines. His scales singe with blush, roasting the pad meat until it is clammy and ready to sweat against him again. The throbbing is unbearable. The pain squeezes through his sandwiching features. The sound of rhythmic pulses fills his ears and drool pools out the other side of his mouth. Osric's body stiffens; too immobile now to thrash or protest in his stockade bindings. The kneading of feet begins anew only softer now and with much more suppressed peels and thumps though they still cast vibrations throughout Osric's skull every time.
"Do not speak, wretch. I know your words are hollow and worthless. You mutter only what you think I want to hear. The mongoose in the jail was very much the same. It is a coward's way of avoiding my wrath! Still, slavery at the feet of a handsome animal like myself does wonders to subvert the mind eventually. I bet upon a year from now before you start to crave me sincerely and that cheap flattery will be nothing but converted truth. My feet will consume your every waking thought. You will desire to be pounded beneath them and they will be your reward for your dedication. I may yet write to our majesty the King and request a second recruit be sent here to our border... one I will break in and train from scratch before your very eyes while you stay relegated to that floor always chained down as my permanent trample mat. You will learn to love it either way... I will make it so."

Osric becomes so faint and worn out he does not realise a full five minutes of subtle face trampling persists even as newly formed sweat imprints begin developing over his scales. He only stirs when the feet peel off him one by one wobbling and rattling his half-squashed skull when they rip away and stomp on the stone floor beside his face. He is too weak to turn his head upright again and gaze at the watchtower ceiling even when there is nothing holding him to the floor any longer. His blurry eyes are left to gaze groggily across the room instead from a sideways perspective. He sniffs at the back of a broad white heel before his snout, though the lion pays him no mind and strolls further away back towards the thick dark dining table. Osric's ears ring though they still pick up the sticky slapping of paws padding across the stone.

Sven grabs two items from beneath the table. One is the dragon's unfinished bowl of stale pasty porridge still forming a substantial pool in its basin. The other item is the steel and leather knight's boot. The two are forced to greet each other when the lion smugly tips the bowl into the boot's mouth pouring the creamy sludge down in thick coagulated sloppy trundles that plop and drip inside, splattering deep within where they spread around the imprinted wool insole. Once half the meal has entered the footwear Sven grabs his other boot and does the very same all over again, emptying the rest within so that it too forms an edible insole of oats and wheat and milk slop. Osric's faint heart rate starts to revitalise until it is pounding in fearful beats once the realisation strikes him. He watches Sven slip his bare paws inside the footwear one after the other settling his soles into the gunky food sludge until it squelches and squeezes out like a thin white tide around his pads, drizzling amid his huddled toes. Boot buckles are pulled tight, clasping the tall armoured footwear shut around each leg.

Musical metal footfalls clink and clank across the floor after the guard stands tall and lumbers over to his living doormat, stopping to a towering loom over their pitiable body always with that toothy snarky leer spread across his face. Though it cannot be heard or seen at the moment, he walks on goopy beds of porridge.
Sven crosses his arms over his shiny chest plate and says, "Worry not; I'm never one to waste food. You'll have all this meal in your belly soon enough come supper time, some eight hours from now. My paws are going to keep it warm and fresh until then. I am sure you cannot wait," (He winks), "I must admit to the pleasant feeling, myself. Perhaps I'll cook all your evening meals this way each day going forward? You may then save your fiery breath for keeping my soles warm beneath the bedding during these frosty winter nights."
"Y-yes sire, it would be my honour..." Osric bashfully mumbles, resigning himself officially.
Sven lifts one booted foot and places its patronising sole atop that heaving, lightly bruised stomach. He raises a brow simply asking, "And why? Why do you never fight for yourself? Why do you forgo a spine in lieu of insatiable service to me?"
Osric gulps, looking into his silver eyes, sealing his very destiny with those few familiar words: "Because... you are the master, I am the slave!"

THE END