It's been a long time since I've posted anything and if I'm being honest there isn't much promise that I'll be very active still, but here's a new story I hope you all enjoy.

PREVIOUS ART BASED ON THIS STORY CAN BE FOUND >>HERE<<

Trucker’s Trample Toy

Synopsis: A ferret hitchhiker is picked up by a burly and surly canine trucker, whose dominance proves too irresistible. The ferret’s fetishist secrets will soon come out one way or another and that dog’s dominance will be his ultimate reward.

Disclaimer:
–Willing Paw Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Trample/Weight Play
–Mature Dom
–Cane Corso Dog (Dom)
–Ferret (Sub)

An old semi-truck of red and silver metals, (speckled in parts by dust or rust), powers over the worn roads of the Montana countryside beset on all sides by a mix of sparse meadows, scruffy shrubs and grasses, or the rocky terraced hills abound. Above the billowing exhaust fumes and the roaring engine is an evening sky; its syrupy colours of dusk now oozing away into dark twilight. Two comparatively different figures sit in the semi's cabin.
The long-haul trucker, Russell, is a 6ft 6” Cane Corso whose manner of callous intimidation comes natural, with no force of effort. The dog is black as wrought iron. Butch muscle layers his body. Dulled dark eyes sit under a heavy brow. His jowls give his face a look of cold authority. His clothes neither appear nor smell fresh, (as expected from a man of his profession). The browning sweat stains of his tank top are partially hidden by an unbuttoned over-shirt of beige, checkered flannel. A packet of cigarettes nests in his breast pocket. Old jeans lead to a pair of thick black work boots loyally worn so long that their stalwart shapes are starting to fetter through scuffs and signs of eventual defeat.
The passenger, Finch, is a stringy and frail creature by comparison. The ferret is only 26 – a good decade behind his surly driver – but his youthful arrogance and ignorance is already outstaying its welcome. His slender body of cream, white and brown markings is dressed in casual southern attire; a sleeveless white shirt, denim shorts, brown boots and a colour-washed blue/white baseball cap. Neither of the two animals are in any way familiar with one another. This ferret is both an unexpected and a largely unwanted addition to the day's long journey; however when the trucker had driven upon a broken-down pickup halted on the shoulder of the road with its owner waving their arm in an enthusiastic bid for help, some part of his irritable nature allowed for a rare show of mercy. Perhaps it was his loneliness after days of driving, perhaps it was the sheer helplessness of the ferret that caught his eye, but regardless Russell soon regretted his charity when he realised how talkative the hitchhiker would be.

Hours into the drive, Finch hadn't yet run out of conversation in spite of how little his rescuer gave back. He'd spent a great deal of that time complaining - with his idyllic southern Mississippi twang - about the 'lemon' of a car he'd been sold by his very own cousin and the litany of false promises provided about its driving state. He yapped about his constraining farm life back home as well as his insouciant need to "just get on out" and take a road trip through the country, free of any care or responsibility. His curiosity had him pestering the big hound with countless questions about trucking, life on the road and about the dog's particular semi, none of which Russell was enthused to answer for fear the ferret would never shut up. Soon the only solution was to crank on some country radio channel with a crackling signal and dial up the volume. At least in this reprieve Finch could gaze out at the passing countryside illuminated now in the headlight beams, while trying to ignore the smattering of large dusty boot prints and occasional smeared paw prints on the plastic dashboard before him, (imprinted sometime in the past whenever the trucker had found the free time during the loading and unloading of his trailer to kick his feet up upon it.)

Eventually a tall sign in the darkness would beckon them with its bright neon-pink glow, reading, 'Roadside Inn and Truck Stop!' With enough grumbling, beeping, hissing, grunting and puttering the semi and its extensive trailer reversed into the last remaining parking spot allotted for a vehicle this size. The truck's behemoth noises finally die down. The Cane Corso then slings his elbow upon the wheel and turns to glare over at the ferret.
"Normally I'd save me the money and crash on that mattress back there in the rear, but seein' as its the two of us and I'm beat from driving 16 hours without a break I reckon you n' me are gonna have to hitch up here for the night. You can call a tow truck in the morning so we's can go our separate ways. Now, since I've been mighty generous enough already, how's about you pay for the rooms, banjo?" Russell grunts, adding in the derogatory nickname for his own satisfaction. "Unless you're fixin to spend the night stuffed in here with me and the broken AC."
The ferret's face crinkles expressively at the thought. "Sleep in here? Hell man, this cab smells like the inside of a boot and you ain't exactly a bunch of roses yourself. Two rooms will do us just fine..." Finch retorts, feeling around for his wallet before cranking open the squeaky door. He can sense the dog's haughty gaze following him as he circles around the front of the truck and walks toward the motel. He wants to think the dog is staring inquisitively but his body prickles all over, indicating a predatory threat instead. Animalistic intuitions tell him this driver has stopped at this hotel many a times before, perhaps with others like him plucked off the road in a time of need.

The motel foyer hasn't seen an update in decades. Vintage teak wood and brown fabric sofas are accompanied by tables stained with coffee residue rings. Magazine racks carry time-worn magazines curling at the corners. A fat pink and white vase holding a rubber monstera plant occupies the corner. Faded patterned carpet and wood-panel walls date the rest of the room. Sitting lazily at the reception desk is a wiry skunk no younger than 19, slumped in his chair with both feet extended onto the desk top; his beat-up converse sneakers crossed in plain view. His idle expression is illuminated by the phone in his hands.
When approached and addressed for the renting of two rooms the skunk - without detaching from his phone - tosses a singular room key in Finch's direction and placidly remarks: "You got in too late, pal. Only one room left. Double bed. Take it or leave it."
"Aw c'mon man, you serious? Have you seen my bunk mate? Ain't no way I'm sleeping in a bed with that gnarly beast."
The skunk shrugs, barely able to appear indisposed with the ferret's issues. Finch feigns a scowl though his heart is already pounding at the anticipated night ahead.
Small palms sweat and fondle nervously around the key as Finch exits outside, where the rural Cane Corso stands waiting with crossed arms; his jet black muscles bulging under his flannel shirt. Positing an awkward grin, Finch dangles the lonely key in half explanation, half apology. "Looks like we’re roomies tonight, bud! Dibs on the bed!" He exclaims, lacking the proper masculinity for his confidence.
Russell simply responds, "Which part of the bed? Curled up at my feet like a lil' pet? Cause you ain't getting shit otherwise. Ain't no way a 6' 6" feller like me is taking the floor."
The two begin walking alongside the row of room doors facing out to the parking lot, each one emanating with different sounds from rugged intimacy to country music to the overly loud sounds of nightly TV infomercials. Russell's sauntering causes heavy footfalls against the concrete, which drum in Finch's ears.
The ferret still scrounges for any solution that might appease him: "Kay, then... what if we sleep Top & Tail? It is a double bed, after all."
The response is expectedly terse. "Pft, you ain’t doing much for the reputation of hitchhikers. You really tryin' to spend the night at my dogs? Cause lemme tell you what, there ain't anyone man enough to handle that. Even a fuzzy lil' floor mat like you."
That deeply muttered voice echoes in Finch’s mind. He dissuades his embarrassment by chuckling, now acutely aware that the reverberations he feels isn't the sounds to his left or the big dog's gait to his right, it's the impact of his heart violently beating against his ribs. He can't tell if there is an undercurrent of flirting under those belittling remarks but either way, he likes it just enough that his breath feels shorter and shorter the more they approach their room.

The two enter the unlit room though the darkness within is penetrated and held back by a bright hazy pink glow trespassing through the broken and dangling venetian blinds. It casts a sanguine tint over the out-dated decor, reflecting a neon sheen against the box TV across the room or the cheap, brass bedside lamps. Finch flicks on the light which simmers on after a buzzing flicker. He and the Cane Corso scan their purchase; noting the floral bedding that blends with the wallpaper. A long padded ottoman is parked at the foot of the bed, acting as a makeshift sofa for the TV beyond.
The ferret sniffs the air. "Phew, you smell that damp musty-ness comin' up through the carpet? Who could have ever expected such a thang in this five store resort!"
Ignoring the creature's sarcastic chirping, Russell grunts and shunts his boots against the ground one foot at a time, burrowing on the heel until his foot loosens within. Those sizeable feet scuff backwards just enough to tug and tear and ripple the saturated insoles out of place. Each insole sticks temporarily to his arches, (a reaction from the heat and pressure stewing inside all day), before each heel slips out over the thick rubbery black rims. Dryness invades the ferret's throat as he watches the process bashfully. Russell groans with hearty relief. His big feet step out onto the carpet sinking and suffusing down with glee; smothering down his baggy socks which slouch lazily around the paw outlines. The once-white socks are now haggard. Their age is represented by threadbare cotton and greying darkened stains around the bottoms; a mix of wet black and brown hues. Their sheer gravity continually draws the ferret's petrified gaze to the floor. He cannot help but imagine the raw, steamy humidity condensed inside each boot during the trucker's long journeys.
Finch's only salvation while silently inhaling the coarse but sweet odour is to chide the hound even more by saying, "Mmm-mm… speakin' of foul smells..."
"Better learn to love it, boy, or I'll make you," Russell orders whilst wandering across the room towards the small bathroom unit. The softened thumping of his socked footfalls cannot hide the faint squelch from the ferret's alerted ears. "Now quit yer' bitching!" Russell growls, "I gotta drain my lizard real quick."

From the moment Finch hears the zipper tugging down followed by the initial splashes hitting porcelain, he nervously fires a glance down at the two enormous boots abandoned at his feet, begging his attention.
An intrusive thought sneaks into his head: ‘Sniff it! Quick! While he's got his back turned! One quick sniff, this is your only chance! Do it, do it, do it now!’
His breath catches in his throat. A dapple of sweat appears across his forehead. His baseball cap feels hot and tight around his skull. Finch glances back at the monolith standing plainly in view within the bathroom, having lacked the decency to close the door first. The torrent of gushing pent-up fluids continues its noise a few feet away. Russell is distracted. It seems a harmless curiosity... one that Finch can surely indulge before the dog finishes. If done right, he’d be none the wiser.

The ferret succumbs to his inner urges. He squats quietly, requiring both hands to clasp one boot tightly. Apprehension and fidelity dance together. His chest feels ready to crack open under the percussion of his heartbeat. Even before raising the weighty object and guiding its gaping rancid maw to his muzzle, he is immediately swarmed by odour. It's eye-watering, like sitting too closely to campfire smoke. Finch is singed with the stink of barbeque grease followed by notes of butter, left to sizzle and bubble and char in the bottom of a pan. His grip seizes tighter as does the pressure in his lungs. His jaw hangs; his quickened breaths are no competition against the miasma pushing back against him. After his eyelids flitter delicately Finch shoves the footwear squarely into his face abandoning all contemplation, surging his snout far inside the hellish cavern until it skids over the dank indentations and deep grooves of Russell's paw print. The boot yields only slightly to his breaching face. Its tongue rides up the bridge of Finch's muzzle.
Its insulated rim is spread and squished around his jaw. The tread resists and fights from arching as the ferret's snout pushes hungrily inwards, deep enough until that burnt musk curls inside his nostrils and his mouth smears over toe indents dampening down the rich tapestry of embedded lint and grime with his overflowing drool. Finch huffs, and huffs again, feverishly sucking down lungfuls of Cane Corso B.O until that seductive smell coats the inside of his airways. The boot is clenched and contorted and fitted for a new purpose, worn over the panting snout with aggressive satisfaction. That snout then roams up and down the insole frequently riding over its instep mound, snorting and basking in the heat that envelops his own reddened face. For a moment as his nose mops the heel indent in drowsy circular rhythms his lower jaw dangles freely beneath the base of the shoe, allowing small droplets of saliva to fall and patter on the carpet below. Nostrils flare excitedly in the darkness. The more Finch breathes the trucker's stench, the more his lower body quivers. His weakening knees are ready to buckle.
Though unbeknownst to him, across the room a wry smirk sneaks across the dog's muzzle. Russell may indeed have his back turned to the motel bedroom but this doesn't prevent him from seeing the treachery in action reflected directly before him by the dusty bathroom mirror. Russell has been witness to every deviance from the very moment his footwear first swallowed the small ferret's head out of sight. He'd taken it upon himself to stay mute and ensure he knew what he was really observing; an exhibit of weakness and the flowering servitude of a lesser man, offering himself as tribute to the big dog, even if they didn't know it yet.

When the final splashes wane to a light drizzle and the hound shakes his groin dry he notices through that all-exposing mirror that the ferret quickly yanks his face free and discards the boot precisely to the floor. His lithe body springs upright in an attempt to appear casual and inconspicuous though the transition is too rapid and the blood rushes to the ferret's head. He sways and steadies himself, leaning against the room door with an obvious tremor. Russell even hears them sigh to them self in relief as he zips up his jeans once more. They think they've gotten away with their lewd crime but the knowledge gives Russell all the power now. He wields the choice to dominate this runt with barbaric austerity, or tease and torment them until they slowly break. It's a case of instant gratification verses toying with his prey for the long-term pleasure. He decides to wait and see what the ferret will do first.

Finch isn't aware how vividly the pink blush contrasts on his white and brown face but he manufactures a calm, nonchalant attitude when the Cane Corso turns to face him. Believing it best to avoid any eye contact with them for the meanwhile, Finch snatches the TV remote and slumps himself on the ottoman; treating it like a facsimile sofa with the bed's front acting as his backrest. He flicks on a 70's action/shooter film and slings his elbows back atop the mattress edge. The hope is that the noise and intensity of this film will distract him from his own nauseous guilt and fear of discovery.
Cockily the ferret groans and says, "Lucky me, got the best seat in the house! You're gon' have to deal with my head being the way if you wanna watch from the bed, cause I ain't moving."
"We'll see about that, banjo," Russell mumbles, lumbering over to the double bed.
The entire furnishing wobbles as his hefty figure clambers atop the bedspreads. Mattress springs compress to their physical limit, shrieking in protest. With his bowling ball fist Russell clenches every pillow and stacks them together against the headrest, providing ample lumbar support with which he stations himself. His dark eyes stare smugly at the back of the ferret's scruffy head. His smirk is subtle but present. The dog spreads out, laying down and extending his stocky legs forward. Both hands tuck comfortably behind his head. Finch's body bristles when he hears the encroaching rustle behind him. His snout is quick to tingle and sense the wafting of potent socks sharing that unforgettable fragrance he’d just been inhaling. Dilated eyes submit to their curiosity and peek side to side, seeing in their periphery the advancement of two prodigious paws now resting over the bed's edge on either side of him. Finch's gulp does nothing to hydrate his mouth. His body stiffens in defence.
Russell's baritone voice resonates from behind: "Best seat in the house, huh?"
There is another rustling, this time louder... closer. Finch flinches when the insteps of each foot rub and cup fittingly against his exposed shoulders. The feet are standing upright boasting a length and breadth which competes with that of Finch's entire face. His heart rate is like a rapid-fire cannon. His shoulders instinctively tense and try to shrink closer together but the trucker only brings his paws closer too, always keeping that instep sock cotton in contact with the ferret.
"Something the matter?" Russell asks knowingly.
"I... i-it's just... naw, nothing," Finch shyly croaks, trying to fixate on the movie's fuzzy picture quality instead of the fuzzy socks matting down his shoulder fur.
This ruse is short-lived. Tension is already rising between the ferret's legs. He sits perfectly still but the trucker is not content to do the same. The paws edge closer again this time rubbing their sweaty heels up his back and mounting over his shoulders until his trembling body is supporting their full substantial weight, upon each side of his head. A girly whimper slips from the ferret. His face becomes framed by meaty appendages wrapped in their damp and dirtied cotton. The firmed inner edges of Russell's ball pad and arches is touching against the outline of Finch's cheeks trapping him between the ambience of solemn heat and smell. In a state of panic Finch's nostrils flare openly creating a constant ingest of those addictive barbequed flavours.

Regardless of his obvious affinity, (having made no attempt to wrestle himself free), Finch stammers out one last vain attempt to sound independently minded. "C-c'mon man, where's my dignity at?"
The trucker scratches his silk black chin and replies, "Dignity? Hmph. I don't remember sayin' you could have any."
The dominance cuts through the room like a hot blade, stunning the young hitchhiker into silent subjugation. Russell licks his chops craving that shift in the critter's ego. The way their willpower dampens the moment he rests his tired feet on them and turns them from person to possession… it's like a long drag of the first cigarette on a frosty morning.
"You’re throwing in the towel right quick ain't ya? Not even gonna fight it are ya boy?" With each separate taunt Russell prods the ferret's face sternly with his toes curling like a fist, rocking their weak head. Russell chuckles deeply. "Cause you know there ain't any fight to give, right? Even if I hadn't seen you deep-diving my boot like you just did I reckon you wouldn't'a lasted the night around me and my dogs. I'd be blacked out in bed dreamin' the night away and you'd be licking my feet spotless like there was no tomorrow. Tell me I'm right."
All the blood has rushed to the ferret's face. He is dizzy and groggy; a sheepish shell of his former chatterbox self. "N-no sir, you ain't wrong," He admits with a pained expression while his face is a perpetual hostage kept cosy between the paw's plump sides. Their heels dig into his shoulders but he suffers it gladly. He could never have predicted one sniff of a boot from such a masculine, red-blooded figure would result in this blissful situation, (opposed to the possibility of a broken nose and black eye).
"Sir?" The canine scoffs, flexing his toes inside their thick sock netting, "Hours of you yapping your mouth off and I ain't heard no 'sir' before now. I like the way that sounds... say it again."
"Yes, s-sir!" Finch's brain melts under waves of endorphins and serotonin. His lungs are full of that second-hand musk seeping in from the left and right but he cannot stop inhaling, even when his whistling nostrils make it obvious.
Russell keeps his plaything in this suspended state of ownership for a while longer, constantly aching their shoulders with his mantled paws while massaging their temples with the margins of each appendage, always teasing the idea that more will come; that Finch will be allowed by than he deserves. It keeps the ferret drooling with anticipation even if the Cane Corso desires nothing more than a stationery footrest.
At last he murmurs, "You know what? I reckon there's something missing about all this. You sit pretty a minute.”

The dog drags one leg off the ferret, per turn, bringing said leg inward so he can sit upright and gaze upon his own filth-ridden sock sole. Swampy petrol-like stains have branded the spaces over Russell's paw pads; somehow thinning the cotton while also giving it a shiny elasticity and a brownish tinge from months and months of moisture absorption. These stains spread like a well formed footprint, overlapped only by random splotches. Black flecks of old petrified lint stick into the fuzz from heel to toe. Small holes form here and there with threads stretching like exhausted bridges over the gaps. It takes but a single smooth tug from the tip for the sock to relinquish its hold. It slides freely away in a gust of hot currents, dangling in the air and revealing the sight of a luscious black paw in its stead. The paw itself is velvety and doughy, with expressive contours or creases wriggling across its arch. The pads themselves are boisterous with a pinkish hue like steamed ham; evidently the source of all sweat as they show a lustrous glaze even now that shimmers and drips, matting their surrounding fur. Russell is especially proud of their grimy landscape; the soggy lint bunching and darkening like an edible relish that fits under and in between his toes. Any lint not subjected to a life wedged in these crevices is instead pasted down over the pad flesh varying in colours that denote their age, amid the other particles of dirt or fuzz or threads soaked-through then stuck flat.
Russell leers and inhales that sweet grilled buttery scent radiating from the sock in his fist. Candidly he tosses it forward lobbing it towards the ferret's head before extending his leg back unto their shoulder, now dumping a bare clawed paw in its rightful place. Finch quivers when he feels the displaced sock whack the top of his baseball cap and then tumble forward onto the rim, its imprinted toe-end swaying down into view afore his widened eyes. Finch's body is pushed and pulled and manipulated again when the right paw slides off his shoulder now instead, running its sole flat on his spine before pulling away to face the same treatment. It isn't long before a second sock is flung in his direction too, only this time it overshoots the goal and flops over the ferret's knee instead. The second foot returns, dropping heavily into his right shoulder again without hesitating to nudge its bare dark shape back into his awaiting cheek. Finch's fingers clench into the ottoman cushion, piercing claw holes into the textile. He has now closed his eyes and embraced the surrounding, sizzling body warmth. The television ahead of him has become nothing more than a faint hum of incoherent noise.

"What's the matter, banjo? Don't wanna flap your tongue and talk my ear off no more? Or is you just broken now that you know you’re not my equal? You got my permission to speak now at least... you might-could tell me why you're such a slut for man musk after all. Condition like that's gotta spring from somewhere!" Russell talks amid wriggling his toes, limbering their exhausted joints until they crackle and pop satisfactorily by the ferret's ears. Trapped fumes are expelled from between them in the process.
Despite his dehydration Finch manages to stammer out a sentence to the canine behind him. "B-back on the farm we... we had this farmhand who worked the fields, real big feller, big as you. He was a mule and he was real laboured; muscled like one them body builder types. Real handsome-like too. Used to wear nothin' but denim overalls and big boots but I took an eye to him when he started walking the fields barefoot, dragging the big ol' plough machine by his lonesome. Would come back sweating up a storm with the dirtiest feet I ever did see! Thick nasty mud right up to his shins. He'd leave the most pretty footprints spattered all around the place 'till he hosed himself clean. One day when Pa was out I plucked the courage to offer that mule a manual foot washing... offered a massage too, on account of all his hard work. Next thing I know I'm spending the whole work season behind the barn getting my dues with him. I never gulped down so much muck in my life... ain't ever been the same man since. It uh, it taught me who I am!"
The room falls quiet again. Finch can sense the trucker's judgemental glare even without seeing it. "You know what? I prefer you when you're quiet and ogling my paws. I already knew what you were the moment I saw that limp hand waving me down on the road. Doubt I even want to hear what other perversions you’ve done."

Russell tilts his left foot inward criss-crossing it with the ferret's muzzle. The topside of the foot now brushing directly up against him is a rugged wave of toe knuckles and thick bone ridges under a sheet of velvet black. The startled creature sniffs instinctively, feeling short hairs bristle and pull into his nostrils. He smells the tops of the toes, relaxing his body while they shuffle one after the other against the soft leather bump of his snout. The experience for Finch is exotic. His effeminate moan is muffled by the appendage. It rubs against him smearing his lips while he grazes his snout up and down the valley between the trucker's middle toes, running the pattern over and over until those toes begin parting open and a wisp of bitter odour rises through.
Contentedly the Cane Corso wriggles his body against the bedding and stacked pillows, adjusting his comfort for the night ahead. He then barks an order, relishing his hold over the hitchhiker's every whim. "I know you can do better than sniffing! You're in the presence of royalty now, boy! Act like it!"
Activated by the command, the ferret swoops his right hand across his chest and cups the bottom of Russell's heel which fits perfectly in his palm with such plump diameter. His scrunching fingers press indents into the heel's pink pad, coaxing out more warmth. Finch raises his left hand next planting it with possessive spread around that fleshy furnace of a ball pad. He clutches it longingly, now brandishing the paw in front of his face thus relieving his shoulder of some weight. Small sweat beads are already imprinting on his hands. The ritual of sniffing becomes redundant, replaced instead by a slender wet tongue snaking up the back of Russell's foot repeatedly following that same one line over the two middle toes. The short fur is quick to matte down under the streaks of saliva, which soon glimmer as the ferret loses all self-control.

When one errant lick slips between the toes and drags slowly against the crotch, catching stray bits of black lint and flavourful char, both animals groan in synchronized timing. Finch concentrates on the one spot fervently lapping again and again forcing his tongue into the muggy crevice until the sediment is slurped away bit by bit. Rivulets of saliva tickle the toe crotch forcing Russell to clench his digits and wriggle them tightly together sometimes crushing the tongue in their vice for a short satisfying moment. This doesn't deter him. Finch is spellbound; locked in a duty to clean these masculine paws and obey the mutt. While his tongue courses tracks up and down the foot's top often worming and slurping back between the digits his hands squeeze and pamper the paw pads in his grip, massaging them blindly with amateur skill.
"You ain't nothing special, you're just real lucky..." Russell grumbles. "I would'a made you rinse my feet in your mouth whether you had the fetish or not. At least you get the added benefit of enjoying it, unlike some others I met before you, though I do like seein' them squirm and struggle until they know they just gotta submit in the end. What you lot got to understand is that fellers like me get all the perks 'cause we're plain better than fellers like you. It's just nature. I'm owed my position... and you deserve yours all the same."
Indolently - as if drugged by a strong sedative - the ferret nuzzles the foot in rolling motions and mumbles the words, "I-I know, I'm a bitch. Nobody made me a bitch but myself. It's my fault, now I gotta serve as punishment but I won't skimp... I'll serve real good! Promise!"
"Suck my toes and shut the fuck up then," Russell demands, tucking his hands back behind his head again.
A timid whimper of agreement is all the ferret can muster before parting his lips and dipping his mouth down over the entire set of four clawed toes, each as big as a plum but rigid and meaty. The angle is awkward and taxing on Finch's neck but he obeys without question, doing all he can to suckle the toes and fondle them in that soft warm wet pocket he calls a maw. Stubby claws dig against the wrinkled roof. His upper lip leeches around the toe pads while his tongue is still pinned by the backs of each toe, slobbering into their recesses from behind. Russell smirks to himself. He makes the ferret's job more difficult by repeatedly splaying his toes stretching the confines of their cheeks, while moving his foot around in taunting rhythm that forces their head to follow. The overall muggy sensation and slimy licks weaving around his toes, (swiping inside his toe crotches especially), remind him of wearing a wet sock.

The suckling lasts at least quarter of an hour though time in the dingy motel room has slowed indefinitely. Finch's head has found a gentle bobbing rhythm, looking downward upon the foot while vacuuming his lips back and forth over the toes' entire lengths, riding that sloppy glaze of drool for lubrication. Saliva runs in rivers down the rest of the sole, hitting each arch crease along the way. His hands have become clammy in constant friction with the paw pads, still greasy and still being rubbed by automated lust. His numbing back and shoulders throb with the weight cast upon them all this time but he has no mind for complaint, not when his mind is already such a bubbling puddle of dopamine by now.
During one of the rare intervals when Finch pulls away unplugging his mouth at last from the four digits, (if only to take a breath and replenish his saliva production), Russell yanks his entire leg away ripping free from their feeble grip much to their surprise. The right leg retreats too, off its shoulder perch and back to the end of the floral bedding. Curiously but without express permission the ferret turns around on the ottoman sitting upon his knees so he can face the bed and his dominant punisher at last. He is greeted immediately by the dreamy site of two full soles in his face; a pleasure he has been yet to properly witness. Their grandeur is imposing and hypnotising all at once the way the light gleams across those pink, widespread pads or the way the black fur flattens over the arch in the areas most walked upon. These strongly scented appendages impede the ferret's face, outsizing it easily.

Shyly he peers over the crests of each toe making eye contact with the Cane Corso beyond. Finch has forgotten that a sock still drapes the rim of his cap.
"The fuck are you lookin' at?" Russell growls at the blushing, dazed creature eclipsed behind his feet.
"I… I dunno, all I see is perfection, sir," Finch beams, giddy as can be.
"Pft. Nah, I've seen that look before. I know what you’re thinking. I'm hedging to bet that you ain't even gonna call any tow trucks or taxis come morning. You're getting all them gooey ideas in your head about staying with me, riding the long-hauls like you're owed some kind of role at my feet. Don’t even answer. I know I'm right. Like I say, you aren't the first to want that from me…”
Through his own submissive volition the ferret leans forward and lavishes the two aligned ball pads with a series of light and meek kisses, smooching the remaining residue from their surfaces.
The dog pays him no mind and continues talking, making remarks that pique the ferret's interest. "Do you even know what you'd be asking for? What a life on the road is like, in my semi of all places? Only a well exercised doormat could handle such a thing, and I don't say that lightly. See… a buddy of mine helped cut out a gap beneath the driver’s seat, which I will expect you to crawl under and poke your head through right in the space where my feet will be waiting. I don't got time to concentrate on you when I'm driving so you'll be nothin' more than my personal footrest laying on my floor being flattened all the day long. Every red light, every stop, you'll be licking the dust and grit off my soles... else you'll be back to hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere and the next feller to pick you up might not be so nice."
Finch finishes pressing his lips on the pad flesh after three more kisses; two against the ball and one on the dog's toe. "Lemme be your floor mat, please, I'm beggin'! I got nowhere else to be anyhow! I wanna serve my purpose. I wanna keep the floor of your truck warm n' soft for these big beauties! C'mon I can take it!"
"Is that right? You can take being walked all over?" Russell judges, raising a brow. He then fans his toes generously allowing his plaything another sweeping sniff along their gaps.
"I... I can sure try!" Finch eagerly responds.
"Well I don't put any stock in your arrogance. Not least when it's untested. If you really wanna be a permanent fixture in my truck you best strip off them clothes and lay your bony ass on the bed. You're gonna see just how heavy a feller like me gets, and what you'll be lying under every damn day. You get through this and I'll decide if you're worthy.”

Before Russell has swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood to his feet the ferret has already emphatically wrenched away his own sleeveless shirt, likewise knocking away his cap in the process exposing a sweaty coif of brown hair peaked between his two round ears. He kicks off his small boots then wriggles out of his shorts and underwear next. His eagerness is still overpowered by embarrassment however and once he feels the stale warmth of the motel air encircling his naked, skinny body he covers his sheath shyly in one hand, blushing and hiding his gaze from the dog who lets out a humoured scoff. He must then obey an order to turn off the television and light before he is allowed to take his place in the centre of the bed directly where the rumpled indent of Russell's body has been lying this past hour.
The room is plunged into darkness briefly before that nova of neon pink once again illuminates the front half of the room, bathing it in that retro haze undeterred by the poor defences of the blinds, just as it was when they'd first arrived. When Finch trots meekly by the dog - now a broad silhouette with a pink outline - and assumes his position on the bed his body feels more exposed and vulnerable than it ever has been previously. He sprawls and spreads but he lacks the ability to look impressive, as Russell soon comments.
"Small dick, forgettable face and not a lick of brawn on you... what kinda man you supposed to be anyhow?"
The ferret draws a deep breath looking over into the trucker's forlorn eyes, and surrenders all ego. "I'm no man… just a footrest for one."
This appeases Russell so much he cracks a cocky grin and begins to undress himself too. The flannel shirt is first to go followed by the tank top peeling away to reveal that stocky handsome torso with its immense arms, spread shoulders and paunchy gut. The jeans tug away but he maintains his white tight underwear, content to show off the mass of his bulge within. He glances away from the starfished ferret and eyes the floor, (listening to their heavy horny breaths all the while). Russell then bends over for a moment but when he returns he holds a misshapen wad of dank socks in his fist. Finch's eyes are bugging out of his skull when the beast saunters closer and leans, veering lowly until their dark face hovers directly above his own magnetising eye contact between each other. Hot, calmed breaths blow over Finch's muzzle repeatedly. He gulps, noisily, and feels himself sink back instinctively into the pillows.
"Open up, banjo... you's gonna need a gag so we don’t go waking the neighbours," Russell whispers loudly; his teeth showing in his smirk.

A silent compliant nod is pursued by a widening of Finch's mouth. His jaw shivers in suspense. The socks however are not the first to enter. Russell makes a squelching sluice sound inside his mouth, churning his lips while summoning a dose of saliva. Seconds later he puckers his lips and expels a sudden mouthful of warm bubbly spit straight into the ferret's maw only for the sole sake of demeaning him even more. Finch grimaces for a moment when its hits and drools down inside his gums but he accepts the dog's dominance wholeheartedly. It's the moment Finch releases there'll come a time during his service when Russell stops verbally preparing him for degradation but will instead act on lusty impulse and demand the ferret's acceptance.
He hasn't much time to dwell on these contemplations though because in the very next moment a handful of miry old socks is shoved crudely into him stuffing the maw end to end in spongy soft layers of stained cotton and linty debris. Together, the socks are so plentiful he cannot completely close his jaw and thus tangled tips protrude between his lips. They reintroduce the Cane Corso's musk into his lungs again, now only slightly faded in flavour over the passing time but still toxic enough to urge a muffled cough and wheeze out of the critter. His tongue is lost; wending and pinned somewhere amid the fabrics. Attempting to blindly lick through the various paw printed marks does little to budge the socks out of place. The panting ferret can only suck on the overall wad and let his eyes roll groggily in his skull.

Russell admires his work, bringing back fond reminiscence. "Last time I was here I tied the wrists of the deer feller I was with to the headboard, mostly 'cause he didn't like my paws quite so much... or at all. After I was done playing with him I tied a shoe to his face and left him like that all night for the staff to find in the morning. You though? At least you're smart enough to do as you're told. Makes me wanna keep you all for myself."
Finch cannot speak back through the gag so instead he moans quietly. No more words are spoken until after the trucker hauls himself laboriously up atop the squeaking bed which shakes and wobbles and cries out under the sheer potency of his weight. He is now standing upright with pride and power and stance. It is only the age and antiquated architecture of the motel that allows for a ceiling high enough to support this act from someone of his size. Finch's body is also swayed with the shifting gravity; his legs slipping closer to the deep indents formed by Russell's feet. The raucous squeaking and groaning of mattress springs will play indefinitely from now until the dog returns to solid ground but both animals have already learned to ignore its pleas.
Russell stares down upon the pitiful creature lying between his legs. He tenses all his muscles to steady his balance and then lifts his leg over the fuzzy crotch, watching the way his plaything shudders and protectively closes his legs whilst trying not to appear so cowardly that it might upset their master. Gently at first the paw descends, splaying and arcing its toes into a rigid claw-like gesture as it barely nestles over the sheath. Electric energy zaps through the ferret's lower body. He tenses repeatedly and squirms his feet nervously at the end of the bed. Russell holds his ball pad in place directly over the sheath and balls, lightly scuffing back and forth so the warm pink meat teases the ferret and drowns him under hormonal waves. Finch even tries arching his lower back so he can push his pelvis up and gently hump the shapely padding. He manages to insert his sheath up against the underside of the dog's toes, for a moment feeling them curl around his parcel and grip. Dry wheezes pump through Finch's nostrils. He sucks on the sock wad with more ferocity than ever, drinking down small tastes of leached sweat.
The toes only scrunch for one taunting moment before they splay outward again and press down with added force, stepping hard into the groin and rubbing forward until that groin buries against Russell's doughy arch. The ferret's pelvis feels a caving pressure and his legs buckle. Russell holds him down like prey, grinding on the now flattened groin like a discarded cigarette. The grinning dog keeps steadily applying more weight and treading deeper until he hears small whimpers breaching the ferret's gag. Only then he chuckles to himself and slides his heavy appendage away from their sensitivities, displacing it to their lower abdomen instead.
"You're real soft to walk on," He patronises, patting the one left paw up and down harder and harder until the ferret's bladder numbs under the discomfort. "You’re just made to be my prop it seems. Life didn't plan for you to be anything else. I ain't complaining."

Russell - currently pressing his palms flat to the ceiling for extra stability - steps to the side of the ferret's pelvis, sinking his foot back into the swallowing springy mattress. His other leg comes forward dragging its toe claws like a rake over the ferret's trembling knee and thigh until the foot evens out above his stomach. The following stomp is neither soft nor slow. Finch is lucky to have guarded himself prematurely by tensing his entire torso because the shadowy silhouette looming high over him steps down hard into those flaccid organs. The ferret feels a ripple of impact immediately followed by a throbbing. He croaks out a gargled moan. Instead of giving Finch time to recover Russell brings his left foot back into play, raising it aloft with a performative wriggling of his toes while standing solely on the other leg, directing every punishing ounce of weight down into the writhing critter's body. The pink glow brushing on one side of Russell's leering face - and the jet black shadows of contrast - give the trucker a look of sadistic glee.

*THUMP!*
"Mmphf!"
That second paw lands beside the first, cleanly compressing the centre of the ferret's torso with such authority that Russell sinks an inch or two into him, squeezing him thin. Were it not for the deeply insulating properties of the mattress below Finch would be bruising and winded by now. His forehead still sweats profusely however as the kneading begins and his body is slowly but safely pulped underfoot; each side of his abdomen being pressed down and treaded until his organs ache before being granted a short reprieve. Soon the subtle stomping exacerbates when the paws start gaining more lift between each knead. Now they have become proper footfalls against his torso stunning him with each heavy press, one after the other, interchanging each side every time. Warm paw prints are being indented into Finch's fur. Soft thuds are now audible. The bed is in constant motion, rocking under Finch's trampled figure and his attempts to clutch and claw into the sides of its bedspread do little to calm the activity.
*Thump, thump, thump, thump!*
Moans and groans fill the room, choking out in timely bursts as each new trample connects. The Cane Corso has shifted from kneading into full-on walking, always targeting that one same area. Finch is drooling out the corners of his mouth. He knows he is not in any real danger although his entire body is buzzing with pain and a self-protective paralysis. He is lying here like helpless prey; dizzy and twitching and submitting. Russell is not just overpowering he is also playful too, sometimes churning one foot in place or wiping his feet in condescending patterns, treating the younger animal for exactly what he is; a doormat who exists to be used. Other times the dog will scrunch his toes into the thick messy locks of ferret fur and trap it between his digits, tugging it harshly whenever his leg lifts away for another enthusiastic stomp. Lastly before changing his walk pattern once again Russell turns around stepping firmly into each cardinal direction, pummelling the ferret's underbelly repeatedly with slow suffusing pleasure until the dog has finally turned back around to smirk down on that blushing, drowsy face once more

At last the meaty pounding comes to a stop and the two paws are content to sink back into their original indent over the stomach, groping its putty-like lack of resistance between his toes. Russell cocks his head and observes the state of Finch, saying, "Your arms are shaking like twigs in a gale but you ain't even trying to push me off? Damn, boy. How're you simultaneously a spineless bitch but yet you also got the gumption to survive this? Someone ought'a pave you into wet cement and make you a busy pathway for the rest of us good folk to walk over. I don't see what other worth you have, to be frank."
There is gratitude somewhere in the ferret's flustered expression. His arousal has hit its peak, swarming every inch of his overheating body and breaking his willpower into irreparable pieces. Even if his mouth wasn't stuffed with dirty rancid socks he still wouldn't be able to form an intelligible sentence outside of lustful moaning. In fact, the ferret doesn't want to speak. He doesn't want to remind himself that he's still a person. He only wants to extend the fantasy of being an object made to comfort the trucker's feet, nothing more.

The Cane Corso stands straight and postured crossing his arms while the top of his skull brushes with the ceiling. He takes a single step forward mounting the feeble ribcage that has been heaving up and down like a target begging to be condensed. The ribs are sturdy but dexterous, bowing under the barefoot surface and then accommodating the other foot too as it joins the fun. He stares coldly, without empathy, down on the struggling mammal as his body burdens each side of its ribs slowly extorting the oxygen from their flattening lungs. Involuntary tears stream from Finch's burning, bulging eyes. His fingers and toes are now flexed, fighting the rock-hard tension coursing through him. The breath leaving him is raspy and weak. Gagging chokes and gargled grunts dispel from his sock-stuffed mouth. He can feel the bedding consuming his upper body which only pushes deeper and deeper inwards, straining its ability to cushion them both.
This incredible pressure is only finally alleviated at the last moment of consciousness, right when Finch had felt tight and hot in the face and when his ribs were verging on collapse. This time the trucker steps forward yet again, stamping his feet down on either side of the pillows cradling Finch's head. The impact forces new crushing indents in the bedding once again, inciting a bounce and rattle of that wincing skull amid his appendages. Finch expects his face will be trodden next but he does not expect the dog to suddenly cram their paw inside his mouth, (ignoring the lack of free capacity or vacancy). Russell inserts the angled paw regardless; sliding his ball pad over the bottom lip and forcing the jaw to hinge open even wider at the excuse of humiliating Finch past their comfort zone.
"Arrghfmph-mph!"
Russell ignores their moans. He lets his toes press upon the salivated sock wad and momentarily edge it even deeper into the back of Finch's throat. The immobile creature must wait while four toes explore his maw; wriggling and parting until eventually they clench a hold of the socks and start to pull them outward. In one clutch the dog has managed to capture both socks at once in between his scrunching digits. The cramped confines begin to empty out. Stale musky air is able to finally leave the maw. Once again fleshy pressure smears over Finch's bottom lip followed by a long, unravelling river of wet cotton. In moments the blockade is removed; dangled and dripping up in the air above his gasping face. Russell jerks his leg to the side shaking away the socks from his splaying toes until they flop and slap down the floor. Finch doesn't waste the opportunity to suddenly catch his breath. Now that he can finally move his tongue freely he realises just how sore it had become while gagged.

Finch tries to mutter his gratitude but the foot above him doesn't care to stay unoccupied. It wants something to toy with, to stamp on and squish and make insignificant... and all that remains is the ferret's servile face.
*Thwack!*
Russell aims squarely on the face smothering that little snout so deeply underneath his ball pad that the chunky flesh envelops it entirely, blocking out any passage of fresh air. The warm flesh spreads and conquers the muzzle. The upper arch curls and wrinkles enough to trap the ferret's jaw shut, weighing on his chin. Toes furl forward splendidly hinging over the bridge of the muzzle too. Finch is prevented from sniffing that sweetly grilled musk but a sliver of breath can travel in and out the crack of his pursed lips. The toes rap in fluid motion, tapping their claws against the muzzle with taunting claim.
As if inspecting a purchase, Russell mumbles to himself: "Hm, good fit... good shape, too. Just the right softness. But is it self-cleaning?"
After saying this Russell lifts his arch just enough to allow the ferret's jaw to slack open. Understanding his place, Finch hears the cue and sticks out his tongue ardently lapping at the arch fur just below the ball pad. He licks and licks between rushed breaths until the blackness is matted and dewy over his mouth.
"And the ventilation?" The deep voice is hinted with amusement.
Russell next rubs his foot around the front of the muzzle mopping it left and right until the foot has readjusted itself, putting the ferret's snout up in between all the toes wedging it cosily in the narrow vice between ball and toe pads. Each of the four digits periodically flexes apart, (sometimes curling at interchanging paces), always allowing at least enough space for Finch to inhale and exhale loudly through his nostrils. This also lets Finch huff directly from the toe crotches while using his breaths to blow in between the gaps, aerating them with each soft breeze. In this interim Finch's lips are presently squashed into the ball pad, puckering as much as possible to kiss the flesh repeatedly.

Sensually the ferret is held in this lowly position for a few minutes longer. Both he and Russell have fallen quiet aside from the mouthy slurping sounds of tongue against sole, or the soft friction of pads massaging the malleable face. The remainder of pad grease is applied to his snout. Although the trucker's boots continue to scent the small room the aroma once steaming off these soles has all but dwindled now, leaving just the physical bodily connection to worship. Finch is so lost in the moment he has become beguiled and entranced; a zombified puppet of automated drooling, sniffing, kissing and licking even as his eyelids droop with mental exhaustion. He never resists when Russell changes tactic, he merely supplies them full control of his own body. Thus when the canine wipes his foot off against their mouth and chin one last time and nudges their head to the left, solely so he can plant his paw against the entire right side of their face, Finch shows no objection. He feels his skull smushing down into the pillows entombed between their musty linen and the musky foot meat. Russell's heel mashes comfortably against his jaw line. The arch rests over his cheek bone. The ball pad weighs against his temple and the toes slide into his locks of light brown hair. His right eye is clenched while the dog stands here in a victory pose, leaning their weight down onto his skull for a long lasting minute.

The pressure ascends. Finch's head is able to escape the pillow's indenting depths. His eyes flitter open after he realises the paw has finally peeled away altogether and that the cumbersome canine is slowly stepping down off the bedding, thudding his feet back into the carpet below. A section of the bed's cheap wooden base even crackles as some part of its construct splinters slightly, unable to withstand much more of the Cane Corso standing as he was.
"Get on up, banjo," Russell barks, snapping his fingers and prompting his plaything to sit up in a daze. "You might just be fit enough to handle being my floor mat but we won't know for sure 'till we stress test you in the semi. I could trample you for hours more but I got a lot'a driving to do tomorrow and that means a lot'a sleeping to do now. I don't give one itsy-bitsy fuck where you sleep tonight but I meant it when I said the bed's all mine. Now git!"
The ferret's body is riddled by numbing 'pins and needles' as consequence for pledging himself as a trample toy, though his obedience cannot be ignored. He crawls pathetically toward the end of the bed and slumps down into the ottoman with fatigue. "Yes sir," Finch groans in his Mississippi accent, "Reckon I won't be sleeping tonight anyhow, not with your perfect paws out on display, no sir’ee! A-assumming I got the permission to keep 'em company all night, or at least admire them up close?"
Russell rolls his eyes, "I don't give a damn what you do but whatever it is, do it quiet. You disturb my sleep and I'll drag you outside to the tarmac and finish the trampling there!"

Finch simpers with rosy cheeks and a thin smile, watching as the beast lumbers back onto the bed where he lay originally only now in his near-naked state. Once again he kneels atop the ottoman facing toward the bed where those big black and pink paws are extended towards him. Russell yawns and rolls onto his side, turning away from the window and its invasive light source. He then rolls more comfortably onto his stomach hugging the pillows against his face while issuing a series of mature grunts and grumbles. The ferret's eyes widen graciously when he sees both paws upturned, laying out lethargically with their densely padded soles now displayed towards the ceiling.
"I know you don't want no disruptions but I can't rightly resist your feet when they're out like that! Can't I just snuggle them until you doze off? Please?"
"Urgh, I always forget how needy you freaks get when I ain't putting you in your place... fine!" The trucker concedes, "Though I tell you what you better have enjoyed my paw groping your snout just now because that's exactly how you're gonna feel every day we drive along them big open highways. I'll have one foot on the gas and the other on you just like that. Just remember it ain't for your pleasure, it's for mine. Always will be all about me 'cause you're the one who's replaceable in all this, unless you keep proving to me why you're worth keeping."
"Oh that ain't gonna be a problem, sir! I'll be fit as a fiddle under your seat, always servin' up a mean tongue bath even when I'm black all over from your dirty paw prints!" Finch exclaims, sliding both his soft hands underneath the girth of Russell's shin and paw, cradling and holding the leg with precious affection.
The Cane Corso mutters one last threatening addition to their lewd, verbal contract. "Damn right you will. This is what I believe nature should be... the weak serving the strong. I'm gonna make proper use of you and you're gonna use that mouth of yours to thank me for every minute of your new life, no matter what. Best look forward to it because there ain't no looking back now."

Finch leans down rubbing the front and side of his face all over the languid appendage, using the curve of the arch as a ramp with which to nuzzle and smother himself against at least until his chin skates over the rounded heels. His smile is cheek to cheek with each full-facial stroke. He nuzzles the pad flesh with a slower pace each time, addicted to the fleshy texture scraping warmly over him in varying bumps and mounds. Soon enough these nuzzles are joined by flaring nostrils and long heartfelt sniffs that either travel the full sole length or snuffle around the perimeters of each toe pad one after the other. Finch performs this worship so frequently and so obsessively he must pause to gather his breath back and gaze up over the dog's body in admiration, watching the way the light plays on their taut buttocks and muscled backside, knowing they are slowly fading into a deep and deserved sleep. Despite the warning from the dog, Finch continues worshipping even as he hears a baritone snoring emitting from beyond. Sniffing persists for a lost amount of time but eventually evolves again into a gifting of long, slow snaking licks that douse the pads and apply a slippery glaze which lubricates all future contact made by the loyal ferret's face or tongue. Switching from foot to foot, he puts his tongue to work knowing this will be his main source of value from here on out... and as the hours pass by and the moon is dragged across the night sky that paw licking, grime washing, toe sucking, boot huffing critter understands his real life purpose for the first time in 26 years. It's a purpose he'll serve without question no matter how hot, heavy, brutish, fragrant or sweaty the paws upon him… and what a better life that will be.

THE END