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Kinktober Day 26: Macro/Micro

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When Mike had been told that his job for the day was driving in the produce of the farm to the market nearly four hours north, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to the long, boring drive that would stretch ahead of him—and he spent most of the morning wondering how he’d keep himself entertained until he’d returned to his room on the farm to prepare, which was when his eyes fell on Mrs. Brisby and her daughter, Teresa. He had acquired the talking mice several months ago, fascinated with their small clothes and perfectly eloquent mannerisms—and he had also taken out every little facet of his cruelty on them in the mean time since the discovery as well. Everything from tugging their little limbs to their limits, exploring just how malleable and usable they were, if he could conceive it, then he would certainly try it on them.

Whether it was some sense of Stockholm Syndrome or her own strange infatuation, Teresa seemed to think that Mike could do no wrong, no matter how poorly she or her mother were treated. Mrs. Brisby, however, only stuck around in the desperate attempt to see if her daughter would either change her mind, or if by some chance, she came to her senses about how the human was treating them. It seemed unlikely; for all of how Mrs. Brisby hated their treatment, Teresa seemed to thrive on it—even enjoy it. That was why, now, as Mike moved to take them both from their enclosures and tuck them into the small case he tended to carry them in whenever he wanted to move them around and get them situated with wherever he wanted them. This time, however, he also grabbed a fairly solid length of thin twin to carry along with him to the truck.

“So both of you behave, now,” Mike started, instructing them firmly as he opened his truck door, moving down to sit on the edge, just next to his seat rather than in it. He reached in, aiming for the gas pedal first as he reached into the container, grabbing Teresa first; she was always more willing to put up with his abuse and be more compliant, so he wanted to tie her to the gas pedal, knowing he’d be using that far more this trip. With only a little squirming on her end to get into a semi-comfortable position, he managed to tie the little mouse to the flat surface, leaving her suspended with her feet hanging over the floorboard. Mrs. Brisby, a little more reluctant for whatever he had in mind, took a bit more of an effort in grasping her, with how uncomfortably she seemed to squirm in his grasp. After smacking her a little hard on the bottom, he moved to strap her hard to the break pedal. Though he wouldn’t use it as much as he would the gas, inevitably it would be the harder taps on the pedal than otherwise. Perhaps it was a reward and a punishment in their own rights.

“Where are we going?” Mrs. Brisby questioned, the only one out of the two who were willing to ask questions at all; Teresa was more compliant, utterly trusting in Mike and whatever he had planned for them. Her mother was more willing to question what was going on, particularly if it was to find out how long they were going to be trapped like this.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? You’re here now,” Mike answered with a passive but nearly harsh indifference to her concerns. After a few minutes of making sure that everything was secure in the back, Mike returned, this time sliding off his heavy work boots and setting them aside in the passenger seat, so that the mice would have his bare feet pressed to them instead of the hard soles of the boots. He didn’t want to kill them or injure them too badly, since that would take away a good bit of the long term fun, after all.

It started with Mrs. Brisby, who flinched and exhaled hard as his bare feet pressed against her body. He spread his toes around either side of her head, using them to put a good part of the pressure on the pedal while also squishing her body against it. He could feel the way her tiny breaths fluttered in her chest with each hint of pressure, dashing and flickering against the bottom of his foot as he slowly pushed down and eased off of the break in backing off of the driveway. In the floorboard, both mice could smell the gas burning in the old truck floor board, making them a little lightheaded; while it kept Mrs. Brisby from complaining in the wake of her strained compression, it also made Teresa just as excited to be next. Rather than lift his left foot from where Mrs. Brisby was pressed against the break pedal, he lifted the right foot to press against Teresa now. It let him enjoy the feeling of both mice squirming under the soles of his bare feet, though it was far more relieving to feel the movement of both at the same time. Teresa wriggled and squirmed against his sole, delighted even though the pressure he exerted over her was enough to squeeze the air from her lungs and make her gasp against the underside of his toes. He could feel her warm breath on his bare skin, sending a shudder up through him as he gradually pressed down on her soft, pliant body harder and harder until he had accelerated to an acceptable speed to get out on the highway. Though the truck was fully equipped with cruise control, there was something thrilling about the press and release of the gas whenever he wanted to speed up and slow down-- and that alone made the next several hours of direct contact of his feet rubbing, pressing, and grinding down on both mice a little more entertaining for him. While he had expected the drive to be absolutely boring, the addition of his two little pets on the trip offered a much needed distraction.

Mrs. Brisby was sore and aching from the harder presses to depress the pedal when they finally pulled up to the market. It had been a long, four hour trip and the closer they got to the market, the more he emphasized harder, elongated presses on the breaks and even longer moments where he took his time accelerating so Teresa could feel every little ache and pop in her delicate bones from the strain the pressure put on her. None the less, she seemed to be eating it up, shivering in delight every time she felt the bottom of his feet completely surround her petite, delicate body.

Her mother, however, gave one agonized little groan next to her as his other foot was used to bring the car to a stop with a full break, giving her more of a sense of suffocation than she’d gotten the entire trip. She could only hope that when he turned the truck off, it would mean that they’d finally be given a break—there was no such luck with that as, when he opened the door, he sat on the edge of the truck again and reached for his boots once more. With his pocketknife, he reached forward to carefully cut the twine tying them to the pedals, since he’d brought the entire roll of it anyway. “Alright, I’m gonna need you two to sit real still here in the bottom of my shoes, for me,” he instructed with a semi-malicious little grin, reaching for Mrs. Brisby first, and slipping her into his first boot. “And don’t scrunch up under the toes, either. I want you laying flat. These old boots don’t have much support, so I need some good, soft soles while I carry all of this fruit in,” he muttered, and with an agonized little sigh, Mrs. Brisby lay flat in the bottom of the boot. Much more happily compliant at the idea, Teresa wriggled a little to stretch her limbs in his hand, before all but hopping into the other boot herself, readying her smaller frame by laying out flat against the stinky, worn sole of bottom of the boot, burying her face downwards. It was easier to lay flat down, too; it would keep his foot from having to press down on the sharper curves of her body, giving him a smooth surface. Her mother wasn’t so willing to be kind, specifically laying on her back to try and make it a little more uncomfortable for him.

Once both were secure in the boots, he slipped his feet into the shoes, lacing them up tightly so there wouldn’t be any wiggle room for either of the mice, feeling his soles press hard into the both of them. Standing up was even better for him—and worse for them. With the full weight of his body pressing down into them, they could feel their tiny bodies pushed to nearly their limits; it was a sensation that was only made worse when he moved around to the back of the truck, and grasped the first of the heavy crates that he’d be unloading into the store. The mice squealed under him, both of them feeling the front of his feet weighing heavily against their shoulder blades. His toes pressed flush to the back of their heads, cradling their small skulls just in the divots in the bend at the base of his toes, and the only thing that stopped them from being crushed completely was the rise of his inner sole over their bodies, still giving them a little breathing room. The smothering sensation sent a strange euphoria through Teresa, who felt it was akin to asphyxiation, flushed and enjoying those brief moments between the steps of his foot where she could gasp for air and rise her back to curve perfectly under the rise of his foot, though Mrs. Brisby was struggling for even the smallest amount of relief, squirming every time her boot was lifted, leaving her with a light headed misery.

They lose track of the nearly countless steps, each trip of a heavy box or sack of produce carried only making him step harder against them under the joined weight of whatever his load happened to be at the time. Only once the truck bed was emptied completely did he move to sit up in the back of it, breathless and worn out from the labor and in sore need of a break. He didn’t want to drive back just yet, knowing that it would be four hours of feeling his muscles ache, and his feet were admittedly a little sore from having the uneven sensation of the small mice squirming and gasping in his shoes the entire way. One by one, he slipped off his boots, and dumped the equally breathless and sore mice from the both of them, extending his bare feet out. From their clothing and his lack of socks, his feet were both half drenched in sweat—the same sweat that clung to their clothing from how they’d been trapped under every inch of his feet.

“You’re probably thirsty by now, huh?” He asked, opening a water bottle before them both in a half-taunting manner, making it obvious from how he kicked it back to drain every drop from it while they watched with nothing but desire in both of their eyes. It had been so long since either had had any fresh water that they were a little sluggish, clearly a bit dehydrated from the long journey and their treatment so far. Setting the empty water bottle down, Mike regarded them both with a smirk, before gesturing to his sweat-covered feet.

“I’d suggest you clean those up if you want anything to drink any time soon. I’ll give you ten minutes. Afterwards, I’m tying you to the pedals and we’re heading back home.” Given no other option, both mice scrambled quickly to his feet to get to work—though Teresa’s was clearly out of excitement rather than desperation like her mother.