“You’re bad,” she says to me, frowning.
I look up at her and shrug. “I don’t have much to work with, here. Limited freedom, limited resources.”
She sits cross-legged before me, looming far, far overhead. I’m only as tall as her crossed ankles. We are each of us naked. My erect cock stands—at my size—like an unruly whisker. I can just see the gentle swell of her belly, beyond where her calf flexes prominently. Up above her belly are two shy, round breasts, ripe with late youth and almost done developing. Excellent form. Each is crowned with tan nipples pointing proudly in nearly opposite directions, far to my left and right and very far up above me.
I wish I were clinging to one of them, dangling like a piece of jewelry. Digging my nails into that wrinkly flesh and feeling it grow harder against me, slowly pushing me out into space with only this tan node of flesh to hold onto. She can feel me staring at her breasts, so she stretches her arms back and pushes her chest out—her tits stand triumphantly, deservedly so. Down go her arms, propping up her massive upper body (massive, to me), and her face melts from its “I’m taking a deep stretch” expression to resume frowning at me. Darkening eyes, pouty lower lip, disapproval written all over her brow.
“But I love you,” I offer.
She hmmphs irritably. “Then why do you act like this?” One tremendous, smooth leg stirs and pulls out of the cross-legged position. Her knee rises into the air and her foot plants heavily to my left, thudding into the carpet whose fibers stand around my shins. In my mind, her legs form what I call the Great Gate, slowly opening.
“I get restless and bored.” It’s true: she keeps me in a shoebox all day without even a shiny ball to roll around. My only reprieve is when she cages me and sets me before the TV, but inevitably she turns it to E! and I have to curl up, clasp my ears and sing all day long to keep from going mad.
One leg moves, one large foot sliding on its side to my right. I start to babble an apology. There were times in the past when the Great Gate signaled a wonderful evening together, but this is not one of those nights. Her other knee rises into the air, her toes flex the carpet beside me, and my eyes turn inexorably into the courtyard of her pale, fresh thighs. Momentarily forgetting her glowering visage above me, I study the stubble of tiny hairs hinting at the space below her navel, growing stronger toward her mons, and then the strip of clearly shaven whiskers that split and descend around her labia. Those luscious pink and orange folds of skin, so sweet, a little tangy, and with a warmth that feels like love.
And her feet slide over the carpet, the balls of each foot mowing down wide swaths of dense acrylic fiber, until they flank me. Her knees slowly descend and the pallid, fragile soles of her arches expose themselves to me. I apologize again but there’s no indication she’s heard me. My cock twitches with desire at the sight of her inner thighs tensing, clenching, but my cock is stupid. Her thighs are pushing her shins together, and the walls of her soles rise up on either side.
The balls of her feet catch me right at my rib cage and they begin to press. Her toes, those sweet, pink little pearls, flex and hug behind me. Above, her eyes regard me blankly as though I were an uninteresting experiment on a video recording, even as she manipulates her feet to roll me back and forth until I fit along the knuckles of her toes. I wish this were an act of love. There’s no point or even time to apologize further as her feet press my sides, her toes clench and snap my back, the balls of her feet pop my ribs and my lungs and shatter my pelvis. And her feet grind and roll me around, pull back, then smack together with a clap.
2 thoughts on “The Plantar Hug”
Well, I clicked the “Like” button, because I liked most of it. It’s not a commentary on your writing. It never could be. It’s a matter of not enjoying what happened to him after the word “above”.
I like that there’s no revelation as to what he did. He did something, and I’m sure it wasn’t worth her getting angry enough to do something like that to her, but I can’t dictate the insanity in other authors’s characters… I can’t possibly dictate it in mine.
I like that initially, the scene appears to be a regular couples conversation, one we’ve been part of as humans, or one we’ve overheard, or have found out about. That makes it real for me, and produces the inevitable shower of compassion for the little guy. He loves her, and presuming that she loves him back, surely she will forgive him, and in interesting ways.
But she doesn’t. And the ending is not vague. It’s very clear, what happens to him. If a measure of writing is leaving a haunting image in the mind of your captive audience, congratulations. Fait accompli.
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Yeah, it’s just a vignette. There has been a conversation and a relationship, several incidents, and the reader is just tuning into the end of them. The details aren’t important, anyone can fill in the blanks and be close enough.
There’s a very weak call for sympathy. Obviously he’s doing something wrong, and he’s done it enough to finally get on her last nerve, and he only does so because he’s lost so much else. He doesn’t have freedom or options, even if he enjoys something amazing with her. It’s amazing but it doesn’t fill in all the spaces in his life, and she sees no reason to take that into consideration. So maybe he’s a short-sighted asshole or maybe he’s a victim of a stupid goddess. It doesn’t always work out.
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