Must Please Mom, Must Please Mom.....
Cheating Death
chapter 11
by
copier
· original author:
fearboy
It’s humiliating, hard and nerve-racking, but you really wish that you had just agreed to do whatever your mother asked earlier and saved yourself a death and beating. Painting your mother’s toes has always been a pain in your ass, her feet smell and it’s a lot of work, but you’d rather be painting her toe nails then being crushed underneath them. You stare up past your mom’s nails to see her looking down at you with fire in her eyes. She was sitting back in bed, legs crossed and waiting for you to get started. You had hopped that sitting back and relaxing would have made your mother cool down and stop being such an evil bitch. No such luck.
“Hurry up! I need this done in half an hour,” she hisses and you fight back an angry retort. You’re going to shut up, do your job and get out of her before you die again today.
Grabbing onto the tiny brush, which takes two hands to hold, you dip it in bright pink nail polish and lumber towards your mom’s toes. Her smallest toe is half your size, making it the easiest to get started on. Slowly lowering the brush, you gag at the thick aroma of feet a few inches away. If your mom wants to get ready for her date, she should think about washing her feet, not getting her toes painted. Holding your breath you start painting.
Things go pretty well as you move from toe to toe. Our mom barks out orders to hurry up and you follow them. You can tell the evil bitch loves this from the broad, cruel grin on her face as you shuffle around her toes. You’d love to get into her head when she’s crazy like this, understand her obsession with punishing you with her feet. It seems like whenever her evil side takes root, mom likes to feel you squirm under her big, smelly foot. It’s pretty horrible, the smell and feel of the smooth bottom of her foot on top of you. It was bad when you were a few feet tall, but now that your half the size of Barbie, you are literally smothered under her foul foot. You hated your mom’s feet, but it wasn’t the worse weapon in her arsenal. When your mom started employing other parts of her body, parts that you stared at on other women, you not only were beaten and humiliated, but you felt a sense of wrongness that made you feel sick.
Your mother’s toes wiggle, nearly hitting you in the face. You move back before your hit or dragged under the squirming digits, nearly dropping the brush as you back off. “I’m waiting. If you aren’t done soon, you’ll regret it.”
Your mother’s vague threat is enough to make you turn things up a notch. Your work gets sloppy, but as long as your mom doesn’t notice you don’t care. The job needs to be done or your mom was going to literally kill you and you weren’t sure how small you’d be then.
“Hurry up! I need this done in half an hour,” she hisses and you fight back an angry retort. You’re going to shut up, do your job and get out of her before you die again today.
Grabbing onto the tiny brush, which takes two hands to hold, you dip it in bright pink nail polish and lumber towards your mom’s toes. Her smallest toe is half your size, making it the easiest to get started on. Slowly lowering the brush, you gag at the thick aroma of feet a few inches away. If your mom wants to get ready for her date, she should think about washing her feet, not getting her toes painted. Holding your breath you start painting.
Things go pretty well as you move from toe to toe. Our mom barks out orders to hurry up and you follow them. You can tell the evil bitch loves this from the broad, cruel grin on her face as you shuffle around her toes. You’d love to get into her head when she’s crazy like this, understand her obsession with punishing you with her feet. It seems like whenever her evil side takes root, mom likes to feel you squirm under her big, smelly foot. It’s pretty horrible, the smell and feel of the smooth bottom of her foot on top of you. It was bad when you were a few feet tall, but now that your half the size of Barbie, you are literally smothered under her foul foot. You hated your mom’s feet, but it wasn’t the worse weapon in her arsenal. When your mom started employing other parts of her body, parts that you stared at on other women, you not only were beaten and humiliated, but you felt a sense of wrongness that made you feel sick.
Your mother’s toes wiggle, nearly hitting you in the face. You move back before your hit or dragged under the squirming digits, nearly dropping the brush as you back off. “I’m waiting. If you aren’t done soon, you’ll regret it.”
Your mother’s vague threat is enough to make you turn things up a notch. Your work gets sloppy, but as long as your mom doesn’t notice you don’t care. The job needs to be done or your mom was going to literally kill you and you weren’t sure how small you’d be then.
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March 13, 2025
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