Chapter 7: The Foot Worship Throne
The wreckage of the lounger creaked softly as Candy shifted her weight. The sharp smell of cracked plastic and sex hung thick in the humid air. Jimmy lay beneath her, a mountain of spent muscle, tracing idle patterns on the small of her back with a fingertip the size of a sausage. His touch was light, almost reverent.
Candy’s gaze swept over her backyard. It looked like the site of a bizarre natural disaster. Melted ice cubes swam in abandoned cups. A tube of sunscreen had been crushed under someone’s heel, leaving a greasy white streak. The inflatable flamingo listed sadly in the pool, half-deflated. And the women… they stood or sat in isolated pockets of shock, like survivors waiting for instructions in a language they didn’t understand.
A deep, warm satisfaction uncoiled in Candy’s belly, but it was laced with a new, sharper impulse. The completeness she’d felt was glorious, but it was private. It needed an audience. It needed proof.
She pushed off of Jimmy’s chest, the movement fluid despite her scale. Rising to her full height, she felt the deck boards flex in a way that was now familiar, comforting. The sun warmed the sweat on her skin. She stretched, a long, lazy motion that made the incredible mass of her breasts lift and the sweeping curve of her backside pull the ruined fabric of her bikini bottom taut. Every eye in the yard snapped to her. Not with desire now, but with a terrified, awe-struck fixation.
“Okay,” Candy said, her voice clear and carrying. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the dazed silence like a knife. “Playtime’s over. Now it’s time for you all to say you’re sorry.”
She walked, her bare feet slapping softly on the warm concrete. Each step was a deliberate event. She stopped near the only lounger that hadn’t been destroyed—a heavy, wooden-slat thing meant for two. She turned and sat. The frame groaned a deep, bass note of protest, but held. She settled back, spreading her arms along the top rail, a queen on a weathered throne. Her legs stretched out before her, magnificent pillars of flesh that tapered to surprisingly delicate ankles. She planted her feet flat on the deck, a good distance apart.
“Kim, Stacey,” she said, nodding toward her feet. “Get over here. You’re going to start.”
Kim, who had been quietly dabbing at a scrape on Tiffany’s shoulder, froze. Her face, already pale, went ghostly. Stacey just shook her head, a tiny, frantic movement.
Candy sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. “Look, I’m tired. Jimmy wore me out. I’m not asking.” She let her head loll back, looking at them from under half-closed lids. “My feet ache. From holding all this up.” She wiggled her toes, the polish chipped. “You made this mess with him. You distracted him. The least you can do is help me feel better. Now.”
Her tone brooked no argument. It was the voice of absolute, unconcerned authority.
Jimmy, from his place on the ground, grinned. He propped himself up on an elbow, enjoying the show. “Yeah, listen to her,” he rumbled, helpful.
Slowly, as if moving through syrup, Kim stood. She avoided looking at Candy’s face, her eyes locked on those massive, sun-warmed feet. Stacey, after a final, helpless glance at the gate—as if considering a run for it—followed. They knelt on the hard concrete, one before each foot. The position was instinctively subservient.
“Good,” Candy purred. She closed her eyes. “They’re dirty. From the deck. Clean them.”
Kim hesitated for a second, then leaned forward. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of concrete, sweat, and a faint, earthy musk. She stuck out her tongue, tentative as a kitten, and licked a stripe along the arch.
The sensation made Candy hum. It was a tickle, a whisper of submission. “See, Stace? It’s not hard. Unless you want me to have Jimmy explain it to you.”
Stacey flinched. She bent her head, her dark hair falling forward to curtain her face, and pressed her mouth to the top of Candy’s foot. Her ministrations were clumsy, fearful.
“Use your tongue, dummy,” Candy corrected gently, not opening her eyes. “You’re not kissing it. You’re cleaning it.”
Meanwhile, Jimmy had hauled himself to his feet. He stretched, his bones popping like gunshots. He looked around, his blissful smile turning predatory again as his eyes landed on the remaining, untouched women. Lena was trying to edge toward the side gate. Beth had sunk into a crouch behind the patio table, making herself small.
“Hey,” Jimmy said, his voice a cheerful boom. “We’re not done.”
“No, we’re not,” Candy agreed, her eyes still closed, a slight smile on her lips as Kim’s tongue swirled around her toes. “You still have some apologizing to do, baby. To my friends. For being so rough earlier. For not giving them a proper goodbye.”
Jimmy’s grin widened. He understood an assignment. He cracked his knuckles. “A proper goodbye. Got it.”
He stalked toward Lena first. She saw him coming and froze, a deer in the blinding headlights of his intention. “No, please, Jimmy, I just want to go home,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“After,” he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. He didn’t grab her. He simply turned her around by her shoulders, his hands engulfing her. She was a tall, thick woman, but before him she looked like a child. He bent her forward over the same patio table Beth hid behind. The glass top was cool against her stomach. “Hold on,” he advised, not unkindly.
Beth scrambled backwards on her hands and knees, getting out of the way, her eyes huge.
Jimmy’s swim trunks, already strained, were pushed aside. He didn’t bother with preliminaries. He was a machine finishing a task. He positioned himself and drove forward.
Lena’s cry was choked, muffled by her own arm. Her hands slapped against the glass. Her body jolted. Jimmy set a relentless, pounding rhythm immediately, a brutal efficiency that had none of the worshipful chaos of his time with Roxy or the primal synergy with Candy. This was perfunctory. A chore. But his body didn’t know the difference. Each thrust was massive, seismic, making the table legs skid an inch on the deck with every impact. Lena’s generous flesh wobbled and shook under the assault. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking silently.
Candy, listening to the rhythmic slap of flesh and the low grunt of Jimmy’s effort, smiled wider. She could feel it. A tiny, almost electrical transfer of something. Not the raw magic of before, but a subtler energy. The humiliated submission of the woman, the mindless expenditure of the man—it fed her. She felt a warmth bloom in her skin, a gentle glow. Her hair seemed to shimmer brighter, the platinum catching the sun like spun metal.
“You,” Candy said, opening her eyes and looking at Roxy. The redhead was sitting on the ground, leaning against the house, staring into the middle distance. Her body was a testament to violent expansion, her bikini a cruel joke against her swollen breasts and widespread hips. “Roxy. Get over here. You look thirsty.”
Roxy’s eyes focused slowly, filling with a fresh wave of dread. She shook her head, a weak, pathetic gesture.
“I didn’t ask,” Candy said, her voice losing its purr, gaining an edge. “You were so loud earlier. So confident. Talking about my boyfriend like he was a piece of meat you could handle. Look at you now.” She let the contempt drip. “You can’t even stand up. So crawl. Crawl over here and make yourself useful.”
Something broke behind Roxy’s eyes. The last spark of defiance guttered out. With a sob that was mostly air, she rolled onto her hands and knees. The movement was agonizingly slow, her new weight a cruel master. She crawled the ten feet across the deck, her swollen breasts swaying heavily, brushing the concrete. She stopped at Candy’s side, her head hanging.
Candy looked down at her, a curl of disgust on her perfect lips. “You wanted big so bad. Now you’ve got it. And it’s pathetic.” She cupped one of her own breasts, lifting its impossible weight. The areola was wide and dark pink, the skin stretched silken-tight. “This is big. This is what you were pretending to be. Now open your mouth. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Trembling, Roxy lifted her head. She parted her lips. Candy guided her nipple to the woman’s mouth. Roxy closed her eyes and suckled, a weak, tentative pull.
“Harder,” Candy commanded, and shoved Roxy’s head forward. “You wanted to be a slut? Be a good one.”
Across the deck, Jimmy finished with Lena. She slumped over the table, gasping, her body slick with sweat. He pulled out, turned, and his eyes immediately found Beth, who was now pressed against the back fence, as if she could melt through it.
“Your turn,” he said, advancing.
Beth made a small, mouse-like sound. She didn’t run. There was nowhere to go.
Jimmy picked her up as easily as a doll. She was the smallest of them, quiet and bookish, her transformation less extreme but still obvious in her thickened waist and full chest. He sat on the edge of the pool, his feet in the water, and placed her on his lap, facing away from him. She didn’t fight. She went limp, a doll of flesh and bone. He entered her in one smooth, deep motion, and she let out a soundless gasp, her head falling back against his shoulder. He began to rock, his movements almost lazy now, his eyes watching Candy as Roxy nursed at her breast.
The backyard had become a factory of supplication. The sounds were a low, terrible symphony: the wet, lapping noises at Candy’s feet; the ragged, muffled sucking from Roxy; the steady, sloshing rhythm from the pool edge; and the harsh, mechanical slap of Jimmy taking Stacey, who he’d pulled over after Lena, bent over a low planter box.
Candy absorbed it all. Each act of deference, each burst of Jimmy’s mindless energy, washed over her like a warm wave. She could feel her skin tightening, not with strain, but with perfection. The softness of her immense curves grew firmer, more defined, as if sculpted from living marble. The glow under her skin intensified, a subtle golden luminescence that made the sweat on her body gleam like diamond dust. Her hair felt alive, each strand thick and heavy with vitality.
She looked down at Roxy, whose cheeks were hollow with effort. “You’re terrible at this,” Candy murmured, almost conversationally. She pulled her breast away, a string of saliva connecting her nipple to Roxy’s slack mouth for a second before it broke. “Just sit there and look useless. Touch yourself. Let me see what all that big talk was really about.”
Roxy, dazed, obediently brought a hand between her own massive thighs. Her movements were slow, defeated. There was no pleasure in it, only a shattered automaton going through a motion.
Candy watched for a moment, then lost interest. Her eyes found Jimmy. He was nearing his end with Beth, his rhythm becoming jerky, his breath huffing. Stacey lay collapsed over the planter, sobbing quietly.
“Inside me,” Candy called to him, her voice ringing with a strange, melodic power. “Don’t you dare finish anywhere else. You finish where you belong. Now.”
It was a pull he couldn’t resist. He withdrew from Beth, letting her slide bonelessly into the pool’s shallow end, where she curled into a fetal position in the water. He stood, water streaming from his legs, and strode toward Candy, his need urgent and visible.
The women at her feet scattered, scrambling away on their knees. Roxy tried to crawl aside, but Candy placed a heavy hand on her head, holding her in place. “Stay. Watch.”
Jimmy dropped to his knees before the lounger, his chest heaving. Candy didn’t move from her seated position. She simply opened her legs wider and guided him forward with a tilt of her hips. He didn’t need more instruction. He buried himself inside her with a deep, grateful groan, his hands gripping the wooden slats on either side of her hips.
This union was different. It wasn’t about conquest or worship. It was a homecoming. A recalibration. As he moved, thrusting up into her with a frantic, hungry pace, the energy in the yard seemed to vortex around them. The lingering traces of magic, the echoes of humiliation and submission from the other women, all of it was drawn into the circuit of their connection.
Candy threw her head back, not in passion, but in triumph. She felt it happening. With each powerful drive of Jimmy’s hips, her body didn’t just accept him; it celebrated. Her skin’s glow became a palpable light, casting their joined shadows long across the deck. The very air seemed to thicken, tasting of ozone and nectar. Her hair lifted around her head as if charged with static.
Jimmy’s movements grew wild, desperate. “Candy… I’m… it’s…”
“Do it,” she commanded, her voice echoing with that impossible melody. “Give it to me. All of it. Feed me.”
With a roar that shook the leaves on the lemon tree, he slammed into her one final time and held, his whole body locking in a rigid arc. Candy felt the hot, pulsing release deep within her core, and it was the trigger.
A shockwave of silent energy radiated out from them. The pool water rippled in a perfect circle. The deflated flamingo bobbed violently. The women on the ground flinched as if touched by a live wire.
Candy’s body absorbed the shock. The glow crested, then settled into her skin, becoming a permanent, breathtaking radiance. Her curves, already cartoonish in their proportion, seemed to settle into their final, perfect form. They were immovable, yet soft. Impossibly heavy, yet she felt lighter than air. She was a goddess made flesh, and the backyard was her sullied, conquered temple.
The glow faded from the air, leaving only the ordinary afternoon sun. But Candy still shone. Her skin was perfect, poreless, luminous. Her hair was a cascade of brilliant platinum. Her eyes, when she opened them, held a depth that hadn’t been there before, a calm, unnerving knowledge.
Jimmy collapsed forward, his head resting on her stomach, utterly spent. He nuzzled the soft, warm skin there. “You’re so pretty, Candy,” he mumbled, dopey with exhaustion and adoration.
“I know,” she said, stroking his hair. Her voice was soft again, but it held that bedrock of unshakable certainty.
She looked around at her domain. At the broken women. At the wreckage of the party. At the man asleep against her. A slow, contented smile spread across her face.
From the pool, Beth coughed, a weak, watery sound. Kim was holding Tiffany, both of them staring at the ground. Stacey and Lena sat back-to-back, not speaking, not moving. Roxy was curled on her side where Candy had left her, eyes open and unseeing.
Candy took a deep, satisfied breath. The air was still thick with the smells of sex and sunscreen and fear. But to her, it smelled like victory.
“Alright,” she said, her voice calm, practical. “Party’s over, I guess.” She gave Jimmy’s shoulder a little shake. “Baby. Get up. We can’t sit here all day. And we can’t just leave them like this.”
Jimmy grunted, lifting his head. He looked blearily at the scene. “What do we do?”
Candy’s luminous eyes scanned the yard, calculating. The bubbly hostess was gone forever. In her place was something infinitely more formidable. A queen surveying the aftermath of a necessary, brutal war.
“We help them clean up,” she said simply. “And then we help them get used to things. To how things are going to be from now on.”