Darkened skies told the demon-slayer that he was on the correct path. It seemed that she was gaining power, enough power to somewhat influence the weather anyway. When he had left the prior village, well rested and topped up, the summer sky had been blue and bright, the few clouds present wispy and white. Every few miles of walking had brought the optimistic warrior closer to the thick cluster of black and dark grey clouds that hung heavy over his destination.

Around him, hills of grass stretched out for many hundreds of feet, ending in mountains. The target location was positioned at the meeting point of two narrow mountain ranges, forming a valley in which an ancient temple was located. An excellent strategic point. That's not something architects usually consider when building a place of holy worship; unholy worship on the other hand...

A few hills later and the demon-slayer was at the gaping mouth of the valley. Off in the distance, the great temple of Raeariel the fallen stood tall and imposing. The main building had the kind of appearance that one would expect of a temple, grey stone brick, large windows and an unintentionally ominous atmosphere. The first floor of the temple had twisted black spires protruding from the walls and windows, as if they were bursting free from the ground floor. The overall form and design of the temple was interrupted by these spires, turning the gothic architecture into something even more sinister. The open roof of the temple culminated in more spires still, exploding from the roof and pointing towards the depressing sky. Near the rear of the roof the emerging spires joined and created a large room atop the roof. Inside would no doubt be a throne where sat the being that the demon-slayer sought.

Fatigue told the lone man that now would be a good time to stop and rest, to renew his energy before trying to fight against the fallen angel and her cultists. Dropping on to one knee on top of the flattest hill, one with a frail tree to keep him company, the tired wanderer unloaded only a bedroll. A fire this close to his enemy would be a terrible decision.

With a tug, he pulled his helmet off, the sweat matted hair sticking to his forehead. Arthur was younger than one might expect a demon-slayer to be. Demon-slayers were almost always seasoned veterans with plentiful fighting experience that turned to fighting foul hellspawn after losing their families or going through something similarly tragic. Arthur wasn't. Arthur was a hopeful young village boy with a fierce determination to prove himself to a beautiful woman, also having heard that the profession involving the hunting and killing of dangerous demons was incredibly profitable. What he didn't consider was that he had to be good at it. Of course, taking on a being as formidable as Raeariel the fallen was not a good idea for even an experienced demon-slayer, never mind an amateur.

Ignorant of the danger he was in, Arthur climbed inside his bedroll snugly, smiling to himself as he thought about the vast wealth that awaited him at the end of the road. Having not fought any battles on his journey thus far, he was more than willing to believe that slaying the actual demon would be just as easy and he was woefully mistaken.

Falling into the realm of sleep easily, the would be slayer slipped into his dreams.

A tavern. People staring at him. On the ground, prostrating himself to Amelia. So beautiful. So talented. She says something. A challenge. He wants to be with her. She will be with him, if he can prove himself to be as tough as her.

“Slay her. Slay Raeariel the fallen and I will see you as my equal. I lay only with my equals. Anyone below me deserves only my reeking boot.” A round of laughter rose from the patrons, their faces all a blurred mess. Man or woman, it was hard to tell, they were unimportant. Only she was important. Amelia. Her face, her lovely face, was clear. A grin of superiority was present.

A smell touched Arthur's nostrils as she removed one of her boots. Those gathered around her recoiled, retreating back. Only Arthur remained now, though he did want to back up, get away from the encroaching vile aroma. He held on.

“Come on worm. If you accept my challenge, plug my filthy boot with your nose. You must withstand that before withstanding a true quest.” Amelia laughed, wiggling her rank, sweaty toes. Who knows how long it had been since she had washed her feet, let alone removed her boots. Demon-slayers could be on the road for weeks without rest.

Crawling forward, the stink grew more powerful. In order to accept the challenge, in order to have a chance with the woman he desired, Arthur forced himself to bury his nose in the vacant boot offered to him. He had regretted it immediately. The smell burned as it travelled up his nose, stung his senses. An odour strong enough to taste. Yet sniff it he did, as she had not allowed him to stop. He endured the torment, screwing his eyes shut.

“Good. Now, pull your nose out of there if you are able. I want you to give my foot a big sloppy kiss before I send you on your way.” Arthur had done as she commanded, finding the taste of her foot to be more awful than the smell of her boot. He accidentally consumed some of her warm, bitter foot sweat. When he tried to stop, she simply commanded “Keep going. Keep kissing” and he did. Despite his brain telling him to stop, to spare himself of the terrible taste, Arthur continued obeying.

Amelia laughed, then reached down and grabbed his shirt. With a strong pull she dragged him up so that he was face to face with her, staring into her hard yet amused eyes. “You smell like my feet. I like that. So you go slay Raeariel and I'm yours. The deal is on.” Arthur nodded, entranced by her seemingly mystical yet brutish allure. “To make sure that you don't back out or try and renege on my challenge...” A hand produced a necklace from her pocket, a silver necklace complete with a blue gem on it. As soon as it was over Arthur's head it constricted, binding to the contours of his neck and becoming a collar in the blink of an eye. “I have a variety of magic items with me. They serve many different purposes, not just in helping me defeat my prey. This one will punish you when you fail. As soon as it believes you to have failed in your quest, it will use its magic upon you. I won't spoil what the punishment is.”

Feeling her hot, ale laced breath on his face for the last time, Amelia pushed Arthur away before putting her boot back on, saving everyone from her foot odour. He walked away, going to retrieve his savings and purchase some equipment which he now desperately needed.

“Oh and Arthur” Amelia called out. Arthur paused, looking back at her to see what she wanted. “When you fail, I will know. I will come to slay Raeariel afterwards and if I come across you after the necklace has worked its magic... let's just say, you'll become very familiar with the bottom of my smelly foot.” Amelia chuckled loudly as Arthur made his exit. The sound of her laughter followed him on every part of his journey, as did the smell of her foot.

Suddenly waking, Arthur practically jumped out of his bedroll. The same dream had haunted him for weeks. His encounter with the demon-slayer Amelia, both amazing and terrifying in its own right. Under his armour, he could still feel the collar clinging to his neck, an ever present reminder of his quest. He had already attempted to remove it many times, yet it refused to even budge. What would happen were he to fail? Would it be painful?

If it was anything like having to smell her boot, the consequences of failing were to be avoided at all costs. Especially with the reward in mind. Had Arthur ever laid eyes on a more perfect woman?

Sadly, things were not looking up for the naïve young man. As he slipped out of the bedroll and climbed to his feet, he was suddenly aware of several figures stood around him, watching him. Fumbling for his sword, the loose belt unbuckled and it fell to the floor. “Shit!” He exclaimed, dropping to the ground and picking it back up.

A round of giggles emanated from those viewing this clumsiness. Arthur tried to invoke an intimidating appearance but by this point it was ruined. His sword now in hand, he narrowed his eyes, glaring at the potential enemies. “Who are you and what do you want?” His voice was steely despite the fear he felt.

One of the figures stepped closer. All of them wore form fitting crimson robes, making it obvious that they were women. The red robes had hoods pulled up, along with gold masks that covered their faces and made their identities unknown. The masks featured the face of a smiling, gorgeous women carved into them. The one who stepped forward had a pair of gold horns jutting out of the mask's temples, curling back over the hood. “Tell me traveller, what brings you to this land?” She ignored his question.

“I-I...” Arthur thought for a moment. Surely these women were followers of Raeariel and telling them that he was here to slay her would be suicide. Thinking on his feet, Arthur chose a lie “I've come here to serve the mighty Raeariel! I have heard of her power and done much research in order to serve her to the best of my abilities!”

“Liar.” One of the un-horned masked women hissed. Another echoed her, then another. Soon the word had passed through all of their lips like thr spitting out of sour milk.

“Hmph. My associates are correct. If you truly had done your research, you would know that Raeariel takes only women into servitude. To her, men are either toys, prisoners or slaves. Which are you, may I ask?” With her knowledge, she mocked him.

Arthur laughed. The situation seemed hopeless, so he was railroaded into one choice. “Fine. You got me. I ain't here to serve Raeariel. I'm here to kill the bitch” He tried to sound scary. There was no visible reaction from them, but under their masks, invisible to Arthur, they were smiling with amusement.

“No, that won't do. I'll tell you how things are going to go 'demon-slayer'. We are going to subdue you, drag you back to the castle then allow Raeariel to decide your fate. Said fate will likely be a life of torture by our hands in the dungeon. Perhaps telling her of the disrespect you showed us will convince her to take a personal role in your torture, a possibility which should terrify you.”

“Let's go then, show me what you got” Arthur knew he was in well over his head.

“If you insist” The horned cultist said, raising a pale hand with slender fingers and well tended fingernails. Arthur tensed, somewhat ready to fight, as much as he'd ever been anyway. Unfortunately, fighting a mage was hard enough for a skilled warrior; impossible for a novice.

Rushing forwards, what looked like a dim bolt of lightning flew from her extended fingers and hit the advancing amateur. Arthur felt sudden shock rocket through his body and he dropped like a rock, out cold. “Well, that was easy” The leader of the cultists said to her companions, who laughed and joked in response. “Okay girls, take him away. I want him in the dungeon ready for me.” With this command she turned and began walking back to the temple, the rest of the cultists grabbing the unconscious Arthur and following their leader.

“Uhhh? What?”

“Quiet prisoner!”

Arthur had woken groggily and wholly confused. He was in a dark cell, the only light coming from a lit torch in a sconce on the wall. He was in the centre of the cell, trapped in a wooden box with only his head exposed. From what he could see, there were chairs all around the strange device, the seats of the chairs coming around level with with head. The flat surface around his head that was sticking out of the box was cushioned, as if it were a footrest rather than a bondage device in a dungeon. The stern voice that had put an end to his waking murmurs had come from outside his cell. He was facing the wrong way to be able to get a look at the door to the cell, but he could guess that it was one of the red robed cultists.

He wasn't waiting long for the cavalry to arrive. With a squeak that sent shivers down the spine of the restrained prisoner, the cultist with horns entered his dank cell, an entourage of un-horned cultists only a few steps behind. Nine of them in total, the cultists sat down in the chairs that had been set up around him. “Hello Arthur” The leader said, awaiting a response. She had taken the chair directly in front of his face.

“H-how do y-y-you know my name?” He asked, not bothered any more about leaving the fear he felt out of his voice. It may have been a little late, but Arthur realised that he was in way over his head.

“Well, because we've been rooting through your belongings. I must say, the source that revealed your name was immensely amusing” The cultists started guffawing, unable to restrain their amusement. To make sure he knew what she was talking about, the horned cultist pulled out a rolled up piece of paper. She unravelled it and spun it around so that Arthur could see it. It was the paper that he was planning to leave on the corpse of his target, a calling card of sorts, featuring a poorly drawn man standing over the body of a poorly drawn red skinned woman that he had just defeated. The paper was signed as well: 'Arthur, the great demon-slayer, was here. He slew this devil in the name of Amelia!'”

“So, do you know Amelia? Perhaps you are her ward and she sent you to scout the area. That's when your ego grew out of control and you deemed yourself capable of slaying Raeariel to gain Amelia's favour. Am I wrong?”

“S-somewhat. I-I-I have met A-Amelia... once. I professed my love for her. She laughed in my face, answering with a challenge. If I can s-slay Raeariel, she will be with me.”

Laughter sounded once again, louder and more mocking this time. If the hole in the box wasn't tight around his neck, Arthur would have shamefully hid inside.

“Ah. This sounds very likely considering the kind of man you have shown yourself to be. How pathetic. Now you will spend the rest of your life being tortured in Raeariel's dungeon. Actually, I think I can convince Raeariel herself to pay you a visit, once I tell her of your disrespectful nature and show her this... this... insult. I am glad your connection to the infamous demon-slayer is only superficial however. We were unsure of how we would deal with her, when she inevitably arrived. We have more time to prepare than we thought, evidenced by your presence here. She likely expected you to get caught and wanted us to torment you.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Arthur asked in fear. Yet, in spite of all this, he still clung to a faint glimmer of hope.

“I'll give you a clue” Now even the usually oblivious Arthur could feel the grin behind the golden mask. “Before Raeariel fell, she was the 'angel of aroma', a being who lived for spreading her fine scents throughout the world, whether that be through pleasant flowers or special perfumes. When an angel falls, they tend to become the inverse of what they once were. So when Raeariel was cast out, her form monstrous and twisted by corruption, she became the 'demoness of odour'.”

Allowing the reveal of her mistress's title dwell on the man in the box, all of the cultists around the table pulled up the hems of their robes, unstrapping the leather sandals from their feet. “N-now hold on ladies, let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

The cultists ignored Arthur, bringing up their legs and placing their unwashed feet around his head. He tried moving his head away from the feet, but with nine pairs all around him, there was nowhere to run. “Can you get your damn feet away from me ple-- MMMMMPPPHHH” Arthur had moved his head backwards as the horned cultist pushed her dirty soles towards his face, but a couple pairs of feet halted his escape, holding his head in place as she mashed her feet into his face.

Soon enough, all Arthur could see were soles and toes. There was little he could do to avoid the torment of the sweaty feet pressing up against his face, forcing their foul odour up his nostrils. They took turns clamping greasy toes over the helpless nose, exposing him to the vileness the cultists cultivated between their toes.

At all times toes laid siege to Arthur's mouth, his lips pressed shut to prevent invasion. They teased the closed lips gently, prematurely lubricating them up with toe sweat, knowing that eventually Arthur's resistance would weaken.

“C'mon Arthur, open up. You know you want to” One of the cultist's cooed, causing laughter amongst the others. Admittedly, there would be some benefit to giving up and letting the feet violate his mouth. For one, he wouldn't need to breath entirely through his nose.

Minutes later, when he finally caved and allowed his lips to part, Arthur found out that letting them in wasn't better in the slightest. It was in fact far, far worse. Intense, bitter, cheesy flavours found their way to every corner of his mouth, assaulting his sense of taste.

“I'm guessing that's yummy, judging from the look on your face!” Another cultist teased the prisoner, despite barely being able to see his expression under all those feet.

The torture beneath nine pairs of stinky feet continued on for hours. Arthur's will grew weaker with every sniff, every toe being pushed into his mouth. The cultists rotated on their chairs, giving each of them equal time in every seat. It began to feel less and less like reality to the prisoner and more like a nightmare, a nightmare that he could do nothing to end. The cultists were fully prepared to continue tormenting him like this, but the horned cultist felt like she had to fully break Arthur, as if she were being compelled to do so, and so brought a stop to the action.

“Ladies, give this worm a break” The horned cultist commanded, withdrawing her feet from Arthur's face, though keeping them perched on the edge of the box he was contained within, ready to be reapplied at a moment's notice.

“Is... is it over?” Arthur asked with dim hope, breathing in air that wasn't filtered through a blanket of sweaty, filthy feet. He felt gross, well aware that of the sticky, smelly sweat that totally soaked his hair and sat on his skin.

“Far from it Arthur” The lead cultist told him with complete authority. She was in control of his fate now, and he dreaded what she would do with it. “I will grant you a reprieve, if you do as I say.”

“And what do you ask?” Arthur asked, not even making an attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

“That you lick our feet Arthur. If you can lick all of our feet clean... we'll let you go. You can leave this place a free man, with only mild mental trauma.” As the cultists laughed, Arthur considered the offer. Sure it would get him out of this situation, but the silver collar around his neck lingered in the back of his mind. Amelia had told him that he would feel the power of its magic once he failed. What did it consider to be failing? Would it activate if the cultists freed him?

“Okay” Arthur had made a decision. Screw Amelia's magic collar. He wanted an end to this and he wouldn't let his fear of an enchanted. “I'll lick all of your feet clean. Anything to get me out of here.”

Everyone felt the satisfied smile behind the horned golden mask “Good choice.”

Arthur couldn't help but cringe away as the horned cultist lifted her feet up to his face, toes first. A pair of feet were placed on the back of his head, pushing it forward slightly and removing the option of pulling away. Metaphorically gritting his teeth, Arthur opened his mouth and began worshipping the disgusting feet of the cultist before him. Reluctantly, he used his tongue to explore every nook and cranny of the feet: between the toes, under the nails, in the depths of any wrinkle. The mixture of grime and sweat coating the foot flesh was removed by his mouth, the gross substance entering his body. The cultists teased and taunted as he worked, humiliating him and heightening his sense of dread, knowing that he would have to clean their feet too.

“Not bad, dog” The horned cultist admired the job Arthur had done on her now washed feet, now coated in a light layer of saliva rather than sweat. She switched seats with the next cultist along, allowing her to have her feet tended to.

Cleaning all nine pairs of feet was an absolute slog for Arthur. He felt utterly disgusted after consuming so such foot sweat and toejam, filth that had spent weeks accumulating being eaten in a matter of hours. Soon enough, he found himself face to foot with the still clean feet of the horned cultist, having performed a full cycle of torturous foot worship. Admittedly, it was somewhat satisfying to see a job well done, in spite of the grisly details that job involved.

“There. All of your feet are clean now. Can I go free?” Arthur asked. All he wanted right now was a glass of water to reduce the disgustingly sour, cheesy flavour that stubbornly remained in his mouth, a reminder of his latest ordeal. A stray thought ran through his head, thinking about how he was glad their feet weren't as terrible as Amelia's had been.

“Do these feet look clean to you?” The horned cultist answered his question with one of her own, her tone of voice was thick with challenge.

“Yes. They look very clean! You promised you would release me!” Arthur was taken aback by her response. How foolish he was to believe in escape.

“Are you kidding? These feet are filthy!” The horned cultist exclaimed, laughing evilly. The rest of the cultists laughed too. The horned cultist clicked her fingers and Arthur was filled with horror. Before his very eyes, each pair of feet began visibly sweating. The grime and dirt returned magically, transforming the feet back to their prior state in a matter of several seconds. The stench also made a comeback, yet was seemingly stronger, more potent than before.

“N-no. No way. How!?” Arthur was disgusted, suffering once more under the powerful odour of nine pairs of freshly dirty, reeking feet.

“Magic of course! You should have known that the followers of the 'demoness of odour' would possess such abilities. No matter how much you lap at our feet, we will never allow them to be clean, you will never be free Arthur, a toy for Raeariel and her servants” The horned cultist explained this gleefully, snapping her fingers once more. The level of stench grew stronger still, reaching near inhuman levels. The feet made their move on Arthur's helpless head, launching him into a new level of torment.

It was in this moment, that Arthur realised he had failed.

A searing light shone from the blue gem embedded into Arthur's silver collar. “W-what is this?” The horned cultist spoke, fear seeping into her voice for the first time since pledging loyalty to Raeariel.

Feeling strange sensations overtake his body, centring on the collar and spreading outwards. Suddenly his head was no longer big enough to remain sticking out of the box. Arthur fell into the abyss that his body had occupied moments before, placing him in a pit of blackness, the only light coming from the hole where his head had been.

“Where is the prisoner!?” The horned cultist shouted with rage, unaware of what had happened due to being blinded by the bizarre blue light.

“I don't know! He just disappeared!” Shouted one of the un-horned cultists, a sentiment echoed by all of them in similar words.

“Find him!” The leader ordered.

Although, one of the cultists had shielded her eyes from the light, therefore witnessing exactly what had happened to Arthur. “Wait” She said, garnering the attention of everyone.

“What is it? This had better be important” The horned cultist told her impatiently.

“I know where he is” The cultist who wasn't blinded said, pointing to the box where Arthur had been stationed for his torture.

“He clearly isn't in there” Another cultist scoffed.

“He is” The attentive cultist insisted “Take a look inside.”

Gathering around the box, the horned cultist took the lead and unlocked the lid of the box, lifting it up and bathing the inside in torchlight.

Cowering at the bottom of the box, now many times smaller than before, was Arthur. If he had felt fear before, it reached a new high as he gazed up at the now giant golden masks of the cultists. Their eyes, the only parts of their faces that were actually visible to onlookers, were alight with both amusement and hunger.

“Hello Arthur. You almost gave us the slip with that shrinking spell of yours” The horned cultist chuckled at the adventurer's ill luck. “Unless... it was not your own spell? Perhaps that trinket around your neck is one of the many magical items of Amelia? That makes sense. For someone who hunts demons, her level of sadism is rather demonic.”

“Now girls” The leader seemed to have decided what to do with Arthur “Raeariel will be greatly interested in a shrunken slave. So, let's get as much pleasure out of him as possible.” Raising her leg high, the horned cultist stepped into the box, planting her awfully stinky feet right next to Arthur.

The tiny reacted violently, diving out of the way. But even though he escaped physical contact with the feet, the smell wasn't something that he could get away from. The other cultists copied the actions of their leader, stepping into the box. Soon enough, it became a tight squeeze for them and the space that Arthur could avoid touching the sweaty feet became non-existent. A foot eventually caught him, trapping him underneath its warm sole. He vaguely heard a click from above, another spell from the horned cultist, and the feet became stinkier. So stinky that the tiny man's eyes began watering freely as the odour emanating from all of the feet around him stung his eyes.

Days later, after many lengthy torture sessions consisting of nothing but the sweating, stinking feet of countless cruel cultists, it was time for Arthur to finally come face to face with the demoness that he originally came here in search of.

Overseeing all of his torment was a horned cultist. Because of the mask, Arthur was unsure if it was the same horned cultist that had captured him. Sometimes, there were multiple horned cultists participating in his suffering, confirming that there were multiple members of the higher class within the cult. Upon the event of Arthur shrinking, many more cultists started turning up to his cell, eager to gain favour within the cult by forcing the tiny to endure the terrible stench they had created.

Each day the odour from the numerous cultist feet grew more potent, eliciting further misery from Arthur. His tortures didn't just feature endless sniffing of gigantic feet, often he was made to worship the feet for hours on end under the threat of more spells being cast to make their feet smellier. Obviously, his new size made the worshipping of feet a monumental task, as well as making him a novelty to torturers in the dungeon and their foul smelling feet. The other poor souls imprisoned here had their suffering temporarily diminished as the cultists would flock to Arthur's cell, leaving disgusting feet in no short supply for the tiny man.

Then, one morning weeks after he shrunk, Arthur woke up in a different manner than he had become accustomed to. His wake up routine recently had consisted of being smothered by dozens of sweaty feet, ensuring that he was being dominated by feet from the moment he woke up to the moment he drifted once more into semi-peaceful unconsciousness. Even his dreams were haunted by his experiences in the dungeon of Raeariel's temple, nightmares where he was smushed under a giant foot whilst golden masked women laughed and taunted him. This morning however, he woke up of his own accord, groggily looking up at four cultists in golden horned masks staring down at him.

“The time is now, our little footslut” One of the four horned cultists said, tones of both anticipation and disappointment “Our mistress has commanded for us to bring you before her. Say your prayers to whatever gods you worship, the great Raeariel knows of your disrespect and is eager to meet you.”

Another horned cultist then reached into the open box which had once been a piece of bondage equipment used in his torture, now serving as his prison, and grabbed his tiny body in her hand. At his size, there was no way that he could possibly resist considering the incredible difference in strength.

Fully expecting to be placed underfoot and stomped hundreds of times on the journey to Raeariel's chamber but was pleasantly surprised when they simply marched out of his open cell, with him still contained in a new prison of fingers. It was interesting to see what the rest of the temple looked like outside of the one room he'd been in since his arrival days ago.

The dungeon itself looked just as Arthur had imagined it. His cell had been located in one long, wide corridor sporting many more cells that he assumed were exactly the same as his own, judging by the layout and spacing between the doors. Sounds came from the other cells, the same sounds that no doubt could have been heard from his cell when he was still full sized and audible. Begs of protest from men and women alike, the feminine voices of cultists only taunting or laughing in response, reminding the prisoners that this was their place now, that their existence would consist of nothing but torment under stinky female feet.

Reaching the end of the corridor with the cells, the dungeon opened up into a huge room. It had a large set of stairs that led up to the ground floor of the temple, torch sconces placed along the wall. He felt the eyes of the several un-horned cultists in the room, staring at him longingly in the hand of his captor, thinking about all the things that they wished to do with him in the name of their unholy mistress.

Up the stairs, the previously unseen ground floor unveiled itself. It seemed that this floor functioned as the living quarters and dining quarters for the occupants of the temple. Going off of the number of beds with belongings on the cabinets beside them, there were more women in Raeariel's cult than Arthur first thought. It was crazy of him to come here only, even a small group of them had been more than enough to take him out. How would Amelia fare?

For the most part, the ground floor was empty. A couple cultists lounged around here and there, presumably the lazy ones because they paid no attention to the four high ranking cultists transporting a prisoner. In the back corner of the building was a spiral staircase, which the group ascended. Arthur imagined that there were more stairs to the next floor than just this set, because of how many lived here and required easy access to the first floor.

This floor provided a quick, streamlined path to the final set of stairs. There were far less rooms on this floor, which is where the majority of the cultists were. It appeared that these rooms were rooms of worship, filled with un-horned cultists listening to horned cultists. They were too involved in what was happening inside the room to notice the retinue. Prisoners had been dragged up out of the dungeon and were on full display, naked men and women alike begging the matching gold faces of the cultists for mercy. As Arthur's group passed the entrance to one room of worship, the cultists were all removing their sandals, giggling uncontrollably. While Arthur did feel sorry for such prisoners, he couldn't help but worry about his own situation, one that had to be far worse. The staircase up to the open roof was grand, torches set in the midst of entangled black spires twisting through from underneath, following the path that the stairs made up to the roof. Atop the roof, was the structure Arthur had seen days before on his approach, where the spires that twisted and distorted the architecture below culminated to form the large room on the roof. Even as one not attuned to magic, Arthur could feel the evil, oppressive presence of the being known as Raeariel. The strong stink of demoness feet was tangible even outside of her throne room. That did not bode well, with regard to what he had been put through thus far. Thanks to the mass of clouds that gathered above the temple, the entire rooftop was darkened by shadow.

Stopping just outside of the opening to the structure, the four cultists knelt down. “Oh great Raeariel!” They shouted in perfect unison, evidently having done so many times “Let us bask in your stink! We bring you an offering, in order to prove our worth to you.”

Tense moments of silence passed. Until a sultry, commanding voice spoke “Enter, my servants, show me what you have brought.” All this talk was customary. The demoness knew exactly what her servants had brought, she had made the request for them to do so.

Upon hear the order, the small procession of elite cultists proceeded forwards, entering the black arch leading to the throne room of their leader. Moving inside the structure, Arthur found the inside to be well lit, illuminated the grinning figure at the back of the room.

Raeariel sat on a black throne, made to give her maximum comfort. She was completely nude, every inch of her flawless crimson skin on show. To describe the demoness starting from the top would be to start with her stark black horns. They jutted out of her temples and went backwards over the top of her hairless red head and curved back around to face forwards, just below ear level. On the topic of ears and hair, Raeariel had short pointed ears and absolutely no hair on her body. Her large eyes were a pair of abysses, completely back and easy to get lost in. High cheekbones framed an angular, elegant nose located in the exact centre of her face, leading down to a set of full, black lips containing a mouth of sharp, white canines. Under her face was a huge pair of breasts, each tipped by a dark nipple. Her body was a mix of athletic and curvaceous, boasting the best traits of both body types. All the down down her long legs, past her thick thighs and muscular calves were her feet. They were massive, and would have been even if Arthur wasn't tiny.

As they got closer, it became clear that Raeariel wasn't average sized. If she were to stand, she looked like she would be around 8 feet tall. Those big red feet of her were much larger than any of the feet that Arthur had to endure thus far, with an inhumanly strong stink to boot. Even outside of the throne room it had been unpleasant, inside it was like being surrounded by unwashed, magically enhanced feet all over again. He dreaded the idea of going anywhere near them. From this angle he could only she the tops and her thick, crimson toes. She was wiggling them nonchalantly, strings of thick sweat stretching and breaking between them as she did so. Crowning each bulbous head was a black toenail with a point, not quite as long as her equally black, pointed fingernails however. Currently Raeariel had her legs extended and crossed at the ankles.

The cultist holding Arthur held out her hands and presented the tiny man to the being that she served. Raeariel gazed at Arthur with a wicked smile on her face, nodding slowly after a few seconds of appreciation. “Excellent!” The demoness' voice boomed. “You have brought me a fine gift. You said that this is the one who thought himself capable of slaying me?”

“That's right mistress. He came here with the intention of ending your life.”

Uproarious laughter sounded as Raeariel opened her mouth wide. “Look where you are now, slayer wannabe. Tiny and utterly at my mercy. Tell me, which of you knows a shrinking spell?”

“None of us, mistress. There is a magical collar around his neck which activated whilst he was being tortured in the dungeon. The collar is what caused him to shrink, as far as we can tell.”

Raeariel stroked her lips with her fingers, taking in the information. When a decision was made her arms reclaimed the armrests of the throne and her ankles uncrossed, planting themselves flat on the ground. “Very well. You. Follower of mine holding the pitiful, disrespectful moron who came here. Bring that worm over to me and place him at my feet.”

The cultist had to hold on tight as Arthur started struggling in her hands, not liking the suggestion of going anywhere near those big red peds. Considering how long it took the horned cultist to respond to the order, it seemed that the tiny man wasn't the only one burdened by the heavy stench of the demoness' feet.

Using either fear or reverence to motivate herself, the cultist moved forward, slowed down from inhaling the potent foot odour. Arthur whimpered with every step the cultist took, the act of merely breathing becoming more and more taxing the closer they got. He had thought that maybe his prior tortures at the feet of the cultists might have left him better able to tolerate extraordinary foot odour but the stink of Raeariel's feet even from a distance surpassed the combined feet of the cultists at their very worst.

The strong willed cultist bowed before Raeariel on her throne and deposited the unfortunate prisoner between the two parallel, huge big toes of the demoness before hastily retreating to as safe a distance as she dared, drawing a low chuckle of amusement from her mistress who was well aware of how pungent her unholy feet were.

Arthur looked up at Raeariel, meekly meeting her gaze slowly, his physical functions slowed by the smell which swamped his mind and made it difficult to think. “Tell me, tiny man, what is your name? No need to shout, I will hear you no matter how quietly you speak.”

“My name is Arthur.” You would think the voice of someone as pathetic as Arthur would tremble before someone like Raeariel, but somehow the fear he felt scared him into a calm mindset. He didn't know whether or not he should address this devilish being with a title. In the worst case scenario she would see it as showing further weakness than he had already shown in the dungeon. Even an amateur like Arthur knew that predators took full advantages of weakness and the demoness before him was exactly that, with a desire far more cruel than simple survival.

“Arthur.” She said it as if chewing a piece of meat, sampling the taste. “Good enough. I have decided to make you into my foot slave, Arthur. Your reduced size and link to the slayer Amelia interest me greatly, and my followers in the dungeon cannot seem to shut up about how much fun you are to torture. I expect you to follow my every command, no matter how difficult or disgusting it may seem because believe me, I can thing far worse for you in a heartbeat.”

In order to make sure that Arthur understood the point she was making, Raeariel raised her right foot. She held it above the tiny who fell to his knees as a stronger wave of stink hit him. For the first time, he got a look at her sole. It was just as red as the rest of her skin. Dozens of lines of wrinkles decorated the arch of the wide sole. The ball and heel were smooth and particularly meaty. All of the flesh was dripping with sweat and giving off a mist-like steam. He had felt the heat somewhat with both soles flat on the floor nearby, but now one was hovering over him he soon found the air to be uncomfortably warm.

“To achieve a smell of this magnitude, a powerful follower of mine would have to cast odour-enhancing spells on her feet for several years. You may have experienced something nearly half as strong in the dungeon when multiple pairs of magically enhanced feet teamed up to torment your senses. But this overwhelming stench that you're facing, this is only the natural state of my feet. There is no magic augmenting the smell of my feet, this is all me.”

With a click of her fingers, Raeariel summoned a foot stool into existence within reach of her long legs. Her foot descended onto Arthur and he screamed, making the demoness chuckle once again. Upon coming into contact with the foot, Arthur found the skin of his new mistress to be hot, the source of the heat that was warming the air. Because of the sweat and pressure placed on his body by the foot, he was pushed slightly into the surprisingly soft, supple skin and stuck to it, so when Raeariel lifted her foot he remained in place.

The giant foot came to rest on the new footstool. The cushioned surface was near solid and even the weight of a massive demonic foot did little to make the cushion give way. Flexing her sole, she tried to dislodge her new slave from the bottom of her foot. It only took a bit of effort, after all Raeariel had only wanted Arthur stuck there for the purpose of moving him.

Crashing into the hard surface of the footstool, Arthur sluggishly got to his feet. Spending time around the enormous feet and their equally enormous aroma had made him able to move more normally but did nothing to make the stench more tolerable.

“Lick my heel. Don't worry, we'll eventually move onto the rest of my delicious, sexy foot, but we're going to start your indefinite servitude with my heel.”

Arthur had no desire to do as she said. However what he did have was fear, fear of the consequences should he disobey the incredibly powerful being who now owned him. So he did it. He fell to all fours and crawled towards the huge foot, extended his tongue and bravely took a lick of Raeariel's heel. And it was far more terrible than he could have imagined. The taste of her reeking flesh and foot sweat was unreal. It was so potent that Arthur gagged on the pungent flavour and fell back, already beaten.

Raeariel sighed. “Looks like you're going to have to learn the hard way slave. Soon enough you'll be licking a far stinkier foot without hesitation, either that or slowly be driven insane by unfathomable foot odour. Let's try this again, shall we?”

She clicked her fingers and the smell grew stronger. The hot, humid air that he had adapted to just enough so that he could breathe semi-normally grew thicker and fouler, forcing him to take deep lungfuls of the sweat tainted air in order to stay conscious. Sure, he could let himself become asphyxiated by the demoness' foot but he knew that she would have an evil punishment ready to dish out were he to let that happen.

Arthur struggled, fighting against the repugnant atmosphere but obviously he wasn't quick enough because Raeariel clicked her fingers again and the stinky feet that were already rendering Arthur useless grew stinkier still.

The cultists shifted awkwardly. The stench was growing to be too much for them to handle, even at a distance that had once been safe. Raeariel noticed them inching backwards and grinned. “Ah, I almost forgot about you four. Thank you for delivering my new plaything to me, I shall see to it that you be rewarded. All of you are dismissed.”

Raeariel watched with interest, leaning forward to witness the scene on the footstool. When she saw Arthur manage enough strength to crawl up to her foot again and take enough lick, she thought he might have learned his lesson. She felt disappointment when he obeyed his instincts and listened to his screaming taste buds and didn't immediately follow it up with a second lick. “Looks like this might take a while. Don't worry slave, I have plenty of time. I don't mind waiting until my feet are stinkier than you ever believed possible. Just a small tip; the sooner you learn to fight your urges and endure the taste, the less awful my feet need to become.” To drive the point home she clicked her fingers twice, ramping up the stench twice as much as before. While Arthur was easily far past the point of breaking, it seemed like he wouldn't easily overcome his own senses even at his most desperate.

Amelia stood on a flat hilltop beside a frail, withered tree, overlooking the temple that Raeariel had made her own. She wore no helm and had her pitch black hair gathered up in a bun with a single stray lock of hair falling down to her face. It didn't block her vision, so the slayer made no attempt to fix it.

Behind Amelia stood over a dozen other warriors, mostly women, who were slayers training under her and finding out how to effectively take down inhuman threats. “Is everyone ready to do this?”

“Yes Amelia!” The warriors shouted as one.

Amelia grinned. “Excellent. Let's go show this stinky demon who's boss. Keep the plan in mind, you lot handle the cultists, I'll take care of the red bitch.” Drawing her sword, she pointed the sharp tip at their target. “Onwards! Move quickly but carefully, focus completely on speed only when we are spotted!”

The group moved cut across the landscape like a knife, reaching the temple in a matter of minutes. Shouts could be heard from within, the slayers had been spotted. Though it did not matter to Amelia. Together, they ploughed through the first line of defence hastily raised by the cultists before splitting into two groups. One group made to secure this floor followed by the dungeon, the other group along with Amelia proceeded up the stairs, mowing down all forms of resistance along the way.

Saving her strength, Amelia let her subordinates do most of the fighting. If her plan for dealing with the demoness went wrong, the fight would become rather troublesome indeed. Plus she had to keep an eye out for any tiny men wearing silver collars. The thought of the obsessed young man under her smelly foot brought a huge smile to her face.

As the group peeled apart, Amelia climbed the steps up to the roof alone. Outside of Raeariel's throne room were a pair of cultists wearing golden horned masks and wielding spears.

“Halt, slayer!” One of them yelled, both of them levelling the tips of their spears at Amelia's torso.

Amelia laughed loudly. “Do you two honestly think you can take me? Do you know who I am? I am the demon-slayer Amelia. Throw aside your weapons and get out of my way, in a few minutes your mistress will be defeated and I will be in charge here.”

The cultists looked at one another, hesitant to fight the sword wielding woman who was confidently strutting towards them. They shrugged and tossed their spears to the ground before backing up out of Amelia's way.

“Smart choice.”

Walking into the throne room, Amelia came face to face with the demoness of odour herself. The big red woman was sat in her throne with her big red feet up on a footstool, disinterested in the events occurring outside of her chamber. “Coming before me with no fear? I guess that means you are the notorious demon-slayer Amelia, here at last to take my life.”

Amelia smirked. “That's right, Rae. You're mine now.”

Raeariel boomed with laughter. “How cute. Do you not see what I have done to your subordinate? Does the sight not fill you with dread, knowing that you will soon join him in his fate?”

Raeariel gestured to her expansive crimson soles on the footstool that were displayed to Amelia. Somehow she hadn't noticed the shrunken man pressed tightly against the foot, lapping away dutifully despite the abhorrent odour and endless droplets of sweat being squeezed out of her smelly pores. The fact that he was able to stomach such vile flavours and odour was impressive, but it wasn't like he had a choice. His arms had tiny shackles that were chained to toe rings decorating the demoness' big toe and pinky toe. His legs were also shackled but together, a tight chain ran from his leg shackle and down the drenched sole, going around the heel to eventually attach to the iron anklet that Raeariel wore. The body of the tiny man was stretched taut by his unyielding bondage and he could do nothing but smell, kiss and lick the gross flesh that he was partially embedded in.

Smiling as she noticed the silver collar around his neck, Amelia recognised the man. “So that's where the little guy got to. I expected him to shrink and be tortured here, but I never imagined that he'd find his was to you and become your foot slave. I can't remember the poor sap's name, but I was looking forward to humiliating and tormenting him in my reeking boots when I found him. But this is much more hilarious! Maybe leaving him with you will be a better idea than what I originally intended.”

Arthur, hearing everything that Amelia said, starting sobbing. Not only did she not even remember his name, but now she was planning on letting Raeariel keep him? The one hope keeping Arthur going during the three months he had spent suffering in the service of Raeariel's feet was that Amelia would show up one day and save him. Sure, he'd have to serve her feet instead but anything was preferable than this!

“Leave him with me?” Raeariel's eyebrow would have been cocked had she possessed one. “Does that mean you intend to turn tail and leave me to my schemes for ruling this mortal world?”

“Nope. If all goes to plan, I will defeat you without having to actually kill you.” Amelia admitted, the hand not holding her sword slipped into one of her many pockets and retrieved something.

Raeariel chuckled. “How audacious of you, insolent human. Not only do you think yourself capable of slaying me, but you think you can beat me into submission too? Wiping you from existence is going to be fun.”

A red hand with five red fingers raised, aiming at Amelia with the intention of casting a spell. However Amelia wasn't about to let that happen. She raised the item in her hand, a gold ring with a large amethyst set into the band, and a purple beam of light fired from the gemstone, striking Raeariel.

Raeariel yelped in surprise as the beam absorbed her massive body entirely and sucked back into the gemstone. “Wow, that was simpler than I expected.” Amelia said to the now empty throne.

Bringing the ring up to her face, the demon-slayer grinned as she saw what was inside the gemstone. Imprisoned within the amethyst was Raeariel. The demoness looked dazed and confused. Then she lifted her foot and the two females saw that the tiny man had been sealed inside the gem with the demoness.

“Sorry little guy, whatever your name was, I really am.” Amelia said, not actually looking particularly apologetic. She spoke to him, even though the space within the gemstone was utterly cut off from the outside world. “But it does make me laugh, knowing that you're stuck in there with that sadistic demon, doomed to entertain her for the duration of her imprisonment. It's possible the two of you will never escape and will have to live together forever. Who better to keep big red company than her loyal foot slave?”

“Oh well!” Amelia exclaimed, ripping her sweaty bare foot out of her nasty old boot. She slid the ring onto her second toe, finding it to be a perfect fit, before wiggling those greasy toes in appreciation of the new piece of jewellery she now owned. How many women could boast of owning a ring that had a stinky demoness, inflicting potentially eternal suffering on a tiny man, imprisoned inside? Not many, that was for sure. With that thought in her head and a satisfied smile on her face, Amelia slipped her foot back into the foul smelling boot and began the journey back to the slayers guild, another quest complete.