“What did you say to me? Say it again.”

You couldn’t help but wince in pain from where you were pinned to the floor. Standing over you, Flayon leaned over you, the change in his balance putting even more weight through his leg. Through his foot—-which was currently crushing your hand--soles digging into the sensitive skin of your palm.

“Go onnnnn, say it,” he encouraged, a casual and almost excited tone to his voice, matching the eerily giddy expression.

In a sick way, it made you excited to see that face. Knowing it was your words that made him look that way. Your words that made him look that way at you.

“I said,” you start speaking, the words catching for a moment when he grinds down the ball of his foot, twisting his shoe down to your bones. “I said, would…you let me give you a footjob?”

“That’s not what you saa~iiiid~” Flayon’s response is bordering on sing-song, and he hums a little as he pulls his foot away. He only gives you the brief sense of relief before pressing his heel down on the center of your chest, forcing the air from your lungs. “You said something waaay grosser. Go on. You said something perverted with that sick mouth of yours, so say it again.”

You respond with a whimper first, unintentional, as he pushes down a little harder, the clawed metal tips of his shoe denting your skin.

“I sa—mmn!” Again he cuts you off, just for the sick thrill of watching you struggle to follow his instructions, this time bearing down almost all of his weight onto your chest, grabbing at your scalp and pulling your head upright by the crown.

“Look at me when you talk to me,” he says, his voice no longer friendly.

“I…” You strain a little, but he doesn’t seem impressed by your efforts enough to loosen his grip. “I asked if you wanted… a footjob…”

“Orrrr?” Flayon presses his heel down further as if he could force the words from your lungs faster.

“...or… a pit job?” Your tone flits upwards like a question, eyes looking at him in desperation—confirmation that you did what he asked, properly this time.

You see him smirk, and you aren’t sure if that’s a positive sign or not.

“You’re grooooossss, you’re seriously disgusting,” he snorts, letting go of your hair and letting your head drop. “I bet you probably liked being stepped on too, huh? I’ve got you all figured out.”

His foot lifts and you take a deep breath, feeling a lingering sting over your sternum from the pressure.

“...well, I think you’d like that too much, so nope! Not—a—chance—” Flayon pulls back from you, glancing over his shoulder as he starts to walk away, suddenly bored with you.

“Buuuut, I guess you were kind of entertaining,” he says, with a little chuckle. “So maybe if you beg properly next time, I’ll consider it.”