After a period of contemplation, Cathy acceded to her sister Ann’s request.
"It appears, Tom, that your aunt’s feet are in dire need of your assistance," she declared. "This afternoon, we shall embark on a ten-kilometer family trek across the valley. You will massage your aunt’s feet until she drifts into slumber tonight."
Tom gasped, the air catching in his throat.
"Couldn't he do mine instead of my aunt's?" Claire interjected.
As the second eldest of the family, Ann snapped, "Should you persist in your whimpering, you shall find yourself right there alongside him."
Following a brief, heavy silence, all eyes gravitated toward Tom.
"I haven’t even had my breakfast yet," he protested. "Besides, what if I die during the journey?"
Cathy smirked. "At the very least, your blood would serve to nourish your aunt’s feet—and as for breakfast, you may feast upon the grime within the shoe."
With that, Tom was stripped of any further right to appeal. Ann forcibly ensnared him within the confines of her malodorous shoe.
...Hours elapsed. Tom was on the verge of collapsing from sheer hunger and dehydration. In a desperate bid for survival, he resorted to consuming the sweat and grime lodged between Ann’s toes. Shortly thereafter, the shoe was pried open. Ann lifted him into her palm and addressed him:
"Tom, Claire has been whining for hours, insisting you should belong to her. Why don't you state your verdict? Shall you remain mine, or pass to her?"
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