Sole Existence

 

Chapter 1

 

Being small can be a real bitch.

You're like eight inches, and you're the brunt of anybody who wants to mess with you.

Anybody “normal” who wants to mess with you.

There were a lot of us who were not “normals”.  Some kind of weird accident some generations ago messed with the genetic makeup of a few hundred people.  The genetic alterations carried forward into future generations.  Babies started coming out of mothers who had been completely unaware of ever being pregnant.  The babies had been the size of dice.  These children never reached heights greater than a foot tall - some less than half that, others in between, none hardly ever below four inches.  Most were at or near my height.

I was eight inches.

Normals who felt like being cruel to someone who couldn't do squat about it, or just to entertain themselves or friends or to just win the approval of friends, murdered a great many of us.  Some of us were outright squashed, some of us were cruelly tortured to death, some even eaten - of those, a great many were swallowed alive (it was real bravado for a teenager to swallow one of the smaller “littles” alive in front of their friends).  Others though, were taken as pets or slaves by "normal's".  Doting over a “little” was more fabulous for a lot of “normals” than any other kind of pet ever had been.  It was vogue to have a “little” as a pet in a lot of circles.

My story involves the latter.

My story begins in Central Park in New York City.

There were laws to protect us "micros".  That was what we were called: "micros".  "Killing a micro is the same as killing any other human being", the law said.  But we were so hard to keep track of, our disappearances so hard to notice, the normal world stopped paying attention to us, or even caring.

Most of our lives were reduced to foraging for food, or trying to find "decent" "normals" to give us handouts.  Some of us lived in communes or warrens.  A lot of us lived like wild animals.

The latter of which was how I lived, before I had become a pet.

I was raised by a commune of micros.  My mom, not wanting the humiliation of having given birth to a micro, at least had the decency to find a micro commune to give me to.  Others less fortunate than me were usually flushed down the toilet when they were born (often without the birthing mother ever knowing - we were that small at birth).  But my mom could have no idea to what fate she was consigning me when she gave me to a commune as an infant.

I grew up in a world of cruelty and reckless indifference.  As a child, I was sent out with other children to forage for food for the commune.  If we came back empty handed (which happened more than I care to admit), we were berated, starved, beaten, some of us were even staked out to be found by wild animals or normals.  I spent many a day as a child hating my commune, and wishing I had the guts to just run away from it, or to just commit suicide.

When I was sixteen, a “normal” event changed my life forever - which was how I wound up in New York’s Central Park.

It had just been a couple of boys out looking for a warren, and for the sole purpose of destroying it.

We were pretty well hidden in a junk yard on the south side of Bronx, our commune under the age-old wreckage of a fifty-year-old car.  More, the junkyard had been shut down for two decades.  The only people who ever came to it were those who were looking for old parts (and those rarely, as the junkyard was walled off by the city), or people - usually young people - out looking for kicks.

The event had taken our commune like a whirlwind of stomping tennis shoes and grimy, pudgy-fingered hands.  Many of us were killed.  Very few of us escaped.  I was one of the fortunate few who had gotten away.

That had been four years ago.

Since then, I had moved from place to place, never staying in any one place for long.  To stay in a place for more than a few days - no matter how secure or hidden you thought you were - was asking for disaster to strike.  All it would take is for one normal to spot you, and soon other normals were looking for the micro that someone thought they saw.  Your hiding place would be unable to escape discovery by the normals who then came looking for it.

That happened to a lot of micros.  Our warren had been found that way.  Some kid, no doubt, playing in the junkyard, had spotted one of the micros from our warren.  After that, the search was on until the hiding place of the micro(s) had been found.

Kids were the worst - especially little boys.  If we weren't outright killed, we were taken to be played with like we were toy soldiers.  Few micros escaped with their lives when they were taken by little boys - the boys who captured them eventually growing bored with them, or fearing getting caught with them by their parents, invariably always disposed of them.  For those micros who weren’t “broken” (often by being “accidently” trodden on, or from after having to “fight” too many “wars”), were frighteningly often flushed down the toilet.  The most convenient way for a child of say, eight, to dispose of a micro, too was to flush it down the toilet.  No evidence for parents to find that way.  Another and even more frightening method of disposal for children-captured micros, was being fed to family pets.  The thought of that happening to us was a truly horrifying one.  Toyed with by a cat or savaged by the family dog...?

Both prospects were truly horrifying.  And it was why I was careful to never stay in one place for very long.

There were other hazards, too, like rats, birds (especially birds) and spiders.  Birds were a true hazard.  One owl, sparrow hawk or even a mocking bird or a robin could totally ruin a micro's day.  Spiders were especially frightening hazards, if not so outright dangerous as a bird swooping down on you to snap you helplessly up for a quick, greedy swallow.  At least one had a chance to fight off most of the spiders which occurred around New York City.  But a bite from even the smallest spider (even the tiniest, which were the sizes of toy poodles to us) was almost a sure death sentence.

The hazards posed to us by rats and mice were obvious.  There were other hazards, too, like stinging insects and the like.  Dogs and cats were threats to be avoided, too.  But the worst hazard to us of all was normal people.

The day I was caught, I had been lingering near where there was a picnic attended by a group of college students going on.

It was dusk when I made my move.

The sun was dwindling to leave a hot-steel-colored horizon; shadows of trees, benches and the few remaining students were making long and angular shadows across the grass trampled by the picnickers.  Also, most of the students had departed, leaving only three behind - who were lingering to pack up was left.

I always planned my dash-and-grabs at dusk.  Birds were starting their nightly roosts; there were fewer insects; and it wasn’t quite dark enough yet for the real terrors to begin their emergences – the nocturnal predators: spiders, rats and mice.

I watched from behind my tree for the better part of five minutes.  I saw only the three normals.  From my tree to my goal - a good remnant of fresh sandwich - was only about a 15-second sprint.

Believe me, too, when you're my size, you get real good at calculating sprinting distances.

The normals were paying the bit of sandwich no attention.  The closest one to it was over a dozen yards away.

Those who had remained were had already policed up the event's garbage and had packed up the picnic, and were now standing around and chatting with one-another.

My mouth watered as I looked at the hunk of sandwich.  It was so close - just a quarter of a minute away.  A quick dash across the trampled grass, hunker down behind the sandwich until I was sure no-one had seen my mad dash to it, then wait until the rest of them had left - which then started the laborious task of dragging it back behind my tree.

I couldn't wait until the normals left.  If I did, I risked losing the sandwich.  A bird that was too nervous to swoop in the company of the normals, surely would and grab the sandwich after the normals had left.  That sandwich represented three days of food for me.  I wasn't willing to risk it.  I was too hungry, and lord only knew when I might again get such a chance at such a bounty of food.

I watched the normals a little longer.  I worked up my courage.  The shadows were lengthening.  The normals would be leaving soon.  They seemed to have completely overlooked the sandwich.  As I watched, the shadow of the tree behind which I was hiding, lengthened to fall over the sandwich.

It was now or never.

I made my dash!

I had it in my sites!

The ground was thoroughly trampled, the grass pressed smooth, easy for my small legs to run on.  I was growing nearer... nearer...!  The normals hadn't turned, hadn't seen me....!

When, out of nowhere, a concrete wall thudded onto the grass right in front of me.  I slammed into it with enough force to send me reeling back onto my butt with a cry!

As I fell back, I saw that my concrete wall was not a wall at all.  It was the side of a normal’s chunk-heeled sandal!

What I had failed to notice, I realized as my head spun, was a normal who had been sitting on a nearby picnic table - she sitting on its top, her feet on the table’s far seat.  Well, I had known she was there, but her back had been turned and she was listening to her iPod and reading from a book.  She had apparently decided right at the moment I decided to make my dash, to turn around on the table and join her friends.

I froze.  The normal froze.  We froze together; our eyes locked.

...and the normal didn't kill me.

The first thing one sees when one is lying on their back on trampled grass, staring up the side of the leg of a normal who towers over you eight times your own height, or a relative sixty-five to seventy feet over you, is a normal.  You don't immediately distinguish between male or female, age, hair color, what the normal is wearing or anything.  You see only the height of the normal, its towering mass standing directly over you, and its ability, without a thought, to outright extinguish you.

When it became apparent that the normal was just as shocked as I was, however, and that it didn't intend to immediately kill me, I began see the normal for what it was, beyond that of just being a potentially micro-murdering normal.

The normal was a woman.  Her face had the smoothness of young adulthood.  Her hair was a wavy blond.  She wore ankle-length jeans and a tie-in-front top - the kind that leaves the wearer's midriff exposed.  She was wearing chunky heeled sandals on her feet - which were a kind of an off-gray, off-white (hence my impact-addled belief that I had collided with a suddenly appearing wall of concrete).  She was a vision straight from Woodstock.  She was a student, obviously - but not the kind of drug-hazed hippie that the “Woodstock” comparison immediately brings to mind.  With her wavy blond hair tied back in a neat pony tail, a look of insouciant forthrightness she had, she had a look about her of a student who liked to express her libertarianism, but who also took her college courses seriously.

I took in this towering giantess standing over me, frozen in terror.  When one was at the mercy of a titaness as I was, terror is the only thing which one (if they are not utterly fucking stupid) experiences.

But then, my terror started to be replaced by a sense of relief, and by a sudden... giddiness.  She was... delighted by having found me!  Her face had split in a smile of delight, her eyes widening with it.

I started to allow myself the luxury of sagging in relief, when from the group of normals that I had been watching, came, "Lisa?  What do you have there?"

Immediately, my normal stooped, scooped me up and jammed me down into one of her pants pockets!

"Nothing," I heard her reply.  She chuckled.  "Someone dropped a fiver."

I wriggled myself into some semblance of comfort in the confines of her pocket.  It was tight in here!

"Cool," another one of the other normals said.  "Are you coming to the party tonight?"

"Nah," my normal replied.  "I've got a ton of laundry to get done and a thesis for class to get started on."

A small round of protests began from the other normals.  It went back and forth for a few minutes, the others trying to convince my normal to join them.  But at last, with hugs and laughter, the others left, leaving my normal alone.

With me.

She took me from her pocket.  Her hand was smooth and cool.  She held me up under the light of a nearby light pole.  It had gotten the rest of the way dark out.

"Wow," she said, delighted.  "I knew you guys were around, but I never thought to find one of you!"

"Well," I said, shrugging, sitting in the palm of her hand, overwhelming giddiness battling in me over a terror which was reluctant to let go.  I was still, after all, at the mercy of a normal who could still very easily kill me.

Her face was occluded in shadows, the light from the pole lamp above, casting a halo around her head, her blond hair a lovely nimbus in its light.  Though her face was dark, I could nonetheless tell that she wore an enchanted expression.  The terror the animal part of my brain had been so doggedly holding onto, was at last beginning to let go.

"We're real, all right,” I said, shrugging and smiling up at her.  “And apparently I'm one of them."

She appeared to enjoy my cheekiness enormously.

I knew I was about to become her pet, right then, and for life.

This brought a huge calm to me.  I realized as I sat there in the palm of her hand that my life of making mad dashes for discarded bits of food were forever over.  I would no longer need to fear birds, spiders, cats, dogs or any other predator.  I was about to embark on a life of safety, plenty and of being completely cared for.

"Well," she went on, chuckling softly at my cheekiness.  "What do you think of the idea of becoming my pet?"

I almost cheered.  And I was utterly giddy with the sense of the new life that I was about to embark on.

"Well," I said, barely able to speak.  "I think I would like that.  A lot."

It was the complete truth.

However, there was a nagging guilt I had about accepting her offer.

In the community of littles, it was the ultimate betrayal to our kind to become the pet of a normal.  We were supposed to fight for our food, to live on our own ingenuity, our own hard work, our bravery.  We were supposed stand up for ourselves.  We were supposed to uphold our dignity.

Pure bullshit.  It was pure dogma borne of pure, stupid fucking jealousy.  Those who were without caring, tender and doting masters, were jealous of those who had them.  And for that, we were all supposed to do our best to elude or escape from normals who offered this “demeaning” life to us.

But why not have a master who would feed you everyday?  Why not have a special, caring someone who would ensure that you stayed happy, safe and well cared for?

Every little had a secret wish that they could one day be taken as beloved pets by normal people.  Those who preached to the contrary, were just plain and simple assholes.

I dismissed the guilt as if waving off an annoyingly buzzing fly (and realizing just how apt an “annoying fly” analogy about the dogma was).

“I would love to be your pet,” I said up to her.  And I meant it from the very bottom of my hammering heart.  I had gotten up in her palm, too, and moved to her thumb and hugged it - hugging it like I was hugging her.

My normal, my new master, beamed happily down upon me.  It was a moment of happiness that I could have never previously wished for.

And with it decided, Lisa took me to her apartment.

Chapter 2

Lisa set me on her dining room table.  As she did, she kicked her “concrete” sandals off under the table and padded barefoot over to her refrigerator.

“No dogs or cats?” I called up to her worriedly.

Household pets were a big worry for us micros.

“Nope!” Lisa answered cheerily.  Ducking into the fridge and rooting around, she then asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Sure!” I said truthfully.  “Starving!”

Presently, Lisa set a saucer on the table for me, with a small piece of cured ham on it.  Along with the ham on the saucer, was a bit of Colby cheese, a cracker that had been broken into several jagged pieces for me, and a small puddle of mustard.

I began eating immediately.  I had been without food for a whole day and a night, before spying that bit of sandwich in the park (hence my desperation to get to it).

Filling a water bottle cap with water for me, Lisa set it by my saucer and then sat down and rested her chin on her folded forearms to watch me eat.

“I never got a dog or a cat,” she said.  She smiled at me as I looked up.

Her eyes were a lovely dark blue.  I immediately became captivated by them.

“Because I have always wanted a micro.”

Cutely, her lovely face bounced on her forearms as she spoke.

I stopped eating.  A bit of cheese dipped in mustard halfway to my mouth, I stared at her.

“Really?” I said, blinking at her, truly surprised.

“Yep,” she said - her smile giving her already lovely face a truly beautiful radiance.

*****

That night, a new level - the first of many - was reached between Lisa and me.

She gave me a bath in her wash basin.  It was probably the most erotic thing, to that point in my life that I had ever experienced.

Her hands were so silky soft.  She was gentle and tender in the most astonishing of ways.

Using no-more-tears shampoo, she had held me in her large hands and gently lathered me up - washing me in her hands how you imagine one lathering up their hands with a bar of soap.  I was sensuously mashed around by her gentle fingers and palms, utterly unable to do anything but be handled by her as she washed my little, naked form.

I experienced a raging orgasm in her gentle hands - which she seemed to have never noticed.  How she hadn’t noticed, I couldn’t fathom.  There was no way she could have failed to notice my pounding erection as she lathered me all around, and that I was groaning and gasping out for breaths from within all that soap.  But if she did notice, she appeared to not care.  Or, rather, she may have enjoyed doing it to me.  She honestly came off as the kind of person who had that kind of sweetness in her.

Then, it became obvious that she had indeed done it deliberately, and had very much enjoyed doing it, too.

As she rinsed me, she tittered delightedly, her pretty face beaming down at me.  She brought me to her lips and gave the side of my face a little (well, huge actually) kiss.

“You’re fun to give a bath to,” she announced, snickering, then hugged me to her cheek.

Then holding me out in her palm again (me blushing furiously and trying to hide the remnant of my erection), “Don’t run off, now,” she cooed down at me and then stooped.  “I’m going to get my shower, and then we’ll go to bed.”

Setting me on the towel she was standing on, in front of her feet, she gave me a little nudge with the side of one of her big toes and then stepped over me and towards the shower.

I was left alone on the towel.  As I heard her turn on the shower, I looked down at her footprints in the towel.  And as I did, a true realization of just how huge she was to me began to sink down into the very depths of my soul.

I began to study her footprints, wondering at the realization they had given me.

Already, I knew of course, how much larger my new master was to me.  She was six or eight times my height, and weighed several dozens of times more than me.  Several hundred dozen, if the truth be really told.  With a thought, with her great size and weight advantage over me, she could do with me whatever she pleased.  Why then, had looking at her footprints had this effect on me?

The sound of my new master taking her shower becoming a backdrop to my thoughts, I began to ponder this.

The footprints were ordinary enough.  Besides a few variations, they looked exactly like the footprints I left, if substantially larger.  She had somewhat higher arches than I had.  Her feet were more slender than the masculine feet I had.  The soles of her feet were probably a lot softer than mine - but besides those minor differences, her feet were just like my feet.  The hugeness of her footprints when compared to me was definitely a factor in the effect that they had over me, but why her footprints - simple impressions that her weight had left in the towel?

Nevertheless, despite me being unable to understand why they were having the effect they were having on me, her footprints were having an effect on me.

Curious to explore the phenomenon further, I got up and moved to the footprint left by her right foot.  Stooping, I pressed the palm of my hand into the impression left by her big toe.  It was large enough for me to fit my hand down into, with inches (at my scale) to spare - my fingers completely spread in its impression.

Again rose the conundrum of my awareness of her size over me, and my fixation on the size of her footprints, and the fact that there was no real discernable difference in between my awareness of the two.

I thought about this.

As she had stepped into the shower, I remembered watching her feet as she lifted them over the rim of her tub and into the shower.  I remembered thinking about how soft the soles of her feet looked.  Mostly though, I had been aware of just how large she was and how... what?

It hit me.

As I had watched her lift her feet over the rim of her tub, I had wondered fleetingly what it would feel like to be stepped on by her bare feet.  It had been a fleeting thought, one that I had dismissed immediately as a wandering (and foolish) musing; but the thought had nonetheless had an impact on me.

And a deep one, apparently.

Slowly, gulping down a new trepidation, I stretched myself out into the impression left by her other foot.  The trepidation was mostly coming from a worry about her stepping suddenly out of the shower, and discovering me laying in her footprints.  But another large part of the trepidation was the fact the power that deciding to lie down in the footprint had begun to have over me, the moment that I had decided to do it.

Suddenly, the shower turned off.  In the next instant, Lisa had thrown back the shower curtain.  Reaching then for a towel from a rack on the wall, she paused and smiled down at me.

“Still there?” she said with a giggle.  Apparently not taking notice that I was lying in one of her footprints, she attacked her hair with the towel, and stepped out of the shower.  Pausing though, she chuckling down at me again, she asked, “That towel I comfy, isn’t it?”

Apparently, she was assuming that that was my reasons for still being on the towel she had left me on.  If she only knew.

My mind raced as I watched her dry herself - which she did right over top me, apparently completely unconcerned about displaying her nakedness to me.

She did have a lovely body.  She wasn’t exceptionally tall for a normal.  She was stout and compact, with good muscle tone, firm if somewhat small breasts, and she had a smooth shapeliness about her than just about any man would find instantly appealing.  She was a very good looking young woman.

Finally, she was wrapping her towel around her torso and stepping towards me.  Moreover, which had an impact on me that I could never have ever before imagine, she said down to me as she approached, “Better move, buster, or you might get stepped on!”  And then, before I could even think about moving, she had stepped right onto the towel with me - her feet planting right on either side of me with thumps which completely compressed the towel into brand new prints of her feet.

In that moment, if I were most men (which I usually considered myself as being), I would have stared up in awe at the incredible view that she was granting me of her crotch.  Far above me, in between her very smooth thighs, was her bush nested in alluring darkness beneath her towel.  But I wasn’t looking up at that.  I had turned my head first to the right, then to the left, to stare at her feet as she had planted them on either side of me!

It occurred to me as I had done this, that any observer would have rightly decided that me doing that would have resulted from a fear reaction.  Tons of feet trampling all around you, the fear of being stomped on... an easy assertion to make - and about most in my situation, an accurate one.  Except for me, it wouldn’t be.

Suddenly, Lisa’s head appeared from over her towel, she taking a small step back to grin down at me, my thoughts exploding away.

“Do you want to be stepped on?” she asked in bemusement.

In return, I could only stare back up at her, my stomach knotted and my breath refusing to work.

Her smile faded.  I must have looked like I had been frightened out of my mind by the way she had trod onto the towel with me like that.

Abruptly, she had stooped and was reaching for me with gentle fingers - reaching to gently scoop me up.  Instead of taking me up though, she gently touched my chest and gave me a tender little stroke.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her wet hair falling about her face in river-like waves.  “I scared you, didn’t I?”

I, for the span of an instant, stared back up at her, horrorstricken.  She had scared me??  My apparent fear was now scaring her.  She was worried out of her mind that she had just frightened me half to death!  This honest-to-god sweet woman was going into a state of worry because she thought that she had just annihilated the trust her very first micro pet was starting to have for her!  Moreover, this woman was so sweet, that she would worry greatly over destroying trust that anybody had in her!

The guilt I felt over this was crushing.  Tears leapt instant to my eyes.  Then, before she could get the wrong idea about the tears (which would only add weight to her fears about what she believed she had done), I quickly stammered out, “Oh no, Mistress!  I... I--“.  And then broke off, completely unable to finish, complete humiliation constricting my throat.

I hadn’t needed to finish the sentence though - telling her what I had been lying there fantasizing about.  She was a smart woman.

Very smart.

She had blinked as my stammer had come to such an obviously humiliated end.  Her expression then betrayed that she knew - not what, immediately, but with absolute surety now that she had not frightened me, and that there was something very much else.

She looked at me curiously, and then her eyes began to take in where I had been lying.  Then, they flicked to her feet.  And then, a small smile completely erased any lingering worry from her pretty face.

And then she showed me just exactly how smart she really was.

“Do you want me to step on you?” she asked me with a very sweet and reassuring softness.

Absolutely dumbstruck, and in utter awe of how she had just worked out what I had been doing and thinking, and especially that she was okay with it, I could only stare completely poleaxed back up at her.

Unphased by my obvious inability to answer her, her smile grew.  “You might be crushed,” she teased me softly.  “Are you really sure you want me to?”

Her lovely eyes, they were so direct, held me with a complete clarity.  She knew I wanted her to, knew that I knew she would if I asked her to.  In that moment, held under her stare, a very powerful sense of synergy with my new mistress gripped me.

There is powerful joy in making another person happy.  It is a constant in any interaction between people.  It was something too, which was ingrained in Lisa’s makeup so completely, that I knew that anything I could ever desire, she would take great joy in making possible for me - basking in the joy she was able to bring me, by being able to be the person who brought another person that much joy.

God, it was such an overwhelmingly powerful realization for me that real tears came to my eyes and began literally pouring down my cheeks.  Not only was my life as a little over, but it had ended in the company of this absolutely golden hearted woman - this beautiful woman with whom I was now going to be spending the rest of a very joyful life.

“Y-yes!  Mistress!” I said back up to her.  My throat was so constricted by joyful sobs, I had barely been able to answer.  In response, Lisa nodded her head down at me, and then rose from her crouch to stand over me.

She was going to step on me.

And then she did step on me.

Chapter 3

Her lovely foot, as soft as I could ever imagine it being, bent down over me with her full, incredibe weight.  The downward crush her weight put on me, right then and there, completely stopped me from breathing.  With her soft toes mashed down over the side of my head, the ball of her foot over my chest, her soft heel pressing down over my lower legs and feet, she had - at once - shifted what felt like her entire weight over onto me.  When she did, a purple warmth rose to immediately explode through my whole body.

I orgasmed helplessly beneath her, the softness of her foot holding me completely dominated beneath her great weight.  And then her foot was off of me, and then I faintly remember being gently scooped up, and then blissfully passing out in the warm cup of her hands.

I awoke to intense soreness through the whole of my body.  Trying to move, I groaned.  I ached all over.  And then it all came back to me - the reason why I was sore, and what had happened last night.

My eyes popped open.

Darkness.  Warmth.  And a feeling of absolute security.  I was under a large blanket.  I was lying on smooth skin.  The skin slowly rose and fell beneath me.  I realized in short order that she had taken me to bed with her, and had tucked me down under the blanket, and on her belly, before she had fallen asleep with me.

She began to stir.  A moment later, she lifted the blanket and looked underneath it.  Our eyes met.

She smiled.

I did too.

“I have to get to work on my thesis,” she said.  She yawned.  It was cute on her face.  Her smile returned.  “I imagine you’ll be wanting some breakfast,” she asserted.  She grinned.  “Or would you rather spend the morning under my feet?”

That produced a furious blush from me, and a positively evil cackle from her.  Then the next thing I knew, I was being dumped from her belly, shoved downwards by her hand - then from which her very soft foot caught me, and then I was being playfully mashed into the sheets beneath both of them at the foot of her bed!

But then, just as quickly, she had rolled out of bed, the covers tossed and she had picked me up to snug me in against her cheek.

“You. my little pet,” she announced with me against her cheek.  “Are a complete foot obsessive!”  And then she was padding off towards the kitchen, me held snugly against her warm belly by her very secure and gentle hand.

And what was odd about it, was that I was.  I was a, I realized, a complete foot obsessive!

It was odd because I hadn’t ever really given much thought to anyone’s feet before last night.  I had admired a few peoples feet.  When you are a micro who lives and wanders around Central Park, you see a lot of bare feet.  People walk around in Central Park in their bare feet a lot.  But instead of admiring the feet, I had always been careful to avoid them, and especially the people who had been passing by on them.  When one fears discovery, one has little time to think about things that might or might not be interesting.  There had been a few though that I stopped to admire.  There was always the odd woman or man who I had run across lying on a bench or who was stretched out on a towel under the sun, who were doing so in their bare feet.

That struck an odd thought: could I enjoy being stepped on by a man as much as I had enjoyed Lisa doing it?

At any rate, I had never really given much thought to why I had admired the feet that I had admired.  Their structures, maybe?  The care their owners had taken of them, perhaps?  There had been, I had to admit, the occasional flirting with the thought of setting myself to be stepped on by someone barefoot.  But the fear of what the normal would do after they had stepped on me, quickly quashed such musings.  But realizing that I had had such thoughts, brought me to realize that I indeed probably had a fetish for feet.  Realizing this, I realized that the only reason that it hadn’t really taken hold on my conscious thoughts before now, was the fact that I was living life as a wild animal.  If one is a mouse, in other words, one does not muse over how pretty the cat is.

And that was an entirely fitting analogy.

In any case, Lisa had set me on the table along with my thoughts.

Upon doing so, she padded to the coffee maker and got started on getting it going.  As she did, I watched her.

“Lisa?” I suddenly asked her.

She turned to regard me, smiling amused query at me.

“Is it normal, you think, to want to be crushed beneath some large’s foot?”

She raised a brow.

Returning her attention to getting her coffee maker going, she said, “I don’t know.”  A few moments then stretched on in silence as she finished with the coffee maker.  At last she turned and leaned back against her counter, regarding me.

“Did you like it?” she countered.

I blushed.  She nodded, grinning.

“Then I would say that it was all right.”

Hoping to prompt her for a more in depth explanation, I asked, “Really?”

She nodded at me again.

“I am a psychology student,” she told me.  “More specifically, my focus of study is human behavior.”

I nodded to show that she had my attention, eagerly prompting her to continue.

She clucked.  “The short of what I am quickly learning, is that too much of society places too much emphasis on restricting giving ourselves over to indulging in what we like.”  She rolled her eyes.  “People are like, all wrapped up in presenting masks to the world, showing everyone how proper and prim they are, and all sorts of other nonsense like that.”  She coughed, making very clear her feelings about that.  “But there is a time and a place for that.  Sure, in the work place, or in school, people are expected to behave appropriately.  But when lovers are enjoying each other, it is just insane to put barriers up to what we want.”  She looked pointedly at me, a radiant smile on her face.  “If you like my feet and like for me to step on you, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”  She shrugged.  “It is what you like.”  Then she beamed.

I blushed, hotly.

It made her beam at me all the more.  “And I am perfectly happy to do it for you all you want.  But.”  She held up a finger, giving me a cautioning look.  “I will not hurt you.  If you ask me to do that, I will stop, and I will refuse to step on you again - at least until you can assure me that me hurting you is not something you’re hoping to coax me into doing for you.  I will never intentionally hurt you - no matter how much you think you might want it.”

I was blushing furiously up at her, knew that I was, but my mind was racing furiously.  Did I want her to hurt me?  Was I hoping to be able to get her to hurt me?  Did I have fantasies about her one day trampling me to death... beneath her....  My eyes had wandered down to her bare feet.

...her cute toes and exquisitely soft soles?

And for the life of me, I realized with shame, that I had a fantasy that she would.

But no, that wasn’t right; I didn’t want her to hurt me.  What I wanted, fantasized about, was her completely dominating me.

She had raised a brow at me.  Apparently, my face was betraying the intensity of my reflections.

Slowly, I said, “I do want to be stepped on by you.”  I chose my words carefully.  “I want...”  My mind sought desperately for the right words.  “To... be.... dominated by you?” I finished hopefully.  “Completely?”

Both of her brows had risen.

For a moment, I thought I had revealed too much, and what I had revealed had been off-putting to her.

But then, making my heart suddenly race, she asked, “Really?”

Dumbly, poleaxed by how open she was about this stuff, I nodded at her.

“All right,” she said slowly.  “If you are sure you want that, I will be happy to try it with you.  But be warned.”  She was holding up the cautionary finger again.  “Be sure that it is something that you really want.”

The thought of giving myself over that completely to her, had me feeling numb inside, and my insides feeling as though they were right then, being constricted by the full weight of her foot.

“I do want it,” I was then able to manage - my words barely coming out, my throat greatly restricted by what I felt.  I felt foolish, but also completely unable to keep from doing what I found myself doing next.

With tears streaming down my small cheeks, I had gotten to my knees.  My head bowed, I sobbed softly, “I want nothing more than to be able to spend my entire life beneath your feet.”

She had become completely still.  The stillness stretched on for so long, too, that I lifted my head to look up at her - afraid again that I had put her off with all of this foolishness.

Instead of any expression of scorn, though, nor any expressions of ridicule or sickened dismissal, I found on her lovely face, an expression of contemplative fascination.  Also, there was a dawning certainty in her eyes - as if she was slowly working out for herself, how my request might be accomplished.

Then, “I’ll have to give how we’ll go about doing this some thought,” she said - her face still partially lost in contemplation.  But brightening suddenly, she gave me a shrug.  “But I am pretty sure we’ll be able to figure something out.  In the mean time, buster...”

Straightening from the counter suddenly, she strode purposefully over to the table and snatched me up.  She wasn’t rough with me, but she hadn’t been particularly gentle with picking me up, either.  After snatching me up, she stooped and deposited me on the floor - and right in front of her feet.  And then she gave me a decidedly ungentle prod with the big toe of her right foot - sending me sprawling back onto my butt.

“For now, until we do work it out, your place is on the floor.  You will follow me around where ever I go, and always do your best to keep up.  If you’re good, and don’t bug me too much, or make me trip over you, I will occasionally give you a good trampling into a pillow or something.”

With that, she roughly pulled out one of the table’s chairs and plopped down into it.  The screeching sound the chair made on the linoleum floor as she pulled it out, was awful.  And then, she quite literally slapped her right foot down on top of me.

Then putting a good amount of pressure on me, she said, “And when I am sitting down, from now on, you are under my feet cleaning them.”  The sole of her foot had picked up grit from the floor, the weight-bearing undersurfaces of it coarse with it.  “You want to spend the rest of your life beneath my feet?”  She let up a little.  “Then you’ll earn it.”

With that, her foot was taken off of me, and then she was up and walking back to her coffee maker.  “But that, little man, will wait until after we have had something to eat.”

Chapter 4

That was the first of the new levels I had reached with Lisa.

For two days, whenever she was seated, on was on my back beneath one of her feet, doing my best to brush off the worst of the grit her sole had picked up from her walking around barefoot, and licking clean where I had swept off the grit.  When I wasn’t doing that, I was always following her around, where ever her needs or carefree whims took her in the apartment.

It was a development that we had both fallen easily into stride with, too (if you’ll pardon the pun).  It amazed me how easily we had both fallen into it, and apparently amazed her as much as it did me.  Having me constantly at her feet, was as novel to her, as being at her feet was novel for me.  Nonetheless, we had quickly fallen into the rhythm of it as if we’d both been doing it our whole lives. But there it was: we had both grown that quickly used to it.

(To be Continued!)