Sam Bennett leaned back in his chair with crossed arms, surveyed the half-empty courtroom, and breathed a sigh of relief. This one was in the bag.

He had to admit to himself: he was nervous for a minute there when Katelyn made such a ruckus out of his harmless office antics, especially after that outburst she had in the private counsel meeting. It was certainly bold of her to admit in front of everyone that Sam had “emotionally coerced” her into “offering physical pleasure with her legs, feet, and/or toes,” as she so eloquently put it, in exchange for business-related promises made implicitly. Frankly, she was only the third girl ever to complain to someone beyond HR about his foot-flavored predilections, and those first two cases were both settled out of court, of course from someone else’s pocket; Sam was too important to the organization to be bothered with actual consequences, and he knew it. That especially was what made him so confident as he sat beside his puppet of a lawyer, Rachel Morrow, and stared hungrily at her feet below the table while they awaited the judge to return and throw the case out.

The woman definitely wasn’t Sam’s first mental image of the lawyer-type. She was intense, certainly, but there was also an adorable rebelliousness tucked away in there somewhere, as well as a dose of feminine softness, neither of which were befitting the legal profession. A slender brunette with dark wavy hair, gleaming black nail polish, pert breasts, and pouty lips, Rachel was definitely lovely above the belt, but as usual, Sam’s first check-in gaze was down south. There he found nylons so sheer they were nigh-invisible, which complimented glossy midnight pumps. He was lucky; Rachel’s attention was focused on the bench, leaving her vulnerable to wandering eyes. And at this proximity to those svelte legs encased in shimmering nude stockings, he couldn’t help but ogle.

With her toned right thigh crossed over the left knee, Rachel’s foot hovered above the marbled tile of the courtroom. After a few minutes of midair idling, the leather cusp of the shoe’s back clopped loose from the smooth curve of her heel. Suspended at the pointed tip from her toes, the woman’s elegant arch emerged from the shadow of the shoe. She bobbed; her toes propelled the shoe up and down, bouncing the loose footwear.

Still, Rachel’s attention was focused intently on the throne. Perfect. Sam leaned back an inch further in his chair, giving him a clearer view of the artistic dangle. He could see the thread line of the stocking running down the supple calf, over the hill of the heel, under the lope of the curvaceous sole, and disappearing into the valley created between her heel opening and ped’s underbelly.

“C’mon,” Sam mouthed silently. “Little lower. Let’s see it. Please?”

As if by divine intervention, the heel slid lower in accordance with his wish, until it hung like a Christmas ornament from Rachel’s big toe. Almost all was revealed. Her sole buckled methodically, scrunching the wrinkled slab through the nude nylon, the shadows of the inner heel flashing across the shining fabric. Through the ghostly filter of the stocking, Sam could make out the fogging of the flesh tone, from rosy pink to muted yellow, then back again.

A door opened, and the judge re-entered the hall. Sam knew the resigned look on that face. The pre-emptive glower of defeat was evident in his screechy opposition Katelyn, as well her silent siren of a lawyer: August, he was pretty sure her name was, though who cared?

He leaned back forward in his chair to ensure his tenting pants were concealed, though given the power-trip high of getting cleanly off the hook yet again, he wasn’t sure he’d have minded if Rachel saw his bulge or not. In fact, if this wasn’t the final time they had any reason to meet, it was entirely possible he might’ve inched his way into her good graces for an eventual footjob from those languid arches and silky stockings. She looked like the type who’d agree if it meant a promised boost for her career. The judge’s gavel came down, and with that, Sam Bennett was a free man.

Or so he thought.

Rachel bunched her toes and rolled her sole, slapping the elegant shape of her foot back inside the pump. Technically, she’d won the case, at least as far as public record was concerned; no-doubt she could look forward to some hearty unearned congratulations later on. She should feel glad. Instead, she only felt remorse and poisonous moral entrapment. This wasn’t a victory for her, but for ethical corruption.

After Katelyn’s tearful testimony in the private counsel, the charges leveled against Mr. Bennett were so extreme and specific, even Rachel was seriously doubting anything her own client had said was truthful. So, she had to test for herself.

All it took was a few minutes of dangling her shoe from her foot like a carrot on a stick, and Rachel knew she was on the wrong side of right. Even when he thought he was being secretive, Sam bore his macho man’s-man arrogance proudly. He wasn’t at all shy about studying her exposed foot, nor about letting his fly prick up. Rachel felt ill during the en masse exit from the courthouse, especially as she felt Sam’s eyes still glued to her confident gait. The slimy weasel had just been told by the American judicial system that he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, and use women and their feet as disposable playthings.

This wasn’t why she went to law school. Even as a little girl, Rachel dreamed of earning comeuppance for wrongdoers, ensuring justice was dealt wherever it was required. Today, she had failed. That predatory bastard was out, and not only back on the streets, but continuing to climb the corporate ladder. But what else could she do? All night Rachel tossed in bed, wishing she had the answer.

In order to stave off the panic attack meltdown, Sam mentally retraced his steps. Nothing from his morning seemed out of the ordinary: He made coffee in his $900 grinder before leaving the penthouse, made a pit stop at his office high rise, and swung by the law offices of Gianna, Tessa, & Associates. There were just a couple formalities to sign away before the case involving Katelyn was over and done with. Ordinarily Sam wouldn’t bother showing up in person, but it didn’t hurt to establish good relations with a talented bunch of legal snakes for the inevitable next time they had to silence some screeching set of tits for him.

Plus, it would give him one last chance to glimpse Rachel’s feet beneath that crystal-glass desk. He hoped she was wearing something sheer and revealing which let her toes peep out the ends. Even more, he prayed she’d give him one last unintentional dangle-show, perhaps even going so far as to let those imprisoning pumps fall to the floor so her stockinged piggies could pet the floor. All of that tracked just fine, yet here Sam was, not two minutes after he was let into Rachel’s office waiting for her return, and his entire reality was thrown in a blender on high. Something had happened to him. He’d…

Shrunk.

That was the word for it, right? There was simply no other term to describe the sensation of finding oneself reduced to the height of a one-inch tinker toy on the abruptly vast field of shag carpet. His clothes, which remained fitted to his body, were the last tangible reminder of the known. Everything else around had expanded to hundreds of times its former scale, from the skyscraping leaves of the potted plant to the frosted glass fortress that was Rachel’s desk. Sam’s knees gave out and he sunk to his haunches, feeling on the clammy verge of passing out. The man sprawled like a lunk of floor lint between the metallic temple pillars of the chair. Had somebody spiked his coffee beans with the leftover mushrooms from the last company retreat?

Sam clutched his chest, wondering if he was having a stroke or a heart attack, though there was no pain or discomfort, save for his racing pulse. His body had merely plummeted to the size of a kitchen roach with no alteration to his health otherwise. If anything, he was more perturbed at the lack of headache or gastro-intestinal torment. That meant there was absolutely nothing to go on for explaining his bizarre circumstances.

“What the hell is this?” he roared, flinching at the pitiful squeak of his tiny voice. “Who did this? Whatever’s going on, it’s not funny!”

Before the miniature man could even think of whom he might place blame upon first, a more pressing matter appeared. The staggering blockade of the office door swung open on its hinges, and in walked Rachel Morrow.

While Sam recognized Rachel after a minute of neck-craning and gawk-eyed observation, he didn’t recognize her as a person first so much as a cataclysmic force of nature. Bowed on the floor like an insect, he was staring dead ahead at the battleship-sized monuments of Rachel’s glamorous heels. Her legs towered dizzingly above, her trim musculature sculpted by what Sam could only assume to be rigorous jogging and pilates routines. Closer down to his level, though, a pair of classy brown leather husks tautly cupped each of her shapely peds. A pair of clunky spike spires stabbed the ground with every stride. This was where his attention was now hopelessly ensnared, and for a far different reason than usual.

In any other situation of his life, Sam might watch those fashionable feet in the fragrant leather heels and spiders’ web nylon netting approaching, and immediately start drooling at the prospect of these beautiful peds slipping out of the shoes and wrapping their meaty selves around his cock. Now, there was only a horrified winnowing extracting his soul, like a drainpipe was opened at the bottom of his inch-tall person. Sam was absolutely terrified as he’d never been in his life. Piss trickled down his pant leg.

“Marsha, I thought you said he was already here?” Rachel boomed. Her thundercrack footfalls gave Sam epileptic jitters, but her voice in particular imbued fresh fear. Hearing distinctly human words projected out of that admittedly gorgeous albeit colossal body was almost so surreal it might have been funny if it wasn’t gut-wrenchingly scary.

“He went in there. Maybe he slipped out again while I was in the ladies’ room?” a voice echoed back from the hall, presumably Marsha the secretary who’d let Sam into Rachel’s office. “You want me to give him a ring?”

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll handle him,” Rachel declared. She shut the door softly behind, then marched across the room to her desk.

Even though he was safely out of the warpath, positioned as he was under the chair, Sam was still stricken by paranoia at the sight of those enormous shoes trampling nearer. He couldn’t believe what he was watching. The floor shuddered every time Rachel’s feet impacted the carpet, then made berth again to launch those powerful legs forward. As she walked past, each casual step covering distance that Sam couldn’t leap in two dozen, the shimmer of those famously naked nylons revolved around her supple calf muscles. In simultaneous awe and panic, Sam finally lifted himself up again and took tentative steps across the distant stretch of carpet toward the glass castle of the desk.

Rachel hummed a merry tune to herself as she took a seat in the black swivel chair, and adjusted her stylish glasses on the bridge of her nose. Her dark hair, tied back in a glossy ponytail, was tossed from one shoulder to the other as she scooped up the landline handset in her hand. Once she dialed, her gothic-hued fingernails tapped impatiently on the desktop.

The inch-tall man halted in his brief pilgrimage halfway under the desk. He was now faced with the direct sight of Rachel’s feet on the opposite end. All she’d have to do was swing the pendulum of just one foot, and he’d be punted into oblivion.

Twin milky-brown pointed shoe slopes bounced rhythmically on the carpet, counting out the beat of Rachel’s hummed song. Soft, subtle veins appeared along the smooth hills which formed the tops of her feet from the effort of rising and falling. The stockings wrinkled at the cusp where the heels’ openings intersected with Rachel’s pale yet peachy skin, tugging and stretching each time she made even the slightest of adjustments. Combined with her majestic shoes and glimmering stockings, Rachel’s feet were like machines unto themselves: great earth movers capable of cracking the planet’s crust with a strong enough stomp. Their allure matched their menace. Despite himself, Sam felt his crotch tightening, but his erection only wilted again once he recalled the context, and reminded himself that those gigantic feet he so admired were more than capable of squashing him into a crimson smear with one misplaced step.

“C’mon, c’mon. Pick up, asshole,” Rachel muttered to herself. “The whole goddamn universe doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Sam jumped at the sound of his own phone bleeping in his pocket. In the moment of relief, he swiped the phone out, deciding to keep from getting angry at the unfairness of his change until that slutty titaness got him the medical attention he desperately needed. He answered.

“Hello?” he croaked. Sam wasn’t usually a man who began phone calls with a hello, but this was a peculiar day.

“Mr. Bennett?” Rachel said, wearing a forced smile. Her tone changed instantly to professional mode. “Good morning. I just wanted to remind you about our nine o’clock appointment this morning to get those last i’s dotted and t’s crossed. Are you-”

“I’m here,” he whimpered, more meekly than he wanted. “I’m-”

“What?”

“I’m on your floor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look under your desk. I’m… down here.”

The line went silent, and Sam saw the entirety of Rachel’s massive body tensing up. Her calves flexed tight, and her shoes ceased their tapping pattern instantly. Then, setting the phone down, the giantess gripped the edge of the desk and cautiously poked her head underneath. Rachel’s gorgeous, billboard-scale countenance appeared, pinched with resentment for the man she’d just had to treat so kindly, and scanned the carpet. Those hazel eyes darted. She was about to give up on what was surely just an odd prank when Rachel’s gaze snagged on the thumb-sized man in his cute little suit, standing less than a foot away from her toes.

Sam was expecting a shriek from the woman, and pre-emptively covered his ears. And while Rachel’s jaw dropped, no shrill sound escaped, especially once she cupped her palm over her lips.

“Holy fucking Jesus,” Rachel slurred, batting her eyes, as if the mirage might be cleared away as easily as a speck of dust. She lifted her glasses up and down. In a flash, she’d slid out of her chair, crouching under the desk like a wildcat ready to pounce, despite the tight fitted cut of her business-formal top and skirt. Her palms flattened to the floor, her long fingers clawing at the carpet fibers, perhaps expecting the whole world to be flipped upside down at any second.

Sam pocketed his phone. He gulped, diverting his gaze away from Rachel’s looming valley of cleavage, and focused on her face as best he could. The intensity of her crackling irises and studious gaze made him blink, which was an unfamiliar sensation for Sam; generally it was him holding a stare until the other person, usually a woman with pretty feet, flinched. But then again, nothing this morning was going the regular way. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, from Sam’s perspective, Rachel Morrow now stood at an immodest sky-stretching height of four hundred feet tall.

“H-H…” Sam coughed. His throat went dry.

“What the hell is happening?” Rachel moaned, clutching her temple. Her fingers trembled. “What is this?”

“It’s me, Sam,” he replied, stupidly, but didn’t know where else to begin. “I’ve…”

“…Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know, just listen. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but I need you to-”

“This isn’t real. It can’t be.” Rachel’s breath grew shallower, turning to short huffs. Her breasts seemed to swell out of her top with each labored inhalation, then retract again. Those black-tipped fingernails pinched the side of her spectacles and pulled them off her face again.

“-I need you to get back on that phone and call, I don’t know, the damn paramedics or something. God, like they’ll be able to do anything. Just… stay back. Don’t touch me. I don’t think it would take much to… you know…” Sam ordered. Rachel was not moving fast enough for his liking, and his anxiety level was only rising higher.

Ignoring the shrunken complainer in the haze of her shock, Rachel reached an enormous hand forward, slender fingers clawed in preparation to grasp Sam. Startled, the man backpedaled, tripping over his legs, and fell on his butt. Hopelessly vulnerable, it took no effort for the pipsqueak to be overtaken first by shadow, then the pale palm flesh of his lawyer. The surprisingly cool, tender ceiling of skin coddled around Sam, the fingers curling around his back and collecting him into the creased center of the woman’s hand. Her fist closed, and she had him.

His sensibilities at last catching up to reality, Sam let rip a pitiful roar. He sounded like a petulant toddler, and he knew it. He beat his fists and shins against the all-encompassing cocoon formed of the woman’s closed hand. A scented fog of vanilla lotion clouded his senses. There was no fighting the strength of that hand, even closed as gently as it was, without the intention of breaking him. A simple tightening of the knuckles, and the inch-tall man would surely scrunch into a gutsy mess.

When the fingers unfurled again, Sam found himself much higher in the air, as Rachel had crawled back into her swivel and hunched over the desk to keep herself from becoming woozy. He sprawled in her open palm, far closer to her titanic face than before. Momentarily, he was struck by the finer details of her countenance now made apparent: the slight curve of her dimples leftover from adolescence, a few little laugh line wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and even a couple of scattered freckles so faint they only became apparent at this proximity.

Her skin, pale yet rosy, was almost luminescent. That chocolate-brown hair shimmered. Her plush lips pursed into a pillowy centerpoint, unintentionally blowing warm air in a steady stream, fragrant of mint chewing gum and a hint of herbal tea. She really was startlingly beautiful, even if it was usually shielded behind her overly professional exterior and modest accessorizing. All those assets, especially her knockout legs and mouth-watering feet, were hidden from the world; it was almost a crime.

Of course, in this moment, Sam was far more focused on yipping at the top of his lungs.

“What in the HELL do you think you’re doing? You could’ve broken my legs!” Sam shouted, jumping up and down, hammering his fists. All the while, his rage only slightly jiggled the soft skin of Rachel’s palm each time he stomped his miniscule shoes. “Didn’t you hear what I said? DON’T touch me! Just put me down and get someone on the line.”

Had Sam not been frothing at the mouth mid-rant, he might have noticed the glaze passing over Rachel’s eyes. A curious calm overtook her, replacing the momentary indecision upon discovering her dickwad of a client reduced to an inch tall beneath her desk. In those eyes, there swirled the recognition of newfound power, even opportunity, though Sam had no way of noticing.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and before Sam could turn around to loudly request aid, Rachel’s fingers curled over in a tidal wave of elegant digits, this time cupping Sam tighter than before to her palm. Bound down, his screams were silenced by the padding of vanilla-flavored skin all around. She was careful not to squeeze, but not a sound escaped her hand.

“Rachel?” Marsha the receptionist said. “Did you get ahold of Mr. Bennett?”

“Oh… um… no, not yet. I’ll try his phone again in a few minutes,” Rachel replied. While uncertain at first, her lie grew more confident by the end. “I got a busy signal the first time.”

“All right, then. I’ll buzz you if I see him out here.”

Astounded, Sam resumed his useless assault on the woman’s hand. What the hell did she think she was doing? If Rachel was so incapable of listening to basic instructions and calling 911, maybe that other woman would instead. He had to get out. Sam even attempted biting by wrapping his jaw into the heftiest skin crease he could fit, but the nibbling did nothing to loosen the coiled walls. When the giantess’s hand reopened, the door was shut and they were alone again.

“Now you listen to me,” Sam snarled. He dusted himself off, ruffling his mussed hair, and pointed an accusing finger up at the gigantic, serene face of his lawyer. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but nobody’s laughing. You’re going to put me down slowly, then get back on that phone and call nine-one-fucking-one. Capiche?”

The man stumbled for a second as he planted his foot up on the rounded heel of Rachel’s hand like it was a beast he’d slain, when in fact that same appendage had just easily constrained him via the mere curling of fingers. There was no change in the giant woman’s staid expression.

“Hey. Lady,” Sam blurted. He snapped his fingers. “I said, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course I understand, Mr. Bennett,” Rachel said, breaking from her reverie. “But just before I do that, I’m going to need some fresh air. I apologize if you find this uncomfortable.”

“What? No, don’t you dare-” Sam’s latest complaints were silenced when Rachel’s opposite hand arose to the level of her platformed palm. The pads of her index finger and thumb cinched slowly around his sides, grappling with the mini-man’s hips and lifting him up easier than a feather. Then, holding him delicately above her breast pocket, the woman released her fingers, allowing him to slide roughly but safely down the brief fabric incline into the pouch. The flap overhead was tucked down, sealing him inside, with only the steady rhythm of Rachel’s increased heartbeat through the layers to affirm for Sam that, yes, his very own lawyer had just dropped him in her blouse pocket like a stray button.

Rachel power-walked through the halls of Gianna, Tessa, & Associates. She needed air. Her pulse quickened again, as with each long stride, she felt the puny mass of the little man in her pocket bouncing against her breast through the blouse. Her cheeks warmed, and she sped up her pace, practically bursting out into the courtyard. Alone out in the foliage which adjoined the segments of the office, she leaned on the nearest cold brick wall to catch her breath.

This was happening. For real. She actually had Sam Bennett, the high-powered sniveling foot-perv she’d been finagled into defending despite his guilt, stowed in her clothes. As far as she could tell, no one suspected where he’d gone; Marsha didn’t think twice about him having slipped away. There were no security cameras in this part of the building to track his entrance or exit, and as she’d learned from the casework, he didn’t often drive his luxury car, preferring taxis, so no pedestrians could vandalize his property.

In essence, the man had dropped off the face of the earth without a trace, right into her hands. So what was Rachel to do about it?

Throughout her life, the woman had been taught to do the just thing. Her parents drilled morals into her, as did her schoolteachers and peers. She’d chosen law as a profession specifically to make a difference in the world of right and wrong. Yet here she was, party to a situation where a man escaped all consequence not because he was innocent, but because his pockets were deep. She’d never felt more lost.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel spotted a flash of fiery hair, belonging to one of the recently hired paralegals. Larissa, she was pretty sure her name was. A young woman of no more than twenty-two, with her ginger tresses and pearlescent freckled skin, she was a vision of grace and poise, yet possessed a steeliness that would someday make her a formidable courtroom opponent.

Larissa sat on the edge of a picnic table, playing with her cell phone, and swinging her bare legs over the side. While her fingers twirled through her hair, one of her slip-on loafers started to slide away from her lithe foot. Though Rachel couldn’t explain her fascination, her gaze was drawn from across the courtyard to the crevice of space between the girl’s soft, youthful instep and the rubbery mouth of the shoe. In the shade between, Rachel spotted a shape. She couldn’t be certain of what she saw, and as soon as Larissa’s sole slapped back inside the footwear, the illusion was ended. But there was no removing the image from Rachel’s mind: there was a tiny person in there.

Dipping her stocking-clad foot out of her own heel, Rachel peered inside at the worn-out insole. This pair of brown pumps had seen better days, and weren’t the most fashionable pair available, but they were comfortable, and Rachel felt secure and powerful when she wore them, even if they made her ankles sore after eight hours. She crossed her foot over her knee, standing on one leg like a crane, and examined her sole. The creamy, furrowed skin caught shallow ripples of the gossamer-thin nude nylon. Arcing her toes in tandem, she stretched out the fabric, then watched it tighten back against her skin. Rachel no longer saw an ordinary shoe, nor an object that represented her foot: she saw promise and potential. Instruments of justice. A chance to correct the perversion of ethics she was forced to witness before.

Rachel knew what she had to do.

“About time, you psycho. I swear, all you lawyers are like this, taking your time like the whole world stops for you,” Sam scowled as he was withdrawn from Rachel’s pocket between her bunched fingertips. “Where the hell are the paramedics?”

            “They’re not coming,” Rachel responded. Her voice echoed softly within the bounds of her office.

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means we have some things to get straight first.”

            “This is not a debate.”

            “Actually, it is. Do you know why?”

            “I’m dying to hear.”

            “Because I am much, much bigger than you. And until I decide you’ve earned the right to discuss your situation, let alone go free, you are in my custody. Capiche?” Rachel’s voice deepened, the boom of it resonating in Sam’s bones.

            This shut him up. The man rolled onto his side in Rachel’s cupped palm, and felt the fear returning like a split dam. The same nervous revere he’d experienced upon first seeing the woman’s statuesque body, propelled by her sixty-foot-long shoes, coursed adrenaline through his limbs.

            “That’s better. You talk an awful lot for a man who’s always at risk of getting sued,” Rachel quipped. She leaned back in her swivel and crossed her right leg over the opposite knee, pinching and pulling on a tuft of loose nylon fabric with the hand not currently imprisoning Sam. She allowed a sly smirk to cross her lips. “Now. I was thinking on the walk back in here that we’ve got some things to talk about, but personally, I figure you’re going to be much easier to teach once you’ve spent some time gaining new perspective. You know, a learn-through-experience kind of thing.”

            “You’re not making any fucking sense.”

            “Oh, it’s pretty straightforward. Don’t worry, I’ll make it nice and simple so your chauvinist pig mind can comprehend. I’m going to put you inside my shoe. Under my foot. You know, the place you just can’t get enough of? My nice, soft, pretty, sexy, giant, fucking foot.”

            Sam quivered. He tried to summon an answer, but no words escaped. Muscles tensed, stomach churning, he stumbled onto his knees. For the first time, the gravity of his situation settled in.

            “I… never… you’re b-”

            “No, no. Remember, I said no talking about it just yet,” Rachel said. Out of Sam’s sight, she popped the brown heel off her foot with a quiet thunk, and cradled it in her palm. “First, you go under my foot for a while. Then we see where we stand. I mean, I’ll be standing on you, but after that, we’ll see if you’ve grasped the moral of the story. Good luck!”

            “No!”

            Rachel’s palm tipped over the maw of the shoe. Subtle heat and leather-odor wafted invisibly from the opening, perking Sam’s senses even before he rolled off the end of the woman’s giant fingertips. He made a feeble effort to grab onto the metallic husk of her middle finger ring, but missed, and tumbled the short drop onto the felt hillside of the heel’s insole. Clawing at the spongy black span, he slid halfway down the decline before he gained enough traction to stop. Hand over hand, he mustered the energy to scale up another quarter-inch. In the surrounding darkness, he peered blearily up at the portal to the world outside Rachel’s shoe.

            “Well, where do you think you’re going, little guy?” a voice teased from on high.

            And then he saw it. For a fleeting second, Sam’s heart was in his throat at the visage of Rachel’s approaching foot. With the glint cast through the window and filtering through the woman’s naked stocking, her svelte lower leg and long, supple foot were set alight. Her toenails were painted just as uniform and black as her fingernails. He was mesmerized. What it must feel like to have such an elegant arch massaging his hard-on?

            That notion was quickly dispelled for the more immediate danger of that beast of a foot entering the shoe. Light squelched from the opening as Rachel’s toes flexed against the basin, her joints popping softly. Nylon swished against the insole as her foot raced after Sam. Though he clung desperately to his position on the slippery hill, the pile-driving bulwark of those five fleshy toes netted through the stocking bulldozed Sam down like stray dirt. He rolled helplessly, pushed along by the blunt force trauma of Rachel’s foot. She dusted him down into the shallows of the shoe, right at the pointed toe, with the same effort it would’ve taken to swat aside a stray pebble.

            “I hope you didn’t think you were going to climb back up just now,” Rachel chuckled. Though her voice was now filtered through the walls of the shoe and the meaty foot separating her from direct communication with Sam, her booming timbre carried. She leaned over her foot, still crossed above her knee. “I mean, honestly. Didn’t you ever learn anything about physics in grade school? A pitiful little force like you wouldn’t have stood a chance against something so much bigger, especially if I’d been trying. Which I wasn’t.”

            Sam was wedged firmly into the fuzz-prickled acute inner curvature of the brown heel. At a measly one inch, he was easily pinned sideways, his spine bent slightly to the sway of Rachel’s burgeoning toes. The mass of each toe alone outclassed him easily for weight, strength, and speed. With more than one, he had no chance of fighting back. All it took was two of her middle digits and their bulbed tips pressed up against the micro-man. The doughy skin of the ends seemed to swell just a little larger already once compressed for space and heat. Nylon netting against Sam’s face and hands as he fruitlessly tried to resist.

            “Just settle down, now. I have some work to do, and I’d prefer to do it in peace without having to worry whether or not you’ve knocked yourself out,” Rachel instructed. She rotated her ankle in soft circles, and tapped her fingernail on the husk of the heel, to ensure he heard loud and clear. “You’re not going anywhere for a while. I told you already, remember? So you might as well hold still and conserve your energy, because you may want it later.”

            Sam squirmed for a while longer before finally giving in to her suggestion, and going limp. The longer she talked, the more of a true lawyer’s spirit Rachel displayed: uncompromising, straightforward, and competitive. Sam might have admired those traits if this were any other scenario. But as it happened, she was showing off those traits whilst jamming him down inside her shoe and sandwiching his helpless body between her beefy toes and felt-lined heel interior. Thus all he could summon was rage.

            “Listen to ME, bitch! You let me the hell out of here NOW. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with here? Do you… d-do…”

            At the very least, the woman had the courtesy to stop fighting him with her toes once he surrendered to her strength. Yielding as a wet noodle, Sam focused on trying to find temporary equilibrium until he could figure a way out of this damned situation. The rounded tip of Rachel’s middle toe was pressed up against the lower half of his body. It numbed his legs and had his crotch pinned. Meanwhile her second toe, wedged tightly by its neighbor thanks to the taut stocking, was smushed just as provocatively against his upper half: his chest was squeezed slightly, restricting his airflow, and covering up most of his nose and mouth in the process.

            “Yes, that’s it, now. Relax,” Rachel encouraged. At last she lowered her foot back to the floor, and set her shoes equidistant on the carpet. Making herself comfortable, the woman clicked on her computer to work. “We’ll both be much happier if you just go along with this, and trust me, the happier I am, the happier you’ll be.”

            Every gulp of dank air was filtered through the stringy bagging of the nylon, thick as burlap at this size, and flavored intensely of the shoe’s history. Though thankfully dry save for the natural humidity, the inner walls of the cave were redolent of damp leather from repeated wear during balmy summers. Not only that, but the repeated grinding of nylon fabric on the felt interior had rug-burned away the luster of each surface, which also left a distinct odor. Though nothing quite compared to the obvious and omnipresent warm, moist air steaming from Rachel’s own foot. She wasn’t even sweating, at least not yet, but the thick smell nevertheless made itself known by dominating the space like marked territory. At such close proximity to her giant toes, there was practically no buffer zone between those tender crevices and the inch-tall man’s sensitive airways.

            Sam gagged. While he considered himself a sexual connoisseur of beautiful women’s feet, he was not exactly one for the kinkier elements of the predilection. The uses of a woman’s foot stopped and ended when they pumped his cock from a safe distance. He was of course aware of the freaks who wanted to stick their noses under the soles and their tongues between the grimy toes, sniffing and slurping up the rank goods in the name of “worshipping” the lady. Well, Sam still had his pride, and he’d never have been caught debasing himself in such a way.

            Regardless of what Sam wanted, though, he was made to experience those sensory treats from up close and personal, buried deep within the enclosed leather prison, with a powerful sixty-foot-long ped blockading his way to freedom. A musky fog assaulted his senses, and every time Rachel casually fidgeted her second toe, the mass of it massaged across his face, inadvertently giving him a faint sample of the whiffy nylon threads across his tiny lips.

            Though Sam had to bitterly admit, even if he was able to wrestle his way out from the pudgy grip of these two toes, and somehow fought his way up the stretchy nylon-spanned slope of Rachel’s foot, he’d still be faced with the near-impossible task of clambering out of the shoe’s mouth at the top. Then of course there was the matter of Rachel, unfortunately sharp as a tack and more cunning than he’d once given her credit for. Those dastardly fingers could just as easily snatch him up again and jam him right back down into the sour depths of the heel.

            The little businessman was unaccustomed to feeling this powerless, and it did not suit him at all. After half an hour of mindless waiting in the darkness, pinned to the wall by the bulk of Rachel’s fragrant toes, he resumed resisting again. Thrusting his shoulders and legs every which way, Sam managed to dig his claws into the nude-colored netting of his captor’s legwear, wrapped over the nearest toe. The mesh separated easily for his pin-like fingertips, and Sam gave a tug. No sooner had he managed to pull himself a few micrometers higher overtop of Rachel’s toes, though, when she responded, though not aloud.

            Giving false hope for just an instant, Rachel rolled her black-painted toes downward against the ragged insole of the heel. This freed up the pressure mounted on the incher’s body, and he tumbled off the upper shelf of Rachel’s nailbeds, landing on his back on the floor again. Then her digits reared their beastly bulk again. Nylon snagged under the weight from the ball of her foot for just a second, stretching like bubble gum over Sam, and then Rachel settled in. Those same two toes which previously just kept him pressed to the divoted wall now heaved their meaty heft down upon Sam. With only a thin layer of faded stocking separating Sam from the twin bullies, both Rachel’s second and third toes released muscular control and lay still atop him.

            Unable to even move his limbs now, Sam squirmed again, but was quickly informed by the burly darkness that he was tightly entombed under the central few toes of his lawyer’s megalomaniacal foot. A coffin of weighty, vaguely lotion-and-perspiration-scented toes held him fast to the earth. For the next hour he remained in the exact same position. Occasionally Rachel would tap her foot once or twice in a row, perhaps to keep the circulation going in her feet, and whenever it occurred, Sam foolishly hoped she was deciding he’d learned his lesson and was ready to chitchat. As her toes arched, he would reach up, savoring the fleeting freedom of motion when his body wasn’t being pressurized down into the silken insole. Yet inevitably the toes came back down, hugging him yet tighter into the mushy tangle of wrinkled nylon and toe flesh.

            By the time the second hour rolled around, Sam wasn’t even beneath the shafts of Rachel’s toes any longer. She’d arced and curled so many times now, casually popping the joints of her elegant digits and flexing her soles, that the little man had slid under the upper slab of her foot, where the arch peaked on its lowest point.

            The ball of Rachel’s foot was where Sam now found himself marooned, or more accurately, beneath it. Even through the sheer nylon, he was conscious of the oily gridlines making up her footprint, as well as the higher density of flesh padding in this ovular region just below her largest toes. Again without speaking, Rachel seemed to mark Sam’s arrival under the proper of her foot by lessening the weight just enough to let him sift into position. Before he could plot out a battle plan to resist this new adjustment, the giantess had him poised squarely under the rounded hillock of the ball: the pinkest, meatiest, most supple portion of her sole.

            A deep sigh emanated from somewhere high above. No verbal indication was given, but Sam had to guess Rachel was remarking subtly on this amusing little victory. She’d transferred him from under the relative safety of her lithe toes and into the danger zone under her heavy foot, and barely had to try to do so, while he fought tooth and nail with zero success. Then Rachel’s foot settled back into place. Her heel pivoted, squashing and massaging her sole into the velvety basin, and most of all, twisting Sam’s inch-high frame around under the lightly swollen curvature of the ball of her foot. Air was at a premium now. A few fractions of an ounce of pressure more, and Sam could be broken. Coarse stocking fibers dragged and ground on his little face, weathering his clothes and even popping the microscopic buttons; his nose and mouth were flooded again with the stale, leather-tainted odor of his tormentor’s most powerful weapon. The very thing he’d lusted over not long ago, a foot which he only had the opportunity to see after the irony of Katelyn’s outburst over his innocent fun with her feet, and now look where it got him.

            Never could the man have dreamed, out of all the possible outcomes, he’d end up here, under his lawyer’s actual foot, inside her giant shoe, while she nonchalantly went about her business above like nothing was wrong. Was this even a “possible” outcome? Sam doubted it. Not twenty-four hours ago, he would’ve paid $5,000 dollars to know what these specific bare peds felt like on his naked body, particularly below the belt and wrapped around his cock. Now that his entire self could fit snugly under the muggy bulwark of the shape, though, he was seriously reconsidering that desire. He’d pay that same amount now tenfold to go back in time and never learn of Rachel’s name.

            Just around the time hour number three came around, though it felt much longer to the hapless incher in Rachel’s shoe, that colossal foot began to shift. There was more permanence this time, as she wasn’t merely teasing him by arching her toes and tucking him further under her foot. Rather, the gigantic lawyer took hold of her heel, planting it to the carpet, and popped the back out of her heel out of the leathery mouth. From there, it took just one smooth tug, and the monstrous mass of her foot escaped from the blackness. It happened so swiftly, it was almost hard for Sam to believe something so heavy and strong could move with such grace, until he remembered it was just a foot, and moreover, he’d spent most of his trial ignoring the judge and watching Rachel’s lovely peds dance under the table.

            So of course she could take off her shoe and leave him inside with no effort. The woman was remarkably dexterous, able to dangle the heel from a single toe, or remove her foot from the shoe without crushing him in the process. God knew what else she was capable of. While this one skill was useful for Sam’s continued survival, her talents couldn’t all be good for him. He was certain of that, and that certainty made him shiver in his bones, even after three straight hours of being pressure-cooked under the uncaring top half of a woman’s sweat-frosted, nylon-clad foot. Whatever point she was trying to make, it had only made him angrier, but he also couldn’t deny the anxiety he felt now. It was a foreign feeling.

            “I’d say you’ve earned a little midday break, squirt,” Rachel said. “Better hold still another second, though, unless you want to twist an ankle.”

Rachel picked up the shoe from the floor, keeping it tilted toward the toe to ensure Sam was tipped off-balance until her face was close enough to fill up the voided opening of the mouth. Cowering on his haunches, Sam stared up the slightly-more-slippery incline of the heel slope, and could make out the stylish spectacle-decked hazel eyes above. Those laugh lines of hers formed cutely around the corners. Sam had never felt so low and helpless as he did now, and that included the previous one hundred and eighty minute session spent ruminating under muscular toes and an itchy nylon-wrapped foot island. Such a withering sensation caused him to withhold the insults he’d been preparing.

            “No stupid remarks to make, I see,” Rachel said, instantly noticing the conflicted look on his shrunken face. “Good, you’ve at least learned to recognize when you’re in a pickle, and not to bite the hand that’s feeding you. Or at least holding you safely up in the air.”

            Sam bit his tongue.

            “Keep it up. You’re doing splendid,” she taunted, and lowered the shoe back toward the ground. Setting the object back on the carpet, Rachel eased her svelte limb back over the opposite knee. The nude fabric glistened on her leg’s shapely curves, revealing its existence again like an oasis mirage. Rachel’s thumbs coyly slid under the upper hem over her thighs, but she didn’t peel it away just yet. “What do you say?”

            Taken aback, Sam swallowed the revolt in his throat. “T-Thanks.”

            “Wow! You’re making tremendous strides, and it’s only been three hours and six minutes you were down there. That has to be much more effective than any kind of sensitivity training they might give you as a consolation instead of unemployment whenever you coerce your female coworkers into fucking you with their feet! Wouldn’t you agree, Samuel, that it’s much more efficient this way?”

            Sam sputtered, but didn’t respond.

            “Aww, looks like I struck a nerve, huh? Well, tell you what. I promised you we’d have a little talk once I’d broken you in a little, and unlike you, I know how to keep my word, even if I don’t respect someone. And if it’s not already obvious, I respect you less than you’ve ever respected anyone in your life,” Rachel explained. She rolled the nylon an inch at a time down her leg, slowly revealing the smooth, unencumbered skin beneath the pale stocking. Wrinkles formed and the rolled lip darkened from the stacked layers of silken material. “So here’s the deal. Climb up to the top of the shoe, and we’ll get you out of there for a proper conversation. No offense, but I’m not really in the mood to hurt my back leaning all the way over just so I can hear you squeaking at me.”

            Unsure at first if the booming giantess was serious, Sam was convinced by the semi-alluring curl of her beckoning index finger. A come-hither look accompanied, but due to the context, it was more mocking than inviting: rather than silently asking him to come to bed with her, she was teasing him with the opportunity to escape from inside her own leather pump. A pump she’d just worn with him still within it. Sighing wearily, Sam decided his best chance now was to show she hadn’t broken him by answering the challenge, even if he was too nervous to tempt fate with some choice words.

            The slope was even more intimidating now than when Sam was first dumped inside, probably because he’d witnessed firsthand how easily Rachel could get her gargantuan foot in and out of the tight tunnel. As before, he dug his little fingers into the spongy insole and commenced army-crawling upward. It was slow going. Sam kept his eyes to the ground, only looking up after a minute to find he’d only advanced a few inches. Not even halfway up. After Rachel had cooped her foot up inside for three hours straight, the resulting layer of perspiration left the ground even more devoid of friction, and Sam could feel his body threatening to slip with every rigid reach.

            Rachel, meanwhile, was happily working her nylon further down. Most of her leg was unveiled, and while in any other circumstance Sam would’ve been drooling over this display of his lawyer peeling her stocking away right over him, he had to concentrate. Just as the garment passed under the lope of her heel, Sam watched too closely, got distracted, and felt himself about to slide back down to the bottom. He panted. All the work would be undone, and he’d be no closer to talking his way out of this idiotic charade.

            “Look, give me a break, this is taking forever,” he gasped. “Just…”

            His request was cut short, though, by the ominous flash of shadow, brush of muggy wind, and inevitable re-entrance of Rachel’s foot into the leather hovel. Her toes were pointed expertly down like a ballerina’s, aimed straight for the inch-tall nuisance struggling to maintain his grip on her heel’s high-arched hill. Only half her foot was still encased in the peeling nylon, and the rest of the loose gossamer seemed to wave from the anchor point of her ped like a flag. That hearty big toe rode the line down with ease, tracing the center of the worn-down insole, heading straight for Sam.

            “W-Wait,” he sputtered, losing half an inch of ground already just from the mere sight of that thing barreling toward him. It was no use, though. Sam caught a glimpse of Rachel’s focused, victorious countenance between her wriggling toes. She was staring at him down there with such pride in her utter control over the situation, threatening him and his safety merely by shoving her foot back into her shoe. This was no bluff, either; the stocking-clad big toe sailed straight into Sam. Its force was blunted just enough to avoid outright harming him, but the impact was more than enough to knock him loose. Defeated by little more than a flick of Rachel’s toe, Sam tumbled back down and conked his head on the tip. Back to square one.

            “Didn’t you listen?” Rachel wheedled like an irritated schoolteacher. “I said reach the top, then we talk. Not before. There’s an order here, just like in any courtroom. The difference is that I’m making the rules here, and people aren’t going to bow to your every whim just because you have money. Those zeroes in your salary aren’t going to do you a bit of good in my courtroom, squirt. Understood?”

            “You’re go-”

            “Choose your words very carefully,” Rachel interrupted, smirking. While her foot had retracted back out of the pump, her toes still thrummed on the mouth of the shoe, even gripping the leather tongue of the footwear and on the verge of flipping the heel over onto its side with nary a twitch. Silently, those fleshy boulders threatened him, almost independent of the giantess, even though they belonged to the same celestial body.

            “Understood,” he grunted.

            “Now there’s a smart boy.” Rachel’s voice was warm and buttery, almost seethingly congratulatory. It burned Sam to his core. “Anyway, where were we? Oh, that’s right, you were learning the easy way that I don’t fool around when I lay down the law with miniature perverts.”

            Sam grimaced. The easy way? He shuddered to imagine what she considered hard.

            “You get up here… keep your pretty little lips shut… and then we’ll have a chat. C’mon, now,” Rachel encouraged, her tone turning sweet again just as quickly as it soured. “Let’s see the big manly-man put his back into some real work.”

            Exhausted, fuming, but not in the mood to be body-slammed by his massive lawyer’s netted toes again, Sam recommenced his alpine shoe ascent. Rachel, meanwhile, peeled the nude nylons the rest of the way off her enormous ped, freeing it at last. Her pinkish digits stretched and flexed with glorious abandon, and her sole crests caught the light just perfectly to momentarily distract the inch-tall man in her shoe, before he remembered what was at stake and continued. The giantess redirected her eye line to the computer screen on her desk, her fingers scuttling away at top speed on the keyboard, though her newly naked foot still hovered just above the pump, swaying back and forth, alternately casting Sam into shadow and glow whenever her shoe blotted out his view of the wider world.

            With the first “practice” climb down, Sam at least had enough expertise to sink his fingers into the spongy earth for purchase and move forward without slipping every other step. Pungent notes of nail polish remover and earthy perspiration wafted from the felt fibers whenever Sam squeezed hard enough to hold his position. Scrunching his nose didn’t really cut it; the odor made its way into his lungs whether he wanted it or not, seeing as he was literally scraping his body up a sloped site regularly responsible for absorbing the fruits of Rachel’s labors, in liquid and stress forms both. He forced himself to ignore it.

It was still slow going, and every time Sam was foolish enough to gaze back up to the top, he would become momentarily entranced by the lethargic visage of that elegant sole. So intricately detailed with a roadmap of creamy wrinkles and impressionistic hues of flesh tone ranging across the warm spectrum, that scape was a sight for demented eyes. And Sam had certainly been treated to so many irregularities and bizarre horrors this day, that he couldn’t even fault himself for taking a lustful glance at that broad, meaty sole which had just spent all morning tormenting him in the shoe-dungeon.

            Forty-five minutes later, moving at the speed of a snail, Sam reached as high as he could in the shoe. The leather clasp which encased the lower architecture of Rachel’s slender ankle acted as a firm barrier to escape. Shivering, the little man felt himself hesitating to act, which was still not becoming any more comfortable of a sensation, despite the numerous occasions today that he’d been forced to feel lost. What if he spoke up to signal he’d completed her ridiculous demands, only to have the giant woman, who wasn’t even deigning to watch him make the treacherous climb, flicked him in the skull with her pinky toe again as a punishment for speaking? He wouldn’t put it past the vengeful shark at this point, and Sam was far too weary and desperate for emergency services at this point to test her. So, he waited.

            Eventually, Rachel seemed to finish whatever task she had on her computer, or simply bored of it, and set aside some spare attention for the miniature human life trapped down in her shoe. The cool and reserved brunette, steely as ever, leaned back in her swivel chair. Her fingers plucked her glasses off the bridge of her nose, and she peeked under the lenses. Pupils dilating slightly at the sight of her client cowering and shaking from muscular exhaustion at the peak of her shoe, Rachel smiled.

            She took hold of the glass precipice of the desk and knelt beneath again, though she was in no hurry to relieve Sam. Even as her free hand floated above the opening in the brown leather high heel, the cutthroat lawyer still only tapped her fingernails with percussive clarity on the harder inner cusp, but did not reach inside to grab him. The act was just as meticulous as that done with her toes when her foot was still actively daring Sam to step out of line so she could push him back down to the briny toe section with her boat-sized ped.

            Eventually, her long index finger fished inside. Sam, on the verge of letting go, went limp just as the soft pad of Rachel’s forefinger curled beneath his gut and flipped the man onto his back. She caught the scruff of his dirtied suit with her fingernail before he could slide back down.

            “Where do ya think you’re off to there, little guy?” she cooed. Ironically, this babied timbre angered Sam even more than her callous and cavalier voice from earlier. “You made it to the top, just like I asked you! Why are you trying to get back down into that shoe, huh? Is there something down there you forgot, maybe?”

            “No,” Sam grunted. It took all his effort not to front-load the sarcasm.

            “Well, that’s good. But there must be another reason you seem to want to go back down there again and again, no matter how many times I ask you to come out!”

            “Gravity.”

            “Oooh, somebody’s a clever little bug,” Rachel snarked. “Actually, I think it just has more to do with that foot fetish of yours, and your sickening desire to use and abuse any woman who comes into your path, so long as she’s willing to fuck your slimy cock with her toes. Case in point…”

            Still keeping Sam pinned to the sloped insole with her index finger, Rachel carefully slid her thumb inside as well, and grazed her manicured nail along the tiny human’s torso. Though only a small motion, it yielded a reaction from both; Sam instinctively shuddered at even fleeting contact upon his unfortunately awakened genitals, and Rachel felt the distinct little micro-nub through the man’s pants. Her grin widened.

            “Just as I suspected,” she drawled.

            Sam gnawed his tongue again. It wasn’t his fault. He definitely wasn’t receiving sexual satisfaction or gratification from any of this cruel madness. At best, he had a half-chub, and that was only from the adrenaline and from laboriously dragging his body up the soft hill of the shoe. Anyone would end up a little aroused in those circumstances. Surely Rachel could understand that, no matter how much she hated him.

            “Please. Let me out. I reached the top. Can… we talk?” Sam groaned, just as Rachel’s thumbnail passed over his waist again, flicking with feather-strength at his pants tent. He flinched again, warmed to the core in spite of himself, and only became more furious. As it was, it took all his strength to parse that request out without inserting an insult.

            “You sure? It seems like Samuel Junior-Junior doesn’t want to get out of the shoe,” Rachel commented. Her cheeks flushed pinker. “You get it? Because you’re already small, I can’t call your dick “Samuel Junior,” because that’s you. Yours is so small, we have to use two juniors.”

            “I get it.”

            “Fantastic. What you didn’t seem to get, though, is that at no point did I promise to take you out of the shoe,” Rachel said, not bothering to hide her smirk. She let loose a lilting giggle. “I just said we’d have a talk once you had the chance to spend some quality time down there with the thing you love most, plus proved that you can follow simple directions by climbing back up. And you did that, which means you deserve a reward. So talk. Why should I tell a single soul about what’s happened to you, squirt?”

            Unsure which part of what she’d just said made him madder, Sam refocused his energy on damage control. He was in a serious pickle; he could see that. After all, he was shrunken inexplicably to an inch tall, currently being gently crucified to a high heel insole by a woman’s fingertip, while her thumb casually toyed with his humiliating semi-erection in the name of proving that he was aroused by this torture. This was no time to tempt fate.

            He’d gotten himself out of trouble time and time again. Now was the moment to put those skills to use.

            “Because you’re… a lawyer,” Sam began. “You believe in the legal system, and the idea of everyone deserving a defense, regardless of how you feel about their level of guilt in a situation. You don’t like me. I get that. I probably deserve it, from you and other people. I’ve made mistakes, after all. But does that really make it right to condemn me alone?”

            Rachel studied her client where he lay spread-eagle inside her shoe, at the mercy of her two fingers. He nibbled the corner of her lip, frowned, and then united her forefinger and thumb nails. The scruff of that suit was easily pinched between the keratin plates, and Sam was plucked from the dark mouth of the shoe.

            Feeling less secure than ever, Sam shut his eyes and crossed his arms in a useless attempt to keep his suit from falling away. It did anyway, of course, unable to support his minute weight, and a few seconds later he plummeted, but just for a breath, before he plopped on the waiting expanse of Rachel’s open palm. He watched with some consternation as his suit, a tailored number he’d picked up from an Italian outlet, was discarded into Rachel’s garbage can like a gum wrapper.

            She was just trying to get to him. He knew that. But Sam couldn’t let her break him so easily.

            “All right, smooth talker. You got what you wanted. You’re out of the shoe. But we’re going to proceed MY way now.”

            Isn’t that all we’ve done, Sam wanted to demand, but he kept his mouth shut.

            “Okay,” he said.

            “Take off your clothes.”

            “What?”

            “What did I JUST say to you before?” Rachel spat; the spitfire in her returned to the surface. “You got yourself this far. I’m willing to listen. But we’re going to give you a polygraph test.”

            “Polygraph test? How is me being even more vulnerable supposed to-”

            “You think you’re not vulnerable already? You think those little clothes will do you any good if I decide you haven’t learned the lesson well enough yet?” Rachel mocked. “You have until I reach the count of ten to start stripping, or you’re going back in the shoe, under my heel, not my toes, and you won’t be coming out until bedtime. Ready? EIGHT… NINE… T-”

Defeated, and more than a little panicked at that final threat of further hours spent underfoot, Sam hurriedly ripped his clothes away. The buttons popped away in his rush, and his slacks nearly tore down the thigh. He hopped out of the garments so quickly, down to his skivvies, he scarcely had time to feel embarrassed to be exposed this way in front of Rachel. True, he’d shown his member to quite a few female employees in his time, and wasn’t ashamed of it, but that was about as much of him as they were allowed to see; it wouldn’t do if the power dynamic was confused, especially since all he wanted was their silken soles to crank him to orgasm. The combination of being an inch tall, ripping all his clothes away, and standing in the stage-like palm of his tormentor while her hazel spotlight eyes zeroed to him made it a far less fun affair.

            Almost as if she had the power in this situation. That reality in particular made Sam want to shrivel inside out.

            “Now that’s more like it,” Rachel smarmed. She collected the pathetic crumpled pile of his clothes and sprinkled those, too, into the garbage can. For a few seconds, Sam fantasized at the possibility of a janitor discovering the clothes and thus bringing this woman to justice. Then he realized any sensible person wouldn’t see those stolen garments and assume he’d been made a shrunken prisoner of her shoe; they’d just think it was strange someone had a set of miniature doll clothing in their garbage, then move on with their life.

            “Okay. Here I am now,” Sam said, trembling. “What do I have to say to prove to you how sorry I am for treating you the way I did?” It was unfamiliar territory, flexing apologetic muscles, but the little man was more than aware of the risks now of acting otherwise.

            “You don’t have to say anything. Not now, at least. I think you said your piece. And as you ought to be aware, given the number of times you’ve been threatened with legal action… the defendant doesn’t get forever to prattle on and on. He goes up, he states his case, he answers questions, and he sits down before the jury starts to realize he’s just a sentient penis in a $3000 suit.”

            $4000, Sam thought bitterly.

            “Instead, I just want to see if the rest of your body is as big of a liar as those clever little lips. Or maybe I should say as small of a liar? Never mind. We’ll be here all day if I have to remember how tiny you are every time we try to get something done,” Rachel said. She lowered her palm to the desktop, and tipped it downward slightly, encouraging the naked incher off the gangplank of fingers with her thumb. “Now. You just sit tight here, okay, little fella?”

            Sam stood on display, humiliated, enraged, and broiling with verbal comebacks he so desperately wanted to hurl, but for the assured bodily harm which would come to him in response. However, most of those thoughts were shoved deep down into his psyche again when Rachel laid back, leaning in the swivel chair until it creaked again, and hoisted her bare leg up onto the desk. Her nude heel landed with a squeaky thud on the glass edge, briefly turning a fleshy yellow as the soft skin smushed against the translucent surface. Instantly, the woman’s bare foot became like a living obelisk before Sam, as he stood before it, craning his neck up to make out her toes at the top. From this angle, Rachel’s foot was taller than a house.

            The shrunken man felt the vibration of the desk below his legs settling again as Rachel got comfortable, rocking her foot back and forth. That roadmap of a sole, teeming with intricate curves and crevices shaped of the constantly reformulating skin-crinkles, laid above. A morning’s worth of stale, fusty atmosphere steamed gently from it as Rachel’s arch was finally allowed to air out fully. The woman crossed her opposite leg, still clad in its nude nylon and pump, across her ankle, and cupped her head in both palms, as though she’d made a beach hammock of her office chair.

            Sam was mesmerized again, as he so often was. Yet among all the times in his life he’d openly ogled a beautiful woman’s foot, this was something else. This was his fantasy, projected on an IMAX screen. This was the proverbial “too much of a good thing.” Indeed, Rachel’s foot was a very good thing, and Sam would very much have liked to feel it pressed up against an erection when it was its natural size. Right now, as he stared up at a foot which could render him a splatter if the woman so much as let her ankle tilt down, letting her sole fall flush with the desktop, that wish felt greatly at odds with reality.

            He could see everything. The micro-adjustments in flesh tone: the last bastions of ruddy pink at last turning a cooler peach-hue a skin cell at a time, now that Rachel’s foot was propped up and bearing no weight. The glossy gleam of foot-sweat, speckled like miniature rain puddles at junctures of the foot where the greatest muscular control was called for. And of course, the texture of the foot itself: where the rippled valleys of Rachel’s broad sole creases intersected at perpendicular angles with the much-tinier lines making up the quiltwork pattern of her rosy skin. Every time Rachel so much as twitched a toe, the whole fleshy canvas was rocked, altering its shape and landscape. The ball of her foot would bulge harder, deepening the arch and flexing the toes wide apart. With the land mass of his lawyer’s gigantic foot propositioned right in front of his naked body like this, so close that he could no longer see the rest of her body, Sam felt the first signs of internal betrayal.

            Despite himself: despite the fear, the soreness, and the knowledge that this very same foot had earlier held him hostage beneath its majestic, spongy, megaton weight, Sam was getting hard.

            “Just as I suspected,” Rachel said, peeking around the wall of her propped-up foot. That victorious grin returned, and she gave her toes a few curling pulses, re-shaping her sole in the process and only hurting Sam’s case. “All that money and prestige, but you’re still just a horny little boy when someone puts a pretty foot in front of you.”

            Red with fury and arousal, Sam hung his head, yet even then couldn’t escape the visage of Rachel’s foot. It was so all-encompassing, he’d have to close his eyes to get some relief, yet at the same time, he was compelled to keep staring upon it like fine art. Every instant he studied, he noticed a new detail which just got him raring harder for contact. Life and heat seemed to radiate from the upturned sole, inviting him closer.

            What the fuck is wrong with me, he wondered bitterly. Angry as he was at his psychotic lawyer, he couldn’t help but harbor ill will toward himself as well in this moment.

            “Well, don’t just stand there,” Rachel mocked. “Get up close and personal, like I know you want to.”

            Sam stood his ground. He didn’t want to. Not really. Where could you possibly start, with a foot that large?

            “Excuse me. I don’t recall suggesting we were making decisions by democratic committee here. Walk up to my foot, you little perv, so we can take the lie detector test. If you don’t, you’re going back in the hole,” Rachel explained. “Do I need to explain the metaphor to you? The hole is-”

            “I know, I know,” Sam blurted. He power-walked forward, closing the distance, until he was standing at arm’s reach from Rachel’s foot. Until the network of crisscrossing sole wrinkles and flesh stipples filled his whole vision. Now so close that he could feel the warmth of it on his skin and smell the pungent details of its last leather-bound imprisonment, the little man was feeling the same jellied shudder in his knees as when he first laid eyes on the monumental woman. And that was before he knew she was willing to stuff him in her giant shoes for a mortally threatening time-out.

“You’re probably used to just sitting back while the woman does all the work, pumping that greedy little cock between her feet, while you relax. Now, does that sound very gentlemanly to you, Samuel?” Rachel questioned rhetorically. “I should think if you were looking to get your rocks off, courtesy of some gorgeous lady’s feet, you’d want to show your gratitude by putting in some effort! Well, now’s your chance to make up for all those times. I’ll be accepting your efforts on all their behalfs. Does that sound good to you?”

            Sam blanched. She couldn’t possibly be about to give him the precise thing she was punishing him for wanting. Right?

            “I can’t hear you, squirt!” Rachel called. She gave her foot the slightest of nudges forward, then retracted it, but in that one swift motion, knocked Sam on his back.

            “Sounds good!” he shouted uncertainly.

            “Of course it does, you sicko. You’ve been praying for the chance to do this ever since I shoved you inside your favorite new clubhouse this morning. Now. We’re going to see if we can get Samuel Junior Junior to tell the truth, since you don’t seem too keen on it yourself. Come closer to my foot. Until you’re touching. Do it now.”

            Too frightened of testing her again, Sam did as instructed. Soon, he was standing against the plush, muscular wall of her heel, with his face and his member in full contact with Rachel’s skin. Trembling, and anxiously aware of just how thick Rachel’s heel was compared to the rest of her already-intimidating foot’s underside, Sam felt himself reaching the peak of his lust.

            He’d wanted to feel Rachel’s foot pressed to his dick throughout the entire legal ordeal. Every single meeting, every office consultation, every day in court, he’d yearned to get those luxuriously soft soles on his manhood. Now that it was finally coming true, the horrifying circumstances unfortunately weren’t able to diminish his sexual enthusiasm.

            “That’s it,” Rachel said encouragingly, her voice growing flinty from deep in her throat. She knew exactly what she was doing, and was thoroughly enjoying the unpeeling of Sam’s dignity. “Now give those hips a shake. Don’t you dare touch yourself with your hands. The only thing it’ll be touching is this foot you covet so highly. Think of this as your reward for entertaining me so much this morning.”

            Sam didn’t waste time; half out of fear of reprisal, and half out of horniness, he started to thrust. While it wasn’t quite as cushy as he imagined it might be if those pink, doughy soles were being used instead of the tougher baseline of the heel, Rachel’s foot was still getting the job done.

            It was rather pathetic in Sam’s mind. She was right, of course; he was usually laid out in his desk chair, while the woman did all the work. This was just degrading. He was literally humping a wall made of warm, smelly foot flesh. And the worst part was, he didn’t necessarily loathe the experience itself. Only the bitchy, sexy, insane giantess who was making him do it.

            “Oh, I think the polygraph is picking up some useful information. Keep shaking it, squirt,” Rachel chuckled. She clenched and waved her toes, rippling the sole canvas again, though her heel remained still aside from the vibration of her laughter. “C’mon, now. Put some feeling into it. This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it? You must be almost there. Let’s see some teeny, tiny fireworks!”

            Was she out of her mind? What was it she even wanted now? Sam couldn’t imagine. She was putting him through the wringer, threatening his safety and sanity for lusting after feet and using a little leverage to get them, and yet was granting that wish for him now. If anything, she was giving him no option to opt out. If this was a lie detector test, she had a gun to his head at the same time.

            Sam moaned, more than a little drained, and staggered meekly to his knees as he climaxed. The end was scarcely pleasurable, in light of the situation and his exhaustion from earlier. Crumpled back into a fetal ball, he shut his eyes and awaited whatever judgment came next. It wasn’t like he could change anything by looking Rachel in the eye, post-orgasm, and trying to convince her he was still his own man.

            “Good boy,” Rachel said cheerfully. She slid her heel away from the inch-tall man, off the side of the desk, but still kept her sole poised hard against the smooth glass edge. Inevitably, Sam’s eye was drawn to the phenomenon of the translucent desk gently impacting Rachel’s yielding sole flesh, turning it pale again and winnowing it to a flash smear-shape, like matted-down clay, while the rest of the surrounding skin remained hearty. Abruptly, the giant woman’s toes hovered just two inches above Sam’s head.

            He watched them dance, wriggling and faux-snatching in his direction, without being able to reach. For an instant he considered ducking, or even running, before reminding himself for the umpteenth time how stupid that would be. Powerless, Sam awaited as Rachel gradually lowered her foot down, pivoted on the spot where the desk’s edge gently bisected her sole. When her toes reached the spent little man, he was docile enough not to struggle or dodge as the largest two digits separated, making room. Sam was jammed between Rachel’s big and second toes again and cinched on his sides, making it easy for her to lift her lithe ped off the desk entirely, with the curled-up victim still packed between the fleshy shafts of her digits.

            “That was a good talk, squirt. Excellent progress. I think you show some real promise in terms of learning where you fall in the pecking order,” Rachel said as she crossed her foot over her knee.

            Sam quivered, too afraid to move for fear of falling out, or worse, incurring a tighter pinch from the woman’s fragrant, punching-bag-esque toes. He wondered if she meant it, even in her own twisted way, or if she was just fucking with him.

            “So, now that you have some new things to think over while you’re down there, we’re going to put you back for some more quality time with your favorite part of my body. I mean, really, doesn’t it just seem polite to cuddle a little with something shortly after you wagged your cock at it?” Rachel taunted. She lowered her foot closer to the floor, but instead of re-inserting her foot into the shoe, she paused.

            Sam could see the dark mouth of the leather pump from here, and was almost antsy to get back inside, if only to end the hellish anticipation. Why didn’t she just get it over with?

            “But you don’t have to worry about getting bored. I wouldn’t want you to get complacent with your favorite place inside my shoes, after all. So we’re going to change things up a little. Get ready.” Rachel’s hand reappeared in Sam’s sight, coming between her curled-up toes and the distant shoe below. Once the little man got a glimpse of what she had hanging from her fingers, though, he re-considered the pros/cons of trying to wriggle free from her foot’s grasp again.

            Rachel spread the nylon lip of her nude stocking wide. She stretched it over her toes, Sam included, and let it hug tight to her arch as the fabric mouth rode all the way up toward her thigh. The nude fabric turned more sheer every inch it rose, until it was practically invisible, yet the little man wedged inside and grappled between the lawyer’s toes was certainly more aware of the garment than he’d ever been in his life. It felt silly to have not noticed it at first, now that the netted material was binding the little incher into the pliable orgy of wriggling, bucking toes.

            Sam did his best to stretch a few fingers between the cold, damp fibers of Rachel’s stocking. He could feel the iron tension in them, and knew his chances of escape were once again squelched. Not only was he imprisoned now, he was tied down like a mental patient.

Hopeless, Sam witnessed the descent back toward the floor, and gulped down the final meaningless wisps of AC-tinted air before reuniting with the stale, dark void of the high heel’s interior. However, she wasn’t done toying with him yet, which Sam only noticed when Rachel’s toes relented their grip, and allowed the man free reign to flop about like a fish in the tight confines of the nylon. As she inserted her toes into the shoe, Sam was ground down into the basin, and rolled out from the cupped crevice of her five digits. Over the ball of her foot he rode, until Sam snagged right in the deepest span of her sole. At first assuming it was a mistake, due to the obvious increased risk of being directly under Rachel’s foot rather than tangled in her giant toes, Sam saw or heard no signs of change. Then he knew it was no accident. Nothing Rachel had done today was anything but purposeful.

            The giantess’s foot settled comfortably into place, subtly terraforming the shoe back to the shape of her appendage, and in the process, granting Sam a front-row seat to every micro-development in the earth-moving partnership between her pudgy sole, the gritty nylon, and the unforgiving insole runway. At the epicenter of it all was the unfortunate little man who, a mere two days ago, would’ve gladly paid several thousand dollars for the opportunity to have his naked body pressed to this particular feminine sole. Now, shrunken and clawing for air, as well as the privilege of not being crushed to paste beneath his own lawyer’s naked foot, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Wallowing in a pity party for himself, Sam awaited the next temporary mercy.

            Rachel smirked, and gave her foot another shove, wriggling and worming it inside the pump. The pressure mounted, and she felt her toes numbing ever so slightly from the effort of burrowing against the pointed inner nose of the leather shoe. She lavished in the sensation of the little nude inch-tall man pancaking under her warm sole, smearing him into the insole without actually breaking or liquefying him. At least not yet.

            Not that Rachel intended to smash Sam. There was a purpose to all the fun, after all; it wouldn’t do if he got off the hook for the ultimate lesson she had to teach him. And he would likely be far less receptive to new horizons on human relationships if he was a red gunky streak along her elegant sole. Yes, she was starting to tempt the laws of physics now by keeping him in such a place of vulnerability, compared to earlier where he had room to slide up between her toes whenever the weight became too much to bear. But the way Rachel saw it, she had a deep arch, which helped accommodate his shape. Plus, the alternative was keeping him under her actual heel, which made this location an incredible charity. By spending the morning with him underneath her foot and inside her shoe, Rachel had also developed a greater bodily awareness and appreciation for the human insect’s limits. She was more than confident that she could keep him here without inflicting permanent harm, aside from the emotional duress of being stepped upon by a giant woman’s meaty wrinkled sole in the sweaty darkness for hours on end.

            Rachel stood up, and made her way for the door. It was the first time she’d actually taken a walk with Sam beneath her foot, rather than stowed in her pocket, and the difference nearly crippled her with power-drunk goose bumps. The feeling was simply magnetic. In general, Rachel wasn’t especially cognizant of the sensation of transferring weight from one foot to the other, but in this moment, it was all she could and wanted to feel. There was so much tantalizing detail to lock into her memory: the splaying of her arch as she pressed it into the shoe; the relaxing weightlessness of lifting off to take a step; the puny, frail body compressing beneath her weighty sole like a human gingerbread cutter. Despite the heat and stuffiness within her shoe, Rachel was quite certain that her foot was sensitive enough to feel the miniature man’s exact shape, including that hilarious nub of a dick tucked up inside a sole wrinkle.

            In the hallway, Rachel made her way for the copy room. There was one closer by her private office, but she chose the distant one, which would give her more time to stroll. And, more importantly, more time for Sam to endure being trodden upon, to think about his actions.

            Passing by coworkers, she paid randomized hellos and nods, receiving them back, all without a trace of knowledge exchanging between them that she had a little tar stain of a person entrapped inside her shoe where he belonged. There was no reason that any of them should’ve suspected the precious cargo Rachel had sandwiched between her foot and insole, of course, but it was thrilling nonetheless. Rachel beamed from ear-to-ear, relishing the absolute control she possessed, and in so small a way. All she was doing was walking, just as she did every day of her life, and yet this was different in every single way. With every step she took, pounding Sam into the unforgiving mattress-like slab of her sole, she felt she was taking payment for all the wrongs he’d wrought with his libido and cruel misuse of office clout. Every ounce of pressure she applied to him was an ounce of the dignity that he’d stolen from other women, paid back in rapid installments as she walked at a brisk pace. Good.

            Reaching the copy room, which was empty, Rachel returned to her actual job, and briefly allowed herself to forget about Sam’s existence under her foot. She clicked through the screens, tapping buttons and humming to herself. It was a fun luxury to be afforded, letting her focus fade in and out; when she was the one with a shrunken man in her shoe, it was perfectly acceptable to forget he was there, and carry on with her own duties, while his attention to her foot, if anything, only increased.

            In time with the sound of the copies running off into the tray, Rachel lifted her foot off the ground and supported her leg instead by balancing loosely on the toe-tip of the shoe. She bounced her leg, rubbing her sole along the now-vertical incline of the heel, and as a result, jostling Sam around with particular intensity. He was literally pinned to the wall of the shoe by the mass of her sole. After a few minutes in this position, though, the woman absent-mindedly let her heel unhook from the tight clasp at the back, and allowed it to hang open. From there, using her toes as a hinge-point, she was able to dangle the shoe on and off her foot. With the beat of the copies, she clapped the insole to her soft foot again and again, only recalling Sam’s position after a few dozen dangles.

            Peeking over her shoulder, Rachel tilted her shoe yet further back, until she could see the little man lying at the union of the V-shape between her shapely sole and the partially hanging shoe just below the ball of her foot. Just to ensure he was still present in the moment, Rachel gave her shoe another toss, embracing Sam back against the semi-moist bulwark of her sole; to her delight, he stirred again, and did his best to unsuccessfully push himself away from her foot. She smiled at his bleary reaction to the blinding fluorescent ceiling lights suddenly filling up his hot, dark prison cell, and even giggled loudly enough for Sam to hear.

            It was just a shame she’d forced him to climax so soon in the day. He’d likely be too exhausted to manage other too soon, and Rachel had derived unfathomable depths of entertainment from forcing that gesture: his favorite pastime, turned into grating psychological torture. Then, of course, immediately followed up with the physical torture of being stampeded between her powerful foot and the snug nylon, and the woman honestly couldn’t guess which method would be more damaging to him in the long run. But who cared?

            “Don’t count on too many breaks like this, squirt. I just like letting my feet get a little air sometimes, that’s all,” Rachel said to him, before turning back around and finishing up her work with the copier. She heard Sam starting to make a noise. Whether he was answering her or simply crying out in anguish, she didn’t know; all she could say for certain was that pinching her toes and subsequently pushing her foot fully back inside the shoe adequately shut him up. With his tiny body plastered snow angel-style to the balmy, marshmallow-tough pad of sole flesh, his face flush to the foot and having to gasp desperate breaths of reeking air from the nearest skin crevice, holding a conversation wasn’t really in the cards.

            Rachel was so content and self-certain in her utter ownership of Sam, that she didn’t notice the door to the copy room opening and closing. Without warning, she heard a soothing voice in her ear, one she couldn’t quite place:

            “I love your shoes.”

“What? Oh, thank you. They’re-” Rachel began in response. She turned around, and found herself face-to-face with Larissa, the beautiful ginger paralegal. Or, perhaps more significantly as an identifying characteristic, the girl who also had a shrunken human stowed away in her shoe.

            “Seriously, they’re real sexy, but still totally office-chic, you know?” Larissa said.

            “That’s… very nice of you to say.” Rachel couldn’t help but let her gaze flash from Larissa’s shoes then back to her own. Did she know?

            “Of course, they also look like the kind that get a little achy after a whole day at work,” Larissa continued nonchalantly, and with no apparent purpose in the copy room except to address Rachel. “Those are some tall heels.” She crossed her arms, tapping her slip-on loafer against the floor. The redhead’s pale heel thumped softly on the backless lip of the shoe, and Rachel couldn’t help but recall what she’d seen earlier. Was that the shoe with the little person inside it too?

            “That’s very true,” Rachel said, smiling innocently.

            “It’s easier if you can get something for arch support, I’ve found,” Larissa said. As she spoke, she casually inspected her fingernails, hardly holding eye contact now. Her foot kept on thumping the open back of the shoe. “You know, like a specialized insole. Or… something.”

            “Or something.”

            For a moment, the two young women stared one another down, and Rachel began to feel strangely at ease. There was no malice in Larissa’s charming eyes; only a sense of comradery. Like the only two girls in the clubhouse who had a dirty secret.

            “You want my advice?” Larissa asked.

            “That would be lovely.”

            “Read this aloud.” Larissa produced a slip of paper from her pocket, folded in half, and handed it to Rachel. Just as quickly as she arrived, then, she turned to leave. “When you’re alone again. Just once.”

            “Wait,” Rachel uttered. She frowned at the seeming gibberish of non-English words written on the paper. Then her gaze flashed back to Larissa’s moving feet, watching the carefree yet inexplicably powerful loafers carrying the girl away, with some anonymous mini-person serving hard time inside.

            “Yes?”

            “What does it do?”

            “Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Larissa said with a sly smile. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll like pampering yourself a little during the workday. Not just having… something… down there to massage you while you walk and work, but something to keep you moisturized, too. Once you say those words, any “arch support” accessories you’re using will have a limitless supply of exactly what you need to stay soft and sexy.”

            Rachel, stunned, remained in the copy room while Larissa exited and vanished around the corner. She pressed the slip into her pocket, then curled her toes inside her pumps.

            Sam had endured an hour thus far with his body all but taped up to Rachel’s arch by the severe pull of the nylon. He’d developed a system where he breathed slow and deep enough that he could just squeak by with enough soggy, foot-flavored air to stay semi-conscious. Avoiding the battering of the sole was another story, of course, and Sam was rife with bruises, even after Rachel returned from her walk and carried on with work at her desk. Like before, she occasionally let her shoe hang from her foot, granting Sam a temporary gasp of air and light, before it was taken away again without warning when Rachel slapped her foot straight back into its tight-fitting stylish holster. With his rage temporarily in check, and a half-viable way to stay alive for the time being, Sam was essentially stasis, until he noticed something strange, just as Rachel started absent-mindedly tapping her shoe beneath the desk.

            He was getting hard again. Despite his fury. Despite the stinging heat and salty air. Despite the abrasiveness of his body being continually violently massaged directly into the shallow stretch of Rachel’s foot and raking across a wet nylon patch until he got rug burn, his biology was managing to betray him. How could this possibly be? As much as Sam enjoyed footjobs, he’d never been one for getting up close and personal with them above the belt, as doing so only reminded him of the potential filth and inherent revulsion of a stinky, grimy foot. Right now, he was swimming in a hellish example of that same worst-case-scenario. He hated Rachel’s foot more than ever now. Yet he felt the flow of testosterone and blood to his baser levels. Worse, the longer she tapped her foot, likely without even thinking about its effect on him, he was getting hornier. After a few minutes of quiet torment, Sam was back at full mast and aching for release.

            Humiliating as it was, he might have tried to tug himself to climax, if only for relief, but it was impossible to move his limbs independently, as Rachel’s foot had swollen slightly again from the heat, her flesh filling up the already-thin stocking space, and he utterly lacked the strength to fight the hand-stitched tenacity of that nylon. So, Sam had no recourse other than lying still, with his face and his dick simultaneously squeezed against a loping foot-wrinkle, and await a slow crawl toward orgasm.

            Ten minutes of shoe-bobbing later, Sam was so on edge that even the slightest brush against his member would do him in. When Rachel’s sole flexed again, he shuddered and came. No more relaxed, but at least glad to have that urge taken care of, Sam tried to return to the coma-like mentality of lying still, breathing slow, and waiting out this latest stage of inane punishment. At least that was his plan, until Sam felt himself hardening again.

            This time it happened doubly as fast. Even while Rachel stopped tapping her foot, and dangled the mouth of the shoe off her heel again, Sam was well on his way to a half-chub inside two minutes. She wasn’t even rubbing him into her foot via the simple act of wearing him inside now, as the tension of the nylon was allowed to sag slightly in the open air. He could smell the ratty office carpet again, which was a major improvement over sweat-glazed skin and downy stocking; he could make out the sparkle of waning mid-afternoon sunlight over the cusp of the shoe, even while he was mostly kept in shadow, thanks to the positioning of Rachel’s leg. Sam was even stowed far enough down the length of her foot that if another human being were to stand behind the woman’s chair and peek underneath, they would surely see the naked prisoner she had trapped inside her nylons for safe-keeping. All of these encouraging little notions should have been enough to discourage his body from pleasure at this damning feminine appendage.

            Still, as his body hung like a web-tied fly from the moist and buoyant netting, Sam was coaxed toward the point of no return. He wracked his brain, trying to uncover whatever nervous system malfunction was causing him to have his third orgasm of the day pressed up against a foot which was causing him more grief than any single entity in his entire life. Was he having a stroke or something? No longer hugged skin-tight to the sole, Sam couldn’t count on sheer friction to force an orgasm. It, frankly, should’ve been impossible. Nevertheless, each time Rachel dipped the shoe a little lower from the hanging perch of her toes, the wrinkles of her arch bunched up into buttery little furrows, and they swelled up over Sam’s helpless inch-tall body. That was apparently enough for his disgusting subconscious to work with, because after a few dozen casual dips, watching Rachel’s shoe dangle ever-lower toward the floor below, Sam learned to anticipate her mindless gestures as a signal of an oncoming endorphin rush. The next time Rachel’s sole blossomed to its meatiest volume, her sole-creases running like rivers and grasping inanimately for his junk, Sam bucked painfully into reticent euphoria. Surrounded in the swirl of swampy heat and rancid odor, and with the sharply insulting knowledge that Rachel was perfectly comfortable letting him briefly hang outside her shoe in the outside world before tugging him back in along with her foot at whim, the little man was defeated again.

            “Jesus,” he huffed. “What the fuck.” Though there was no way to be certain through the filter of leather, felt, and nylon separating him from the rest of giant humanity, Sam would’ve sworn he heard a flicker of girlish laughter. Did Rachel realize what was happening down here?

By now, Sam only longed for rest from this topsy-turvy molestation. Hell, Sam would’ve been content remaining inside Rachel’s shoe all day, if only she would stop moving and tempting his god-forsaken body to orgasm. However, it was clearly not to be, as no sooner had his erection wilted, when the apparently insatiable incher’s member stood back up. This time, Rachel’s foot had cupped the leather heel back around it, and was resting stock-still on the ground, with no interference on Sam’s body but for the usual constant of her sole skin bearing down on his front while her nylon fibers held fast to his back like reptile scales. Yet he had his fourth boner of the day.

            Sam tried wriggling onto his side, despite the soreness and weight on his sides, if only to relieve his dick from springing to life. But it did nothing. With the full brunt of Rachel’s multi-colored and toejam-grained arch weighing Sam down, and the nude nylon smeared out flat, there was no way to turn aside without inflicting great pain on his fragile body. The little man was helpless then as, without a single twitch from the giant foot above him, nor aid of any kind except for the natural lubricant of Rachel’s foot sweat caked between her sole wrinkles, he came again. If anything, the force of his orgasm was getting more potent. He wasn’t tiring of forced sexual activity, though he certainly felt that way; his body was instead becoming like a miniature machine, whose only purpose was to fire microscopic spunk against an infinite and unforgiving foot belonging to the world’s most hypocritical lawyer.

            On the ninth consecutive climax, Sam was at least treated to another ray of light as Rachel dangled her heel again, this time from the perch of a crossed leg. Of course, the relief of oxygen and sight was nigh-meaningless, as he’d now been accidentally raped so many times by the giantess’s stocking-clad foot alone, Sam would’ve been just as unhappy while blind and deaf inside an iron lung.

            “Who knew you had so much in you. I’m really very impressed. No wonder you’ve had so many people come after you before,” Rachel murmured. “Don’t mind me coming into your new home. I just need to take care of something, and then I’ll leave you alone again.”

            It took a minute for the despondent inch-tall man to realize she was talking to him. He couldn’t quite make out her face, but the woman angled her ankle just far enough that she could slide a finger between the V-cusp of shoe lip and instep slope to “take care of” whatever it was she meant. At first, Sam was fooled into thinking she might tug the nylon away long enough for him to escape the pull of her sole and grant his cock a recess, but rather, she merely pressed a polished fingernail against the nyloned bulwark of her sole just above the little guy’s head. From there, her cuticle began caressing the skin hard, obviously scratching a long-dormant itch. Instead of loosening the stocking from around Sam’s body, it instead tightened. The warm, grainy layer of almost-invisible legwear was stretched so thin it all but vanished from sight, but the shrunken man felt its painful presence at his back. It dug at his skin. He was hugged so flush to Rachel’s body that he could feel the shape of his limbs conforming to the pillowy wall like memory foam. He was squeezed so hard, there was practically no discernible shape in the sea of nylon separating his body from the geometry of his lawyer’s tortuous, mouth-watering foot. Sam was essentially integrated with his tormentor’s foot. Above, Rachel sipped from a bottle of iced tea with one hand and thumbed at her instep with the other.

            While Sam grunted with agony into the nearest sole wrinkle, the giantess yawned, and callously enjoyed the reprieve from her foot’s itching problem. Once thoroughly satisfied she’d scratched away the irritant, the lawyer continued rubbing her fingernail up and down her sole just for good measure, then at last let go. Sam didn’t have long to enjoy the slack in the nylon, though, before he and Rachel heard a knock at the office door. With instinctive speed, the woman stomped into the ground, which not only slammed her foot back inside its container, but swiftly and cruelly veiled her tiny client again from the outside world. Just as she did, the door’s handle turned.

            “August?” Rachel said. She smiled, and stared down the woman she’d recently faced off against in a court of law.

            “Ms. Morrow?” Sure enough, the fair-haired blonde stepped through the door, sporting a fashionable pair of ivory hair sticks coiled through her bun. She gave her glasses a tweak over the bridge of her nose. Marching across the office space, her backless leather clogs thumped mutedly on her nylon-cupped heels and soles. Slender and professional, yet effortlessly glamorous despite the constraints of workplace attire, the up-and-coming lawyer reminded Rachel a lot of herself. Especially after she’d gracefully accepted Sam’s scot-free ruling, when obviously, Katelyn should’ve taken the man for everything he had; they both knew what injustice looked like.

            “C’mon. We’ve been through enough meetings together. Just call me Rachel.”

            “Fine, Rachel,” August smiled back. “Marsha gave you the message that I was coming by?”

            “Yes, she did. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” Rachel indicated to the chair across from her desk. She stood briefly, extending a hand to shake August’s, and though she was externally focused on the greeting, Rachel savored the brief lurch of an inch-tall lump at the center of her sole receiving an unexpected and heavy load of flesh. Despite what must have been a fairly smarting blow to his person, the impact still inspired Sam’s tenth orgasm, thanks to Larissa’s magic words. What a little sucker.

            The women took their seats, and each crossed their legs beneath the desk, modest black skirts covering just enough of their stockinged legs. Even if August Turner was technically her opponent during the Sam Bennett case, by representing Katelyn, Rachel had nothing but sympathy and understanding for the other side. Particularly after the day she’d spent with Sam today. The brunette couldn’t help but smirk to herself at the thought that she had the object of August and Katelyn’s ire snagged down in her pump, using and abusing Sam to relax herself and teach him a lesson he’d never forget.

            “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rachel asked, folding her hands over her lap.

            “Just so you know, there’s no cause for alarm by my coming here today. We’re not pursuing any additional action, now that the sentencing is over,” August reassured. Her fingers idly played with the thicker tuft of nylon where the fabric bunched at the back of her knee, plucking it like a harp string. “This is just an informal meeting.”

            “But not an informal visit, I take it.”

            “No, not just a visit, though I have really enjoyed our meetings, even if it was under unfortunate circumstances.”

            “Thank you. I feel the same,” Rachel said. “Now, how can I help you today?”

            “My business with Katelyn is finished now. She elected to sever all ties with our firm after we lost the case, cutting off all attorney-client privilege. Because of that, you can consider everything I’m about to say outside the books,” August continued. She cleared her throat. “Did you… happen to, by chance, see Mr. Sam Bennett today?”

            Rachel froze, but her expression didn’t change. She smiled again. “Oh, August. You know I’d need a very good reason to discuss any meetings I may or may not have had with a current client. Do you have a very good reason to give me?”

            “Quite possibly.” August didn’t speak up again immediately, but rather reached below the desk. Curious, Rachel leaned forward, until she could see through the distorted glass image to the floor, where the stately blonde lawyer was now fumbling with her left clog. She scooped it off her foot, and outstretched her nyloned leg. Her toes grasped at the bouncy fabric, snatching it in the doughy crevices, then released again as she set the ball of her foot to the carpet. From there, she inserted her thumbs into the hem of her stocking where it wrapped over her pale thigh, and commenced rolling it down her shapely limb.

            Rachel was caught off-guard, but because her whole day had been so peculiar, beginning with Sam’s shrinkage and most recently with Larissa’s mysteriously beneficial paper slip, she didn’t object. Silently, the two women sat together until August had rolled her nude nylon all the way down her leg. Balling it up into a gossamer cluster, she shoved the garment inside the wide mouth of her black clog, then leaned back in the chair. With all the confidence in the world, August hoisted up her newly-freed bare foot, still slightly pink and pattern-lined from a day-long compression inside stockings. Once she’d set her petite ped up upon the glass surface of the desk, however, the surprise of her partial disrobing was quickly overshadowed by what Rachel saw between her toes.

            It was unmistakably a little man, roughly Sam’s size, and pinched expertly between August’s thick-bulbed big toe and lanky second digit.

Exposed as the day he was born, and obviously filthy, the tiny man between August’s toes was flushed the same hot-and-rank rose hue as his presumable owner’s naked foot. Most of his upper body was clenched in the fleshy crevice between her largest digits, while his lower half hung limply from the undersides, though he was definitely alive, as his limbs squirmed like an overturned beetle’s.

            Rachel’s first instinct was to question what the hell was happening, but once the memory of her bizarre day caught up yet again, and confirmed that this sight was wholly possible, she instead readjusted her expectations, and simply replied in her calmest timbre: “Who is that?”

            “His name is Dylan,” August said pleasantly. She wriggled her toes in a wave pattern, but made sure her big and second digits moved in unison, which kept the shrunken thing from getting a single whiff of clean air or reprieve from the muscular toe-hold. “It’s funny you ask. I haven’t said his name aloud in a couple years. You kind of forget, once you have one of these for long enough.”

            “One of… these?”

            “You know, one of these little critters who make such nice passengers for your shoes. Look, I know you’re just being a professional by not coming out with it, which I completely understand, but let’s just say for the sake of hypothetical, I know that you have Sam Bennett inside your shoe right now,” August continued. She opened flexed and scrunched her sole, which increased the organic roller coaster upon which Dylan was imprisoned.

            Both lawyers, steely as ever, remained just as cool and collected. August, at least, had visibly relaxed, now that her foot was unsheathed and her dirty little secret freely dangled from her toes victory flag-style.

            “Hypothetically, then…” Rachel sighed. She rocked her pump back and forth under the desk, working Sam hard against her sole, until he came within a minute. “What is it you’d want from me or any persons I may or may not have met with?”

            “Nothing at all, Rachel, except to say welcome to the club.”

            “The club?”

            “Not officially, but you could certainly call us a community.”

            “And what exactly is this community?”

            “Just a group of women with access to unique tools who wish to rebalance the sexes as they were intended,” August rattled off easily as the weather. “You may not have known any of this was possible before today, but there are hundreds of us who stand in support of one another. I was new at one point, just like you. So was Larissa. We’re in the company of professional women across the world: CEOs, teachers, doctors, flight attendants, librarians, city councilors… you would be surprised just how far we reach.”

            “That’s an understatement.”

            “I’m not here to force you to join us in our goals. We’re not a cult. Shrinking men and wearing them in our shoes isn’t some end-all-be-all. You can just think of it as a way of aiding the cause while you go about your life however best suits you,” August continued. She reached over the desk, pinched Dylan between her thumb and index, and peeled him out from between her spongy toes. The pitiful pet hung upside-down from her elegant fingers as she withdrew her foot, and seemed to proffer Dylan in Rachel’s direction. “But if you’re willing to trust me, I could get Mr. Bennett started off on the right foot for you. I’m sure he’s not having a great time down there, especially if Larissa taught you the “moisturizer” trick for him, but I’ve had much more experience. Years, in fact. If you’d like to trade off with me for a few nights, I assure you I could have him ready to serve as your lifelong foot slave by next week. Granted, he won’t be willing, but he will be ready to become yours.

            Overwhelmed by the influx of information, and more than a little titillated by some of it, Rachel adjusted her position in her swivel chair. The idea of permanently keeping Sam had crossed her mind, of course, though not seriously until now. Upon discovering their situation was no anomaly, though, the possibility of turning Sam’s punishment into a life sentence seemed possible. Maybe even probable. With all he’d done to those women over the years, surely he had earned himself at least a single lifetime under one of the very feet he’d sought to abuse for his sick purposes.

            Rachel crossed her leg over its opposite, smoothed back a few stray hairs, and lifted her glasses just high enough for a short-sided glance at the pathetic shrinker being offered as a substitute. Whatever Dylan had done, Rachel instinctively trusted that he deserved this; August’s demeanor had compelled her with sorcery stronger than any spells she could read off a paper. Perhaps it would be useful to have another little man as a point of comparison, to truly understand this rebalancing of the sexes business August had mentioned. After all, she was part of the club now.

            “Okay. And, just for the sake of hypothetical…” Rachel drawled, though she was already pulling her shoe off, and preparing to shimmy the nylon off her leg to retrieve Sam. “…why would you want to help me specifically?”

            “Well, for one thing, us gals need to stick together, don’t we?” August said sardonically, snickering with Rachel over her wording, before her expression turned cold and focused just as quickly. “And for another thing, that little shit-stain of a man cheated the judicial system. I can’t just stand by and let that happen. Especially for someone who loves a good foot as much as he does. Who would I be to deprive him the pleasure?”

            When Sam noticed Rachel’s shoe pulling away from her weary foot, followed by the unpeeling of the nylon, he was feeling drained from the inside out, but determined. He was ready to fold. Whatever it took for him to say, he’d say it, as long as it meant staying out of Rachel’s shoe. His pride and dignity had been subtracted until there was none left; if this kept up, his insides would be depleted as well. By now, his body was liable to cum if his dick so much as brushed a woman’s toenail. So, as the stocking was unstuck from her sole, leaving Sam adhered momentarily to the surface, he already had his hands prayerfully clasped as Rachel’s palm came to collect him from beneath her ped.

            “I’M SORRY!” he bellowed, knowing how pitiful it must’ve sounded coming from an inch-tall man. As he was raised up to the level of the desk, Sam didn’t even notice the blonde woman across the desk, in favor of intense laser-sight attention to Rachel. He’d been practicing this speech for hours now. This was his one shot, for all the marbles. It had to look genuine. “I’m sorry, FOR EVERYTHING! I… see now that I was wrong to put people… women… down, and to pressure them into things they shouldn’t have been. I understand what you’ve been doing here was to make me see what it’s like to feel powerless next to someone with power. Right? That was the idea, yeah? I don’t pretend to like it. You must know how much I hated it, and how much I wanted to make you pay today… I’m not stupid enough to deny that, when you must be able to guess it. But I see now, finally, that I am not blameless. I made mistakes, misguided and accidental. And then I made decisions too, which were even worse, because I was conscious of it. For all that, I deserve consequences greater than those I received in the past. Today, I’ve gotten what’s coming to me, and at last I can see more clearly than ever that I-”

            “Are you getting bored of this yet, Rachel?” August interrupted. Her sharp-tongued snark turned Sam docile; had he noticed her sooner, he might have started screaming for help.

            But upon hearing her speak, and recognizing the same kind of casual disregard for his shrunken wellbeing that he’d heard from Rachel all day, if not even more heartless, he quickly shut up.

            “Just a little bit bored. I was curious to see where he was going, though,” Rachel replied. She grinned, and cocked her head at the little man in her palm. “You know, in case he whipped up some tears. That would definitely earn him a few brownie points, I think. Or at least an Academy Award. Sorry, Sam. I would’ve believed it if you weren’t such a conniving little snake who just says whatever is required to get out of trouble. Seriously, not even one tear?”

            “Believe me, it gets old. Most of the boys I’ve had in my shoes and stockings cry eventually. The smart ones will wait a while to do it, so it looks like they’ve really changed. It’s very convincing. Not that it works on me, of course,” August said. She reached over to Rachel’s cupped hand and prodded her middle finger at Sam’s bare back. “After the performances this one gave at the hearings, I think you can expect plenty of theatrical apologies. You’ll get used to it. After a while, he’ll realize it doesn’t help his case, either, and just get back to doing what he does best.”

            “Which is what, again?”

            “Getting stepped on, of course.”

“Excuse m-me…” Sam blubbered. What little bravado he’d built up for that speech was now gone. Once again, he felt frightfully vulnerable and exposed in front of his lawyer and…

            …August Turner. The opposition’s attorney. The woman who’d shot daggers at him with her glare every meeting and courtroom appearance. What was happening now? Why wasn’t she fainting at the sight of a miniaturized human? He turned white as a sheet.

            “I think you’ve been excused plenty of times already, squirt,” August snapped. “Once more isn’t going to do you any good. In fact, I’d say you’re only digging the hole deeper with every word you say. So do yourself a favor: silence, and hold still, so I can put you down in my shoe for the ride back to my firm without turning you into paste.”

            A week ago, August’s icy ramblings had just made Sam chuckle, particularly before the sentencing when she put out an impassioned plea to common sense on behalf of Katelyn. Today, though, it was a different story. Sam sealed his lips and went rigid, screaming internally at his inability to fight back as his body was passed from Rachel’s palm to August’s fingertips.

            “Have a good time, Samuel Junior,” Rachel intoned. She waved a tender goodbye to her client. “By the way, you can officially consider our professional relationship terminated. Luckily, just in case you were worried you wouldn’t see much of me or my feet any longer, our personal relationship is only just beginning, and I foresee it lasting much longer than our attorney-client privilege.”

            “Because the only privilege you’ll be enjoying is the bottoms of her feet and the insides of her shoes,” August explained. “After you spend a little time with ME, of course. We wouldn’t want poor Rachel here ending up with an improperly trained pet, would we? Not to mention the fact that you cheated me out of a guilty verdict, which you still have yet to serve.”

            Overcome with horror and confusion, Sam remained just as silent, while the pair of lawyers had a sporting laugh over their triumph. The next thing he knew, the hopeless little man was being sprinkled into the waiting silk maw of August’s stocking. Though not quite as sheer as Rachel’s due to its shadowy hue, it nevertheless gave a clear view to the unreachable outside world through the raunchy fibers. Sam tumbled head-over-heels until he reached the toe section, followed by an almost immediate meeting with yet another foot he’d once admired and salivated over from afar during the yawn-inducing hearings.

            August shoved her foot fully inside, then rolled the nylon back up, until Sam was squarely beneath the firm curvature of her heavy, lightly callused heel. He and her foot descended into the black clog. Musk and darkness enveloped the shrunken man, while August and Rachel closed out their informal meeting with a handshake.

            “Please let me know how it goes,” Rachel said.

            “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be getting regular updates. Probably a picture or two, as well. They tend to make some pretty funny faces during their first days down there. Don’t hesitate to give me a ring if you have any questions about that ‘rental’ I gave you, either.”

            “I certainly won’t.” Rachel raised an eyebrow as she regarded the clog which now contained her former client. “Are you… sure lil’ Mr. Bennett will be all right in the back there? Not that I care, but it seems like it would be an awful shame to make him unusable after just his first day on the job.”

            “Don’t worry. All it takes is practice, and you’ll be able to wear him wherever you like down there. Granted, it’ll be much more painful and probably frightening for him being at the back, but you can do it without snapping a single one of his bones.”

            “Good to know. Thank you for stopping by, August.”         

            “The pleasure was all mine, Rachel. Though in about a week, it will be all yours, as well.”

            August exited the office, taking regal steps without a smidge of pause, as she pile-drove the new recruit between the rock-and-a-hard-place of her thick-insoled clog and her hardy nyloned heel. True to her word, the experience was equal parts terrifying and agonizing for Sam, whose cries were lost to the leathery cave of the clog. By the time August reached the parking lot, she’d already done more damage to the shrunken man than Rachel had in a whole day of trodding upon him under her pungent sole and mealy toes.

            Meanwhile, newest member of the “community” took a seat back in her chair, and delicately inserted Dylan between two of her toes for re-insertion to her stockings. As it turned out, her gentility wasn’t necessary, since the shrunken brat balled himself into the fetal position for easy transport and packaging between her digits. Rachel smiled, and realized that if August was truly serious about her ability to turn Sam into something just as broken and useful as Dylan, then Rachel indeed had many lovely days and nights to look forward to stomping and grinding that guilty son of a bitch into the dust.

            Half an hour later, the pounding under August’s heel came to a merciful halt. Sam was a squealing wreck of a creature when he was snatched by the leg between two of the woman’s fingertips and dragged from beneath her heel. She didn’t even have the courtesy to remove her foot from the shoe before yanking him out, and took a few laborious seconds to press down just a little harder on the clog’s insole. This ensured Sam was slaked roughly on every single angel-hair thread of dark-sheer nylon, bolstered by a petite and deceptively heavy heel, before being drawn back to the light.

            His little wails turned to outright screams as Sam was dangled upside-down a comparative three hundred feet in the air, with no giant palm waiting to catch him if August’s fingers slipped. There was simply gravity and dizzying vertigo in contest with the lawyer’s tenuous grip on his leg. As she got leaned back on the desk in her own office, August gave Sam plenty of time to dry up his voice while she swiped through her phone screen, hardly paying him more than a side-glance, until at last she set her device aside and paid the full force of her siren-like focus to him. With a ragged voice, Sam was still moaning in protest.

            “Shhhhhh… do you ever think of anyone but yourself, little one? This is a place of business. Please keep your voice down,” August hushed, a finger over her lips. Then she rolled her eyes and cracked a smile, and at last set the little man down on the desk beside the vertical hillock of her skirt-enfolded ass. “Sorry, old habits die hard. I used to work as a… oh, never mind. It’s not especially relevant to you. Not much is going to be relevant to you going forward, in fact. There’s only two things I can think of, really, that will be. Would you like to know what they are?”

            Sam trembled in the shadow of August’s towering body, and bowed his head, wishing he could will himself back in time so he could avoid ever setting foot inside Rachel’s office. Or even just will himself out of existence. He heard both of her shoes being tugged off her feet below before clomping heavily to the carpet.

            “No guesses? Fine, I’ll give you a hint,” August said. She turned around, took a seat in her armchair, and lifted both legs up over the surface of the desk. Each of her monumental feet was planted on either side of the inch-tall prisoner: one ped shrouded in a smoky-hued skin-tight nylon casing, and the other as rosily bare and ripe as could be.

            All Sam could do was stare at them, savor the respective patterns of pink-speckled flesh-tone topography and silken canvas of damp stocking, and bitterly resent the inevitable rise of his uncooperative cock. His body had been broken and repurposed. The thing he coveted most had been turned into his worst sexual nightmare.

            “Well? Any thoughts, before we resume your reconditioning?”

            “W-Why are you doing this?” Sam croaked.

            The woman snorted softly with derision, obviously not expecting the question, but nonetheless amused. She tapped her chin and rolled her eyes, in the process bobbing her feet to and fro, alternately narrowing the valley between them where the miniature man huddled in hopes that neither the naked nor stockinged foot would come crashing down upon him. Though, at this point in the day, knowing what he knew Rachel intended to do with him, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome, either.

            “Why, you ask?” she huffed. “Because you’re the living embodiment with everything wrong in humanity. You lie, and coerce, and you take advantage, and somehow society tolerates it. Because a set of arbitrary rules decided you would get to reap the benefits, and everyone else has to just sit there and take it while you rub your little shrimp-dick on whatever moves. I’ve heard what you did to Katelyn, and after I searched out everyone you ever forced to foot-fuck you… yes, everyone… I knew something had to be done. That’s why we did this to you. And that’s why you’re going to be spending the rest of your miserable little life thinking long and hard about your choices, and the women you hurt. Especially because a lot of those women are, in all likelihood, going to get the chance to step on you as well… crushing you under their heels, smothering you with their soles, wearing you in their shoes, throwing you down their nylons, choking the life from you between their toes to the brink of collapse… at least once I’ve broken you in and Rachel has her fill. Any other stupid questions?”

            Sam was, for perhaps the first time in his life, officially out of words.

            “Lovely. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get home and start unwinding, so let’s get you introduced to your new workspace for the next week,” August said. She leaned down to the floor and retrieved one of her clogs, then held it up, until the leathery back lip was aligned with the edge of the desk. “Go on. Climb inside my shoe, you little pig. I haven’t got all day.”

            Awestruck, Sam peered inside the black hovel. The clog’s tall shape ensured he could see all the way inside the broad tunnel, to the ovular toe curve near the end. It felt a bit like staring into a concert atrium stage just before the lights flashed on. Eerie, almost haunting, especially as Sam reflected on the knowledge that, no matter how hard he fought, no matter what he said or did now, he was going inside that shoe. And August’s foot was going to follow him within, until he was buried under slimy after-work foot flesh and oily ragged nylon. This ritual would last for his whole life, with only the occasional break to be passed into the greedy hands of yet another vengeful bitch from whom he’d been foolish enough to strongly request a footjob. If there was a hell on earth, he was truly gazing into its mouth at this precise moment. Sam crumbled to his knees.

            August sighed, clearly irritated at his reticence, not so much at the thought of being disobeyed, but because time was wasting. She reached behind her head, plucked one of the dark rods stemmed through her hay-colored locks, and pulled it out. Suddenly armed with a black skewer, she pointed the opposite end at Sam’s body, and with a single flick, knocked him on his backside. The hair stick quickly followed, and pinned him firmly to the surface, stopping just short of impaling him. Absolutely defeated now, Sam hardly flinched at the threat.

            “Well, that’s funny. Somebody’s already in shutdown mode, I see. That’s good. You’re moving through the stages of foot-slave grief more quickly than my last trainee. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll even start to enjoy your time down there someday. After all…” August teased. She curled her pinky fingertip against the lower half of Sam’s body, supporting his diminutive undercarriage against the pad of her digit. Regrettably, he twitched with pleasure. “…at least some part of you seems to be enjoying it already. So get with the program. Oh, and welcome to the rest of your life.”

            Without another word, August utilized some dexterous chopstick precision to sweep Sam directly into the gaping black pit of her awaiting clog, without ever alleviating the pressure on his chest from her tool, until he was given to gravity. The little man hit the slope hard, spiraling down toward the essential underworld of his newfound existence in never-ending footjob torture. Once he’d smacked into the very end, it took Sam a minute to reorient and even know which way was up, until he found the swell of light above, and witnessed August’s beautiful, victorious countenance smiling down on him like the malevolent foot-deity she was. The blonde-haired shark twirled a finger through the curly ends of her tresses, gave them a toss, and puckered her lips in a faux-blown kiss to the newest roommate of her favorite pair of backless clogs.

            Then her face vanished, giving way to the lurching shape of the monstrous foot still clad in putrid, briny stocking. She took her time guiding the megalomaniacal length of it inside, letting her fabric-packaged toes become reacquainted with the space, before they curled and scrunched in anticipation of gripping Sam’s helpless form into their squishy, balmy folds. Seeing now that there was no path forward but the one he’d unknowingly set himself upon the first time he invited a cute secretary with sexy pumps into his office, Sam purged himself of all feeling: rage, sorrow, and even regret. He simply let the sentence take hold as his face was swallowed between August’s mammoth toes.

            Case dismissed.