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------ Chapter 8 ------

          Holding me in her arms, Alison asked what I’d been doing when I was caught by Tami. I replied I’d been walking home, and my sister retrieved the Post- It note from Ms. Bianchi, stooping down to pluck it up from the ground. Having just rescued me from a rape attempt, my sister unthinkingly began carrying me home without a concern in the world, and all the while my mind raced furiously with the connotations that the incident implied. If she only knew the emotional turmoil I was going through at that moment.

           For a second, my mind got hung up on a thought. If women raping men was relatively commonplace, why would my sister -who thoroughly loved teasing me and generally making me miserable- bother to put forth any effort to rescue me? The question demanded an answer… so I asked.

           “Alison?”

           “Yeah, squirt?” By now she was getting close to our house.

           “If this was no big deal, as you said, then why did you save me back there? Why didn’t you just leave me?” I asked quietly.

           She flipped her long blonde bangs to the side and scoffed. “Don’t get the wrong idea- I probably shouldn’t have! Yet it pisses me off to think of a bitch like Tami Olds getting pregnant. The world is filled with enough idiots; the last thing it needs is one of her retard spawn running around.”

           “So you only did what you did to spite Tami?” I asked dejectedly.

           Alison pulled up our driveway, walking briskly. She squinted down at me, a look of derision crossing her face.

           “Yeah, I don’t like the idea of her being one of my in-laws, ok? What is this, twenty questions?”

            I sank back into her arms, sullen and dejected as I learned the truth behind my sister’s actions.

            Just before she entered our house, Alison stopped, noting the onset of my sudden bout of misery. With a thoughtful look of reconsideration, she spoke.

            “You know… I guess I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” She leaned in closer to me, and lowered her voice. “The truth is… I don’t think a tiny bitch like that deserves you. There aren’t that many men around. Don’t get any weird ideas; you’re still a squirt. But even a squirt like you deserves a bigger, better woman than that.”

            With that, she winked and smiled. In an odd sort of way, her strange statement actually succeeded in making me feel somewhat better. As a man, I might not have any clout in this world, but at least Alison would somewhat look out for me, provided the conditions were right. I chuckled and smiled back at her, obviously appreciative of her sentiments.

            She reached for the door, opened it, and entered. As she kicked off her sandals, she spoke slyly.

            “You know Dean, I can think of a few things you could do if you really wanted to repay me back.”

            I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “Uh, I’m already supposed to paint your nails, right?”

            Alison readjusted me in her arms, lifting me up slightly so that she could look me in the eye. Her eyes squinted into slits, and she gave off an evil smirk.

            “Oh, you are going to do sooooo much more than that…”

            ……

            Without telling me what she wanted me to do, Alison made it known that I owed her, and at some point she was going to cash in on that. She hauled me into the kitchen, where she set me down on the table before heading upstairs to change out of her work clothes. As she did this, we met my mother, who was making dinner at that moment.

            “Hey guys, nice to see you!” Mom hugged Alison, who wrenched herself free as soon as she could. Then my massive mother stooped over and gave me a big kiss, her plush lips nearly knocking me over.

            She turned back to the stovetop, and I could smell and hear that she was browning meat. The aroma was good, and I was suddenly reminded of how hungry I was. I watched as my mother cooked with her back turned to me. She was wearing a white frilly apron over her hot pink sundress, and her blonde hair was done up in a messy ponytail.

            The smell of the cooking hamburger was getting too much to bear. Finally, without really thinking, I naively asked if we had anything to eat. Without turning around, my mother quickly responded.

            “I suppose you’re getting hungry. I’ll be ready after dinner Dean, so just be patient.”

            Inside, I kicked myself. Of course she would say that. Being a man, I wasn’t allowed to have real food. How stupid of me to ask a silly question like that- now she was going to breast feed me again.

            While normally I knew I was repulsed by the whole breastfeeding idea, by now my hunger pains were getting strong enough to make me start reconsidering. Still, I’d much rather get my hands on some real food. If only there was some way…

            I hoped down off the table top and landed on a chair, which I then used to access the floor with relative safety. With a few steps, I crossed the kitchen to where my mother was cooking, oblivious of my actions. I began to brainstorm of ways I could get my hands on something real to eat, without having to expressly ask for it.

            I surveyed the terrain and contemplated the situation. It was pretty grim. The way I figured it, the only way I was going to get something to eat was if my mother accidently dropped something while she was cooking. Thinking about the implications of that, I glanced around, scanning the floor. Luckily, my mother kept our house meticulously clean, and the floor tiles looked fresh. It wouldn’t be too bad, but I’d need to act quickly once she dropped something, if she ever did.

            Above me, the massive woman hummed casually as she stirred. I was positive she had no idea I was there. Perfect. I couldn’t believe I was seriously plotting to eat food off the floor, yet I was voraciously hungry. I reminded myself of the five-second rule, and my stomach agreed.

             Slyly, I crept between her gargantuan feet. Large and bare, I noted the details of her feminine feet as I stealthily moved past them. It was weird, but I was beginning to learn how to pay attention to things like that. The more time I spent at women’s feet, the more I was able to identify them by how they walked or the subtle details of their feet. As the day went on, I was finding myself looking up less and less, which provided a lot of relief to my poor neck, which by this point was aching considerably.

            I sat down and began biding my time, cross legged with my back leaning against a stove the size of a small house. As I patiently waited, I watched my mother’s tower-like legs move and hoped she would drop some of that delicious hamburger.

            She rarely stepped, instead preferring to rock back on her heels or forwards onto her toes. The slightly wrinkled padding of her feet pressed into the tile with considerable force, and her massive calf muscles engaged and relaxed, flexing and shifting powerfully as she went about her business. Her toes were painted perfectly, the stereotypical lush red color of a 50’s housewife, splayed out wonderfully over her large square nails. High above me, her high pitched sing-song voice floated down, humming popular tunes from the radio. Scraping sounds could also be heard as she worked the spatula, which she then set down on the countertop.

            The woman rocked forward on her toes, her colossal calf muscles powering her upwards as she reached for the seasonings in a top cupboard. As she reached, she took a sudden step forward.

            The immense foot of a gargantuan, mature woman -a foot nearly as big as I was- quickly shot towards me. In the span of a half-second, my life flashed before my eyes, and I realized the folly of my scheme. Because my mother had no idea that her tiny son was at her feet, there would be nothing that would stop the giant woman from crushing me under her as she carelessly moved about. The very nature of her immense size made my mother inherently dangerous to me, and her most unintentional movements could snuff me out in an instant.

            Heavy, womanly toes crashed down on me, splaying over my body. I threw my arms up and yelled, a pitiful attempt to protect myself from my gigantic mother’s casual and thoughtless movements.

            “Wha!?” Her overwhelming toes pressed down ever so slightly, her huge red nails digging into my body, the padding of her toes crushing my legs forcefully. Luckily, she didn’t place her full weight on me, and instead her foot rocketed off me as she abruptly realized what she was doing.

            “Dean!” She yelled angrily, stooping down suddenly to look directly at me. “What have I told you about playing at my feet like that!?”

            I gulped nervously, barely hearing her. I’d nearly died just then, I was sure of it. One misplaced step and my mother would have surely stomped me out like a bug.

            Her lecture continued, “I’ve told you a million times- if you want to be at my feet, that’s fine, just hang on to them so I know where you are. I could have crushed you!”

            She just glared at me, a grave, sharp expression on her face. Finally, she went back to cooking, her powerful legs launching her back upwards.

            Still terrified, I struggled to catch my breath, and quickly decided that my little plan to get real food suddenly wasn’t worth it anymore. With haste, I swiftly retreated from the kitchen, thankful to be alive.

 

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