My name is George, and I have no father. 

Like most teenage boys, I live alone with a family of sadistic perverts. I have one sister and one mother, but no brothers. It’s impossible to describe them, but  my mother is in her late 40s, dresses well, and looks good. Everyone says so. Not only the other boys at school, but even some of the teachers say that she looks pretty in shape for her age. Though she’s voluptuous and young for her age, like all mothers, she’s also somewhat off-putting and domineering.

But what do I look like? Not too great, really. When I look at my reflection in the mirror every morning, I can’t conceal from myself the sad fact that I am not good-looking. My hair is sandy-colored and unkempt. My eyes are said to be indistinctive. I’m also unpopular. I mean, I have some friends, but you know what I mean. The good thing about being unpopular and undesirable is that you get to be intelligent. I’m very intelligent. But there’s a catch here: when you’re unpopular and intelligent, that also means you’ll turn out very shy, at best – and at worst, you’re more or less a social moron. And because you’re very shy, sooner or later your perverted sisters or female relations and friends of all ages will try to take advantage of you – and this is what happened to me.

I know what you’re thinking: How old is your sister? She just turned eighteen.

One day I came home from school, filled, as usual, with conflicting emotions. Like every teacher at school, the principal is a woman somewhere between the ages of 25 and 45 (probably the ideal retirement age) – and she heard from a physically attractive though unintelligent female student that, during P.E. class, I was seen alone in the girls' locker room, diving and capering about like a dolphin among the indiscriminate, wavy piles of clothes. And this is exactly what the principal told my mother. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

My mother met me at the door of our house, her shapely arms akimbo and her green-blue eyes glaring.

“George,” she howled at me. “I’ve had it with you!” 

As she let loose a hailstorm of oaths and foul names, I listened to her baseless accusations with pious attention – which is the least any teenage boy owes to his longsuffering parent – even though I didn’t know what she was talking about. She was wrong, but so what.

“So that’s what you like! I didn’t know you had such a sick mind!”

“Mom, wh-wh-…” When you start stuttering, that means you’re confused and helpless.  So I gave up.

“Now, now, I’m not that angry with you,” she said, her mood turning on a dime, now that she realized she had the upper hand.

I didn’t speak, for obvious reasons.

“All this means is that you have to be punished!”

“P-p-.“ Stuttering is the language of fear.

“That’s right. Punished!” She grinned and finished the word for me.

You can imagine what happened next.

She brought me to school the next morning to apologize to the principal, Miss Palombo, face to face. The principal was a sleek, thin, and smartly dressed woman in her mid-thirties, and early that school day, before the first bell, I knocked on her door. She let me inside herself. The hangdog, submissive look on my face seemed to please her.

She absently snapped a few pens in half between her fingers, as she watched me from about ten yards across the room.

“George, I understand you’ve been snooping in the girls' locker-room,” she said, loudly, so that I could hear her.

“I- I-“ I ventured, courageously.

“Snooping around girls' breeches in the locker room, during PE class, is a clear breach of etiquette in this school. You know that, don’t you?”

I opened my mouth, but she held up her hand.

“No, don’t say anything. I know you’re going to start stuttering again.”

She was right. I held my tongue and looked down ruefully at the carpet of her office, which looked back at me, without meaning or feeling.

“So you know what this means,” the principal said. "It means eternal punishment.” 

I nodded my head gloomily and resignedly. Something like this is bound to happen to every teenage boy eventually. But I couldn’t shake off a nagging thought. Someone must have been playing a mean trick on me, because I hadn't done what she'd said I'd done during PE class. But who was it? Well, I'll tell you.

Per standard procedure, she shrank me down to three inches and teased and mocked me, in a professional way. This went on for about five or six hours. Just before leaving for lunch, she put me inside her big orifice, and left the door of her main office open, so that the pretty girl who ratted me out would be there when she returned.
 
The girl’s name was Sara. I forgot to mention my mother’s name. Don’t worry about it. 

Drawing a chair up to the desk, the principal folded her strict hands together, and calmly explained to Sara how I was to be punished for my misdeed. I should have guessed it was Sara who’d told on me, because she was the one girl in school I had the biggest crush on. It’s a long way from the principal’s orifice to her office, and I only made out one or two of the important words that she and Sara exchanged between themselves. One was “Shoe,” another was “For the whole day,” another was “Maybe tomorrow too,” and the last was “Whatever” (or maybe "Forever").

For the first time that day, I started to perk up.

It was at that fateful moment that I was startled from my self-control, because Miss Palombo took me out of her orifice and handed me, across the wide-open space of her office, to Sara. What does Sara look like? She looks like a demon, if a demon had two beautiful blue eyes, lovely brown hair, two rounded breasts, like doorknobs of the purest porcelain, a zaftig figure, and was cute. Immediately, she took off her sweaty moccasin and dropped me into the orifice. Oh well, I said to myself, inwardly, as she tilted her shoe over, and I somersaulted down to the scent-packed toe section. When she slid her soft, plushy, doughlike, supple, squishy, pillowy, cushiony, well-proportioned, well-padded, warm, unhairy, quite smooth, off-white, creamy foot back in – I fit perfectly. It was a perfect fit.

It was pretty hot, and pretty sweaty. I always lose track of time when it’s humid outside. So imagine how I lost track of time inside Sara’s shoe. If you want to. I’m just giving the facts.

Fortunately, because I was under the toes and not the heel of this beautiful, towering giantess, my life was never in danger. (By how much did she tower over me? Who knows?)

Because I’ve just gotten to a juicy part, I’ll end the chapter here to sustain interest.