Two days after my 36. birthday I became nervous, because now the other job was within reach. I just finished cleaning the boots of judge Landknecht, an awesome tall redhead, as black sandals emerged in front of my face. With the pupils at ground level my focus directly hit the gaps between the shoe sole and her tiptoes, this time covered with white silk.

I expected the long desired promotion, but her words weren't addressed to me. She talked to other woman and I couldn't make out what it was about. The only I could do without limitation was watching. And I saw two black high heeled pumps with thumb-wide windows, inhabited by petite toes wearing fawn stockings. I instantly fell in love!

Suddenly, after about two minutes talking, the stiletto heels turned and walked away, making painful shrill stepping sounds.

Seconds later the laths I was fixed to rolled up to the chamber where all workdays began and ended. Laura gave me and another foot servant an injection, not saying a word. And once we weren't able to move our extremities, she unfastened the straps and waited until we stopped shrinking at a size of exactly three inches. I heard about it but never ever saw a tiny man!

We were placed atop a table, now able to move again. Then the boss entered the room and placed fearing big footwear in front of us. It was the same I saw minutes ago, size 5 ½, shiny black and perversely steep. Well, four inches aren't much, but combined with this shoe size it was nearly borderline!

Nosy inspecting the beloved small peep-toes a familiar strong stench of cheese and sweaty nylon hit my face. And suddenly I knew whose cute toes I dared to ogle lecherously!

Puzzled I asked the blond chief: “How is it possible? I thought, the folks must not know who we are.” And lifting one eyebrow she answered: “Oh, you know her?”

Then she said: “Well, this young guest definitely has no clue who you are. You remember her rubbing her toes on your nose? She did it with all slaves, but only you two endured the odour without shaking the head. And that's why she selected you to become first-class smell suckers for these new pumps she'll need at the office.

Right now the irreversible transformation is already done. You withstand with ease all pressures, shocks and temperatures the insoles of a woman weighting 130 pounds must endure. Your need nothing more but toe-jam and a little oxygen. And the burden to pee and shit is completely put off of your shoulders. So she can use you the next 30 years alike inanimate items and dispose you together with the shoes when worn out. Well, that at least is the usual death of human insole parts!

As you can see, the horizontal area of the foot-bed is slightly angular. So the open tip of the shoe is not much higher than the leather sole around. But under the ball of her foot is enough material to contain a human fitting.

The only visible part will be the face, embossed enough to slip between the toe-flanks. So the nose can sniff directly at the slimy rear face of the toe crevice. To be honest, it will be much harder than your experience down in the hall, because to warrant an efficient smell absorption ten or more hours a day it was pressingly necessary to push up the sensitivity of your mucous membranes.

Now some important rules: You're not allowed to move or speak, because no lady wants to feel or hear that her insoles are alive. The only reason for Rebecca to use you is the fact, that no conventional product prevents disgusting toe illnesses as good as 'sacrificial anodes'. From a certain level upwards sweaty feet need something special. And for her and her mother too it's high time to buy more shoes of this kind. Well, that's all you have to know!”

Sitting there, facing the fetish dream of my early years, I began to tremble. The kid I fed with semolina pudding was almost adult and female enough for men and male sacrifices. But instead of taking two guys of her age she enslaved me, her father. “Will she ever find out? And what will Heather say?”

I remembered her starting an apprenticeship at the courthouse of the tall judge I worshipped twenty minutes ago. A matching duo, because both were stunning redheads. And also matching was her goal. When we played with dolls my action figure was the one she put into jail, and now she was going to become a prosecutor!

Laura turned the first shoe and peeled off it's thin rubber-sole, exposing a brown surface with the rectangular outlines of an opening. And after removing the leather lid there was a slave-dummy made of moose rubber.

When she put it out I saw the underside of the white nappa leather covering the foot-bed and an oval hole leading up the aslope sole. This hole definitely was the housing for our legs.

As she turned the shoe again I could see the completely white inside and a small circle, showing where to cut out the breakthrough for the face. These shoes doubtlessly were made especially for slaves and surely not a single-unit production!

One minute later my body pictured a “L”. And when I looked at my feet, I saw nothing but a white wall and a rectangular patch showing the often seen label “Paris” and the European shoe size 36.

That number prefigured to suffer under a short but relatively wide foot carrying 130 pounds young womanhood. For comparison: To fit in the shoe of my sister (size 7) one must be half an inch taller than me but would have to endure 20 pounds fewer. Live isn't fair!

Now I felt pressure on the back, building a relief of my upper body in the leather sheet above. And I also felt some kind of pillow pushing my head up. So I didn't look straight under the arched roof but was facing the sickle-shaped rim showing the black colour of the outer surface.

Then I was turned upside down, smelled glue and felt blows of the hammer fastening the new rubber sole. Of course, our nice colleague Laura was a skilled cobbler, processing men not the first time.

Ten minutes later the other shoe was finished too. So we landed on a silver platter and were brought out to the waiting guest alike some dish.

Rebecca examined the well done work, saw me and showed not the slightest reaction. Then I tilted sideways, neared the nylon covered sole, saw the wetness under the wide ditch of her toes and at last fife long unpainted nails pointing in my direction. It looked cute and monstrous the same time!

To women it usually didn't matter if it was a known or a foreign face gazing with disgust between her sticky toe clefts. But this kiddy girl thought it was funny waving the toes and making smacking sounds by spreading them.

This way she teased me for a while and showed me my tiny place in the middle of the wide surface of the lifted foot-front, right there on the borderline between her slender toes and the ball of the foot. I could see white calluses at the sides and a yellow spot in the centre; the result of walking on high heels for two years. But my main focus belonged to the small soft looking caldera in the middle – the source of the strongest foot odour I sniffed by then.

Well, I ever thought the hell would be black or red. But there under the fawn layer it was snow white, because my personal devil was a red Celtic witch. And I can't deny that I have had immodest thoughts!

Eventually the nails entered the shoe, scratched along the roof and thumped behind my head on the sole. I still had enough light to watch the descent of the fearful crevice emitting a skin burning stench, until the monstrous ball of her foot touched my upper tights and buried me from the waist to the neck. The yellowish spot in the middle really was as hard as it looked!

Already the pressure of the expanded leather drove my nose deep in the hot chasm where I held my breath as long as possible. But as she slammed me to the floor with an indescribable force, to her nothing but lowering her foot, the suddenly rising air pressure above my face shoot the gas trough the nose. It was obvious that the walking motion would ventilate me automatically. And I couldn't figure how to survive thousands of these suffocating attacks every day.

Perhaps I should be thankful to be part of open toed pumps. How easy it could've been her mother choosing me. I still loved her, but she had nearly the same sweaty feet and was crazy about the steep over-knee boots I gave her one Christmas.

All these calming thoughts were out of my brain as Rebecca began to lower the middle of her second and third toe, shifting my face right and left and then pumping with both together. And this was the very moment when she called my name. I couldn't believe it, but the fine lady really talked to me!

She said: “Yesterday my mother told me about your unworthy life as a shoe cleaning slave. I'm ashamed looking up to you as a scientist while you pervert watched my feet, most likely with dirty thoughts. In fact, I should scrunch you as the worm you are. But that would be much to lenient!

Are you happy that I coincidentally elected you as my right insole? Yes, I think so, because I know all about your secret desires. And licking shoes definitely was not the meaning of your life. Absorbing my foot odour on the other hand is absolutely the best you can do.

Well then, worm, I want to feel a light breeze of air between my toes, but not wafting upwards. Worship your goddess!”

Waiting only a second she lifted the leg, slammed it down and teased me by tapping the foot, until I suicidally did as demanded. Though the two layers of soaked nylon slowed the airflow, she could feel me breathe in and was satisfied.

Tapping again she added: “If you don't behave, I can make your life much worse. To this you should know what you breathe right now. This is how my toes smell three hours after showering. For me it would be an easy task to wash my feet only every third day. Can your worm-brain dig it?”

I nodded and felt her pull me bag to the couch in preparation to get up. Again there was the piercing stepping sound of slim leather heels equipped with tiny horseshoes, but this time much louder and combined with pressure and rough tremors like bending wood. And when she rolled over, my half head vanished between her juicy toes. It felt like being clamped in a bench vice.

The proud redhead left the club, hit the pavements and walked home, showing a female snappy pace with seductively swinging angles. Nobody seeing the two cute tiptoes inside the small holes of her fashionable pumps thought about foot odour, let alone suffering men.

So did her mother until she got a phone call. Then she asked sternly: “Is it possible that one of your fresh insoles rather should be in one of my shoes? Well, I'm the one who married him, and so he's my possession!” And chuckling the girl said: “Maybe. But we have the same shoe size. So what's the problem?”

My smart daughter was right, because at least the family stayed together!