“Worship me,” said Frances, the picture of calm. She watched the tiny naked man seated before her pretty toes.

He looked up at her. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, though no one could hear him. Behind him, Rachael’s pale hip shuddered with the bus trundling down the interstate. She’d drawn up her legs and hugged them, terrified of the dragon that had awakened and crushed that she was helpless to defend her little kidnapping victim. She certainly couldn’t hear the shrunken man, over the rattling window on her right and her own hyperventilating sobs. She could barely look at him, such was her shame.

Frances’s gaze bored down at the tiny man who was sitting there, slumped, legs spread, clutching his genitalia as he stared dumbly back up at her. “I said, worship me.”

Jenice knew better than to underscore her point, and she cut off Dee-Dee (who didn’t) with the shake of her dark red bob. Dee-Dee looked confused but complied and rested her chin upon the seat back, watching the little old man seated before the team captain’s bare foot.

The tiny man could only look up at the immense young giantess before him, the imperious expanse of her shin, reaching up, up, up to the cuff of her volleyball tights just below her knee. Bare calf glowed in the age-dimmed bus lights, glowed hairless in the bright display lights of the occasional billboard. The vinyl seat was cold on his ass, and he wasn’t enough to warm it. It was hilly and curdled with decades of use, so his position was precarious: with a hard bump in the road, he might pitch forward and tumble into the huge bare foot. He looked at the foot. It was pretty as feet went, in its own way, and it was life-threatening by dint of its size and mass. A cute girl’s foot like this should have been a pleasure to glimpse, a brief moment of cuteness quickly appreciated and forgotten. Instead, as he stared at the gently curving toes and the smooth bridge of skin stretched over strong bone, it was a monstrosity more than equal to him. With her mere foot, this capricious young woman of questionable emotional balance could snuff him out, cleanly or messily. He backed over the callused ridge of old vinyl upholstery, preferring distance between him and this large, lethal paw.

Frances watched him inching away, unsure of what he was doing due to the inadequate lighting, and convinced as he nearly tumbled backward over the ripple in the seat. “I won’t tell you again. Come back here and worship me.” To emphasize her point, she raised her toes.

He saw the long, curling digits rise up and flare, spread slightly. The big toe crooked twice to wave at him, in a way; the other four ended in darling little pearls, soft and cute with the glow of health—naturally, as this young woman must have come from a background of financial security, judging by her clothes and self-confidence—and it was tempting, yes, even at these dimensions. Despite the fact that this precious little foot could shift slightly and crush his bones…

The tiny man nodded and rolled to all fours and crawled up to her toes. Frances did not lower her toes, leaving them raised for his devices. She watched him, motionlessly, soundlessly, as he crept closer and closer to her toes. He rose to his knees, almost lost his balance, stabilized himself, then reached out to gently stroke her second and third toes. His tiny hands wrapped around her nails, his fingers stumbled over her cuticles, and his grip slid down the sides of her knuckles, then back up to the tips. If he was saying something, there was no way to hear it, and it was difficult to see his face. For that matter, Frances could barely register his gentle touch. The two minuscule hands ran up and down her toes a couple times, and he looked up at her.

“Not enough.” She lowered her toes and he tumbled out of their way. “Kiss them.” The tiny man shook his head and she only raised an eyebrow in response, prompting him to dip his head and kiss the polished nail of her middle toe.

“Omigod,” said Dee-Dee, her voice crackling with restrained laughter. “He’s doing it! Lookit him!” She looked at Rachael and told her to look, but the smaller young woman was more interested in crying quietly to herself, so Dee-Dee shrugged and tried to focus on the shrunken being making out with her captain’s toes.

“Why do you have to do this right next to me,” wailed Rachael.

This did not even earn a glance from Frances, who told the little man this was not enough. “Worship my foot.” The little man kissed his way up her second toe to the smooth skin that led up her bridge. He spread his arms as though to do push-ups, ducking his head repeatedly to kiss this or that centimeter of lightly tanned flesh, and crept slowly over her toes. His tiny butt stuck up in the air as his knees struggled to balance upon the large toes, sometimes slipping between them and getting stuck. He never stopped smooching, though, working his way upon her foot until he could lie down and spread his arms to hug it. His legs shot back over her toes and his privates fell between her second and third toes, as if it were possible to fuck her toe-cleavage, and he reached his arms out as far as they could go to embrace the young woman’s foot.

Ariana stared around Frances’s toned thigh, unable to see much around the calf mounted on the bus seat. She knew Frances was telling the little guy to do things, but she wasn’t sure if she was doing them. Dee-Dee was cracking up and Rachael was catatonic, neither of which were very informative. She looked up at Mona, who winked at her and continued striving to peek at the action on the bus seat. As for Jenice, she knelt upon her own seat and crouched, slinking around the seat back to strategically capture the clearest video of the little man rubbing his disgusting little body upon her captain’s pristine foot. Better than Dee-Dee ever could have done: Jenice let Dee-Dee capture the shaky-cam footage of everyday caprices and stunts, but Frances relied on Jenice to record film-quality documentation of important, perhaps damning events. The videos she took were not shared among the gang: they were deployed only when it was advantageous to Frances. Even in this moment, after two years of aiding and abetting, Jenice hadn’t figured out a way to leverage this against her, so she figured she might as well go along with it until an opportunity presented itself, as it surely must. Eventually. Some year.

The little man had croodled across Frances’s foot and was attempting to embrace her ankle when she cleared her throat. He ceased immediately, pushing his chest up to try to look up at her. “My calf,” she said, “tell me how beautiful it is.”

This was bizarre. No one could hear the little man at all. Maybe if the bus had parked at a rest stop and everyone aboard could shut up for ten goddamn seconds, if they held the wretched little man up to one of their darling ears, then maybe they could have heard something he had to say or shout. These were not those circumstances. There may have been moments when the tiny man was compelled to respond or yell or simply speak what was on his mind, but these were consistently lost upon the volleyball team. If anyone could have communicated with him, it would have been Rachael, and she was nothing more than an unwilling audience at this point. No one was curious or patient enough to coax anything meaningful out of this sodden wreck.

The little man, however, persisted in trying to say something. Frances and Dee-Dee could see his little jaw working, and Jenice probably captured this on video. He looked up at her, saying something, waving one arm around for emphasis. “More,” Frances said. “Compliment my muscles.” She raised her heel from the seat and dug the ball of her foot into the cushion, going almost tip-toe to accentuate the rocky bulge of her developed calf; Jenice panned to it for reference, then back to the little man who swayed where he knelt, trying to get a glimpse of it behind her long shin. He sat up, wobbled, and sat on his heels with thighs spread wide over the ridge of her foot, calling imperceptible words up to the lithe, toned goddess who demanded his praise. He threw his arms wide, gestured sensual curves and mimed being impressed with great power, the best he could do to praise her colossal, powerful leg. Dee-Dee was taken with his grand demonstrations, wondering if he used to be an actor. Jenice had some respect for the way he threw himself into his gesticulation. Even if it was motivated by mortal terror, it seemed earnest and heartfelt.

Frances frowned and slammed her heel into the seat. The tiny man was tossed aside, nearly rolling into the crack of the cushion against the seat back, but he recovered himself and lay spread-eagled, face down upon the vinyl. Frances retracted her leg, stood back, and sidled into the leg space of the double seat. Rachael watched her, anticipating some new abuse, but Frances only hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her high-end, futuristic leggings and shoved them down over her hips, over her toned thighs, just below her knees. She stood facing away from him, bare-assed, clad only in the sports bra and an aqua thong that disappeared in her cannonball butt.

“Worship me more,” she said, spreading her thighs and entering into a sequence of clenches and poses designed to show off exactly how toned her thighs were, exactly how firm was her cannonball butt. She gripped her pelvic bone and arched her back, retracted, and writhed in place above the tiny man.

“Holy shit,” whispered Ariana, now privileged with a clear view of the performance. The little man was a glowing little smear on the seat across the aisle from her, but the real show was the captain of her team, seemingly stripping for the pleasure of this shriveled little wreck. What could he have done to deserve this, she thought wryly. Did he even know what an incredible privilege he was experiencing?

Dee-Dee was trembling with inexpressible excitement. Frances was a goddess to be admired from afar, and Dee-Dee didn’t think she was into women, but you couldn’t look at Frances and not appreciate how she took care of herself. Beauty was beauty, that’s all there was to it, and Frances was striving for excellence. She didn’t have Ariana’s butt or Mona’s tits, and that was a matter of birth, but she also didn’t have Frances’s discipline to carve that mortal clay into a work of greatness. All she was, was tall. Long, lean, and tall. There had to be something of worth in that, but if she could train with Frances… She sighed and watched the private show between the seats.

Mona gave nothing away. She knew she was missing something, watching her captain rotate and writhe behind Jenice’s seat, but she felt it was her duty to protect them from the rest of the bus, even if they were mostly asleep. She wouldn’t step out of place, but she might have wished Dee-Dee were taking some video of the free show, since she knew that Janice’s video would never be accessible.

Rachael, wretched, terrified, racked with sobbing, nonetheless stared at the pert, undulating ass right next to her. In the inconsistent highway lighting she could see muscles flex and clench beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin. She watched powerful thighs hold the whole girl aloft as though gravity were only a convenient option. She knew she should be concerned about the helpless, weak little man on the seat, lying within the arch of those incredible legs, but what could she do? This was Frances, the worst of the worst. If she tried to save the little man, sprawled within easy arm’s reach, she might not live long enough to see them pull into the campus parking lot. Some might scoff that a group of bullies wouldn’t seriously murder someone, not really, but… you never knew.

The only one bold enough to do so, Jenice captured the scene from multiple angles. She crouched in the aisle, pointing her camera up at the firm, proud buttocks and the shadow of their crevasse; she reached her arm between Frances’s legs to show the cowering, confused tiny man staring up at the young goddess, his view occasionally blocked by a leg larger than him by two orders of magnitude; she preserved Frances’s dreamlike expression as she went through the repertoire to show off her development to greatest advantage, all for the shrunken little man on the seat below her.

“I will crush you, little man,” Frances murmured. “I will squeeze you between my thighs, if you don’t worship me.” She straightened up and rolled her hips, rubbing her strong thighs against each other as though to wring out moisture. She swung her hips low, gyrating, grinding in the air above the little man, swinging lower and lower each time. Her proud, firm butt swiped through the cool bus air several inches above the tiny man, who raised his arms as though to ward her off, a laughable reflex; she swung lower, and he cried out in alarm, reaching no one’s ears. She swung lower, knees together, hips flexing, baring the thin strip of aqua thong between her buttocks as she nearly brushed him off the seat. He threw himself back, lying flat, trying to become as thin as possible beneath her, as her butt cheeks swiped lower and lower over him, closing up the space until he could feel her radiant heat with each swoop.

Her swoops became less grandiose, tighter. Now Frances only swayed her butt slightly above him, thighs pumped as she nearly squatted upon the tiny figure. Her fingers dug into the meat of her legs as she canted her head back and made as though to sit in the tiny man. He shrieked, shielding himself with his arms, as those proud cheeks spread and the thong was not enough to hide the tan, radial wrinkles leading to her butthole. Very subtly she waggled her butt above him, getting closer and closer all the time. Her calves backed against the edge of the seat and she reached up to grip the seat back ahead of her; so arranged, she spread her thighs and hovered her crotch mere inches above him.

The aqua thong spread from her anus into the small triangle meant to cover her labia and the mons above them. Frances nudged her covered labia closer to the little man, close enough that he could have reached up and tugged at the fabric. Just beyond that simple triangle of synthetic blue lay the narrow field of twin panels of labia majora, the pink folds of labia minora beginning to peek from within them, and the promise of her vulva. Frances was attuned with herself, guessing accurately where the little man lay, and positioned herself—if the thong hadn’t been blocking her—to open up and suck that little man up inside her.

He could see nothing but power thighs leading up to the bare, pale crotch, the valley between her inner thighs and the suggestion of swelling flesh right before it disappeared under her thong. Her swaying diminished to a quiver, holding directly overhead, one slim moment from crushing him flat.

“Worship me,” she repeated.

All that he could see was the thong that covered her vulva and the broad, round, fierce buttocks of the volleyball captain.

Decisions, decisions!