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With this last proclamation, the fingers holding Brent up in midair fell away. He, in turn, careened end-over-end down the long, soft-beige tunnel. The fall was broken as the buoyant walls winnowed him down into the spongy tip of the downy fabric. The familiar scented returned as Brent became tangled in the toe section, flavored by the moisture and fustiness of a day with busy feet entombed.

            “Oh, and I forgot to mention, Mr. Tucker,” Ms. Perkins said as she stared at him dangled inside the stocking. “I have a boardroom meeting in seven minutes or so, and I’d sincerely appreciate you doing your best to keep me comfortable. It will be difficult, but do your best to keep moving and break down my knots. Do a good enough job, and perhaps we can forget the indiscretion in that innocent young intern’s shoe?”

            Brent watched with equal parts resignation and sensuous curiosity the sight of Ms. Perkin’s naked foot eating up the tight real estate of the stocking. After all the insanity of this day, really, his current situation was almost expected. Though the tunnel folded in on itself while empty, the bulk of her tanned, sculpted calf and lower thigh easily filled in the length. When Brent’s bare body met with the eagerly spread, leather-scented toes of his boss for the first time with no encumbering fabric between, and he recalled how short his oxygen and rationale were during the last session with Perkins, he now leaned much more heavily toward anxiety.

            For a few clumsy seconds, Brent was juggled between Ms. Perkins’ beefy toes, considerably more dexterous than the petite digits of Larissa. She wasn’t content to simply squeeze him between two toes, but passed him along beneath each of them, creating a sarcophagus of stale flesh as she hugged him lengthwise into the row of all five toes. Her fingers bunched up from the other side of the nylon, pushing and prodding him about, until he was pinned underneath the ball of her foot again where she wanted, with his still-erect member incriminating him up against the taut stocking.

            “Sometimes, I swear. You just can’t train a good employee in one day,” Ms. Perkins sighed loudly as she shoved her nude nyloned foot, and Brent along with it, back into the voluptuous leather slingback heel. As her ped ground him down along the sticky insole once again, he was rolled hard further along her arch, until he was strategically planted in the center of her sun-tanned, sweat-swollen, self-heating sole. Just where he’d been before.

            Except with the obvious difference that he was now tangled inside the stocking, restricted from any movement beyond the little twitching he could offer to massage Ms. Perkins and hope she let him off the hook for thinking about fucking a giant twenty-something’s toes. It was like he was bound directly to his boss’s enormous appendage by lashes.

            And as much as he hated himself for it, it was all he wanted now.

            True to her word, Ms. Perkins had a meeting to attend. The trip there was short but rocky to say the least, as Brent had yet to actually be walked upon. He could tell the woman was taking cares not to actively trounce him down, for fear of popping him like a roach. Though, it was more than likely she simply wanted him intact so he could effectively rub her sole while she aggressively mashed him into her damp nylon until his body became one with the fabric.

            Fresh air seemed to run out even faster this time than in the morning. Every gulp was the rich, refined flavor of flowers and vinegar indigenous to the woman’s mealy nylons and foot. Ms. Perkins took her seat at the head of the conference room table, or at least Brent suspected she had; he heard alien voices, probably the aforementioned board members and any other stock holders or higher-ups he had no business being in a meeting with.

            Technically he wasn’t “in” the meeting, he was “in” the titanic CEO’s wet stocking. But same difference, really. This, he supposed, based on his current professional trajectory, was the only real chance he’d actually have to be in a boardroom meeting. By living in the shoe of one of the actually important people, everyone else unaware of his existence, and doing his best to feebly caress her tired skin while he cooked in her steamy musk and summertime excretions. Considering his insatiable fetish for beautiful feet and, evidently, the powerful mega-women who owned them, was this truly so horrible a compromise?

            In this case, Brent was beginning to realize, it just might be.

            By the halfway mark of the meeting, Ms. Perkins had obviously grown restless. Sweat streaked in trails down the side of her ped. Her ankle was crossed over her opposite knee and her sole was in full flexing force, continually smashing Brent down into the base, only to cup away and let him be sucked back up against the tightening force of her nylon.

            He did his best to follow her instructions: after managing to turn himself back around, the man scratched and pulled for all he was worth at the giant wrinkles as they continually blossomed and smoothed in the wall of feminine flesh. He even got his knees in on the action, as much as possible, ramming his limbs into her appendage and just hoping something worked; at one inch tall, it was unlikely anything less than his most concerted effort would do more than tickle.

            At one point, as Ms. Perkin’s foot crested back over her knee, Brent felt the shoe behind his back coming loose. The sound of thumping fingers on the outside told him the woman was pulling on her footwear. Could she actually be doing what he thought she might be?

            His heart fluttered with terror at being discovered by yet more onlookers, even as the prospect of a clean swallow of oxygen warmed his core.

 

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