Some weeks later, a warm rain was falling, and Rachel and I were sitting in two separate chairs, knee to knee.

            “So, you just push it through here, and then down again, and then up and through...” She explained the basic process of cross stitch patiently, as my clumsy fingers tried their best to keep up and mirror her movements.

            “I think I get it, but, jeez, why is this so hard?” I asked, staring back and forth between our hoops.

            “Oh, stop complaining.” She laughed, waiting a beat before adding, “So, book twenty-four, huh?”

            “Ugh, I knew you'd get to that one eventually.” I said.

            “Sorta like a crystal ball into that weird brain of yours.” She said.

            “Listen, it's not like I knew this was going to even be possible.” I said.

            “Guess you just lucked out then, huh?” She smiled.

            “Yeah, I really did.” I said into my lap.

            “I did too.” She said, “Speaking of, since it's raining, I'm thinking maybe being in my shoe for the game tonight isn't the best idea.”

            “Good call, I'd really prefer not to drown in mud.” I said.

            “You'd look cute stuck in some, though.” She said, “Little legs all caught up, can't really move well, and then boom! My big boots come stomping through.”

            “Wow, now that's a thought.” I said.

            “Here, let me see how you're doing.” She extended her hand and I placed my poor imitation in it, “Oof, kind of...loose, isn't it? See all these little loops you left?”

            “Uh, yeah. Is that not right?” I asked.

            “No, you want these to be tight. I mean, not unless you're doing french knots, but you're not, so, no.” She said, sucking air through her teeth, “I bet I can fix it though. Here, do your magic on these while I work.”

            She lifted her legs and set her feet into my lap. I lifted one with no small degree of reverence and began to work my thumbs into the firm flesh, paying extra attention to the spot where the ball of her foot and arch met, an area Rachel often complained about needing to be loosened up. I eagerly pinched each toe between my thumb and finger, tugging gently, squeezing, rolling, even lightly caressing the gaps therein. I switched to the other foot and repeated my process, before gently rubbing the tips of my fingers around in circles all over both of her soles.

            “Here, see the difference?” Rachel finally said, handing me back my frame.

            “Yeah...” I inspected the linen, spying two spots she appeared to have missed, “Hey, what about these little loops?”

            “Well...I was thinking maybe your little hands could fit in those before I tighten them...” She said, flexing her toes in my lap, “But you did such a good job on that massage, I don't think you need to be punished.”

            “Ah, I see...” I bit my lip, before whispering, “What if I wanted-”

            “What was that?” She smirked, cutting me off.

            “Uh, you know, just that maybe I wouldn't mind if you did that.” I mumbled. It's not like I was particularly embarrassed at this point by my bizarre desires, if nothing else Rachel's equal and opposite predilections did much to edify mine, but I still got a little bashful when she teased me like this.

            “Yeah? You want to get sewed into a design?” She moved her feet to the floor and leaned forward.

            “Well, I mean...” I looked into her eyes, but then immediately looked away.

            “Even if, say, I put you under my desk and used you as a little footrest?” She asked, “Or maybe I could take you out of the hoop and put you on my chair? You could be a teeny little part of a cushion for me.”

            “Both sound pretty nice...” I said softly.

            “So, go ahead, ask me to do it.” She replied.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Ask me to do it.” She said again, “Ask me to shrink you, tie you up, and use you. I want to hear you say it out loud.”

            “Um, okay.” I cleared my throat, “Rachel, could you please shrink me, sew me into that cross stitch pattern, and then use me as a footstool and/or seat?”

            “I dunno...” She shrugged, “I mean, I am pretty busy.”

            “Hey, c'mon...” I pouted.

            “Maybe if you begged for it.” She crossed her legs and looked at me with a playful haughtiness that brought goosebumps up.

            “Please?” I said lamely.

            “You call that begging?” She said with a facetious sneer.

            I slid down to my knees, and then bent forward more, forehead touching the carpet, completely prostrate, “Please, my captain, turn me into something for you to use.”

            “Fiiiiiine.” She theatrically sighed, “But you'd better appreciate how much I do for you.”

            Just like that, I was suddenly watching the carpet pattern shoot up at me like I was skydiving into it. I could feel the growing sphere of heat cast from Rachel's long feet as I dwindled between them, quickly becoming just another exiguous spot on the rug, and could hear her toes crunching the fibers, wriggling excitedly at my new, prey-like size. Before I could admire the view, however, I was hooked by Rachel's fingers and plopped onto the fabric pulled taut in the plastic loop.

            “Hm, what should we call this piece?” She asked rhetorically, “What about The Stitch Bitch? Or maybe Bitches Get Stitches?”

            “Ha, ha, and might I add, ha.” I groaned.

            “Hey, when you sign up for the objectification, you're also signing up for the puns.” Rachel laughed, “It's just one of my many methods of torture.”

            “I immediately regret this decision.” I said.

            “Too bad, dork, get your arms in those shackles.” She said.

            I laid on my back and stuck my hands through the two loops, noticing that Rachel had done a pretty good job of eyeballing the proper distance needed for this to work. One of her hands held the hoop level, and the other poked around the back, finding the right threads to pull. First my left, then my right, both wrists tied down snugly to the foundation fabric. I was once again a prisoner.

            “There, perfect!” She sang.

            “Am I fine art now?” I asked.

            “No, but you're fine-ally good for something.” She smirked, sitting up and carrying my prison and I over to her desk.

            “Hey, that's hurtful.” I said.

            “You love it.” She replied, placing the cross-stitch face-up, beneath her desk.

            “Shut up.” I retorted.

            “Say it to my feet.” She said, sitting and lifting both of them over me. They lowered slowly, deliberately, so that the space beneath and between her big toes touched my face first. Her digits flexed, scrunching against the plastic circle of the cross stitch, before spreading out dramatically.

            “I wore yesterday's socks to class today. Can you tell?” She asked.

            “Um, kind of?” I lied.

            “Well, why don't you see if you can taste the difference?” She pressed one toe into me, wiggling it as if to get me started. I stuck out my tongue and began to lick her soft, sticky skin. Truthfully, I couldn't tell the difference much, just a slight increase in intensity, but it seemed by the time I figured it out, Rachel had lost interest in that conversation and had begun looking through her notebooks.

            I continued to lap at whatever was in front of me, Rachel maneuvering her soles over me like mirrored tiltrotors, hovering at just the right distance to allow me to keep going. When she grew bored of that, she pressed me lightly with each foot, alternating both the side and the area she would deplane, left toes, right toes, left ball, right ball, left arch, right arch, left heel, right heel, ad nauseam. Finally, she just decided to bury me, placing both feet heavily on top of me and leaving them there, basically smothering me if not for the brief gasps of stuffy air I could eke out.

            “Okay! I'm done with this.” Rachel said, muffled through the thick, soft walls that laid askew atop my miniature frame, “How 'bout you, want a change of scenery?”

            I couldn't really respond, so I nodded hoping she'd feel it.

            “Feels like a yes to me.” She said, removing her feet and reaching down to lift me up. With a twist and a pull, the stitching hoop came undone and the fabric suddenly sagged from my added weight. Rachel's hand deftly slid it away and placed it on her chair, before turning around, back to me, primed to sit directly on me, “Ready for round two?”

            “Uh....” I looked up in awe at that truly meteoric butt and then further, at Rachel's smirking face turned to peek over her shoulder. One clever finger hooked into her waistband and she shimmied out of her tight shorts, dropping them to the floor, revealing a hitherto unseen thong.

            Phoom! Her ass crashed just in front of me, so that the enormous, twin globes of her cheeks sat just beyond my legs. She slowly began scooting backwards, a mobile mountain tunnel dragging itself over my helpless body. The thick scent of her washed over me like a heavy rain.

            “Hey, don't forget, more licking this time.” Rachel said, and then I was in total darkness, gently squeezed from all sides by the supple planes of her rear. I licked at her salty skin, and she wiggled her butt in response, adding extra pressure, distorting both the scenery and my form, twisting everything out of shape. My shoulder popped, my ribs sang, my hips creaked, and my erection raged hot and hard; three-hundred feet away Rachel hummed happily to herself, possibly not fully aware of how her minutest of movements completely dictated the fundamental principles of my insignificant world.

            I briefly wished she would shift, so that the full circumference of one cheek would fall on me, bringing darkness and silence, peace only known in the hereafter, and splatter me like an unworthy insect. For one fleeting second, I truly longed for oblivion, aspired to annihilation, but like a leaf in a stream that desire passed by, and I wondered for what reason I could possibly have to be praying for death. Freud’s pupils would call it the thanatos drive, but I wouldn't trust any of them to explain it further.

            Soon enough, however, Rachel lifted herself, stretching up to her tiptoes, and I watched through eyes vibrating with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She turned and smiled, lowering her fingertip and poking me in the face.

            “Boop!” She chirped.

            “Is it time to go already?” I asked.

            “Yeah,” She responded, riffling through her desk and pulling out a floss cutter. She gingerly hooked it through my bonds, careful not to cut me in the process, and sliced me free, the sensation of growing immediately following, “Go get dressed, I'll pack, and then we can grab the bus.”

            I did, and she did, and we did.

            Back in the stands again, towel tucked beneath my butt to keep me dry, I clapped as our team got up to bat. The opposition looked pretty good in the field, I had to admit, but I wasn't worried. They were called the Armadillos, which I thought was particularly funny, though I couldn't exactly tell my neighbors in the crowd why. Just imagine what that conversation would end up like.

            Despite my confidence, however, by the bottom of the seventh, our team was down by two, one on, and one out. Rachel was standing at the dugout's fence, gripping the steel bar so hard I'm surprised it didn't bend. Since she was the team's cleanup batter, the order now sitting at the top, and the opposing team's relief pitcher throwing absolute fire, it was not looking good for Rachel to even get a chance to take a spot in the box. However, the next batter managed to wallop a base hit into right field, and the following one bunted a sacrifice to bring the runners to second and third.

            And then she was there, helmet gleaming, bat tapping her cleats, eyes narrowed and fierce: my knight in regulation play armor. The first pitch whirled in, a drop curve that just caught the corner of the strike-zone. The second, a rise ball that Rachel knowingly let fly by. The third, a wicked fastball that must have caught her by surprise. The fourth hit the dirt. Two and two, the fans on their feet, Rachel pounded the plate with her bat and gritted her teeth. The fifth pitch hurtled like a shooting star and the bat shattered the air with its shout.

            And silence hung like a body; mighty Rachel had struck out.

            Less than an hour later, the entire team, myself included, huddled together around a table in the restaurant, doing our best to cheer Rachel up, who was scarfing mozzarella sticks like they were water in the desert of her apathy. Back slaps, shoulder pats, and cliched platitudes greeted her, but she barely acknowledged them. Only Toni, the pitcher and team captain, seemed as upset as Rachel, and I could understand why. A perfect season, albeit only half over, is a terrible thing to see slip through your fingers.

            “Another order.” Rachel snorted.

            “Y-yeah.” Kelly said warily.

            “And fries, too.” Toni said.

            “You got it captain.” Said another teammate.

            I watched impotently as Rachel drowned her sorrows in melted cheese and fried breading. There wasn't anything I could have done to avoid this, right? Would it have been different if I'd risked sitting in her cleat during the mud-slick game? Should I have pushed the issue? I was almost entirely sure luck didn't actually exist, but what if my presence gave Rachel the extra confidence she needed? It wasn't fair to anyone to blame myself entirely for the loss, but somehow my brain kept orbiting back to the idea.

            It was late when we left, later still when Rachel and I arrived at our dorm, but nonetheless she still grabbed my arm and pulled me into her room. She basically threw me on the bed, mounting my body and going directly for the neck, leaving bites along inches from my trapezius to my pectorals.

            “Hey, hey, wait, slow down, are you okay?” I asked.

            “I...” Rachel heaved heavily before burying her face in my chest, arms wrapping around my torso, “Yeah, I'm okay, I'm just angry, and sad, and disappointed in myself.”

            “Disappointed? Come on, you played an awesome game. That double play in the third? That triple in the fifth? You were incredible out there.” I said.

            “Ugh, I guess, but I couldn't do it when it was needed.” Rachel sighed, “I thought I was such a clutch player, and instead I choked.”

            “It's okay, it's okay,” I said rubbing her back, before adding, “How long have you been playing softball?”

            “Since I was a kid. Like, since tee-ball age.” She said.

            “And how many times have you come through when you were needed?” I asked.

            “I dunno...like, most times?” She said.

            “So that's, what? Like, fifteen years of being a clutch player?” I asked, “That's a pretty good ratio. I don't think you're going to lose the MVP spot for one loss.”

            There was a brief silence.

            “I hadn't really thought of it like that.” Rachel said finally, before lifting herself up slightly to look at me, “Do you really think I'm the MVP?”

            “Of course I do.” I said, “And no matter what your numbers are in the end, you'll always be my captain.”

            “Oh, cut it out you dork, you're actually making me feel better.” She dramatically flopped down again.

            “Say, those other times, when you didn't live up to your, might I add, god-like expectations, how did you deal with it?” I asked.

            “Er...” Rachel winced, “My brother got the worst of it, I think.”

            “Ah.” I said, “Wanna do that now? Shrink me down and kick me around the room or something?”

            “No, just keep holding me, okay?” She said.

            “Yeah.” I replied and gave her a little squeeze.

            There was another pause as we laid there together.

            “By the way, you don't think...” I started, wondering if it was appropriate to bring up my own unreasonable concerns, but it was too late to stop at that point, “You don't think this happened because I wasn't out there with you, do you?”

            “No way.” She said immediately, “This isn't your fault.”

            “It's not yours either.” I replied, “Seriously.”

            “I guess...” She said, “But next time we're gonna totally demolish them.”

            “Hell yeah, we are.” I said.

            “Rematch is two days from now.” She said, “Clear weather, too.”

            “Then you know where I'll be.” I said.

            “Under my toes?” She asked.

            “With bells on.” I responded.

            “With bells on?” She asked, “What are you, my grandpa?”

            “I don't want to hear it, Miss Wheel.” I said.

            “Oh, shut up.” She laughed, crawling up to kiss me again.