Standing on her knees, dressed only in a plain gray dress, with her hair tied back Allison carefully and steadily cleaned her step-brother’s shoes. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. These were the most expensive of his sneakers; they required an amount of care directly proportional to their price. When he first got home with these in the bag, he immediately called her to show them to her. “See how white the leather is? That’s how they should stay”, he told her then as he stomped all around her in his new shoes. “And the soles too!” - at that point he rose one of the feet on its heel to demonstrate the fine, intricate tread to her. She got the message; after all, were she to protest, parents would quickly intervene and tell her to go along with the demand. 

So here she was - rubbing at the shoe feverishly with an aptly sized rug soaked in water. This water came from her own little drinking station. It was a simple mechanism; inverted bottle with a long nozzle plugged with a steel ball. She had to press the ball and the water came splashing out (as long as her family members didn’t forget to refill it regularly). Inevitably, she’d get all wet any time she dispensed water with that thing. But she didn’t complain. Complaining would only make the things worse. She was a shrinkee, and thus she was supposed to be quiet. Such is the life she’s been living ever since she shrank at age fourteen. 

She diligently continued cleaning Eric’s shoes until she could no longer find another dusty spot, and only then did she allow herself to take a break. Allison sat by the massive shoes, leaning onto them, and caught her breath. The she heard a door slam. That was him; parents never slammed the door. 

She heard voices first, then - someone approaching with heavy thuds; strangely, it sounded like two people were walking. Allison frowned and stood up. A moment later, the door to the room opened, and Eric entered; her massive brother was just his usual, cheerful self. He wasn’t alone, though; he was followed by another young man whom she did not know. Both were dressed in t-shirts, jeans and house slippers. 

“...yeah, so let me just find it, must be somewhere in my drawer...”

“Hi, Eric”, Allison called out. Her step-brother just nodded in her direction and smiled, but his friend stood in his tracks. His eyes focused on the tiny girl. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a tiny girlfriend”, he spoke.

“That’s my sis”, Eric replied, stomping towards his desk. Allison was located next to the bed, her clraning supplies still next to her. 

“Sister? Aren’t you...?”

“Adopted? Yeah”, Eric shrugged as he opened a drawer. “Allison’s their biological daughter. She shrunk, though, as you can see”.

“Allison”, his friend repeated. “I see. So, like, why’s she in your room?”

“She’s been cleaning my shoes”, Eric replied, pulling a book out of his drawer. Allison could see it was some manga. “Found it!”.

His friend seemed disinterested, though.

“Why’s she doing that?”

Allison looked at Eric nervously, but he didn’t even notice.

“She’s kinda like my servant, I guess”, her step-brother replied nonchalantly. “Mom and Dad decided so”.

“Are you serious?”

“Sure am. She’s good at it, too. I think she’s happy she can still do something around the house, you know?”

The other guy smirked. 

“How old is she?”

“Older than me, but I don’t remember for sure”, Eric shrugged as he walked over to the bed. “She’s nice to have around. I’ll probably get to take her for college, too”.

Once upon a time, Allison wished to go to college, too. The shrinking, obviously, got in the way. She looked down as Eric approached her. 

“What else does she do for you?”

“Eh, anything I ask, really”

Eric sat down on the bed and pushed his now clean sneakers aside before resting both of his feet on either side of Allison. He then moved one of them over to her and unceremonously pushed her over on her back with the toe of his slipper. She rolled a bit before bumping into the other foot. Then he swiftly kicked his slippers off and with his now bare toes reached out for her. Allison could only watch helplessly as these toes clasped on her shoulder and dragged her away from the bed before lifting her in the air briefly and throwing her some distance away. As she came to her senses, she saw her step-brother leaning back on the many pillows his bed was adorned with; as he did so, he stretched his legs out, presenting her with his bare, wrinkled, smelly soles. 

“She gives nice footrubs”, she heard Eric declare and got the message. Feeling the burning gaze of the other guy, she crawled over to Eric’s massive feet and went at it - rubbing, kneading, tending to his soles with all the might she could muster. She only refused to do this once in her life, the very first time, and her parents were strict then as they explained to her this was just one of the things she was supposed to do when asked. Since then, she’s given Eric countless footrubs. 

Her hands quickly became covered in sweat and lint as she worked. 

“This is awesome”, she heard the other guy say. “What else does she do?”

“I have her wash my feet occasionally, or, you know, scrub a bit”, Eric mused. “Nothing much else, but sometimes I also like to just step on her, because she feels nice. And I figure she likes it. She’s small, you know, kinda useless, but I like having her around, and, ya know, I think if’s good for her”.

“Dude, that’s so cool”, the friend muttered. “I kinda wish Sarah was this small”.

“Your girlfriend? Aren’t you guys cool?”

“Well, we are, but you know, if she was small and I had her, that’d be even better”

“Huh?”

“Like, it’s fun, right? You can basically make her do anything, can’t you? I wish...”

“Anything? Like what?”

Allison kept rubbing, secretly wishing she could temporarily lose her hearing. The next thing Eric’s friend said made her wince.

“Well, I’d play a game with Sarah where I pretend to smother her. Or I’d put her in my sock and tie it at the top. Or...oh, I’d tell her to lick my feet”.

“Mm...”

“Eric, no”, Allison whimpered, fearing the worst. 

“Allison, lick my feet”, she heard from above, and her heart sank. For a moment, she stared at the flesh she’s been rubbing for the last several minutes. Then, the other foot flexed and playfully bopped her on the head. 

“Come on!”

She leaned forward, sticking her tongue out and taking a peckish lick of her step-brother’s sole. She heard him giggle. She heard his friend giggle too; this man whose name she didn’t even know also sat down, watching her intently. She kept licking, feeling the sole shift slightly from the clearly enjoyable sensation. As she licked, she once again thought of all the things she could probably be if she weren’t shrunken; her parents’ beloved daughter, set to have a wonderful, successful life. Instead, she will follow her step-brother to college as his loyal, obedient servant, whose skillset now includes licking his feet.

It’s nine thirty AM on a Tuesday and Alicia is studying. 

She is a graduate student in a research-based program. She’s barely burdened by classes, but frequently has to carefully search literature. Her office is way too crowded most of the time, so she chose to come to the library instead. Study rooms are isolated and quiet. Nobody’s going to bother her, nobody’s going to interfere - that is, unless she wanted it so.

Her phone is on top of her desk right next to her laptop. The screen is brightly lit; there is a Dicecord conversation open. The last messages were sent yesterday night, and they tell a story of a peculiar, unusual agreement between two people. Alicia can barely focus on her work: her eyes constantly wander either to the phone screen, or towards the door. The latter is made of solid wood, but has a vertical grained glass window in it. Through the glass, she can see silhouettes of the people wandering around the library halls looking for available study rooms. It’s exam season. But she’s come here early to claim hers. 

With a sigh, she looks away from the door and checks time, then almost picks up her phone... almost. Now she’s looking at the laptop screen again. She picks up her pen...

The door opens. Alicia’s frozen for a second. She finds it in herself to look up as the door closes back. Except now there’s a young man standing in front of her desk. He’s a freshman; she knows as much. He’s also very tall. Well, most people are tall compared to Alicia’s measly 4’9”, but this guy is almost touching the ceiling with his head - must be at least six and four. He’s carrying a backpack. 

“Hi”, she manages to blurt out, as the guy walks around the desk. He has a wide, friendly face. He’s smiling. He has shiny white teeth, good skin and and athletic build - a very handsome man indeed. His hand briefly reaches into a pocket of his shorts to produce a silvery, pointed device, the very sight of which makes Alicia tremble. 

“Hello, Ali!” - he exclaims and smirks. 

He walks up to her chair, lays a hand on her shoulder and easily pushes her forward. Off the chair. Towards the desk - or, rather, the space under the desk. Alicia sinks, unable to resist; she weakly protests, but is incapable of fighting his strength. 

“Down you go”, he’s cooing, “just like that”.

It’s a large desk with a closed front. Alicia’s forced onto the floor. The guy nudges her to move a bit before sitting down on the chair; he casually sweeps all of her stuff on the very edge of the desk and plops his own backpack on top. As he sits down, Alicia finds herself right next to his legs. She’s looking down, towards his feet, clad in leather flip-flops. 

He moves his chair forward, forcing her to back up - and the only direction is deeper under the desk. Alicia’s blushing heavily as she is scrambling to get herself under there. The handsome athlete, who’s at least four years younger than her, is getting comfortable in the chair he’s so unceremoniously taken from her. 

Without having any second thoughts, he lifts his legs a bit to reposition them. She hears him giggle as his large feet swing forward. The dusty soles of his flip-flops crash into her chest, forcing her on her back. Alicia lets out a barely audible squeal as she is easily overpowered. Immediately, his right foot slides forward along her body before coming to rest on top of her face, entirely obscuring the view in her left eye and mostly so in the right. She feels the coarse grains of sand on the bottom of his shoe scrape against her skin. The thick sole squishes her nose and lips as her face for the moment becomes its resting place. In the meantime, the other foot happily grinds on her chest for a bit before she feels the weight go away: the guy has just pulled his foot out of the flip-flop, leaving the shoe in place. 

“Hands”, she hears him say, and raises her arms to find his hot, sweaty sole. It comes down on her tummy, sinking into it, while she’s still holding on it. Her laughably thin, small fingers get to work, rubbing the young man’s foot. Somewhere high above, he gets his textbooks out and prepares for a study session of his own with Alicia providing extra entertainment and comfort. He grinds his right foot for a bit on top of her head, before sliding it even further forward and using her forehead to take this flip-flop off, too. His foot then goes back, now bare; it once again assumes its regal position atop her face. 

Alicia’s stuck. Short as she is, there’s still barely enough space under the desk for her to fit - especially with the man’s legs being there, too. He tries to get comfortable, and he does so at the cost of the space she has; he pushes against her with both feet. The woman is pushed against the inner wall of the desk, into the very corner. She’s compressed; her posture is awkward, her clothes in a state of total mess. 

She’s still trying to rub his left foot when he takes it off her belly and moves it to her chest instead, squishing her breasts and forcing the air out of her lungs. Her hands follow, caressing and rubbing the imperious ped. The other sole obscures most of her vision, but not all of it, so she has a bit of a view on his lower legs and, of course, feet themselves. Wide, meaty, masculine, they pose a stark contrast to her petite form - to everything she is, really. What’s most important to her is how large they are. How comically small her hands are compared to these feet, which smother her underneath the desk. 

She hears faint music somewhere above, then feels his feet start tapping to the rhythm right on top of her. It continues for a bit before his right foot moves again - it briefly leaves her face. A second later, thick toes start drumming on her lips. Alicia opens her mouth and the toes are rammed in. The other foot pressed on her chest hard before moving to her face, too; now both massive soles are in some way on top of it. She can’t see. She’s sucking feverishly on the toes in her mouth; they taste dusty, salty and musky, an unmistakably masculine taste. The nails are scraping against the top. 

The door opens. Alicia freezes for a second, even though she knows she can’t be seen under the closed desk. A male voice asks: 

"Hey... hey, wait, wasn’t there a girl here?"

"I don’t know," the man who’s trampling Alicia replies.

"Have you seen her leave?"

"Nope. Maybe she’s hiding under the desk?"

Both guys giggle. Alicia’s tongue is swirling between the toes.

The door closes.

The left foot leaves her face, giving her sight back. The girl’s gaze meets that of her master. He’s pulled out the silvery item again; it’s pointed at her. He’s grinning. 

“You’ll have to work harder”, he tells her as he presses a button.

It’s a minimizer. Alicia starts quickly dwindling in size, but he never takes his toes out of her mouth. They grow bigger, quickly filling the available space. Alicia’s tongue is painfully trapped between two of them, her cheeks are stretched, she almost chokes... and then he takes his foot off. The girl curls up on the floor, her height around two feet.

“Bench”, he orders. Silently, Alicia picks herself up and stands on all fours, curling her back. The man chuckles as he crosses his long legs in ankles and rests them on her back, making the girl whimper under the weight. 

Then, she has time to think.

She knows him, but she doesn’t really. He’s in her class. That is, in the class she is teaching. He wants an A. She wants... a lot, and the important bit is that he knows what she wants. Small, mousy teaching assistant likes to be reduced to a shrunken footslut, barely useful as a rug. And he’s made full use of it. 

How’s it come to this? She isn’t sure. She was charmed, she gave into her darkest desires. She’s at his whim now. She dreams of his godly feet toying with her; her knees are weak every time she sees him. He’s got her. 

After about half an hour, of the corner of her eye, she notices him reaching under the table with the shinking device once again. The button is pressed. Without even looking at her, he shrinks her further - the feet leave her back as she dwindles to no more than several inches. Before the process even comes to an end, his feet attack. Alicia ducks to her side, but to no avail as the massive ped collides with her, sending her sprawling on her back. 

It’s hovering right next to her as she tries to stand up - but it doesn’t let her, immediately knocking her back down. There are bruises on her knees and elbows. Another foot comes from the opposite direction, lightly kicking Alicia; the girl rolls several real world inches. She opens her teary eyes and her gaze is greeted by quickly descending sole. Alicia screams before the wall of flesh smothers, sending waves of pain and pleasure down her tiny body. 

The foot lifts, then falls again. A stomp is followed by another stomp. It repeats, again and again, until he grows bored of this, but he wants more of the idle playing. She’s never left alone - he kicks her around, smothers her, pushes her, traps her under his toes and drags around like a doll. She’s at his mercy. She enjoys it, and hates herself for that. 

Finally, she’s presented with his feet resting on their rough heels.

“Lick”, she hears an order, and crawls towards the feet; she approaches them and leans in, dragging her tongue along sweaty, smelly skin again and again. His toes far above her wiggle in pleasure. She likes it, she almost feels pride, which is an improvement since earlier days, when she could only feel shame.

“My girlfriend will come here soon. I’m sure you won’t mind. Just play along. She’ll pick you up and we’ll unshrink you later in the day”.

Alicia almost cries. How could he tell someone else? How could he involve other people in this?

How could he have a girlfriend?

He leaves soon; its preceded by the door opening again. Someone enters. Someone greets him with “Justin!” in an excited feminine voice. He puts his flip-flops on and leaves, and someone takes his place. She has long, beautiful legs, and wears black and white Nike sneakers. The legs are immediately extended in Alicia’s direction. The tiny girl looks towards the floor as she feels someone’s burning gaze studying her intently. 

“You really exist, bitch”, she hears. “Damn... How’d you like my boyfriend’s feet, huh?”

Alicia can’t reply. She’s presented with hard rubber soles. 

“Ew. I don’t want to look at you. Clean my shoes for me while I study now. Also, Justin told me to put you in one of them when I’m ready to leave...”

With tears on her face, Alicia stuck out her tongue.

Justin did end up with an A that semester.

Katie wakes up.

Her eyelids lift ever so slowly, revealing sleepy hazel eyes. She’s been told she wakes up in a “cute way”; apparently, she always looks incredibly innocent and confused by her surroundings. She likes to stretch like a cat and do a lot of little yawns as she comes to terms with the fact that she has to get out of bed. 

This time, there is no stretching or yawning. She can’t move a single muscle, aside from those which allow her eyes to rotate in their sockets. Her lagging mind doesn’t immediately register this fact, and for several moments she’s still trying to move around, or turn on her side. But she can’t. She’s paralyzed. Her body became a prison.

She isn’t even able to exclaim a surprised “ah”. She can feel her heart up the tempo, though. Blood rushes to her head, enabling thoughts to flow in a rational direction. Come on, Katie, you’re an engineer. You know what this is. Sleep paralysis. People experience this all the time. Calm down. You’re safe, in your bed...

Except she is not. 

There’s no familiar softness beneath her: pillow and mattress gone entirely. She’s on a hard surface. And the ceiling is impossibly far away - like she’s in a cathedral, not her bedroom. She can’t turn her head to look around, so she has to rely on what’s in her field of vision, but the objects she actually observes are unrecognizable. Although... No, that’s not right; she can recognize them fine, it’s just that initially she can’t believe her eyes. 

It’s a chair, she realizes. Or, rather, she’s under a desk, and there is a swiveling chair right next to that desk. It’s turned to the side. 

This does not make any sense, she thinks, before she picks up on a distant sound. Rhythmic thuds get louder and louder with every instance. She can kind of see the expanse of the massive room out of the corner of her eye, and she noticed a brief movement in the distance. She couldn’t really catch a good view of whatever it was, but it scared her. Because it is large. And it is getting closer. 

“It” turned out to be a human, of course; what else could it be? She can only see the lower part of his body as he plops down onto the chair. 

“Hey!” she wants to scream. “Help me!”. But no words come out of her frozen mouth. Her eyes frantically scan her surroundings, but she can’t move anything else. She’s tiny, paralyzed, mute, and she’s under this guy’s desk, and, worse of all, she doesn’t understand how any of this is possible. He clearly doesn’t know she’s down here, though. The chair is rotating now, bringing his legs into view. Two massive pillars clad in skinny jeans. One of them passes above her and she catches sight of his bare foot. She can’t judge his foot size since her sense of scale is currently fucked up, but to her it looks wide, meaty, definitely dusty from walking around barefoot. In some other situation she’d probably find them nice. She’s happy to see them bare, though, because this means he might accidentally brush up against her and feel her and save her, help her, do something...

She hears mouseclicks, quick chitter of a keyboard. She then notices something else, something that makes her wince: there is a very visible bulge in the crotch area of his jeans. 

Then, without warning, his left foot moves towards her. It hovers right over her for a second before angling down. His thick toes gently touch her tiny face, then travel down. Katie has a sudden realization: she’s naked. His toes brush against her breasts, press down a bit, then continue their path, eventually caressing her legs.

Katie, mortified, waits for him to say something confused, to jump, to look under the desk, to do anything... but he doesn’t. Instead, his sole hovers over her again, before falling down. Like a massive slab of flesh it pins the shrunken woman to the floor, the dextrous toes clamping down on her head. Her face is in the crevice between the large and the second one. She can’t breathe, and what air she managed to take in is full of his masculine odor. His foot rests in place for a bit - so heavy, so monolithic, so large! - before pushing her to the side. Katie, limp, horrified, rolls across the floor, and then his other foot comes in to stop her and pin her down once again. 

“What is he doing?!”

Oh, he is typing. The keyboard never stops clicking as he casually increases the pressure before forcefully rolling her across the floor under his sole. Her ribs do not like this and she hits her head several times. It stops, eventually, and she has a moment of respite before she sees both of his feet rise over her. They stand down on their heels before synchronously slamming down: right one on her lower body, left on upper. She’s been slapped, she realises, as she sees them rise on their heels again. Her skin is burning. 

He now alternates the feet, hitting her with the balls of his soles over and over again; one of these mighty slaps comes at her face, and her nose makes a bad wet sound. There’s a splotch of her blood on his sole, she sees. She also notices - looking beyond his feet - that his hand, slightly trembling, is briefly caressing the tent over his crotch before going away. 

Click-clack, the keyboard continues.

One of his feet repositions her body, the other one touched her head with the toes. Katie feels tears flowing out her eyes. The toes grasp on her hair (“how has he managed to do this oh god”) and pull a bit while the other foot holds her in place. Her scalp is burning now. Internally, she is screaming, but she still is paralyzed.

She’s being dragged by her hair across the floor. Then he decides to lift her a bit and throw her. She loses a good chunk of her hair this way, and her neck hurts now, and she’s pretty sure she’s heard a crack when she landed, and she’s just already done with this, God, please, let her go...

A sole covers her once again: warm, meaty, hungry for more entertainment. Across the floor she goes, her skin already raw in places. She’s being turned over on her stomach.

Toes clasp on her arm. 

“No”, she thinks. “Yes”, the foot apparently argues as it pulls, and with an audible, disgusting crunch her arm is dislocated. She can’t move it, but it hurts all the same. 

His heel stomps on her back, twists in place a bit, then goes away. Another arm is trapped between the toes. Another playful tug. 

Another dislocation.

The footplay continues. He took his sweet time with her legs, masterfully breaking them at the knees first. It’s like he wants to turn her into a true ragdoll, structureless and useless. He goes too hard on her right thigh, and her skin rips, and there is more blood, oh God, so much blood, why does this have to be her? How did she end up here? She’s always been a good woman, she’s got a family, she is law-abiding, she even goes to church occasionally, why is she being mangled and destroyed beneath these monstrous feet? 

She catches another glimpse of his crotch. The fly is unzipped. His hand is there, moving back and forth. The clicks of the keyboard have stopped. 

His foot manipulates her abused form into a sitting position. Her broken legs are stretched in front of her.

His sole presses against her back, forcefully leaning her forward.

Why her?

It doesn’t relent. The pressure rises. She has to bend further. She will.

Her spine creaks and her insides get hot. Something rips. Ribcage prevents her from being this flexible. 

Ribcage loses to his foot. The blissful emptiness of shock never comes. Katie is being bent forward, compressed, rolled into a human ball, and she gets to feel it till the end. 

He never looks at her - even as his body is shaken by waves of pleasure. His foot twitches, finishing it all for Katie as with one last push she crumples on herself and explodes into a meaty, bloody mess. 

The man sits there for a bit longer before cleaning it all up and returning to work. He reads the story he’s just written again before going ahead and submitting it for everyone to see. He used to be ashamed of his futile attempts at erotica in the past, but the latest source of inspiration has proven to be quite helpful.

Kate’s a very pretty little thing.

She’s got those large, innocent eyes, which just speak volumes ablut how hard-working, kind and pure she is. Her mind is an open book, too - and I’ve taken to studying it a great deal. It’s so easy to reach in there, to prod and pull and see how she reacts to seemingly random thoughts. It’s also rather boring, which is why I quickly decide on doing some alterations. Kate’s positively fantastic in how naive she is, but what’s the point of having such a girl around if you’re not using her properly? 

The delightful thing is that so many of the qualities I want are already there - I just need to expand on them, gradually cranking them up. It's an art, you know. You have to be careful. Go too slow - and their consciousness learns to resist you, like a vaccinated organism; go too fast, and they realize something is wrong and start avoiding you. You've gotta be confident, steady and relentless in how you rewire their brains to mold them into what you want them to be. Identifying the first lever to press is often a tricky task, and I'd be lying if I said I've always done it right.

This time, I start with the selflessness. She’s always willing to help someone, this Kate, always ready to share someone’s burdens, she even volunteers at homeless shelters. I suggest that we go grocery shopping together, and on the way back I pull the first string I’ve attached to her brain. She offers to carry my bags. She’s short, this Kate, she’s thin and petite, and it’s fun to watch her carry all these groceries as I leisurely stroll next to her. This is how it begins. I want her to start doing more errands for me, and I quickly achieve that as she herself offers to bring things or share some of her cooking. Several weeks in I let her know that the pie she's baked for me is subpar at best and she apologizes, promising to get better at baking. 

"Why are you apologizing", I raise my eyebrows in fake surprise. She blushes. Blushing suits her. 

"You're my friend", she replies, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "I want to cook better for you".

That is when I know it’s time for the next step.

I’m much taller than Kate. At the end of this I’ll be much, much taller than her, but for now I also want her to lower herself more often. I want her to always be looking up. It takes time, but she starts finding ways to sit on the floor when I am around in a casual setting. It’s like a little nagging switch in her brain, which makes that more natural for her. I test her by inviting a couple of friends for a movie and bringing her along. It takes almost no time to convince her to run around for the entire evening, refreshing our drinks and popcorn bowls; any free time she spends sitting on the floor next to the couch, silent. I wonder if the guys notice how readily she accepts orders. Maybe subconsciously. I find that in an hour or so they are also ordering her around, and I love seeing this; it remings me of how I enjoyed invading the minds of random people on the street and alter the relationships they have with their loved ones forever. I should go back to doing that. There's plenty left to do with Kate, though. She’s still nowhere close to where a proper girl should be.

Now I want favors. It’s time to bring her a little further down, so one day, as I am visiting her to hang out and order her around for a bit - you need to regularly establish your presence - I plop myself on the couch and complain about my feet hurting. Her state of mind (almost without my explicit input) is at a point where she immediately asks if she should rub them for me, which I accept. I've been longing for this moment. It's always a pivotal one. 

I'm making no effort to free up any space on the couch for her, so she has to sit on the floor next to my legs. Her dainty hands shyly touch my socked feet. They look comically small; I'm wearing size 13, Kate is barely five feet in height. For now, that is. Her hands are soft and gentle; they feel wonderful on my soles, although she, of course, is lacking experience. I lean back and enjoy myself for the next half an hour or so, after which we go and have some food (cooked in advance by Kate, of course). I take care to praise her. She's reliant on my opinion now, and needs encouragement to spiral deeper into the abyss I've set up. 

Footrubs become a part of our routine from that point on. I make it clear I expect one every single time, and she doesn't protest, because she quickly grows to like giving them to me. She likes it when I am happy, even when it comes at the cost of her own convenience. She starts to take pride in it. This is exactly what I need right now, but, like many other things, it's just a phase. 

I need to press forward. I start having her over and ask yet more of her - she often cleans my place up, does my laundry, polishes my shoes. She's convinced herself I simply don't have time for all those menial tasks, and by helping me out she's just being a good friend. I half-jokingly start calling her my maid, although I think at that point of both of us know it's not a joke. One time, when rubbing my feet, she accidentally adopts a kneeling pose, and although we laugh it off I let her know I liked seeing her on her knees. In fact, I believe it's one of the poses women are most beautiful in. Her on the floor in front of my couch is a common sight now; tiny hands have learned to deftly dance across my soles. 

Once, I ask her to give me a footrub while I work on my computer. She hesitantly agrees, but quickly finds out there's barely any space beneath the desk for her to stuff herself in. Holding my breath, I show her my portasizer and ask if she thinks that'll work to fix this problem.

She finds the idea practical. I can't hold a grin at that point. 

So I point the portasizer at her and in a moment's worth she's about a foot shorter. This is just enough to fit her there, and she can sit down and rub my feet while I am typing away and listening to music. It is, however, not enough for her to be comfortable. I've been through this before. She has to bend, she often has to reposition herself, but I am tall, and my legs occupy most of that space. She tries to weave herself, but ultimately it fails, as it should. I let her out then and she goes off to complete some tasks around the apartment. I only grow her back in the evening, citing portasizer power supply as the reason I don't do that immediately. She doesn't argue, although she probably knows it's not true. 

The next time I ask her to get under the desk, she suggests I shrink her more than I did last time, so that there is enough space. I shrug and do that. It becomes a new element in our routine, and it takes several iterations: four feet turn into three, then to two. Watching an almost fully grown woman reduced to that short of a stature never gets old, and I love this unique stage in the process simply for the sheer amount of opportunities to treat her like the housepet she's become. The size is just enough to keep doing the housework; watching her scurry around with a mop or climb on the kitchen counter to cook is hilarious. She has to put in thrice the work, but she doesn't protest. She enjoys this. I can tell by the heavy blush which never seems to leave her cheeks, as well as the devotion in her gaze. She's embraced this lifestyle of servitude; she's at my beck and call. Underdesk footrubs progress as well; I can't hold myself from stepping on her anymore. 

See, that is the thing. All the work she's doing for me is nice, but ultimately I just want to trample the shit out of her. That's just how I like my women: tiny, prostrate, and underneath me. It's not even a sex thing. It's a what's right thing. One time, while she dutifully rubs my feet somewhere down below, I simply kick at her lightly and get her down on her back, before lifting my legs and resting them on top of her. She squirms for a bit, she yelps in surprise, but I ignore all that. I just casually grind my feet on top of her, getting her into the most comfortable position I can think of; with her breasts and tummy cushioning my bare soles. 

She never says a word about it when she's out. Another milestone, another acceptance. She's happy I am comfortable. That's enough. 

I keep building on that. She'll give me a massage while I watch TV, then I'll ask her to lie down before the couch. I start doing it during breakfast, too; she'll serve me food and get down under the chair. Face-up. I usually prefer her face-up, because at one point I start mindlessly trampling her face, feeling the perky little nose and plush cheeks squish beneath my heavy foot. I am not particularly gentle. I like to feel the body under me. I keep her under there for increasingly long periods of time, and, when she's not there, she's mopping the floor or cleaning my shoes. 

Just picture this: it's a relaxed weekend afternoon, I am on my couch, six-foot-four-inches of a man, and my stretched out legs are resting on top of a miniaturized girl my age; her scarce clothing messy, her skin red, her hair mimicking a crow's nest, because she's barely given any rest from being a foottoy. Then I'll stand up without bothering to move, and for a moment I'll be standing on her, treating her like a part of my floor. That is what I always aim towards. It's perfect - yet it is never enough. 

At some point I get her to open her mouth. She finds it a natural progression, even if she's a bit shy at first. I love it when her wet, warm tongue sloshes and licks along my soles for the first time. I relish in this feeling. I let her know how enjoyable I find it, and we agree she should do it more often. She's agreed to many things by that point: she's supposed to always be on her knees, or crawling, she's always to serve as my footrest, she sleeps on a little rug by my bed and rarely gets enlarged back. She's mine. I've gently stomped this into her. And, as she laps at my soles, she embraces this. Sweet little Kate is a slave at that point, barely more than an obedient, trained dog in love with her master. 

The finale comes several months into this wondrous relationship. You see, I crave the process moreso than the result. I love exploring new minds. I love challenging myself with new women (to be fair, Kate wasn't even much of a challenge). I need more of this - and so I have to move on from giving her my attention. I'll keep her, of course, I just can't keep caring about her at this stage. There is one last thing to do, though. 

She's kneeling before me. I wordlessly shrink her to mere inches and take a moment to ponder the view: naked, vulnerable, mousy girl, looking up at me with worshipful adoration. I invade her thoughts, I find her devotion, her desire to serve me, her eternal willingness to be useful to me. I find all the good, wonderful, delightful sense she's found in serving me the way she had. 

I gather it all. I hold onto these feelings. I get them all.

Then I break them. 

I break her heart. 

I break the illusions she's built. I break her rose-colored glasses. Realization dawns on her like a bucket of cold water; she suddenly understands that she's lost a life. She threw it under my feet. It's change both subtle and powerful; she still knows she's my slave, it's just that now she can also look back. 

Kate lets out a howl. I let out a laugh as I reach down, pick her up and toss her into a dress shoe she's dutifully polished for me yesterday evening. She tumbles down the insole. I insert my foot, uncaringly smashing her into the insole. She'll survive - portasized makes them a bit squishier and much more durable. Without giving her a second thought, I leave my apartment. 

You see, I have a date planned. Her name's Patricia. I'll tell you about Patricia some other time.