Giantess World
Unfortunately, as the stale zest of sleepy foot mugginess was finally aired out at the crack of dawn by Claire’s rousing, David’s crumbling determination was again put to the test when she collided him into the carpet, shifted her full-footed weight down, and unknowingly allowed him to taste the first of many compounding retributions to come. Aside from that bittersweet lacquering of night sweat still baked into her soles, the ignorant giantess’s foot wasn’t “dirty” by any means. A hint of her sporty body wash even remained as a twinge in David’s senses, like a single fruity candy hidden at the bottom of a barrel of long-aged mold-brewed grey water collected entirely from Claire’s wrung-out work socks. Yet despite these facts, he couldn’t escape the reality that her roasting body temperature, acidic slick-fleshed zing, and load-bearing burden had all notably upped from yesterday, to the point that David was suffering exactly as keenly as he had before Claire’s shower last night.
While the victim telepathically whimpered throughout Claire’s morning routine hustle, he realized that Alex’s nonchalant threat of doubling horrors wasn’t just meant to scare him. Even as a relatively-fresh sock, mopped with only a meager volume of unconsciously-dribbled sweat, and not yet bearing the grueling force of the giantess’s footfalls when she was in a mad rush, David was currently left in far worse sweltry, pounding, muck-squelchy agony than any lows achieved the day before. And there were still so many hours to go.
“Claire. Please. It’s me. Hear me. I… believe you can hear me. If I just… say it… enough. I… know… you can. You will!” David meekly thought, his silent voice made even quieter by flagging hope, while Claire drove them to work with a lead-footed pedal-to-the-metal vigor. The longer he internally whined, however, the less he even felt like his appeals made any sense, like he was rambling more to a questionably-real higher power than a close coworker. “I’m your friend. I didn’t… mean any of this. You wouldn’t… do this… to your friend. Would… you?”
Back at the décor shop, and now the furthest they were likely ever to get away from Alex’s influence again, David renewed his animalistic screeching just as his inadvertent slow-executioner slipped him back over her fingers as that voodooed glove. For the second day running, the hand he’d once so kinkily admired had become almost the most abominable single creation he could fathom, second only to her foot. Except David would’ve given anything to neuter this experience back to the relatively idyllic complex of stinks and sprains he’d lived through yesterday, back before Alex took the liberty of exponentially raising his despair in every way. Each curl of her long labor-firmed fingers inside his powerless tunnels made the glove-being feel as though his nonexistent bones had been turned to jelly, only with the bracing sting of skeleton-snapping force still incorporated into her manipulations.
“CLAIRE! I KNOW… YOU CAN HEAR ME!” David pleaded, not sure whether he actually still believed it. “YOU… DON’T WANT… TO HURT ME!”
Within an hour of work, the imagined heat inside her glove had climbed so high via the doubling-up effect that David could’ve sworn he it felt like a recently-enflamed coal had been shoved up inside his body straight to the center, imparting the experience of continual dragged-out scalding without any pesky skin-flaying. And then there was the steamy funk of her toiling hand itself, a dosage of once-ordinary palm sweat mustiness that had been concentrated heavily enough as to become unrecognizable at first to David, similar to the mind-warp of looking at a familiar object through a grainy microscope, only informed via his painfully-susceptible olfactory senses written into every padded stitch of the glove.
Even if the flavor didn’t ring a bell at first, though, he was certain beyond doubt that it was the worst fragrance he’d ever taken in – a choking degree of tobacco pungency from microscopic cigarette residue which tasted like a dozen unfiltereds sucked in at once, an old layer of lotion given a chemical sweetness that made him want to wheeze even worse, the rancid leathery stickiness of David’s own remade glove-being being tattooed particle-by-particle into Claire’s salty flesh, and finally the squalid over-exaggerated ripeness of her soft bodily terrain itself. Was this seriously only double intensity? If Alex had told him she planned to up the ante by factors of five, ten, or twenty instead, he would’ve readily believed her now. Every vile fume caged between her giant hand and her martyred friend coalesced into magnificent disgustingness, until he could pointlessly cry out to her no more for the time being, his every thought focused exclusively on the future dream of getting a break from this writhing sloppy inferno.
Which was exactly what he received, when Claire stepped out the back door to check her phone and grab a smoke. David’s Velcro strap was carnivorously shredded away from his body, hurting like a plank full of thick-pronged fish hooks coming detached from his skin in one twisting yank, and then the vacated glove was tucked under her arm, banishing her friend to her shoe. At once, the torturee felt as though he’d been teleported smack into the middle of a rotten bog currently being blown apart by sulfurous-foggy mines, if only in terms of his plagued senses. The reviling cornucopia of unthinkably loathsome effusions down here, much like the smells from her hand, was cosmically foreign to David at first sniff, making it tough to distinguish during the early minutes serving as her shoe just what he was inhaling through every iota of his vessel, except to comprehend that a new odious champion had been crowned.
This was it: the living end.
The blended stenches greeting David here were those of burnt rubber, starchy grass, impossibly-spoiled vinegar, butcher shop flanks allowed to warm and gray, and sock fluff made to fester like a bloated corpse at its most swollen and perspiration-brimming status. As he might’ve expected, the unholy toxic-sweated tinctures taking root here in the foulest terms biochemically possible to craft were immensely stronger than anything he’d huffed as her glove, but of course rescaled from yesterday to a transcendent new height of swampy raunch. Worse, even while leaning against the wall and relieving some of the pressure off her feet, Claire’s foot not only filled David’s new body but also made him feel as though he might burst at the meshy seams at any instant, thanks to the simulated doubling-up of her already-substantial mass advantage over him.