Giantess World
“CLAIRE!” David shrieked in his head, though it took him a full thirty seconds of painfully cumbersome plastering between her body and the box before he could even turn cogent enough to speak. The pressure was not only immense, roughly kneading out the exterior padding of his digit flaps while the friction of the giantess’s damp fingers abraded his insides like a cheese grater, but also caused a great volume of congealed saltwater glossing the whole containment of the glove to be wrung free. For David, this meant having his foamy-flexible black-red outer shell distorted, his disintegrating inner lining ground against tired palm flesh, and miniature waterfalls of dank gray-grimed perspiration pouring down the chute of each finger hole, which eerily simulated the sensation of being waterboarded without finally blacking out. “CLAIRE! PLEASE! YOU’RE-”
“Huh? Oh, goddammit it!” Claire yelped, freezing where she stood, and immediately dropping the box, which clattered to the floor with a breakable crash. For a minute she stood in place, both hands shaking as she held them beside her cheeks like a grenade had gone off in the store. “David, I’m… fuck, I’m so sorry. I… don’t even know… I g-guess it was just, you know…”
“H-Habit?” the glove-person offered, albeit meekly. It was just a relief to no longer be simulating his own pulverization between a stiff surface and soggy flesh, and David definitely didn’t want Claire to beat herself up too much over this unfortunate accident, but at the same time, couldn’t help but mince with greater concern for his safety. “It’s… fine. Just… please-”
“No! Never again. Goddammit, that was so STUPID of me, I just don’t understand why… whatever. It’s done now. Honestly, it… might be that I just need a smoke. I don’t know why I feel like I need one so badly. I’m serious, it feels like I haven’t had one for a whole day.”
“Oh.” David anxiously pondered the usual necessity of removing her glove to hold the eventual cigarette, and immediately sunk into another anxious pit, knowing that as summery-squalid as the conditions of her hand were turning through the morning, it would surely be a hundred times worse to be transferred down to her foot again. “M-Maybe you could-”
“Don’t worry!” Claire apologetically interjected. “I’m not going to do it. For now. And… if I just can’t take it anymore, I’ll use my other hand, so nothing bad will happen to you. No problem. Right?”
“Right,” David repeated, his faith restored, as Claire awkwardly scooped the box back up with only one arm and transferred it to a cart for transport. Surely now, he reasoned, following a mistake like that, Claire would precognitively measure her every move against the potential harm it could inflict on her friend currently swaddled around her firm, agile, profusely-sweating hand? They had to be in the clear now, and any minute, Alex would call back, exclaim her sorrow for all the trouble she’d caused, and set things right.
His hope was even shorter-lived this time, however, when not twenty minutes later, Claire whipped her phone out of her pocket to check the screen, while automatically reaching for David’s body with her left hand. After nonchalantly ripping the Velcro strap off again in one swift streak, giving him a horrific case of déjà vu from the earlier removal, she took hold of the grippy fingertips. Again, a mirror-image of David distorted hand-shaped form was attacking him, yanking and distending on the digit slots as though they were rubber bands, while that skinning sensation around the wrist portion of his form still burned as though recently jabbed and then retracted by hundreds of syringes at once. Tragically, because of the sludgy quantity of baked-in sweat now basting Claire’s moist appendage, which was fracking away whole chunks of her transformed coworker’s pseudo-organs like turf and black tar, some extra pulling was required to separate her hand from its glove this time.
Suddenly David had become a tug-of-war instrument between Claire’s opposing sets of fingers and palms, each loathsomely elastic upward-wrench causing anguish to shoot through him in conjunction with the chronic hair-raising Velcro hurt, while also juicing free yet more of the giantess’s riper sweat that had previously been absorbed into his body. In what felt like an out-of-body experience (even more so than the kind he was already suffering), David found he could blearily perceive both Claire’s hand and her foot at once, his consciousness preparing to jump clothing the moment she’d fully undone him. This gave him a thorough taste from the worst of both worlds: a painful, corkscrewing, skin-stretching bout of suffocating torture as her glove was slowly divorced from her sticky palm, and then down below, even with only a piece of his mind yet transferred, David vividly sensed the murky, lint-laden, grease-jammed hell pocket within what was soon to become his shoe-body, thanks to Claire’s thick-socked foot oozing even more life-scarring pore-pickled liquid across that battered insole.
“CLAIRE!” he telepathically roared for what felt like the umpteenth time today. Bizarre as it had been to be placed in the vessel of a glove or shoe for the first time, this mental division now between wrapping for both hand and foot was as unsettling as it was abhorrently scented and blatantly excruciating. “PLEASE! STOP! YOU’RE – HURTING – ME!”
David’s panic only blossomed when, unlike the last time he’d needed to cry out to Claire, she went right on plucking her friend’s extremities, finger by finger, without even a widening of the eyes to indicate she had any awareness of what she was doing. Just when it felt like his consciousness could take no more slow-motion mangling, the glove was cleaved free from her hand, and David’s intelligence fully possessed the giantess’s left-foot New Balance. Since they were sequestered in an otherwise empty aisle of the shop, Claire unpocketed her phone after looking both ways to ensure the coast was clear of customers and supervisors, then began blissfully tapping away at the screen, just as she would during any other break when her friend wasn’t soul-hopping against his will between her swampiest work clothing.
For seven disgraceful minutes, Claire appeared to surf the web and send return texts – though without any urgency that would’ve suggested she’d at last heard back from Alex – while David languished beneath her, unavoidably huffing the putrefying sweat-buttered fumes from that sock-cloaked landmass of her foot which, even resting stationary, felt as though it was actively bleeding soupy gunk into his insole-tongue again and scraping off toejam thick as raw crystallizing honey. All of this combined so overwhelmed David’s senses that all he could do for the duration of Claire’s phone-playing respite was psychologically retch from the vile atmosphere inside, and again curse his lack of human features, as he could think of nothing he wanted to do more in this moment than open his mouth and vomit several times in a row, if only to purge a fraction of his disgust, which was instead made to settle inside and around him like an acid bath.
“W-Woah!” David had nearly lost track of time until his essence was fired back up from the sneaker into Claire’s reapplied Hardy glove. Reeling still, this downgrade in suffering allowed him enough focus again to try and re-establish the neurological phoneline with his friend, but after shouting her name several times while the giantess resumed work, to no avail, David was faced with the possibility of a far-worse existential gloom than that seven minutes he’d spent effectively licking saturated sock scum off the beefy contours of Claire’s hardworking underfoot. Had she forgotten him already? Were they too late, and his eternity as her most perspiration-brimming garments had begun? Claire had mentioned that the curse wouldn’t let her forget him until a day had passed, yet his normally-caring friend had twice now neglected to account for his torment while performing basic tasks around the store, plus seemed unable to hear his pleas, and they weren’t even halfway through the shift.
The next three straight hours became an interminable wasteland of salt-squirting body-spraining migraine-granting tedium for David. Here and there, he tried again to establish contact, his mental voice withering a little more each time. Claire had plainly lost all track of him or his predicament, and began regularly using both hands to accomplish her tasks. Never before had David considered just how punishing their daily schedule around the store was from the perspective of one’s hand, until now, when ever couple minutes, his body was again placed at the narrowing flat-clasped apex between quavery sweat-stewed palm sponginess and all manner of unyielding cardboard, plastic, and metal surfaces. Every time he thought he’d been squeezed, stretched, soaked, and altogether beaten down so hard that his consciousness would pass into a numbed stasis, or at least he hoped so, she’d flex her fingers into more awkward choreography, make a fist, twist a doorknob, straighten her glasses, or even clap her hands with excitement, which would again heighten and then promptly penalize David’s electrified senses.