Giantess World
“Claire, take me off!” David internally shouted, sickened even as he said the necessary words.
“N-No! I can’t – gggrrghh – take it off! It’s s-stuck! And even – urghh - if I could, I can’t put you through-”
“Just TRUST me!” he pleaded, still unable to believe that he was literally begging his friend to transfer his consciousness somewhere far more execrable, but David saw no other choice. “HURRY!”
Surrendering, as her lungs seemed on the verge of collapse, Claire guiltily obeyed, and found that just as her transformed companion had predicted, David’s current body was removed without issue. At least she had the kindness to go through the painful process of detaching his Velcroed extremity and then voiding his insides of structure as speedily as possible, and no sooner did he finish tanking those sensations of fabric skin-peeling and finger disemboweling, when David felt his mind hurtling elsewhere again. Above, he was unconsciously aware that Claire was finally able to pick up the cigarette and lighter in her free hand, hungrily inhaling smoke the instant it ignited like the literal breath of life it had become for her. The relief David genuinely felt for his friend’s safety immediately shifted to the back of his tortured mind, however, as her rescue of course meant a considerable sacrifice from him: a pound for a pound, at the very least.
Only David didn’t re-inhabit the larger, sturdier, rubber-treaded vessel of Claire’s sneaker, as he had more than once already. He didn’t feel a socked entity squirming and clenching as it weighed down the interior tongue that was the insole-portion of his weathered footwear body, grinding off her squelchy cotton-jam and blackening his terrain with her oil-oozing imprints, all thanks to the sizzly heat and unrelenting pressure of her ped. Though horrendous, at least a return to the form of her shoe would’ve been familiar, giving him that precious handicap of anticipating the exact grievousness to come. Yet David felt no precise architecture to his body this time; no contact with the ground; no access to light or air; no scant but valuable free space between her socked digits and his soggy felt-lined insides. The panic, like the sweeping darkness and choking mugginess, settled around him like a fully-saturated blanket, and then David seemed to become those things himself, complete with the identity of a sodden, flimsy, agonizingly malleable being clasped with greater skin-tightness than his time as her glove to firm ever-shifting anatomy. The blind, repugnant, life-stifling moisture and slime-clotting dinginess which previously was only one-half of his experience as her shoe now assumed the totality of this transformative nightmare, and though he had no visual reference to comprehend his position for certain, as Claire scrunched her toes from the relief of her smoke and grappled with David’s floppy fluid-sluiced body into the vice grooves between, the sock-man knew exactly what he was now, and just might remain forever, if the beleaguered giantess didn’t reapply her glove in time.
Industrial-strength musk, a raunchy bouquet of crusted night sweat, grime-reaped textile, and vinegary arch wrinkles flowed in, out, and all around David’s tragically flexible unit. Those five worming digits kept right on shakily fumbling with her friend’s easily-distended tip, warping his perceptions on multiple layers at once as segments of his body took turns being churned, wrung, and then flared back out from those doughy pockets of meager space between thick toe shafts. Her sole flattened the fibers of his stained-gray underside raw, grinding and raking against the sweat-slopped basin of the shoe by aching differentials of an inch, as she struggled to remain stable while sprawled hard against the wall with her lips still wrapped around that cigarette like a scuba tube. Her heel joined in the unknowing beating by occasionally rising off the back of the shoe when she flexed her arch, only to hammer it back to the insole again, twisting and pressing this region of David’s horrifically powerless sock-form until he was quite certain that, given a sustained minute of this treatment, the giantess could bore a hole directly through him by the sheer brunt-force pestling of her meaty heel alone. More than anything now, David would’ve gladly become Claire’s glove and her sneaker again, as well as any other similarly used clothing on her person, just to avoid spending one more moment as her sock.
The effect on the tortured accidental-flirter was so absolute in its deprivation of all his air, light, joy, and thought while plugging each individual microfiber of David’s sock-being with amplified gouts of sticky, humid, malodorous earthy-fleshed suffering that he couldn’t even string a conscious idea together for the first three entire minutes, let alone telepathically articulate his dire requirement for Claire to readorn her hand with that goddamned glove-prison. At most during this initial wind-up of torment as her sock, he managed to screech the first syllable of her name, before the inhuman onslaught of sensations and woes interrupted by stampeding through his consciousness as savagely as though the giantess was actively sprinting a marathon while wearing him, and effectively cut off his mental S.O.S. to Claire, reducing him instead to a time-dilating wallow in the pit of her rank muck-bleeding shoe.
The pain of becoming like a filthy secondary skin-shell to her foot was profound and inescapable, as though David’s mind had condensed the singular first instant of a major injury right as the body started to process it, with the affliction shooting through him on repeat like spider-web cracks in glass. The climate was unconscionable, scorching well-beyond what David supposed he could’ve endured in human form, and even less so in this one. Much like the glove, only to a more miserable degree, David’s shape followed only the whim of Claire’s foot, bending his thin cotton husk into all manner of cripplingly deformed positions and treating him only to textures so soiled that at times it was difficult to distinguish his own waterlogged self from his friend’s drenched sole-brawn. His senses of smell and taste were reeling toward oblivion, thoroughly tasting every gluey jam-coiled ounce of broiling limburger-ripe sweat as it seeped through him from each pithy province of her curvy foot, then was reabsorbed right back through all over again when the doused insole was splashed against once more.
Five minutes oozed into ten. From so far above she might as well have been in a different city, Claire could still be heard taking uncharacteristically full-throated drags from her cigarette, albeit with euphoric relaxation now. Wasn’t this enough? Could she breathe now? Had Alex inadvertently damned her own girlfriend to need constant life support from a cigarette, which would ensure that her would-be rival suitor was relegated for eternity to sop up this foot’s acrid brine-concentrated seepage and absorb its every pounding impact thousands of times a day inside this pressure-cooker sauna of a sneaker? Or, more likely, had Claire’s memory again drifted askew, allowing her to take a calming smoke break out in the afternoon breeze, as she so often did with David by her side, except with her coworker and friend instead banished to the far more hellish equivalent of being between a rock and a hard place while smashed between this raggedy footprint-tattooed insole and her beefy gunk-exuding arch slab?