Amy wrapped her hair up in a towel after helping Steve dry off. The process was quite simple, actually. She just pinched him between her thumb and forefinger with the towel and rubbed her fingers together, finishing it off with a quick rub on his head like he was a child getting his hair ruffled. Amy slipped into her underwear and threw on one of Steve’s oversized t-shirts, practically a dress on her. And then she glanced at Steve sitting next to the sink, naked as the day he was born and clearly loving it. I’m the younger of the two of us and sometimes it feels like I’m a cougar.

“We have to do something about…that,” Amy said while gesturing vaguely in Steve’s direction.

“Do something about what?” Steve asked innocently. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Your junk flapping in the breeze, hun. It’s gross. And the only thing grosser than that would be you putting those grimy boxers back on.”

“Oh. Well, I’m actually enjoying the freedom, so no rush as long as we keep the heat on,” Steve said.

“No, we need like an actual solution to this. I’m not going to be able to handle you by myself the whole time. Eventually, we have to bring in some help and, well, we can’t have you scaring them off with your unabashed nudity.”

“One would think that people would appreciate this depiction of peak male performance,” Steve said while gesturing at his body.

“Glad to see your ego’s the only thing that didn’t shrink with you. But no, you’re not spending the next few weeks, or months, or however long this takes to sort out, buck-ass naked,” Amy responded in a tone that brooked no further argument. “Where’s your toolbox again?”

“In the garage. Why?” Steve asked.

 “Stay put, I have an idea,” Amy said while sliding her feet into her house slippers, exiting the bathroom. Shortly thereafter, she returned with an odd combination: his boxcutter, and a few pairs of her socks.

Steve’s mind began to the connect the dots. “Wait, why your socks? Why not one of my shirts?”

“Steve, when’s the last time you washed those shirts?” Amy asked matter-of-factly with a pointed, raised eyebrow.

“What month is it again?” Steve asked.

“Exactly. And I’m not cutting up my shirts or pants. That stuff’s expensive. Socks are a dime a dozen. And at least I know they’re clean,” Amy responded while unrolling her sky-blue socks with the depiction of rubber duckies on them.

“Why the ducky socks? I’m going to look ridiculous!!” Steve protested.

“Oh no,” she said in a half-hearted mocking tone. “You’re right…well, too late, already started cutting.” You do something stupid like get yourself shrunk, you play the cards you’re dealt dummy. Amy turned her back to hide her grin at exacting her petty revenge.

A few quick slices, and she was done. She presented Steve with a tiny pair of underwear, which consisted of a fraction of fabric with two holes cut in it for legs. The remaining ensemble resembled a poncho, just a larger piece of fabric with holes cut out for his head and his arms.

Amy slid them across the counter, this time unable to hide the smirk. “Well, get dressed.”

Steve gave her a pointed glare that he hoped conveyed exactly how he felt about Amy’s choice in wardrobe, hopping into the ducky underwear and sliding the “shirt” over his head.

“I look ridiculous,” he said exasperatedly.

“Babe, you’re an inch tall. You would look ridiculous if you were wearing a tux.”

“Whatever, we’re washing my boxers ASAP.” he responded in an annoyed tone, but deciding to drop the issue for now. “What did you mean by you need help?”

“Well, if I’m being honest, the first night I almost crushed you. Then I almost did it again after getting back from my run. Then I smacked you around in the shower by accident,” Amy reminded him.

“Yeah, but nobody else lives here. Who’s gonna step on me while you’re away?”

“Hold on hotshot, I’m not done yet. You also confessed to crawling around on me while I slept doing God knows what,” Amy continued. Steve opened his mouth to interject something in his defense, but Amy held up her hand to cut him off.

“The point is: I don’t trust myself not to hurt you, and I certainly don’t trust YOU not to do something stupid. Also, you know how variable my work is at the firm. If I get held up drafting a motion until midnight, who’s gonna feed you?”

“Just leave a piece of bread on the table and I’ll nibble at it if I get hungry!” Steve protested.

“Uh huh. Sure. Because we both know that you’re going to stay put on the table, with nothing to entertain you but bread going slowly stale, for 12 hours,” Amy responded flatly.

“I thought you said I could come with you to work!” Steve argued. “Remember the whole pill bottle idea?”

“And you will. Just…not yet. If I’ve learned anything over the past day, it’s that you have an unbelievable knack for getting yourself
into trouble. Plus, you know how Allie is. I love her to death, but that girl is an open book. What if she sees you and starts blabbing? People are going to ask questions about how this happened, and it’s really not hard to connect the dots. The last thing we need is legal trouble on top of all this, even though I’m sure that’s still in our future,” Amy reasoned with a hint of anger.

“Allie’s your best friend. We’re gonna have to tell her SOMETHING…” Steve pointed out.

“We will. Just…under more controlled circumstances. Like, invite her over to dinner, make sure she understands the implications, break the news nice and slow. She catches a glimpse of you in the office though, and the whole building will know about it by 5PM. She can’t help herself sometimes.”

“Well if not Allie, who? How about John?” Steve suggested.

“Your ethics and professional responsibility-obsessed law firm partner who currently resents you for leaving him in the lurch when you retired and would almost certainly report you to the state bar for snagging MicroMD tech? THAT John?”

“Fair point,” Steve conceded.

“Don’t you have any other friends?” Amy asked.

“Ames, I’m a lawyer. Well, retired lawyer. There’s not exactly a ton of opportunity for expanding your social circle with how busy you generally are. And, well, since retirement, I really don’t see anybody anymore, except you…”

Amy briefly glanced up at the ceiling, clearly weighing options silently in her head. But then the lightbulb turned on as she made eye contact again. “What about Emma?”

“EMMA? Emma Cooke? The 18-year-old high school senior? THAT Emma? You’re gonna have a teenager babysit a middle-aged man?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Why not? She’s a good kid. Sensible. Got a good head on her shoulders, tries to do the right thing. Plus, you know, she likes you…” Amy trailed off 

“You are NOT seriously suggesting weaponizing a kid’s crush on an older man for free daycare of said older man, are you?” Steve asked while flushing with embarrassment. “You’d sooner entrust a kid with my survival than trust me to stay out of trouble?”

Amy’s gaze narrowed as she gave him a flat look. “Yes. Unequivocally yes.”

“But like, aren’t you worried about, you know…stuff happening?” Steve hinted.

“Absolutely not! Emma’s too nice to try to take advantage of you, especially as you are now. And if you try to take advantage of her, well, good fucking luck surviving on your own. I’m putting you out on the sidewalk and letting God sort it out from there if you cheat on me with a kid less than half your age. That would be a Hall of Fame sleezeball moment.”

Steve could tell she was actually serious. And he recognized that Amy had recently had her whole world flipped from wife to full-time caretaker of a problematic, constant risk. The least he could do would be to keep it in his pants with how much work Amy had ahead.

“Come on, you like hanging out with her…” Amy coaxed.

“Eh, fuck it. Alright, call her,” Steve relented. Amy picked him up off the sink and carried him into their bedroom, grabbing her phone off the charger.

-------------------------------------

The doorbell rang.

“Alright, I’m gonna keep you out of sight until I have a chance to explain it all to her, got it?” Amy asked as she walked toward the door.

“Got it,” Steve responded giving her a mock salute.

Amy closed her fist around Steve’s small form, straightening herself up a bit before she opened the door.

“Hi Mrs. C!” Steve heard a chipper yet oddly mature voice blurt out. Emma had all the boundless energy unique to the uninitiated young, but as she had aged, her voice had deepened a few registers giving it a resonant quality. Musically gifted, Emma had explored a wide array of instruments over her years in school, eventually settling on the saxophone. If she wasn’t the soloist on sax in the jazz band, then she was the vocal soloist in choir. Her range and impressive command gave her a slick, almost seductive and sultry voice that belied her age. Emma was equally at home belting out cheerful pop covers as she was with soulful arias.

Of course, her own, personal musical tastes skewed toward much darker fare. On her way to school with the windows down in the morning, Steve would hear death metal, prog rock and emo/goth music in equal measure blasting from Emma’s car. Steve much preferred the classics himself. He recalled one of Jackie’s backyard barbecues where Emma had gotten bored and wanted to show him her new record player. The aesthetic of her bedroom felt only a few neon lights removed from a nightclub, the kind of décor you would expect to find at a metal bar where the only signage on the street was a red light over a black door. Steve didn’t know why companies continued to make records for modern music when you could stream anything, anywhere, at any time, but he was relatively certain vinyl was never intended to play whatever the hell “Angel of Death” by Slayer was supposed to be. He just grinned and went along at the time. Told her he enjoyed it rather than upset the kid. Meanwhile, “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen was about the limit of what he could tolerate. What’s wrong with A Hard Day’s Night?

“Emma, for the last time, call me Amy. You’re an adult now,” he heard his wife reply from his position in her balled fist.

Ah yes, good. She’ll like that. Butter her up a bit. Good move Ames.

“I dunno, it still feels weird,” he heard Emma reply as the front door shut behind her.

“Well then I’m asking you to stop doing it as a favor to me. I’m closer to your age than I am to Steve’s. Stop making me feel old,” Amy joked.

“Fair enough, Mrs….Amy,” Emma responded.

“Anyway, come sit down. I have some…uh…news to share, and a favor to ask,” Amy said as Steve felt her crossing the room.

“Ooohhhh…that sounds ominous. I like it!” he heard Emma say with an uncomfortable laugh 

He felt a lurch in his stomach from the shift in gravity as Amy must have sat down on their living room couch.

“Hi Em…” he began to blurt out before Amy’s fist squeezed him in a clear warning to shut his mouth.

“Did you hear something just now?” Emma asked.

“Uhhh….yeah, we’ll get to that,” Amy answered.

“Ah. The mystery and suspense are killing me!” Emma laughed again.

“So, you know that whole…MicroMD thing that’s been all over the news the past few years?” he heard Amy question by way of introduction.

“That insane company that killed a whole bunch of people that Mr. C kicked the shit…um…hell out of in court?” Emma responded.

“Emma, again, you’re an adult. You can curse in front of me. I’m not your mom, I truly, truly do not give a flying fuck,” Amy said chuckling.

“Oh, okay. Mom hates that stuff. Says I’ll go to hell if I keep swearing. Honestly though, heaven sounds boring,” Emma said. Steve could hear the wry grin in her voice.

“Well, you SHOULD listen to your mom. Most of the time. But you gotta let loose every now and then, you know?” Amy said with a smile. He heard Emma let out a soft laugh.

Okay, continuing to work her over. Nice work again Ames. This is why I always had you prep my deposition notebooks.

“Anyway, yes. THAT company. So, uh….well…MicroMD had um…some tech. Tech that, uh, they didn’t really…I mean that people didn’t…,” Amy trailed off.

Sheesh, I take it back. Nice fumble. “They were working on something privately that Steve only knew about from discovery in the MicroMD case.”

“Okay…” Emma responded, her voice inviting Amy to continue.

“Well, one way or another, Steve um…ended up with that tech,” Amy continued

“What do you mean ‘one way or another’?” Emma asked, confused but curious.

“The, uh, the details aren’t important. The reason why I asked you over here is that…well…Steve had a bit of an accident involving that new tech,” Amy explained.

“WHAT??!! Is Mr. C okay? He didn’t get smashed under one of the nanobots, did he?” Emma asked with clear concern. Close, kid. But not by a nanobot. Try Amy’s size 6.5 foot.

“Uh, no. No. He’s okay. Sort of. Emma, I want to be very clear about something. I really don’t know what the future is going to hold legally for us and, well, you’re 18 years old. You don’t need to be caught up in the shitstorm. You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you, and you don’t need to start it off with this level of drama. So, I’m offering you a choice. Steve and I could use your help, desperately. But, you can say no. If you walk out that front door right now, there are absolutely ZERO hard feelings, I appreciate you coming over, and I look forward to seeing you again. No harm, no foul. But once I fill you in on what happened, that’s it. There is no going back. You’re now privy to a life-altering secret, and we’re going to ask you to carry that secret to your grave, as unfair as that sounds. And I’ll be honest with you, I have no idea what it could mean for you down the road. I truly, truly want you to understand that if you leave right now, we won’t give it a second thought. But if you stick around, well, we’d certainly appreciate it.”

“It’s okay…er…Amy, I want to help,” Emma responded softly.

“You’re super nice Emma, and I know you always want to help people and do the right thing. So, I have to ask: are you absolutely, 100% SURE you’re okay with this? And we let you in on what’s happening, you have to promise me and Steve that you will never tell a single, solitary soul about it. Not your mom, not your friends, not your teachers, not God, not even your cat. Nobody,” Amy stated quietly but firmly.

“….I understand. And I still want to help. If it’s so big of a deal that you asked me over here and had to give that serious of a disclaimer, it only makes me more motivated to help in whatever way I can. Whatever it is, I understand that it’s serious. You have my word I will not share anything about this with anyone else, EVER, unless you tell me to,” Emma answered sincerely.

“Okay. And, thank you, sincerely, Emma.” Steve felt Amy’s hand rotate so that the palm was upward, levitating slightly to hold him out in front of her body. And then she uncurled her fingers.

Emma squinted for a second at Amy’s palm, and then gasped. Her face and her skin were ordinarily quite pale, to the point where Steve
wondered whether it was some kind of makeup. But this time, she positively blanched. She held her hands to her mouth as she took a sharp inhale. Then, visibly mastering herself and her emotions, she closed her eyes and rested her hands on her thighs, breathing deeply once to steady herself and then turning her gaze on Steve.

“Is that…him? Mr. C, is that you?” Emma asked quietly.

“Hi Emma! Yes, it’s me. In the flesh and in my favorite ducky sock poncho!” Steve exclaimed while waving his arms over his head. That solicited a faint smile from Emma, breaking the tension a bit.

And that smile made him deeply uncomfortable. It had been a few months since he’d last seen Emma, having become a drunk shut-in after his
retirement. In fact, it had been a few months since he’d seen anyone other than Amy. And at Emma’s age, those few months made a TON of difference. He used to
think she was a cute kid, her round face and dimpled cheeks giving her a cherubic mien that was directly at odds with her gothic aesthetic. But whatever fat her cheeks and abdomen lost when she grew an inch or two seemed to have been deposited directly into her chest.

Jesus….are those things fucking double Ds??! Amy’s decision to sit on the couch for this little presentation, and to hold him out in front of her, put Steve at an enormously unfortunate vantage point. He was directly even with Emma’s breasts, seeing the cleavage practically spilling out of her soft, black sweater that had to be several sizes too large for her. The stretched, drooping neckline and baggy sleeves made plain that this was an outfit she wore for comfort, but that only made it more enticing. He questioned whether she was even wearing a bra under there, her chest bouncing and jiggling enticingly with her slightest movements. He could tell without touching her that her skin had that taut, springy feel to it that was unique to people under 25 years old.

He had always found the whole goth getup kind of goofy. He thought the studded choke collar coupled with the ringed nose piercing made Emma look more like a cartoonish bull than anything else. He had found the fake, checkerboard fingernails garish, and thought that the dark purple lipstick and black eyeshadow only accentuated Emma’s natural paleness, giving her a corpse-like appearance that could have passed for a Halloween vampire costume.

But Emma had inherited the best of Jackie’s traits, having grown into a woman with a breathtaking frame that bordered on unrealistic. The kind of thing teenage boys would draw as idealistic anime characters. He remembered a show that used to be on at night when he was in law school, Cowboy Bebop or something like that, and Emma’s ridiculous proportions brought to mind the embodiment of male fantasy that was the main female character in that show. What was her name again? Faye, maybe?

Her adult body, coupled with the dark, haunting makeup and accessories, cultivated an uncomfortable level of arousal. What he used to write off as a kid’s Halloween costume now seemed a riding crop, ball gag, handcuffs and stilettos removed from a dominatrix. His mind went to sinfully dirty places, picturing Emma squeezing all that flesh into a tightly-bound corset, the soft, milky lengths of her legs enwrapped in fishnet stockings covered by short leather skirt, her feet bound up in glistening heels…

Okay, okay. Getting to be a bit much, Steve thought to himself as he tried to look anywhere but at Emma’s chest, which was unfortunately mere inches away and directly at eye level. He could faintly smell her perfume. God, I could dive in there and get lost for days. I’ll bet you she spritzes that perfume right between her tits, and jumping in thatsweater would cover me in her aroma and surround me with boobs…

Okay for REAL now. ENOUGH. Steve coughed into his hand, aware he was probably blushing. And as he bashfully turned his eyes up to make contact with Emma’s, he saw what he could swear was a knowing smirk written plain on her face. Oh shit…did she catch me gawking??! While I’m literally standing in the palm of my wife’s hand?

“Ahem, uh, yeah. Hi. Again. So, um, we could use your help…” Steve began before Amy cut him off.

“Since my darling husband seems to have spontaneously lost his ability to form coherent thoughts, what he’s trying to say is this: he needs a babysitter,” Amy said with a bemused look at Steve, clearly wondering why his brain was going haywire all of a sudden.

“And you want…me? To babysit him?” Emma asked with genuine confusion. “What about your friend? What’s her name…Allison?” Emma inquired.

“As crazy as it sounds, Allie can’t really be…trusted. Not yet. We’re seriously going to have to ease her into this and make her swear a blood oath of secrecy,” Amy responded.

“I can handle it, Mrs. C. No problem! What do you need me to do?” Emma asked enthusiastically.

“Again, call me Amy. And if you could just swing by for a few hours after school and, I don’t know, entertain this man-child and get some food in him or something, it would be tremendously appreciated. When do you get out usually?”

“I’m usually home by 3:30ish. I can totally just pop over!” Emma offered.

“Okay, great! I called out today, and I’m sure there’s an absolute MOUNTAIN waiting for me in the office. I was kind of planning on heading in for a bit tomorrow. Is that…too soon?” Amy asked.

“No, no! Not at all! I’ll be by around 3:45 or so,” Emma said cheerfully.

Amy visibly exhaled in relief. “Phew, okay. Thank you so much, again. The door code is 31945.”

“Got it!” Emma answered while standing up. He couldn’t help but look up as Emma straightened out her oversized sweater. I can barely see her face. Those things could block out the sun.

Emma began to make her way to the door before Amy called out to her. “Oh, Emma?”

“Yes Amy?” Emma answered with a grin at the novelty of using Amy’s first name.

“Thank you. For real. Thank you. You are, quite literally, a lifesaver,” Amy said sincerely.

“It’s my pleasure. You guys are cool, and you’ve always been nice to me. It’s the least I could do. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me!” Emma winked as she pantomimed zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key before opening the door.

“See you tomorroooowwwww,” Emma called over her shoulder ina sing-song voice, winking as she walked through the door and closed it behind
her. Steve could swear she had been looking directly at him when she winked.

-------------------------------------

“Alright, I’m off. Emma will be by around 3:45. I cleaned your tiny boxers for you, they’re on the nightstand drying. I also laid out another…ahem…outfit for you. TV’s on, set to ESPN.” Amy was announcing all of this from the bathroom, brushing her hair.

They had a relatively normal sleep for the first time. As usual, Amy was up before him. It was her moving around the bedroom as she got ready that woke him up. Steve yawned as he wiped his eyes and glanced over at the nightstand.

This time his outfit was pink, with little yellow daisies. He sighed as he rolled his eyes. “Ames…I’m starting to think your wardrobe choices are intentional!!” he hollered out.

“Beggars can’t be choosers hun!!” Amy called back sweetly.

He also saw a small Tupperware container with a foamy fluid inside, a stretch of fabric laid out next to it.

“What’s with the science experiment?” he called out.

Amy walked into the bedroom, affixing her earrings while kicking her feet into her flats. “What are you talking about?”

“The Tupperware. What is it?”

“Oh. I took the liberty of drawing you a bath. And you’re going to get in it before I leave or I’m going to put you in it. I know what your hygiene is like nowadays and I will NOT have Emma thinking I allow my husband to wallow in filth.”

Steve grumbled to himself as he hopped from the bed over to the nightstand, his pride bristling at being ordered around by the girl that used to be a foot shorter than him. Getting closer, he saw that the strip of cloth was a cut out piece of towel, realizing that Amy must have made it for him. This is actually kinda thoughtful, he thought as he climbed over the edge and into the soapy water. The temperature was perfect. He sat down in the water and began to scrub himself clean.

Amy walked over to him and smiled, seeing him use the ad hoc tub. “Alright, see you later babe.” She bent over and planted a peck on his head, her lips practically wrapping around it.

“Great, now I have lipstick in my hair,” Steve said jokingly, giving his wife a broad smile.

“Wahhhhh, you big baby. Love you too! Oh, and…behave yourself around Emma,” she warned.

“What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant.

“You know. No funny business. And don’t share anything with her that she doesn’t need to know. God, I feel like I’m talking to a child,” Amy said with playful grin.

“On my honor as a one-inch man, no funny business!” Steve promised.

“Alright, be good. See you later!” With that, Amy walked out of the bedroom. Shortly after, he heard the front door shutting, the automatic lock whirring after.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do until 3:45?” Steve sighed as he climbed out of his bath, drying himself off with the towel and donning his truly ridiculous “clothing.”

He climbed back over into bed, scaling his pillow to sink back into it as he stared at the TV. He was mildly interested in the Sportscenter recap going on, but Amy was way too early a riser for him. He found himself dozing off within minutes.

By the time his eyes opened again, the sun was no longer coming through the window. He rolled over to look at the clock on the nightstand. Amy insisted that his smartphone could easily replace that function, that the clock itself bordered on being an antique, and was an eyesore to boot. But, call him old fashioned if you will. Nothing gets you out of bed faster than that klaxon nuclear meltdown ear-ache alarm that smartphones were nowhere near capable of imitating.

He blinked at the blurry image, squinting to confirm what he was seeing. 2:00??!!! Amy usually left the house around 7AM for work. I’ve been asleep for another 7 hours??!! It wasn’t lost on him that 7 hours was what many people would consider a normal sleep…overnight. He’d had two bedtimes, back-to-back. Chalk it up to the stress, I guess. It’s been a weird few days.

Well…fuck. Still got basically two hours to kill. He decided to test out his ability to interact with technology at his size, beginning with his smartphone, which remained on the nightstand from the day he had shrunk. He hopped over to the nightstand, the water in the Tupperware long since cold. He poked the screen of his phone, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Probably doesn’t even register my touch.

So, he tried jumping and down in it. That did it. The screen lit up. And he was staring down at one of his favorite pictures as his wallpaper. They’d decided to give Costa Rica a shot for their honeymoon, hiring a private tour of the “Cloud Forest” in Monteverde. Amy was obsessed with finding whatever the hell a “Resplendent Quetzal” was. They never found one. They did, however, get the opportunity to pick ripe coffee beans off the mountainside, their guide bringing them to the base of the mountain to a tiny coffee roastery. He knew coffee beans had to come from somewhere, but it was still a surprise to him that they looked like red berries before the bean was extracted and roasted. The tour guide explained to them how coffee should never be described as “bitter,” and how espresso was just highly condensed light roast. He learned for the first time that stronger coffee taste didn’t mean stronger caffeine content. The opposite, in fact.

Anyway, Amy had asked the guide to snap a photo of the two of them in front of the roaster. He had squatted down, his usual lopsided grin on his face, Amy behind him with her arms wrapped around his neck, beaming at the camera with a smile that promised a lifetime of wonder together. She had a “Pura Vida” baseball cap on, a nondescript t-shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots completing the ensemble. He had just…dressed the same way he always did. And had paid for it. He had wiped out several times on the trail, learning that the term “rainforest” meant rain…and mud. Half of his body was covered in it in the picture. It was post-marital bliss condensed in one goofy image, and he loved every inch of it. He found himself actually tearing up a bit, thinking about what his idiotic, selfish actions meant for Amy, possibly for the rest of her life. He resolved to do his best to make this ordeal easy on her, if he could.

Suddenly, his pink poncho with yellow daisies on it was no longer annoying. He found he actually kind of treasured it. He might even want to keep it as a memento when (if) he got back to normal.

Well, it sure as shit isn’t gonna recognize my fingerprint. He paused, considering for a moment. He shimmied out of his “underwear” briefly, planting his bare bottom on the little circle you could use to swipe up to put in the PIN. And then he scooted upward on the screen like a dog dragging itself on the carpet, which felt patently ridiculous…until it actually worked. The number pad came up. It became what felt like a game of hopscotch from there, jumping onto the numbers to input his PIN while avoiding the incorrect ones. And then, his phone was unlocked.

He felt like Tom Hanks in “Castaway” after he made fire for the first time. Steve threw his hands over his head, running around on the touchscreen like had just scored the game-winning goal. And his feet landed on the Messages app, opening it up. As expected, given his reclusive post-retirement hermit status, the only recent messages were with Amy. Then he got an idea.

He jumped on the text chat with Amy, then jumped in the text field to pull up the keyboard, hopping around to scrawl a simple message: “Hi babe! Luv u!!” He was huffing and puffing by the end of it, this one small, routine act turning into a plyometrics course. He saw the “Read” receipt on Amy’s end, the little dots popping up on the screen that signaled a reply being composed.

“Steve tell you to send that Emma? You get back early?” Amy wrote.

Steve hopped back and forth across the keyboard again. “Nope this is ur hubby. Surprise!”

Amy sent back a laughing face emoji, followed by a simple question: “How?”

He didn’t feel like incurring the physical exhaustion of jumping out another message and wrote back, “Explain later!” Amy’s simple response was almost immediate: “K. Order to Show Cause on my desk this morning. Opposition due today. Might be late. Told Emma.”

“Got it! See u later!” he wrote back. Amy responded with a simple heart emoji.

Steve then looked around, wondering what else he could get into. He saw ESPN was still on their bedroom TV, the remote sitting on the nightstand next to his phone. He tried jumping up and down on the numbers, but he couldn’t apply enough weight to depress the buttons. So, he tried something else. Kneeling down on top of the channel up/down button, he put his back into it and pushed as hard as he could on the up arrow. And, to his surprise, he felt the button give under his push and saw the channel change. Sweet! I can change the channel! He had ended up on a channel showing replays of Bonanza, and decided that was good enough. His spontaneous exercise had eaten up a full hour already, only 45 minutes left until he had some actual companionship.

-------------------------------------

Emma tossed her keys on the counter after walking through the door, placing the box of pizza she had just picked up from Angeloni’s down
next to it. She bounded up the stairs to her bedroom, rifling through her drawers to find a more comfortable bra. Growing into her current breast size was a learning experience. During PE today, the wire had actually started to poke out and stab her a bit while she was jogging. She frowned as she surveyed her options. Well, option. The only clean bra she had at the moment was the black lacy number she had treated herself to at Victoria’s Secret over the summer during a trip to the mall with her friends. She hadn’t even really wanted it, not having a significant other at the time and, therefore, not seeing the use of it. But, after much cajoling from her friends, she relented and made the impulse purchase. She had yet to ever wear it, her romantic life non-existent with the amount of extracurriculars she surrounded herself with. Emma swung both ways and would’ve been equally happy with the attention of a male or female. In fact, though she was sure it was entirely one-sided, she could feel something…simmering whenever she was with her nerdy gamer friend, Becky.

Becky had aspirations of being a Twitch streamer, a profession she had to explain to any member of her parents’ generation every time she brought it up. Quiet and bookish with mousy features and a frazzled mop of brown hair, Emma questioned whether Becky had possessed the requisite sex appeal that catapulted game streaming women to global stardom. But much as she had matured over the past year, Becky had come into her own. She had gone from what Emma imagined the character Hermione Granger to be in the Harry Potter books to what Hermione Granger was in the last couple of movies. And Emma was totally there for it. Becky had actually gotten some traction on her game streams too. Emma was sure it was unrequited, but she sometimes felt like the two of them would steal glances every now and then, the occasional hug lingering for a little too long, the late-night texts sometimes bordering on flirtatious. Emma had kissed a boy at her Sweet 16, but she had never kissed a girl. She was deeply curious what Becky’s lips felt like.

Is this thing even gonna fit? Emma asked herself as she extracted the bra, dangling it in front of her with serious skepticism. Emma wasn’t oblivious to what was going on with her body. She had caught the blatant, lingering stares of the boys in her grade, felt the added weight putting pressure on her back when she would run or jog. She knew her breasts had sort of…exploded. To the point where there were nasty rumors circulating that the weirdo goth chick had gotten implants because nobody liked her. She wished that were the case. She was actually contemplating asking her mom to pay for reduction surgery. What was an endless source of attraction for salivating young men had become equal fodder for locker room ridicule with her contemporaries. The popular girls loved to make “moo” noises, frequently bringing up the cow’s udders.

Of course, in reality, there was nothing bovine about Emma in the slightest. Her adolescent chubbiness had blossomed into a full-framed woman’s body. She knew she wasn’t fat, her tight black jeans never muffin-topping, her toned stomach having the vertical line down to her belly-button that signaled the pending arrival of visible abdominal muscles. It was just those irksome sweater pillows that were the problem. Her butt wasn’t spared either. It seemed like, while the rest of her body had consented to grow upward, her chest and thighs had decided to grow outward. She was proud of her body, taking care of herself physically, but the jibes and barbs at school still hurt. She knew the effect her body had on men though. In fact, she was pretty sure she caught Mr. C checking her out yesterday.

Emma hurried into the en suite bathroom, throwing her black denim jacket and t-shirt unceremoniously on the floor, unhooking her bra and
promptly discarding it in the trash. She wouldn’t be using that thing again. She heard a voice call from downstairs.

“Emma? Is that you?” her mom yelled up the stairs.

“Yeah mom,” she yelled back absent-mindedly as she was attempting to clasp the Victoria’s Secret bra behind her back.

“What’s the pizza for?” her mom hollered.

“Oh, uh….” Shit. She hadn’t thought this part through. “Mr. C wanted to talk to me about a legal undergrad program and internship at some point. I’m heading over there now. Figured I’d buy dinner to butter him up a bit.”

She heard footfalls down the hallway as she finished pulling her shirt back on and throwing a black sweatshirt over it. The black denim jacket looked cool, but it was uncomfortable and it really made her chest pop out. No need to wear that to Mr. C’s place.

“Okay sweety. Just, be careful. I don’t know what’s with that man but I hardly see him anymore,” her mom called much more softly from the entrance to Emma’s bedroom. Emma gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her makeup had help up fine, but her hair was a tangled mess from PE and pulling her shirt off and on. She grabbed a brush and started straightening it as she answered her mom. Why do I even care what my hair looks like for Mr. C?

“I just saw him yesterday, mom. He’s fine. Just having a rough go of it after the premature retirement,” Emma answered as she walked out of the bathroom, glancing at her mom in the doorway. Jackie was wearing a form-fitting blue dress, her hair elegantly coiffed and her formal heels on, red lipstick on her face sticking out like a stop sign.

“What’re you all dolled up for?” Emma asked.

“Oh, um, church fundraiser. I’ll be in a little later,” Jackie answered quickly.

Uh-huh. Sure mom. “Okaaayyyyyy….but, like you always tell me, make good choices!” Emma said with a smirk. 

Her mom blushed as she studied Emma’s face a little more closely. Her eyes took on a note of concern. “Is everything alright sweety? 

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know. You’ve just been…quieter lately. And you look tired.” Jackie Cook translation: I look like shit.

“Yes mom, I’m fine,” Emma huffed in frustration. She looked at her mom again and softened a bit, seeing the genuine concern. “School’s just been…tough, lately. But I’m managing.”

Emma’s mom looked at the floor for a moment before raising her eyes to meet Emma’s. “I miss him too, you know. Every day.”

Emma felt the tears tugging at her eyes. “Could’ve fooled me,” she answered nastily. And immediately regretted it. She saw the barb land, a wince coming across her mom’s face. “I’m sorry mom. That wasn’t fair.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I get it. I just…want you to be happy. And I hope, well…I hope you would want the same for me,” Jackie answered with her voice catching slightly. 

Emma crossed the room and gave her a deep hug, realizing for the first time that, even with her heels on, she matched her mom’s height. “I do, mom. I really do.”

After they broke the hug, Jackie put her hands on Emma’s shoulders and leaned back to take her in. “He would be so proud of you. Look at you. You’re stunning, you’re brilliant, you’re talented…”

“Okay, okay mom. I get it!” Emma answered with playful smile. She gave her mom a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she said as she walked past her.

“Say hi to Mr. Clover for me. And tell him to go to church. I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I have a feeling it’s because he’s at the bottom of a bottle most days. A good gospel will set him straight.”

“I’ll say hi to him for you mom, but I’m not evangelizing for you!” Emma called over her shoulder as she bounded down the steps. She grabbed the pizza box and her keys off the table, heading outside into the crisp January weather.

She crossed the street in a half-jog, settling into a brisk pace down the sidewalk a few houses toward the Clover residence. Balancing the pizza on her arm, she entered the passcode and opened the door, shutting it behind her.

“Mr. C! It’s Emma! Amy said you’d be in the bedroom. Are you decent? Can I come in?” she asked as she crossed the living room and walked down the hallway, pausing outside the bedroom door. She could barely make out his voice as he answered.

“Yes I’m decent! Come on in.” She carried the pizza box in, flopping down onto the bed and seeing Mr. Clover’s little body go flying with the motion.

“Oops! Sorry! That’s gonna take a little getting used to,” she said sheepishly. She looked over at the TV. “What’s this cowboy show?”

“It’s called Bonanza and it’s awesome. You should watch it!” Steve answered before lifting his nose in the air, clearly sniffing. “Is that Angeloni’s
I smell?”

“It is! I figured you might be hungry. I’ll go get us some plates,” Emma offered.

“Nah, fuck that. Let’s just have it here,” Steve responded.

“Amy’s gonna kill me if we drip pizza grease on your sheets!” Emma protested.

“Then just eat it over the box. Not like I need a plate,” Steve reassured her.

“Oh. Right. Guess I didn’t think this through. I suppose I’m going to be eating most of this,” Emma said looking down at the box with a slight frown.

“Most of it? Try all of it. I’m good for basically a crumb,” Steve said laughing.

Emma reached down and unlaced her boots, kicking them off onto the floor before crossing her legs and resting the pizza box on her lap. She picked Steve up and placed him on the opened lid.

“Whichever slice you climb onto is yours,” Emma said gesturing at the pie. She separated two of them near Steve and watched as he shimmied between them, beginning to just take bites out of the side of the slice like it was an apple.

She tried to conceal a grin. “Nice…outfit. Is this part of the Rubber Ducky Fashion Line?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Steve gave her a flat look. “I didn’t have much say in the matter, unfortunately.”

“I’d imagine not,” Emma said laughing. They sat in companiable silence, eating and watching the TV. 

“Mr. C, can I ask you something?” Emma began.

“Let me guess: what really happened and why’d I do it?” Steve suggested.

“Yeah…that.”

“I guess you could say I was…curious. Always sort of wondered what it would be like,” Steve answered.

Yeah right. “That’s a stupid reason. Did you steal the tech?”

Steve looked at her, she could see the thoughts percolating in his mind as he debated whether to lie to her. “…yes.”

Emma sighed. “Mr. C, you’re always telling me to be careful, to stay out of trouble. How one criminal arrest could disqualify me from admission to the bar during the character and fitness interviews. What were you thinking?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking. Really. Look, if I could go back, I would never do it. I may be more than twice your age, Emma, but grown-ups fuck up too.” Emma could hear the regret in his voice. “There was just an itch of sorts that I needed to scratch. And, well, for what it’s worth, I never intended to actually go through with it. The actual…shrinking was a bad accident.”

Emma was watching him as he explained the situation to her. I believe him, she decided. But what…itch? She was wracking her brain, trying to come up with why someone would ever want to be this small. And then something buried deep in her memory surfaced. Her friend Ashley’s first boyfriend. How she would share what sorts of mischief they would get up to as they explored their sexuality in their adolescence. How he had confessed to her that he wanted to be tiny, wanted her to eat him and digest him, turn him into poo. How they had all had a laugh about how weird and gross it was during a sleepover. Oh shit. Is Mr. C one of those…people?

“Well, how was it? Scratching that ‘itch,’ I mean. Was it everything you hoped it would be?” she asked somewhat sarcastically.

“It has its moments. It also has some perks. Like, I’m weirdly durable and I can hold my breath a super long time,” he answered.

“Really? How’d you find that out?” Emma asked with a knowing smile. 

“Don’t worry about it. Now, can I ask you something?” Steve asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Of course!” she responded genuinely.

“How can you eat all that,” he said gesturing at the now-empty pizza box except for one slice with a few nibbles taken out of the side, “and look like…” he trailed off, clearly not having thought this line of questioning through.

Emma quirked an eyebrow. “My turn to guess: my mom?”

Steve looked down, and she thought she could see a little blush. He’s kinda cute at this size. “Yeah,” he answered weakly.

“Good genes, fast metabolism, who knows?” Emma answered sincerely. “Feels like all my weight goes straight to these puppies now,” she said while hefting one of her breasts. She saw Steve turn red as an apple and turn his back on her.

Whoops. She had only recently come to terms with the fact that she was attractive. She had a few immature traits that some would call unladylike that would still occasionally spill over. That’s the kind of thing she would’ve done in front of her friends, but Mr. C was of the opposite sex…and older than her mom.

There was an uncomfortably long silence before her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling both of them. She took it out and frowned. Speaking of Ashley…what does she want?

“One sec, Mr. C,” she said to Steve while holding up one finger. She answered the phone. “Hey Ash, what’s up?”

“Where the fuck are you??!!” Ashley yelled in her ear through the phone.

“What are you talking about?” Emma asked, a sense of dread building as she yanked the phone away from her ear to avoid going deaf.

“Rehearsal. Where are you? We started 15 minutes ago!!”

Oh FUCK! In her eagerness to help out Mr. and Mrs. C, she had completely forgotten about jazz band practice. She may be on a fast track for valedictorian, but sometimes she had a tendency to overlook things, most of them mundane, some of them significant. This was the latter.

“Oh…I’m…I’m sick,” she responded insincerely.

“Emma, we ALL saw you at school today, including Mrs. K. She knows you’re fine,” Ashley answered.

“Ah, well, in that case, I had an emergency to attend to,” Emma answered half-heartedly. 

“You’re the SOLOIST! The concert is Friday night!! She’s gonna bump you down to second chair!!” Ashley shot back. “Get your ass down here!!”

“Okay, okay, jeez. I’ll be right there,” Emma said as she hung up the phone.

She looked at Steve, who held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain, your friend was loud enough for the whole neighborhood,” he said laughing.

“I told Amy I would be here though. PLEASE tell me she’s coming back early tonight,” Emma pleaded.

“Uh, well. No. Unfortunately,” Steve answered.

“Uggghhhhh, what am I supposed to do??!” Emma asked with evident exasperation.

“Bring me with you!” Steve said, suddenly shooting to his feet and looking excited.

“What? No! I’m pretty sure Amy wouldn’t be cool with that. It sounds like a terrible idea,” Emma said, frowning.

“Nonsense. Just yesterday she brought me with her on a jog. She’s totally cool with it. Plus, I love jazz and I’ve barely ever heard you play. Front row seat!”

Emma could almost hear the lie in his voice, but she wasn’t sure what else to do. Her frown deepened as she weighed options.

“Come onnnnnn….I WANT to go!” Steve shouted up at her.

Eh, fuck it. What could go wrong? “Alright fine, but we’re agreeing NOT to tell Amy about this, right?” Emma said seriously as she bent over off the bed, lacing up her boots once more.

“Deal!” Steve answered excitedly.

“Alright, hop on,” Emma said as she lowered her upturned palm toward him. Steve quickly climbed on, a wide grin splitting his face.

-------------------------------------

Yes yes yes yes!! I get to leave the fucking house! He was thrilled that his subterfuge had worked. What serendipitous intervention from Emma’s friend.

As they walked toward the front door, he saw Emma feeling around on herself, a grimace on her face.

 “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“No pockets,” she answered, looking concerned.

“What do you mean ‘no pockets’?”

“Dude, you’d be surprised how much women’s clothing they make without pockets. Drives me nuts.”

He still couldn’t believe it. “What about your pants?”

Emma pulled up her sweater, showing him her black leggings…and inadvertently showing him how they hugged her hips…and the curvature of her butt. He felt his face reddening again.

“Leggings. Almost never have pockets,” she said without catching his embarrassment.

He glanced at her sweatshirt, convinced there had to at least be a pocket on the front of it, noticing the design on it for the first time. Is that a demonic owl? What the fuck is Helluva Boss?

“What do we do?” Emma asked him sincerely, snapping him out of it.

“Just put me on your shoulder. I’ll hang onto your hair for support,” he answered. Perfectly reasonable suggestion, not at ALL motivated by the view it’ll give me. It’s not cheating if it’s just looking, right? Ames and I have agreed window shopping is fine. It did still feel gross to perv out on his neighbor’s young daughter, but you only live once, he supposed.

Emma looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure! Ames and I do it all the time! In fact,it’s how we get around to most places since my incident,” he said, lying through his teeth.

“Uhhh….okay. I guess I can hear you from there too if anything goes wrong. Just give me a shout if you feel like you’re gonna fall,” Emma told him as she lifted him up to her shoulder. He hopped on, grabbing a few strands of her shoulder-length hair like a child grabs the chains holding up a
swing. He could smell her perfume again, from this vantage point having an almost uninterrupted view straight down Emma’s cleavage. He was suddenly blasted with a chill as Emma stepped outside, locking the house behind her. And then he was hypnotized by the motion as she walked back across the street, heading toward her car. Those soft, milky, pillowy mounds of flesh bouncing up and down with every step, a little jiggle rippling through them with every footfall impacting the pavement.

Fuck, this could be a problem. Maybe this was a bad idea. He was suddenly worried about Emma checking on him only to find him with a raging erection.

Emma opened the car door, lowering herself into the seat and starting the car. The minute her Bluetooth connected, indecipherable metal music started blasting, practically deafening Steve. He winced and covered his ears, letting out an audible groan.

Emma glanced at him out of the side of her eye. “What?”

“Can we uh, maybe listen to something else?”

“I thought you said you liked my music!” Emma said, sounding defensive and hurt.

“I do, I really do, it’s just uh…everything’s louder at my size,” he lied again.

“Alright, well what do you want to listen to?” she asked him.

“You ever heard The Beatles?”

“I’ve heard OF them,” she responded.

“You’re kidding. You’ve never listened??!! We’re fixing that right now. Try ‘I Saw Her Standing There,’” Steve directed.

Emma told her phone to play it, scoffing at the beginning. “‘She was just seventeen, you know what I mean?’ That has to be the most basic, lazy rhyme in the history of music,” she said with a cringe.

“Just…be quiet and listen,” Steve instructed. Emma complied, and about a minute into the song he caught her head bobbing a little bit, her hand tapping the steering wheel. Got her, he thought with a grin. At one point he even caught her harmonizing with the chorus, her sonorous, resonant but crystal-clear voice striking him with its haunting beauty. How does she do that? How do you listen to a song and just…create stuff in your head without seeing the sheet music? That level of artistry would always be lost on him.

At the conclusion of the song Emma asked, “that wasn’t bad, but do they have anything that doesn’t sound like I should be listening to it while sipping egg creams down at the soda shop before going to the park-and-neck with my best fella?”

“I’m surprised you know what egg creams are. I’m even more surprised you know that soda shops were a thing. I’m truly SHOCKED that you know what necking is. Anyway, try Helter Skelter. I think that’s more your speed,” he suggested.

She put it on and instantly was visibly into it, taking in the lyrics. “Is this song about fucking?” she asked.

“I think so. If not, it could certainly be interpreted that way. You know, a lot of people think the free love of the 60s ended when this dude named Charles Manson…”

Emma cut him off. “Oh, I know all about Charles Manson.”

“What? How?” Steve was confused.

“Marilyn Manson,” she answered. Oh, right. Could’ve guessed that.

The ride was going relatively smoothly, until Emma committed the cardinal sin of driving ever since the advent of the cellphone: looking at her texts. 

For Steve, it was like it was all happening in slow motion. He could see the red light up ahead, see Emma’s car approaching the rear of the next one way too quickly.

“Uh, Emma…” he began. But she looked up in time. Well, in time to avoid a collision. Not in time to avoid slamming on the brakes, which flung Steve forward. He avoided ending up as paste on her dashboard with his grip on her strands of hair, but he still had a ton of forward momentum. And he found himself plunging straight downward. Downward into the bottomless canyon that was Emma’s cleavage.

“Oops, sorry Mr. C,” he heard her say meekly. It was muffled, because at this point he was surrounded on all sides by tons of boob flesh, sinking deeper into it like quicksand as Emma’s breasts shifted suddenly with every turn of the wheel, bounced with every bump in the road. He finally got an answer as to whether her lily-hued skin was some sort of makeup or powder. It wasn’t, she was really just that pale. He also got an answer as to whether she spritzed her perfume between her breasts, and she almost certainly did.

There was a faint odor of sweat, likely from her full day at school including gym class, but it was being overpowered by what smelled like a not altogether unpleasant combination of lavender and rose oil. As he continued to get jostled around, he continued to sink ever downward, finally losing all light as he was buried alive in Emma’s breasts, his last view of the “surface” being a look up at the studded choke collar around Emma’s thin, pale neck.

The stifling, compressive, claustrophobic darkness was startling. His immediate instinct was to begin thrashing around, but after what he had just witnessed, he was terrified about causing an accident with distracting her. He resolved to give her a holler as soon as the vehicle came to a stop. Emma was a smart kid. She’d put it together pretty quick, he thought, even if they’d all be embarrassed from the ordeal.

It was strange. Yesterday in the shower, Amy had been trying to smush him a bit with her boobs, even pushing them together. Emma was just…existing. Just being Emma. And he was compressed on all sides, felt like he was swimming in tits but sinking ever downward, thankful once again for his oddly enhanced lung capacity as air was scarce. He did his best to stay still, knowing that the ride to the high school was short enough that they should be there any minute.

Sure enough, just as he was starting to run out of oxygen, he felt the car come to a stop and heard the engine turn off, a very faint, muffled “alright, we’re here Mr. C. Now we gotta figure out how to keep you out of sight.” He heard the car door open, felt his fleshy prison swaying back and forth with the simple motion, adrift in a totally lightless environment that was stiflingly hot and suffocating as his stomach lurched while Emma got to her feet.

“Mr. C???!!” he heard Emma’s panicked voice. He felt another lurch as she must have bent over, rifling around on the car seat and looking about in her car for him. He decided now was as good a time as any to announce his presence and gave a weak little struggle. He heard a yelp of surprise and felt some frantic motion, the world of pillowy flesh around him jiggling with the effort. He assumed she was fishing him out right away, until he heard another voice call out faintly. And then he got whipped around, Emma’s breasts clashing together and squashing him in between, as she spun quickly to face the newcomer.

-------------------------------------

“Emma! Finally!! Where have you been? Mrs. K is PISSED!” Emma whirled about to face Ashley, who was rapidly crossing the parking lot to intercept. Shit shit shit shit shit….Mr. C’s in my tits. I can feel him. WHY Ashley? WHY??! I was coming inside!! Of all of Emma’s friends, Ashley was the only one that had always been conventionally pretty. A silky-haired redhead with a splash of freckles and bright green eyes, Ashley had sprouted into her adult body earlier than any of them, and her dating record proved it. Ashley had been through three boyfriends already. Emma had yet to have her first relationship of any kind, really. Ashley was fundamentally a good person, just a complete ditz and perpetual busybody. Emma wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the reason Ashley came out to intercept her was so that she could get all the details first.

“Uhhhh….forgot my instrument, haha…” Emma answered, still flustered about what to do over her…situation. She felt him squirming. It was ticklish, if not altogether unpleasant. But it was deeply, deeply embarrassing. She had made a point of straightening her hair before she left her house to come see him, but she hadn’t showered. Not only did this feel shamefully violative of both of them, but she had the additional embarrassment over potential odor. She just hoped the perfume was doing its thing.

Emma popped open the trunk of her car, grabbing her saxophone case and slamming the trunk shut, her movements jittery and nervous, feeling almost like she got caught making out in the bathroom by the principal. The motion of slamming the trunk jostled Steve further, and she felt him pinched at the base of her breasts, his legs dangling against her sternum and his frantic kicking tickling her. Fuck, he’s dropping.

“Mrs. K is going to lay into you. You know that, right?” Ashley asked with her hands on her hips. Emma was sure she was correct. Mrs. Karczewski took her role as music teacher and conductor seriously, as strict as they come in terms of discipline. Marching band season, with all its intricacies and formations and timing in particular, was a special kind of hell. Mrs. K was fair though, and it was clear that she only just wanted her students to be their very best. A stunt like this wasn’t going to do Emma any favors. She might lose first chair even despite her flying over here to make up for the initial absence.

Well, no way around this. I’m really, really sorry Mr. C. I don’t want to do this either, but I don’t see another way out of this. I really wish I had another option other than this fucking bra…there’s barely any strap. But…I can’t have you falling out. Emma turned her back on Ashley, sticking her hand down the front of her shirt and pinching Steve’s miniscule body between her fingers. And then she dragged him over in front of her left breast, tucking him under the bra and feeling her face flush out of both embarrassment and maybe, just maybe, the faintest HINT of arousal as his tiny form was pressed against her nipple. She had intended just to tuck him into the side of it, but her aim was off. He was smack dab in the middle. Part of the problem with having a skimpy bra that basically covered ONLY the nipples.

Ashley was giving her a quizzical look when she turned back around. “Everything alright there, Em?”

“Uh, yeah. New bra, weird fit,” she laughed uncomfortably.

“Why are you beet red? Just us girls here you know, no need to be shy,” Ashley said sensing her friend’s discomfort and trying to be supportive…and also probably fishing for gossip.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I just…uh…I really hurried over here and almost got in an accident. A little stressed out and out of breath, that’s all.” To her own ears, the lie sounded terribly unconvincing. If it were anyone but Ashley, they probably would’ve asked more questions. Fortunately, Ashley bought the line of BS without issue.

“Well, hurry the fuck up, let’s get inside and get you warmed up already!” Ashley was already striding back toward the high school.

Emma looked down at her shirt one more time, whispering very quietly, “I’m so sorry Mr. C, I’ll get you out as soon as I can.”

Ashley held open the side door to the band room for her as Emma walked inside. The band was in the middle of rehearsing “Take Five” when they all came to an abrupt silence, every head in the room turning to stare at her. And of all the times she had been picked on, ridiculed and bullied during her time in school, Emma had NEVER felt more self-conscious than right now.

She fervently hoped nobody could see the tiny flailing lump protruding from her left tit, but in that moment, it of course felt like EVERYONE could see it. Her face got even redder as she laughed nervously and shuffled stiffly to the back of the band room, squatting down to open her saxophone case and begin assembling it. She was positively convinced every single eye was on her, everyone scrutinizing her every move. She was sure she was moving like a guilty person, and that’s because she was. Exigent circumstances or not, what was happening under three layers of clothing right now was absolutely scandalous by any measure.

She’d always thought Mr. C was super cute for an older guy. Despite the obvious, significant age gap, he never came across as a middle-aged man. His impish, boyish charm made him seem decades younger, and she had fostered a little bit of a crush ever since she was 15 years old. She liked that he had never condescended toward her, always treated her like an adult, took her reports of her daily school life and complaints seriously, tried to offer meaningful input. Stimulated her brain with spirited debate on many occasions. Listened to her music. Heard her out when she would occasionally cry over the loss of her father. Amy was an absolute sweetheart, but every now and then Emma would even feel a pang of jealousy as she would watch them embrace and kiss at the block parties and barbecues.

As awkward and uncomfortable as this situation was, all of this added up to two emotions. The first one, primarily, was panic. The second one, lurking just underneath the surface in a place where she could pretend it didn’t exist, was the sense of…naughtiness. That she was a bad girl for what she was doing. That she was punishing the nice, older man she’d had a little bit of a crush on for years by confining him to her tits. That she was just going about her business while he was trapped, pressed firmly into her oversized bust, with (hopefully) nobody the wiser. It was terrifying, but also exhilarating in a way she would rather not admit.

Can I sneak him into the case? She glanced around, feeling like a kid smoking pot for the first time in her parents’ basement, like Mrs. K was going to call out her weirdness any second now. And then she caught the eyes of Bernard “Bernie” Levy, the band’s timpani player and consummate weirdo, which was saying something as the band was primarily comprised of social castoffs. It was a little inaccurate to say she caught his eyes, actually. What she caught was him staring directly at her tits hanging low over her saxophone case as she squatted to put the pieces together. The first name Bernard had lent itself to the unfortunately apt moniker “Barnyard,” so named because of his radiating, offensive body odor. And he wasn’t ashamed of it either. He laughed, embraced the name, got a tattoo of a barn on his shoulder. Barnyard Levy was as sloppy and gross as they came, clinically obese, overly hairy for a kid his age, ill-fitting clothing that was equal parts stained and torn. And his lascivious glare, his fixation on her breasts to the point where she was surprised he wasn’t salivating, made her feel…dirty. Like she needed a shower. She suddenly became even more self-conscious, turning her back on him and moving her saxophone case in the other direction to continue the assembly unmolested by his disgusting leer.

I’m sure he’s just staring at my ass now. Fucking gross. Anyway, no way I can sneak Mr. C out right now. She again, very softly, whispered “sorry,” to her chest, hoping that nobody saw or heard her talking to herself and hoping that Mr. C could hear her through the layers of clothing.

Emma affixed her reed to her mouthpiece, throwing the strap over her shoulder and positioning the saxophone on the front of her body. And then she took her rightful place as first chair, in the empty seat next to her bitter rival Sheila, who was smirking at Emma getting in trouble with Mrs. K. Sheila knew that Emma was one fuckup away from being second chair. Whereas music came naturally to Emma, her solos seemingly conjured from her very soul as she just “felt” the music flow through her, Sheila had worked. And worked. Tirelessly. Sheila wasn’t just good. She was excellent, but excellent technically. She could rip through any scale with perfect execution, read sheet music for the first time and nail it, but put her on the spot to come up with something on her own and she’d just flub out a few sad notes. Still, nothing was stopping Mrs. K from writing the solo for Sheila. If the music were in front of her, Sheila would execute it perfectly.

Sheila was as petty and vindictive in her competitiveness as they came. In one particularly egregious instance, she had asked to see the crystal mouthpiece Emma’s father had purchased for her, ostensibly just to admire it before dropping it on the hard tile floor in the hallway with an unapologetic “oops,” shattering it into a million tiny pieces before smiling sweetly and walking away. Emma learned the hard way that day that Sheila just couldn’t be trusted and would do anything to get ahead, even destroy a cherished memento just to screw with someone mentally. Nobody would describe Sheila as conventionally beautiful. Her long, straight black hair, pointed nose, and large teeth that she was seemingly unable to wrap her lips around gave her a rat-like appearance that complimented her personality perfectly. She was also a little on the chubby side. Emma had grown out of her baby fat, or at least her genes had redirected it to her bust and thighs. Sheila had kept it on her gut and in her face.

“So glad you could join us, superstar,” Sheila whispered sarcastically.

“Shut it,” Emma responded curtly as she took her seat and arrayed the sheet music on her stand. She really was in no mood for the bullshit.

“Oh pardon me, I didn’t realize you were so important that you could blow off our dress rehearsal,” Sheila continued, clearly trying to bait her.

Emma looked her in the eyes and smiled. “I think it says a lot that Mrs. K would rather leave this seat empty than let you fill it in my absence. Addition by omission,” Emma answered. That absolutely landed. Sheila glared and opened her mouth to say something else before Mrs. K cut in.

“Alright girls, enough! Emma, are you tuned? Concert B Flat,” the conductor directed.

“Yeah yeah, I know the drill,” Emma grunted. She played the note and immediately realized she was a little sharp, sliding her mouthpiece out a little bit to flatten the sound. She saw Sheila’s glare deepen out of her peripheral vision. That was something else that drove Sheila insane: Emma’s perfect pitch. She could hear a note and know innately whether it was sharp or flat. Sheila needed a tuning fork every time.

Just as Emma was about to begin playing, she felt another tickle coming from her left breast. She realized that her posture naturally rested her elbow on her chest, compressing Steve further into her nipple. Oh shit, I’m so, so sorry Mr. C!! She shuffled around a bit, reconfiguring her posture. There really wasn’t a way to avoid it without screwing her up, however. She had to get him out, and soon. Feeling self-conscious once again, she began to play as the conductor led them in, feeling the faint but frantic motions under her elbow, and noticing her nipple unfortunately hardening in response. Not for the first time, Emma blushed again, thankful she had something to distract her for the moment.

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IT’S NOT CHEATING IF I DON’T TOUCH! IT’S NOT CHEATING IF I DON’T TOUCH! IT’S NOT CHEATING IF I DON’T TOUCH! Steve continued to repeat the mantra to himself, feeling deeply uncomfortable and remorseful over his current predicament. He hadn’t really had any say in the matter. The car jolted, he dropped into the bottomless pit that was Emma’s cleavage, flailed around to get her attention when he felt her getting out of the car, and just when he thought she was going to rescue him, she inexplicably peeled up her left bra cup and stuffed him inside.

He had faintly heard another voice speaking to Emma and had heard her responses, so he assumed she did what she did for a reason. After all, she had always demonstrated uncannily mature, shrewd judgment in the past. He suspected she had been intercepted in the parking lot and had to improvise. He had been dropping ever further downward, barely sandwiched between the bottoms of Emma’s breasts before she nabbed him. Maybe she didn’t want him to fall out by accident? Regardless, he felt like there HAD to be a better solution than this.

It was suffocating and stifling before when he was buried between Emma’s tits. Adding another layer of fabric by tucking him into her bra was a whole different level. He was warm before, smelling her sweat and feeling more than a little claustrophobic from the squishy flesh bearing down on him from all angles. Now he was actually sweating himself and having trouble breathing to boot.

Whatever this choice in underwear was for Emma, it was too small. Regrettably small. The already sparse, lacy fabric was stretched thin, pulling him inward with a vice-like grip. That made the situation even more salacious, if that was even possible. He had wanted to turn around so that his back was to Emma’s nipple. That was just flat out an impossibility. He had managed to hold his arms up over his head in a bad approximation of the opening move of the “YMCA,” trying to give himself the slight reassurance that if he wasn’t pushing out with his hands in front of him, he wasn’t really “feeling her up.”

It was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. There was no avoiding touching her. She was everything right now. The fabric at his back was unyielding, Emma’s enormous breast pushing back on it with equal and opposite force. So powerful was the compression that his tiny, one-inch form had briefly given Emma an “inny” nipple, pushing the dead center of it inward a little and burying him further inside the world of Emma’s breasts. That was when he started flailing harder, it becoming difficult to breath with Emma’s areola enveloping him. Every gasping mouthful was flooded with flesh, Steve putting his head back to gasp for air. For the second time in less than 24 hours, he was enormously grateful that his new size afforded him a greater capacity for holding his breath somehow.

Emma’s tit was just…everywhere. And it was everything. It was his entire world right now, his body stretched thinly across it, the wall of pillowy flesh filling every one of his senses. And that was before she had rested her elbow on it. That banal action, presumably for her saxophone posture, actually had put his life in real danger. He kicked, struggled, flailed, pushed, leaned back, did whatever he could to create some separation, and it was an entirely fruitless endeavor. That is, other than stimulating Emma, which paradoxically provided him a modicum of relief.

As he felt her nipple hardening in response to his efforts, he was rescued from the sinking pit of her areola, which had begun to feel bottomless. He felt like if he had sunk into her nipple anymore he would’ve been floating in milk. But Emma’s physiological, unwitting reaction to his motion pushed him outward, saving him for the moment. He still felt the fabric pulling down on his back with unbelievable tightness, still felt the stifling, smothering heat of being pressed into Emma’s breast by her elbow, but he could at least turn his head and breathe. A little.

Emma began to play the saxophone, and Steve wished he could have appreciated it at a distance. The sound was just overpowering from his proximity to it, and his whole ordeal made it eminently unenjoyable. He knew he had to keep the nipple hardened if he wanted to avoid being suffocated again, so he continued to struggle. Continued to wiggle and worm about in the center of Emma’s areola, right on top of her nipple, feeling like a dirty, predatory old pervert a thousand times over.

IT'S NOT CHEATING IF IT’S TO SURVIVE! IT’S NOT CHEATING IF IT’S TO SURVIVE! His mantra of reassurance changed slightly, trying to assuage his guilty conscience. He remembered the emotional moment he had earlier when he saw their honeymoon photo as his phone’s wallpaper. Amy’s bright, brilliant and uninhibited grin in the photo seemingly capable of banishing night and bringing on the dawn. Remembered the “luv u” texts and heart emojis. And he felt awful about all of this. Especially the dark, seedy macrophile buried deep inside him getting more than a little stimulation from the situation. Just as Emma’s nipple had hardened as an involuntary reaction, so too had his dick hardened. It really, truly could not be helped, at least that’s what he told himself. What was he supposed to do? His neighbor’s cute little girl had grown into a supermodel figure with almost comically large breasts, and she was undeniably hot. For the first time in his life, he was seeing Emma as a real WOMAN. He felt bad that it took being smothered by her tits to get him there.

Again the thought occurred to him that the craziest thing about it was Emma wasn’t even TRYING. She was just going through her usual motions, with these WMDs mounted on her chest. He was perfectly content with Amy’s B cups, found that her perky tits complimented her slight frame well while being plenty enough to play with. But if Amy’s tits were a bouncy little playground, Emma’s tits were an overwhelming, suffocating mountain. A true force of nature that came to her naturally.

He tried to turn his mind elsewhere. Turn it to ANYTHING else. But when an enormous tit constitutes your entire world and point of view, even with the added struggle of survival, there was no getting around it: it was hot.

He continued his frantic, panicky motions until he heard the music stop, presumably the conductor cutting them off. Suddenly, the pressure of Emma’s elbow at his back lifted, the breast against him jiggling as her left hand shot upward.

“Mrs. K!” he heard Emma shout. “I have to use the restroom!!” Oh thank God. Bless your little heart Emma, good move.

“What? Ms. Cooke, you just got here,” the conductor responded flatly.

“I know, but I REALLLLLYYYYYY gotta go. It’s an emergency,” Emma pleaded.

“Alright, but hurry back. We haven’t even gotten to your solo yet,” the conductor cautioned. 

“I will! Thank you!” He felt his flesh prison bounce again as Emma got to her feet, feeling the motion of her breasts swaying side to side as she sidled out of the row of saxophone players and walked briskly to the door. Then he heard the telltale “clop” sound as Emma’s boots were hitting the tile floor in the hallway as she raced to the restroom. He heard a faint whisper above him, “Hold on Mr. C, we’re almost there. I’m gonna get you out of there!”

Fuck, he thought as he realized his erection was still standing at full attention. She can’t see this. He tried to turn his mind elsewhere, but yet again, it was a Herculean task given that has entire existence at present was subsumed by Emma’s breast. He heard a faint creak as the bathroom door opened.

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Emma hurried into the bathroom, immediately fishing into her bra and extracting Steve. He actually stuck a little and had to be pried off her nipple like an overcooked pancake stuck to a griddle, and she grimaced at the thought that the sweat and pressure had simulated an adhesive. As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough that Mr. C had been tumbling around in her boobs for the better part of the last half hour, and had been pressed up against her nipple for half of that, now she had the added shame of the sweat and undersized bra.

Steve was predictably red. Like, everywhere. His whole body. His pink and yellow daisies outfit looked soaked to Emma’s eye. And he immediately turned his back on her and bent over.

Why isn’t he looking at me? She saw him give a quick glance over his shoulder, saw his hands trying to stealthily hide his pelvic area, and failing miserably. Oh…um, okay. Emma felt herself blushing again. She was a girl in high school. She knew what that hunched over posture meant, what that sad attempt at covering yourself without looking like you were covering yourself signaled. One boy she knew had actually mentioned something called the Texas Tuck, a trick where he folded his erection up into his belt and tucked his shirt over it to be able to walk to the front of the class, next to his smoking hot teacher, without anyone being the wiser. Steve didn’t have that option. He’s…uh…he’s hard. Over…me. That’s, um…that’s uh…yeah. I should probably say something. But what the fuck do you say in a situation like this? I guess it should probably start with an apology.

“I’m so, sooooo sorry Mr. C. I didn’t realize you had, um, “fallen” in the car, and my friend Ashley intercepted me in the parking lot. I was worried about you falling out and I uh, improvised. I didn’t have a lot of options,” Emma said frowning.

“It’s okay, Emma, I get it. Just…we absolutely CANNOT tell Amy about this, agreed? It was an accident all around, nobody’s at fault here for…anything,” he answered in a tone that was unusually quiet for him.

“Oh 100%. And um, yeah, just so you know, that’s uh…that’s a perfectly natural thing to have, um, happen. Like, I know you don’t really have control…”

Mr. C cut her off. “Can we just drop it?” he said a little angrily. Emma felt hurt, and he must have seen it. His tone softened a bit. “You don’t have to explain how ‘stuff’ works to me, Emma. I’ve had more years dealing with it than you,” he said with a sheepish grin.

Phew, okay. He’s not pissed. Well, not SUPER pissed. “Got it. Again, I’m really sorry about this whole mess. This was a bad idea, bringing you along for this. This could’ve been avoided a dozen times over. Like, if I had remembered we had rehearsal. If we had left you behind at your house. If I hadn’t been texting and driving. If I had realized where you fell when I slammed on the brakes. If I had improvised better…”

He cut her off again. “Emma, it’s fine. Accidents happen. They’re called accidents for a reason. Nobody’s really to blame here, and there’s certainly nothing to be gained from relitigating every event. The bigger question is: what do we do now?” By this point, his erection had calmed down and he had turned around to face her.

“Well, again, no pockets,” Emma said while letting out a laugh she really didn’t feel. “Um, your prior, uh, ‘arrangement’ is out of the question, and anything else I can think of is actually uh…worse,” Emma answered honestly.

“Oh? And here I was about to suggest riding around between your buttcheeks,” Steve said with a grin.

“I mean, listen, I’m not here to judge anyone. If it’s what you want…” Emma joked back at him.

“No, no. Trust me, I don’t. What about your boot?” Steve suggested. 

“My…boot? Like…inside the boot? That’s…that’s gross, isn’t it?” Emma felt quite uncomfortable with the idea. I don’t think he wants to be around my feet…does he? Some guys are into that kind of thing.

“No, no, not INSIDE the boot. It’s a boot. It’s laced up almost to your knee. Just like…tuck me in the top of it and don’t tie it so tight. Nobody will be the wiser,” he explained.

Oh, okay. Phew. “Um, I guess so. I guess we don’t really have a lot of options. Sure as shit can’t just leave you here. Janitor should be coming through soon,” Emma answered as she bent down to start unlacing her right boot.

With that sixth sense that all women innately possess, she could feel the eyes on her rear as she bent over and smirked, sticking her butt out just a TINY bit more. A little teasing never hurt anybody.

She came back over and picked Steve up, sliding him into the inside seam of the top of her boot. “Is that too tight? It looks like it’s too tight still.”

She bent down to undo a few more laces, suddenly being startled by the door flying open behind her and jumping up in surprise.

“Emma? Who are you talking to?” FOR FUCK’S SAKE ASHLEY, HOW ABOUT A LITTLE FUCKING PRIVACY??!! It was the second time today that Ashley’s unquenchable thirst to be a busybody had mucked up her plans. At least Mr. C was already secure this time.

“Jesus Ashley, you scared the shit out of me. Anyway, I was talking to myself. You know how I do that sometimes,” Emma said laughing nervously.

“I’ve literally NEVER heard you do that,” Ashley said with a frown. “You’re being weird today. Are you sure you’re okay?" 

“YES Ashley!” Emma immediately felt sorry for raising her voice and adjusted her tone a bit. “I’m fine, it’s just…been a rough day, that’s all.”

“Alright, well hurry your oversized ass up, Mrs. K is looking for you,” Ashley said walking out of the bathroom and holding the door open.

“No shit, that woman would lo-jack me if she could,” Emma joked.

She started to follow Ashley down the hallway, relieved that she and Mr. C had sorted it out and that he was safe now. My boot feels a little loose. I wonder if it’ll be too tight for him if I just tie one more knot…

It was as if she had wished disaster into existence. No sooner had the thought occurred to her before she felt a little object tumble down the inside of her long boot, coming to rest at the arch of her foot. And she was mid-stride and couldn’t react in time. Her boot impacted the tiled hallway hard, and she felt what could only be Mr. C’s tiny body get smushed under her arch.

Oh shit I think I killed him!!! She let out a loud gasp at the thought, Ashley immediately pivoting and looking at her quizzically.

“What was that?” Ashley asked.

Emma was about to rip her boot off to check on Mr. C, consequences be damned, when she felt a weird little tickle under the arch of her foot. One long tap, three short taps in rapid succession. The secret knock she had taught him as a kid when he used to play with her, the only way he would be allowed entry into the house during Jackie’s parties.

Clever, super clever Mr. C. I guess he’s fine. Emma wasn’t sure if he could feel it, but she scrunched her toes together in the same pattern. And slowly, very slowly, she resumed walking.

Before she had even made it to the band room, the forward momentum had thrown Mr. C the same way any pebble would have been. He was now DEFINITELY under her toes. She paused briefly again, felt the secret knock once more, and kept walking.

Emma entered the band room, shuffling back into her seat and grabbing her saxophone once more. As she took her place and began playing, she felt an oddity. A little tickle along the tips of her toes, almost as though…he was running his hand along them, like someone would a new car.

Wait. IS he the type of guy that’s into this kinda thing? Emma experimented a little bit, lifting her toes up slightly and then slamming them down, snagging Mr. C and curling him into the ball of her foot before releasing him. She shifted her foot around in her boot, placing her big toe over Mr. C, the toe being larger than his entire body easily, and she had rubbed it back and forth over his prone form softly and gently, with only a touch of pressure. And then she thought she felt it, the little additional pinprick of hardness pressing against the bottom of her big toe.

Oh, yeah. He’s DEFINITELY into this. I should stop. This feels wrong. She had to focus on the music anyway, and stopped paying Steve any mind for the time being.

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IT’S NOT CHEATING IF IT’S FEET! IT’S NOT CHEATING IF IT’S FEET! IT’S NOT CHEATING IF IT’S FEET! For the third time today, Steve had adopted a new mantra. He had thought they had gotten the bad luck portion of the day out of the way, but he was sorely mistaken. Emma had hurriedly dropped him into her boot and didn’t have the opportunity to lace it snug when her friend interrupted. He had a brief moment to appreciate the way the black-and-gray striped sock hugged and accentuated Emma’s calf before he found himself tumbling down the full length of the knee-high boot instead of being pinned just below her knee, as was the original plan. And, for the second time in two days, he was under a woman’s foot again. 

Being under Emma’s arch hadn’t hurt him, even when she applied her full weight on the next step. He had hoped she would figure out the secret knock thing, and he felt she had gotten the message. Even when he had tumbled to the front of the boot and was under her toes and, occasionally, the ball of her foot, his enhanced durability ensured that the worst effect was the wind getting pressed out of him.

Still, it was an uncomfortable situation. First of all, he knew that Emma probably didn’t think of her feet the same way she thought of her tits or ass. He knew that from the summer backyard barbecues, the way she would slip her pale foot out of her sandals and prop her long, milky legs up on the lawn chair, flexing her toes without a care in the world. He thought Amy had once caught him staring and he felt bad about it, especially with Emma having been underage at the time. She had even painted her toenails in front of him before, and he found he had to look away lest the creep vibes come to the surface.

But even though Emma probably didn’t have the same line of thought, he knew he had it. And he felt guilty about it, hence the new mantra.

Second, whether he was turned on by feet or not, there were still some unenjoyable aspects to it. Amy’s sneaker was meant to absorb shock, the spongy, springy texture on the sole yielding under her weight. Emma’s leather boots with the blockish heel were mostly a fashion statement and not entirely practical. There wasn’t a ton of give, and he felt it much more when her toes pressed down on him, the hard leather surface under his back only yielding slightly.

Also, it was a shoe. Specifically, the inside of someone’s shoe. Whether it was attached to a hot girl or not, it was a sweat and odor factory. Being used more recreationally, and with leather’s less permeable surface, it wasn’t the same level of malodorous that Amy’s sneaker was after it had heated up. But it was still like being dumped into a steam room…if that steam room had a faintly cheesy odor to it. And the bottom of Emma’s foot was wet with sweat, a slight squeaking and squelching sound made as her sock slid around on the sole. It was just…wet. Very wet. The leather trapped a TON of moisture.

And he was being smeared in all of it. It was the same as what happened in Amy’s shoe, albeit Emma was only walking instead of jogging. He would feel a weightlessness in his gut as he lurched upward, would feel the descent like going down a hill on a roller coaster and would brace for impact, and even with knowing it was coming, he would still end up almost flattened with every step. And then he would get dragged across the sole, rolling in sweat, sock lint accumulating on his skin in a fine, itchy film.

It was clear that Emma took care of herself, and it’s not like her boots were billowing out raunchy foot odor whenever she took them off. Hell, she had taken her boots off at his home and, even with her legs crossed under her and him sitting on the pizza box, he hadn’t caught a whiff of anything. But when a sweaty body part is stuck in a confined space day, after day, after day, after day, clean socks and clean skin or not, there would eventually be an odor. Yet again he was reminded of his hockey equipment.

There was one clear difference between his experience under Emma’s foot versus Amy’s. Emma’s foot was…softer, somehow. Like the pillowy flesh that made her boobs and butt so enticingly squeezable extended to the tips of her toes, to the ball of her foot. Amy was hot, no doubt. She drove him wild just by merely existing. She couldn’t sip her coffee without him getting aroused. But Amy was also unquestionably skinny. When her foot was landing on him, he felt it: skin and bone, mostly. Emma wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination. But she definitely had a little more cushioning where it mattered.

Emma’s foot was a little more forgiving, even if the surface at his back wasn’t. There was one other difference: unlike Amy, she knew he was here. He kind of hadn’t been able to help himself. He had just been smushed against arguably the greatest rack he’d ever seen on a woman with ZERO release afterward. And then she had dangled her butt in front of him, joked about being okay with him riding in it, pressed between those pale, soft globes of flesh…

And so when he was surrounded by the pheromones in Emma’s sweat, he was hitting a state of pique again. When she had finally sat down, and he had a moment to compose himself, he had run an appreciative hand along the tips of those pretty toes all bound up in the black and gray sock, feeling the soft skin through the fabric of the sock giving under his touch. And Emma had DEFINITELY felt it. He wasn’t sure if she had just been tickled by him and had an itch, or if she was actually TRYING to tease him, but after he had done that, she had lifted her toes up, seized his entire body with them, and curled them back into the ball of her foot with a gentle squeeze.

And then she had positioned him under her big toe and, well, kind of…stroked him with it. There really wasn’t any other way to put it. It was absolutely, positively, intentional…and sensual. Her big toe was larger than his entire body a few times over, but she pressed down gently with it, gliding it back and forth across his body, slathering the salty sweat against his face and rubbing his body against the leather sole at his back, the sock-covered toe flesh in his mouth and nose briefly cutting off his ability to breathe. It was at that point that he KNEW she was playing with him. That she had probably put together that he was…enjoying himself. And he couldn’t help it. He grew hard again. And she definitely felt that too, because the big toe flicked him to the front of the boot and ceased its ministrations.

He was content to just sort of hang out here for the time being. Sure, it was a sweltering, cloying, damp atmosphere, but he could breathe, albeit barely. And when he breathed…wow. He knew most other men would be repulsed by it, but Emma’s faint foot odor was utterly intoxicating to him. He was sucking down big, gulping breaths full of it, reveling in it and trying not to touch himself. He knew he was disgusting, that this was objectively a weird thing to be into, but…he could just picture her all the way up above him, back in the real world. The real world that had no idea he was here, trapped in the confines of formerly-cute-but-now-undeniably-sexy Emma’s boot, her toes twitching about in front of him like great beasts on the prowl. It felt undeniably intimate. He could practically see her pale, soft calf stretching upward to her well-endowed thighs like redwood trees into the atmosphere, her soft, grabbable butt planted into the chair as she wiggled about, playing her saxophone…

And it also felt like cheating. Again. So, he did his best to block it out. Reminded himself that neither he nor Emma wanted him to be here. It was just the both of them making the best of a bad situation. Right? That was it. That’s all this was.

He heard the music start up, got to listen to Emma play for the first time for real, not like when she used to torture him with her “concerts” in her living room while she was still learning what all the buttons on the sax did. And she was veritably sensational. He could feel the gentle sway of her legs as she rocked back and forth with the rhythm, as though he could sense the music just moving through her and flooding out of her in a ceaseless cycle of harmonic symphony. And then there was a point where the rest of the band sort of…died down a bit, and Emma took over. At first, to his untrained ear, it sounded like a rambling, discombobulated convolution of random notes. But he heard the snare drum slowly keeping time, heard the low line of the bass riff underneath pushing the song ever forward, and it clicked into place. She wasn’t just playing notes. She was pouring her soul into the mouthpiece, and the instrument was rewarding it in kind by blasting out a captivating, hypnotic solo. He had little doubt that other members of the band were probably just staring in slack-jawed awe right now, and that the audience would eventually do the same.

Not for the first time, he found himself in awe of this young woman and found he kind of dreaded the day when she would inevitably head off to college. He would…miss her. A lot. She wasn’t just the neighbor’s precocious kid anymore. She was a grown woman, and while he of course didn’t love her romantically the way he loved Amy, he loved what she had become. WHO she had become. He knew heading out into the world and becoming her own person was what was best for her, but he couldn’t deny that he would miss his…friend. Age gap be damned. That’s what she was, he realized. One of his closest friends. The idea was both surprising and gratifying.

He felt her start to get into it a bit, her foot starting to tap along with the music, which interrupted his revelry. Now he was being tossed around like a popcorn kernel as she tapped her foot along to the beat. He bounced across the top of her toes, then slammed into the front of them, then was pressed under them, then was pressed under the ball of her foot, then was thrown back to the front and did it all over again.

He knew she was totally unaware of what she was doing, the toe-tapping reaction to the music entirely involuntary. Yet, he didn’t dare interrupt her. She was in the zone, and while all this jostling was positively migraine inducing, he wanted her to nail it. Knew she would, too.

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As the band winded down, Emma became more self-conscious about the little game of footsy she had played earlier. It was grating on her conscience that Mr. C was probably….well, turned on, and she was kind of feeding into it. Well, not “kind of,” if I’m being honest… She resolved to fix the situation while they had a quick stretch break between songs. Most of the band stood up and ambled around chatting with each other. A couple of the “cool kids” went to go vape outside behind the building outside the ever-vigilant, watchful purview of Mrs. K, who would doubtlessly lecture them on the damage being done to their lungs.

Emma tried to surreptitiously sneak out. She got into the hallway and began to head on a beeline for the bathroom again when somebody shoved her shoulder…roughly.

“I call dibs cow. I don’t need you stinking up the ladies’ room,” Sheila said over her shoulder with a sneer.

Whatever…cunt. Guess the bathroom’s out. Emma looked around, up and down the hallway, peeked through the window into the band room, saw Ashley engaged in conversation with Mrs. K. This is as good a time as any.

She hurriedly flopped down onto the floor of the hallway, unlacing her boot quickly and turning it over, dumping Mr. C out of it a little forcefully in an unconstrained tumble. He was completely red again, and he looked a little…grimy, which she felt bad about. Like he was visibly wet, and she was pretty sure most of that wasn’t his sweat. But he was covering his crotch again, which in turn brought on another bout of blushing for her. Whoops…again. At what point is this kinda stuff no longer “accidental”? A question she would have to muse on later.

She looked around again to make sure they were alone, and cupped him in her hands, bringing him to her face.

“Sorry about that again Mr. C. I feel like all I’m doing is apologizing today. I’m supposed to be keeping you safe and this has been a total disaster,” Emma said apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it, but I think you should probably get that boot back on and secure me this time…”

Steve was cut off by the band room door flying open, Emma’s face blanching as she saw Mrs. K standing there with a concerned look on her face, Ashley behind her. Fuck, Ash must’ve said something about how weird I’ve been. Emma closed her fist around Steve, trying to stealthily move her hand out of notice.

“Ms. Cooke, your friend was relaying to me how you’ve been acting odd today, that you were flustered when you got out of the car, had almost gotten in an accident on the way here, were talking to yourself in the bathroom…it’s really not like you to miss practice…” Mrs. K trailed off as her gaze narrowed. “What do you have in your hand?”

Oh FUCK! “Um, nothing,” she answered weakly.

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, young lady. Are you doing drugs? Open your hand,” the stern conductor ordered.

And yet again, Emma found herself having to improvise. She opened her hand slightly and hoped Mr. C caught the apology that was written on her face for what she was about to do. And then she tossed him into her mouth with all the care and consideration she would give to a grape.

“It’s nuffin,” she said with her voice garbled from talking around Mr. C’s tiny frame. Yuck, he tastes awful. Like…feet, I guess. “Piece of gum.”

“Piece of gum, huh?” Mrs. K approached where Emma was sitting on the floor of the hallway and stuck out her hand, the suspicion and anger at being lied to evident in her expression. “Show it to me.”

Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT! Amy said he absolutely can’t be seen like this. I promised her I would keep the secret. What do I do?! What do I do???!!

“Emma…” Mrs. K cautioned. “Either spit it out or swallow it,” she directed, calling Emma’s bluff.

Emma panicked, her normally quick brain overloaded by possible options, outcomes and consequences. For what felt like the hundredth time today, she found herself apologizing in her head. I’m so, so sorry Mr. C, I really am. He had said something about being able to hold his breath longer, right? About not needing to breathe as much? He had mentioned some kind of increased durability? She hadn’t misheard that, right? He would be fine. Totally fine. He would have to be.

And then she swallowed.