It was always the same. Every day you would feel her footsteps booming through the ground, rattling your bones.

In the half-darkness you squeezed your eyes shut, fighting to control your breathing. Even after so long as her property, her approach always filled you with piss inducing terror. She had already slipped off her shoes. You could tell this from her footfalls, so aware were you to her rhythms.

Your lip quivered as you continued your work. On the floor of her closet, you knelt before a boot the size of a house. Indeed, you had lived within it yourself on more than one occasion. Your nails were torn and bloody from where you scratched at the curved leather wall. Your mouth was dry, your throat and stomach filled with dirt and dust.

To your right, row after row of equally massive shoes stretched to the far wall. You’d worked on them all, pouring over every inch in your desperate quest to ensure they were as immaculate as your goddess commanded. You were particularly proud of how her converse shone in the gloom.

She was outside now, you could almost feel the pressure of her gigantic form. You swallowed dryly, throwing yourself into your work. Should she find you slacking she would surely punish you. When she left for work her mood had been black, the fresh bruises across your body could attest to that.

Your jaw clicked painfully as your tongue scraped across the leather. This was how she liked to find you, it reminded her of how subservient you had become.

The light seared into you as the slatted door was slid open. At her command, you kept your head bowed, crawling around to face her. From this position you could see nothing but her toes, clad in black hose. The dark pink of her nails pushed against the thin black fabric.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

You had already lifted your head to answer before realising your mistake. Your former girlfriend, now goddess, filled the sky above you. She was still in her work attire, her hands on her hips. Her eyes were narrowed, a scowl across her beautiful face.

Her huge foot was already moving, slamming down next to you. A compression wave, laced with her body heat and scent buffeted you as the ground rocked and bucked.

‘Did I give you permission to look at me? Answer me!’

‘N,no goddess,’ you stammered, ‘I’m sorry goddess.’

‘So why the fuck are you working on my boots again? Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’d forget that I haven’t worn them since you last worked on them? It’s fucking summer you worm, do you think I’m that stupid?’

She reached down and lifted one of her black and white converse by the tongue. The vast structure drifted into the sky as though weightless in her grip. It was tilted onto its top, exposing the sole. A sneer fluttered across her lips.

‘What the fuck is this?’ You flinched as the giant rubber sole was thrust towards you, ‘there’s dirt on the bottom of these, these actual summer shoes, and you’re wasting the time I give you on a job you have already done? Do you want me to be mad at you, do you want me to hurt you?’

‘No, please, I’m sorry goddess. It just, I, its-‘

‘It’s what?’

‘It’s, I can’t, I can’t lift it. Your shoe, it’s too heavy for me to lift. I’m sorry my goddess, forgive me. If you could just-‘

The blow silenced you, throwing you backwards to crash painfully against the toe of her boot. The kick was only a slight gesture on her part but enough to fill your whole body with pain.

‘Stand up!’ she snapped, ‘stand the fuck up or I’ll crush you like the bug you are!’

She watched coldly as you staggered to your feet, your head spinning. You steadied yourself against her boot for a brief second before realising she would punish you for doing so.

‘Are you trying to blame me for your laziness, your stupidity?’ she hissed, ‘Are you expecting me to do your work for you? Even when I gave you the option to make a request last week. Are you telling me you chose to be selfish, chose to eat real food knowing that you were choosing that over the ability to actually follow my commands?’

Your mind raced. When she was like this there was nothing you can say, no way of reasoning with her. You would just have to survive her.

‘I’m sorry my goddess,’ you whimpered, ‘you’re right, I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’

‘You disgust me, you know that.’ Her foot moved as if to strike you, it hovered overhead, the ball poised to annihilate you. A second passed before it thudded back onto the linoleum floor.

‘I don’t know why I let you live, you know that? There are so many tiny things like you out there that would do a much better job. There’s Shrinkys that would give their arm to serve me, to live the life you lead. You’re such an ungrateful little shit you know?’

You fell to your knees, crawling instinctively towards her toe. You knew what she wanted. Pausing before the massive digit, basking in the heat of her body, you kept your head bowed.

‘Please goddess, you’re right. I’m stupid, I’m useless, please forgive me.’

You waited a second as she considered this before planting a kiss on her toe, ‘Please I’m sorry, I love you goddess, forgive me.’

‘For fuck sake,’ she grumbled, ‘ok but don’t think you’re getting off lightly tonight. Your plot had better be fucking good.’

She reached down and enveloped you in her hand. You fell against her skin as she sealed you in pink hued darkness. Your stomach flipped with every step as she crossed the apartment and sank into her chair. In your chest, your heart beat furiously. The power she held over you was absolute and she never wasted an opportunity to remind you of this.

With a flick of her wrist you were released and sent crashing the short distance onto the coffee table. The surface was white painted wood, dotted here and there with faded pink stains.

The bottom fell out of your world as she smiled down at you. The game was about to begin. You swallowed, your mind racing, how could you not be ready?

The game was played every Thursday night. Thursday was delivery day but also her most stressful day at work. The game allowed her to unwind, she told you it helped the two of you bond. She was proud of your talent, she didn’t want to see you lose it.

She started the game a few weeks after you first shrank and had been running it ever since.

It had happened at her apartment. One moment you were eating dinner, the next you were in the palm of her hand. She’d assumed control of your assets and all of your personal belongings. It was natural, she was making the sacrifice by taking you in.

Your relationship had carried on as best you could under the circumstances, right up until she got your passwords. Despite your protests she had delved into your social media, your files, your personal history. It was there she found your online persona, your accounts, your stories.

She read through them with fascination, page after page of tales about tiny people being tormented by regular sized women. Women like her. Her reaction was mixed. 

On the one hand she felt betrayed, shocked and saddened by your secret fetishes. After four years, surely you could have trusted her with this, surely you could have opened up? Did you not respect her enough to tell the truth? It had been a difficult conversation.

On the other, it was a great opportunity for her to reveal her own secrets. What she read, she loved. The idea spoke to her, resonated her, aroused her. You had never spoken about Shrinkies, you had never played with them. She had used a few in the past but it had been so long.

Had she known that you shared a fascination with them, that could have changed everything.

Still, there was plenty of opportunity to catch up for lost time.

Her feet thudded next to you as she leaned back in her chair. Her fingers flew to her chest, unbuttoning her tight white shirt to reveal her soft round breasts held within a jet black bra.

This was part of the ritual, much as it had been since the very first time. You looked up at the crossed feet that towered over you, her toes gently flexing back and forth. It was another demonstration of power, a reminder that your life belonged to her and depended on the outcome of the game.

You kept your eyes on her until commanded otherwise, trying to shut out the plaintive sounds drifting across the table.

They would be watching with fear and horror, trapped within their glass container. They always looked the same, acted the same, ever since the beginning.

Back then you could never have imagined the outcome of that first game. The first time you curled up on the bed together and she asked you to tell her a story.

You had been shy at first though she gently eased you into you. She knew what she wanted, you just had to make it a reality. She wanted to hear about herself, what she was wearing, how her hair was done. She wanted to imagine herself in this apartment, all powerful and with a Shrinky at her mercy.

That first story was a short one, a few minutes where she ridiculed a shrunken man. She made him worship her, kiss her feet and beg her like an animal. Then she began to hurt him, kicking him, slamming the toe of her boot into him as he screamed in pain. He had tried to run from her and failed. When his legs were broken he tried to crawl away. Eventually he could do nothing but scream as your girlfriend lowered her merciless sole upon him, turning him to goo.

The story had been a success, her nipples standing erect beneath her band t shirt. She had dropped you between her legs that night, masturbating so furiously you feared she would crush you in her throes of passion. The air had been hot and humid by the time she finished, laced with the scent of her sex.

You had licked her juices from her wizened fingers, the first time she had given you a command and one you awkwardly obeyed.

The next day she brought him home. You had been surprised to see him, confused by her intention as she had dropped the tiny man to stand beside you on the table. ‘Is this what you had in mind?’ she had asked, her face beaming with excitement, ‘I know you didn’t describe him very much but I want to get it right.’

It was then you had protested, then realisation had dawned on the newcomer. You both tried to reason with her, to explain. She didn’t care, it was her choice, not yours. You didn’t get a say anymore.

She had made you watch, made you sit upon the table and observe her acting out the story you hashed out the night before. It went exactly as you had written, the right underwear, the right shade of lipstick, the screams and the brutality. The horrifying sound of a human being compressed beneath a woman’s shoe, their bones cracking as their flesh bursts, the way the scream becomes a gurgle before the final wet crunch.

The experience had bathed her in euphoria while drowning you in horror.

You would never forget the serene look on her face as she wiped the remains from her boot with a Kleenex, bringing the blood soaked rag over to you to inspect. If she was disappointed in your reaction, she didn’t show it for long. You would get used to it, she assured you, it’s what you wanted.

That night you were back between her legs, clinging to the bedsheets as she screamed and moaned above you. That was the first game night, the first Thursday. She had wanted another story there and then, one involving her pushing a tiny woman into her boiling sex. Maybe she would have to pleasure the Shrinky first; waiting until she was on the verge of orgasm, writhing on her tongue before being denied and forced to feed her own desires.

At first you had refused, trying to reason with her, trying to get her to stop. As before, she dismissed you, assuring you it was fine. She wanted it, you would give it to her.

A simple lie delayed the next game, you needed time to think, to make sure the next story was good enough for her. She loved the idea and waited patiently for the next instalment. It would take a week, you told her, until next Thursday.

She bounded in that night, dropping you as before onto the table. This time the jar held a man and a woman. She wanted you to have the choice of either, or both. She thought this would make you happy, that it was a gift.

That was the first and last time you refused her.

You should have known how badly she would react, you knew how her temper flared even before you shrank.

She was shocked at first, even begged you to come up with a story for her. Then she commanded, then she threatened. Then it was the first time she hurt you. ‘Do it,’ she snapped, slamming her finger into you. It struck hard, making you reel.

You choked out a no, receiving another blow. ‘Do it, do it or I’ll, I’ll,’ her face flushed red, tears of anger in her eyes, ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

In the end, you weathered a broken arm, three cracked ribs, a broken jaw and missing teeth before you relented. She had thrown you onto the floor, lifting her foot to smash the life from you. She compressed you slowly, giving you every opportunity to surrender to her. She wanted to watch, to make sure she didn’t miss your eventual defeat. Her big toe had slammed down on your arm, pinning you beside it. Slowly she twisted her foot back and forth, breaking bones with every movement, demanding you give up and obey.

On the verge of blackout, with tears streaming down your face, you agreed.

You couldn’t say what had truly happened to that couple. In your injured state she could barely understand you and had to improvise a lot. It seemed she relished in the opportunity.

It was known that Shrinkies heal quickly and, with her nursing you, you were almost back to full health in just over three weeks. She had used this time to explain to you how things were going to be, how your life was going to be, the rules of the game.

You were hers, her property, her slave. She was your mistress now, your owner, your goddess. Any freedoms you had were gone, your life was to be spent in servitude to her. Chief among your new responsibilities was to make sure each week, every Thursday she had a new story for her game.

Failure to comply, to obey and to provide would be punished severely. If possible your death would be avoided though she assured you the injuries you had first sustained would be nothing in comparison to any further disobedience. The rules were clear, either the Shrinkies die under your direction or you suffer until they do.

Ever sharp witted, she smiled as she informed you of a further caveat: originality.

At the end of each session, or the morning after depending how hot it made her, the story would be written down. Just the details of course, the method of the kill, the scenario leading to it. Every Thursday the story had to be new, had to be different to what had gone before.

Failure to do so would be considered disobedience and punished accordingly.

You had no choice but to agree.

In the time that followed she had delighted both in the acting of your stories and your own torment. She would often flip through her notebook, reading aloud stories you had curated while you knelt in servitude at her feet.

On Wednesday’s especially she would aim to psyche you out, to try and find stories that were maybe just a little too similar. She never resisted an opportunity to remind you of the fate that awaited you should you fail.

She would describe punishments, tortures, in great detail while delighting at how they would make her feel. She spoke of crushing you slowly, bit by bit, just to see how much you could lose and survive. She dreamt of eating you, of breaking you, of using you.

In particular she liked to go over these slowly, asking your opinion of what they meant to you. How it would feel to be asphyxiated in a gym sock, to slide down her throat and dissolved in her stomach, to be drowned in saliva, to have your legs and pelvis broken inside of her. The idea of you being trapped in agony between her ass cheeks as she went about her day, to the office or the gym, was one of her favourites.

‘Not one you’d survive though,’ she’d wink, ‘maybe for when you finally run out of ideas, huh?’

You heard that threat as you watched her now, what were you going to do?

Your mind was blank as she flipped through the pages of her notebook, her eyes gazing down at you with hunger. You needed something new, something fresh that would please her. You needed anything. You had nothing.

‘So my little storyteller,’ she smirked, her hand playing with her breast, ‘what do you have for your goddess this week?’