I often wonder if I'm being punished for something, if this is my own personal Hell constructed to torment me indefinitely. To my memory, I hadn't committed any heinous crimes or particularly deep insults. Of course, I could barely remember my time spent alive with this woman, even less of my time before being sold. My life at normal size was now all but an utter mystery to me, remembered only as the slightest of impressions and flashes of images. Yet here I am, trapped unknowingly within the footwear of my former torturess, not alive, but not fully gone either. It is what I used to call, "A fate worse than death."
I've tried to escape. Many times have I climbed the spongy fabric to the great opening, only to be stopped at the top by... something. A force, unseen, unfelt, preventing me from hoisting myself over the top to freedom. It was as though what constituted the body of my spiritual form simply refused to travel any further. At least I could get a few moments of mostly-untainted oxygen instead of having to breathe the foul atmosphere that permeates everything below.
It may come as a shock to some, but the woman does not wear the same shoes, or even any shoes, for every moment of her life. Therefore, most of my time is spent in the darkness of her closet listening to the world outside trudge along and stewing in the byproducts of her last wearing. I'm grateful, in a way; I have no doubt at all that my time would be spent in much worse conditions if she were to learn of my continued existence. Instead, in these periods of long downtime, I begin to take on a form I can only describe as omnipresent. Little by little, I feel a pang of drowsiness, and my consciousness expands until it can fell myself fill the entire interior of the shoe. It's almost as if I've fallen asleep and started dreaming that I were a gaseous cloud. I imagine that, had I been forced to haunt a house or some other large structure, I'd be aware of any activity in every room at once. Instead, I haunt a meager piece of footwear left to dry in a closet. I have no chairs to topple, no plates to throw, no dolls to speak through. Just myself, whatever that even was, and the occasional wandering insect.
Once, a spider had climbed down the tunnel, feeling around tentatively at every filth-filled cranny. I would've been terrified had I been alive, but instead I watched with great interest at the only movement I'd seen for weeks, outside of the giant and her foot, of course. With this newfound activity, I snapped back into shape and snuck over before the arachnid could begin whatever task had brought it to so foul a place. I held my incorporeal hand in front of its many eyes; I had heard that animals were better able to perceive spirits than any but the most psychically-charged humans were able to, and thought at the very least the experiment would be a diversion from the utter stillness of the reeking cave.
To my astonishment, the beast skittered a half-pace backward, its feelers twitching at my imposition. Encouraged, I approached it once more, trying my best to radiate what I hoped would translate as kindness. The spider didn't retreat. It stood suspicious but unaggressive, feeling the air with its shortest appendages. I had to stoop down, as it was the size of a large dog to me, but I gently reached behind its eyes and placed my hand upon its hairy head. The creature seemed to calm, and looked as though it would reciprocate my projected emotion in some way.
But then, the closet door sprung open. and rather than retrieving a new outfit, the witch bent down and gripped the back of my tomb. The forces of physics exerted their influence on me, casting me tumbling across the worn insole to that loathsome place where her toes deposit their unspeakable grime. I looked up when I hit the very tip of the shoe, just in time to see the spider frantically searching for a place to hide or a foe to fight. Instead, the creature and I both beheld a wall of fabric forcing its way into our cave. There was no time for the poor thing to react. The socked ped obliterated it and continued on, engulfing me beneath massive toes. As it settled atop me and its owner tightened the straps of my prison, I mourned for the creature who, like me, had been handed the misfortune of being smaller than one of this woman's smallest fingers. When after a long, tiring, drowning run, the foot finally retreated, and I saw only the slightest trace of the unfortunate arachnid. A mild stain and a bit of carapace were all that remained of the closest thing to a friend I'd had in months, the rest ground down beneath massive footfalls or washed out by gallons of perspiration, just as my own remains had been. I held hope for a few days that the arachnid's spirit would reappear as mine did, but to this day I am still very much alone. At least the poor creature had been ended while the sock was still clean.
Though I haven't been left for more than thirty hours without human contact, my afterlife feels intolerably lonely. Often, when my spiritual form is flattened to a ghostly film that fills even the space between her sock fibers, I dream of being full-sized and alive. I dream of eating, and tasting anything besides sweat and dirt. I dream of walking on a cool spring day with no oppressive heat from the lowest point of someone else's body, smelling flowers and grass and sea. But mostly, I dream of talking to someone, sharing my burdens and celebrating whatever small victories may find themselves to me. Sometimes, when I'm at my most downtrodden both literally and metaphorically, I allow myself to fantasize about her. It begins with imagining she knew of me, wishing she'd cast down a taunting glance and malicious words that do nothing to my destroyed ego but acknowledge my presence. I then think of my living time with her, and how soft her skin felt when I was made to experience regions of her more delicate than her unforgiving feet. And of course, these thoughts eventually lead to sex. Though I could no longer feel arousal or the sensations that come from it, there was no way for me to deny her attractiveness, despite one of her vicious whims having caused my life to end beneath her unwashed toes. It made sense to a degree; I'd only seen one other woman since my death, even then catching her face only a single time.
Mere days from my first awakening in this new form, I was smashed into the divots left by my former mistress' thundering toes. The fact that I was repeatedly being mashed into those sopping monstrosities indicated to me that she wasn't walking: I'd learned that she had a habit of kneading and pulling at her insole while sitting unoccupied. Additionally, enough of her conversation had filtered down into my diabolical sauna that I was able to surmise that my unwitting captor and I had ended her run at the house of a friend. A friend whose voice I recognized from my living captivity. A friend alike my torturess in every way except one: whereas the owner of my world holds, to say the least, a disparaging view of people of my stature, her friend is an ardent supporter of our rights as humans. And so, the friend never knew of me, and all I knew of her came from overhearing their conversations whilst being crammed somewhere on my owner's person.
There came a jostling, and moments later the enormous foot was pulled from its rank tunnel. I, of course was left behind, peeled away from the soaked sock by that unknowable force as the giantess' toes went beyond the extent of my haunting. I landed on the spot where her heel had been, the heat and smoothness of the area reminding me vaguely of a dinner plate. Looking out, I saw my platinum-haired goddess peel the sock from her foot and mash her fingers into the stiff muscles below her wiggling toes. I watched as pieces of lint were squeezed between the undulating wrinkles of her sole and precipitated down around me like unholy flakes of snow or, more aptly, detritus to the seafloor. An unfamiliar moment of optimism struck me, and I thanked any other supernatural beings that might be around that I had not been made as small as those lost bits of cotton.
Apparently finished with her massage, the giantess balled up her sock and, without so much as a glance down, shoved the disgusting thing down the hole above my head until the fuzzy insides stopped just shy of grazing my hair. Needless to say, I moved away from that concentrated stench immediately, toward the center of the shoe where her arch had been. I'd found that it was usually the cleanest spot, though that was like trying to find the driest mud hole in a swamp.
The women talked for what I figured to be two hours. Frankly, I enjoyed it, laughing at times to the in-jokes that I had been present for and reveling in the voice of another person. The mundanity would've been comforting had one of the participants not been mashing me into their insole for an hour prior, or purchased me from a pet shop to tease and abuse before killing me in an ill-planned attempt at sadism. Eventually, their conversation turned to fitness, as I'd known it would.
I don't know why, my owner started, But one of my shoes is always cooler than the other.
Just the one? came the muffled voice of her friend, suspicious.
I'm serious. There was a beat. And yes, before you say it, I have checked for holes. Another beat. And yes, they are a matching pair.
You're fucking with me.
No, I'm not. Check for yourself. The left one feels like normal, the right one is always a little bit cooler.
You expect me to put my feet in your sweaty-ass shoes? Over this?
Come on, I don't sweat that much. At this, I wondered whether she was lying or if I simply small enough for any accumulation of sweat to be a lot.
Well... ok. You've made me curious now.
I waited with baited breath wondering if they would actually go through with their plan. My heart sank when I heard:
Ok, that's the left one. Normal right?
Uh-huh.
Now here's the right.
The soiled ceiling was ripped away, and I saw a beautiful platinum-framed face peering down at me. I shivered, but no sign of surprise or recognition shown on her features. She merely passed me and my tomb over to her friend, whom my eyes beheld for the first time. This new woman also had short, dyed hair, though her's was a deep chocolate ending with irregular blue tips. Intense eyes of rich hickory, a similar color to her skin, searched deep into my haunt, but again, her expression didn't change to one of shock at finding a tiny man within the reeking confines of her best friend's shoe. Apparently finding nothing amiss, the world outside rushed by in a blur of colors as I was lowered to her awaiting foot.
To my own horror, I soon discovered that she would not be wearing socks for the experiment. So, instead of a thin layer of dirt and the cotton it was attached to, I was scraped and smeared by calloused skin and minuscule grains of sand and whatever else had accumulated as she plodded around her house that morning. I'd been under the bare feet of my captor before, in life when performing a certain task, and in death when she needed to make a short trip somewhere and didn't feel like putting on socks. But she held the beauty of her feet as a point of pride, and I knew the full extent of their grooming routine from living experience. Similarly, I could tell that this new woman did take care of her feet, but had been neglecting the chore for some time. So, instead of the usual doughy, slightly moist skin I was used to, I was settled upon by dry, course, irritating sand and dead skin. But thankfully, this intrusion did not last long.
Wow, you're right, I heard from above me. This is one a little bit cooler.
Yeah, it's kinda weird, but I'm not complaining
I'm gonna figure it out and get it in BOTH pair! the new giantess chuckled.
The hardened foot withdrew not long after that, though fortunately it was dry enough that I was not carried with it as I had been before. Another hour or so passed until the women said their goodbyes and I was once again under the platinum-witch's sweaty sock as we made the return journey home.
At least, it was her home. My home is the rotten, dirty exercise shoe clinging to her foot while she's at the gym or out for a jog. My home is one I cannot leave, trapped here by malicious spell, or ill-fate, or possibly gruesome divine justice. I can't fathom why I've been assigned this lot; I do no work, nor am I taught a lesson. I'm only an observer of someone else's life from within the confines of their footwear, an object they unknowingly impose their will upon with the slightest movement of toe or heel.
There is no reason that you should have called me up with this infernal séance. I have no mystical wisdom to bestow, nor do I have any cryptic knowledge to pass on. Instead, I leave you with a warning: turn from this wizardry and pursue a wholesome life. For surely, if there is a god presiding over the domains of life and death, then I have angered them greatly to have been handed this sentence.
Speak no longer with the dead, lest you be given a worse afterlife than my own of wallowing in this stagnant hell and being forced to relieve my death of pounded and flattened beneath the stinking feet of the one who caused my demise.
Giantess World
Author's Chapter Notes:
Be warned, this part is over 4 times longer than the first.
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Chapter End Notes:
Hope you enjoyed.
You can find renders and more stories at [ https://www.deviantart.com/ubersalamander ]
You can find renders and more stories at [ https://www.deviantart.com/ubersalamander ]