To the Victor Go the Spoils (Chapter 3)

“Maybe you don’t know this, seeing how you American lot haven’t got any shame, but some of us don’t like being embarrassed. Which is exactly what you almost did to me in that race, when I just gave you one simple task!” Charlotte sneered at the shivering loser currently mashed into submission beneath her two beefiest toes. The glamorous sheen of the stocking prison she still had him bound inside filtered the little guy’s view to his owner’s disapproving expression far above, and the continual scrunching of her bullying digits against his weary body made it hard to focus, but the sound of her voice was enough to make him know he’d screwed up. “Even a chimp could’ve accomplished that. But, there I go again, setting my expectations too high for you little yank-wanks. The question is now, how am I going to make you apologize for it?”

            “I’m sorry!” he squeaked. Preparing to repeat himself, the wind was knocked out of the puny fellow when Charlotte’s foot swiftly descended heel-first, smacking the floor and then thwomping the rest of her pale plush-soled foot into place. This buried her nylon inmate beneath a flexed heap of toe brawn and earthy-scented mesh.

            “Words aren’t going to cut it, runt,” she warned. “My stockings took a bit of a beating out there at the party, and rather than put them through the wash, I think I’m just going to have you clean them for me. I don’t want to see a single nasty spot when you’re through. Sparkling, understand? If you can do that, maybe I’ll think about keeping you around instead of just gluing you into the bottom of my trainers. GO!”

            The shrunken fainter immediately got to work on whatever terrain he could reach, both flesh and fabric. Despite the claustrophobic environment and unhelpfully-encroached position of the Brit’s semi-moist toes, he scratched and massaged with both hands to wipe away all traces of backyard filth, while his tongue began hungrily lapping up whatever scraps of musky congealed sweat he found. The victim had already been ensconced in the bitter perfume-and-perspiration atmosphere of the giantess’s cataclysmic foot all day, oppressively weighed down and near-crushed every few seconds by its lukewarm clay-like heft, but this behavior required for his survival took it to a new level of revulsion.

Mere minutes passed, and already he desperately wanted rest. His body itched from the dust and dried grime which shook loose, and his throat stung right away from the squalid sweat flakes he sucked from the nylon netting. Coughing, and knowing he had no choice, the man humbly crawled along the tunnel formed by Charlotte’s overhanging toes just above the plump upper ridge of her sole, only to learn that this hardship wasn’t enough for the girl’s tastes.

            “Oops,” the giantess sarcastically droned, snatching the one-incher in a chokehold between two musty flanks of toe flesh. She pulsed her toes in a ruthless squeezing rhythm, savoring his pointless wiggly struggles. “Well, don’t just sit there. I know you’re useless, but at least try to convince me otherwise. Kiss my toes, worm, like a lover.”

            Though on the verge of weeping from the bruising near-bone-smashing agony, the shrinker nonetheless planted passionate smooches on the very same toes which were abusing him. The oily taste and outdoorsy odor were worse in this slender crevice betwixt her digits, where bits of stocking toejam had collected like foul berries, though he dutifully gobbled them up, for fear of becoming a shoe ornament.

            “And don’t go think I’ve forgotten you little Communist arseholes, either,” Charlotte spat at the five Russian playthings currently marooned at the basin of her other strung-out stocking. After enjoying their foreign protests for a moment, the chocolate-haired titaness slid her deep-arched ped down the silky shaft and pile-drove the quintet beneath the meaty unwashed slab of her foot’s underbelly. “I guess it doesn’t matter much that we can’t really understand each other. I haven’t exactly got a job for you to do. I just like the way you feel under my foot. You’re welcome.”

            With that, Charlotte began kneading her opposite sole down against the carpet, raking the Russians across the wrinkled grooves beneath her ped and smothering their tiny shrieking faces along the rug-burning nylon threads. Meanwhile, the American in the other hose was still kissing and licking at that grungy toe-pit as fervently as he could, despite going blue in the face and wincing with every crunchy squeeze from the muscular feminine digits which held him in thrall. All at once, her grip relaxed, and the man slumped out of her toe grip back to the ground, still ensnared in damp stocking material like a spider’s web.

Wheezing from air loss, and near-nauseous with the nylon-fluff and sweat globs in his system, he optimistically believed he’d done well enough to sate the giantess for now. No sooner had he crept forward on all fours, though, when Charlotte showed him the same courtesy she was showing the Russians, rolling her foot forth without mercy and grinding him all the way back, until he was positioned under the cruel weight of her heel like a boulder. Once she had him there, the girl sighed contentedly, and wasted no time in depressing the thick stern of her foot down on the little man until he was near-flattened and yelping for aid. Feeling him seize, then outright flail when a few micro-bones were broken, she giggled to herself and ran her fingers through her ravishing dark locks, before raising both legs up onto her bed and sliding her stockinged feet, along with her American and Russian toys, beneath the sheets.

“I’m going to get a little kip now. All those Dependence Day party games really wore me out. But, keep it up in there, all of you, while I’m asleep. Especially YOU, red-white-and-blue boy. So pathetic. I can barely feel your tongue now, which is going to be a serious problem for you if you don’t show some spirit again. Remember, when I wake back up, I want it looking SPOTLESS in there.”