To the Victor Go the Spoils (Chapter 2)

“Everybody ready for the Little-Big American Dependence race?” the hostess’s jovial voice cheered from the garden pathway, as the playful contestants whooped and readied themselves at the starting line. “Hope you all remember the rules! Remember, you race all the way down the green there, around the statue, and back here! The faster you make it, the better, of course, but don’t forget: the number of “passengers” left awake by the end will affect your score!”

            “Okay, you disgusting little runts…” Charlotte snarled into the meshy mouth of her dangled nude-tan stocking, wherein seven shrunken prisoners of the former U.S.A. cowered in a heap by the toe section. Though in good spirits and having a grand time with her friends, the owner of these creatures needed only look at them for her expression to instantly sour and voice to darken. “You have one job. So do not piss me off. All you’ve got to do is stay awake for the whole race, and maybe I’ll give you a little holiday treat by not stomping you into patriotic smears. Oh, by the way, happy Dependence Day!”

            While the occupants of her silken legwear wept and pleaded, Charlotte only smirked, then lowered the garment to reach her toes inside. Since the race was about to begin, the twenty-year-old titaness didn’t bother with the usual languorous show just to haunt her toys, and simply rammed her foot in at top speed, letting the nylon snap to her thigh and her pale meaty sole cram the seven little Americans flat, but not unconsciously so, against the stretched-out fibers. Seeing the others getting prepared, Charlotte took up a ready stance and frowned with determination.

            “On your marks…” the hostess announced. “Get set… go!”

            With an enthusiastic roar, a crowd of twenty-somethings began cautiously hobbling as fast as they could in a straight line down the grass. To an outsider, they might’ve humorously appeared to be walking on eggshells, though naturally the “concern” each Brit held for the miniature inmates tucked inside their socks and beneath the domineering islands of firm sole flesh was only incidental to their desire for victory, which required keeping as many squirmy underfoot Americans awake as possible through the race.

Charlotte took an early lead, being lighter and more petite compared to her opponents, though of course she was still an overwhelming colossus to the inch-tall losers now bearing the brunt of her steps. Even without the parameters of this July 4th game, though, the girl was a big fan of this particular activity, not just to teach the wretched things their place, but to feel their pitiful limbs ticklishly thrashing against her arch wrinkles, their micro-breaths gasping and cooling her skin, and the shape of their bodies molding in snow-angel shape when her stockinged foot pressed flush with the earth. In this case, that enjoyable sensation of mashing them beneath her heel near to the point of a blackout wasn’t just for entertainment, but a useful measure for her to know if she was going too fast or slow in the race. As all seven were still pointlessly fighting their giantess’s footfalls, she confidently upped the pace.

            To the rising applause and laughter of her friends, Charlotte rounded the statue and began the journey back. She teasingly smarmed at the slower competitors, who sped up to close the gap, only to grimace with disappointment when they heard several crunches from within their socks and nylons thanks to weightier stamps brutally snuffing their human property. Though sure she would win, Charlotte could feel a couple of her pets going limp, particularly one in a tangled embrace against the squishy under-curve of her peachy toes, and another splayed beneath the ball of her foot. Grunting, the girl gave her ped a violent shake when next she lifted it from the ground, as an extra wakeup call for her shrinkers, and to ensure they didn’t forget the consequences of failing her.

This seemed to mostly work, as six of the tiny critters started writhing like never before, even when Charlotte was actively compressing them into the grass between her elegant dirt-flecked stocking and a ceiling of malleable sole muscle. One man, however, went still and stuck to her heel like a piece of chewed gum, but was still tangibly intact, which somehow made the giantess angrier. She’d have almost preferred that she’d accidentally squashed him like a cockroach, because then at least he’d have a good excuse not to be moving. Crossing the finish line well ahead of her friends, Charlotte nonetheless received mirthful congratulations for keeping six of the seven passengers alive and awake, thus handily winning. Although the game ultimately mattered little except as a fun holiday diversion, she couldn’t help but experience personal fury at the single one-incher who had the gall to conk out under her foot. Picking him out of her stocking, she jabbed the little thing hard in the torso until he sputtered back to vitality, only to watch him go bug-eyed with terror when he saw the posh displeasure on his owner’s up-close countenance.

“Just wait until we get home,” she threatened, before dropping him screaming back into her stocking and slipping it on with a particularly vengeful squeeze.

“Who’s in for the next game?” the hostess called out, inviting her friends to draw near, each one of whom wore a sock containing at least one mewling mini-American in order to fully celebrate the twisted occasion. A long table was arranged with punch bowls, each filled to the brim with water; in each bowl, a dozen foreign shrinkers floated near the top and sputtered for mercy. “Hope nobody minds getting a little wet behind the ears! I’m sure I don’t need to explain how to bob for apples, but seeing how we’re bobbing for something a little more interesting today, allow me to elaborate. The first person to “liberate” all of their little Yanks from the bowl will win! No hands allowed, and everyone will be blindfolded. Oh, and if you’re saving room for dessert, feel free to spit them out into the grass, but if not… well, Americans always did mark their holidays by eating like pigs, we so might as well honor that tradition!”

Charlotte licked her lips, already eyeing the closest bowl of watery prey. She was glad she’d saved roomed at lunch.