Falling In (Chapter 8)

Upon receiving this unequivocal permission, any last vestige of restraint in Milo was lost. Like invisible binds on his body had suddenly been snipped, the three-incher pounced at the doughy midway of Betty’s bountiful left sole. He spread his arms and went face-first into a pancaking embrace against that still-sodden expanse, at least having the bare-minimum manners not to go immediately into some animalistic self-gratification just because the giantess had seemingly accepted his strange attraction. Still, Milo didn’t hold back either, as he commenced using most of his body as an undulating massage tool upon this fleshy span. His willful impact here, and the cushy grind that followed, naturally induced more moisture to sponge forth from Betty’s drenched skin, reanointing him in its slime just when he’d begun to dry from the previous soak. Remembering the giantess’s other invitation, he breathed in her bootless odor hard once again, until its cheesy squalor made him go weak in the knees, forcing him to cling onto the malleable handholds of her sole wrinkles to keep from collapsing backward.

The effect was immediate. All that self-conflicted malaise Milo felt after falling out of her shoe and suppressing his own desire as long as he could was wiped out in an instant, replaced instead with goosebumping horned-up catharsis. He pitched himself even firmer against the bottom of Betty’s foot, gripping tautly and amorously caressing his three-inch shape back and forth. Every inhale was stupefyingly potent, just as flavorful as before with all that bitterly raunchy yet sickly-saccharine goodness. Milo was almost left panting now, his lips thirsting to pucker and plant kisses on her sloppy sole flesh in a riled furor. His little body still shook, though more from excitement and fulfillment now than denial.

Having set him up so well, with every curious observation cementing her confidence more, Betty wasn’t exactly surprised by what happened when she practically commanded the little guy to hug and sniff at the altar of her dingy under-arch brawn. Still, it worked even better than she might’ve guessed, and absolutely enthralled her to see Milo give in so fully. He really had foregone all survivalist priorities of fright or distaste, instead obeying an inclination stronger than any other bodily function. And while Betty couldn’t be dead-certain before of just how many dimensions of “desire” that her supposedly-superior species essence had unlocked in his genetic makeup, she was getting a pretty decent idea of the extent now, based upon Milo’s frantic happy-squirming, his greedy snorts, and most of all the bulge she felt inside his wasteland rags pressed against her peachy-red sole. Not that she blamed him in the slightest for his natural place in the animal kingdom; while the Vault scientist’s original theory had applied more to rodents, it was clear now that it was just as true of devolved three-inch-tall humanoids. And though perhaps the strangest type she’d ever received, it was nonetheless a compliment to be obsessed over this fiercely by such a helpless and admittedly-adorable mini-being. Especially when, if this trend kept up, they just might both get exactly what they wanted.

So Betty gingerly plied her thumbpad at Milo’s back, slowly but surely helping to press him even firmer against that balmy sweat-drizzled underbelly. He stiffened up only for an instant at this touch, and then relaxed into it, now using all four limbs to rub the giantess’s naked arch while she supportively held him in place there. His face dug in so heartily against the wet pillowy yield of her sole that it was practically sinking into its swollen texture like quicksand, giving him nothing to breathe but its concentrated rankness. Milo’s grateful writhing increased, and though a shred of humiliation at the back of his mind told him that he was dangerously close to crossing a line that Betty might not approve, he couldn’t resist embracing the gift of her fingertip pushing him into her foot. She did so with such verve that it almost matched the weighty magnitude of what he’d gone through inside her wonderfully hellish boot today. No matter how many times he’d already been finished off today, his loins were unmissably jabbed against the giantess’s decadently filthy sole mass.

“Open your mouth,” Betty quietly instructed, with her thumb still pumping and petting the three-incher against her foot. “I think you want to.”

Once again, it required only the simplest bid from his titanic hostess to bring more of Milo’s psychosexual guardrails crashing down. His jaws parted in a flash, salivating and moaning, and pressed an ardent smooch on her skin. Then another, and after that, he kissed even faster than he could breathe in her salted stink. Milo had done this before many times over the course of their soupy-booted afternoon trek, of course, though now that he had not only Betty’s full knowledge of his existence and wishes, but her velvety-voiced consent as well, literally nothing short of another nuclear hailstorm could’ve held him back now. He wasn’t trying to outright hump her sole like a three-inch mutant in heat, but the giantess’s handiwork at his back simulated such motion anyway, which only made that prodding lust pulsate harder in his pants.

“Stick out your little tongue,” Betty directed at the same mellow coo. “Lick my foot.”

This to-the-point order, as well, earned instant deference from Milo. The next second, his lewd open-mouthed kisses were traded off with keen laps that scoured deliciously over this small yet precious span of juicy sole flesh. It was clear right away that he’d been hoping for such permission, as the same liquid musk he’d been craving ever since he left her boot went gushing back into his puny system. Every other breath, he was either sucking eagerly at her sole or worshipping it by tongue-swipes, only with the earlier thrill of that pathetic toil kicked up to a once-unimagined level by the fact that she was actually allowing this. Accordingly, Milo wriggled against that smushy island of underfoot thew the most energetically yet, while his boner was tangibly ready to burst right out of his clothes.

Wide-eyed and holding her breath from anticipation, Betty herself was in rather uncharted waters here. While she’d had some exploratory romantic flings with classmates around the Vault before, it wasn’t extensive, since her foremost priority had always been self-improvement to become a future Emissary, rather than chasing silly boys. Still, she didn’t have to think very hard about what to say or do next with Milo moment-to-moment, as the evidence of his desire was dripping off him almost as blatantly as her leaked-out sweat. It all came naturally to her now. And, aside from the benefits of sated scientific curiosity and potentially parlaying this seductive exchange into meeting the rest of Milo’s probably three-inch-tall society, Betty was gradually finding a third boon to all this. That unusual flattery she’d felt when she first started indulging this miniature boy’s pheromonally-charged fetish had grown into something more. Betty couldn’t say she was “getting” something out of this on anywhere near the level Milo was, at least not yet, but it would’ve been a lie to say she wasn’t savoring it, either.

“Yes, that’s it,” she encouraged softly. Now Betty really had the boy metaphorically eating out of her hand – or more accurately, sniffing and slurping and thrusting in a tremulous haze against the underside of her sweaty foot. “Push your face in there. Harder. Keep kissing. Keep licking. Breathe it in, deep. I know it feels good. I know you like it. You don’t have to stop.”