Unknown and Unlucky (Chapter 3)

My answer to all of these questions was provided in the form of the giantess’s ten-story-long nude-netted sole descending rapidly upon me and without warning. Even though I could see the thing coming toward me like a freight train, not even a week of bracing could’ve prepared me for the sensation of being pressed upon by a foot hundreds of times heavier than me. The enchanting twinkle of the nylon wrapping smoothed during the rush of the fall, as did the burly yet cream-delicate flesh-and-muscle powering the endeavor. What little light had made its way into the shoe before went to dark right as the woman planted her heel back at the summit of the slope, which of course meant I was abruptly buried under the overbearing central segment of her soft, muggy, ultra-weighty foot’s underside.

            Still, the biggest surprise of all was that my consciousness didn’t cease to exist a split-second after the stranger’s leaden arch landed on me. Certainly I believed I was dead for the first few heartbeats. In so much blackness, there was nothing to feel but itchy silk stitching and nothing to breathe but the built-in musk of rosy skin cooped in damp leather and used stockings all day. Not that I could move any part of my body, even my neck or hips, what with my limbs still bound by straps and the rest of me pinned so absolutely under her monstrous foot, but even if I could have budged, there wouldn’t have been a hope of touching anything on either side but those shiny peach-orange filaments cinched even flatter than me via the brute-force immensity of her sole. It was like being left in the center of the sea, with no shore in sight, and I was sinking fast. Once I got over the shock of still being alive, though, I quickly realized that I wasn’t being pranked about that aforementioned stepping-on.

            How a body less than half an inch tall was able to withstand any amount of pressure from a girl this ginormous, I can’t say, but I definitely could tell my fragile constitution was nearing the point of a burst, either inside or outside. Only a few pounds away from unthinkable agony, but just barely staving off quadriplegia, it was still the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my life, which was a difficult title to achieve, considering just how attracted I was to the foot holding me hostage. Still, my dick wasn’t standing up for it now, because there wasn’t any available space, with her foot eating up every available molecule of room.

            Claustrophobia settled in as the equivalent feeling of a full-body blood-pressure pump squeezed me from every conceivable angle, all thanks to a single feminine foot just wearing a shoe as it was meant to be used. I could feel each and every thatched thread in the stocking pressing intense corduroy lines into me, woven tightly over one another like chainmail, tepid and pungent of her foot in a way that might’ve made intriguing, yet when it was clenched so hard between my breakable shape and the stranger’s stout sole, the nylon links became like barbed wire just one more hard thrust from grating my shrunken self like a fine cheese.

            Then the gooey humidity and salty stink which quickly became so cloying were reduced to nothing at all, and I realized I wasn’t taking in new air, tainted or not by in-shoe odors. I thought I’d known this feeling before, from those random occasions when a drink went down the wrong pipe or I stepped too close to a fire pit, but only now did I realize how foolish it was to compare those scenarios.

            This was true airlessness. A function necessary for life had been stopped in its tracks by the giant woman’s precise movement, wherein she was putting her money where her mouth was, or rather her foot, by showing off her ability to press down on a micro-man using the exact level of crushing brutality required to keep my body intact, but still cut me off entirely from oxygen. And as the seconds wore horrendously on, getting more dire with every internal twitch I felt from my respiratory system begging me to provide air that I didn’t have to give, I realized she wasn’t just taunting me with a dizzying three-second threat. She’d skipped that stage and gone right for the torment.

            Seizing and thrashing would’ve overtaken my body if the girl wasn’t keeping me lodged right where she wanted, which I suppose saved me energy I’d need to keep my brain from shutting down, but it wasn’t much help once my airways were entirely depleted. My face had to have turned blue, if it wasn’t already red from being smushed so relentlessly under the thready fencing of the stocking fibers and the inhuman bulk of her sole-pudge. I was now only a set number of seconds from smothering in the dark, sweat-flavored confines of ultra-thin spatial real estate which granted my tiny frame just enough leeway to resist the silk sheeting and outer layer of marshmallowy foot flesh, thus keeping me from popping like a larvae. No matter how quickly and desperately I tried to suck in even shallow breaths, or attempted a more drawn-out and conservative gulp, there was just nothing to fill my lungs, compressed even as they’d become from being trodden upon. I was about to drown in foot.

            How ironic, really, thinking back on just how much of my young life I’d dedicated to appreciation for ladies’ peds. I’d spent my adolescence offering massages to every woman with a fine pair of feet; I’d put together gigabytes of photo albums detailing the female foot in all its shapes and sizes, each one as mouth-watering as the last; every woman I’d ever dated was eventually introduced to my interests in as mutual a way as possible, though those exchanges usually ended with me running my tongue up her sole while her other foot, dripping with lube, fondled my raging mast.

            And while I didn’t think I was so obvious in my profile as this left-swiped girl was making my fetish out to be, neither had I chosen to hide my kinks in the shadows throughout my life, as such things are meant to be enjoyed, or at least that’s how I felt until I was being nearly-imploded beneath a smelly, million-ton island of the thing I loved most on Earth. Now, every ounce of karma I might’ve earned in my life, rolled into one place and molded to look like the foot of an earth-quaking goddess of myth and legend, was threatening to choke me to death.

            The rasping squeak I made when her ped suddenly lifted off of me was historic, and might’ve been haunting to anyone else hearing its death-throe tenor, but judging by the lyrical chuckling I received from the giantess above, I’d apparently succeeded in providing “entertainment” for her after all.