Unknown and Unlucky (Chapter 2)

In the back of my mind, as couldn’t be helped for someone who’s had a foot fetish for longer than he even knew what sex was, it was impossible not to also perceive my biology’s magnetic instinct toward the beautiful object above me. Indeed, even from this unusual angle in the bowels of a giant woman’s shoe, I could tell unequivocally how shapely her foot was, with its deep arches just begging to be flexed into lush slopes and its doughy yielding center so capable of forming a tapestry of delectable wrinkles. The sheen of the stocking only further highlighted every alteration in angle-tilt and depth of the sole creases, and considering my affinity for sheer nylons too, this was a double-whammy of surprise lust. It’s strange what can go from mysterious and ominous in one moment to alluring and gorgeous in the next, though in this case, something I would’ve loved to worship under different circumstances was still every bit an omen, and a colossal one at that.

            Then one by one the impossible words thundering at me from the no-doubt humongous lips of my shoe-prison’s owner were comprehended. First that I was seemingly put here on purpose, meaning a girl who should’ve been just a cast member of my fetishistically charged dream was aware of my presence, then that she could perceive my consciousness even while I was stranded so far below her foot and at such an insignificant scale compared to her towering body, next the unsubtly-dropped fact that she had shrunken me herself, and finally what sounded like a reference to a dating app, of all goddamned things.

            It was so difficult grappling with the fact that someone had intentionally reduced me in size, stripped me naked, and shackled me into the base of her shoe with what sounded like every intention to squash me under that shimmering stocking-filmed sole expanse, my brain attached to the only concept I could understand: just which girl had I spurned badly enough through a dating app to warrant an underfoot death sentence?

            Sure, I’ve had a lot of rough first dates, and swiped “no” on a hell of a lot more, but had I seriously offended whoever-she-was badly enough to earn becoming a naked shrunken shoe trinket, to witness a svelte feminine appendage which held so much revere for me descending with aching slowness, perhaps brushing my involuntary hard-on for a microsecond before her foot touched down on the rest of me, smashing my apparently half-inch-tall frame apart into indiscriminate smears? Sweating and on the verge of hyperventilating from stress, I knew I had to do something, and escaping was out of the question.

            “W-Who are you?” I shouted, loudly as I could, though I still startled myself with the mousy peep that emerged from my vocal cords. After uttering it, I’d already decided not to try speaking again, as it would only further dishearten me and probably go unheard by a creature so enormous, yet the answer echoed back almost immediately:

            “Does it really matter who I am?” she replied. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this isn’t a date, but we are going to have a very useful relationship going forward. For both of us, really, if you know what’s good for you, and I think you do. You’re not going to ever see much more than you are right now, so there’s not really a point to learning each other’s favorite movies or vacation destinations, or any of that bullshit. Honestly, we don’t even have to recognize each other’s faces, and believe me, I’ve already kinda forgotten what yours looks like. All you have to know is how to keep me entertained down there, and all I have to know about you is that you’re a needy little foot freak who’s way too open about his fetishes. Seriously, with that dating profile of yours, you might as well have “WILL SUCK SOLES 4 FOOTJOBZ” tattooed across your forehead. But, hey, I guess I can’t complain too much, seeing as how that creepy trait is the entire reason you’re going to be my obedient little toy for… well, for as long as you amuse me more than you annoy me.”

            I should’ve been left in a chilling thrall at her knowledge of my preferences, but something else stole my attention as readily as her words. While she spoke, I began to notice discreet changes taking place across the texture of her foot, skin sifting into new dimples and changing its hue from pale to pink, also due to that added filter of the stocking creating a grainy orange-crème hue effect. Some of this activity, I realized, had to be because of the many micro-muscles in action across her tremendous body even while doing something as simple as talking, as her foot was also precariously arched halfway out of her shoe and kept from falling only by her continued propping-up of its weight.

            Just as easily, some of that motion had to be because she was so comfortable rolling her toes and bobbing her heel up and down by an inch at a time, relaxing and playing in the shoe, while totally unconcerned with terrifying the occupant of her high-heeled property. And the more her foot moved, reminding me that it was alive, dexterous, and hefty enough to pound me into a vaguely man-shaped stain in a leathery crater if she curb-stomped me hard enough, I was fast becoming horrified to my very bones.

            The white walls began to shudder when her instep rocked the upper lip like tidal waves crashing against the side of a boat. Though I couldn’t see her digits, tucked as they were into the bough and shielded by the arched ball of her foot below, those toes were clearly writhing enough to warrant the ceiling of sole more swiftly renewing with flesh-furrows, stocking threads getting pinched in the ravines and then springing loose again. The swish of those near-invisible legging fibers grinding firmly along the glossy upper precipice of the shoe became so omnipresent, malforming the fabric down the length of her foot from heel to toe-shaft base, I felt for a moment as though I was lying in the base of a quarry, listening to the first unsettled pebbles cascading right before a full-on avalanche. And I made no mistake of that now: if that foot did fall on me with enough force, it would be every bit as lethal as a mountain peak’s worth of crumbled boulders, for someone of my pathetic stature.

            “I guess that answered your question, huh?” the woman boomed. “But, I’m also guessing I have some educating to do with you still, what with this probably being the first and only time you’ve ever become someone’s little shrinky-dink shoe-rider. So. Do you have any more questions I can answer for you?”

            Surprised at her merciful offering, considering every other aspect of our current situation made me an almost-literal bug beneath this stranger’s pretty foot, I took a deep breath, preparing to blurt any number of queries at once: why she’d done this, whether she was really going to step on me, and what I would have to do to win freedom?