Fantasy Foot League (Chapter 2)

Somehow being called that condescension-drenched word stung harder than if she’d named him an expletive instead. Wisely, the other two shrinkers appeared to be frightfully reconsidering their initial interest in Kayla, while Cody languished in skin-crawling indignity he was certain would last for seven uninterrupted days.

“What are you going to do with me?” he grimaced in compliance.

“I’m so glad you asked! You know, I’ve given it a lot of thought… and by that, I mean in the time it took for me to walk back from the cashier to you. Sure, it’d be hilarious building a rat maze for you to escape, or turning you into a toilet brush so I can give you a taste of exactly what I think about you. But, come on, those are lazy. Not special enough for someone like you. And seeing how you lost in your fantasy football league, well, I can’t think of anything more fitting than turning you into the perfect foot slave, can you?”

Kayla proudly explained this revelation as though any of it made rational sense, when really, she must’ve just been raring to put Cody in the most humiliating spot possible. The shrinker didn’t even know precisely what she meant by the term foot slave, but since she’d already snatched him between her fingers and swooped him with vertigo-inducing speed over the edge of the cage, he was soon to discover her intent. Far below, as he was carried toward them to the tune of Kayla’s threatening chortles, the giantess’s sizable flip-flop-clad feet grew in Cody’s hapless perspective. Passively, he’d always known the ponytailed athlete had large peds, given how often she went sockless and boldly propped them up on coffee tables, but never had reason to actually look at them directly until he was being delivered toward those bronzed, deep-arched, meaty-toed size-9 behemoths. And now that he was paying attention to her feet, Cody’s earlier nervousness was fast turning to dread. What else could “slave” mean, except that he was going to be obediently pampering a set of leaden soles and wriggly toes which could crush him into a quadriplegic state given a misplaced step? At first he’d only worried about the psychological disgrace of his obligations; a petty consideration, really, now that it occurred to him Kayla just might intend to place him under her foot, where a strong-enough stamp from that massive slab of wrinkly arch brawn could flatten him to a gory smear more effectively than an industrial trash compactor. Was this really happening?

“K-Kayla! You’re not… s-serious?” Cody squealed, no longer caring how pitiful he seemed, as he watched the steep slope of the giantess’s beefy undersole flexing skyward and revealing a deep foamy imprint beneath where a two-inch prisoner could so easily be plastered down and lethally squashed, if the customer was psychotic enough. It sure looked like she was going to put him exactly where he’d feared. “You… you c-can’t put me there! You can’t step on me!”

“Look, Cody, I could show you the whole document I had to sign – and honestly, who the hell reads those terms and conditions thingies anyhow – but believe me, yes, I absolutely can step on you, if I want to! No matter what! Just an F.Y.I. That one’s a freebie, by the way, but fair warning, next time you try and tell me what I can or can’t do with you… to you… for the next week, then you’re only going to make me want to do exactly that thing to you even more. Make sense, dumbass?” Kayla brutally informed her two-inch plaything, at once dangling him upside-down by his legs above the discolored heat-radiating depression of her spacious flop insole.

Despite the open-air access, a dizzied Cody could smell the musty stagnation of a pungently salty workout from earlier in the day, and he wasn’t even touching her foot yet. Dark lint smudges adorned the sweat-dried tapestry of risen arch creases, too. The blood rushed to his head and a pleading screech escaped his jaws as he was held nearer to her broad raunchy thick-padded sole, only to be flinched away at the last second and instead bounced above her thong-strapped toes.

“…but, I don’t think I’m going to step on you,” she smarmed. “Not yet. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great idea, and I’m definitely going to do it later, but even with a coupon, it wasn’t cheap getting you for seven days. And it’d be an awful shame if you just fell out of my shoe on the way home before I even had the chance to turn you into the saddest worthless-fucking foot slave anyone’s ever seen. No, I’ve got a much better idea for you now. A way to make sure you stick exactly where I need you to be until we get back, and then maybe even a little while longer than that. Because I already like the idea of keeping you here. It’s going to be a good fit. I can tell. Well, say CHEESE, loser!”

The transmogrifier muzzle flashed, and Cody felt for a moment like his two-inch body had exploded, which was odd, since there wasn’t technically pain and he was still conscious. Nevertheless, the once-recognizable structure of his body instantly dissipated into a grey gunky mush-factor like a cross between clay and soggy oatmeal, as his limbs and other human features were melded into an oblong one-eighth-inch-long blob of humidly perspiration-fragrant grit pinched between the mammoth pads of her fingers. Even before Kayla inserted her slave between her toes, though, he realized what he’d become, but of course he didn’t feel officially like jam until he was clamped horrendously into the oily scuzzy-scented pressure sandwich of those tan digit shafts grasped so tightly around the flip-flop thong as well.

“All aboard the Pathetic Loser Foot-Crud Express?” Kayla laughed from above. “Enjoy the ride.”

Of course it literally would’ve been easier for Cody to magically transform himself back into unshrunken human form out of sheer willpower than to obey this mocking suggestion from his owner-for-a-week. Even before she’d completed her first step, as the burly silken-tan trunks of her unwashed toes scrunched inward for purchase on the flip-flop strap – and also on the horrifically morphed toejam-being himself – Cody felt his pliant glob form mashing flat against the tender inner flank of Kayla’s big toe flesh as though he’d been smoothed and hammered beneath a kitchen rolling pin. He was not only mulched between her constricting digits, but against the plasticy yet stone-stiff architecture of the giant footwear thong itself, with his gluey sweat-suckled unnatural shape tacked onto that toe-interlacing pole and the giantess’s warm skin at once. Then her foot landed with soul-rattling aplomb to complete the first stride, and though Kayla’s toes mercifully splayed back out her arch-clapping flip-flop made seismic contact with the floor, the harrowing impact cancelled out any relief Cody might’ve derived from being granted another glimmer of light and air through the now-relaxed divot betwixt his ruthless keeper’s dexterous toes.

How the hell had it come to this, Cody deliriously pondered, as Kayla sauntered proudly out of the store with her newly bought acquisition gooily plugging the deep crevice among her beachy-glazed extremities as living highly-malleable toejam? Now he wished he’d researched more about this insane service; surely there was some kind of emergency safe word he could express, even without lips to articulate it? Because this was well beyond the duress he’d even pessimistically imagined could befall him.

Cody wasn’t even suffering the full brunt of her steps, since he was gummed between toes rather than beneath them, or even worse her sole, yet the clockwork-like trauma of every squeezing uprise then pounding descent was making the league’s biggest-little loser feel as though he’d been directly trampled upon for hours straight before Kayla even reached the car. Gratefully, it wasn’t quite tortuous agony, since the reformable nature of his embarrassingly nonhuman micro-mass meant that bones weren’t breaking and organs weren’t bursting – he was just a linty ball of sodden toe detritus now – but Cody didn’t get off scot-free, either, enduring tremendous pressure and the distinct feeling of being suffocated every other heartbeat without even the courtesy of blacking out afterward. Not to mention the hazy boxed-in aroma trap of stagnant post-gym moisture bred in both Kayla’s pores and in her captive’s new body.