Time-Out: Nancy's Way (Chapter 11)

Like clockwork, Nancy picked up where she’d left off earlier in the day, just before giving Scott the most bittersweet disappointment of his year when she stopped him moments away from completion. The woman really was a maestro of toe-jerking shrunken male anatomy, without the benefit of sight or open space to aid in her technique. With the simplest of fidgets, she sidled Scott’s libidinous midsection into the dewy mildly-grubby crevice between those second and third toes, nestling the ultra-cushy sweat-treated squishiness of those inner digit flanks squarely down over the one-inch lad’s cock. Then she began to pulse, again, and in less than a dozen strokes, his half-chub had palpably become a full. Nancy really was too good. Meanwhile, the bulkier underside slabs of each respective toe easily weighed down his torso and legs, but not pressing so hard either that Scott couldn’t shiver with unwanted luxury or open his mouth to draw stagnant breath. Or, probably more importantly for her, open his mouth to stick out his tongue and caress the velvety vinegar-flora-scented flesh of Nancy’s shoe-cooped foot.

Not that Scott at all intended to give her another lick while halfheartedly receiving his “reward” for the day. But just like that first fateful time all those months ago that he’d been passively manipulated into paying oral tribute to her foot, Nancy had a way of taking control over him. It wasn’t just the fact that, given her comparatively astronomic size, she could physically overpower the boy in every way. Anyone could do that with a PMRD and a legally-miniaturized house inmate. But rather, in certain positions of deeply compromising nature, such as right now while she was so effectively playing with his diminutive member between her toes in the sickeningly intimate sweat-thickened atmosphere of her snugly-worn high heel, Scott’s physiology simply surrendered itself to Nancy’s whims. Like hypnosis, except he was fully aware it was happening and still couldn’t stop himself. As a result, Scott’s body went limp, except of course for his pinprick manhood in the passionate midst of this unorthodox footjob. Then his lips lulled open, and mid-gasp, the shrinker pathetically tongued whatever pungent region of creasy toe-bulk he could smother against his mouth.

Following so much creepily sensuous priming all day already before he’d even been placed inside the shoe, beginning with being worn about and ending with that synapse-contorting worship session which had so warped Scott’s appetites, it only took two minutes for Nancy to toe-pump him to the brink. And this time, she didn’t let him down. In the middle of huffing for precious oven-toasty air and slaking his exhausted tongue into the yielding jam-fusty cleavage of the giantess’s toes, the one-incher climaxed. Hard. Just in case the boy might’ve thought he could finish without being noticed, too, there came an audible hum of snide triumph from the giantess above, and then Nancy’s foot stopped moving, pressing the spike of her shoe back into the floor as though nothing had happened at all.

There was no chance of preventing this. It had been so long since anyone had touched Scott in this way, and his depression at girlfriend’s absence had prevented him from feeling much in-the-mood overall, that not even the lad himself realized how badly required this rush of ecstasy was until he’d dramatically spasmed and cummed into the tightly-wedged space betwixt Nancy’s ginormous slimy expertly-squirming toes. Out of breath, grossly disgraced, and with his tiny nakedness practically suctioned to the giantess’s foot by their shared sweat, Scott counted down the seconds after what felt like an unfortunately historic moment between himself and the last woman on Earth he would’ve wished to be pleasured by. Instinctively, he understood that a shift had just occurred. Something was about to be different here with Nancy, and not for the better. Only pouring salt in that wound, however, was Scott’s simultaneous knowledge that, deep down, he might not have cared how much trouble this not-so-innocent orgasm inside the stylish footwear of his mother’s friend would wreak for him. Just so long as he got to do this again. Scott’s self-hatred had never burned hotter, but there was no denying it: he wanted to inhale her foot’s putridly tangy essence, to kiss and tongue her skin, and to let her toes fuck him while he curled up in the deepest smelliest corner of her shoe with all due submissiveness.

Had she broken him too far beyond repair, Scott desperately wondered? Could he still come back from this kind of depraved foot-thirsty dishonor? And did he even want the answer to be yes?

###

True to her word, Nancy had the benevolent restraint not to work Scott over in those same ways for the entire rest of his first day in her care. She didn’t demand another massage, nor sole smooches and tongue baths on her toes. She made no more open mention of “earning his keep” for the time being, either, and peacefully wore him inside her shoe for another three full hours after he ejaculated at the mercy of her toes, without talking to him or doing much to acknowledge his presence beneath her foot at all. Nancy was relatively charitable in this choice too, however, hardly walking upon Scott for any of those hours, and instead remaining seated on the couch, reading or watching TV with her high-heeled feet propped up on the cushions.

This meant that, while severely cramped, confined to the mostly sound-proof blackness while his buck-naked frontside remained cushioned all-too-comfortably against the satiny lightly-viscous padding of the giantess’s toes, the one-incher wasn’t exactly in dire torment. If he had no choice but to be imprisoned inside a woman’s shoes, and that was certainly often the case in Scott’s life, this was definitely the “best” way to pass that time, when he wasn’t being throttled by stampeding pressure or an athletic sea of workout perspiration. He just had to numb his mind to the taut flesh-sticky stasis of being cuddled much too closely with the bottom of an arrogant titaness’s foot. It should’ve been easy for him, after a lifetime of experience.

Except of course he couldn’t “just” do that this time. Not after Nancy had used her aggressive wiles and foot pheromones to prey upon and twist Scott’s basic hierarchy of needs. He wasn’t in pain now while gingerly flattened to the insole of this leathery high heel’s toe section. Nor was he feeling threatened or on the verge of suffocating, yet his claustrophobic proximity to her foot made it impossible to tear the memory of today’s indiscretions from his mind. This hot, linty, pickled-sour, honey-sweet oiled stench of Nancy’s underfoot power over him was baked into Scott’s brain now. There was no going back. Every dirty breath he took and every second spent with his baffled groin tucked against her humongous foot was deepening that connection. And though she hadn’t said a word, only left him inside her shoe for needless additional hours, the boy somehow knew this lengthy encampment was because she didn’t want him to forget the change. As if he ever could.

Once the giantess finally did let Scott out of her shoe three hours later, she still made no reference to what she’d done to him. Not a single double entendre, or even a wink. Incredibly, this lack of taunting actually made the one-inch lad feel more suspensefully nauseous, because the Nancy he had always known should have been reveling in the ego-boosting cougar glory of her sexual conquest over her recurring plaything, all at his embarrassing expense. Why was she holding back, now that they’d already crossed that disgustingly private threshold via the medium of her greedy and colossal bare feet? Whatever the reason for her unusual tact, Scott was left to stew on these troubling developments in solitude, as Nancy happily assigned him the same white-bristle brush she’d given him earlier to detail her shoes, and instead asked him to polish the mantel over the fireplace.