For Richer, For Smaller (Chapter 32)

Then Lillian stepped down on Tony one last time. Rising to stand up from the couch, the giantess simultaneously shifted all her weight into that leg, slumping her heel back into alignment with the slip-on’s backend, and completely immersing her spouse-turned-subordinate once more in that sightless soundless body-remolding nether world of pure pressure and sole texture he knew so well. Tony had endured literally uncountable treadings exactly like this one from his wife, and almost as many that were leagues more tortuous. She didn’t even slam her foot down into the floor as if to make some haughty post-triumph statement, nor did she indulge in any grinding or twisting, but simply squashed him into the tension-embroiled putty-tender slab of her gigantic size-8 arch. Like this was just any other day and any other sole-glued stride in his shrunken excuse for a new life.

Painful and suffocating as it was, nothing about this particular smush was anything out of the ordinary. And yet Tony could feel in his very bones, springy and porous a state as these weeks and months of underfoot enslavement had eroded them, that something was different this time. He couldn’t say whether it was because of some near-imperceptible tweak in Lillian’s usual arch-mashing pattern, or just a good old-fashioned evil omen, but a terrifying sense of finality dawned upon the shrinker nonetheless. Even now, when he should’ve been pre-emptively awash in the soon-to-be-delivered glory of seeing his loony bin ex-partner get all the justice she had coming to her, this wholly typical trample from the giantess’s guilty sole left Tony with a palpitating rush of replete hopelessness. A heartbeat later, this hollow feeling inside him transformed directly into an explosive serendipitously-timed orgasm, which Lillian’s stepdown plumbed unwillingly out of the little creature at the exact same instant that she angled her heel to face the inquiring fuzz and then, with one seductive arch-up, dramatically unearthed him from that gloaming space between her insole and foot.

And just like that, after all this time, someone else besides his beautiful psychotic angel-footed tormentor herself bore witness to Tony’s downfall in the dim yet still-visible area between the basin of the shoe and the creasy peach-supple tapestry of her sole flesh slanted just above him. His swimming vision was still readjusting to the room’s glow, his spine was still impressed to the insole, and most of his flesh had yet to regain full sensation now that it was no longer being squinched down like an ancient splat of chewing gum under an eighteen-wheeler tire. But still Tony could tell he had the floor now. And there was so much he needed to say. So much damning evidence to spill. So much rage and madness he had to communicate to his saviors. Everything he’d had no choice but to bottle up deep within his fractured psyche for infinite weeks on end, the obscenity and violation and cruel toxifying of all his former desires by Lillian, could at last come to light.

All he had to do was stumble forward onto his haunches, shake out enough musculature to articulate his jowls, and then spit out the cold hard truth with a level of long-delayed satisfaction that would likely trump any sexual climaxes he’d ever achieved while his wife stood on his face. That was how good this was going to feel. Autonomous movement and speech had become sloppy, at best, for Tony since he became more and more of a flattened permanent fixture slathered across the interior of Lillian’s footwear, yet at his core he knew beyond a doubt that he was capable of summoning the necessary stamina and telling his side of the story with all due passion. Right here, right now. He could do it. This was his window: the poor shrunken casualty’s chance at last to smite his personal goddess in kind, just as she’d done to him for so long. Lillian wasn’t stepping on him at all at this point, and it didn’t appear she was going to again so long as the cops were watching and waiting for the other shoe to drop. All he had to do was land the final blow. The end of all Tony’s suffering was so close that he could feel the taste of it sparking up whatever trounced mush still remained of his brain.

But the two cops didn’t behold this inspirational grand vision of phoenix-rising rebirth from the ashes of Lillian’s shoe, like the six-incher had idealized for himself. Instead, what all three still-human witnesses above saw and heard, as the CEO and woman-of-the-house lifted her foot out of the shoe, was a naked convulsing pink-flushed hedonism-drunk mini-deviant’s unintentionally wholehearted endorsement of his shrunken upside-down lifestyle, right as his obviously-enraptured cock spurted another token of appreciation and his pinched lips let loose a humiliating song of absolute throat-warbling ecstasy. In a single ill-timed instant, Tony himself gave the most shameful and informative testimony anyone possibly could have to corroborate Lillian’s side of their twisted marital tale.

Both police officers froze with their jaws hung, wide-eyed and astonished, as they watched the little subhuman being’s body erotically spasm like a jellied bug corpse coming slowly unpeeled from a car windshield. Even at half a foot tall, the unhinged macrophile produced an undeniably-impressive volume of seed from his engorged manhood, and no note of his orgasmic cry could have been interpreted as anything except unblemished blissful gratitude. Each of Tony’s simultaneous spoken and penile statements stretched out together for several more ruinous moments after Lillian’s foot was no longer pressed against his body in any capacity. Untouched, he continued spouting jizz and mumbling croons, and left no conceivable room for any ambiguity here that the two investigators were now in the presence of the happiest little man on Earth.

Then the room fell silent. Tony had the feeling back in his body, or at least enough to work with. His eyes had acclimated to the light again; his tongue could now flap out intelligible vaguely-English articulations. The muted endorphin-flush of that ejaculation had already spirited itself out of his scrunched shrinky-dink shape, meaning he was no longer stuck on flailing gushing sex-faced autopilot-mode. Yet that hesitation on his part was all it took for the two cops to look at one another, still too agog to make a noise. And once the partners actually made eye contact and confirmed without speaking that they had indeed just witnessed the same depraved domiciliary insanity between wife and tiny man, the spell was broken. The officers both doubled over and burst into gut-busting teary-eyed laughter that rapidly devolved into machine-gun chortles. In spiraling dismay, a dumbstruck Tony watched his supposed giant redeemers reduced to side-splitting jesters, completely beside themselves with secondhand embarrassment and shell-shocked humor at his expense.

The shrinker descended into pathetic tremors, with his largely-maintained hard-on clumsily waggling in plain view like a springy doorstopper, feeling his odds of credibility in the authorities’ eyes slipping out of him just as quickly and brutally as any pleasant sensations he ever fleetingly experienced now while in the thrall of Queen Lillian’s soles. His lip quivered with renewed misery, while he tried and failed to conjure up whatever magic words might still reverse the type of fetish-charged avowal he’d just given in the form of a semi-public post-trample underfoot climax. But he had nothing. Tony’s mind had gone blank, all thanks to Lillian. She’d finally squished the last shred of will out of him, and the cops’ gleeful roaring laughter only conclusively drove home the unconditional futility of his past ambitions to fight the hands, or rather feet, of fate. It was done. He was done. Sure, he “could” try to mumble out some disgraceful postscript defense now, and ask that the police disregard the testament of his earlier horndog mania just as his spouse stepped off of him. He’d also have to beg that they forget that highly-illustrative video footage Lillian had shown off, and they hadn’t even gotten to all those texts and documents she probably-truthfully threatened she had on-hand, which depicted Tony as the poster child of masochistic foot-enchanted mental illness.

Abruptly, the jubilant path of the conquering hero he’d envisioned for himself by hypothetically bringing his wife to justice took a hard swerve, and then a much different future spanned before the little guy instead. Tony saw endless months and probably years in courtrooms. He saw a media frenzy, and all his dirty laundry aired in every corner of the internet. He saw himself arguing into a microphone larger than his body that just because he’d spent millions in company funds to alter his physiology and dramatically transformed his day-to-day life all for the purpose of constantly being smashed undersole by his colossal wife like a dirty welcome mat, that did NOT mean he wanted it to hurt this much. He saw Lillian, the highly-successful new head of her disturbed micro-husband’s former corporate kingdom, taking the stand to calmly and compellingly repeat her side of events in a way that somehow made so much more sense to the rest of the world, even if it wasn’t the truth, just like she’d convinced everyone in the board room and now these officers of the law. He saw every frame of those podophilic home sex tapes being played back for the jury, every flirty photo and text exchanged and spa appointment confirmation, blown up on a big screen to further sell the little madman’s loss of sanity and absolute dependence on those perfect feet. He saw legions of family and friends and professional underlings, all of whom had either been paid off or merely believed that Lillian was in the right, taking their turns to attest that Tony – ambitious and promising a businessman as he once was – could no longer be trusted with his own autonomy, let alone soundness of mind. And at the end, when the last crumbs of his old reputation had been publicly dragged face-down through the mud as though stuck in the treads of the giantess’s shoes, his body would still return to this same place below her anyway. What would be the point now in crying out, except to twist the knife already inextricably wedged into his own heart?

Then Lillian put the shoe back on, resealing her puny husband’s fate, and guided the obviously-reassured cops back to the front door. Their mirthful conversation’s details were lost to Tony now, but he could still pick up the last delighted vestiges of the officers’ laughter, while his wife no-doubt promised them that their giddiness wasn’t at all offensive to herself and her husband’s unusual yet completely consensual lifestyle. If they had any further questions or required any second looks at the copious evidence, she probably promised, they were welcome back anytime. That wouldn’t be necessary, however. Everyone in the house, including Tony, understood that. Even once the door was shut again, the shrinker could still hear both officers chuckling to one another all the way back to their cruiser to call the case closed. But eventually the disheartening noise of their mockery was too distant for the six-incher to pick up from below the godly-shoed sole that may as well have become his living tomb, and Lillian took the next normal-yet-extraordinarily-weighty step upon her eternally-defeated spouse which marked the first step of the rest of their lives together: his little body sunken under her opulent silky ointment-puttied sole, pressurized into an unholy union with his beloved and loathed piece of her, until death did them part. Where Tony ultimately belonged, no matter how hard he believed or screamed otherwise, for as long as he “lived.”

---

THE END