Katie wakes up.

Her eyelids lift ever so slowly, revealing sleepy hazel eyes. She’s been told she wakes up in a “cute way”; apparently, she always looks incredibly innocent and confused by her surroundings. She likes to stretch like a cat and do a lot of little yawns as she comes to terms with the fact that she has to get out of bed. 

This time, there is no stretching or yawning. She can’t move a single muscle, aside from those which allow her eyes to rotate in their sockets. Her lagging mind doesn’t immediately register this fact, and for several moments she’s still trying to move around, or turn on her side. But she can’t. She’s paralyzed. Her body became a prison.

She isn’t even able to exclaim a surprised “ah”. She can feel her heart up the tempo, though. Blood rushes to her head, enabling thoughts to flow in a rational direction. Come on, Katie, you’re an engineer. You know what this is. Sleep paralysis. People experience this all the time. Calm down. You’re safe, in your bed...

Except she is not. 

There’s no familiar softness beneath her: pillow and mattress gone entirely. She’s on a hard surface. And the ceiling is impossibly far away - like she’s in a cathedral, not her bedroom. She can’t turn her head to look around, so she has to rely on what’s in her field of vision, but the objects she actually observes are unrecognizable. Although... No, that’s not right; she can recognize them fine, it’s just that initially she can’t believe her eyes. 

It’s a chair, she realizes. Or, rather, she’s under a desk, and there is a swiveling chair right next to that desk. It’s turned to the side. 

This does not make any sense, she thinks, before she picks up on a distant sound. Rhythmic thuds get louder and louder with every instance. She can kind of see the expanse of the massive room out of the corner of her eye, and she noticed a brief movement in the distance. She couldn’t really catch a good view of whatever it was, but it scared her. Because it is large. And it is getting closer. 

“It” turned out to be a human, of course; what else could it be? She can only see the lower part of his body as he plops down onto the chair. 

“Hey!” she wants to scream. “Help me!”. But no words come out of her frozen mouth. Her eyes frantically scan her surroundings, but she can’t move anything else. She’s tiny, paralyzed, mute, and she’s under this guy’s desk, and, worse of all, she doesn’t understand how any of this is possible. He clearly doesn’t know she’s down here, though. The chair is rotating now, bringing his legs into view. Two massive pillars clad in skinny jeans. One of them passes above her and she catches sight of his bare foot. She can’t judge his foot size since her sense of scale is currently fucked up, but to her it looks wide, meaty, definitely dusty from walking around barefoot. In some other situation she’d probably find them nice. She’s happy to see them bare, though, because this means he might accidentally brush up against her and feel her and save her, help her, do something...

She hears mouseclicks, quick chitter of a keyboard. She then notices something else, something that makes her wince: there is a very visible bulge in the crotch area of his jeans. 

Then, without warning, his left foot moves towards her. It hovers right over her for a second before angling down. His thick toes gently touch her tiny face, then travel down. Katie has a sudden realization: she’s naked. His toes brush against her breasts, press down a bit, then continue their path, eventually caressing her legs.

Katie, mortified, waits for him to say something confused, to jump, to look under the desk, to do anything... but he doesn’t. Instead, his sole hovers over her again, before falling down. Like a massive slab of flesh it pins the shrunken woman to the floor, the dextrous toes clamping down on her head. Her face is in the crevice between the large and the second one. She can’t breathe, and what air she managed to take in is full of his masculine odor. His foot rests in place for a bit - so heavy, so monolithic, so large! - before pushing her to the side. Katie, limp, horrified, rolls across the floor, and then his other foot comes in to stop her and pin her down once again. 

“What is he doing?!”

Oh, he is typing. The keyboard never stops clicking as he casually increases the pressure before forcefully rolling her across the floor under his sole. Her ribs do not like this and she hits her head several times. It stops, eventually, and she has a moment of respite before she sees both of his feet rise over her. They stand down on their heels before synchronously slamming down: right one on her lower body, left on upper. She’s been slapped, she realises, as she sees them rise on their heels again. Her skin is burning. 

He now alternates the feet, hitting her with the balls of his soles over and over again; one of these mighty slaps comes at her face, and her nose makes a bad wet sound. There’s a splotch of her blood on his sole, she sees. She also notices - looking beyond his feet - that his hand, slightly trembling, is briefly caressing the tent over his crotch before going away. 

Click-clack, the keyboard continues.

One of his feet repositions her body, the other one touched her head with the toes. Katie feels tears flowing out her eyes. The toes grasp on her hair (“how has he managed to do this oh god”) and pull a bit while the other foot holds her in place. Her scalp is burning now. Internally, she is screaming, but she still is paralyzed.

She’s being dragged by her hair across the floor. Then he decides to lift her a bit and throw her. She loses a good chunk of her hair this way, and her neck hurts now, and she’s pretty sure she’s heard a crack when she landed, and she’s just already done with this, God, please, let her go...

A sole covers her once again: warm, meaty, hungry for more entertainment. Across the floor she goes, her skin already raw in places. She’s being turned over on her stomach.

Toes clasp on her arm. 

“No”, she thinks. “Yes”, the foot apparently argues as it pulls, and with an audible, disgusting crunch her arm is dislocated. She can’t move it, but it hurts all the same. 

His heel stomps on her back, twists in place a bit, then goes away. Another arm is trapped between the toes. Another playful tug. 

Another dislocation.

The footplay continues. He took his sweet time with her legs, masterfully breaking them at the knees first. It’s like he wants to turn her into a true ragdoll, structureless and useless. He goes too hard on her right thigh, and her skin rips, and there is more blood, oh God, so much blood, why does this have to be her? How did she end up here? She’s always been a good woman, she’s got a family, she is law-abiding, she even goes to church occasionally, why is she being mangled and destroyed beneath these monstrous feet? 

She catches another glimpse of his crotch. The fly is unzipped. His hand is there, moving back and forth. The clicks of the keyboard have stopped. 

His foot manipulates her abused form into a sitting position. Her broken legs are stretched in front of her.

His sole presses against her back, forcefully leaning her forward.

Why her?

It doesn’t relent. The pressure rises. She has to bend further. She will.

Her spine creaks and her insides get hot. Something rips. Ribcage prevents her from being this flexible. 

Ribcage loses to his foot. The blissful emptiness of shock never comes. Katie is being bent forward, compressed, rolled into a human ball, and she gets to feel it till the end. 

He never looks at her - even as his body is shaken by waves of pleasure. His foot twitches, finishing it all for Katie as with one last push she crumples on herself and explodes into a meaty, bloody mess. 

The man sits there for a bit longer before cleaning it all up and returning to work. He reads the story he’s just written again before going ahead and submitting it for everyone to see. He used to be ashamed of his futile attempts at erotica in the past, but the latest source of inspiration has proven to be quite helpful.