Kate’s a very pretty little thing.

She’s got those large, innocent eyes, which just speak volumes ablut how hard-working, kind and pure she is. Her mind is an open book, too - and I’ve taken to studying it a great deal. It’s so easy to reach in there, to prod and pull and see how she reacts to seemingly random thoughts. It’s also rather boring, which is why I quickly decide on doing some alterations. Kate’s positively fantastic in how naive she is, but what’s the point of having such a girl around if you’re not using her properly? 

The delightful thing is that so many of the qualities I want are already there - I just need to expand on them, gradually cranking them up. It's an art, you know. You have to be careful. Go too slow - and their consciousness learns to resist you, like a vaccinated organism; go too fast, and they realize something is wrong and start avoiding you. You've gotta be confident, steady and relentless in how you rewire their brains to mold them into what you want them to be. Identifying the first lever to press is often a tricky task, and I'd be lying if I said I've always done it right.

This time, I start with the selflessness. She’s always willing to help someone, this Kate, always ready to share someone’s burdens, she even volunteers at homeless shelters. I suggest that we go grocery shopping together, and on the way back I pull the first string I’ve attached to her brain. She offers to carry my bags. She’s short, this Kate, she’s thin and petite, and it’s fun to watch her carry all these groceries as I leisurely stroll next to her. This is how it begins. I want her to start doing more errands for me, and I quickly achieve that as she herself offers to bring things or share some of her cooking. Several weeks in I let her know that the pie she's baked for me is subpar at best and she apologizes, promising to get better at baking. 

"Why are you apologizing", I raise my eyebrows in fake surprise. She blushes. Blushing suits her. 

"You're my friend", she replies, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "I want to cook better for you".

That is when I know it’s time for the next step.

I’m much taller than Kate. At the end of this I’ll be much, much taller than her, but for now I also want her to lower herself more often. I want her to always be looking up. It takes time, but she starts finding ways to sit on the floor when I am around in a casual setting. It’s like a little nagging switch in her brain, which makes that more natural for her. I test her by inviting a couple of friends for a movie and bringing her along. It takes almost no time to convince her to run around for the entire evening, refreshing our drinks and popcorn bowls; any free time she spends sitting on the floor next to the couch, silent. I wonder if the guys notice how readily she accepts orders. Maybe subconsciously. I find that in an hour or so they are also ordering her around, and I love seeing this; it remings me of how I enjoyed invading the minds of random people on the street and alter the relationships they have with their loved ones forever. I should go back to doing that. There's plenty left to do with Kate, though. She’s still nowhere close to where a proper girl should be.

Now I want favors. It’s time to bring her a little further down, so one day, as I am visiting her to hang out and order her around for a bit - you need to regularly establish your presence - I plop myself on the couch and complain about my feet hurting. Her state of mind (almost without my explicit input) is at a point where she immediately asks if she should rub them for me, which I accept. I've been longing for this moment. It's always a pivotal one. 

I'm making no effort to free up any space on the couch for her, so she has to sit on the floor next to my legs. Her dainty hands shyly touch my socked feet. They look comically small; I'm wearing size 13, Kate is barely five feet in height. For now, that is. Her hands are soft and gentle; they feel wonderful on my soles, although she, of course, is lacking experience. I lean back and enjoy myself for the next half an hour or so, after which we go and have some food (cooked in advance by Kate, of course). I take care to praise her. She's reliant on my opinion now, and needs encouragement to spiral deeper into the abyss I've set up. 

Footrubs become a part of our routine from that point on. I make it clear I expect one every single time, and she doesn't protest, because she quickly grows to like giving them to me. She likes it when I am happy, even when it comes at the cost of her own convenience. She starts to take pride in it. This is exactly what I need right now, but, like many other things, it's just a phase. 

I need to press forward. I start having her over and ask yet more of her - she often cleans my place up, does my laundry, polishes my shoes. She's convinced herself I simply don't have time for all those menial tasks, and by helping me out she's just being a good friend. I half-jokingly start calling her my maid, although I think at that point of both of us know it's not a joke. One time, when rubbing my feet, she accidentally adopts a kneeling pose, and although we laugh it off I let her know I liked seeing her on her knees. In fact, I believe it's one of the poses women are most beautiful in. Her on the floor in front of my couch is a common sight now; tiny hands have learned to deftly dance across my soles. 

Once, I ask her to give me a footrub while I work on my computer. She hesitantly agrees, but quickly finds out there's barely any space beneath the desk for her to stuff herself in. Holding my breath, I show her my portasizer and ask if she thinks that'll work to fix this problem.

She finds the idea practical. I can't hold a grin at that point. 

So I point the portasizer at her and in a moment's worth she's about a foot shorter. This is just enough to fit her there, and she can sit down and rub my feet while I am typing away and listening to music. It is, however, not enough for her to be comfortable. I've been through this before. She has to bend, she often has to reposition herself, but I am tall, and my legs occupy most of that space. She tries to weave herself, but ultimately it fails, as it should. I let her out then and she goes off to complete some tasks around the apartment. I only grow her back in the evening, citing portasizer power supply as the reason I don't do that immediately. She doesn't argue, although she probably knows it's not true. 

The next time I ask her to get under the desk, she suggests I shrink her more than I did last time, so that there is enough space. I shrug and do that. It becomes a new element in our routine, and it takes several iterations: four feet turn into three, then to two. Watching an almost fully grown woman reduced to that short of a stature never gets old, and I love this unique stage in the process simply for the sheer amount of opportunities to treat her like the housepet she's become. The size is just enough to keep doing the housework; watching her scurry around with a mop or climb on the kitchen counter to cook is hilarious. She has to put in thrice the work, but she doesn't protest. She enjoys this. I can tell by the heavy blush which never seems to leave her cheeks, as well as the devotion in her gaze. She's embraced this lifestyle of servitude; she's at my beck and call. Underdesk footrubs progress as well; I can't hold myself from stepping on her anymore. 

See, that is the thing. All the work she's doing for me is nice, but ultimately I just want to trample the shit out of her. That's just how I like my women: tiny, prostrate, and underneath me. It's not even a sex thing. It's a what's right thing. One time, while she dutifully rubs my feet somewhere down below, I simply kick at her lightly and get her down on her back, before lifting my legs and resting them on top of her. She squirms for a bit, she yelps in surprise, but I ignore all that. I just casually grind my feet on top of her, getting her into the most comfortable position I can think of; with her breasts and tummy cushioning my bare soles. 

She never says a word about it when she's out. Another milestone, another acceptance. She's happy I am comfortable. That's enough. 

I keep building on that. She'll give me a massage while I watch TV, then I'll ask her to lie down before the couch. I start doing it during breakfast, too; she'll serve me food and get down under the chair. Face-up. I usually prefer her face-up, because at one point I start mindlessly trampling her face, feeling the perky little nose and plush cheeks squish beneath my heavy foot. I am not particularly gentle. I like to feel the body under me. I keep her under there for increasingly long periods of time, and, when she's not there, she's mopping the floor or cleaning my shoes. 

Just picture this: it's a relaxed weekend afternoon, I am on my couch, six-foot-four-inches of a man, and my stretched out legs are resting on top of a miniaturized girl my age; her scarce clothing messy, her skin red, her hair mimicking a crow's nest, because she's barely given any rest from being a foottoy. Then I'll stand up without bothering to move, and for a moment I'll be standing on her, treating her like a part of my floor. That is what I always aim towards. It's perfect - yet it is never enough. 

At some point I get her to open her mouth. She finds it a natural progression, even if she's a bit shy at first. I love it when her wet, warm tongue sloshes and licks along my soles for the first time. I relish in this feeling. I let her know how enjoyable I find it, and we agree she should do it more often. She's agreed to many things by that point: she's supposed to always be on her knees, or crawling, she's always to serve as my footrest, she sleeps on a little rug by my bed and rarely gets enlarged back. She's mine. I've gently stomped this into her. And, as she laps at my soles, she embraces this. Sweet little Kate is a slave at that point, barely more than an obedient, trained dog in love with her master. 

The finale comes several months into this wondrous relationship. You see, I crave the process moreso than the result. I love exploring new minds. I love challenging myself with new women (to be fair, Kate wasn't even much of a challenge). I need more of this - and so I have to move on from giving her my attention. I'll keep her, of course, I just can't keep caring about her at this stage. There is one last thing to do, though. 

She's kneeling before me. I wordlessly shrink her to mere inches and take a moment to ponder the view: naked, vulnerable, mousy girl, looking up at me with worshipful adoration. I invade her thoughts, I find her devotion, her desire to serve me, her eternal willingness to be useful to me. I find all the good, wonderful, delightful sense she's found in serving me the way she had. 

I gather it all. I hold onto these feelings. I get them all.

Then I break them. 

I break her heart. 

I break the illusions she's built. I break her rose-colored glasses. Realization dawns on her like a bucket of cold water; she suddenly understands that she's lost a life. She threw it under my feet. It's change both subtle and powerful; she still knows she's my slave, it's just that now she can also look back. 

Kate lets out a howl. I let out a laugh as I reach down, pick her up and toss her into a dress shoe she's dutifully polished for me yesterday evening. She tumbles down the insole. I insert my foot, uncaringly smashing her into the insole. She'll survive - portasized makes them a bit squishier and much more durable. Without giving her a second thought, I leave my apartment. 

You see, I have a date planned. Her name's Patricia. I'll tell you about Patricia some other time.