Casanova had never quite gotten over the fact that his internet fetish friends were real people. Yet here he was, sitting in a room with two of them, EmmaGear and Amateur. He wondered if it was weird that he still didn’t know their actual names. Then again, it was probably weirder that they were all sexually aroused by impossible disparities in human sizes.

In any case, he hardly paid any attention to the conversation at hand, something about “pedophilia” and “they're premature.” Instead, he played around on his phone, all the while snatching glances at Emma’s beautiful and hopefully smelly feet. Every time they twitched, a thrill raced down his spine into his groin. He looked back at his phone, fearful of getting an erection. It’s not like they didn’t know about his sexual proclivities – Hell, they shared some of them – but still.

Suddenly, Casanova noticed a shift in the conversation; it had become decidedly heated. “I truly don’t believe there is a moral middle ground here,” said Emma flatly. Her dark eyes looked ready to catch fire.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” insisted Amateur. From what Casanova had gathered, they two were speaking about an internet phenomenon known as "Necrotizing Enterocolitis." He was honestly curious to know about it at first, but when they started making obscure references he decided to just look at Emma’s feet instead.

Now though, the tension in the air couldn’t be ignored. “It’s like if a woman was raped and you asked to hear the rapist’s side of the story,” hissed Emma.

Now, Casanova was all for cordial, intelligent discussion of current events – but Emma was clearly about to explode. He had a feeling in his gut that this would not end well for either of them, but Amateur continued to press the envelope.

“Not everyone on the Necrotizing Enterocolitis side is a pedophile.”

Without warning, Amateur vanished. Casanova’s eyes widened. Years of fantasizing prompted him to look for a tiny man on the seat… and sure enough, there was Amateur, probably an inch high. Emma stood up from her own chair imperiously and marched over to the miniscule man. She strode with all of the calm self-assurance of a queen, although there was an edge of impish amusement as well. Without a word, she placed her bare foot onto the couch before knocking the tiny man onto the floor with a contemptuous swipe.

“Eat shit and die.” Emma spat a thick wad of saliva onto poor Amateur, adding further humiliation to the inevitable. Horrified, Casanova stared at the tiny form thrashing about futilely in the clear fluid. Her lips curled in a satisfied smirk, she raised her bare foot over his helpless form. The sheer unfairness of the confrontation struck Casanova like a rock; with the awesome size disparity, Amateur had no chance at all. Emma’s foot hung in the air interminably. Despite his fear, he couldn’t help but admire how beautiful that foot really was: each feature, from the heel to the sole to toes, couldn’t be more perfect. Presently, her shapely toes wiggled, as if to graciously acknowledge his appreciation.

Then her foot came smashing down, extinguishing Amateur’s life. An awful, squelching sound met the impact of her sole and the white tile floor, with the poor bug-human sandwiched between. Casanova couldn’t be sure, but he swore he heard Amateur screaming “Cliché!”

Pushing her dark locks behind an ear coyly, Emma lifted her foot up to inspect Amateur’s corpse, really just a red splotch on her sole. She glanced at Casanova – who had remained petrified throughout the entire sequence – and gave him a knowing look. She walked over and sat down beside him.

“Meanwhile: on Twitter,” she said, showing him something on her phone. He read the words, but his panic precluded comprehension.

“I don’t get it,” he mumbled dumbly.

“David Wise! God learn your composers, you pizza shit!”

Casanova was completely unsurprised to find himself staring up at a gargantuan Emma. Wasting no time, she extended two fingers forward to snatch him up. The motion sent waves of vertigo through him, and he vomited. Although this had been his ultimate fantasy since elementary school, he felt zero arousal. He didn’t want to die!

Even with the world spinning around him, Casanova discerned his destination: a pair of plain, frankly boring sneakers. She dumped him unceremoniously into the left one. Knowing what was coming next, Casanova scrambled towards the toe section of the old shoe, where he couldn’t help but notice the vinegary smell of Emma’s feet. A second later, it grew dark, and in even less time he was being buffeted by Emma’s gigantic toes. She deftly positioned him beneath their arches; it felt like getting pushed around by a family of bears.

Realizing that the end drew near, Casanova figured he might as well enjoy himself. He began licking the sweaty skin above him, relishing the salty flavor. Then he felt sudden and intense g-forces, meaning only one thing. The weight of Emma’s toes on his body increased by several orders of magnitude. Instead of his life flashing before his eyes, he saw Emma’s smirk.