The enormous grotto had no visible entries or exists, shrouded by all the vines. The rocks on the top emitted sunlight, giving the idea that perhaps one was outside and not underneath a bulk of tall mountains. The lush greenery, vines, beds of flowers and bushes, along with trees of peach, orange, pears, and apples did not help with this confusion.
Henry couldn’t let himself be distracted by that. His foe was before him, the statuesque Goddess Helga. The thin and small body type did little to counteract the fact that she was a hundred foot tall. Goddess might have been a self-imposed nickname from her, but no word was more fitting. Her pale complexion wasn’t sickly, but had a vibrant life to it, and together with her white dress it felt as if her very being was a source of light. It stole one’s eyes, irrespective of her size. The volumes of blonde hair were elegantly patted out over her shoulders and breasts, a bulb of light glowing from her forehead like a tiny third eye.
“I do admire your bravery,” Helga said, a commanding voice despite her youthful appearance. She stood before her great stone throne which was wrapped in colorful vines. “But none of you can leave. You will accomplish nothing but join your companions.”
She had his friends locked in this grotto of hers. She had captured Rennard, Milton, and Ada, and right now Henry was their only hope. Indeed, he was a lone mage, equipped with nothing but a pair of trousers, but doing nothing would reduce their chances to zero.
Those large feet of hers stepped forward. They were dainty and cute-looking, the object of fairy tales that belonged in pretty glass heels. In this setting they seemed so innocent as they padded over the greenery in hushed rustles of crinkling verdure, and for a moment Henry forgot that they were marching towards him, that they were over twice his length from heel to toe, and that they looked to flatten his body underneath them. Enchanted, he forgot that fact all the way until her smooth, bare sole was descending straight for him.
With an alarming surge of golden magic, Henry summoned his art and hopped away. Her right foot flattened the area where he’d stood. The step had been unhurried, a nonchalant effort, yet he’d almost let himself be taken by it. Henry slapped his own cheek. “Snap out of it.”
“So slow,” Helga commented, raising an eyebrow. “And you saw it reasonable to challenge me? It’s a sweet friendship you must have with those three.”
“I’m not slow,” Henry barked back. He’d only gotten distracted. He sped forward with his inhuman speed, the branches in his way whipped aside. The foot rose after him, but Henry pivoted his momentum and dodged the sweep of her kick, returning with a punch of explosive magic right onto her toes. Her ankle twitched, the toes curling in from pain, and Henry immediately removed himself from this dangerous area underneath her where her feet were quick to chase him.
“Not bad,” Helga said, rubbing the assaulted toes with the sole of her other foot. “But you’re a nuisance, not a threat.”
“Let them go,” Henry said, his body shining in gold, cracking his knuckles.
“That little run-around gave you confidence, didn’t it?” Helga came again, her steps faster. Henry didn’t find the opportunity to counter now, evading those soles again and again. A small apple tree splintered and crackled aside as the ball of her foot shoved them down through a stomp after him, and Henry wrestled through all the wild plants.
Helga raised her hand as if holding a cup, her fingers turning green. Knees bent and ready, Henry watched his surroundings. A vine lashed out at him from the ground. Henry bolted away from its curling grasp, only to find another green whip ahead of him. It caught his ankles with stiff strength and flicked him up into the air.
Henry’s landing was kind, a bed of moss and flowers, but Helga was there. A roof of smooth, pale sole flesh was collapsing his way. No time to act, Helga stomped him with her right foot. The greenery and her soft flesh helped dampen the impact, but her enormity was felt regardless, squashing out a struggled whine from Henry. The smoothness of her sole was unmatched, free of wrinkles and any odd deformities. It was a blanket of white cream, consuming Henry’s world as she stood, enough that even her arch came down to take his legs while his head was at the ball of her foot.
Then, it rose, the dress gliding up with her and revealing the long, pale pillar of her stationary left leg, while the right sole paused a short way above him. Henry knew what was coming, no time to act. The right sole came rushing back down, swallowing his field of vision and leaving his senses blank. Only the overbearing hulk was felt, pinning him in place. Goddess Helga twisted her foot, the sole flesh sliding over his bare torso and face and dragging him with, as if he were a rag she used to wipe this moss surface. Heat joined the friction, and Henry felt something well up underneath. His manhood was, of course, not excluded from the pressure, and he couldn’t control the craving. As much as was possible underneath the shut lid of her standing foot, Henry tried to shrink away, struggling against her, bracing against the current of the predictable swipes of her foot-twists. But his manhood had the opposite character, thrusting into it, rising to expectantly meet the force. They were in a symphony with her. And now that urge competed with the rest of his body, with his mind, encouraging the rest of him to give up on this fight and let the sole win.
The pressure on his back released as her foot rose, though his front still came with the sole, dangling off it. A simple flex of her toes made him loosen off, falling back into the greenery.
“With my powers, I can annihilate your very being,” Goddess Helga said. “But that won’t be needed. I’ll use no more than my size, the basic, most fundamental capabilities of any giant. No more is needed for you.”
The foot returned, though the nature of the stomp was different. It didn’t smash straight into him, didn’t intend to take him out immediately. Henry was blotted out by a fast wall of sole flesh that sat on him a short moment, twisted, swiped back and forth, then rushed back up and down onto him, toying with him upon the next return. His body would unavoidably adhere to her sole on its short, stomping visits, sending him sprawling upward with it whenever she raised the foot, always landing a few yards off his last location like a bouncy insect one tried to smack with a paper. Henry was thrashed about, none of her stomps strong enough to snuff all his efforts down to zero while not leaving room for retaliation either. He grunted, groaned, muttered, tried to summon an effort coordinated and powerful enough to escape this lock of her repeated stomps, but there was never an opening to take advantage of.
Her toes would join the action, aiming her stomps so that her digits found purchase on his body. A swift pincer on his head to squish him in the embrace of their toe flesh, a grapple on his torso bringing him well up with the whole foot before tossing him back down into a slam, the toes added nuance to this beating. Goddess Helga, hands on her hips, allowed a weak smile to form on her lips. She’d occasionally need to hop over with her stationary leg to follow Henry’s constantly changing location, brought about by the trashing, but the right foot and its toes never gave him more than a second undisturbed.
That urge was building again, from his manhood. The twist of Helga’s foot had at first managed to summon it out of him, not merely due to Henry’s affection for feet, but the persistent pattern of its movement. And even though the steadiness of the pressure on his manhood was gone, the stomps were so relentless that there was a rhythm even there. In one of her many toe-grapples, her third toe clutched over his groin, and once his manhood perked up in response to that, it never died down. Any little errant ptoss of pressure from the ball of her foot, from a clutching toe, a sweeping fold of her grinding motion, any little thing that found his groin added to the building lust.
And at last, it came to where Henry couldn’t stop himself. His captured friends, Rennard, Milton, Ada, the whole situation, it escaped him. He stuck his tongue out to find the softness of her foot flesh. Despite how elusive it was, always flying about, not seeking his worship but seeking only to beat him, Henry scored a few licks with his outstretched tongue. A side of toe here, the swirl from the ball of her foot there, he managed to scavenge samples of taste in the vortex. He even stole kisses, catching the enormous foot that was coming for him with swift pecks. The craving peaked, and he wished for quiet, for stillness, so he may worship her to the end of his delight. What was at stake didn’t matter, all his captured friends could watch for all he cared, he needed only a bit of lone time with her toes.
Inevitably, climax approached, and Henry’s groans returned. He lost the control to search for her flesh with his mouth, grimacing to both the orgasm and her beating. He spurted his seed into his trousers, all while Helga’s foot kept mauling him. The beating from her foot added to the orgasm’s peaks; in a sense, Goddess Helga was stomping the cum out of him.
When his orgasm ended, the foot stopped, hovering over him where he lay. She noticed the ebb-and-flow of his energy, the peaking vitality and returning movement, the groans, and the complete limpness that overtook him in the end. The foot shuffled aside so she could see him, and as Henry lay on his back, the wet patch on his trousers cleared up any of Helga’s confusions. To challenge her and be allowed any form of pleasure afterwards was highway robbery, and he’d indulged right under her nose, in the midst of her beating.
Goddess Helga scowled. Things were about to get worse.