“What? Oh, thank you. They’re-” Rachel began in response. She turned around, and found herself face-to-face with Larissa, the beautiful ginger paralegal. Or, perhaps more significantly as an identifying characteristic, the girl who also had a shrunken human stowed away in her shoe.

            “Seriously, they’re real sexy, but still totally office-chic, you know?” Larissa said.

            “That’s… very nice of you to say.” Rachel couldn’t help but let her gaze flash from Larissa’s shoes then back to her own. Did she know?

            “Of course, they also look like the kind that get a little achy after a whole day at work,” Larissa continued nonchalantly, and with no apparent purpose in the copy room except to address Rachel. “Those are some tall heels.” She crossed her arms, tapping her slip-on loafer against the floor. The redhead’s pale heel thumped softly on the backless lip of the shoe, and Rachel couldn’t help but recall what she’d seen earlier. Was that the shoe with the little person inside it too?

            “That’s very true,” Rachel said, smiling innocently.

            “It’s easier if you can get something for arch support, I’ve found,” Larissa said. As she spoke, she casually inspected her fingernails, hardly holding eye contact now. Her foot kept on thumping the open back of the shoe. “You know, like a specialized insole. Or… something.”

            “Or something.”

            For a moment, the two young women stared one another down, and Rachel began to feel strangely at ease. There was no malice in Larissa’s charming eyes; only a sense of comradery. Like the only two girls in the clubhouse who had a dirty secret.

            “You want my advice?” Larissa asked.

            “That would be lovely.”

            “Read this aloud.” Larissa produced a slip of paper from her pocket, folded in half, and handed it to Rachel. Just as quickly as she arrived, then, she turned to leave. “When you’re alone again. Just once.”

            “Wait,” Rachel uttered. She frowned at the seeming gibberish of non-English words written on the paper. Then her gaze flashed back to Larissa’s moving feet, watching the carefree yet inexplicably powerful loafers carrying the girl away, with some anonymous mini-person serving hard time inside.

            “Yes?”

            “What does it do?”

            “Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Larissa said with a sly smile. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll like pampering yourself a little during the workday. Not just having… something… down there to massage you while you walk and work, but something to keep you moisturized, too. Once you say those words, any “arch support” accessories you’re using will have a limitless supply of exactly what you need to stay soft and sexy.”

            Rachel, stunned, remained in the copy room while Larissa exited and vanished around the corner. She pressed the slip into her pocket, then curled her toes inside her pumps.

            Sam had endured an hour thus far with his body all but taped up to Rachel’s arch by the severe pull of the nylon. He’d developed a system where he breathed slow and deep enough that he could just squeak by with enough soggy, foot-flavored air to stay semi-conscious. Avoiding the battering of the sole was another story, of course, and Sam was rife with bruises, even after Rachel returned from her walk and carried on with work at her desk. Like before, she occasionally let her shoe hang from her foot, granting Sam a temporary gasp of air and light, before it was taken away again without warning when Rachel slapped her foot straight back into its tight-fitting stylish holster. With his rage temporarily in check, and a half-viable way to stay alive for the time being, Sam was essentially stasis, until he noticed something strange, just as Rachel started absent-mindedly tapping her shoe beneath the desk.

            He was getting hard again. Despite his fury. Despite the stinging heat and salty air. Despite the abrasiveness of his body being continually violently massaged directly into the shallow stretch of Rachel’s foot and raking across a wet nylon patch until he got rug burn, his biology was managing to betray him. How could this possibly be? As much as Sam enjoyed footjobs, he’d never been one for getting up close and personal with them above the belt, as doing so only reminded him of the potential filth and inherent revulsion of a stinky, grimy foot. Right now, he was swimming in a hellish example of that same worst-case-scenario. He hated Rachel’s foot more than ever now. Yet he felt the flow of testosterone and blood to his baser levels. Worse, the longer she tapped her foot, likely without even thinking about its effect on him, he was getting hornier. After a few minutes of quiet torment, Sam was back at full mast and aching for release.

            Humiliating as it was, he might have tried to tug himself to climax, if only for relief, but it was impossible to move his limbs independently, as Rachel’s foot had swollen slightly again from the heat, her flesh filling up the already-thin stocking space, and he utterly lacked the strength to fight the hand-stitched tenacity of that nylon. So, Sam had no recourse other than lying still, with his face and his dick simultaneously squeezed against a loping foot-wrinkle, and await a slow crawl toward orgasm.

            Ten minutes of shoe-bobbing later, Sam was so on edge that even the slightest brush against his member would do him in. When Rachel’s sole flexed again, he shuddered and came. No more relaxed, but at least glad to have that urge taken care of, Sam tried to return to the coma-like mentality of lying still, breathing slow, and waiting out this latest stage of inane punishment. At least that was his plan, until Sam felt himself hardening again.

            This time it happened doubly as fast. Even while Rachel stopped tapping her foot, and dangled the mouth of the shoe off her heel again, Sam was well on his way to a half-chub inside two minutes. She wasn’t even rubbing him into her foot via the simple act of wearing him inside now, as the tension of the nylon was allowed to sag slightly in the open air. He could smell the ratty office carpet again, which was a major improvement over sweat-glazed skin and downy stocking; he could make out the sparkle of waning mid-afternoon sunlight over the cusp of the shoe, even while he was mostly kept in shadow, thanks to the positioning of Rachel’s leg. Sam was even stowed far enough down the length of her foot that if another human being were to stand behind the woman’s chair and peek underneath, they would surely see the naked prisoner she had trapped inside her nylons for safe-keeping. All of these encouraging little notions should have been enough to discourage his body from pleasure at this damning feminine appendage.

            Still, as his body hung like a web-tied fly from the moist and buoyant netting, Sam was coaxed toward the point of no return. He wracked his brain, trying to uncover whatever nervous system malfunction was causing him to have his third orgasm of the day pressed up against a foot which was causing him more grief than any single entity in his entire life. Was he having a stroke or something? No longer hugged skin-tight to the sole, Sam couldn’t count on sheer friction to force an orgasm. It, frankly, should’ve been impossible. Nevertheless, each time Rachel dipped the shoe a little lower from the hanging perch of her toes, the wrinkles of her arch bunched up into buttery little furrows, and they swelled up over Sam’s helpless inch-tall body. That was apparently enough for his disgusting subconscious to work with, because after a few dozen casual dips, watching Rachel’s shoe dangle ever-lower toward the floor below, Sam learned to anticipate her mindless gestures as a signal of an oncoming endorphin rush. The next time Rachel’s sole blossomed to its meatiest volume, her sole-creases running like rivers and grasping inanimately for his junk, Sam bucked painfully into reticent euphoria. Surrounded in the swirl of swampy heat and rancid odor, and with the sharply insulting knowledge that Rachel was perfectly comfortable letting him briefly hang outside her shoe in the outside world before tugging him back in along with her foot at whim, the little man was defeated again.

            “Jesus,” he huffed. “What the fuck.” Though there was no way to be certain through the filter of leather, felt, and nylon separating him from the rest of giant humanity, Sam would’ve sworn he heard a flicker of girlish laughter. Did Rachel realize what was happening down here?