“Lovely. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get home and start unwinding, so let’s get you introduced to your new workspace for the next week,” August said. She leaned down to the floor and retrieved one of her clogs, then held it up, until the leathery back lip was aligned with the edge of the desk. “Go on. Climb inside my shoe, you little pig. I haven’t got all day.”
Awestruck, Sam peered inside the black hovel. The clog’s tall shape ensured he could see all the way inside the broad tunnel, to the ovular toe curve near the end. It felt a bit like staring into a concert atrium stage just before the lights flashed on. Eerie, almost haunting, especially as Sam reflected on the knowledge that, no matter how hard he fought, no matter what he said or did now, he was going inside that shoe. And August’s foot was going to follow him within, until he was buried under slimy after-work foot flesh and oily ragged nylon. This ritual would last for his whole life, with only the occasional break to be passed into the greedy hands of yet another vengeful bitch from whom he’d been foolish enough to strongly request a footjob. If there was a hell on earth, he was truly gazing into its mouth at this precise moment. Sam crumbled to his knees.
August sighed, clearly irritated at his reticence, not so much at the thought of being disobeyed, but because time was wasting. She reached behind her head, plucked one of the dark rods stemmed through her hay-colored locks, and pulled it out. Suddenly armed with a black skewer, she pointed the opposite end at Sam’s body, and with a single flick, knocked him on his backside. The hair stick quickly followed, and pinned him firmly to the surface, stopping just short of impaling him. Absolutely defeated now, Sam hardly flinched at the threat.
“Well, that’s funny. Somebody’s already in shutdown mode, I see. That’s good. You’re moving through the stages of foot-slave grief more quickly than my last trainee. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll even start to enjoy your time down there someday. After all…” August teased. She curled her pinky fingertip against the lower half of Sam’s body, supporting his diminutive undercarriage against the pad of her digit. Regrettably, he twitched with pleasure. “…at least some part of you seems to be enjoying it already. So get with the program. Oh, and welcome to the rest of your life.”
Without another word, August utilized some dexterous chopstick precision to sweep Sam directly into the gaping black pit of her awaiting clog, without ever alleviating the pressure on his chest from her tool, until he was given to gravity. The little man hit the slope hard, spiraling down toward the essential underworld of his newfound existence in never-ending footjob torture. Once he’d smacked into the very end, it took Sam a minute to reorient and even know which way was up, until he found the swell of light above, and witnessed August’s beautiful, victorious countenance smiling down on him like the malevolent foot-deity she was. The blonde-haired shark twirled a finger through the curly ends of her tresses, gave them a toss, and puckered her lips in a faux-blown kiss to the newest roommate of her favorite pair of backless clogs.
Then her face vanished, giving way to the lurching shape of the monstrous foot still clad in putrid, briny stocking. She took her time guiding the megalomaniacal length of it inside, letting her fabric-packaged toes become reacquainted with the space, before they curled and scrunched in anticipation of gripping Sam’s helpless form into their squishy, balmy folds. Seeing now that there was no path forward but the one he’d unknowingly set himself upon the first time he invited a cute secretary with sexy pumps into his office, Sam purged himself of all feeling: rage, sorrow, and even regret. He simply let the sentence take hold as his face was swallowed between August’s mammoth toes.
Case dismissed.