Defeated, and more than a little panicked at that final threat of further hours spent underfoot, Sam hurriedly ripped his clothes away. The buttons popped away in his rush, and his slacks nearly tore down the thigh. He hopped out of the garments so quickly, down to his skivvies, he scarcely had time to feel embarrassed to be exposed this way in front of Rachel. True, he’d shown his member to quite a few female employees in his time, and wasn’t ashamed of it, but that was about as much of him as they were allowed to see; it wouldn’t do if the power dynamic was confused, especially since all he wanted was their silken soles to crank him to orgasm. The combination of being an inch tall, ripping all his clothes away, and standing in the stage-like palm of his tormentor while her hazel spotlight eyes zeroed to him made it a far less fun affair.
Almost as if she had the power in this situation. That reality in particular made Sam want to shrivel inside out.
“Now that’s more like it,” Rachel smarmed. She collected the pathetic crumpled pile of his clothes and sprinkled those, too, into the garbage can. For a few seconds, Sam fantasized at the possibility of a janitor discovering the clothes and thus bringing this woman to justice. Then he realized any sensible person wouldn’t see those stolen garments and assume he’d been made a shrunken prisoner of her shoe; they’d just think it was strange someone had a set of miniature doll clothing in their garbage, then move on with their life.
“Okay. Here I am now,” Sam said, trembling. “What do I have to say to prove to you how sorry I am for treating you the way I did?” It was unfamiliar territory, flexing apologetic muscles, but the little man was more than aware of the risks now of acting otherwise.
“You don’t have to say anything. Not now, at least. I think you said your piece. And as you ought to be aware, given the number of times you’ve been threatened with legal action… the defendant doesn’t get forever to prattle on and on. He goes up, he states his case, he answers questions, and he sits down before the jury starts to realize he’s just a sentient penis in a $3000 suit.”
$4000, Sam thought bitterly.
“Instead, I just want to see if the rest of your body is as big of a liar as those clever little lips. Or maybe I should say as small of a liar? Never mind. We’ll be here all day if I have to remember how tiny you are every time we try to get something done,” Rachel said. She lowered her palm to the desktop, and tipped it downward slightly, encouraging the naked incher off the gangplank of fingers with her thumb. “Now. You just sit tight here, okay, little fella?”
Sam stood on display, humiliated, enraged, and broiling with verbal comebacks he so desperately wanted to hurl, but for the assured bodily harm which would come to him in response. However, most of those thoughts were shoved deep down into his psyche again when Rachel laid back, leaning in the swivel chair until it creaked again, and hoisted her bare leg up onto the desk. Her nude heel landed with a squeaky thud on the glass edge, briefly turning a fleshy yellow as the soft skin smushed against the translucent surface. Instantly, the woman’s bare foot became like a living obelisk before Sam, as he stood before it, craning his neck up to make out her toes at the top. From this angle, Rachel’s foot was taller than a house.
The shrunken man felt the vibration of the desk below his legs settling again as Rachel got comfortable, rocking her foot back and forth. That roadmap of a sole, teeming with intricate curves and crevices shaped of the constantly reformulating skin-crinkles, laid above. A morning’s worth of stale, fusty atmosphere steamed gently from it as Rachel’s arch was finally allowed to air out fully. The woman crossed her opposite leg, still clad in its nude nylon and pump, across her ankle, and cupped her head in both palms, as though she’d made a beach hammock of her office chair.
Sam was mesmerized again, as he so often was. Yet among all the times in his life he’d openly ogled a beautiful woman’s foot, this was something else. This was his fantasy, projected on an IMAX screen. This was the proverbial “too much of a good thing.” Indeed, Rachel’s foot was a very good thing, and Sam would very much have liked to feel it pressed up against an erection when it was its natural size. Right now, as he stared up at a foot which could render him a splatter if the woman so much as let her ankle tilt down, letting her sole fall flush with the desktop, that wish felt greatly at odds with reality.
He could see everything. The micro-adjustments in flesh tone: the last bastions of ruddy pink at last turning a cooler peach-hue a skin cell at a time, now that Rachel’s foot was propped up and bearing no weight. The glossy gleam of foot-sweat, speckled like miniature rain puddles at junctures of the foot where the greatest muscular control was called for. And of course, the texture of the foot itself: where the rippled valleys of Rachel’s broad sole creases intersected at perpendicular angles with the much-tinier lines making up the quiltwork pattern of her rosy skin. Every time Rachel so much as twitched a toe, the whole fleshy canvas was rocked, altering its shape and landscape. The ball of her foot would bulge harder, deepening the arch and flexing the toes wide apart. With the land mass of his lawyer’s gigantic foot propositioned right in front of his naked body like this, so close that he could no longer see the rest of her body, Sam felt the first signs of internal betrayal.
Despite himself: despite the fear, the soreness, and the knowledge that this very same foot had earlier held him hostage beneath its majestic, spongy, megaton weight, Sam was getting hard.
“Just as I suspected,” Rachel said, peeking around the wall of her propped-up foot. That victorious grin returned, and she gave her toes a few curling pulses, re-shaping her sole in the process and only hurting Sam’s case. “All that money and prestige, but you’re still just a horny little boy when someone puts a pretty foot in front of you.”
Red with fury and arousal, Sam hung his head, yet even then couldn’t escape the visage of Rachel’s foot. It was so all-encompassing, he’d have to close his eyes to get some relief, yet at the same time, he was compelled to keep staring upon it like fine art. Every instant he studied, he noticed a new detail which just got him raring harder for contact. Life and heat seemed to radiate from the upturned sole, inviting him closer.
What the fuck is wrong with me, he wondered bitterly. Angry as he was at his psychotic lawyer, he couldn’t help but harbor ill will toward himself as well in this moment.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Rachel mocked. “Get up close and personal, like I know you want to.”
Sam stood his ground. He didn’t want to. Not really. Where could you possibly start, with a foot that large?
“Excuse me. I don’t recall suggesting we were making decisions by democratic committee here. Walk up to my foot, you little perv, so we can take the lie detector test. If you don’t, you’re going back in the hole,” Rachel explained. “Do I need to explain the metaphor to you? The hole is-”
“I know, I know,” Sam blurted. He power-walked forward, closing the distance, until he was standing at arm’s reach from Rachel’s foot. Until the network of crisscrossing sole wrinkles and flesh stipples filled his whole vision. Now so close that he could feel the warmth of it on his skin and smell the pungent details of its last leather-bound imprisonment, the little man was feeling the same jellied shudder in his knees as when he first laid eyes on the monumental woman. And that was before he knew she was willing to stuff him in her giant shoes for a mortally threatening time-out.