Baker's Dozen (Chapter 7) (Patreon)

FRIDAY

Of course after three days of torment spent at work with Amber, and only the first week of likely a lifetime spent in this humbling position, I could no longer convince myself it was all just a foul nightmare zested of toejam swill and the greasiest runoff from her mythically enormous feet. Granted, I still had dreams about being trampled all day in the accursed darkness, gobbling up crumbs of gummied sweat and bakery trash, and the saddest part was that I wished to remain asleep, even if it meant living through the same horror in my imagination, because at least it was less painful and nauseating to merely picture myself being brutally pulverized over and over by a black sky of soggy sock fuzz and eating repulsive foot-junk in order to save my life. The real thing was and always would be unthinkably worse, and as I discovered, that third day was a cake walk compared to the future existence my titaness ex had in store.

After I was peeled out of my punishing quarters from a night earned thanks to the fact that I had “failed” to eat a quantity of soured scone triple the size of my shrunken body, I awaited Amber to cease silently grinning and hand down my sentence for the day.

“Good news, you kinky little piece of shit,” she chuckled, holding me roughly between her fingertips. “You’re graduating today. Know what that means?”

“N-No.”

“It means I don’t have to go easy on you! To tell you the truth, I was wondering if you’d just snap and die on the first day of finally giving your life a purpose in my shoe. That’s why I had to build up slowly with all those different tricks, just to make sure you could handle it. And it turns out you can! I mean, that’s nothing to be proud of, considering it just means the only thing you’re good for on Earth is eating and drinking up everything my foot sweats out for you, plus rubbing and worshipping me as the goddess I always was to you, but it’s the best you’re ever going to get, so try to be happy. No more training wheels. Today, the real work starts. This is how it’s going to be every day from now on. Understand?”

At this point, I felt no more shame in openly bawling in front of Amber. After all, it wasn’t like I could be even further humiliated, when she’d already stripped me of so much humanity, forcing me to be used as an insectoid heel-cushion and imbibe her worst, most saltily pungent aromas in both scented and liquid format. So, I’d decided to allow myself the treat of a brief cathartic cry, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the giantess’s foot drowned out my sorrow with far thicker dollops. Of course part of me desperately hoped she was just saying all this to frighten me into worse panic, considering that the torture she’d already put me through was more taxing than any human distress I could’ve previously devised, yet just as much, I trusted that Amber could back up her threats, and when she said that her former efforts were just child’s play, I knew it wasn’t a joke. Today, I’d enter a new circle of hell.

“Yes,” I hollowly replied, knowing there was no underfoot consequence so heinous she couldn’t make it worse if my answers were incorrect.

“That’s my good obedient foot-fucker,” Amber cooed, as if speaking to a beloved puppy, but her face quickly twisted back into a snarl. “I don’t really feel like explaining stuff to you anymore, so I guess you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself once you’re down there. All you have to do is give everything you have from that tiny body and even tinier mind to serving me and my feet. And if you can do that, then I guess I’ll keep you around a long time. Whoops, look at the clock, we’re already running behind! Have a good day at work, Oscar. Or else.”

The ramp-up in intensity became apparent almost immediately, when I wasn’t dropped into Amber’s rank high-tops, but into the cottony mouth of her sock instead. The fluffy folds closed around me like a tangled parachute as I fell, and though this was supposedly a clean garment, already I could detect dried crystals of sweat ingrained in the fibers: the oozy essence of my ex-girlfriend’s plump peds bled right into the sock and made a part of it, no matter how often it was washed. Though, I could also guess that Amber had purposefully chosen not to stow me in a laundered sock, nor would she ever again. The stink was thick as smoke around me from the moment I landed at the bottom, and I hadn’t even yet been joined by the brawny heft of her naked colossus of a foot, though there wasn’t long to wait.

I had already spent three days in a disgusting routine of being trapped between soaked sock and grimy insole, then the hours after work massaging and excavating filth from the chubby contours of her sole wrinkles and toe pads, but I had yet to be actually stood upon by Amber using her bare foot until now. As the dark sock was stretched taut around her skin, with my miniscule body splayed crucifixion-style against the burly sea of pale odorous sole meat, I knew today was indeed going to be different. Buoyant as the cloth threads felt at first on landing, they’d been distended so far to make room for Amber’s heel-to-toe bulk filling up smelly real estate, the sock lining became hard as barbed wire, clamping me mercilessly into the plush yield of her semi-damp arch. Especially once my giant ex’s foot was inserted into her shoe, the pressure increased, both from her immense body weight concentrating upon me, and the strain of the sock nudging me ever-deeper against the padding of dewy skin, which almost seemed to swell up around my compressed limbs like rising bread dough.

Then her first strides cemented how little agency I had over my body here, sandwiched between the unforgiving netting of her grunge-coated sock and the crushing slab that was her sweltering cellulite-flush sole. I thought I was already powerless yesterday while being made to inchworm around beneath her sock bound by tape, but this now was true immobility. True domination. She didn’t need adhesive to restrict my movements; the earth-moving compression of her nude arch could do the job alone. I blearily attempted to comprehend the kind of day which lay before me now, entrapped within Amber’s sock without even the veneer of her sloppy sock to protect me from the raw pudgy musculature of her foot, nor to soak up the downpour of perspiration. But I couldn’t really imagine the sticky, putrescent, body-bending horrors to come until she’d taken those first weighty steps of another infinite ten-hour day of labor.

Every descent of Amber’s foot, from a skyward arc to walk or a pause over the car’s gas pedal, only deepened my incalculable misery. I discovered quickly that being stepped on from inside the sock rather than outside made each landing feel triple as potent, since the ceiling of sock, nasty as it tasted, had previously offered a meager landing pad like a trampoline to help blunt the catastrophic fall of her foot. There was no such luxury now. I was made to feel every knotty arch-muscle, every curling wrinkle, every squishy deformation of sole-flesh flattening to the shoe, all alternately flexing and firming against my fractional shape.

This of course was experienced while Amber rained down the wrath of our broken relationship onto my hapless one-third-inch form in a manner that surely would’ve long ago turned me to indecipherable specks of gore lost to the much-hunkier globs of lint swimming across the supple expanse of her foot’s underbelly, if not for her magic keeping me intact. There was no way she’d ever allow me to die down here until I was begging for it, drunk on liquefied funk and picturing an afterlife purgatory far happier than this. The pounding from her foot was absolutely relentless, and perhaps worst of all, I knew Amber probably wasn’t even trying to take harder steps than normal, which might’ve at least meant the impacts would soften when she grew bored of giving me some early-morning agony. But no, this was just the standard now, and I’d either have to get accustomed to it, or become a prisoner of a shattered mind as well as the muggy, sweat-cascading confines of her shoe.

Yesterday, being stuck under Amber’s sock while continuously battered into the musty grit-painted insole felt like being stuck in a claustrophobic crawlspace, but compared to being inside the slovenly black-fuzzed garment, my former encampment was a palace. I soon missed that sliver of room which formed while my giant ex took a lumbering step, allowing me the freedom to move my limbs and scavenge for revolting foodstuff. Now, even when her high-top was airborne, there was just enough room to spare so that my speck of a body could exist and draw breath while bound tight as a drum to the slope of her hot-and-excreting foot, and sometimes even less than that, when Amber’s sole took a hard landing and pinned me so violently to the fleshy runway that I actually dipped deeper against the undulating skin than the outer rim of her foot itself.

And of course, a tighter space and more punishing blows only increased my augmented so-called sensory “superpowers” my ex-girlfriend was cruel enough to give me yesterday. Even before Amber was out the door, I was rasping shallow gulps of pure condensed rotten-dairy-and-corn-chips fustiness more like toxic waste than simple human B.O. My sense of smell had become so strong, I could swear I was still detecting every whiff just as strong while puffing out another poisonous lungful when next Amber stepped on me to squeeze out whatever tainted air I collected. Actually inhaling, of course, even as gently as possible, made me feel like Amber’s foot was doing nothing less than filling my every orifice with a special weaponized jelly constituted of distilled near-alcoholic sweat, toe-crevice gunk, flaked blisters, decomposing bread crumbs, and good old fashioned stink as ancient as her witchcraft. I would’ve coughed and gagged, if not puked up my internal organs, but there physically wasn’t room to do so in such compact quarters; the force of my ex-girlfriend’s foot wouldn’t allow me to expel a single drop of spiced toe vinegar and shame.

“Aww, having trouble moving down there, creep?” Amber’s magically disembodied voice declared.

Right then, she gave her shoe another capacious slam to the ground and reburied me in the grisly brawn of her sole with such dizzying spirit, I believed for an instant my shrunken body had been flattened into two dimensions. Instead, I was simply submerged so heavily in the flabby bend of her corny callused sole like an oven, the heat and pressure had momentarily made me lose all feeling except the continually keen sting of that demonically skunky bouquet wafting out of every pore.

“Wow, it really feels good having you close to me this way. I didn’t want to let you into my sock at first, because I figured you’d just get super horny, touching my foot all day like that, and the last thing I want is for you to enjoy this at all, but I can tell now that was a mistake,” she continued. “We’re going to have to do this more often, because it is WAY too hilarious feeling you squish into the middle of my foot like that, on repeat, for just hours and hours. It’s actually kind of soothing. Who knew I’d ever actually get this much pleasure out of your selfish sicko desires? Anyway, here’s the thing, loser. I figured you’d be able to guess what’s expected of you down there, seeing how you can’t move or do anything else except stick your face up against my big ol’ foot, and since I’m never giving you human food again, if you want to live you’re going to have to scarf down every bit of crud you find down there… you know, lint, dead skin, dust balls, and then wash it all down with whatever comes out when you suck on my wrinkles…”