For Richer, For Smaller (Chapter 12) (Patreon)

“There’s no need for that. I’d say we were both wrong for… oh…” the six-incher mumbled, as he realized where Lillian was headed with all this, or rather that he was headed for the floor. Notably, a foam mat previously rested in front of the sink as early as this morning, but it was nowhere to be seen now, which was greatly of concern to Tony as he was laid flat on his back between the woman’s sandaled insteps and released from her firm grasp. From there, she slowly drew her bare peds out of these strappy hard-soled sheaths with a leathery swish, next using her curled toes to slide both vessels backward and well out of the way, all while her shrunken husband watched this foot-localized striptease with increasingly sickly antsiness. In the back of his mind, it occurred to the diminutive creature that he could stand up and jog away now. Nothing was physically coercing him to lie here, at least not yet, though that was sure to change in the coming seconds. Lillian hadn’t even told him to stay put. So why couldn’t he just do it? Pride, surely. Competitiveness. Stubbornness, to be less kind. It could be any of those, Tony internally decided, but it wasn’t fear. Never.

Time was up. Lillian’s soles rose overhead again, one after the other, and made a mat out of Tony by sharing his immobilized body between the balls of her pressed-together feet, which despite their predictable cream-puff softness, adequately simulated the feeling of being buried under a rockslide. Above, water crashed from the faucet into the basin and fine china clanged as the woman began simultaneously washing dishes and trampling her shrunken husband in a practical demonstration of her new multitasking initiative for completing housework and completing Tony at the same time. Her feet came close to mirroring the plate-scrubbing efficiency of her hands then, as she repeatedly raised one arch above the little guy and then bombarded him with another stamp, until the splashing percussion of the dirty dishes perfectly matched the pounding rhythm of crease-dense sole slabs recurrently heaving their alternating weight upon him. Over time, this pattern allowed him to associate the sound of a sponge circling a bowl or suds splashing off the side of the sink mid-wash with its matching rough-and-tumble underfoot consequence, like Lillian was expertly playing a drumkit with all four appendages acting independently at once.

And throughout all of this, the resilient half-foot high man below didn’t budge or make any additional peeps, except for the instinctive shudder and wind expulsion that inevitably came of being rapidly trodden upon, which was impossible to suppress. He refused to give his giantess even an inch in this complex erotically-charged power dynamic struggle she’d chosen to impose upon them both. Because of course Tony wasn’t foolish enough at this stage to believe Lillian was acting purely out of wifely charity here. Perhaps she thought she was going to prove something to him now: that he ought to expect less of her, that he should’ve consulted her before shrinking himself, or that even having this fetish at all was more trouble than it was worth. Whatever her reasons, Tony was prepared to outlast this psychosexual siege.

Or at least that’s what he told himself, but Christ on a pogo stick, this one hurt. Maybe he’d been too quick to discount the usefulness of the mats after Lillian’s apparent personality turnabout after all, because without one at his back now, the difference in force seemed akin to flooring a car straight into a telephone pole, except minus a functioning airbag to take some of the edge off. The woman was really putting him through her paces here, in a painfully literal sense. Again and again she stomped and steam-rollered his whole shape, with neither foot ever holding still upon Tony for more than milliseconds at a time. During any given instant, she was either violently cascading one ped down upon him from only two inches above like some kind of board-breaking martial arts trick, or rapidly arching away the other sole she’d just ruthlessly clapped down, ensuring her husband felt a wave of concentrated pressure traveling in a lively surge from her heel to her toes. The cherry on top proved to be a notably unpleasant musk clinging to her flesh, like moist leather with a dash of sandpaper and loamy earth sprinkled with salted sourness, which all assuredly resulted from wearing those sandals. There was also a sticky glaze of unwiped perspiration frosted over the pillowy contours of her sole. Neither this unclean residue nor its fusty aroma was brand-new to Tony, since it was simply inevitable to sample such all-too-human traits while arduously indulging below a woman’s feet as often as he did, no matter how often Lillian had them cared for and rendered model-ready.

But his reduction in size these past weeks had certainly upgraded what was previously at worst only a minor irritation up to a downright off-putting cornucopia of sweaty filth-tinted distaste. Granted, his awareness of the giantess’s personal foot odors or wet clammy-textured side-effects paled dramatically still in comparison to the overkill of her actual trampling style which felt hellbent on terraforming his physiology into something flatter and squishier. But lately these ripely rugged sensations had become too present to be entirely ignored either. Though Tony didn’t think he could actually call her out on this suspicion without the risk of again making himself appear weak or soft-hearted, he’d even begun to think that this morning-brewed footwear stench or the ensuing slickness painted out from her sole pores wasn’t merely a downside of his shrinkage. Lillian still showered just as often as she always did, so far as he knew, and if anything now had more frequent at-home pedicures and spa treatments scheduled following her husband’s official downsizing.

Yet her feet, though supple and peachy-pink and blemish-free in their liver-smooth perfection as usual, had gradually become more unkempt on average with regard to their natural perfumes or allowance of perspired fluid, as if she no longer felt the need to impress him with only the purely angelic state of her feet. Or held even an iota of shame for the offense of not keeping her best features spotlessly squeaky-clean when it came time for their duty. There was a frustrating irony in the fact that Lillian had no qualms about enacting this in-place stampede upon her puny spouse with decidedly contaminated sweat-claggy peds, and yet apparently saw cleaning the breakfast dishes as an imperative enough priority to snatch Tony up between fictional conference calls and force him to substitute for her as a kitchen mat while she did so. Occasional droplets of dishwater would leap from her hands as she swabbed and dried flatware, plinking down her insteps and toe crevices until the soapy liquid penetrated far enough beneath her sole to moisten the shrinker’s face alongside this fickle dusting of sweat. But these here-and-there spritzes wasn’t nearly enough to overcome the questionably-purposeful uncleanliness of her feet. Especially those soles and toepads which so rigidly refused to keep still, heartily trouncing Tony below their musty hard-hitting delicacy for no less than ten minutes straight until it felt metaphorically (and almost physically) like she’d transformed him into mincemeat.

Of course the shrinker begrudgingly ejaculated in his pants at roughly the halfway mark of Lillian’s dish-cleansing efforts, so awash in walloping pain and iron-clad pressure that he scarcely even noticed this meager release of fleeting euphoria. Unlike their usual routine, however, the giantess carried right on using him afterward until she, not Tony, was finished.

“I guess you’d better run along now, huh, little one?” Lillian suggested with a coy lilt while drying her hands, having stepped off of her spouse’s tender fatigue-riddled body again without fanfare. She nudged his hip with a spongy-sleek big toe and, when he tensed in obvious apprehension, giggled like she had after jump-scaring him upstairs. “I know you’ve got those big important meetings with your big important moneymen. Like you said. And there’s no way they’ll be able to get by without you, is there? So you’d better not keep them waiting. Just come find me when you’re done. I was planning to dust some of the taller bookshelves, the ones I can only reach when I stand on my tiptoes, and something tells me you’re going to be just as helpful there as you were here. I don’t know about you, hon, but I think everything’s really coming together around here. I admit, it took some convincing before I saw the light, but now? I’m starting to agree that this change in you really was the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”