If the Glove Fits (Chapter 11) (Patreon)
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It felt like there was entirely too much of the giantess for David to handle longer than a few seconds, yet judging by the relaxed spew of smoke above while Claire lackadaisically thumbed her phone, through his haze, he had a guess she was going to take full advantage of this break: the kind they would’ve once spent together, laughing and shooting the shit, instead of drowning him in a solar-hot iron-dense sludge fest of oozing sockjam tar. Indeed the force being exerted upon him now could only be understood as the frozen nanosecond between an avalanche of seven-ton boulders pouring down a mountainside atop him, before the actual instant of his gory humanoid implosion, thus bottling all that heft into David without allowing him to break. And as the capper to this supremely repulsive torment, his perception of the temperature had inflated to such a volcanic pitch now that he was certain, if it actually had been this hot instead of just a metaphysical side-effect, Claire’s foot would’ve been promptly deep-fried inside him by the oil of her own acrid toe-picked drainage alone.
“Er… Er… Er…” David mentally peeped, unable to even think (let alone speak) more than the nondescript first sound of her name now. His pleading wheeze was just as much a substitute for the hyperventilating dry-sob he would’ve been traumatically enacting now, if only he still had physiology capable of releasing just a few precious drops of the hurt now destined to play on him forever; rather, the saltwater leaked into him instead of out, flooding the soiled-black pad of his insole tongue with her foot’s weight in blistering nidorous mucus-consistency perspiration gunk. Even when Claire finished her cig and returned to work, gifting him the comparative charity of becoming her glove again, that otherworldly ten-minute excruciation period as her shoe had imprinted so heavily on David’s mind that he couldn’t be freed, even now, and so felt as though he was smelling, tasting, and touching the multi-dimensional terrors of both her hand and foot at once.
And this, he knew, was only the first day of the rest of his life, if it could still be called that.
All day the pattern compounded, with Claire taking more-regular smoke breaks than she had the day before. Her tethered sufferer’s agony didn’t so much switch between hideous tenures as either her glove or shoe now, but merely emphasized one more greatly than the other depending on whatever article of clothing he inhabited for her needs just then, but in no moment now was David ever spared the scents and scourge of either site on the weary giantess’s exertion-generous body. At times, despite his coherency becoming more and more like a flimsy piece of Swiss cheese, David clung to the last-ditch hope that even if Claire couldn’t identify his disappearance or hear his psychic bellows for help on her own, surely someonein the store might pick up on his absence and then ask her why her why he hadn’t reported for duty? Yet not a word or curious look was exchanged between anyone, and business carried on as usual, like David had never existed or ever even needed to do so, and by the conclusion of the longest shift in history, he comprehended the totality of Alex’s erasure job on his existence and worth.
Back at Claire’s home once again, David tried to mentally prepare himself for the hurdle to come. He’d had all day to ready himself for the ultimate tithe of pain to the witch’s jealousy, once his usual prisons were removed. Still, as Claire tossed aside her work gloves and unlaced her succulently reeking sneakers to relax for the evening with her caring girlfriend, David felt as if he’d had no time at all to prepare. In lieu of crying out to Claire any longer, he instead wished sincere apologies toward Alex, vowing to harbor no ill will if only she’d vanish him in human form to the opposite corner of the world where he’d never see or bother the happy couple again. He promised he’d be content even if she made him blind, deaf, paralyzed, and penniless, forced to writhe on the ground in slim hopes of mercy from strangers, as such a fate would still be a euphoric blessing of next to his current lifelong standing. But, keeping her word, Alex made no effort to acknowledge his being, and so David was eradicated again into his friend’s sock, absorbing the combined fusion of all today’s redoubled previous stink-borne desolation from her palms and soles, only now preserved in an even more compact, bendable, hurtable, coarsely-drenched package.
“Peeee-yewwww!” Alex taunted as the couple snuggled together on the sofa for their usual evening ritual. She pinched her nose in mock-disgust, playfully kissing Claire on the cheek, while theatrically fanning her hand above where her hardworking partner’s crossed sock-peds had come to rest. Not that this did anything to lessen the silent abortion of David’s senses that was taking place. “What do they have you DOING at that place, anyway? Rubbing your toes in cottage cheese and dumpster juice while you sit in a sauna all day?”
“Hey, it’s not that bad! And if you hate it so much, why not use some of that fancy-pants MAGIC you’re always teasing me that you can do and just make it go away?” Claire teased back, plainly not believing this was possible in the slightest. “Then I wouldn’t even have to shower.”
“It must hurt your coworkers’ feelings, whenever they get a whiff of your feeties. Or at least hurt their eyes and throats,” Alex said. This was perhaps the closest she would come ever again to acknowledging David’s being again, especially given the devilish slant to her laughter.
“You exaggerate way too much, babe. It’s not like anybody has to smell them except us.”
Caught at the center of a singularity of ultimate sweat-storming repugnance, David felt his consciousness splitting three ways now, tasting his futures all at once as Claire’s glove, shoe, and sock, but this final torment most of all, and let out an unheard damned-soul scream almost strong enough to unsettle an extra droplet of soupy grit from between his involuntary dark goddess’s wet-fleshy funk-smoldering sole ravines. But not quite.
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THE END(?)