Work From Home (Chapter 6) (Patreon)

“That settles it,” Larissa said. “Not that you would’ve had to actually let him go if he somehow didn’t give up, obviously. I mean, just look at you, and look at him. What’s he going to do to stop you? But, c’mon. There was no way, even if he wanted to. And we both know he really, really wanted to.”

“Yes. I see that now,” Blair said with an enlightened air. For the first time in a short while, she relaxed her thumb off her sole, enjoying the fact that her dad remained glued to the foot-wall, held in place by pinched wrinkles and adherent sweat-soup. “I see a lot of things now that I missed before, actually. It’s kind of strange, but… good still. Really good. I’m so glad you came over today, Lar. Seriously.”

“I’ll always do whatever I can to help out a friend in need,” Larissa shrugged. She crossed her foot over her opposite leg to match Blair’s pose, the limb still encased in stocking, and idly plucked and jabbed at the shape of Ted’s shrunken machine-esque body under her ultra-fine snow-white sole until he started getting hard. Like clockwork. To her advantage, she used his ravaged little body to scratch an annoying itch on her stocking-rubbed skin. “And believe me, girl, I’ve been watching you for long enough to know just how badly you neededto shrink this pathetic son of a bitch and put him to real use, for the first and only time in his ugly fat gross little life.”

“No doubt about that. God, you really showed me the light here. He’s in for some real work, too, let me tell you,” Blair warned. She shoved a pinky in between her father and her foot, peeling him off like a week-old sticker, and letting the chunky bastard plop unceremoniously back into her palm, spent and brutalized. “I wonder if he still thinks it was worth it, to give up everything just so he could jam his penis in a girl’s wrinkly sole. I mean, I can’t imagine any sick fetish in history ever being worth that much to someone.”

“You’d be surprised,” Larissa said knowingly, eyeing Ted one last time before lowering her foot toward the floor and shoving it with graceful barbarity into the mouth of the backless leather clog. She made a rough show of settling her stockinged ped into its home base, rocking and outright stomping the thing against the carpet, though she didn’t even seem to think about it, as her hand went right for her ever-present cell phone once again, while Ted unquestionably suffered in the percussive shuffle. “I probably should get going now.”

“Aww, so soon?”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do with your dad. Plus, I have to go get my biology homework assignments from this sissy little nerd who lives in my building and does them for me. I swear, if he ever hands me something that doesn’tget an A+, then I’m going to have a matching twin pair of shoe-boys all the time,” Larissa said. She rose from the couch with nimble speed, like a hawk taking flight, and meandered around the ottoman. Snatching her purse to leave, she halted mid-step, taking a critically hard stride on the same foot which beheld Ted beneath its silky heft. She pivoted upon the ball of her stockinged ped, the clog squealing off the ground, and rummaged through her purse.

“What’s up?” Blair asked. “You forget something?”

“Almost. I brought something for you.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s call it a graduation present, from the boring “before” into new luxury-time, and other cool little privileges too that you’ll just have to find out for yourself.” Larissa’s hand rose from the bag, producing a clean tight-fitting stocking in the same nude-black luster of Blair’s current pair.

“Uhh, thanks! But, I’ve already got plenty of those. See?”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not like this.”

When Larissa finally departed, it was with a well-earned self-important smile, as she’d left her friend Blair utterly reveling in the throes of her comparatively limitless power with respect to the worthless human-waste she called her father. In one hand, which she slowly curled into a fist, the girl cradled her shrunken pop, while in the other, the fateful nylon draped over her palm, looking very much like her own work-day pair, except for the crucial difference of a specially-stitched pouch right in the black heart of the sole designed to fit a miniaturized slave of Carl’s exact shape.

“I think it’s time for a test drive, Dad,” she whispered into her enclosed hand. “Don’t you?”

***

Blair marched with a proud spring in her step, winding through the rooms and corridors of the Turner household, never tiring of the same spaces, as each stride forth felt like breaking new ground. Particularly every other step, since this was when she felt the superb rush of might and righteousness coursing through her veins while her shrimpy father was compressed into the floor. It was just one small step for the girl, but one giant painful squash-threatening barrage of smells, sensations, and eroticism for the tiny man fastened snugly into the nylon pocket.

At first she stepped lightly, not wanting to wear out her new toy too fast, but soon found she could take regular steps without cracking the tiny critter in half. If anything, he was sturdier here than he would’ve been at full size while being trampled. Soon the practice of walking on imaginary eggshells turned to an ordinary gait, just like wandering down the street, and finally evolved to a strutting power-walk that would’ve been at home on any high-class catwalk, or simply on a night jog shared with her foot-freak dad. Forgetting surprisingly easily about her day full of professional concerns and heel-abusing challenges, Blair was completely rejuvenated by having her father made into a resident symbiote of her foot’s warm, doughy, stink-riddled underside.

Conversely, Carl himself was thrust at the speed of repeated car crashes into a brave new foot-themed world. Every launch through the air of his daughter’s stocking-wrapped foot exerted the shrunken equivalent of g-force pressure on his body, as though Blair’s sole had adopted its own planetary orbit and sucked him in toward its center far in excess of the strength from usual gravity. Because he was facing upward, the top half of his frame tangled in nylon while the bottom was exposed to a naughty sample of his child’s meaty foot, and the whole way upward on each step, he was tugged without remorse into the musty contours of skin and downy stocking threads alike: both etching his face with corduroy-patterned impressions and scooping his rising dick right back into the familiar, irresistible bowels of Blair’s arch dimples. For one instant only, at the very peak of the rise, when the giantess’s foot hovered in serene stillness, Carl came to rest, and was grateful, as for a split-second he could convince himself he was just lying in bed with morning wood.

Then, the grand living vessel of Blair’s foot would begin its elegant downfall, and rather than relying on centrifugal forces to attract the little man toward her sole, the actual island-sized appendage itself did the work, by pile-driving the stocking and the man tied within its bounds toward the floor below. Just as the midair point between ascent and descent was the “best” part of this torment, the nadir of Carl’s suffering arrived whenever Blair stomped the floor and transferred her body weight exclusively to this leg so she could extend the unoccupied foot. Like having a pillar stacked atop his fragile form, and the rest of the awe-inspiring temple balanced above that, the tiny creep endured being mashed headlong into the hard earth by his own sky-high flesh-and-blood. In this way, cycling from being grievously flattened underfoot, to riding the sole upward, peaking happily, and crashing down again under that sole, Carl found himself in a rapidly repeating heaven-and-hell simulation. Only in this case, even the heaven was a real bitch.

Soon Blair busied by plugging earphones in to listen to music and swiping up a magazine, distracting herself with extracurricular fun, just for an excuse to continue walking endless circles around the empty house. With no form of real communication between them now, and no interest from the girl herself, the one and only link for her became the gentle, consummating brush of that insignificant life attached to her foot, occasionally punctuated by his reluctant cumming.

Marooned below, with no hope of speaking to his child or being heard at all for that matter, Carl found it hard to distinguish time, though it couldn’t have been more than an hour, if that, he’d spent in this specially made stocking being stepped on by his younger daughter. His consciousness had begun to blur, focused rather unfortunately now only on the most grueling aspects of this jolting odyssey. Here, that meant his awareness was concentrated squarely on the exact moment his deific offspring slammed her foot down to the floor, with him knowingly stored in between. During these moments of hypersensitivity and paranoia about whether this would be a step which would squish him to a crimson tattoo on Blair’s foot, Carl found time elongating to a relentless crawl. In the span of a breath, he became conscious of the monstrous foot and its black nylon dressing impacting the ground, meeting resistance, and altering shape to accommodate that sturdy flat, no matter the consequences upon the constitutions of any shrunken prisoners encased at the eye of the storm. He could actually feel Blair’s sole expanding around him as it made berth, swelling outward so her insteps cutely inflated, while the loped hill of her arch was evened to a pudgy slab upon the floor, and burgeoned by musculature just beneath the heated surface of the flesh.

Then, when it was time to take off again and shoot for the next painful target that would carry Blair onward, he also endured the rolling of her sole, rising up in a beefy wave off the floor and retaking its rightful arc-geometry. Stocking fibers stretched, beating back the blinding shadows inside and granting Carl a fleeting glance of the world beyond if he craned his neck as far to the side as he could. Around him, the animal of the foot rode on; it arched to the most obtuse possible angle, like standing on tip-toes, splaying the mesh-coddled digits out in a line. Wrinkles reformed and filled back in, as did the girlish sanguine hue of her skin, replacing the momentary blanched paleness after centering the pressure of her body weight on the ground and her miniscule parent.

Throughout each and every stamping episode, lasting less than a second but repeating again in just slightly longer than that same time frame, Carl found himself jailed not only by the bindings his daughter used to keep him tied under her foot where his dick could continue being milked by her sole, but also by his own perception, as there was seemingly no escape from primarily sensing this, the collision with earth, the smash-cut body-slam from the stockinged foot of his self-imposed blonde goddess. Soon the shrunken father was deprived even the glimmers of variety offered by the rise and fall of her foot, plus that bonus of peace at the top of the wind-up; after more than an hour of Blair’s aimless, needless trundling around the house, not because she had to but because it felt so good to step and stomp and squash and subjugate her father, Carl was locked into that singular moment like a perverted Groundhog-Day-style cosmic joke.

And all the while, he re-experienced every sense: every double-edged sword to its fullest extent. The tactile portion, when his body was spread out against the heated sky of foot flesh like uncooked bread and compressed, was downright taxing, but after so much monotony being rolled and flattened again and again under his daughter’s ped, this was not the dominant perception assaulting him. Rather, the first and most mind-numbing, all-consuming facet of this foot-ruled underworld was the odor.

“That” smell, hard-earned after a day spent entirely on her feet at the bank, had rendered Blair’s soles a putrified hellscape of sharp scents which wafted from her every pore and sole crease like hot springs. A veritable smoke composed of feminine, gnarly sweat surrounded her stockinged foot in a planetary atmosphere, and soon soaked too into the fresh stocking Larissa had gifted, meaning no piece of surface area, be it skin or nylon, was ever not imparting its briny essence to the shrunken tag-along.