For Richer, For Smaller (Chapter 27) (Patreon)

This act abruptly left the bottom half of Tony’s naked erect bruise-pocked pain-shivery six-inch form exposed to the outside world, laid supine upon the sacrificial slope of her shoe’s interior, albeit only technically visible, while he still largely shaded beneath the risen shelter of her foot’s soft pink backend curvature. The wide upper region of her sole just below the toe shafts, however, was now taking on what felt like a double-duty portion of the giantess’s towering mass from before, with all of it disturbingly compressed into the shrinker’s hips on upwards. So while this meant his legs and groin did receive the desired break from being smothered, his badly-suffering top half had to pick up all that slack. Somehow worse still than the serious uptick in taut dough-terrained compaction exerted above his little torso and head which were full of oh-so-many hyper-vulnerable organs and systems necessary for his survival, though, was the simultaneous granting of Tony’s other angry wish. Since there was no longer an unbroken flesh-suctioned seal between Lillian’s ped and the inside of the shoe, even though her husband’s ears were still getting creamed below the ball of her foot, the outside world had come just close enough now that he could hear actual words and not just godlike mumbles. And as soon as Tony could distinguish his tormentor’s strangely-thunderous voice in terms of actual language again, in a maddened furor, he immediately longed to return to his former ignorance about what she was saying. But it was too late.

“So we’re all in agreement, then?” Lillian said to the higher-ups around the table, posing this statement as a question, yet still declaring it with enough authority that it didn’t seem like she was inviting any further discussion either. Accordingly, rumbling choir of agreement – a sound of which Tony knew all too well from his old life and old height – rang out from above with just the same acceptance they usually showed their actual leader, who was now evidently condemned only to meetings spent as insole cushioning for his wife. “Perfect. Because I think I speak for everyone, my husband most of all, when I say that the direction we’ll be heading in now, after this minor adjustment in leadership, will bring nothing but good things for the company, and for all of us. This is for the best. Now, I understand why some of you might’ve been concerned when I told you that I would be taking over Tony’s position for the foreseeable future, and maybe the unforeseeable too. Even if you were kind enough not to express it out loud. But I believe I’ve earned the chance, after this very productive discussion of ours, to prove to you all that I won’t just be every bit as good at running things as him. I’ll be better. I know, I know, those are bold words, so again, just allow me to back them up with some bold actions. And soon. After all, I’ve had the best-possible mentor for this job: Tony himself. He’s been there with me, every step of the way. You all know Tony well enough, some of you probably even better than I know him, to understand that I wouldn’t have had a chance of making this transition if the big man himself didn’t give his full blessing. How else could I have learned the ropes, or reassured the associates so well, or brought you these new proposals which – not to seem immodest – I think are pretty damn good myself, and will help make for a wise, decisive, and lucrative leap into this new phase in the company’s legacy. So what do you say? Who’s ready to make some history, and make some money?”

Tony’s blood, along with a few of his trample-crushed vital organs, was absolutely boiling to a degree yet-unmatched before in all these enraging months of evolving shrunken impotence as his wife’s traveling under-arch doormat. And for just this once, the least of the reasons for his hotly agony-soaked ire right now was the otherworldly heat generated by the pressure cooker effect from a giantess’s foot compounding him to a metaphorically (and possibly literally) crumpled-up paper-fleshed iteration of the old him. Even though the weight she was currently funneling into his top three inches through the rounded apex crest of her baby-smooth sole was intense enough to make a burial beneath a massive landslide feel like snuggling under a mound of mattress feathers. Because Lillian really had lost it now. Completely. She was not only wildly off the reservation here – she was setting fire to both Tony’s character and life’s work, and meant to burn it all straight to the ground on her way out, cackling maniacally the whole way.

And even up to now, during this exact moment of breathless pause following Lillian’s absurd self-satisfied speech, the six-incher still believed with every crunched-up fiber of his flattened being that some kind of business logic or cosmic justice or goddamn karma, for all he cared at this point, would prevail. No matter how far his heavy-soled spouse had proven she was willing to take this erotic-game-turned-power-play, and no matter how much faith in his pathetically agreeable underlings she’d managed to kill, and no matter how hard she’d squashed him down to oblivion below her queenly size-8s far past the point where his buoyant little stress-ball of a brain should’ve been able to see his true reality, Tony held firm. He had to. Otherwise, he just might have to mortally implode of his own volition, if the giantess insisted on continuing to torture him so sensuously and beyond-the-pale extremely beneath her harshly luscious silken-staged peds, but without ever allowing his miniaturized form to actually come permanently apart.

Then the moment passed, and Tony heard noises almost as offensively sickening as his wife’s grandstanding jabber: mutters of genuine approval, even wholehearted acceptance, that then built into louder vocalized support, and finally a few honest-to-fucking-God bouts of scattered applause and cheers from around the table. They’d eaten up her bullshit and loved every minute of it. Just like that, she was their leader, and he was out. The shrinker didn’t want to believe it, and might’ve almost preferred if Lillian grinded him unconscious again with her sleek dug-in heel before she actually reached this dramatic climax of her gradual takeover, but sorrowfully, it was no longer possible to do anything but believe. Tony’s upper half was held taut and flush under the ball of Lillian’s foot while his flimsy doll-legs powerlessly spasmed and his cum-incriminated loins were exposed to the crack of light that could penetrate that dark wedged space between her risen heel and the barely-cushioned insole. He was disgraced, blinded, overheated, choked, and awash from the smashing sensations of the most supreme sustained arch-flexed trouncing of his life, all while forced to listen to the ultimate pronouncement of his own existential undoing. Since Tony, truly, may as well have no longer actually existed, now or ever before.

It was like the worst dream imaginable was bursting out into his waking world, which was a feeling the little guy was unfortunately becoming quite accustomed to lately, considering how many times the content of his horniest nocturnal visions had been played out and hatefully soured in the flesh. Yet even his private daily at-home torments with Lillian’s gargantuan feet, deplorably maximized as those occasions were by unearthly aches and sole-kissing suffocation and body-malforming squelches, usually contained at least a few split-seconds of redeeming value sprinkled into that sea of punishing underfoot compression. Even if he was sometimes too entrenched in the near-limitless tension of the titaness’s soft-skinned sole domination to take notice of his own forcibly orgasmic releases. Those desires were hard-wired into Tony’s DNA, it seemed, and despite how thoroughly his wife had soiled his conscious self’s obsessive fetishism for being stampeded and slow-smushed below the world’s prettiest and most-grueling feminine feet, a broken piece of the shrinker would always humiliatingly adore the idea of serving as Lillian’s floppy deeply-impacted footprint-tattooed sole toy.

But not this. Never this. Every game – even the sort that lasted for months and involved podophilic persecutions Tony could never have conceived of until he was personally feeling all his innards comingled like messily mashed-together colors of Play-Doh day in and day out, thanks to his colossal overlord’s dedication to treading every part of him into two hyper-flat dimensions stuck to her soles – had to have an end. Lillian had just made it clear to her husband, in the most final and shame-meltingly indelible terms possible, that this was no game to her and never had been. She’d beaten him. She’d manipulated him, erased him, and conclusively stomped him so totally in every sense of the word that Tony may as well have become a smear of unnamed filth adhered to the bottom of her massive beautiful load-bearing bare foot that literally wasn’t even worth the bother for her to scrape him off before continuing on her way.

At this most wretched point of his lowly foot-devoted life, the shrinker felt the bitter tears and muffled fury-screams alike stamped out of his body by Lillian’s heaving sole grandeur like the last dregs of toothpaste left in a squeeze-drained tube.