For Richer, For Smaller (Chapter 28) (Patreon)

A week into what felt like the vile unwanted epilogue of his life as he knew it, Tony had no remaining illusions about what he was now, or whatever was left of him. That paradisical reality of single-handedly running his fruitful company, sexually-fulfilling marriage, and prosperous life the same as he always had, only now shrunken down to an eternal trample-perfect six inches tall, wasn’t about to snap back to the way he wanted it at any instant. All of that was over. He’d been checkmated by the nightmare version of his dream foot goddess. Every day and every hour now was spent charting all-new frontiers of atom-breaking undersole pangs together, whether entombed below steamy lush oil-bathed arch flesh in Lillian’s worn footwear or chucked onto a mat whenever she had cause to go nude. Here and there, Tony would catch a hint of his spouse’s decisions for “her” corporation if she saw fit to uncement him from her foot for a spell so he could witness, and even left half-conscious and heat-stroked and glacially bludgeoned from her earlier sole-resting fortitude, the little thing had to objectively come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t making terrible calls. In fact, she was flourishing, seemingly happier than he could ever recall seeing her before his shrinkage, as she made friends with her subordinates, diversified the company’s horizons, and humbly sought out advice from peers if it was both necessary and most advantageous to everyone.

In short, Lillian was everything Tony never was as a leader, both at work and at home, and doing fantastically as a result. The six-incher would’ve felt less aggrieved if he’d instead simply died via heel-popping before her professional conquest took place, and then had his grave danced and pissed upon by the same woman to whom he’d once matrimonially committed himself forever in order to ensure his lifelong sexual access to those peachy pillowy angelically-tender feet.

As a result of that apathetic surrender in Tony, who’d essentially resigned himself to playing the inanimate deflated pain-sponge for his spouse’s every other step heretofore, it actually felt like a sincere surprise to him – just when the shrinker was certain he’d never “feel” anything in his life again except fiery flat airless brittle-gutted suffering below Lillian’s peds – when there came a knock at the front door seven days after the woman had ascended to her stolen power. Naturally the giantess was already wearing her vastly demoted husband in a slip-on when their apparent visitor showed up on the expensive stoop, the first time this had happened since the man of the house was downsized to barely-living insole of the house, and so she treated him as usual to a solid two-dozen lazily paced underfoot poundings on the way to the foyer. Even with someone waiting for an answer on the other side, though, and knocking twice again when Lillian didn’t instantaneously open the door, the woman was in no hurry, or rather, was merely operating on her own personal time. There was no more need in her life to slip in words edgewise, or hustle to accommodate someone else’s needs, or squeeze in her own once-meager ambitions in between all the housewifery and spa treatments her shrunken partner used to dictate for her. Conveniently, that confidence and purposefulness in this newly-empowered being of hers also meant that each of Lillian’s firm arrogant-soled steps atop her diminutive husband’s mushy spiritually-pulverized little body were long, deep, and utterly knowing in every singular ounce of burden she gracefully applied down.

Ordinarily, Tony might’ve been due for another pass-out right about now, since he hadn’t been drubbed unconscious by his wife’s heel or the ball of her foot in two whole days. Which was quite a while, by the couple’s established standards. He wouldn’t have even minded it so much, all things considered, since he’d learned to accept that stompy recurrence as another inevitability of his turmoil-stained new livelihood stuck to the bottom of Lillian’s plush brutal lotion-supple feet, as much a guarantee as occasionally inhaling and exhaling. Right now, however, hearing those insistent knocks at the door, the shrinker was called back out of his indifferent in-shoe psychological bubble just far enough to care about whoever might be waiting beyond. He didn’t dare believe yet that this might be an opportunity, however slim the chance, that he could yet be rescued from this nearly-unsalvageable state as his spouse’s resident gait softener, for fear of jinxing it, but he didn’t discount the odds either. Maybe, just maybe, this was it. So for the first time in weeks, Tony resisted the pull toward that concussive sleep, no matter how heavily clobbered he was beneath the usual insole-cratering pressure points of Lillian’s footprint anatomy. He had to stay awake. He had to know, and if given the chance, pool every molecule of stamina and self-worth he might have stored away somewhere in his otherwise emptied-out six-inch shell in order to get the visitor’s attention and possibly end the mad queen’s foot-centric dynasty here.

“Hello, Officers! How can I help you today?” Lillian brightly greeted upon finally opening the door. Per her normal habit while in a conversation at standstill, she raised her heel just far enough off the backend lip of the shoe so as to tauntingly allow Tony the privilege of hearing the interactions on high, while also piling the increased encumbrance of her beefy arched-back upper sole onto his tiny chest and head. Even unable to speak in response or move anything except his three-inch naked legs, which at best he could eerily shudder like some kind of post-mortem reflex, the shrinker was immediately hit by a wave of hopeful excitement upon realizing what kind of people must’ve been standing across the threshold. That dumbstruck joy of Tony’s was so pure that it felt better than any of the robotic orgasms the giantess could passively pump out of him every hour on the hour just by marching on him. This was not a drill.

“Afternoon, ma’am. We’re here investigating claims about a possible domestic incident as related to recent personnel changes at your company,” a male voice stoically replied.

“Would you be willing to help us out by answering a few questions?” a female voice chimed in. “To be clear, no one here is in trouble or under arrest, and we don’t have a warrant to enter your home, nor should you feel any obligation to answer any questions without a lawyer being-”

“No problem at all! Please, come in. I’d be happy to answer any and all questions you might have,” Lillian cheerfully assured them, obviously not feeling the least bit afraid that she’d been somehow cornered. Which worried Tony, but only moderately.

She backpedaled to invite the two cops indoors, then, of course in a manner that simultaneously reburied her spouse under that concentrated body-shivering strain of her foot, which ached so harshly to make him asphyxiate three-quarters-dead into an abyssal slumber. Though still Tony resisted that powerful urge, even if it would temporarily alleviate some of the utterly obscene stress imposed down on him from every buttery-soft square inch of the giantess’s ample luxury-laden sole pad. While Lillian walked upon her six-inch shoe-occupied jailbird again to lead their unexpected guests into the living room, it became difficult for him to pick out more than fleeting peeps of the conversation happening above, though as yet, it seemed only to be a clerical exchange of names, titles, and dates pertaining to her supposedly-legitimate takeover of her husband’s tech corp empire. Nothing so provocative yet that Lillian would face justice for her crimes as both a wife and a citizen, but Tony had faith that these officers would get to the bottom of the matter, especially since the self-satisfied pretty-footed psycho was shamelessly cocky enough in her assumed victory to tell them whatever they wished without any legal counsel present. Rookie mistake. Just futuristically imagining the cranking sound of the handcuffs being slapped around her wrists while she sobbed face-down on the carpet was enough to help the little guy’s near-numbed loins perk up again, even if his arousal wasn’t already mechanically helped along to micro-erection again by so much steam-rolling pressure from her dew-smooth sole landscape.