Time-Out: Nancy's Way (Chapter 7) (Patreon)

“Hoooooney, I’m hooooome!” the giantess giddily sang from downstairs, upon returning, just when Scott was hoping she might’ve gotten all the sarcastic romance jokes out of her system. Still, he couldn’t mind it too much, because she’d just given him the gift of nearly three hours alone, when before he’d been dreading the high probability that, given her excitement for his stay here, she wouldn’t let him out from under her feet until at least the sunset. Perhaps Nancy wasn’t as desperate as he thought her to be, though. Swiftly after, he heard her footsteps pounding up the stairwell before she burst into the room. “Well, hey there, Little Mister. Did you miss me a whole lot, or did you only miss me a lot? I didn’t realize how long I’d been gone until I was headed back, but the good news is, I got so much accomplished, running around all over town, and now there’s nothing to do today but settle in with my favorite Stevens family man. Thank goodness. Say, hon, looks like I was right to trust you with my shoes. They are looking spick-and-span. Why, they’re almost sparkling, even. And you did this with just that little brush I gave you? You really do have the magic touch. Now, I can’t help but want your opinion on something, seeing as how you just got a much closer look at these shoes than any fella I’ve ever met. What do you think of them? Are they sexy, or what?”

Taken aback, as per usual whenever Nancy so much as opened her mouth in reference to him, Scott cleared his throat while standing humbly before his handiwork on the well-scrubbed shoes. Judging by the intensity of the giantess’s grinning stare-down, he knew this wasn’t just another of her jovial rhetorical questions, but something he’d have to answer if he wanted to be let down, and after a sigh, mumbled a reply diplomatic enough to make her move on: “They’re… nice, yeah. Pretty.”

“So polite, aren’t you, dear? And yet always at the times when you don’t have to be,” Nancy whispered with a shake of her head. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the dresser, never tearing her mischievous gaze off Scott. “I didn’t ask if they’re nice or pretty. I asked if they’re sexy. What do you say?”

“I… guess I don’t really think much about if shoes are… that, or not,” the shrinker replied. Though he knew it would be faster to end this exchange if he just spat out a “yes” to Nancy’s grossly leading question already, he couldn’t bring himself to utter such a thing about the specific piece of often-colossal fashion which he’d spent such a horrendous portion of his life so far shrunken and stuffed inside. Thus he in fact held a deep universal loathing for shoes that made it rather impossible to view them as “sexy,” especially a pair belonging to Nancy Dugan, and no amount of taunting or unfinished psychologically-confusing toejobs inside said shoes were likely to ever change his mind.

“Oh, come on now, Scott. You grew up with two women in the house, and you’ve got that cute little girlfriend of yours, even if she’s off on some other continent for a while. You can’t really expect me to believe none of them ever taught you the correct answer to a question like this,” Nancy drawled, crossing her arms and leaning in closer over the top of the dresser, until the nude shrinker could feel the heat of her exhales fogging against his skin. The giantess’s tongue poked from the corner of her lips, contemplative and eerily come-hither. “But in case you need a refresher. The correct answer whenever a woman asks you a question like that is yes, Nancy, your shoes are sooooo sexy. You’re just a knockout in them. You have the best taste in town. Something like that. You can decide the particulars for yourself, of course. No repeating it this time, because that’s cheating. Luckily, though, I’m sure you’ll have more opportunities to improve your answer, before the time comes for me to hand you back over to your Mommy. So just keep that in mind. It might help you out sometime. For now, though, I promised you we were going to unwind when I got back. I think we’ve both more than earned it.”

Minutes later, Nancy was seated back on the throne of her living room armchair, having placed Scott on the coffee table again, only this time she leaned back deep into the cushions, while propping both her titanic bare feet up onto the surface along with him. Ironically, even though the boy had spent literal hours trapped beneath one of these puppies today, this was the clearest look he’d gotten yet at either of them all day, no longer in the shade of her mule’s toe section, or shoved so close to just one part of her humongous ped that he couldn’t make out the rest. Standing at one in tall below, while the woman’s feet stretched vertically above him, it felt like standing at the base of twin monuments carved out of some mythical soft-peachy mountainside.

Nancy’s heels were thick and somewhat porously textured, not quite buttery-smooth given her age and the amount of time she spent in taxing footwear, but also not ghastly dry or callused either, which Scott supposed was some kind of accomplishment. Her arches were deep, curvy, and rife with meaty pliant wrinkles that squished flat then reformed in pithy new line patterns each time her toes so much as shifted in any direction above. Those ten wiggly digits themselves, with which the lad was better acquainted today especially, were long but in no way bony or lanky, rather thick and putty-textured from frequent pedicures, in a way that Scott also frustratingly realized was probably to his benefit, considering her affinity for stowing him beneath them would be much harsher if her feet were instead gnarled with dead skin or hard joints. Though that still didn’t mean he remotely enjoyed his time with these greedy feet, because no matter how much care Nancy put into their maintenance, their dominating purpose whenever Scott came around was downright unforgivable.

“As sexy as my shoes are, they really do start to take a toll, after I’ve been on my feet for long enough. But, I guess we all pay a price for beauty,” Nancy explained with a melodramatic sigh, almost as if fishing for pity, while luxuriously running her fingers through those brunette light-streaked locks and rolling her head back against the armchair pillow. At this point, Scott was dead-certain of where this interaction was going, while he stood mere inches from her huge heels and stared up the length of her reclined body between her naked insteps. He wished the woman would just get it over with and tell him what to do, when they both already knew how this would end, rather than milking the moment for her own entertainment. Sure enough, the giantess cooed: “What do you say to giving Auntie Nancy’s poor feet a nice massage, hon? I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be.”

Just glad to be done with that preamble, and hoping Nancy might not feel the need to talk at him for a while now, Scott obeyed, stepping up to her heels – the only part of her feet he could even reach at this lowly height – and commenced heartily kneading his fists in choreographed circles against the firm semi-pinkish flesh. This job was still disgraceful as ever for him, not to mention over-warm and appreciably raunchy, considering the tangible feverishness, ruddy impressions like corduroy lines, glimmer of zesty sweat, funky air, and overall rosy flushed quality to Nancy’s foot skin after so much marching about. Nevertheless, Scott was disgustingly well-practiced at this specific activity, and like his previous shoe-cleaning duty in her bedroom, he far preferred the relative autonomy of this, compared to literally being worn inside those same giant shoes, or having his groin bunched in the marshmallowy spaces between Nancy’s hulking lubed-up toes.

He could do this. He just had to get through these three days. That was all.

“Yes, just like that. Stay right there for a while. Keep rubbing. Oh, perfect. I guess it’s true what they say. It’s not the size that matters, but how you use it,” the giantess purred, then added with such throwaway nonchalance that Scott almost didn’t comprehend her words: “Why don’t you be a dear and just give my foot a little kiss, too?”

Once her statement sunk in, however, the one-incher’s faculties were left too timid and cold to keep up the pace of his practiced fist-kneading massage. Or at least that was the case until Nancy not-so-subtly nudged her towering foot forward by a few fractions of an inch as a massively overcompensated reminder for her shrunken attendant not to stop rubbing until she gave him permission. The fleshy bulwark of her propped-up heel created a frictioned squeal as it thrust hard over the tabletop and then bumped into the dumbstruck boy, not necessarily with enough force to harm him at all, but since he stood at barely the height of a human thumbpad right now, it took only a mild whomp from her gently reposed foot to knock him on his behind.