Beta in an Alpha World (Chapter 3) (Patreon)

For a whole week after that unintended escapade inside Izumi’s spacious shoe while her giant meaty heel passively bopped it (and me) atop the kitchen table, I became meticulous and over-paranoid in my revamped measures to avoid any more unfortunate incidents. I not only stayed off the floors whenever I knew my Alpha roommate would be wandering about at home, but also made sure even while stationed far above the ground that I wasn’t hidden behind anything huge and obstructive that might again create circumstances where I went unnoticed and got pushed into harm’s way. Or at the very least, got pushed into a stuffy sweat-sticky pocket of darkness between the oblivious Izumi’s naked after-work foot and a slip-on insole which had been worn well past its expiration date. Much to my relief, keeping myself closer to eye level for my roommate and positioned in plain sight ensured that even the giantess’s occasional bouts of dreamy absentmindedness couldn’t lead to more accidents.

Still, in hindsight, maybe I should’ve known that I was destined for further complications, whether because of pure chance or just whatever confusing karma I had going for me. My personal Beta habitat box, often casually called a dollhouse by taller citizens (even though, somewhat depressingly, most actual toy dollhouses are much bigger than our half-inch race’s standard portable dwellings), basically lived on the floor next to the sofa in our living room. This was a natural choice of spot for my private home-within-a-home to reside, since it was in the center of our shared apartment: easy for me to reach and easy for my roommate to see.

Yet during the early weeks of living with Izumi, I was given reason to rethink that decision of habitat placement once she got into the nonchalant habit of prying off her work flats while seated on the couch to watch TV, letting the vacant still-warm vessels of her footwear clop free right next to my box’s squat dimensions. Those occasions led to several unwanted scenarios where the most potent and salt-rich atmosphere of the giantess’s tired soles was allowed to seep heavily through my little home’s empty windows and open-air roof. Of course, that went double if she also carelessly planted her actual feet right outside the box. Considering my habitat was barely larger than one of her shoeboxes, it didn’t take much of that smell to accumulate and thickly permeate my puny lair in raunchy-soled air. At first I was put-off, not wanting all my stuff to adopt a mildewy stink, but I was also afraid of hurting Izumi’s feelings over something she so evidently didn’t realize she was doing. At last, though, I’d gotten up the courage to humbly ask my roommate not to remove her shoes so directly beside my home. After a flurry of blushing apologies from the gracious Alpha, that problem hadn’t recurred in nearly a year of living together, and I was secure in the knowledge that I could reside within without any further anxiety.

But just when I was starting to get comfortable again, eight days after that last whiffy discombobulating mishap on the kitchen table, I received a clue that perhaps I hadn’t quite managed yet to entirely Alpha-proof my lowly coexistence in this apartment after all, when I was awoken at two in the morning by a familiar sense-encompassing aroma of balmy arch flesh and oily toejam that hadn’t invaded my habitat for quite a while. Unfortunately, there was no mistaking that flavor, and it was particularly pungent tonight: not just semi-bitter and sour in the way of lightly-used gym wear mixed with carpet fluff and citrus perfume, which was generally the more-modest degree of manageable odor that Izumi’s post-work feet carried. Not exactly pleasant, but also not the worst. Right now, however, I realized I was unwillingly inhaling probably the stiffest punch of my Alpha roommate’s underfoot stench that I’d ever encountered. I felt my face twist up like I’d awoken with a lime sucked against my tongue, as the powerful cheesier acidity of that essence muggily enveloped me.

Not that I needed further proof to know that Izumi must have somehow forgotten our old no-shoes-by-the-sofa rule. But as I sat bolt upright in bed and squinted out the window, with the help of a single dim lamp switched on across the room to partially illuminate my surroundings, I saw that indeed my roommate’s shoes had been chucked free right outside. Lying on their sides, both inner hulls were pointed my way, allowing the maximum leftover scent to flush in through my windows and the roof. These weren’t the giantess’s usual favorite brown slip-on flats that she normally wore to the office, however – which I should have realized, considering it was the dead of night.

Instead, Izumi had just kicked off a set of heavier-treaded clog-heeled black dancing shoes, and I didn’t have to examine them any closer to guess that these two weightier leather-layered barges were almost tailor-made for making their owner’s bare feet heat up in a hurry. And that was even truer when said owner had been out at some crowded club, feverishly dancing. Only now did I remember my roommate mentioning earlier that she was going out with some of her Alpha friends, and that I shouldn’t wait up for her to return. Regrettably, whether I’d indeed waited or not, there was no avoiding this rude awakening of an accidental welcome-home party by Izumi’s gigantic abandoned dancing shoes. As well as her titanic supple-arched pudgy-toed peds themselves, which soon joined their fashionable yet damp and almost-tangibly stinky vessels resting on the floor, right beside the habitat where I was attempting to get some sleep.

THWUUUMP! WHOOOOMP!

“Izumi?” I groggily muttered up through the open-top roof of my habitat, but didn’t get an answer. I could see part of the giantess’s frame curled cozily up on the sofa cushions, while her feet remained planted on the floor. So I tried again louder: “Izumi!”