Chapter 3: A Promise Underfoot
The hardwood was cool, a shock against his back after the all-encompassing heat of Licory’s skin. Rel lay on his back, staring up at the vast, shadowed curve of Carmella’s arch. The memory of Licory’s tongue, the taste of his own spend on her impassive face, was a bright, sickly brand in his mind.
He was in Carmella’s room now. The air was different here. Less lavender, more the smell of her perfume—sweet and sharp—mingled with dust from half-unpacked boxes. He could see the chaotic landscape from his low angle: the leaning towers of magazines, the waterfall of a black lace sleeve dragging on the floor.
Carmella’s other foot was inches away. Between each of her toes, a shrunken man was stuffed, their bodies slick and straining. One was positioned upside down, his face buried in the fleshy webbing, his legs kicking feebly at the air. A muffled, chorus of whimpers vibrated through the floorboards.
“See?” Carmella’s voice came from above, slightly strained. “Those are just… things. Utilities. They’re fucking insoles with complaints.”
She wiggled the toes of that foot. A symphony of choked cries erupted. She ignored them.
Her attention was on him, under her right foot. She wasn’t putting her full weight down. It was more like she was wearing him, a living ornament nestled in the sensitive dip of her arch. He felt every minute shift of her muscles, the way her balance changed when she breathed.
“But you…” she said, and her voice softened, losing its performative edge. “You’re my boyfriend. That means something. Even now.”
She lifted her foot off him completely. The sudden exposure to the cool air made him shiver. Her hand descended, a warm cave of fingers, and scooped him up. She brought him to her face. Her yellow eyes, usually bright with manic energy, were wide, almost unsure. Her lips, glossed and pink, were parted.
“I know this is insane, Rel. I’m not stupid.” She bit her lower lip. “When Lico did that… when she licked you off… I felt weird. Not mad. Just… possessive.”
Her breath washed over him, warm and smelling of mint toothpaste. It was the most intimate moment they’d had since his shrinking.
“I want you under my feet. I need it. It’s the only thing that makes the static in my head stop,” she confessed, her words tumbling out in a low rush. “But I don’t want you to be just a thing. Okay?”
He nodded, unable to speak. This vulnerability from her was more terrifying than any command.
“Good,” she whispered. Then, the mask slipped back on, but it was cracked, letting the real need bleed through. “So here’s what’s special. They,” she jerked her head toward the toe prisoners, “don’t get to make me come.”
She lowered him, not to the floor, but to the bedspread. She leaned back, propping herself on her elbows. With her other hand, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her soft cotton shorts and panties, pushing them down her hips in one smooth motion. She kicked them off, letting them tumble into the sweater-littered abyss beside the bed.
She was bare. He was on the rumpled sheets, level with her parted thighs. The sight was colossal, overwhelming. The neat thatch of brown hair, the glistening pink folds beneath. The familiar, enormous scent of her, musky and sweet, descended over him like a fog.
“You see?” she said, her voice dropping to a husky register. “That’s for you. Only you.”
She lifted her right foot from the floor. It hovered in the air, slightly glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Then, she brought it down. Not to the bed, but to her own cunt.
She let out a sharp sigh as her toes made contact. She rubbed her foot over herself, her big toe circling her clit with a practiced, rough pressure. The wet, sticky sounds were obscenely loud. Her eyes slid halfway shut.
“Watch,” she commanded him, her gaze pinning him to the sheets. “Watch how I fuck myself, Rel. And remember it’s because of you. You make me this wet.”
She was telling the truth. Her juices glistened on her skin, coating her toes. The scent intensified, thick and heady. Her movements became more frantic, her hips lifting off the bed to meet her own foot.
“I’m thinking about you down there,” she gasped, her eyes opening, burning into him. “I’m thinking about your tiny little cock, grinding on my arch. I’m thinking about how much you love it. How fucking broken and perfect you are for me.”
Her foot moved faster, a blur of motion. Her other foot, still adorned with squirming men, planted firmly on the floor for leverage. The prisoners squealed in unison, crushed and jostled.
“I’m gonna come,” she announced, as if warning him. “I’m gonna come all over my own fucking toes because my tiny boyfriend loves being my foot slut. Oh god, Rel.”
Her back arched. A guttural, raw cry tore from her throat. Her foot pressed hard, grinding into her, her toes curling. A fresh flood of wetness slicked her skin, dripping onto the sheets. She shuddered, waves of pleasure wracking her body, her suspended foot trembling in the air.
Slowly, she came down. Her breathing was ragged. She pulled her foot away from her slick flesh and, without hesitation, brought it directly over him.
Droplets of her climax, warm and thick, fell on him. One landed on his chest. Another on his thigh. The smell was overpowering.
“Now,” she panted, her vulnerability gone, consumed by a dark, sated dominance. “Now you clean it. You’re special, so you get to taste me straight from the source. Lick my foot clean, Rel. Every fucking drop.”
She lowered her foot. The sole, glazed with her juices, smothered him. It wasn’t the dry, salty sweat of before. This was a wet, organic smear. He opened his mouth, his tongue touching her skin. The taste was complex, bitter and sweet, unmistakably her. He licked, a tiny, devoted motion.
“Yeah,” she moaned, watching him. “That’s it. My good, special boy. Eat my pussy off my foot.”
He obeyed, lost in the service, in the profound degradation that felt like love. He licked between the ridges of her sole, gathered the sticky wetness from her toes. She let him work, her chest still rising and falling rapidly.
When he was finished, she lifted her foot again. She examined the slick, clean patch he’d made on her skin. Then she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which looked oddly hollow.
“See?” she said, her voice quiet again. “Different.”
She reached for him, picking him up. She was gentle, but her hands were sticky. She placed him not on the floor, but on her naked stomach, letting him rest in the dip of her navel. She lay back, staring at the ceiling, one hand coming up to rest over him, a living, warm blanket.
“You stay here tonight,” she murmured. “Not with the others. Here.”
He felt the rapid thump of her heartbeat beneath him. In the silence, he heard a tiny, hitching breath. He looked up and saw, tracing a path from the corner of her eye down into her hairline, a single, shining tear.
She didn’t sob. She just let it fall. Her hand on him tightened, almost convulsively.
“Mine,” she whispered to the empty room, a desperate, broken sound. Then she was still, her breath evening out into sleep, holding her shrunken, broken boyfriend against her skin, both of them clinging to a purpose that fit like a vice.