Brooke's Crumpled Day

[leadpaint]

Tags: big M / small f, crush, footplay, intimidation, odor. Posted before on coiledfist and reddit. Please enjoy! :)
_____________________________

"how long ago did u shrink?"

It was a simple question. Brooke still paused before typing the answer in.

"one year"

"damn"

Damn indeed. An entire year has passed since she'd woken up one day and found herself lost in her own bedsheets. A year full of grief, depression, isolation, lost relationships, financial hurdles, broken promises and moving between states. A dark period of her life. It felt like it lasted so much longer than that; and yet, at the same time, it felt like any moment she could jump right back into her old life. There was still no treatment, there were still debates held at the highest level about what rights people like her held, there was still so much total bullshit surrounding the phenomenon... and people still lived, and loved, and worked, and she was forced to watch them, dreaming of one day standing tall again.

"that must suck", she received. Her penpal was some random person she'd met on a browser game she'd been playing. It was called "Naraworld", and, just as the name implied, it was a geeky, cheesy high-fantasy roleplaying game. Something about it hooked Brooke. Visual style, perhaps. There was some messy quality to the animations: the way blood splattered, the sounds with which the weapons would find their targets: wet ripping, slick dripping, loud metallic clanking. She thought of it as "musical martial cadence", although that probably didn't make any sense.

"i don't let it define me", she typed back.

There was more confidence in that text than she truly felt at that moment. But her fingers didn't stop. Three...

"actually i started going out again"

...texts...

"like right now"

...in quick succession.

“i'm going to a book club”

If anything good ever came of her shrinking, it's that she had tons of time. She wasn't always great at utilizing it well, but in the last few months she did manage to pull herself together. The local tinies' welfare group donated a Minicomm to her; it was a device that she could use to browse Internet and message people, like a tiny smartphone. (The big tech giants hadn't yet decided whether it was worth investing into tiny tech). As far as she new, Minicomm was simply plugging her into a central server which did all the real processing. It didn't matter much. It provided her with a link back to the world, and she managed to do some good volunteer work for a local library: she sorted digital archives, did a bit of IT stuff and cleaned up their website. Her experience in graduate school came in handy. They were now considering hiring her full-time; it wasn't much, but then again, it's not like she needed much money. She was renting a shack in the government-subsidized Tiny area, didn't need much in the way of groceries... but with more money she could hope to get some luxuries and start saving up for when the treatment would be available and she'd need lots of money to be the first in line. The library wanted to meet her in person; and so she was invited to attend a book club and meet the staff afterwards.

"really"

"yes, really!", she sent, suddenly feeling a tinge of anger.

"i mean how do u even go?"

"I called a Leaf".

"leaf?"

"Uber for tinies"

"wow i had no idea"

And, a second later:

"so why book club?"

“Why not?”

As she sent that last message, the anger turned into gung-ho I-have-something-to-prove feeling. She turned the screen off and placed the Minicomm in her pocket. She wanted to pretend she was just pursuing a hobby, one of the many currents in her life. She'd spent so long feeling broken... She didn't want to, anymore. She didn't want to deal with someone assuming that she had to be sad and tiny and powerless all the time. Yes, tinies' lives were often poor and pathetic, but she was so tired of it that at least in her personal conversations she could pretend to be normal. Take "Naraworld": the developers recently announced that they would look to introduce the ability to play Tiny character into the game. She didn't want it...

Her Minicomm informed her that her carrier was coming; she stepped outside, wincing as the light of day lit up her face. She passed a few Tiny living blocks; it took her several minutes to reach the curb, where a faded yellow rectangle indicated a Tiny pick-up / drop-off area. She was the only one there; most of her neighbors didn't leave their apartments very often and preferred to keep to the community. She knew that a lot of them were actually afraid of the big world beyond the borders of their little living quarters. Brooke herself had been dangerously close to becoming a complete shut-in.

A figure appeared in the distance; it moved swiftly, rushing along the street. A bicyclist. He slowed down as he approached, finally coming to a standstill right next to the curb. He was wearing shorts and a breathable t-shirt; she also caught that he had curly brown hair. A pair of sunglasses hid his eyes. There was a plastic box strapped to his side: it was marked in yellow and black.

The man must have been about five feet nine inches tall; she couldn't tell these days. Brooke's height was about an inch. He was a titan. All normal people were.

She couldn't take her eyes off him as he brought his leg over the seat and jumped off the bicycle; he stretched, rose on his toes, calves flexing; he had a toned body, with very little hair on his legs. He took a step; the ground under her feet shook ever so slightly. She had to crane her neck to look up at him.

He stopped right in front of her, a young, boyish titan, probably about twenty she surmised; he ran a hand along his sweaty forehead. She lowered her eyes then: his massive feet were in front of her, the dusty toes of his Saucony athletic shoes to both sides of her. The rubber soles had seen better days. The fabric flexed as he must have lifted his toes. Brooke both hated and loved the level of detail she'd learned to notice in normal people.

It went both ways, she knew: this man probably couldn't even make out her facial expression.

In a swift motion, sendind a gust of wind downwards, he squatted over her. He unshackled the strap that held the box in place and positioned it in front of her; with a soft click, the door unlocked. There were letters along the upper rims, just below the roof: "LIVE HUMANS". The roof itself was transparent; the walls had windows in them. The inside of the box had some 12 seats with roller-coaster style braces; all were empty.

"Welcome", he said, smiling at her from above. Right down to business, then. She nodded at him and walked towards the box, trying to keep her steps steady. She'd only taken Leaf a couple of times before. There was a feeling she could not shake off as she stepped inside one of those boxes: like, here she was, putting her life in the hands of this random person. Was it really that different from taking a taxi, where you're at the mercy of a driver? She wasn't sure. Statistically speaking, it was probably safer. But that tiny box; it's so easy for it to be hidden, or lost...

She stepped through the doorway, noting that the sides of the box were slightly glistening where the carrier's sweaty hands had touched them. Her brain had a very brief idea to also touch those spots; she shrugged it off as she took a seat and pulled on the safety brace. A moment later, the door slammed back into place, flicked by the man's finger: another moment - and he stood up in a graceful motion. Gravity gently pressed her into her seat as the box was risen and locked back to the man's belt. She could see his fingers through the windows; the quickness with which they moved was breathtaking and felt dangerous. Far in the distance, through the roof, she could see his face; the expression seemed neutral and focused. The man was working.

Her life lacked intimacy; sometimes it led to strange thoughts coming through when she was in the presence of comparatively giant men. One time she told her therapist, Linda, about it. "Those are normal", Linda told her. They held their meetings virtually, because Linda was normal-sized, and it was easier that way. For some reason, Linda asked her to describe some of those thoughts to very high level of detail; so high, in fact, that Brooke wasn't comfortable doing it. She stopped seeing Linda afterwards. She never stopped having the thoughts. There was something about those dancing fingers; something that made her wonder what it would actually feel them tap on her body, perhaps even caress it. But... oh well. Fantasies. Idle, silly fantasies.

Suddenly, she saw a phone camera pointed at her through the roof; with an audible click, he took a picture of her. She immediately reached for a mic mounted on the wall.

- What was that for?

- I just keep proof, - she heard his voice through the walls. - I'll take another one if you'd like to smile.

That made sense; the guy probably wanted to cover his tracks in case something happens. She smiled at the camera as he snapped another picture. Then he jumped onto the bicycle and they took off; the box shook and rattled, but it was equipped with some stabilizing mechanism, so it wasn't too bad - no worse than a rough landing on a plane. Some Tinies experienced motion sickness when carried around like this, but she wasn't one of them (and she was really happy about it).

The box rocked back and forth softly as the man sped along the streets, artfully weaving between pedestrians and other bicyclists. It felt like he was nimble and confident; probably a pro. She suspected that he wouldn't take her on the bicycle all the way to that library; it was actually located all the way across the city, so at some point he'd probably take the bus. And she was right: about ten minutes into their journey he hopped on the 57th, mounting his bicycle in a rack on the front of the bus before taking a seat inside. The carrier tried to reach for his phone, but the box with Brooke was in the way, so he unclasped it from his belt and put it next to himself. She tried reading on her Minicomm, but she kept glancing at him as he clicked on his phone. Sometimes his youthful features would light up as his lips curved in a smile; he'd audibly snort as he probably saw something funny.

A little later, he started watching a video; she could tell because he turned his phone sideways. She thought of trying to strike a conversation: perhaps they could watch it together, but decided against it, feeling a bit sheepish at actually talking to normal people. Later, she would regret her indecisiveness a lot.

They passed several stops; she idly followed their journey with a navigation app. "Central", "54 West", "Stadium"... one stop after another, and at some point she decided she'd try to guess which one it would be. Her best bet was "Murphy's Stand", which seemed like it would provide the guy with the shortest (and nicest) bike route to the library. He was still watching whatever it was on his screen; probably a stream - weren't all the men his age spending all their time on Twitch these days?

Murphy's Stand was announced through the loudspeaker, but the man didn't pull the wire, seemingly hypnotized by his video. She bit her lip, playfully wondering if she was correct. As the bus slowed down and stopped, her carrier was still watching. People started pushing past him towards the exit. Suddenly, a shadow crossed his face. She could see him mouth "oh shit" as he jumped up from his seat.

And rushed to the exit.

Alone.

Leaving her behind, in that same seat.

She stared in disbelief, thinking that surely, he was coming back, but he wasn't there, and then the doors closed, and the bus took off again. New people came in and started taking seats. She was still on her own.

As her shock changed to fury, she opened up the Minicomm, went to the Leaf app and texted him:

"WTF?"

followed by:

"you forgot me"

Seconds ticked away. She could so easily imagine him standing there, by the side of the street, with his bicycle, as he fumbled with his phone... reading her message... probably slamming a palm against his forehead... And she couldn't help but think of food delivery drivers that she had interacted with so much in her past life; how sometimes they'd get addresses, or orders, or something else wrong, and then sometimes they would try to fix it, but sometimes they would just block you or flick you off the screen or however it actually worked (Brooke never worked delivery). Of course, you could always get a refund. And, for sure, she'd get hers for this ride. But... but what was she supposed to do? No, the man should totally come and find her...

The conversation closed on its own.

"Where do you want to go?" the cheery Leaf welcome screen came up.

- Fuck! - she screamed in disbelief. She unclasped the safety brace as she ran to the door to the box, wondering if it can even be opened from the inside. She had to find someone...

"No, wait", she thought to herself. She was in a yellow and black box that said "LIVE HUMANS". Her best chance was to stay inside. Someone was bound to find this very soon. Someone would...

She didn't notice as the bus came to a stop again, letting more people in, but she did notice a shadow suddenly appearing over the seat. She lifted her eyes just in time to notice that a man was now standing over the seat formerly occupied by her carrier. She caught a flash of a neatly trimmed beard, black hair, olive skin; he was wearing a black t-shirt and had muscular arms, one of which reached for the box.

- Thank God, - she said, smiling; she was about to get help...

The man's hand slapped the box, sending it tumbling along the seat towards the edge. Brooke was thrown off her feet, flying for a second, hitting the floor; she reached out, frantically trying to hold onto something as the box received another firm nudge. Suddenly, there was no weight. Just as suddenly, it was back as the box slammed against the floor with a dull thud, upright once again. Brooke's hair was a mess; her shoulder hurt. Badly.

She was breathing heavily; her back was cold with sweat.

- What the fuck...

Above her, the bus seat lurched and creaked, accommodating the new passenger as he made himself comfortable. The box ended up in front of him on the floor; a moment later he threw a leather messenger bag right next to it. She pulled herself up to get a better look through the windows; his bag and legs hid most of the bus from her, and that meant she was probably hidden, too. This was insane. He must have thought someone had forgotten some trash... or packaging... it probably didn't even register with him that someone could actually leave behind a real "LIVE HUMANS" box. So he simply swept it off, took his seat...

How does she even reach him? She looked at the door again, bracing herself: he would probably have to get it open and get outside. Or is it safer to stay? Or, even better, should she immediately use her Minicomm to try and contact 911?

Momentarily paralyzed, she noticed another movement beyond the window as the man settled in. There was his leg; he seemed to be wearing slim dark jeans. She could very faintly hear a man's voice as someone talked on the phone, but she wasn't sure whether that was him or someone else in the vicinity.

A dirty-white shape appeared above the tiny box. She gulped as she squinted, staring at it in disbelief.

It rushed down, slamming into the roof of the box. The plastic around her creaked and squeaked under the immense weight; the transparent acrylic of the roof bent inwards. The amount of light getting inside was halved. There was a titanic sneaker resting on the right half of her box, its ridged sole pressed right against the roof. The box groaned, cried, shrieked... oh, no. That was her.

Brooke forced herself to shut up, but couldn't steady her breathing. "I'm alive", she thought. "Fuck, I am alive". But she was trapped in a box that an unsuspecting passenger was using as a footrest, and she didn't trust the box one bit as it clearly buckled beneath his foot. She made her way to the opposite section of her container, out from under his foot: the sole only covered about half of the box. She got into the corner furthest away from it, then forced herself to sit down and look at it again. From her new angle, she could see that the sole was at least an inch thick; perhaps the top of her head would be just in line with where the vulcanized rubber met the fabric. It was a nice sneaker otherwise, clearly well worn and clearly tested with time; it was carefully laced and clearly expensive. She couldn't really see much of anything else; the bottom of his shoe dominated her field of vision.

- Fuck, fuck, - she repeated to herself, and then groaned as she realized that in her attempt to get away from where the shoe rested on top of the box - in her attempt to ensure that if it were to break through the plastic, smash the feeble roof and walls, she'd be in the section that remained semi-intact - she ended up the furthest away from the door that she could possibly be. She cursed herself: she should have rushed towards it immediately. What were the chances that the windows around her had an emergency exit mechanism built into them? Probably very low. Hell, there were no regulations for companies like Leaf.

She looked at her Minicomm screen and flicked it on. Or tried to, anyways. Her confusion turned into terror as she realized that earlier on, when the box fell and she was violently thrown around, she must have hit the device on a corner or something, because the screen was dead. She held the thing up to her ear, tried to listen to it, and she thought there was a very soft electrical hum emanating from it, but she wasn't sure, and it definitely was not responding to her attempts to get it to light up.

- No, no, please!!!

Nope. Dead. And she didn't even get to hit a SOS button.

She was screwed.

She hugged her own knees as she looked up at the shoe resting on top of her box again. Surely, at some point he would notice. Or he would leave and someone else would. And the plastic will hold, right? Even if his other foot slams on top of it. Even if he kicks the box. It will hold. Plastics are some of the most advanced materials humans have ever created. They are strong. Reliable. And they are so fucking loud if you try to break them; he'll hear it, he'll feel it, and someone will tell him to stop making noises. Stop crushing a box with a tiny woman inside. Just stop.

The wall to her right flexed against her shoulder. She noticed the fabric of the sneaker shift as the foot inside must have stretched; maybe the toes lifted, maybe he arched it, who could tell? The box complained again, suddenly feeling frail and weak, and Brooke bit her lip, feeling tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

On the opposite end of the box, the plastic around the box seemed to shift a little bit. "What if he breaks the mechanism", she suddenly wondered. "Fuck, I have to get out. Now. Now!"

She got up to her feet, licked her lips, and unsteadily made her way down the aisle, eyes focused on the door; don't look up, don't look down, the room's warping and creaking and shifting but you have to reach the door and get out and hide or get help, it does not matter what, you just need to get out, out of here...

A shadow shifted. She looked up just in time to see him cross his other leg over the one that was resting on her box. Ankle-over-knee.

- NO! - she screamed in sudden realization and took a step forward; and then the ceiling right over her head made a snapping, sharp sound, and she stopped dead in her tracks, trying to go in two directions at the same time. She fell on her back, suddenly staring right up into the expanse of that massive rubber sole, grit and sand scraping the acrylic, the weight on it unimaginable, incomprehensible, and she started crawling right back, quickly scampering on her elbows until the back of her head met the back wall again. The plastic gave at least a couple inches by that time, and when she looked at the door again, she saw that the walls and halfway down the box had bent so much that she'd have to crouch and crawl under the deformed roof - right under that unyielding rubber sole.

No chance in hell.

- Why, - she asked, suddenly feeling defeated - just as destroyed when she first shrunk.

It was so stupid. It was stupid then: she was meant to defend her PhD, go on, land a job, have the life she'd always dreamed about. It was stupid now: she was trapped in a stupid box forgotten by some punk and trampled by some fucker with literally zero attention to his surroundings. Who the fuck just brushes a thing someone else had forgotten off the seat? Who is out of touch enough to smash it underfoot? It didn't make any sense. None!

A series of bullshit events. None of this would ever happen to her if she wasn't hit by the shrinking. Or, more realistically, if she didn't agree to this in-person invitation...

His sneaker slid a bit forward, still on top of her plastic prison; the sole rubbed against the acrylic roof with a low rubbery squeak. She watched it go: she could not avert her eyes. The further it went, the more the box complained. She realized with cold certainty that the box was going to give all the way in, because as his foot was sliding forward, it would soon be his heel, not his arch resting on top of the box. There's less flex there, less area, the heel is hard, and the box is already so battered; no, it would stand no chance...

It was mesmerizing how the walls bent outwards with every passing second; she felt tightly wound, like a spring, and she prayed in that moment that this container is flexible enough that when it collapses, it collapses only on that side, by the door, like a plastic bottle would; she could all too easily picture them also coming down around her, next to her, behind her, leaving her jammed in their broken plastic folds, somewhere all too close to the unyielding sneaker of the uncaring destroyer above her. She prayed and watched at the thin lines where the strain (or was it stress?) was too high: those lines went white in color. The ceiling over there was so low now that it touched the headrests of the seats, smashing the safety braces. Another fraction of an inch, another one...

It still came as a surprise when it all finally snapped, and the foot came crashing down, in an instant flattening half the box, the rest of it deforming all around the girl; the corner that she was hiding in suddenly pressed against her and with a yelp she threw herself onto the floor. The loud creaking of breaking plastic sent her into panic mode and she put her hands on her ears and pressed her face into the hard floor, trying to hide, disappear, phase right through it. The acrylic roof broke with a particularly loud sound - it was like a gunshot to her - and then she felt a gust of stale air coming in through what must have been a giant crack nearby. Then, everything came to a standstill.

It took her about a minute to get herself together again. She wasn't in pain; her body seemed to be intact. She pushed off the floor, expecting her head to hit the ceiling, but... no. Finally, she looked around, taking in her changed surroundings.

The box fared better than she expected. The front section of it was flattened, broken down, smashed under the sneaker that she could now barely see because that section of the transparent acrylic ceiling was covered in myriads of tiny cracks. One of the side windows was knocked out by the top-down pressure, and that's why she could sense the bus air coming in. The back end of the box was deformed, still about an inch and a half high in the very back, and tapering to millimeters where the sneaker rested. Deformed, reduced to what must have looked like a discarded piece of packaging... and yet she was still okay here in the back. And she could probably take the window exit...

She tried to bring her breathing under control as she turned around and laid on her back, staring into the still-intact section of the ceiling right over her head. She smiled to herself; perhaps there was a hint of madness to that smile, but, well, she survived something she was sure could be deadly. And maybe he'd finally realize he was stepping on something and maybe he'd take a look what was it that he just crushed. Maybe...

Shadows shift, and there's a ridged, dirty white surface hanging beyond the roof of the remaining section of the box, right over her.

She whimpered as she saw it lower. It hit the tortured acrylic, rested on top of it with a resounding "thunk", forcing another series of squeaky complaints out of the plastic, and sending shivers down Brooke's spine. Paralyzed, she stared into the rubber sole above her, waiting for it to smash the rest of the contorted box - waiting for the sky to come down and pulverize her tiny form.

Then, she saw something. A lump immediately came up in her throat.

Sometimes, the mind recognizes something before processing it. Sometimes, it's enough to see something resembling an insect to feel disgust. That's how it was in this case; she didn't yet know what she was looking at, but the contents of her stomach were already rising, and her body was already trembling. The eyes caught up a second later.

Right there, on the sole of this man's shoe, magnified and presented to her through the acrylic, there was a dark silhouette embedded and smashed into the horizontal ridges. Mixed with grime. Pressed flat. Black and brown, barely recognizable, stretched, deformed, ruined.

A body of an inch-tall man, or what was left of it.

Jolted into action, shaking, holding a hand to her agape mouth, she scampered to her feet and lunged for that one window that got knocked out earlier. She pushed herself through it, lost her balance, rolled outside, on the old, dirty rug that covered the floor of the bus. She crawled several inches before rising to her feet again; she started sprinting...

With a deafening crack, the rest of the box collapsed behind her, finally crumpled into a flat piece of trash. Her foot caught her ankle, and she stumbled, falling face first onto the floor again. She just wanted to put some distance between herself and those terrorizing sneakers; she wanted to hide under the seat in front of the man, where she could maybe find a safe corner to come to her feelings again and figure out how to call for help. She crawled... then tried to get up again... then turned around to check that the beast of a foot was not chasing her.

And it wasn't. His feet idly trampled what was left of that little box, destroying it further, pressing it flat. Against her will, she stopped, hypnotized by the ease with which the rubber soles flattened the bits and pieces of the box. Myriads of tiny movements; she could read them through the shifting, flexing leather. Effortless, unstoppable; a deadly show of force. Who was the man stuck to his sole, she wondered. How'd he end up there? Was it an accident? Was it deliberate murder, a show of authority? What did he do to deserve this? Nothing, most likely; just ended up tiny and in this uncaring colossus's path. The same could so easily happen to her. How the hell did she think it's safe to leave her little apartment? How could she be so naive?

Then again... it was all too easy to imagine him crushing the entirety of her block, too. Tiny apartments were not known for their durability. If he was to trample all over them, they'd fold like houses of cards. He - or someone like him - could come there at any point, for any reason, and simply stomp his way through the entire community. Walk a bloody path of carnage as he strolled along... many more bodies ending up stuck as disfigured, unrecognizable pieces of dirt on the soles of his shoes.

"I should run", Brooke thought, but she stayed in place, watching his feet move; her face felt hot, the air around her was dizzyingly stale, full of that stuffy smell of rubber, foam and rotting fabric that old public transport tends to have. God, and she almost believed that she could return to normal life; as if a normal person could ever find themselves in this situation, narrowly escaping a humiliating death. As if a normal person would just keep standing there like an idiot, horrified and fascinated by the destructive power of someone's feet; as if a normal person would feel so belittled, so utterly disregarded, and yet, so much in awe...

She heard a soft chuckle from above, and, instantly going pale in the face, looked up. His handsome face loomed far away; they were separated by a distance that to her seemed incomprehensible, even more so after he stomped all over the box she'd arrived in, but, she could see that he was holding a phone in his hands, and he was looking either at the screen... or at her. Or both? It was like an electric surge going through her body, from toes to the tips of her hair; did he see? Did he know? Did he try to murder her within the confines of that box? In cold blood, just like that? Her mouth agape, she stared up at him, trying to tell if his eyes were focused on her or on the phone, but she couldn't tell, and the thin curve of his lips wasn't giving it away. But shadows in front of her shifted again. The crushed plastic gave one last squeak as his right foot lifted on its toe; its mirror twin went up, turned sideways, the ball of it pressing against the heel of the right foot, and then, in a forceful push, he popped the sneaker off with a strangely satisfying, quiet popping sound. Rubber on leather, leather on fabric, rubbing softly, silently, as the foot, clad in a slick black sock, exited the shoe... and flew forward.

She recoiled, falling on her butt, lifting an arm in front of her as if trying to defend herself - except, of course, it would be like trying to defend from an incoming mountain. But it didn't hit her. It stopped just in front and slightly to the side; black moist sock tightly clinging to the meaty appendage within, toes flexing, airing out above her. On the instep of the sock she noticed faint white embroidery: 10 - 14, but, as far as she could tell, this must have been the upper end.

And maybe even pushing that.

The odor hit her like a great musky wave, heavy and warm; not the odor of old socks, not the stink of never-washed shoes, no, it was just the fresh acrid sweat, which instantly made her feel like she was approaching the weirdest sauna on Earth. A single breath made her heart race; she coughed quietly, trying to hide it even though there was no one to hide from.

She could not see his face anymore, nor the phone, and the faint shine of the bus lighting became even more distant as she found herself covering in the shadow of his expansive sole, feeling even smaller than she actually was - feeling like... an insect, she realized, something beneath his notice literally and figuratively. It was a sensory overload; the waves of his smell washing over her, the warmth radiating from the flexing foot, the lack of light. It was daunting. It was like a force she'd never known before was pressing her into the floor with a great invisible fist. She had to leave, she realized, she had to run, there was a danger associated with being here, a danger that was possibly much worse than being carelessly crushed - it was something carnal, something she'd never thought of, something right out of Lovecraft's cosmic horror fantasies but unspeakably more alluring. Here was a man that almost crushed her, here was his sock-clad sole, a sole that could mash and grind her into a wet spot on the floor, and... fuck it... it was so powerful.

What if he knew? What if he didn't care? What if THIS was truly how he saw her?

She was *tiny*, so it was *okay* to do this.

There it is. She *wanted* to believe she knew. She *wanted* to believe there was a man out there who trampled on tiny people, and if she was in the comfort of her home she could post all sorts of outrage about him on the internet, but right here, right now... she wanted it... because it was *sexy* that he decided to subject a shrunken person to his feet like this. Turning her life upside down without doing anything to her. Without as much as appearing he even knew about her. She'd heard about it all; she knew that there were bullies out there, as there were nice people, but this... this was something else.

So she couldn't move; she stayed there, frozen in a strange reverie, as she hungrily watched the socked sole flex above her, tiny pieces of lint raining all around, virile odor washing over, and there was a strange guilty pleasure collecting within her. The thought that she should leave never left her mind, but she never followed through on it, even when the position of the foot shifted and the sole lowered towards her, cutting off yet more light coming from the world beyond. She wondered how many women in America have ever experienced anything like this; being faced with a foot of a massive man, someone uncaring enough to never double check if that little box had anyone inside it, or if there was a corpse stuck to their shoe. Adrenalin coursed through her veins as she imagined the foot descending further, pressing her into the floor in a firm, suffocating embrace... She fantasized, feeling all hot and jumpy, and the foot was getting closer, almost like it was getting progressively bigger, like its sheer presence was enough to force her to shrink even more, and in a way, mentally, it was true, because it made her feel smaller than she'd ever felt before. A true bug's eye view; turns out, you can't envision it without actually being a bug to someone else...

She realized that his sole, specifically, the ball of his foot were now close enough, that she only needed to stand up and take a couple of steps forward to touch it. Without even thinking, she did just that - rose to her feet and took those steps with her arm extended in front of her. The fabric of his sock was like a thick carpet of rope; she could tell that if she wanted, she could force her arm through the gaps in the threads, and touch the hot flesh beneath, and once again she'd thought of just how long it has been since she'd last had any kind of physical contact with someone who wasn't shrunken too. She recoiled then, the panic and the fear taking over once again: run, Brooke, run, before you lose something you can't afford to lose. And at the same time, the sole leaned towards her just a little extra bit, and the ball of hit his her on the head and chest, sending her to the floor in a chaotic, flailing heap. Breathing heavily, raspily, she watched at the sky of damp black fabric right above her, realizing that she'd need to crawl from under it if she wanted to leave...

In a swift, sudden motion, the foot left, exposing her to the faint light of the bus once again. She watched his foot as he used his toes to hook his empty shoe and push it a bit forward; the rubber sole, as thick as she was tall, landed next to her with a terrifying thud. Then, he half-pushed his foot into the shoe... and stopped there.

She looked up. His phone was still in the direct line of vision connecting her eyes with his. He was grinning. She saw him mouth: "come on", or was it "come in"? Licking her dry lips, shaking, she stood up and slowly walked up to the side of his shoe, before bracing and jumping; she managed to get her hands on the rim of it, and she pulled herself up, balancing precariously on the very edge between the outside and the inside. Her self-preservation instinct screamed in terror, commanding her to get away; the rational part of her knew that this was insane, it was crazy, idiotic. But the other part of her, the one that was mesmerized, brought low by the mere sight of his imposing, masculine foot, resting imperiously right above her; the part that simply knew that she had to be beneath his feet for a bit longer - that part was afraid that he was about to leave the bus, and what would she do if he left?

Brooke dove in, sliding towards his insole, falling down, light suddenly becoming scarce, the air now totally replaced by the raw manly odor of her newfound idol, and, as she landed, she saw and felt his foot move in, as it entered the shoe, settled on the insole and filled the space all around, smashing the tiny girl into a narrow space between the inner wall of his sneaker and the arch of his foot. She inhaled, feeling his musk permeate her lungs, she closed her eyes and prayed, and then she felt him rise - and her body felt the weight of a god.

***

It never failed.

Colin smiled to himself as he stepped into the aisle, enjoying the feel of a tiny body beneath his foot. He walked slowly, relishing the feel of the girl's body conforming, flexing, compressing to accommodate his foot. On his phone, there was a short video of her little blonde head staring up in reverence with his foot resting next to her form; it was that gaze that he longed for, that "you've-made-your-point-now-step-on-me-daddy" look that you could only get if you let them come to the thought themselves. Sometimes it felt like they were all closet size fetishists; being treated like dirt, being subjected to his pure presence brought out that delicious desire which he was so happy to use.

Usually, the use was... short-lived. Some lasted longer. But he didn't try to be too careful or anything. He had places to be, he needed to get there, walk there, and the girl would have to make do. She probably regretted her decision already, he mused. But that was not his concern.

Colin stepped out of the bus and went along his day, with Brooke becoming a tiny bit more... comfortable... with every new step.