Toy Soldiers 8 - Dahlia Rain - Unaware - Feet - Giantess Tied Up
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Dahlia Rain pushed open the front door of her sprawling suburban home, her eyes lined with fatigue. She kicked off her designer heels, wincing as the hard leather crushed a line of tiny green soldiers scattered across the living room carpet. Her cell phone still gripped in her hand, she let out a long sigh, her gravelly voice carrying on with her friend Marisol about the usual—family drama, juicy office gossip, and the unsettling rules her stepson had started enforcing at home.
"Oh my god," she said into the phone, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated, "I'm literally stomping on these tiny toy soldiers my stepson adores. Everything that destroys or harms something else—that's just so him." She sank onto the sofa, kicking off her remaining shoe, and bent to massage her tender feet. A small tin of red nail polish lay on the coffee table beside her; she eased a bottle from her tote, pried open the cap, and uncorked the thin brush. The polish smell was sharp and sweet in her nostrils as she rested her right heel on the edge of the table and painted the big toenail in slow, deliberate strokes.
But as she reached for a toe separator—only to find nothing but lint and old receipts in her bag—she muttered under her breath, "Where's that damn thing?" Frustrated, she fished around until her fingers closed around the tiny plastic commander from her stepson's set. "Well," she chuckled into the phone, brushing a coat of glossy red over her left big toe, "I'll just use this little guy instead."
Her voice trailed off as she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Tiny green forms crawling up the leg of the coffee table. Three or four soldiers, rifles balanced on their shoulders, had hauled themselves onto the lacquered wood. One of them held a narrow slip of paper in both hands. Dahlia blinked, paintbrush poised in midair. The minute figures marched into a neat row and snapped to attention in front of her.
Slowly, she reached out and let the note flutter into her palm. Scrawled in pencil were four ominous words: "We are here to tie you up." Her breath caught. "Who puts this note here?" she whispered, unfolding it and reading aloud, "We are here to...tie...you...up."
She glanced at the soldiers, then muttered, "It's gotta be my husband. He's so into—ugh—bondage stuff." She tossed the paper onto the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes to rest.
Moments later, the first rope tightened around her wrist. Dahlia bolted upright, paint still wet. The green soldiers advanced with surprising speed. In minutes, they had unbuttoned her blouse, stripped her socks, and bound her ankles under the coffee table. She struggled, free hand scrabbling at the twine.
"You stupid toys," she cried, voice cracking between anger and disbelief. "What do you want? Untie me now!"
A hush fell. Then the plastic commander crept forward, cutter glinting at his belt buckle. He climbed onto the couch armrest and leaned near her ear. Dahlia froze as a tiny voice seemed to whisper in her mind: "You are the leader, and you are going to take me to your tiny world as your prisoner. Why do you deserve to be a prisoner?"
She yanked against her bonds. "Oh yeah? Let me go, stupid toy! You're just a bit of plastic—I'm not going anywhere without a fight!"
The commander's tiny voice echoed again: "Surrender."
Dahlia's shoulders slumped. "Oh—okay! Stop, stop, I surrender. I'm all yours!"
A triumphant hush. The commander hopped onto the coffee-table edge, beckoned her forward, and demanded a kiss. Flushing, Dahlia leaned down and pressed her lips to his tiny plastic visor. Instantly, other soldiers swarmed and gave her little pinches on her feet, grinning up at her with molded smiles.
"As you mean it," the commander whispered once more. Dahlia's eyes widened, then shone with reluctant delight. She pressed her lips again against his hard forehead. "That's it," she murmured, breathless. "I surrender to you—little toys."
