The Reward of the Giantess
A Story of Power and Submission
As I stepped into the room, my gaze fell upon the tiny creature cowering beneath my feet. It was no bigger than a button, and the floor beneath it made a soft creaking sound as I moved. Lowering my head, I looked down at the tiny thing that was smaller than the palm of my hand. It curled up among the grooves of the wooden floor, like a button that had accidentally fallen. My heart raced with anticipation, knowing what was about to happen.
Slowly, I lifted my right foot, the arch of my foot resting above him. I could see the fine fibers on the sole of my sock and smell the faint fragrance of laundry detergent mixed with the subtle scent of human body heat. Then, my foot slowly dropped down - not with a stamp, but with a certain sense of ritualistic pressure. The sole of the sock first touched his back, the softness of the cotton fabric contrasting cruelly with the weight of his body.
I began to move my foot, pressing it back and forth, rolling it left and right, like kneading a stubborn stain. I could feel the outline of each toe, and how the pressure, through the cotton sock, became heavy and unavoidable. I took off my sock, revealing my bare feet. They slightly stretched in the air, then I put on my sports shoes. The laces were tightened with a distinctive friction sound.
Again, I lifted my foot, this time with a more casual motion, like extinguishing a cigarette. At the moment the sole of the shoe pressed down, he heard the subtle sound of his body. I began to rotate my ankle, allowing different parts of the sole to touch him: the curved part of the front sole, the depression of the arch, the hardest part at the heel. Each contact was accompanied by the rustling sound of the sole rubbing against the floor, which in his ears was magnified into thunder.
I bent over, using my thumb and index finger to lift him up. Our visions suddenly rose, and we met eyes looking down at him. Then, I stuck out my tongue - moist, pink, with a temperature - from the top of his head to lick. The saliva covered his body, and that sticky sensation was more terrifying than the stomping. I could taste the smell of dust, the smell of fear.
I placed him in a plastic box with ventilation holes. It was my private, unrepellent scent that filled the small container. I stuck my foot against the side of the box, the toes squeezing the space where he was. The smell of sweat, sebum, and microorganisms fermenting together filled the small container. It was her, private, and unrepellent scent.
Finally, I got tired and lifted my foot. He lay there, his body marked with my lines, soaked in my smell, becoming an unspoken footnote in her world under the floor. I put on my slippers and walked to the bathroom, leaving him on the floor, so small that he was almost invisible. The grooves on the sole of his feet were deeper, the sweaty skin sticky and warm. She began to move like a dancer, her toes touching down, her heels rotating, her sole slapping. Each contact left a damp mark, each was deeper. He could feel her faint resistance, like a stubborn grain of sand on the floor.
Finally, she got tired and lifted her foot. He lay there, his body marked with her lines, soaked in her smell, becoming an unspoken footnote in her world under the floor. She walked away, leaving him there, so small that he was almost invisible. The grooves on the sole of his feet were deeper, the sweaty skin sticky and warm. He could feel her faint resistance, like a stubborn grain of sand on the floor.
