It was surprisingly easy to obey him.

"I beg you," she whimpered, "tread on me, Sir!"

He pushed off the table, extended his arm, lowered her to the ground; a moment later she heard him kick off his dress shoes. She didn't even have the time to gather herself as his foot, clad in a dark, sweat-soaked sock, appeared above her, and she could only squeak as it descended, an image of impending doom.

"Squirm," he ordered as he stepped on her, flattening her into the hardwood floor, putting her bones to the greatest test. The humid, sweaty, odorous mass above her replaced the world, became the world, as she screamed and cried into the thick sock. But the adoration she had for him had always been going hand in hand with fear, and so she squirmed in pain and pleasure, perversely happy to be here for him, to be a worthless, yet such a pleasing toy. The foot turned in place, dragging her along the floor; almost like he tried to smear her around, except he didn't put quite enough pressure to injure her.

He probably had practice, she realized. She wondered how many of the shrunken women working at his company had been forcefully acquainted with this unapologetically dominant side of his. How many had to be humbled and humiliated.

She felt pride at the knowledge she was still his gold standard.

The foot lifted and she saw his hand reaching for her again; trunk-like fingers wrapped around her slender, beat-up body.