What choice did she have? What choice did she really have? Perhaps, if she had more time, she would come up with something to say, or to do, or to just gather enough will and defiance to stand up to him, to tell him that it was going to stop there and now, that she was a proud young woman, a human being, and she would not be roped into any ridiculous, cruel, demeaning games, and she obviously would not debase herself at his massive pale feet like some insect…

But those mighty toes flexed and cracked above her, the mere sound of them moving somehow forceful and threatening, and what she could see of his reddened, meaty sole was not just overly detailed — it was terrifying, and each one of those tiny details, like specks of lint versus bits of sand, reminded her just how tiny she was.

And he sounded so… Authoritative. So demanding. She believed him instantly. She could already see this muscular sole fucking pulverising her, turning her to bloody mush. It was unfair, but there was really nothing she could do about it in that instant. Submit or die. And what a dumb death it would be: all of her struggles, all of her work, achievements, hopes and dreams turned to a gory mess on the bottom of his foot, fit only to be wiped off with a tissue and tossed in the garbage. No. No!

The alternative? All of her work, achievements, hopes and dreams, everything she’s ever done somehow — in a cruel joke — led her towards shrinking in his presence in this damn hotel. Just as she thought she was about to spread her wings, she was cast down. Thrown at his feet.

Swallowing tears, Cynthia lowered herself to her knees, mouthing things like “please” and “don’t do this”, but he didn’t hear — or maybe he did, but he responded with more flexing of his toes, every movement of which drew her involuntary gaze. On her knees, she moved towards where his feet met the table: round, slightly rough heels next to each other, resting on the glossy, polished surface.
Suddenly, one of them moved, swooping up and coming back down, except now his legs were crossed in the ankles, and his soles seemed to occupy even more of her field of vision, impossibly, terrifyingly large from her point of view. With her darker skin, she probably really seemed to be bug at a white god’s feet. Remembering his order, she forced herself to lean in and press the first hesitant kiss on the surface of his skin.

It felt leathery, cool, firm — about what you’d expect; but, as her lips made that connection, she suddenly realized with newfound clarity that she was actually doing this, that she was actually degrading herself like this less than a day into her shrunken life, and the thought was electrifying; she felt painfully alive, painfully aware, with every second lasting far longer than it should have. Mary was the only person in the room beside her and Brian, yet she felt like she was watched and the whole world knew that the smart little Cynthia was forced to kiss a man’s feet like some lowly slave or a shrunken porn actress, and that it really took just one order from the man. Horrified, disgusted with herself, she felt like her skin was on fire from the shame and humiliation. The taste of his foot made it worse, the odor of it — more so. She pulled away, lifted a hand to her mouth, covered it with a shocked expression on her face. Her eyes were glued to the sole in front of her, automatically tracing the wrinkles and pieces of dirt, like they were some secret barcode and she was a human scanner. Perhaps her brain tried to escape that way; tried to transform the immense foot into a simple combination of grooves and debris.

A ripple ran across the fleshy expanse of his powerful sole, a ripple that had enough force in it that if she was stuck to his foot it would be like lying on a massage bed running at the maximum setting. Another flex of the toes far above, an audible grunt from the man far away. She sensed she displeased him and froze in abject terror.

“I said: lick! Open your mouth, nerd. Work that tongue! Show me what you're worth!”

Tears now streaming down her cheeks, Cynthia swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her mouth, thinking she should object - she should at least try to retain some dignity. All of her favorite heroines in novels and movies would probable stand up to him, right? Better to die with your head up high than to live on your knees and all that. Rebel and resist. Except, of course, none of those heroines were ever in her position. Brian's threat - that nonchalant "I'll step on you" - was so casual and... banal... but that made it all the more threatening, because a simple step could absolutely obliterate her.

So, with that little mouth of hers wide open, although perhaps a bit drier than would be ideal, she leaned in again, her pink tongue stuck out in a comical expression; she pressed it against the man's skin and gave it a peckish, weak lick. She closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears and fearing he was about to command her again, but he remained silent for the moment. God, he probably didn't even feel that, did he? She looked at the area she had just licked and couldn't see anything; nothing as much as a glossy wet trace. Even the flavor in her mouth seemed quite weak. Not enough...

She pressed herself against his heel and went at his heel again, her tongue sliding across the rough ridges, her lips quickly chafing against the tough surface of his skin; the odor washed over her in waves. She tried to help herself with her hands, trying to press the skin a bit, massage it lightly such that the ridges and wrinkles that Brian was probably not even aware of would smoothen out and be easier to lick, but it wasn't really working. She tried to do that thing with her throat, tongue and cheeks that helps gather saliva, trying to get her mouth and lips moist because it'd be easier for her - and, probably, it would make him happier, and a happy Brian was, at least in theory, the Brian that doesn't decide to wipe her out of existence. And while she certainly felt like an insect - no, like a girl forced to be one - she wanted to keep living; eventually he'd grow tired of his games, or she could talk to Mary and get her to help...

Mary! Mary was somewhere in the background, gathering Cynthia things. It was a bit peculiar how she'd just agree to do that, but still, she was a friend, and she was a chance at eventual escape. Surely she wasn't actually okay with this? She must have decided Brian was just having a bit of mean fun. Perhaps all of this was meant to be a joke gone too far.

(But if it was, would he say "step on you"? Wouldn't it be something more scary, more out there, like "I'll crush you", or "I'll squish you underfoot")

(And, besides, what joke leads to forcing your friend to feverishly lick your feet?)

"Like an animal", she heard Brian chuckle then. "That's right. That's where you belong. It feels so great because you thought yourself so fucking smart, too. Mary! Come over for a sec, will you? Take a picture of our little academic licking my feet".

"C-coming!"

Every word was like a needle stabbing right into Cynthia's little heart. All of her work. All of her persistence. All the nights spent analyzing, and writing, and thinking. Out. Away. Like it didn't matter. She was Brian's foot licker now. Little Asian girl slaving at the feet of a White man.

Pathetic. She wanted to disappear. Instead, her humiliation was going to be digitally immortalized.