"Lulu" Shrunken First Semester: Abuela 101 chapter 6 by maximally

The front door clicked shut behind Lupe, sealing her and Max into the tranquility of the bungalow as she started to unpack. Her movements were methodical: milk went into the fridge; cilantro was wrapped in a damp paper towel; dried chiles were tucked away in the spice cabinet. She kept her shrunken step-grandson secured in her cleavage, and each time she reached or bent, her breasts shifted around him.

Once the last item was stored, Lupe let out a satisfied sigh. “There. Cabinets are happy again.” She hooked a finger into the neckline of her sundress and fished Max out, cradling him in her open palm. “Now… I think we’ve both earned a little TV time.”

She carried him to the couch, settling in with a heavy creak. The remote was in her other hand, and soon the music from Amor Eterno filled the room. Lupe kicked off her sandals, stretched her legs on the table, and leaned back, sinking deep into the cushions. She placed Max just below her collarbone, letting him feel her steady breath.

For a while, they watched in companionable silence. On screen, the usual whirlwind of betrayal and passionate arguments unfolded. Lupe murmured comments in Spanish, clearly invested. Max sat with his knees drawn up, trying to follow, though he barely understood half the dialogue.

About twenty minutes in, Lupe suddenly muted the TV. She looked down at him with a thoughtful expression, one eyebrow raised.

“You know, mijo… I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?” Max’s stomach tightened. “About what?”

“What do you think?” Lupe clicked her tongue softly. “A pretty girl your own age, right there, and you barely said two words. You need practice, Mijo. Real practice.”

“Maybe.” Max shifted uncomfortably on the ledge of her chest. “I mean… It’s kind of hard to feel normal when I’m three inches tall and naked.”

Lupe chuckled. "That’s true. But still." Her gaze dropped to her bare feet on the ottoman, a mischievous smile forming on her full lips. "I watched you rub my feet last night, mijo. Most of the time, it seems like that mind of yours never stops spinning. Even before all this. But when you were down there… honestly, I think that was the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Max felt his face heat up. He remembered last night, kneading her giant, sweaty feet for what felt like hours, zoning out on the soft, doughy skin and the way her toes flexed with every sigh. He’d gotten so lost in the rhythm—press, squish, breathe in that salty, abuela foot aroma—that she’d had to physically snap him out of it.

Lupe continued, warm and matter-of-fact. “So I had an idea. Since you seem to do better when you’re working with my feet… maybe you should go on a little practice date with one.”

“What?” Max blinked up at her, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he let out a nervous laugh. “You’re… you’re serious?”

“Completely,” Lupe replied, her smile widening. “I mean, sure, it’s a little out there. But we’re pretty far past normal at this point.” She shrugged one heavy shoulder. “Remember where I found you sleeping this morning?”

“That was an accident,” Max muttered, arms crossed.

“Sure it was.” Lupe flashed a smirk. “Seriously though. This wasn’t the first time I’ve tried fixing you up. I’ve seen how you get. And let’s be honest, mijo… you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want, but we both know you won’t be living with me forever. It’s my job to get you ready for when you find a real partner. And I take that job very seriously.”

Before Max could even think about protesting, Lupe scooped him up and plopped him down on the ottoman, right in front of her foot. Her sole loomed over him, a pinkish, slightly sweaty wall of flesh that blocked out everything else—and its warmth was immediate and comforting.

Max swallowed hard. The absurdity was hard to ignore: a practice date… with his grandmother’s foot. Yet as ridiculous as it sounded, he couldn’t find any real ground to stand on. She wasn’t wrong about his ineptitude with girls—that was half the reason he’d drunk so much Friday night. Arguing would just bring more teasing or, worse, disappointment.

He let out a long, defeated breath. “Okay… I guess we’re doing this.”

“That’s my good boy.” Lupe’s face lit up with approval. “Alright. From now on, this is Lulu.” She flexed the toes on her right foot. “You’re on a date. You want to make a good impression. Start by telling her how nice she looks today.”

Max stared at the giant, squishy sole in front of him. Every wrinkle, every curve, every fat little toe pad was right there, daring him to say something that wouldn’t make him sound like a total pervert. He felt ridiculous, but he played along. “Uh… you have really… nice toes?” he managed, instantly regretting it.

Lupe let out a bright laugh. “Ay, mijo, you can do better than that. Compliment her properly. Be sweet.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning. 'Okay… Your skin’s, uh, really soft. And warm. I like how it feels when I… y’know, touch it.' He sounded like a creep even to himself.

“Better,” Lupe hummed, clearly enjoying herself. She slowly dragged the ball of her foot forward until it lightly pressed against his front, the warm, yielding flesh making contact from his chest down to his thighs. “Keep going. Tell me what you’d do on this date.”

“I’d… probably ask about your day.” He shrugged weakly. “Maybe try to make you laugh.”

Lupe’s toes wiggled playfully above him. “Oh? And how would you make her laugh, hmm? Come on, mijo—show me your best material.”

Max’s brain scrambled. “Well… I’d probably say something like, ‘Hey girl, are you a giant foot?” He hesitated, cheeks burning, then forced the punchline out anyway. “…‘cause then we’d be perfect sole-mates!”

For a second, the room was quiet. Then Lupe burst out laughing—deep, genuine belly laughs that made her whole chest shake and sent gentle tremors through the foot still resting against him. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” she wheezed, wiping at the corner of one eye. “I’ve heard some bad puns in my day, but that?” She shook her head. “That was terrible, mijo. So bad it looped right back around to adorable. But hey—at least you tried.”

Max’s face burned, but the sound of her laughter eased something tight in his chest. He couldn’t help a small, sheepish grin.

Lupe softened her tone, still playing along as she made her foot “speak” with a slightly higher, flirtier tone. “So tell me, Max—what are you into? Don’t be shy.”

He hesitated, then relaxed into it a little. “Uh… I like video games. Mostly RPGs and some fighting games. And anime—stuff with big worlds and over-the-top fights. I used to binge that kind of thing for hours back home.”

The foot tilted curiously, toes curling as if listening. “Big worlds, huh? Sounds exciting. What’s your favorite one right now?”

Max found himself answering more easily than he expected. “I really like this game called Elden Ring. The bosses are insane, and the story is all mysterious and epic. For anime, my favorite is My Hero Academia—the fights in that are wild.” He caught himself and added, “I know it’s nerdy. Most girls zone out when I start rambling about it.”

“Nerdy is fine,” Lupe’s foot replied through her amused voice. “Keeps things interesting. Now your turn—ask her something. Don’t make it all about you.”

Max swallowed, glancing up at the massive sole like it really was a girl waiting for his next line. “So… what about you? What are you into?”

The toes flexed happily. “Me? I love long walks on the beach—feeling the sand between my toes, the waves rolling in. I do Zumba three times a week to keep this body moving. And honestly?” The foot pressed a little firmer against him, warm and deliberate. “I could never say no to a really good foot rub. Especially after a long day like today.”

Max felt an unexpected flicker of confidence. “I’m actually pretty good at those. Foot rubs, I mean. Want one… right now? On our date?”

Lupe’s real voice broke character for a proud little hum. “Look at you taking initiative! That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Yes, mijo. Show her what those tiny hands can do.”

He stepped forward without overthinking it this time and pressed both palms into the yielding ball of her foot. The skin was warm and supple, giving slightly under his weight as he kneaded in slow, careful circles. Lupe sighed contentedly, the sound vibrating down through her leg and into the cushion beneath him.

“Mmm, just like that,” Lupe murmured, still half in character. “This date is going really well so far. You’re relaxing, you’re talking… consider me impressed.” Her foot rocked gently under his hands, encouraging every stroke. Then her tone shifted, playful but with a new spark of mischief. “You know what comes after a good conversation on a date, right?”

Max paused mid-rub, looking up. “What’s that?”

Lupe’s eyes twinkled as she leaned forward slightly, the movement making her foot tilt toward him like an invitation. “Kissing, mijo,” she coaxed. “A really good date doesn’t end without at least one. So, go on—give it a shot. Right here.” She tapped the side of her big toe with one finger, right where the pad met the arch.

Max stared at the massive digit hovering in front of him. It was absurd. This was his step-grandmother’s foot—the same one he’d massaged for a full hour last night. Shame gnawed at his last scraps of dignity. He wanted to back off, crack a joke, remind her this was just practice. Surely, he wasn’t actually about to make out with her toe like the world’s saddest, smallest pervert.

But his body had other plans. A sudden, traitorous rush hit him the second her toe got close; heat rolled off her skin, thick funk of foot sweat mingling with cheap vanilla lotion. The sensation wrapped around him like a dirty blanket, short-circuiting whatever was left of his free will. Three inches tall. Naked. Completely at Lupe’s mercy. The hesitation cracked and gave way.

Lupe’s big toe crept forward, slow and deliberate, pressing against the side of his face with surprising tenderness. The pad was plush and yielding, the skin smooth except for the faint natural ridges that dragged lightly across his cheek. The scent hit harder now—earthy, intimate, a little sour. Max’s breath caught.

Then, before the rational part of his mind could claw its way back, he leaned in.

His lips met the warm curve of her toe pad. What began as a quick, embarrassed peck turned desperate almost instantly. He pressed harder, eyes squeezing shut, arms wrapping around the thick base like a body pillow for losers. The flesh yielded beneath his cheek, both warm and resilient. A low, involuntary sound escaped him as he nuzzled deeper, the salty-sweet taste blooming across his tongue.

God, this is pathetic, a tiny voice in the back of his head tried to protest. You’re making out with your step-grandma’s big toe like it’s the prom date you never had. But the voice fizzled out fast. All that pent-up college horniness—plus four years of being a high school nobody—finally had somewhere to go, and his body was not about to let his brain ruin it. College was supposed to fix everything. He’d pictured it a million times: wild parties, some hot girl dragging him into a closet, hands everywhere, tongues, sweat, finally not being a total loser. Instead, he’d ended up three inches tall, naked, and still a kissless virgin.

And now this. Living skin, warm and trembling, shuddered beneath his touch. The scent—unmistakably a woman—filled his lungs. Her low, approving hum deepened when he kissed, hungry for more. That it was Lupe’s foot should have mattered, but his brain could only watch, frantic, while his hips ground forward, desperate for the first true taste of mutual intimacy he’d ever known.

Lupe let out a surprised little laugh that rolled down her leg and vibrated through him. “¡Ay, mijo! Well, look at you.”

She stayed perfectly still, letting him explore. Max’s hands slid along the sides of the toe, fingers sinking in as he kissed lower, then higher, tracing the ridge where the pad met the nail. He pressed his entire front against it, letting her pulse thrum against his chest. The absurdity didn’t disappear. It just stopped mattering. For once, his overthinking brain was silent. Instead, he felt only pure sensation: the way her toe flexed gently against him, the soft approving hum she made somewhere far above, and the inescapable smell.

“That’s it… just like that,” Lupe murmured. “Feels lovely, mijo. Really lovely. You’ve got more energy than I expected.”

Her toe tip traced slowly down his back, a caress that shivered through his entire body. Max responded by kissing harder, lips parting to taste more of her. He ground his tiny body against the thick digit, shame abandoned. Between kisses, he sucked in her scent like he needed it to stay alive.

Lupe chuckled again, low and fond. “My goodness. Someone’s really getting into the spirit of the date.” She flexed the toe, letting the soft pad mold around his torso in a living embrace. “Lulu appreciates a man who knows how to show affection. You’re making her feel very special right now.”

Max’s face burned, but the humiliation only fed the rush. He pulled back just enough to look up past the broad curve of her foot, past her thick ankle, all the way to her face. She was watching him with sparkling eyes and that half-smile that always made him feel like she could read every filthy thought in his head.

“You… you really like it?” he asked, small and breathless, still clinging to her toe like it might vanish if he let go.

“Like it?” Lupe’s laugh was brighter this time. She wiggled the toe playfully, rocking him with the motion. “Mijo, it feels wonderful. Warm and sweet and… enthusiastic. I haven’t had a kiss like that in a long time.” She winked. “And from such a handsome young man, too. Lulu’s lucky.”

She shifted on the couch, sending a faint tremor through her foot. The television flickered with another dramatic telenovela confrontation, completely ignored. Lupe’s free hand rested on the swell of her belly, fingers drumming lightly as she studied him with open satisfaction.

“Tell you what,” she said, dropping her voice into that conspiratorial tone she used when they were sharing secrets. “Since you’re being such a good little gentleman, why don’t you show Lulu how you’d treat her on a second date? Go on. Give her a proper goodnight kiss. Use a little tongue if you want—Abuela won’t judge.”

Max hesitated for half a second, the last scrap of his old reservations flickering. Then it snuffed out completely. He leaned back in, pressing his lips to the center of her toe pad. This time, he let his tongue trace a slow, deliberate path across the warm skin. The taste was stronger here—deeper, unmistakably hers—and he moaned softly into it, arms tightening as he lavished every inch he could reach.

Lupe sighed, a deep, contented sound. “Mmm. That’s my good boy. Just like that. You’re a natural when you stop thinking so much.”

She let him continue, occasionally brushing his hair or back with the tip of her toe, whispering little Spanish praises—“Qué bueno, mijo… tan cariñoso…”—while he lost himself completely. His hands kneaded the thick flesh. His kisses grew sloppier, hungrier. Whatever line existed between practice and something way weirder disappeared.

Minutes stretched. Lupe’s toe eventually curled around him, cradling his tiny body against the ball of her foot in a warm, encompassing hug. She lifted her leg just enough to bring him closer to her face, peering down with soft, approving eyes.

“You did so well, mijo,” she said, voice thick with pride. “Better than I hoped. I think Lulu would be begging for a second date… maybe even a third.” She tapped the side of her nose, grinning. “And between you and me? I might need a few more practice sessions myself. Just to make sure you’re really ready.”

Max, flushed and panting, planted one last lingering kiss on her toe before looking up. The rush still buzzed in his chest, changing into something strangely warm and almost comfortable. It remained ridiculous, yet somehow it felt right—or at least as right as anything could feel in the bizarre new reality of Abuela’s house.

Lupe smiled down at him, slow and knowing.

“Now then,” she said, already reaching down with careful fingers, “I think you’ve earned a little reward.”

She tucked him back against the top of her boob, the soft, heavy flesh settling around him like a living, sweaty blanket. As the telenovela music started up again, Max just closed his eyes, the taste of “Lulu” still on his lips.

*

Sunday night, the foot tax came due.

That was what Lupe had started calling it—the tax—like Max was a small, naked business she’d agreed to host. After dinner she sank into the floral couch, propped both feet on the ottoman, and nudged the left one toward him without looking away from the novela recap. From down on the ottoman cushion, her sole was a wall of warm, wrinkled brown as big as a garage door, toes fanned out above him like a row of parked cars.

“Left one tonight, mijo. Lulu’s resting.”

No date. No small talk. Just the rub. He knew the route by now: heel first, where the skin was thick and smooth as a saddle, then up into the arch, then the fat pads under her toes. The smell met him halfway—vinegar, cocoa-butter lotion, and the faint ghost of the day’s sneakers—and draped over him like a damp beach towel. When he got the ball of her foot just right, she hummed, a low note that traveled down her shin and buzzed in his teeth.

She didn’t tip the big toe toward his face. He told himself he was grateful. His hands kept going anyway.

Afterward she gave him five minutes of supervised phone in her lap—Reddit, nothing sticking, her thumb hovering over the screen to scroll for him whenever his whole arm couldn’t—then scooped him into her chest and padded off to bed.

“Stay put tonight, pequeño,” she murmured, already halfway asleep. “No sliding.”

Her hand shifted him lower without thinking about it. Down the slope, toward the warm, rubbery knob he’d already learned the shape of in the dark. His whole body went stiff.

Lupe’s eyes opened. Just for a second. She looked down at where her thumb had him pressed, then huffed a soft laugh through her nose.

“Ay. Habit.”

She moved him back up into the valley, settled her palm over him like a seatbelt, and was out before he could say anything. Max lay there listening to her heartbeat, face still warm where it had almost been, and told himself that was the last time.

He braced for the slip. He slept anyway.

*

Monday smelled like reheated beans.

Lupe cooked in the housecoat with Max riding the valley like a passenger on a very warm, very slow ferry. Every time she leaned over the stove, the steam climbed her front and hit him in the face—onion, lard, cumin—until his hair was frizzy with it. Ranchera blasted from the radio. She sang along to half the words and invented the other half.

When the eggs were ready, she set him on his napkin beside her plate like a salt shaker.

“Spoon duty,” she announced. The wooden spoon’s handle was as thick as a telephone pole. Max wrapped both arms around it, braced his feet, and stirred the salsa bowl in slow, heroic circles while Lupe ate, enjoying him like other people enjoyed cooking shows.

Halfway through breakfast her stomach let out a groan like a garage door opening. She shifted one massive cheek on the chair.

BRRRRRRAAAAPPPPPP

The vinyl seat cushion did most of the talking. A second later, the cloud rolled out from under the table and crept over the napkin’s edge: refried beans, last night’s carnitas, and something warm and personal underneath that no air freshener in America could touch. Max coughed until the spoon slid out of his arms.

“Excuse Abuela,” Lupe said, and took another bite of eggs.

*

Tuesday was Zumba.

Front row, same as always. Pink leotard, white leg warmers, sneakers squeaking on the rec-center floor. For a full hour Max rode out the bounce in her cleavage while sixty-four years and 310 pounds of Lupe hit every step on the beat, plus a few the instructor hadn’t thought of yet. Marco used her as the example again. The circle cooed again about the devoted little grandson nobody was allowed to hold.

By the end, the valley between her breasts had turned into a hot spring. Max climbed up for air and got a faceful of sweat, rosewater, and the rubber-mat smell of the gym.

“You jealous again?” she teased on the walk home, patting him through the damp fabric.

“No.”

She laughed so hard a dog across the street started barking.

*

By Wednesday he had a routine, and that was the problem.

Mornings started with heat: rosewater, yesterday’s frijoles, and the Vasquez musk soaked into her skin from carrying him around like a brooch. Every sleeping breath lifted him a few inches and set him back down, slow as a tide. Foot rubs during the morning news. Breakfast on the edge of her plate. Spoon duty. Errands, with the neckline pulled snug and a cover story ready; one neighbor caught a glimpse over a fence, crossed herself, and then laughed until she had to sit down on her own porch step. Max learned to go still when the fabric tightened. Stillness was a skill. So was not sneezing in somebody’s bra.

One morning she set a crumb of scrambled egg on the edge of her plate for him, looked at him over her coffee, and asked with a perfectly straight face, “You hungry, mijo? Or did you already eat?”

Max buried his face in the egg. She didn’t even laugh. She just sipped her coffee, eyes dancing, and never brought it up again, which was somehow worse.

Evenings were the same shape with different episodes. Novelas. Foot tax. Supervised phone. And then the part he tried not to think about until it happened.

That night it happened.

She rolled onto her side around two, and the valley that held him loosened like a hand opening. He grabbed for skin, got a fistful of nothing, and slid—down her ribs, down the slope of her hip, into the dark. He knew where he was before he opened his eyes. Two walls of soft, heavy cheek closed in from both sides, each one bigger than his old dorm mattress, warm and damp and absolutely immovable.

He didn’t yell this time. He turned his face, found the one pocket of air that wasn’t directly against her, and listened. Somewhere above him, her gut began to gurgle—a low, rolling rumble, like distant thunder over the ocean.

Weather report, Max thought numbly. Warm front, incoming.

FFFFRRRRRRRBBBBBTTTT

It wasn’t loud, but it was long. Sleep-sour and thick: last night’s beans, the onions she never skimped on, and that sweet, earthy undertone he was starting to recognize the way you recognize a voice. His eyes streamed. He breathed shallow through his mouth and waited it out.

In the morning she found him there and laughed into the pillow.

“Again? Ay, mijo. You’re going to start thinking this is your room.”

She fished him out by the waist and kissed the top of his head like he hadn’t just spent half the night in her ass. “Mm. You smell like Abuela.” She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded almost proud.

He hated how fast it was all starting to feel normal.

*

Thursday morning, he stopped coughing.

It happened at breakfast, same as always. She sat. She ate. Her gut announced itself with one short, businesslike blast, like a car horn in traffic, and the bean-heavy cloud rolled under the table and up around his napkin. Max waited for the burn in his throat.

It didn’t come. He took a breath. Then another. Beans, onion, Lupe. Just air now.

She noticed. She always noticed.

“Look at you,” she said, delighted, and tapped his chest with a fingertip as thick as a soda can. “Adapting. That’s my boy.”

He didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make it worse.

That evening, she dropped onto the couch, put both feet on the ottoman, and opened her mouth to tell him which one.

He got there first.

“Lulu or rub?”

The words were out before he could swallow them. Then he hated himself for asking. For knowing there was a difference. For sounding like he had a preference.

Her eyebrows went up. Then the smile arrived, slow and delighted.

“Lulu tonight, I think. Since you asked so nicely.”

He spent the tax with his mouth on her right big toe, because that was what the name meant now. Not a full date. No sole-mates jokes. Just the soft pad against his lips, her news-voice drifting down from the couch, his whole body hot. She didn’t make him talk.

Afterward she set him on the kitchen napkin and went to change. This time he didn’t spiral. He counted clock ticks instead and got to forty-one before her footsteps came back down the hall—yellow sundress, hair in a clip, easy as anything. The relief hit him so fast it was embarrassing. He made sure she didn’t see it. He was almost positive she did.

That night, Victoria called.

Speaker. Phone against the fruit bowl. Max on the table like an exhibit who had learned not to run. Nothing in the call was new administration. The withdrawal had already gone through on Saturday. Housing and tuition were still a fight. Quiet language. Partial recovery if they signed and nobody talked.

Izzy, offscreen, bright: “Which means I can take 214, right? Zeke already said the bottom bunk’s sad without a roommate.”

Max’s hands curled against the wood. His old desk. Her posters. The Steam library he’d already mourned once, now with somebody else’s feet possibly on it. Not signed. She said it like a countdown anyway.

“Still not signed, sweetie.”

“Still yet.”

Lupe listened with the teacher face on. When the call ended she glanced down at him and slapped her own thigh, playful.

“None of those campus girls have a body like Abuela’s anyway. Thick. Warm. Smells like home.”

He let out a weak huff of a laugh he didn’t want to give.

*

Friday morning, Lulu wanted her good-morning kiss, and Abuela wanted proof.

“Hold still, mijo. Abuela wants to show the girls how well you’re doing.”

Before he could react, her phone angled down toward him. The camera clicked.

Max froze, lips still pressed to her toe, arms wrapped around it, his tiny naked body on full display. The flash went off once, twice. Lupe’s toes wiggled playfully against his face.

“There we go,” she said, satisfied. “Perfect. Now let’s see what everyone thinks.”

She tapped the screen, sending the picture off to the family group chat. Max’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly who was in that chat: Victoria, Izzy, and Aunt Fanny.

Lupe didn’t make him stop. She simply angled the phone so he could see the screen.

“Victoria says… ‘Oh my God, Mom. He’s actually making out with your foot? That’s… wow. He looks so into it. Poor baby.’” Lupe chuckled, warm and teasing. “She added a little heart emoji. How sweet.”

Max’s face burned hotter. He kissed harder, mostly to hide his face, and Lulu curled down over the back of his head like she was helping.

“Izzy… let’s see. ‘LMAOOOOO lil bro is GONE. Look at him. He’s actually tongue-kissing Abuela’s crusty toe like it’s his girlfriend. I’m saving this forever.’” Lupe’s voice stayed light, almost fond. “She sent three crying-laughing emojis and a middle finger. Classic Izzy.”

Another notification pinged.

“And Fanny… oh, she’s got thoughts. ‘Damn, Lupe. You really broke him in fast. Same face he made rubbing your feet after church. Except now he fits IN the shoe. Proud of you, hermana.’” Lupe snorted. “She said she’s looking forward to coming over some time so she can get a massage, too.”

Max kept kissing. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The humiliation rolled over him in hot waves, but so did something else — something warm and sticky and dangerously close to comfort. Lupe’s foot flexed gently under his hands, her big toe curling just enough to cradle the side of his face.

A few minutes later, she let out a soft, amused sigh.

“Alright, mijo. That’s fifteen minutes. You can stop now.”

Max blinked, dazed. He hadn’t even realized how long he’d been at it. Again. The recurring theme lately — losing himself so completely in the task that time slipped away.

Lupe’s voice was warm with pride. “You did a good job. Really good. Lulu’s a lucky girl.” She set her phone down on the rug right beside him, within easy reach. “Here. You’ve earned it.”

Max sat on the rug beside Lupe’s phone, still flushed and trembling from the long, sloppy worship session with her right foot. His lips felt swollen. The taste of her skin coated the inside of his mouth, no matter how many times he swallowed. He could still feel the ghost of her sole pressed against his face, the way her toes had curled and flexed, using him, guiding him, claiming every inch of attention he had to give. Even now, the scent clung to him: vinegary-sweet foot sweat and skin sunk into his hair, his chest, the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, the gesture small and useless, then climbed onto the glowing glass and opened Tinder.

Whenever Max had tried using dating apps in the past, it had left him feeling exposed and slightly pathetic. But ever since he’d started waking up between Lupe’s breasts and spending long stretches of the day on his knees worshipping her feet, opening Tinder, the first time since he’d shrunk, had become a stubborn little ritual. Opening Tinder was the proof that he was still trying. That he hadn’t completely surrendered to the idea that this — being his abuela’s personal foot pet — was all he had left.

His profile was still the same assortment of photos he’d uploaded over the summer, in a final last-ditch effort to find a girlfriend before college: awkward selfies, one of him holding a controller with a lopsided grin, another from some long-forgotten anime convention. The bio was the same painfully earnest paragraph he’d written months ago: loving RPGs, late-night Elden Ring sessions, “looking for someone who doesn’t mind a quiet guy who geeks out about worldbuilding.”

When he checked his matches, the little flame icon was empty. No notifications. No hearts. Just the same old queue. And his profile still proudly claimed he was 5’8”.

For a second, Max just stared at it. The silence in his head was deafening. He’d spent the last twenty minutes on his knees kissing and licking his abuela’s foot like it was the only girl who would ever let him touch her — and now the universe was hitting him with fresh evidence that this was exactly where he belonged. The humiliation settled in his chest, heavy and familiar.

Lupe leaned over, her massive breasts shifting heavily above him, and peered at the screen. “Ay, pobrecito. Still no matches? That’s alright. You can’t hurry love.”

Before he could answer, she playfully nudged him with her right foot. The warm, slightly damp ball of her sole pressed against his side with slow, deliberate gentleness, nuzzling him like an affectionate pet. Heat radiated through his tiny frame. Her toes curled lazily around his waist, the pads enveloping him in a gentle but inescapable squeeze that made his breath catch.

“Though this one might not make breaking up easy,” Lupe added with a low chuckle. “She’s gotten attached. You keep treating her this well, and she’ll never let you go.”

Max’s face burned. He let out a weak, embarrassed laugh and gently pushed at the massive toe. His palms sank slightly into the plush pad.

“Abuela…” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “Can you maybe lay off the jokes about me dating your foot? It’s already weird enough.”

Lupe’s teasing expression faltered. She studied him for a long moment, her foot going still against his side. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, gentler.

“I’m sorry, mijo,” she said. “I thought if I joked about it, maybe you wouldn’t feel so embarrassed.” She gave a small, rueful smile, the wrinkles at the corners of her warm brown eyes deepening. “I know it’s a lot to get used to. I’ll stop.”

Max nodded, eyes fixed on the rug. While he appreciated that she actually listened, the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. It still felt like she was the only one who wanted anything to do with him now.

Lupe seemed to sense it. She gently withdrew her foot the rest of the way and nodded toward the phone.

“Go on then,” she said, softer than before. “See who’s out there.”

He started scrolling, face still burning.

The first profile was an e-girl with heavy black eyeliner, purple-streaked hair, and a septum ring. Fishnet sleeves. A pouty expression. Lupe hummed thoughtfully.

“Cute style,” she said. “Very… dramatic. Reminds me of Izzy, no?”

Max swiped left without thinking.

Next: a basic-looking blonde in a crop top and yoga pants, posing in front of a mirror with a Starbucks cup. Lupe tilted her head.

“Pretty. Clean,” she murmured. “Doesn’t really seem like your type, though, no?”

Left again. Max sighed.

A nerdy girl with glasses and a My Hero Academia hoodie appeared next. Max actually paused.

Lupe noticed. “Ooh. She looks smart. Like you.” She gave an approving little nod. “Right swipe. Abuela approves.”

He swiped right, ears warm.

The next profile was a curvy Latina baddie — thick thighs, big confident smile, low-cut top showing generous cleavage. Dark hair in loose waves, full lips. She looked painfully like the woman currently looming over him.

Lupe laughed, a low, warm sound that rolled down from above and made the phone buzz faintly beneath Max’s feet. “Ay, pobrecito… look at her. Salt-and-pepper already, in the crop. She looks like trouble.” She leaned closer, her massive pendulous breasts shifting heavily, their soft weight casting a deeper shadow over him and the glowing screen. Her voice took on a playful, nostalgic edge. “You know, mijo… she looks exactly like I did when I was your age. Same hips. Same smile. Same everything.” She gave a slow smile, eyes crinkling. “Back then, I would’ve eaten a shy little thing like you alive.”

Max’s face went from warm to molten. He could feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of that comparison. The lingering foot taste on his tongue, the sweat still clinging to his skin, the memory of her toe flexing against his lips — it all crashed together until he couldn’t take one more second of it.

He closed Tinder without swiping.

Lupe made a soft, knowing sound but didn’t push. She just watched, amused, as he opened Reddit instead.

The usual mix of anime, gaming, and memes loaded… but the more he scrolled, trying to distract himself with the simple pleasures of his favorite things, the more he found himself painfully, helplessly aware of the way Lupe was still looming over him. Her heat and familiar scent filled the space, and every time she shifted, he smelled her again, closer, stronger.

pfffrrrraaaapt

As another deep, rolling, unapologetic Abuela fart washed over him, Max felt his face get even hotter. There was no denying that he was starting to get used to the smell of Lupe’s gas—but at this point, he wasn’t even coughing anymore. Was this another effect of whatever he’d been dosed with, or just his body’s way of adapting to his strange new life? He wasn’t sure which answer was worse.

He forced his gaze back to the screen — some thread about Elden Ring DLC — but the words blurred. Posts about builds. Lore discussions. A meme that usually would’ve made him snort. None of it stuck. His mind kept circling back to the way her toe had flexed when he kissed it, the approving sound she made, and how she’d called him a good boy.

Eventually, he looked up at her. “So… what are we doing today?”

Lupe leaned forward, her massive form shifting with a soft rustle of fabric. Her hand descended, palm warm and steady, the skin of her fingers carrying that same lived-in texture. It closed gently but securely around his naked body, lifting him effortlessly from the rug. The world tilted as he rose past the soft swell of her belly, the heavy hang of her pendulous breasts, until he was level with her face. Her warm brown eyes regarded him with quiet affection and something deeper, more possessive.

“Well, mijo,” she said, voice rich with promise, the low rumble of it vibrating through her chest and into his small frame, “I think we could both use a change of scenery, don’t you?”