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

The bungalow came back into view. Part of him was still wondering if he’d ever get used to this. Another part already had. She unpacked with him still in her cleavage. Milk. Cilantro. Chiles. When the last item was stored she fished him into her palm.

 

“Now I think we’ve both earned a little TV time.”

 

Couch. Amor Eterno. Sandals off. Feet on the table. She placed him just below her collarbone.

 

Twenty minutes in she muted the TV.

 

“You know, mijo. I’ve been thinking.”

 

“About what?”

 

“A pretty girl your own age, right there in front of you, and you barely said two words. You need practice.”

 

“It’s kind of hard to feel normal when I’m three inches tall and naked.”

 

She chuckled. “That’s true. But still.” Her gaze dropped to her bare feet on the table. “I watched you rub last night. Most of the time that mind of yours never stops spinning. When you were down there… that was the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

 

Heat crept up his face. He knew exactly what she meant. Kneading those giant sweaty feet. Zoning out on the doughy skin. The salty, earthy aroma of abuela-foot filling his lungs. She’d had to snap him out of it.

 

“So. Since you do better when you’re working with my feet… maybe you should go on a little practice date with one.”

 

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

 

“Completely.” Her smile widened. “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,” he muttered, arms crossed.

 

“Sure it was.” 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 he could protest she scooped him up and plopped him on the ottoman, right in front of her foot. The sole loomed, a pinkish, slightly sweaty wall of flesh that blocked out everything else. The warmth was immediate. Comforting, against his will.

 

He swallowed. A practice date with his grandmother’s foot. She wasn’t wrong about the girls—that was half the reason he’d drunk so much Friday night. Arguing would just bring more teasing. Or disappointment.

 

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

 

“That’s my good boy.” Her face lit up. “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.”

 

He stared at the giant squishy sole. Every wrinkle. Every curve. Every fat little toe pad. He felt ridiculous. He played along anyway. “Uh… you have really… nice toes?” Instant regret.

 

Bright laugh. “Ay, mijo, you can do better than that. Compliment her properly. Be sweet.”

 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “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.” She dragged the ball of her foot forward until it pressed his chest to his thighs. “Keep going. Tell me what you’d do on this date.”

 

“I’d… probably ask about your day.” A weak shrug. “Maybe try to make you laugh.”

 

Toes wiggled. “Oh? And how would you make her laugh, hmm? Come on—show me your best material.”

 

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

 

Silence.

 

Then she burst out laughing—deep belly laughs that shook her chest and sent tremors through the foot. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” She wiped the corner of one eye. “I’ve heard some bad puns in my day, but that? That was terrible. So bad it looped right around to adorable. But hey. At least you tried.”

 

He couldn’t help a small sheepish grin.

 

She made the foot “speak,” a little higher, a little flirtier. “So tell me, Max—what are you into? Don’t be shy.”

 

“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.”

 

Toes curled as if listening. “Big worlds, huh? Sounds exciting. What’s your favorite one right now?”

 

“Elden Ring. The bosses are insane, and the story is all mysterious and epic. For anime, My Hero Academia—the fights in that are wild.” He caught himself. “I know it’s nerdy. Most girls zone out when I start rambling about it.”

 

“Nerdy is fine. Keeps things interesting. Now your turn—ask her something. Don’t make it all about you.”

 

“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 these old bones moving. And honestly?” The foot pressed firmer. “I could never say no to a really good foot rub. Especially after a long day like today.”

 

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

 

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

 

He stepped forward and pressed both palms into the ball of her foot. Warm. Supple. Slow circles. She sighed. The sound vibrated down her leg.

 

“Mmm. Just like that. This date is going really well so far. You’re relaxing. You’re talking. Consider me impressed.” Then mischief. “You know what comes after a good conversation on a date, right?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

She leaned forward. The foot tilted like an invitation. “Kissing. 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, where pad met arch.

 

He stared at the massive digit. This was the same foot he’d massaged for an hour last night. Shame gnawed. He wanted to crack a joke. Remind her this was practice. Surely he wasn’t about to make out with her toe like the world’s saddest, smallest pervert.

 

His body had other plans. Heat off her skin. Foot sweat and cheap vanilla lotion, wrapping around him like a dirty blanket. Three inches tall. Naked. Completely at her mercy. The hesitation cracked.

 

Her big toe crept forward and pressed the side of his face. Plush. Yielding. Faint ridges dragging his cheek. Earthy, intimate, a little sour.

 

He leaned in.

 

What began as an embarrassed peck turned desperate almost instantly. He pressed harder, eyes shut, arms wrapping the thick base like a body pillow. Flesh yielded. A low sound escaped him. Salty-sweet bloomed across his tongue.

 

God, this is pathetic. You’re making out with your step-grandma’s big toe like it’s the prom date you never had.

 

The voice fizzled. 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 be a closet with a hot girl. Hands. Tongues. Sweat. Not three inches tall, naked, and still a kissless virgin. Living skin shuddered under his mouth. A woman’s scent filled his lungs. Her approving hum deepened. That it was Lupe’s foot should have mattered. His hips ground forward anyway.

 

She laughed, surprised, the sound rolling down her leg. “¡Ay, mijo! Well. Look at you.”

 

She stayed still and let him explore. Hands along the sides of the toe. Kisses lower, then higher, tracing the ridge where pad met nail. He pressed his whole front against it and let her pulse thrum against his chest. The absurdity didn’t disappear. It just stopped mattering. For once the overthinking went quiet.

 

“That’s it. Just like that. Feels lovely. More energy than I expected.”

 

Her toe tip traced down his back. He kissed harder, lips parting. Shame abandoned. He sucked in her scent like he needed it to stay alive.

 

“Someone’s really getting into the spirit of the date.” She flexed, the pad molding around his torso. “Lulu appreciates a man who knows how to show affection. You’re making her feel very special right now.”

 

He pulled back just enough to look up past ankle and calf to her face. Sparkling eyes. That half-smile that always made him feel like she could read every filthy thought.

 

“You… you really like it?”

 

“Like it?” She wiggled the toe, rocking him. “It feels wonderful. Warm and sweet and enthusiastic. I haven’t had a kiss like that in a long time.” A wink. “From such a handsome young man, too. Lulu’s lucky.”

 

The TV flickered, ignored. Her free hand rested on her belly.

 

“Tell you what. Since you’re being such a good little gentleman, show Lulu how you’d treat her on a second date. A proper goodnight kiss. Use a little tongue if you want. Abuela won’t judge.”

 

Half a second of reservation. Then it snuffed out.

 

He pressed his lips to the center of the pad and let his tongue trace a slow path. The taste was stronger here—deeper, unmistakably hers. He moaned into it.

 

She sighed. Deep. Contented. “That’s my good boy. A natural when you stop thinking so much.”

 

She let him continue. Occasional brush of toe through his hair. Soft Spanish—qué bueno, mijo… tan cariñoso…—while his hands kneaded and his kisses got sloppier. The line between practice and something weirder disappeared.

 

Minutes stretched. Her toe curled around him, cradling him against the ball of her foot. She lifted her leg enough to bring him closer to her face.

 

“You did so well. 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. “Between you and me? I might need a few more practice sessions. Just to make sure you’re ready.”

 

Flushed, panting, he planted one last kiss on her toe. The rush buzzed in his chest and changed into something warm and almost comfortable. Still ridiculous. As right as anything could feel in this house.

 

She smiled down at him, slow and knowing.

 

“Now then. I think you’ve earned a little reward.”

 

She tucked him back against the top of her breast. Soft heavy flesh settled around him like a living, sweaty blanket. The novela music started up again.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

The taste of Lulu was still on his lips.

 

*

 

Sunday night the tax was shorter than the date.

 

Left foot this time. She dropped him on the ottoman without ceremony, already half-watching the recap. No Lulu. No tell her how nice she looks. Just the sole, still warm from the day, vinegar and lotion and the faint ghost of the practice kiss still somewhere in his mouth.

 

Rub only. He knew where she liked pressure. Heel first, then the arch, then the fat pads under the toes. She hummed when he got the ball right. She did not tip the big toe toward his face.

 

He knew what she would have let him do if she’d said the name again. She didn’t. He told himself he was grateful. His hands kept moving anyway. Five minutes of phone in her lap after—Reddit, nothing sticking, her thumb hovering like she might take it back early. Then bed. Cleavage on purpose. She pressed him in and covered him with one hand the way she had the first night.

 

“Stay,” she murmured, already sinking. “Abuela’s tired.”

 

He braced for the slip and slept anyway.

 

*

 

Monday smelled like reheated beans and the same novela theme. She cooked in the housecoat with him riding the valley, talked to the radio more than to him, set him on the napkin for breakfast like a salt shaker who happened to have opinions. The morning fart rolled under the table the way the first one had. He wrinkled his nose. He still ate.

 

Tuesday smelled like the leotard after Zumba. Pink fabric dark at the collar. Marco’s extra smile still sitting on her the whole walk home. She asked if he was jealous again and laughed when he said he wasn’t. In the shower she didn’t offer the free pass a second time. She washed him like a washcloth and hummed. He got hard anyway. She pretended not to see it until she was toweling off, and then she only said, “Ay. Boys.”

 

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

 

Mornings started with heat. Living grandma heat—rosewater and last night’s beans and the musk soaked into her skin from carrying him like a brooch. Wedged between her breasts. Every sleeping breath lifted and dropped him. Somewhere below, her belly gurgled. A low wet promise.

 

pfffrrraaaapt

 

Not the crack. Still in her chest. The smell climbed the valley and sat on his face before he was all the way awake. He coughed once, more habit than need, and her sleepy hand patted him without opening her eyes.

 

“Morning, mijo.”

 

Foot rubs while she watched the morning news, toes flexing around him like she was petting something small and useful. Breakfast on the edge of her plate, or both hands on the giant wooden spoon while ranchera played too loud. She let him stir. She also let a long warm one slip out while she reached for the salt, waved a hand, kept talking about Elena’s grandson who never called.

 

Zumba twice more that week. Same front-row spot. Same hour of bounce and sweat. Marco still used her as the example. The circle still cooed about a devoted grandson they still hadn’t been allowed to hold. She still said medical and patted the bulge and that was the end of it. He stopped asking to stay home. The walk back was just the walk back: sliding, slick, her heartbeat doing the counting.

 

Errands. Cover story. One neighbor got a glimpse over a fence and crossed herself, laughing. Most got a bulge in the neckline and a look that dared them to ask. He learned to go still when the fabric tightened. Stillness was a skill now.

 

Evenings were the same shape with different episodes. Novelas. Foot tax. Supervised phone. The chance he’d slide in the night and wake with his face pressed to the twitching pucker of her asshole.

 

That night, he felt himself going. The valley loosened when she rolled onto her side. He grabbed skin, grabbed nothing, and then the world became cheek and heat and the deep sour dark between. He knew where he was before he opened his eyes. The ring in front of him was already twitching, getting ready.

 

He did not yell.

 

He turned his face to the side, found a pocket of air that wasn’t directly against her, and waited. The gurgle built. He cataloged it like weather. Warm front. Incoming.

 

BBBRRRAAAAPPP

 

It hit him anyway. Thick. Sleep-sour. Last night’s beans and the onions she never skimped on. His eyes watered. He did not pound on her cheek. He did not scream Abuela. He breathed through it, shallow, and let the next lazy puff roll over him while she snored.

 

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 lifted him out by the waist. Kissed the top of his head like he hadn’t just spent half the night in her ass. “You smell like Abuela.” Not sorry. Almost pleased.

 

He hated how quickly it had started to feel normal.

 

The shame was still there when she encouraged a kiss on the toe during the evening tax, casual as asking him to pass the remote. Or when she lifted a leg under the blanket and hotboxed him until his eyes watered and then asked, sweetly, if he was comfortable. Underneath it was something worse.

 

He was getting used to her. Worse: he was starting to like the way she looked at him when he did a good job. That warm, proud, slightly smug smile that said I knew you just needed the right woman to fix you. The shame still prickled. So did the other thing. His tiny cock twitching against her skin even when he wanted to scream about it.

 

*

 

Thursday morning he stopped coughing at the breakfast fart.

 

It happened the same as the others. She sat, she ate, her gut announced itself, the warm bean-heavy cloud rolled under the table and up around the napkin. He waited for the burn in his throat. It didn’t come. He took another tiny bite of tortilla with the smell still sitting on his tongue.

 

She noticed. She always noticed.

 

“Look at you,” she said, pleased. “Adapting. That’s my boy.”

 

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

 

Thursday evening she dropped onto the couch, put both feet on the ottoman, and opened her mouth.

 

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 the right big toe because that was what the name meant now. Not a full date. No sole-mates joke. Just the pad against his lips, her news-voice on the TV, his face hot. She didn’t make him talk. She let him work. When she finally plucked him off she said good boy like a receipt.

 

Afterward she left him on the napkin to change.

 

The kitchen was suddenly huge and quiet. No warm palm. No looming body. Fridge hum. Distant clock. Floorboards as she moved in the next room. Too loud and too empty. His chest tightened the way it had the first time, except now he knew what the feeling was. The silence scared him more than her smell.

 

He hugged his knees and waited. Yellow sundress. Hair in a clip. Relief, humiliatingly fast.

 

That night, Victoria called.

 

Speaker. Phone against the fruit bowl. Max on the table like an exhibit who had learned not to run.

 

“Withdrawal went through. Medical. They’re not putting him back in classes. Housing and tuition are still a fight. Quiet language. Partial recovery if we sign and nobody talks.”

 

Izzy, offscreen, bright: “Pretty sure that’s just Ventus making sure we don’t sue their asses off. 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 on it.

 

“We’re looking at rooms, sweetie. Nothing’s signed.”

 

“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 she photographed him.

 

He was already on the right foot—Lulu, whether anyone said the name or not—lips against the pad because that was how the tax worked now when he wanted screen time. She angled the phone down before he understood the shape of the moment.

 

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

 

Flash. Once. Twice. Toes against his face. The second one caught him mid-press, mouth open on the pad.

 

“Abuela—”

 

Too late. She sent it to the family chat before he could invent a protest that would matter. Then she tilted the screen so he had to see it.

 

Victoria: Oh my God, Mom. He’s actually making out with your foot? He looks so into it. Poor baby. A heart.

 

Izzy: LMAOOOOO lil bro is GONE. Tongue-kissing Abuela’s crusty toe like it’s his girlfriend. Saving this forever.

 

Fanny, a beat later: Damn, Lupe. You broke him in fast. Same look he used to get when you made him rub your feet after church. Except now he’s tiny and naked and clearly enjoying it. Proud of you. Looking forward to coming over. I want a massage too.

 

Lupe snorted. “She said she’s looking forward to visiting.”

 

He kept his mouth on the toe because stopping would mean looking at her. Humiliation in hot waves. And the other thing—warm, sticky, dangerously close to comfort. The big toe curled just enough to cradle the side of his face.

 

“Alright. That’s enough. You did a good job. Lulu’s a lucky girl.”

 

Phone on the rug. Reward.

 

He sat flushed, lips swollen, her taste coating his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, then climbed onto the glowing glass.

 

Tinder, out of stubbornness. Proof he was still trying.

 

Same summer photos. Same earnest bio. RPGs. Elden Ring. Looking for someone who didn’t mind a quiet guy who geeked out about worldbuilding. The profile still claimed he was 5'8". The last time he’d opened it he’d still been able to hold the phone with two hands.

 

No matches. No hearts. Just the old queue, same girls who had never swiped him back when he had a dorm and a height that wasn’t a joke.

 

Twenty minutes ago he’d been on his knees kissing her foot like it was the only girl who would ever let him touch him. Proof, he’d told himself, that he hadn’t completely surrendered to being his abuela’s personal foot pet. The empty flame icon felt like the universe agreeing.

 

Lupe leaned over. The housecoat gaped. Warm air and her. “Ay, pobrecito. Still no matches? You can’t hurry love.”

 

She started to nudge him with the right foot, the joke already forming. Lulu attached.

 

“Abuela.” He pushed at the massive toe. His palms sank into the pad. “Can you maybe lay off the jokes about me dating your foot? It’s already weird enough.”

 

The teasing faltered. The foot went still.

 

“I’m sorry, mijo.” Quieter. The teacher voice without the class. “I thought if I joked about it, maybe you wouldn’t feel so embarrassed. I know it’s a lot. I’ll stop.”

 

He nodded, eyes on the rug. He appreciated that she listened. The knot in his stomach didn’t loosen.

 

“Go on then. See who’s out there.”

 

He swiped left on an e-girl who looked too much like Izzy. Left on a blonde with a Starbucks cup and a bio that said don’t be boring. Right on a girl in an MHA hoodie because Lupe made an approving noise from above. The next profile was a curvy Latina, salt-and-pepper in the preview crop, who looked painfully like the woman looming over him.

 

He closed the app.

 

She didn’t push. He opened Reddit and didn’t absorb a word. His mind kept circling the way her toe had flexed when he kissed it. The good boy. The photo sitting in a family chat he couldn’t delete.

 

A deep rolling blast washed over him from the couch. She didn’t excuse it. She didn’t even look down.

 

pfffrrrraaaapt

 

Warm. Heavy. The week in one smell.

 

He didn’t cough.

 

Serum, or just his body adapting. He wasn’t sure which was worse.