Dead at his hands.

Or, rather, his feet.

That was the truth that pounded at Anna’s temples, even as the vice of her Master’s toes squeezed and ground it further into her thoughts. It couldn’t be questioned. It couldn’t be stopped.

Her hands, held tight away from her head by familiar force, could only twist and twitch in ceaseless unease; in all honesty, a better expenditure of her flagging energy than any squirm or gasp or plea. More worthwhile than pointless struggles that he could, well...*crush* with one idle movement. Added to the sickly heat that left her unable to get a mental grasp at all, let alone anything physical.

Not helped at all by that side of her that was so repulsed at even the thought of trying to resist him.

All culminating and damning her life to slowly, sickeningly slip away between the relentless grip of Kwa’s toes. The furnace that was the enclosed space remorselessly roasted her flesh, with the slightest motions he made smearing sweat and grime over bruised skin in what turned out the tiniest of reprieves against the temperature. The pressure on her windpipe allowed her only the feeblest and patchiest attempts at breathing, and even they dwindled in ‘strength’ by the second. Wheezing, she tried to focus on the distant face of her owner.

He adjusted himself where he lounged, still focused on the TV.

The certainty that she was going to die held no less room for self-agonising in Anna’s bloodshot eyes. All that got brought on was yet another spiral of terrified theorising over whether this was some test of resolve (an idea that was laughable, plain put) that in its brutality would shorten her lifespan regardless. Not that...god forbid...an *escape attempt* would serve her better, to miss the couch completely, break half the bones in her body, then in all likelihood meet a death just as prolonged and painful.

And hot.

Not so deep down, that view of it. Frustratingly.

She despaired over what could have led to this outcome. Seeing it as a punishment seemed too easy. One mistake during service--that being every waking and resting moment--which had set this noose around her neck. Kwa falling into *that mood,* and falling upon the closest source of amusement. At times the measure of worth that kept her (mostly) intact seemed irrelevant to how well she either submitted to him or tried to. Merely the noises of pain that could be drawn from her bringing that flush to his cheeks.

Or the just as likely explanation that he simply felt like it, regardless.

By now this shouldn’t have been surprising.  

Those times where she was slammed onto the desk and made to strip (being permitted to keep said clothes on to begin with was a mystery Anna didn’t intend to ponder) were an example, all barriers down between her slightly sweat-salted flesh and his satisfied taste buds. Clear then that he wouldn’t appreciate any ‘excitement’ that time...unless he decided to go the exact opposite route of reducing her to a barely conscious, flustered mess on his tongue, every rumbling swallow a potential death sentence…set to an outward (and accurate) scene of a ponytailed giant entirely focused on his drawing. If not for the slightly more translucent white fluid he absently licked off his lip every now and again.

‘Innocuous’ was as close a descriptor as any for how this torture had started off--waking up under her Master’s foot being so commonplace now that she felt unsettled when uncovered by it. And she felt a tinge of, well...not exactly pride, but some pleasure at least in how she was able to adapt. Adapting to *his* ways alone had taken time whether they included her as a direct fixture or not, let alone how long any other enormous, earth-shaking variables took to become *somewhat* familiar. His husband, for instance, generally only gave her direct orders or joined their personal ‘playtime’ when asked to (other preferences? Or just awkwardness?) as opposed to when the two titans felt the *mood* hit and she was dragged along for the ride in more ways than one. In her less frazzled moments of brain functionality, Anna had mixed feelings on this matter.

Yet the seconds before this torturous series of events? The germ of a girl would posit them as some of her less taxing ones. Her limp body conforming to the contours of some all-encompassing encasement, the Rube Goldberg contraption that was her brain diverted down a different way at a familiar fork. Recognisable in seconds as that warm, slightly moist blanket of sole flesh that she’d had slapped on top of her many a time--consciously by its owner or otherwise--she ran through the motions that were currently possible for her to carry out. Girding herself to get up on aching limbs, or hang on as best she could instead while cushioning his tread.

Last night had been a difficult decision, involving the momentous debate over where to try getting some sleep. What would have been taken by any other unassuming lesser as a supposedly simple choice to make had turned out as yet another source of tiring internal conflict. It was a toss-up between giving him space in case she wasn’t wanted and sticking close in case she *was,* winding up on some attempted middle ground as her mind just...flatlined. Saving for the morning the process of explaining herself, verbally or otherwise, and the just as likely possibility of getting unceremoniously squashed under a heedless first step. The action deliberate, or not. To be smeared into paste and forgotten about--a fate she had accepted as likely a long time ago, dreaded ever happening, and fantasised over almost as frequently.

None of these applicable, as Anna had soon realised. Rising to solemn importance on whatever brainwaves hadn’t long ebbed was that in resignation toward her supposed selfishness she’d chosen quite an out-of-his-way place to sleep, only meaning that he *required* her somehow. It was not the kind of area he’d walk over--fuck, even the smallest presumption she made regarding him made her skin crawl--rendering that line of potential theorising dead. Another soon rose to fill the gap, however, drawing out the next few seconds in shaky lines. The rhythmic thud of bare feet to sound out her owner’s travel, either driving her before it via ground-shaking steps or verifying the tread-softening capability of shrunken bodies in a more hands-on (feet-on?) sense.

But the press of two toes around her face and neck in such a deliberate way? Followed soon after by them supporting the weight of her whole body, as it was lifted off the ground...and...

A tower of toe pushed out in an absent movement: one with more of an aching assault on Anna’s throat. Caught between the tightening coils of her own arousal and the equally overwhelming urge to piss herself in utter debasement--his reaction to such being as total a potluck as anything else she performed ‘independently’--all the suspended woman got out was a whine. Her tongue flinched, having been bitten, and frothing just as strongly as her blood-tinged slaver came the fear of letting it drip. A rule of thumb on this tongue that barely seemed her own was that any substance on his soles that wasn’t her saliva, and only her saliva, would have to be removed by such. Unless arbitrarily--no, just decided otherwise. As he could do that, and so often had done.

As well as the bone-bending, tendon-tearing might of the grime-laden walls seeming as natural a feeling somehow as the leash and restraints that tied her down in a more direct way in the past. They appeared as obvious an affirmation of her servitude as...well, any other moment underfoot. The servitude being obvious in itself. Not so much how to go about it right now. What he wanted seemed a mystery.

Which may have been his exact intention.

Kwa began to shift his weight again, and even with the threat (or rather, guarantee) of her head being crushed like a grape, Anna found herself clutching at all the debasement that her restrained body couldn’t undergo. This didn’t seem enough. Her existence as his possession had required constant awareness of even the slightest movement he made, combined with never having a single thought that wasn’t conflicted beyond belief. Was he enjoying her struggles? Were they merely an annoyance? Desired in greater amounts and intensity? Held in complete disregard?

If she dared try to speak up, what would she say? 

All into a cushion of toe and sole flesh that would smother the words before they left her lips?

But the warm, wet press of sweat on her matted curls, pooling in the between-toes trench where her face was held firm, in addition to the rotation of nothing-words around concepts she never would quite grasp, seemed to flitter to the back of Anna’s mind as she *realised.* It was like a trapdoor opening to admit that nauseating rush of fresh fear and overanalysis. The switch from being just a minuscule background fixture in his life to the very brief centre of attention.

Already starved for oxygen and under relentless pressure, her lungs soon experienced greater deprivation at the literally breathtaking view before her. Any time she faced the smallest hint of acknowledgement from the giant, it seemed as if he dragged her about both by leash and on strings, a puppet moving by his will. Acting by his will. *Living and breathing by his will.*

A state of being that provided its own spiral of self-doubt for Anna, who so often found this simple fact weighing more disillusion on her shoulders. Why would she ever presume to feel any kind of connection to this greater being? This reared its head again with the damning gaze Kwa afforded her from the ‘heavens’ which soon prompted the heady rush of *sorry I didn’t mean it* and *I know my place please Sir I would never presume otherwise forgive me* and *say it just say what you want me to I’ll do it Master please--*

“*Calm down.*”

And the command washed over her like a lazy wave, working its meaning into her shuddering muscles and softening the pounding at her temples. The sight of his lounging form, looming before her piecemeal vision in its entirety, sent those furious river rapids through her heart and mind and soul, even while his words left then muted the tiniest amount. Some rocks against that rush. Her heart still fluttered in its overworked, agitated manner and one Kwa could likely feel pushing its little hands against his advance. *Don’t hurt yourself like that,* came another thought, *it’s selfish.*

But on other accounts she was soothed. Even as her windpipe almost inverted under the crushing pressure, she gulped back her shudders. Her teary, dark eyes, framed by a grip of toe flesh, blinked behind glasses lying askew and fogged. With the overbearing scent of sweaty soles pressing down on her fragile mind, she found herself gazing numbly into the eyes of her reclining god.

A more foolish little toy would have tried ascribing meaning to the contented look that crossed Kwa’s face. Grasping for praise, maybe, at that relaxed expression, or at the very least indifference. But by now, Anna knew better. Whatever that look meant, it was neither here nor there to her. It was not for her to even try to comprehend.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Attagirl.”

***Skkrrrunch.***

There was no difference to her between the sloshing of salty fluids over wrinkling walls and the wet crunch of a skull starting to cave in; no distinction between her glasses and necklace breaking and her neck giving out with no fanfare. Her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, nails gouging at her shuddering palms. Moist crackling resounded with every stronger curl of those toes, the two surfaces clashing closer in uneven bursts like they were burrowing into her flesh. The miasma of gore mixed with building perspiration as her head was forced further back, tearing at muscles and tendons and flooding her throat with her own blood. Each convulsion was ‘strengthened’ by uselessly kicking legs, beating out their manic protest against the warm, firm mountain of foot.

Whether he was still watching this pathetic performance, the insect couldn’t gather. Everything narrowed down to the metallic stench overcoming her taste, her smell, her thoughts. Anna’s eyes rolled back into her head, bulging like that of a fish and seeming near to bursting themselves.

Any final words she tried to eke out were dead in her throat before they could possibly be wrought free. A howl of rage against her vicious, unheeding, localised world. A plea for mercy and forgiveness that held no power from the start. A plaintive cry, built from the desire to know what she’d done wrong, while knowing damn well she could have done everything right.

Just a shocked, gurgling moan, into a ceaseless, sweltering, salty embrace.




As one set of lungs squeezed out its final breath, another far larger pair drove out a slightly deeper one than normal.

But only slightly. 

He’d made a fun little call, there, Kwa figured--carrying out that finishing clench on a momentarily relaxed victim was quite the amusing manoeuvre compared to just doing it as she fought and whined. The switch from lax muscle and a distant stare to that distinctive ‘onslaught’ of muted suffering...pretty satisfying. There wasn’t much to gain from performing the exact same action he pretty much held over her every day. Without a touch of misdirection, it felt insubstantial somewhat.

While, this? The giant’s cheeks reddened a little as he watched his victim’s limbs slacken. A collapsing amalgamation of brain matter, blood and bone all that remained from the neck up. The finality of what he’d just done may have been what made his breath catch. Progressing from an instrument of self-indulgence, snatched up from a potential many, to some momentary engagement in this episode’s lull, to a splatter of red and off-white between his uncurling toes.

Acting on a whim as he’d returned during the commercial break finishing up, the sight of a tiny body rocked by his casual tread had given him brief pause. He’d have left her to get a little sleep, seeing as how he didn’t relish the thought of an unfocused effort on his dirty feet in a moment, up until the wonderful interruption of ‘how about no’. Thinking back on it, the artist wondered with a smirk how the figure in his shadow would have reacted had she woken up a moment earlier. Only able to glimpse a scrunch of his toes before the whim wrenched his wheel.

Which is how he had wound up letting a pet on the couch. Kwa didn’t balk at splitting his attention, but had not needed to with the feeble gasps and squirms becoming background noise at such speed. More of his focus that wasn’t on the program turned to half-interested fantasising over how the final blow would come across. How he’d keep his overwhelming hold right up to the end. Whether he would feel rather than see her expire. 

And now…

One of the giant’s fingers followed the path of the headless body, painting a wet streak of red as it slumped across his heel. He pressed down a touch, wringing out another scarlet splash against his sole. The ‘saltwater’ was beading once more, worked up by the action.

With the precision of one who saw manipulating the small as second nature, he tilted to send the limp mass into the curve of his arch. Straightening up, bringing his other foot to rest on top, he splayed his toes around the gory display before bringing both soles together. Only the slightest resistance was felt before a chorus of *cracks* and slick *squelches* and *pops* rang out, partway muffled by the two walls of flesh Kwa had absent-mindedly began to rub against each other.

Nothing bizarre in his eyes. Tinies were weak and malleable, and so they were used. Toys got lost or misplaced; toys broke; toys lasted a little longer before wearing out and becoming useless anyways, and the artist just felt like speeding up the process.

Being far from bereft of ‘toys’.

The symphony between Kwa’s soles continued, conducted oh-so-lazily and winding like a campfire’s crackling through his head. It had narrowed down to this one moment in a way that the ‘star’ would have balked at, had she the brain capacity to do so. Her owner huffed at the thought.

He was going to mess up the carpet. The second he got up, the sickly smell was going to spread across the room in his wake, billowing up from every step. It was attractive in image alone--the rush wearing off was allowing the annoyances to come out full force. Even the couch hadn’t evaded a slight dribbling of blood despite his efforts. Worked down to the finest layer and all, that wet spatter had no guarantee of not speckling the floor even more. It would stick out. And not in a nice way.

Added to whether or not Shin would appreciate them in the bed, looking like *this.* Crumbs were irritating enough tangled up in the sheets, harder to find each time you tried to clean them out, before getting into globules of organs and bone fragments.

But there was no rush. Not on a vacation day.

Kwa’s feet pulled away from each other; a glistening web of gore joined the soles and balls, suspended for a moment before the thicker masses of matter within caused them to separate. More red streaked the cushions, and less concern crossed the giant’s mind. It wasn’t exactly noticeable.

His final thought regarding the reddish-brown tendrils of former female were on how she wouldn’t have objected, most likely, to it ending up this way. She existed for his pleasure--she’d told him so herself. This was the natural progression when that well ran dry.

Feeling blood and flesh crusting on his soles, and the slight tickle of splintered bones catching in the fleshy grooves as they scrunched, Kwa felt the rush leave him as he fixed his gaze back on the television.

He hoped he hadn’t missed the good part.