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TFF1977 - You Had the Sack?
Secretary Daphne finds the little group already on her lounge floor. She thought they had been let go, yet they are back under her heels, her bare soles and finally between her lips.
Daphne drops to her hands and knees on the boards and the cluster of tiny suits comes into clear view by the sofa leg. She rests her weight on one elbow and peers closer, the green blouse gaping at the neck so they can see the soft line of her chest from below. “Urgh… what are you doing down there? I thought you had had the sack?” The tinies are no taller than her thumbnail; some already lie flat from earlier steps she has not yet noticed. She stretches one hand out, fingers spread, and the nearest figures tip toward the shadow of her palm. The black skirt has ridden high on her thighs as she leans, the fabric catching on her knees, and she flicks one tiny with a fingertip so he rolls toward the others. She gathers two more into her palm, holds them up where they can watch her mouth, then sets them back down and rises.
She steps into the black strappy heels. From their height the platforms are dark towers; she plants the first sole so the edge covers three of them at once, the weight settling in slow stages until the thin stiletto tip pins the last one beside her ankle tattoo. She walks the length of the sofa, each step finding another figure, the heel tip holding one in place while the platform sole flattens the rest. When she tires of the shoes she slips them off and sets the bare feet down. The soles are warm, the toes red-painted, the arches high enough that a whole group can fit beneath one. She presses from the ball to the heel, lifts, and sets the other foot in its place, rolling her weight so the skin of her sole prints across suits and faces. The ones who remain free try to scatter; she simply steps again, covering them under both feet until only the edges of their arms show at the sides of her toes.
Back on the sofa she sits with her knees apart and studies the last figure she has kept. She rolls him between thumb and finger, watching him twist, then opens her mouth and places him on her tongue. The lips close, the tongue shifts once, and she swallows. Daphne leans back against the cushions, one hand resting on her thigh, the discarded heels lying on their sides by the sofa while the empty floor holds only the faint marks of her soles and the pale green blouse still open at the neck.
giantess, heel crush, foot crush, sole crush, barefoot, secretary, vore, shrunken men
Secretary Daphne finds the little group already on her lounge floor. She thought they had been let go, yet they are back under her heels, her bare soles and finally between her lips.
Daphne drops to her hands and knees on the boards and the cluster of tiny suits comes into clear view by the sofa leg. She rests her weight on one elbow and peers closer, the green blouse gaping at the neck so they can see the soft line of her chest from below. “Urgh… what are you doing down there? I thought you had had the sack?” The tinies are no taller than her thumbnail; some already lie flat from earlier steps she has not yet noticed. She stretches one hand out, fingers spread, and the nearest figures tip toward the shadow of her palm. The black skirt has ridden high on her thighs as she leans, the fabric catching on her knees, and she flicks one tiny with a fingertip so he rolls toward the others. She gathers two more into her palm, holds them up where they can watch her mouth, then sets them back down and rises.
She steps into the black strappy heels. From their height the platforms are dark towers; she plants the first sole so the edge covers three of them at once, the weight settling in slow stages until the thin stiletto tip pins the last one beside her ankle tattoo. She walks the length of the sofa, each step finding another figure, the heel tip holding one in place while the platform sole flattens the rest. When she tires of the shoes she slips them off and sets the bare feet down. The soles are warm, the toes red-painted, the arches high enough that a whole group can fit beneath one. She presses from the ball to the heel, lifts, and sets the other foot in its place, rolling her weight so the skin of her sole prints across suits and faces. The ones who remain free try to scatter; she simply steps again, covering them under both feet until only the edges of their arms show at the sides of her toes.
Back on the sofa she sits with her knees apart and studies the last figure she has kept. She rolls him between thumb and finger, watching him twist, then opens her mouth and places him on her tongue. The lips close, the tongue shifts once, and she swallows. Daphne leans back against the cushions, one hand resting on her thigh, the discarded heels lying on their sides by the sofa while the empty floor holds only the faint marks of her soles and the pale green blouse still open at the neck.
giantess, heel crush, foot crush, sole crush, barefoot, secretary, vore, shrunken men
