Time-Out: Nancy's Dominion (Chapter 1)

(a sequel to Time-Out: Nancy's Way, so read that first if you haven't yet)

As much as the last few years of Scott Stevens’ shrunken house-arrested life at the mercy of his colossal mother had felt like a shameful miserable will-draining fever dream, the previous month of his existence – spent in the private clutches of a woman he would’ve once called his most reviled nemesis – was an exponential fractally-compounded fever dream within a fever dream. In fact, it was more than that; it had all but remade his entire sense of self. And all thanks to that one serendipitous time he’d involuntarily licked the gargantuan toes of his mother’s best friend while he was sweatily hotboxed inside her cavernous shoe, an event which had snowballed through a series of humiliating encounters with her, until her boundary-pushing domination gradually molded his basest desires and sense of dignity into a new status quo that left him, at least on the inside, almost unrecognizable from his former being. Though he’d been present and awake for every minute of the experience here under Nancy Dugan’s watch, even Scott himself couldn’t have exactly described the kind of subtly transformative madness he’d been put through these past weeks, as a supposed three-day-long “babysitting” stay with her had stretched into a comparatively infinite period ten times that long. It was like a waking hypnotic episode, a deeply erotic nightmare, and the cathartic self-fulfillment of some bizarro personal prophecy – all rolled into one wild time.

Now, though, it was seemingly coming to an end. Reality was about to return with a sobering vengeance. After plentiful delays and plan changes for her vigorous out-of-state campaign work, Scott’s mother Judy had finally come back to the city, and was right now on her way over to her friend’s house to pick up her diminutive eldest offspring, so she could officially take him back into her custody. Perhaps the most telling symptom of the one-inch boy’s drastically altered psyche today was the fact that he’d been absolutely dreading his initial drop-off with Nancy a month ago, considering their complicated history of temptation and violation. And now, only thirty-some days later, he was suffering a new breed of bewildering stomach-knotted apprehension at the thought of leaving her domain instead. Not that Scott was able to do more than acknowledge the truth of this troubling feeling to himself. Unpacking the “why” and the “how,” along with the inevitable existential crisis, was probably a job for a very talented psychotherapist to accomplish over many expensive years to come.

Scott, however, had defensively numbed himself against processing any except the most basic facts of his situation, following that catastrophic breakthrough just two days into his stay with Nancy, when the combination of sensory manipulation and miniaturized Stockholm Syndrome had ultimately broken down his walls. In that moment, and ever since then, he was forced him to recognize that, yes, he did desire to be subjugated at his biggest admirer’s sweltering bittersweet giant feet while he worshipped them to the point of guilty climax. Yes, he did derive tremendous euphoria and even sickening meaning from serving as her temporary but fully committed little foot slave. There was no escaping or denying that twisted state, given the proof that he’d so pleasurably been made to manifest more than five times on that critical day – and then quite a few more in the days with Nancy since. And so as a final resort to save himself from a maddening spiral of embarrassment and dehumanization that might’ve made him come fully undone – like cutting off a limb to stop a gangrenous spread – Scott had instead done everything in his power to avoid comprehending his mind (and body’s) new set of disturbing priorities. He simply let them be – he let himself be – and rather than psychologically explore the darker implications of his highly possible breakdown, he just soaked in the crazy hedonism of every moment spent at the sexualized mercy of Nancy’s feet.

Which happened to be quite a few moments indeed. In fact, following that first occasion when the woman had steadily entreated her shrunken houseguest to rub, to kiss, to tongue, and eventually to ejaculate mid-worship of her feet with the surgical subtlety of a true mastermind, Nancy had allowed for very few occasions at all since then when Scott wasn’t kept intimately close to that lowest portion of her monumental anatomy. Perched on the kitchen table now in clothing again for the first time in weeks, still at the same lowest-possible size she’d kept him all this time, and awaiting the doorbell ring that would signal Judy had arrived to ferry him back to the semi-normal reality of shrunken house arrest drudgery, the one-inch inmate was startled to realize he hadn’t gone this long while awake (more than an hour now) without touching his hostess’s enormous feet. Such was the thoroughness of the exposure therapy he’d received from Nancy this month. Fortunately enough for Scott’s sense of mind-blocking denial, the mature blonde-haired giantess herself hadn’t forced him to confront his own foot-focused degradation. She never tauntingly demanded that he admit he was hooked on this treatment, and never self-righteously declared that he’d finally given in to his inevitable fate; she merely issued whatever task was next in store for her grateful little charge, Scott humbly obeyed her without complaint, and then Nancy rewarded him with sultry praise and even sultrier contact.

Yet all things had to come to an end. And Scott truly believed that he’d come to the end of this “version” of himself, now that Judy was on her way to fetch him. It had to end. Considering the fact that his pitifully horny submission to Nancy’s feet these past weeks hadn’t left him as a broken self-loathing suicidal husk, Scott chose to believe in his own resilience and metaphoric rebirth. Yes, he’d been shown during this month of orgiastic service beneath the soles of his mother’s towering best friend that he was capable of descending to extremes of passive erotic depravity that he never could’ve conceived of for himself before. But plenty of people throughout history had come back from worse, he reasoned. Maybe not much weirder, but certainly worse. This singular stint as a miniscule deferential toe-huffing underling to an egotistical cougar he used to hate with every fiber of his being didn’t have to define the rest of his life: it could if he allowed it to, but Scott didn’t intend to let Nancy’s overpowering selfishness rule the remainder of his days on this planet. The way he’d chosen to see it, every person had their low points – he just happened to have a few more of those than most folks. And this low point, in particular, had come with its fair share of highly-enjoyable bursts of euphoria that he couldn’t quite bring himself to forget or regret.

Yes, it all happened. There was no erasing that. He’d debased himself at Nancy’s feet in every permutation she could invent for him, and it felt good. Damn good, in fact, in a way that had managed to act as a salve for much of the depressive malaise he’d been feeling previously about his deteriorating relationships and nebulous future. But that wasn’t the end of his story. He wouldn’t let it be. And with the knowledge that Judy would arrive at Nancy’s front stoop any minute now to collect her son and return him to his usual back-breaking routine of miniature chores and slow-burn disgrace around the Stevens homestead, Scott concluded that he had to make a clean break now. He had to acknowledge this month with Nancy had occurred, he had to objectively appreciate the distorted sexual delights she’d paced him through, and then he had to psychologically quarantine this entire thirty-day incident in perfect “what happens in Nancy’s house, stays in Nancy’s house” spirit forevermore. Scott had a life to pick back up, and eventually make autonomous again, once his sentence ended and his natural human stature was resumed. That was all there was to it. This time with Nancy had been but a sinful demeaning unfortunately-fun stopgap on his road back to selfhood, and now it was in the past.

He had to move forward, Scott told himself, and he would. As he sat on the kitchen table in solitude, organizing his messily conflicted thoughts back into some kind of recognizable order, his breathing slowed and his heartrate found peace. At any instant now, the doorbell would toll. And once it finally did, Scott definitively decided, that would be it. That bell would mark a conscious shift back to the “him” he’d always been and meant to be. Not this pathetic corrupt foot-starved creature he’d been worn down into, all for Nancy’s greedily lustful entertainment. His mother’s arrival would be his personal Cinderella midnight strike, Scott told himself on the inside. Back to life. Back to himself. Yet even then, no sooner had Scott aggressively talked himself into this complicated mindset while sitting in a slumped-forward yoga pose like a one-inch-high tchotchke on Nancy’s table, when his mind began to wander against his will. If there were only minutes or seconds left before Judy returned and the “spell” was broken, then he only had that long left to faultlessly savor his stark memories from this thirty-day marathon of wanton underfoot gratification. One last little nostalgic voyage down memory lane couldn’t hurt: