You wake up feeling disoriented, and the first thing you notice is the massive scale of your surroundings. Everything is larger than life, and as you come to your senses, you realize you’re lying on the black, textured surface of a Nike sports slide. The material is slightly rough beneath your back, and the familiar swoosh logo looms overhead like a colossal landmark. The slide's strap, made of thick synthetic fabric, arcs high above, casting a shadow over your tiny form.
The air is warm and carries a faint scent of rubber mixed with the subtle, lingering musk of sweat. As you look around, you see the immense room stretching out, the details blurred by distance and your small size. Suddenly, a tremor shakes the ground beneath you, and you turn to see Ellen Barber standing at the other end of the room.
Ellen is a striking figure, her athletic build a testament to her years of dedication to the heptathlon. Her dark hair is tied back in a high ponytail, and she’s dressed in training gear—a fitted tank top and shorts that show off her toned muscles. Her face, usually calm and focused, is now set with determination as she prepares for her training session. Her eyes, a piercing blue, sweep the room briefly before she focuses on the slides in front of her.
You’re too stunned to move as she steps closer, each footfall a mini earthquake. She reaches out with one hand, her fingers gripping the edge of the slide. Her nails are neatly trimmed, and you can see the slight sheen of perspiration on her skin from her recent workout. As she lifts the slide, you’re jostled slightly, the ground tilting under you.
Before you can react, she lowers it to the floor and steps forward. Her foot hovers above you for a split second, giving you a momentary view of the sole—smooth and slightly calloused from countless hours of training. Then, with an almost casual motion, she slips her foot into the slide. The world darkens as the arch of her foot passes overhead, and you find yourself pressed against the textured insole.
The pressure increases as she shifts her weight, and you’re pinned beneath the ball of her foot. The slide’s material, though cushioned, presses hard against your back, and you can feel every contour of her skin through your own clothes. The warmth of her foot envelops you, and the slight moisture makes the air humid and hard to breathe.
Ellen doesn’t seem to notice you at all. To her, it’s just another slide, and she adjusts it slightly with her toes before taking a step. The movement is disorienting, and you feel a momentary sense of weightlessness before being slammed back down with each stride. The sounds around you are muffled but you can hear the soft thud of her steps, the creak of the slide’s material, and the occasional squeak as her foot shifts inside.
Each step is a new wave of pressure and movement. Sometimes her foot flexes, pressing you harder against the insole, the ridges of her skin leaving imprints on your tiny body. Other times, there’s a brief respite as her foot lifts, only for you to be pressed down again as she steps forward. The rhythm is relentless, and you quickly lose track of time.
Your senses are overwhelmed by the smell and feel of her foot, the rough texture of the slide’s insole, and the constant motion. You try to brace yourself, pressing against the soft, slightly sticky surface beneath you, but there’s little you can do to ease the pressure or stabilize yourself.
Eventually, Ellen comes to a stop. You can hear her talking to someone, her voice a distant rumble. The pressure eases slightly as she shifts her weight, and you have a moment to catch your breath, though the air is thick and warm. Her foot remains in place, a constant reminder of your tiny, vulnerable state.
As you lie there, trapped underfoot, you wonder how long it will be before she notices you—if she ever does. The reality of your situation sinks in, and you realize that for now, you’re at the mercy of her every step, completely unnoticed and utterly insignificant beneath the foot of the towering athlete.
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