As Coach Sandra worked on molding your body, you continued to attempt to alert the middle-aged woman to your true nature. Sadly, there really wasn't a thing you could do. It wasn't as if she didn't even know you were a tiny. She knew full well what you were, and simply erroneously believed you to be a willing PET...or at the very least, she was guilty of overlooking Ivy's kidnapping in favor of kitting her players out with the best in tiny-enhancing clothing.
Riley also did not miraculously glance your way, not that she would've recognized you from such a distance. In fact, she was almost purposefully looking in the opposite direction, which you quickly realized was due to the presence of Persephone standing near Sandra. Your daughter's intensely flaming rivalry with Persephone was so strong that she was avoiding even making eye contact, even though it could've resulted in you being spotted! Not that you could blame her for that, really.
Eventually, Coach Sandra's calloused hands stopped digging into your malleable flesh, and you were left as a tan blob vaguely in the shape of a foot. It didn't take a genius to realize that you'd just been molded into the shape of an insole. Your eyes were up where the toes would be, your mouth at the balls of the foot, and your crotch right smack where the heel would be applying the most pressure.
In short, just about the most hellish bodily configuration Sandra could've molded you into, and from the dispassionate but approving gaze the coach leveled at you, you truly couldn't tell if the cruelty had been intentional or not.
Regardless of the malicious intentions of the woman, her work was done, and all that remained was for her to pass you off to whatever girl was going to be subjected to using you. As she walked purposefully forward, you began saying a silent chant over and over, begging for a nice owner who would treat you well. Or, if you were really lucky, a girl who would stealthily get you to freedom! The odds of that seemed unlikely at a place like Weston (practically a CTC-sponsored university), but that dream kept you from panicking!
So assured of destruction as you were, you needed an extra second to process salvation when Sandra dropped you into the hands of, of all people, Riley!
"PET insole for you, Jacobs." Sandra announced brusquely. "I know your feelings on using them, but give it a try for this practice, all right? I promise you'll see results."
Riley tentatively glanced down at you, then back up at her coach. You hadn't known your daughter had protested using PETs, and you felt a swell of pride. "O-Okay, coach. No problem."
"I'd suggested dropping him into your left, since you kick with that foot. Either way, just keep in mind that PETs are volunteers. They want to be used, alright?" Sandra clapped your daughter on the shoulder, and then strolled off.
Riley's eyebrows had rose a bit at the mention of 'wanting', but she still looked a little unconvinced. Regardless, she bent down to pick up her left cleat, and so you launched into action wriggling and squirming for her attention. Coach Sandra might've been you flat enough to stop you from reforming, and smeared your mouth enough to stop you from talking, but you could still move, damn it!
Your daughter's fingers tensed around you as you shook. "P-Please calm down, sir. Or ma'am. Or...whatever. I know you want this, it just...weirds me out, a little." Riley rambled, beginning to drop you into her shoe. She'd yet to look at you closer, and you were losing your window.
You launched into overdrive. Damn it, Riles! Just look down! You internally screamed.
Thankfully, your daughter did, and before she could speak to, presumably, reprimand you again for squirming, she finally took note of your form. Squashed and stretched though you were, Riley had seen your molded body thousands of times in her life, and recognized your cartoonishly crumpled features instantly.
"Oh my god. Dad?" Riley whispered in disbelief, brows furrowing in confusion. "What the heck are you doing as one of our PETs?"
You buzzed your mashed lips, hoping to convey to your daughter the truth of your situation. Or, at the very least, your abject refusal to want to be used as a PET.
Riley's frown did not instill confidence.
"I...don't understand you, dad. Your mouth is all smeared. But, I think you're trying to say that...this isn't an accident? That you did willingly sign up as a PET?" Riley gasped. "Oh, is that why I got you? Because you asked specifically for me?"
Your eyes widened in horror at your daughter's disastrous misunderstanding, and you buzzed and thrashed in retort.
Riley winced. "Is that a yes? Or a no? Coach did say that PETs want to be used, so you had to assume you'd be used, dad. Or...was this whole thing an accident?"
Yes! Yes it was, Riles! You cried out in mute panic, somehow hoping the use of your nickname for your daughter, however silent, would consciously connect her to you and get her to realize the truth. Damn Coach Sandra for mangling up your mouth at the worst possible time!
A harsh whistling blowing sound startled Riley. Sandra was leading the girls out onto the field, and time was up.
Turning back to you, Riley shrugged. "Whatever. We'll get to the bottom of this after practice, dad. And, if this was on purpose, you have my thanks for being such an awesome dad!" Riley grinned at you, and yet the adorable sight of her smile and the warmth of her words didn't resonate nearly so much as the weightless feeling of Riley dropping you right into her left cleat.
She was going to use you!
You squirmed for all it was worth, but it was useless. In Riley's haste, her poking and prodding fingers couldn't differentiate your panicked thrashes as different from her own slotting you into place. And so you were utterly helpless as your daughter dexterously packed you into the sneaker, your body completely filling up all available space along the bottom lining of the shoe, settling so snugly it was like you belonged.
This being one of Riley's most long-lived soccer cleats, you knew what to expect, even if you didn't have to like it. There was an immediate miasma of stench from years of use, like a choking fog of dead air. Sticky sweat puddled against your body, having long since engrained itself into the shoe. It was a yucky mess...but it couldn't compare to what came next.
Your daughter's foot entered the shoe, blocking out all light, but not before you caught a glimpse of the tattered black fabric badly trying to pass as a sock.
Riley was wearing her Soccer Socks.
For some ungodly reason, Riley had (about two years ago), put on a pair of black socks instead of typical white, and performed the best she'd ever had in her life. A few repeat performances quickly had her convinced that the black socks were her magical lucky charm, and now they were exclusively what she wore during soccer. Practices, scrimmages, games, you name it. That same pair of tortured, well-worn socks adorned her feet. They weren't a poor tiny in disguise. They weren't even Tinex. They were just simple socks.
Mari found the whole thing cute and amusing, and had basically encouraged Riley to keep up the behavior. Riley (who by this point you were convinced was just deriving some psychosomatic benefits from the socks) was more than happy to oblige. Even Juli got in on the fun, snapping some social media shots of the Soccer Socks, and briefly causing said sock company's stock to rise because of Juli's fame bolstering the posts.
Only you detested the Soccer Socks. Perhaps it was because you found the whole thing silly. More likely, it was because you'd spent a fair bit of time intimately acquainted with the Soccer Socks. Being crushed under Riley's feet was a common occurrence for you, but that went double for her Soccer Socks. You'd survived hours of up-close crushing and smearing with the perpetually smelly, sweat-stained, dirt-encrusted socks, and had full experience with the knowledge that Riley only washed them once a month, at most!
And here they were again!
You whimpered as Riley's foot entered, settling into place atop your insole-shaped body. Her toes tapped across your eyes, small holes in the Soccer Socks subjecting you to your daughter's own sticky skin. The balls of her foot smeared against your mouth, coating your lips in salty disgusting sweat. And her heel dug into your crotch, the majority of your daughter's weight now fully concentrated onto your most sensitive area.
And then Riley stood, and it became a thousand times worse.
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