Naomi's laces are neatly tied in a double knot, with but one over-extended ending draped along the floor like a stairway to heaven. Its width is a quarter of your height, and it's easily as thick as your arm, so you hope that it can take your weight.
And that the giantess to whom it's attached doesn't make any sudden moves that may result in you ending up underfoot.
With arms out to the side for balance, you walk your way up the lace, ever closer the indomitable summit of Naomi's shoe, a plateau criss-crossed with more of the same that barely contain the power held by the muscles of the foot within. It holds, and you don't plunge to your death; your negligible weight at a height of one inch is paying off.
Once atop, you scramble for balance as the giantess scooches her foot to the side ever so slightly, more than enough to upset your entire, ordered world.
Crashing into the trainer's tongue, you realise that it won't be so easy to reach the exposed ankle-flesh after all; from this angle, the trousers cover it entirely from your view, and you have not the strength to lift the fabric out of your way.
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