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Mite Under Manager
Another Cookie story for you confection enjoyers out there >:]
This was an art trade with LightMagician893z on DeviantArt! Check out their side of the trade here:
https://www.deviantart.com/lightmag.....een-1065133035
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“Tch…”
A stern-looking cookie with a green beret hunches over the screen of her timeline-log recording machine, posture uncharacteristically poor. She squints even more then usual, replaying the scene again.
A time-altering item, stored securely in hermetically sealed, bulletproof thick sugar glass. A lone guard, hopelessly unarmed. Twizzly Gummy, coming in to steal it. She focuses her cannon’s beam at the glass, until it starts to bubble, boil, blacken and deform. The guard hides just off-screen, behind the case.
Alarms go off. She pumps up the juice. TBD authorities come to apprehend her, and, just as she reaches the through the hole to grab the remote, something happens—presumably, the machine malfunctioning due to the intense, caramelizing heat. A burst of white light. An explosion that knocks the weakened glass back. The authorities apprehend Twizzly Gummy moments later, and the remote is collected and shortly put back where it belongs.
“So what, pray tell, is the anomaly?”
It’s not a fluke in the measurements, she’s taken precautions to that end. The remote must have done something to alter, shift, or displace time.
Is it to do with that guard? No, the TBD would have noticed…and he would have shown up very soon after in the department’s records, had he been transported to another timeline. And Twizzly Gummy obviously didn’t go anywhere—in fact, this particular version of her is still locked up in Cell 6MY-LCR of the Time Imprisonment Division. Her local-time signature lines up perfectly, too.
“Note to self: consider interrogation proposal with chief warden,” Baguette murmurs, penning it down in her little green book, then returning it to her chest pocket.
With increasing frustration, she replays the video a few more times, to no avail. Unless something is escaping her eye, the only rational conclusion is that a modicum of broken sugar glass has found its way into another timeline—something rather impossible to determine, given how miniscule of an effect it would have. It makes the most sense…but somehow, it doesn’t sit right with her. There’s something she’s missing.
Sighing, the head of the Time Registry Division turns off her monitor, then gets up. Maybe some idle paperwork will help take her mind off things. There has been a fresh batch of recruits coming in, ready for their monthly inspection…
…little did she know, the anomaly that perturbed her so is far, far closer than she thinks…
You’re gripping as tightly as you possibly can to this wall of army green fabric, eyes wide, shivering, and yet thanking the witches that that crazy explosion wasn’t the end of you. Although, if you stay on this uniform much longer, you might crumble anyway…
Ok. So. You guess this woman’s already satisfied one of your questions—the whole ‘transported to a different place’ thing—but you’d REALLY like to know why whatever that was ALSO MADE YOU SMALL.
Maybe…maybe she’ll help you find the answer? It sounded like she wanted to know it pretty bad…
But she’s also part of some kind of super-secret timeline overseeing committee—like Cookies In Black. She might just wave a black licorice stick in your face and make you forget everything! But do you really have a choice, at this size? Though pretty much everything is edible on Earthbread, you’d rather not live life scurrying around like a jelly ant, eating scraps off the floors and walls and living in fear of getting stepped on by other massive, clueless cookies…
*Swsssssh…*
*thoom, thoom…*
Your grip on the satin dress loosens as her practiced strut sways her hips from side to side, the thigh you’re clinging to moving back and forth as well, disorienting you in all sorts of ways…and more than just physically, too. As you grip arms and legs into the thick layer of material between her dough and yours, her natural warmth seeps into you. The slight smell of bread makes you flush…
Eventually she makes it to her desk (you make note of the ‘Baguette Cookie’ placard proudly placed in front). This ‘Baguette’ woman twirls, and—
“W-whooooaaaaa!!”
—a-and the force is enough to send you flying off her leg!
You scream as you plummet to your inevitable doom…or what you assumed would be your doom. Normally you’d get snapped in half falling from a height like this! And yet, on impact with the carpet beneath her desk, you simply bounce in the air, a little winded.
Well! Good to know there aren’t only downsides to your situation! E-even if it came at the expense of putting you way farther away from getting her attention…
A loud creak rings out above. You look up to see that same dress dimming the light of the office as the cookie sits down—then get thrown into the air as her grass-colored workboots come down and thump the floor, mere inches away from you…
Eep!
The impact sends you flat on your butt. You scooch backwards, but quickly hit the interior wall. Of course, this desk just had to have one. Ohh boy. This might get tricky.
“Tsk. I should refrain from pacing around so much…”
Gloved hands pinch the hems of the dress, exposing Baguette’s shapely gams; you only gain the decency to look away once you’ve already had enough of an eyeful that they’re burned pleasantly into your memory. You’re so caught up in both enjoying your uncouth thoughts and chastising yourself that you fail to notice the reason she revealed them…
Bringing a calf up to her lap, she pulls gently at the sides of her shoe in a trained routine, using just enough force at just the right angle to slip it off without crinkling anything.
Then, she tosses it beneath her desk.
Right at you.
The massive footwear careens mouth-first towards you—what light remains allows you a frightening glimpse into the worn insole within, a considerable indent shaped suspiciously like a heel becoming the last thing you see before that, too, is blotted out into darkness. You yelp in fear; that yelp is cut short by a grunt as the lip of the shoe crashes into you, flipping you along with the rest of the shoe as it rolls twice, then, by some miracle, lands perfectly upright.
It's…warm in here. Uncomfortably warm.
W-well, she DID just take it off, but…
You unconsciously breathe. A thick mouthful of hot, bready aroma seeps into your lungs and tickles your brain, leaving you lightheaded, a little unnerved, and yet strangely, slightly buzzed with the pleasant feeling of being in a bakery.
You quickly realize what you’re thinking and shake that weird stupor out of your head, flushing furiously. And you thought the only danger of being in this freshly-worn work boot would be her putting it back on…if this is what one moment is doing to your brain, you’d better get out of here before anything else happens to you!
Scrambling to your feet, you move to the wall—similarly warm—to climb back out.
Only, by the time you start climbing…
*WHUMP*
“G-GYAAH!”
…Something else knocks into it. You’re thrown out of the shoe, right onto the carpet again, this time face down and splayed on your stomach. You’re getting very tired of things playing hacky-sack with your hapless body…
You only get enough time to flip over onto your back and get one quick look at what knocked you on your ass—her foot, long, yet wide, shapely, and most importantly, coming right for you!!
You can’t even brace yourself, just shriek and fail to put up your arms in time as her tanned toes barrel you over and immediately get to playing with you; toasty arches cupping over your face, caressing your head between each of them while you’re helplessly pinned down by the ball of her foot, unable to do anything but take this cruel and unusual punishment for simply being small! Breaths come infrequently and desperately between long stretches of smothering, bringing more of that heady bakery smell that really shouldn’t be as nice as it is, coming from where it’s coming from…
But then, you cease to get a good breath at all, because once she’s done with one demeaning act of retribution, she moves right on to the next—her foot slides forward, grinding you into the (thankfully plush) carpet and completely submerging you between the artificial fabric and the all-too-organic weight and warmth of her sole, the slight cleft of the ball of her foot being the only bit of purchase your poor head could get as the full pressure of her step comes bearing down on your puny cookie body. What little air you can get is sucked in from your lips and nose, headier, and now, only barely enough to sustain you.
You thank the witches above that you were made with durable dough…or at least that whatever shrunk you make it almost impossible to crumble you.
That bit of good mood doesn’t last, either (a lot of good things don’t seem to last down here, in fact!); as if this giant, bready cookie woman heard your thanks and wanted to really test the limits of your endurance, she starts grinding the ball of her foot back and forth, twisting it, utterly stamping you into the carpet!
Argh! It’s bad enough that I’m beneath her like this…why does she have to be a fidgeter too?!
You’re flattened instantly—and you really don’t know how metaphorical or literal it is! You only know that, when the friction and the movements settle down enough, you can barely feel the difference between yourself and the vast, plush ceiling of sole dough squashing down on you…hopefully, because it’s so soft.
“Ahh, is that..?”
A booming voice makes it to your ears, even buried as you are.
“Tch…I may be restless, but I should not be so careless with the carpet. That snag wasn’t always there.”
Oh. Great. So now you’re a bit of loose carpet to her. You guess that’s a little better than nothing, or something to play with for her pleasure!
A pause.
“Would it be better if I…?”
Then, your whole world lifts up—and YOU along with it!
“W-WOAH-!!”
Oh no!! All that rubbing and squishing and squashing must’ve stuck you fast to her foot…! You desperately wriggle, but if that’s enough to alert her, then she sure doesn’t show it, because you keep rising up without fail, until everything goes sideways, and stays like that.
At least you can breathe easy now…well, easier, what with your face still mashed into her foot, every inhale filled with her subtle, bready fragrance. It’d almost make you hungry, if 1) it weren’t from a foot, and 2) your stomach wasn’t lurches from the hideous feeling of being horizontal in the air, the only thing keeping you safe, ironically, being the manager’s sole, the very thing that trapped you here in the first place.
You’re swung around like some kind of horrible, sideways pirate ship amusement park ride, swaying up and down, up and down in a sideways arc that leaves you totally disoriented. The only silver lining is that you’re still stuck fast, and not getting any looser, even with the g-forces whipping your dough around.
Then again, is it a silver lining? Indestructible as you are, a fall wouldn’t really hurt you. But considering you’ve been very, very destructible up until now, it’s hard to blame yourself for not shaking that natural fear…
Man. You’re so close to being discovered! If only you were buried back-first, instead of face-first…maybe you could yell loud enough to call out to her.
“All this fussing is quite unproductive. Perhaps a change in scenery will do me good—it will serve as a good excuse to pass out the conduct reports early, anyway.”
No no no no NO! The very, very LAST thing you need her to do is get up and walk, with you like this!
But if you can’t even get her attention while not being totally smothered…there’s not much you can do but squirm futilely as her sole swings back down, and the light dims, then goes out completely as her foot slips into her workboot…
The last thing you hear from her is a workplace quip that you wouldn’t get—
“I am sure Maple Taffy and his protégé will not be eager to see their scores. Or hear another one of Dark Fondue’s lectures afterward, hmhm...she will certainly make up for my absence of one.”
—before the soft, beaten-down fabric of her insole rushes up to meet you.
Your little cookie heart thumps wildly in your chest. Is this the end…?
*fwip…*
Once again, the ball of the manager’s foot bears down on you—only this time, the only thing protecting you is thin, spongy, overworked insole. It’s nowhere near enough to help. Especially now that half her weight is coming down against you…!!
*thmp*
It all crashes down all at once, a force that could tear down the walls of even the Hollyberry kingdom, squarely on you...
…But you don’t crumble. You don’t even crack, not the slightest bit…just feel the overwhelming pressure spread across your flat, cookie-cutter form. You’re, for once, sincerely thankful for whatever timeline hijinks shrunk you down and brought you here.
And yet, as she takes another step, and allows you the barest hint of the dry, warm, intoxicating smell of freshly baked bread that composes the atmosphere down here, you don’t feel nearly as happy as one would expect—because it’s quickly settling in that this is what you’re going to be dealing with. For. The. Next…
Squiiiishhh~
…who knows how long?!
“For you, Coffee Candy Cookie.”
“Eek! I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!!”
“…You haven’t read your review yet.”
“I’m so—o-oh, is that what this is?” she mutters, nervously gripping the sheet in her sweating hands. “Oughhh…tardies and mismatched documents again…”
Baguette smiles her little-seen smile. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You have made improvements in almost every way you have been lacking, exactly what I come to expect from my protégé.”
“T-thanks! I’ll continue to try my best, ma’am!”
“You would do good to keep that pen out of your blouse pocket, then. There is a stain on your—"
“OH NOOOO!!!”
The thump of a cookie falling to her knees.
“I *JUST* got this thing dry-cleaned, too…!!”
“Yes, well…you can use the Department’s facilities, as always.”
The manager’s boots thmp against the ground as she makes her way to her next subordinate. And the next, and the next, and the next, the subtle, pleasant sensation that’s been centered on her right sole acting as a nice distraction from the mundanity of the task…
“Hm. I will have to check that once I am back in my office…”
Thump.
You’re rattled and smothered beneath her footstep again, her pliant dough becoming all you can sense—no more seeing, or tasting, or smelling, or hearing, just the feeling of your entire body steam-pressed by a warm, living, fleshy mattress. And even that is a little much for your puny head to process…
Press…
A tingling sensation overcomes your entire being as her weight shifts further onto the foot buffeting you. It makes your head spin even while you’re held perfectly still.
Thump.
A din, though muffled by fabric and sole, ever so softly makes itself heard in the distance.
Whoosh.
You’re released from the pressure, but left stuck to her sole as you rocket through the air in a gut-wrenching swing. You hyperventilate, breathing in the air just before her plush skin.
Then, it starts all over again…as it has for an indeterminate amount of time.
Thump, pressssss, thump, whoosh, thump, pressssssss…
In a vicious, emotionless, methodical cycle.
Occasionally, the unaware office worker will stop, and something vaguely resembling a conversation buried in a sea of pillows takes place, and that tingling feeling grows as your body is put under consistent, firm weight. It’s so powerful it almost makes you wish for her to start stepping again—at least so you can breathe more.
Though strangely, a lack of breath hasn’t been a huge problem after the first few steps…
Another stop. More murmured, dampened speech, more ridiculous, lung-exhausting pressure put down on you. A few minutes of your dough going numb, yet hot, until she mercifully lifts her foot to continue on her walk.
To say that you’ve given up on trying to escape presumes that you ever had a choice in the first place. If you couldn’t get out when there was nothing meeting this woman’s springy sole but your puny body and tepid air, doing so when you’re being stamped into a permanent imprint on her insole would be nothing short of impossible. Which isn’t even considering that each second you spend beneath her foot is another second you’re being even more thoroughly plastered to her dough…sometimes you can barely feel the distinction between your dough and hers. But it’s probably just the numbness getting to you.
You hope.
Thump, pressssss, thump, whoosh, thump, pressssssss…
Squiiiiiish~
Yet another stop—you lost count around the fifth one. Your face is full of foot, and even with your mouth sealed shut in an involuntary kiss along her sole, the heady, almost pleasant (if you could admit it) smell of baked goods fills your mind and dulls your thoughts. The dry warmth of bare flesh meeting insulating insole is still almost too much for you to handle…yet somehow, the pressure isn’t as bad as before. Neither is the tingling. Something nags at you, a bad feeling about this, but honestly? You’ll take any silver lining you can get. Turning your brain off, you simply persist throughout her walk, discomfort gradually ebbing, ebbing away as the methodical, pounding, squishing routine continues…
With an aloof expression as ever, Baguette hands out her last report to a nervous-looking Maple Taffy, who’s jovial demeanor seems a bit more stiff as he combs over the sheet.
“Though technically I have partial jurisdiction over your division, I will leave any questions or comments to your direct superior.”
“H-haha,” he laughs uneasily, “Thanks a lot, Baguette!”
“I am only doing my job,” she lies.
But I am sure I will look forward to your ‘increased productivity’ after Dark Fondue is done with you.
With a disconcerting shine of her glasses, she turns and leaves.
Only a few short hallways away is her personal office. Just as she calculated. A minute or two of walking later, and she’s already shut the door and scuttled over to her desk, more than ready to kick her boots off.
She should really invest in something comfier. But they fit well with her dress, and there aren’t many comfortable choices of footwear that belong anywhere near an office…
She looks down to regard one of her shoes, halfway unshod. “Although, that was not nearly as tiring as it usually is…have I been so caught up in thinking about that paradox that nothing else has bothered me? Hm, no. That doesn’t seem right. One foot is more tired than the other, and I have a flawlessly even gait. So what could it be?”
A warm, tingling feeling runs up her sole. Goosebumps ripple the dough of her arms, and despite her poker face, she can’t help but smile a little at the feeling—
Wait a minute! There, that peculiar sensation again!
Is that really why?
Curious to find out, the manager shufts off her boot, enjoys the feeling of (relatively) cool air against her tired foot, then turns it up in her lap.
Even for her, it takes a moment. To process what she’s seeing.
Countless harsh, exacting steps over the better part of an hour have taken their toll on you—that numbness has dissipated completely, replaced with an all consuming heat, oven-like, that you only remember from the very start of the trip, when you were first stuffed between sole and insole, and even that warmth didn’t quite compare. You’ve lost all sense of where and even what you are down here. You don’t remember the last time you managed to pull your face from her skin, the last time you’ve inhaled anything but the smell of fresh bread from the pudgy ball of her foot, the last time your world was anything but the dough of her foot…
…Even now, as her sole scrunches idly (a sign that your presence is felt, hopefully?), you couldn’t feel your body crumble, or crack, or even loosen from the hold of her foot. All you felt was the wrinkling of her sole, body matching its movements exactly, as if you were perfectly melded to her skin.
But that can’t be right, can it?
Just as you start to think you’ve been consigned more unconscious play from Baguette as she dances her boots beneath her desk, everything shifts upwards. And not in a ‘about to take a step’ kind of way!
Her foot slips. No longer is your back squashed against a spongy plane of fabric.
Oh thank the witches…m-maybe I can finally get her attention.
It’s not just a fluke, either! Up, up, up, slowly, but surely, your world turns sideways, and even with your face mashed so deeply into the ball of her foot, you can feel the light seep into your back as everything swings upside-down, and you’re propped up on her lap again.
You try to wiggle. But…it’s not like you can’t move—you can’t even try to move!
Now that you think about it, you can barely move your head, either…
Oh no. Did spending all this time beneath her change you?
“H-how did…You’re the…”
The dread creeping into your thoughts immediately washes away as the office woman finally, finally acknowledges your existence. You’re saved! Free!! And maybe she can even help you with this strange problem going on with your body…?
Baguette laughs a little laugh, much more…triumphant, than you expected? What exactly is she so happy about?
“The guard!” she gasps.
Wait. What? You’ve never seen this woman in your life before you got shrunk and transported here! How does she know your profession?
“So you’ve been the anomalous thorn in my side this whole afternoon! And to think you were also the cause of that pleasant feeling, too; the mechanics of time travel are truly a mystery…”
Oh shit! That artifact is what made you shrink, AND teleport—or did you even teleport, or did time simply move forward and land you someplace else?
Well, that’s besides the point! If she’s going to be so inquisitive, why doesn’t she just pull you off and ASK you the question!!
You manage to regain the slightest amount of feeling in your dough—you squirm and struggle and write as hard as you possibly can (which is not very hard, for obvious reasons).
A shudder runs throughout the manager. One you can feel.
“N-ngh…”
With a blush, Baguette struggles not to cover her mouth. “As much as I would like to keep you there for being such a nuisance, I suppose I can’t allow you to stay there forever. Off with you now.”
A gloved finger digs at you. Although, what ‘is’ you and what ‘isn’t’ you is very fuzzy right now…you can’t really tell where she’s digging at, either. It’s a bizarre feeling. Like she’s passing over nothing, then suddenly, you, even though there’s not a single bit of different between the plane of soft, pudgy sole and yourself.
“What the…?”
…Are you flat?!
“Is this some kind of prank?” Baguette mumbles, trying and failing to lodge her finger between her skin and your body. It’s perfectly smooth. As if the boundary no longer existed…
“Ahem. I do not know if you can hear me, little cookie, but,” she licks her lips, a warm, fluttering feeling racing about in her stomach, “It appears you are stuck to my foot. Quite thoroughly. As if you are nothing more than some kind of silly tattoo…”
Her finger prods into the back of your ‘head’, and inadvertently forces a fuller, breadier dose of her dough’s natural scent into your ‘lungs’. Her sole ripples, and you can hear her gasp slightly at the feeling of you.
You can’t believe your cookie ears, but as she prods and pokes at your 2d form, the no-nonsense office worker starts to laugh.
Oh, COME ON!!
“Hmhmhmhm…~”
She coughs, regaining her composure. “Well. This has been quite an intense and frustrating day. While I would love to help alleviate your little ‘condition,’ I fear I must clock out and head home.”
You silently plead with her to at LEAST try to HELP YOU, but already, the warmth of the lamp-lit air behind you is replaced by a slightly warmer, ever-so-slightly more humid kind of heat—one that’s all too familiar to you…
“I’ll be able to find a member of the TBD to assist you…eventually. In the meantime, do keep up your diligent work. Perhaps it will remind me of you, should I forget. Do well enough, and I may expedite the process for you.”
Anger and desperation consume you, drive you to wiggle and struggle and peck your nonexistent lips to the nonexistent patch of pillowy dough with even more fervor than before. But again, you try, and again, you fail, and nothing you do prevents her sole from meeting the bottom of her work boot again, and beginning the process of stepping and smushing and squashing your puny little form into the flat, featureless outline that you are…
As Baguette walks out the door, she takes an uncharacteristically fond regard for the pleasurable little speck toiling away at her foot, stopping and curling her toes just to feel them crease perfectly in tandem with her skin. Then she starts walking again. Back to her home. To eat. To rest. To do…other things.
She’s not completely heartless, though. She’ll help them out.
Eventually…
This was an art trade with LightMagician893z on DeviantArt! Check out their side of the trade here:
https://www.deviantart.com/lightmag.....een-1065133035
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“Tch…”
A stern-looking cookie with a green beret hunches over the screen of her timeline-log recording machine, posture uncharacteristically poor. She squints even more then usual, replaying the scene again.
A time-altering item, stored securely in hermetically sealed, bulletproof thick sugar glass. A lone guard, hopelessly unarmed. Twizzly Gummy, coming in to steal it. She focuses her cannon’s beam at the glass, until it starts to bubble, boil, blacken and deform. The guard hides just off-screen, behind the case.
Alarms go off. She pumps up the juice. TBD authorities come to apprehend her, and, just as she reaches the through the hole to grab the remote, something happens—presumably, the machine malfunctioning due to the intense, caramelizing heat. A burst of white light. An explosion that knocks the weakened glass back. The authorities apprehend Twizzly Gummy moments later, and the remote is collected and shortly put back where it belongs.
“So what, pray tell, is the anomaly?”
It’s not a fluke in the measurements, she’s taken precautions to that end. The remote must have done something to alter, shift, or displace time.
Is it to do with that guard? No, the TBD would have noticed…and he would have shown up very soon after in the department’s records, had he been transported to another timeline. And Twizzly Gummy obviously didn’t go anywhere—in fact, this particular version of her is still locked up in Cell 6MY-LCR of the Time Imprisonment Division. Her local-time signature lines up perfectly, too.
“Note to self: consider interrogation proposal with chief warden,” Baguette murmurs, penning it down in her little green book, then returning it to her chest pocket.
With increasing frustration, she replays the video a few more times, to no avail. Unless something is escaping her eye, the only rational conclusion is that a modicum of broken sugar glass has found its way into another timeline—something rather impossible to determine, given how miniscule of an effect it would have. It makes the most sense…but somehow, it doesn’t sit right with her. There’s something she’s missing.
Sighing, the head of the Time Registry Division turns off her monitor, then gets up. Maybe some idle paperwork will help take her mind off things. There has been a fresh batch of recruits coming in, ready for their monthly inspection…
…little did she know, the anomaly that perturbed her so is far, far closer than she thinks…
You’re gripping as tightly as you possibly can to this wall of army green fabric, eyes wide, shivering, and yet thanking the witches that that crazy explosion wasn’t the end of you. Although, if you stay on this uniform much longer, you might crumble anyway…
Ok. So. You guess this woman’s already satisfied one of your questions—the whole ‘transported to a different place’ thing—but you’d REALLY like to know why whatever that was ALSO MADE YOU SMALL.
Maybe…maybe she’ll help you find the answer? It sounded like she wanted to know it pretty bad…
But she’s also part of some kind of super-secret timeline overseeing committee—like Cookies In Black. She might just wave a black licorice stick in your face and make you forget everything! But do you really have a choice, at this size? Though pretty much everything is edible on Earthbread, you’d rather not live life scurrying around like a jelly ant, eating scraps off the floors and walls and living in fear of getting stepped on by other massive, clueless cookies…
*Swsssssh…*
*thoom, thoom…*
Your grip on the satin dress loosens as her practiced strut sways her hips from side to side, the thigh you’re clinging to moving back and forth as well, disorienting you in all sorts of ways…and more than just physically, too. As you grip arms and legs into the thick layer of material between her dough and yours, her natural warmth seeps into you. The slight smell of bread makes you flush…
Eventually she makes it to her desk (you make note of the ‘Baguette Cookie’ placard proudly placed in front). This ‘Baguette’ woman twirls, and—
“W-whooooaaaaa!!”
—a-and the force is enough to send you flying off her leg!
You scream as you plummet to your inevitable doom…or what you assumed would be your doom. Normally you’d get snapped in half falling from a height like this! And yet, on impact with the carpet beneath her desk, you simply bounce in the air, a little winded.
Well! Good to know there aren’t only downsides to your situation! E-even if it came at the expense of putting you way farther away from getting her attention…
A loud creak rings out above. You look up to see that same dress dimming the light of the office as the cookie sits down—then get thrown into the air as her grass-colored workboots come down and thump the floor, mere inches away from you…
Eep!
The impact sends you flat on your butt. You scooch backwards, but quickly hit the interior wall. Of course, this desk just had to have one. Ohh boy. This might get tricky.
“Tsk. I should refrain from pacing around so much…”
Gloved hands pinch the hems of the dress, exposing Baguette’s shapely gams; you only gain the decency to look away once you’ve already had enough of an eyeful that they’re burned pleasantly into your memory. You’re so caught up in both enjoying your uncouth thoughts and chastising yourself that you fail to notice the reason she revealed them…
Bringing a calf up to her lap, she pulls gently at the sides of her shoe in a trained routine, using just enough force at just the right angle to slip it off without crinkling anything.
Then, she tosses it beneath her desk.
Right at you.
The massive footwear careens mouth-first towards you—what light remains allows you a frightening glimpse into the worn insole within, a considerable indent shaped suspiciously like a heel becoming the last thing you see before that, too, is blotted out into darkness. You yelp in fear; that yelp is cut short by a grunt as the lip of the shoe crashes into you, flipping you along with the rest of the shoe as it rolls twice, then, by some miracle, lands perfectly upright.
It's…warm in here. Uncomfortably warm.
W-well, she DID just take it off, but…
You unconsciously breathe. A thick mouthful of hot, bready aroma seeps into your lungs and tickles your brain, leaving you lightheaded, a little unnerved, and yet strangely, slightly buzzed with the pleasant feeling of being in a bakery.
You quickly realize what you’re thinking and shake that weird stupor out of your head, flushing furiously. And you thought the only danger of being in this freshly-worn work boot would be her putting it back on…if this is what one moment is doing to your brain, you’d better get out of here before anything else happens to you!
Scrambling to your feet, you move to the wall—similarly warm—to climb back out.
Only, by the time you start climbing…
*WHUMP*
“G-GYAAH!”
…Something else knocks into it. You’re thrown out of the shoe, right onto the carpet again, this time face down and splayed on your stomach. You’re getting very tired of things playing hacky-sack with your hapless body…
You only get enough time to flip over onto your back and get one quick look at what knocked you on your ass—her foot, long, yet wide, shapely, and most importantly, coming right for you!!
You can’t even brace yourself, just shriek and fail to put up your arms in time as her tanned toes barrel you over and immediately get to playing with you; toasty arches cupping over your face, caressing your head between each of them while you’re helplessly pinned down by the ball of her foot, unable to do anything but take this cruel and unusual punishment for simply being small! Breaths come infrequently and desperately between long stretches of smothering, bringing more of that heady bakery smell that really shouldn’t be as nice as it is, coming from where it’s coming from…
But then, you cease to get a good breath at all, because once she’s done with one demeaning act of retribution, she moves right on to the next—her foot slides forward, grinding you into the (thankfully plush) carpet and completely submerging you between the artificial fabric and the all-too-organic weight and warmth of her sole, the slight cleft of the ball of her foot being the only bit of purchase your poor head could get as the full pressure of her step comes bearing down on your puny cookie body. What little air you can get is sucked in from your lips and nose, headier, and now, only barely enough to sustain you.
You thank the witches above that you were made with durable dough…or at least that whatever shrunk you make it almost impossible to crumble you.
That bit of good mood doesn’t last, either (a lot of good things don’t seem to last down here, in fact!); as if this giant, bready cookie woman heard your thanks and wanted to really test the limits of your endurance, she starts grinding the ball of her foot back and forth, twisting it, utterly stamping you into the carpet!
Argh! It’s bad enough that I’m beneath her like this…why does she have to be a fidgeter too?!
You’re flattened instantly—and you really don’t know how metaphorical or literal it is! You only know that, when the friction and the movements settle down enough, you can barely feel the difference between yourself and the vast, plush ceiling of sole dough squashing down on you…hopefully, because it’s so soft.
“Ahh, is that..?”
A booming voice makes it to your ears, even buried as you are.
“Tch…I may be restless, but I should not be so careless with the carpet. That snag wasn’t always there.”
Oh. Great. So now you’re a bit of loose carpet to her. You guess that’s a little better than nothing, or something to play with for her pleasure!
A pause.
“Would it be better if I…?”
Then, your whole world lifts up—and YOU along with it!
“W-WOAH-!!”
Oh no!! All that rubbing and squishing and squashing must’ve stuck you fast to her foot…! You desperately wriggle, but if that’s enough to alert her, then she sure doesn’t show it, because you keep rising up without fail, until everything goes sideways, and stays like that.
At least you can breathe easy now…well, easier, what with your face still mashed into her foot, every inhale filled with her subtle, bready fragrance. It’d almost make you hungry, if 1) it weren’t from a foot, and 2) your stomach wasn’t lurches from the hideous feeling of being horizontal in the air, the only thing keeping you safe, ironically, being the manager’s sole, the very thing that trapped you here in the first place.
You’re swung around like some kind of horrible, sideways pirate ship amusement park ride, swaying up and down, up and down in a sideways arc that leaves you totally disoriented. The only silver lining is that you’re still stuck fast, and not getting any looser, even with the g-forces whipping your dough around.
Then again, is it a silver lining? Indestructible as you are, a fall wouldn’t really hurt you. But considering you’ve been very, very destructible up until now, it’s hard to blame yourself for not shaking that natural fear…
Man. You’re so close to being discovered! If only you were buried back-first, instead of face-first…maybe you could yell loud enough to call out to her.
“All this fussing is quite unproductive. Perhaps a change in scenery will do me good—it will serve as a good excuse to pass out the conduct reports early, anyway.”
No no no no NO! The very, very LAST thing you need her to do is get up and walk, with you like this!
But if you can’t even get her attention while not being totally smothered…there’s not much you can do but squirm futilely as her sole swings back down, and the light dims, then goes out completely as her foot slips into her workboot…
The last thing you hear from her is a workplace quip that you wouldn’t get—
“I am sure Maple Taffy and his protégé will not be eager to see their scores. Or hear another one of Dark Fondue’s lectures afterward, hmhm...she will certainly make up for my absence of one.”
—before the soft, beaten-down fabric of her insole rushes up to meet you.
Your little cookie heart thumps wildly in your chest. Is this the end…?
*fwip…*
Once again, the ball of the manager’s foot bears down on you—only this time, the only thing protecting you is thin, spongy, overworked insole. It’s nowhere near enough to help. Especially now that half her weight is coming down against you…!!
*thmp*
It all crashes down all at once, a force that could tear down the walls of even the Hollyberry kingdom, squarely on you...
…But you don’t crumble. You don’t even crack, not the slightest bit…just feel the overwhelming pressure spread across your flat, cookie-cutter form. You’re, for once, sincerely thankful for whatever timeline hijinks shrunk you down and brought you here.
And yet, as she takes another step, and allows you the barest hint of the dry, warm, intoxicating smell of freshly baked bread that composes the atmosphere down here, you don’t feel nearly as happy as one would expect—because it’s quickly settling in that this is what you’re going to be dealing with. For. The. Next…
Squiiiishhh~
…who knows how long?!
“For you, Coffee Candy Cookie.”
“Eek! I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!!”
“…You haven’t read your review yet.”
“I’m so—o-oh, is that what this is?” she mutters, nervously gripping the sheet in her sweating hands. “Oughhh…tardies and mismatched documents again…”
Baguette smiles her little-seen smile. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You have made improvements in almost every way you have been lacking, exactly what I come to expect from my protégé.”
“T-thanks! I’ll continue to try my best, ma’am!”
“You would do good to keep that pen out of your blouse pocket, then. There is a stain on your—"
“OH NOOOO!!!”
The thump of a cookie falling to her knees.
“I *JUST* got this thing dry-cleaned, too…!!”
“Yes, well…you can use the Department’s facilities, as always.”
The manager’s boots thmp against the ground as she makes her way to her next subordinate. And the next, and the next, and the next, the subtle, pleasant sensation that’s been centered on her right sole acting as a nice distraction from the mundanity of the task…
“Hm. I will have to check that once I am back in my office…”
Thump.
You’re rattled and smothered beneath her footstep again, her pliant dough becoming all you can sense—no more seeing, or tasting, or smelling, or hearing, just the feeling of your entire body steam-pressed by a warm, living, fleshy mattress. And even that is a little much for your puny head to process…
Press…
A tingling sensation overcomes your entire being as her weight shifts further onto the foot buffeting you. It makes your head spin even while you’re held perfectly still.
Thump.
A din, though muffled by fabric and sole, ever so softly makes itself heard in the distance.
Whoosh.
You’re released from the pressure, but left stuck to her sole as you rocket through the air in a gut-wrenching swing. You hyperventilate, breathing in the air just before her plush skin.
Then, it starts all over again…as it has for an indeterminate amount of time.
Thump, pressssss, thump, whoosh, thump, pressssssss…
In a vicious, emotionless, methodical cycle.
Occasionally, the unaware office worker will stop, and something vaguely resembling a conversation buried in a sea of pillows takes place, and that tingling feeling grows as your body is put under consistent, firm weight. It’s so powerful it almost makes you wish for her to start stepping again—at least so you can breathe more.
Though strangely, a lack of breath hasn’t been a huge problem after the first few steps…
Another stop. More murmured, dampened speech, more ridiculous, lung-exhausting pressure put down on you. A few minutes of your dough going numb, yet hot, until she mercifully lifts her foot to continue on her walk.
To say that you’ve given up on trying to escape presumes that you ever had a choice in the first place. If you couldn’t get out when there was nothing meeting this woman’s springy sole but your puny body and tepid air, doing so when you’re being stamped into a permanent imprint on her insole would be nothing short of impossible. Which isn’t even considering that each second you spend beneath her foot is another second you’re being even more thoroughly plastered to her dough…sometimes you can barely feel the distinction between your dough and hers. But it’s probably just the numbness getting to you.
You hope.
Thump, pressssss, thump, whoosh, thump, pressssssss…
Squiiiiiish~
Yet another stop—you lost count around the fifth one. Your face is full of foot, and even with your mouth sealed shut in an involuntary kiss along her sole, the heady, almost pleasant (if you could admit it) smell of baked goods fills your mind and dulls your thoughts. The dry warmth of bare flesh meeting insulating insole is still almost too much for you to handle…yet somehow, the pressure isn’t as bad as before. Neither is the tingling. Something nags at you, a bad feeling about this, but honestly? You’ll take any silver lining you can get. Turning your brain off, you simply persist throughout her walk, discomfort gradually ebbing, ebbing away as the methodical, pounding, squishing routine continues…
With an aloof expression as ever, Baguette hands out her last report to a nervous-looking Maple Taffy, who’s jovial demeanor seems a bit more stiff as he combs over the sheet.
“Though technically I have partial jurisdiction over your division, I will leave any questions or comments to your direct superior.”
“H-haha,” he laughs uneasily, “Thanks a lot, Baguette!”
“I am only doing my job,” she lies.
But I am sure I will look forward to your ‘increased productivity’ after Dark Fondue is done with you.
With a disconcerting shine of her glasses, she turns and leaves.
Only a few short hallways away is her personal office. Just as she calculated. A minute or two of walking later, and she’s already shut the door and scuttled over to her desk, more than ready to kick her boots off.
She should really invest in something comfier. But they fit well with her dress, and there aren’t many comfortable choices of footwear that belong anywhere near an office…
She looks down to regard one of her shoes, halfway unshod. “Although, that was not nearly as tiring as it usually is…have I been so caught up in thinking about that paradox that nothing else has bothered me? Hm, no. That doesn’t seem right. One foot is more tired than the other, and I have a flawlessly even gait. So what could it be?”
A warm, tingling feeling runs up her sole. Goosebumps ripple the dough of her arms, and despite her poker face, she can’t help but smile a little at the feeling—
Wait a minute! There, that peculiar sensation again!
Is that really why?
Curious to find out, the manager shufts off her boot, enjoys the feeling of (relatively) cool air against her tired foot, then turns it up in her lap.
Even for her, it takes a moment. To process what she’s seeing.
Countless harsh, exacting steps over the better part of an hour have taken their toll on you—that numbness has dissipated completely, replaced with an all consuming heat, oven-like, that you only remember from the very start of the trip, when you were first stuffed between sole and insole, and even that warmth didn’t quite compare. You’ve lost all sense of where and even what you are down here. You don’t remember the last time you managed to pull your face from her skin, the last time you’ve inhaled anything but the smell of fresh bread from the pudgy ball of her foot, the last time your world was anything but the dough of her foot…
…Even now, as her sole scrunches idly (a sign that your presence is felt, hopefully?), you couldn’t feel your body crumble, or crack, or even loosen from the hold of her foot. All you felt was the wrinkling of her sole, body matching its movements exactly, as if you were perfectly melded to her skin.
But that can’t be right, can it?
Just as you start to think you’ve been consigned more unconscious play from Baguette as she dances her boots beneath her desk, everything shifts upwards. And not in a ‘about to take a step’ kind of way!
Her foot slips. No longer is your back squashed against a spongy plane of fabric.
Oh thank the witches…m-maybe I can finally get her attention.
It’s not just a fluke, either! Up, up, up, slowly, but surely, your world turns sideways, and even with your face mashed so deeply into the ball of her foot, you can feel the light seep into your back as everything swings upside-down, and you’re propped up on her lap again.
You try to wiggle. But…it’s not like you can’t move—you can’t even try to move!
Now that you think about it, you can barely move your head, either…
Oh no. Did spending all this time beneath her change you?
“H-how did…You’re the…”
The dread creeping into your thoughts immediately washes away as the office woman finally, finally acknowledges your existence. You’re saved! Free!! And maybe she can even help you with this strange problem going on with your body…?
Baguette laughs a little laugh, much more…triumphant, than you expected? What exactly is she so happy about?
“The guard!” she gasps.
Wait. What? You’ve never seen this woman in your life before you got shrunk and transported here! How does she know your profession?
“So you’ve been the anomalous thorn in my side this whole afternoon! And to think you were also the cause of that pleasant feeling, too; the mechanics of time travel are truly a mystery…”
Oh shit! That artifact is what made you shrink, AND teleport—or did you even teleport, or did time simply move forward and land you someplace else?
Well, that’s besides the point! If she’s going to be so inquisitive, why doesn’t she just pull you off and ASK you the question!!
You manage to regain the slightest amount of feeling in your dough—you squirm and struggle and write as hard as you possibly can (which is not very hard, for obvious reasons).
A shudder runs throughout the manager. One you can feel.
“N-ngh…”
With a blush, Baguette struggles not to cover her mouth. “As much as I would like to keep you there for being such a nuisance, I suppose I can’t allow you to stay there forever. Off with you now.”
A gloved finger digs at you. Although, what ‘is’ you and what ‘isn’t’ you is very fuzzy right now…you can’t really tell where she’s digging at, either. It’s a bizarre feeling. Like she’s passing over nothing, then suddenly, you, even though there’s not a single bit of different between the plane of soft, pudgy sole and yourself.
“What the…?”
…Are you flat?!
“Is this some kind of prank?” Baguette mumbles, trying and failing to lodge her finger between her skin and your body. It’s perfectly smooth. As if the boundary no longer existed…
“Ahem. I do not know if you can hear me, little cookie, but,” she licks her lips, a warm, fluttering feeling racing about in her stomach, “It appears you are stuck to my foot. Quite thoroughly. As if you are nothing more than some kind of silly tattoo…”
Her finger prods into the back of your ‘head’, and inadvertently forces a fuller, breadier dose of her dough’s natural scent into your ‘lungs’. Her sole ripples, and you can hear her gasp slightly at the feeling of you.
You can’t believe your cookie ears, but as she prods and pokes at your 2d form, the no-nonsense office worker starts to laugh.
Oh, COME ON!!
“Hmhmhmhm…~”
She coughs, regaining her composure. “Well. This has been quite an intense and frustrating day. While I would love to help alleviate your little ‘condition,’ I fear I must clock out and head home.”
You silently plead with her to at LEAST try to HELP YOU, but already, the warmth of the lamp-lit air behind you is replaced by a slightly warmer, ever-so-slightly more humid kind of heat—one that’s all too familiar to you…
“I’ll be able to find a member of the TBD to assist you…eventually. In the meantime, do keep up your diligent work. Perhaps it will remind me of you, should I forget. Do well enough, and I may expedite the process for you.”
Anger and desperation consume you, drive you to wiggle and struggle and peck your nonexistent lips to the nonexistent patch of pillowy dough with even more fervor than before. But again, you try, and again, you fail, and nothing you do prevents her sole from meeting the bottom of her work boot again, and beginning the process of stepping and smushing and squashing your puny little form into the flat, featureless outline that you are…
As Baguette walks out the door, she takes an uncharacteristically fond regard for the pleasurable little speck toiling away at her foot, stopping and curling her toes just to feel them crease perfectly in tandem with her skin. Then she starts walking again. Back to her home. To eat. To rest. To do…other things.
She’s not completely heartless, though. She’ll help them out.
Eventually…
Category Story / Paw
Species Exotic (Other)
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 114.5 kB
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