“Every second I stand here, there’s less of you.”
He didn’t know the table had a mirrored underside.
Not until he was ordered beneath it—naked, silent, still.
It was low to the ground. Glass-topped. Polished legs. A designer piece, probably custom. Elegant in that effortless, terrifying way everything in her space was. He had to shimmy in sideways, arms pressed to his ribs, face tilted just enough to avoid touching the surface. And once he was in position, she simply said:
“Don’t blink too often. You’ll want to see what happens to you.”
Then she stepped up.
No shoes. No words. Just the subtle sigh of her soles finding the glass. One foot. Then the other. The moment her weight settled, the light changed. Shadows shifted. The warmth of her body transferred down.
He looked up—because she’d made sure he would.
The mirrored glass framed him perfectly. Not just his face, but his expression. The little furrows of shame around his eyes. The way his lips parted in reflex when the pads of her toes curled and flattened just above.
She didn’t walk. She stood.
Motionless, balanced, deliberate.
Her feet were clean—but not sterile. Lived in. Soft where it mattered, but not without edge. The faintest gray where heel met tile. The subtle darkening of the arch where nylons had once kissed skin.
And there she remained.
Her soles hovering inches above him. Sometimes pressing lightly. Sometimes shifting with the slow weight of breath. He saw everything—his face framed in the halo of her stance. His shame mirrored in real time.
And in that moment, he didn’t feel like a man. He felt like the floor. Not an object of use, but a surface—flat, unseen, expected.
Every time she lifted a foot, he had a worm’s eye view of her sole in transit: the slight wrinkling of skin near her arch, the way each toe flexed independently, the imprint of where her weight had been.
The pressure wasn’t enough to bruise or break—but it didn’t need to be. Because the humiliation came not from pain, but from being beneath her as a constant. From knowing her soles existed in his sky, and that his only purpose was to witness, to support, to vanish.
It wasn’t trampling. That would at least imply force, an event. This was worse. This was sustained presence. Quiet weight. A declaration that she could stand there forever, and he would only get smaller.
Then she began to move.
Not forward. Not back. Just subtle shifts. Weight transferring. One heel rising, the other lowering. Her toes flexing like she was kneading thought into the glass.
He watched his mouth tremble. Watched his brow tighten. Watched his reflection change—not because of what she did, but because of what she was.
She looked down at him. Through the table. Into the mirror. Not at his body. At his face. “Look at yourself,” she said. “That’s who you are now.”
He didn’t nod. He couldn’t. The glass was too low.
But she knew.
She always knew.
Her foot began to slide. Slowly. Sole to cheek. The smear of heat across his skin. He felt it, but more than that—he saw it. Watched as the edge of her heel traced across the corner of his mouth, then returned again. The skin slightly dewy. A soft sheen left in her wake.
His lips parted.
Not from desire.
From erasure.
She was wiping him away.
One step at a time.
No moan. No grunt. Just his breath fogging the underside of the glass. And above it: her. Elevated. Untouchable. Sacred.
She pressed her arch into the mirror and looked directly down at him. He flinched, just once. Her toes flexed in response.
“You see it, don’t you?” she said. “Every second I stand here, there’s less of you.”
And she was right.
He wasn’t vanishing.
He was being overwritten.
Not all at once—but steadily. Foot by foot.
Shame by shame.
She didn’t grind. She didn’t stomp. She just stayed. Shifted. Smoothed. Let him feel his own image softening under her presence.
He wasn’t begging.
He wasn’t breathing.
He was watching himself disappear.
And she was making it beautiful.