Reservations

(feet, butts, heels, crush)

My name is Patricia Arnault and I am twenty-seven years old. Most days I can be found in either my apartment on West eighty-first street, my job at Ellis and Ellis where I work as an investment specialist, my health club Xclusive on the Upper West Side, or any number of the local dining establishments I frequent - but right now I am in a limousine bound for the Harvard Club where Lawrence Sportello, an old classmate, is hosting a going away party preempting his emigration to Japan for business. I'm wearing a Versace couture knee-length black dress with Dolce & Gabbana leather close-toed slingback heels, which I am displeased with. I was planning to wear my new Manolo Blahnik burgundy velvet sandal heels but couldn't for two reasons: firstly, because the stupid bitch doing my nails at the salon painted them a shade of red which was at best plum, despite me pointing to the exact colour I wanted, and, secondly, because as punishment for the mistake I shrunk said bitch while she was out back and had her stuffed under my toes. I simply couldn't risk her being seen while wearing open-toed shoes.

I could feel her right now, under my left foot, specifically the ball. The memory of her playing dumb in broken-english kept playing through my mind and I couldn't help but grind her back and forth a little with a smile every time it got to the part of her saying I was scaring her. Mitchell and Alexandria, friends, in the limo, were discussing the finer points of subjects they knew nothing about. "Hey, Patricia, doesn't your father have some connection to Yoyodyne or something? Are they really that close to perfecting a portable shrink ray?" asks Mitchell.

"I wouldn't be the one to ask," I counter, with a subconscious drum on my Louis Vuitton designer handbag.

He whistles. "Ain't that something. Portable shrink ray. Shit'd be dangerous if it got in the wrong hands."

Turning to look somewhere between them. "Well, I think with strong regulations and a heightened public conscience about the technology, it could potentially be a serious force for change in today's increasingly polluted and consumerist world," I said this while grinding the tiny girl into the sole of my shoe.

Mitchell and Alexandria regard me with blank expressions before shrugging and moving on to a tangential topic.

We arrive at the Harvard club on time and I reluctantly part with my handbag before heading into the function room. It's not completely obvious for me if I can actually hear the girl in my shoe squeaking with every step I take or I'm just imagining it. "Patty, oh my God, long time no see!" It is Lawrence's wife, Mrs Sportello. She was wearing a golden Yves Saint Laurent single-shoulder silk dress, pearl earrings, and Dolce & Gabbana ankle-strap stilettos.

"It has been so long, hasn't it? Must have been graduation?" I feel nothing but disgust for her after calling me 'Patty'.

"I think so? You look wonderful by the way. A little on the sombre side, though? It's not like it's Lawrence's funeral."

Briefly, I picture the runt pinned under my heel begging for his life. "I'd step on you and your husband like filthy bugs."

"Hm?"

"I said 'Where is your husband? We're overdue for a hug.'"

"Larry's somewhere in here. I'm sure he'll find you sooner or later."

The party starts as and would most likely persist to be a bore. I stick close to Alexandria who seems intent on rubbing shoulders with a lawyer from New Hampshire whose father owns a golf course on which several presidents have played, which he makes sure we are well aware of. All the fun I'm having is from the Bacardi I picked up and the squeaks the little bitch would make as she gets pummeled deeper and deeper into my foot. I drift away from Alexandria and mull around, imagining what different guests would look like at various sizes and in different scenarios up to and including being crushed, devoured, and used as sex toys. Lawrence catches me mid-day dream and he immediately goes in for the hug, which I accept. He smiles and rocks back with a bounce in his Tagliatore Loafers. "So good to see you, Pat," he says while I hide my seething. "I'm so so sorry about Paul."

Paul, of course, was my boyfriend. He seemed the most whipped of all my potential suitors and I began dating him because Alexandria had recently become engaged and I did not want to be alone at her wedding. It is known to everyone but me and himself that he ran away to Panama and is incommunicado - really he lives in the bottom drawer of my bedside table and is presently adhered to my Vibe Wand. "Of course, I really appreciate the sympathy."

He was about to add something but gets interrupted and dragged back into the mass of Armani and Ralph Lauren. I head back to Alexandra. She's still with the lawyer and I think she's interested more in his jawline than his father's golf course. Mitchell I can see is drunk already. I orbit a conversation cluster before realising it's centred around Danulka Czorak, who worked in the same department as me in Ellis and Ellis although on a different floor. She was some minor European nobility or at least acts like it, despite being second-generation. She wore a Gucci strapless red dress and... oh my God... Manolo Blahnik burgundy velvet sandal heels, with a perfect burgundy pedicure. I try to make my escape but she notices me. "Oh, Alicia! I didn't know you were friends with Lawrence."

I grind my molars together and absolutely punish the girl below, who I'm sure will pop very soon. "We go way back, graduating class."

"Really? Small world, I guess. I've been in contact with him while working on the Goldberg account."

Terror grips me at the mere mention. Danulka got the account? Her? "Lawrence is such a sweetie, isn't he?"

"Sure is. He owes me one after I got him into Dorsia."

A deep-seated rage wells up inside me, and, on the verge of tears, I say, "I'm impressed. You must be well connected." I manage to slip away when she isn't paying attention and head to the washroom. It's empty except for someone doing coke in one of the stalls. In my anger, I crushed the girl and a bloody smear stained the toe section of my shoe, which I quickly clean with toilet paper. When I emerge Danulka is still the centre of conversation and I slowly wander around and mingle, making sure to check on her periodically. After some time, and many boring conversations, she begins trailing towards the washroom and I immediately march over to collect my bag. Practically kicking down the door, I catch her reapplying mascara in the mirror, and take out my shrink ray.

In a flash, she is reduced to only two or so inches, and thankfully we're in here alone, sans even the cokehead. Naturally she's hysterical, and I consider shrinking her to microscopic size and leaving her here. I decide against it based on the grounds that it would be far less cathartic and I did exactly that a few weeks ago to a girl that called me a bitch in some club's washroom. I pivot my foot on my heel and position it above her, as she begins screaming. But there's a little too much echo in here for comfort so I pick her up by the legs and quickly stuff her into the toe of my shoe. Just in time too as a woman who I'm fairly sure works at Ellis and Ellis and is wearing a Jean-Paul Gautier Halter-neck evening dress and a pair of Chanel peep-toe shoes, enters. I manage to pass off slipping Danulka under my toes as a mere adjustment of my slingbacks and give her a rehearsed smile before walking out without Danulka so much as squeaking.

Alexandria is still, to my revulsion, infatuated with the lawyer, and Mitchell has passed out. Without even asking I head out to the limousine and tell the driver to take me back to my place. Stealthily I manage to remove Danulka and transfer her to under my ass which is nice and full due to my weekly workout regiment in which I perform squats daily. I begin to think I should have worn my Chanel tweed cocktail dress which has much coarser fibres and would make the ride far less pleasant for her. As a precaution I hide my smile behind the rim of a champagne glass to avoid any awkward questions from the driver. Although I think I could reliably hold on to Danulka by clenching my ass cheeks I don't risk it and slip her back into my shoes via the slingbacks. At home I decide to walk up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

Danulka is in a terrible state when I let her crawl from my kicked-off heel. She is red, panting, and her strapless dress is mangled and not fit for goodwill. The shock is still there though, and she gawks up at me. I realise I'm smiling. I raise my bare foot over her and listen in for the scream, which is piercing and high, and doesn't stop as I continue to ominously lower my appendage. With only another half-inch or so to her death, I let up, and plant my foot next to her. The tiny slut looks even redder now. "How's the Goldberg account going for you now, you Eurotrash whore?"

"W-w-w..."

Enjoying my feet being free, I shimmy, almost dance, over to my Sansui complete stereo system complete with Brazillian rosewood speakers. I begin playing Zenyatta Mondatta by The Police (1980) which I picked up a few days ago. Shimmying back, Danulka is slowly scrambling away, likely trying to hide under my Estate style leather sofa. I clip her almost accidentally with my foot, knocking her down, and just to be sure I stomp down on her three times in sync with the beat of Don't Stand So Close to Me which was the best selling 1980 single in the UK. Danulka is in visible agony and likely immobile. The music is too loud for me to hear her screams but I'm able to imagine them nicely. Still bouncing around, I take last week's issue of the Economist from my coffee table. "It's Patricia by the way, you piece of shit."

I flatten out the cover page on the floor and nudge Danulka, faintly sobbing, onto it with my toe. I see, not hear, her screaming which sends tingles up my legs. It's very tempting to crush her now, but I head into my bedroom, still swaying to the music, and find the pair of Manolo Blahnik sandals which I slip on, the clash between my plum nails almost makes me gag. Despite the loud music, I suspect Danulka can hear and can definitely feel my approach. The shrunken woman had not even moved from the rough position I had left her in, telling me I caused more damage with my stomps than I intended to, but she was still alive and lucid, so I don't care. She is sobbing, and I can see fear in her face, which makes me ecstatic. As always this delicious feeling of power overcomes me, catharsis absorbs me, I imagine her staring up bewildered at me, incapable of coming to grips with her imminent demise like an insect beneath ME. A faint trickle of moisture begins running down my inner thigh, my Chanel cotton culotte briefs are likely soaked. Before I totally ruin them I pivot my foot on the heel and hover the sole over Danulka. She is totally eclipsed, I have no idea if she's screaming or already too weak. I hiss, "Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now you fucking stupid bitch," and crush her flat and it is orgasmic.

I wipe the gory remains off my shoe and leave them on the paper for cleaning later. Right now I collapse on the sofa. God that was so hot. I think it's time Paul comes out of my drawer.