Romans & histoires Under Her Feet

Before she could stop it, her other foot followed. The ground swallowed her feet, slurping greedily to her waist. She could not move her legs or fight against the pressure crushing her beneath the surface. She screamed and howled into the empty night, clawing desperately at the dirt as it climbed her body. As the edge reached her chest, something crashed down on top of her, pushing her deeper into her struggle.

"Sorry you're not the Queen of Sheba as well." Cherie's ankle twisted as her feet planted themselves on the unseen paving, her heel sinking into the gutter, clogged and unable to cope with the debris forced down its throat. She had no time to dwell on it, the grip tightening to pull her forward again and feeling as if her arm was being wrenched from her socket.

He carefully lowered her from his back, letting her feet touch the ground. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she stopped laughing. The ground wasn't soft moss or loam anymore. It felt hard, gritty, and lifeless. She knew exactly where they were.

She shrugs her shoulders and the fabric pools at her feet. She steps out of it in nothing but lace panties, garters, and the heels she insisted on keeping. The sight of her—bare back, the gentle curve of her spine, the way the lamplight catches the faint freckles across her shoulders—steals every coherent thought I have.

Something that feels like possession, like hunger. In the hallway below, I hear her footsteps retreating to her quarters. Soft, measured, careful. The sound goes on echoing in my ears long after it fades.

It creaked under her. “That’s weird”, she said and stomped on another part of the floor. There was no creak. She went on her knees and tried to raise the wooden floor. Her eyes widened as she saw what was underneath.

Serena stood barefoot, dripping wet, her long hair plastered against her back. Droplets of water trickled down her neck, soaking the towel clutched tightly around her chest. Her bare toes curled subconsciously, as if seeking stability on the cold floor. She looked fragile yet resilient, her discomfort betrayed only by the slight tremble in her posture.

She groped for something in front of her with her little hand. She carefully tested the ground with her feet, walking forward. Suddenly, without shoes on her feet, she was poked by something, and her small body fell to the ground.

She closed her eyes, pressing her hand against her chest as though she could steady her heart that way. With a shaky exhale, she kicked off her heels, letting them fall carelessly onto the carpet. The relief of bare feet against soft fibers grounded her, but the restless energy inside her didn’t fade. She moved slowly to her bedroom, fingers brushing against the wall as if she needed the contact to stay upright.

She lays over the bed, her feet on the floor , her dress bunched up over her waist and her heels still on. Her body shakes and heaves as she tries to catch her breath. I smile down at that. I have plans for her and in my own way it’s me punishing her for coming here, for accusing me of having knowledge of her mothers death. For putting herself in danger , but worst of all for challenging me and calling me out.