It was never easy being an amateur journalist. The veterans could move through their business with ease, like Olympic weightlifters bench pressing 300 pounds, whereas you couldn't so much as lift ten times less than that. Your schedule begged you for mercy on a daily basis, always being booked left and right by interview after interview, and not to mention the flights, hotels, and travel in between. Both the job itself and your no-name publisher demanded heavily from you, but it was much worth it. The experience of meeting new people, their personalities, and their cultures was part of what you loved, being a journalist.
	The latest column you needed to write was one on submissive relationships. Sifting through your emails as you may, no one was of interest interviewing. Some of the emails led to dead ends. Some were too sketchy too try. You were not willing to visit an undisclosed location in the slums. The deadline was approaching shortly and you were running out of time--but not until you read an email from a very promising candidate. He was unlike the rest, yet still was safe enough to approach. The sender was a stick figure named Black, who, as he described in his email, was in a relationship with another stick figure named Purple, in which Black was dominant and his partner was submissive. Not keen to let the opportunity pass, you immediately replied.
	Shortly after, Black replied, and the two of you discussed a time and place to schedule an interview. It would be at his house. Having booked an interview for your column, and with ample time set aside to submit it before the deadline, you could release a sigh of relief, and rest easy knowing that the day would be coming. You closed the lid on your laptop and set it down to get to sleep.

	Black's house looked to be a ranch-style house, shoved far back from the road down a long driveway. It matched his description, address and all. Although you grew comfortable lugging around your equipment, including a camcorder, microphones, tripods, and a ditzy-looking floodlight, you had a pang of anxiety clutching around your throat. Was Black going to be friendly? Would you say anything wrong that could leave you without a column to write? And most important, would he provide anything actually worth writing about at all? It was too late to turn back, however, and you had to swallow the anxiety down. After all, you lived for these kind of things. It would be wrong to not enjoy this experience in some way.
	You heaved a great sigh before approaching the door and giving it a soft knock. No answer. You knocked harder, this time waiting longer than the last time. Still no answer. You'd have to give Black the police knock. After considering it, the doorknob jiggled before the door opened. It was him, but not quite. You imagined for a stick figure, he would be short. You saw the opposite, since he was much taller than you, perhaps by another foot taller. He may just be tall, or you were mistaken that you were very short.
	He did not smile, but did not greet you with malice. "Oh, so you must be the interview guy, right?"
	"Hey, Black, nice to meet ya," you said, jerking your hand out.
	Black took your hand and shook it hard. His skin felt better than human skin, odd, but in a pleasant way. Almost like latex: extremely smooth and soft, still elastic.
	"Why don'tcha come in?"
	You entered his house. Very tidy, with several framed pictures of him and Purple on the wall, including one of them holding each other and smiling in a boat. You took notice of his foot in the picture. It appeared to be as massive as the oar, maybe even bigger than it. Your eyebrows rose up to your forehead. You never heard Black mention his feet in the emails. They were absolutely huge! After a quick thought, it may not be a good idea to bring this up to Black. He may be embarrassed or uncomfortable about it.
	The stick figure took your attention away from the photo, saying, "Park yourself on the hide," gesturing to a chair against the wall, opposite a recliner. Black sat at the recliner. You hauled your equipment to the table between the chairs, dragging the other away from the wall.
	The lingering bout of anxiety still remained in your throat, tightening it slightly. "That must be your partner?" You pointed to the photo of Black and Purple on the boat.
	Black looked to the photo, then taking it off the wall. "Yeah. Purple. One of our dates. I thought it was stupid to have dinner in a boat. But I guess he can be persuading."
	"You two looked like you had a great time," you said, while setting up the equipment. Black agreed to have the camera present. It was already rolling by the time it was put up on the tripod.
	Black didn't look at you, but you could see a smile coming from his lips as he said, "Mhm, we sure did..."

	The stick figure was very... assertive. Almost every other second he had an angry face on about something, and spoke with an aggressive tone, searing each of your questions with blunt humor, but in no way that felt hostile to you. Even considering this, the interview was a great success. Black was open about his relationship with Purple. Black was an aggressive person--or rather stickman--and met Purple after taking anger management courses. According to him, Purple was a soft, gentle creature that tamed the beast. Purple, who oozed with patience and kindness, had wriggled his way deep into Black's heart through the many layers of ilk and hard steel that covered it. Naturally, Purple fit into the relationship as submissive, letting Black work his aggro out on him, knowing that it made him feel happier to release the pent up energy. The two consented to it, and both were satisfying letting it be that way. Black knew he couldn't hurt Purple.
	The videotape and the microphones captured lots of noteworthy material for your column, and combined with your notebook, riddled with descriptions of the house, your travels to his house, and anything else the equipment couldn't capture, it was sure to be a hit. Black showed no hesitance in openly discussing the sexual side of their relationship either.
	"Of course I have fetishes. So does Purple. Like feet. He fucking loves them! I can't stress it enough."
	"Okay, so," you chuckled, "let's get to the elephant in the room. *Your* feet. Do ya ever think that he thinks they're too small?"
	Black pouted again, but there was a negative energy that accompanied it. "...What? What the hell did you just say?"
	Your smile vanished into an open, blank mouth. You were speechless. You shifted in your chair, clearing your throat.
	"I-I said... never mind." You closed your notebook.
	"No. No. Say that again." Black took his arms off the recliner and sat forward, resting them on his thighs. 
	"I said, 'Do you ever think Purple think your feet are too small?'"
	"Have you seen them, really?"
	Black reached his arm out to the side of the recliner, pulling on the lever. The metal arms under the seat  drove the bottom up and out, bringing his feet front and center at you. He said, "They're fucking *giant*. Look at 'em."
	The anxiety crawled back but in the form of fear, charring under your skin with your blood's heat. They looked somewhat smaller in the photo, but in person, Black's feet were ginormous, definitely larger than the oars. He scrunched them slightly, forming slight wrinkles in the soles. His soles were incredibly wide, wider than your outstretched hand from the tips of your thumb to your pinky. The length of his feet could have let you slide your entire hand up and down them, with just enough breathing room, but not longer than one of your hands and the other's palm together.
	Despite the swirls of fear and heat racking your body, a thrill came to. Black's enormous stick figure feet were beautiful. Begging to be felt. Your eyes could not discern whether to make eye contact with Black or to gaze at his stompers. So pillowy. The thickness was great enough you might not be able to wrap your hand around it and make your fingertips touch. You might be able to do it with both hands wrapped around. And the wrinkles, so light! It accentuated the squishiness of his flesh with each scrunch and wiggle he did. You could mistake his feet for being made of marshmallows wrapped in a silicone, jet black skin, waiting for your eager hands to press into.
	"Your silence suggests to me enough," he said, deadpan. "Listen here, Mr. Journalist Man. Since you want to call my feet small, why don't you find out?"
	With one forceful jerk of his legs down on the recliner, Black shoved the bottom back in again, and he swiftly pulled the recliner closer to the table to prop his feet on it.
	"Rub them. Now."
	Your eyes finally broke away from his feet and to his black lines for eyes. It was unsettling, the aggression oozing from them. You averted your gaze from him. It could wander nowhere else. Presented smack in front of you were a stick figure's giant, cushy feet, and if you disobeyed, anything could happen. He might destroy your equipment or become hostile. Still, this column was too valuable to lose. You had to comply.

	You scooted your chair closer, now with Black's feet immediately between your legs. Rather, you had to spread your legs as wide as you could still trying to retain your comfort, to fit both of his feet between them. You opened your hands and wrapped them around the sides of each of his feet, kneading your thumbs into his soles. They were just as soft as you imagined, similar to his hand during the earlier handshake. They didn't give in too much, yet squished like large blobs of memory foam between your fingers.
	"That's right. Tell me one more time my feet are small."
	"Black, y-your feet are... big!"
	He chuckled, drawing a grin across his face. "Haha, that's what I thought."
	You continued to massage the stick figure's feet, trying to appease him. No matter what way you tried to massage them, either rolling your knuckles into the plushness of his soles, squeezing the tips of his feet, or kneading your fingertips through his skin, it was too difficult. They were much too huge to try massaging effectively.
	"Jesus fucking Christ. You suck at this."
	He pulled his feet away. Your eyes shot wide open. He wasn't happy. You assumed the worst, when--
	"Maybe your face could do a better job."
	Suddenly, after pushing the table aside violently, Black pulled his recliner close to you, and immediately shoved his foot into your face. You jolted in your chair, rising from it to try to push his foot away to gasp for air. It was in vain, as he used his other foot on your shoulder to sit you back down.
	"Ah, ah, ah. I didn't say you could get up. You're going to enjoy this."
	Even one of Black's feet was enough to engulf your entire face into his tender flesh. He forced you into your chair, which was now pinned against the wall. He scrunched his left foot deep into your face, waggling it left in right in hard motions, squashing your cheeks against his sole. Your muffled moans vibrated under his foot, except for the occasional moment when he lifted it up, both to let you breathe, and to show off the gargantuan size of his foot. His foot smelled mostly of nothing, except a very slight, latexy scent. As for his right foot, it stood firmly planted against your chest, sometimes sliding around and under your shirt, and sometimes compressing its mass across the entirety of your chest. The fear had long subsided, and what replaced it was a vague pleasure.
	"Mmm, that's what I wanted to hear," he said, replying to your moans. "Give me more, dammit. You got a tongue, don't ya?"
	On command, he eased up on the smothering so you can let out your tongue and slip it on his sole. Your hot breath condensed on his foot, only to be smeared against your face with every lick and strand of saliva trailing across his foot. He brought his foot down your face, to finally let you see his own. He smirked at you, pleased by your submission and compliance. He wriggled the tip of his toe between your lips, parting your jaw with the balls of his feet as you eagerly suckled. As you munched enthusiastically on his foot, his other foot wedged itself between your legs, relaxing itself firmly against your crotch. He gently slid it to and fro, momentarily pushing the tip of his toe against your stomach.
	"I knew you noticed my feet the moment you walked in. You thought I wouldn't know you'd bring it up, didn't you, you little slut?"
	Without resistance or speech, you nodded.
	"You *are* my slut, aren't you?" he insisted, taking his foot out your mouth.
	"Huff, huff, yes..."
	"Say it."
	"I am your slut."
	A wave of incredible and ecstatic pressure came crushing into your body as Black squashed his colossal, pillowy feet into your body, as he stomped into your face and torso.  
	"Again, goddammit!"
	"Yes, Black! I am your slut!"
	Black's dominance glimmered from his face, as he held his hands down into his recliner, pushing down to put force into his feet. Then he exclaimed, "Then show me and go wild!"
	Finally succumbing to his superiority, you accepted to be his toy. Like an animal at the peaking of its mating season, seeping with ounce after ounce of hot, lusty juice, you released great moans of pleasure. You quickly pulled down your pants and underwear and chucked them across the floor, cramming Black's foot in between your legs. The fire of your blood coursed through you as you helplessly humped Black's foot. It was covered in your pre, while you continued to worship his other foot against any part of your body, admiring its softness and size.
	"Yes... cum for me..." Black commanded. Overcome with the sheer delight of your sexual rampaging, you gave one last heave onto his feet, squirting your liquids over them, all the while making primal, carnal groans.
	Black did not say a word as you collapsed deep into your chair. He pulled a hand towel from nearby and wiped at his feet before approaching you. He towered over you, as you lay in your chair, lifelessly motionless and reveling in the waves of dreamy pleasure.
	"You might want to use this," he said, smiling. He tossed a towel at your lap, along with a bar of soap and a washcloth. He kneeled, leaning in to you. "Good interview, I'd say. I liked it. Email me again if you're interested in another." Black, aside the guise of his dominance, gave a sincere smile before patting you on the shoulder. You could only sit up slightly, say "Mhm," and limp out of the chair, immediately returning to disassemble your equipment. The camera was still recording.