Rachel Boots - Under the giantess desk - Rachel Boots is ignoring your pathetic existence in dr. martens - includes giantess senario, knee high dr. martens - 4K

You hear me before you see me ; that low, rolling thud that travels through the floorboards and straight into your ribs. thud. a pause. thud. the whole room leans a half-inch to the left with each step, and somewhere above you a chair scrapes back across the hardwood like a freight car braking on wet rails.i don’t know you’re here. not yet. that’s the thing about being small, you get to watch me first, before i ever bother to look down.i drop into my seat with a sigh that ruffles your hair from thirty feet up, and the desk groans under my forearms. from where you’re crouched, the underside of that desk is a cathedral ceiling ; a slab of dark walnut blotting out the light, and me, folded into my chair like weather. i cross one ankle over the other. the leather creaks.dr. martens. knee-high. black, broken-in, the kind i’ve worn through two winters and a breakup. you can smell them from down there ; that heady mix of polish, warm rubber sole, and the faint sweet ghost of the leather conditioner i work into them every sunday. the yellow welt stitching runs up the seam like a fuse. the air-cushioned sole, thick as your whole body, rests a foot from your face and radiates heat like a radiator that’s been on all afternoon.i uncross my legs. slowly. the toe of my right boot swings through the air above you, and the whoosh of it tugs at your clothes.”mm,” i murmur, half to the monitor, half to no one. my fingers drum the desk. a pen clicks. somewhere a spreadsheet opens and i lose interest in the world for a minute, and you — you little thing — get to live inside that minute.did you crawl under my desk to hide from me? or did you just want to be close to the boots? i roll my ankle in a slow circle. the leather flexes. the seam strains. from your angle it’s a slow-motion avalanche of black leather and old scuffs. i tap the toe of my boot twice against the floor. tap. tap. like a summons. you’ve got a floor to sit on. and my boots have been on since seven this morning, which means they’re warm, and tired, and frankly — they’ve earned a little attention.i lean back. the chair squeaks. my legs stretch out beneath the desk and the soles of my dr. martens come to rest a body-length apart, framing you between them like you’re standing in a doorway built for one. and the whole room settles, warm and enormous and smelling of leather, around the very small you.i’d better not feel you move.