You had wandered too far. The Olympic training facility in Rome was supposed to be off-limits to tourists, especially to uninvited spectators. But curiosity, and maybe a hint of arrogance, pushed you through the door. You’d heard legends about Giulia Santori — Italy’s powerhouse in the 76kg weight class. People whispered about her discipline, her quiet cruelty in competition, her unrelenting pursuit of perfection.
And now, she was standing in front of you.
She was more magnificent in person — 5’8”, muscle-bound yet graceful. Her bronze-toned skin shimmered slightly with the thin sheen of sweat from her previous set. Her long, dark hair was coiled in a high bun. Her legs, thick as iron columns, rippled with cords of muscle beneath high-cut lifting shorts. Her tank top clung to delts and traps sculpted like granite. Veins curled around her arms like vines.
“Sei perso, piccolo uomo?” she asked. Are you lost, little man?
Before you could answer, she extended one arm — a slab of triceps flexing — and tapped you once on the forehead.
It happened in an instant. A flash of gold light, a sickening whirl of vertigo, and then…
The floor rose beneath you like a thunderclap. Her shoes now loomed like small buildings — her weightlifting sneakers, thick-soled, broken-in, still warm from use. You staggered back, only to feel the thick ridges of a rubber mat pressing into your miniature feet.
You were now two inches tall.
She leaned down, her shadow blanketing you in darkness. “Che fastidio,” she muttered. Such a nuisance.
Two fingers, each longer than your body, reached for you. Her grip was firm — practiced. She held you between thumb and forefinger like a crumb.
“I’ll deal with you later,” she said in English, dryly, before dropping you inside the wide opening of her shoe.
You landed on the spongy insole, still radiating warmth and the slightly salty, vinegary tang of her bare foot. The inside was dark except for the ambient gym light that filtered through the tongue. Her socked foot hovered outside — then slid in slowly, heel first, until the arch pressed down and sealed you in.
You were flattened beneath it.
You couldn’t breathe properly. The thick wool of her sock pinned you between the arch and the insole, and with each lift, each squat, each clean, her foot shifted — rolling, flexing, twisting with brutal, impersonal power. Your ribs creaked. Her sweat soaked into your clothes. Your ears rang with the thunder of her breath, the clang of plates, and the forceful rhythm of her body working.
After nearly an hour, she finished her workout. You heard the shoe unlaced above you, then felt her fingers again — cool, strong, unfeeling — plucking your now-drenched body from the shoe.
Giulia didn’t even glance at you as she carried you by one leg between two fingers. “Doccia. E poi… forse mi divertirò un po’.” Shower. And then… maybe I’ll have a little fun.
⸻
Locker Room:
You were dropped onto a wooden bench. The duffel bag unzipped behind you. The room was humid, echoing with soft showers and the occasional slapping of bare feet on tile.
Giulia stepped into view, now barefoot.
Her toes spread naturally with every step, the balls of her feet pressing into the bench just beside you. Her bare soles were wide and firm, calloused under the balls and heels, lined with the faint stories of thousands of lifts. Moisture from the floor clung to them. The smell was stronger now — not filthy, but pungent, like dried salt, leather, and hours of exertion. Earthy.
You tried to crawl away.
She saw.
With a sigh, she sat beside you and slammed her heel down, inches away. “Dove pensi di andare?” she asked lazily. Where do you think you’re going?
You fell backwards from the impact.
Then her foot moved — slowly, like a massive creature stirring — and pressed its full, sweaty sole down atop your torso. You were too small to stop it. Her skin was warm, rough, and unrelenting. Her heel rested over your legs, trapping them. Her arch loomed above your chest.
She applied a little pressure.
“Beg,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry! Please—please, just let me go!” you shouted.
She rolled her foot back and forth slightly, using your body like a pressure ball.
“Non sento nulla.” I don’t hear anything.
Her toes curled over your head, squeezing gently but firmly. She hummed as she picked up her phone, opened Instagram, and began taking selfies.
That’s when the flexing started.
She stood up — letting her foot slide off you like she were scraping gum — and stepped in front of the mirror. Her thighs flexed as she shifted her weight. She crouched slightly and raised one arm in a side bicep pose. The other lifted her tank top just enough to show rows of abs — hard, ridged, bronzed. The light glinted off her shoulders. Her traps popped. Her pecs tightened as she bounced them deliberately.
She glanced back at you on the bench, then turned around, lowering her glutes in a slow squat so you could see every fiber working beneath her skin.
“Ti piace questo?” she said flatly. You like this?
She reached down and picked you up again — not gently. This time, she gripped your whole body in one palm, fingers curling around you like steel cables.
Her bicep flexed next to you — a rising wall of muscle — while she posed again. She brought you close, holding you next to her tricep now, so you could see the horseshoe shape tighten as she tensed.
“Guardami bene. Questa è vera forza.” Look closely. This is real strength.
Then, she began to squeeze.
Not all at once — just enough to make your bones strain. Enough to remind you that in her hand, you were no more significant than a rubber toy.
“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet,” she muttered. “Maybe you’ll live under my heel. Or in my gym bag. Or…”
She paused and smirked.
“Maybe I’ll just forget about you. Let the sweat and time handle it.”
Her fingers pressed tighter.
“Or maybe I’ll use you as a warm-up toy before squats.”
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