The world was a blinding, sun-drenched expanse of beige cork. You lay there, utterly helpless, your limbs stretched taut, pinned by strips of clear packing tape. Each strip was a massive, oppressive band across your chest, your arms, your legs, fusing you to the vast, textured landscape of a Birkenstock cork insole. The smell was potent and suffocating: the raw, earthy scent of the cork itself, mingled with the deeply ingrained, sour-sweet funk of her dried sweat, a smell that had been slowly baked into the material over countless days of wear.
A colossal shadow fell over you, then another. Brett Cooper herself, immense and towering, leaned over her sandal. Her face, a vast landscape of pale skin and sharp features, was close enough for you to see the faint, almost imperceptible fuzz on her chin. Her blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was pulled back in a loose ponytail, betraying a hint of casual contempt. She wore faded denim shorts that ended well above her knees, and a simple, dark t-shirt stretched across her chest. Her bare legs, impossibly long and toned, descended like pillars towards the sandal you were taped to.
"Alright, little man," her voice rumbled, deep and laced with a cutting amusement. She reached down, her giant thumb pressing down on a strip of tape near your head, just enough to make you feel the pressure against your skull. "Let's make sure this is nice and secure. Wouldn't want our little activist friend flying off before he gets his education, now would we?"
You thrashed against the tape, a pathetic, two-inch-tall struggle. The tape was unyielding, biting into your skin. You could feel the sticky, slightly rubbery texture of it against your face.
She leaned back, her voice now resonating with a confident, almost theatrical cadence. "You see, this is the problem with your side. You want to disarm law-abiding citizens, confiscate our constitutional rights, all because you're afraid of a tool. You're afraid of personal responsibility. You're afraid of the very concept of self-defense."
Her bare foot, the very foot that would soon rest on top of you, was incredibly pale, the toes slightly splayed. The skin had a faint sheen of sweat, and the nails, though trimmed, were slightly yellowed at the edges from constant wear. It was a foot that had seen hard use, but in a way that spoke of comfort and casual authority, not hardship.
"Well, today, we're going to learn about guns," she declared, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "From my perspective, of course. I thought a firsthand experience might just, shall we say, hammer home a few points. You're going to get a very intimate lesson in the Second Amendment."
Her foot, the vast, pale sole, began to descend. You watched in horrified fascination as the colossal arch began to settle into its familiar, deep indentation in the cork. The air around you grew hot and heavy, thick with the concentrated smell of her skin and that pervasive cork funk. The light dimmed as her foot completely covered your world.
WOOSH. SIGH.
Her foot settled fully into the sandal. You were plunged into darkness, the soft, fleshy underside of her arch now an immense, warm ceiling just centimeters above your face. The air, already thick with the smell of her foot, became oppressive, almost suffocating. You could feel the immense, soft weight of her foot directly above you, a constant, pervasive pressure that vibrated with the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her pulse.
"First lesson: The journey," she announced, her voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the cork and into your taped-down body.
The Journey to the Range
The first step was a jarring CRUMP! as she stood up. The entire cork insole flexed and groaned, sending a shudder through your body. You were pressed hard against the tape, the pressure momentarily flattening you. Then, the rhythmic, heavy THWUMMP… THWUMMP… THWUMMP began.
She walked across a wooden floor, each step a miniature earthquake. You were pounded, compressed into the cork, then released slightly, only to be pounded again. The smell, trapped under her arch, intensified with each step, the sour-sweet rankness becoming almost unbearable.
"You probably think guns just magically appear in the wrong hands, don't you?" she mused, her voice casual, but the words cutting. "No, it takes effort. It takes a drive. It takes a responsible gun owner, like me, to even get these tools to the range."
Then, a new motion. A heavy CLUNK and a feeling of being lifted, then swung. She was getting into her car. The boot pressed down onto a carpeted surface—the car floor. The smell changed, mixing the foot odor with the faint scent of stale coffee and car upholstery.
The engine roared to life, a deep vibration that made your entire world hum. The journey was a torment. Every acceleration, every brake, every turn, sent forces rippling through the cork. You were slammed forward, then backward, then sideways, the tape holding you secure, but your body protesting every shift. The consistent pounding of her foot on the accelerator pedal became a rhythmic thud, vibrating through your tiny frame.
"See? This is what responsibility looks like," she scoffed. "Obeying traffic laws, driving carefully with my legally owned firearms. You guys probably think I'm some kind of gun-toting maniac, don't you? Well, I'm just a woman protecting her rights, and soon, her targets."
The Range Setup
The car finally stopped. A soft clunk of the door. Then, the familiar THWUMMP… THWUMMP… THWUMMP of her walking again. This time, the surface was rougher, grittier. You could hear the faint, distant crack-crack-crack of gunfire—a chilling, terrifying sound from your miniature perspective.
She walked purposefully, her steps heavy and deliberate as she made her way to a firing lane. You were pounded into the cork repeatedly, the abrasive surface of the insole grinding against your taped-down back.
Then, a series of new, jarring movements. She shifted, turned, bent down. You felt immense pressure as she knelt, compressing your entire world, the softness of her foot bearing down heavily. The air grew even hotter, more humid.
She was setting up. You could hear the metallic clatter of equipment, the rustle of paper. She was putting up targets, preparing her firearms. Each movement sent fresh tremors through your cork prison. The occasional, brief lift of her foot allowed a fresh, hot burst of foot smell to hit you.
"Alright, that's it," her voice came again, closer now, a low growl of anticipation. "Time to introduce our little friend to the Second Amendment, up close and personal."
The sandal shifted one last time, a heavy, final placement. She was sitting down, probably on a stool.
Then, the colossal, pale foot above you slowly, agonizingly, began to lift out of the sandal. You felt the sticky, fleshy surface peel away from the cork. The light, blessed and blinding, slowly returned. The air, though still thick with the smell of her foot, felt like a rush of freedom.
She reached down, her giant fingers, thick and calloused, carefully undoing the buckle of the Birkenstock strap. She lifted the entire sandal, with you taped firmly to its insole, and brought it up to her eye level.
Her face, so close now, filled your entire vision. Her eyes, sharp and glinting with malicious amusement, bore down on you. A cruel, triumphant smile spread across her lips.
"Hello there, little anti-gunner," she purred, her voice a low, mocking growl. "Welcome to my world. You think you know fear? You think you know powerlessness? You have no idea."
She began to rip the tape off you. Each strip came away with a sharp, painful RIIIIP, tearing at your skin, pulling at your limbs. The pain was excruciating, as if layers of your flesh were being peeled away.
Finally, you were free, lying bruised and trembling on the vast cork landscape.
"Now," she said, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper, her eyes never leaving you, "we have some ground rules. These are my guns. They are beautiful, powerful tools, and they demand respect. You so much as breathe wrong, you so much as jiggle something, or distract me in any way... and I will squish you."
She held you, a tiny, insignificant speck, in the palm of her hand. Her thumb, an immense, fleshy mountain, hovered inches above you, a silent, terrifying threat.
"So," she mused, her eyes scanning the array of targets, the gleaming firearms laid out on the bench beside her. "Where shall we put you first to best appreciate the majesty of the Second Amendment?"
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