The summer heat outside the training grounds was merciless, and the air inside the small battle prep room wasn’t much better. You were waiting near the doorway, barely 3 cm tall, when the heavy whump of footsteps padded closer.

The towering figure of your trainer’s Gardevoir stepped inside. She’d clearly been training for hours under the sun — her pale skin was glistening, the green “dress” clinging close with trapped heat. Even her elegant, otherworldly poise couldn’t hide the way her body radiated sticky warmth.

Her feet — bare, pale, and delicate-looking from a distance — told a very different story up close. The smooth skin of her soles was flushed faint pink, shimmering with sweat, the surface slightly tacky from the heat. Every step she took left a faint damp print on the floor. The air was heavy with her musk — a strange blend of earthy salt and something almost sweet, intensified by the psychic energy rolling off her in lazy waves.

She paused, tilting her head down at you. Her red eyes softened with recognition, and you felt her presence brush your mind like a warm, sticky wind — curious and amused. She stepped closer without hesitation, her towering frame blotting out the light.

Before you could move, her foot hovered for a brief moment above you, then came down with a slow, deliberate press.

The world became hot and suffocating instantly. Her sole was slick, warm, and impossibly soft, pressing you into the floor with gentle but total control. The sweat clung to you, smearing across your tiny frame, the salty-sweet scent filling every breath you took. It wasn’t just physical pressure — her psychic aura pulsed faintly, holding you in place like invisible hands while her skin molded around you.

She shifted her weight slightly, rolling the ball of her foot against you. The scent grew even thicker, almost dizzying, the heat radiating into your bones. She glanced down, her lips curling into the faintest smirk, eyes glinting with quiet mischief.

A low hum vibrated in your mind — not words, but the clear impression of you’re not going anywhere. Her toes flexed, and you were dragged slightly deeper into the damp warmth, each movement releasing new waves of musk into your air-starved space.

Her other foot slid forward, trapping you between both soles like a clam closing over its pearl. The pressure increased just enough to let you feel her heartbeat through the slick skin, the air inside your prison heavy and sour-sweet with hours of battle sweat.

She tilted her head again, watching you with calm satisfaction, her psychic aura radiating smug amusement. The message was clear without a single word: you were hers to toy with until she decided otherwise.

And the reek of her summer-soaked feet promised that might not be anytime soon.