Taken (M/f, shrinking, non-con, fatal vore)

[Olo]

After over five years, I am finally continuing this series, this time as a Daddy’s Dollhouse exclusive!

Taken — Vol. 1: Making Omelettes was first published in 2016 and can found on my blog here.

Taken — Vol. 2: Grinding Coffee will be published in this thread, starting on Vore Day (8/8).

[littlenichole]

@olo omg I legitimately was randomly thinking about an old story I really liked a couple days ago and i couldn’t remember the name of it and this is was it! And it’s getting continued? Can’t wait

[Olo]

Vol. 2: Grinding Coffee

Chapter One

Three months after I took Rosa I came home one day and found her, not standing at devoted attention as she had been every other day, but lying unresponsive on her bed.

I’d had her for such a brief time—we had scarcely begun to try all the things I had wanted to explore together. I’d gotten her a terrarium and made her a bed from a cardboard box and a silk tie I had gotten one Christmas. I had only worn it once and I couldn’t imagine wearing it again, so I was happy to cut it into sheets for Rosa.

I had also fashioned a toilet out of some aquarium tubing and a water filter, stealing the design principles from the septic tank on the RV one of my friends’ parents had and that we got to use one summer.

It took me a while to find doll furniture that matched Rosa’s three-inch scale; Barbie stuff was too big. No doll bed was designed for comfort, but I really wanted Rosa to have a proper chair and table for meals. Eventually I had to look online to find what I wanted, but that’s also how I found a plush couch that Rosa looked so precious when she reclined on it.

Our brief time together had been glorious. She deferred to my desires and anticipated my commands. I could watch her whenever I liked and she would comport herself however I directed. I watched her eat my food, I watched her use my toilet, I watched her bathe in my bowl.

I held her whenever and however I wanted. I pressed her sweet little body against my palm, my chest, my belly, my ass, my cock, my balls, my face, and most of all between my tongue and palate. And she returned my embrace without reservation.

We didn’t converse that much, primarily because I was afraid it would bring up her former life, which I believed I could erase. She never called me “Gordon” again, and since we were always alone I never had to use her name, either. We had lived in the moment, but now I feared I couldn’t make the moment last.

I stood over the terrarium, looking down on the seemingly unconscious Rosa and trying to hide my vexation. I somehow instinctively knew that she was not simply sleeping or deliberately shirking her duties. With much less urgency than I felt, I reached down and slipped my fingers around her limp body, then lifted her up to my face.

She was breathing, but now that I wasn’t distracted by receiving her devotions, I could see that her abdomen had contracted and her limbs had atrophied. I didn’t know if gravity affected her shrunken muscles any differently, but it seemed impossible that this frail acolyte had had the strength to conduct her ministrations as long as she had.

I noticed that her breakfast remained mostly untouched on the table; I had only watched her take a couple of bites that morning, and she must have stopped eating altogether after I left. I fed her every day and cleared her plates, so whatever had diminished her appetite must have onset very recently.

I tried to feed her soup through an eye dropper, but she spat it back up and I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate. She stopped speaking around then, and I spent a desperate night attending her, completely at a loss as to what I should do next. Finally she shut her eyes and wouldn’t open them again. I could still see her draw breath, but it was barely perceptible and I was constantly on the verge of panic.

The morning after that terrible vigil, straining to note Rosa’s faint breathing, I felt numb. A part of me had made a decision, but I refused to acknowledge it. We had spent the night under the bright kitchen lights, but now the dawn was creeping in through the balcony window. I was too empty for a new day.

I changed that morning. I suppose you could say I grew up some. One minute I was sitting at the table feeling sorry for myself, the next I was standing at the counter reaching for the small, clear mixing bowl that Rosa used for bathing. Instead of filling it with soap and warm water, however, I opened the pantry and selected a pricey bottle of extra-virgin olive oil. I poured a generous amount from the bottle into the bowl, then opened my utensil drawer and took out the silicone basting brush.

Turning back to the table, I stood over Rosa, who lay motionless on the tiny doll couch. I had enjoyed her looking up at me from such an angle many times, but now her eyes remained shut. With neither ceremony nor haste, I reached down and curled my fingers around her limp body. Bringing her close to my face, I could see that she continued her slight respiration.

Opening my fingers wider, I nudged her limbs apart until she was almost spread-eagle on my palm. Then I dipped the brush into the olive oil and began to anoint her. I started with her dainty little feet, and it was a testament to her weakness that the supple bristles failed to provoke any observable reflex. I proceeded methodically to her calves and soft thighs, pursing my lips as I noted the oil running into the crevices of her joints.

I paused wistfully when I reached her furry little pussy. It had tasted so sweet the first time I had Rosa in my mouth, and my tongue twitched as it remembered her tiny lips opening to embrace it. Her sweetness had come to an end, however, and so I worked the oily bristles into her mons, across her taint, and between her ass cheeks. I inhaled deeply as I traced around her wide hips, and her tiny bush glistened under my gaze.

I did not dote on her sunken belly any longer than necessary to see it well-coated, but I didn’t hesitate to drizzle more than enough oil onto her pea-sized boobs and massage them with my fingertips. I felt her ribcage under her left tit, and only because of its slower rate could I distinguish her heartbeat from mine.

Remembering her tiny jaw and throat as they chewed and swallowed the food I had made for her, I grew somber as I applied the oil to her still muscles. I brought her under my nose to smell her hair one last time before the oil trickled into it. One of the few conversations we had had about her former life was when I asked her which shampoo she preferred. She had provided the brand, but she let me choose the scent. I chose honeysuckle.

When I brushed her face with the bristles, only then did she make any response to its touch. Most startlingly, she gave an audible gasp, and while I wanted to believe it was out of pleasure, the hard-hearted part of me knew it was probably from shock. I strove to keep the oil out of her mouth and tiny nostrils, but the silky fluid made her cheeks and brow look more lustrous than they had in days. Brushing her long dark hair made it less frizzy and more supple.

My palm was almost as coated in oil as Rosa was, and I didn’t mind a bit. I was doing right by my little acolyte, and my hand was honored to hold her. I gazed at her shiny, recumbent form a few moments more, then brought the heel of my hand close to my mouth and draped her dangling feet across my parted lips.

Rather than tip her in via gravity, I held my palm level and slowly slurped her into my mouth by pulses. Her feet, calves, and thighs all passed between my savoring lips and landed on my welcoming tongue. I could not repress a grunt of gratification as her plump ass and irrepressible bush slipped between my jaws.

Rosa’s arms stretched limply behind her as I slurped her across my palm, but as my lips grasped her belly and lower back, for the first time in days she exercised her muscles to fold her forearms across her chest and clasped her hands between her breasts. I paused my intake to angle my hand up so I could look her right in the face. It was then that she finally opened her eyes.

I stilled my lips and tongue and focused on her tiny face just beyond the tip of my nose. I don’t know how long I held her there, trying to read her expression. The rest of her body may have succumbed to weakness, but Rosa held her face firm.

I have no idea what I expected to find in her eyes. For weeks she had looked at me with what I had taken to be awe and submission. Now there was no fear, nor was there defiance. I was struck by an unfamiliar self-possession in Rosa’s eyes. At that moment, she seemed at peace.

With sudden and unprovoked resolution, I sucked her completely into my mouth and easily swallowed her down into my chest. I sat back in the chair and lowered my oily hand to the table palm up. She had, of course, not made a single sound or movement, and I placed my dry hand just below my sternum to feel her passage. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in my containment and consumption of a woman who had fascinated me so deeply.

There will never be another experience like this, I thought. Savor this day. I blew off class, called in sick to work. I sat in the kitchen for hours, imagining Rosa breaking down into smaller and smaller components, mingling with my blood and my cells. I was overcome with the feeling that she was happy to become part of me, to come home. That’s what I saw in her eyes: gratitude. Yes, definitely gratitude.

My abiding impression of Rosa did not change when I cleaned out her habitat the next day, including the septic tank. Previously I hadn’t examined its contents very thoroughly, but on that final occasion I couldn’t help noticing that most of the solid waste was not her shit but rather partially-digested food. Food that I had provided and watched her eat, but that she had also later thrown up.

My immediate conclusion was to interpret her subterfuge as a sign of respect, a tribute to the pride I took in my cooking. Not for a moment did I consider that Rosa might have been bulimic before I took her. Not my darling Rosa. No, on some level she must have understood she could not endure forever as my worshipper, that she would eventually break. So she sought to bring about the resolution that we both wanted but that neither dared express. She anticipated my needs until the very end.

---

The next few months passed gingerly. I was both gratified and disappointed with Rosa and with myself. It was a singularly joyous experience that I had sought on my own and successfully accomplished. At the same time, I was all-too-aware that I had made mistakes that I was fortunate were not my undoing. I also realized that while I could not truly replace Rosa, neither had she been well-suited to the life of a sex-pet. She had done her best, but her best wasn’t good enough. Next time had to be better.

While I formulated how “next time” would play out, I did what I should have done a long time ago: experiment with the medallion and determine the precise extent of its capacities. I still couldn’t remember how or when it had come into my possession; it had always just lived in a shoebox cluttered with marbles, toy soldiers, trading cards, and other sundries of boyhood. Like something out of a box of Cracker Jacks, only more durable.

The legend “MAKE A WISH” was encouraging but directionless. When I had used the medallion to make my friend Tommy small, I had wanted to play with him, and I instinctively envisioned him the size of a toy soldier, and then he was. I only associated the event with the medallion later when I noticed the indentation on my fingertip left by the embossed lettering.

Similarly, when I shrank the five people at the Student Union, I looked right at them while pinching the medallion, saw them at the size I wanted them, and it was so. Apart from my stalking of Rosa, there was almost no premeditation involved in any of the shrinkings. I wondered if my impulsiveness itself was a necessary component of the magic.

My first few experiments had nothing to do with shrinking. I tried making things appear, I tried making things disappear. I tried to brainwash people, like making someone sell me the latest iPhone for five dollars. I even wished that the President would die. None of it worked.

I narrowed my scope to transformation. I tried changing the color of things, breaking them apart, making them insubstantial to the touch. Finally I tried making things bigger. All failures.

What if the transformation only worked on living things? While the clothes and other personal effects of the six people I had taken had all shrunk with them, perhaps they were so personal as to be “part of” their owners. To test this, I went to the park and tried to turn a gray squirrel black. When that failed, I tried to turn it inside out, then tried to double its size. Nothing. In frustration, I wished it were the size of a mouse, and it was.

My heart leaped at the return of the magic, then sank at the seeming confirmation of my theory about the necessity of impulsiveness. I associated impulsiveness with childishness and disorganization. I saw myself as methodical, decisive, and patient. Acting on impulse was how you found yourself unprepared. Worst of all, it was how you got caught.

By the time I had gotten home from the park, I had convinced myself that the impulse theory was crap. After all, hadn’t I planned taking Rosa for weeks, if not months? I dreamed about what I would do with her, and then I made those dreams a reality. It was the greatest accomplishment of my life, not some passing fancy.

I went straight to my kitchen and took selected six identical water glasses from the cupboard and placed them in a row on the table in front of me. I grabbed a pad of Post-Its, then placed one Post-It on the table in front of each glass with a fraction written on it, left to right: 1/1, 3/4, 2/3, 1/2, 1/3, and 1/4.

Pinching the medallion between the tips of my thumb and forefinger, I saw each of the glasses in turn at a fraction of the size of the leftmost glass, and they were. I used a ruler to verify that I had achieved the exact ratio specified. I then tried to see each of the shrunken glasses back at their original size, and that failed. I also tried and failed to halve them in size again. One irreversible reduction per object seemed to be the rule.

It only then occurred to me that I could have appointed Rosa’s terrarium with whatever furniture I liked—who would accuse me of shoplifting an entire bed? I would have to be careful of security cameras, though.

Then I tried a new angle. I returned the last full-size glass to the cupboard and closed the door. By then I was quite familiar with the glass’s appearance, and I tried to “see” it at half-size while obstructed by the cupboard door. Opening the cupboard, I found the glass remained at full-size. I then placed the glass on the balcony table and looked at it from inside through the window. I pinched the medallion and saw the glass shrink to half-size in accordance with my “vision.”

So line of sight was necessary. I briefly worried that my experimentation might exhaust the medallion’s “charges,” but I decided that if the number of uses was finite it would be better to learn that now rather than in the middle of trying to take more people.

More confident in my appreciation of the medallion’s power, I began to ponder what traits I should be looking for in the next woman I would take. I didn’t kid myself that anyone could be truly happy to become my plaything, but I did imagine the right kind of person could be content. But what was the right kind of person, and how could I identify them?

Rosa clearly hadn’t been the right kind, and neither had Heidi or Claire (I learned their real names when I read about the missing women, but I promptly forgot them). Rosa had been adaptable enough to recognize and accept that keeping me satisfied was critical to her survival, but mere survival hadn’t been enough for her. I needed to find some way to ensure that the next woman I took found something rewarding about her future with me.

I became the soul of patience. Emerging from my unexplained mourning period, I let friends, classmates, and co-workers drag me along to social events. I rekindled platonic relationships and let others unload their romantic woes on me. Not only was I sifting through potential candidates, I was also cataloging instances of people sending mixed signals about what they were looking for in a relationship. No one says outright, “I want you to take me away from everything I know and love and make me into your housepet,” but I suspected some people do say it somehow, if I only knew how to listen.

Once I almost lost sight of my purpose. There was a woman, Jennifer, who was set up on a date with me by a mutual friend. She was so cheerful and intelligent and challenging that I forgot myself and marveled at someone so open and bold. She must have been into me at least a little, as she said yes to a second date. I spent the intervening time fantasizing about taking her home in my pocket and having my way with her. I eventually realized, however, that I had let short-term delight supplant my long-term goal. Jennifer would have made a sweet mouthful, but she wouldn’t have lasted through a single night. We saw each other a few more times, but she sensed the change in me and moved on.

Sometimes I felt that I was hiding behind my patience and observation, that I was letting opportunity pass me by. Maybe I should have taken Jennifer. So what if it only lasted one night? There would be plenty of other nights. Was I just being gun-shy after Rosa?

I sat with my memories of the day I took the three women from the Student Union. Reflexively my hand slipped inside my underwear. Nothing before or since had felt as intoxicatingly powerful. Whatever self-doubts I may have had at the time were smoothed away by my recollection. I had known no limits, and that still staggered me.

In the end I decided that I was too distrustful of my own appetites to indulge them with abandon. I worried that in the grip of my gluttony I would neglect both to savor every drop of experience and to exercise the caution necessary to avoiding discovery.

So my hunt continued, although I didn’t feel any closer to identifying the indications that someone might be well-suited to life as my mouth- and cock-toy. Simple docility seemed insufficient; Rosa had been docile, but she had also been compassionate, probably too much so. I began to wonder if not just surviving but actually thriving as my shrunken pet didn’t require a woman to herself have a taste for cruelty, or at least domination.

[Technomage]

@olo I can clearly notice how your writing has improved. I cannot wait to see how the story continues.

[Olo]

@technomage No higher praise; thank you!

[Olo]

Chapter Two

My graduate advisor was unhappy with me. I had already changed my major once in my college career, and now I wanted to change it again. I didn’t see what the big deal was. My grades were fine, but my scholarship required that I “make steady progress toward a degree,” whatever that meant.

I had decided that I couldn’t continue in hard science, and I thought I ought to learn more about what motivates people. My advisor raised a skeptical eyebrow when I told him I wanted to change to Political Science.

“Just promise me you won’t become a lawyer,” he said, shaking his head and signing the approval form.

I doubt anyone noticed that I was the only student in Intro to Political Theory who wasn’t a freshman, not even the instructor who had access to the official roster. They weren’t much younger than me at all, but it’s amazing what a difference a couple of years can make in one’s perspective.

They were so naïve. They took everyone’s statements at face value, and they presumed everyone always acted in good faith. They couldn’t understand how there could be injustice or poverty anywhere. Fortunately, I had become well-practiced at keeping quiet and observing.

The unit started with Machiavelli, who scandalized almost the whole class but who I found hilarious. No one else seemed to give a single thought to how his personal misfortune at the hands of the Medicis would color his political philosophy. They all just dismissed him as a simple apologist for “might makes right.”

When we got to the Enlightenment, we were assigned to small groups to analyze and give presentations on specific writers. My group got Jonathan Swift. The other three students were named Jeff, Brianna, and Stacey. We each picked a different text from the instructor’s selection. I was quite pleased with my choice of A Modest Proposal.

Our first planning session was at the Student Union, although on a completely different floor from where I had taken Rosa and the others. Brianna and Stacey were already there when I arrived. I had apparently walked into the punchline of a joke, they were so cracked up. They couldn’t even say ‘hi’ when I sat down; Brianna just gave a little wave as she tried and failed to repress a shit-eating grin, and Stacey made eye contact for less than two seconds before dissolving back into laughter.

Both women had dark brown hair and light brown skin, but Brianna was a little shorter and thicker while Stacey had a wider face and long, straight hair. Brianna’s hair was all curls, but I could never tell if those things were natural or the result of some kind of perm.

I let the two women recompose themselves while I got my laptop out and found the power and ethernet ports in the table. When I had all my texts and notes open, I gave Stacey an innocent look and asked, “What’s so funny?”

Stacey looked impishly at Brianna, then turned back to me and said, “Brianna found something…weird.” I turned to Brianna and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing,” said Brianna dismissively. “Just some Gulliver’s Travels fanfiction.”

Now it was my turn to feign indifference. “How funny could that be?”

“It’s from the Second Voyage,” said Stacey, “you know, the land of the giants. What’s it called, Brob—, Blob—”

“Brobdingnag,” I said.

“Yeah, so the giant ladies of the court play with Gulliver, right?” continued Stacey. “Well, this story is told from the perspective of one of the court ladies, and it’s basically about how they use him as a sex toy.”

I looked at Brianna, whose face was not easy to read. Her wide, deep brown eyes were neither embarrassed nor amused nor even smug. She met my gaze calmly, with a hint of defiance.

“From your personal collection?” I asked airily.

Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head slightly. “I found it while researching the assignment, numb-nuts. I don’t think we can work it into the presentation, but I think it makes Swift’s point rather effectively.”

“And that point is?” I pressed.

“That however advanced and sophisticated and civilized people may seem, you can never get away from their baser instincts. Some amount of exploitation is inevitable.”

“So you consider what these ladies do to Gulliver to be instinctual? Like, natural?”

“Sure. How exciting could court be? Tiny dude shows up, they got him all to themselves. Why not? I’d try it for sure.”

“Do they get his consent?” I asked.

Both Brianna and Stacey laughed hard at that. “Not really,” said Brianna. “They pretend to ask and he pretends to agree, but he can’t truly refuse them. That’s just how it goes, the big rule the small, the strong dominate the weak.”

I nodded as Brianna made her argument. She was right, it really did explain Swift’s philosophy. “Where did you find this fanfiction?”

“Some online archive,” said Brianna. “It claims it was originally published in Playboy.”

“I’ll send it to you,” said Stacey, tapping at her keyboard. The Received notification chimed on my laptop just as Jeff finally arrived and sat down. I saved the document but I didn’t look at it until I got home a few hours later.

Before I had even left the planning session I was already starting to consider Brianna as my next target for taking. The decision was already made; all that remained was raising objections and then rebutting them one by one.

She was smart, which might make containment a challenge. I needed to be challenged, I thought. I couldn’t let myself become complacent. That Rosa could conceal her purging from me for so long was sufficient evidence of that.

Brianna’s face was sweet, almost disarming. Plump cheekbones that became even more prominent when she busted out her toothy smile, which she seemed ready to do for almost any occasion. Far from guileless, she simply felt entitled to take joy wherever she found it. If you were patient, however, you could see deep currents of thought flowing swiftly behind her brown eyes.

The top of Brianna’s head only came up to the bottom of my nose, although her hair was so voluminous and omnidirectional that it was hard to be precise. Sometimes, she wore tops that made her boobs look as big as grapefruits, and she looked magnificent in yoga pants (to be fair, so did almost every other woman on campus).

I needed to determine her pattern to find the best time to take her. Coordinating the presentation planning yielded a few clues, but I didn’t dare inquire too directly. The big break came when Brianna mentioned that she worked part-time at Starbucks. Of course there were a half-dozen locations in and around campus, but when I learned when she was working next, I scouted all six.

Once I had identified her place of work, I needed an observation post outside corporate surveillance. It turned out Briana’s Starbucks was right across from Town & Gown, a decades-old establishment and the last independent coffee house in the U-District. When I was a freshman they had tried competing by serving high-end beans that I liked, but that must not have worked because they went back to the local roastery and brought in a pastry case from a trendy bakery.

I loitered with my Americano until a window table opened up, then I settled in for my watch. Brianna’s shift lasted longer than I expected, almost six hours. Fortunately business at the Town & Gown wasn’t so brisk that they needed the table. Even without refills, it was hard on my bladder.

Finally I spotted Brianna leaving the Starbucks in her jacket and backpack. I tried not to look hurried as I got up from the table and staggered out of the Town & Gown on my cramping legs.

I didn’t know whether Brianna lived in the dorms or somewhere off-campus. It was after dark on a school night, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was going straight home. At that point, my goal was just to learn more about her habits, possibly locate her residence. Keeping my distance was my primary concern.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I found myself fondling the medallion. It suddenly struck me: Why am I carrying this with me? I realized it had been on my person every day since I had concluded my “experimentation.” Why? It was without question the most precious object in my possession. Why was I risking its loss by carrying it everywhere?

In my self-interrogation, I almost lost track of Brianna. We were still off-campus, but her route was taking her in that direction. I still had no good idea of where I might be able to take her unobserved. As she walked from streetlight to streetlight, she dimmed from view as she left each pool of light.

It occurred to me that I didn’t need to be unobserved when I physically grabbed her; there’s nothing suspicious about stooping to pick something up from the sidewalk. I just needed to time it so her “disappearance” wouldn’t be obvious.

Everything suddenly became more urgent. I couldn’t take her right there; there were too many light sources and too much foot traffic on the street. Who knew when I might catch her out after dark again? She was almost back on campus; where was the nearest dorm? I hadn’t planned to take her that night. I’d been following her for a while; had she spotted me? I really needed to pee.

I fingered the medallion nervously. I must have been carrying it for a reason. As Brianna crossed onto campus, her path became illuminated less frequently. There was less foot traffic, and trees partially obscured the path from the windows of nearby buildings. She passed into the darkness again.

When Brianna stepped again into the light, I was about forty meters behind her. She was probably aware of me on some level, but did she realize I had been following her for over three blocks? If she had recognized me, wouldn’t she have addressed me by now?

LOOK AT HER. Don’t you want her in your hand, in your mouth? There she goes into the darkness again, no one is watching, how long will this last? If she knows you’re following her you’ll never get another chance. Do it. TAKE HER NOW.

I quickened my pace. Brianna stepped into the light one last time, and I saw her clearly: her hair, her jacket, her backpack, her hips, her legs. I needed to shrink her the moment she left the light completely. Time seemed to crawl as I fixed her image in my mind while pinching the medallion. Her trailing foot lifted off the pavement and up into the darkness and I saw her tiny on the path just outside the pool of light.

She disappeared, of course. I redoubled my speed, hoping it wouldn’t attract attention. No shouts of alarm reached me as my awareness narrowed to the dimly-lit path and adjacent grass. My stomach soured as I realized that the same shadow that had cloaked Brianna’s shrinking would also make it difficult for me to locate her. The old joke about the drunk looking for his keys under the streetlight came bitterly to mind.

I slowed when I reached the spot where Brianna had disappeared. I briefly entertained the fantasy that she would come scurrying into the light, seeking my assistance, but of course that didn’t happen. I knelt down just beyond the pool of light, scrutinizing the path and the verge on either side, waiting for my eyes to re-adjust to the dark.

I screwed up, I thought. She’s hiding in the tall grass and I’ll never find her. A raccoon or an owl is going to get her. Or worse, she’ll find help. I glanced up and over my shoulder, but no one seemed to be approaching. I might still have time.

A spark—there. A tiny figure, her face illuminated by an equally tiny phone. I never did test if those things still worked after being shrunk. No time for that now. I lunged forward and shot my arm toward the shrunken woman. She jumped back but not far enough to evade my grasping fingers, which curled around her wriggling form.

The first thing that I noticed was that she was significantly bigger than shrunken Rosa despite having been shorter than Rosa was before I took her. The tiny woman in my hand was at least four-inches-tall. I couldn’t be certain how that had happened, probably a combination of the distance and poor illumination at the moment that I “saw” her small.

I stood back up to my full height and snatched her tiny phone away with my other hand before bringing her close to drink in her terrified face. Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I dropped her phone onto the path and ground it into the cement with my shoe.

“Welcome to Brobdingnag,” I said.

Even in the dim light, watching her recognition of both me and my intention spread across her tiny face was a singular marvel. I dared not linger at the scene, so I thrust my fist and my prize into my jacket pocket. She struggled fiercely against my grip, and anyone standing nearby would know something was amiss with my pocket. I wanted to listen to her cries of desperation, but getting home undetected was my only goal.

I strode furiously across campus as I debated my performance. On the one hand, I did it! I could feel her helpless body in my grasp at that very moment. No one seemed to have seen me take her, and there was no reason to connect me to her disappearance.

On the other hand, I had been completely unprepared. I didn’t have my satchel, which would have been very useful in holding and concealing this woman almost half again as big as the others. How was I going to contain her?

Then again, I had improvised the whole taking. I could only have done that because I had practice and foresight. It had been risky, but a calculated risk. I thought back to my feelings immediately before I took her. Had I been acting out of compulsion or confidence? I just didn’t know.

I glanced up and noticed a surveillance camera on top of a lamppost. Fuck. It had to have night-vision capacity. Were any of them covering the spot where I took her? You don’t know because you didn’t scout the route, you fuckup.

If I had planned the taking, I would at least have worn a hoodie. Shit. I steadied my pace and took some deep breaths. Think. Night-vision cameras were lo-res, and I had shrunk her just as she was transitioning out of the light. What would that look like on camera? If you didn’t know shrinking was possible, it probably wouldn’t look like anything. Furthermore, unless someone knew to tell Campus Safety to look at that precise time and location, there wouldn’t be a reason to suspect a thing.

I began to relax a little. My pocket captive had stopped struggling, alternately limp in my grip or tensing against irregular jostling. I realized her little round ass was nestled up against the top of my palm. I started to slide my pinky between her thighs, and she instantly squeezed them shut.

I snorted, letting the sharp sound resonate through my belly to her in my pocket, then I shoved my pinky through, effortlessly spreading her tiny legs apart. Back and forth my finger stroked her, massaging her taint and separating her butt cheeks.

She bit me. She found a tender spot between my thumb and forefinger and sunk her tiny incisors into my flesh. My instinct was not to react at all, but my hand reflexively loosened its grip slightly, surely noticeable to someone of her scale.

Her response forced me to confront the fact that I had not fully prepared my program for acclimating her to her new life. I had delivered my “pickup line,” but I was dissatisfied with the rest of my rhetoric. I knew physical demonstrations would be the most effective, but Rosa had shown how defiance could go unnoticed and unchecked. I needed to be able to rely on more than just my size.

I reached my apartment building. Typically, I would ascend the three flights of stairs, particularly when I was this impatient. My bladder, however, threatened to collapse if I subjected it to any further exertion, so I called for the elevator.

I didn’t say anything when another resident entered the car, but the shrunken woman in my pocket must have heard the footsteps and tried to cry for help. I had to cover her face with my thumb, earning me another deep bite.

Reaching my floor, I stepped swiftly but delicately out of the elevator and down the hall to minimize the impact on my bladder. Unlocking the door with my off-hand, I staggered straight to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and finally withdrew my shrunken prisoner from my jacket pocket and set her down roughly on top of the toilet tank.

She got back to her feet as I hastily lifted the seat and undid my pants. Pulling out my cock, I placed my other hand against the wall above her and leaned forward to finally release my stream. She appeared gratifyingly horrified as she craned her neck back to look from my looming face to my powerful torrent and back. Less gratifying were her possibly judgmental glances at the state of my bachelor bathroom.

This is not at all how I imagined this would go, I thought. The key is to impress upon her her role in this new relationship. Don’t show panic or hurry. Believe you are in control and she will, too.

She recovered her voice after I finished and went to the sink to wash my hands. “What the fuck, dude! What the hell did you do to me? You better fucking reverse it now!”

I ignored the sting of both her words and the soap as it got into my fresh bite-wounds. I looked appraisingly at my reflection in the mirror and I found it untroubled.

I turned and reached for my protesting little guest. She tried to flee, but there was nowhere to run on her porcelain promontory. I plucked her about her ribcage with my thumb and forefinger, then stood up and held her precariously above the acrid toilet bowl. With an expectant expression, I held her gaze for several moments while she halted the inertia of her indignation. Satisfied, I flushed the toilet and took her to the kitchen.

Rosa’s terrarium was still on my kitchen table. It’s not Rosa’s anymore, I reminded myself. I set my new pet down on the table with the gentleness befitting her station, then I removed my jacket and sat down. Initially I said nothing, enjoying the sight of her methodically taking in her new world.

“Welcome to your new home,” I said finally.

She flinched at my voice, of course, but then her exasperation overcame her terror. “Gordon. What. The. Hell,” she said, gesturing forcefully with widespread hands on each word.

“You have been irreversibly shrunk,” I explained patiently. “You will live out the rest of your days as my pet.”

Her eyes went wide, then dismissively narrow. “Ha!” she exclaimed, tossing her head. “This is bullshit.”

I gave an indulgent smile. “To help you appreciate your new position, Pet, you are no longer to address me by the name I use with people. You will call me Master, or Lord, or—”

“Fuck that noise!” she shouted, becoming hysterical. “I don’t know what the fuck you did to me, but there’s no way I’m gonna call a loser like you ‘Master’. I mean, look at this dump! Master of the Universe you ain’t. I bet you couldn’t get a girl on your own, so you had to go steal your Daddy’s shrink-ray.”

With each word of her tirade, adrenaline pumped into my bloodstream. I knew her defiance required a response, but what? Violence? Humiliation? Torture? Neglect? Somehow all these options seemed too overwhelming, too over-the-top. Too out-of-control.

I calmly but abruptly stood up and loomed over the table. She reflexively backed up, watching me with wide eyes and heaving breaths. I reached into the terrarium and deliberately removed the bed, the table, the chair, and the couch, setting them all down at one end of the table.

Sitting back down, I kept all warning out of my face before shooting my hand toward her and plucking her by her backpack. Lifting her a couple of inches above the tabletop, I jerked the pack side-to-side until her arms slipped through the straps and she fell onto the table with an agreeable grunt.

Before she could get up, I pinned her face-down with a single fingertip on her ass. I pinched the tail of her jacket and pulled it over her head, forcing her arms up as they slid out of the sleeves. That’s rough enough, I thought.

I placed her pack and jacket next to the extracted furniture. Lifting my finger from her butt, I rolled her up into my fist. The terrarium was now bare except for my homemade toilet, and I laid my pet on the terrarium floor, neither roughly nor gently.

I didn’t spare her a glance as I got up to gather my instruments: adhesive tape, my X-Acto knife, tweezers, some twist-ties, and the one new item I had had the foresight to acquire, a swing arm magnifying lamp.

All of these I arrayed on the kitchen table in front of the terrarium. I then directed my stern gaze at my defiant pet, who looked ashen and said nothing. After a couple of moments I grabbed my jacket and left the apartment and didn’t return for four hours.

[GhostWriter44]

@olo God, I’ve never wanted (no, NEEDED) the next chapter to a story as badly as I do now I absolutely cannot wait to see tiny Brianna be used as a sex toy!

[Olo]

@ghostwriter44 Who?

[GhostWriter44]

@olo LOL my bad. I meant Pet

[nephilim]

Lol Master of the Universe. Closet 50 Shades fan are we.

[Olo]

@nephilim Haven’t read it. Does that phrase come up?

[tiny-ivy]

@olo I love this. I am all about the humor, though: I do find it funny that the narrator does seem like an unsexy, undeserving dom, other than his magic talisman. I adore her “daddy’s shrink ray” line.

[Olo]

@tiny-ivy said in Taken (M/f, shrinking, non-con, fatal vore):

@olo I do find it funny that the narrator does seem like an unsexy, undeserving dom

Wonderful! I am well aware that Gordon is cast “against type” here. He’s been on a long journey, and it’s far from over.

[GhostWriter44]

@olo definitely no rush at all, but any ETA on when the next chapter will be dropping?

[Olo]

@ghostwriter44 I finished the down draft this afternoon. Now for the revisions…