Charming, goth socialite and CEO David Pine invites the smart and curious non-binary journalist Alex Jacinto to his office for an exclusive interview on his advanced technology company’s latest physics breakthrough. Alex has gone up against some strong personalities in their reporting career, but this one is definitely the most dangerous, and the most dominating.
Since Alex is non-binary you can imagine them however you like. Personally, I see them as AFAB, but the story would also work if you see them as AMAB or intersex. This is a bit of an experiment in writing this way. David Pine is AMAB and cisgender.
TAGS for mobile users: non-con, torture, tiny, story, stink, shrunken woman, ownership, piss, non-binary, giant, entrapment, discipline, cock
PART 1 of X
Pine Industries’ global headquarters are on the top floor of a 40-story skyscraper in the financial district that was built in the 1960’s. From a distance, it looks like a gleaming, stark, black glass block. I enter the rotating doors, and, after checking in with security, I am escorted to the company’s executive suite by a member of David Pine’s private security detail.
Mr. Pine takes his security and his privacy more seriously than anyone else I have interviewed, and I have spoken to several millionaires and US senators. He is known to be eccentric. I try to maintain an emotional distance from the subjects of my news articles, but I have to admit that I am a little excited to meet him after our brief phone call the previous week. He had a charming demeanor on the phone - befitting a man with a reputation as both a brilliant physicist, and a personable socialite.
The security guard and I leave the elevator, and we enter a shiny upper lobby, with clear glass windows overlooking the city skyline to the left and right, and a black marble wall directly about in front of us.
Unlike most office building floors, there is just one visible door on this whole floor, in the stark center of the floorplan, directly across from the elevator bank. It says “David Pine”.
The security guard presses the intercom button on the door.
“Alex Jacinto is here to see you now,” he says into the speaker.
The speaker buzzes loudly, and the electronic door swings open.
“Go ahead,” the guard says, and gets back on the elevator.
The electronic sliding door is just wide enough for one person. It’s currently open just for me. I feel a little cautious about being so isolated with an interview subject, but I step through the door, and it gently slides closed behind me. I didn’t become a journalist to be afraid of everything. This was going to be a great cover story.
Through the door, the room is completely different. It looks like a 19th century library, with mahogany floors covered in lush rugs, and several rows of book cases filled with both antique and modern books. David is at his computer, double monitors casting a blueish glow on his face, focusing intently on something. He glances over at me, seemingly remembers that I exist, and stands up, gesturing to me to come closer.
“Come here, come here. Don’t worry about my working, I am just messing around with something, I was expecting you here,” he says, and walks towards me for a handshake.
When he stands up, I notice that he’s at least 6’4’’, and in good shape. I had heard that he’s a tennis player as a hobby, and his build fits that. He’s wearing a black button up business casual shirt, tight black jeans with an intricate, deep red pattern in their fabric, and Doc Martens boots, and has several piercings on both of his ears, and one on his nose. His hair is partially shaved, and partially long and black. This look would fit in well at a Goth club, but it looks great on him here, too.
“I’m so psyched to meet you in person,” he says. As he shakes my hand, I notice several detailed silver rings, some with large, deep-colored gems. I notice a thick silver chain behind his shirt, though I can’t see the pendant.
“I’m so glad to meet you, as well, Mr. Pine,” I say, and he gestures to a coffee table in the corner of the expansive office.
“Let’s chat over some tea?”
He makes me some lovely green tea, and we sit down for the interview. I get out my digital voice recorder, and I also take out my laptop.
“I will admit right now, I am a little starstruck to meet you, Alex. I was a huge fan of your book on String Theory. You really made the subject accessible to the average reader,” he said.
“Thank you, though I know that would be boring to a physics PhD like yourself.”
“Nonsense. Engaging, but accurate, science writing is far from easy to write. I’ll admit I’ve tried my hand, and failed at it. Educating the public, especially the large portion without college degrees, is a worthwhile cause. And you’re so good at it- your series on Climate Change for USA Today last year really deserved that Pulitzer Prize.”
I blushed. He had actually done his research. Usually, I’m the only one who knows anything biographical about the other person in this situation.
“I’m flattered. I really am.”
“You’re funny on Twitter too, Alex,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve been following you on there for years.”
“I really am quite a fan. You’re one of the most talented non-fiction writers today. And I’m glad you actually have a graduate degree in physics, it clearly improves your understanding of the topic.”
I am a little unnerved that he knows that. He must have read that on my Wikipedia. Or is that on the dust jacket for the String Theory book?
“It must be so exhilarating that you get to write about physics as your topic, there is so much that we’re learning about it right now.”
“Yes, Mr. Pine-”
“Call me David,” he corrected me, and grabbed my free hand, quite unexpectedly.
“David, that is exactly what I am here about. Pine Industries released a mysterious press release about your latest breakthrough in “Sub-Molecular Organization Lattices” last week. The stock price jumped afterwards, but nobody that I’ve spoken to could put that press release into layman’s terms.”
“Yes, the SMOL project,” David says, nodding, putting his tea cup down. “It’s a huge topic to go into with just a text description. Allow me to demonstrate.”
David walks to his desk, and pulls a beautifully carved wooden box out of his desk drawer, about the size of a thick jewelry gift box. He brings it back to the mahogany coffee table and hands it to me.
The top opens easily, and I stare at what looks like some sort of medical device, surrounded by a form-fitting wood carving, a precisely made carrying case. It is a broad bullet shape, like a tall dome, about an inch in diameter, an inch and a half high. It is made of an extremely strong, clear plastic mesh. There is a tiny metal latch in the front, with an electronic lock to the side.
“What is this?” I ask.
“One moment. All will be clear once you see the second part.”
He calmly walks to the wall behind me, and swipes his wrist over a foot-wide black glass-like electronic panel. The panel beeps, and then blinks red repeatedly, like a silent alarm. I stare at it.
“Let me take that back from you, I’ll show you the connection between these two things,” he says, grabbing the box and mesh dome from my hands. He steps several feet away, and my eyes follow him. I stare at him, and wait. I know that he can have trouble catching up his thoughts to his mouth sometimes, like many other highly intelligent people I’ve talked to for science stories.
There is a loud electronic whine, and then a THWACK sound comes from the wall panel. A bright-pink electric bolt hits me in my chest. It feels like it burns. I gasp, the wind knocked out of me, and then I stand up. I was not expecting an attack here. He has no reputation like that.
“What the hell was that, DAVID?” I ask him, and stumble towards him. He is not shocked, he planned this.
“That was my new technology. The Sub-Molecular Organization Lattice Reconfigurator. It algorithmically simplifies and Reorganizes matter to more efficient presentations.”
As he says this, I feel extremely weak. I want to pass out. I refuse to. I must stay awake, so I can report on this as soon as I get out of here. I slowly walk towards him.
I’m alone up here. He’s rich and charming, so he’s basically immune to legal consequences, no matter what he wants to do to me. For the first time, I am a little afraid. But I am not nearly as afraid as I am angry.
“How dare you test your stupid device on me, you smug piece of shit,” I yell, while feeling dizzy. The room is spinning. I feel a wind circling around me, like I’m free-falling, but my feet are still solid on the ground.
The room stops spinning for a moment. I look down. I am only two feet from the ground, but I am standing up.
“You fucker! You shrunk me?” I say, aghast.
He steps towards me. I stare up at him, and he’s towering over me. My head only reaches his kneecap. The top of his tall Doc Marten boots reach my waist.
“You’re not even done yet,” he says, his voice now unnaturally loud. He is grinning widely.
The ground rushes towards me again, as I stare up at his hugeness. He seems to get larger and larger and larger, until it is hard to relate to him as a person, and he looks more like a huge, freakishly moving, building to me.
“You are SO adorable,” his amplified-sounding voice says from what seems like half a mile above me. It sounds like an extremely loud concert from across a festival field. He takes an enormous step, and then another, making the ground shake like an earthquake. His right foot stops thankfully a little distance from me. It is the length of four subway cars to me, and about as wide as my apartment’s living room.
“Do you like my new boots?” He asks, and stomps his left boot just a few body lengths from me. I am temporarily deafened by the slap of the thick rubber against the marble floor, and I fall to the floor, shaken and dazed by this show of power. I start to sob. I look up at the boot. Based on how huge his treads and laces are to me, I am about a half of an inch tall.
“Don’t be afraid, Alex. Don’t fret. I’ll keep you safe,” he says, and he steps back, and slowly lowers himself onto his knees and hands, splaying his enormous left index and middle fingers to two sides of me. I am as tall as the length of his fingernails.
“Here, I’ll whisper,” he says, and moves his face to just a few huge inches from me.
I can see every pock mark, every acne scar, and hair follicle. He has a five o’clock shadow, and his nose piercing is tarnished. He is wearing a little bit of now-crusty black eyeliner, probably leftover from last night. His lips are enormous, fleshy structures, that remind me of dead, pink, stretched-out orca whales. I can smell his breath, like a humid sauna air blasting at me again and again. At least his breath was recently refreshed with a mint.
A mint that he ate because he was planning this violation, I realize. What an asshole.
“You dropped something, before,” he says under his breath.
He puts his weight on his knees and leans over me. I wince, as his unfathomable body casts a shadow over my carpeted world. He is stretching over my space to grab something from the table that I was sitting at a few moments ago. He leans back onto his folded legs, and places the item he grabbed a few long inches in front of me.
It is the mesh item that I was perplexed by. The first time I saw it, it had fit easily into my hand, the size of an olive. Now, in front of me on the floor, it was clearly a bullet-shaped cage, just large enough to hold me. From up close, this mesh looked like a soft, transparent, woven plastic, unlike any material I had seen.
“This is a nanomesh cage. It lets air, light, and fluids through, but it keeps the passenger trapped and safe. It’s a proprietary material which we are developing, that prevents crushing or deceleration injuries.”
I look from his oversized face above me to the cage in front of me. I am stock-still, unsure where to move. His gaze is piercing and inescapable, but that cage is too eerie. I don’t want to be close to either of them.
David taps something on his phone, and the cage’s door opens, with an inviting, electronic, “beep”.
“Go ahead, Alex. Get in.”
I start to step towards it. I get a cold feeling on the back of my neck as I get closer to it, like it’s a trap. I stand still, in the middle of my step, breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the cage.
“Come on,” he says, impatiently. “Last chance, before I help you.”
I start to run away - away from the cage, and away from his gaze, towards his left.
I wonder if I’m fast enough, but he just starts to laugh. It’s deep, and derisive, and its vibrations shake me to my bones.
His huge hand lands in front of me quickly, with the cage nestled between three of his fingers, like someone holding a precious gem. Something soft but unyielding nudges me from behind towards the cage, stronger than I can resist. Not wanting to get crushed against the cage or the finger in a sad, tiny accident, I let him shove me into the door. I turn around and see that he was pushing me with a Q-tip, which he puts down to use his smart phone again. The cage beeps again, and its door locks closed behind me.
“There you are. All safe and sound,” he whispers above me. He gently grips the cage between two fingers. He slowly lifts me into the air, but the movement is still fast enough to cause me to lose my balance and fall to the side of the cage. I was expecting the cage’s sides to scrape me as I fell, but it was gentle to the touch. This is a strange new material. It feels like taught, sturdy spandex to the touch, but I can see through it like slightly warped glass. I wonder if the millions of dollars that his company spent on researching a transparent, breathable, soft, yet strong plastic composite was really just for this CEO’s personal shrunken-journalist cage.
I’ve been reduced to the size of a peanut M&M, and I am still thinking like a journalist, chasing the five w’s they taught us in Journalism class 101: Who, What, Where, How, and Why.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m showing you,” he says. He puts the cage into his left palm and walks through a locked black door in the back of his office. Each of his steps reminds me of being on a large ship in the middle of a wind storm, feeling each wave rock the interior of the ship back and forth, again and again. Left to right. Up and down. Again and again.
The room we enter is dimly and warmly lit, and there is a bed in the center, with black satin sheets, and black steel nightstand tables to its left and right. There are three HR Giger art prints framed on the walls. I look again - those are too big to be posters, and on canvas - those aren’t prints, they’re original artworks, worth tens of thousands of dollars from that famous artist. They show half-human, cybernetic creatures penetrating each other’s stuck-open orifices with mechanical organs.
“This is my nap room,” he says. “I need to powernap when we’re in crunch time. I still do crunch time with my whole engineering team, I find its easiest to lead by example.”
He sets my cage down on one of the steel nightstand tables. The thud knocks me to the side of it again, and I fall down. I finally sit, legs folded under me, and I look up at his huge form, in this underlit, goth, corporate bedroom. The full gravity of my situation hits me, now that the movement has stopped, and I see him staring at me, his arms folded, like he’s studying a new piece of artwork that he just bought.
I try to read his expression. Is this temporary? Is he just trying to show off this new SMOLR technology so I’ll write a glowing press release for him about it?
“You’re mine now,” he says. The words crush my hope worse than the initial realization of my size did, since they prove that this isn’t an accident, and that he’s not planning on it being temporary. I start to tremble in fear.
“No! You bastard! You can’t just use me! I’m a human being!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
He puts his hand to his ear, and strains to listen. He can hear me. This room is eerily quiet, being so high in the air above the traffic noise, and on a floor that the elevators only rarely visit.
“Yes, Alex, you are a human being. A smart one, at that, much above average, and a talented writer. That’s why I picked you to write about your experience here, for posterity. Think of it as a first-person memoir, as a sort of biography of me. You’ll be able to write from a unique perspective,” he says gently, “right here,” he says, and quickly gestures towards his crotch.
I stop breathing for a moment as I see his hand doing this motion. I look up at his face, so high above me, and he has a lecherous expression, amplified in its fearfulness by its over-sized dimensions. My blood runs cold.
I can do nothing but bang on the sides of my cage and shout in rage as he unzips his tight black and red jeans’ fly and moves his pants down to his knees. The sound of the yards of thick denim dropping is like that of a ship’s canvas sails falling down all at once. His sizable package looks like a dangerous piece of machinery tucked behind a tight pair of dark red and black boxer briefs. They have a repeating design of a red cobra on them.
If this was a first date with someone more my size, I would make fun of that underwear’s cheesy print, and ask him if he picked them out just for me tonight. The joke dies behind my lips, in this case.
He slides his boxer briefs down, and his huge dick comes springing out of them. He already had gotten an erection from what he had done to me so far.
There goes that “w”: “Why”. He wants to use me for his sexual perversion. I feel dirtier just imagining how he plans on doing that with me, given the size difference. If he earnestly tried to shove that airplane-fuselage-sized cock into me, I’d become red paste. I gasp at the thought.
“What do you want?” I shout.
He adjusts some device attached to his cock, and it beeps and lights up. A moment later, my cage beeps and lights up as well.
He grabs my cage and brings me closer to his enormous boner. As the distance narrows, my heart pumps faster, and I can hear a rushing sound of a panic attack in my ears. I can smell his crotch’s scent - a mix of herbal scented soap, and the inevitable crotch sweat that still formed between his morning shower and our afternoon meeting. I also smell a slight scent of coffee, and I realize with disgust that that must be urine leftover from a recent coffee-scented piss. Something so subtle that I wouldn’t have noticed it if his dick was normal sized.
He places my cage next to the cock ring, and the cage and the ring both beep. I hear a clicking sound of machinery from the back of my cage, and the two are now attached.
I am now trapped in a cage attached directly to his cock shaft. I feel his encompassing body heat warming me all over, and the smell, from next to it, is overpowering my nose. I feel the vibration of his heartbeat. My back is to his dick, leaving me free to look around.
“This is your new home, Alex,” I hear him say. I can now fully feel the vibrations of his voice as it resonates throughout the organic structure of his whole body.
He is staring at me and grinning.
“See you later,” he says casually, as he reaches down to pull his underwear back up over his erection.
“NO!” I scream, and instinctually reach up, towards his face, pleading, but his expression does not change from its sadistic grin. The last thing I see in full light is that smirk, before the red stretchy fabric plunges my view into darkness. The fabric crushes his dick, and threatens to crush me, but the cage stays sturdy and soft, protecting me.
I wonder how long it will be until I see any light again, and I pass out from exhaustion. I don’t regain consciousness until several hours later.