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@Olo well damn, now I have a reason to make an account on Bluesky…

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

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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.”

“Really?”

“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.

“Open it.”

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.

Hell’s Bluetooth.

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.

@theophilous Are Poison Pen’s stories worth seeking out? (BTW, Olo, I love your writing! I’m so glad that this site now exists for me to actually see this type of story front and center!)

@bigmandan1717
If I was ensured that it’s temporary, I’d shrink myself.
Now, who would I do this in front of? Who would I trust with myself being that vulnerable? That’s the question.
I love my husband, and he’s generous in playing out some scenarios with me. But he also worries too much about my safety - I think he’d be unwilling to touch me at all.
One of my friends who I’ve known for a long time. There’s one guy in particular. We’ve always been platonic, but I’d trust him with my life, and he’s way kinkier than my vanilla spouse. I think he’d be the right play partner for this. He’s a long-time friend, he gets the BDSM appeal of being pinned down under a finger or a cock, and he’s also has studied medicine enough to know how to not actually destroy me.

My fantasies go way more dangerous than this gentle scenario. But I’m going with a realistic answer here, for the heck of it.

I’d never want to shrink another person. I’m just not sadistic. (I have some strong political opinions of people who deserve to live in hamster cages for life, but, that’s the exception to the rule.)

I do write stories with evil giants in them, but that character type isn’t my self-insert.

I’d be thrilled to meet someone who was already small. I’d find it hard to ask a tiny for anything because the tiny would probably just say yes out of fear, and that just makes me feel gross. I’d try to attract them to spend more time around me by being a provider.

I’d be the creep staring at the tiny from across the room, not wanting to lose sight of them, but hoping that they’d ask me to get closer. Pining! That’s the word. It’s a role I’m great at.

@mrgoblinging7 if this was really an accident, next time, just shrink a paramedic to keep your tinies alive, and keep them in the same cage. You’re welcome for the tiny care tip! 🧑‍️

Synopsis:
Chef, TV host, and food writer Vito Halle is sickly curious about a modern reinterpretation of a famously cruel delicacy. He is surprised to be so personally deciding the fate of its latest, beautiful victim.

Tags, for mobile users who can’t see the tag menu:
M/f, vore, tiny, snuff, shrunken woman, shrinking, non-con, nsfw, handheld, giant, entrapment

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Excerpt from Vito Halle’s Bestselling Book, “The Punk Chef Reveals All”

The top 1% of the world’s economic elite truly see themselves as a different species than the rest of us lowly tax-payers. They have different rules for when they break a law, for instance, as long as their lawyers remember to argue for an acute case of “affluenza” clogging their client’s mind.

They have a different definition of the phrase “hell on earth-” for most of us, that would be homelessness or jail. For the super-rich, they’d use that to describe a suburban Holiday Inn Express with a noisy ice machine and a scratchy duvet. No VIP perks anywhere.

We have different thrills when eating out. For us unwashed proletariat, we’re happy to- depending on our levels of disposable income - either just not do the dishes, or, on a spendier night, be entertained by a charming atmosphere and staff. With enough money on a payday, we might even be delighted by varieties of food that we don’t know how to cook for ourselves.

Those pedestrian perks of eating at a restaurant aren’t enough for the “people of means,” as one anti-tax think tank insists the super-rich should be called. This super-sophisticated group need more. They need to know that they have indulged in something that the rest of us don’t have access to. They need to do things so decadent, they have to hide their face from God.

I present, dear readers, the Ortolan Bunting. It is a dish of kings and beheaded French aristocracy so decadent and sinful that its consumers really did exactly that.

The legend goes that the guest drapes a cloth over their shoulders as they crunch down on a sauteed, liquor-drowned, fattened, whole songbird. The liquor drowning death of the bird is considered cruel in these sensitive times, so it has been banned in many countries, including its homeland, France.

This dish was still available in New York City, if you knew the right person, who knew the right person. Such people include my friend, “Chef X,” who runs a Nouveau American, French-inspired restaurant which shall remain nameless for the rest of this chapter.

I am a former punk junkie dishwasher. I usually try to stay true to those working-class roots, but I had risen in the ranks since my early days of working among the hot flames of professional kitchens. I was a wannabe-important cable TV star now that “The Vagabond Guest” had reached season 6.

I was curious if I had risen up the ranks enough to be deserving of such an exquisite delicacy. I wondered if I could get past the velvet ropes kept in place by the illicit nature of this dish. It was a journalistic duty to my readers to see what the 1% really was hiding behind their cloth drapes.

One night after a long evening of new cocktail trials at Chef X’s restaurant’s bar, I blabbed about my interest in the Ortolan Bunting. His eyes lit up with excitement, and he invited me to come back next week, to try his version of it.

What fame-grasping cable TV star like me could resist this temptation?

---

I walked into the restaurant at the start of dinner service. I saw two celebrities anyone reading this would be excited to meet, seated together to my right. The host recognized me from TV, and noticeably blushed, as he escorted me to the back room.

The Ortolan Bunting service must be reserved at least two business days in advance, in order for the chefs to acquire and prepare the birds in time. They are endangered, and are supplied by an unnamed source. The service also only occurs in a dimly-lit back room, where Chef “X” was waiting for me as I arrived.

He greeted me, and offered me a snifter of brandy. It was of the same type they drowned the bird in, to complement the meal. I sniffed it, and sipped. It was pleasant, if a bit sweet for my taste. I would have insisted on a straight scotch, if it wasn’t so gauche to resist the Chef’s pairing.

The amuse bouche was a crispy fried acorn flour chip, drizzled with crystalized balsamic vinegar. It was alarmingly modern and local, compared to the 18th century, Continental dish I was about to consume. This was a bold choice. This signaled that this was going to be the chef’s own, New American take on the infamous dish. I was primed to experience what else he had changed from the descriptions I’ve seen of this delicacy from food history books.

As Chef X and I waited, a young, fair-skinned woman in an apprentice chef uniform came up to the table. She was visibly nervous.

“Mr. Halle, allow me to introduce Ms. Rose. She is my top apprentice, and has prepared the Ortolan this evening.”

I stood up, and shook her hand. Her delicate fingers barely moved in mine, and she was staring at me, starstruck.

“Mr. Halle. It is an honor. I am a great fan of your books and your show,” she said meekly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Rose. I look forward to seeing this new preparation Chef X has taught you.”

“Yes, it’s his more contemporary, American take. I just hope you enjoy it,” she said, blushing. She left the room quickly.

My ego was thrilled with displays of fannishness like this when it was brand new. Now that it’s happened hundreds of times, I just try to make it as painless as possible for the person. It really is sweet. I remember how awkward it was to be starstruck when I met my favorite chefs as I was a young culinary institute graduate. Unlike some of those food stars, who were rude to me, I hoped to play a good role in young chefs’ stories of meeting me. I never wanted to be a villain.

A few minutes later, a stoic waiter swiftly placed two plates in front of Chef X and I.

An entire small, wet bird, about the size of a local NYC sparrow, was curled up on each plate. It looked like it had been plucked and lightly fried. It didn’t resemble the photos I had seen of the dish from other restaurants, which had a golden breading coating them. It looked like a plucked, undercooked chicken on a smaller scale, surrounded by brandy and local herbs.

“Mr. Halle, don’t eat that,” Chef X said, and took the plate away himself.

“I am so deeply sorry. It seems that this preparation was incomplete. I believe the saute station is at fault. There is a new apprentice under Ms. Rose at that station tonight.”

He handed both of our plates to the waiter. They hurriedly took them back through the swinging doors to the kitchen. The Chef followed the waiter, and I listened, eavesdropping on the screaming match that followed. I doubted if either Ms. Rose nor her unnamed saute cook - really, he no longer deserved the title chef - would keep their job after a gaffe like that.

I was disappointed. But I knew Chef X was true to his word. He wouldn’t leave me hanging.

A week later, he invited me back, on a phone call at 1AM on a Tuesday. These are normal hours for chefs to call people they know in the industry - after dinner service is finally over.

“I understand if you would not accept my second invitation, after what happened last week. But I came up with an even better version of the dish, and I, myself, will be preparing it for you, and supervising each station, this time. If you would be so gracious as to accept, I believe that you would find it thrilling.”

I had to see what he changed about the dish this time. We agreed on my returning to the restaurant for the second draft of his creation at the end of service on Thursday night.

I showed up, and the dining room was empty. The host greeted me alone at the entrance, and took me back, to the private dining room where we had tried to do this once before. I sat down again at the red-curtained table in the center of the room, with two place settings. The lights were even dimmer than the first time.

Chef X and the same stoic waiter as before came through the swinging doors at the back of the room.

“Hello, Mr. Halle,” Chef X said. “Would you care to indulge me in a culinary history lesson?”

I nodded. His waiter handed me a straight bourbon in a rocks glass. I gladly accepted.

Now we’re talking.

Chef X walked to the table, and stood next to it, as he spoke at me.

“That bourbon is from the O’Malley Distillery in the blue hills of Kentucky. Bourbon is one of the few culinary inventions unique to America. The following new version of Ortolan Bunting is another entry to the short list of home-grown food innovations from this sullied and needy nation. We’re always clinging for artistic clout in this place, since we artists must always outdo the traditions our European predecessors.

That is what I did here.

The whole appeal of Ortolan Bunting of its time was the cruelty. Knowing that you held a whole former life in your mouth, which you could bite down on, skull and all. There is nothing more thrilling to one who subscribes to the European Colonial-Era mindset, than this act of total domination over something beneath you on the great chain of being.

Times have changed, though. In the 18th century, there was still a reverence for animal life. A curiosity about their souls, an enticing charm to their behaviors. People of the time were more sensitive than we are to animal suffering. In this era of factory farming, a tortured, drowned songbird is, to most of us daily meat-eaters, nothing to get upset about.

I had to go further than the Europeans had before. I had to innovate, American-ly.

This new version of this dish now shares only a name and theme with its predecessor. Its main ingredient has changed. This version has no songbird.

I hope that you enjoy,” he said with an air of finality, and walked back through the swinging doors.

I had never heard such a long speech before a dish. I sat in my chair, trying to predict what he meant by going further than the old recipe had. The anticipation built in my chest like a pressure. I sipped on my whiskey, and played with the napkin and chopsticks at my setting.

He came out a few minutes minutes later with a large tray in his hands. Two large white dinner plates, with metal domes on top of them were balanced on top, along with one more glass of bourbon. The still-faced waiter from earlier removed the plates from the trays, placing them in front of the two settings, and handed the bourbon to Chef X. The waiter then removed the now-empty tray from the chef’s hands, and left back through the swinging doors, leaving Chef X and I alone at the table. He sat down.

I expected him to continue his soliloquy from earlier, but instead, he gazed at me with pride, and simply gestured to our plates.

“What, do you want to say grace first? Let’s start.”

I smirked. I knew he was a staunch atheist, like me. That was one of the things that we bonded over on the night that he first invited me to these creations of his.

I looked down at the dome on my plate. It’s such an old-fashioned tradition to serve food hidden under a metal cover. Catering halls only do it nowadays for sanitary reasons. The only reasons it’s used in an artful place such as this is to contain scented smoke, such as from burning rosemary, or to hide something for dramatic effect.

I lifted the dome, expecting fragrant smoke to waft out. Instead, there was a perfectly clear Tom Collins glass in the middle of the plate, tall and cylindrical, almost as tall as the dome. At the bottom of it was a white and pale shape, raw-looking, reminding me of the color of white cotton.

Was he serving me a scrap of fabric?

I leaned in, to look closer. It was not a scrap of fabric.

It was a tiny human figure, crouched in the bottom of the glass, covering its head with its hands, facing away from me. It was wearing an apprentice chef’s uniform.

“Bottom’s up!” Chef X called from across the room, and tipped his Tom Collins glass into his mouth. I watched what looked like a tiny squirming doll, dressed in an assistant chef’s outfit, slide down the edge of the glass and past his bearded face, into his mouth. He swallowed it quickly.

I had to get a closer look at mine. Was the movement that I thought I saw in his glass a clever mechanical trick, the way the air-light bonito flakes on top of Takoyaki wave as a result of the heat rising from the fried dough beneath them?

I broke the cardinal rule of not dissecting food at the table, and I grabbed the glass. I tipped it into my hand. In front of my astounded face, a two-inch tall woman fell into my palm, and sat up.

She sat up. Like a living thing. I moved it closer to my past-middle-aged eyes, and, even in the oddly dim light of this sinful dining room, I still managed to recognize that it was a woman whom I had met recently. She stared at my face for a moment, a horrified expression on hers, and then shirked away, covering her head with her arms, while turning her back to me once again. Her tiny apprentice chef hat had fallen off during the slide into my hand. She had straight, long red hair, going down past her shoulders, tied in a tight ponytail.

It was Ms. Rose, the apprentice chef who was in charge of the disastrous preparation here last week. I had to guess that the live human person who had just disappeared down Chef X’s gullet was the scapegoated saute chef from the same culinary disaster.

“Really?” I asked Chef X. He was staring at me from across the table, and smiling peacefully. He only nodded silently.

“Ms. Rose,” I whispered. She turned around, and looked at me cooly. The fangirlish adoration I saw in her last week had now been replaced with dread.

I could smell a few drops of bourbon. I realized the glass she was in had been misted with it. A subtle note of the spirit worked to pair this part of the dish with the accompanying drink.

I sipped half of the remaining bourbon from my glass, nervously. The tiny woman in my hand stared at my throat as I swallowed the liquor. I think she knew that she was next.

Or was she? Should I do this? Should I kill this woman, or spare her?

What sort of life would she live, if she was this pathetically small, but spared? What would be worse, for the sort of strong-willed, independent thinker who had already become a woman chef in this bullyish boys club industry: to live for 40 or more years as a freak in some hamster cage? Or would it be better for her to die quickly? At least she’d live forever in my memory as the first woman I had swallowed whole. At least she’d make it into this book.

I grabbed her between my fingers, and turned her over, my eyes taking in all of the tiny details. She was a marvel. She looked away from me, closing her eyes. She was squirming, as if trying to slip away from between my index and thumb.

“Don’t look away,” I pleaded. “Don’t you love my show?”

She opened her eyes, and looked at me with confusion. I pulled her away from my face, realizing that, with all her hiding her gaze, and with my different-sounding voice to her tiny ears, she might not even have noticed who I was. I kept her at the edge of my reach for a moment, and I saw her face change from fear and confusion to recognition. A calmness took over her movements, and she stopped squirming.

“Yes, it’s me, Vito,” I whispered. I brought her a little closer so I could see her face again.

I cupped her in my two hands, and moved her to beneath the table for a moment, so I could speak at a normal volume to the insane culinary artist sitting with me, without hurting the woman’s tiny ears.

“Chef X, is this shrinking effect reversible?”

“No, Mr. Halle. It is permanent.”

“Thank you.”

I brought her back up to my face, and opened my hands. She looked dizzy from all of the movement, but stared at me expectantly. I whispered again.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rose. You’re a charming woman, and I’m sure you have some culinary talent, to make it this far in this harsh industry. But, this shrinking is permanent. You and I both know that there’s no way you can have a normal life anymore.” She shook her head. She was shouting something, but she was too tiny for me to hear anything.

I shrugged, and gestured to my ears with my other hand, shaking my head.

“I can’t hear you, but I’m sure you’re disagreeing. Don’t worry. I won’t chew,” I said, flashing my smile.

She yelped at my grin, and turned away again.

I didn’t feel like swallowing cotton.

“Please take all of your clothing,” I said, holding my palm still, and prodding her with my opposite hand’s finger. She was the length of a sashimi slice: the perfect height to swallow whole. To my surprise. I started salivating as she stripped. She dutifully took off first her tiny apprentice chef’s uniform, and then, a nothing of a tanktop, a sliver of a black bra, and a feather-light pair of red, sporty women’s hipster underwear.

Every woman I’ve met who wore tomboyish underwear like that was a complete freak in bed. Melancholy sparked in me, knowing that a person with such potential for chemistry had been reduced to this. Too late now. I had no urge to hook up with someone the height of a hen’s egg.

“Thank you, Ms. Rose,” I said, and took a whiff of the now-naked tiny woman. I smelled the bourbon, mostly, and a slight hint of lime peel, along with what I thought might be a few molecules of panicked sweat.

Now that I had mentally re-classified her from a person to a piece of food, I felt self-conscious of my table manners. One does not slurp food off one’s hand in a fine dining establishment. I blushed, and looked over at Chef X, who was watching me with an amused expression.

“Excuse my manners,” I said.

He nodded amicably.

“I understand the desire to explore this dish in a tactile way. I don’t want you to feel embarrassed - this is meant to be experimental. However, if you would like to feel more refined, feel free to use the chopsticks.”

He gestured to the pair of black wooden chopsticks that were at my place setting. I had already forgotten about them. I picked them up with my right hand and moved them towards Ms. Rose on my palm. She backed away from the sticks, horrified, and looked up at my eyes. She shook her head no, and gestured up toward my head with praying hands. She was begging for her life.

“Think of it this way, Ms. Rose. You’ll become part of your favorite basic cable TV star. Maybe your energy will become a neuron spark that will give me my next big book idea.”

Dear reader, I wasn’t lying. This experience with Ms. Rose was the first chapter I wrote of this book.

I grabbed the miniscule chef around her waist with the chopsticks. Each were as thick as her naked torso. She leaned forward, and slammed her fists against the wooden rods, the futile tantrum of a sentient appetizer that, until recently, had a remarkable position in the world of normal-sized-people.

I brought her to my lips, and hesitated. Once she’s in, she’s not coming out this way again – I was not uncouth enough to spit out food at a fine table like this.

I opened my lips wide in front of her, and she started screaming in mortal terror. In one continuous motion, I placed her onto my tongue, brought the chopsticks away, and closed my lips. I could no longer hear her screams with my mouth closed.

I tasted a brief hit of the bourbon, which was more of a scent than a lasting flavor, the lime essence, and a tiny amount of her salty sweat. It was - overall - a mild flavor.

The more exhilarating part of this mouthful was the feeling of her panicking against the inside of my jaws.

She tried to stand up. She failed. I dropped my palette and jaw behind my closed lips, to give her more room to stand. She pinched against my gums painfully, like a misplaced toothbrush swipe, and slammed against the back of my parted front teeth, with her sesame-seed-sized fists.

I pinned her to the roof of my mouth with my tongue, amused by how I could feel her tiny acts of resistance. I kept her pinned there with as little pressure from my tongue as was effective, and I felt many angry, tiny kicks against my palette.

I’ve always been an empathetic person. It’s why I’ve found no trouble connecting to new people in foreign cities in “The Vagabond Guest.” My deep humanitarian instincts kicked in, and I thought of her as a person again. I imagined the relief she’d feel if I released her from my jaws and dried her off. I pictured bathing her in gratitude and relief instead of stomach acid.

I followed the thread of the fantasy in my mind. To keep Chef X’s secret, I’d be in charge of her, and I’d have to take care of her every need. I knew that, now that I have come this close to destroying her, me being in charge of her would mean she would always be living in terror of me, her only companion. Or worse, she’d be neglected, if I let my guilt about the threat I am doing to her now interrupt the care she deserved as an intelligent, feisty, adult human being. I knew I would fail her, even if I tried my level best to be a good freak-keeper.

Her life was in a state of cosmic limbo in my mouth. She was Schrodinger’s snack.

She kicked harder, struggled more. She was getting desperate.

It tickled.

You go, girl. Down my throat.

I kept my promise. Unlike the traditional way of crunching on the French Ortolan Bunting dish, I kept my teeth off her, and swallowed her whole.

I felt her go down my throat, still kicking and squirming. I added the last half of the bourbon pour as a chaser to the homicide I had just technically committed. My heart started pounding, thinking about the moral implications. I couldn’t tell if it was exhilarated panic, or her last desperate movements that fluttered in my stomach now.

Chef X stood up to get more bourbon for me. He then raised his glass, toasting. We clinked them together.

“To Ms. Rose, and the Saute Chef,” I said. We both downed the aged bourbon from our crystal glasses.

“What did you think of it?” He asked.

“That was truly an encapsulation of the American spirit, Chef X. It was morally debased to its core. I salute you, you crazy genius.”

“Cheers!” he cried triumphantly, toasting our glasses together again, before asking the waiters to bring out the second course.

@thumbloverver2 as a tiny: Only if it was entirely reversible, and something that the user controls, like the suit in Antman. But even that causes problems of its own. But I just wouldn’t pick fights with supervillains, and hope the machine works right the whole time.
As for shrinking others? Never. Maybe for inanimate objects.

@olo I mean, I’d do what it takes to not get swallowed by his threatening mouth, but whenever the giant isn’t in the room, I’d try to remind the other women that the giant’s mind games are stupid as hell, that he’s a manipulative asshole, that whenever his back is to us, we’re all equal. That the hierarchy thing is a show we’re putting on for him, because he’s not actually God, we all still have inalienable human rights.
If that ends up backfiring for me? Then that’s what happens. I’m done pretending like hierarchy is real in normal sized capitalism, I’m not going to change that belief when I’m tiny.

With different sized women, protect the smalls at all cost. Golden rule. Kick the shit out of equally sized tinies who want to harm them. Pray to the gods that the bigger tinies than I have as solid an ethical framework in their noggins. (Prediction: after seeing society collapsing in these past few years, the other tinies won’t. People can’t even be bothered to put their shopping carts away in the store parking lot.)

@olo
A great shot. I might just take this picture as a standalone image in my brain and remove it from the story I know it’s in.

That movie was such a disappointment.
Not only am I sad that it was bad, but it means that any sizey-story that I dream of - or even put effort into - turning into a screenplay is pointless: studios would just compare it to this crappy movie, and have zero interest. It wrecked ‘adult-oriented size story’ as a movie category for a while. And there’s no way to make one without a budget.

Word count: 7192
In Two Parts

This is a M/ff fairy story with macrophile sex in it, or a macrophile sex story with fairies in it. Either way, it was an indulgence to write. Featuring a messy bisexual fairy and an effective human hunter.
CW: There is no vore, just the threat, but there is dubious/non-consent, infidelity, and an eventual death.

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PART 1
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Bluebell woke up shivering, but covered in sweat. This was too early. It was time to go back to sleep. She hugged Lilac closer and tried to return to her dreams.

A spare thought crawled through Bluebell's groggy mind, as she lay on a flipped coin's edge of consciousness. She sighed, and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

She can't just go back to sleep. Not during Hibernation. Unlike a normal night-long sleep, which she could stop and start whenever she felt like it, this three-month-long rest was started and stopped by forces far beyond Bluebell's power. The seasons themselves dictated it.

If she was awake, that meant that it was now spring. The fact that she was waking up meant that the frozen ground around her was thawing. It meant that it was the end of winter, March 21.

Bluebell's goddess patron was coming back to the surface today, magically waking all of the Persephone Fairies with her presence.

Bluebell still felt exhausted, like her sleep was not nearly long enough. Her wife Lilac was still fast asleep on her side, on the other side of the rabbit-fur-covered bed. Bluebell stood up, gingerly stepping around her, trying to let her sleep for longer.

She stretched and bent her limbs, which had gotten stiff in the long rest. She creaked her dragonfly-like wings open, spreading them out across her back. They felt wrong, somehow. She fluttered them. They couldn't vibrate fast enough. She felt the shape of them with her hands, and gasped.

The wings were too small, like they were still forming. It took the full three months for them to grow after they fell off in late December of each year. She had never seen what they were like in between the two landmark days that begin and end her annual rest, so she didn't know how undergrown they were.

Wait. Had her wings stopped growing too early? Or had Bluebell just woken up too early?

She put on her warmest vole-leather leggings and boots, and her down-filled, magpie-feather-accented cloak, and walked through the moss-carpeted tunnel that lead to their front door.

To an observer of the outside of her front door, it looked like a circular hole opened in the root of an oak tree. A four-inch-tall woman dressed in a rustic leather and fur outfit with a feathery cloak stepped out. When she closed the door behind her, the hallway looked like an ordinary tree root again.

She took in her surroundings. This was an uneasy warmth. She remembered an outdoor thermometer in a human's garden that she used to read every day, and thought that this was around 15 degrees Celsius, or 60 Fahrenheit. She saw some small brown mushrooms near her front door, freshly sprouted. She felt the earth beneath her feet, spongy and alive, smelling like early spring.

There was snow on the ground in some places, though it had melted in others. There weren't any leaves in the trees yet, but the tree branches were wet with melting icicles.

This wasn't right.

She glanced directly at the sun for an instant, and put her thumb in front of it. She compared this position to the horizon. It was four pm, and it was warm enough to grow flowers in. Warm enough for mushrooms to sprout today. But the sun was too low to the horizon for it to be March 21 yet.

Based on the sun's position, it was still early February. She had only slept for half of their 3-month hibernation.

"Damn," Bluebell cursed to herself.

She took off her cloak, which was beginning to feel stifling in this unexpected heat, and tested her wings out. She flapped them vigorously, but they couldn't lift her. Trying to vibrate them just tired her out. She folded the useless appendages back onto her back, and put her cloak back on.

"Shit," she cursed to herself deeper now, and put her hand on her chin.

She tried to use her magic. She made the gestures and spoke the words, but nothing happened. Of course, it wouldn't - her magic was a gift from Persephone, and she was still partying with her undead husband Hades in the underworld in early February.

You don't just wake early from hibernation. Persephone's footsteps are what wake you, and she never walks her Spring Path too early - she's a Goddess, with divinely perfect timing.

But something had modified this celestial clock, and now, Bluebell has woken up without the Goddess' seasonal gift of wings, and without the magic she grants her faerie devotees in the warm months.

Unless Bluebell could stuff herself so full of food and wine that she could trigger her hibernation sleep to start again (as they normally do every December 21), she will instead have to be awake in the winter for 45 days, foraging for food in this strangely half-winter, half-spring landscape.

Where could she find a winter's feast in the wilds during this unnatural season, anyway? None of the trees were fruiting, and the small brown mushrooms near her door would only go so far.

"I'm fucked," she said quietly to herself, staring up at the huge, bare-limbed trees around her. She walked a few feet away, looking for something to forage.

"No, hun, we're fucked," Lilac said, as she walked up behind Bluebell, putting her arm around her shoulder. "But we're fucked together."

Bluebell hadn't noticed her come outside. Bluebell grasped Lilac's hand, and turned to her.

Lilac was a sight for tired eyes. Her black, chin-length hair was naked in the air, and hung around her face freely. Her cute button nose was twitching in a way that always reminded Bluebell of a mouse sniffing the air.

"You're up too? Oh, honey. I was hoping to not wake you."

"You didn't wake me. This weather did," Lilac said, gesturing around to the freakishly warm atmosphere surrounding the dripping winter landscape.

"I remember this happening once. Two days early, a few years before I met you. Fir, Wren and I just huddled in our house, drinking some water we found right near the entrance. We didn't want to risk foraging in winter-time, without our magic."

"It's more than two days from spring, this time," Bluebell said.

"I noticed, too. We can't avoid eating that long. We have no choice but to gather what food we can find," Lilac responded.

"And without any prey charms, or sparked arrows…"

"That means no easy hunting. Foraging, then. We should see if any of the holly berries from the bushes above the ridge are still there," Lilac said, pointing at the tall wooded ridge behind Bluebell.

They both looked at the ridge a few dozen feet in front of them, separated from their tree home by a group of oak and sycamore trees, and some undergrowth.

They stared at the top of the ridge. Something looked different than how they remembered it.

"Are the holly trees gone?" Bluebell asked.

"At least the one at the top of the ridge is. There were a few at the other side of the ridge, too," Lilac responded. "Let's see."

Lilac and Bluebell carefully walked toward the top of the ridge, both taking into account every noise, every rustle, and every flash of light that could indicate danger. It was perilous to be just a few inches tall in the forest. There were hundreds of larger things that wanted to eat you.

They reached the top of the ridge and were shocked by what they saw below. Where there had been virgin forest in late December, there was now just a clearing, complete with stumps and matted earth, and plenty of human-made insults to nature. There were still some scraggly pieces of undergrowth on the edges. In the middle of the oversized clearing, stood a manmade structure, silvery-chrome with reflective windows and rubber wheels, standing next to a black pickup truck.

Some human had cleared a patch of pristine mountain forest and put a trailer home on top of it. Woodsmoke wafted out of the chimney, and the lights were all on at once. The whole structure hummed with glowing electricity and artificially created heat. It stood out like an ugly silver pimple on the soggy brown earth.

The fairies stared in horror.

"There are no holly trees here at all," Bluebell lamented.

"The humans left some food out, though," Lilac said, pointing to a patch of dirt near the largest trailer window. Standing on the dirt was a wooden post, intricately carved with Norse-style decorations. Attached to the post, about six feet up, was a wooden arm, with a thick metal hook, holding a chain, which held up a bird feeder made of green metal. The bird feeder looked like a miniature house with a metal roof, clear plastic walls, and a flat metal perch beneath the plastic windows. The perch was overflowing with bird seeds of all types. The fairies stared at the mounds of seeds tucked behind the plastic, and salivated. The dull pain of hunger crawled into both of their stomachs, and they remembered that they hadn't actually eaten in a month and a half. Their instincts screamed at them to break their long fast.

There were a few discarded sunflower seed shells on the ground, and several forgotten specks of millet. But that wasn't enough to last for long, and the fewer foraging trips they took to this cache, the safer.

"I'll climb up to the platform, and fill my whole cloak with seeds. I'll tie it off with the twine into a package. That much should last us for at least a week," Lilac said.

Bluebell remembered what a talented climber Lilac could be. Bluebell had no doubt she could do this on her own.

"I wish you didn't have to. Let's come back at night."

Lilac shook her head no, and spoke gravely.

"By night, all of those seeds might be gone. Birds can get through this in a matter of hours. This must have been filled this morning, and it's already half-empty, in the afternoon."

Bluebell looked at the patterns of use, the bird droppings, and the scattered seed pods. Lilac was right.

"Be careful," Bluebell said, and hid inside a remaining evergreen shrub on the top of the ridge. Lilac stayed outside of the same plant as she put together her tools. She used a length of thin twine to tie her outer cloak into a large, empty satchel.

Lilac was the more adept tracker, and the most skilled crafts-person of their whole fairy circle. Bluebell watched Lilac's impromptu satchel creation with wonder, her worried heart making room in itself for glowing threads of admiration.

Lilac came into the bush. The two kissed passionately for the first time since they woke up, and sparks of delight lit up both of their hearts. They smelled like each other's best days.

"I'll be back in two shakes of a squirrel's tail," Lilac said, and left the bush. She picked up the satchel and snapped it to her chest, and turned around one last time to wave goodbye.

Her back to the bush, she scanned for danger among all of the details of her surroundings. She then put her ears to the ground, closing her eyes. There was no sign of large animals nearby. She stood up, and went down the grass-and-tree-stump-covered hill.

The bird feeder was in the middle of a cleared patch of dirt. Lilac ran towards it with ease, before she climbed up the intricately carved wooden beam. She walked down the two-inch-thick wooden arm that held up the seed cache like it was an easy pathway in her thick, gray mouse-leather boots, and waved a brief greeting towards the bush that Bluebell was hiding in, before climbing down the metal chain and onto the bird feeder platform.

Lilac scooped bird seed into the makeshift satchel, over-stuffing it like a chipmunk filling its cheeks. She fastened it securely to her back and climbed back up the short chain to the wooden arm, and started walking back to the carved support beam. A quarter of the way back to the beam, she froze in her tracks.

She knelt down to put her more sensitive palms to the wooden rod, to feel the vibrations more clearly. This was no false alarm. A human was active inside the trailer.

A light switched on, illuminating the small window on the top of the back door with sodium-yellow. A human's head looked out of it for a moment, before turning down, to finish putting on his boots. The steel door swung open on a creaking hinge, and the man who had put this trailer in the middle of this pristine forest walked toward the bird feeder.

The human was a middle-aged man dressed in hunting gear, with a full, dark beard specked with grey, a strong nose, and piercing brown eyes. He was thick and muscular-looking, like someone who ate a lot of venison, and the two main textures in his winter wardrobe were dark blue canvas and green camo waterproof nylon. His hiking boots and gloves were black leather.

Lilac didn't get a good look at man, but she felt the vibrations from his huge footsteps travel through the ground and into the wooden structure she was on. She sprinted to the vertical support rod, and shimmied to the side of it furthest from him. The fairy desperately climbed down to the ground, cursing her useless, half-grown wings.

Lilac felt the swollen satchel tied to her back pull her away from the carved rod. She reached her hands and arms out uselessly as she was yanked further and further away, before an enormous hand turned her towards a giant face.

"I wasn't expecting to attract something as beautiful as you with that feeder," the hunter said, wonder thick in his voice.

Lilac tried to get out of the man's grip. She pressed a latch on her chest and the swollen seed-satchel that he was holding her by disconnected from her. She fell swiftly toward the ground six feet below.

Certain death from this fall was better than what she had heard humans could get up to with fairies. Better to be a crumpled thing on the ground than a meal.

His left hand easily caught her just a few inches below the beginning of her fall. His gloved grip closed around her tightly. She struggled against the fingers' black leather surface, but she could feel their overpowered strength with his slightest movement, as they held her tight.

With his other hand, he examined the satchel, gently prodding it. Its simple knots burst, the cache of seeds falling into the soft dirt below, sounding like heavy rain. He watched this all with curiosity.

"Trying to steal seeds from the birds?" the hunter asked her, moving his cold gaze to the tiny woman struggling in his grip.

"What are you, little thing?"

Lilac said nothing. Talking got you nowhere with humans. The only thing to do for a fast escape was to fly away, or, if that fails, charm them into forgetting you.

Persephone, help me, Lilac prayed to her Goddess. Just one sleep-and-forget-charm. That's nothing to you. I know you can hear me down there in the underworld.

"Not much of a talker?" the hunter asked.

He took all of her details in. From head to toe, she was no taller than his middle finger. She was wearing a thin, ren-faire-style brown leather outfit with such exquisite details, that it must have been constructed by her tiny hands. She had pale, almost-white skin, and a chin-length bob of straight black hair. Her tiny, beautiful face was horrified.

The hunter loved seeing and feeling this entire little being in just his hand. She was like a woman, almost, but she was so small, so beyond the human scale, that she must have been some sort of undiscovered type of non-human animal. He thought about what he could do with her, and remembered. God had given the earth and all its creatures, the whole domain of nature, to Man, to do with it as Man pleased. He didn't even need a hunting permit for something so rare.

She was his now.

He noticed a slight wiff of something unexpected in the air, and brought her to his nose. She smelled like wildflowers, and roses, cinnamon rolls, and petrichor, all mixed into one. A wave of warmth and sunshine went through his nose.

"Wow, that smell," he said, and he breathed out, before he took a second, deeper sniff, filling his lungs completely with her scent.

Memories flooded his mind. Summer vacations and thunderstorms, his first kiss with a classmate wearing cherry lip balm, his first ride on a roller coaster, smelling funnel cake. The gasoline in his first car, the perfume of his ex-wife on their first date, fresh deer blood from the first prize buck that he bagged when he was 17. The overwhelming scent of a woman's pussy, clinging to his beard after oral sex, as he slid his cock deep into the tight flesh.

The hunter was suddenly stiff, and high as a kite.

"You're a drug. Oh my god," he said, and took her inside the trailer.

Bluebell had been inching closer to the entrance this whole time, carefully darting from one piece of cover to the next. By the time he slammed the steel and glass door behind him, she was hiding behind a vaguely egg-shaped propane tank attached to a grill right outside of the back door.

The bastard. Bluebell thought to herself. Taking Lilac like she was some lowly creature. Like she was merely a small human. He doesn't even know what she is, other than enticing. We're Goddess-Blessed beings of the forest. This mortal fuck.

Down the length of the trailer, on the opposite side as the parked truck, there was a firepit. Between the firepit and the trailer was an enormous pile of firewood , as tall as the window next to it. A light turned on in the window. Bluebell climbed the logs as fast as she could, and looked inside, resting her face and open palms against the glowing glass. Without any mystical help from her absent deity, all she could do was watch, as the huge man did whatever he pleased to her captured fairy spouse.

Bluebell's window faced into the bedroom at the end of the trailer. Through a rounded door frame, she watched as the giant man, still at the end of the kitchen, stood up from a crouching position. He was getting an empty glass jar from the bottom cabinet. He had a hammer and a nail in his other hand. Bluebell couldn't see where Lilac had been placed, until, with horror, she realized that what she thought was a branch in the giant man's mouth being casually sucked on was actually Lilac's brown leather boots sticking out. Bluebell wanted to scream, but she didn't dare. Not if she wanted to survive witnessing this horrible spectacle.

Lilac was surrounded by a wet, dark, series of muscles that made up the hunter's mouth. They had complete control of her movements. She tried to go one way, and the tongue countered. She tried to slide backwards, to get the rest of her legs out of the dark and slimy mouth, and his lips just pressed down harder around her legs. The blade-like teeth scraped the edge of her shins, and she shivered in terror at the thought of them biting down. She couldn't decide which was worse - getting crushed to a paste by these teeth, or being swallowed into the inescapable oblivion of his huge stomach while still aware. She preferred neither.

As she struggled against the mouth, the giant hunter kept her tucked between his lips out of convenience, like someone holding a spare nail, as he punctured some holes into the lid of a glass pint storage jar. He had taken off his winter clothes at the door with her there, and it was a convenient enough storage space for now. It also let him continually inhale his new fairy friend's scent, which filled him with excitement and lust. He finished piercing the lid, put the hammer away, and carried the jar into the bedroom. As he walked through the doorway, it felt like he was floating on air. He was careful to remind himself of gravity and his body's placement amongst his furniture.

The hunter put the jar on the bedside table, and grabbed the fairy woman by her tiny boots. As he pulled her out of his mouth, a drip of saliva followed behind. He slurped, a little embarrassed to be drooling like an animal, and a rush of her scent came to his palette. She tasted like fine whiskey, like cognac, like the best new years eve midnight of his life. A thrill flashed through his body like lightning.

Her magic was even more intense when she was tasted. His mind rushed. He thought about eating her, but decided not to, when the logical part of him reminded him groggily that if he kept her alive, he could come back to her for these little tastes again and again, whenever he craved her. The jar trap he just made will be a good enough prison for her, at least for when he was done with her today.

And he knew that he wasn't anywhere close to done yet. His dick had been raging in a tumescent tension since he was still outside, and the intense dose he got from putting her on his tongue had made his lust even stronger. He felt helpless to the feelings her scent was causing in him.

Lilac didn't just feel helpless, she actually was helpless, dangling upside-down like a caught fish from the giant's grasping fingers. She tried to squirm out of them, but there was no use.

The huge right hand placed her into his left palm, her belly up. His fingers started yanking off her tiny boot. She unbuckled it and let it go into his grip, not wanting to get in his way if he were to yank harder. She took her second boot off, unprompted.

"Good, now take it all off," the giant man said. "I need to smell you more."

Lilac peeled off her mouse-leather leggings, carefully bunching them next to her on the raised platform of his hand. She removed her rabbit-fur vest, and then her miniature white silk brassiere, her tiny raindrop-sized breasts jiggling into the open air. She stood up on his bouncy palm, glad to not be held so tightly. She languidly vibrated her wings, stretching their flight muscles out, like someone cracking their knuckles.

The movement caught the hunter's eye.

She tried to fly. Her growth-stunted wings couldn't lift, either.

"You're a fairy?" he asked.

If she could fly, then he had no choice but to hold onto her to prevent escape, the hunter thought. He grabbed her with his vice-like fingers again, and flipped her upside-down, onto her knees. Her tiny, hand-crafted wardrobe fell from his palm to the floor of his bedroom.

She folded her wings to as small as possible, not wanting this monster to be any more interested in her most fragile body part. Cuts heal in days, bruises in weeks. Bones can heal in a matter of months. Her dragonfly-like, gossamer-thin wings only get repaired during her annual winter hibernation.

With her face looking down, she noticed that his cock was hard enough to show an erection clearly through his jeans. She made a disgusted sound. It sounded like a squeak to him.

His dick was proportionally big, even compared to other humans. She was reminded of her boyfriend Fir's substantial fairy-sized cock. He was just five inches tall to her four and a half, but he also had a dark beard and a big dick, like this awful man. His features were craggy, and dramatic, also a little like Fir. Lilac realized that she could have enjoyed an encounter with a being who looked like this - if he was only the right scale.

He lifted her again, gripping her ankles in his right hand, and brought her to his face, to gaze at her remarkable, now nude, form.

She closed her eyes at first, but she couldn't help but notice his expression. He was absolutely stoned out of his gourd, like someone on a gleeful mushroom trip. She remembered a rumor that humans found fairy pheromones intoxicating.

She cursed her own scent. There was no negotiating or tricking a man this outside of reality.

The only escape would be from her own movements. She used all of her flexibility and strength to reach down to her feet, and gripped her calves, trying to pry his giant grip open with her hands. He just held her slightly tighter to compensate.

The sheer difference in strength made her heart sink. She thought about giving up. But she had to escape: his titanic scale, and his mental weakness to her scent, just made this all wrong. She reminded herself: He wasn't a potential lover, he was nothing like Fir - he was a monster, who, if she didn't get out in time, would use her however he wanted to fulfill his drugged-up desires.

He placed the tiny naked woman back in his mouth, her face pointed out this time, her legs firmly on his tongue, beneath his palette. Her head and shoulders remained on the outside of his tensed lips, which held her there again for the convenience as he needed his hands to undress.

Lilac tried to get her hands free so that she could push against the lips, to jump down, but he grazed her prone body with the tips of his teeth again, and she stopped squirming. She prayed that he didn't want to swallow, as she stared down, watching his oversized limbs take off his thickly woven, dark blue canvas pants. The hunter's gargantuan cock now poked out of his opened camo boxers, which he slid off, and kicked away with his feet. The dick bobbed steadily in the open now, naked, stiff as a rod, and dripping pre-cum. He unpeeled his red flannel shirt from his huge, hairy torso, causing a waft of sweat and cologne to drift past the fairy's nose.

He had a body like a warrior: covered in functioning muscles, with a sturdy layer of fat above them, under his tanned skin. As a now-half-starving, wild creature in the middle of a lean winter, Lilac was ashamed to find his sheer thickness and strength appealing.

Each one of his parts was so much bigger than hers that any contest of wills was absurd. He could destroy her so easily. But based on everything so far, injuring her didn't seem to be his plan.

Despite herself, she felt wetness coalesce inside her swelling cunt. A dewdrop of pussy liquid dripped onto his tongue.

The hunter's smell and vision trip took a turn, from focusing on his conquests of the past, to an inviting, feminine sensation. He tasted wild strawberry juice, and sensed a mind that was not his own speaking to him through his taste buds. The mind was feminine, but wild, and it expressed to him nonverbally that she wanted him, too.

If he had to name the scent of this exact alchemical message, it was cloying, heady lilac.

He gasped, not expecting mutual lust from the tiny creature trapped in his lips. He loosened his jaw, grabbed her gingerly beneath her shoulders, and pulled her out of his mouth. He stared at her dainty form, dripping in both his saliva and her own sparkling wetness.

"You're into me. You tiny slut," he said, smiling slyly.

Lilac spoke up for the first time. "No!" she shouted, turning her head away from his powerful gaze. "Let me go, you cocky asshole!"

She hated that his face was so appealing. Why did she like his smile?

He breathed in her scent. It was obscured by the fluids that were covering her. He moved his hand to close to his face, and huffed in deep. She smelled like cotton candy, and wildflowers.

Lilac shirked away, trying to get as far as possible from his nose while pinned between his giant fingers, but the feeling of the cool air passing over her as he inhaled was refreshing. She realized that she was being worshiped by this enormous creature instead of threatened. She opened her legs, she told herself, to get this over with more quickly. Her tiny, hard clit was swollen with desire.

She couldn't possibly want him to suck her pussy.

He cupped her more in his hand, now holding her with his thumb firmly pressed on one of her sides, and his other fingers securely hugging the opposite. His pinky lightly hovered above her dangling legs. He tilted her a little, her cunt and her face now pointing towards him and the ceiling. The discomfort that came from her weight only being held up by his two fingers went away, as she was now comfortably laying in his hand.

His impossible lips hovered over her, and she twitched, anticipating his next move. He could finally smell her, and the floral expression of her self had increased from before. He licked her with the tip of his tongue, the huge, wet muscle barely grazing her wet cunt. He tasted joy. Wildflowers, honey. Cream and coconut. Pineapple and happiness. He moaned at the deliciousness, his deep voice causing the faerie's whole skeleton to vibrate.

She breathed in and yelped with excitement, blushing.

He licked her again, and again. The giant muscle passed over her screaming cunt in complete sexual overkill. She squirmed once more, but by the third time, she was starting to feel more like a living salt lick than she wanted to.

"Suck," an ethereal voice floated to him from his tongue.

He pulled his tongue in, and put his lips around her little torso. She arched her body up, and hugged his upper lip with her arms. Her dainty head was beneath his huffing nostrils. She leaned on his rough mustache like she was resting on a warm pillow covered in curved kindling.

He pursed his lips on top of her, overwhelming most of the front of her body with tensed muscle, and sucked in.

His gargantuan mouth sucking on her tiny clit was explosively strong. She screamed in ecstasy. He kept sucking. She bucked and ground her cunt into his mouth, shivering, losing control.

"Yes," she said to him through her taste. He tasted victory, and ecstasy. He felt like he was commuting a holy sacrament to God. But, like, a chick version of Jehovah, maybe one who knew a thing or two about sex.

"Aphrodite!" the voice in his head said, as though it heard his musings.

"Yes!" The little feminine voice yelped now. The pleasure shot through Lilac like a shooting star, lighting up the dark night sky inside her. She kicked her tiny feet against the hunter's tight bottom lip, and slammed her open palms against his mustache as she moaned. She sounded like a wild creature.

Her gyrations got slower, and then stopped. The hunter lifted his face from her waist, and tilted his head back, eyes closed. He sighed toward the ceiling.

He didn't know that he could taste something this delicious. It was the taste of ambrosia - the food of the Gods. He lost track of reality for a moment, his mind caught in a sticky layer of happy spiderweb, centered on the droplets of fairy fluid that he was absorbing through his tongue. Her cunt drippings melted like tiny sugar-cubes into his tastebuds.

He sucked it in, and shook his head, trying to come out of this daze. He looked down at the tiny woman in his hand, and grinned, as lust returned to his drugged mind.

His dick was now painfully erect.

"My turn," he said.

He gripped her more tightly, and shoved her tiny form against the top of his cock.

Before she could process what was happening, steamy heat and a musky odor overwhelmed her senses. The entire front of her body was now pressed against this rod of flesh and heat. He was using his thumb to grip her onto the top side of his dick.

She gasped, and turned her head to the side to breathe better. His thumb was resting right beneath her shoulder wing sockets, letting her lift their fragile membranes safely away from the dangerous strength his massive body parts were exerting on her. She fluttered them in relief, and moaned, still shuddering from the flood of endorphins he had sucked into her right before pinioning her so abruptly.

She kissed his dick, and he shuddered, taken aback by how affectionate the gesture was, coming from his tiny captive.

"How sweet," he whimpered, blowing his sweet-tasting captive a kiss.

@olo I loved Dollman, I just watched it a few months ago. I heard about it on here, I think.

@smolchlo right on, sister. Apologies in advance if this gets us all eaten, but I’m glad you’re on board!

@olo Hey, my eBay listing said “Fair”, so I don’t know what you’re giving me that stinkface for.

@tiny-ivy

(PART 2)

"You must be new," a woman's voice came from his left.

Dan looked over, and, to his relief, a young woman just slightly shorter than him was standing in the plastic box to Dan's left. She had red hair, and was wearing a crude toga made out of what looked like the same soft fabric that Dan was holding onto.

"Oh Jesus, I thought I was the only one," Dan said, gripping his chest. "How many are there?"

"Welcome, stranger. To Aware Storage. Look around," she gestured, to the rows of boxes to their sides, and above, and below them. "I think it's at least 100. I've personally met 13 others. Counting you, that's 14." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

"Aware? I've been seeing that word here. What does it mean? Aware of what?"

The woman shook her head.

"If I tell you that, 'you don't want to know,' you won't be able to avoid asking me more out of curiosity. I'll just say this: first, it's complete hell, second, there is no way to avoid it, and third, enjoy every single moment of time that you have when it's not your turn."

She had a far-off-glazed look on her face. She then burst out in a brief nervous laugh.

"I really mean the 'enjoy your time' part! Look at this great food they give us - " she pointed at the three plastic cylinders in his room.

"You see, one is green, one is blue, and one is black? Unscrew the lid of the green one."

Dan unscrewed it, and found an odd meal: a tiny shred of a spinach leaf, a tiny shred of well-done steak, and a tiny crumb of bread- it smelled like fresh-baked Italian bread. It was an enormous quantity of food - enough for 3 hearty meals.

"It changes! And yes, we get fresh ones every day. Yesterday it was salmon, rice, and apple, the day before, aged cheddar, brussel sprout, and chicken. It's funny, I've become partial to the huge pieces of herbs that we get with it as seasoning. That took some getting used to."

"Every…day? How long have you been here?"

"Two months and 3 days. It should be… August 3rd now," she said.

"You're spot on," Dan said.

"Good to hear. I do mental exercises to keep me sane," the woman said. "I decided I'd rather live with these habits than end up like your neighbor."

Dan looked to the cell to his right. He didn't see anyone at first, but then he noticed that the fabric supply that each cell had was bunched up. He walked over, and looked more closely. There was a bundled human form in the far corner of this person's cell. It was shaking. Dan could hear faint muttering.

Dan walked back over to the woman.

"What happened to him?"

"The same thing that happens to us all in here. He's just been here the longest of anyone I've talked to."

"How long?"

"A year. He snapped completely about a month ago."

Dan looked to his right, and shuddered. He tried to think about what could break a person's brain like that.

"Don't worry about him. That probably won't happen to us," she said, looking down briefly as she said this. "Just, enjoy your steak right now. That fake interview takes hours. You're probably hungry by now," she said. "And there's water in the blue bin. Unscrew it, just like the green one."

"What's the black one?" Dan asked.

The woman got the same far-off look on her face as before, and looked like she was getting almost light-headed this time.

"That's the toilet. The screw lid is a bit rough on the edge, if you have to sit, but they give you a totally clean one the next day."

Much to Dan's relief, the lights shut off at night. He thought about trying to escape at night, but he was too tired to do it on day one. Dan found a comfortable position when he folded the cloth a particular way, and was happy to notice that there was more than enough cloth for this to be a bed, and, he thought, a source of material to make a toga like the woman had done. He wondered what had happened to the clothing the woman came in. He closed his eyes and told himself that he would escape soon, somehow, and this thought let him drift off to a few hours of sleep before the lights in the room were turned on again.

Giant hands came in to replace all three bins. Dan was surprised to notice that he had an appetite. He unscrewed the green bin and found shreds of well-cooked pork, raw carrot, and what must have been a tiny portion of cooked pasta.

"Not bad," he said to the woman after they ate breakfast close to each other.

"This one's new, I think it's soy sauce on the pork -" she stopped talking in the middle of her sentence, and looked up. A subtle whirring sound from a distance started, then a much louder mechanical sound came from below his cell.

Dan looked down and noticed that the tracks that he were on had wheels on the edges that were slowly pushing the plastic bins down the length of the room.

"Looks like the breakfast crowd is in. The first event after Tuesday recruiting is The Wednesday Rise and Shine Meetup." She had a pained look on her face. "So much coffee."

"For us?"

"No, coffee for the guests. Just wait. You'll see."

The whirring stopped.

Dan looked out at the whole room, at all of the cells of other trapped people across the way. He was now about two cells' lengths' further from the electronic door that Thomas had walked him in on.

"Does that mean we're next?"

"No, we're on the second row from the bottom. It's not our turn until the two rows above us goes first."

"How long does that usually take?"

"It depends on how much demand there is."

Dan finished breakfast, drank some clean water, and used the black toilet bin for the first time.

Then he sat in his cloth and waited for the cells to move again. Club music started up in the distance. It sounded like 70's disco for the morning crowd.

They moved several times in a row about an hour later. The 6th time, Dan's cell went up a ramp structure.

"We're on the second row, aren't we?"

"Yes," the woman said.

"When -"

"I am now 39 bins away from being On Deck. You are now 40 bins away from being On Deck."

She could see the look of terror on Dan's face.

"Don't worry. You'll survive this. We all do. The guests aren't allowed to kill us," she said. "Let's get to know each other. Much more fun than just waiting, trust me. Waiting more intently this whole time doesn't make the inevitable stop coming for us. They always get what they want from us."

It was well into night time, and the club was now blasting 90's rave songs, by the time the cells had moved 39 times. The woman's cell was now next to a steel-rimmed opening in the wall that lead into a long, dark tunnel.

"It was nice meeting you. What's your name? Mine is Laura," the woman said.

"Dan," he replied. "Should I wish you luck?"

She laughed out loud. "Sure. Wish me luck," she said, and the whirring started underneath both their bins. "See you on the other side," she yelled.

The whirring didn't stop after her bin went into the dark passageway. Dan's was now going too, and then the bin behind him with the muttering man.

The whirring was so loud now that Dan couldn't hear either of his neighbors. He couldn't see anything in the pitch darkness. He could feel his cell changing direction and rotating, going up some very steep climbs, and the righting, then turning around again - it was all dizzying. Dan held tight onto his cloth and tried desperately to predict what this "hell" was that this conveyor belt was taking him to.

There was a pneumatic sound, then Dan's cell turned around and was seemingly raised many feet, then, there was a louder than average click.

Dan heard a familiar recorded voice ring out above him, "Stall ready for use."

That was the voice of the electronic toilet that Dan had used the day before. Dan's stomach dropped out again, and he realized what this machine was. Why the toilet he used yesterday didn't have any water in it- so the victim wouldn't drown before he could be re-used. Why it was so dark - so Dan wouldn't know what he was doing to the victim.

He remembered the sign above the bathroom that he used. "Unaware". For the weirdos who didn't want to actually see the victims.

Why all of his surroundings were either machine washable, or disposable - except for himself, a real, live, thinking, breathing human being, trapped in this smooth plastic cell.

He felt awful. He had pissed on a tiny stranger the day before, without knowing it. And now, it was his turn. He took the bed-cloth off of him, and tried to plan an immediate escape before he would become the next victim of this madness.

He went to the wall, and felt for anything solid he could grab onto to climb. Nothing.

The club music was so much louder now. Dan could still hear foot steps get closer and closer, and then an enormous metal door open and close behind the stall's next customer.

Dan's heart was beating like a hummingbird. How could he avoid this? There had to be a way. This couldn't be his life.

"Welcome to the Desire Nightclub Bathroom Chamber," the electronic voice above him said. "Please do not kill your tiny! This incurs a hefty fee and will result in a ban from the club," the voice said.

"Hello, tiny!" the giant customer said in a gravelly voice, as the toilet lid opened at the same time that Dan's cell's lid smoothly slid away. Dan saw the interior of a well-lit bathroom, lit more like a mall bathroom than a club.

Above the toilet wall, Dan could clearly see the underside of the face of a muscular, 30-something man with ample body hair on his built body. He was wearing just a leather harness over his chest, and studded leather shorts, and dripping in sweat from the dance floor. He was bald, and grinning ear to ear with excitement.

"Aren't you a cute one?" the customer said, grabbing his crotch. He adjusted his huge package.

Dan looked around, now that his cell was more lit. There was nothing that he could grab onto to escape. There was no avoiding his fate anymore.

"I complimented you, is that really so scary?" the giant teased.

Dan saw one thin pneumatic tube just a little bit above the wall of his cell that he might be able to jump and grab onto if he got a running start. Dan ran and jumped towards the tube. He didn't make it anywhere close to the target.

"What are you doing, little athlete?" the giant said, amused. "Are you trying to escape me? But I'm the customer. I'm always right." the giant said.

"Has nobody taught you your place yet?" he asked, and spat a loogie at Dan.

Dan dodged out of the way, and stared up at the mountain-sized customer. This monstrous man would not help him escape, even if Dan could grab onto that tube. This customer had other plans.

"Your place is in my toilet, speck," the giant customer said, as he unzipped his fly. His huge dick flopped out casually and Dan gasped at its size - it was like an enormous Oak tree to him, even flaccid like this. A thick stream of piss shot out of it like a stinking fire hose, and Dan ran away from where it fell. The sound of the high pressure piss filling the hard plastic cell was rattling, and it echoed against the plastic interior of the toilet. Dan was on the edge of the cell now, panting, but dry, staring up at his tormentor.

"Haha, of course you want to play chase," the customer said, and aimed the stream directly at Dan. Dan tried to run away, and the two played a brief game, until the customer's aim caught up to Dan's tiny speed, completely drenching him in the acrid, stinking, warm liquid. Dan gasped, and stood still, knowing that he couldn't outrun it anymore. He stood still, his arms crossed, facing the back of his cell, as the piss surrounded and bounced off of him. There was no reason to pretend he could avoid this anymore. The piss pooled around him, and eventually, enough of it filled the little cell that the whole thing was now covered in a thin layer of the liquid, about ankle-deep to Dan.

When Dan noticed that there were no dry parts of the cell left, he let out a yelp of anguish. His beloved, cozy fabric was now an enormous piss-soaked rag. The watertight capsules were bobbing in the shallow, warm, yellow pool that filled Dan's entire living space. There was no denying that his entire environment was now nothing more than a toilet bowl to this huge club-goer.

"Mmm. Nice," the customer said at the tiny man's scream, and he smiled.

"If that's how you feel about the easy part, you're really not going to like what's coming," the giant said. He unbuckled his black leather shorts and, agonizingly slowly, rolled them down. He patted his belly three times, and Dan could only now hear loud sounds of indigestion coming from the customer's gigantic abdomen.

The giant flipped a switch on the toilet, and bright lights switched on beneath Dan's cell floor. The electronic voice cheerfully said, "Lights and Camera On." Dan looked to the right and now saw that two small webcams were set up both beneath, and to the side of, his cell.

The giant could watch what was about to happen next on a screen next to his seat. When Dan realized this, he retched. He wasn't just a toilet accessory, he was an instant porn actor, completely against his will. He went to the side camera, and got down on his knees, and begged.

"Please don't do what I think you're about to do. Please. I will give you money. I will give you anything I have!"

"It's really funny that you think you have a say about this," the giant said. "Now shush," he said with an air of finality, and he turned his body around so his ass faced the toilet.

Dan stared up in disbelief and horror as the giant ass cheeks came closer and closer to the toilet bowl. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't help but stare as his tormentor's enormous twin mounds of flesh fully covered the toilet seat opening. Dan could see the giant's huge cock and balls dangling near the front, but what he was more concerned with was the huge anus that was now positioned directly above the center of his clear plastic torture chamber.

Dan tried to figure out the place in his cell that was furthest from that asshole, and he stood there, directly against the wall to the left.

The sound of the nightclub music was harder to hear now that Dan could also hear grumbling from behind the customer's round, several-feet-wide anus. A deep rumble echoed through the giant, before he twitched and the anus made a deafening fart, the volume of an explosion to Dan. The vibrations let out a torrent of awful gas into the chamber, and made huge waves in the shallow pool of piss. Dan could not believe the smell. With an ass this huge and no fresh air, Dan was concerned about passing out from this industrial quantity of methane

"Excuse me," the customer said, faking bashfulness. Dan could hear the sound of his voice traveling through the giant's body.

Knowing that the customer was anything but sorry infuriated Dan, and he screamed in anger. He could hear the sadistic giant chuckle in response to his yell. Dan stared at the giant's balls, and noticed that they were moving in a way that meant he must be tugging at his cock.

The sick bastard was getting off to this.

Another, smaller fart came out, and then Dan stared intently at the anus as it dilated slightly, pushed open from behind by a thick log of dark brown shit that slowly came out into the bright light.

Dan retched again.

"No…" he pleaded to the camera.

He heard a moan of pleasure from above as the huge customer jerked off to Dan's horror.

The shit came out faster now, as the giant put effort in. He grunted, and the sequoia-log-thick turd drooped further and further from the ceiling of this torture chamber, until gravity pinched it off from the anus, and it dropped about twice its length to the floor of the plastic bin. It landed with a loud thud in the middle of the cell, splashing piss onto Dan, who was too mortified with the horrendous smell and size of this monstrosity to be able to move.

"AaaAAA!" Dan screamed, and re-positioned himself so that the turd's closest end, which had landed towards the front of the cell, was a little further from him. He only had time for this mental calculation before another log slammed into the first, falling the opposite way, smearing the cell wall opposite him with greasy, dark filth.

Dan yelped again, and thanked the stars that it landed that way, but the stench was still unbearable. It smelled worse than he could have possibly imagined.

As he was staring at the second turd and catching his breath, Dan felt the giant jostle the toilet towards him a little, right before the third shit fell. Before Dan had time to react, the brown log fell towards him. The turd knocked him to the ground, smothering him. Dan turned his head to the side and held his breath instinctively, but his entire body was underneath this huge log, thicker than him - too thick for him to wrap his arms around, if he wanted to. He had the wind knocked out of him and for a moment, and he felt completely humiliated. He considered staying there and suffocating.

Dan could hear the giant moaning, far above. He sounded like he was coming.

"Yes," he said, shaking the whole toilet structure with his yanking and masturbation thrusts. "You've been destroyed by my shit, speck," the giant said, between grunts. He then let a moan and stopped moving for a moment.

Dan couldn't die this way. He couldn't let the giant win.

He shimmied to the side, and with the last breath in him, squeezed out from beneath the disgusting log. He stood up and ran towards the clean water capsule - he still had a little left. He unscrewed the lid, and dipped his hands in, and started to try to wipe the shit off of his face.

With each dip of his tiny hands into the water capsule, the water got more and more fouled, and his hope became more distant. But he stood up for the camera, and pointed at it, and shouted -

"You don't win-"

Right as he said "win", a loud mechanical sound whirred, and the lights and camera turned off. He saw the giant's naked ass raise off the seat, right before the toilet lid and cell lid closed in unison. Dan was plunged into darkness again, and could feel that the cell started to move away from the toilet, as before.

"Thank you for your patronage," the electronic voice of the toilet said, now a little far in the distance.

Dan tried to stay to the walls, and tried to navigate away from the turds, as all of the fouled contents of this dark little hell chamber sloshed around wildly as the conveyor tracks clumsily moved him in every possible direction. By the time the cell stopped moving again, his face was once again specked with shit.

The cell had come to a rest on a conveyor belt in a well-lit room. Dan's eyes were closed from pure dread at what was next, but Dan heard a giant man say, "I know you're new to this. I'm about to splash you with water, so hold your breath. We'll have you cleaned up in no time."

The cleaning took about 45 minutes, but by the time he was done, he could actually smell something other than shit again. He was even given the materials and tools to bathe himself thoroughly as the last step, and the soap was smooth, and lavender-scented.

"It was sandalwood soap Monday," his neighbor Laura said the next morning, after they had both woken up again in the Aware Storage room.

"Rose soap the day before that," she said.

Dan just stared at her when she said this to him. She had spoken of this soap variety with a hint of pleasure in her voice.

The last thing that Dan wanted to know was what the soap scent would be tomorrow.

@pnwfootguy It’s interesting how this kink can bring out different sides of you.

For normal romantic and sexual stuff, I’m fully bisexual. But I have basically no interest in giantesses. So I also have different attractions in these kinky scenarios than in real life.