Best posts made by tiny-ivy

@BigJacinto watched but instantly deleted from my history. I don’t need TikTok to know I’m horny, ever, I have a squeaky clean profile on there about my other interests

@ricenoodle size makes everything else bette, to me. But I definitely have my own strong preferences within that.

When talking about just any story about anything, any genre, yeah, size makes it all way more fascinating to me. No matter what the original author has a preference for.

When talking about a story that I’m reading because I’m horny, that’s when the specific kinks come into play.

@BigCuddlyGiant

this is so sweet!

Fiction idea:
What if the myths of the little people in Ireland comes from a local cursed cave spring, that shrinks anyone who drinks it for a year and a day? I picture him being a local who knows the well stories, while she was a curious tourist out spelunking. Luckily, they seem to be hitting it off.

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

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.

@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.

@BigGrumpy Yes, I saw somebody calling AI generated content just that. “Generated content.” It fits how it actually works more than calling it “art”.

@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! 🧑‍️

NOTE: This story features the most explicit scat I’ve ever or will ever write. I wrote this for Coiled Fist in early 2020. If I was a less responsible person, I’d blame its extreme raunch on the foul atmosphere on that wonderful site. I was shy about sharing it here. I’m never going to post it to my professional erotica/ romance author web site, because I know that scat is a HUGE red flag to even kinky erotica fans, and I would like to maybe make some money off of my more cuddly macro stories someday.

So I’m reposting it here as a special treat. Just for the fucking sickos on here who share this interest in the most disgusting things a giant can do to a Tiny. Howdy, friends! No, I also don’t know why we’re like this!

The main character is a shrunken man. There is a supporting character of a shrunken woman, but you don’t actually see the torture she receives. The ‘giants’ are men.

BLURB:
Dan, a young male job seeker at a night club, has to remember: If you want to get a job in this field, the customer is always right. Even if they have the most terrifying fantasy you’ve ever heard of.

CW: Scat , piss, noncon, torture

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Another letter from the landlord came through Dan's mail flap. He glanced over at it, on top of a small pile of unopened mail, and sighed, then got back to watching a sitcom on Netflix. That letter will have to wait until he gets more money. He's already seen this episode at least a dozen times. The jokes aren't even funny anymore. Especially not to someone who's been unemployed for so long. Nothing's funny anymore.

Dan sighed, and closed the Netflix window. It was 1 PM. He really should get to 'work' on this Thursday. He opened up his email, hoping for a response to one of the two dozen online job applications he put in last week.

It was almost all junk. 'Enlarge your p3nis!!!' 'I need YOU to help me hide this lottery winning.' There was also crap about multilevel marketing. If Dan didn't have a few hundred bucks to spare for the 'starter kit,' how the heck was he supposed to even start making money with one of those scams?

The sad truth was, Dan had been a server at mid-level chain restaurants since his junior year of high school. Chili's, TGI Friday's, then Outback Steakhouse. His entire decade of being a working adult had been in one job type, and he never expected all of the restaurants to go out of business and sharply downsize at the same time. Who plans on something like that?

As Dan scrolled through his inbox listlessly, one subject line caught his eye.

"Job Offer for Customer Service Rep - Can you come in person to interview next week?"

Dan read the whole thing, wrote a polite email of interest back, and added the time and place to his phone calendar. Tuesday, 10 AM, "Desires Nightclub", across town. He set 5 alarms on that day to make sure he wouldn't sleep through this one.

Dan walked from the train station towards the address the email mentioned. He could hear the deep bass notes of house music from a few blocks away. As he got closer, the sound got louder, and he saw a few other applicants walking towards the club. The club itself was two stories tall from the street level, and painted all in black. There were no windows. The logo - Desires Nightclub - was written in a strangely corporate font in a plaque to the right of the entrance, as though there was a respectable company behind the riveted steel front doors.

The bouncer, a tall, middle aged man with a serious mustache and enormous muscles, sized Dan up as an applicant visually, and let him in with the crowd of others.

Dan walked through the doors and was surprised to notice that the sound of the club music stopped as soon as he crossed the threshold. He and about 30 other people followed the sign at the entrance for the job interview to a large bar and dance floor area, which was fully lit with glaring, blue colored LED lights above. The club, with its rubbery, dark grey dance floor, stainless steel bar counter, and colorful murals of giant demonic monsters eating people painted on the walls, seemed immaculately clean in this glaring light.

"Hello, everyone! Thanks for coming!" a man in his fifties said over a microphone, and stepped onto a small performance stage. He was dressed in an expensive suit and too many rings, with blonde hair in a professional ponytail, thick rimmed glasses, and a little goatee.

"Thank you for coming to Desires Nightclub. I know, this looks like a big group for one job interview, but we actually need many positions filled, so you all actually have a great chance of getting hired. Don't stress about it, okay?"

The crowd laughed a little.

"My name is Thomas, I'm the Hospitality Manager here. I look forward to getting to know you all a little bit. Let's start with a show of hands…"

Thomas gave a speech with some audience participation to gauge how experienced all of the candidates were. He then started talking about the duties expected of the people they wanted to hire. A few minutes into it, Dan started feeling a pressure in his bladder that was undeniable. That extra large coffee this morning had given him lots of confidence - and was now bursting at the seems of his bladder.

"Excuse me," Dan softly said to nobody in particular, as he left the crowd to find the bathroom.

There was a single-toilet bathroom close to the entrance. It didn't have a gender on the front of the door, instead, the door said "Unaware", with an icon of a toilet underneath. He quickly ducked in and was surprised by how dark it was. There was a small white light above the sink and mirror, but the little toilet just had a faint glow of a red light far above it. Very atmospheric, and slightly disorienting. All he could see of the toilet was the outline of the light grey-looking plastic seat. The bowl was the same dark grey color, basically invisible in the dark.

Dan quickly unzipped his fly and got his thick cock out. As his stream of piss entered the bowl, he was shocked to not hear the normal tinkling sound of the pee hitting water. Instead, it sounded like it was landing on hard plastic several feet under the bowl. The sound was like a loud patter of rain on a rooftop, and the acrid smell of his urine was more noticeable for the lack of dilution. He scrunched his nose a bit.

Dan also heard a faint, startled screaming sound when he first started pissing. Maybe there was a horror movie playing somewhere in the club.

Done with his business, he tucked his dick away and pressed a button faintly glowing purple, that said "Flush." Dan figured this must be some sort of eco-friendly toilet that only uses water after you go. Instead of water though, he heard a set of mechanical sounds, like a vending machine moving parts around, followed by a cheerful robotic chirp of completion.

"Thank you for your patronage," a recorded message came from the top part of the toilet.

Dan chuckled a little. Must be one of those weird Japanese toilets that have voice recordings. He washed his hands and got back to the group job interview.

Thomas and the group split off into four smaller sub-groups, based on how experienced each was in customer service. Him and three other assistant managers then interviewed each person briefly in person. Dan was sitting in an audience member seat by the audience for a while, waiting to be called in.

"OK Dan. Sorry, I know this will take a while, but we only have a few more to get through after you," Dan's group leader for this part, Steven, said after calling him in. He was a youthful man with the thin but moderately sculpted build like a dancer, and very short black hair.

"It's fine, I understand!" Dan said cheerfully.

"Good, now, ah-" he paused for a moment, looking at the resume in front of him, "Dan. Do you have experience in the nightlife industry?"

"Nightlife? Uh, no. I was a waiter for a decade though, and I feel like my experience with customers in that setting will definitely translate to here. It's just going to be different hours. And the music will be louder."

"Haha, yes," Steven said, half-listening. "OK, now, the real question I have for you here is, when you go on a roller coaster, would you say you are one of the people screaming during the ride, or would you say you're more one to be silent when you are faced with a… frightening situation?"

Dan thought for a moment about the soft scream he had heard in the bathroom. He furrowed his brow, but answered honestly.

"I'm a screamer."

"Great. That's wonderful to hear." Steven said, with an odd smile on his face. Dan almost thought he seemed turned on. "When you leave this room, go to your right, and Javier will take you through the absolute final part of the interview, the written personality test. Don't worry, it's a short one, just one page, back and front."

"OK," Dan said, getting a little annoyed by having another step to go through. He was getting hungry for lunch at this rate.

"And show Javier this," Steven said, sticking a pre-printed sticker on Dan's chest. In bold black letters, it said "Loud".

Dan left the office through its back door, and found himself in a hallway, with lines of fellow job applicants lined up to his left and his right. The shorter line, to his left, was being lead to a wooden door with the word, "Unaware" on it. All of the people in that line had stickers too, but theirs said "Quiet". The longer line, to his right, lead to a door that said "Aware", and was filled with people, who like him, had the word "Loud" in a sticker on their chest.

"That's one way to sort people," Dan said out-loud to the middle aged man waiting in line in front of him.

"Whatever. Personality tests are always weird," he said.

Dan browsed memes on his phone as he waited, and before long, it was his turn to go into the door marked "Aware."

"Hi Javier," he said, trying to make a good impression.

"Don't we have a good memory," the slightly-out-of-shape bear of a man said. "Just this way."

Javier lead Dan through the door and into an oddly blank grey-colored room, with soundproofing on all of the walls and doors. In the middle of it, stood a white 1960's style desk and wooden chair. Javier handed him a Scantron personality test and a fresh #2 pencil. It had 50 questions on both sides. This was going to take longer than he thought.

Dan sat down and began the test. The questions were typical, the sort of thing you often find in an online application, seemingly written to weed out people who would steal money from cash registers from people who wouldn't.

"Sometimes, I can't help but disrespect authority figures, to be 'cool'" Dan read aloud to himself, and rolled his eyes. He filled in the bubble for "1 - never!"

Dan heard the sound of the pencil scraping the paper distinctly. He noticed how quiet the room was. There was a line full of applicants right outside, but he didn't hear any shuffling coming from that direction. He could hear his own heart beat and breathing. He looked up, slightly unnerved. Why did this room have to be soundproofed?

He scrutinized the egg-carton shape of the dark grey soundproofing insulation on the walls around him, and looked up at the ceiling, about 12 feet high, expecting to see more of the same insulation. Instead, there was a foot-wide circular black glass panel cut out of the insulation directly above the chair, perfectly aligned with Dan. As soon as he looked at it, he heard an electronic whine start up. He stood up from his chair and called out, "What is that?" to nobody in the seemingly empty room. He stared into the glass panel, trying to make out any details behind the shine.

"Nothing, just finish the test," an amplified voice came from a speaker behind the panel.
"Are you watching me?"
"Part of the personality test," the voice said, impatient, and the electronic hum intensified into a loud, high pitched alarm tone before a loud thwack sound, and a thick ray of bright pink light arced out of the glass panel. It directly hit Dan.

He felt like he was burned - he screamed, and then felt himself getting weak. The panels absorbed all of the sound. He felt dizzy, and sat back in the chair to pass out. "I'm going to figure this out, once -" he started, but he didn't have the strength to finish the sentence before a black void filled all of his vision.

Dan didn't know if it had been minutes or days since he was zapped. The first thing he noticed was a massive headache. The second thing he noticed was that something was hugging him from both sides of his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that he was stomach-down on top of a smooth plastic surface - the same bright red color as the chair, but surrounding him on all sides. The hugging became unpleasantly tight and he felt himself being lifted into the air - up, and up, away from the red plastic which he was now so far away from he recognized as – a giant version of the chair, in front of a giant version of the desk he was seated at before the ray.

Dan could not understand what sort of bizarre prank reality show he had been suckered into, until he heard an extremely loud laugh come from a few dozen feet above his head.

"I never get sick of this look of shock when we first shrink one of you. If customers were just a little more careful with the merchandise, we could charge for what I do here," the unbelievably loud and deep voice said. It sounded familiar. Dan couldn't place it for a moment.

Dan actually bent his aching head down to look at what was hugging his chest, and he saw two massive fingers pinching him from both sides, each one as thick as the thickest part of Dan's chest. He was no more than two inches tall.

The full horror of his change from his 6'1'' form to this new toy-like size him hit him all at once, and he almost passed out again. He was in between the height of a Lego figurine and a play-mobile figure.

He screamed.

"Oh! You're really perfect for this 'aware' Track. Keep that up!" the giant voice said, as the giant man gripping Dan turned him around, from staring at the floor to being able to look his massive captor in the face. Dan recognized the voice now as the freakishly low pitched, now enormous, version of Thomas, the hospitality manager who introduced himself at the group interview. He still had the same blonde ponytail and light colored goatee. Each frame of his thick rimmed glasses was bigger than a truck's windshield to Dan.

"Keep what up?" Dan asked.

"The screaming, 'bro," Thomas said, before gently placing Dan in a clear plastic container. To Dan, it was the size of a small hotel room. It smelled like disinfectant and cleaning supplies. Thomas then quickly snapped a black plastic lid onto it, and closed it with the deafening snap of a metal latch on the outside. The entire room was then lifted in Thomas's enormous hands, before he started walking forward. With each step, his movement shook the room again and again, rhythmically. Dan tried to keep his footing, but he couldn't stay standing. He crawled around, looking for a sturdy or safe thing to hold onto.

There were three small, opaque plastic cylinders near the wall - each was about the size of a beer cooler to Dan. As Thomas stepped, each one jostled around, and then started rolling. There was a white, neatly folded, handkerchief-like soft cloth, which to Dan looked like it was roughly in the shape and size of a bed. Dan ran to it and held on, grateful for the feeling of security that laying down on the cloth gave him.

Now that he was laying down, he could focus on the bizarre scene happening under the box's transparent floor. He saw that the giant Thomas was holding onto this clear box while walking down a dimly lit hallway. His world stopped moving for a moment as Thomas got to a door. Dan looked up and read the sign above it, "Aware - Storage". Thomas tapped an ID card against an electronic lock, and with an annoyingly loud beep, the electronic door swung open.

What was beyond it was a well-lit room with rows of clear-walled plastic boxes just like Dan's set up on shelves. It reminded Dan of pictures he's seen of his friend's reptile breeding collection. Was he about to be fed to a giant snake for some weirdo's amusement?

"What are you doing to me? What is this place?" Dan screamed.

"Yes, scream, just like that." Thomas said, slightly chuckling, as he placed Dan's plastic room onto a rack next to two other rooms just like it. This rack was at Thomas' waist height. He bent down to be able to look through the clear side wall. He had a sadistic grin on his face. "You already fit in perfectly. Like clockwork," he whispered at Dan - but his huge vocal cord's sound could easily be heard through the plastic wall.

"No! COME BACK!" Dan screamed, as Thomas stood up and briskly walked away, his expensive Italian shoes, the size of city buses to Dan, slapping briskly on the ground, the room still shaking slightly with each step. The electronic door clicked behind him, and Dan felt alone again.

(PART 2 IN COMMENT - SPLIT ONLY FOR LENGTH LIMIT)

@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 wonders if I could learn enough about web hosting to take over…

@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.

@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.

@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.