The pane of glass rattled as the vintage oaken door opened once more. A pair of large breasts, tightly bound and insufficiently contained in a gingham frock, pushed through before the rest of the tall woman's body. "Sorry if we're late," she giggled, despite arriving alone.

An assortment of seats formed a rough circle in the center of what must've once been a largish dining hall for a wealthy family, over a century ago. This small mansion had since been converted into apartments and offices, and Full Moon Counseling had gained one of the latter. Rather than an ostentatiously long feasting table running down the length of the dark wood shelves, loaded with books and objets d'art, there was an ornate carved desk at one end of the room, away from the gathered chairs and loveseats. The owner of this desk sat at the circle, Ms. Barbara Moon, LPC, nearly lounging in the voluptuous upholstery of a comfortable, vintage office chair. It resembled a throne, between the craftsmanship of the seat and the bearing of the elegant, dusky woman perched in it.

She simply raised a dark eyebrow at the latecomer, a practiced subtle smile curling the corner of her puffy, rosy lips. "Please, Miriam," she said in a voice as thick as port, gesturing with feline grace to a purple velvet loveseat on her right. Miriam slunk to her place: a vast field of wildflowers printed on her dress trembled with every exaggerated tiptoe, a useless gesture completely lacking in subtlety. She spread out over most of the cushions as she plumped herself down, bouncing in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position for her bulk. Her hips throbbed and swelled, and her tremendous breasts performed two separate earthquakes within her dowdy dress. The overall effect was not wasted on at least one of the other participants, who gawked at her until his wife lightly stroked his back. The gawker blushed and coughed and trained his attention upon the Turkish rug, despite how the springs beneath Miriam's considerable rump cried out in agonized chorus.

Barbara waited as patiently as a statue for the ample woman to get comfortable, which was at last signaled by Miriam's simpering and cutesy apologies. "Very well. Good afternoon, everyone. We're all assembled, so I think we can begin. As this is our first session and we've yet to become the fast, close, intimate friends I anticipate"—Barbara paused for nervous laughter—"I think we should go around the room and introduce ourselves. Laura, would you like to start?"

A short, wiry blonde woman on the counselor's left sat up a little straighter, her pale eyebrows rising. "How much do you want to hear? Like, am I supposed to talk about why we're here?" Her voice was thin and strained.

"Just your names and a little something about yourselves."

The woman smoothed some strays in her kinky blonde hair, pulled back into a scrunchie. "Hello! My name's Laura Payne, and this is my husband, Rodney." She scooped up the tiny person resting in her lap and proffered him to the group. Rodney was a buff little man, well-toned muscles rippling over his three-inch body. He sat up in his wife's palms, raising his chin and waving at the other two couples. "As you can see, we're kind of outdoorsy, athletic types," she said with a forced laugh. "We love running and rock climbing, and Rodney's very into weight training."

"Is that so?" asked Barbara.

Rodney attempted to stand in his wife's palms but she wasn't able to hold her hands steady enough. He knelt instead and called out, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a state-level competition next weekend, if anyone here's interested. Depending on how I do there, I could go to national." The middle-aged woman on Laura's left leaned forward in her seat, eyes wide and intense. The little man on her knee who had gawked at Miriam now stared up at her.

"Oh, that's quite ambitious, sweetie. One step at a time," Laura said, chortling. Rodney looked back at her with a pained expression.

"I don't know, you seem ready to take on the world." Barbara's voice was silky and warm. "Why don't you show us a little of what you can do?"

Rodney looked over at the therapist, whose pillowy lips hinted at a smile. With a huff, Laura placed her husband upon a low glass table in the center of the group, claiming her arms were getting tired. The muscular little man kicked aside a couple tabloid publications and began to stretch. Today he wore miniature charcoal dress trousers and a black Bundeswahr tank top, and his dark hair was cropped close to his scalp. With a sharp grin he flung up his arms, showing off his deltoids and traps. He rotated slowly upon the table, working through a sequence of poses, curling his arms this way and that, throwing out one leg or drawing his limbs in tightly.

Laura coughed quietly. "Honey, I think that's enough, now." But the middle-aged woman disagreed, her long, sandy hair falling in thick whorls about her husband as she leaned forward to study the demonstration. Barbara cleared her throat and writhed in her seat slightly, crossing and uncrossing her legs as the tiny muscle groups bulged, stretched, and shuddered with shocks of power not far from her bare, sun-kissed knees. Only Miriam seemed disengaged, regarding the tiny weightlifter politely but otherwise preoccupied. She appeared to mutter to herself during the show, tucking her chin into the start of her cleavage and kissing the air as she whispered.

At last, Rodney tugged up his tank top and showed off his washboard abs, in miniature, garnering enthusiastic applause from Barbara and the older woman on Laura's left, and some eye-rolling from the besweatered, bespectacled man on her knee. Laura retrieved her husband and sat back in her chair.

"That was spectacular, little man," Barbara announced. She glanced around at the other people. "No one else has to put on a little show like that, if you're feeling intimidated." She laughed, as did the middle-aged woman and Miriam; Laura only pet her husband roughly, ignoring his protests. "Now, how about you, Margaret?"

The middle-aged woman smiled a wide, warm, smile. Her eyes were soft and tired and wise, and her hair flowed like honey from her scalp and over her shoulders. She relaxed in her seat to prominently display her own tiny man, a lean and fashionably scruffy little fellow in meticulous miniature glasses and a classic beige sweater with leather elbow pads. Together they appeared very scholarly and cultured, but there was a tug in her smile and a slump in his shoulders that hinted at something more.

"My name's Margaret Kelley," she said. "This is Lionel." He raised a hand and smiled, staring a little too long at the massive heap of woman on the loveseat. "We've been together since high school. We have three lovely children, two young women and a young man, who have finally made their way off to college."

"Congratulations!" Laura chirped.

Margaret grinned at her languidly. "I'm afraid we're the classic empty-nesters. All these years we've been looking forward for this moment, and now it's just the two of us in this big, empty house by the lake." She shrugged and ran two fingertips down her husband's arms. "I'm a freelance editor, and Lionel is an adjunct professor with the university. Mostly online, of course."

Barbara beamed at them, tapping a pen against the arm of her stuffed chair. "An editor, how interesting! What's your specialty?"

For a moment, Margaret's eyes flashed and lost their weariness. She smiled, tilted her head, and parted her teeth to draw a long, stalling breath. "Erotica," she said, glancing at the muscular little man in Laura's clutches. This, over Lionel's head and behind his back.

"And you're a professor," called out Miriam. Her bosom heaved over her forearms folded in her lap. "What do you teach?"

Lionel's tiny head shook abruptly as he tore his gaze from the deep chasm of her cleavage and looked up into her weak smile and washed-out eyes. "I, uh, that is... Etruscan−" he started, before his wife's long, slender index finger wound around his head and muffled him.

"Don't get him started," she said, smiling. "He'll go on for the rest of our session, and then some." She laughed, and Laura lightly touched her shoulder and made a comment about little men who need to much attention. In response, Margaret raised her head and looked down her nose at the small, indignant man straddling Laura's lean, yoga-panted thigh. "Well, some people demand a lot of attention," she murmured, "and some people naturally command it. Don't you agree?" The smile wavered on Laura's face, while Rodney's tiny, dark eyes glittered at the middle-aged woman.

Licking her teeth, Barbara turned attention away from the couple across from her and to the large woman on her right, all on her lonesome. "And now we come to you, Miriam. But it looks like you arrived without your partner?"

"Oh, that!" Miriam's body shuddered as she laughed. "No, he's here! I don't go anywhere without my little Brent!" Before anyone knew what was going on, the large woman thrust her pudgy hands deep into her own cleavage, appearing to struggle to heave her own breasts apart. "Come on out now, it's time for introductions!"

Lionel could ogle her freely now, as everyone stared with slack jaws at the dumpy, plain woman pawing her own chest. Miriam tilted her head, and limp and curly hair slipped down her rounded shoulder to spill over one immense boob. "Oh, are you stuck? Silly little man! Guess it's up to me to rescue you from my body, once again!" She laughed and comically rolled her eyes at the other participants. Bending at the waist, her belly flattened and spread over her chunky thighs as she exposed the chasm between her abundant boobs to the room.

"Miriam, really!" Barbara vacillated between amusement and shock, or so she transmitted to the group.

"Come on out of there, don't be shy!" Miriam crowed like a circus barker. She clutched the low-cut neckline and gave her boobs a vigorous shake.

Margaret shot Laura a glance. "This is bordering on obscene," she hissed, but Laura only gabbled wordlessly, staring at the flabby, dancing spheres, unable even to blink. As for Rodney and Lionel, they too gazed into the abyss and, after a moment, discovered it gazed back. A round smudge of pale flesh emerged from the recesses of Miriam's summer frocks, within the plunging, inky cavern of her cleavage. The smudge grew thick, dark glasses frames and sprouted a wiry tuft of brown hair atop an expression of resentment. It was followed by a damp plaid shirt and dark green chinos: a tedious, plain, and frustrated little man carefully stepped out of the darkness and picked his way across the shaky platform of Miriam's dress interior. Finally freed, he took two steps upon the broad, bare knee that emerged from beneath her dress and leaped, clearing the distance from the loveseat to the coffee table. The little man stumbled, skidding on a magazine, but righted himself.

"I could do that," muttered Rodney.

"You've met Miriam," the nebbishy man called out, straightening his outfit and smoothing his hair, "and Miriam being Miriam, it won't occur to her to make introductions. My name is Brent Little, and before you start, I've heard all the jokes." He raised a hand as though he were large enough to ward off anything the group could toss his way. It was a futile gesture, and all he could do was nod as the puns flew over his head like gunfire. "That's right, get it all out."

Miriam straightened up like a massive, mythological monster and made cursory adjustments to her neckline, ensuring it still showed off plenty of mammary. "There's no need to be rude, little Brent," she sniffed. Margaret chuckled, despite herself. "I just wanted to make sure you felt comfortable being out here at all."

"Of course I wanted to come out!" His voice was sharp and surprisingly loud. "I hate riding in there, it's frankly humiliating!"

Miriam leered at Margaret and Laura. "Oh, he loves it, don't listen to him." She did not notice Lionel licking his lips and folding his hands before his crotch. "I needed to be confident that you would be present here, you know, really make an effort at this group therapy thing."

Brent stamped his foot, a dull thud against the vast glass plate. "It was my idea! Christ, Miriam, are you seriously trying to redirect the narrative before we even get started?"

Barbara had been straining to stifle a fit of giggles behind her hand, but now she cleared her throat and waved her arms. "Okay, okay, everyone. We've made introductions, that's a great start."

"But we didn't say what we do!" Miriam whined.

Up went Barbara's sculpted eyebrows. "By all means."

"You go ahead," Miriam said, poking her husband with a thick, sausage-like finger crowned in a thick, acrylic French nail tip. He yelped and swatted uselessly at the meaty digit, yelling that he was an accountant for a law firm and couldn't talk much about it. "And I'm a kept woman!" Miriam's cheeks practically inflated as she grinned happily at the group. "My little guy earns so much, all I have to do all day is lie around, eat ice cream, and watch my stories!"

"That was my first guess," whispered Laura to Margaret, earning a playful swat from her neighbor. Rodney grinned up at her and told her it was a good one, until he spotted Barbara glaring at them.

"That's very good, everyone," she said steadily, slightly louder than indoor volume. "Thank you for being forthcoming. I'm sure we all learned quite a bit about each other, didn't we? And now−"

"Hold on," piped up a tiny voice. "You didn't talk about yourself. Aren't you going to take a turn?" Laura blushed and tried to cover her little husband, but Rodney batted her fingers away.

"I'm not married," said Barbara. She shook her head in disbelief.

"Of course, but I think we'd all like to learn a little about you," returned Lionel, nodding at Rodney.

That got two raised eyebrows from her. She then turned to Brent.

"What they said." Brent buttoned and unbuttoned his top shirt button and avoided the sultry therapist's gaze. "And stop that," he yelled at his wife who was leaning over the table, clapping her breasts and making om-nom-nom noises at him.

"I don't know how much there is to say," Barbara started, sitting up straight and resting her hands upon her knees. "I went straight into college from high school, earned all A's, and got my licensure as quickly as I could. I apprenticed at another clinic for a few years, but happened to show up at the right time when office space in this old mansion became available." She looked around the room, up at the ceiling, showing off the graceful neck beneath thick, rich waves of mahogany hair. "It just happened that the former owner was an Anthropole as well and, when he learned about my specialty—counseling to mixed-size relationships—he cut me a deal on office space. What can I say?" She shrugged and grinned at her clients. "Charmed existence. Now then, are we ready to start a real conversation?" She made a show of glancing at her watch, though a large, ivory analogue clock was positioned on the wall behind Margaret and Lionel.

Margaret glanced at Laura and Miriam, then asked, "How do we start?"

"I thought we'd try a round of icebreakers."

Lionel looked up at his wife and laughed. "That wasn't the icebreaker?" She smirked and covered his face in a kiss.

"These are just little exercises," Barbara continued, "to learn more about each other. And it's not just for the benefit of each couple, obviously. We'll all be sharing with each other, as a group."

"And you will too!" cried Rodney.

"Oh, Rodney. You're not going to give me any trouble, are you?" Barbara uncrossed her legs, briefly exposing the shadowy chasm between her thighs to the muscular little man. "Because I'm as well-versed in group counseling and emotional healing as I am in discipline, positive and negative." She recrossed her legs and ground her thighs together, muscles tensing beneath her sheath skirt. "And you all signed a waiver to attend these sessions," she added, eyeing Lionel and Brent for good measure, "or you had them signed for you, as the case may be. Now, I don't suppose any of you bothered to actually read the terms to which you are now legally bound, did you?"

The women exchanged nervous glances. If the men had anything to say, no one noticed.

Barbara's teeth glinted in a catlike smile. "There's nothing to worry about, I assure you. I like to tease everyone, just for a moment, to throw particularly rigid people off-balance and to open up everyone's minds. You all have every reason to anticipate that these are going to be some very interesting, unusual sessions together." Barbara's knee-high beige scrunch boots had very long, thin heels, and she twisted her foot gently upon one of these: Rodney and Brent stared at this action, momentarily frozen with tension, while Lionel was too far to see, with the coffee table in his way.

"Now, then," iterated the therapist. "Icebreakers. Ready? Favorite ice cream: go."

"Oh, um, me?" said Laura. "Well, we don't each much ice cream, to be honest. Once in a while, during the summer, w might have a frozen yogurt. But it's not really our thing, what with the fats and empty carbs."

"Butter brickle!" yelled Rodney, grinning up at Barbara. The group tittered.

"Good job playing ball, Rodney," Barbara purred. "Margaret?"

"I don't want to come off as high-maintenance," she said, "but there's one particular flavor I like the best. It's a cherry ice cream, but the ice cream is white. It's just flavor. And there are broken plates of chocolate embedded in it, along with chunks of cherry. It's a combination of the textures, biting into a crispy cherry and feeling the chocolate shatter between my teeth, that's what I love about it."

Lionel stared up at her. "I had no idea that was your favorite," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "What you don't know about me, sweetie..." His tiny shoulders sank as he turned to the group, but before he could announce his preference, his wife cut in: "Dark chocolate brownie, with hot fudge."

He laughed and coughed. "Well, she has to get it for me, so I guess she'd know." The group chuckled politely at this.

"I just like them all!" exclaimed Miriam. "I haven't met an ice cream I don't like! But you know what they need to make?" She leered at Barbara, who was sure she hadn't the slightest idea. "Little Man Ice Cream! Think about it! French vanilla ice cream, chocolate chunks, peanut butter swirls, and every once in a while you dig out a tiny little man!"

Margaret and Laura exchanged glances.

"And you can suck on him for a while," Miriam said, plucking up her screaming husband by his ankle and dangling him into her mouth. "Mmm! And you can hold him in your mouth and let him thaw," which she did, with her fully clothed and hot-blooded husband. "And then after that, who knows? You can eat him," she said, snapping her teeth at his flailing limbs, "or you've got another mouth that can eat him." Blushing cutely, she plucked at the hem of her skirt and lowered the shrieking, fighting little man between her fat knees.

"Not here! Not here, for Christ's sake!" Brent twisted furiously between her fingertips as he disappeared into the bulging valley of her thighs.

Barbara cleared her throat. "Please, Miriam, that's quite enough."

Miriam pouted and tossed her husband roughly to the coffee table. "But I thought this was couples counseling. How d'you think couples get started?" She winked broadly at Margaret and Laura.

Producing a tissue from nowhere, Barbara leaned forward from her recliner and began to mop the moisture from Brent's clothing. He insisted he could get it, but she insisted right back that she take care of this, shooting Miriam a dark look. "There is a time and place for such behavior, Mrs. Little. I will ask you to respect my sanctum or you will be asked to leave, without a refund."

Miriam's jaw worked a couple times but no sounds came out. Finally she harrumph'ed and slumped back into the loveseat, seemingly unaware of the wide canyon of inner thighs she exposed toward Rodney. Rodney noticed and made a show of perching on his wife's knee and turning to face her; Lionel noticed and Margaret noticed how he couldn't stop noticing.

"And," Barbara continued. "We're not done yet. Everyone? I'll wait." That got the room's attention, if for no other reason than they all thought themselves above being spoken to like unruly children. Miriam bought into it, looking abashed as she sat up and futilely tugged her skirt into place. Margaret and Lionel stared at the therapist with matching furrowed brows, matching expressions of disbelief. Yet while Laura looked cowed, Rodney only fell into a respectful silence while looking resentful as hell, which was still hard to take seriously on even a muscular man of four or five inches tall.

Barbara let the obedient silence rest for a moment, fixing each pair with her gaze in turn. "All right, next project: share something funny that happened to you as a child," she announced.

There was another moment of silence, but this one was thoughtful and searching rather than how dare you-ish. "Huh," said Rodney. Margaret asked, "So, like, second grade?" "I hardly remember," said Brent, glancing up at Miriam, who wanted to ask why her husband couldn't recall his childhood. Lionel had the urge to ask his wife where she went to elementary school, yet didn't want to be publicly shamed for not knowing yet another important fact about his spouse of thirty years.

Barbara looked among the group members. "I'm absolutely not going to volunteer anything about myself until some of you have gone."

Though the counselor wasn't looking at her, Miriam raised her hand slightly. "I think I've got one. Or how young are we talking about?" Barbara thought she would allow anything through the teenage years. "Okay. Well, there were these woods behind my school, and they were full of dirt trails for kids on their bikes, but on the weekends no one would go there, so I could take quiet walks there." Brent stared up at her and said she'd never told him this.

"I just liked to get away somewhere quiet," she said. "My parents fought a lot, and I didn't have any friends to go to the mall with. I was almost as big as I am now. I was almost as tall and almost as big around. You can imagine how popular that made me with the other kids." She smoothed her skirt over her enormous thighs, then slightly lifted one arm to stare at it. "I'd go walking in the woods. It was nice and quiet, these trees on the edge of the suburb, just squirrels and little brown birds. LBBs, I called them.

"One day I found someone else in the woods, a boy a few grades below me. If this was..." She thought about it. "I was in eighth grade and he was in fifth. I was weaving sticks together to make this kind of thing that exploded when you threw it, but I looked up and he was standing behind me, kind of hiding behind some trees, with his pants down. I just stood up and walked over to him. He didn't run away, just stared at me like he was scared, his little hand on his little penis." Miriam looked guiltily at the therapist. "I sucked him off. I wasn't even sure what I was doing, it just seemed natural. It just started with a little kiss, the head of his dick sticking out of his fist. I kissed it, and when he let it go I sucked it into my mouth and worked it with my tongue."

Margaret wore the shade of a smile on her face, while Laura looked horrified. Conversely, Lionel covered his mouth with one hand and Rodney perched on his wife's knee, staring in fascination. Brent tried to wave for his wife to bring over one of her hands for him to hold, but she shook her head. "It's okay. I licked at him, and he came in my mouth, and I guess I swallowed it. I just sat there, kneeling on the ground, and he pulled up his pants and walked away, and then I went home."

Barbara asked, "Were the kids cruel about it, at school?"

Miriam shook her head again. "He never told anyone and I didn't either. No one ever knew until you guys, right now. I saw him once or twice after that but we never talked."

"Would you have done it again?" Rodney asked. Laura tucked her middle finger behind her thumb and thwapped him fairly hard upon the back of his tiny skull.

"I don't know." Miriam's fat bottom lip pushed out. "I really don't know. I didn't want to date him or anything. It was just kind of a thing that happened."

Margaret asked, "Do you think about him, ever?" Brent looked into Miriam's eyes as best he could.

"Sometimes. When I'm sucking on you," she told her husband. "When I take you into my mouth... this sounds bad, but you kind of feel like him. I'm sorry." He looked stricken and he swore quietly. "No, no, sweetie, it's a good thing. That moment, I've never felt raw, wild passion like that. It was like the rest of the world shut down and we were two moving parts in a big machine that came together for that moment. I don't even think I'd want it again, it wouldn't be the same. But holy fuck, yes. I think about it once in a while." Finally she reached out for her husband and rested him upon one huge breast. He didn't fight or complain: he sat upon her wobbly flesh and tried to look into her face, but she only turned away to stare at the bookshelves.

"That was very, very brave of you, Miriam," said Barbara. "I'd like to remind everyone here that anything they say must be treated with utmost confidentiality. And just because you heard something here doesn't mean the person talking about it is necessarily comfortable talking about it with you, so please try to respect that. But thank you, Miriam. Now, Brent, what does that story mean to you? Does it show you anything about your wife that you didn't know before?"

Brent shifted to look at the therapist. His tiny shoes skidded over the soft, pale field of Miriam's breast. "I guess? I mean, I think so, but I don't know how to say it without sounding insulting." Miriam gasped and strained to look down at her husband.

"Well, framing it like that, Brent, I think it's okay if you took an attempt at it." Barbara's smoky eyes flickered up to Miriam's face. "Is that okay, Miriam? Do you understand that your husband may not have the vocabulary for what he's feeling right now? We women tend to do the emotional heavy-lifting for men, which leaves them a little stunted in their development." She smiled. "No pun intended."

"I guess," whispered Miriam. She planted her fists in the loveseat cushions, and her diminutive husband rose and fell slowly with her deep breath.

Brent winced under the pressure of all eyes turning to him. "I don't want this to sound mean at all. I'm not trying to disrespect you, honey. You know I love you."

"Out with it, Brent," urged Barbara.

"Okay. Okay." The tiny man also took a deep breath. "Frankly, this kind of shows me where you get your sexual appetite from. It looks like you've always been wired for freaky sex."

"Christ," whispered Rodney, and Brent glanced at him. "What, am I wrong?" he asked plaintively. "It's not a bad thing! It just... sometimes I wondered. You can be a little overwhelming sometimes, and I didn't know whether that was you or me. I haven't been with," he started, then choked on his words. Miriam swiped him off her tit and kissed him, sucking his entire head between her lips. She giggled at the saliva coating his face and licked it off, once, briefly, and he hugged her thumb.

"I dunno, that just seems like a ballsy kinda thing to say in front of everyone," Rodney said.

"I think you just volunteered to go next, Rodney." Barbara grinned at him, and Linda looked down in surprise.

The muscular little man cursed but smiled back. "Okay, all right. There is something funny I used to do when I was a kid." He motioned to his wife, who picked him up and reached for the coffee table. "No, no, just around me," he said. Laura looked surprised, but she placed him upon her thigh and cupped her palms gently around him.

"I used to be this girl's pet, see."

"Oh, no, not this," said Laura, glancing at Barbara. "This story's going to get us in trouble."

The therapist shook her head, dark brown hair shimmying with a deliciousness inappropriate to the moment. "If you'd all read your waivers, you'd know that I'm not required to report anything to the authorities that, in my professional opinion, doesn't constitute a serious and present risk to your health or the welfare of anyone you know. I know some of what we're going to say may sound kind of shocking, but if someone has something they really want to share, I think it could be a useful bonding experience." Barbara's smirk did nothing to comfort Laura, but Rodney took it as a good sign.

"So I was a girl's pet. We were about the same age, that is, after I bonded with her we were about seven years old. You ladies know how that works?" Margaret and Barbara nodded but Miriam looked confused. "We tiny people—I guess the PC term is Anthropoles, now—we only live about five or six years on our own, out in the wild. But if we bond with one of you Bigs, and bonding is some kind of, I dunno, special emotional attachment? Then we start to catch up to speed with you and can live as long as you do."

"Have you bonded with me?" Miriam asked Brent. He waved her off and said he'd explain later.

"Her folks got me at a pet store−"

"You're a 900?" Lionel blurted.

Rodney gave him a dark look but nodded. "That's another story, but yeah. They got me at the pet store, she picked me out because I looked like her age, and then I became her living, breathing toy. I don't think she understood what Tinies... Anthropoles really were, but she knew to be careful with me, kept me fed and all that good stuff, put me away at night." He paused and ran his palm over Laura's thumbnail. "Usually. Sometimes she let me sleep with her, and it's not what you're all thinking right now, all right? We were kids. It was sweet and innocent."

"I'm sure no one's judging you now, Rodney," Barbara said. She checked everyone else's expressions.

"I'd just lie next to her pillow or whatever. But some nights, I got a little restless or curious, and I'd go walking. I didn't jump down to the floor, because the family also had this Schnauzer that was just a prick. They couldn't let him anywhere near me, they couldn't convince him I was part of their family. I was always just a snack to those shiny, soulless black eyes." Rodney tugged at Laura's thumbs, and she wrapped her hands closely around him. "So I'd go walking around her little bed, like, over the sheets or under them. Don't gimme that look," he snapped at Margaret.

Everyone turned to see what she was doing. She shrugged and swore she hadn't a thought in her mind.

"My favorite thing was to walk all around her body, like, put my right hand against her shoulder and start walking, never leaving contact with her. I thought of myself as her guard, I guess." His smile was lopsided and embarrassed. "And I'd walk around her and pull guard duty, making sure everything was okay, no one was coming to steal her or whatever, you know? But spent extra time around her feet. I'm not one of those guys, she just had really cute feet. I don't think that's too big a leap for anyone here to make." He looked around at the group, from the hole in the top of the shelter of Laura's hands.

"And I didn't do anything weird, right? I just... talked to them."

Brent laughed nervously. "And what did they say?"

"No, no, I just talked to them, like, 'Nice night, ladies,' or 'How's she treatin' ya?' Like parts of her body could talk and I was checking in with them." He looked down. "It was just a game I played. I was bored. She kept me in a box most of the day, and I'd get to play with her in the evenings or have breakfast with her before she went to school, but I'd get bored. So at night I'd visit her feet and just kinda cuddle them. Nothing weird, there's nothing wrong with a hug, is there? I was just a kid, after all, I didn't know from nothing." His head began to sink in the igloo formed by his wife's hands. "And maybe I practiced kissing on them. I thought it would be important to learn how to kiss, and her toes were really pretty."

"You did this all while she was asleep?" Margaret asked. Lionel seemed particularly shielded by how her honey-blonde hair fell around him.

"This was a funnier story when I first told you about it," Rodney said to his wife. She shushed him and covered him completely, looking entreatingly to the counselor.

"I think that's our time for today," Barbara said, shifting in her seat.

 

 

"That went bad," said Rodney. He looked like a petulant action figure, with his little arms folded across his chest, his legs splayed and reaching nowhere near the edge of the seat. When Laura glanced at him, on the drive home, the thing that she noticed foremost was how much space there was around him. Open, empty footwells, a wide passenger seat, even an unobstructed view of the passenger door. To glance at her husband was almost hazardous, factoring how long she had to take her eyes off the road to pick out the tiny knot of angry man at the base of the backrest. He was nearly buried under the broad band of woven nylon seatbelt, as well.

Laura turned back to traffic and suppressed her smile. "Whatever made you think it would be a good idea to share that story?"

He strained mightily against the seatbelt. "You did! You told me they'd all find it amusing!"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly have suggested that. This was the first session, I hadn't met anyone. I had no idea what any of them are into." She pumped her brakes and made a show of swearing, to impart her husband with the impression that she was negotiating hostile traffic. In fact, the road was mostly empty.

The tiny man folded over the seatbelt and choked. "You said it was a hilarious story that anyone would enjoy!"

She looked up thoughtfully. "Did I? I think we're remembering things differently, sweetie."

They drove on in silence for a while, with Laura pretending to dodge cars and avoid rear-ending other motorists, for the simple pleasure of watching her petulant little man jerk violently in his seat. If he wouldn't ride in the MicroPassenge case, well, he had to understand the risks of trying to act like a big person, she felt.

"No, I see what I did wrong," Rodney said at long last. "This was my fault. I get it now."

Laura grinned at him. "That's awfully big of you, little man."

His face, ugly with anger, turn up toward her. "It was my fucking fault for taking advice from you. That was the stupidest decision I made."

"Excuse me?" She checked traffic ahead of her before fixing him with a long, steady gaze.

"I should've known you'd fuck me over in our first group session. Set me up for a bad first impression, make me look like the asshole."

"And why would I do that to you, sweetie?"

He laughed. "So you could set the stage! Now they'll listen to anything you gotta say, and blow me off because I'm just this little perv who made out with his step-sister's feet! Not even my step-sister, no blood or legal relation at all, but that's not what they'll think when they look at me!" Fitfully he punched the air and wrestled with his seatbelt some more. "They won't even see little-kid me doing it. They'll see me, big, grown adult me humping some small child's foot! That's what you set up!"

It was very difficult for Laura not to burst into laughter. She covered her mouth with one slim palm and turned slightly away as she snorted, but nonetheless managed to cough out: "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

She repeated herself several times that evening, as he blew up at her at intervals. "Now I look like a big fucking pervert," he yelled over his workout, hefting small balls of lead around and fighting against rubber bands.

"You don't look like a big anything, trust me," she replied from her stationary bicycle.

"First goddamn impression," Rodney yelled up at her, while sawing through broccoli stems and chopping through florets. "First day, first impression. Hi, I'm Rodney, I fucked my sister's feet while she was passed out and helpless. Pleased to meetcha."

"I'm sure no one thinks that," she called back from the vegetable crisper in the fridge.

"Next week's going to be a fucking treat," he grumbled, splashing around in a pool of soapy, rapidly chilling water in the bathroom sink. "They're all going to give me a look when I come in. They're going to be on the edge of their seats, waiting to hear what revelation I dump on them next. What else am I into? Who else have I violated? What other family problems do I have?"

Laura slammed down her toothbrush on the vanity and glared down at him. "Look, what the hell do you want from me, Rodney?" Her words sprayed flecks of toothpaste around him.

"I want you to admit you did this on purpose."

She loomed over him, her head and shoulders seemingly supported by long, thin arms mounted on the sides of his sink, her blonde hair swinging freely and slightly kinked from being bound all day. "Okay, fine," she said, slamming her palm on the drain plunger. He scrambled away from the passage that sucked in all his water. "You're right. I encouraged you to tell that stupid story because I wanted you to look bad." Laura turned the hot water tap and found it scalding. She snatched her little husband up in spindly fingers that nonetheless overpowered him and regarded the powerful pillar of steaming water. It would shut him up. It would teach him to watch his mouth. She could almost see the water flowing around his bulging chest, between his powerful thighs, reddening the skin like a boiled lobster everywhere it touched.

Instead, she turned on the cold water and found a reasonable temperature to rinse the suds off him. The tiny man fought and swore and kicked and grappled, but Laura had no trouble at all with turning him this way and that, exposing his armpits and crotch to the cleansing stream. This, predictably, pissed him off all the more, but she gave him no mind as she spat and rinsed her mouth and toted him to the bedroom.

She tossed him into the center of the mattress. His tiny body was stunned into a momentarily stillness. "You're right, okay? You're kind of dumb, so I gave you bad advice to make you look like an idiot, and you more than lived up to that. If you're open to more advice, little man, never tell that story to anyone ever again." She pulled her top over her head, then tugged her sports bra off as well, revealing two glowing pink buds standing out from her chest. "Except me. Tell me that story when I tell you to, because I think it's hot. I love picturing a young, little you walking around tender girl's feet, stumbling around under the sheets, sneaking where you shouldn't be." She stared at him, where he sat upright in the center of the broad landscape of their bed. He made no attempt to flee or even crawl away; he only sat in place and gaped at her.

She turned and pulled her Lycra running pants off her narrow hips. They hissed over her thighs and slender calves and fell to the floor in a silken pool. Clad only in a thin, aging pair of white-and-pink cotton panties, she faced her husband and planted bony little fists upon her nonexistent hips. Her intense physical regimen and vegetarian diet had left her more than a little boyish-looking in appearance, with understated features and good muscular tone. Seeing Miriam enter the room, with her huge boobs and huge ass falling all over the place, had given Laura mixed feelings of sickening envy and basic disgust. She would never be able to hide Rodney away in her cleavage like that. But to be fair to Rodney, he wasn't the one drooling all over the cartoonishly voluptuous woman, and Laura wondered whether Lionel was catching the third degree from Margaret at this moment.

Laura stepped away for only as long as it took to turn off the overhead light and click on the lamp on her nightstand. "Tell me that story now," she said, stepping up to the edge of the bed. She could feel the hem of the mattress press against her thighs, the hardwood floor beneath her slim, flat soles. She raised one of her feet, stretching her slender leg with consummate control, and planted it in the quilted space between her hips and her husband. In the dim light her rosy, rounded toes flexed against the fabric.

"I don't want to," Rodney said. He spoke slowly and quietly, distracted.

"Tell me," she said, and her foot slid slowly over the quilt. Her toes curled and grasped at the fabric, crawling toward his little body. "Tell me the story of that strange, unrelated girl and what you did to her."

"I don't want to." Sluggishly he reached behind himself and scooted his pert little butt over the quilt, backing away from the huge foot.

"Tell me more detail," she said. Biting her bottom lip, she leaned forward and climbed upon the bed, rising to a standing position. Her rail-like body loomed over him in the dim bedroom light. Carefully she balanced upon one stork-like leg and tugged her panties off her hips, flinging them far over the edge of their quilted island. "Tell me how her skin smelled," she said, inching one bare foot alongside his knobby, sprawling body. "Tell me how that tight, fresh skin felt." She splayed her toes and pinched his head in them.

Rodney didn't fight back. He watched her scrawny toes widen and stretch and descend upon him. He let his limbs go limp as Laura lifted him away from the quilt, not entirely coordinated as she balanced upon one leg. Moaning quietly, he reached up to stroke her big toe. Tiny, transparent hairs bent and slipped away beneath his palm.

"Did I tell you to touch me!" she shrieked, kicking her foot out and waggling the tiny man's body like a rag doll. "Put your filthy hand down and tell me the story!" She opened her toes and he dropped quickly to the quilt again.

"I don't want to," he whispered. "You can't make me."

Laura's hand slid over her bony hip and down the flat plane of her belly to nestle between her thighs. Her fingertips plowed into her meticulously shaven labia, kneading the flesh as she stepped up and planted her feet on either side of Rodney. His diminutive body rolled from side to side as she stepped up with one foot and the other. He rocked and tumbled against the bridges of her feet as she shifted her weight and kept him from stabilizing himself.

"Tell me what you liked about it, little man." Bracing her fingertips against the ceiling, she slowly lifted one foot in the still, warm bedroom air. She saw her lean thigh tense and her calf working slightly as her thin, knife-like foot glowed softly in empty space. She knew that all he could see was a slightly wrinkled loaf of pale skin and toes like stubby fingers ending in pink pearls, blocking out any glimpse of her just as she could no longer see her husband beneath her slender foot.

She heard him say, "I liked how soft her sole was," and she slowly lowered her foot upon him. He moaned in the second before she covered his little body completely and drove him into the mattress. Her left thumb flicked at the nub of her nipple, and her right hand clutched her pussy possessively. She felt his tiny arm squirming beneath her sensitive skin, rubbing at his own crotch as he recited how her skin tasted like candy, how her ticklish toes would retract and flex and then capture his head. She moaned, then held her breath, pressing him harder into their bed, relishing his struggle to survive against her mere foot. He fought so hard, with his toned little body, his tiny developed muscles, yet it was such a fight against her inadequate paw, and she hated him for his weakness, and she loved how strong he made her feel. She loved how he had no choice but to recite this humiliating story while she stepped on him with her dirty foot, how he worked out and got stronger and built himself up, and yet his entire life rested beneath her sweaty, clammy sole while he babbled about fucking his young owner's foot. It was so hard to remain standing as she came.

* * *

"How about that little guy," Margaret said in her Audi. "Men are just the same at any size, aren't they?"

Lionel made agreement-noises and bounced gently in the crocheted hammock, resting against her sternum. He studied the wrinkles slowly forming in her neck, watched her throat work up and down while she talked and laughed.

"What a little pervert," she said.

"Nailed it in one," he called back over the engine's purr.

"Is he completely shameless? Does he absolutely have no shame?"

"Seems that way."

"You have to wonder what life has done to someone, to break them like that."

"You just never know."

"And that poor woman."

The light clicked on in Lionel's head and he realized they were talking about Rodney and not Brent. "She looked mortified, didn't she? It was a little comical, watching her slowly cover him up as he spun out of control."

She laughed, like he knew she would. Margaret had a sweet tooth for other people's anguish. "What she needs is a little more assertiveness, with that one. Don't let him go running off at the mouth, nip that in the bud. Put her foot down."

Lionel recalled that Laura had been wearing running shoes to the therapy session. He wondered what kind of people showed up to a group psychotherapy session in their workout clothes. It showed dedication, sure, but it rather did away with the social agreement that strangers be clean and presentable for each other, especially if they were going to form groups. He wondered whether the athletic couple likewise judged him for his scholarly appearance, and whether it were possible to attach a stigma to someone for looking too intelligent. If so, he probably wasn't going to get along with Laura and Rodney. Drawing a deep breath to disperse his newfound stress, he stuck one arm through a loop in his hammock and pressed his tiny palm to his wife's bare skin. The Audi shot smoothly through traffic, singing its quiet song through the dashboard.

It wasn't until dinner that Margaret turned on him. He'd loaded the rubber hose from the oak tun into her glass, filling it up one-third full with Sauvignon, and had barely shoved the spout to the OFF position when she called from the kitchen: "Is Miriam your type of woman?"

He froze for a moment, holding the flaccid hose from the small oak barrel, feeling exposed in the middle of the wide, round dining room table. "No, of course not," he said reflexively.

She snorted, way off in the distance, in the kitchen. "You're a terrible liar, Lionel. You were ogling her from the moment her western hemisphere entered the room. I don't blame you," she called out over the clatter of assembling silverware. "She's quite an unusual character, I think. I'm torn between thinking that dress was a symptom of a pathology of tackiness, which merits its own therapeutic sessions apart from today, or that it could have been intentional and proffering her monstrosity was an awkward beacon for a very specific type of man. What do you think?"

Lionel made a big deal of shaking the last drops of wine out of the hose, into her glass, before spooling it up. "I, well, I, ah…" he started.

"Speak up, Lionel. Don't be shy. We all have our kinks, our hidden proclivities. Did Miriam tap into something deep inside you?"

"Well, now, I wouldn't say…"

Metal scraped against metal as she rounded up the knives with which she'd prepared the evening's dinner and slid them beside the sink. "Lionel! It's a very simple question, yes or no."

"Well, no, Margaret, I wouldn't say I do."

The silence in the kitchen caused him to look up, and he found his wife staring at him, half-lidded, eyebrows slightly raised, wearing a smug smirk. He knew she felt she was calling him out on his bullshit. "She's quite a voluptuous woman, after all," she said, as though musing to herself. She moved a skillet from one part of the stove to another. "All those curves. That's what men like these days, I suppose. How do they put it: a little meat on their bones?" She turned, swinging the cutting board into the sink to brush off some stems and mop off some juice.

"Though it's not meat, of course. A woman like that gets all her curves from large deposits of fat. Yet there's still some comfort to be had in that." She toweled off the cutting board and replaced it, then shoved her hand into an oven mitt and retrieved a baguette from where it slowly baked. "Soft, warm padding, like a big, living pillow. Yes, I think that would be quite comforting, all that soft flesh, couching you and supporting you. There's something almost beautiful in the thought of floating inside a woman. Not like a baby, of course, not literally inside her, but resting upon her," she said, scraping a clove of raw garlic over the toasty bread.

"I could almost imagine your position, now that I'm talking about it. A tiny little man like Brent, embedded between those enormous, soft breasts of Miriam's? Yes, I can see that. I can see why you'd be attracted to that, Lionel." She loaded the French bread onto a platter and rounded the corner into the dining room, slamming the bread carelessly close to Lionel's tiny body. "I'm sorry I can't provide that for you."

Lionel gaped at her, struggling to speak as she glared at him, brushing her palms over her thighs for a moment. When he said nothing, she grabbed her wine and drained half of it in a toss. "Very classy, Lionel. Rub it in my face, why don't you." She turned and darted back into the kitchen, retrieving the rest of her meal.

"Margaret! I haven't said a word!" While he knew this to be technically true, he wondered how much he gave away through his silence. He paced by her dinner plate until she returned with a sirloin and mushrooms for one. "Most people are too large for me as it is, Margaret. Think about it: why would I go for someone who's even larger than the average giant? It's grotesque, Margaret," he called out emphatically over her plate, as she pulled out her chair and twisted to nestle her rather scrawny hips down.

She glanced at him before sliding the steak off the serving platter onto her own plate. Lionel jumped as the steaming beef smacked the porcelain, and he kept his distance as she sawed savagely into it. Her expression was nothing but business as she studied the grain of the meat and executed her cuts with ruthless precision. "Please don't insult me, Lionel. We've been together for too long to pretend we're strangers to each other. I can feel when your body goes stiff with attention." She glanced at him briefly. "Your whole body, not just your dinky little winky. I can feel when your temperature rises. I could feel all the air around you tighten and go still as you stared at her, for crying out loud." She slammed the steak knife upon her plate, then straightened up with artificial composure. Closing her eyes, she turned away and drew a long breath as a smile contorted over her jaws.

"But it's fine," she said dryly. "It's fine. You can find whomever you like attractive, Lionel." She waved him off as he protested, and she speared a button mushroom onto a rectangle of beef, seared on the edges and tender and pink in the middle. "Miriam's a novelty. It's cruel to call her a freak, that's beneath me. And if you want to stare, why, you can stare all you like. I know you're faithful," she enunciated slowly. Locking him in eye contact, she stuck the beef into her mouth and chewed slowly.

Lionel stood motionless, arms hanging at his sides. "I don't find her attractive, Margaret. I'm not sure why you're giving me the third degree on this, and you're being frankly insulting."

Margaret's jaw worked round and round as she stared at him. She wiped the corner of her lips with her knuckle and went for her wine. "Are you really scared to open up to me, Lionel? After all this time?" She sipped at her glass. "I suppose I've earned that. I've got all the power in this relationship, after all. I earn more, the kids love me better, the house is in my name, and I could crush your skull like a grape." She snorted as his shoulders slumped. "Just tell me what you find so sexy about her. Just be honest with me for once."

"I've only been honest with you, for as long as I've known you." He strained to keep the whining out of his voice. "When I tell you I don't find her attractive−"

"Are you going to tell me you weren't staring at her chest?"

Despite himself, he laughed. "Now, come on, that's not fair. They showed up 20 minutes before she did."

And despite herself, Margaret laughed. "I guess it wouldn't have been so bad except for those awkward noises."

"What noises?"

"That shrill beeping sound when she backed up into the loveseat."

Lionel laughed harder at that. "Okay, I'll admit, I seriously thought she showed up alone, until she pulled her husband out of her considerable cleavage. I'll admit I stared at that. I don't how how he survived that, honestly."

"That was a bit much," his wife admitted, pushing a few strands of steak to the side for him. She set her knife and fork down and watched him step up to the food. "He didn't seem very happy about being kept in there."

Lionel nodded, struggling to gnaw at the meaty fiber. "He really didn't. He couldn't breathe, and if I understand anything about morbidly obese people, they have a higher risk of skin diseases. You know, where their roles of flesh trap bacteria, especially in hard-to-reach areas."

Margaret considered this. "So what are you saying?"

"It's bound to get awfully stinky in there for him. Or in other places."

"Unless she makes him clean her up." They both stopped chewing and stared at each other. "Um. New topic."

"Yeah," said Lionel, setting his meat aside for the time being.

Margaret shook her head abruptly. "I'm sorry, did you want some wine?" She stuck her middle finger into her glass, then carried a droplet of ruby fluid to the edge of her plate. Her husband watched it bunch up and begin to run down the rim, and she watched him dart forward and lap it up before it thinned out and got away.

"You know I love you, Margaret," he said, sitting down. He rested his elbows upon the edge of her dinner plate. "I'm still interested in you. I'm going along with this therapy session because I believe in us. I want us to work, I want to figure this out."

She blew a long breath through her nose. "I do too, of course."

"So what was that about accusing me of being interested in Miriam?"

"Well, there's a lot of things I can't do or be for you." She half-heartedly struggled to slice a button mushroom in half with the edge of her fork. "Ever since menopause, it's just been harder."

"I know, sweetie."

"I miss feeling aroused. I still love you, I think you're a handsome goddamn man, but it's just not in me." She looked down at her own body. "I'm scared of how this could be affecting you, like, if I starve you of the affection you need… I guess I wouldn't blame you if your eye started to wander."

"That's ridiculous."

"Of course I'd kill you," she said, laughing. "But I'd understand why you did it."

"Sweetie." Lionel rose and took the short stroll around her plate to her left hand. "I'm not going anywhere. You're the only woman I want. I know you're feeling insecure right now, but please have faith in me. Nothing's changed for me! Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I know you say that…"

"It's true, Margaret. And you're not neglecting me and my needs, emotionally." He smiled at her, rubbing the length of her thumb with both hands. "You know I love it when you place me between your thighs and leave me there. Even when you're going to sleep, it's very comforting to feel your lips against my body."

"And I'm so dry now." She looked away. "I was so wet in college. You couldn't stop it."

"Margaret."

"My old, broken body."

"Margaret!" His unusually harsh tone snapped her out of her miasma, and she looked at him as though she hadn't seen him before. "Listen to me, Margaret. I love you. You are still the woman I married, the woman I chose all those years ago. You are still beautiful and young and vivacious to me, as much as you ever were. Are you hearing me?" He stood up by the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. She could have made a fist and snapped him in half. "I'm not interested in anyone else. We've finally got all this time to ourselves now, and I want to make the most of it. I want to explore everything we can do with it… and I want to explore you."

His overt attempt at a rakish grin made her giggle-snort. He pointed that out and she laughed harder, tossing her napkin at him. He crawled out from beneath it, laughing, and went for the rest of his steak. "Tell you what, my audacious little lover-man," she said. "You do the dishes and I'll let you show me a good time in bed. How's that sound?"

He looked at the mushrooms nearly as large as himself. "I'll definitely meet you halfway on that."

* * *

"Oh, there you go, yes, just hold still, now."

"Miriam! Stop it! Let me go!"

"I'm afraid I can't hear yo-o-o-o-ou."

"Miriam! Miriam, no! Oh, my God!"

"Ah, ah, just hold still for a second. It's so hard to reach you there! Just a minute… is that your head?"

"Aah! Aah! Get off me!"

"You know it's no use squirming like that. You can't get away, and you're likely to break something if you don't hold still. Now, knock it off before I have to get unpleasant."

"This is unpleasant! This is disgusting!"

"Brent, now that's not fair. It's really hard for me to get my butter-hole completely clean, and you spent more energy fighting me than it would've taken to just mop it down, so, you know what they say. You've made your bed, now lie in it. It just happens in this case that the bed isn't made, it's all wrinkly and stained in butt-oils and hair, but whose fault is that? Mmmph, there you go, just like that. Oh, no, don't wriggle like that yet, wait until I sit down."

"Goddamn it! Miriam, stop this right now! I'll call the cops, I swear!"

"Don't say things like that, Brent. If I thought you were serious, I'd twist your little spine."

"Augh, this is horrible! These were good pants, Miriam! I finally got some clean pants that weren't crusty with your cum, and you had to streak feces all over them!"

"Hold steady now, Brent! I'm coming in for a second pass."

"Don't you dare! Miriam, don't you−"

"Oh-ho-ho, you want to go up that hole, do you? Naughty man! I like the way you think, but that's very unhygienic. When you're done pleasuring my butter-hole, then maybe we'll think about washing you down and having another round, okay? But you've got to be more considerate of me and my vaginal health. Oops, you popped out again."

"Oh, my God…"

"Listen to you, you sound like you have asthma! Are you coming down with a cold?"

"Please, just give me a minute…"

"You know what they say: starve a cold and feed a fever! Let's get you nice and snug and cozy up inside me, okay? Mmm, yes, just like that. A little more… oh, I can feel your knees bending! Did you feel that? I squeezed your knees back! Was it tight? Do I feel strong? I guess you can't hear me under all that sweetness, but if you can, go ahead and start squirming now. You're not going to slip out this time. There, I'm sitting fully on the chair. Such small chairs, they can't seem to hold all of me. Look at me, spilling over the sides like this. It looks like a bad comedy! We're going to have to go shopping for new− Oh, my Goddess, yes, just like that! Yes, Brent, just like that! Keep fighting! Oh, oh gosh, that's incredible. Mmmph! Oh! Whoa, that was good! Oh! That's how you want to play it? Well, let's just see if ol' Mama Miriam can't clamp down on you and hold you still, you rascally little squirrel…"

"I hope everyone had a nice week!" Barbara's tone was bright and loud, intended to lead the group in a good direction at the top of the hour. Laura Payne sat bolt upright on the edge of her chair, overeager grin on her face, hands folded on her lap behind Rodney. He stood boldly on her knees, focusing upon the counselor with laser-like intensity to avoid catching the expressions of his fellow clients, after last week's fiasco. No longer in workout clothes, his black dress shirt nonetheless accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the V they formed leading to his waist. It was an interesting choice for him to go with black slacks as well, rather than a color combination that might have attracted more attention, as many Tinies did when wandering around on floors shared with inattentive Normies. Laura, however, looked like she came fresh from a jog around the park in a tracksuit in primary pastels.

In a somewhat surprising gesture of playfulness and intimacy, Lionel Kelley was perched upon Margaret's shoulder for this session. He seemed quite comfortable, nearly cradled in her voluptuous cable-knit fisherman's sweater, her lustrous hair swept about him in a dramatic backdrop. She too sat upright but with a less-rigid structure to her: she seemed self-assured and lithe, like an assassin. Though she grinned at her professorial-looking little man, Barbara took note of her appraising eye for Rodney.

On their loveseat, Brent and Miriam Little bickered about something—that is, he bickered and she chuckled and cooed at him, swatting his flailing arms down exactly as he attempted to swat her huge, pawing hands away. "You just calm down there, little guy," she said, winking at Barbara. "We're trying to get started, as soon as you settle down." Today she wore a form-clinging, spaghetti-strap dress in dark sage, with hot pink pumps and ankle ribbons. She looked for all the world like she were about to go out drinking with girlfriends in Miami, rather than working on her relationship with her querulous homunculus of a husband.

He bounced on his butt upon the taut trampoline formed by the short skirt that stretched so taught across massive, plump thighs. "Stop it! Stop touching me! You don't need to touch me all the time! Always stroking me, groping me like I'm… some kind of… cat you want to fuck!" Brent had escalated from stage whispers to outright shouts, cries that died before they reached the vintage dark oak walls of the immense dining hall. Miriam merely blushed cutely and fluttered her eyelashes at her peers.

Cribbing quick notes on the couples' demeanor, Barbara tucked thick Latina locks behind one ear and thrust her chin up. "Well, this has certainly been illuminating, and we haven't even begun. Is everyone ready?" The Kelleys nodded coolly; Laura was about to speak when Rodney barked out, "Born ready!"; Brent and Miriam hissed "She's talking! Shut up, she's talking!" at each other.

"All right, then," said Barbara, leaning back into her stuffed leather chair. "First of all, I think it would be useful for us to discuss what we learned from last week's session, how we feel that went. Any takers?" She made a subtle show of stretching out one long, muscled leg and crossing it elegantly over her knee, before assuming a classic listening pose.

"Holy fuck," whispered Rodney. Laura's hands lifted briefly, and she looked as though she might clutch him and wring him between her fists.

Margaret's voice rang out. "Well, let's talk about that. The elephant in the room, I think. Rodney really went out on a limb last time and shared some highly personal information with us."

"Aw, fuck," muttered Rodney, for an entirely different reason. He slumped to straddle his wife's thin knee, bracing himself for the impact of communal judgment.

"Hey, now, Rodney. Easy there." Her tone was soothing and warm. "I just wanted to say I admired your bravery with that. It was an admittedly chancy tale, you were taking a risk, but that takes a lot of grit, sir."

He blinked rapidly and gaped at her.

"I'm serious! We all had the opportunity to expose ourselves and learn something, and you're the only one who jumped in with both feet. I admire you for that." She leaned forward, planting her elbow upon her knee to prop her head, while ensuring Lionel never slipped off his shelf. "I hope you didn't beat yourself up too badly after that session. I saw you crumple when you were done talking and, honestly, my heart went out to you." She sat up and glanced at Miriam and Barbara. "That's what I want to say. He was very brave, he took a chance, and he trusted us. Right? He trusted us with some very personal information. I want to acknowledge that."

Rodney gasped with surprise. A smile struggled into being on his face. "Thanks, Margaret. Yeah, I felt like an asshole after that session, but what you just said… that means a lot to me. Thank you."

She smiled back at him, blinking slowly, very slowly, where her husband couldn't see but Laura certainly could.

Barbara tilted her head and mirrored Margaret's expression. "That was very thoughtful of you, Margaret. What a wonderful gesture! That's true, Rodney really did put himself out there for us, didn't he? That's the kind of candor and engagement I'd like to see in this group." She inhaled, pushing out her chest, effectively commanding the attention of Rodney, Lionel, and Brent. It was no accident, and it did not go unnoticed by their respective wives: Laura seemed irritated, Margaret looked thoughtful, and Miriam winked at the counselor.

Barbara continued: "What I would like to do for this session is crib from the Gottman Method. Normally this is a style of counseling that's best implemented for newlyweds, young people or old couples, anyone who's embarking upon a new relationship." She paused, licking her glossy lips. "But I felt it would be useful to treat the entire group as a kind of 'newlywed' arrangement, if you'll pardon my liberties, and start fresh with some opener questions to get to know each other, as couples and as a group. Does that make sense? Wonderful. Let's start with you, Laura and Rodney." She made a show of consulting her notes, though it was clear she likely had the entire course of the day's agenda printed clearly in her head.

"This is a technique the Gottman Method refers to as 'love maps.' I like how poetically he phrases it, that each person approaches the other with their agenda, a map to their personality, but it's only a pencil sketch." She raised her eyebrows and looked at each couple in turn. "It's only through the relationship that these plans and designs get put down in indelible ink. Isn't that lovely? So what we're going to do now is address some of these issues that we're coming here with—that we come to our own relationships with, assuming the other person knows what in the bloody blue blazes we're talking about—and look at them frankly, treat them as though we've never seen them before, and work on them together." Her grin was tight and her jaw was set, and therefore no one had any questions for her.

"I'd just like everyone to bear in mind that fondness and admiration for each of you are going to be strengthened by expressing respect and appreciation for each other. Let's try to keep that in mind as we move through these questions. Okay?" At Barbara's words, Brent shot Miriam an accusing glance that she purposely failed to notice. "Laura."

The wiry, pale woman bore a strained grin as she attended to the counselor.

"How well do you feel you and Rodney work as a team? And how could you improve?"

The atmosphere in the room became significantly denser as each couple considered this fundamental challenge. Miriam sat up straighter and grinned genially, failing to notice how Brent turned away in disgust. Margaret slightly turned her head to regard the little man on her shoulder, and he looked up at her, considering.

But the question wasn't directly posed to them. It was served to Laura and Rodney, and they were locked in a psychic struggle. "Well," began Laura, stretching this word out as her forehead creased in lines. "I mean," started Rodney, meeting her gaze but turning his head doubtfully.

Laura's light blonde hair lofted in an arc as she snapped toward the counselor. "We like many of the same things," she said quickly.

"That's right!" Rodney nodded at Barbara, taking a stronger stance upon his wife's thigh. "We're both into eating right and working out. That's very important to us. We keep track of each other, encourage each other, you know, keep our motivation up."

"That's absolutely true!" Laura stroked her little man's back gratefully. "Some days I'm weak, but little Rod's there to bolster me again. 'You got this,' he says, 'you've done harder things than this. You're strong, you know what you want! You don't want to turn into some fat cow.'" No sooner were the words out of her mouth than her eyes went big and round, and her snow-fair skin developed rosy cheeks. Flinching, Rodney glanced at Miriam and said, "No offense."

The very large, voluptuous woman smiled back at them. "Hm? What?"

Barbara nodded, and the Kelleys noticed that she hadn't written anything down. "That's good. Outside of exercise partners, how do you two function as a team? I'm thinking more as a married couple. Life partners."

Laura stammered, "Well, exercise is a huge part of our life."

"Right," Rodney said, "but I think she means more like how we get along−"

"I know what she means!"

"Okay."

"And that doesn't make what I said wrong!"

"Okay! Jeez!"

Laura closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to snap, but I wish you were a little more supportive sometimes. Especially in front of other people." She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Sometimes I feel like you put on a little performance for other people's sake. But the way you feel you need to make yourself look good is to make me look bad, and I don't care for that. I'm not a bad person."

Rodney had no way to retreat, standing on her knee as it was, so he raised his hands to appease. "No one said you're a bad person! Everyone here likes you, I promise. I wish you were a little more self-confident, you know? Like, half my energy goes to patching up your emotional wounds and insecurities, so when it's time to be a partner, I'm exhausted and you've got nothing for me." He took one step forward, then another, and the comparatively larger woman actually sat back as if rearing from his advance. "But when I'm weak, who do I have? I can't come to you: that's your time to remind me who's the boss, where the power is. It's more like I have to do the emotional lifting for both of us!"

Laura gaped at him wordlessly. Rodney looked more than a little surprised himself. One hand striking another broke the prolonged silence of the room, then another clap, and Barbara quickened the pace of her applause. "That was remarkable, you two! You jumped past my question but you fully answered the next one. That was really impressive! I'm so proud of you two.

"The important thing here, according to Dr. Gottman, is to show each other respect and admiration right now. Don't chastise each other, don't interpret each other's words as a personal attack: just step back a moment and listen to what the other person has said about their needs. Can you do that?" Barbara was sitting upright and pushing her chest out, nodding forward, looking for all the world like a queen exerting her power.

Rodney looked as though he'd been struck, but he relaxed quickly and turned his focus into regarding his wife as though she were a new person. "What you need from me," he said slowly, "is more support from me. You need me to feel like we're on the same team. Is that right?"

Laura nodded as though in a trance. "That would help me feel stronger, yes. I don't want to−"

"Ah, Laura," interrupted Barbara, "let's not focus on the negative right now."

The wispy woman looked at the robust, sultry counselor and nodded. "Okay. Yes, Rodney, I would love to feel like you're on my side, not competing with me. I want to feel like we're entering the world together, trying to achieve things together."

The tiny, muscular man seemed to soften visibly. "Babe, do I not make you feel that way? I'm so sorry." He carefully picked his way down her thigh and slid to the seat of her chair where her hand rested. "I don't want you to feel like I'm, like, using you to feel better about myself. Yeah, I want to be a good partner to you." He tucked himself into her resting hand and wrapped his arms around her thumb, murmuring apologies into her skin.

Laura stared at him, amazed. Her free hand lifted to rest upon her heart. "Thank you, Rodney. For my part… I guess I'm too sensitive. I didn't know you had such emotional needs. You're always so strong and bold, you always seem like you know what's going on and you're on top of it. I don't want to drain my little man dry. Can you let me know what your needs are, when that happens again? Just tell me when you're weak or if there's something I can do for you."

"Good, good," noted Barbara, marking on her clipboard. "That's exactly right, Laura. You're a natural." The blonde grinned weakly at her, then lightly gripped her husband to bring him to her chest. She bent her head to encircle his tiny head in her thin lips. "I had another question for you two—who was your best friend in childhood—but that seems rather trivial right now. I'll let you two enjoy this moment." She looked around. "Any volunteers for who goes next?"

Margaret opened her mouth and Lionel closed his, each looking away in opposite directions. "We'll go!" chirped Miriam, bouncing in her seat, setting Brent bouncing in her lap. "We're great partners! Brent loves everything I do with him, though he could express a little more gratitude and he could be a little more attentive to my needs! But we're great partners, we work so well together! He complains a little too much, which gets under my skin, but he really has no reason to! He doesn't listen to me when I tell him that, so maybe you could tell him. He'll listen to you, you're beautiful, and that's all he wants in a woman." She chuckled and rolled her tiny husband around her vast lap with her pudgy forefinger. "Stupid, shallow little Brent. Always chasing the sexy ladies! Now you tell her what great partners we are, and if you lie I'll fart on you." She looked up at Margaret, grinning. "He actually loves it when I fart on him, but he acts outraged. Such a little actor! He should've gone into theater, I keep telling him, so dramatic! But he just couldn't stay away from all this sexiness. He's basically a penis with two legs."

Brent's face turned progressively redder until he rolled to his front and covered his head with both arms.

Dumbfounded, Barbara weaved slightly in her seat, her jaw hanging open. "That was… wow. I'm sorry, Mrs. Little, but that was the question for the Paynes. I have something else entirely for you."

"But Brent hasn't explained to everyone what perfect partners we are for each other. Stop crying and speak up, Brent. You are not in hell; stop saying that." She laughed and looked up at the other couples. "He keeps saying he's in hell! So dramatic!"

"Miriam, please try to focus." Barbara fixed the large woman with a hard stare until she settled down slightly. "What I want to ask you two is, how is your current relationship different than others that haven't worked out?"

That actually shut the massive woman up for a second. By now Rodney was nestled in Laura's cradling hands, both of them peering across the group circle at Miriam and the mortified little man in her acre of thighs. Lionel's scaled-down reactions were difficult to read but Barbara appreciated Margaret's thoughtful nodding as she weighed the question in her mind: whether she was thinking about her own situation or extrapolating what Miriam or Brent might have to say was inscrutable in her composure.

"Well, I'd have to say that−"

"I'd like Brent to speak first, Miriam, if you don't mind." Barbara was back to her chiseled-in-marble self.

Out came Miriam fat bottom lip. "But I do mind! He's never had any other relationships. I've got all sorts of stories to pick through!"

"A string of failed relationships," murmured Lionel. "Quelle surprise." Margaret quickly stifled her snickers behind one fine hand.

"Miriam," said Barbara more firmly. "Brent is going to speak first."

An uncharacteristically dark complexion drifted across the large woman's face. "Fine. Go ahead, you pathetic little worm. Tell us what you've got." Her pudgy finger stabbed at him once more, shoving him along the wide fields of her lap with significantly less playfulness than before.

Everyone looked up when Barbara rose from her chair and strode toward Miriam. "And just to ensure that Brent feels safe to speak completely freely, I think I'll hold onto him for a little while." She locked Miriam in an intense gaze, plucking the tiny person from her lap and taking all the time in the world to do so. Miriam trembled with the desire to snatch him back in her puffy fist, but she was clearly locked into submission by the regal, commanding therapist. Barbara did not break Miriam's gaze even as she stepped backward, the heels of her thigh-high boots thudding solidly against the floor, and nestled again in her own luxurious throne. She didn't look away until she brought the nebbishy little figure to her full, dark lips in her cupped palms.

"Are you quite okay, Mr. Little?" she purred.

You could have heard a pin drop, but for Brent's tiny voice: "I think I need a minute, thank you."

"Take all the time you need, Mr. Little."

Miriam's massive bulk fairly quivered with the tension of needing to speak, to protest, to squeal like a wronged princess, but Barbara's unblinking scrutiny held her in check. Impressed, Margaret wore a smile that faded in and out of being as she studied the two, while Laura slid to the back of her seat as though sitting too close to a large fire.

That is all they did for a long time: Brent lay in Barbara's warm, enveloping hands for a few minutes, and she dipped her bee-stung, burgundy lips into that chamber to whisper questions to him, then covered him in her thick Mediterranean mane to lower her ear upon his little body and receive his response. It was a very slow and meditative process, during which Barbara rarely moved her gaze from Miriam, daring her to move a muscle. Miriam's breathing grew heavier and quicker. Margaret couldn't resist peeking at Miriam and savor her internal conflict. How the counselor seeming pinned that tremendous bulk of womanly flesh to the loveseat with nothing more than those smoldering dark eyes was like the display of a superpower or a spell.

Lionel also watched, but his attention was led away by the throaty moans his wife emitted. He wanted to ask what was going on in her head, but he also wanted to keep watching the exotic and powerful woman communing with the henpecked little man in her grip. To speak up would have been to shatter the moment. As well, he was intrigued by the rising body temperature that wafted through Margaret's sweater and the visual effect of her huge trachea sliding sumptuously beneath her skin, right next to a conspicuously pulsing artery. It became harder to think straight, as his head grew lighter, and he struggled to remain aware of how much time was ticking away.

Like Lionel, Rodney reflexively wanted to mutter "holy fuck" every five seconds but was scared to twitch lest the spell be broken. He was kneeling now on all fours, upon a narrow thigh draped in polyester/spandex blend, because he didn't trust his knees to support him standing. His cock was raging hard; a small portion of his brain tried to calculate how much of a gaffe it would be to dry-hump his wife's leg in the moment. An even smaller portion wondered how she would interpret that.

Laura, however, was as hypnotized as Margaret, blown away by this show of command and ownership. Where Rodney projected himself into Brent's position, Laura's imagination was beggared to comprehend how much training and discipline it would take for a woman to have such a potent tool in her arsenal. Was she born with it? Was it a fortuitous combination of Barbara's strength and a particular weakness of Miriam's? She was pretty sure that if Miriam charged Barbara, the counselor would be overwhelmed by her considerable bulk and physically bettered. The confrontation looked like a lemur squaring off against a silverback gorilla, and successfully.

Within Miriam burned a white-hot star of emotion. How dare this woman take her toy away! Why wouldn't anyone listen to her about how much Brent loved and needed her? She didn't understand the smirks or the averted gazes every time she spoke up. Why were they reacting as though he were a person, as if anyone cared what he said? What did that hussy think she was doing, practically making out with Brent in front of the entire room? But every time she started to form a work or move so much as a finger, those deep, soulful dark eyes would flash at her, and all Miriam's muscles seized.

Not entirely all. Something was working within her, because she became aware of a cooling dampness creeping under her prodigious butt. She should have been worried about staining her dress or the loveseat, but she was consumed with confusion as to her reaction. She didn't even have the courage to check if her nipples were standing. Despite the churning, frothing tissues within her hips and the chain lightning coursing from her mountainous breasts to her drooling pussy, her fingers ached to wrap around Barbara's throat and snap that beautiful, creamy caramel neck like a chicken bone. But why couldn't she move?

For his part, Brent was in a heaven of which he could scarcely have conceived. He hadn't known such tenderness in years, this bedding of the meat between each knuckle, the palms and pads of hands well-nurtured in moisturizing creams and perfumed oils. The way the counselor's full lips blocked the ceiling and twitched and ground together within arm's reach. How her teeth glinted in the shadows, how the tip of her tongue danced behind them. How her breath smelled of cinnamon and sepulchural humidity. Even when she turned her head and blanketed him in her hair, when she placed her blind, curving ear upon him, he ached to caress the cartilage, to trace the winding grooves with his tiny fingers. He had the mad urge to slip his face into her aural canal… and sniff. That was nasty, earwax was nasty! Where did this urge come from? And yet he wanted it. He wanted to feel her inanimate, slightly warm skin and cartilage all around his face and to peer into the dark hole that led into her skull. These concatenate instincts never arose with Miriam, who somehow turned the most beautiful aspects of her sexuality into brutal weapons and terrifying monsters, while Brent was falling in love with the therapist's mere ear.

"Are you ready," she whispered upon him, gusting his hair from his eyes.

He chuckled ruefully. "All good things must end."

Her mouth paused above him, teeth parted, her pink and pebbly tongue glistening in the cavern of her maw as though she were about to say something. But she didn't, and her head lifted away, and her palms gently deposited the tiny, shaken man upon her own bronzed knee. The hem of her mustard skirt hugged her crossed thighs some distance behind him. He pulled himself up into a kneeling position, like Rodney's, but when he realized his bare hands were planted upon Barbara's bare knee, he glanced up at Miriam in a mild panic. He was stunned to find the magnificent, obscene beast trembling in what appeared to be a restrained neurosis.

"What did you do to her," he breathed.

Barbara merely caressed the tiny man with a fingertip, from the back of his head to where his butt stuck out. "If you're ready, Mr. Little, please share your answer with the group, speaking loudly enough for the Kelleys to hear you."

Everyone waited several seconds, until he stammered that he'd forgotten the question. "Holy Christ," yelled Rodney, collapsing upon his wife's leg. She patted him sympathetically, releasing a long, pent-up breath. Lionel chuckled, within the depths of his wife's hair; Margaret rolled her eyes. Only Miriam seemed transfixed, her attention riveted to her absconded possession.

"I should like to know, Mr. Little," the counselor resumed, "how your current relationship with Miriam is different than any past relationships that haven't worked out." Slowly she rocked her foot, and then her lower leg. One thigh pulsed hypnotically upon the other, and Brent's attention was momentarily possessed by the large patella shifting smoothly beneath him.

"Past relationships," he stammered. "There have only been a couple, I guess, before I met Miriam." Brent stared down the length of Barbara's considerable leg, from where her shin disappeared into her boot, to where the shirred leather straightened out around the ankle and her boot's toe swiped playfully through the warm air. "Let's say two serious relationships, not counting dating."

"Let's say that." Barbara's full lips parted a bright grin, for the benefit of the other people assembled.

"Well, in college, there was Jenna. But, you know, that's college. You're experimenting, figuring yourself out. It was my first time away from home, like it was for most people there. Jenna and I dated for over a year. I thought it was pretty serious; I learned it was just about sex for her."

"She used you for sex?" She raised one fine eyebrow and glanced at Miriam.

"It sounded like she was addicted to the thrill of it." Unthinking, Brent stretched out along the skin of her leg, propping his head up on his elbows. "She liked that she could crush me at any point, she liked fighting against herself, against that urge. Like, I'd be on her breast, and she'd reach up to grasp herself but she'd stop her hand just inches above me. Or she'd, you know, place me between her thighs, and sometimes her legs would close on me and then open up quickly again. She'd apologize, but I could hear in her voice how much she loved it."

"Okay, a purely sexual relationship. Is that what it was for you?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. I mean, I loved her, or I thought I did. I thought I knew who she was—hell, I thought I knew who I was." He seemed not to hear his wife's whimper as he draped his arms around the therapist's knee, laying his cheek upon her gently rocking patella. "I loved her potential, her boldness, her creativity. She played a song for me that she was working out on piano. It went nowhere but it started out so confidently and beautifully."

"Please don't say 'like her'," muttered Lionel into his wife's ear.

"I guess a lot like her." He didn't notice Margaret's snicker. "She liked partying, which of course I couldn't share with her. I'd heard stories about tiny guys invited to college parties. I'd read the news. Astonishingly high mortality rate with little to no investigation, but you couldn't keep the tiny men away, each one thinking he'd be the exception, he'd be smothered in pure college-chick sex and live to tell the tale. I was fine learning from other people's examples."

Barbara regarded the tiny man on her leg bemusedly, peering at how his minuscule hand rubbed the side of her knee dreamily. "And then what changed?"

"We were just talking one day. I started talking about the future, and she quoted some line about 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may'."

"What did that mean to you?"

"She was just seeking thrills, pleasures, amusements. That's all I was to her. She came from a small town without a lot of Tinies, so I was her walk on the wild side. And when I started getting serious, she ditched me in a large soda cup in a diner and literally picked up another tiny man on her way out."

"How did that make you feel, Mr. Little?"

Brent drew his hands up beneath his chin once more. "Used. Like, it didn't matter who I really was, on the inside. She just wanted some tiny thing to fuck for a while. And if she'd told me that from the beginning, maybe I would've been fine with that. But she didn't make her intent clear, and I started falling for her, and that's when she ended it."

Rubbing her fingertip in a small, slow circle in his back, Barbara asked him how that differed from his present relationship.

Now he looked up at his wife, who gawked at him greedily. "Not much, I guess. Jenna used me for her entertainment, and Miriam does the same. Neither of them regard me as an actual, real person." He sat up and straddled the therapist's large, smooth knee. "The difference, if there is one, is that Jenna split when I tried to talk things out with her. Miriam just laughs at me and shoves me inside her somewhere. She acts like I never said anything at all."

"And you've been together how long?"

"Six years, three months," he said without hesitation.

"That's dedication." Her voice was bright with a smile.

"I suppose."

"And I suppose you have a type."

Brent turned around to look up at her. She gazed beneficently upon him, wreathed in thick, lustrous black hair, her grin nearly occluded by her full breasts. "It sounds like it, though my other relationship doesn't fit that profile."

Barbara pouted cutely. "I don't know if we'll have time for that. Miriam?"

The massive woman grunted gimme and charged at the therapist's lap. She snatched the little man up in one meaty fist, before he knew what was happening. "Excuse me, I need the bathroom," she gasped. With surprising speed Miriam waddled toward the exit, one hand fumbling with the hem of her stretchy dress, the other awkwardly jamming her little man into the crowded cleft of her thighs.

The group collectively coughed and looked to Barbara for a distraction. Hastily she tossed a question to the Kelleys—what was your favorite vacation?—which they fielded eagerly: Thailand. Barbara and the Paynes listened as Lionel enjoyed the many temples throughout the country, some seemingly constructed for men of his diminished height. They watched Margaret's expression light up as her narrative drifted from extolling the world-class cuisine to more savory reviews of the young men preparing it: knotted muscles working beneath dusky, smooth skin; anime-like stylings of dense, glossy Asian hair. Lionel stared at her jaw, working massively beside his tiny, becardiganed body, as though he'd never heard this story before. "I guess we each came away with what we wanted out of that trip," he said, laughing without much spirit.

"Or didn't come," his wife noted. Before he could ask what she meant by that, Barbara adjourned the group session and wished them all well. Margaret ignored Lionel's questions all the way out the door; Laura and Rodney thanked Barbara for her time, which she returned curtly because clients had to understand that the time was up. Some patients attempted to stretch out their time by introducing one topic after another, hoping to gain her professional advice for free on sundry topics, but the therapist was firm on this point. She escorted them to the door, looked forward to seeing them next week, then closed the door firmly. The vintage wood rattled and creaked, and the pebbled glass pane within it clattered for emphasis. To really underscore the point, she turned the deadbolt hard into the jamb.

Turning, she paused to regard the arrangement in the former dining hall. How lucky she was to get such a gorgeous space at such a reasonable price. Her boots clacked against the hardwood floor, trodden by so many generations of inhabitants and owners over a century. She stood in the center of the ring of chairs, noting with some distaste the dark blotch on the loveseat. But her head lifted to her own throne, the overstuffed leather chair with sweeping wooden arms and the cozy, embracing back. From this she walked past where the Kelleys had been sitting to the hutch behind them. Her long fingers ran over the well-oiled wood of the cabinet, where families had stored silverware and fine china, had stored both alcohol and perhaps guns. The legacy of the Abernethy Building never ceased to impress her.

As it happened, she now stored something in the hutch. The lower cabinets were set with glass doors, which had been papered over by a previous tenant. The former owner of the property had explained that, rather than a childish attempt to hide something, it had been a necessary measure to protect preserved foods in jars from exposure to light.

Was it really so childish to hide something, she wondered, as she squatted down before the cabinet. Her skirt snapped up to her waist as her toned thighs spread wide, exposing not a stitch of garment beneath. She was unconcerned as to whether any of her clients realized she showed up for their sessions with absolutely nothing between them and her unshaven pubis but degrees of shadow. The potential for exposure turned her on, as evinced in the noise her vulva made when she slipped her middle and ring fingers inside herself, thrusting gently before a cabinet.

It had caused a slight crisis of aesthetic for her to slice out a tiny hole in that lovely paper behind the cabinet door. The design was a tasteful, muted art deco design, faded with time. It could easily have been 70 years old or more, for all she knew, and she felt terrible guilt about defacing it. She supposed every tenant left their mark, in one way or another, each contributing in some small way to the marvelous, storied legacy of this building.

She fucked herself slowly, pondering this, and opened the cabinet door. To the back of it, a tiny, naked man was suspended. His legs were tied in string, his arms were bound behind him in string, and string led up to a small thumbtack that kept his face at the peephole.

"How did you enjoy today's session, Mr. Smyth?" Barbara futzed with the thumbtack until it popped out and rolled around the top shelf of the cabinet. She pinched the string and lifted the little man up to her face. "Was it a nice show for you? How about that lonely Mr. Little? Does he remind you of anyone?" She smirked and stuck out her tongue to gently rub its tip over his genitalia; he moaned behind the masking tape covering his mouth, momentarily closing his terrified eyes. "I'm sorry to leave you back here in the nosebleed section: it's truly an injustice that the owner of such a gorgeous building doesn't get front-row seats. Especially after how generously you sold it to me! Truly unfair." She pouted and rolled to her back upon the hardwood floor, raising her knees like mountain peaks.

"I'd invite you to the after-party, Mr. Smyth, but I'm afraid it's a personal engagement." Her one hand began to grope her crotch greedily, to the syncopated rolling of her hips, while her other lowered the tiny man between her clenching inner thighs. "I suppose there's nothing to stop you from watching, however."

Barbara's cannonball ass ground into the floorboards and the heels of her boots scraped until they found a steady brace for resistance. "Now, then, let's review," she said, letting the little man twirl a bit. She felt the warm, fleshy body bounce against her glistening knuckles. "The problems between the Littles are obvious, but here's what I believe is impeding Mr. and Mrs. Kelley…"

"Oh, my Goddess," Miriam gasped. Her tremendous body, wedged into a narrow, steel stall, shuddered with tremendous effort. "Oh, my fucking Goddess, get in there." One hand tugged the tent-like hem of her dress away, and the other was a meaty, glistening fist from which her miniature husband protruded. This, she stabbed her crotch with repeatedly, and the cold metal walls groaned with containing her.

"Miriam, stop! Please, stop!" Brent's tiny voice bounced off the stall panels, a shrill whine like that of a large mosquito. "For Goddess's sake−" His voice was frequently silenced by his little head being jammed into massive, roiling curtains of rouge and mauve. Clear, thick liquid dripped from her vulva and flowed over the tiny man, coating him and drenching his clothes. Soon he was unable to shout at all, but could only cough up his wife's copious lubrication out of his throat and gasp for breath before being stuffed into her canal once more.

Miriam's shoulders hunkered down and knocked against the metal walls. "You were so bad today," she grunted. "You were such a liar, such a little fucking liar. You never loved anyone before me! And you adore me! Why would you make it sound like you don't?" She gritted her teeth and twisted her fists between her bulging thighs, as if trying to screw her husband inside her like a light bulb. The little nubbin of his head swam up and down her slit; she swiped him back and forth, up and down, in and out of her many labial folds, trying to rub his betraying little face into every square inch of her pussy. "What do you mean, I use you? You little fucking liar! This is all your idea, you're making me do this! Look at you, so small and tender and helpless. You want this!" She panted, biting her lip and grinding the tiny man's skull into her clit. The wall of the stall complained loudly, its mounting brackets grinding against the restraining bolts, slowly crumbling the ceramic tiles that held them, as her immense ass struggled for room and rammed against the steel panel.

"I want a big man, someone I can hold! I want someone I can hug without worrying I'm going to crush him or suffocate him! I want someone who can hold me and make me feel safe, not someone I'm going to wake up and find dead under my boob! None of this was my idea, you lying fucking liar!" Spitting her hair out of her mouth, she cupped both hands beneath her pussy, briefly glaring at the bedraggled little man lying in her palms. "Oh, you want someone gentle, huh? You want someone who'll tell you stupid, sweet little things, huh? Is that what you want? Another mother?!" Catching her breath, Miriam laboriously heaved one bloated leg upon the toilet seat, bracing herself. Brent sprawled limp upon her moist skin, his tiny breath working frantically to get more air. "Well, I ain't your mom, in case you hadn't noticed! I'm not gonna whisper sweet nothings to you, lying to you about how nice and good life is, okay? If I can't get the things I want out of life, I don't see why you should either! Fuck!" Her own voice roared in her ears, caroming viciously off the stall. Growling, she slapped her cunt with both hands and began massaging her tiny husband into her crotch in general. Thick, sausage-like fingers poked and jabbed and kneaded at herself and the frail little body in her way.

Brent could barely lift an arm, much less defend himself. Huge, round fingertips hammered at his weakened body, with digging, greedy nails shoveling away at him. Sometimes they slid past, plunging into the broad, spongy ceiling of his immense wife's mons and labia; sometimes they nailed him hard, pounding into his soft stomach and nearly folding him in half as they drove him into deep crevices of searing meat. Blinded by the thick coating of her endlessly streaming vasocongestive fluids, he hardly knew when it was safe to open his mouth to steal more oxygen. If he timed it wrong, he received another mouthful of the thick sexual fluid, reaching down into his throat like an invasive finger, dangerously close to filling every last pocket of his lungs. He couldn't scream, he couldn't cry: all his dwindling energy was reserved for sensing when a finger had retracted and no feminine tissues surrounded his face, just to snatch one more breath of air.

Two colossal buttocks throbbed against the cold steel wall. Miriam's stretchy skirt gave up the fight and snapped up around her waist, finding it easier to bunch around her gut than cling to her hips another second. The cakes of fat around her thighs shook rhythmically as Miriam patted her pussy, smacking her disobedient little man against her slit or nudging him down to her perineum before dragging him messily back up to her clit. One greasy paw mauled her own breast, mindless of the copious juices staining the front of her dress, while she cupped little Brent in her other palm, stabbing her fingers into her pussy to produce a small waterfall of lubrication to pour over him. "You want kisses, huh," she panted. "You want tender, sweet kisses. I can give you kisses, you stupid little fuck, all you had to do was ask." With that, Miriam sloppily ground her helpless little husband into her own vulva, palming him crudely until she felt the tiny body pop through her clenching muscles. "Kiss-kiss, fucker." She clutched her pussy protectively, feeling the tiny man slowly come to life within the last few inches of her erotic entrance. "That's right, dance. Dance for your supper, little monkey." The stall rang out as she rested her forehead against it, trying to visualize the deceitful nebbish lodged in her vagina, what his arms and legs must be doing, what his face must look like right now.

"Is someone in here?" A woman's voice called into the bathroom with an immediate echo. "Is everything all right?"

"Fuck off!" Miriam roared. One hand groped her immense tit, flabby flesh bulging between her fingers. Her other hand was growing too slippery, too much fluid was gushing around her palm and spattering upon the floor, so she swore and slowly clamped her thighs shut. Her massive ass spilled over the sides of the toilet when she sat down, legs crossed, eyes clenched, as desperate to reach that magical orgasm as she was to punish him for how that exotic therapist held her spellbound in place for nearly the entire session.

As his tyrannical wife's vulvic rings clamped hard upon his entire body, Brent held his breath and tried to escape into the memory of Barbara's palm.

* * *

"You were so bad today!" Margaret laughed and swatted the passenger seat next to Lionel's transfer case. "You were cracking me up. Did you get two cups of coffee today or something?"

Grinning in the sunshine, Lionel watched the tops of trees sail past the windows. "The jokes write themselves, sometimes. Can you believe that guy, though? Poor little henpecked Brent. It's not like a team of wild Nazis are forcing him to stay in that relationship."

Margaret pouted and signaled a turn. "You never know, though, with some people. Maybe it's complicated for him. He's tiny, for one thing, so he can't exactly pack up and move out on the spur of the moment."

"No, I suppose not." He looked up at his wife, her mass of hair over her shoulder. "That's awfully sympathetic of you, to consider that."

"And you never know what couples are like when they're alone."

"That's true."

"Who knows? They could be really loving behind closed doors, cracking each other up."

Unable to read his wife's expression, as she towered over him, Lionel simply chewed the corner of his mouth and peered up at the window instead. "I don't think that's very likely, to be quite honest. You've seen how she pokes him around her lap, laughing at him every time he tries to say something."

Margaret craned over her shoulder to smile at the small, acrylic room. "Could be nerves. Maybe she feels she needs to put on a show for strangers?"

Lionel said he supposed that was possible, which Margaret correctly interpreted as I don't accept this for a second but I don't want to fight. "Anyway."

"Anyway?"

"Yeah, anyway… Thailand."

Margaret pursed her lips and nodded. "What about it, darling?"

He tried to laugh and failed. "It just sounded like we had completely different experiences, despite traveling together."

Her sweatered shoulder rose and fell. "I think that's fair to say."

"But we were together at all times. It's not like I can go off and wander, like you can. Now, I'm not saying," he added quickly, watching his wife's head slowly turn toward him, "that you dominated the trip. You were very fair, we each picked locations and things we wanted to see. I'll even say you were very sporting, taking me to places that I know didn't interest you very much, and I'm very grateful for that. Okay? I'm just surprised to learn that our experiences were so disparate."

The car rocked as they pulled up to a red light. "I don't see why that should be so hard to understand. There were things you were into and things I was into. They didn't always match up." She muttered, "Hardly ever, in fact."

"What are you trying to say?" He wished they were home already, so he could park his fists upon his hips and stare at her, assuming he was standing on the dining room table and she was seated before him. Instead, despite his ability to hear her every last murmur, she could plausibly claim to not pick up on his words over the roar of traffic.

"You know my thing for HAMs. We've talked about this."

Lionel did a double-take, in his little plastic cage, and looked back over at the lovely woman towering far above him, in the driver's seat. "No, I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't remember ordering ham in Bangkok."

Margaret sucked in a long breath through her nose. "I hope you're not making a cheap joke. I'm talking about HAMs: Hot Asian Men." She peeked down at him, through the sunlight glinting off his acrylic ceiling. "I've told you about this, I know I have."

"Well, what if you have. What about them? Is this, like, a fetish of yours?"

"No, of course not. I don't know." She smiled and guided the car around someone turning. "Maybe. I'm just saying there was plenty of eye-candy in Bangkok and Chiang Mai, down in the Ko's."

"What is it about−"

"Calves," she said promptly. "Those firm, round calves and those cannonball butts. Mmm. That skin, that hair."

Lionel couldn't help but look at himself. Did he have nice calves? They were hidden under miniature corduroy trousers. What about his hair? He sifted his fingers through it, frowning when he got to the thinning part on the back of his skull. None of us are getting any younger, he thought unhappily.

He discovered his wife looking down at him, still smiling. "Oh, don't you worry, Lionel. I'm not going to run off and leave you for some hot Bangkok wok chef. I'm here for the long haul." She reached over, and her palm and fingers flattened upon his acrylic ceiling.

He looked up at those fingers for a while before taking a big gulp and asked, "That's nice, but I'd like to know, now that the kids are gone, when we're going to−"

"Oh, look, we're home." Margaret pulled into their driveway a little quickly. She undid her belt and freed her husband's case efficiently, hauled him out with only a little rocking, locked up, and marched into the house. She set him down on the dining room table, tossed her keys beside him with a loud clatter, and left him to let himself out as she started pulling vegetables from the fridge to wash. "What was that you were saying, darling?" she called over the gushing sink.

He correctly guessed this was her way of giving the pretense of being attentive, while precluding any means for him to speak with her.

* * *

"Come here, you little worm," Laura purred. Her fingernails bit into the quilt as she clawed her way across, butt raised and shoulders down. Her jet black panties stood out against snow-white, slender hips; her black lace bra wrapped around defined ribs. Sinewy muscles worked in her shoulders and forearms as she crept toward the tiny man in gray boxer briefs.

"Oh, no! Help!" he squeaked. "A gigantic, sexy woman wants to use me for sex! Where's a book? I need to hide in a book!" His body, bulging in the prime of life, churned and pumped as he slogged over the yielding surface of the quilt. His little arms punched in the air as he leaped from stride to stride, almost putting enough distance between himself and the long, bony fingers that reached for him. He dove through the air, at the last second, but it was no good and Laura's fingers wrapped around his waist, clenching his legs.

"What was that? What did you just announce to the class?" Laura leered at him, snapping her jaws, before throwing herself back into the pillows. Her legs spread wide, one slim calf hanging over the edge of the bed, but it was over her face she dangled her husband. "I don't believe this! Did you just tell everyone you don't like sex with me?"

"Not your stinky crotch again! Please, anything but your stinky crotch!" Rodney's little arms flailed in the air, grasping at nothingness.

Her brow furrowed. "What's wrong with my crotch? Is it not capacious and roomy, with copious plumbing?"

"It's too roomy! You're like a fucking Olympic swimming pool in there! I nearly drowned!"

"What do you mean? Every man desires a sexually rapacious fountain of endless moisture!"

"That wouldn't be so bad, but there was a tricycle rusting at the bottom of it."

Laura's eyes flew open wide. "Where?"

"In the bottom of your pussy. In your 50-meter pool-vagina."

"Oh, shit!" She burst out laughing and Rodney dropped from her fist, bouncing between her slim breasts. "Not the trike again! You little fucker!" The tiny man laughed with her, clutching the bra strap over her sternum and riding her like an earthquake. "What is it with you and finding a tricycle in Miriam's coochie?"

"I dunno, it just seems like something that'd be up there. A tricycle, a screen door, a car that some gangsters ditched…"

Laura shrieked with laughter and rocked back and forth on the bed. Rodney clutched her bra harder, trying not to be thrown, and glanced at her breasts. They were small and flat, even when she stood. Seeing her in this fancy lingerie made him a little sad, because each of the cups were larger than her own tits. Each cup was a crumpled, empty mound of lace. How could she not notice that? How could she put it on and think it looked good?

The lingerie just looked like a bunch of expectations, to him. Expectations she couldn't live up to, and failed expectations that he wasn't motivated to compensate for, not all the time. Not when she dolled herself up like this. He much preferred her in her sports bra and seamless running bikini. Then she looked like a lean, efficient workout machine, and that's when he was hungry for her. But sometimes she'd pull out this ridiculous lingerie—which, half the time, looked like a novelty item—and she'd try to act all sexy for him, but he tried to explain that wasn't what did it for him…

She snapped him out of his thoughts. "Uh-oh, you've got that look on your face again. What did I do wrong?"

He stared up at the wide face of sharp features straining to look down at him. She couldn't even give herself a double-chin in this position, she had so little body fat. "Hey, nothing, I was just getting lost in today's session, you know." He shrugged and tried to laugh. "At least it wasn't about me this time."

Laura hmm'ed at him and scooted back to elevate her shoulders in the pillows. "That's not all. You were thinking something else. You get this little frown on your face when you're thinking about something you don't want to tell me."

Rodney gulped. Was that true?

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she.”

The tiny man had the sensation of his core temperature dropping as his density increased and his body weighed him down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even he knew this was a terrible ploy, because if pressed (and Laura would press him) he could come up with a dozen reasons why she should be upset in any given moment. Fortunately this was a game she didn’t play too often.

She looked down at the tiny man between her boobs, poised as though he might start doing push-ups. She gave him what she hoped was a gentle and warm smile. “There’s nothing wrong with finding other women attractive, Rodney. I’d be worried about you if you didn’t, in a way. It’s quite natural to look around and pick other women and have thoughts about them. As long as you don’t act on them,” she added as an afterthought, before chuckling. “Not that you could.”

He scowled at her condescending tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t be sore. I mean, realistically, it’s not like you can run off and be with another woman, right? I’ve got you at all times.” Laura draped one hand gently upon the bare skin of her partner. He was so fragile, for all of his muscle tone and for all of his fiery willfulness. “You can’t go off and wander, you can’t make secret phone calls or texts. You’re in my pocket or my fist or my underwear at all times. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for you.” Her thin, pink bottom lip pushed out exaggeratedly. “Sometimes I think it might be exciting to see what you’d do, if you were in control of your own life.”

Despite resting upon his partner’s bra strap, perched solidly upon her sternum, Rodney felt as though he were on slippery ice. “What do you think I’d do?”

She laughed, and the fleshy ground shook beneath him. “Don’t play games. You’re curious about Miriam, aren’t you? I’ve seen it. Her big tits, her big hips, and she’s unashamed of her sexual appetite. I don’t blame you.”

Many people know what it feels like to dodge a bullet. For a tiny person, the bullet is much larger and more destructive, and therefore all the more meaningful to miss. So tremendous was his relief that Rodney couldn’t form the words to deny this or even laugh at her stupidity.

“Your silence tells me all I need to know,” she said with an affected wisdom. “It’s okay, Rodney, it really is. She’s got everything I don’t have, doesn’t she? Even I look at that pathetic little bookworm she’s stuck with, and I can’t help imagining how much better you’d do.”

With the spiritual ground solidifying beneath him, Rodney stretched out and rested his chin upon his palms. “Really? What do you mean?”

“Look at you. You’re muscular and strong. Brent’s just a soft little bookish-type. I imagine a great big girl like Miriam nearly kills him every time they try to have sex.” She lifted her chin, never breaking her eye contact with her partner, as though proud of him. “You could handle her, I bet. You could give her a run for her money.”

Rodney was lost and awash with relief, as well as a curiosity as to where she was going with this, because none of it had ever occurred to him. “Really? You think so?”

“Absolutely. No question.”

“She seems pretty rapacious.”

She showed all her teeth. “Where are you learning these big words? You’re just a bundle of surprises, aren’t you!” He grinned tolerantly as her huge, thick forefinger rubbed his stubbly head. She used just enough roughness to remind him who’s ultimately in charge, even as she stroked his ego. “I’m just thinking of the clenching. You know, down there.” Her palm hissed over the starchy lingerie as her fingers wandered down between her thighs. “Can I say something awful?”

His teeth glinted in a broad smile. “Please do.”

“I just think…” Laura paused, momentarily bashful. “It’s horrible, I know, but I’ve always had this prejudice against fat girls.” Her eyes widened in embarrassment, but her tiny man was smiling so warmly at her, she felt heartened. “I know it’s not true, but I feel like they’re fat because they can’t stop eating. And for some reason, I feel like their pussies are just as hungry.” Both hands flew up to her face, and thin, spidery fingers attempted to cover her blush and crooked grin. “Is that horrible?”

Rodney was laughing too hard to respond, so she continued. “It’s just that they’re fat and ugly, so they’re probably starved for sex, and when they get it their pussies just gobble it down eagerly, you know? I dunno, that’s just something I’ve pictured ever since I was a little kid! It’s like I always knew what sex was, and I always knew fat girls were starved for it. I can’t believe I said that!” She crossed her forearms over her little lover and shook with laughter, relieved that he was cackling along with her.

“So you think she’d gobble me up, too?”

“I don’t know! Maybe? I can’t even picture that. What would that even look like? Your tiny little legs, sticking out of these massive meat flaps.” She stroked Rodney’s thighs and calves, assessing them. One thing he could never tell her was how much he loved it when she did that, pinching the meat of his developed muscles, running the pads of her fingers over his lumps and lines, evaluating him. Because he was proud of his body building, and he felt especially proud when she seemed to pay attention to it. Not just to notice it, but to really admire him in contrast to the other tiny men out there who didn’t share his interest in developing themselves. They were all tiny and weak, they figured, so why bother pushing themselves uncomfortably? Rodney, on the contrary, believed that he should be prepared for anything, and developing his musculature was a form of hedging his bets.

“This is fascinating,” he said, speaking honestly. “So, you think I’d have a fighting chance against that beast?”

Laura chuckled. “Don’t be mean. She doesn’t share our values, like exercise and eating right, but she’s not a bad person.”

“Do you listen to the way she talks to that sad little fuck?”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Laura winced. “It’s pretty embarrassing sometimes, huh?”

He nodded. “Sometimes I think he’s tougher than me, inside. Because I wouldn’t be able to put up with it if you acted like that around me, in public, in front of other people.”

Her eyebrows raised, and she scooted back on the pillows to see him better. “Really? That’s surprising to hear.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll kick his ass any day of the week, but yeah.” Rodney paused to recall their sessions in front of Barbara, the other two couples, that big, expensive room. “He must put up with a lot of shit, all the time. We only see a fraction of it. And I bet she’s even on her best behavior around us, you know? I bet she’s even worse in private.”

Laura stared at her partner in silence, considering the contrast in their perspectives. He’d been thinking about survival and emotional abuse, and she’d been concerned with how well her muscular little man could make love to that cartoonishly voluptuous woman. She wondered who she was, even as she wrapped her slender fingers around his struggling body and stuffed him inside her panties, mashing his squawking head into her dry, sticky labia just to shut him up, to hide his beady eyes from her momentary embarrassment.

Laura and Margaret exchanged knowing glances as they crossed the polished granite floor of the Abernethy Building. On Laura’s shoulder, Margaret spied her muscular little husband, both fists wrapped up in her platinum blonde hair. He grinned up at Margaret.

“I thought that was you two parking, when I pulled up.” Margaret’s tone was almost musical in the foyer.

“Where’s your little guy?” asked Laura.

Margaret’s grin dimpled as she looked down. Today she wore a black blazer with a low-cut black chemise, and Lionel clung to the neckline like a brooch. From what Laura could see, he appeared to be wearing a fairly well tailored white dress shirt with teeny-tiny little black suspenders and a narrow tie. “Looking very sharp today, Lionel,” Laura commented, grinning. Before he could respond, Margaret hummed a musical note and grabbed the dining room door.

Within, Barbara was already perched in her rolling throne. “Welcome, you four! I presume you brought your little men with you? Good, excellent. You’ll pardon me for not getting up: yesterday was leg day for me at the gym.” She grinned at the two women resuming their usual seats. Margaret and Laura were taken aback to see this Mediterranean goddess wearing an awkward smile for once. “Ibuprofen all day, red wine all night, that’s my therapy. How was your week?”

As they exchanged small talk, a loud huffing and puffing and swearing echoed quietly in the foyer. Margaret’s brow furrowed as she craned around to watch the door swing open, wide: Miriam’s red face puffed and grimaced as though she were an ogress breaking into the room. “You two,” she gasped, hauling her prodigious bulk into the vintage dining chamber, “didn’t wait… for me!”

Laura blinked rapidly, confused, but Barbara picked out a feline smirk on Margaret’s face. “I’m sorry, I guess I don’t know what your car looks like,” she said.

With great effort Miriam dragged herself into the room, heavy feet plodding across the vintage floor. “We take… the bus… saw you… three blocks ahead…” Her breathing was so ragged, Barbara wondered whether it would be necessary to call the paramedics soon. The broad and flabby woman threw herself into her loveseat, rocking it on its back legs and seriously threatening the thick wooden planks in its frame. “Not… funny…” She threw the huge slabs of her arms upon the back of the couch, and soon her piquant musk diffused throughout the little group. Margaret’s smirk twisted into an unguarded scowl and Laura’s expression brightened with alarm. She waved a blade-like hand in front of her face to disperse the invisible gases. For her part, Barbara remained unflappable and pleasant, grinning prettily at the beached whale who lay heaving for breath and swearing under it.

“I can only imagine where you’ve stashed your little man,” said the counselor, “if he’s joined us today.” Her eyes flicked oh-so-briefly to the other women, who perked up with morbid curiosity.

“Oh yeah,” panted Miriam, spreading her enormous thighs obscenely wide. Today she wore a tight dress composed of a black velvet bodice that admirably supported her ridiculous bosom, connected to a spreading and artfully rumpled skirt of a black-and-white design like barren walnut branches against a snowy field. Had she not been a sweaty mess shuddering gracelessly for gulps of air, she would not have been out of place at an elegant cocktail party. Now, however, she thrust one meaty hand between her thighs, and Laura and Margaret flinched with revulsion. “Got him here somewhere,” Miriam muttered, envisioning the landscape of adipose material and perspiration, if not vasocongestive fluid or even anal seepage. It was a long minute of slurping and grunting from both of Miriam’s ends before she produced a crinkled and foggy plastic bag containing her husband, thrusting him upward as though having landed a particularly elusive fish. Carelessly she tossed Brent to the coffee table in the center of the seating. He fell with a wet plop and lay still for a moment.

“That’s quite a spectacle, Mrs. Little,” said Barbara, biting her lip. “Is he still alive?”

Miriam laughed. “Oh yeah, he’s fine. He likes to play ’possum for a while, but he always comes around. Couldn’t kill that li’l guy with an ax.”

“Even in a plastic bag?”

The large woman blinked as though this were news to her. “Oh, right. Forgot.” She rolled her tremendous belly over her thighs and reached out to flick a corner of the bag open, to allow fresh air to enter. As the other women watched, partially horrified, the contents slowly began to stir and struggle against the enveloping plastic. Out crawled the tiny little nebbish, already wound up. “She nearly suffocated me!” he bawled at the giant women peering at him. “And you’re fine with it! You saw what she does to me, and you’re gawking at me like a baby bird that fell out of its nest, covered in ants, getting eaten alive as it writhes in agony! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Thank you for that… evocative imagery,” said Barbara, snorting briefly before grinning at the other women. “And with that, I think we’ll get this session started.” Margaret and Laura sat up straighter in their seats. Laura left Rodney perched upon her shoulder, and Margaret tugged her academic little husband out from within her shallow bosom. “Before you set him down, Mrs. Kelley, I’d like to ask that the both of you place your partners upon the coffee table, with Mr. Little.”

Margaret glanced at the enigmatic group leader briefly, muttering “so formal,” but nonetheless reaching out to gently set Lionel upon the glass platform. Without so much as a look at anyone else, Laura had brushed her muscular little man into her thin palms, brought him up for a brief kiss, and then transferred him to the low table in the center of the seating as well.

Brent shrieked when Miriam growled, “Hold on, I wanna kiss mine too,” reaching for the disheveled tiny man with writhing sausage fingers, but Barbara snapped her chin up. “Leave him, Miriam,” she said sharply, “please. Let’s begin the session without so much pageantry, if we may.” Frowning, Miriam nonetheless retracted and piled herself upon the overburdened couch.

Thanking Miriam curtly, Barbara turned her attention to the group in general. Margaret and Laura sat prim and alert in their seats, while Miriam reclined and caught her breath. The three men on the coffee table approached each other with diplomatic briskness, shaking hands and making introductions. “I’ve only seen you from across the room,” said Rodney, sizing Brent up. Lionel agreed it was “good to finally meet the other two husbands in this counseling group.” Brent smoothed back his hair and tugged at his shirt, apologizing for his appearance. He shrugged haplessly and nodded his head back at the corpulent mountainside of his wife, and the other two men nodded sympathetically. Far beyond them, their wives watched on with a gently surprised demeanor.

“You charming little men,” Barbara said, eyes twinkling. “I’m sorry we didn’t arrange this sooner.” They laughed nervously and bowed to the therapist, turning attentive. “The reason I needed you fine little gentlemen on your own here is because we’re going to try a new style of therapy today. Do you think you’re up for that?”

“Do we have a choice?” Rodney’s tone was joking, and the other little men nodded and laughed, but their wives shook their heads and looked sympathetically at Barbara.

“None at all,” she said. She let that statement hang in the air for a while. The tiny men shifted from foot to foot and fell silent, and the women’s smiles slowly melted as the seconds ticked on. Barbara, however, wore a fixed grin and stared unblinking at the diminutive figures on her coffee table. “Any time you’re ready.”

Rodney flinched and raised his hands in supplication.

“Thank you,” she said with emphasis, then raised her eyes to the women. “Today we’re going to try a new technique to explore the issues that concern us. I’m going to ask you to talk about your problems and struggles, but we’re going to frame this in a different perspective.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows upon her knees and tenting her long fingers. “It’s a technique called narrative therapy. As the name suggests, you’re going to relate your personal story like it’s any other kind of story. You can even start with ‘once upon a time,’ if you like.” She smirked. “To answer your next question, Rodney.”

The large women looked down at the muscular little man. “I wasn’t going to−” he started, gaping at the towering women, then immediately gave up.

Glancing at Laura, Margaret spoke up. “I’m sorry if this is a dumb question, but I was wondering the same thing, actually. How do we talk about our problems in a story format?”

Barbara’s carved-in-stone expression softened. “Not a dumb question at all, Margaret! Please feel free to speak up whenever I haven’t been clear about something.” She shifted in her seat, clenching her thighs. “All this is, is literally discussing our internal conflict as though we were telling a story. For example, I might say: Once upon a time there was a therapist named Barbara. She was tall and beautiful, but this only masked her own insecurities. Every day, she was worried that people might discover she was a fraud, or worse, that her own incompetence might cause harm to someone else.” She raised a hand against the women’s protest of her self-evaluation. “It’s only an example. Now, let’s say the problem I’m dealing with in insecurity, yes? For this narrative technique, we’re going to externalize our problems for our stories. We’re going to give them their own life and own identity. If I were going to talk about depression, I might use Winston Churchill’s analogy and say ‘The big, black dog has entered the room’.”

“Did he say that?” asked Rodney. Lionel and Brent assured him he had.

“For my insecurity…” Barbara assumed an expression of thoughtfulness. “Let’s call it Harvey. Okay? So, to resume: Barbara woke up this morning, made her breakfast, showered and dressed, and drove to work. But as soon as she opened her office, she found Harvey waiting for her inside. He never went with her on grocery shopping trips, and he never followed her to the gym, but Harvey’s was the first face she saw when she started her work day, and his was the last voice she heard when she went to bed.”

“I’m still not getting it,” said Miriam, balancing her bulbous upper body upon her abundant hips. “Why don’t you just shoot Harvey in the head or something, if he’s just gonna be an asshole to you?”

Barbara smiled gently at her. “Because he’s my insecurity. I can’t get rid of my insecurity with a gun. He’s always there, waiting to trip me up when I’m trying to do my job. Do you know what that’s like,” she asked, gesticulating gently, “having that sense of negativity around you? Like a bad aroma, but made of self-doubt and self-sabotage.”

Laura and Margaret nodded, as though on cue, but Miriam’s blank expression suggested she wasn’t on the same page. “Perhaps if one of the other women could demonstrate this, it’ll come clearer,” Barbara said, looking at the other two.

“I guess we don’t have problems to be discussed,” murmured Brent. Lionel nodded and Rodney said, “Right?” but Barbara kept her gaze well above the low table.

“Well, sure, I’ll go first,” said Laura slowly. Margaret quickly made a gesture as though she were about to speak, if only Laura hadn’t pounced on the opportunity. She shrugged amiably and rested in her seat as Laura composed herself and Miriam stared on earnestly.

“There was a woman named Laura, who cared about her health. She was very good at exercise and very smart with nutrition, unlike her mother, who never turned down a dessert and died at an early age of untreated diabetes.” Laura’s eyes drifted to the side for a moment, and Margaret gently placed her hand upon the smaller woman’s shoulder. “Good health was very important to Laura, and that’s why she pursued a career in nursing and attained certification in nutrition. She even studied other world philosophies of exercise and diet, even though her coworkers found this ridiculous. They worshipped science, you see, but only the Western kind, and not even science as a practice, but Science as an intellectual fortress. They clung to tradition and rejected new ideas, all while congratulating themselves on their intellect. They made Laura feel stupid and useless, laughing at her alternative practices, which had actually been backed up by legitimate research, but they dismissed this updated information.”

Rodney stared at her intently from the table, his tiny hands twitching as though to reach out for her, caress her huge hands, or partially hug her neck as only he could.

“But her little man supported her,” she said, grinning at him. “He believed in her and encouraged her studies, even when he wasn’t sure about them. He exercised with her, and he ate her foods, even when they didn’t taste very good.”

“Baby,” he said. Barbara hushed him, but Laura shared a crumpled grin with him and nodded.

“But as much as he supported her, he was only a tiny man, with a tiny man’s needs.” She slowly pulled back from the table, resting against the hard back of her chair. “He couldn’t drive and do errands, and he couldn’t lift heavy objects or reach things on tall shelves. This was all up to Laura. The irony was that even though she was doing all the hard work and eating all the right things, her body got smaller while his got larger.” She looked up at the therapist. “He wasn’t growing, of course, but his muscles were well developed and he became very handsome, while Laura grew thinner and paler and weaker. She didn’t understand why: she followed all the recipes and did all the workouts, but her little man was the only one who benefited from them.

“And maybe he couldn’t drive, and maybe he couldn’t walk safely around the neighborhood on his own, but Laura knew that he could leave anyway. She knew, as surely as her hips and chest had slimmed to a boyish figure, that all it would take was for any woman with bigger tits—” she glanced at Miriam “—or a better education, a more worldly experience—” she looked at Margaret “—to simply step up and sweep him off his feet, and away he’d go.”

“No, baby, I would never,” Rodney said.

“Mr. Payne, please!” A storm brewed in Barbara’s eyes, and Rodney flinched.

Undisturbed, Laura went on. “Because what did Laura have to offer? She had a career where her coworkers didn’t respect her. She studied far-out, exotic philosophies that came down to eating weeds and dirt. She had the body of a hungry preteen boy, and she knew her little man wanted more. No, he needed more, to be fair.” Deep lines drew around her mouth and her chin dimpled. “He deserved more. He was a good and loyal man, and Laura had been mean to him during sex.”

“Laura,” said Barbara.

“He was so strong and beautiful,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard, “but he couldn’t even overpower this thin, wasting little woman. So she would step on him, gently at first, then harder and harder, until he began to cry out. That’s what made her dried-up pussy turn wet, it seemed. As soon as he cried out and started pleading for his life, when she could feel his tiny body quiver with effort and finally give out, that gave her the best orgasm.” She looked past the group, through the far wall, and into the interminable distance. “Because he looked so great, but ultimately he was weak. And Laura looked weak and frail, but ultimately she could defeat him without any effort. What was the meaning of that? How was that fair?” She laughed, then focused upon the people in the room. “Oh, my Goddess, I’m so sorry,” she started.

“No, Laura, that was excellent.” Barbara was loud and emphatic, and Margaret backed her up.

“That was fucking fascinating,” said Miriam, wearing a half-smile. “Is that what we’re supposed to do? Because I don’t know if I can come up with anything as good as that.” She leaned forward in her seat, her immense boobs flooding her porky, rounded knees. “What did Laura do next?”

Barbara stared at the sexual monstrosity, her jaw hanging for a rare moment before she collected herself. “Take a moment for yourself, Laura. Take a deep breath. Here, do it with me.” She uncrossed her legs but kept her knees primly together, sitting straight up in her stuffed-leather throne, and scooped her palms toward her chest with a theatrical inhale. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and then pushed it out with a sweeping gesture. To her surprise, Miriam also puffed out her breath, imitating her as though hypnotized. “You did some very important work, Laura. That was courageous of you, not just to explore that but to share it with the group.” She nodded at Margaret, who babbled encouraging noises to the slighter woman.

“I don’t know where that came from. I’m so sorry,” Laura whispered. “I would never…” She covered her mouth with both hands and stared at her little husband on the table. Rodney reached out to her but Barbara shook her head with a stern expression.

Rodney turned fully toward the gigantic therapist, stepping in front of the other two little figures. “Come on! She needs me! She was just all vulnerable and stuff. Why won’t you let me comfort her?” His voice was surprisingly harsh: the other two little men flinched and stepped back from him. Miriam watched him, eyes wide, mouth open, as though anticipating a traffic accident in an online video. Margaret, for her part, stared at the back of his shaved head with an intense expression. The tip of her tongue peeked briefly between slightly parted lips as she drew a long, slow breath that filled her blazer.

Slowly, Barbara’s leg raised and hooked over her knee, and her fingers laced around the upper knee securely. “Your chivalrous instinct is admirable, Rodney, but this isn’t the place for it. What we’re going to do instead is let your poor wife get a breather while you tell your narrative.”

The little muscleman froze, confusing creasing his brow. “My narrative? Aren’t we going to deal with what she just said? There’s a lot just hanging−”

Barbara sat up, still holding her knee, and pushed out her chest, nodding her head regally. “Rodney. Who’s in charge of these sessions?”

He frowned. “Well, you, of course.”

“Thank you. Now, are you trying to suggest that I’m incapable of doing my job properly? Or have you come here to tell me how to do my job?” Her thick, sable mane hissed over her shoulders as she tilted her head and fixed her gaze upon him. “You wouldn’t be the first. It seems that any time a woman pursues higher education and receives a degree in any specialty, the one thing she’s guaranteed to encounter is a man with the irresistible compulsion to inform her of the rudiments of her study.” She squirmed in her seat and pressed her lips together momentarily.

“Hey, now, I wasn’t−”

“It’s clear that you have a lot on your mind, Rodney, so why don’t you vent that restless energy in a useful direction? Tell us your story.”

Rodney looked over at his wife: Laura sat back in her seat, hugging herself. Her head hung, setting long, thin strands of baby-fine platinum hair to hang in a fringe that hid her expression. He looked back at the other two men on the table with him. Lionel looked baffled and only shrugged; Brent looked away and scratched incessantly at the back of his head.

Taking a deep breath, Rodney turned himself away from the gigantic therapist and opened himself up to the rest of the room. Beyond the tiny cowards before him loomed their enormous wives, regarding them with rapt expressions. Rodney couldn’t tell whether his insecurity made him perceive mockery in their faces. “Fine, you wanna hear my story? Let’s go.” He clapped his hands and rolled his shoulders.

“Once upon a time, there was a tiny man named Rodney. He was a good kid, never done anything wrong, but his folks didn’t like him. His mother was ashamed of what their friends thought, and his father wanted someone bigger and stronger. Rodney couldn’t do nothing about getting bigger, but stronger he could do. He worked out his whole life, picking up anything he could find and fighting with it until he could overcome it. That became his philosophy.

“One day, he’s working at the gym, and this beautiful woman starts chatting with him. She sees what he’s drinking, a little veggie smoothie, and she’s got all these opinions, right, on what goes into a smoothie. But he knows all the answers, too, because he’s had to. He’s not good at math, and he doesn’t like reading, but he studied what a little body needs to develop and get stronger.

“He sees her again the next week, and then she comes over and finds him the week after that, and then they go out and share a steak. He’s all into her, see, because she knows all the stuff that he’s been studying his whole life, and she knows more. It’s like her job? She starts filling in all the gaps he didn’t even know he was missing, and he starts falling for her. They go out a couple more times, and then she lets him fill her own gap.” He grinned broadly at the other little men. “Not to put too fine a point on it, you know. Nature takes its course.” He shrugged and continued for Margaret and Miriam.

“But then, uh, something changes somewhere. Rodney doesn’t know why, but, uh…” He paused and folded his arms over his chest. “Like Dr. Moon was saying, let’s give it a name.”

“I’m not a doctor,” Barbara said quickly, glancing at the other women.

“Call her Penelope. Penelope’s this little lady, right, and she’s living inside Laura’s head.”

Laura looked up, her hands falling to her lap like snowflakes.

“She ain’t around most of the time, Penelope isn’t. When Laura’s being sweet to Rodney, it’s just them. They cuddle, they joke around. But then Penelope shows up. It’s like she climbs a ladder up Laura’s spine and crawls into her head, like a cockpit. Like she’s flying a bomber or maybe one of those giant Japanese space-robots, you know? Suddenly Penelope’s there, and Penelope’s a little person like Rodney is. But Penelope doesn’t got anything to make her feel powerful. She’s weak, she’s thin, maybe she’s shy, but when she’s hiding inside Laura’s head, she feels like she’s got some power now. And she could never face off against Rodney face to face, you know, but with a gigantic woman to control, yeah, now she can do some damage.”

Margaret and Barbara looked over at Laura, who was leaning forward as though she were having a hard time seeing or hearing Rodney. Miriam said, “This is fucking fascinating! Then what did Laura do?”

Surprised, Rodney rolled with the interruption. “I’m glad you asked, big lady. I’ll tell you what she did. When Rodney and Laura used to be all lovey-dovey in bed, now Penelope’s there and making Laura do mean things. Penelope’s small and wretched, see, so even the sight of Rodney pisses her off. Here’s another little tiny person, she figures, but he’s got muscles. He didn’t just roll over and expose his belly to life. He took charge, he did the best he could with what he had, and he came out on top. That pissed Penelope off, so she grabs the controls and presses Laura’s body down on top of him. Just makes her crawl over and plop her chest down on top of him so he can’t even breathe. She laughs inside Laura’s head, feeling how Rodney struggles, hearing how he’s in pain. Or sometimes she makes the giant woman pin the little man against the wall with her foot, and she masturbates, making him watch. Stomping on him a little bit, crushing his chest, kicking his head around with one toe. Laughing at him.

“And he can’t do nothing about that. Laura’s huge, Rodney’s tiny. He can’t fight her, no way, no how. Laura knows that and she’d never hurt him for all the money in the world. But Penelope’s inside her now, and she’s scared and angry. She uses Laura to make herself feel powerful, and she loves seeing Rodney suffer. Worse,” he said, gulping, “she loves listening to him suffer.”

Barbara stroked her chin. “And what does that look like, Rodney.”

“When he begs for mercy, Penelope just laughs at him. She gets off on it, feeling powerful for once. And when he complains about it, she loves that too.” Rodney turned toward his wife. “Penelope said so. She said it turns her on to hear the little man complaining, begging his wife to be kind to him.” He looked up at Barbara. “She said it arouses her when he talks about his problems in therapy.”

“Goddess,” whispered Lionel. Brent looked up at Laura and saw her cheeks were flushed. He noted that her pupils were huge, too, and her breathing had grown heavier.

“Penelope even said that if Rodney tried to ask the group for help or called the police−” Abruptly Rodney’s throat dried up and he coughed harshly for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, Barbara, I can’t. This is too much.”

“You did very well, Rodney.” Barbara uncrossed her legs and lined her glossy nails upon her kneecaps, pressing her thighs together. “That was very well done. You really pushed yourself and shared some important, deep truths. How do you feel right now?”

“I feel like shit, honestly. I feel like I betrayed my wife for your entertainment.”

“That’s not what happened here, today.”

“No? Then why’re you squirming in your seat like you gotta go to the bathroom? Why you been staring at me like a dog hoping for a chunk of raw meat?” Rodney walked across the table to the edge nearest the therapist. “Why you been picking on both of us tonight? You’re acting really strangely, Dr. Moon.”

“I’m not a doctor,” she said, “and I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t deflect. Sometimes a stubborn client just needs a little push to reach a revelation.” She raised her head imperiously. “What is it you gym-monkeys like to say? The real workout begins after you’re exhausted. Isn’t that right?”

Rodney frowned at her but had nothing to say to that. He walked over to the edge by Laura and nodded at her. The frail woman glanced at Barbara for a moment before reaching out for her husband, until her arms froze. Her hands hovered in the empty space between her lap and the coffee table, trembling, until they pulled back. “Laura!” he called to her, but she retreated to the back of her chair and hugged herself tightly. “Fucking Goddess, Barbara, what did you make us do?” He stretched his own arms out toward her, pleading. His wife only shook her head and gasped in hitching breaths.

Barbara briefly pressed her balled fists into her skirt, into her own crotch, before catching herself and digging her nails into her thighs. “I truly believe some significant work has been done today. Would anyone like to share their impressions? Brent?”

“Not for all the silver in Argentina.” He stepped back and turned slightly, as though to shield himself from the heat of her gaze.

“I’ll go ahead,” said Margaret, earning a shocked expression from her husband. “I also feel these two made some significant leaps and bounds. We’re kind of at a disadvantage, since we know the most about Rodney than anyone else.”

Rodney withered slightly, recalling the previous sessions.

Margaret placed one comforting hand upon her edge of the table. “But no, no, that’s good! Rodney’s been terribly brave and incredibly honest with us! Isn’t that right?” She looked over to Miriam for backup, but the large woman was caught in the middle of palming her large breasts and leering at her own little man. “Anyway, I have nothing but admiration for Rodney. It’s hard enough for any of us who can physically defend ourselves from each other, or even walk out of the room when it gets too much. He can’t do any of that, but instead of withdrawing, he’s faced us all down with candor and honesty.” She turned her head toward the little man, staring back at her slack-jawed. “You’re an incredibly brave little man, and I admire you for that.” With her face at such an angle that Barbara and Laura couldn’t see (and Miriam wasn’t paying attention), she winked at Rodney.

Brent was distracted by his wife, swearing and waving his arms to get her to knock off her advances in front of everyone. The only third party to notice this pointed gesture, then, was Lionel, who couldn’t tear his eyes away from his wife’s transformed expression. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard that tone in her voice, and it almost seemed as though her hand nearly overshot the edge of the table, wanting to reach out and snatch the musclebound miniature man up in her fist.

Lionel looked over at Laura, a shuddering wreck, then at Miriam’s tasteless overtures toward her own little man. Everyone seemed wrapped up in their own worlds, missing everything going on. Everyone, that is, except Barbara. Yes, the ringleader, the agent provocateur. This session was unlike any of the previous meetings, and if Lionel could permit himself to be a little paranoid, for the time being, it felt as though this session were the first step in an unsavory, unimaginable direction. True, it had been his idea to seek marriage counseling, but he thought he’d vetted Barbara Moon sufficiently and had had confidence in her credentials. What game was she playing now?

Her expression gave little away: the sultry woman in the clingy dress only sat upright in her leathern throne, one quizzical eyebrow raised and shared with the room in general. Her calves, he noted, bulged and relaxed as she raised and lowered her heels in steady flexes, and her fingers looked as though she were about to gouge large chunks out of her powerful, toned thighs. All session long, she’d kept her thighs clamped firmly together, in one position or another, and now she seemed almost antsy.

“Mr. Kelley,” she called out brightly. “You look as though you have something you’d like to say. Shall it be your turn next?”

 

“That was pretty shocking, don’t you think?” Lionel knelt before his portion of porterhouse and tore a fibrous strand free. He turned it over in the steak’s juices on his wife’s plate a couple times before gnawing on it like sucking down a length of rope. Margaret made a vague noise. He looked up at her, cupping her chin in her hand, resting on one elbow, the picture of profound boredom. He watched an idle nasal hair flap in the breeze of her exhalation three or four times, then finished what he was chewing. “I said, that was a pretty shocking session, wasn’t it? Margaret?”

The huge head of shaggy hair framing a wise, tired expression slowly turned down toward him. “Huh? If you say so.”

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

The chemise beneath her black blazer swelled with a deep sigh. “No, lover, you’re not boring me. I’m just lost in my own thoughts right now.”

“Well, why don’t you share them with me?”

At that, her huge eyes seemed to focus upon him. “Oh, no, I don’t think you’d find them interesting. I’m just flitting around, from here to there.” She dislodged her jaw to allow her long, slender fingers to waggle through the air like the flight of moths.

Lionel climbed down from the edge of the plate and wiped his hands on the corner of her folded linen napkin. He’d dressed up for the session with a nice white shirt and meticulously recreated suspenders, and no one had bothered to notice. It was a break from his usual style, which his wife (in not so many words) had intimated was a bit bookish and stodgy, but his chance-taking had been glossed over with the drama of the athletic couple’s revelation-cum-disgorgement. He wasn’t about to be blown off by his own wife, in his own home. “Margaret, I need you to look at me.”

“I am looking at you, darling.”

“You are not!” Perhaps she could have gotten away with faking eye contact with a size-peer, but to one of Lionel’s proportions, every last twitch of her iris was overt. “What is going on? I need you, as my life-partner, to be honest with me and tell me what the hell is going on!”

The giant woman only stared at him dully. She smirked, gave a little snort.

“I don’t understand this! Have I done something wrong? Are you so scared of me that you can’t use your words and explain this to me?” Tempted as he was to lash out and stomp around, experience had shown him that she found this adorable, and he couldn’t bear being laughed at now, in the midst of his rage. He only stood at the fore of his giant wife’s napkin, balling his little fists and standing straight as a fireplace poker, trying to summon all his power to compel her attention.

Teeth glowed dimly behind her thin lips in dusty rose. “You seem kind of agitated. Does someone need an early bed?”

“Margaret.” Lionel’s tone dropped. He opened his mouth once more, took in his wife’s expression, then shut up. Without so much as a slump of his shoulders, he turned away and went back to the steak. He ignored her when she asked if he had something else he wanted to say, and so she shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine, and he tore into the asparagus until he was full.

He cleaned himself on her napkin, wordlessly, and she took the dishes to the kitchen sink to deal with tomorrow morning. She had the civility to carry him upstairs, but he declined further help with going to the bathroom, choosing to relieve himself in a wet-nap before undressing and retiring to his own bed. It was a whimsy purchase Margaret had surprised him with, a Regency four-poster bed, fit for an emperor. Lionel rarely had cause to use it, preferring to curl up in some section of his wife’s bodyscape, but tonight he chose it without discussion, and she showed no interest in talking him out of it.

He lay in it, like a discomfited little king, dwelling upon what story he’d tell at the next session.

* * *

The drive home was especially hard for Rodney and Laura. He could only look up at her, worriedly, from his travel case as she took hard turns, jackrabbit starts, and screeching halts.

“Please, calm down, baby.” His voice rang ineffectually within the acrylic walls as the engine revved and horns resounded from all sides. “Just hold it together until we get home, then you can freak out. Just get us home safely, baby. Don’t wreck the car, we can’t afford it.”

“Okay, okay,” she muttered, white-knuckling the wheel and changing nothing in her behavior. Twenty harrowing minutes later, they were parked and inside and curled up on their bed, still clothed. Wishing he could make her a sandwich or fix her a drink, Rodney had to settle on caressing pale, bony fingers as long as he was.

“Just breathe, baby. That’s it, just breathe.” He hugged her ring finger to his chest, rubbing his cheek against the nail. She never polished her nails and only rarely splurged on a manicure. Laura was as natural as the produce she ingested, unadorned and raw. Rodney ran his tiny fingers over her cuticles, now chewed and jagged. “That was a hard one, wasn’t it? It was rough. It’s not like when I just talked shit and embarrassed myself.”

Laura only lay in the fetal position and stared at the afternoon light peering through the Venetian blinds. She didn’t show any sign of acknowledging the little man behind her hand.

He watched her expression, her slack mouth, her thin nostrils. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just talk. Is that okay?” She said nothing. He nodded to himself and kissed her fingernail. “I tell you, I’m starting to wonder if this was a good idea, this Dr. Moon.” He laughed quietly. “Not a doctor. My bad. But man, I may not know how therapy’s supposed to go, but this is fucking rough. Me, spilling my guts and sharing my private secrets, in front of a bunch of people I don’t even know. What was that supposed to prove?”

He fell silent for a moment, stepping between her fingers to sit in her palm, lacing his legs through her knuckles. He pulled down her ring finger to rest in the crook of his neck, unwilling to let go of her for a second. “And now you, this fucking storytelling exercise. Goddamn it, anyway! How does she get us to just open up and say that shit? And you know what else,” he said, raising his voice, “those sessions are far too short. That’s some bullshit, just having you and me spill our guts, and then those other chuckleheads get to go home and judge us. No, that ain’t how it should go. Everyone should get, like, ten minutes to embarrass themselves and then we’re all on equal footing. Right?”

Laura said nothing, and he wasn’t really talking to her anyway.

“I’m not saying she’s a witch or anything. It’s just really weird, how she gets us to open up like that and talk about everything we got locked up inside us. And by ‘us,’ I guess I just mean you and me. What the hell has everyone else talked about? Brent went on about, you know, how mean Miriam’s to him, I guess. Heh, she got all worked up about that, did you notice?” He grinned, kissing her cuticle and stroking her last knuckle. “Oh, she didn’t like that at all, the things he was saying. That cracked me up, watching her get all upset. I thought she was gonna rise up and, I dunno, sit on Barbara? That’d put her in her place. Holy crap, that’d probably kill her. I bet that’s what saves Brent most of the time, that he’s so small, she can’t focus all of her weight onto him. It spills over, it goes everywhere else. But if she sat on Barbara, like, it’s more concentrated, she’s catching all of it.”

He thought about that, pictured Barbara getting pinned between Miriam’s tremendous buttocks. He envisioned that sultry, exotic woman with the unrealistically perfect body getting wedged deep into Miriam’s crack, with the starchy skirt she wore today bunching up and disappearing into her crevice along with the therapist. Barbara was nothing more than an awkward array of limbs and long, black hair poking out of two wobbly spheres of feminine flesh and fabric. He could even see that gigantic woman toddling out of the room, carrying the therapist in her butt, muffled screams burping out of her buttocks.

It surprised him, how arousing that image was. He pulled his leg out and laced it back in to trap two of Laura’s fingers between his knees, and he pulled her third and fourth fingertips down to gently pinch the sides of his head, nestling his cannonball butt upon the callused pads at the base of her knuckles, crowning her palm. Someday he felt he should look up all the names for all the parts of his wife’s hand, since it was as common and important to him as a couch was to her.

“How you doing, baby,” he said quietly, wrapping his little arms around her fingers. It wasn’t a real question, and she didn’t say anything, but his eyes lit up when he felt the pad of her thumb brush over his shoulders.

* * *

Miriam giggled on and off throughout the bus ride home. She sat up in the front of the bus, sunlight passing over her back and shoulders, rocking with the large vehicle’s motions and giggling to herself, unmindful of the other passengers. For their part they weren’t very curious about her, either, staring out their windows or scrutinizing their phones.

Brent lay in Miriam’s cleavage, resting nearly horizontally upon her massive breasts, dipping only slightly into the cleft. Her décolletage exposed him completely, as well as the hillsides of her bosom, but he wasn’t bothered in the least. On this ride, unlike most others, he was enjoying himself. His wife’s immense boobs trembled with every contour of the road and bounced with each laugh she let out. He rode alone, content, even excited, rocked in the broad, grotesquely erotic landscape.

“That guy just can’t get a break,” he called up to her over the vehicle’s growl. “Barbara snaps his fingers, and he humiliates himself with his private fantasies. She snaps them again, and they’re both just bleeding in the center of the room! How does she do it?”

Sunlight glinted upon all the teeth in Miriam’s broad smile. “I dunno, she’s got some kinda influence over us. Like last week, when she was rubbing you all over her, I wanted more than anything to grab you back. But she just looked at me—you know, really looked right at me—and I couldn’t move!”

“But you said you liked it.”

“Yeah, I kinda liked seeing that kind of power. But after today, I think I got it easy!” She laughed again, and Brent watched her esophagus working beneath a thick layer of flesh. “And did you see the look on Lionel’s face when she announced he’d be next? I thought he was gonna shit himself!”

Brent laughed and slapped his little arms upon the hillsides of her boobs. “He just stiffened up! I think he thought he was going to have to talk right then. Even worse, right after that train wreck of Laura and Rodney! Goddess, was she okay? She looked like she’d gone into a catatonic state.”

Miriam’s eyes were huge and round, and her thick lips formed a huge O. “That was freaky! I thought Barbara really broke her! If I didn’t see her get up and walk out with her little workout buddy, I would’a thought she was about to die or something.” She scooted back in her seat, straightening her spine, and gave her bosom a little heave to watch her tiny man bounce along. “But Lionel’s gonna catch an earful from Margaret when he gets home.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Barbara says ‘you next,’ and he looks like he’s gonna get stepped on or something? That tells a story all by itself. Margaret seems like the type who really cares about appearances, so he probably embarrassed the fuck outta her.”

Brent tilted his head and looked up at her button chin, between gently trembling cheeks. “That’s a really good point. You’re pretty insightful when you want to be, Miriam.”

She bit her tongue at him, grinning. “I see more than I let on, little man! I’m not some big, stupid ogre, like people think.” She cupped her breasts through her dress and rocked them alternately, to the slow beat of a song only in her head. Her husband’s tiny body rocked helplessly back and forth, nudged roughly from side to side by each bulging tit in turn, but he was smiling. He was laughing, he loved it. It was so unusual to see him into it with her, she was almost afraid of breaking the spell and losing the moment, but for the time being he was right there with her.

She kept him carefully balanced upon her breasts when they arrived at their stop and got off. He grinned at her as her massive face looked overhead to navigate. The wind dragged a few thin locks of hair over her expression, and he had the urge to climb them, to scale her cheeks and just park himself over one eye. In the late afternoon sun, her skin was glowing and the golden, woody tones of her iris were brought out of their normally dark brown hue. More than that, there was something about this afternoon, the conspiracy of their shared schadenfreude, that made him feel strangely close to her. He also felt that tenuous connection that could be disrupted and snapped by any random event, but for the time being… he was really into her, and he wanted to enjoy that.

By unspoken agreement they hustled upstairs to their bedroom (not that he could’ve resisted, but he certainly didn’t complain). Miriam placed Brent upon the edge of her dresser. “Get my zipper, darling?” Laughing, he gripped the plastic stem with both hands and leaped into space. Rather than yanking the mechanism straight down, however, he only banged against her back, setting them both off in giggles once more. With some innovation he figured a way to rappel down her spine, planting his little feet in the black velvet, and successfully dragged her zipper down to its base.

“Aren’t you a little helper,” she said, reaching back to tug him by his leg and scoop him up for a quick shower of kisses. He laughed and squirmed, getting pelted with thick, puckering lips from all angles, until she tossed him to the bed. His little body, a few ounces in weight, hardly made even a poof as it struck the decorative quilt upon the bed. Clean linen and a delicate perfume filled his nose as he watched the mountainous woman struggle to tug her dress up over her head.

It was fascinating at first, watching the muscles work beneath the thick padding of her upper arms, seeing each stage of progress as her skirt flooded up over her hips and strained to pop over her breasts. After a minute or two of the fight, her thick hands quickly wadded the dress up over her head. Miriam tossed it into the corner, onto a pile of dirty clothes and crusty tissues, then planted her fists upon her hips. “Look at you! Are you just going to ogle me or are you going to get undressed?”

Dark shadows fell over his body as her colossal chest swiveled overhead. Not for the first time he admired the impressive engineering that went into her lace-and-canvas brassiere that only barely contained her massive mammaries. They jutted from her chest, heavy and proud, and he witnessed their full undersides beyond even her vast belly. It was an awesome spectacle, and Brent was momentarily stunned motionless.

Either one of those huge tits could come down and plow into him. Either one could bury him helplessly, without a trace. Either one contained relative tonnage that might not snap his ribs or shatter his skull, but all that tit-meat could easily constrict his circulation and definitely squeeze the wind from his lungs. Crawling out from beneath one, only one, would have been an impossible task. And now two of them were protruding not all that far above him.

Slowly he realized how hard his cock was. It burned pleasantly in his trousers, growing stiff at an awkward angle, pushing the miniature-scaled fabrics from his thigh. Biting his lip with a randy sneer, he practically ripped his tiny sweater vest over his head, fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt before attacking his own pants with mounting ardor. When he looked up again, lying in nothing more than tiny boxers and tinier socks, he discovered Miriam had successfully undone the hooks to her bra and was now scooping her immense tits out of each cup.

She moaned deeply, closing her eyes in satisfaction, drinking in the moment they hauled out of her sweaty, dense bra to be kissed by fresh air. Her bra hung, flaccid and discarded, off of one shoulder as her powerful forearms and hands kneaded deep into copious, floppy spheres of flesh. “Oh, my Goddess,” Brent murmured, clutching his cock through his underwear, watching huge, dusky nipples swell and grow perky between dancing, clutching fingers.

From above the bobbling mountainside, Miriam’s crooked grin arose like a sunrise. “Oh, you like this, little man?” she enunciated with a surprisingly coquettish tone. “Is this something you want, this one?” She released one breast and let it fall, slapping against her belly, as both hands had an easier time supporting its sister. Splayed fingers were nearly lost in the folds of spilling, milky flesh, and her rosy/tan nipple stuck out like a small tower upon the hillside. “I dunno, I think it’s kind of much for you.”

“No, please,” Brent grunted, “I can handle it.”

Miriam threw back her head and laughed, setting her corpulent body rumbling. “Is that so! You think you can handle all this tit?” Bending slowly at the waist, she held her breast above the tiny, little man. She watched the darkness spread around him, curious about how he wasn’t scrambling for safety or shrieking his demands or begging at her. He appeared to be stroking his crotch with one hand, while his other limbs were spread out as though he anticipated a full-bodied hug. Miriam nearly lost her breath at the sight, a tiny, little man whose every last millimeter ached for her touch. She almost didn’t know how to interpret it.

Her other breast fell around, sliding over her belly and swinging dangerously near Brent. He saw it coming, like a moon wheeling around a planet, coming straight at him. He welcomed it, staring in awe as the abundant flesh grew in speed and swooped toward his position. It only swiped the air above him, with her nipple tracing a clean arc through the air until it pointed directly at him. Somehow it felt less like a warning, an accusatory point at him, and more like a living, thinking thing that suddenly craved him right back. He let out a gasp, and the giantess above him reared slightly, defensively.

Brent and Miriam stared at each other in surprise. He wasn’t trying to escape, and she wasn’t trying to kill him with a tsunami of sexual appetite. They almost didn’t recognize each other.

Quietly, his wife asked him, “Do you want to try something new tonight?”

Just as quietly, her husband squeaked, “I would love to try anything you have in mind… lover.”

There was another moment of shock, of two minds racing.

With a dreamy grin, Miriam laboriously brought her knee upon the edge of the mattress. It nearly collapsed, digging a deep crater into the surface, and Brent felt the land beneath him buckle and bend. Digging his tiny fingers into the weave of the quilt, he anchored himself and watched as her other knee rose and plowed into the bedding. Just above him, her vast belly now hung from her spine and ribs, reaching almost down to where he lay. He felt its heat as it hung ponderously, lethally above him. Crazily he wondered whether he could stand up on the quilt and leap into her cavernous navel. Instead, he watched the exaggerated fertility goddess pass above like a storm front, until the mattress erupted with another major collision: Miriam now lay beside him, rolling to her back and throwing her legs up toward the ceiling to wrestle with tugging her panties over her abundant hips and free of her thick legs.

Panting, the gigantic wife finally stretched out and smiled at her husband. The tiny man was barely visible over her breast, now rolling off her chest and covering her arm. “I was just thinking,” she said, gasping, “that maybe I should let you do all the work this time.”

Brent picked himself up and stood shakily upon the quilt. “I don’t mind pitching in,” he called out, trying to sound brave. “What did you have in mind?”

Her huge, round shoulders rolled in syncopation. “I dunno. I thought maybe I’d place you somewhere and leave it up to you.” Her tongue, thick and red, somehow managed to run cutely along her upper lip.

Brent could only regard the impressive landscape of his wife: her leg ran up in a meaty massif to her hip, her belly rose like a mountain behind it, and her thick arm was a ridge that stretched from the foothills of her fingers up to the promontory of her boob. Beyond that lay the castle of her head, well-defended from attackers by a daunting landscape of flab and muscle.

“Yeah, you’ll definitely have to place me somewhere, unless you don’t mind hanging out for an hour while I find my way around.”

“Should I be insulted?” Her tone was bright and amused, and the thick hand that lay before him slowly lifted into the air, wriggling its fingers at him beckoningly. He smirked and trotted over, declining to comment on what an impressive effort it was for her to move any part of her at all. When her fingertips bumped against his bare body, they reached around and pinched him with surprising sensitivity. Surprising, because his very muscle memory tensed at the contact, expecting to be clutched in an inconsiderate and savage fist. Instead, she merely lifted him over her hip and placed him gently (not dropped him) upon her thicket of pubic hair.

“Right into the action, huh?” he hollered over the great curve of her belly.

“No point in wasting time,” came her distant voice like thunder. The fact was that she was incredibly horny, and he couldn’t know what an impressive show of self-restraint it was not to gobble him down or stuff him aggressively up inside her. The spell they were under piqued her curiosity, even to the degree that she was willing to set her old habits aside and try something novel. To assist him she heaved her trunk-like thighs apart; to protect him she reached overhead and wrapped her fists around the posts of the headboard, channeling all her tension into holding these fast.

The kinky, coarse hairs scratched Brent as he clutched them and lowered himself into her deep valley. The musky aroma of his wife’s arousal flooded his senses, and again his body had a moment of familiar tension. Normally the arousal heralded abuse, an onslaught of clenching and swallowing and crushing that by rights he felt he shouldn’t have survived. “It’s okay, it’s cool,” he muttered to himself, descending into the towering chasm of Miriam’s thighs, breathing slowly to control his racing heart. The belly disappeared behind the grove of pubes, and the rest of the bedroom was similarly eclipsed by the gargantuan inner thighs into which he voluntarily admitted himself. “It’s okay, you want to be here. First time for everything.”

Between his socked feet emerged her clitoris. It bulged, reddened and eager, and from around it spread the engorged and darkening panels of her labia. Clutching a wrinkle of her flesh, he reached down to hastily tug his socks off. They fluttered down below him, catching odd breezes as one drifted along the long curve of his wife’s inner thigh; the other one zagged and swooped directly below him, smacking against a labial fold and instantly getting drenched in her juices. Frowning, he futzed single-handedly with his boxers and attempted to wad them up and toss them for distance, but they too unfurled and homed right back into his wife’s huge pussy. Sighing, he reached for another fold of skin and stretched his legs down.

His toes found footing easily enough, but the flesh was tender and the juices spread readily, so one foot slipped frictionlessly over her outer labia and the other was promptly embedded in her folds.

“It’s so hard not to touch you right now.” Miriam’s voice was getting throaty and rich. “I’m just going to hold onto the bed and let you do your thing. I just hope, you know, you get on with it soon.” She gave the headboard a threatening rattle, banging it against the wall.

Gulping, Brent considered his position and wondered why he shouldn’t drape himself right where he was. He gathered as much of the thin folds of skin near her peak as he could, tried to crush them in his fists, and let his legs hang freely. His chest and belly nestled into the hotter, wetter inner labia and her thick lips spread around his sides. It was almost as though they were animated, prehensile, not just spreading to get out of his way but actively gnawing at him, sucking him within.

Here he was, hanging over his immense wife’s cavernous vulva, the site of so much terror and conflict. Normally he’d be praying for death, watching that toothless, gummy maw spread just enough to suck him inside and mash him around for hours. Now, however, he was in charge, and it cast an entirely different patina upon the environment. Rather than an angry, alien gash devouring him, he could see Miriam’s pussy as tender and inviting. Throbbing with desire, of course, but it couldn’t hurt him now. He relinquished one handhold and began to stroke the layers of wrinkled tissues beside him.

His tiny body jerked as Miriam let out a deep moan. “What did you do,” she gasped.

“I’m just touching you,” he yelled back. “I only touched you a little. Are you okay?”

“That was… really nice.” She sounded as though she were struggling to recall words. “Do that again.”

A prickly tension had been building up in Brent since he lowered himself down to his wife’s hellmouth. “I thought I was in charge here!” he yelled back, almost beyond thought.

The gigantic hillside of hips rocked heavily, and Brent’s tiny body boffed against the huge pussy. “Yes, of course. You’re in charge, dear.”

Surreal. The whole thing was surreal to him, but he nodded and looked again at the huge labia, thicker and longer than he was. Furrowing his brow, he slipped his arm between some folds of tissue. It sank in up to his elbow before his hand butted against an alcove of skin. He withdrew it, selected another fissure, and plunged his arm in up to his shoulder. Moist, seamy tissues suckled at his neck as he swished his arm inside his wife, reaching for nothing in particular but to blindly explore her interior.

Her moan came out as a fluttery sigh this time. With alarm he noted how her thighs tensed and heaved. He became very conscious of where he was and what would happen to him, should those huge walls of flesh suddenly scissor close. He couldn’t crawl out of the way fast enough; if he dropped to the bed, he’d only be trapped under her immense ass. Slowly his eyes rolled to the entrance of Miriam’s vagina. Was that a valid escape route, or was that just hurling himself into a new emergency?

“Please, lover,” she whimpered. Brent had never heard his wife sound so vulnerable in her life. It touched something deep inside him, and so he nodded to himself, kicked against the bulging labia, and swung away. He closed his legs, locking one foot around the other ankle, and plunged the entire lower half of his body into her pussy.

Miriam cried out, shocked at how such a little gesture could affect her. More than anything, she wanted to reach down and stuff him inside her, to feel his little body fold and squirm as she crushed him with her cunt. The desire to feel this nearly brought her to tears, but she tried to redirect all that anguish into her grip on the headboard. Oh, how her legs ached to close and clamp down upon him! But she dutifully kept them spread, doing nothing more than flexing her piggy toes in the empty air, leaving everything to him.

It felt like a thick finger was swimming around inside her now, just inside her entrance. She clenched her eyes, trying her hardest to envision the activity in her crotch.

Brent’s breath was hitching as his body seized in fright. The huge vulva spasmed around his waist, with long panels of pussy flesh pulsing urgently around him. There was nothing to grasp, what with the thick lubrication oozing over the rubbery tissues. He could only stretch out his arms in a T-shape to block himself from sinking within. He rested there, assuring himself of his immobility, letting the giant pussy squeeze his lower half rhythmically. He went no further, he realized. There were no muscles in her cunt that could clutch him and drag him within. Eyes huge, he giggled with relief and slowly cycled his legs inside her vagina.

It felt good. It was a good feeling, if you got past the panic of the rising cum-waters around your chest. If you didn’t mind the steady, insistent crush of vulvic rings applying dangerous pressure to your ribs, waist, hips, thighs, and knees, you realized they could only squeeze so hard before they released. Taking a deep breath, Brent dared to smile and reached up to caress Miriam’s huge, angry clit. It shuddered at his touch, then seemed to relax and even swell for more. Licking his lips, he brought his other arm up and grasped the nodule in both hands. He rolled his hips and allowed himself to slide deeper within the pussy lips, until they filled his armpits and writhed against his shoulder blades. Fascinated, he worked hard little fingers into her clitoris, wondering whether it was possible to hurt this sensitive nerve bundle. He’d heard so many things, after all, and it was difficult to know which was true.

Miriam dug her skull into her pillows, moaning with greater volume. Her clit was on fire, it was vibrating with a deep need, and that little man was doing something amazing to it. What was he doing? Could she get him to do it again? Her belly trembled with a 4.3 magnitude as her hips began seizing and jolting. Her cunt was starved for that little man, it needed so much more of him than he was offering. It needed all of him! Her pussy complained and ground its circular jaws around him, desperately trying to apprehend him and swallow him whole, but somehow he stayed outside. His squirming felt amazing, that was true, and it was delightful to feel him moving around inside her without fighting off her advances. He wasn’t screaming, he wasn’t crying or cursing her name: he had slipped down between her legs and inserted himself all of his own volition. Miriam bit her lip and mentally urged him to slip and fall inside and struggle for his fucking life while her pussy gobbled him up, every bite.

Instead, he very slowly, very patiently made love to his wife for hour after hour, well into the night.

 

Lionel stood at the edge of the table, arms folded in a forest green wool blazer. One hand stroked his chin as he thought. In tight black jeans he leaned heavily upon one leg and let the other malinger to the side.

Margaret looked around at the other women in the group: Miriam seemed hypnotized; Laura practically had to wipe her gaping mouth; even Barbara seemed to stir fitfully in her seat, breathing deeply and glancing out the floor-to-ceiling windows to her left. Whatever she and her tiny husband were going through, she knew he was sartorially unimpeachable and took some pride in that.

“Once upon a time,” he called out, slowly, “there was a tiny little boy born to a well-to-do family. Let’s not mince words.” He looked up at the therapist sternly. How on earth did he manage his five o’clock shadow, wondered Laura, glancing at her little man, shaven down to stubble. “He was born into privilege, the son of a scholar who transitioned to government and of a woman who led the regional social chapters. They were not ashamed of their minuscule baby, as so many families are, but cherished him and raised him with all their resources until their untimely demise. Through these, little Lionel learned that his mind was his greatest weapon and his heart, his greatest vulnerability.

“School, college, a string of unimportant jobs, yadda-yadda-yadda.” Lionel waved imaginary fumes away. “What’s important is that he met a goddess on this earth, a vision from his dreams. They met in school and she claimed him, body and soul. A more than apt phrase for us, eh?” He smirked at Rodney and Brent, who nodded.

“It’s because you’re so fucking small!” crowed Miriam, grinning at her groupmates. Laura smiled weakly, but Margaret appeared to be somewhere else.

“They graduated, Lionel married his queen, and they traveled the world. Lionel could not have been happier.” He began to pace, strolling around the perimeter of the low table. “All he wanted to do was see the world and experience life, firsthand, to the fullest. Now he was doing so in the pocket of the most radiant creature imaginable. He wondered if he were dead.” He shrugged at Brent, passing him on his monstrously large wife’s bulging lap. “As if all his synapses were slowly shutting down, wrapping him in the delirium of his dearest dreams. Food, culture, amazing sex—truly, he wanted for nothing. And anything he had, his family’s estate, his upbringing and status, all of this went toward her comfort and enjoyment, happily.” He rounded the corner where one of Margaret’s slender, bare legs folded over the other. “Happily,” he iterated, locking her gaze.

“Yeah, we get it!” brayed Miriam. Brent bounced with her immense laughter.

“So, what happened.” The rhetorical question fell flat before his wife’s lap. He turned to the group. “What happened?”

“Children?” asked Laura.

Rodney nodded. “Kids’ll wreck a fuckin’ marriage.”

Brent cleared his throat to speak up but was buried in the avalanche of his wife’s abundant bosom as she bent over to crow, “She got tired of your scrawny ass, ya gold-plated toothpick!”

Lionel turned to face her, but before he could speak Barbara cut in. “Why don’t you tell us yourself, Mr. Kelley.” She sniffed hard, bit her fat bottom lip, and twisted in her seat.

He studied her for a moment before continuing. “They met a trickster god, of all things. They don’t exist in the States, where we worship Money with a capital-M and Science with a capital-S, but they still thrive in certain corners of the world. He took many forms: a tall, barrel-chested fisherman in Norway. A short, dark-skinned chef with knotted muscles and glossy hair in Thailand. A wiry dancer with salt-and-pepper hair who moved like water in a stream, in Cuba. Lionel didn’t notice these, because why would he, until she brought them home.” The tiny, elegant man paused before the Paynes. “Or perhaps Margaret never came home. Her body brought him back to the States, where they started a family”—he nodded at Rodney—“found careers and got on with their lives. Three children, all large and healthy. They grew up so fast and are all off in college. So why not travel again, said Margaret.” Lionel hugged himself and let out a long, slow breath. “But Lionel didn’t think this was to see the world as much as it was to find herself, again. Because she certainly wasn’t in the house.” He looked up at Barbara, over her firmly crossed knees. “She wasn’t in bed with him. That was for sure. Where did she go?” He spread his arms and turned to the group once more. He had nothing else to say, letting his arms fall limp as he trudged back to his wife’s corner of the table.

Without looking at him, Margaret issued a languid golf-clap, which Barbara allowed to go on for a few beats before calling for civility. “Yeah! You can tell your side of it next!” Miriam called, but Barbara shook her head at her.

“She’s not telling her side of Lionel’s story,” intoned the therapist. “Margaret is going to tell her story, complete and independent of the one we just heard. Do you understand?”

Rodney laughed, from Laura’s narrow lap. “Well, shots have been fired, haven’t they? I think we know how the rest of this is gonna go.” He folded his arms, nodding at Miriam’s thumbs-up and entirely unaware of his wife hiding her face in one thin palm.

Reclining in a white sleeveless sheath dress fronted in artistic black scribble, Margaret stared at the tiny body builder for a while. “Thanks for keeping an open mind. Let’s give the people what they want.” She glanced at Barbara, who had thrust her fists into her lap and grunted with a tight grin.

“I love Lionel. Or I did. I don’t know whether he changed or I did, to be quite honest. We’ve both been through so much.”

“Margaret,” Barbara started, but Margaret shook her head tightly.

“There was this girl, Margaret, born into means but never entitlement. She had a good heart and an insatiable curiosity. At least, all the people she admired were inquisitive and educated, so she wanted to be too. Her mother encouraged this all the way to college, when she had to let her daughter go. Margaret swam in new ideas, challenging ideas, and she met her first Tinies.”

Laura sucked in her breath at the pejorative term, but Margaret ignored this. “Of all her dangerous ideas, the only one Margaret’s mother couldn’t accept was falling in love with a Tiny. But her heroes had gotten in trouble with their parents, so she took this as a good sign. But that’s not why I fell for him.” Her brow furrowed. “I mean, why Margaret fell for Lionel.”

She sat up, tugging the hem of her short skirt down her thighs, and stared at her little husband less like a person and more like a meditative focus. “Margaret was fascinated with tiny people. She didn’t grow up with them, and then she met the smartest man she’d ever heard of, regardless of size. A little charmer who coincidentally showed up in more of her classes each semester. It wasn’t a reach at all for Margaret to seize this little man up in both fists and bring him back to her dorm and figure out how sex worked.”

She paused, leaning back in her chair, never taking her eyes off Lionel, and smiled. “Trial and error. Lots of experiments. But they figured it out. Explosive, addictive.” She looked away. “College sex. It’s never as good as that again, is it.”

Barbara looked as though she were about to say something, then swallowed it. Miriam stepped to the fore. “You kidding? I never went to college and I’ve been fucking little guys nonstop since high school!”

“Jesus Christ,” murmured Rodney, grinning at Brent.

“They traveled, they went everywhere. South America, Southeast Asia, the Eastern bloc. Museums, live bands, street food, temples, festivals.” Margaret smirked. “The worst, cheapest guesthouses from here to Budapest. But they loved it, every minute of it: Margaret nestled in the back of a sleeper bus or a puddle-jumper, with her little man snoozing between her breasts.” She placed one hand gently upon her own chest. “It’s hard to come back from that to raising a family. Diapers, groceries, meals, school supplies, all the labor that even a normal-sized man wouldn’t help out with, to say nothing of…” She traded glances with Lionel. “But she didn’t blame him, that would be unfair. Margaret knew that was the price of falling in love with an exquisite little man. He would’ve helped out if he could.”

Lionel trembled with the words he was holding back, but Margaret’s apparent generosity made it inappropriate for him to speak up. He knew this as well as she did. Margaret let him sweat it out for a moment before bringing it home. “And so it went. The children grew up and went to college, off on their own adventures. The large, messy, loud house was suddenly empty and quiet. Little Lionel wanted to establish his roots with a family, and then with the university. All Margaret had, as she worked out and gave up interesting food, as her body dried up and betrayed her, was the memory of all those beautiful neighborhoods overseas. All those bubbling clay pots and steel woks of questionable ingredients, all those strong arms working farms and hauling crates, all those loud voices singing and shouting.” She pursed her lips and turned her head aside. “At some point, that erudite half-ounce of a man became a burden, a gesture of largesse. If you’ll pardon the pun. Half an ounce of a man weighing Margaret down, holding her back from the rest of the world.”

Her head slumped, she caught her forehead in her fingertips, and her other hand waved everyone away. Miriam snorted. “Ya need a moment there, Maggie?”

Lionel wheeled around and started to say something, thrusting an accusatory arm at Miriam, but then he faltered. The words never came, he only snarled silently at the gigantic woman from across the table. Laura petted Rodney, as much to calm herself down as anything, and Brent looked as withdrawn and miserable as Margaret did.

The therapist draped elegant fingers over her mouth, and her eyes twinkled. "This has been very useful, I think. Yes, I think we're starting to make some real progress. Because what do we have here?" She sat up, adjusting her hips once more in her voluminous rolling throne. "All the cards are on the table. You've all opened up, in the ways that are most meaningful to you, and I think you've done excellent jobs. I mean, even if you haven't been precisely forthcoming or honest with yourself," she added, slyly glancing at Miriam, "you've still revealed something important about who you are and how you see things." The large woman failed to pick up on the hint.

Lionel, stranded in the middle of the table, looked over at Brent. Brent, parked on the expanse of his wife's lap, overshadowed by her tremendous chest, looked over at Rodney. Gently shrugging away his wife's huge fingertips, Rodney turned to face Barbara. "So, what now?" he called out, his face hardening. "You made us humiliate ourselves to each other in all sorts of ways. What next? We just gonna line up while you take shots at us? You know, now that you know all our personal information, you gonna attack us personally?" Without stopping him from talking, Laura's large hand nonetheless formed a protective shield around Rodney, cupping his back. He found the heat from her palm comforting.

Barbara snorted, slowly turning to regard him. "I understand your frustration, Mr. Payne, but humiliating you isn't my intent at all. No, I think we're in a very useful place right now. Miriam: what did you observe about the Paynes's relationship?"

All heads in the room turned to focus on the overly voluptuous woman, who looked surprised, then delighted by the attention. She straightened up in her loveseat, relieving her husband of the threat of being crushed by her boobs, momentarily. "Well, you've got Laura, who comes from, like, a background of not knowing what she wanted to do with her life, right? She's just kinda, should I do this or should I do that? And that goes on until she finds a little man who shares one interest with her: working out." She shrugged, setting every last roll of fat about her person wobbling. "But that's not enough, and then she's all, 'Oh! Oh no! Did I throw all my chances for something else away?' Like on the one hand, she doesn't know what she wants, but then when she makes a decision, she's obsessed with all the things she didn't choose." Miriam laughed, and her immense breasts bounced merrily. "Someone like Laura just can't win, because she'll never be happy with what she has. That's like, um," she faltered, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "Oh, nice ceiling. Never noticed that before." Everyone looked to see what she was talking about, except for Barbara, who frowned at the distraction.

"It's like the kids say, FOMO." Miriam leaned back in her loveseat, satisfied.

If it were possible, Laura turned even paler. Her hands drifted gently to the seat of her chair, leaving her tiny husband stranded upon her thigh. "Hey, don't listen to that idiot," Rodney told her, but she gave no sign of hearing.

Lionel turned to look back at his wife. Margaret had been staring at Miriam with hooded eyes; at her husband's motion, she reached out to gently scoop him up and perch him on her bare shoulder. He gripped a slim gold hoop in her earlobe for stability.

Only Barbara seemed pleased. "That's not bad at all, Miriam. Now, what do you think of Margaret's predicament?"

Margaret shot an icy glance at the therapist, but Miriam started in immediately. "Well, if you really want to know, I actually feel kinda bad about Margaret. You know, menopause hits some people harder than others. I don't have to think about that for a while," she purred, giving her own body a once-over, "but it's doing a number on Margaret. It took her libido away, and I bet she's all dried up and sore down there."

"How dare you," Lionel whispered. Margaret said, "It's not all about sex, all the time, with everyone, you monstrous cow." Rodney hooted in admiration at that.

"Hey, don't get sore at me!" Miriam raised her hands gently. "It's not your fault. I'm sure rich fucks like you eat the best organic food from the most expensive co-op in your neighborhood, and you've got jacked-up gym memberships that you use three times a week. You're really doing the best you can, and then your body went and failed you. How about you, Lionel?" She lifted her chin and grinned at the tiny man on Margaret's shoulder. "How's your little peeper doing? Can you still get it up?"

The well-dressed, tiny man could only gabble in shock. "He has no problem whatsoever," Margaret stepped in. "It's all me. I wish I had a libido. I miss wanting sex. I miss wanting my husband. It kills me that my body doesn't respond to him anymore." She looked at Barbara, almost pleadingly. "It's like a huge part of my identity has been stolen from me, and I don't know what to do about it. In the meantime, I'm taking it out on the one who deserves it least."

Lionel carefully stood upon her shoulder and hugged her ear, lowering his tiny head inside her aural canal to whisper to his wife.

"That was remarkably astute of you, Miriam." Barbara looked proudly at the rest of the group. "I think you should all congratulate Miriam for her insights. Who would have guessed she had that much depth to her?"

Rodney barked out, "Wait, are you saying that she's right?"

Barbara chuckled. "Not at all. Not at all, little gentleman. I'm just saying I'm proud of her for overcoming her certain handicaps and taking a chance on expressing herself so candidly." Miriam looked like she was unsure how to process the compliment. "For example… who would like to go next?"

Everyone reared slightly at that. Men and women glanced at each other, fear in their eyes.

"Exactly my point. You should all follow Miriam's bold, mindless example and speak freely. Rodney!"

The muscular little man nearly jumped out of his skin. "Yeah?"

"I think you should take a shot at this. Do you have anything to add, about the Kelleys's situation?"

"Aw, jeez, I dunno," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, like I said, children are hell on a marriage. All that stress, losing sleep when they're babies, trying to get them fed and clothed, where's the money come from, and then maybe, like, one day you find out you two don't necessarily agree on how they should be raised."

Margaret fixed her gaze on him, on his wife's lap. "What do you mean?"

"Like, say you've got a son, and one day the school sends him home because he popped a kid on the playground, right? And like," he waved his hands dismissively, "I'm not saying this is you two, but say you're all, 'Fighting's wrong, you have to learn to talk your problems out with people,' and you send him to his room without his supper.

"But then Lionel's all relieved his kid's a fighter, not a victim. And he goes up and talks to the kid and learns that he was protecting someone else from a bully. Right? No one ever thought to ask the kid any questions up to this point. Everyone's just all, fighting is wrong, punish the one we caught, no questions asked."

From across the coffee table Brent laughed. "Sounds like we're learning more about you, huh?"

Rodney smiled and shrugged. "May have been based on actual events. But you know, shit like that can split a couple up, or just make it hell to live together. Voice of experience. But I'm just saying, trying to raise kids that'll be strong enough to take care of themselves, make good decisions, all that? That can take a lot out of anyone."

Lionel stared at Rodney thoughtfully, surprised. Margaret mouthed "thank you" to him and leaned back in her chair, pointedly not looking in the therapist's direction.

Barbara only grinned at Rodney. "And what advice would you have for the Littles?" She stumbled over the end of her sentence, squirming fitfully for a moment.

"Aw, well, Brent," Rodney said, crawling to the end of Laura's narrow knee. "What can I say? You got your hands full, that's for sure. You're a sensitive guy, you're real smart and all that, you know. But it kinda sounds to me like you're attracted to a type."

"I don't know what you mean," Brent said, from his wife's copious lap.

"From what you described, you just went after women who weren't good for you. And it kinda sounded like that's what you were looking for. Plenty of nice women out there, and you just somehow kept falling into shitty relationships with women who treated you like shit? I don't buy it."

"That's not… that's not it at all!"

"Mr. Little, please," said Barbara softly, smirking.

"He has a point," said Laura quietly. "Even if you didn't know you were getting into a bad relationship in the beginning, you always had the option of walking out once you realized what was happening. I really don't know you very well at all, but it sounds like you look the other way when all the signs are there."

"It's almost like you enjoy the struggle," Lionel chimed in.

"What's that saying?" Margaret prompted him. "That Chinese saying that always makes me laugh?"

Lionel chuckled. "He takes his pants down to fart." Margaret laughed and confirmed that. At the others' blank expressions, Lionel continued: "It just means someone who likes to make simple things more difficult than they need to be."

"How about that?" said Rodney. "I like that."

Barbara nodded slightly. "And Miriam?"

"I already went," said the large woman.

"Well, Jesus, what can you say about Miriam?" Rodney attempted to stand on his wife's narrow thigh. Laura cupped her hand around him again and he gripped her thin, waxy index finger. "What you see is what you get. She's a big, boisterous woman, full of life. She ain't too bright but she's got lots of opinions anyway. She loves to eat, that's obvious, and I can respect that. Some people got a certain zest for life, they just want it all, or they just want to feel good all the time." He paused, considering. "I'd actually like to learn more about her background. I got some suspicions. But anyway, here, right now, you can see she loves sex. She's greedy for it! And she doesn't care how she gets it," he gestured at Brent, who scowled.

"That's awfully generous of you," murmured Lionel, sneering.

"Hey, calling it like I see it, pal. You wanna come down here and discuss it further?"

Margaret shielded her husband with one slim hand, just as Laura's palm closed around hers.

Margaret couldn't help but noticed how pleased Barbara looked with herself, her dark eyes glittering, her thighs clenching to a steady tempo. "Well, let's see, who's left?" Barbara tapped her teeth with one long fingernail and glanced at Brent and Miriam, Margaret and Lionel. "Well, Margaret, do you have any light to shed upon Laura's situation?"

Laura's head snapped around and she glared at Barbara in something close to terror.

"There's nothing to worry about, Laura!" Barbara chided. "Honestly, you look like you've seen a surgical table." Rodney glowered at her, stroking his wife's finger tenderly.

"It's fine, Laura, it's not that bad." Margaret's voice was soothing, almost melodious. "I relate to the idea of looking back and wondering about the other opportunities, the roads not taken." The tiny man on her shoulder whuffed indignantly. "Please don't make this about you, Lionel. It's perfectly natural, Laura. I don't know anyone who doesn't take a quiet moment to wonder about how things might have been."

"But what about my directionlessness," Laura hissed, shooting Miriam a look.

Margaret smiled broadly. "Look, there are three kinds of people. Some people are born knowing exactly what they want to do. Other people are born into families that choose their path for them, without any discussion or debate. In the middle?" She swept one hand to indicate a vast territory. "Everyone else is just trying to figure it all out, too. You take a bunch of courses in college, see what appeals to you. You hop from job to job, trying to find the perfect fit, going for the promotion. This is just how the world works!"

Laura didn't quite look pacified but she nodded slowly.

"Lovely sentiment," cut in Barbara, "but you're not quite answering the question. Do you have any observations on Laura and Brent's situation?"

"That's frankly tactless of you," Margaret said, meeting Barbara's gaze for a long moment, before turning back to Laura. "You really should take greater stock with what you have with Rodney. He's a wonderful little man, I'm sure you know that, but you're not missing anything by being with him."

"It's not that I think I'm missing anything," started Laura, but Margaret cut her off.

"You have to celebrate him, but you have to celebrate yourself, too. You can't be any good to anyone else if you don't love yourself first. Do you believe that?"

Laura nodded but clearly did not believe this.

"Look. He's your partner, and he's chosen to stay with you." Margaret's eyes were deep and serious. "You can't deny that. He thinks you're good enough for him, so why don't you value yourself?"

"Who's the counselor here?" Barbara laughed gently. "Let's try a different tack: how about you talk about Rodney's problems with Laura. What do you think is happening there?"

The elegant, older woman looked as though she were swallowing quite a few words, but she drew a deep breath through her nostrils and refocused upon the tiny bodybuilder on Laura's lap. "Rodney. You're a very strong, strident little person. We've seen that in group, and from what we've learned about you, there's nothing you can't achieve on your own.

"But now you've got a partner. Try to look past what you feel is your own abuse, and see the wounded little girl inside Laura. Do you understand? If she's lashing out, like you claim, it's because she's struggling with something powerful inside herself. You're a tiny little guy, but surely you're large enough to crawl inside your wife and help her confront what's going on in there."

Miriam cackled too hard for too long, and it became apparent she was trying to make a joke but it amused her too much for her to frame the words. Brent spoke up: "You know, that's not really fair. You have to look at the fact of the situation. She's physically abusing him, and he's just—"

"As for Brent," Margaret said, turning in her seat, "Rodney wasn't too far off the mark. If you're in an abusive relationship, you can leave it." He tried to ask how, possibly, but she charged ahead. "Obviously these power dynamics you helplessly, haplessly find yourself in are satisfying something deep within you. You can't deny that, because you keep repeating them. You're looking for something, and maybe you need to examine yourself more closely and learn exactly what that is before you go blaming all the women in your environment."

"Dear, that's a little harsh," Lionel said. Margaret's slender fingers whipped up and nearly smacked him off her shoulder. The near miss was enough to chasten her husband into silence.

"And Miriam, oh boy." Margaret sat up and Barbara leaned forward in her stuffed leather throne. "You're a real piece of work. I wouldn't be surprised if you were one of those sex-crazed maniacs who goes through tiny men like tissues, each of them meeting some 'accident' or another. Who knows? This could be the last time we see Brent, because he doesn't have the balls to stand up for himself and flee you."

"Hey!" Miriam's expression darkened. "That's really mean! I'd never do anything to hurt my little Brent!"

"That's too much bullshit to tolerate," said Brent, rolling onto his back to glare at her, over her mammoth breasts.

"What? When have I ever?"

"The masking tape and the popsicle stick?" he said defiantly. "That time you thought it'd be fun to put me in the popcorn popper."

"That was fun!"

"You scalded all the hair off my body. And that time you taped me to the dog leash and took me out for a walk."

"That was cute!"

"And the neighbor's Schnauzer nearly picked me off the collar in one chomp!"

"I fished you out of his mouth before he could swallow. What're you complaining about?"

"And all the suffocation. All the near-drownings. All the times you ignored my cries for help."

"You weren't serious," Miriam said, and her body rumbled with giggling. "This li'l guy is the biggest drama queen you've ever seen."

"And yet you stay with her, Brent," said Margaret firmly. "If she's nearly killed you a few times? And you choose to stay with her? That is no one else's fault but yours, little man. Own it." She lounged back in her chair.

"I'm not going to kill him." Miriam's tone was plaintive, the smile fading from her face as she looked from woman to woman in the square seating arrangement.

"Oh, Goddess," muttered Barbara quietly, but not quietly enough. The group participants looked up at her in time to see her adjusting herself in her seat yet again. "Well, that's everyone," she said hastily. "Is that everyone? Has everyone had a turn?"

"We could give our assessments of you, next," said Rodney. Lionel laughed.

The therapist stiffened in her seat. "That would be quite inappropriate, besides making no sense at all." She glanced around to see as though to find any who would challenge her. "With that, I think we're ready to move on to the last phase of our therapy. Is anyone interested in that?"

Brent struggled to sit upright on the taut skirt of his wife. "Wait, what?"

Lionel said, "You're ending this? I don't really feel like we've accomplished anything. Does anyone else feel cured?" The other adults murmured and shook their heads, unwilling to take their eyes off of the therapist.

Barbara soaked in their confusion for a few moments before breaking out into a huge grin. "No, it's not quite over, don't worry. There's just one more method we're going to try. I just have the sense that there's a layer of ice we're not cracking through, so I think it's time to really take you all out of your comfort zones."

"Christ!" yelled Rodney. "What were the last few goddamn weeks?" Laura stroked his bulging shoulders while Margaret studied the pair of them.

"I think that's rather an ungenerous assessment," said Barbara, arching her eyebrows. "We've made some interesting breakthroughs, and if I'm perfectly honest, you are all to be commended on your bravery and hard work."

Margaret winced and looked at the other women. "It just seems a bit rushed."

"I don't like to share my methods, of course, but all I'll say is that the work we blasted through was leading up to this moment." Barbara folded and unfolded some papers in her clipboard. It was necessary to get you feeling a little raw, a little vulnerable and confused for the next step."

"And what's this next step?" called out Lionel. "Something by another German philosopher with mommy issues?" Margaret only rolled her eyes.

"If you must know, it's one of my own designs," said Barbara. She tore out little squares of paper and stacked them into a slim deck. "I find it an effective technique, especially when it comes to stubborn people who seem locked into their ruts and are otherwise unwilling to move out of them." She started to rise from her chair, then looked startled and sat back down. "If, um, you all wouldn't mind coming up to me, I have some notes to hand to you."

"Well, this is just weird," said Rodney. Laura rested him upon the coffee table, as did Margaret with Lionel and Miriam, reluctantly, with Brent. The wives towered over their husbands as they crept around the table and approached the dusky, domineering woman in her executive chair. Barbara handed one folded slip of paper to each of them, instructing them not to look at them until they were all seated and ready.

Lionel looked at the paper in his wife's hands and turned to Barbara. "Don't we get any? What's going on?"

Ignoring him, Barbara told the women to unfold their notes and read them quietly to themselves. Laura yelped. Miriam swore. Margaret raised an eyebrow and looked over at Rodney.

"What's it say?" demanded Brent. "What's it say!"

* * *

"Oh, my Goddess, you've been naughty lately. I could hardly focus. Are you trying to get me to lose my job?" Barbara spread her full, tanned thighs to the empty room, slumping in her executive throne until her ass nearly fell off the edge. She drove her head into the upholstered seat back, digging her fingertips very forcefully into her thick, darkened labia, rubbing them with a rigid V-shape. "So naughty, so disrespectful. You've caused me so much trouble. What do you have to say for yourself?"

From between her engorged pussy lips, two pale legs slid out, limp at first. When their tiny hips surpassed the clenching rings of her vaginal canal, exposing a tiny little bare ass, the legs sprang into life, kicking and wheeling in the cooler air. The minuscule feet found nothing to rest upon, no toehold, no purchase, frantically jabbing at the empty space outside of Barbara's cunt.

"Oops, there you go, squirming and fighting your way out," she purred, grinding the thick, slick flesh on either side of the tiny figure. "Be careful, Timur, or you're going to tumble to the carpet. And who knows what'll happen to you there? Maybe my chair's wheels will roll over you, crushing you, grinding you directly into the fibers." She slid her other hand up her shirt, groping one proud breast. "Or maybe I'll simply lose track of you and step on you. You wouldn't want that now, would you? Surrendering the entire building over to me, instead of greedily collecting rent every month? You couldn't want that, you greedy little weasel." She laughed at how his tiny feet bumped against her shivering anus. "You greedy little ferret, crawling in and out of me like that. You've made the last few sessions very difficult to focus on. I'm sure you know that, you wicked little creature. Op, oops, hold on!"

Just as her pussy seized with an incidental flourish at the tiny man's squirms, she clenched and squeezed him out like a lump of shit. Quickly she caught the wretched little figure in her palm, then ground him into her labia, moaning, without any intent of jamming him back inside. "Oh, you nasty little ferret," she whispered, rubbing him all over her pussy, nearly frictionless with her copious lubrication, "you disgusting little weasel. The things you do to me." She bit her fat bottom lip and vibrated him rapidly over her clit, but the complaining, struggling little man was useless for stimulating her there, so she brought him up and dropped him on her chest.

"Oh, look at that. You've stained my blouse, you minikin nuisance. I should crush your legs for that." She cranked her head down hard, glaring at him with a savage smile and a double-chin. "Would you like that? Would you like me to snap your pathetic little legs like pretzel sticks?"

Timur Smyth only lay bedraggled upon the awning of fabric stretching between her mountainous boobs. "Can't breathe," the tiny man coughed. "Couldn't breathe." He hacked violently for a moment, then vomited a quantity of Barbara's own pussy juices upon the fabric.

Barbara's brows grew heavy and dark. "You really have a death wish, little man. You know what this means for you, don't you?"

The old man's head lolled to the side. His eyes, for all their exhaustion, were large with fear. "Please, no more. Not that. I can't, I can't."

"If you weren't such a foul creature, Timur, none of this would be necessary. If only you'd behave…" She took up one tiny, slim arm between thumb and forefinger and dramatically hoisted him up off of her chest, over her face. "Why can't you behave?" She laughed at him, clacking her teeth just below his bare feet, as she struggled to right herself in her chair. She focused on the frailty of the tiny being between her fingertips, and she slowly rose from the overstuffed leather throne, luxuriating in all her long, huge, powerful muscles, hauling her up into the sky as she lifted her wretched landlord further and further from the earth. He made her feel like a giantess. It was easy to believe that she was enormous and powerful, with this spindly, wizened little man between her fingers.

She closed her eyes and tugged up the back of her skirt. "Now, this isn't going to be easy for either of us, so I really hope you'll cooperate this time, Timur. Remember how bad it was last time?"

"Please, oh Goddess, don't do this." His voice rasped between coughing fits.

Barbara bent over the coffee table, holding her skirt up to her waist, exposing large, firm, perfectly smooth buttocks to the warm and ancient air of this vintage dining room. "You really have to cooperate, Mr. Smyth, and it doesn't sound like you're going to cooperate." She lowered the tiny man, reaching behind her to present her flat palm to her own asshole. "It's so much worse for both of us when you don't cooperate. Worse for you, of course," she laughed. From the platform of her fingers, Timur watched the pink rays of her asshole flutter and push as she laughed at him.

"Anything but this, please, I'm begging you," he said. "You're going to kill me. This will kill me." He backed over her fingers, his heels digging into the fleshy bumps between her joints, his naked butt sliding over the ridges in her skin.

"I'm going to relax now, so you only have a few seconds, Timur. Don't let me down." So saying, Barbara spread her feet slightly and locked her knees. Her spine drooped and her chest thrust at the table, and then she began taking deep breaths. Long, slow, whooping breaths that filled and flexed her diaphragm, breaths that reached way, down deep inside her.

As Timur Smyth watched, the puckered star of her anus writhed between the spherical, caramel hills of her buttocks. It pushed out, sealed shut with sticky, tender tissues, until a tiny dot appeared.

"No, no, no," he moaned.

Barbara continued breathing, letting out with a tight, hissing sigh, then gulping deep lungfuls of air. The dot in the center of those tender tissues began to spread, until light crept inside and glowed along the pink, wrinkled skin. Her anus relaxed and began to spread, growing larger and larger. Timur began to weep, as her immense ass relaxed and a dark portal opened before him.

"In," Barbara said, trying to hold her breath. "In. Now."

Crying, Timur finally rolled to all fours and began to crawl toward her butt. The huge fingers beneath him twitched in anticipation, and he knew it would be nothing for them to curl up and stab at him, pummeling his weak body until they stuffed him inside her, regardless of angle, regardless of position.

But somehow it was worse this way, as his palms rested upon her index finger, the last digit before her ass. Her taint shown pink and glossy, disappearing beneath her hand, and her asshole opened like a hideous, monstrous mouth, its lips trembling spasmodically. "In, in," she urged, straining. Timur turned and slid one slender leg inside the therapist's anus. Immediately it felt warm and humid in there. Every inch of his flesh crying out in protest, he slid his other leg inside, his knees resting on what he knew to be filthy inner linings.

Wasn't there another way? Couldn't he call the cops? How did it come to this?

The humidity slid over Timur's ass and crept up his spine as his legs slid into Barbara's rectum. Now her sphincter trembled greedily all around him, ready to snap at a hair trigger, seemingly. He hated this, he hated it so much, he would almost rather die than do this, but he slipped his hips inside her anus. He shoved his ribs inside her. He brought one arm inside, and then the other, and at that point, per their arrangement, he lowered his face to lock his jaws around the shivering pink wrinkles and gnawed as large of a bite as he could into her flesh.

Barbara gasped and squealed, and her asshole shrank immediately, locking Timur Smyth's neck in a stranglehold. Timur screamed and begged as he watched the leather chair swing away until he faced the floor. The immense, round buttocks closed in on either side, and her thighs and calves were nothing but bulges from a sharp perspective. The light dimmed as Barbara's skirt hissed over her hips and butt, covering him up from the world once more.

The juices from her pussy continued to exude and ooze down her crack, welling around the sobbing face of old Mr. Smyth, who lay nearly perfectly still within his tenant’s rectum. Nearly, but for all the crying and gasping for breath, as the sweet, salty vasocongestive fluid began to creep over his cheeks.

“Great session,” Barbara announced to the empty room. “Next week should be a real treat.” She took up her notes, strode across the room, shut off the lights and locked the door behind her.

The Knapa driver rang the doorbell with his elbow, then stepped back and looked around. This was a much nicer neighborhood than his own. If it weren't for the occasional ride-share job, he'd probably have no occasion to visit it at all.

He hefted the acrylic case in his hands, apologized, then glanced back at his car. Maybe he shouldn't have left it idling. He thought this would be a quick drop-off, but now it looked like nobody was home. He tucked the case under one arm and double-checked the destination and residents.

Lights came on beyond the front door, glowing in frosted panels on either side. A shadow moved behind one of the panels, the deadbolt snapped back, and the door swung open to reveal a tall woman in a flowing gown decorated in large, blooming red flowers. Up to this point the Knapa driver had made up a story about this job, and seeing this elegant blonde woman filled in the blanks.

"Evening, Miss, uh, Kelley," he said, and not knowing what else to say, he proffered the case.

Margaret smiled broadly and thanked him, took the case, and gave him a wink as she shut the door. The driver shrugged, rated her five stars, and drove out to the airport.

Margaret's heels clacked against baked Spanish tile as she carried the case through the hall, to the carpeted spiral staircase, and down another hall. She passed the bedroom where her daughter grew up, now used for sewing and crafts projects; she passed her son's old bedroom, now a library with a writing desk and maps on the walls. She brought the case into an enormous bedroom with an impeccable king-size mattress in textured linen sheets, set like a stage. Candles, real candles flickered on the dresser, the vanity, the nightstands. She rested the case upon the bedspread covered in rose petals, unlatched the lid, and reached inside.

"Nice house," said Rodney, cupped in her palms.

---

"I'm not certain what this is supposed to achieve," Lionel said. He walked along the edge of the dresser, as though exploring an alien terrain. His wife had an array of makeup and perfume set out like an artistic display in a gallery. He now found himself in something closer to a discount women's market after the British and American forces left their mark on Dresden.

He kicked a tube of lipstick out of the way. It was gunked up around its seal with waxy globs of fuchsia; it rolled over two pennies and a dime before crunching against a pile of earrings. "You know, this isn't the first time I've had my doubts about this Moon character. I was ready for some pretty harsh truths coming to like, sure, but it's like she just slits you up the front, pulls out your guts, and then turns the job over to direct sunlight. Not exactly a healer's technique, is what I'm getting at." He walked by a plastic soap case, one meant for travel, but there was no soap. In it were neatly folded piles of sweater vests, dress shirts, and slacks, all as tiny as he was. Socks and boxers were carelessly dumped over a line of shoes. "Are these his?" He looked up. "Is this all he gets? Is this how you keep him?"

A pair of immense boobs floated with improbable grace to the edge of the dresser, like curious moons investigating a trespasser. Lionel took a step back but nonetheless found himself deep in their cleavage. They rested upon the surface, flattening and spreading, closing in on him as his heart pounded.

"You talk too much, little man," Miriam told him. "But don't worry: I can fix that."

---

Elsewhere in Fairview, light traffic flowed like a gentle stream past Caffè Reale. The sun shone upon college students and Boomers alike, lighting up the trees and toasting the pavement.

"I guess we're the leftovers," said Brent, picking his way carefully across the iron mesh of their table. There was no vertigo: when he slipped, his leg poked through the tabletop and stopped at his hip. He grumbled, picked himself up, and tried again.

Laura watched his little game, thumbing the handle of a small, clear coffee cup. "That's not a nice thing to say," she said, though she was thinking exactly the same thing.

"I don't mind getting away from Miriam. This is as close to a vacation as I get." He looked at her long fingers, resting on the saucer, and was struck by their relative boniness. "I bet it's harder for you, though. Rodney's quite a catch."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry. I'm feeling a little too free and chatty, I guess." He shrugged, turned directions, and walked toward the empty chair across from her. "You think he's with Margaret or Miriam?"

The pale, spindly woman sighed heavily. "There's only one person he can be with, or else two couples switch and one couple stays the same. It's like we were all sitting in a circle and she just rotated a dial and shuffled all our husbands one seat to the right." She demonstrated by twisting the glass on the saucer.

Brent stared at her hand. "Oh, right. Duh."

"It's all I've been able to think about."

"I'm really sorry. Do you want to−"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He watched her pale blue eyes: she only stared into the inky depths of her drink. A breeze set a few strands of her baby-fine platinum hair swinging over her nose, her thin lips. She didn't seem to notice.

Two college women passed the table and gawked at him, giggling. A car honked in the distance. He watched the women walk away, folding his hands behind his back.

"How's your ristretto?"

She blinked, then lifted her head. "You know what a ristretto is?"

"I take great pride in my crema. Miriam… she just chews chocolate-covered espresso beans." He paused, then looked up at the cafe's signage. "I like this place because the owner does crazy stuff sometimes. He tried a ristretto with mocha beans once."

She winced. "That can't have been good."

He laughed. "It was not great, but it made a passable Americano."

Laura tucked some locks behind her ear and smiled at him.

---

Margaret draped herself over the entire bed, from Rodney's perspective. Her long, slender legs stretched well off into the distance behind him; her long fingers splayed her head over a range of pillows, then slid down to cup her breasts as she studied him. She kept her dress on, lying amid the rose petals, drinking in this moment: that handsome, sassy little bodybuilder, standing there between her thighs. All she had to do was slide her feet over and close up her legs, and she'd…

He looked around, tiny black eyes blinking in confusion. "So, should I start undressing now, or what?"

"Just a moment," she said huskily. "I want to enjoy this."

Rodney scowled briefly, then walked over to one of her thighs. The fabric of her gauzy skirt was hiked up around her hips, exposing the extended barrel of her thigh. Her skin was flawless, which impressed him for someone her age. He placed his palm upon her skin, ignoring the sharp hiss of breath off in the distance, and slid his hand up her inner thigh. She warned him to take it slow, but he felt they'd wasted enough time already.

He gently stroked the hollow of her skin, where her weaker sartorius and rectus muscles gave way and her adductors stood out. One long, lean muscle vibrated beneath his touch, and he guessed she was holding herself back from locking her legs around him. Grinning, he leaned in and fit his tiny head into the hollow of her skin, at the top of her thigh and just below her pussy. He heard her whimper; he licked the skin there, tasting the light sweetness that exuded from her cells, catching the musk from her eager pussy.

He undid his top button and pulled his shirt off over his head. The giantess was still wearing her panties, and it's not like he couldn't muscle past them, but. "Hey," he called from her valley, "you gonna get undressed soon?"

Margaret's head was plowing back into her pillows. She'd tugged off the shoulders of her dress to thumb her nipples aggressively. She peeked down at the little man over her rosy little tits. "All right… all right, that's fair. I just wanted to experience this thrill one more time."

The tiny man froze, in the middle of pulling off his pants. "Oh. Hey, I'm sorry, we can go slower. I didn't realize you weren't getting any."

One massive leg hurtled through the heavens above him, and Margaret rose far above the edge of the bed, then crossed the room. "I guess you were dozing off during sessions, eh? That's fine, really. But if you don't hand over control to me, I'll have to take it from you." She flicked off the ceiling light, bathing the room immediately in dusky shadows and warm, glowing dots of candlelight. She unzipped the back of her gown, shed it like an old skin, and shucked off her underwear. She started to climb into the bed where she'd left it, having rolled away from Rodney, but she spotted him standing half-dressed amid a field of rose petals, and a crooked smile stretched across her face.

Rodney rocked unsteadily as Margaret planted her hands in the mattress, drawing one knee up slowly as she advanced upon him. Her head hung low, long blonde hair spilling from her head like golden waterfalls. A rose petal was caught on one side. She bit her lip and pulled up her other knee, and the landscape on which he stood dipped toward her. She had a dark, predatory look on her face (or she looked like she thought she did), and her head hovered directly above him as her hands flanked him heavily in the bedspread. He loved how she licked her lips, staring at him; he chose to look away from how her breasts hung from her narrow chest. Her thighs rubbed against each other, and he could see getting caught between them.

Margaret was about to purr you delightful little man at him, but he spoke up first: "You gonna do something or not?"

She scowled. "Oh, I'll do something," she said, bowling him over with a flick of her fingers. "You're awfully bossy for someone smaller than my foot." Her hand pounced on him, and she crawled back to her position on the mattress, pummeling him into the bed as she went. Rolling onto her back, she held Rodney above her face and examined him in the candlelight.

"Take your shirt off," she told him. She adjusted her grip so her fingertips rested on his spine and butt, and his taut abs pressed against her thumb. She saw him shrug and begin fighting to tug his shirt out from under her thumb. She decided against helping him: maybe he needed to be reminded who was in charge.

In a flash, she went straight back to their session in which Laura visibly transformed while he related how she could only achieve orgasm by dominating him. And not just dominating, but pushing him to the point where he had to admit his own helplessness.

Margaret lowered him to her own chest, right between her breasts, and allowed him to finish getting undressed. She massaged her breasts, watching the slow process, how his tiny shoes spun through space as he tossed them beyond her ribs, watching him roll his shirt up in his pants to hurl them farther off the landscape of her body. There he stood, naked but for his boxer briefs, a perfect specimen of fitness and discipline.

"Take 'em off," she said, and she puffed at him.

Rodney shrugged and tugged his underwear off, kicking it to the side. This wasn't her most flattering angle, he decided, what with her long, wrinkled fingers kneading at her slim, empty breasts, and how she managed to get a double-chin while glaring down at him, from where she lay in the piles of pillows. "What do you want me to do now?" he said, naked before her sight.

"Think of something. Anything." He heard the tone change in her voice, and he knew that tone before: it meant things were working inside her head that he wouldn't hear about until something triggered them and she blew up at him. That's how it went at home.

He thought about how bored she sounded, describing her marriage to Lionel, all the things she wanted to do and gave up so he could pursue his boring-ass job. Lots of women do that, he knew. He recalled how Lionel also missed the passion they used to have, but how he totally missed his role in that. It was a mystery to him, how this stuff just never seemed to happen anymore.

But Rodney knew things don't just happen, you have to make them happen. He laced his fingers behind his head and rolled his hips around slowly. The giant woman's huge eyes widened and her lips parted with a gasp. He started to sway from side to side, tiny feet planted firmly upon her sternum, moving to a club jam in his head.

The way her lips trembled now, that wasn't so bad. They were broad and leathery and thin from his perspective, but they pushed out in a sign of desire, and he liked being wanted. Her eyes were absolutely trained upon him without any distracting conversations spooling out behind them. He bit his lip and thrust his hips at her, making his cock swing up and smack his flat belly. They both heard it, in the quiet of the orangey bedroom atmosphere, a sharp little slap, and Margaret laughed until Rodney fell back on his ass, grinning.

"You like that, big lady?"

"I do, I really do."

"Then get a load of this." He picked himself up and turned, exposing his butt to her. He danced on, unable to read her expression, trusting in his appeal for her. He loved dancing because it engaged all of his muscles: he felt the way they shifted against each other, tugging patiently, relaxing and spreading. He could hold himself in any position and not get tired, crouching and squatting, or standing straight up and clenching everything from his neck to his calves. He stared down the long stretch of her own flat belly, to where the shaven skin suddenly dipped at a mound, beyond which her lean, long legs stretched into eternity.

Margaret wasn't bad at all, he thought. He could do a lot with this woman. He squatted again, rolling his ass at her, then turned around and began to slowly masturbate. He saw her tongue rise and fall, like a whale sighting, and he lifted his chin and grinned at her, slowly stroking his cock.

"I'm going to need you in a minute," she growled.

He spread his bulging arms wide. "Do what you want with me. Tonight I'm yours, Margaret."

Rodney felt her heart hammering beneath his feet.

---

Miriam laughed and laughed, her shoulders rolling merrily, her breasts trembling with delight. She clutched the proper, uptight little man in her palm and plucked at his clothing, laughing at him.

"This is highly inappropriate!" Lionel cried, kicking Miriam's fingers away. "What are you doing? I'm a married man, Mrs. Little!" Her fingernails flashed above him, thick fingertips waggling in the bold afternoon light through the windows. Her hand was a veritable hydra: kick one thick finger away, and two more came after him, groping his shoes, scraping at his belt buckle. "Please, show some decency! Why are you doing this to me?"

She paused, having nearly tugged his sweater vest free of his head and shoulders. "What's wrong? Do you want me to stop?"

He craned his head around to peek up at her. "Not at all. Please continue, this is wonderful." Her face lit up in joy, and she leaned in to bray at him.

Lionel stared up into those huge, thick lips, into that moist, pink cavern of a mouth and the flexing curtains of throat muscles beyond it. Her humid breath smelled like orange soda, and the back of her tongue was painted orange. Her tongue came flooding out in a mad, full-bodied rush at him, heedless and greedy, jamming itself right between his legs even with his pants on. She doused him in her saliva, moistening his clothes, smothering his appalled face behind pounds of writhing tongue-flesh.

Expertly she thumbed his belt open and tugged his trousers down, before he knew what was happening. "Hey, you're really hard!" she cried, ringing in his ears. "You're really into this, huh? You nasty li'l man! I thought you were gonna be another Stiffly Stifferson like Brent, but you got a nasty streak in you, don't you?"

"Well, I suppose I…" he stammered, before she popped him into her mouth. Lionel found himself in a war with her massive tongue now: it kept flooding into him, seeking out his crevices and joints, looking for any exposed skin, and he vainly pushed it out of the way, and it returned immediately. Her teeth held him gently and her lips locked around his waist. Outside her mouth, he could feel her fingernails digging at the heels of his shoes, popping them off and pinching his socks free. Off went his pants and then his boxers, and then… A huge, thick, round, hot fingertip slowly rubbed into his buttocks. He gasped in the darkness of Miriam's mouth, shocked at the tenderness of her touch. It became more insistent, juddering little circles that rocks his butt this way and that, until she finally nudged his thighs out of the way and started brushing against his balls.

"Oh, my Goddess," he moaned, wrapping his arms around her tongue. The slimy, pulsating monster in her mouth nestled around his neck and flickered tenderly over his cheek. Beyond thought, he kissed the tip of it, as though it were his lover and not a simple organ hidden within this mountainous woman.

Miriam took a seat on the edge of the bed—it complained loudly beneath her abundant rump—and hummed to herself, rubbing little Mr. Kelley's butt. At least he stopped beating up her tongue. She ran the tip of it over his face, trying to pick out his nose and jawline. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, he just looked boring and academic. What a pleasant surprise, then, to realize he could be talked into her feminine wiles! She closed her eyes happily and rubbed his little bottom, forced his thighs apart, then slid the tip of her pinky between them to gently roll his cock against her chin.

Suddenly his tiny little thighs clamped around her finger. She prodded his cock, vibrating her pinky against him, until his fingers relaxed. Miriam extracted Lionel from her mouth with a series of kissy slurps, then dangled him over her face by one leg. "Hey, Lionel, did you just cum on my chin?"

Lionel tried to stare at her (having lost his glasses in her mouth), babbling incoherently as her immense maw yawned beneath him like a bottomless pit.

She gave him a waggle, sending his limbs flying. "That's okay, but every time you cum, that's three times you gotta make me cum. Okay? That's the deal."

"How… how can I…" he stammered, but Miriam simply laughed and dropped him into her mouth. She stretched out on her unmade bed, still drangled with laundry waiting to be put away, and suckled this awkward little guy as her hand disappeared between her bulging thighs and started to pump.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah," she moaned around the little lump in her mouth. Instantly her pussy was wet, and her slurps rang sharply off the walls in her little apartment bedroom. "Oh, you gotta hear this." She spat the tiny man onto her chest, and he rolled helplessly until he got lodged in her cleavage. She laughed, setting her massive boobs shuddering around him, which further buried him in flesh.

"Oh my Goddess, you look so stupid!" She pinched his ankle and hoisted him up, over her breasts. "You okay? You really took a tumble there!"

Lionel couldn't say anything, gawking as he was at the immense mountainous region just below him. He'd never seen breasts that big before, not naked. Plenty of times he'd stolen glances at Miriam in sessions, but how could he not? She always wore those clingy dresses, looking like they were about to explode and shred right off her body. She always showed up with those plunging necklines, showing off more than they hid. Every little gesture she made caused every roll and bulge in her body to ripple, and she was a great big squirmy woman: always tugging at her neckline, always adjusting herself in her seat, always leaning forward to laugh or bark at someone, thrusting her goods for everyone to see. All those times she buried Brent beneath her tits, Lionel felt a deep and gnawing hunger inside himself.

"Please, put me—"

"Here, I wanna show you something!" With no regard for his frail form, Miriam whipped him over the bulging peaks of her body and dropped him into her scraggly bush. Disoriented, he scrabbled to seize what handfuls he could of her coarse pubic hairs. He'd barely rolled onto his back when her pudgy hand sailed through the air like an F-15 Eagle, swooping low and diving straight between her mammoth thighs. Lionel yelped and tucked his legs up, staring in amazement as her fat fingers pinched together in a cone and savagely thrust into her own vulva.

The fleshy hill beneath him shuddered with the force of her blows. He winced, trying not to picture what horrific damage she was doing to herself. He couldn't see her expression beyond the enormous, juddering mound of belly fat that had never seen a ray of sunlight. All he could make out was her vast navel, a lateral pit in the creamy hillside, a dark fissure that rocked with her exertion. He wanted to tell her to go easy on herself, it was sensitive down there, but she never complained or screamed. After all, she was doing this to herself.

Suddenly she stopped. "Whaddya think?" she called, over her own hillsides.

"Think about what?"

"Didn't ya hear? I'm sopping wet!" Without warning, she began plunging her hand into her cunt all over again, harder and harder, slowly bouncing upon her sorely punished mattress. Beyond the horror of her mashing fist inches away from his spindly legs, Lionel paused to listen and, yes, she sounded like a washing machine down there.

"That's very impressive." He had to shout over the slurping and gushing.

"So, whaddya think?"

"Think?"

"You wanna give it a go?"

Before he could respond, her big, fat, cummy hand plastered itself around him and yanked him off her pubes. "Stiffen up!" she yelled.

Lionel saw the landscape of her body swing away, her puffy thighs banded with fat, her immense knockers heaving painfully to each side, and that hideous rictus of unabashed delight on Miriam's face. She almost looked like a child on a roller coaster, her eyes lit up, her mouth squirming to expose all her teeth.

And then her huge, frothy cunt rushed at him and swallowed him in one gulp.

---

Brent rested his hand on Laura's neck. He perched on her shoulder, ringed by her gently waving hair, watching her navigate traffic. "This probably won't mean anything to you."

Her huge head, seemingly balanced upon the stout neck beside him, wobbled slightly. "What won't?"

"I just wanted to say…" He laughed at himself. He was getting stupid. What was he doing? "I dunno, it just struck me while we were talking."

"Spit it out!" Her tone was bright with a smile.

"Just, during the sessions, there were times when you'd hold your head a certain way, especially at the end of the hour when the sun was going down and the color of the light in the room was changing."

"Yes?"

"There were these moments where you kinda looked like Simone Simon."

He heard her gasp, saw her fingers release the wheel for a second. "You're flattering me."

"You know who that is?"

"I loved Cat People! I watched it 20 times when I was growing up."

"You're kidding!" He was filled with the urge to lean over and hug her neck or kiss that artery throbbing under her soft, snowy skin or something. He didn't know what, and he didn't know how she'd react.

"Yeah, I was a strange kid. Super into old black-and-white dramas. That's the only thing that makes me believe in reincarnation, you know?" She flicked her signal and rocked in her seat, gently, fully cognizant of the tiny man on her shoulder. "Because why else would I have those instincts? So many of those stories are bad, the acting's bad according to our modern standards, but I watch a Barbara Stanwyk movie or I see Cary Grant with his ridiculous half-smile, throwing himself across a room, and it just speaks to me."

"Well, you know, those movies did evoke a certain—"

Laura didn't hear him, seemingly. "I'd lock myself up in my room and play those tapes. I had a huge VHS collection. I'd hit thrift stores and buy anything that looked good. Drove my parents crazy, a full wall of those chunky black tapes!" She laughed, then went quiet. "They got rid of them when I went to college. I couldn't bring them with me, I asked them to store them for me, but they just boxed them all up and dumped them all back off at the thrift stores. That was my money, I paid for all of them with babysitting money and my newspaper route."

"You were pretty entrepreneurial as a kid, huh?"

"I had to get away," she said, barely perceptible over the roar of the engine. "I had to get out of there. I was a PSEO student, I spent all summer applying for grants and scholarships. I went away to college and never looked back."

Brent really wished he could read Laura's face. "Did something happen to you? As a child?"

Her hair shimmered around him as she shook her head. "Oh, no, not like you're thinking. I wasn't beaten or anything, they didn't touch me."

"So, like, just a small town? You had your eyes on something bigger?"

There was a long pause before she said, "Something like that," and then they didn't speak until they pulled into her driveway.

Laura gently scooped Brent off her shoulder and cupped her in her palms, before her chest. He was surprised at how cold her hands were, despite this hot summer day. "Are we sure about this?" she asked him.

He blinked cutely behind his glasses. "Sure about… what we're going in there to do?" She nodded silently, pursing her lips. "Yeah, I think I am. This fucked-up psych session aside, I feel this is where events are leading."

"So there's no free will in this? You're just riding down a track, maybe heading toward a collision, and there's nothing you can do about it?"

He flinched, going back to someone's words about how he chose these relationships, Jenna and the women after her. Emotionally unavailable. Rolling over and fulfilling their demands, not getting anything in return. He looked up at Laura, pale and quiet, always sad, but still looking like an angel as she loomed over him.

He spoke clearly, startling her. "I want to do this. Laura, please take me inside your home."

"Just my home?"

"No, not just your home," he said, quieter. "I want you to bring me into your bed."

Laura's breath jumped in her chest. "Do you think that's what everyone else is doing?"

"Fuck everyone else. I don't even want to think about anyone else." He pulled her thumb against his chest and cuddled it. "I want to be with you, Laura. I want to learn about you. Please have me."

She pressed him against her track suit, against her gently swelling boob, and nearly kicked the car door open.

---

"Hold on, it's okay," Rodney was saying, but Margaret wasn't listening. She covered her face in both hands and wept. He slipped his hand between her labia. "How's that?" When she didn't respond, he slowly shoved his arm into her vulva, resting his body against the long folds of pink and reddening skin. "How's that?"

Her hips jerked and he fell backward. "It just hurts! I can't do this!"

"What if we tried some lube?"

"You're not listening to me!" Her huge hips raced away from him as her elongated torso curled up and she scooted back toward the headboard. "I can't have anything in there at all. It hurts too much, like it's bruised. It's too sensitive, everything hurts!"

Her face frightened him, twisted with anger and sadness and shame. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. What do I know about these things? I know nothing."

She glared at the tiny, naked bodybuilder on the bed between her thighs. "Don't worry about it, it's not your problem. It's just my old-woman pussy, that's all." She crumpled and collapsed upon the pillows, sobbing.

Rodney took a long, deep breath and shook out his arms. "Well, you know, there's still lots of other things we can do."

"I don't need your consolation prize!"

He scowled. "Hey, Margaret? How about you stop being a colossal bitch for five minutes and just let me do my thing, okay?"

Her sobbing halted immediately. She propped herself upon long, thin arms and glared down at him. "Fine, yes, that sounds wonderfully romantic. By all means, have your way. I'll just turn my head and think of England."

He spread his arms. "There we go, that's all I'm saying. If you don't like it, in five minutes, you can beat me up or whatever you need to do."

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"No, seriously. You can try to stomp me with those big clumsy feet of yours. You won't do nothing to me. You wanna crush me in your fist? Be my guest, I can take it." He stared up at her, nodding. "I can take it."

Margaret draped one hand over her heart, getting a glimpse into his love life with Laura. Was that how she dominated him? Was that how far things had to go? Without saying anything, she slid back down over the sheets.

Her pussy advanced on Rodney like a slow tsunami. He stumbled backward, watching the long folds of tender flesh get closer and closer, hemmed in by her huge thighs. The bedsheet disappeared beneath her pert little bottom, passing under his feet with each step and sliding beneath her ass. He watched it disappear in the narrow, shadowy channel between her cheeks.

Her hips halted, her pussy held still for him. Nodding to himself, Rodney stepped up and began to massage the long panels of her labia. He read the direction of the stubbly hairs where she shaved and flowed his strokes along with them. He bunched up his fists and drove them slowly, deliberately into her labia, kneading them, really putting his shoulders into it. He drew a deep breath and jumped up, wrapping his tiny fingers around the folds of flesh around her clit. Now he was riding her, riding her hips however they moved, swaying along with them, holding on tight when they bucked. He slipped one tiny foot into the lower slit of her vulva, anchoring himself, and his palms soothed away her clitoral hood as he opened his mouth wide and sucked her clit fully into his mouth.

Margaret was in shock. She held perfectly still for him, frightened to move, but the electric shocks that arced through her hips made her dig her nails into the mattress. "Oh, my Goddess," she whispered, her eyelids fluttering shut, leaving the little man in control.

 

Miriam cackled in the center of the mattress. She howled and hugged herself with one arm, kicking her pudgy feet in the air. Her other arm stretched over her immense belly, and her thick, swollen fingers possessively cupped her puffy vulva. The scraggly hairs scraped and rasped within her own palm, and thick, syrupy fluid spurted between her knuckles, soaking into bed sheets already crusty and stained.

“Keep it up, little man!” she cried. Her huge breasts flopped over her forearm and slapped comically against her own jaw. “You’re doing great! Keep fighting! Oh, my Goddess, I can feel everything you do!” She bit her lip and clamped her thighs together, fat knees rolling against each other as the tension built in her loins. Deep within her, somewhere below her belly and in front of her ass, a tiny man struggled desperately for survival: there was no oxygen within Miriam’s vaginal canal, and Lionel was running out of exactly this resource. Without it, he wouldn’t be kicking and punching for long.

She knew it almost as well as he did. Yet it was still funny to keep her hand clamped over the entrance to her pussy (or the exit, for him), and she rolled her hips delightedly on the overburdened mattress as her labia got slipperier and slipperier with the seemingly unending stream of vasocongestive fluids her body churned out. Did Miriam know she was a sexual miracle? If she did, she blithely accepted it in the pursuit of her body’s demands, one of which was to creep closer and closer to cumming with a squirmy little man insider her cooze.

“Holy fuck, you’re so good,” she moaned. “I never thought you had—unff—so much energy in you. But you’re dancing around in me something fierce, aren’t you? You really want to live, don’t you? Well, hold on, just another minute.” Miriam didn’t have a clear picture on how long someone could hold their breath. All she had for reference was Brent, who’d built up his endurance over a few years of marriage, and her first Tiny husband who, unfortunately, passed away in an act of passion. Two data points wasn’t sufficient for Miriam to extrapolate any meaningful information, and so she pressed her fingertips to shut her labia, trying her darnedest to clench her vulva and resist the earnest little kicks and strokes of the frenetic little being inside her.

But her orgasm had other ideas. It overtook her like a wild horse. It tugged on all of her tendons and nerve endings like a puppeteer jerking the strings of a marionette. Even this mighty behemoth of a woman was helpless against her own climax. Miriam dug her head into the mattress and strained her throat to release an incredible scream. Her immense breasts flopped to the sides, threatening to tear from her chest and roll off the bed entirely. Muscles deep within her thighs managed to strain and show through cakes of blubber, and her hands balled into fists and pounded the bed. Her entire vaginal canal clenched, and the hapless Mr. Kelley shot out like a bullet, sprawling upon the sheets, immediately followed by gallons (to him) of pussy juice, dousing everything around him. When the torrent finally abated, he greedily gasped at the cool, musty bedroom air and spat up the thick fluids her entrapment had forced him to consume.

Slowly the muscles deep within Miriam’s flab began to release, and she spread out like a deflated Macy’s parade balloon. She also gulped down fresh air, replenishing her body for another round, panting happily. “That was pretty good, little guy,” she said, coughing. “I didn’t know how strong you were. You really got a will to live, don’t you?”

Lionel said nothing, lying flat in sodden sheets, struggling to hold air in his lungs.

“That’ll come in handy. I don’t think you could take another couple rounds with me unless you really, really wanted to live. You know what I mean?” Miriam twirled a lock of hair in her fingers, staring at the ceiling. “You really gotta want to live when I get a hold of you. That’s what makes it great. If you give up and just fuck off, if you don’t care if you live or die, that deosn’t do anything for me.  I need a feisty little guy who doesn’t give up! That’s what gets me off.” She shrugged her shoulders luxuriantly into the mattress. “You wanna get me off, doncha? Of course you do! So whaddya say, you ready for the next round?”

Lionel laboriously hauled his head up to glare resentfully at her. Instead, the tiny man only leered at the immense folds of hot pink flesh lining her vulva, squeezed possessively between her bulging, fat thighs. He seriously doubted whether those tissues, however sensitive, could receive the chilling expression he’d intended to transmit.

The gigantic woman moaned loudly as she hauled one thick and meaty leg over the tiny man, collapsing upon her side. “I think we need to change it up, you know? Let’s try something different this time. Just… gimme a minute.” She sucked in incredible amounts of air before shoving her torso upright on the edge of the bed, then glanced at the little scrap of a person. With an alarming I-just-got-a-great-idea grin, she reached back and wrapped Lionel up in her fist, dropping him playfully beside her huge hip. He feebly rolled into the huge crater her monstrous ass plowed into the mattress and bounced against her skin, setting off giddy giggles in Miriam. She watched, fascinated, as he righted himself, took in the lay of the land, and began crawling out of the crater toward the corner of the bed. Nearing its peak, he turned and rested, staring up at her. His hair was slicked back and his tiny beard was gummy with cum, but he grinned up at her, his bare chest panting rapidly.

“You up for an adventure? I wanna try something.” Miriam gave her shoulders a coy little shimmy, which translated into an earthquake for each of her tits.

The tiny man’s eyes blinked a couple times, then watched the mammoth woman rise off the bed. The crater slowly filled in behind her until the mattress was more or less level once more. Lionel stared, astonished at the sheer weight of the woman and the relentless muscles deep within the fat that unfailingly hauled her around. Her gigantic ass swung slowly away and her vast belly turned toward him, nearly spherical and jiggly with a life of its own. Far above this her abundant breasts lay suspended, ready to rumble down in an avalanche at the slightest provocation, and between them her gaping, graceless mouth grinned.

“Stand up,” she told him.

“What?”

“Do it.” Her hand flapped encouragingly by her side.

Shrugging, the thin little man climbed unsteadily to his feet. He found himself nearly eye-level with her navel once more. “Now what?” he called into it.

Miriam’s cheeks dimpled. “Just stay there,” she said, and she heaved her bulk to turn in place once more.

“What are you…”

But the plain, grinning face had disappeared beyond the hillside of a pallid shoulder. A long, shadowy trench ran from the nape of her neck, between two vast cakes of flabby landscape, down nearly to the swelling peaks of two gargantuan buttocks. Her splayed fingers flew around her broad hips, digging with seeming savor into the immense ass cheeks. Flab bulged between sausage-like fingers as her tips dug into the giving, rubbery, pale flesh.

Lionel was hypnotized. Such a huge, gross rump, hovering impossibly before him, wobbling merrily with every slight movement. He was horrified, yet he was transfixed: it seemed an anatomical miracle that the colossal, pear-shaped woman didn’t simply fall apart under her own weight. He stared as the last tufts of her hair disappeared over her shoulders, and how her shoulder blades and the rolling slope of her spine were subsumed behind the immense buttocks. No matter how large one part of her body was, Lionel mused, it always seemed as though something larger was waiting nearby to overtake it. Even now, he stared as her planetary cheeks grudgingly hove apart, as her porky hands strained to clutch as much flesh as they could hold, exposing yards and yards of murky butt crack, running impossibly deeper into the core of the woman. He laughed to himself, morbidly rapt, watching those cheeks spread further and further, staring as the inky seam ran deeper and deeper until he felt sure she had to be tearing herself in half, until finally light began to penetrate to the long, irritated pink fissure over her pelvis. At last, mighty Miriam had finally exhausted herself of all her tonnage of ass-flesh, and there was a bottom to this bottomless pit after all. That angry, wavy line where her cheeks pressed, where no air flowed and moisture built up, that couldn’t be healthy skin. No wonder it looked so irritated! And below that, a large, inflamed orifice of deep radial lines, drawing in closer to a sticky, raw mouth that puffed out, sucked in, and chewed itself as though unsure what to make of the tiny little man invading its privacy.

Abruptly the puffy anus gasped, a haunted maw that opened into perfect darkness. All of Lionel’s muscles and joints seized as the mountainous woman somehow, unbelievably, leaped off the floor and rose into the air. Lionel watched it all in slow-motion, how her thighs rumbled with the launching force, how the rolls of her hips and waist briefly lofted and slipped free of gravity, and how the twin planets of her ass floated above him, directly overhead, blocking out the ceiling and all light, and then…

Before he could scream, the immense ass was upon him. It overtook him, it swallowed up the landscape all around. He had one glimpse of the hungry asshole rushing at him before his eyes, his entire body was blinded to any trace of light.

Miriam laughed as she reached the apex of her flight. Trusting that silly little man to stay put, she aimed her butt as well as she could to come down on him. No sooner did her butt cheeks touch the rumpled bed sheets than there was a violent BANG! Her fleshy sides rumbled and her spine jolted with impact, as the pressboard bed frame finally splintered into shrapnel and the weak joints of the steel support surrendered once and for all. Her body shuddered as the support panels crumbled and the box spring hammered into the floor.

“Oh, Goddess,” she moaned, catching her breath as a stinging sensation ran up and down her spine. Her legs, fortunately had shot out in front of her, spread over a field of sawdust and jagged strips. She looked around at the ruined bed, sagging dramatically to the floor from the pillows at the other end, then began braying with laughter. “Brent’s going to be so pissed… oh well, fuck him! Shouldn’t have bought this cheap-ass bed frame!” She hugged herself, rocking in place, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she admired her impact.

After the first wave of her mirth began to subside, she remembered she wasn’t alone in the room. Still chuckling, Miriam began to wiggle her hips, rocking side to side in an attempt to sense anything between her huge, destructive buttocks and the abused mattress. “Lionel? You still with me, buddy? Say something.” She pursed her lips and listened, then bounced a couple more times upon the corner of the bed.

It did not cross her mind that Lionel had no means of shouting beneath a mountain of womanly flesh. He was frozen in place, sandwiched and vacuum sealed beneath the colossal ass of Mrs. Little. He couldn’t move his least finger; his entire body stung with the incredible weight driving him into the mattress. Screaming wasn’t an option: even if his lungs weren’t crushed, any tiny bubble of sound he could produce could never slip past the yards and yards of Miriam’s right ass cheek. His pulse thrummed weakly in his ears as the vast buttock compressed his circulatory system and slowed his blood nearly to a standstill. A loud buzzing rose in his head, buzzing in his ears and filling his optic nerves with static…

All the blackness turned to blurry light, and his chest reinflated as blood resumed its trickle throughout his veins. The overwhelming ache of intense, crushing weight disappeared, gradually replaced by a stabbing headache and the pins-and-needles sensation of blood-deprived limbs restoring to normal. The blurriness gave way to a pale sheet of pink-peach hue, and his body rocked back and forth to a slow, erratic tempo. Far off in the distance, a woman called his name.

Miriam struggled to haul herself up upon two legs from the wrecked bed, kicking debris aside with thick feet. But when she got up, she couldn’t find little Mr. Kelley anywhere. Did he roll off the foot of the bed? She bent over, breasts swinging like wrecking balls, and flipped the footboard away to dig through powdered particle board. Nope, he didn’t seem to be there either. She straightened up and hummed to herself, thumbing one of her nipples idly as she looked around the room. He probably wouldn’t be up on the dresser again, and she would’ve seen him scramble up to the pillows, probably. It was unlikely he flew into the bathroom, but if he somehow made it to the bedroom door, she’d never find him. But why in the world would he want to leave? Frowning, she stumped off to the bathroom just to make sure he wasn’t in there.

She turned sideways to fit into the bathroom: dirty towels were piling up behind the door, and Brent hadn’t taken care of them like she’d told him to. That lazy little fucker was in for some trouble when he got home! “Lionel? Are you in the sink? No… how about the tub? Darn, not there either. Well, you couldn’t have gotten into the toilet, could you?” It was better to check than to overlook something that silly and obvious. How dumb would she feel if he had been in the toilet the whole time? That was just the kind of thing that could only happen to her! “And if you were in there and I didn’t notice, then what? I could come in to take a dump, and you’d be there swimming around, and I’d probably poop right on your head. Eww, nobody wants that. So if you’re in here somewhere, I need you to speak up and let me know, okay, sweetie? We’ve got a lot of fucking to do before I send you home.” She closed the door to poke through the towels.

Lionel had no idea what was going on. The world kept spinning, poorly perceived shapes and colors kept changing. His ribs ached each time he tried to inhale, yet the terror of being unable to breathe drove him to gulp down extra lungfuls of air. He could hear Miriam’s voice echoing in the distance… no, not in the distance. It was too loud and close for that, but it was definitely echoing off of something. And what was hugging him? He was no longer being crushed, but nearly his entire body was gently pinched and held immobile. One arm hung freely and flopped around as he swung from side to side, being led around by something he couldn’t perceive.

And then Miriam screamed. The sharp peal bounced off the narrow walls and stabbed his ears. Feebly he attempted to cover one ear with his free arm, still numb and hard to control.

“There you are!” Miriam laughed, and Lionel began to bounce frenetically. “I was looking everywhere for you! How in the world did you get in there?”

His eyes reluctantly focusing, he strained to take in his environment. Almost immediately he spotted Miriam’s engorged and bare rump poking directly at him, just a few feet away. As his vision cleared he picked out a tiny figure wedged between her cheeks, another little man! Another? Shit, had Brent gotten home already? That wasn’t the deal!

But no, Lionel slowly realized that the tiny man embedded deep in that crack looked more familiar than the hapless group therapy partner. In fact, the tiny man was staring back at him, just as intently, looking pretty haggard and tired himself.

It took him way too long to realize he was staring into a full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He could only just make out Miriam’s hilarious expression, peering over her fat shoulder as her fingers slowly scrabbled across the landscape of her ass toward the valley in which he was stashed. Her thick fingertips seized upon his arm, and she tugged thoughtlessly at him, nearly ripping his off his limb. Between her dank and sweaty buttcrack and him being covered in her drying sexual nectar, he was plastered pretty securely between her cheeks.

“Miriam! Hold on, wait a minute!” he screamed in a direction somewhere above her ass. “You’re going to pull my arm off! Let me try to free myself or something.” He mustered the strength to begin to spread her immense buttocks apart, and then a waterfall of warm water came flooding into her crack and dousing him: she had filled a washcloth with water and was able to wring it just above his position. Together, the two of them slowly unpasted tiny Mr. Kelley from mammoth Mrs. Little’s butt, and she clucked happily over her little prize in her palm, stumbling back into the bedroom.

“That was kind of an adventure for ya, huh?” She grinned, and he only now realized how childish, somehow, her teeth looked between those thin, awkward lips. Her eyes, dull and bleary in the best of times, nonetheless lit up with excitement as she talked. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something else for ya, I think you’ll like it. There’ll be less chance of you getting lost anywhere, I’m pretty sure, as long as you remember to keep your arms and legs in!”

He asked what in the world that could mean but she didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, she cupped him between the sheer walls of her hanging boobs as she bent over and rummaged around in the drawer of a nightstand. “Where are you, where are you,” she muttered. “Goddess, I sure gotta lot of these things. How’d I get so many? Oh, here we go!” She stood and presented to Lionel a heavy, thick rod.

He looked at it. It was purple and dully shiny, and it looked about three times as long as him. It lay slightly sagging in her open palm.

He looked up at her. Her eyebrows were raised and her grin threatened to crack her cheeks, it was so wide. She nodded slightly at him.

He looked down at her breasts, because they were right there. They were enormous and heavy, and he wondered what it would be like to nap on one while the other rested upon him, whether that would be safe. He didn’t know where that thought came from, though it led directly to supposing there were several ways to die on, around, or within this large, dumb woman’s body, completely by accident. Involuntary manslaughter. Misadventure with big knockers.

“So?” she prompted. “Whaddya think?”

He looked at it again. “It looks pretty solid, I guess. That’s a lot of material, whatever it is. What’s it for?”

Her upper body rumbled as he chuckled. Her breasts churned just below his feet. “What do you think it’s for?”

Her palm was hot against his back, hot and soft. Lionel really wanted to explore her breasts, but he was just curious enough to assume there was a point to this line of inquiry. “I dunno. It’s solid, it looks flexible. I guess you could use it to kill mice? You know.” He pantomimed flogging imaginary pests.

Miriam threw back her head and laughed. Her nostrils were twin caverns that flared, her entire neck shuddered, and her breast nearly danced up into her hands. “No, dummy! Gross! This isn’t for killing rats! Although,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him, “my pussy does like to gobble it down.”

She rolled the long shaft in her palm, and something about the gesture made Lionel wish she’d play with him like that. As it rolled, one end of it was exposed to have a kind of helmet, and immediately he realized he was staring at the single-most largest dildo he’d ever seen in his entire life. Margaret had a little vibrator, smaller than a chicken’s egg and shaped like a thin oval, that she’d slip inside herself. There was even enough room for Lionel to insert himself, too, and lodge it against his back while he pleasured her. Or there had been, a long time ago. But this behemoth Miriam held in her hand, no, that would never fit anywhere inside Margaret, and he could scarcely believe Miriam would desire to jam it into herself.

As she turned the silicone dildo, a large cavity rolled into view. It looked like it could hold a roll of quarters, or even Margaret’s elegant little vibrator. Surely this wasn’t where the batteries went, unless it was powered by D cells! “What’s that for, is it broken?” Lionel asked her.

“That’s for you, sweetie! Try to remember to keep your arms and legs inside!” With only that for introduction, Miriam dumped Lionel upon the dildo. He struggled to climb out, but her fat fingers kept hammering down on him, stuffing an arm inside, shoving his chest back, cramming his head into the hole and then going for a leg. “Huh, it looks like it’s a little small for you,” she said.

“It is! It’s cramped! I’ll never fit in here, and why would I want to?”

“Brent never had a problem with it.”

“What? You put your husband in here?” He looked about himself in shock. “Did he have any clothes on when he went in here?”

Miriam looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course not, that’d mess ’em up! Quit fighting and get in there. I think you have to, like, curl up on your side and you’ll fit.”

“Why in the world would I want to fit in here? What are you…” Slowly and at great length, the wheels began to turn in Lionel’s mind. He stared up at her in horror. “You couldn’t. There’s no way.”

“No way, what?” She clutched the whole dildo in her fist, her thick fingers locking him into position, as she turned and thumped across the room once more. Unable to see where they were going, Lionel surveyed the destroyed bed instead, wondering how he hadn’t been killed.

“You’re not seriously going to…”

“Going to what? Use your words, Mr. Professor-Guy!” She lifted him up to her face: her watery eyes glistened and her lips danced in anticipation. He felt profoundly disadvantaged: the combination of his diminutive stature compared to her fleshy face, not just his nudity but the leftover mucilage of her crotch, and having to curl up sideways in this shallow channel—carved into the side of a dildo, and you know what that meant—all compounded to make this otherwise clever little man feel unbalanced and insecure. How could he possibly frame all this in one or two sentences, using words this monstrous oaf could readily comprehend?

He raised his head slightly, straining at an odd angle. “Well, first of all—”

“Time’s up!” Her other palm grasped the rest of the shaft, blocking his view of anything. His stomach lurched toward his feet, and then all his guts rushed up into his chest, and then there was a bone-rattling CRASH!

When the wide palms lifted away from the dildo, it was more or less upright, and with his head nearer the tip, so was Lionel. He shook his head a couple times and blinked hard, then took in his environment. It seemed that the dildo had been mounted onto a chair, next to her dresser. He didn’t recall seeing one there, but here he was. “Now that that’s all over with,” he said, looking for Miriam. All he could see from his little alcove were her enormous thighs, rubbing against each other as she shifted from foot to foot, excited about something else, as always. “I’ve never seen anyone with such endless reserves of energy! I mean, for someone with your metabolism, let’s be frank, you should be a wiry little dynamo. Something between a Whippet and an Olympic track star. Isn’t that odd?” He took a deep breath and slowly unfolded one leg. His foot swung through empty space, reaching for the chair’s surface, a candy-apple red vinyl cushion fringed in hammered brass tacks, though the frame of the chair was a brushed steel that didn’t go with it at all. How could he not have noticed this? He supposed he was buried in her tits or stuffed between her thighs for most of his time in this room. He just couldn’t seem to reach the cushion, however, so he slid his hips down and half-squatted, wondering if it would just be easier to fall out.

“Ah, ah, ah,” came a musical warning, far above.

Lionel froze in position and looked up at the voluptuous giantess. Her thighs were rubbing against each other, but her hand was stabbing between them once more. “Oh, no,” said Lionel, watching the juices spring from her gnarly black thicket and flow down her inner thighs.

“Arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, buster!” The monstrous beauty began to rotate.

“Oh, no, please. Please, Miriam, don’t do what I think you’re about to do.” He found himself speaking to her vast and spreading ass once more.

“There aren’t any seatbelts in that li’l thing,” she announced in a sing-song voice, “and I don’t want you to lose anything you come in here with. And if you fell out?” She laughed and slapped her ass, sending shock waves circling around her hips and rear for longer than Lionel would’ve thought. “Who knows? You could get lost in there! Maybe forever!” She laughed harder, backing up to the chair. Shadows glided over the wall of the dresser, overtook the entire seat cushion. Lionel’s heart pounded as her ass became everything, blocking everything, replacing everything. “And that wouldn’t be so bad, I don’t think. My own little Pussy Professor, lost deep inside me all the time? Dancing for my pleasure, doomed to forever look for the exit? Mmm!”

Lionel looked around: she was too close now. He waited too long. If he dropped and ran, she’d pin him with one abundant buttock upon an unforgiving vinyl-and-steel seat. Begging for his life, he pulled his leg back inside and tried to stand up, as far as the alcove would allow him.

“There’s always the chance my husband will meet you in there, you know, so don’t give up hope!” Her greedy fingers wormed their way down over her immense buttocks and began picking at her outer labia. Hot pink and slick tissues spread around a clenching hole. Lionel could see all the details he didn’t want to, all the folds of skin, the glimpse of urethra, the scraggly hairs that strayed into her pussy with minds of their own. “Of course, who knows what condition you’ll be in when he finds you… guess you better hold your breath!”

“Miriam! Don’t!” Lionel crouched in the alcove as her broad ass lowered upon the dildo.

“Can’t hear you, little lover! Are you ready for the ride of your life? You’re gonna feel so good!”

He heard the click of liquids as the head of the dildo bumped blindly against her vulva. “Miriam, for Goddess’s sake! You’re crazy! You’re going to kill me!”

“You’ll feel good to me, anyway” she amended, unhearing. “Who cares how you’re going to feel.”

Lionel screamed as the thick, glistening lips swallowed the head of the dildo. Her fat fingers released her labia, hanging thick and meaty before him, the last thing he saw before the first vulvic ring slid over the chamber. He shrieked, pounding at the entrance to her vagina as it slid on by, brushing over his shoulder, then his thigh. His tiny fist made wet little slap-slaps against the copiously lubricated tissues. In the fading light he even saw her muscles working, a wide band of muscle behind tender tissue that clenched occasionally, hugging the dildo and intruding on Lionel’s space. “Miriam! Miriam, don’t, please! Let me out!” he cried, slapping his weak fist against the awesome power of her vaginal muscles, until her vulva passed his feet and cast him into darkness.

“Such a little whiner,” Miriam mused. She stared vaguely into the distance, trying to focus on where that floppy dildo was going. She warned him, she really did, about the dangers of falling out of the dildo, and she hoped he listened. Not just for his own health and well-being, but because she wanted him inside her! Oh, that uppity little man, so full of big words and high concepts. She always caught him staring at her during those therapy sessions. She knew he thought he was so clever, looking away quickly or pretending to stare at something over her shoulder. But it was just an elegant little man, a rich little college guy with his lofty attitude and shit, all fancy on the outside: on the inside, he was just another penis trying to break into her one way or another. He stared at her tits, he watched her when she sat down, he even gawked at her mouth when she talked. She knew, oh, she knew all right. She’d seen guys like this before, acting like they were so much better than her, living on another plane of existence. Big or tiny, men were all the same: they had illusions about themselves that they demanded you agree to and support, even as they opened themselves up and exposed themselves for the hungry, horny, lonely little children they all were.

Lionel was no different, she thought, feeling the resilient bulk of the dildo slowly pushing inside her. She bit her lip and grinned, clutching her butt cheeks out of the way as the screaming became muffled. Her ass hit the chair, finally. She made that part last a long time, slowly going down, learning to overpower her impatience and greed to savor this part. And it was wonderful! She could picture that stuffy little professor, so well groomed and dashing, disappearing inch by inch inside her ravenous cunt. The image thrilled her, made her thighs clench, but she only sat on the steel chair, custom built to withstand her body, and clenched that thick dildo a few times, trying to imagine Lionel’s expression.

When she couldn’t wait any longer, she took a long, deep breath, gripped her knees, and silently wished Lionel good luck.

 

Torrential, that was the only word for it.

If there were others, Lionel couldn’t summon them to mind because it was so fucking torrential.

The gigantic vagina sloshed right outside his little dugout. He pressed his bare feet against the silicone, braced himself with his arms, straining to anchor himself inside the crudely scooped-out channel. What did Miriam use for this, a steak knife? His fingers and toes found parallel grooves to hold onto, and those worked until they became too slippery: frothing, gummy foam built up around the edges of his alcove, accumulating with every thrust inside and out of the gigantic woman, until they overflowed and crept beneath his feet, seeped beneath his hands, and they slowly lost ground and began to slip toward the churning pink wall of muscle and textured tissues. There was nothing he could do but lap the juices off his palms in a panic, and reach out for another grasp somewhere new.

He couldn’t hear moans or cries of pleasure or disappointment. Anything going on in the world outside, even in Miriam’s bedroom, was entirely lost to him. The sound couldn’t travel through yards of muscle and fat, and it couldn’t fight over the cacophony in his tiny space. The slick fluids sloshed and clicked furiously, resounding sharply in his ears. Even the edges of the hole in which he barely hid rasped against the clenching rings of muscles in her cunt, vast bands that hugged the dildo in which he was stored, straining at each pass to reach inside and hug him too.

Lionel watched the foam creep closer to his feet, and for one crazy moment he wondered if the only way to last in here would be to… he couldn’t possibly. The thought of scooping this viscous foam into his mouth was disgusting! But it just kept coming and coming, and eventually Miriam’s vasocongestive juices would overflow and fill up this little chamber. And then he’d slip out, and that immense, clutching wall would carry him away, and it could shove him outside of her pussy as easily as it could stuff him even deeper within her hips. He closed his eyes and gulped, hard. And if he went inside her, he could be battered all to hell by that ramming dildo she kept squatting on, or it could simply stuff him deeper and farther inside her than he’d ever imagined, and he could be lost to the world, never to be seen again. Lost, within the depths of Miriam’s vagina.

He hated how aroused his got him. His cock jutted defiantly from his slim hips, calling out to her vaginal walls, pleading for contact. His penis wanted so badly to go into something or rub against something, and here, the lining of her pussy was grinding back and forth, right outside of his little hole. Couldn’t he, his dick pleaded, just kinda nudge his hips toward the big, pink wall and let the gross giantess do all the work? Lionel wondered, but he decided it wasn’t worth losing his grip and getting tossed into the seas. Or was it…

He shifted his shoulders against the rough-carved silicone chamber and wrapped one slippery fist around his penis. No sooner did he begin stroking it, however, than daylight exploded into the chamber and fresh air chased away the humid must of her pussy.

Miriam held the dildo up to her face as though she were going to bite into the middle of a banana. “You were incredible, Little Professor!” she said, her voice heavy with exertion. “Was it as good for you?”

“Was what as good?” He looked up, mounted in the center of the dildo, staring up into a wide, twitching smile, wider than the hollow in which he lay.

She blink-blinked at him, panting. “I‌ just came so hard! Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

He flinched. “No, that! That was amazing! You were like a veritable goddess of thunder, with all the terrific activity going on inside you. It was amazing!” He could only see her broad mouth and flaring nostrils; her eyes were hidden behind swollen and flushed cheekbones. “But I can’t take any credit for that, just holed up in my little cavity like this.”

“You did more than you know. Just having you here, knowing you were there inside me, that was a lot. Do you know that?” Her grin widened, showing little scrims of yellow on the tooth by the gums, the unevenness of the biting surface in her incisors. So close to his own little arms and legs… “And now maybe you’d like me to return the favor.” Her smile expanded into an obscenely plump O, the sphincter of her pink lips twitching in anticipation. “Oh no, were you jerking off in there? Did you finish already?”

He looked down at his hand in surprise, releasing his cock immediately. “No, I‌ wasn’t, I swear! I don’t know how that ended up there. I‌ just—” He craned his head out of the silicone chamber, trying to peer up the sheer cliff wall of her face.

She laughed, and her humid breath overrode the odors of moist silicone and her oceanic froth. “I believe you! But would you like to cum now? You look like you’re about to explode.” The glistening, veiny underside of her tongue exposed itself as she lapped at her upper lip.

As badly as his body ached for release, Lionel managed to bear the math in mind. “No, I already came once, so I owe you two orgasms already. If I come again, I‌ won’t have the strength to pay you back.”

Her immense lips pouted cartoonishly; her lower lip pushed out so far, he could nearly reach it from the dildo. “Aww, you’re no fun! You sure? I love to see my little men cum. It hardly takes any effort from me! That makes me feel wonderful.” This time Miriam let her jaw hang slightly open, gusting warm breath upon Lionel’s moist, naked body. She panted for him, exaggeratedly, her fat tongue pulsing with every breath, growing closer and closer to his chamber.

Again he insisted on the grounds of physical exhaustion and muscle failure.

“You sure? I cum really easy! It won’t take you any work at all.”

He turned his head away, so as to roll his eyes appropriately. “No, thank you, I’ll manage somehow.”

Her uneven smile stretched across his view once more. “You know what? I don’t even feel like taking no for an answer right now.” Before he could lecture the grinning giantess on consent, she rose to her feet and held the dildo over her upturned face. Lionel swore, scrabbling for a secure hold as Miriam merrily shook the huge dildo over her face. “Come on out, little man! You know I want you! And we can make this nice and fun, or I can make it much, much harder for you.” She laughed, her jaws spreading like an inky chasm below him.

With one unfortunate bop against the back of the dildo, Miriam shook him free. Lionel felt his hands slip past the rim of the carved channel, and he tumbled headlong through space toward the gaping maw of her mouth. “Miriam!” he shrieked, spreading his limbs to catch himself. “Don’t eat me!”

Abruptly her jaws slammed shut, and the tiny man bounced against her lips, coming to rest across her mouth. Immediately she began to pucker, seeking, and it was his bad luck that the seam of her pressed lips promptly found his hardened cock, which disappeared between pink wrinkles of tissue. “Mmmm,”‌she purred, the warm air from her nostrils vibrating over his bare back.

“Miriam, no, I can’t do this, I can’t afford to.” Lionel tried to push himself away from her lips, but his arms only took him so far, and her lips seemed to have much greater reach. They suctioned onto his cock, pulsing everywhere from his chest to his thighs. His arms lost their strength with one intense wave of pleasure, and he collapsed fully upon her caressing lips. “Miriam, please, don’t do this,” he cried weakly, unconvincingly.

Her tongue poked out, slithering like a great serpent from between her lips, rasping over his chest, his belly, and his penis. She rumbled another great “Mmmm!” as the huge, blind, blunt tip of her tongue nudged into his hips insistently. He whimpered as her tastebuds ran along the underside of his cock, brushing gently over his balls, rubbing his genitalia into her upper lip. Desperately he looked around for an exit: Miriam was standing straight up now, so all he saw was the large platform of her merry face, surrounded by the yawning void of her bedroom. Miriam was not a short woman, and the fall from the top of her head to the floor was considerable. Madly he thought of slowing his descent by bouncing off her boobs, but those grotesque funbags were likely to fling him off into the ether as anything else.

He was close to falling. He clung to her distended lips, hugging them with the fright of slipping off of one of her round, rosy cheeks. Her nostrils gusted against his side, and he hoped they couldn’t be strong enough to blow him off, but he didn’t know. He spread his little thighs and clutched her lips, anchoring himself to her.

The giantess, of course, read this the wrong way and milked his cock for all it was worth. She puckered her lips into a cute kiss and sucked on the entire area of his hips, straining to sense his erection. It was the tip of her tongue that found it, or suggested where it could be, and he felt the blunt head running over his cock repeatedly, driving him crazy. His thighs tingled, his knees went weak, and his insides turned to liquid even as all his muscles strained. She moaned against him and his body shuddered, and he cried out, and finally his agitated cock spurted deep into the recesses of her swollen and pulsing lips. He lay panting across her active mouth, weakly struggling not to slip to one side and tumble off into space.

The giantess was unable to detect his orgasm, of course, but she did feel the little bugger switch from agitated to limp. She smiled, and Lionel dumped from her lips onto her bare, glistening teeth, with barely enough energy to attempt to scrabble away from this pearly death. Instead, her fat fingertip and even fatter thumb adeptly plucked at one of his scrawny legs, and by this she hoisted him aloft, dangling over her face.

“You came that time,” she said, mockingly. “Don’t deny it! You’re as limp as a spaghetti noodle.”

He was too weak to tell her that the singular of spaghetti was spaghetto.

“And you know what that me-e-e-eans!”

He whimpered into the empty air between her thick palm and her leering rictus.

She paused, calculating. “You owe me five orgasms! Think you’re up to it, you little horndog?”

“I didn’t want…”‌ he gasped. “Not fair…”

“Ah, ah, ah! Nothing about this is fair! It’s not fair how much you want me, is it?” She gave him a little waggle. “But don’t worry, I’m very generous with myself. I’m going to let you have as much as me as you think you can handle, you greedy little man. How’s that sound?”

By this time Lionel was too dazed to imagine what she could’ve meant by that, so he only hung suspended over her grinning maw.

The world began to drift around her, far below the fat, stretched cheeks of her grin. Lionel watched the steel chair slide away, watched the carpet sail nearby. Soon they paused, and he received a slow, descending tour of the horny ogress’s entire body: her leering expression gave way to the tremendous hillsides of her breasts, drooping heavily over her stuffed belly. That hemisphere of flesh, marred only by a cavernous navel, hung ponderously over a narrow nightstand, and upon this she placed him.

Lionel stretched his limbs out, gasping for breath, upon the faux-antique, coffee-stained surface. Beside him was a short stack of thin books, to go with the thin, tree-like lamp above his head. He stared up in horror as Miriam’s colossal boobs swung like wrecking balls above him, but she only cleared away the books and set the lap aside. Her thick palm rasped over the wood, wiping any dust away, until she straightened up and admired her work. He stared over her swollen belly and prominent boobs to where her proud head perched upon massive shoulders.

“Think you know what’s gonna happen next?” she said, laughing.

“I have no idea.” That was true, but it would’ve been more accurate to say his tiny brain was flooded with lurid imaginings of what she could do with him.

She only performed a rolling little dance as she shimmied in place, rotating like a massive planet, until her enormous buttocks shuddered heavily above him. “Not this again,” he said, weakly backing up on the nightstand’s surface.

“Oh yeah, big boy,” she crooned. “Except you gotta stand up for this one. Can you do that? Stand up all by yourself?”

Lionel collapsed against the wood. “I‌ can’t, Mrs. Little, I really can’t. I‌ don’t have an ounce of strength in me.”

“You better find some.”‌ She never stopped dancing, though she peeked over the sweeping mountainside of her back at him. “Because I’m a-comin’ down, and either you’re a-gonna get squashed under my butt cheek, or you can look for some safety in… you know where.” Her pudgy fingers dug into the immense cakes of ass flesh and hauled them apart, exposing the shadowy, brown fissure of aggravated flesh that constantly rubbed against itself everywhere Miriam walked. Simply exposing that dark seam radiated humidity and heat upon Lionel’s frail little body; the air stung with the acrid tang of a day’s worth of juicy farts, not to mention copious, rich sexual juices that spread over every inch of her blobbery flesh.

“Oh, Goddess, no,”‌ he moaned, though his cock, raw with the exertions of a hungry giantess, managed to stiffen and stand respectfully. “You can’t be serious,”‌ he said to it. It only twitched with self-confidence.

“Get yourself ready,‌” she intoned. “Three, two…”

Somehow Lionel found the reserves to urge himself to his feet, though his thighs and sides complained. He stood shakily, then turned his head upward and began the side-to-side shuffle as he tried to aim for Miriam’s deep and plunging crack. There was her anus, puckered a lot like her lips, and he stepped forward, trying to lean past it as it descended. Around her sphincter her scraggly hairs started, thin at first but rapidly growing bushy and dense. Lionel looked past the underbrush lining her taint and attempted to estimate the trajectory of her descending pussy. He had only seconds, as Miriam decided to rely upon the nightstand to hold her, and she collapsed backward with abandon.

Swearing, Lionel stepped forward, aiming for the beginning of the dense growth, where the thick cakes of her labia began to spread and expose the searing pink seam of her cunt. Here it came: he held his breath, stepped slightly to the side, and closed his eyes as her huge lips spread and surrounded him, sucking him in deeply. He gritted his teeth as hot, slick tissues embraced his head, his shoulders, pinned his arms to his sides, ran greedily over his legs and pooled around his ankles.

“Oh, Goddess,” Miriam moaned, inadequately groping her boobs and piling her weight upon the nightstand. “He made it, I don’t believe it. He made it!” She laughed and then gasped sharply as she felt the little man squirming inside the entrance to her cunt. “Oh, you go, little guy. Just like that.” Her hips rocked on the nightstand, massive globes pulsing in time with each other. The legs of the nightstand creaked threateningly, but they held, and Miriam dumped more of her weight off her heels. Her buttocks overflowed the sides of the nightstand, burying it in her floppy flesh.

Lionel’s dancing drove her crazy. No matter how many times she came, she was always ready for another round. There was no refractory period, like with men, having to wait and recharge and desensitize or anything. Any time she came, her nerve endings were hungry for more. She’d exhausted poor Brent to near-death several times, and she’d often wondered whether a string of healthy little men would be more appropriate for her needs. Obviously one tiny weakling couldn’t give her everything she needed, but would three little men be enough? A dozen? Would she ever have enough? Doubt crept into her mind, even as she hammered her hefty ass onto the nightstand. But that was a nice fantasy, exhausting Brent until he passed out, crying, then taking her time with Lionel, who was clearly, clearly into this despite all his big words and whining… and then Rodney, that little knot of muscle and attitude… mmm, Rodney, she thought, giving her cunt a hard clench.

Lionel would have cried out, but that would have cost him precious oxygen, deep in Miriam’s vagina. Juices frothed all around him, muscles squeezed and squeezed harder before relenting, and the blackness was perfect, this deep inside her hips. He forced himself to calm down, to think about where he was. He could almost sense her immense thighs stretching far before him; he could almost sense the mountainous buttocks bunching up behind him. She bounced upon the nightstand and he could feel the pulses of energy traveling through her thick layers of flab and muscle, right through his own body. He nodded in the damp darkness of her vagina, meditating upon the travel and dissemination of energy, the waves of shock as her hips slammed upon the surface. His feet hardly ever left the wood floor: her gibbering labia shuddered around his ankles, and sometimes her cunt clenched him hard enough to carry him away, but always she returned to the miniature table, pounding harder and harder against it, though she drove him no deeper inside.

“Come on, gimme,” she grunted, far above the tiny person in her pussy. One hand savagely pinched her erect nipple, tweaking and grinding it; the other dug between her massive thighs and clawed at her mons, thick fingers groping for her clit beneath all that flesh. She didn’t want to cripple Lionel in her pussy, accidentally snapping his ankles while he stood there, but she couldn’t quite pick him up with her cunt and clear the area for her to dig at her clit. It was frustrating and growing worse by the second. “Come on! Just get in there!” She nearly stood up, letting herself fall to the nightstand, and then she did stand up and heave her considerable bulk with a little hop, throwing herself back.

The legs splintered, the upper level collapsed upon the lower rungs, and the entire thing shattered beneath her. Miriam’s expression went wide-eyed and dopey as her body shook with the collapse. Lionel realized something was wrong when the thrusts around his little body grew thunderous and more violent, but he couldn’t know exactly what was happening, what with all of his senses buried deep within the ogress’s womb.

“Goddess damn it!” she barked, awkwardly picking herself off the floor. Finally, tiny little Mr. Kelley seemed lodged inside her pussy for good, so she carefully rolled to her knees and righted herself, trying not to squeeze him back out. Upright, she clasped one fat hand to her vulva and waddled toward the bathroom.

“What’s going on out there?” he wanted to scream, but it was hard enough to keep the air in his lungs. He only hugged himself and tried to read into the pitch of gravity going in different directions, how her pussy clenched him orgasmically and how it seized upon him only because of other exertions going on in Miriam’s body. It was a fascinating study of unconscious muscle activity, and he would’ve enjoyed it more if he weren’t worried about when he’d next catch a breath.

He had no idea Miriam had thrown herself into the bathroom, swearing up a storm, and slammed the door behind her. Only when he felt the cold marble surface of the doorknob did he realize something had changed. Where did the table go? Where were they now?

“Mother fucker,” Miriam grunted, struggling to rise up on tiptoes, jamming the bathroom doorknob into her pussy. “Just get in there!” Her ponderous boobs swung freely as she struggled to reach back and part her immense ass cheeks, guiding the cold knob against her pussy. “There, right there,” she growled, trying to thrust backward onto the doorknob. Rising so high on her toes compromised her leverage, however. Her calves bulged impressively, holding her bulk aloft, and she found a way to rock back and forth against the door without losing her balance. She couldn’t thrust as hard as she wanted, and her body ached for a good, solid pounding, but she successfully shoved the whole of the stone doorknob inside her pussy.

The fuck is this?! thought Lionel as the invader wedged into his territory. It felt like a large sphere of polished stone, but he lacked the light to appropriately study it. Was it a marble dildo? Honestly, he wouldn’t put anything past Miriam’s bizarre appetites, but this seemed a bit over the top. At any rate, it wasn’t encroaching any farther, just blocking the exit was all, so it couldn’t mash him deeper into her vagina, but there was absolutely no way for him to get around it. What was Miriam’s game now? What was she playing at? His lungs began to spasm with needing more air. He told himself this was a trick: the air he breathed out had only lost marginal amounts of oxygen, so he should be able to subsist on the breath he held in his lungs. It was merely force of habit, he told himself, to keep breathing and sucking more air in. Yet his body was unconvinced, and his tiny hands sought a way around the perimeter of the polished stone.

It was harder at this angle, Miriam noted. She sucked in her fat bottom lip and scowled, as she tried to creep forward and gain the most thrust against the doorknob. It was hitting the right place, the soft mass right behind her clitoris, but she just couldn’t get the thrusting action she needed. Frustrated, she slapped her ass, setting off a massive ripple across her hindquarters, and held her breath to increase the tension. When the doorknob banged against her pelvic bone, she had a momentary frisson of panic: what if it got stuck there? That’d be fine, as long as she came. She could call the fire department and make them deal with it. They handled bizarre shit all the time, if TV was any kind of reliable source.

Lionel only knew that gravity pulled in front of him now, instead of below. Between that and the large, smooth stone lodged by his feet, he could only suppose that the giantess had thrown herself face-first upon the bed and started to fuck herself with a marble dildo, then immediately got tired. Hardly likely, as she knew she was relentless, so what then? Blind within her vagina, the tiny man felt around the perimeter of the smooth stone, hoping perhaps to squeeze himself around it in one dangerous moment before the burst of freedom. Was it possible? There was no other way out, unless he wanted to crawl into her uterus and take his chances with her Fallopian tubes. Not likely! So, gritting his teeth, he felt around in the darkness until he found a wall of rippled flesh that seemed familiar. He pressed into it: it was spongy and giving. That encouraged him, as he could probably shoulder his way against it. Still, there was the matter of her vulvic muscles to deal with, and while the large stone did away with them somewhat, he would have to wedge himself around it and confront the giantess’s sexual contractions once again. But whatever: he needed air, and he needed it now. He crouched, wedged his head against the spongy wall of flesh, and shoved his arms forward to pull himself along. Miriam’s abundant juices made the stone fairly slippery, but with patience he was able to press his palms to it, find some adhesion, and slowly, slowly pull his body down.

Miriam’s body lanced with electricity. “What are you doing in there, little man?” She gripped her knees, struggling to hold herself upright. The tiny, squirming being within her cunt was now rubbing his body against the interior portion of her clit, right where the doorknob was unable to stimulate her! So there was an advantage to fucking a tiny professor after all: despite all his big words and lofty ideas, he knew how to strike right at the heart of a woman, when and where it counted! She blessed him in her mind and caught her immense boobs in her grasp once more, thumbing her erect nipples like Spanish guitar strings.

She wasn’t making this easy for him, Lionel decided. He had just hooked his rib cage over the stone—not a sphere, like he’d imagined, but a discus closer to an M&M‌ or a Skittle—when suddenly the vagina shifted around him. The spongy wall pressed harder against his spine, and something within arm’s reach was clenching harder. Goddess damn it, Miriam! Just hold still for a minute! Knowing that she was beyond reasoning, Lionel could do nothing but scrabble forward and try to find something beyond where he was.

“Just like that! Just like that, right there!” Miriam cried out, straining her legs harder than she’d had to in a long time, to hold her body aloft. Whatever he was doing, she wanted more of it. She just wished she could see the tiny man swimming around in her cunt. Was the doorknob helping? Betting it was, she rocked her shoulders in an attempt to bounce her ass against the door frame and slide the doorknob around inside her pussy.

He swore harder and harder at her with every turn of events. He’d just about gotten his hips past the large stone when, somehow, it started thrusting inside her. Well, that was just a matter of timing, wasn’t it? He waited for two pulses and calculated the third, using that gap in time to scramble past it. The knob rose and threatened to bend his knees backward: Lionel squirmed abruptly and twisted himself around, and his legs curved neatly over the smooth stone. That done, he reached overhead and found his fingertips grasping the slippery fins of her interior labia, slick with her juices but nonetheless an indicator that the exit was within reach, literally.

“Oh, my Goddess!” she screamed. Her abundant breasts bulged around her fists, and she moaned at the floor as she jammed her ass against the door. “Oh, my fucking Goddess! Come on, little man, give mommy her cookie!” Half the time she had no idea where these ridiculous phrases come from: they just emerged from her and she never questioned them. Her boobs tingled in her clutches, and her knees were threatening to give out. She just needed a little bit more, ramming the door with her broad ass until she thought she heard something creak, and then crack. With a little grin of pride, she slammed herself harder against the door. Did she know anyone else who could fuck a house down?

The motion was fighting against Lionel, and the air was burning in his lungs. He needed to get out, now. He reached forward and found that slippery rim of flesh, her labia minora, and he didn’t care how it felt to her but he grasped it desperately, almost tearing it, and pulled his body past the round stone. He discovered it was mounted to a metal stem or neck of some kind, with enough sharp angles that it didn’t matter how her juices coated it. He hugged the stem and pulled his legs free, and followed the stem out of her vulva: fresh air! Lionel gasped in ragged sobs, drinking down the air as her massive labia quivered and shook around him. It wasn’t an attractive sight to see, something like a huge alien mouth struggling to speak, but he didn’t care. He was free, and her grinding pussy could do whatever it wished. He looked around and nearly laughed, realizing the stem he clung to was the base of a doorknob. The faceplate stretched before him, bolted into a huge wall of white-painted wooden door. Of course, it was all so familiar to him now. But why had Miriam jammed a doorknob up her pussy?

She screamed, she clutched her tits, her thighs quivered with effort, and another thundering orgasm quaked its way out of her massive frame. She collapsed upon the cold tile floor, laughing weakly. It was amazing, how the knob fit inside her—she looked at it now, glistening with her juices in the harsh, fluorescent light of the bathroom—and what Lionel figured out to do inside her! He deserved a reward, he really did, but Miriam’s philosophy was to keep the tiny man on the edge of fearing for his life. If she let him know how wonderful he was, Lionel’s head would swell up even further, and she wouldn’t be able to fit him inside her as easily as she could a doorknob. The idea made her chuckle, and she rolled to her back to let that out, her immense breasts flopping far to each side.

Lionel, freed of the doorknob and the chamber of pussy, crawled out from between her pulsating lips. Harsh light blinded him for a few moments, and then he realized his palms were resting upon the lowest bulge of her ass. Directly below him was Miriam’s anus, jubate and swollen, pulsing with every pant of her huge lungs. Did he want to chance his escape down there? Surely her asshole couldn’t just open up and swallow him, could it? Setting his jaw sternly, he hauled his legs out of Miriam’s relaxed pussy and let himself tumble down her bulging buttocks.

As if on cue, her anus pushed out and opened, like a groaning creature. Cursing, Lionel tried to steer away from it, but her buttocks on the bathroom floor swelled out inexorably and guided him down one path, and one path alone: right toward her asshole. Screaming, he reached out to brace himself against the retreating sphincter, hoping to resist tumbling inside if possible. Instead, a tremendous gust of hot, moist wind blasted him full in the chest and face, roaring like a sea monster. Panicked, Lionel held his breath and fell the rest of the way, rolling free of her farting asshole and collapsing upon a tile, surrounded by the giantess’s immense butt cheeks, deep within the valley of her colossal thighs.

“You did it, little man.”‌ Her voice, winded and ragged, echoed throughout the bathroom. “That was another nice, hard orgasm you gave me. You have a real talent for this shit, I gotta say. You could teach Brent a thing or two, I think,” she added, giggling. “Though mainly he’s just got to stop complaining and he’ll be good enough.”

Lionel lay upon the hard ground, listening, watching cum flow out of her gaping pussy and over the tuck of her ass like a waterfall.

“So I guess you only owe me four cums now. How’s that sound?” She laughed, and her thighs shuddered dangerously around him. “Or would you like to cum again? I’d be happy to do that for you, you know. I’ll suck you off like nobody’s business. Cover you in chocolate syrup, try not to gulp you down.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

“Dunk you in barbecue sauce, nice and smoky St. Louis style. Lap that all off! That’d be amazing, too. Can you imagine that?” She gasped for breath; her labored breathing resounded through the small room. “You, just like a tender little chunk o’ chicken, doused in sauce. I don’t see how I could keep from gobbling you down!” Every time she laughed, it seemed like her ass crept, glacier-like, closer and closer to where he lay.

“Aren’t you getting hungry? Goddamn, I’m starved.”

He watched her fat hand appear over the horizon of her mons, sausage-like fingers descending upon the dense brush of her pubes, shoving their way across her gabbling labia. Looking for him.