Nick took too long to wake up. That's how he felt about it when he realized where he was and what had happened. He got the wind knocked out of him, and he had no idea how long he had been asleep, but panic spiked through his chest when he pulled himself together.
"Elise!" he screamed. "Elise! What's going on? Are you okay?" His cries, already puny and pathetic, went no further than the noise-baffling fabric of Elise's bra cup. Her enormous tit was pushing into him, tremendous weighty flesh pinning him against the dense fabric of her bra, and the squeeze made it difficult to breathe. Elise, for her part, was completely still.
He drew his arms down to his sides and attempted to push some of her boob off of his body, just to gain a little space to pull in some air and shout again. His efforts were responded to by thudding, burning pain throughout his shoulders, spine, ribs, and down his legs: his share of the beating that Elise found waiting in the parking lot. He struggled, fresh alarm surging energy into his limbs, but the situation was dire: Elise couldn't hear him and was otherwise uncommunicative; her enormous breast was holding him locked into position; he was at least partially disabled due to the crushing blow that had blindsided him. All of this at once gave him a sense of claustrophobia, everything closing in on him, the horror of his own helplessness in the face of it all when now was the time for action!
But struggling yielded nothing useful. He freaked out for a moment, squirming against the enormous load of blind flesh and fat weighing upon him, and he wasn't any closer to helping her. When he exhausted himself he rested, and a little clarity of perception crept into his tiny skull. Think, man, he admonished himself. (At times like these, he imaged a stern and paternal old man, probably from England, was staring a hole through his face and jamming sound advice into his mind. And in his mind, there he was with his velvet smoking jacket and grizzled, silvery stubble, smoky Cavendish on his breath. Eyes smouldering with intent.) Wait a tic and think this out, lad, you're doing yourself in at this rate. What do we know? Elise is conked but she's still warm, so she's alive. You're battered but you have movement. What else?
Nick paused to think of what else, and all the other information came in. Car grease and gasoline: he was probably in a vehicle but the engine was off. Dull thumping: Elise was stationary but someone was moving around. The assailant? He assumed so and went on, breathing very slowly, and he realized Elise was breathing very slowly too. If he concentrated he could even hear her heartbeat, nice and regular. One less thing to worry about, but time was a crucial resource right now because he didn't know how much he had of it.
The old gentleman steered him back: Good show, old egg, but we're not out of it yet. Your bird's all right and you're a little stiff but you can push through that. Yet we know nothing of the chav she ran afoul of in the lot. Judging by your position, we're probably not folded up in her car or lying on the pavement.
They were in the jerky kid's vehicle, likely a van. That thumping, that was the kid moving around. What was he doing? Nick had to get out of his girlfriend's bra and get the lay of the land. He clenched his eyes shut, set his jaw, took as much of a breath as he could steal, and craned his arms behind him to grab the edge of her bra.
His muscles complained. His bones ached. Else's nipple, as large as his head, poked and dragged against his body but the little man heaved himself to the edge of her cup. (He didn't even let her warm, nubbly nipple distract him as it nudged into his crotch, in passing. But it was an issue, briefly.) From there it was simplicity to reach out for other parts of her bra or to lace his fingers into the fabric of her shirt, and by these to free his legs. He tumbled briefly against the broad, giving netting of her blouse, but rolled to a stop. Elise was lying face-down and completely motionless. He looked up at her chest above him, a broad expanse of smooth, creamy flesh, and the landscape of her shirt streted around just enough to make a not-very-distant horizon. Crawling down under her belly wouldn't give him enough room to maneuver, probably, so he scooted around in the indentation her boob made against her shirt, clawed at her bra strap and tumbled out of her sleeve.
It was a brief fall from there to the scratchy, grimy carpeting of the van. Nick was completely naked and, consequently, chilly and vulnerable to the abrasive van floor. The thumping around he heard before was louder and clearer now, but he couldn't see the boy--Elise's body was in the way. From his perspective he could see the entire back half of the van. It was dirty with little light coming in through the windows. There were some oily rags, some mechanic's tools scattered in the distance. There were patches of grease in the carpeting, splinters of wood, metal scraps, bits of twine, cigarette butts and dead leaves. Nick caught some radiant warmth from Elise's side, and then it hit him: where was her arm?
He spun around and crouched, ready to dart beneath her if necessary. Her blouse ran up to the short armhole and her armpit was exposed, little brown stubbly hair from where she shaved it two days ago. And off in the distance, her arm was stretched up behind her head, and her wrists were duct-taped together, to a steel D-ring mounted on the wall of the van.
Above her contorted shoulder was Elise's face, and as he stared she slowly woke up. Her eyes blinked twice, then screwed up with effort. Her eyes went wide, she opened up her mouth wide, and Nick heard the rapid intake of a massive quantity of air, and he only just clapped his palms to his years before Elise let loose with a booming, blood-curdling scream.
This was followed by an "Oof" and a gust of breath, and the lovely giantess' body heaved abruptly. She'd been kicked in the ribs. Outraged, Nick stood up and tried to peer over her body for the assailant, mindless of being seen and what that would mean.
The boy's head rose up in the distance, just over the huge ridge of Elise's cranberry blouse. He was shaven bald and wore some kind of goat-scruff around his mouth and jaw, too young for the facial hair to fully develop. He looked angry, too, glaring down at Elise, who had fallen silent while struggling for breath.
"Not another fucking noise, bitch!" he hissed at her. "You make another fucking noise, I'll fucking stab you!" So saying, he knelt beside the woman (and out of Nick's view). Nick heard the clatter of metal on metal and then the boy's fist knotting itself in her hair, yanking her face to the other side. The boy whispered harshly: "See that? See it? That's what you'll get, and I'm fucking serious!" it took no imagination to get the general idea of what was going on, on the other side of the giantess mountain range. Nick felt cold, but not from the night air seeping into the van.
But what could he do? He looked around at the detritus in the van, desperately and with increasing despair.
* * *
Elise was in pain. Her arms were twisted up behind her back, above her head, and she was only just flexible enough to keep them there. If she scooted back or if someone made her sit up, she'd be tortured, but she could just tolerate where she was now. The scratchy van carpet in the side of her head was disgusting and irritable but, again, not damaging. The swift kick to the ribs was damaging, however. The punk was only wearing sneakers and not boots, but the blow was enough to push all the air out of her lungs.
And his fist was clutching her hair, while her tear-filled eyes tried to see the sharp object he brandished before her. And her jaw burned and throbbed from where he punched her, in the flurry of blows he'd surprised her with. She dimly remembered being slammed against the door of the van and a kick to her ribs, and there was a flash sensation of her body being dragged inside the vehicle. He'd parked not far from her car. Where were they now?
They... Oh my God, Nick! She recalled her alarm when the punk punched her in the chest. There was only a moment of calculating whether Nick had been injured before the full-on assault exploded and she lost consciousness. When the punk set his sharp object back down and paced somewhere below her range of view, Elise tried to shift her chest gently against the van floor. She didn't want to crush poor Nick, but she couldn't even feel him in her bra. Nick! Goddamn it, what happened? Where are you? Did you fall out? Did he--oh, no--did he find you? Elise was close to being overwhelmed by all the thoughts, all the questions, but the punk snapped her out of it.
She felt him snake his fingers quickly underneath the waistband of her skirt, then yank her hips sharply upward. He wasn't strong enough to haul her up but he tugged at her until she complied. "As long as you don't fight," he murmured, "you won't get hurt." She guessed he meant the way her arms were pinioned behind her head, but he could've meant a heinous amount of things.
"I won't-" she started, interrupted by a kick to her ribs.
"You don't even talk!" he screamed, then checked himself, reverting to a savage whisper. "No talking, no screaming, no nothing!" She didn't even dare to nod her head, but just fell silent and, as he tugged at her waistband, she kneeled awkwardly, her butt straight up in the air.
It was too obvious what was coming next, and as her skirt flew up over her thighs and hips, settling on her back, she strained her wrists at the duct tape. All she could think was, Nonononono...
"Should've just been polite," the punk muttered. "Just costs too much to be polite, doesn't it?" She felt her panties slide down over her buttocks and hips, down over her thighs to bunch around her knees. There was thumping and shuffling behind her, the jangling of a belt buckle. "You fucking cunts just can't be polite. I try to be nice, and you're just fucking rude to me." His voice strained as he got into position, once his pants were off. Elise could not believe this was happening to her. Was there no one outside the van? Couldn't anyone hear or sense what was going on in here?
"It's gonna happen," said the punk. "You can be polite and it can be nice, or you can be a goddamned bitch and it can be rough. But it's gonna happen." Why can't he say the words? she thought. Why can't he say what he's going to do? Is he afraid of the words? Crazy thoughts, she knew, as her imagination ran loops in her head, spinning with terror.
She heard a gulping noise and liquid splashing in bottle. Liquid courage. There was a pause as he recapped the bottle, a strangely tidy gesture in the midst of all this brutality. "Well, guess what, bitch," the punk said, a little huskier. "Guess what happens now." She could hear him spit, and she heard a moist, smacking noise right behind her hips, and her heart froze solid.
And a shriek split the air. Surely, someone had to hear that through the van walls. It was an exceedingly high shriek, one long, smooth note that sustained for a surprisingly long time.
Behind her, the punk collapsed and was thrashing around, but Elise felt a tickle run up her left arm. Something jerked at her wrists; she twisted her hands and the duct tape shredded easily. Her arms collapsed limply to her sides, her circulation slowly restoring in a flood of warmth, and something fell in her hair. She shook her head reflexively and reared back slightly, and when she turned her head, there was Nick, her diminutive boyfriend, lying on the grimy van carpeting, naked and panting like a panicked squirrel.
* * *
One of Elise's coworkers had happened to be one aisle away in the parking lot when the would-be rapist screamed his head off. He flung the side door open just after Elise pulled her skirt back down, so all he saw was a sobbing Elise, cupping something to her chest, and a pale and horrified young man next to her, cupping his testicles, blood trickling between his fingers.
Nick was warm and safe, back in Elise's bra cup once more, hastily stashed there when the coworker laid hands on the punk and hauled him out of the van like a sack of so much trash. Kneeling on the punk, the coworker called 911 and an EMT pulled up with the cops, minutes later. They gave Elise a once-over and, satisfied she'd sustained no injuries, released her on her own recognizance to file a report with the police.
They accepted her story, with her coworker's corroboration, that he'd interrupted a rape attempt. They accepted that she'd freed herself during a moment of distraction, that she'd found a tiny scrap of clipped metal and lacerated the rapist's scrotum (they had no reason to check the scrap for prints). They accepted the idea that the punk had just done a shitty job of binding Elise's wrists (they had no reason to check the tape for a tiny slit in the fabric, right before the stretched-out and jagged edges of Elise's effort began). As it happened, they had a couple reports out on the kid, too: no successful assaults but two other attempted rapes. The cops chuckled to themselves over what a schmuck the kid was, as they tucked him in the back of a cruiser, a wad of gauze and sterile tape holding his balls together. They had no reason to hear his side of the story, and it wouldn't have made much sense if they'd listened, either. The punk himself had no idea what had happened.
The only people who knew were curled up in their bed: one thoroughly shaken, but recovering, lovely young woman, freshly showered and clad in cozy flannel jammies; and one tiny, tiny little man, wearing nothing but a thick layer of kisses and some tears. They lay embedded, one entirely surrounded by the other, breathing and sharing warmth until sleep came and borrowed them for the night.