Sarah

 My dreams had been nightmares.  Scott was in pain,
being tortured. He was dying, he was dying and it was all my
fault!

 I awoke, and was sobbing.  I looked up, and there
was a girl, ghostly pale.  She smiled gently.  I looked for
Karen and Susi, but they weren't there.

 I was not awake.

 "Don't worry," the girl said, as I slowly turned
back to her. "He'll be okay.  I'm not taking him yet."  She
smiled, and abruptly disappeared.

 And I was dreaming still.  I was one inch tall, and
monstrous girls surrounded me.  I saw Scott, full-sized, naked
and trembling.  I tried to run to him, but hands dropped in
front and behind me, blocking every turn.  Scot screamed for me,
but I could not reach him.

 Then, one of the girls picked me up.  She licked her
lips, and dropped me into her mouth.  I tried to escape, but she
slowly, inexorably worked me towards the back to her throat.  I
screamed.  She swallowed.

 I awoke.

* * *

Scott

 Sarah is the most beautiful human ever.  That is a
higher truth, not subject to question.  Beautiful physically,
beautiful spiritually, beautiful intellectually, Sarah is
perfect, and I wouldn't trade her for a thousand other girls.

 That said, I couldn't help but notice the presence
of Sandra Bullock across the table from me.

 I have had a crush on Sandra Bullock for years, ever
since Speed came out.  Hers was the one "girlie" poster I
had.  I had always dreamed of meeting Sandra one-on-one, and
charming the pants off her.  In more ways than one, of course.

 Now, the object of my affection was one hundred
fifty yards away. I considered all of my options, and decided
that I was certainly not bad off with Sandra.  After all, if she
found me, she was a celebrity, and she had the resources to
reuinte me with Sarah safely.  And if I stayed with my present
keeper, I could end up back in (or under) Victoria's lap.  Yep,
Sandra it was.

 So I left the purse, which was resting on the coffee
table, and strode purposefully towards Sandra.

 The fact that she was in short, short shorts had
nothing to do with it.  Nothing at all.

* * *

Sandra

 I hate early-morning shoots.  I'd much rather sleep
in 'til noon, wander down to the set, make movie magic, and go
home around two in the afternoon.

 Actually, I probably could make 'em do it....Nah,
It'd be all over the Enquirer: "Lazy Sandra Sleeps In, Co-Stars
Hate Her."  Not good, especially since my agent assures me that
I need to postiton myself as the next "America's Sweetheart."

 Of course, I've told my agent what he can position
himself in, but that just gets me laughed at.

 At least Lolita was easy to work with at 4:10 in the
morning. She's finally getting a chance to work as a
full-fledged cinematographer, and if she keeps it up, she'll be
directing in a few years.  She should, too--she's good at it.
Maybe I'll demand she direct my next movie.  (I'm kidding!
Really!)

 Anyhow, it was coffee and croissant for breakfast.
I suppose I should have been eating a scraped bagel, but I
didn't care.  I just ate away, and talked about today's shoot.

* * *

Scott

 The croissant loomed like a small office park.  The
coffee was large as a water tower.  I had just gotten used to
croissants only looming like houses, and coffee being as large
as a firehouse.  Oh well, I'd made the adjustment once before,
I'd just have to do it again.

 I began scaling the uneaten side of the croissant.
I figured it was better than trying to jump into Sandra's lap.
I didn't have to wait for long before the croissant was lifted
by an enormous, lovely left hand, and brought to enormous,
beautiful lips.

 I was transfixed, watching Sandra take a bite out of
the croissant.  As she chewed, I rushed forward, not to get a
better view, but to jump.  I timed it carefully, and just as the
croissant began to lower, I leapt to the front of her t-shirt.
I grabbed hold at stomach level.

 Millimeters away was the perfect washboard stomach
of Sandra Bullock.  I debated momentarily, and began to climb
upwards.  I decided to try to get Sandra's attention.

 So I began to climb.  It wasn't that hard, actually.
 At my smaller size, threads made good handholds, and I found
myself making great progress.  I reached the base of her breasts
just as she polished off the last bit of croissant, and rose.

 We headed off together, towards wherever we were
going.

* * *

Sandra

 I studied my costume with a mix of horror and
dismay.  I don't know why I let my agent talk me into doing a
period piece.  Well, yes I do--Jane Campion is a great person to
work with, and I've always liked those types of stories--but
still, those seventeenth-century costumes!  To think anyone ever
wore them!

 But no matter what you've heard, I'm a pro.  I
sighed, whined a little, and pulled my shirt off.  Then I began
to tackle the corset.

* * *

Scott

 I wasn't about to go with the shirt.  As Sandra
pulled it off, I leapt into her hair.  Well, it wasn't the
safest place, but it beat the bejeezus out of the studio
laundry.

 It was a bit like standing in a field of
kiwi-scented barley during an 8.4-on-the-richter-scale
earthquake.  Pleasant, if you didn't fancy standing up.

 I didn't.  I simply hunkered down, grabbed an
armfull of sweet-smelling  hairs, and hung on for dear life.
Sandra was struggling with her costume (I heard her mumble a few
oaths), but finally got into whatever she was trying on.

 She looked down.  At this instant, I lost my grip,
and slid out, past her bangs, and right onto her perfect nose.
I tried to get her attention, but she instead made as if to
smack me.  (It made sense.  I was but a gnat to her, and I'm
sure she didn't even try to clobber me consciously.)

 Discretion being the better part of valor, I pushed
off, just before an index finger brushed the top of her nose.
She let out a breath through her nostrils, that blew me down and
towards her.  I landed on a soft surface--once which I
recognized immediately.

 Sandra's breast.

 I was standing on Sandra Bullock's right breast.

* * *

Sandra

 The corset was the most difficult part; the rest was
just frilly clothes, which went on easily.  Of course, I
couldn't sit down and still breathe, and to make matters worse,
the fabric itched--on my breasts, of all places!

 But I'm a pro.  At six thirty sharp, I was on the
set, and ready to present the person of Jane Macgowan, Duchess
of Ghent.

 I'm going to kill my agent.

  * * *

Scott

 I spent the morning in grim twilight, resting on
Sandra's breast, deeply conflicted as to what I should do.

 I had no desire to cheat on Sarah.  And yet--how
many men could say they touched Sandra Bullock's breasts?
[Note: No jokes here! Sandy]  And I could see much more
of her, if I wanted to.

 And part of me wanted to.  Badly.

 But that part was slowly overruled by the whole of
me that loved and honored Sarah.  By lunch break, I had finally
rid myself of any need to explore Sandra further.  I had rested
comfortably on her breast.  That was enough.

 But fate would conspire to show me more.

* * *

Sarah

 We were down at Venice Beach.  I don't know
why--it's where tourists from Apple Valley, Minnesota go, I
guess. Anyhow, Karen and I were wandering about, looking glum, I
suppose, and quietly coming to terms with our loss.

 That was when we came upon the fortune teller.

 Everyone knows that fortune tellers are all either
really old faux gypsy women, or attractive young women who do
topless readings.

 This fortune teller had no clue.  It was a guy, late
thirties, with a ragged goatee and Ray-Bans, and that gaunt look
that people who've recently lost a lot of weight have.  He was
humming, and playing solitaire with his tarot cards.  He looked
up as we passed.

 "Hi folks!  Fourtunes forecast, lucky charms,
oodelolly!"

 This stopped me.  "What?!?" I asked.

 "Well, it worked in Disney's Robin Hood,
thought I'd give it a shot.  Dave Machina, fortune teller, at
your service."

 "What makes you think we want your service?" asked
Karen, and I nodded.  But at least it was occupying my mind.
For a brief second.

 "Let's see...If I can convince you, in one minute or
less, that I know what I'm doing, will you fork over twenty
bucks for the reading?"

 "And if you don't convince us?"

 "The reading's on me.  My treat."

 I paused.  "What if we lied to you?  Bad business,
my friend."  I started to walk.

 "You've lost something very dear to you.  The most
precious thing you've ever had.  You've been searching for it,
to no avail.  You are despondent; you are losing hope.  You
dreamt about it this morning."

 He pulled his glasses down, just a bit, and smiled.
"Well, milady...tanstaafl.  You are convinced, are you not?"  I
fished in my purse, pulled out a twenty, plus something for
luck, and sat down.  "Tell me more, David."

 "Call me D.X."

* * *

Scott

 I was hoping that Sandra would undo herself for
lunch.  I wanted out of this woolen prison.  Not that I'm
complaining about the floor beneath me, but the ceiling was
sucking in the Los Angeles heat like crazy.  And I was hot
enough that I didn't care if it was Sandra Bernhardt's breast
beneath me--I wanted out!

 But I wasn't getting out.  At least Sandra went back
into her air-conditioned trailer.  But I guess she was tired,
because she laid down.  Not a problem.  Except that she was
laying down on her stomach.

 I felt it coming seconds before she hit, and had
just enough time to dive clear her breasts, and down into her
corset.

 I came to rest at the base of her sternum.  I could
see almost nothing, but I felt her body arching upwards--she was
resting on her elbows.  Which made it impossible to go up--at
least as tight as this corset was.  But it was possible to go
downwards.

 I considered a few seconds.  I could literally walk
out the bottom of Sandra's skirts.  I'd be free, and if I
hurried, I could even get back around to try to get her
attention, before lunch was over.

 If I stayed put, I'd sweat off every ounce of mass I
had--and I was less than an ounce already.

 It was an easy choice.  I slid down along her
stomach.

 Damn, Sandra had a nice stomach.

* * *

Karen

 This guy was good.  Really good.  I don't know how
he did it, but he knew everything.  He knew "the object" was
small, that I had borrowed it without asking, and that I had
lost it.

 He told us about our fight--almost blow-for-blow.

 And then he told us about the object.

 "Let's see...it was found by a tourist from a
far-off land.  Asia, I think, although it might be
Australia...definitely Far East, though...."

 At this my sister tensed up.  If Scott was overseas,
finding him would be next to impossible.

 Like it wasn't already.

 "It was lost by him (her?) as well....found by a
teenager...she did not tend it well.  It was damaged.  Badly."

 At this, my sister started to cry, just a bit.

 Well, so did I.

 "Don't fear though...her friends repaired it...and
now...now it is in the area...someone famous has posession of
it, though this person does not realize it....more I cannot say."

 "So he...um, it is okay?" I asked.

 "Yes, good as new."

 "Will we ever find it again?"

 "I sense that this object is going through
change...great change...but these changes are grounding and
defining it.  It is a powerful object, full of energy.  And it
is reaching out, searching for you.  Just as you search for it.
You will find this object.  Sooner than you think.

 "Our time is up.  I hope I have been of assistance."

 He turned back to his solitaire game.  My sister and
I looked at each other, and smiled, barely.

 Maybe there was hope, after all.

* * *

Scott

 I reached her belly button, and realized that I had
made a very foolish error.  How could I just walk under her?
She was lying on her stomach, a fact made clear by a wall of
flesh.

 Before I had a chance to reverse course, Sandra
stood up, and I found myself dropping.  In that split second I
fell to the to of her panties.  I tried to pull myself out, but
my right leg was caught inside the elastic.

 I was trapped.

 I tried in vain to free myself, but nothing would
work.  My leg felt like it was on fire, as I hung upside down.

 I couldn't get out, and if I stayed like this, I'd
lose my leg.

 So I did the only thing I could do.

 Sarah, I'm sorry.

* * *

Sandra

 I went over the script, and murmured through my
lines over lunch. Then, it was back to the treadmill.  I had to
have a big romantic scene with Ewan McGregor, then give him a
kiss, and then we closed up for the day.

 Not too tough, I thought.

 The scene went well on the first try, but there are
endless angles to be shot.  We had to do it fifteen different
ways.  Joy.

 But I got to kiss Ewan forty-odd different times.
There are worse things one could spend Thursday afternoon doing.

 It was maybe on the thirteenth take that I started
to feel it.  I don't know why.  I mean, Ewan is handsome and not
a bad kisser, but I've kissed enough handsome leading men that I
can control myself, totally.  I don't get so much as cheerful
about it.  Not when it's work.

 But I could feel a tingling, just barely at first,
then growing slowly.

 Very unprofessional.  But fun.

* * *

Scott

 I landed with a whumpf! on her clitoris, then
bounced down into the bottom of her most under of garments.

 The smell of Sandra filled my little world.  I could
feel the heat like a blowtorch on my soul.  I tried to hold
back, tried to tell myself that I wasn't going to cheat on
Sarah...when I found myself halfway up Sandra's thicket of hair,
on my way to her clitoris again.

 I touched it gingerly.  It was twice the size of the
equipment I was used to, but I figured I could manage.

 I began to stroke it.

* * *

Sandra

 We were done in twenty-three takes; Jane said my
acting was so good she could "feel the lust burning within" me.
Well, it was, but not for Ewan.  In fact, I'm not sure who it
was for--only that I held off until I reached my trailer, barred
the door, and fairly ripped my costume off, pulled my panties
down, and found myself already coming.

 I touched myself again.  This was fun.

* * *

Scott

 I was washed away right before Sandra reached for
herself.  I dropped a mile, it seemed, before landing on
Sandra's foot.

 Sandra completed her business, and then walked over
to her bed, to change back into civies.  I was most concerned
about holding on to her foot, until she started slipping her
sock on.  I was quick to grab on to the top as it came over
me--I had no desire to be crushed to death.

 Sandra laced up her tennies and walked on out of the
trailer.  I was going home with her.

* * *

Sandra

 I drove home, humming all the way.  I don't pretend
to know what set me off, and I'm not going to worry about it.  I
had other things to worry about.