"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.