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.