"A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you're talking real money."

--Sen. Everett Dirksen (R-IL)


Sir George Anderson wanted for nothing.

Since taking Virtua Records from a tiny independent label in Manchester to one of the largest media companies in the world, Sir George had everything he had ever wanted, everything he'd ever desired.

And he had a sense of humour (he would insist on the u--bloody Americans with their bastardized English--uncivilized, to be sure) that was unparalleled in the community of the super-rich.

So when he made the acquaintence of Greg Fletcher, the too-brash heir to the Fletcher Hotel fortune, he knew he would have to have some fun.

Greg Fletcher was the son of a hotelier, and he had long ago given up trying to be anything but a professional heir. Oh, he was on the board of Interhostel, but he didn't care about the business. That was for others to worry about.

No, Fletcher had two passions. One was doing anything and evertything to get into the public eye. At the age of twenty-three, he had already appeared on a reality show, three documentaries, and Saturday Night Live. That those appearances drove many high-grade women his way was a nice side benefit.

His second passion was gambling.

Fletcher's competitive streak was overdeveloped even for a billionaire. He would wager on anything and anything. Any competition, any event. It was his greatest passion--higher than love, higher than fame, higher even than money. It was said that he had wagered a cool eight million on one hand of blackjack, lost, and anted up another ten–and won.

It was winning that drove Greg Fletcher.

So when Sir George came across the things he came across (thanks to a starlet who knew a person who knew a person, the sort of ways these things come to be found), he knew he would have to see just how far he could drive Greg, the soft, callow, playboy heir to a fortune that he seemed content to fritter away.

Sir George would be surprised.

* * *

"A billion dollars?"

"Yes, Mr. Fletcher. If you succeed in reaching the designated suite in the Bellagio within ten days, you get one billion dollars. And if you lose, I get one million. Good odds, those."

The two had crossed paths again at a gala fundraiser in New York City, the kind of event you went to if you were a billionaire committed to finding tax shelters. They were in Sir George's Manhattan apartment, if one can call a 7900 sqare foot luxury flat with eight bedrooms and a staff of fourteen an "apartment."

Fletcher frowned. It seemed too easy. He would be drugged and dropped at one of his North American hotels, without money, and he had to make it to Las Vegas within a week and a half. No stipulations, other than that he could not use anything he already owned–including his own identity–and that Sir George could try to thwart him along the way.

It wouldn't be simple, mind you. But a billion dollar wager at 1000:1 odds?

How could he pass that up?

"All right, Sir George. You have yourself a deal. We start when?"

"With your permission, within the hour." Anderson smiled. This was going to be fun.

* * *

The vest had a transponder and a camera, and some other equipment that he wasn't sure about. "Are you sure all this is necessary?"

George smiled, and said simply, "Quite sure, Mr. Fletcher. Now, as we agreed, you'll be sedated for about eight hours. You should awake tomorrow at ten in the morning, in the bed of one of your hotels in the United States. From there, you have ten days to make it to Las Vegas. You can ask for help, but you must deny your identity and your fortune--you can only admit to being in need of assistance and without cash. Do we have a deal?"

Greg smiled, envisioning the ways he could convince some girls to help him. He wasn't without looks. Sure, the money helped, but being described as a young Robert Redford didn't hurt. "Deal, Sir George. Let's make this happen."
"One last thing--you understand that I have placed some impediments on the road to your success?"

"It's in the contract, isn't it? Let's go!"

"Very well," said Sir George. "Let us begin."

* * *

If the afternoon clerk at the nondescript FletcherInn thought anything was amiss, she didn’t show it.

“You want to rent the President’s suite, and then give it away?” she asked, her voice showing very little in the way of caring what the two men wanted.

“Yes, miss. It’s a special promotion from Interhostel--we’re actually testing the promotion here. In a few months we’ll roll it out nationwide. Ad campaign, celebrity endorser–we’ve booked Keanu Reeves.”

“Whatever. So why are you paying in cash?”

The man smiled. “Don’t want the competition getting wind of this, now do we? At any rate, we just have to go in, put the gift basket in place and then we’ll be on our way–after we check the guest list, of course.”

The woman looked up at that. “Why the guest list?”

“Why, to pick the winner of course. Now let’s see....”

The man slid behind the counter and scrolled through the list of names on the terminal. Presently, he came to the lucky winners.

“Yes. Those are our winners,” he said with a big smile. “Mr. Fletcher will be quite pleased with them.”

* * *

Greg awoke fitfully, the effects of the sedative still working on his system. Disoriented, he sat up and swore under his breath.

“Man, my head must not be clear yet,” he muttered, shaking the cobwebs out of his fuzzy mind. He remembered everything, but awakening was slow.

Greg blinked, and blinked again. And slowly, his mind cleared.

He looked around what appeared to be an alien landscape. He was on a rolling plain of red and blue curlicues that seemed to run off to the edge of the world, which seemed to be about a half-mile or so distant. Behind him, the same plain rose up into good-sized hills, bracketed by a sea of beige.

Greg looked at the landscape for almost a full minute before it dawned on him that he had stumbled upon an impediment.

“Fuck!” he cried, and then nothing more.

* * *

Meanwhile, on a highway leading into town, a blue Ford Expedition lumbered down the road, headlights on, heading for a hotel at last.

* * *

It was another minute, maybe two, before the vest started speaking.

“Hello Greg,” came the clipped voice of Sir George. “I’m sorry to surprise you like this, but I thought it more enjoyable than simply telling you what was going to happen in advance.”

“What the hell is going on, George?” said Greg, or he tried to, but the vest kept speaking.

“Don’t bother replying. This is only a recording. If all has gone to plan you are about three millimeters in height. Yes, Gregory, this is the twist in our bet, the impediment you let me add. To this, let me add another: your height is not stable.

“During the next week, your height will vary between one millimeter and one decimeter. The vest will give you ten minutes’ warning before the change happens. It will not, I’m afraid, tell you what the new height will be–so you may want to get out of a confined space before you get trapped. Don’t worry, Greg. See the red button on the vest?”

Greg looked down and confirmed its existence.

“It’s a transporter. Press the button and you are whisked out of trouble–but of course, you also lose the bet.

“At any rate, you have ten days to meet me in Las Vegas. Good luck Greg. And good night.”

Greg looked around the room, despondent. He had no idea how to even get out of this room, much less get–well, he had no idea how far away Las Vegas could be, or what direction he needed to go. But he would have to chance it.
He just wished he remembered how long a decimeter was.

* * *

Four hours after their initial arrival, the gentlemen who had placed Greg successfully into the room greeted the big winners.

“We’re trying this out as a promotion,” said the bald one. “Please fill out a comment card to let us know if you’re satisfied, and what we at Fletcher can do differently.”

The woman looked at him. “You’re sure we just get the President’s suite? For free?”

“On us. How long will you be in town?”

“Just the night.”

The brown-haired man handed her $500. “Well, then, use this at your next hotel.”

The woman beamed. “It’ll be a FletcherInn, you’d better believe it!”

“That’s what we wanted to hear,” said the bald man.

The woman then turned to the others in her party and excitedly shared the news.

* * *

Greg was staring down into infinity.

Well, maybe not infinity, but a long, long way. At least a third of a mile, give or take a bit.

Shrugging, he started looking for the clearest path down. He couldn’t just hang out on the bed all day. He might as well just press the button, get it over with.

Suddenly, there was a clicking sound from a long distance away. Greg froze, and looked up. He searched the room for a door, but the door was already open.

He exhaled quickly panic rising, until he realized that this was a suite. He was in one of the bedrooms off of a common area. . Damn, my nerves are playing tricks on me. Think, Greg. Calm down.

It was about two seconds later when the girl appeared.

“LOOK AT THIS BED!” the voice thundered, and Greg fell backward.

She was enormous. Titanic. Immense. She–mere adjectives didn’t do it justice.

She was over half a mile tall. Greg looked at the hem of her pink shorts, and up at the white t-shirt with “Princess” spelled out in glittery green.

He stared at the “Princess, and that’s when he really started to panic. For the “Princess” went across the girl’s chest.

A chest that did not swell, not even a little bit.

He stared up at the face of the girl. The little girl. She couldn’t be older than eight or nine. Her smile showed off braces, her cheeks were filled with freckles the size of his hand. He struggled to see that high, but her face was plenty big enough that he still could take it in.

“Oh, please, don’t jump on the bed!” he shouted, praying as hard as he could.

“NOW MEGHAN, THIS IS YOUR DAD’S AND MY ROOM. YOU AND MOLLY HAVE THE ROOM WITH THE TWO BEDS.”

Greg exhaled, and then boggled again.

Standing in the door was an even more immense figure, this one almost two-thirds of a mile tall. She was a bit older–early thirties, perhaps, with faded jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, and a chest that most assuredly did swell.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

It was the girl’s mother.

* * *

Sarah Michaels sighed as her daughter Meghan left the room. “Thank God,” she murmured in a most un-motherly display. She loved her daughters, and her husband, but she didn’t love being with her daughters twenty-four hours a day for the past four days.

She couldn’t blame anyone. It’d been her idea to take a car trip from Des Moines to Washington. And it was her idea to swing by Lancaster. Lucky that they’d won this suite, though; she was about to burst with frustration.

Absently, she tossed her carry-on bag onto the bed, and began to unpack her stuff for the night–nightshirt, toothbrush, contact lens solution.

As she dug through the bag, a little smirk crossed her face. Yes, she thought; if any night would give her opportunity for the black lace undies, this would. Wantonly, she tossed them onto the bed too.

* * *

Greg dove as the enormous bag passed over him like a starship, lifting him slightly off the bed before it slammed down, creating an earthquake unlike anything he had ever experienced. He bounced a dozen feet up in the air before landing. He was stunned, mostly at the fact that he wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t even hurt.

He watched the woman unloading her bag, and realized immediately that his cause was hopeless. She was so–fucking–big. There was no way he could possibly make it in a world with people that big! He was no more than an insect. A small one.

He was doomed.

But as he watched her drop a house-sized contact lens container out of the bag, his mood changed. The bet let him get help, as long as he didn’t advertise who he was. Yes...yes, that was it! He just had to get the woman’s attention, tell her that he’d been shrunk against his will (true), and that the mad shrinker had told him he had to get to Las Vegas in ten days–and that he didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t (also true). She’d have to help him! She was a mom, after all. (A MILF, he thought, though he put the thought out of his mind quickly. Oh, who was he kidding–no, he didn’t.)

He started to run to the container. She’d certainly be looking at it–he could get her attention!

He didn’t see her pull out the panties until she was dropping them on top of him.

* * *

Humming softly, Sara gathered her things under one arm. “Dan, I’m going to take a quick shower. Can you handle the girls?”

“Sure, hon,” her hubby replied.

“See if you can get them to bed soon, honey. I think you could use a night in bed.”

She smiled seductively at her husband. He smiled slightly, catching the hint. “All right, rascals, time to start getting ready for bed.”

Sarah turned on the water and tossed her nightshirt and panties onto the counter. She took her contacts out quickly, and dove in. She wet down her long, brown hair and washed the day of sitting in traffic off her body. She idly let the water run over her pubic mound for a moment, feeling the warm bubbly feeling that she knew her husband would soon be amplifying. Before she got too far, though, she finished the shower and toweled off. She pulled the lacy black thong on, and paused to admire herself in the mirror. Not bad for a 33-year-old who had given birth to two girls. Not bad at all.

As she looked herself over, a different bubbly feeling started. One she’d never felt before. “Maybe that’s what a day on the road does,” she muttered, smiling. She pulled on her night shirt and returned to the bedroom.

She hoped Dan would hurry up and get the girls to bed.

* * *

Greg realized the instant the dark canopy dropped on him that he was in trouble. Within seconds, the canopy was collapsing around him. His first thought was that it was a kleenex, that the woman had thought him some sort of insect and was trying to kill him.

“No, God, No! Please! I’m a person!” he cried, and started towards the button, when suddenly the world rose up, and he was moving quickly.

There was thunderous conversation which he barely understood. Something about a shower, and the girls. Then they were off to...somewhere. He didn’t know where.

The pile of whatnot was suddenly dropped, and Greg fell through the web of black fibers into a netting. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked, wearily. He started to struggle for a moment, before giving up. He could tell he was almost dead-center in a ball of fabric. There was no way he could figure out the best way out of here.

Instead, he waited for a few minutes, debating whether or not to end this now. He was a multi-millionaire. A million out of his pocket wouldn’t bankrupt him.

Then again, he still had a shot, if he could just get this woman’s attention.

He resolved to stay put. Whatever the hell he was encased in had to have been brought in for a reason. He’d wait for her to unball him and then he’d get her attention.

It had to work.

A few minutes later, the tomb was lifted and pulled apart, and suddenly began to drop.

“Hey, look down–oh, shit!” he cried, as the fabric was moving downward at a rapid clip. He clung to it, trying not to become dislodged. Then, the fabric reached the ground, and Greg stared upwards.

He was looking up two more-than-skyscraper length legs, at the suddenly-rapidly-approaching crotch of the woman.

He didn’t even have time to register as the woman hiked the panties quickly up, pushing Greg right up against her neatly-trimmed womanhood.

Greg was trapped between the netting of the lace and the thick, relatively short hairs of her bush, his left arm leaning up against the left lip of her labia, and her scent everywhere.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, in awe of his situation. He’d been in a girl’s panties before, but never this way. Carefully, trying not to get a rise out of her, he pulled himself rightward so he would face her slit.

He didn’t know why; he just knew it seemed to make the most sense of any move he could make.

Carefully, he rubbed his tiny hands over her giant lips, and felt an almost imperceptible shudder. “Wow,” he whispered, his predicament playing second-fiddle to the incredible circumstance he found himself in.

He was touching a goddess’s vagina.

He was in heaven.

Carefully, he tried to pull himself upward. He had a destination in mind.

He wanted to see what it looked like at his size.

* * *

The girls were in bed, and Dan and Sara were back in their room, with the door closed.

And locked.

They locked lips, like they did too rarely lately, like they had done when they were first dating in college. Sarah felt his rough hands sliding down her back, working down to remove her nightshirt. Good, she thought, he’ll like what he finds underneath there.

Slowly Dan lifted the shirt above his wife’s head. He regarded his spouse, and her lacy black panties, and smiled. “Oh, honey, that’s a great present,” he said, easing her back onto the bed.

As he did, Sara bit her lip. Panties must be rubbing my clit, she thought, loving the feeling of it. Dan wanted to neck a little before he got down to business–always did, truthfully. Take your time, she thought.
* * *

It was huge, pulsing and alive. Greg was unaware of anything but its size–bigger than he was, for God’s sake! He reached out to touch it, and the world shuddered. He touched it again, and suddenly, the world dropped backwards.

He touched it again, and then started to kiss and caress it. And then to hump it. It felt amazing. He wondered if this would get the woman’s attention, and then suddenly stopped short.

The woman. He’d almost forgotten.

He wondered what had come over him. Maybe it was the pheremones. He was so small–they’d overwhelmed his system. He could barely think straight. But what if she found him down here? Surely she wouldn’t take kindly to it. She’d probably flush him down a toilet, if he was lucky.

He started to think he had to leave, and quickly, when it became apparent that he wasn’t alone anymore.

The sky above was suddenly opened up, and the hand of a man appeared, yanking the panties away.

Oh no, thought Greg, as he saw the man’s growing member above him. Oh, Hell no.

* * *

Dan was maneuvering for the coup de grace. He wouldn’t ordinarily; usually he would work on Sara’s nether regions a bit. But she had told him forcefully that she wanted him now, and what man didn’t want to take his partner now?

So he was kissing and caressing her, and she was spreading herself wide, and then, without warning, he slid himself inside of her.

* * *

Greg watched in horror as the ground started to part. “No! No! I’m down...” but he didn’t finish the sentence. The woman had spread her lips enough to take in a three-millimeter-tall man, and take him in she did. He fell into a soupy mess of vaginal fluid, and he was aghast as a train-sized cock joined him.

The next three minutes Greg was never quite sure of. He was sliding deeper and deeper into the woman as her husband pushed himself inside of her, until he came to a spot deep in the recesses of her vagina that her husband was not quite big enough to reach. This was no better, though, as a torrential downpour of come was raining down above him. Then, just as he thought he would drown in the woman’s juices, the man came, shooting gallons of thick gelatinous goo into Greg’s world. He coughed and sputtered, and kept searching for elusive air pockets. Occasionally, he’d find them, before being pulled under. Finally–blissfully–the man withdrew, and Greg found himself pulled along by suction with a river of various secretions, until he came tumbling out of the vaginal canal of the woman, landing in a foot-deep puddle on the bed.

“Never slept in the wet spot before,” he muttered, looking at the incredible vista created by the woman’s thighs leading into her still-moist womanhood.

Far above him, thunderous whispers told him the couple was heading for sleep. For his part, Greg knew he had to get out of there. He had nearly died. He had to get to safety, and contemplate his next move.

His opportunity came quicker than he’d expected. The man left, and returned with a towel. Greg screamed as the towel descended, blotting up the sticky mess. But as the towel and Greg were tossed into a corner, he realized it was for the best. He was on the floor. He could find his way into the woman’s bag, and then wait until they got to the airport. He’d find a plane to Vegas, and sneak aboard.

Indeed, though it took him almost until the morning to secure himself in the woman’s travel bag, he thought it was worth it. He’d be in Vegas within a day.

He probably would’ve been more concerned had he known the family was traveling by car.

Better he didn’t know. He slept better that night, slept so soundly that he didn’t even wake when the bag was tossed into the back of the car.

He needed the rest. The hard part was coming soon.

The Ford Expedition rolled down the highway towards Lancaster with five people in tow. All five of the people in the car would’ve been surprised by that statement, though one of them would have been for different reasons than the others.

They were heading into Lancaster for a few hours before going to Washington. While there, the family intended to take one of the Amish tours, see the sights, meet the people. Sarah wanted to buy a quilt, and with an extra $500 in her pocket, she thought it to be possible.

As they rolled down the road, the fifth passenger in the car was just waking up. Greg awoke in the outer pocket of Sarah’s carry-on, stretched and realized immediately that he was really, really hungry.

And that he needed to pee really badly.

He looked around the shadowy compartment, considering his options. After a moment, he shrugged and peed on the bag. He reasoned–correctly–that the amount of urine a three-millimeter tall man could create would be negligible.

After taking care of business, he tried to get a feel for where he was. He could hear the rumbling of road beneath him. A car. They must be heading toward the airport. He considered for a moment, before deciding he should probably get out. After all, he was hungry, and he wanted to make darn sure that he didn’t get checked into the baggage compartment–no telling where they’d end up.

Perhaps it should’ve occurred to Greg that the family he was with wasn’t heading to the airport; perhaps he should have considered that possibility. But while Greg was game and driven, he had never been forced, at any point in his life, to think of alternative possibilities.

It made him bad at chess. It made him worse at this particular challenge.

Greg reached the zipped-shut top of the pocket, but being as small as he was, it was little challenge to sneak out through the gap at the edge of the zipper. Before he could get his bearings, the car turned a corner and he was thrown from his perch, down several stories to the surface below.

He hit and bounced, and then bounced again before skidding to a stop. He cursed, and thanked whatever weird physics had created this situation that he seemed to be more durable than he used to be.
Greg took a few steps and got his bearings. He was standing on a bench seat in a car. Sitting on the other side of the seat, as tall as ever, was Meghan, the titanic eight-year-old who was listening to a walkman and staring out the window, holding a half-eaten powdered sugar donut in her lap.

Half-eaten donut! Yes! Today, Greg thought, was going to be a good day.

Carefully he approached the behemoth, trying to determine his best approach vector. After a few moments, he decided to use the seat belt as a direct highway onto the girl’s lap.

It was an easy enough climb. Slowly, Greg was discovering that his minuscule height had some advantages–chief among them, increased proportional strength. Within about three minutes, he was within a few dozen feet of the warehouse-sized pastry.

He approached slowly, like a lioness stalking her prey–or perhaps more appropriately, a ladybug stalking her prey, ever-aware that a robin might well be stalking her.

Slowly, he approached it, his eyes ever-on the prize. The girl’s hand rested atop it, sparkly blue nail polish almost dazzling him. He could smell the sweet bread. And it was almost here...almost...almost...got it!

He grabbed the bready, spongy pastry and started to pull on it, to pull of a hunk to eat.

And that’s when all Hell broke loose.

As he gripped tightly the donut, abruptly and without warning, Meghan decided that she was ready for another bite. And effortlessly, she lifted the donut and its unsuspecting passenger skyward at a rate faster than Greg could ever imagine.

He saw her lips open, saw the braces glinting like the underpinning of the horrible killing machine that was the girl’s mouth. In moments, Greg had passed between the lips and past the teeth, and the mouth shut around the donut and the teeth came down and cut it in half.

And all was black.

Greg bounced through the mouth, richocheting around without any concept or clue of where he could be. He couldn’t believe that he was going to die in the mouth of a kid.....

What was he thinking? The button! He didn’t have to die, he could just beam out of here. A million dollars to save his life was a pittance, he’d pay his whole fortune. As he bounced, he started to reach for it...

And suddenly, somehow, he found himself bouncing into a large steel beam. It hit him about the midsection and he held on to it with all his might. In the three or four seconds that had passed he suddenly realized that he had time to decide whether to press the button. She hadn’t even swallowed yet. If he found himself heading for her stomach–but he wasn’t yet. And he wasn’t going to give up until it was hopeless. He wouldn’t lose.

The girl swallowed.

A million tons of pressure came to bear as the throat took down the bits and pieces of donut. The suction pulled at Greg, but he would not be moved. Daringly, he braced himself against the molars that the archwire he clung to ran between. And a few moments later, he saw a bit of daylight as the girl exhaled.

He laughed. He wasn’t hungry anymore, despite his failure to secure food.

He was alive. And he was still in the game.

Now he just had to figure out how to get out of here.

* * *

After a few minutes, he was starting to wish for death.

The girl was humming along with whatever song she was listening to. It was probably too soft for anyone else in the car to be bothered by it, but it was deafening to him.

What’s worse, her tongue would occasionally sweep through the mouth, trying to suck up spare bits of donut that had stuck to the braces. And the tongue would occasionally insist that he must be a bit of donut.

He was starting to despair. And that was before the world suddenly started moving.

The girl had stood up, then exited the car.

Wherever they were, they were "here."

* * *

Meghan Michaels loved her parents. They were good to her, they put up with her when she whined, they bought her tickets to the Justin Timberlake concert even though she knew they hated Justin Timberlake.
But no matter how much she loved her parents, she couldn’t really feign interest in the Amish.

I mean, Meghan liked electronics. She liked hair dryers. She liked school. She couldn’t imagine wanting to disconnect from society so much that you couldn’t even have electric lights–and she most certainly didn’t care about those crazy enough to do so.

But she was a good kid. And if her mom wanted to see the Amish, she’d go along with it.

Actually, she had to admit, the quilts were pretty. And it was kinda cool how the farmhouses were all old and stuff. And...

...darn it, that was bugging her! She ran her tongue along her archwire, trying to free whatever bit of donut was lodged in it. She hated having food stuck in her braces and...

...Got it!

* * *

Greg was still getting used to this strange world, and still trying to figure out what he was going to do. Thankfully, the girl hadn’t said much–the few words she had spoken still rang in his ears.

And then the tongue came.

It slammed down on him. It wasn’t the first time. But this time it was insistent. It wasn’t taking no for an answer. Feebly, Greg tried to cling to the giant metal bar but it was no contest. A few moments later, he felt the tongue lift him up and move him to the back of the throat, and then the terrible suction came and he started sliding backwards. Blindly, he reached out and tried to grab something...anything...

His hand hit a lump of flesh and he grabbed.

* * *

Meghan swallowed, and suddenly began coughing.

"What’s wrong, hon?" her mom asked.

"Oh...nothing *cough*...just had something go down the wrong way.

The girl followed along with her parents, leaving the quilts on the table for the next group of tourists.

* * *

Greg felt the air behind him, felt himself propelled into the void. He hit something soft, and then...nothing.

* * *

It was about five minutes later that he came to. He coughed and sputtered, and looked around, happy that he finally wasn’t a part of someone’s mouth. Instead, he stood on a vast blue and white plain, with the colors laid out in a triangular pattern.

A quilt.

He looked off into the distance and saw a number of quilts on display.

Well, at least he wasn’t in a hotel. But where the Hell was he?

Well, he knew one thing: he didn’t want to stay here. Whether he was on display or in someone’s closet, he didn’t want to be on this quilt when it got moved.

So he began to walk.

It wasn’t a difficult journey, but it wasn’t simple either. He still had no real idea of where he was or what he was doing there, other than that he wasn’t at an airport.

He was beginning to suspect that this was going to be tougher than he had thought.

When the enormous figure appeared and started to lift the fabric, it was almost anticlimactic. He knew it had to happen.

* * *

Anna Yoder walked disconsolately toward the table in the corner, towards the blue-and-white quilt that she had helped to make, wondering how her life had reached this state.

Nineteen. She was to be nineteen tomorrow. And a week from this coming Sunday, she was to be married to Jacob Troyer, a thirty-four-year-old widower with two children already.

It wasn’t that Jacob was a bad man–quite the contrary. He was kind, and of gentle spirit, and he would make some woman a good husband. Indeed, he already had.

He just wasn’t the man Anna loved.

She grabbed the quilt and gathered it to her bosom, and carried it over to the English who wanted it. It would fetch $400, easily.

She wondered if she was right to want to run away with Jesse Hernandez. He would meet her tonight, half a mile down the road from her house at three in the morning. She had to decide soon whether to follow her heart or her parents’ wishes.

* * *

The quilt lurched, and Greg instinctively dropped and grabbed at it, holding fast as it rose into the air. He got just a glimpse of his captress–a flash of red and black, golden hair–and then the quilt was pulled into her chest.

He faced a split-second decision. Should he stay with the quilt or the woman?

Quilt. Definitely the quilt.

No...woman!

* * *

Anna dropped the quilt in a bag, and smiled at the young woman with the baby. She seemed happy, thought Anna. She seemed content.

Can God really want us to live like this? thought Anna, as she took the woman’s money. Can He really expect us to give up so much?

It wasn’t the blenders or televisions or computers or vacuum cleaners she mourned.

Could God really want her to give up love?

* * *

He clung to the front of the dress, a vast swath of black, and looked up at the girl. She wasn’t very old, he thought, though he gave it no more thought. She was dressed oddly, and that concerned him. But he didn’t have time to wonder. He had to get to safety.

He started to climb. The black dress was a pullover, he could see. He’d get inside that, and he’d be safe.
Carefully, he pulled himself up to the border of dress and blouse. He leapt for the red fabric and held on tight, resting on the plateau above the woman’s ample breasts.

* * *

"Activate the size change now," said George Anderson, smiling. "This is our best chance!"

"Mr. Anderson? I don’t understand."

The person on the other end of the line was perplexed. Anderson was happy to explain.

"He’s on the body of an Amish girl. Amish! There’s no chance if he gets captured by her. He’s lost. Grow him to seven or eight centimeters."

"But Mr. Anderson, you said you wanted a random...."

"I know what I said, just do it!"

"As you wish, sir."

* * *

"Warning: a size change has been initiated. Ten minute countdown to size change. Next warning at five minutes."

A feeling of terror swept over Greg. No! He knew at three millimeters he was towards the bottom end of the spectrum. (Well...he thought so. He seemed to remember a decimeter being about four inches long, but he could be wrong about that.)

He would probably grow. And given where he was hiding right now....

He started to climb.

* * *

Anna went into the side room. She had explained that she wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down for a moment. She needed to gather her thoughts–try to figure out what her next step was.

Carefully, she swung herself onto the old bed and closed her eyes. After a minute or two, she started to pray.

"Lord," she asked quietly, "I need help. Give me a sign, give me a message. Help me with the decision I must make."

* * *

Greg was unprepared for the woman to lie down. He tumbled down the shirt, landing on bare skin.

"Five minute warning. Next warning at one minute."

He looked around wildly, panicking that he had nowhere to run. He quickly made his way to the woman’s shoulder, and looked down at the drop. He’d have to chance it. It was his only chance....

Throwing caution to the wind, he leapt, landing on an enormous pillow. He turned and started running. He needed to put distance between himself and the giantess. "One minute, and counting."

He saw the edge of the pillow, but he didn’t know how to get off of it.

"Forty-five seconds."

He slid down, like it was an enormous slide.

"Thirty seconds."

He dove around the edge, and hunkered down.

"Ten, nine, eight...."

He prayed he wouldn’t be found.

"...two, one, size change initiated."

And the world shrunk.

* * *

Anna sighed. She believed in God, but she didn’t really expect him to send her a sign. Calmly, she got up and headed toward the door.

She took a few steps, when suddenly a strange feeling overtook her. A feeling that she should look back. She put it aside; she had work to do.
Then again, the Lord does work in mysterious ways....

She turned and looked back.

And gasped.

* * *

He was at least twenty times bigger than he had been. It was a blessing and a curse. The woman now stood less than two hundred feet tall, but he was easily spotted.

And she had spotted him.

He knew now that she couldn’t help him. She was Amish. They didn’t fly very often.

But he also knew not to run as she approached him, and grabbed him, and lifted him to her face.

* * *

She studied the tiny man for a good two minutes before she could speak. It was a bare whisper, "Oh, thank you Jesus." And with that, she hid Greg in a drawer.

She went about her business half-dazed, and it was not surprising when her mother suggested she still didn't seem well. She wasn't.

God had sent an angel to guide her. That the angel was tiny didn't surprise her; God must've known that she needed to talk in private.

The angel would help her. He would guide her in this decision. He had to.

When her mother suggested, a few hours later, that she go back to the house and get some rest, she happily assented. She returned to the side room and opened the drawer, and noting that the angel was sleeping, gently lifted him and carried him down the road.

* * *

Greg had been a bit surprised by the woman's reaction, and he was dismayed when she stowed him in the drawer. He tried to escape for a good fifteen minutes before realizing the effort was futile; he was just too small to climb out of the drawer. Disheartened, he curled up in a corner to rest while he tried to think of what he could do next.

He fell asleep quickly, and thus was quite surprised to awake to a swaying motion, which turned out to be the swaying of the young woman's hand which gently held him.

They were going up her stairs to her room, it appeared, and he wondered what it was she thought he was going to do for her.

When they finally arrived, she set him gently on her nightstand and kneeled by him. "Ich bin traurig, Sie zurückgehalten zu haben, aber ich könnte nicht meine Mutter informieren von Ihrem Bestehen," she said quietly, though quite loudly to him.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak German," he said, looking up at her. She was quite attractive, he thought. He wished he knew a little bit more about the Amish. He wouldn't mind spending a little time with her...

...what in blue blazes was he thinking? Even if he did seduce her, what would that achieve? Eyes on the prize, guy, he thought to himself.

The woman's eyes widened a bit. "You're English!" she almost exclaimed, before stifling the words.

"Uh...American, but yeah, I speak English."

The woman looked up at the sky, as if trying to comprehend. When she looked back at Greg, she was obviously querulous.

"I know you were sent to me from God as a sign. And perhaps I should know what you are supposed to mean, but I don't. So I need to ask you for your opinion on what I should do."

Greg looked at her like she was growing a third eye. She wants my opinion? On what?

So he asked her.

* * *

Anna frowned slightly as the angel asked her what he problem was. Surely, God would've told his servant. Wouldn't He?

Perhaps not. Perhaps I must tell him my problem. And so, carefully, Anna told the tiny cherub of her dilemma.

"And so I don't know. Do I follow my heart, or my culture? Tell me, angel. I don't know what to do," she said, on the verge of tears.

Greg looked up at her, and felt on the verge of tears himself. How could he tell this girl what to do? It wasn't for him to decide–a decision like this had to be made by her....

That was it. He just had to work her through the decision.

"Tell me," he said, "what does your heart tell you to do?"

"My heart?" asked Anna.

"Yes, your heart. What does it say you should do?"

Anna frowned, and then sighed. "It says I should go with Jesse. That he is the one I love."

"Well then," said Greg, "what should you do?"

"It's not that simple!"

"Yes it is," said Greg, suddenly gaining confidence. "Look, your family is important, and you have a different situation than most. But do you really think your family wants you to be unhappy?"

"But there is the possibility I would be banished...."

"Then ask yourself: do you want to be with people whose love is conditional? Who would cast you out for being with the wrong person? That's stupid." He stopped. It was stupid, wasn't it? And yet he thought back to the daughter of one of the maids, Julia. She had been his first love, his first...well, first in many things. Indeed, he thought, she was the most important woman in his life. At eighteen, he had planned to propose.

But of course, a Fletcher wasn't supposed to marry a maid. And his parents had let him know in no uncertain terms that his future financial independence depended on breaking it off.

So he had done it. What choice did he have?

And he looked up at Anna, and he said–he fairly shouted–"If you love him, Anna, you have to go with him. If you love him, no matter what anyone says...you have to choose him."

"This is what God wants me to do?" she asked.

Greg paused. He wasn't a religious man, but he didn't feel comfortable speaking for God. "What God wants," he said, measuring his words, "is for you to be happy. And I think you know what does that."

* * *

Anna felt lightheaded, but she knew the tiny angel was right. She loved Jesse, and he loved her. Her family would have to accept it, and if they couldn't–well, she loved them, but she had to follow her heart.

"Thank you, tiny angel. I will follow my heart. Tonight, I will meet Jesse and we'll drive to Atlantic City, and there we'll be married." She smiled, and then she frowned, just a bit.

"What's wrong, Anna?" asked the angel.

"It's...well, it's nothing God would want to help me with."

"What?"

"It's just...well...I want to be a good wife to Jesse, and I want to...please him. I know he has a great deal more...experience than I do, and I don't know if he'll want me after...."

The angel laughed. "You're worried about pleasing him in bed?"

She was surprised an angel would be so direct, but she calmed herself. "Well, yes."

"Anna, you'll do fine. You're beautiful, and you love him, and if you're willing to do a few things, he'll be just fine."

"Like...what?"

The angel looked at her, and said, simply, "Go down on him."

"What?"

"Uh...okay, this might actually take a while."

* * *

It did.

Greg started with the basics–trying to explain how to give a blow job–but it was quickly evident that Anna had no idea what he was talking about. When he told her it meant sucking her future husband's penis, she recoiled.

"I should...actually...put it in my mouth?"

"Trust me, he'll be happy about it. Not that you shouldn't expect some reciprocity, mind you. I mean, you've gotta enjoy things too, if you know what I'm saying. Wait–don't tell me–you don't know what I'm saying."

And so he had to go on to explain what cunnilingus was, and this had Anna truly baffled.

"He would...lick me...where?"

"Lord, give me strength," said Greg. "Just make sure he works on the clitoris. Believe me, you'll enjoy it."

"Where is the clitoris?"

Greg looked at her, dumbfounded. "Okay, all right," he said. "I'll show you."

He walked to the edge of the dresser and looked at the immense woman. He wondered if he was doing the right thing here, but he decided it was in the interest of a future happy marriage. "Can you hike up your skirt?"

"What?"

* * *

Anna was shocked at the angel's directness, but then considered: perhaps God had sent this angel to teach her about this. Yes, that had to be it; God wanted her to be pleasing to Jesse. It had to be.

And so she carefully hitched her skirt up until her undergarments were showing. "Okay," said the angel, "if you haven't locked your door–you might want to."

"It's locked," said Anna. Not that her parents knew there was a lock on the door, mind you.

"Okay," said the angel. "Pull down your panties, and place me between your thighs."

* * *

Greg was amazed. This was the easiest time he'd ever had talking his way into a girl's pants. He stood between two perfectly toned thighs, the moist, tight vagina ahead of him.

"God," he muttered, sotto voce, "if you don't want me to do this, stop me now."

God, for his part, stayed out of the matter.

Greg approached the vagina.

"Now," he said, somewhat disconcerted, "if you want Jesse to please you, you must have him focus on this area down here. Just having sex won't make you as happy as what I'm about to show you."

"Why not?" Anna replied.

"It's just the way women are designed. Here, let me show you. These are the labia–" he stroked her labia, which caused Anna to let out a little moan.

"Oh my, what are you...."

"Trust me, that's nothing. You want him to work on these first, work slowly. You should enjoy this, the buildup."

* * *

Anna, for her part, was only partly listening to the little angel. The tiny hands were rubbing her gently, and she felt a feeling she had only felt once when she'd been touching herself–before she'd been discovered by her father. That had been an unpleasant evening.

But this–this was different. She leaned back more, and listened as best as she could.

* * *

Greg was almost inside the vagina now, using Anna's unshaven bush to pull himself up toward his goal. "Now, what we're working towards is this–the clitoris." He reached out at the coconut-sized nub and gave it a pat.

"OH!" cried Anna involuntarily.

"Thought you'd like that. Here, let me work on it a little more," he said, stroking and patting the clit, amazed at the place he'd found himself. He was enjoying himself, to be sure, and he was more than a little aroused, but he really was enjoying helping Anna. She'd live a happier life for having this knowledge. And so he was gratified when he felt her muscles tense all around him, and felt the splash against him.

"That," he said, "is what he should do for you–and what you giving him a blow job will do for him."

Anna lay back, spent and happy. "Oh, angel, that was wonderful. Thank you for showing me."

"Anytime," said Greg, leaning back against Anna's thighs.

* * *

That night, Anna stole away into the night and met up with Jesse. She got into his car, they kissed passionately, and then drove off into the night.

They made two stops. The first was at a gas station, where Jesse bought them pop–and condoms. The second was at a hotel in suburban Philadelphia, where they checked into a room for the night. Before they did, though, Anna went to the lobby, as the angel had directed, and set him down.

"You have helped me so much. I know you are God's servant, but what can I do for you?"

"You've done it," said Greg, who was already scouting the room. He'd nap, and then come check-out time he'd be looking for someone with actual airline flight tags. He'd get to the airport tomorrow, damn it. He was going to win the bet.

Anna leaned down and kissed his entire head. "Thank you angel. For everything." With that, she turned and headed down the hallway to a very surprised and grateful fiancé.

For Greg's part, he was happy. He had enjoyed his time with Anna, and he was in a better position for tomorrow. It was only the second night. He had eight more to make it to Vegas–eight days to win.

Sir George was cursing a bit after Greg's successful escape. Of all the Amish women he could've run into, he had to run into the one who was eloping! Damn the luck.

Ah well, he thought, calming down. Greg was still tiny, still in the middle of nowhere, still a long way from Las Vegas–and indeed, who was to say that he'd be able to make it where he needed to go in Vegas?

No, Sir George still had the advantage.

He'd liked is advantage better, though, when Greg was safely ensconced on a farm with no electricity.

* * *

Greg awoke to a huge thudding. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, and looked around his unusual surroundings.

He had hidden himself under a chair, not far from the main desk in the lobby. From here, he had a good view of people making their way out. An older couple was at the desk now–no tags on their suitcases. Not flying.

He'd wait, patiently, for an airborne guest.

* * *

He was still waiting patiently a few hours later.

He'd watched Anna and Jesse leave with a twinge in his heart–he wished the best to both of them, and he hoped against hope he'd steered her right. It was too late now, he thought.

A line was forming at the counter, and he was watching carefully. Finally, he spotted what he was looking for–a long white tag with "MDT" printed on it in big, bold letters.

A flier. Perfect.

He made his way carefully across the floor, doing his best not to draw attention. He knew he was less than stealthy, but he had little choice. He crossed the ten feet quickly, and thankfully, without incident. He reached the bag as the person who drug it along reached the counter.

She was a reasonably attractive woman, clad in a smart business suit; no doubt she was on some sort of business trip. He had no time to admire her now, though. His job was to get into her bag, and get on his way.

He investigated the situation, and decided quickly that his best bet was the carry-on by her left foot. The last thing he wanted was to be checked; cargo holds were cold and he didn't want to find out what the cold would do to him. Carefully, he slipped himself inside the gap in the zipper and into the bag itself, just as the woman completed her business.

They were off quickly. He could see already where he was–in a laptop carrying case, just to the left of an enormous computer. He cringed a little–if this were a businesswoman, she'd likely be checking her email soon enough. He'd have to reassess his situation soon.

The bag was dropped suddenly, and he looked out the inch-long hole he'd climbed through. He was on the floor of a car, and had a nice view of the woman's legs. He'd have to leave his hiding place, but as the woman drove he found his gaze moving up the legs towards her short gray skirt.

He had to admit it: there were some things about his size that were kinda fun.

* * *

Harrisburg International Airport isn't the world's largest airport. But it has cheap flights, and besides, it was handy to Lancaster, where Rebecca Hammonds had spent the last three days trying to sell her company's inventory control systems to a local factory.

The trip hadn't gone particularly well.

Rebecca went through the usual rigamarole; she turned in her car, checked in for her flight, grabbed a cup of coffee and the paper, and waited for her flight to Minneapolis, where she would try to do the same thing all over again.

Hey, it was a living, right?

After a while, she walked to the wifi kiosk and started to unpack her laptop. She thought she could check her mail quick.

She lifted her computer out carefully, and set it on the table. Reaching back in for her power cord, she suddenly gasped.

* * *

Greg was growing tired of being thrown about as the titanic saleswoman wandered the airport. He was enjoying the brief respite as the bag leaned against the woman's leg.

He tried to gameplan. He was at the airport, at least. That was good. Now, he had to figure out how to get from this airport to Las Vegas.

He thought about it carefully. How best to do this?

Greg looked at the hole he had entered through. He started toward it, when the bag started to move. He had but a split-second. Should he dive out, or stay with the computer?

* * *

Rebecca looked down in disbelief. It couldn't be. She couldn't believe it.

She'd left her power cord in the hotel.

"Arrrgh!" she muttered, putting the computer away. Damn it, this trip sucked.

* * *

Greg watched Rebecca walk away to somewhere. He had another agenda. He needed to find a lift–someone going his way.

It wasn't easy. He didn't want to be found, but at his size he wasn't stealthy. He moved from chair leg to chair leg, hopscotching his way around the terminal, looking for what he was hoping to find.

It was a good hour before he finally found what he was looking for–a list of arrivals and departures. He scanned the list, hoping for a direct flight to Vegas. No luck there–but there was a flight going via Minneapolis. He checked his watch–four hours before it left.
Perfect.

Now, he just had to figure out how to get there from here.

At least Harrisburg International Airport wasn't a large airport. If he'd been in O'Hare, he'd probably still be searching a few weeks from now.

As it was, it wasn't too bad. Harrisburg International is laid out like a Mercedes symbol. He was near the end of one of the spokes, but the gate he was heading for was toward the hub. His main trick was just getting to the center.

He was looking for a traveler heading his way–someone catching a connecting flight, maybe. It was his best bet.

Carefully, he slunk along the walls, looking for someone to hitch a ride with. It wasn't easy. More than once, someone passed by that he thought showed promise, only to blow by him far faster than he could react. He was starting to despair–after all, he didn't have forever. He walked on his own for over three hours, and he made it into the hub, but it was probably too far to the gate for him to walk on his own.

It was hopeless, he thought. He'd never make it in time. Finally, though, luck interceded. Sort of.

He saw the group approaching at some distance. A mom, a dad, a couple of kids. They were heading toward the gate he wanted, and he once again began to try to intercept them.

He was beginning to despair again–after all, he'd run this drill about ten times now, all with similar failing results. But then, a miracle.

One of the kids–a girl who was about ten, he guessed–stopped to tie her shoe.

"Thank God," he said, sprinting for the enormous, stationary target.

He was almost upon the girl when he realized that at two inches tall, he wasn't invisible.

He had been approaching her from her left, and she was tying her left shoe. It shouldn't have been surprising that she noticed a two-inch tall man sprinting at full speed toward her, and it should've been even less surprising that she gasped, and grabbed him.

"STACEY, HURRY UP," came a call from up ahead.

Stacey, carrying a tiny man in her balled-up left hand, obliged.

* * *

Greg cursed, silently, as he was slowly crushed by the girl. He wanted nothing more than to roll back time to right before he'd agreed to this stupid bet and....

Well, no, not exactly. There had been some interesting moments.

This just wasn't one of them.

After a few minutes, he felt movement, and then suddenly, he was dropped onto an enormous, hard plain with the occasional vast canyon.

They were in a public restroom, and he'd been dropped on the counter.

"HEY," said the enormous girl, looking down on him. "MY NAME'S STACEY. WHAT'S YOURS?"

"Uh...Mike," he said, using the name he'd planned on using all along.

"HI, MIKE! I CAN'T BELIEVE I FOUND YOU! YOU'RE SO CUTE! EMMA IS JUST GONNA FLIP WHEN WE GET BACK FROM LAS VEGAS!"

"Las Vegas?" asked Greg, his heart leaping a bit.

"YEAH, MY MOM'S GOING THERE TO MARRY HER STUPID BOYFRIEND. I WASN'T REALLY EXCITED ABOUT GOING, BUT THEN I FOUND YOU! I CAN'T WAIT TO PLAY WITH YOU, I'LL TAKE REALLY GOOD CARE OF YOU, I PROMISE."

Greg didn't hear much of what the girl said. Vegas! Sure, he'd have to figure out an escape route, as the last thing he wanted was to be the possession of a tween. But he'd take the free ride.

"Okay, Stacey," he said, forcing a smile.

"NOW, YOU'LL HAVE TO RIDE IN MY PURSE, 'K?"

"Okay," he said, as the girl shuffled him into a house-sized handbag. He didn't want to meet Emma–but he appreciated Stacey's hospitality. For now.

* * *

The plane leveled off, and Greg was actually feeling good. Oh, sure, Stacey wasn't exactly careful with the purse, and he'd had to dodge lip gloss and glittery nail polish and some hair things far more than he would've liked. But Stacey had long since stowed the purse under her seat; he could see the back of her tennies through a gap in the zipper. He was planning to sit back and enjoy the ride; soon enough, he'd be in Las Vegas, and he was sure that in the midst of the wedding, he'd be able to sneak away.

Suddenly, a voice broke his reverie. "Warning: a size change has been initiated. Ten minute countdown to size change. Next warning at five minutes."

He wondered if he'd grow larger or smaller–or if it really mattered much.

He would find out soon that it would matter a great deal.

* * *

Stacey finished her meal, excitedly thinking about the tiny man she had found. He was a living doll, a sort of cross between a gerbil and a Barbie, and she was busy thinking about all the fun they'd have.

After a few minutes, she told her mom she needed to go to the restroom. She grabbed her purse from under the seat–she just had to see her little Mikey again.

Carefully as a nine-year-old could, she carried the purse to the restroom, locked the door, and opened the purse.

But there was no sign of her little man. Mike was gone!

She rifled through the bag, and at one point dumped the contents out on the minuscule counter, trying to find him, but to no avail. He had disappeared.

"Oh, Mike, where are you?" she asked, gathering her stuff back up and putting it into the bag.

She left the restroom sadder than she had been at the start of the trip. She just hoped Mike was happy.

* * *

Mike had calmly waited out the miniaturization process, confident that whatever his size, he needed only to stay in this purse to make it to Las Vegas. Bigger? Well, he'd be safer with whatever this girl planned to do with him. Smaller? It would make it easier to steal away.

So he was calm when the countdown reached one, and as he felt the world expand he was initially unconcerned.

Until he saw just how much it had expanded.

The small gap in the zipper was now a mammoth cave. Indeed, each of the teeth on the zipper were taller than he. He was tiny–tinier than he had been the first day.

He was one millimeter tall.

He panicked initially, before calming. It was okay, it was okay, he just needed to stay with the purse, and he'd be fine. He just had to make it to Vegas and lay low until he grew–and he had to grow. He was as small as he could be.

He looked back out at the immense shoes of Stacey. And suddenly, the shoes shifted and a hand reached back to grab the purse.

No, he thought, as the purse was suddenly grasped and pulled out, and he tumbled down into the bottom.

The sticks of lip gloss that had been a problem before now loomed like oil tankers. He fell into the lining of the purse, and ducked and covered, praying he wouldn't take a direct hit.

When the sky suddenly opened, and Stacey's even-more-immense visage filled the sky, he tried weakly to wave to her. But it was immediately and abundantly clear that she didn't see him. Instead, baseball-diamond-sided hands reached in, tossing the items in the bag about wantonly, and then, just when he started to hope that she might give up, the bag was suddenly inverted, and he was falling, until he suddenly impacted on a hard metallic surface below. He bounced, and fell again, and this time he blacked out.

A few minutes later, he came to, just in time to see Stacey leaving the bathroom, sniffling a bit. He felt bad, and not just because his head hurt. But he had no time to wallow in self-pity. He was one millimeter tall, alone in an airplane restroom, and he couldn't worry about whether he would get to Las Vegas in one piece; he had to figure out a way to survive.

He looked around, and realized his situation was far worse than he'd thought. He was standing on a huge plastic semicircle. One direction led to a cliff-like dropoff to a metal surface. The other led to a far greater drop-off, into an enormous lake.

He was on the toilet seat.

This wasn't good.

* * *

He moved forward on the seat for no good reason; he wanted to try to position himself so that the next person to sit down wouldn't crush him. It was a vain hope, he knew, but it was all he had to work with.

Suddenly, the door to the restroom opened, and an almost two-mile-tall beauty entered the room. She was wearing a colorful sundress, and her breasts obscured her face. More than that Greg couldn't see, as she suddenly turned, and hiked her skirt up a bit, showing off basic white cotton panties that were suddenly sliding down her legs.

My executioner has a nice ass, thought Greg as he prepared to push the button that would lose him the bet.

But as she descended, Greg realized that he was going to be okay. The girl sat down with a wide stance, and while it was too close for comfort, she landed on the seat with her left thigh to the outside of Greg's position.

He was thrown to the ground by the impact, and landed facing her enormous slit, through which gallons of piss was currently flowing. "Jesus," said Greg, as he watched the display; it was a bit off-putting, but he knew he needed to use this woman if he wanted to live.

As she began to slow her output, Greg turned and ran to the enormous thigh. She was smooth-shaven, which was too bad, but even the tiny amount of stubble she had was enough for him to grip. Her hand quickly reached in with toilet paper, which dabbed gently at her womanhood. Then, she started to rise.

Greg held on as long as he could, but he knew what he had to do. As the panties slid up the woman's thighs, he dove into the crotch. Before long, the panties reached the woman's well-trimmed but still-forest-like bush.

There was the stale smell of urine mixed with the vibrant scent of woman; Greg began feeling like he had on the first day, that indescribable compulsion to find her center, to please her. It wasn't going to be easy to fight it.

After a while, he decided he didn't care to fight it, and he went in search of her clitoris. Of course, he was very small, so it would take him some time.

So intent was he on his exploration that he didn't know the woman exited in Minneapolis. I suppose it's better he didn't.

* * *

Heather got off the plane in Minneapolis and started toward baggage claim; she was back for the wedding of a friend from college, and while she was looking forward to the ceremony she wasn't sure she was excited to be here; she was nearing thirty, and while she was pretty and smart, she hadn't managed to find anyone to settle down with.

She'd had fun looking. But she was growing tired of looking.

She rented her car, and sighed. Nothing like heading back to a wedding to make her a bit horny. She'd been feeling twinges through the last hour of the trip, and there was another one; she was glad that Andrea wasn't getting in until tomorrow morning. She would have the room to herself tonight. She hadn't packed any equipment, so she'd just have to use her middle finger. Wouldn't be the first time, she thought, glumly.

* * *

Greg had felt the woman leave the plane, and now felt what seemed to be a car. He knew immediately that ths couldn't be Vegas–the flight hadn't lasted long enough. No, he had to be somewhere else.

Damn it! He had to shrink right when he did. He couldn't wait four hours. Four hours later, and he's tucked away safely in Stacey's room.

Oh well, he thought, looking at the enormous clit that he'd been playing with for the past hour or two. It could be worse.

The clitoris was growing erect, but he realized that he just wasn't man enough to push this woman all the way. Not that he wasn't having fun; indeed, he had found that shrinking to a millimeter tall is a powerful aphrodisiac.

After a while, he felt the car stop, and the woman began walking again. He braced himself against the hood, hanging on as the hips of the woman swung with each step. There was a pause, and movement, pause, and movement, pause, and movement. Finally, he heard some rustling, and he thought they might have reached their destinatin.

* * *

Heather put the suitcase in the corner and stripped off her dress; she then lay down on the bed, and reached her hand inside her panties. Feeling for her clit, she touched it gently. It responded instantly, like she'd been prepping for hours. She gave out an involuntary moan as she pressed softly against it.

She pushed again on her clit, knowing from years of practice just how much to give herself. She felt more aroused than usual, like some unseen helper was rubbing away himself. Hmmm...yes...a tiny orgasm fairy had inhabited her panties, and was doing his best to pleasure her...that was a nice thought....

* * *

Greg was surprised when a well-manicured finger suddenly invaded his territory. He was quickly overcome by the power of the woman's finger as she slowly brought herself to crescendo.

Had she pressed down hard, it's likely Greg would've been hurt. But he realized quickly that she was pressing lightly, using an almost feather-touch, and he could tell immediately that it was working. He tried to get down near the base of the clit while the woman's fingers worked the top. Once he felt safer, he began to work again.

It wasn't too much later when the hips, which had been rising and falling in rhythm, suddenly began bouncing spasmodically, causing Greg to lose his grip, and fall forward. He bounced off the labia, and slid down her slit until a small rush of liquid carried him into the woman's panties.

He coughed a little, and smiled. Even if he lost, this experience had been worth it.

* * *

Heather smiled. That was the best orgasm she'd had since she'd dumped Jeremy. Not bad at all.

She looked down at her damp panties. Well, no use keeping these on, she thought, peeling them away. She dropped them onto the floor by the travel bag. Then, she headed off to the bathroom for a long soak in the tub.

While she bathed, the little man made his way out of the panties and into the corner. He would have to figure out where to get food–he hadn't eaten anything since a midnight snack the day before. But he'd have time. He could tell he was in a hotel almost immediately, and that gave him hope. They'd have to go back to the airport, and this time, he'd make it all the way to Las Vegas.

He just had to last a couple days.

Greg awoke to the sound of an earth-shattering muffled electronic "wheet!"

He groaned. His head was pounding. And he was a bit sore, and....

"Wheet!"

...what in God's name was that sound?

And why was it so hot here?

Suddenly, he heard an enormous clatter, and then a voice, husky and indistinguishable in its magnitude, answered.

Oh, right: he was shrunk.

And that was his hostess' wake-up call.

Greg suddenly remembered everything. He had been washed out of this woman's vagina around seven the night before. She'd taken a bath, and then walked naked back into the room, where she proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor while watching TV.

He had watched her intently. It isn't often that a mountain-sized woman sits down half a mile from you completely in the nude and simply presents herself to you.

She was a beauty, that's for sure. She was toned, and tanned, and her brown hair was trimmed to hang neatly at her shoulders. Her breasts–small mountains all by themselves–were not huge, but they were firm and showed no signs of sagging.

She wasn't a kid, but she wasn't old by any stretch of the imagination. And she radiated a calmness that was catching.

He wanted to get to know her better.

Of course, right now, she was approximately eighteen hundred times as tall as he was–so large that he may as well be a bedbug or a paramecium. Besides, he had a date in Las Vegas.

After a couple hours, the woman unpacked, and Greg had scurried to the baseboard. She wasn't fastidious by any stretch of the imagination; she'd simply chucked clothes here and there as was required to empty the suitcase, and then, much to Greg's dismay, she'd pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

But then, much to Greg's delight, she'd ordered room service.

It was so hard, watching as she sat at the desk in the room, eating a hamburger the size of a stadium, munching french fries the size of trains. And it was so damn far away! He despaired that he'd ever get so much as a morsel.

But then, she had dropped the french fry, and she hadn't even noticed.

She had been watching TV, and she was laughing at whatever was on. The fry slipped from her grip and landed a few inches from her left foot.

Greg swallowed hard. Did he dare?

His stomach told him he'd better.

He had already crossed through the jungle of carpet to one of the table legs; it was only a quarter-mile to the fallen fry. He had to chance it.

Besides, it wasn't like she was paying attention.

He reached the fry and immediately grabbed handfuls of potato–it was oddly spongy at this scale, but no matter. He ate ravenously, knowing that it was the first food he'd had since Anna had fed him the night before.

If the foot next to him concerned him, he didn't seem to show it.

But suddenly, the woman's foot shifted. To her, it probably wasn't even noticeable. But to Greg, it was all-encompassing. He was thrown into the air, and found himself flying up, and then over the enormous foot. He landed on the woman's second toe, right on the cuticle.

He was too stunned to move. He tried to right himself, but the woman would flex her toes every few seconds, causing him to fall again. He grabbed her cuticle, and held on for dear life.

Then, some time later, there was a different motion. The woman pushed her chair back and she was moving.

Each step was like an insane roller coaster. He had been in a giantess' nether regions, and in her mouth, and in her hand. Nothing prepared him for the motion of her feet. He felt like he'd left his stomach back with the french fry, and it was only providence or God's sick sense of humor that kept him from vomiting.

A few moments later (how could it be anything else? They were in a hotel room after all) the woman sat on the bed, and swung her feet–and Greg–up on to the covers. Greg sighed as they came to rest. Well, he'd just wait for a few seconds, and....

Suddenly, he saw it. It appeared in a flash, one nail over from him.

She was painting her nails.

"Noooo!" he cried as the red lacquer enamel covered him. He flipped over, brushing at his face to keep it clear of nail polish. He succeeded, but at a cost. As the polish quickly hardened, he found himself unable to reach the red button that he desperately wanted to push.

He was stuck to this beauty's left foot. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Nothing had changed by the following morning. Greg was able to shift about just enough to keep his limbs from locking up, but he wasn't going anywhere. He figured he'd either have to wait for normal wear and tear to cause the polish to chip, or wait to grow–he hoped that wouldn't hurt–or wait for the woman to use nail polish remover.

At least he'd gotten some sleep. And as the woman rose and kicked off her panties, and he stared up her impossibly long legs at her womanhood, he reflected that he'd have a nice view.

* * *

Heather yawned and stretched, peeled off her sweats and looked for something to wear during the day. She had the rehearsal dinner tonight, and she'd brought a nice dress to wear, but she didn't want to wear it around town.

She looked in her closet and pulled out a simple denim skirt and a black t-shirt–nothing too fancy, but comfortable. Then, she mulled over shoes.

Tennis shoes would be most comfortable. But she just did her nails the night before–she didn't want to wreck them. She could wear sandals. Or maybe she should just take the polish off and redo the nails tonight.

She mulled and mulled before coming to a decision.

* * *

Greg stared up the woman's leg to her knee; her leg bent there, and aside from a wisp of skirt just peeking over the edge of the car seat, that was where his vision ended.

He was glad she'd chosen sandals; he had dreamt of being cocooned in socks and hiking boots–if he had the room, he'd have shuddered at the thought. Instead, he was relatively comfortable. And from time to time, he got a nice view of the woman's panties, and he was able to think back to the night before and smile.

They arrived wherever they were going, and got out, and went somewhere, and waited. Being part of a toe isn't the most exciting of existences.

After some time, another woman appeared. She was wearing keds, and her legs looked nice. That was pretty much all Greg knew.

The toe doesn't give you a very good vantage point, either.

* * *

Andrea and Heather went way back–all the way to high school, when they'd been on the same soccer team. They had stayed friends all through college, and though Heather now lived in Harrisburg and Andrea lived in Shreveport, they kept in touch, and saw each other as much as they could.

They also had a common bond, at least they did now: Andrea had divorced a year ago, after she caught her husband cheating on her with the nineteen-year-old daughter of a neighbor. And neither she nor Heather were dating now.

The two hugged hello, and set about all the usual pleasantries two people go through when they reunite after a long absence. They picked up Andrea's luggage off the baggage carousel and headed to Heather's car.

"So, rehearsal's at six. What do you want to do 'til then?" asked Heather, driving out of the airport.

"The day's young. Want to hit the Mall of America?"

Heather grinned. "Thought you'd never ask.

* * *

After several hours of walking around the mall, Greg was pretty desperate for anything–anything–to change.

Yes, his view up the woman's skirt was nice, but each step was like Armageddon, and in between there were the ceaseless earthquakes caused by her shifting her foot this way, then that way, then this way, then that.

He was praying for anything to change and help him.

Some prayers get answered, sometimes.

In a conversation far removed from him, two goddesses discussed the alternatives.

"You know what we should do?" said Andrea, over a shared bowl of ice cream.

"What's that?" asked Heather.

"We should go get manicures and pedicures for tonight."

Heather frowned, a little. "You know, I've never done that."

"Really? You've gotta. It's great! It's so relaxing, and we've got plenty of time."

Heather thought. They did have some time to kill before the wedding. Sure, she'd done her nails yesterday, but why not have the job done professionally.

"All right, you're on. We need to get going, though."

The two headed off, and Greg groaned, unaware that his prayer had been answered.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Heather was glad her friend had talked her into this.

She was relaxing as the nail tech removed the polish from her toenails. The first part of the process, before she started working on her hands.

As for Greg, he was utterly surprised to see the sandals removed, and the feet propped up. And he was delighted when a middle-aged Asian woman began to use chemicals to peel away the thick sludge he was trapped in.
Of course, it was still a rude awakening when the woman suddenly brought a wad of cotton filled with astringent solution down on the toe. He coughed and gagged as he was swept up by the cotton, and then unceremoniously dumped on a tray.

It took him a few minutes to get his bearings as he stumbled away from the cotton. He was among all sorts of polishes and cleaners. This wasn't good.

He didn't want to end up stuck in a manicurist's shop. He looked around, and saw his ride was on the left.

He'd have to time this well. He waited until the nail tech grabbed another wad of cotton, and he rode with it.

But he hadn't grabbed on tight enough. As the cotton flew toward the woman, he lost his grip, and went flying off–he didn't know where.

He landed hard, and collapsed.

* * *

The first thing Greg was aware of was a gentle oscillation, like a gentle earthquake.

He blinked his eyes as he came to, trying to figure out where he was.

He was lying in some sort of hammock. No, that wasn't it, exactly. It was more like a pocket, which led upward, and on either side there were two enormous flesh-colored walls that were undulating slowly and–

Oh, Lord, he knew exactly where he was.

He was sitting in a bra, between two modest breasts.

He tried in vain to look up, but the shirt he was under was buttoned almost to the collar. He wondered how he'd ended up here–one in a million shot, he figured.

He wondered whose breasts he was between.

* * *

Heather and Andrea reached their hotel room about an hour before they had to leave.

"We'd better get dressed," Heather said, looking through her closet.

"Oh, it won't take me long," noted Andrea, flopping onto the bed. She lay on her stomach, and flipped on the television. "You go ahead and freshen up, I'll get into the bathroom once you're done."

"Okay," said Heather, grabbing her dress for the evening. "Just let me know when you're ready."

* * *

The motion was altogether unexpected.

All of a sudden, the world dropped, and the titflesh that surrounded Greg was compacted and deformed. He fell to one wall of the pocket and slid forward into the underside of this woman's cleavage.

Greg groaned. It wasn't that his surroundings were unpleasant–quite the contrary. But he wasn't gaining any ground here. He just wanted to put down roots, figure out what was going on, and move forward, on to Las Vegas.

As if on cue, the vest beeped out its warning of an imminent size change.

Finally, he thought, and breathed easier.

* * *

Andrea rose after a few minutes and headed into the bathroom; she'd never been a clothes horse–she was the type of woman who just put anything on and, somehow, ended up looking radiant regardless.

Most women she knew hated her for it, though of course they'd never tell her that.

As for Andrea, she peeled her blouse off and undid her jeans, and with barely a care she dropped the dress over her head, straightening and adjusting herself until she was happy with the look. She ran a comb quickly through her hair, and smiled at her visage in spite of herself. She looked pretty good, she had to admit. She just wished there was someone around who would notice.

She walked out of the room, just as a voice too soft for her to hear counted "three...two...one...."

* * *

Greg prepared for the inevitable. He knew that he had to grow now, and he knew he would welcome it. The breasts that surrounded him didn't belong to a kid, and he hoped that whomever laid claim to them was a decent person. The odds favored it, he thought.

So he simply hung on as the countdown continued, as dresses were whipped on and off around him. He hung on, knowing that he just had to wait a few more minutes and he'd be bigger than one millimeter tall.

And the countdown completed, and he did indeed grow.

In fact, he was five times bigger than he'd been before.

But half a centimeter tall is still only 1/5 inch tall. And while the swaying of the breasts were no longer world-shattering, the swaying remained earth-shaking, and Greg remained too small to make easy contact.

He'd have to do it the hard way.

* * *

The church was near the hotel; Heather and Andrea took a cab, the two of them exchanging small talk, never dreaming that there was a tiny stowaway in Andrea's bra.

They arrived at the church with some time to spare. The wedding party was gathering slowly. Andrea walked to the front of the church to join the bridesmaids, while Heather sat down in back to wait out the inevitable period of walking people up and down and back again. When Andrea arrived up front, she immediately saw someone she knew.

"Julia!" she cried, "I can't believe that's you!"

The young raven-haired woman turned and smiled. "Hi, Andrea," she said, the picture of a high-school beauty queen.

"So, have you decided where you're going to school yet?"

Julia chuckled. Andrea had been friends with her older sister Jenny throughout college; she was sort of a bonus older sister. "St. Ben's, I think. I just wish my parents had put me in school a year earlier. I'm eighteen, I should be in college already!"

"Aw, it's okay. Trust me, Jules–getting out of college is less exciting than you think."

Julia smiled ruefully, "Yeah, but getting into college is pretty much all I'm waiting for at this point."

"No boyfriend?"

"Oh, no, I've got Mark, and he's nice–he's going to UMD next fall–but...."

"...You'd like to see what other guys are out there?"

Julia dimpled, and Andrea could see clearly that her "foster sister" was going to have no problems finding a few other guys to experiment with.

* * *

It was the usual rehearsal, the usual plans. Jenny and Patrick were dizzy and giddy and quietly terrified. The people with significant others looked at their partner thinking of their marriage to be, or their marriage that was.

And the people without significant others grieved the marriages that never were, or worse, the marriages that were.

But they all shuffled off to the nearby hotel where they had brought in catered rubber chicken, and where Patrick would give a toast that only left out two of Jenny's aunts, and everyone would pretend not to notice until later, and for everyone, everything was normal, with the exception of one person.

Greg was trying to hang on to the hair as he climbed, but it was hard work. The blonde tresses of Andrea were whipping and swaying as she turned to talk to the people at the table, and it was all he could do not to be thrown off.

He had actually been proud of his path out of the bra–he'd climbed over the cup and the brastrap so as not to be caught in flagrante delicto by his hostess. He'd made it to her hair, and he'd foolishly thought that it would be a short, easy climb to her hair.

Too late, he realized that this was not going to work.

But he kept on, struggling to climb, telling himself that he could make it, inch by inch, strand by strand.

Until Andrea, unconsciously, ran a hand through her hair and let it fall back, swinging violently.

He was propelled like a rocket.

It actually was a short arc–a neat parabola that sent him off and to Andrea's right. He saw an enormous pair of legs, crossed left-over-right, and he saw the enormous foot that he was heading toward as it approached. He balled himself up so as not to injure himself....

He hit a netting, and then, suddenly, felt himself falling through, and then he hit something soft, and hard, and somewhat smelly. And then he faded out.

* * *

He awoke to a familiar earthquake.

Someone was walking, and he was on a foot. He wasn't sure who was walking, or on whose foot he resided, but they were going somewhere together.

He hoped it was someplace quiet.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes, and realized to his surprise that he was laying on the webbing between a woman's second and third toes, staring up through a lattice netting that could only be nylons. The leg ascended into a black pleated skirt far above him, and he could see little else.

He wondered where he was, and where they were going.

* * *

Julia walked into the school not long after the game ended, looking for Mark. It wasn't too long before she saw him–a bland, blonde-haired senior with blue eyes and a decent physique. Of course, Julia would tell people she wasn't into looks, and she wasn't–at least, she wouldn't be when she got married.

But she was a smart girl. And she knew that High School romances are doomed to fail.

And she could have almost any guy she wanted.

And so she'd been happy to make the star wide receiver think that he had asked her out.

They'd been dating about two months now, and Julia knew something about tonight that Mark didn't.

Her parents weren't going to be home.

She walked up to her boyfriend, radiant in her black skirt and matching black-and-gold blouse–her school colors, not that she cared–and gave him a quick kiss.

Mark, for his part, was feeling very good about himself. He'd caught two touchdown passes, and now his very hot girlfriend had come back from her sister's rehearsal dinner to invite him over to her house–where her parents wouldn't be.

Mark was not a smart man, but he knew what lust was.

* * *

Greg was a little disgruntled when he saw the boyfriend show up, and more disgruntled when they got into the car together. But he was all the more dismayed when they got back to wherever they were going.

The woman sat down on a couch, and pulled her foot–and Greg–underneath her while she talked to her swain. Greg climbed around to get a good view of a perfect ass, which was shifting and swaying subtly.

He tried to hear the conversation. It wasn't easy, but he finally started picking out a few lines.

"MARK, YOU KNOW WHAT WEDDINGS DO TO WOMEN? IT'S LIKE WHAT PORN DOES TO MEN."

"God, she's throwing herself at him," said Greg, knowing full well he couldn't be heard. "Not that she's lying–and not that he's going to turn her down."

Greg grimaced as he heard the sounds of kissing from above. Then, he shuddered as those kisses began to elicit soft moans.

And the legs kicked out.

The just-legal couple was hot and heavy on the way to what was going to be their first time with each other

And Greg was going along for the ride.

* * *

A few hours later, Greg finally made it to the bedroom, just in time to see Mark getting up and getting dressed.

It had been frustrating for Greg, because not too far into their lovemaking, Julia had removed her pantyhose and Greg and carelessly tossed them into the corner, just before she and Mark retired to her bedroom for some serious action.

Greg had cursed. Much as he had been wanting someplace to rest–damn it, this was just getting good!

But alas, he hid by the door jamb as Mark headed off to his home. Julia, for her part, was sitting on her bed, a naked goddess–at least that was something.

As she laid back down, Greg decided to do the same. He knew that he needed to stay with this girl–she was his best hope of getting back to that wedding, and people he knew were going back to the airport.

As interesting as he found this girl, he still had a bet to win.

The alarm clock blared, and Greg mumbled a minced oath.

The better part of a week he'd been shrunk, and he still wasn't getting used to the noise. Alarm clocks that would've been merely annoying became cacophonous mountains of decibels. Speech drifted by like distant thunder–or occasionally, like the roar of a 747.

The world of the small was a loud world.

Greg was almost glad for the sound of a building falling–Julia was hitting the snooze alarm.

That would give him a chance to hitch a ride.

Greg's reasoning was sound. He knew that the women he'd been hitching a ride with yesterday were the ones he'd been with at the airport, and he knew that they were certain to go back to the airport at some point. That meant that they were a sure ticket to a chance at a trip to Vegas. If he didn't get back to them, well...he knew that there was always a chance, but the odds got considerably longer.

But he'd been paying attention to what was going on around him; there was a wedding today, and that meant that his late hostesses would be leaving soon, probably tomorrow. And he knew that if this girl was at the reception last night, she'd be at the wedding today.

So he had to go with her; it was his best chance.

How to go with her, well...that was a more difficult problem to solve.

Eventually, she got up and headed into the hallway, radiant in a simple t-shirt. He surveyed the room, trying to find the best place to be when she was getting ready. After a while, he finally hit upon it: the bed.

He began to climb up the blankets which were still cockeyed from last night's events. He may have been small, but he'd learned that he was strong and durable at this size, and he found himself ascending rapidly toward the mesa above.

He paused for a minute at the top. His stomach was rumbling. Well, of course–it had been a good thirty-six hours since he'd eaten. He'd need to get some food into him at some point. He couldn't keep up like this forever.

By the time the girl finally returned, Greg had thrown himself onto the disheveled sheets. This was still not easy terrain; each ripple in the fabric was a steep hill. But he felt good about where he was, and not just because he had a great view of a girl fresh out of the shower, wearing only a towel–that she quickly dropped.

Greg had seen his share of beautiful women–he was a billionaire playboy. He pretty much had his pick. But this girl was phenomenally attractive even by his standards.

For a few moments, he considered just staying here with her. But the thought quickly passed.

Instead, his heart leapt as she began to aimlessly toss clothes onto the bed–with a blouse landing just feet from him.

Finally, something was going right.

Just a few moments, and he'd reached his destination. It wasn't even that bad when she donned the smock. A few minutes later he rode out into the world in comfort, in the left breast pocket on the girl's blouse. He lay back and felt the steady undulation of her breasts and let himself be rocked to sleep.

* * *

He awoke to the unmistakable scent of cinnamon rolls.

He yawned, and stretched, and checked his watch. 10:50 in the morning. He wondered what was going on as he listened to the sound of women talking and laughing.

His stomach was urging him to leave the safety of the pocket and go find food. His brain tried to advance some arguments about security and prudence, and other body parts chimed in about the nice feel of the girl's tit through her shirt. But his stomach was demanding enough that everyone else agreed to at least take a look at the situation.

Carefully, he climbed up to the top of the pocket and peered out. They were in a beauty salon, it appeared. He could see a couple older women sporting fancy hairdos, and another woman seated in a chair–and then, to his surprise, he saw the woman whose bra he had hitched a ride in the night before.

"All right!" he shouted. He'd been right about hitching a ride–he'd found the woman sooner than he'd expected. Now, how to get to...hey, cinnamon rolls!

He could see them, a box of eight with five of them missing, and one of them sitting right by it about half-gone. The roll itself was the size of a small office building–plenty for him to share.

He just had to slide down this girl's arm, which was resting on the table.

Well, his former hostess was around. He had time to eat.

He moved quickly, and scampered down the arm, almost to her elbow before she moved abruptly, causing him to lose his grip and fall.

The world spun dizzily as he saw the roll approaching. Cringing, he hit the icing and slid for a bit before he halted.

He was surprised to still be alive, but he was. Indeed, he saw after a moment that he'd slid into a gap in the roll between one layer and the next. He was in a tiny, cinnamon-filled crevasse, with just a bit of light streaming in from above.

And suddenly, the world lurched as the roll was lifted.

* * *

"So you're gonna finish that roll after all, Jen?"

The bride smiled as she used a fork to break a piece of roll off. "I probably better. I don't think I'll get any more food until the reception."

"I thought you said you couldn't eat any more?" asked Julia, teasing her big sister.

"Well...it's pretty darn good. Besides, I've gotta do something before I get my hair done."

She cut off another piece of roll and ate it. It wasn't easy staying calm on her wedding day. But she was doing as well as a bride could.

* * *

The walls of the crevasse deformed and shifted as the unseen consumer sliced pieces off of the doughy mountain. And Greg knew that he had to get out while the getting was good.

But first, as he ascended, he pulled handfuls of dough from the walls and ate them quickly. He had to get something into his system. And then he had to escape.

Suddenly, the wall split in two, and a massive white fence bisected his piece. He tumbled a bit as it was lifted into the air, and just got a quick view of a pretty young woman. She was maybe fifteen pounds–a few tons from his perspective–overweight, but those pounds were distributed perfectly to make her deliciously alluring. He caught a glimpse of brown hair and a gorgeous smile that was rapidly approaching.

He swallowed hard, and as the lips approached, he jumped.

* * *

If Jenny felt the tiny man hit her breasts she didn't mention it. Instead, she polished off her roll and sat down in the chair to have her hair done for the wedding.

She looked good. She looked ready.

And she was really, really looking forward to the honeymoon.

* * *

The next few hours were tough on Greg.

A bride wears a number of different layers of garments. Jenny was no exception. He was currently on the underside of her left breast, held firmly in place by a push-up corset that was accentuating her cleavage and minimizing her stomach and pushing a half-inch-tall man into her flesh with reckless abandon.

He had made some progress back toward her nipple, which was his present goal. He hoped that there would be a little more space there, at least more room to breathe.

At least he wasn't hungry anymore.

And he did feel happy for the girl as he listened to her heart quicken as what sounded like vows drifted into his world.

He just wished she hadn't felt the need to show of her bust quite so much.

Her breasts were quite big enough.

* * *

Jenny sat at the head table, radiant as she'd ever been. She was totally happy with the day so far, and the only downside had been that the corset occasionally tickled her left breast. She'd whispered that to Pat, and her husband–her Husband!–had whispered back, "No fair. I thought I'd be the first one to tickle my wife's breasts!" She'd blushed, just a bit. And reminded herself to let Pat fondle her to his heart's content later.

After a while, she couldn't take it anymore, and went to the bathroom to adjust the corset. Julia helped her unfasten it and refasten it, and that seemed to cure the problem. She went back into the reception hall deliriously in love.

Greg, for his part, had been surprised when the area he was in bent over and opened up. He fell out the front of the bride's dress and skidded through a maze of beads and satin, before he hit a slide that deposited him directly on the floor of a women's bathroom.

He was too dazed to chase after the bride and her maid of honor as they left the room. He knew he had to get back out into the hall, and quickly. He had a couple of women to track down.

Suddenly, he heard the electronic tone chirp. "Great," he muttered, as the countdown began.

* * *

It was a nice wedding, but Andrea had to admit it made her a bit sad.

It hadn't been that long ago that she'd been a blushing bride, happy and in love–or so she thought.

But her husband had turned out to be a lout, and in his infidelity had driven her to a point where she didn't really trust men, or like them much.

Of course, it was lonely. But it was his legacy.

She entered the bathroom to freshen up, and truth be told, just to get away from the crowd for a moment. She needed a break, to shed a few silent tears before she went back out into the crowd.

She was checking her mascara when she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. It was tiny–maybe a mouse. A different woman might have been frightened out of her wits, but Andrea was made of strong stuff. She looked down.

She saw the figure cowering by the trash can. She approached slowly, so as not to spook the creature. It was maybe four inches in length, and as she drew closer she could see that it wasn't a mouse.

It took her a few seconds for it to register just what it was she was seeing. A different person might have fainted.

But Andrea was made of strong stuff.

She didn't speak to the creature. She simply swept him up and placed him in her purse.

She just had to show him to Heather.

* * *

Greg was frightened about what lay ahead. He was titanic compared with a few minutes ago–he'd grown twenty-fold. But he was still tiny compared to the woman who held him captive. And while he was somewhat glad to have found his way to his goal, he was not sure he could trust this woman to help him.

Still, he had little choice. The purse was shut solidly, and even if he could escape, he didn't know where he'd escape to. He just had to sit tight as the music assaulted his chamber, and he considered his options.

After a little while, they were back on the march. And then, they stopped, and suddenly, the purse was opened.

* * *

"I found him on the floor of the women's restroom," said Andrea, as she removed the tiny man from her bag.

"Oh my God," said Heather, quietly.

She looked at the tiny man in her friend's hand and studied him closely. He was actually pretty good looking for a Liliputian.

"Do you understand us?" she asked the tiny creature.

"yes, i do," he said, softly and at the edge of her hearing.

"What should we do with him?" asked Heather.

"if you could take me to...." he was answering, but Andrea was paying him no mind.

"I don't know. We could get rich. We could sell him to the government or something."

Greg blanched. He prepared himself to hit the recall button.

"No, Andrea, that wouldn't be right." Heather looked down at the tiny man. "Think of what they'd do to him."

"He's a man, Heather, who cares?"

"Bitter much?"

Andrea looked at her friend, and sighed. "No, you're right. I don't want him to get killed. But...I mean, he's a tiny man. There has to be some reason I found him. Stuff like this just doesn't happen without a reason."

Heather smiled, and said, "There's my girl. Now, I bet he's hungry, and I am too–the rubber chicken was terrible. Let's order some room service and finish off the Jack Daniels I bought, and we'll talk this thing through.

* * *

Greg found he liked both women a lot, especially after they started to get a bit tipsy.

Oh, they weren't listening much to him, but he didn't mind. Watching two progressively-more-drunk twenty-seven-year-olds talking and laughing about their college exploits was as entertaining as Hell. And besides, they'd fed him, and they'd agreed to take him to the airport–at least, it seemed like they had.

They were both laying on their stomachs on the bed, with Greg between them. He couldn't help but notice the curves on both of them, and the beauty of the two women.

"Y'know Heath'r, the worst part about getting divorced is that you don't have anyone to cuddle with."

Heather chuckled. "I know what you mean. I wouldn't mind getting a little action. You know, meaningless sex and stuff."

Suddenly, a look came over her face. "Dre, do you remember that night after the Chi O party?"

Andrea looked shocked. "Is that 'never speaking of this again?'"

"I was the one who said to. Besides, we were both pretty drunk."

Andrea sat back, a bit more sober now. "I'm still sorry about that, Heather. I mean, I don't know what I was trying to do."

"You were trying to get me into bed. And it almost worked."

The room was silent. Greg was trying to blend into the woodwork now. He didn't want to interrupt this conversation–indeed, he was able to stay quiet effectively by thinking of these two after the Chi O party. And thinking about it some more.

After an interminable time, Andrea said, "I thought you said you just would never do it with a girl."

"I wouldn't–but if there'd been a guy there, I would've jumped your bones in a second. I just–well, technically, I wouldn't have been–I mean...."

"I know what you mean, Heather."

"But I don't want you to think I didn't consider it, Dre. I just wasn't ready."

There was a little silence, before Andrea said something that surprised both her present roommates.

"But I was thinking...you know, there's a guy here right now."

Andrea boggled, just a bit, and then, slowly, a wary smile began to cross her face. "Are you saying...."

"Well, if we play with him a bit, then technically...."

Andrea smiled wider. "Yeah, technically it's just a menage a trois. Right?"

"So, should we ask the little guy?"

"Oh," said Andrea, reaching for Greg, "I don't think he's going to take any convincing."

Andrea was absolutely right about that.

She picked him up in her right hand as her friend stood up. Andrea approached Heather, and in an instant their lips locked together in the continuation of a kiss that had been prematurely broken eight years before. Greg tried to call out a warning as Andrea's hand caressed Heather's backside, then thought better of it.

He was, at that moment, willing to help these women out however he could.

There was a sudden rush of activity as the two were fumbling to disrobe each other. "Here, I just need to..." said Andrea, as she tucked Greg into the valley of her friend's decolletage. Then she pressed herself against Heather and unzipped her, pulling the dress off and onto the floor.

And then they were leaning back onto the bed, kissing all the more passionately now. They tumbled and rolled as they felt each other up and good. Greg felt like he might burst a few times, but it would be an exceedingly pleasant way to go.

"Now, would you like me to make you feel good?" purred Andrea into Heather's ear.

"Yes...but I think you should get something out of the deal too," said Andrea, as she lifted the little man from her breasts and placed him somewhere else.

Greg was startled to see himself placed inside Andrea's panties, but he knew immediately what he was being asked to do. Her pussy was already sopping wet from her actions with her friend. It was easy for him to slide up against it, and rub it softly. After a few moments, he shrugged, and decided to see what it would be like inside. And so as Andrea licked her friend, Greg pushed himself inside her, causing his hostess to gasp with pleasure.

"The little man is making himself useful," she said as she began to lick her friend's pussy. Andrea knew herself well enough to know he couldn't make her come without working on her clit. That was fine with her; he felt very good in there, but not so good that he'd effect her work here. She'd only been with another woman one other time, and they hadn't gotten this far.

On the other hand, she owned one of these things, and she had a pretty good idea of how to make them work.

After a few minutes, Heather realized that Andrea knew what she was doing too. To her great delight.

As for Greg, it was blazing hot, and it was like a boiling showerhead was pouring down on him. But he couldn't stop himself from sliding back and forth, simulating a smallish penis for his largeish hostess. He hoped he was doing well by her, but she hadn't stopped him yet, so he kept it up.

After a while, Heather had finished and Andrea lay back, moaning with pleasure. "Would–you mind–" she asked her friend.

"What?"

"Helping me–finish?"

Heather smiled weakly. "Oh, I owe you Andrea. Do you want me to use my tongue? Or my finger? I'm pretty good with the finger."

"Finger–should do."

Andrea slid her panties down, and her friend chuckled as she saw the tiny pair of feet sticking out between her lips. Heather slowly, lightly touched Andrea's clit, and just moments later, Andrea was coming.

The walls suddenly squeezed Greg on all sides. He felt for a moment like he would burst, and then came the spasmodic earthquake of Andrea's orgasm. He, himself had climaxed a while before, but he was happy he could be of help.

As she relaxed, he felt himself slide out of the gap and into the area between Andrea's thighs. He looked up to see two enormous women smiling down on him. "Little man," gasped Andrea, "thank you."

After a while, the three of them started up again, this time, with him in Heather's pussy.

* * *

The three lovers drifted off to sleep, all of them happy. Heather had enjoyed things enough for her to whisper to her friend, "You know, Dre? I don't care what I am. I love you." Andrea had taken those words to heart, because deep down, despite the loss of her ex-husband and the hurt it had caused, she'd always known what she was.

And Greg? He was smiling because after the second time, the women had actually been tired out and spent enough to listen to him. And when he told them he wanted to get to Las Vegas, they'd been more than helpful.

"Jenny and Pat are going there for their honeymoon! We're driving them to the airport tomorrow at 2!" said Heather. "The least we can do is send you with them."

"They'll never take a little man along–not even as the great marital aid he'd be."

"It's okay," Heather had said. "We'll stow him in their stuff. We'll put him with the gift we're sneaking along anyhow."

And so Greg smiled because tomorrow, he would be in Las Vegas. The plan was foolproof.

What could go wrong?

Greg awoke before the two slumbering beauties on either side of him. He sighed, and stretched, and grinned broadly. Last night had been a lot of fun. He reflected that he wasn't scared of losing anymore. A million dollars for this experience? Hell, it was worth everything he owned, and more. If he lost, he thought he might offer to double his payout just to keep the suit.

And if he won....well, he'd damn well be keeping the suit, thank you very much.

He wondered if there were any others out there who'd experienced this, or even dreamed of experiencing this. Not the shrinking–Sir George didn't crap this technology out of his ample ass.

But the sex–my God, it was better than anything he'd enjoyed before–and he'd enjoyed quite a bit. He wondered if anyone else out there had considered how good it could be?

If not, he had some work cut out for himself, and if so–well, those were his peeps. He swore to himself that he'd make sure others got to experience this. It was too good for him to hoard.

That thought gave him pause; he wasn't used to selfless thoughts. Up until this trip, he'd primarily been interested in leveraging his fortune to purchase high-grade snatch. But now...well, he'd seen some women in situations that weren't exactly perfect, and he'd helped them in some small way.

And it felt good. He liked helping. He liked that he'd been able to help Anna through her crisis of faith. He liked that his mere presence had helped these two connect.

He was enjoying doing for others. And he realized that he could enjoy this all much more if he won the billion dollars.

What could he do with that? He didn't know yet. But if he won this, he was going to do something for others.

And if he lost? He lost. He wasn't afraid.

And that made him a tremendously dangerous competitor.

* * *

It was Heather who stirred first, a slow rumble and stretch, followed by bleary, hungover eyes opening and looking across the bed at her naked friend.

There was the slightest of frowns as Heather replayed the events of the night before, followed by a growing, expansive grin. She wasn't quite ready to give up on boys altogether–there was something to be said for the rougher sex–but Andrea, and more to the point, Andrea's tongue had been quite persuasive.

And something told Heather that her friend wouldn't need a lot of cajoling to find a guy to hang with–just to spice things up.

Here I am, thinking like we're married or something, thought Heather as she smiled at her newfound lover. Then again, she realized, why would that be so weird? They'd shared over a decade together. They were close friends. Perhaps they could get married, someday.

Would that really be so odd?

She leaned over and stroked her friend's hair, causing the little man on the bed to jump backwards.

"Oops," she whispered, smiling at him. "Sorry 'bout that. I kinda forgot you were here."

"no worries," he said to her. "i was just getting up."

"What's that?" murmured Andrea.

"It's time to get up, beautiful," said Heather, quietly.

At that, Andrea's eyes popped open, as the previous night's events came to her in a rush.

She looked at her friend and lover, and smiled a somewhat sheepish grin. "Beautiful?"

And with that, she leaned over and kissed her friend, hard.

Moments later, she realized that she and Heather were sort of smooshing their diminutive friend. Rescuing him from his position between four breasts (a position he did not desire rescue from), the three of them regarded each other for a few minutes.

And then–with a quick break to relieve themselves–they were back at it for a good hour or so.

* * *

It was a little bit after one when they finally started saying their goodbyes.

The plan was foolproof; Heather had long-ago agreed to take Pat and Jenny to the airport with them. Their planes were leaving reasonably close to each other, and it just made sense. And from the moment that she had agreed to drive the newlyweds, she had been scheming with Andrea on what to sneak into their luggage.

The box was small enough to be slipped into the carry-on unnoticed, but full of all sorts of assorted condoms, dental dams, lubricants, and other sundry marital aids.

And, in a last-minute addition, a four-inch-tall man.

"I know it's not perfect," Heather said, "but hopefully you can sneak out once the flight's airborne. I just don't want them seeing you–I mean, they just got married. They're going to be into themselves."

"That's the truth," said Andrea. "Let me tell you something, Mike," she said, using Greg's assumed name, "when Heather and I have our honeymoon, you are invited along."

"That a proposal?" asked Heather, with a sly smile?"

"Dear, when I propose to you I'm pulling out all the stops. But Mike, seriously, when you get unshrunk, please look us up. We like you. And whatever size you are, you're always welcome for a weekend getaway."

Greg swallowed. Hard. "don't worry," he said, "i'm not gonna pass up that opportunity."

The girls both kissed him sweetly, then placed him in the box. Before they closed it, they kissed each other sweetly, just to give him a little going-away present.

Greg was sorry to see the box lid close.

* * *

The drop went like clockwork. Heather and Andrea picked up Pat and Jenny and took them straight to the terminal; Andrea slipped the box into Jenny's carry-on while Heather distracted the two of them.

They didn't announce their couplehood quite yet; Heather and Andrea were very much in love, but they were also very much aware that this was going to raise the eyebrows of more than a few people. Their true friends would be surprised, but then would accept it; they weren't worried.

But it was going to be a shock, and they didn't want the happy couple to be distracted by thoughts of another happy couple.

But as Andrea was set to board her flight to Louisiana, she and Heather damn well did share a long and lingering goodbye kiss. And if anyone had a problem with it, the two women could've given a damn.

Soon enough, Andrea would move to Harrisburg; soon after, they'd both move out to Boston.

Their wedding would be one to remember.

But that is another story for another time.

* * *

Greg whiled away his time in the box, aware only of the occasional movement of the bag by the titanic bride. He had decided to wait and make his escape after take-off; once the bag was stowed under a seat or in the storage bin, he'd have a chance to navigate without fear of being jostled and having a bottle of Astroglide pin him down.

It wasn't a bad decision. Pat and Jenny were far to into talking about the upcoming trip to search their carry-ons for wildcat gifts. No, when Jenny parked the bag in the bin above her seat, Greg's patience had become a terrific decision.

As the plane taxied down the runway, Greg began to survey his surroundings. And he had a good idea of where he should go. He started to move, just in time for his vest to signal another size change.

And then, the plane took off, and Greg found himself pinned by G-forces, almost right up to the point when the vest counted down 3...2...1....

And the plane leveled just as he shrunk to four millimeters in height.

Greg surveyed the now cavernous box, with tennis-court sized condom wrappers and house-sized bottles of lube, and he sighed morosely.

After a few minutes of looking, he decided his best bet was to stay put. After all, even if he climbed out of the box, he'd be lost in an enormous carry-on with no easy way out. No, best just to wait for the lovebirds to get to the hotel. He'd escape there.

He hoped.

* * *

It was hours later before Pat and Jenny landed at McCarran International Airport. Happily, they grabbed their stuff and headed for the limousines. It was extravagant, sure–but you only get married once.

They checked in at the Luxor with plenty of time to go out and get dinner, or go to a show, or play craps, or whatever else it was they wanted to do.

They intended to do none of that. Not tonight.

Instead, they went up to their room and, after throwing their bags to the side, proceeded to make out passionately for a little while.

After about ten minutes, Jenny whispered, "Let's get unpacked. I have something to show you."

She'd stowed away a rather devastating bra-and-pantie set in her carry-on; she hoped she could pull it off to Pat's liking. And besides, she'd seen Andrea slip something into her bag. If she knew the two of 'em, it had some good things for she and Pat to play with.

So she grabbed her carry-on and headed to the bathroom; five minutes later she came out, dressed in just enough red lace to cover a Barbie doll–positioned perfectly to accentuate her voluptuous beauty--and carrying a small red box.

"It looks like Andrea and Heather decided to give us another present. There's some fun stuff in there; you want to play with it?"

"As long as I get to play with those, too."

Jenny looked down at her breasts. "Oh, Patrick. I think they would like to play. They like you a whole bunch."

* * *

Greg, for his part, was well aware that he was in big trouble.

When the box lid opened, he hid himself under a huge bag of something. He looked out at the bride, and he hoped that she just happened to have noticed it; he hoped she'd be in an evening gown.

Instead, she was in a wisp of a bra, and he knew instantly that his little cubbyhole was going to be ground zero shortly.

He wasn't surprised when the couple dumped the box out onto the bed between them; it seemed about his luck. He found himself sitting on top of a packet of something, but thankfully obscured by a condom which provided a slight overhang. He hoped that the couple would find something else to entertain them.

He listened as the two discussed the relative merits of "warming" lubricant versus flavored condoms, when he heard the woman rumble something about candy.

"STRAWBERRY FLAVORED, THAT COULD BE INTERESTING...OH, AND THERE'S BUBBLEGUM!"

Greg heard the woman talking, and thought little of it, until he happened to glance down at the bubblegum pink package he sat on.

"Oh, shit," he said, as the condom was knocked away and the woman lifted the package carelessly. Greg clung helplessly as she tucked the packet and him into her hand and pulled the top off.

"I THINK WE SHOULD START WITH THIS, PAT. TRUST ME, YOU'LL ENJOY IT."

* * *

Pat loved his new wife, and she was certainly fun to play with. The only complaint he had–and it was a minor one–was that she didn't like to give him oral sex.

Oh, she'd do it. But she didn't like it much.

He was okay with that; she was pretty good with her hands.

But when she suggested he remove his pants so she could try out the bubblegum flavored candy on him, well–he knew his wife was a nut for bubblegum.

He was fairly well aroused by the time she removed his underwear.

She licked him up and down, preparing his tumescent cock to have the candied sugar stick to it.

And then, when she was satisfied it was ready, she poured the package over his genitals, and began to give him the best blowjob he'd ever had.

* * *

Greg thought he was going to be okay for a moment.

The bag had been picked up by the giant woman, but she simply held it–and him–in her hand. For a moment, Greg actually thought he was going to avoid disaster.

But then, abruptly, she turned her hand over and began to pour several tons of sugar down into infinity.

Her hand was slightly moist from perspiration–just enough for Greg to be unable to stay secured. Instead, he slid out of her hand and quickly joined the rivulet heading toward a towering phallus below.

"Oh, shiiii...." he cried, as he fell into a thicket of wiry hair.

He was just north of a guy's junk.

Disgusting.

He looked up at the towering cock, and saw that the sugar covered it, glistening pink in the dim light. Suddenly, the woman descended upon it and ravenously devoured it.

Greg held fast; he watched in awe as the woman's mouth slipped over and back on the cock. He was quite certain that she was giving him a lot of pleasure. She kept at it, and Greg was starting to feel somewhat safe.

That was a mistake. After a while, the woman pulled off of the cock and began licking it. She started on the other side, worked her way to the tip, then back down....

He didn't think she'd come all the way down, but her tongue slid into the hair and caught Greg dead-center, and suddenly, he was being lifted up by a massive muscle, and then, suddenly, they were careening down toward the cock.

They hit with powerful force, and he was quickly dislodged. He did anything he could to grab onto something solid, which was all relative given the heat and the suction and the pulsating tower and her saliva and teeth...but he found himself holding on to something, and then, suddenly, that something began to quiver and pulse and then, suddenly, it began to pump regularly and quickly, and a towering fountain of white burst forth.

He was just south of it, but he quickly found himself covered in the goo. He panicked, and fumbled for the recall button....

...only to find himself suddenly spit into a massive kleenex.

He gasped for breath as the kleenex was wantonly tossed into a waste basket along with its tiny passenger. This was not at all the way he expected to enter Las Vegas.

* * *

It took him the better part of the night to make it out.

If the can had been metal, he never would've stood a chance. But it was plastic, and better yet, had a can liner; the going was slow, but he was patient.

Besides, halfway through, he grew to three inches tall. That made it a snap to get out.

Now, it was nearing morning. The giant couple hadn't left the room all night, and he was trying to figure out the best way to escape. After a while, he gave up. He was here. He had four days to make it to his destination. And he was going to win this thing.

He tucked himself into a corner of the room and dozed off. The billion was as good as his.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the early morning light, Sir George was in a foul mood.

The bloke had made it to Vegas. He had to hand it to him; he never thought the young punk would make it this far.

But Sir George had a few plans up his sleeve. He'd put them into effect soon. He was not going to lose a billion dollars.

He played to win.

Greg awoke to a rhythmic, creaking sound. He rose, and stretched, and watched as the titanic couple made love first thing in the morning. He had to admit, it was an awe-inspiring sight—though he didn’t mind that he was no longer ground zero for the action.

After a while, Jenny headed to the bathroom to shower, and Greg began his plan to get out of the room. Once he was out in the open, it should be a snap to get to the Bellagio.

At least, that’s what he thought.

* * *

When Jenny and Pat were finally dressed and ready to go—she in an immodest skirt, he in shorts and a t-shirt—Greg was ready. She’d be bringing her purse along, he reasoned, and while three inches tall was hardly stealthy, he wouldn’t be hanging out there very long.

So he’d snuck inside the purse that she lifted up, and he hung tight as it swung to and fro.

He kept his eyes open, and waited for just the right moment. After all, it wouldn’t do to be found out by the woman. After all, if Heather and Andrea hadn’t thought it wise to alert Jenny to his presence, who was he to argue? He just needed to get out when the getting was good.

That moment came sooner than he thought. The couple had headed to the buffet immediately, and Jenny had stowed her purse under the table while they ate. Taking care to make sure that he was unseen, Greg snuck out into a sea of humanity.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sir George was putting Plan B into effect.

“Yes,” he said into the telephone, as the maid removed the morning’s breakfast, “that’s precisely what I want you to do.”

“You realize,” came the voice from the other end of the line, “that you’re cheating this guy?”

“Cheating? My dear Ms. Stevens, you of all people should know that power is all about having the ability to impose one’s will. Or have you forgotten the favor I did you and your father?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, until the woman said, simply, “Very well. I’ll be looking for him.”

“Yes,” said Sir George, “you will.”

* * *

Victoria Stevens scanned the Bellagio like a falcon stalking its prey. It was an apt analogy; Stevens was a predator, and a fantastic one. Her time in the hospital had mellowed her anger, but it had not dulled her skill. Sir George had known her father, and he had use for a blonde bombshell with a killer’s instinct. He had rescued her from the mental institution that she’d landed in after killing that man.

Sir George had not believed her, of course; nobody did. Well, Kathy and Liz had known—the bitches had betrayed her. But Sir George had finally found out what Tori had always known. The story was real.

Of course, since leaving the hospital, Tori had eliminated three other people, one the old-fashioned way, two via murder. Sir George played rough.

She didn’t know what he wanted her to do with Greg, but she knew that she wasn’t to let him get to his destination. If he made it into the Bellagio, she was to detain him, certainly. And if she was too rough detaining him….

Sir George had never complained before. Her tactics got results. She smiled as she imagined the feeling of squashing the tiny man like a bug.

This was going to be the best assignment yet.

* * *

Greg dodged and weaved, taking pains not to be seen.

At three inches tall, he was not invisible, not by a long shot. His size would make the trek easier, but paradoxically, more difficult.
His plan was sound: he was going to try to hitch rides with tourists wandering the strip. He knew he was on the south end of the strip right now, meaning most everyone leaving would be going north. He would try to find someone to carry him with.

He had no illusion that it would go smoothly, but he had almost four days for this to work. All he had to do was keep switching and moving until his host hit the Bellagio. Once there, he’d worry about getting to the suite.

For now, though, he was trying to sneak along a bank of slot machines without being seen by the people feeding them quarters.

After a while, he saw a good option, a couple of fortysomething women feeding the machines, with shopping bags at their feet. Sure, it was possible they were staying at the Luxor and were going up to their room soon. Greg thought it more likely that they were down on the south end of the strip for the moment and would be heading north soon.

And the bags would be a perfect place for him to hide.

So he pulled himself inside amidst a T-shirt and some jewelry and waited for them to leave. Twenty minutes later, they were on their way.

* * *

Nine hours later, Greg was getting tired.

He was on his eighth shopping bag at this point, and he was beginning to despair that he might never see the Bellagio. Indeed, for all the switching and back-and-forth, he had made it only as far as the MGM Grand.

He was currently inside a bag carried by a fourteen-year-old boy, which contained some random crap from New York New York. Greg was looking for an exit strategy, as the family had only gone over there for dinner; the lad was going to be looking for the elevators soon, and Greg did not want to be found by a teenaged boy.

He got his wish as the boy stepped on the elevators and set his bag down; Greg quickly clambered out of the bag and moved into the corner, hoping to become as invisible as possible. It worked well enough. The boy left on his floor, and Greg silently cursed at being out in the open.

For a moment, he wondered if he would’ve been better off chancing the boy’s room, but he didn’t have long to debate, as the bell dinged and a group of four women, dressed to the nines, boarded the elevator in a sea of perfume and skin.

Greg gaped at the women, who appeared to be in their mid-twenties; they were all stunning, and all clearly in full “What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas” mode.

For his part, though, he had to act quickly. The women had been too intent on talking to notice the three inch tall man in the corner, but he knew that could change at any moment. If they noticed him—or worse, if the next group of God-knows-who noticed him—well, he had to take a chance.

When the immense Asian woman bent down to adjust her nylon for a moment, setting her purse down, Greg prepared to make a move. He ran toward the open purse at full speed, and was just about there when he heard a sudden screech.

He looked up, and saw the woman looking back at him, wild-eyed. “OH MY GOD, BRITT—DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?”

The blonde in front of her looked back, and followed her gaze to Greg’s position. “WHAT THE—HOLY CRAP!”

Greg sighed disconsolately as the other two women turned to look at him. He was done moving for the night—he was caught, and good.

* * *

The girls had reversed course the second they saw the little man; Amy had grabbed him and placed him in her purse, and when they hit the lobby, Brittany had pushed the button for the sixteenth floor. They could go to dinner anytime. This kind of thing happened once in a lifetime.

The four women—they still thought of themselves as girls, even if they were all out on their own now—had decided Vegas would be a great place to get together, given that they were spread pretty much to the four corners of the country now. They’d grown up together in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but who wants to go to a reunion in South Dakota? No, Vegas sounded like a great place to get together. Besides, given Angie’s recent engagement, they could have a pre-bachelorette party. At least, that was the reason they gave for the trip.

They got to the room, and Debbie fumbled with the key card, before she finally got the room open. They quickly made their way to Brittany’s bed, and Amy spilled the contents of her purse, including the little man, out onto the bed.

Greg, for his part, shook his head and looked up at the assembled throng. It was intimidating, to say the least; four immense, beautiful women staring down at him. He felt self-conscious, to be sure. And not just because he had no idea what these women were planning.

After a moment, he decided to take the bull by the horns.

“hi,” he offered. “uh…my name’s mike.”

The Asian woman who had grabbed him introduced herself, as did her blonde bombshell of a friend. An attractive brunette offered her name as Debbie, and a raven-haired beauty introduced herself as Angie.

After a few moments, Amy spoke.

“So, little man, what are we going to do with you?”

“well, you see, i really need to get to the bellagio. the guy who shrank me is there, and….”

“Oh, I didn’t ask what you wanted us to do with you,” purred Amy.

“Amy! What are you doing?” asked Angie, reproachfully.

“Well,” said Amy, lips curling into a smile, “it seems to me that a little man might make us all rich and famous. After all, who’s ever heard of a man the size of a finger?”

“That’s true,” said Brittany. “We could go to the press tomorrow, and make millions.”

“Better yet, we go to the government. Can you imagine what they’d do for us?” Debbie smiled an evil smile. “This is a great idea.”

“I don’t know,” said Angie. “I mean, he is a person….”

“Oh, come on, Angie. He’s three inches tall. He’s not a person!” Amy smiled at Greg sorrowfully. “At least, not a big enough person that he’d be missed.”

Greg thought about arguing, but knew it was pointless; instead, he was scanning the room for the possibility of escape. There was one thing that was certain: he probably should’ve stayed with the boy.

After a moment, Amy spoke up again.

“Well, we have all night to consider what to do with our friend, but you know, something occurs to me. Every one of us, except for Angie, is single, right?”

The group mumbled an affirmative.

“Well, I know I wasn’t averse to hooking up on the trip. It’s been a few months for me, and I have some…itches, you know? And three inches may be on the small side, but….”

“Oh my God! You wouldn’t!”

“I think we all should get a turn with him. Even Angie. After all, this is her last fling, and Rob couldn’t object to her playing with a guy smaller than his cock, right?”

The group dissolved in laughter. Except, Greg noticed, for Angie. She simply asked, “Who goes first?”

“I do, it’s my idea,” said Amy. “Then Angie—bride-to-be’s due. Britt and Debbie, you can flip for it.”

“Okay,” said Angie. “But we’re going to go to the other room to…do this, right?”

“Right,” said Amy. “I’ll head there right now.”

* * *

Greg was nervous as he’d been the entire week. He wasn’t worried about the duty he would soon have to fulfill—after all, he was practiced enough that he assumed he’d acquit himself well. And he wasn’t even that frightened of Amy, not yet; she’d keep him alive for the others’ sake.

But he knew his days were numbered with this group. If he didn’t escape soon, he’d lose the bet and maybe more.

For the moment, he decided he’d try to do the best job possible in pleasing these giantesses. If they enjoyed his ministrations, perhaps they’d think twice before driving off to Area 51.

The door closed behind them, and Amy lifted him to eye level. She was intimidating as hell, a 120-foot-tall beauty with cold black eyes, which fixated on Greg.

“Well, my little pet, I’m not going to dawdle. You’d best do a good job on me. If you do, I might just suggest to the group that you stay with us as our sex toy. We could ship you back and forth via UPS. I think that’s probably your best chance at a decent life, don’t you?”

With that, Greg was unceremoniously dropped below and enormous skirt, and watched as a hand pulled nylons down and spread gigantic lips….

And he was plunged into a moist cavern which suddenly shut on him. He wasn’t unprepared for the moment, but he was disoriented by the quickness of it all. It was all he could do to keep from panicking, but he knew he had to calm down, and figure out a way to please the titanic threat.

So he quickly and carefully began to slide himself back and forth through the meaty pillows of her vagina, noting with satisfaction that the lubrication was increasing at a reasonable rate. He did this for several minutes, while feeling the cavern dip and sway and occasionally spasm.

After a while, he felt the barest hint of air behind him; the woman was fingering herself. Greg chose not to be insulted, and instead threw himself into the job more, pushing and pulling himself as best he could, thrusting and pushing and pulling and pushing and thrusting again, as the cave dipped and swayed and bucked and writhed….

And then, it came at him all at once, the proof of her ardor, washing into his face and taking the air from his lungs. He gasped for air, and then, blessedly, he was removed.

“Well,” said a weakly smiling Amy. “You did well enough that I think Angie will enjoy you. Now let’s get you cleaned off.”

* * *

Angie entered the room ten minutes later, two minutes after Amy had called her. “I think you’ll enjoy him,” Amy told her as she left. Angie would call Brittany next, they agreed.

Angie walked into the room, and saw Greg sitting on the bed. He stood, as if to say, “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Greg watched as Angie approached…and then suddenly, she dropped to one knee, and looked him straight in the eye.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she whispered.

Greg’s jaw dropped. “you mean—“

“First of all, I’d never cheat on Rob. And no matter what Amy says, you’re a real human being, no matter how small. Second, I’m not going to let them take you to the government or the media or anyone.”

“i don’t suppose you could get me to the bellagio?” Greg said, half-joking.

“I don’t have time,” said Angie. “My story is going to be that you suddenly grew back to normal and ran out of the room. I’m just going to open the door a crack, and you’re going to have to run for it. I can probably buy you fifteen to twenty minutes, but if you have anywhere you can go, I’d do it.”

Greg looked up at the immense woman, and said “your rob is a lucky man, angie. thank you.”

Angie did as she said, taking Greg to the door and opening it up. He looked around briefly, and then took off at full sprint for the elevator.

He didn’t care who found him. It couldn’t be any worse.

Well, it could. The warning klaxon sounded.

By the time Angie was telling her story to the others, Greg was unconcerned about being found. He was nine millimeters tall, a little more than a third of an inch.

The carpet fibers hid him well.

After a while, he did hitch a ride into the elevator and out on the town, taking some pride that a peeved Amy carried him by her big toe without even knowing it. He disembarked her foot by the tram, and hitched a ride with another tourist up to Bally’s.

He’d spend the night here, he decided. He’d find some food, get some sleep, and start over tomorrow.

He still had a couple of days, and he’d made it to mid-strip. The Bellagio wasn’t that far away.

He still felt he was going to win.

Greg awoke in the shade of the poolside bar where he had ultimately landed the night before. He had gone there in search of food, and had found it—nothing much, just a discarded pistachio and the debris from a lemon that had once graced a martini—but it was far and away enough for him.

He stretched, and realized he’d slept in a bit longer than he’d expected. He wasn’t worried, so much as annoyed; he’d wasted precious hours resting when he should have been trying to get closer to his destination.

After a moment of concern, he stopped himself. Getting to the Bellagio was going to be a crap shoot anyhow; the truth was that the next person he hitched a ride with might take him there—or he might go non-stop through the last day and not succeed.

He wandered out from underneath the bin of fresh towels, where he had camped overnight, and took in the view. A few people were filtering into the pool area; a couple of families were some distance off, while two young women sunned themselves nearby. He surveilled the area, trying to decide if any of these people might be worth riding along with, when a shadow appeared.

He was used to looking across shadows to enormous people, and this shadow was predictably tied to one. She was an immense coed with long, tan legs coming together at a barely-there pink bikini bottom. Far above that, Greg could see her breasts—large, but not cartoonish—and a pretty face capped by tousled brown hair.

She was fun to look at, he thought, but….

The “but” was as far as he got with the thought as the girl reached for a towel above, and clumsily let it slip through her fingers.

An enormous white cloth dropped at Greg. He put up his arms to block it, but it didn’t impact him. Instead, it created a tent all around him. “Whew,” he said, “that was….”

Then, suddenly, the tent collapsed as the woman gathered it up, and carried it over to her lounge chair.

She turned it over and threw it on with a single motion, tossing Greg high up into the air. He flew in a graceful arc, and landed, skidding, on a damp, slick plain.

He stood up, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He was looking up the back of one of the women he had seen earlier. Some distance away was the bow tying her bikini together. He turned around, and saw the gentle crest of the hill that was her ass.

He swallowed, hard. He’d have to get down from here. Let’s see….

There was no time for reflection, however. The girl suddenly reached back with her hand and began idly scratching her lower back, right where Greg was. He retreated quickly, and soon realized that he’d have to take cover. But there was only one place to go.

So he lifted up the edge of her green bikini bottoms and pulled himself inside.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

Las Vegas is no place for a nineteen-year-old.

If you're twenty-one, it's great. You can drink and gamble and get into any club you want. But if you're nineteen, you're constantly stuck on the outside looking in. And so you spend a lot of time by the pool and shopping, and waiting for your sister and her fiancé to come back from wherever they are so that you can go eat, because that's all the fun you're going to have.

Bridget Carroll was tired of waiting around. She'd much rather be home with her boyfriend Mike. They'd be having a lot of fun right now. At least her sister would get married tonight and they could get home soon.

And what was worst, now her but was getting itchy. She was going to have to go in if it didn't get better; you can't really itch your butt in public and get away with it, even if you are a girl with a nice one.

* * *

Greg slid through the valley between the girl's cheeks, grateful that at the very least, she wasn't gassy.

He had seen a number of different parts of women over the past week, but he figured he could've lived without an up-close tour of the anus. Nevertheless, he gently worked his way across the puckered hole, trying not to slip inside—he most certainly did not want to see this woman's rectum.

From here, he could see the cliff that led down to her labia. He was tempted to slip down between them, but he thought he could control himself….

Suddenly, the world pitched, as the girl rolled over and got to her feet. Greg was thrown into the crotch of the bikini bottoms, staring up at a massive slit.

It would've been awe-inspiring, but frankly, he was getting used to it.

* * *

Bridget wandered up to her room, determined to do something with her day other than improve her tan. It was about eleven, so she figured she'd have a good six hours to meander before she had to be back for the wedding. Pulling her suit off and dropping it to the floor, she quickly dressed in a short summer dress and open-toed sandals. She figured she'd have some time to change shoes later, but for now, she just wanted to head up to the Venetian. She'd heard there were some good shops up there.

* * *

Greg had been surprised when he was thrown into the bikini bottoms, and more surprised when the bottoms themselves dropped. At the very least, he was getting used to thinking on the fly; he grabbed the top of the woman's right foot as she slid the green fabric off. Far above him, the girl slid on an enormous dress and slid panties by him (which he successfully persuaded himself not to leap into). By the time the girl slid her feet into the sandals, he was almost relieved. Sandals meant she was going somewhere, and he would have the chance to go with her.

Each footfall was earthquake-like, of course—he was so used to it by now that it barely registered. Instead, he watched out the front of the shoes, trying to figure out where he was. For a while, they wandered the sidewalks, then a cab, then some stores, then another cab, and then, he saw it.

Emblazoned on a door high above him, the logo of the Venetian.

One billion dollars were as good as his.

He didn't even worry as the suit announced its intention to alter his size. Soon enough, he'd buy one he could control.

As he made his way through the casino floor—now up to four inches in height, big enough to be spotted if someone were looking for him—he had to force himself to be careful. He wanted to make a beeline for the elevators. He was so close. So close….

The force of the blow knocked him backwards, leaving him heaving for breath. He struggled up, trying to figure out what had happened, when the foot came back over him, and roughly pinned him to the ground.

He'd been kicked by the owner of the foot. Kicked hard. But why?

Suddenly, the foot was released, and a hand grabbed him roughly and lifted him to a lovely face with a wicked countenance, framed with golden hair.

"HELLO, GREG," said the woman. "MY NAME IS TORI. LET'S PLAY."

* * *

"son of a bitch!" he cried in pain, as she let him up from under her ass.

"NO…I BELIEVE YOU WERE GOING TO TELL ME YOU WOULD OBEY YOUR MISTRESS."

"fuck you!" he yelled at the demoness, unwilling to give her the satisfaction she'd been demanding for the past four hours.

Why he hadn't hit his recall button was beyond him; the woman clearly was trying to kill him. But he wasn't afraid of losing anymore. He was afraid of giving up.

And so he spit back at her as she laughed. "OH, BREAKING YOU IS GOING TO BE SO MUCH FUN, BUG. BUT FOR NOW, I THINK IT'S BEST YOU COME WITH ME….HEH."

With that, she poured a thick, viscous liquid over Greg, which he instantly recognized—Astroglide.

"TRUST ME, YOU LITTLE MEN FEEL BETTER WHERE YOU'RE GOING. AT LEAST, I FEEL BETTER WHEN YOU GO THERE."

Tori grabbed Greg and pulled her panties down just enough to expose her anus. "oh, hell no," said Greg, as he was shoved head-first into Tori's lovely ass.

* * *

Tori was never good at explaining why it felt so good from behind her. Maybe it was the way she'd killed the first bastard—crushing him while she danced.

She danced, flirting her way across the dance floor—her latest conquest breathing the stale methane of her colon.

He struggled back there, stimulating her clitoral wings, bringing her to the brink of orgasm. Perfect. She knew he was just trying to escape, just afraid of choking to death on her farts.

It didn't matter to her. He was just a thing, like the first one had been. She would use him for her pleasure, and then she'd discard him. She doubted Sir George would care.

No, as she spent her night dancing her way to ecstasy, Tori knew she'd have fun torturing this one to death. She'd have to end the dance soon, though. She didn't want this one to be dead before she had a chance to really work him over.

She was fucked up, yes. But she didn't care. She was a goddess—the queen of the fucking world.

And she was in charge now. She didn't have to listen. She didn't have to submit.

It felt delicious.

* * *

Greg, for his part, was hanging on, trying not to lose his lunch as he was held tightly in the rectum of a beautiful woman, who was evidently intent on partying the night away.

He wasn't going to give up, he'd decided. He wasn't going to push the button, even if she killed him. This had been the best time he'd had in his life, the only time he'd ever felt truly alive. What did he have to look forward to if he gave up now? Oh, he'd give Sir George his million, and then he'd head back to the trust fund, and eventually the board position, and maybe even the chairmanship of the hotel chain. And for what? So he could fuck another willing model? That was fine and all, but it wasn't a challenge.

He was starting to realize that he needed the challenge. He needed to make this work, or die trying.

And even if death was the end result, he wasn't afraid. A good gambler knows the risk he's taking.

Greg wasn't afraid.

Even as the gas gurgled down to his position, he kept his head high. This bitch wouldn't beat him. He'd get past her.

He just had to figure out how.

* * *

When they finally returned to Tori's room and she extricated her anal prisoner, she was alternately happy and disappointed to see him relatively unharmed. "WELL…." she said. "YOU'VE MANAGED TO HANG IN THERE PRETTY WELL, LITTLE BUG. ARE YOU READY TO PROCLAIM ME YOUR MISTRESS YET?"

"sod off, you bitch. you know, you might want to clean up there once in a—"

Greg didn't get the chance to finish the insult, as Tori backhanded him across the bed. "OH, YOU'RE A FEISTY ONE, AREN'T YOU? SO MUCH MORE FUN THAN THE FIRST ONE."

"the first one?" he asked, stumbling to his feet.

"THE FIRST LITTLE MAN I KILLED. CRUSHED HIM TO DEATH UNDER MY ASS. HE GAVE UP IMMEDIATELY. CALLED ME 'MISTRESS' THE SECOND I ASKED HIM TO. NOT MUCH FUN," she said, mock-pouting.

"BUT YOU—YOU'RE BOUND AND DETERMINED TO MAKE ME BREAK YOU, AREN'T YOU? WELL, GREG…PREPARE TO BE BROKEN."

And as Tori approached, Greg began to appreciate that this crazy bitch wasn't kidding.

She meant to have a lot of fun tonight.

And then, she would break him irretrievably.

As the lights went out, Greg screamed.

Perhaps the less written of the next five hours, the better.

Tori was creative in her sadism; she'd spent years at the hospital imagining what she could do to a little man given the opportunity.

Perhaps the only saving grace for Greg is that she still hadn't gotten to anything permanent. She would rip his intestines out later, according to her plan. And she'd leave his penis intact the whole time—she wanted it that way. Without a penis, he wasn't a man.

She would only destroy men.

As the evening wound down into a twilight of continuous pain, Greg finally began to break. He knew all he had to do was get out of this.

Indeed, perhaps Sir George would take pity on him. There was no way that he'd intended Greg to face down a homicidal bitch.

Except….

She'd called him Greg. She knew his name.

"how…did you know…my name," he panted, as she slowly dislocated his right arm.

"SILLY BUG. DID YOU THINK HE'D FORGET TO TELL ME YOUR NAME?"

"sir…george…?"

"WHO ELSE?"

Greg's anger welled up, but had nowhere to go. The bastard. He could've taken Greg out painlessly. But that wasn't his way.

If he survived this, he'd see the old Brit hung.

But he wasn't going to give up.

* * *

As the sun began its slow ascent over the desert, there came a knock at the door.

Greg lay back in massive pain. Tori was letting him rest for a bit, letting him regain his strength before she really hurt him.

He was upset for a number of reasons, because he was healing. And the bitch knew it. She was going to let him get better to hurt him all over again.

He was her punching bag.

Tori swore under her breath. "WHAT THE FUCK?"

"HOUSEKEEPING."

"DAMN IT," said Tori, as she got up and headed to the door. "COME BACK LATER."

"NO SPEEKY?"

"FUCKING WETBACKS," murmured Tori. "LISTEN," she said, opening the door.

She didn't complete the sentence, due to the fist impacting her face with extreme force.

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

"HANDS UP," said the woman at the door, brandishing a gun. "I'M HERE FOR THE SHRINKY DINK."

"FUCK YOU, BITCH," said Tori, circling. "HE'S MINE."

"I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU," the Latina said, as she took a step in. "WELL…NOT EXACTLY TRUE. BUT I WON'T HURT YOU, IF YOU GIVE HIM UP. NOW."

"FUCK OFF," said Tori, and she lunged at the maid, who simply stepped to the side and flipped Tori into the wall with enough force to leave her a crumpled ball on the floor.

"WELL, THAT WAS FUN," said the Latina, as she scanned the room for her quarry. Presently, she saw him, and approached.

"OKAY, GREG, TIME TO GO."

She lifted him up gently, and Greg stared up at her, his head swimming.

"julia?" he asked, as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

* * *

Greg awoke slowly, his head throbbing. He looked down at himself, and saw that someone had tended to his wounds. He was half-covered in antibacterial cream, and he could see his arm was held together in a crude splint.

He actually felt okay. His arm had pulled itself back into the socket, or been put there—he wasn't sure, and didn't care. He wasn't ready to run a marathon, but he was capable of walking, and he thought in a few more hours, he might be ready for something more vigorous.

He sat up, and though his head ground against itself unpleasantly, he looked around.

He was on a kitchen table, in the middle of a modest apartment. He tried and failed to figure out where it was.

It couldn't have really been Julia, could it? No. That would be too big a coincidence. Besides, given how he'd left her, he wouldn't expect she'd want to save him. He'd let his parents pay her off.

But as he thought this, she walked into the room, radiant as she'd been five years ago, but more so—she had grown into young womanhood, and she was flawless.

"SIT DOWN, GREG," she said.

"julia, I—"

"SIT DOWN! YOU'RE NOT IN ANY SHAPE TO BE STANDING UP. I DIDN'T GO KICK SOME GIRL'S ASS SO THAT YOU COULD DIE IN MY KITCHEN."

Greg sat back down. "it's, uh—" He couldn't get the words out. The woman he'd loved—still loved, really—was at the table now, standing just over one hundred feet tall, and his heart skipped a beat.

For her part, Julia smiled. "IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU, TOO. THOUGH I'D NEVER HAVE EXPECTED OUR REUNION TO BE LIKE THIS."

"no, me either. julia, look, there's something you have to know…."

Cocking an eyebrow, Julia asked, "THIS WOULDN'T HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH HOW WHEN YOU WERE EIGHTEEN, YOU LET YOUR PARENTS PAY MY MOM AND I TO GET THE HELL OUT OF YOUR HOUSE, WOULD IT?"

"um…yeah. about that…."

"YOU WERE EIGHTEEN. AND STUPID. AND I WAS TOO. GREG, IT WASN'T MEANT TO BE. I'VE FIGURED THAT OUT."

"no, julia—my parents were wrong. i was wrong. i don't need their money. not if it means losing you."

Julia smiled, the dimples in her cheeks the same as they'd been that night seven years ago. "OH, GREG, THAT'S SWEET. I THINK YOU EVEN MEAN IT. BUT YOU'RE JUST HAVING A PROFOUND BOUT OF GRATITUDE FOR ME SAVING YOUR LIFE."

"no! i realized this when i was helping an amish girl decide what she wanted to do. i realized then that nothing's more important than love."

"WELL," said Julia, her smile fading just a touch. "GREG, UH….I'M NOT READY FOR LOVE. NOT RIGHT NOW."

Greg looked up at his onetime lover, for a moment, silenced.

"AFTER WE LEFT YOUR HOUSE, MY MOM AND I HEADED WEST. I ENROLLED AT UNLV, SHE TOOK CARE OF THINGS FOR SIR GEORGE. THEN, SHE GOT CANCER…."

Julia's fists tightened. "HE WASN'T VERY SUPPORTIVE. I SUPPOSE MAIDS AREN'T WORTH CHEMOTHERAPY. WE SPENT THE MONEY YOUR PARENTS HAD GIVEN US TRYING TO KEEP HER ALIVE. BUT…."

Greg dropped his head. "oh, no."

"SHE DIED A YEAR AGO. AND I TOOK HER JOB WITH SIR GEORGE. HE STILL HASN'T FIGURED OUT THAT I KNOW MORE ENGLISH THAN 'CLEAN NOW?' I MEANT TO DESTROY HIM.

"BUT THEN, I SAW HE WAS GOING TO DESTROY YOU. AND I MAY NOT BE READY FOR LOVE, BUT I STILL LIKED YOU ENOUGH TO KEEP YOU FROM DYING."

"thanks," said Greg. "i'm sorry about your mom."

"WELL, THANKS. I KNOW YOU ARE, GREG. AND…."

Julia sat down heavily. "I STILL HAVE MORE TO DO, GREG. WE WERE GOING TO GET MARRIED AT 18, BUT FRANKLY, I'D LIKE TO GO TO LAW SCHOOL. I'VE GOT SOME TIME TO FIGURE OUT WHAT I WANT TO DO."

"i understand," said Greg, and the funny thing was, he did. Julia didn't want to get married to him even if he was a billionaire, because she wanted to earn her happy ending.

He wanted to earn his, too.

"would you mind being friends for now?" he asked, the question surprising him.

Julia looked down at him, and smiled widely. "SI. BUT I'M CONFUSED. WHEN DID GREG FLETCHER START GROWING UP?"

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon getting to know each other again. It was a lot of fun; rekindling a friendship always is.

Julia surprised herself just a bit when she asked Greg if he wanted to make out.

"i thought you weren't ready for love?" he'd asked the beaming giantess.

"I'M NOT," said Julia. "BUT THE WAY I SEE IT, THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH A LITTLE HOOKUP."

Greg swallowed hard. He was feeling almost perfect now, and staring at the body of a gorgeous woman—a body he was more than a little familiar with.

"all right," he said. "what do you want to do?"

Julia laughed melodiously. "OH, GREG, DON'T WORRY. WE'RE GOING TO DO QUITE A BIT."

* * *

Meanwhile, in a suite at the Venetian, Sir George was swearing a blue streak.

"It's bad enough my fooking maid fooking took fooking Greg Fletcher from my best assassin—and beat up my assassin to boot—but how the fook can we not have an address or picture or a geolocator hit by now?"

"For the last time," said the young man assigned by the company responsible for the game, "your assassin destroyed the geolocation capabilities of the suit. Which, incidentally, goes on your tab. As for the second question, Sir George, no matter how many times you bark an order at us to get you your maid's address, we're not going to. You hired us to run this game. You did not hire us to be your lackeys. And if you don't stow your anger quickly, you're going to find that we give the authorities an up-close look at the goings-on in your camp."

"You wouldn't fooking dare," said Sir George, rising. "I'll kill you."

"Sir George," said the man, turning, "I have more power at my disposal than you will ever know. We'll be back tomorrow."

"What for?"

"To award the prize to the victor, of course," said the man. "And to collect our stuff and get the hell out of here."

* * *

Julia leaned back in her bed, giggling a bit as a tiny man navigated on her stomach.

She had always enjoyed the power she had over the young heir. But this was something else altogether. The power she felt now was something else entirely. The power of a goddess.

She felt his tiny feet slide over her stomach, and chuckled again. "TRYING TO DECIDE WHERE TO GO?" she asked.

"uh—" said the tiny man on her tummy.

"HEAD SOUTH," she said. "I WANT TO FEEL YOU INSIDE ME."

"i don't think it's big enough for you to feel," said the tiny man, walking toward her snatch.

"NOT 'IT,' GREGGY. 'YOU.'"

She knew what Greg was thinking of that directive, even if he didn't say so. She wiggled happily as he slid himself along her outer lips. Then, she inhaled and held her breath as she felt him slowly massaging her labia, slowly working her clit.

He was getting her very wet.

And then, she felt him slide inside of her. "OHHHHH…." She thundered, as the tiny man pushed further in.

She wasn’t getting back together with Greg—she still had her own wild oats to sow.

But two or three years from now might be a different story.

Especially if he kept this wonderful, wonderful suit.

* * *

A few hours later, they were both cleaned up, and now, minds cleared, they were talking business.

"look, if you help me directly, i think i forfeit the bet. i can't accept direct help."

"DOESN'T MATTER," said Julia. "YOU DIDN'T REVEAL YOURSELF TO ME—I KNEW YOU. AND YOU CAN ASK FOR ASSISTANCE AS LONG AS YOU DON'T PROMISE ME ANYTHING MONETARY. AND I'D PAY TO FORCE SIR GEORGE TO PAY OUT A BILLION DOLLARS. SO I'LL BE HAPPY TO GET YOU IN THERE."

"don't you think they probably know you betrayed sir george?"

"THINK IT? GREG, I'M COUNTING ON IT. THE SECOND I WALK IN THERE, THEY'RE GOING TO DETAIN ME. IT'LL GIVE YOU THE TIME YOU NEED."

Greg frowned. "i don't like it. he'll hurt you. he'll never let you get away with besting him."

"DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME," said Julia. "I HAVE A FEW ACES IN THE HOLE. AFTER ALL, MY ROOMMATE'S A BLACKBELT."

At this, Greg looked across the table at a gorgeous busty brunette. "laurie, talk julia out of this, would you?"

"NO, GREG…SHE'S RIGHT. IF WE LET HIM WIN, IT'S ONLY GOING TO EMBOLDEN HIM. WE NEED TO BEAT HIM SOLIDLY. IT'S THE ONLY WAY."

Greg sighed. "all right. but we'd better fucking win."

"OH, DON'T WORRY," said Laurie. "I'VE FOUND THAT LITTLE MEN CAN BE PRETTY WILY IF THEY NEED TO BE."

"LET'S GET SOME SLEEP," said Julia. "TOMORROW'S GOING TO BE A BIG DAY."
"they're all big," said Greg, disconsolately. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

But he knew Laurie was right. They had to beat Sir George. They had to beat him badly.

Tomorrow, they'd find out if they could.

Dawn broke over the desert, and Greg Fletcher paced.

He didn't like this plan. Didn't like it one bit. He couldn't let Julia risk her life—not even to make Sir George pay for his selfishness.

But of course, he was powerless to stop it. At four inches tall, he could hardly get to the Venetian on his own—and he knew he had to do that. He no longer just had to win for himself, but for Julia, and her mom, and anyone that evil bastard had ever screwed over.

It wasn't about the money. He knew he didn't care whether he ever collected the billion or not. He didn't care about any of it; if he ended up a pauper tomorrow, he'd go out, take the college education his parents had bought him and put it to use.

No, he didn't care if he had money, or fame, or any of it.

He just wanted to win.

But he didn't want to pay too high a price to do it.

Fighting the insomnia, he lay back down on Julia's massive bed, and looked at the form of his once-and-future love. Her curly black hair was tousled and unkempt now, hanging haphazardly down her shoulders as she lay on her side, her back to him. He loved her. He loved her enough to give her time. They'd both have some fun for a few years. And then he'd come back, and make one last pitch.

She was the one for him. And he could wait for her to be ready.

He closed his eyes, and ran through the plan again. He didn't want to risk her life. But he knew that she emphatically did want to risk her life. More than that, he knew that if he loved her, he had to give her the chance to redeem herself in her own eyes.

He didn't have to like it. But she had to be in on the plot.

Otherwise, she'd have no peace.

Satisfied, finally, that she was right, Greg closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Sir George paced like a panther in his suite, jumping at every creak and crack.

Any second now, and he could appear. He could appear, and cost him a billion dollars.

Not if he's dead, he can't.

That's true. Sir George could kill him when he entered the room. Not very sporting, but then, neither was Tori.

Exactly. And if you do it quickly, you can flush the bastard down the loo.

Sir George smiled—and stayed on his guard.

* * *

It would be several more hours before they made their attempt.

They had decided early on to aim for the afternoon. The clock would be ticking toward zero, but they were only going to get one shot at this anyhow. The lateness of the hour would weigh on Sir George—he'd be playing not to lose, rather than to win. And that would level the playing field.

Julia strode through the lobby of the Venetian as she had a dozen times before. Her head was up. She exuded confidence. She drew the stares of men who had showgirls on their arms—she, a girl in a maid outfit that wasn't the least bit flattering.

The stares were for her—her beauty, her confidence, her strength. And she loved them.

Meanwhile, Greg held fast, hidden inside the folds of her panties. He looked at the neatly trimmed bush, and couldn't help feeling aroused. He had shrunk back to an inch a few hours ago, and it would be so easy for him to touch her—

—but he wouldn't let himself. He knew he needed to be on his guard. He just enjoyed her sweet scent, and steeled himself for battle.

Julia reached the service elevator and punched the floor of Sir George's suite. As the door closed, she smiled.

She stepped off the elevator, and smiled as she saw him approaching, gun already drawn.

"Clean now?" she said in a heavily accented parody of a Spanish accent.

She was still smiling when he spun her around. It was all going according to plan.

* * *

They were in an adjoining suite—not in the room that would mean victory for Greg. Sir George nervously interrogated his maid. He knew the game—she had him on her person. They'd thought she could waltz in without attracting attention, and that they'd win without Greg even stepping outside of her undergarments.

"So, my dear Julia," he said, gun at the ready, "where is he?"

"żQuién?" asked Julia.

"Drop the act, dearie. Tori told me you spoke perfect English. And I've learned to trust her."

"That's unfortunate for you," said Julia dropping her act. "That bitch is far from trustworthy."

"That may be," said Sir George. "But she was right about you. Now where is he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"THE BLOODY MAN YOU STOLE FROM MY BLOODY ASSASSIN!" thundered George, cocking the pistol.

"Sir George," interjected the woman in the corner of the room, "I would advise you against committing murder in my presence. We have witnessed enough crimes from you this week; we cannot turn a blind eye to this."

George lowered the pistol, slightly. "You and your fooking husband. So regal. I could kill you in an instant."

"And I could do far worse to you, far faster than you think," the woman said, unperturbed. "I'm here because this interrogation has probative merit. An execution does not."

George raised the gun again, this time calmly. "Julia, I'm going to need you to strip."

"What? You can't be serious. I'll have a claim before the EEOC before I'm dressed again."

"I've covered up worse," said the billionaire. "But that little bastard is hiding somewhere on you. And I'm not going to ask again."

Shrugging, Julia began to disrobe. "I'm looking forward to the settlement," she said. "It should make up for the money you didn't give my mother when she was dying."

George smiled. "She wasn't a very good worker, my dear. Why would I pay for chemotherapy for a sloth?"

Julia looked up at him, rage in her eyes. But she kept stripping, down to her bra and panties.

After Sir George had investigated her skirt and shoes and shirt, he turned back to her. "Now the undies, lass."

Julia removed her bra.

Inside the panties, Greg cringed. This was all going okay so far—exactly as they'd planned it. But he was nervous. He knew it was almost time—almost time for him to act. He had to be ready…ready….

"Now the knickers. And be quick about it."

Julia pulled her panties down quickly, and dropped them to the floor.

And Sir George's face fell.

"Bloody Hell! He's not here."

"Oh, he could be in my twat, you sick fuck. You want to look in there?" said Julia, as she threw a roundhouse at the billionaire.

"Now!" she said, to nobody in particular.

* * *

When you've got good friends, it's easy to get your hands on interesting technology.

Laurie O'Connell had very good friends, who had some very, very interesting stuff on hand.

But all she was using right now was a simple miniaturized communicator. Five years in the Marines had given her all the training she needed. She'd done one tour in Afghanistan—enough to convince her that she wanted to come back to the states and go to school.

But she'd learned enough ways to kill a man that anything more sophisticated than a pistol seemed less than sporting.

She burst out of the elevator, knocking the insane bitch to the floor with a wicked backhand. Then she advanced quickly on the target, expecting the two bodyguards. She took one out with a kick-sweep, and on the follow-through took out the other gorilla's knee.

She knew she had limited time. She reached into her panties and withdrew the subject.

"Go get 'em," she said to Greg, depositing him on the threshold of the suite.

Greg smiled, as Laurie turned to protect his back. Sir George had been honest in one regard. The door was cracked open, just as he'd promised. Greg pushed, and the door swung.

Over in the adjoining suite, Sir George found himself on the other side of his pistol.

"Titania…do something!"

"Don't kill him, Julia," said the woman, rising from her magazine.

"Why not? You've seen what he did to me!"

"Yes, I have. But if you kill him now, you're going to miss him losing his bet. Which is happening…now."

Alarm klaxons blared in the suite. "Sir George, if you'll come with me, we can meet Oberon and David in the other room. The contest is over."

* * *

It was an ashen Sir George who faced a full-sized Greg Fletcher. Greg seemed disoriented. It was because he was disoriented. He hadn't been this tall since he'd been drugged a week-and-a-half before.

"Well, Sir George, looks like the playboy had a few tricks up his sleeve, eh?" he said to the stammering Knight.

"You didn't win!" cried George. "You cheated! You revealed your name!"

"Essentially true," said the young man. "Even though you didn't tell Julia your name, the fact that she knew you provided you with an unfair advantage."

"You see! You lose!" said George, triumphantly.

"It's lucky for you then, Greg, that Sir George had forfeited several days earlier."

"What?"

"Section Two, subsection d, paragraph two," said the woman, bringing a copy of the bet contract over to the billionaire.

Sir George read the paragraph.

II.D.2. In the event that the rules are violated by both parties, the party that shall be determined to have violated the rules first shall be the loser.

"I don't understand," said Sir George. "When did I break the rules?"

"Section four, subsection a, paragraph three, clause three. You know, Greg," said the woman in an aside, "if you'd read this contract closely you might not have been as surprised as you were."

"Wha?"

IV.A.3.iii The contestant's size shall be altered in a completely random manner. The contestant shall be given ten minutes' warning before size change is initiated.

"Damn, it said all that in the contract? From now on, I'm getting a lawyer to read these things."

"I still don't understand," said Sir George.

"Day two, when Greg was with the Amish girl? You ordered me to initiate size change?"

"What? No, I—"

"You violated the terms of the contract, Sir George. From that moment, Greg had won. Everything since has been moot. Even if he was still in Harrisburg, we'd be declaring him the winner right now."

Sir George's face fell. And Greg chuckled.

"So, Sir George, I'll take it in tens and twenties."

"I'll see you in Hell first," said the fuming Knight.

"Thought you might say that," said the bald man. "Titania, bring in Tori."

Sarah brought in the psychopath, with a jerk.

"Tori, would you be interested in possessing Sir George, 'til death do you part?"

"You wouldn't," said the Knight.

"Shrink, 1:20th scale," said the woman, cheerfully.

"Oh, that's a perfect size," said Tori, advancing. "Little George, we could have a lot of fun…or at least, I could…."

"no!" shouted George Anderson. "no! god no! i'll pay!"

"Of course you will," said the young man. He walked by Tori, stared hard at her, and continued on.

It was his wife who decked her.

"That's for Los Angeles, you bitch," whispered Sarah coolly. She then walked over to Sir George. "We simply need you to confirm the transfer. Then you'll be back to your evil self—but a billion dollars lighter."

George sighed. He had no choice.

He had been beaten.

Greg smiled at Julia and Laurie. "Thanks, guys," he said.

And he laughed. Because he already knew what he was going to do with the money.

* * *

Things wrapped up rather quickly after that.

Laurie and the woman chatted about a mutual friend. The young man transferred Tori into the custody of a nondescript British gentleman. The bald man chatted amiably with his wife. And Julia came up to Scott, wearing the bathrobe she'd purloined.

"So, happy to be a billionaire?" she asked.

"Eh, you know. Happier that you made it through okay. Now that I've won, would you like ten million dollars?"

"That's it?" said Julia, mock-serious.

"I know you don't want all that money—yet," he said. "Someday, I hope you'll get half. But ten million—consider it payment for services rendered."

"Hmm…" Julia pretended to consider. "Can you throw in another ten for Laurie?"

"I think I can spare that. And Julia, there's something else. I'd like you to help me find some people."

"How so?"

"Well," said Greg, "I've got a lot of debts to take care of."

* * *

He was as good as his word.

It took him the better part of a year. Some of them had been easy—after all, it's pretty easy to find out who had the Presidential Suite in Lancaster on a given night. A few were more difficult; the bribes to get the passenger manifest for a random flight from Harrisburg to Minneapolis startled Julia.

But one by one, he paid them all, all of them who had been a part of his journey. He did it anonymously for the most part; the newlyweds in Saint Paul, the family in Iowa, the girl with the annoying stepdad, Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez.

Each got an unexplained check for ten million; each was stunned to find out that the money was real, that they had won a great gift.

Greg was glad, but he didn't need them to know that he was who he was. He didn't need to give the checks to them personally.

Well, except for one.

"If there be any among you who has cause that these two should not be bound together, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

Greg smiled at the minister. The blushing bride was radiant.

So was the bride.

It was a clear spring day on the Cape, and they were outside, a group of friends of two women committing their lives together.

He had two checks, and some time after the ceremony, he stopped by the pair.

"I doubt you remember me, but…well, you did invite you on your honeymoon…."

The women's countenances expressed shock, then joy, then shock again, as they recognized "Mike" from People.

He didn't hold them to their invitation—though he'd visit them later, in Cambridge.

He'd bring the suit.

Many crazy things happened soon thereafter—the world was changing. And Greg would find himself a part of those changes, in ways he never could've imagined back when he was a spoiled brat.

But he'd won far more than money from Sir George. He'd won self-respect. He'd beaten the bastard, and it hadn't been money that had done it. It had been his own spirit—with the help of a few people who liked him for who he was, not his bankroll.

It made him the person he was destined to be.

But that is another story for another time.