Chapter 10: Turning to
Cathy (Andrew and Angela Part 3)
In the
span of just two weeks, Angela's life has undergone a significant
transformation. Angela, a woman of mature grace at the age of 45, typically
presents herself in professional attire befitting her office job. Her hair is
always meticulously groomed and maintained in a tidy, work-appropriate style.
This particular day, however, marks a departure from her usual routine. She's
enjoying a day off work, luxuriating in the comfort of her bed and the softness
of her pink pyjamas.
A result
from her slumber, Angela's usually immaculate hair now sports a charming
disarray, the result of a peaceful night's rest. Her strands, an alluring
midnight black, are subtly streaked with threads of grey that weave a
captivating contrast against the backdrop of her pale skin. The soft morning
light gently highlights these streaks, creating an image that is both striking
and endearing.
However,
the transformation in her physical appearance is but a minor change compared to
the profound shift she has undergone recently. This significant transformation
has been brought about by her new companion - Andrew, a six-inch tall shrinkie.
His arrival into her life has breathed a new, invigorating energy into her
daily routine, rekindling a youthful spirit that had been dormant for years.
His
presence in her life, unusual as it may be, has allowed her a level of
relaxation and authenticity she hadn't experienced in a while. No longer
constrained by the expectations of her professional life, she has begun to
embrace her natural beauty, welcoming each new day with a sense of peace and
contentment. This newfound freedom has allowed her to let her guard down and
simply be herself, a luxury she hasn't had in years.
Angela,
despite the passage of time, radiates a natural glow. She has always been
conscientious about her appearance, using a variety of beauty products to
disguise any signs of ageing. However, Andrew's arrival in her life, a unique
companion from the innovative company Micro Exotic Inc., has resulted in a
shift in her perception. She has begun to welcome her natural beauty, embracing
the reality of ageing and learning to appreciate every new wrinkle as a
testament to her life experiences.
One facet
of her personal grooming remains a constant, though. Angela's nails, both on
her fingers and toes, are invariably painted jet black, echoing the colour of
her hair. She considers the maintenance of her nails as a long-term commitment
to self-care, while the rest of her appearance can be quickly put together
should she need to go out.
This
morning, Angela has just emerged from the warm clutches of a peaceful slumber.
The clear telltale signs of sleep's lingering embrace are evident in her
tousled hair, tangled in a wild dance around her shoulders, giving her an air
of charming dishevelment. She has donned her reading glasses, which perch
comfortably on her elongated yet elegant nose, asserting their presence as she
delves into the captivating narrative of a romance novel. The novel, with its
twists and turns, has her engrossed, her attention stolen away from the world
around her.
Meanwhile,
Andrew, her companion, is still nestled in the comforting land of dreams. He
lies comfortably ensconced on the pillow behind her, his presence a quiet yet
comforting constant. His attire, a simple brown ensemble that doubles as his
daytime wear and pyjamas, stands in stark contrast with the vibrant colours of
Angela's surroundings. His brunette hair, initially sparse following his
unusual shrinkage, is now growing in thicker, adding an element of normalcy to
his otherwise changed appearance.
In the
early days of their cohabitation, Angela and Andrew didn't share the same bed.
Each had their own space, their own corner. However, as the first week of their
shared living arrangement passed, Angela began to insist on the shared bed
arrangement. She argued that it was not only more convenient for her to ensure
his safety in this way, but that it was also a more comfortable arrangement for
them both. To soothe his worries, she made a promise to provide him with a
small bed of his own, a promise which she has, more often than not,
conveniently forgotten.
Andrew,
on his part, gently reminds her of her commitment every now and then. He cites
her earth-shaking snores and the potential danger of her inadvertently rolling
over him in her sleep as valid concerns. Angela, however, remains unperturbed
by his gentle reminders. She is confident in the safety measures that were put
in place during Andrew's shrinkage process at Micro Exotic Inc., the company
responsible for his transformation.
As she
oscillates between her engrossing novel and the occasional glance at Andrew,
her face breaks into a radiant, heartfelt smile. It's a silent testimonial to
the unique bond they share, a bond that transcends the ordinary and ventures
into the realm of the extraordinary.
Upon
awakening, Andrew finds himself sitting up on a pillow so large it feels comparable
to a vast field of clouds. He stretches his arms wide, yawning as he wipes the
remnants of his sleep from his eyes. Throughout the night, Angela's snoring and
the overpowering scent of her morning breath, both magnified by his 6-inch
size, have interrupted his slumber. This has him pondering how such a gentle
and kind woman could produce sounds akin to a beast during her sleep, albeit he
is grateful that these episodes are in short bursts. He finds himself hoping
that she will finally remember her promise and get him a bed of his own,
allowing him to relocate to a safer distance.
As he
contemplates this, his gaze travels to Angela, who now towers over him like a
gentle giantess. This sight, once strange and terrifying, has become familiar
and almost comforting to him. He is taken aback by the speed in which his
perspective has changed, a fact he credits largely to Angela's consistent
kindness and genuine care. Unlike others who might treat him as a mere toy due
to his diminished size, Angela treats him with respect and consideration.
Even so,
Andrew cannot help but harbor resentment towards his situation. He often drifts
into fantasies of returning to his old, full-sized self, and the life he once
lived. Angela's considerate yet overbearing motherly treatment is something he
finds grievance with. He is only 21, barely more than a boy yet considering
himself a man, and he feels robbed of a life that held so much promise. He has
been reduced to nothing more than a glorified house pet.
Nevertheless,
amidst the strain of his new existence, there are a few comforts Andrew can
depend on. Angela, with her caring nature, ensures that he is well-nourished
with three balanced meals each day, something she is progressively becoming
more consistent in remembering. Amidst her own busy schedule and frequent
forgetfulness, her commitment to his sustenance is a small but significant
reassurance.
In
addition, Angela frequently yields the reigns of the television remote to him.
This seemingly trivial act, in fact, provides him with a much-needed
distraction, a temporary escape from the stark reality of his life. The humdrum
shows, the fictional characters, and their larger-than-life problems help him
momentarily forget his own predicament. It's a small window into the world he
was once a part of, a world he can now only observe from a distance.
However,
these minor comforts do little to alleviate the yearning he feels for his old
life, his family, and his girlfriend. The life he once lived now feels like a
distant dream, a ghost of a past he can never reclaim. The pain of losing them,
the feeling of being disconnected from his loved ones, stings sharply, a
constant reminder of what he has lost.
Compounding
this sense of loss is the heavy burden of remorse he carries for the drunk
driving accident he instigated, and the resultant death of a stranger. The
gravity of his wrongdoings weighs heavily on his conscience, a relentless
reminder of the irreversible damage he has caused.
This
punishment, he feels, is excessively severe for his mistakes. It's not the
physical discomfort or the daily inconveniences that torment him, but the
psychological toll of his situation. The fact that it appears to be a life
sentence, a permanent state of existence from which he can find no respite, is
what truly devastates him.
With a
heavy sigh escaping his lips, he manages to etch a small, resigned smile onto
his face. He is fully aware that the peculiar situation he finds himself in
isn't a product of Angela's doing. On the contrary, she has been nothing but a
beacon of kindness in his altered world. When considered against the potential
mistreatment he could have faced at the hands of other 'shrinkee' buyers,
Angela, in her compassionate demeanor, may very well have saved him from a
universe of torment and disregard. With this thought, he gathers the scattered
pieces of his mind, pulling himself together. He looks up at her towering form
and calls out a simple "Morning," his voice resonating in the quiet
early morning air, a tiny ripple in the serenity of their shared existence.
Angela,
turned her gaze downwards towards the minute figure of Andrew, her affection
for him radiating in the warm smile that curled her lips. With a careful
motion, she slipped her bookmark between the pages of the gripping novel she
had been engrossed in, preserving the intrigue of the story for later. She then
proceeded to close the book with a soft thud, the sound resonating through the
quiet room, before settling it on the nightstand that towered over Andrew.
"Finally
decided to rise from your slumber, huh? You do realise its eleven a.m., and on
a Saturday no less," she teased, her voice enveloping the room like a
melodic hum, magnified by her size and overpowering Andrew's small stature.
Gracefully, Angela shifted from her seated position, her movements careful and
calculated as she navigated the vast expanse of the bed. She slipped under the
covers, the rustle of the fabric echoing like whispers in the room to Andrew,
and pulled them up to her chin. She then nestled her head onto her own pillow,
her face now a landscape sprawling before Andrew's eyes.
From his
perspective, Andrew was awarded an intimate view of Angela's face. Each detail
was magnified due to his tiny size - her skin, no longer a smooth canvas, but a
vast terrain of textures and patterns; every wrinkle, a deep crevice carved by
time around her eyes, cheeks, nose, and lips, serving as a testament to her age
and life experience. Her beauty was mature and refined, a stark contrast that
was not conventionally attractive to someone his minuscule size. "Yeah
well, if you didn't snore as much," he retorted playfully, his voice
barely a whisper in comparison to her resonant laughter.
Angela’s
ensuing laughter filled the room, bouncing off the walls and creating an echo
that Andrew couldn't escape from. She exhaled an apologetic "Sorry,"
her morning breath washing over him like a tidal wave, a sensation amplified.
Andrew's face contorted in disgust, his miniature features scrunching up at the
overwhelming scent. "You need to brush," he stated flatly, his words
floating in the air between them, the silence magnifying their impact.
At his
blunt statement, Angela recoiled slightly, her face blooming into a blush of
embarrassment. It was a sight that was not lost on Andrew, given their close
proximity. She was still acclimating to the frankness of his bite-sized
commentary.
In a
gentle display of compliance, Angela averted her gaze from his miniature form,
her face turning gracefully to the side. A sigh, soft as a whisper, escaped
from her lips, the sound filling the quiet space between them. Her eyes hid
beneath the curtain of her eyelids, concealing the playful roll of her eyes.
"All righty, time to get up," she announced, her voice imbued with a
hint of playful exasperation, a subtle testament to her affection for him.
With
deliberate slowness, Angela shifted her body, the softness of the mattress
yielding under her weight as she carefully navigated to a seated position. She
attempted to mimic his youthful charm, her movements infused with a playful
energy that was somewhat stunted by his unexpected retort.
Her right
hand, an elegant and elongated extension of her arm, began its slow descent
towards him. With her palm turned upwards, she offered an open invitation to
him, a gesture that was now a part of their daily routine. Her fingers, each a
towering structure from his perspective, gently curled inwards to form a safe
and secure cradle. The surface of her palm, a vast expanse of creased lines and
warm skin, was a sight he had become intimately familiar with through their
constant interaction.
From his
diminutive viewpoint, Andrew surveyed the landscape of her upturned palm. Every
line etched into her skin appeared as a vast ravine, each unique contour a
testament to her life journey. This sight, initially daunting in its magnified
size, had gradually transformed into a constant in his abruptly altered
reality.
He moved
towards her waiting hand. His bare feet, minuscule in comparison, pressed into
the warm, yielding surface of her palm. It was a sensation he had grown
accustomed to, a strange melding of warmth and security, underscored by a faint
hint of anxiety.
As he
settled into the cradle of her palm, he was once again struck by the stark
disparity of their dimensions. His gaze traveled across every detail of her
palm, drinking in the sight that had become a familiar view.
With a
gentle but firm grip, Angela delicately lifted Andrew from the soft expanse of
her bed. His tiny form was cradled in her gigantic hand, a sight that never
ceased to amaze him. Suddenly, his world shifted as Angela placed him into the
breast pocket of her pyjamas, right above her left breast. This unexpected
relocation left Andrew in a state of surprise and confusion, as he found
himself nestled against the warmth of her body in a manner they hadn't explored
before.
His small
stature was entirely engulfed by the overwhelming depth of the pocket, leaving
him ensconced in a snug sanctuary of fabric. Directly beneath him was the
unexpected firmness of Angela's nipple, a detail that sparked a sudden jolt of
awareness in him. This entirely new and unexpected sensation sent a wave of
discomfort mingled with a trace of arousal through his tiny form.
In a
bizarre turn of events in his already extraordinary circumstances, he found
himself in an unintentionally intimate situation with Angela, a situation that
stirred feelings of both confusion and embarrassment within him. As a young
man, albeit of unusually small size, he was faced with a sexual situation he
had not anticipated nor desired. The intimacy of his position, snuggled against
a part of Angela's body that was usually private and reserved, left him feeling
incredibly vulnerable and exposed in ways he had never experienced before. His
cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and anxiety.
Unbeknownst
to him, Angela remained blissfully unaware of Andrew's internal turmoil. She
saw these interactions as opportunities to strengthen their unique bond. With
each passing day, she found herself growing more confident and daring, pushing
the boundaries of their relationship a little further. The control she held
over him, though not in a malicious sense, provided her with an exhilarating
sense of power.
While
Andrew was not a 'man' in the traditional sense, when he was undressed for
whatever reason, his lack of attire stirred something within Angela. His miniature,
muscular figure, despite its size, was undeniably masculine, and this intrigued
her. She found herself stealing glances at him, her eyes tracing the toned
contours of his small body. In her mind, she often imagined him as a full-sized
man, his miniature features magnified to match the men she had known before.
This unexpected curiosity was a testament to the unusual bond that was
developing between them, a bond that was beginning to blur the lines of their
platonic relationship.
With
Andrew safely tucked into her pocket, Angela began her morning routine. Each
footstep echoed like a thunderclap from Andrew's perspective as she crossed the
wooden floor of her room. The sensory experience was overwhelming for him;
every movement Angela made translated into a seismic event in his miniature
world.
The
journey from her bedroom to the bathroom, a simple task from Angela's
perspective, was a voyage filled with sensory overload for Andrew. Each step
she took resonated through her body, the vibrations carrying into Andrew's tiny
form, encapsulated in her pocket.
In this
unique circumstance, Andrew found himself hyper-aware of his surroundings.
Despite the absence of initial romantic interest in Angela, which was largely
attributed to their glaring differences in age and size, he was confronted by
an unexpected wave of arousal. This was an unforeseen reaction provoked more by
his unusual location, rather than any budding romantic sentiments towards
Angela.
Being in
such close contact with a part of Angela's body that was traditionally private,
left him feeling incredibly vulnerable and unduly exposed. His face flushed
with a blend of embarrassment and anxiety. This was Angela, the woman who had
become a constant in his drastically altered existence, a woman who was,
chronologically and physically, worlds apart from him. The realization that he
was experiencing a sexual repositioning towards her left him grappling with
feelings of unease and insecurity.
The
morning routine commenced with Angela's slender hand, a mammoth structure from
Andrew's perspective, dipping into her pocket. Finally, her fingers, each one
akin to an enormous tree trunk, gently closed around him and lifted him out of
his fabric confines.
Finally,
he was delicately placed down within the vast expanse of her porcelain sink.
From his perspective, the sink resembled a massive, white amphitheater, its
curved walls providing him with a semblance of privacy.
While
Angela positioned herself on the gigantic throne of her toilet, Andrew found
himself secluded within the sink. Angela's lower region was strategically
hidden from Andrew's line of sight, a fact that he silently appreciated. Their
morning rituals could proceed simultaneously, yet separately, within the
confines of their shared yet segregated space. Andrew, despite the absurdity of
the situation, found solace in the towering walls of the sink that offered him
some degree of seclusion.
However,
the silence was broken by the cacophony of sounds emanating from Angela's
toilet. The disconcerting splashes and trickles, amplified by the echo of the
bathroom tiles, filled his tiny ears. What should have been discreet, almost
inaudible sounds were transformed into a symphony of discomfort, a choir of
Angela's personal business unfolding just a few feet away from him. The sounds,
although muffled by the sink walls, were still clearly audible to Andrew, their
intensity magnified by the stark size difference between them.
Once
again, he found himself entangled in an unusual scenario, marking the third
such occurrence in a mere span of two days. Each experience left him
flabbergasted, an expression of bafflement permanently marking his face as he
endeavored to tune out the symphony of sounds filling the room. Angela's
reasoning for their close quarters was rooted in her worry for his safety. She
voiced concerns of potential dangers lurking in the form of a mouse or an
insect that might pose a threat to his diminutive size. This anxiety, however,
appeared baseless, especially considering the impeccable cleanliness that she
maintained throughout her home, leaving little room for such creatures to
exist.
Angela,
privy to her own subterfuge, was trying to blur the lines of their
unconventional coexistence. Each calculated move, no matter how bizarre, was
aimed at making Andrew more comfortable with her presence, slowly chipping away
at his defenses. She didn’t want boundaries, she yearned for a seamless
existence where their lives were intertwined, not out of necessity but out of
choice.
During
these moments, Angela’s gaze was always steadfastly fixed on the open bathroom
door, her towering silhouette protecting their shared space. Andrew, however,
was overwhelmed with embarrassment, his tiny face flushed with shame. This
unexpected proximity, coupled with the previous incident involving her nipple,
had propelled their relationship into unexplored territories. It was peculiar,
confounding, and somewhat unnerving.
Angela
found herself lost in a deep sea of thoughts, contemplating what her next move
should be. Her recent dive into the world of romance dramas and books had
stirred up a longing within her for deeper and more intimate connections in her
life. Andrew, despite his much smaller size, had unknowingly become the closest
semblance of that connection. The question that loomed in her mind was how to
navigate this new terrain.
Angela's
friend and neighbor, Cathy, seemed to handle such situations with ease, as
evidenced by an incident Angela witnessed a few weeks prior. After a morning
jog, Cathy had pulled out a shrinkee from between her breasts. Despite looking
unwell and being covered in sweat, the shrinkee seemed eager to interact with
Cathy, even though he couldn't speak English.
This
sparked an idea in Angela's mind - perhaps she could seek advice from Cathy.
However, as quickly as the thought appeared, she dismissed it. Angela wanted
this experience to be uniquely hers, defined by her own terms.
Fuelled
by a newfound determination, Angela steeled herself to put forward a suggestion
that was audacious in nature. The sound of the toilet flushing filled the room,
reverberating like thunder in Andrew's ears. Angela patiently waited for the
sound to dissipate, using the fading echoes as a countdown to her bold
proposition.
"Andrew,"
she began, her voice resounding around the room as she started to rise from the
toilet seat. As she did so, she pulled up her pyjamas. For Andrew, this simple
act was akin to watching a skyscraper rise. "I'll take the first shower.
However," she paused, the wavering tone of her voice betraying her nervousness,
"It would be significantly quicker if you… well… joined me. It would save
so much time instead of having to prepare a separate bath for you. Two birds
with one stone, right?" she proposed, her voice subtly trembling due to
the audacity of her suggestion.
Andrew
found himself rooted to the spot, all traces of the business he was handling
already obscured from Angela's sight. His lower jaw slackened, dropping in
disbelief as Angela's audacious suggestion echoed in his ears. Maybe it was
Angela's unwavering gentleness that had acted as a catalyst, sparking a radical
shift in Andrew's confidence that enabled him to confront the issue at hand. Or
perhaps it was the peculiar strain of intimacy that Angela seemed intent on
fostering with each passing day. Regardless of the cause, Andrew had reached
his breaking point. He was standing on the precipice of his patience, ready to
let his frustrations explode.
"No,
Angela... we need to talk. I can't deal with this shit any longer," he
roared. His voice, though miniscule in comparison to Angela's, was charged with
a potent mix of anger and frustration. The impact of his words was akin to a
detonated bomb, immediate and arresting. Angela froze, her movements stilled as
his charged words reverberated around the room.
"Okay..."
she replied, her tone heavy with defensiveness, a stark contrast to her usual
soothing timbre. She stood there, her gigantic form casting a long shadow over
the tiny man in her sink.
"This
is all just fucking weird," Andrew began, his voice trembling with barely
contained ire. "The constant touching, the kisses you keep trying to plant
on me, forcing me to share your bed night after night. You're thrusting me into
this bizarre intimacy, Angela. You're making me endure watching you go to the
bathroom in the same room. That’s just fucking over the line. And now, you want
me to shower with you?" He paused, letting the absurdity of her suggestion
permeate the stifling air between them.
"I've
just had an uncomfortably intimate view of your nipple, Angela. It was hard as
a rock, and don’t even try to feed me that bullshit about it being the cold.
This entire situation is just too fucking weird and uncomfortable. You're old
enough to be my damn mother, Angela. And look at you - you're physically a
hundred times my size. What the fuck are you hoping for here?”
The
frustration in his voice reached a fever pitch as he continued, “My life as I
knew it is fucking over. I'm not going to get a chance to go to college, to get
married, or to have kids of my own. I’ve been reduced to a glorified house pet
and you’re making every day more and more fucking uncomfortable. This is all
fucked... every last bit of it. I need some space, Angela. I need a semblance
of normalcy in this fucked-up existence," he declared, his tiny arms
cutting through the air to punctuate each heated statement.
His
miniature stature was a stark contrast to the enormity of his anger, a
testament to the magnitude of his struggle in navigating this bewildering, new
reality. He was a tiny man in a giant world, trying to assert his right to
personal space, privacy, and dignity. His words, though tiny in volume, echoed
loudly in the silent room, signalling the start of a crucial conversation about
boundaries in their unconventional coexistence.
Angela
was left reeling, his words striking her like a barrage of bullets, each one
piercing her deep-seated insecurities. The defensive walls she had carefully
constructed around herself started to rise higher, having been cornered this
way and made to feel like a deviant. Indeed, she was a tad offbeat, but she
didn’t deserve to be outright accused of being one, particularly by someone she
had rescued from a life of misery. She could sense her own anger beginning to
bubble up, his diminutive voice amplifying like a deafening thunderstorm in her
ears.
"How
fucking dare you!" She erupted, her voice a raging tempest of raw emotion.
"I've done nothing but look after you since you found yourself in this
house. I feed you, for God's sake, I even bought you clothes when you asked. I
work my ass off day in, day out to provide, and you have the audacity to throw
accusations at me when I am only trying to be kind!?"
The
reverberation of her words echoed like a warrior's battle cry in the confines
of the bathroom. The ceramic tiles amplified the sound, making it feel like she
was rebuking an entire battalion instead of one tiny man. It was a throwback to
the time she vented her fury on her cheating ex-husband, the wave of rage
washing over her again, demanding to be let out.
"You
don’t like it? Maybe you need a fucking reality check. You killed a person!
Whether it was an accident or not, you chose to drink and drive, you hit
someone, you robbed them of their existence! Stop acting like being with me is
the worst part of your punishment. Have you seen what some other 'shrinkees'
have to endure? How about I turn the channel to 'Small Warriors' later? Is that
what you want? More grotesque fights to the death, more bloodshed and murder in
your already pathetic life? What if I introduce you to some 'shrinkee' porn? Do
you fancy strapping on a wetsuit and diving up someone's filthy ass like a
living anal bead? I fucking saved you! I rescued you from an open market. I am
so fucking sorry for you that the dice was rolled and it landed on me… I must
seem like such a tyrannical bitch in comparison, huh?”
Angela's
tirade reverberated through the bathroom, her words echoing and bouncing off
the walls, each phrase a hammer blow that resonated in Andrew's minute ears.
Her towering anger painted a vivid picture, her words a testament to the size
difference between them. Her massive form seemed to fill the entire bathroom,
her anger turning it into a battleground.
“A...Angela…”
Andrew stuttered, his fear escalating with each echoing word of her tirade. He
was like a tiny mouse in the face of a roaring lioness.
"No,
fuck you, Andrew…you can just stay there. I need some fucking space."
Angela stormed out of the bathroom, her large footsteps causing small tremors
that were deeply felt by Andrew in the sink. The porcelain basin shook with
each of her steps, the water in it rippling with the vibrations.
He
watched her in stunned disbelief, shivering from the experience as she
disappeared from his view. His world shrunk down to the sink again as her
towering figure was no longer there to dominate it. Her voice echoed once more
from the other room. "Little asshole!"
Then
there was silence, a deafening quiet that filled the massive bathroom, leaving
Andrew standing there in the sink. His tiny form was dwarfed by the enormity of
his surroundings, his mind racing as he tried to fathom what had just
transpired. His heart pounded in his chest, the rapid beats a stark contrast to
the stillness around him. All that was left was the echo of her words, ringing
in his ears, and the lingering tremors of her footsteps.
In the
solitude of her living room, Cathy a middle-aged woman engages in a solitary
struggle against inertia. She is in her early 50s, her body bearing the marks
of time and weight gain. Every demanding sit-up she attempts is a silent
declaration of her unyielding determination and resilience. Her hair, short and
brown, rebels against any semblance of order - a wild reflection of her ongoing
internal and physical struggle.
She
carries a robust figure, a stark testament to a past defined by excess. Her
body, stout and heavy, narrates a story of indulgence, yet her present actions
paint a picture of resolve to rewrite her history. Standing at 5'6", her
stomach, large and protruding, is a fortress around her body, her ample breasts
equally prominent, both playing significant roles in her physical journey. They
shift uncomfortably with each strenuous sit-up, a dance of discomfort and
resistance against the inertia of her past and the societal status quo.
Her face
is a canvas of mature femininity, adorned with a daring shade of rosy-red
lipstick and a generous sweep of makeup. But beneath this artfully applied
mask, signs of her exertion are glaringly evident. Sweat carves glistening
paths down her face, slicing through the artifice of her makeup and revealing
the raw, unfiltered grit beneath. Each bead of perspiration is a testament to
her effort.
Despite
the physical strain and societal pressures, this woman is more than a mere
figure battling excess weight. She embodies determination, a living testament
to the power of will and the human spirit's ability to strive for change,
regardless of the daunting odds. Every sit-up she completes on her living room
floor, each bead of sweat that streaks down her face, is a symbol of a small
victory in her personal war against her weight. Amidst the hardship, her spirit
remains unbroken, her resolve unwavering. Her journey is not merely physical,
but a powerful testament to the human capacity for change and resilience.
Resting
just in front of Cathy's feet is a much younger, shrunken man in his early
30’s. Cathy, having claimed ownership over him, has since renamed him Johnny.
For nearly six months now, Johnny has been a part of Cathy's life, sharing her
space and becoming a constant presence in her routine.
Despite
his small size, Johnny is an adult man with a keen mind and a strong will. His
only attire is a small pair of underwear, a makeshift garment Cathy has
cleverly fashioned from a doll's clothing. This unique outfit, while seemingly
insignificant, serves as a daily reminder of his changed reality, the drastic
shift in his existence.
With
every push-up that Cathy attempts, a challenging feat that pushes her physical
limits, Johnny seems to be immersed in his own form of mental exercise. He
calls out in Chinese, counting each of Cathy's movements with a rhythmic chant.
“Ee… Are… San… Suh… Woo… Lio… Chi… Ba… Geo… Shuh!” Johnny's voice rings out to
Cathy.
In
response, Cathy only grins, her teeth exposed in a broad, triumphant smile.
Despite the physical strain, she finds a strange form of satisfaction in
Johnny's vocal accompaniment. However, she reminds him of his forced English
lessons. “English, Johnny!” she asserts, her voice firm yet laced with a hint
of amusement. Johnny merely sighs in response, his breath a quiet whisper of
discontent.
Johnny
harbors a deep resentment towards this woman, this oppressor, but Cathy remains
blissfully unaware of his true feelings. His behavior, a result of earlier
harsh treatment from Cathy, has triggered his survival instincts. This has led
to a subconscious reprogramming of his perspective of her, a defense mechanism
that masks his true emotions.
Despite
his inner turmoil, Johnny continues with his counting. "One… two… three…
four…” The words roll off his tongue, each syllable heavily influenced by his
Chinese accent. The counting continues, a rhythmic backdrop to Cathy's physical
exertions.
Suddenly,
the shrill ringtone of Cathy's phone slices through the rhythm of their joint
exercise session. Emanating from the nearby couch, the intrusive sound acts as
a harsh interruption. Cathy, in the midst of a demanding sit-up, finds herself
forced to halt her efforts. The interruption isn't just unwelcome; it's a
physical challenge.
"For
fuck's sake!" she mutters, her voice a growl of irritation. She's not just
upset about the distraction; the physical effort to rise from her exercise mat
is a daunting task due to her heavier build.
With a
grumble of frustration, Cathy begins the arduous task of heaving herself up
from the floor. Each movement is a struggle, her body protesting against the
sudden change. Her substantial weight, makes the seemingly simple act of
standing a strenuous exercise in itself.
Her
footsteps thump heavily on the floor as she stomps towards the disruptive
device, the floor seeming to quake under her weight. Each step is a herculean
effort due to her exhaustion, the impact of her substantial footfalls echoing
through the room. The vibrations deeply resonate with tiny Johnny, his world
shaking with each of Cathy's thunderous steps.
On the
other end of the phone, Cathy is met with the distressing sound of sobs. The
voice is unmistakable, the familiar cadence of Angela's voice, now marred by
the unmistakable tremor of tears. "Hello?" comes Angela's barely
recognizable greeting, her voice shaky and punctuated by a cascade of sniffles.
"Hey
Angie, are you okay, darling?" Cathy's voice is a soothing balm, laced
with genuine concern. She attempts to infuse her tone with comforting warmth,
the soft modulation of her voice designed to offer solace through the
impersonal medium of a phone call.
"I'm...
I'm okay," Angela manages to stammer out, her voice feeble and fraught
with emotion. She takes a moment to compose herself before she continues,
"I'm in my car right now because... because I didn't want Andrew to
hear," she reveals, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Cathy's
brows furrow in confusion at the mention of this unfamiliar name. Andrew? Her
mind races, sifting through previous conversations, trying to place the
context. Then, like a lightbulb flickering on, she recalls Angela's passing
mention of a shrunken man a few weeks ago. "You mean your shrinkee? Why
don't you want him to hear?" Cathy asks, her confusion evident in her
voice.
The
conversation then veers into deeper waters, Angela beginning to unravel the details
of the incident that occurred in her bathroom between her and Andrew. The
sobbing that had punctuated Angela's words when Cathy first picked up the call
had gradually subsided, but the tremor in Angela's voice still echoed her
distress.
Cathy,
despite finding the situation involving a shrunken man somewhat ludicrous,
makes a conscious effort to maintain an empathetic tone. She recognizes the
significance of this issue to Angela, understanding that her friend is
grappling with a unique predicament that most would find baffling. She lends a
patient ear as Angela recounts her story, waiting for her to find the words and
gather her thoughts before stepping in with a possible solution.
"So
you see, I think I need help. I don’t know what to do and you seem to have more
experience with this," Angela finally manages to declare, her voice
trembling slightly with the enormity of her admission. Cathy's lips curl into a
slight smirk at this, a hidden spark of interest ignited at the prospect of a
new playmate. "Not a problem, Darling. Here's an idea, why don’t you give
the little bastard to me for a while? A week at most. I’ll sort him out,” she
suggests, her voice laced with an eagerness that is hard to ignore.
"Ugh,
I don’t know, I mean….” Angela begins, her voice wavering with uncertainty and
apprehension before Cathy swiftly cuts her off. “Angela, enough already! He’s a
shrinkee and here you are letting him have the upper hand. It's just like that
prick of an ex-husband of yours all over again, only this time, you’re being
bossed around by someone far smaller. We’ve spoken about this before… you are
stronger than this. Listen to me… hand the little guy over, it’s for his own
good anyway, or do you want this bullshit to continue? I can even share some websites
I found quite informative about how to handle such little devils if he
continues to cause trouble without my intervention. You just focus on that for
a week and leave him to me. You got it?” she demands, her dominating tone
bulldozing over Angela’s insecure refusal, leaving little room for further
debate.
“Okay…. I
guess you're right. I think I do need the space anyway. It’s for his own good
anyway, right? What if things don’t work out and he ends up with someone far
worse?” Angela tries to rationalize, her voice filled with worry and a hint of
resignation. “Absolutely!” Cathy encourages Angela as soon as she hears the
first sign of Angela bending to her will, her voice filled with a triumphant
satisfaction.
"Listen,
Love, I'm about to head over. Prepare yourself and set the kettle to boil. I'm
in dire need of a coffee. I'll bring Johnny along with me. Perhaps they could
even become friends!" Cathy announces with excitement, her tone crackling
with anticipation. As she talks on the phone, she slips her feet into her
shoes, a task that involves a slight struggle due to her substantial build.
Johnny, who was sitting on the floor, hears his new name but fails to grasp the
details of the conversation. As he watches Cathy grapple with her shoes, he
tenses up, steeling himself for what lies ahead. He knows if she's stepping
out, he'll be going along, wedged uncomfortably between her perspiring breasts.
His mind races, trying to rationalize how a debt led him to this predicament—a
debt he had long since paid off by satisfying this gargantuan woman. He'd give
anything to escape this living nightmare.
Cathy's
conversation on the phone is a muted murmur to Johnny, but her body language
indicates she's attempting to wrap up the call. "Okay, okay, I got it…
three square meals a day, right… I got it. I'm hanging up now; I'll be there in
ten minutes," she asserts, ending the call. "Yeah right, he'll eat if
he deserve to," she chuckles to herself, her laughter echoing ominously
around the room as she bends down to pick up Johnny.
Johnny,
dwarfed by the enormity of his surroundings, can only stare upwards as Cathy's
massive hand descends towards him. From his perspective, it appears like a
colossal dragon's claw, the skin etched with lines and crinkles that tell tales
of time and struggles. The hand, seeming larger with each passing second,
engulfs his field of vision completely. The fingers, each one resembling a
huge, fleshy pillar, curl inwards, ready to scoop him up.
For what
felt like an eternity but was in reality just under an hour, Andrew found
himself trapped in the confines of the sink. He had tried to get Angela's
attention, his voice rising in desperate pleas, but it seemed as if his calls
fell on deaf ears. The stark absurdity of his situation was not lost on him. He
was a grown man, albeit six inches tall, stuck in a sink. This was far from
normal, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration at the
ridiculousness of it all.
His
outburst earlier had been a release of pent-up emotions, and he felt entirely
justified in expressing his dismay. Angela had tried to reason with him,
pointing out the potential dangers and difficulties that someone of his size
could face, but her arguments did little to quell his outrage. To him, her
reasoning seemed flawed, her logic fragmented. He was left grappling with a
situation he had no idea how to navigate. After all, how could he? This was
uncharted territory for him.
He had
never seen Angela lose her cool before, always regarding her as a calm and
composed individual. But the sudden shift in her demeanor, the fiery anger that
erupted from her, frightened him. It was a side of her he had never seen, and
it sent a chill down his spine. The question that gnawed at him was - how was he
supposed to take control of the situation in his diminished size? He felt
powerless, a stark contrast to the control he would have had if he were his
original size.
In
retrospect, he realized he should have approached the situation with more tact.
He should have taken a step back, analyzed his new position, and addressed his
grievances in a calm and collected manner. But he had let his emotions get the
better of him, and now he was paying the price. He berated himself, calling
himself an idiot for not thinking things through.
Suddenly,
Andrew's attention was abruptly diverted by the distinct chime of a doorbell,
its sound spreading across the vast expanse of Angela's home. Although his
vision was hindered by the high walls of the sink, his other senses were acutely
aware of the changes transpiring in his environment. He picked up on different
sounds – the murmur of voices, Angela's being one among them and the other
belonging to a stranger he didn't recognize, another woman. His curiosity
piqued, he strained his ears, attempting to decipher their conversation from
his isolated location. His eyes widened slightly when his own name punctuated
their dialogue, sparking a surge of apprehension within him.
He
detected the sound of a door closing, followed by several others. The
succession of sounds created an auditory barrier, causing the distant voices of
the towering women to become muffled and incoherent. Frustrated and anxious,
Andrew yelled out, "Angela!” His plea for attention, however, went
unheard, swallowed up by the grand scale of the house.
His mind
raced, trying to piece together the unfolding events. What was going on? Why
was Angela talking about him to a stranger? He yearned for answers, a desire
that soon morphed into an urgent need. As the minutes ticked by, his
nervousness escalated, amplified by the ominous undertone that the situation
carried. The feeling gripped him, gnawing at his sanity, as he continued to
grapple with the escalating tension and uncertainty.
After
what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only about an hour, Andrew found
himself still trapped within the confines of the sink. His tiny body was
dwarfed by the glossy ceramic basin, making him look even smaller than his
six-inch stature. As he sat there, he couldn't help but berate himself for his
earlier choices. Why hadn't he just agreed to join Angela in the shower?
Granted, she was considerably older than him, and her massive size made her
seem like a titan compared to his minuscule form. But agreeing to her
proposition would have spared him from the absurd and uncomfortable situation
he currently found himself in. He chastised himself internally, promising to
make more intelligent decisions in the future.
Suddenly,
his musings were interrupted by the distant creak of doors opening, followed by
the foreboding echo of heavy footsteps. The sound grew louder with each passing
second, causing a wave of anxiety to wash over him. Soon, the source of the
sound came into view. A woman, even older than Angela, appeared before him. Her
hair was styled in a brown 'Karen' cut, and her face was caked with an
excessive amount of makeup. She was clad in a tight jogging suit that seemed to
be straining against the enormous mass of fat it was tasked to contain.
"There you are..." her voice resounded, the deep timbre echoing off
the bathroom walls and making Andrew flinch in fear.
The
woman, Cathy, closed the bathroom door behind her with a resounding thud. The
sound sent a shiver down his spine, amplifying his growing sense of dread. The
click of the lock was deafening in the silence that followed. This could not be
good for him. Cathy then began to move towards the toilet, casually dropping
her jogging pants and underwear along the way. Her nonchalant nudity was
disconcerting, but due to the high walls of the sink, Andrew was spared from
the explicit view.
With a
grunt, Cathy lowered herself onto the toilet, her ogre-like silhouette looming
ominously over him. "Ready to spend some time with Aunty Cathy?" she
asked, her voice reverberating through the bathroom and causing a chill to run
down his spine.
What
transpired next was an all-out assault on Andrew's senses. The guttural sound
of Cathy straining echoed in the small bathroom, followed by a splash that was
sickeningly loud. The sound was horrifying, made all the more grotesque by the
fact that whatever had caused it was larger than he was. Andrew could feel his
face blanch, the grim reality of his predicament hitting him like a ton of
bricks. This was definitely not good for him!
Summoning
what little courage he had left, he managed to squeak out a question.
"Where's Angela..." The words barely escaped his lips, his voice
shaky and fraught with terror. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion,
desperately trying to make sense of the horrifying situation unfolding before
him.
"Where
is Angela?" Cathy snarled, repeating Andrew's question with a cruel twist.
Her voice was a cold echo, bouncing off the sterile bathroom tiles. "Your
dear Angela has hidden herself in another room, darling. It appears she's grown
tired, fed up with your unending, tiresome antics," she retorted, a
malicious smirk contorting her heavily made-up face. Her gaze bore into him,
eyes gleaming with a wicked delight. "So, it seems you're stuck with me
for a while. At least until your dear Angela recovers from the emotional trauma
you so thoughtlessly inflicted upon her. We're going to have quite an
'interesting' time, you and I. An experience you'll not soon forget."
As she
spoke, Cathy carried on with her distasteful actions, her straining efforts
culminating in an even larger, repugnant deposit into the toilet. The
nauseating smell rapidly filled the room, a putrid aroma that seemed to seep
into every corner of the confined space. The stench was so potent, so overwhelming,
that it brutalised Andrew's senses, causing his stomach to revolt in disgust.
Unable to restrain himself, he gagged, vomiting into the sink - his stomach
churning and empty.
Cathy
watched his discomfort with a perverse amusement. The sight of him, weakened
and retching, seemed to amuse her in a terrifying way. "I'm going to have
to teach you some manners, my dear," she growled, her voice deep and
harsh, each word seeping with twisted anticipation. "I can't wait to start
this 'correction course' of yours. You'll learn, I promise you... either
willingly or kicking and screaming. Your choice makes no difference to me.
Either way, you're going to change."
Having
finished her business, Cathy reached for the toilet paper. She ripped some off
from the nearby roll, proceeding to clean herself with a calculated nonchalance
that was startling. Each movement was deliberate, almost mechanical, as she
completed her task without a hint of embarrassment. Andrew, however, was too
consumed with his own discomfort and dread to register the scene. He was caught
in the fierce grip of fear, his mind spinning out of control as he struggled to
process Cathy's chilling words. His impending fate loomed over him, a dark
shadow that threatened to consume him entirely.
Cathy,
having finally brought her distasteful act to a conclusion, lifted herself with
a certain level of satisfaction from the chair she had been occupying. A
self-satisfied sigh, rich with the undertones of her triumph, filled the air,
creating a palpable tension. Her hands began a slow journey up the expanse of
her substantial body, tugging her worn-out pants up over her ample figure, an
action that spoke volumes of her disregard for decorum.
Her
voice, as harsh and cruel as a winter's gale, sliced through the thick veil of
silence that had enshrouded the room, carrying with it a chilling message.
"I know about the enhancements they gave you when they shrunk you. More
resilient, aren't you?" Her words were a declaration of war, a statement
of intent that she was not to be trifled with. "Good. It means I don't
have to treat you like porcelain. I can take off the kid gloves when dealing
with you." Her threat hung in the air, like a guillotine blade waiting to
fall, marking the beginning of a new, harsher chapter in their relationship.
"And the time to start," she added ominously, "is now."
At the
moment of her declaration, her colossal hand embarked on its downward journey
towards Andrew. The sight of her ominous hand, a shadow that dominated the
room, completely eclipsing the bathroom's harsh artificial light, was all he
could see. The hand was a horrifying spectacle. The skin was rougher and more
weathered than Angela's, the coarse texture of the surface rendered so by years
of strenuous use. Tiny beads of perspiration glistened on her skin, a result of
her physical exertions on Angela’s toilet.
His heart
was a drum in his chest, each beat accentuated and amplified, echoing the
pulsating terror that held him captive. He had known fear before, in its many
forms and disguises, particularly during his tenure at Micro Exotic Inc, but
this was an entirely different beast. This was a new, more insidious kind of
fear that had taken root in his psyche. It was the fear of an imminent,
tangible threat, the fear of the physical consequence of an action. A threat
whose intensity was magnified exponentially by the vast size difference between
them. A primal instinct within him screamed to run, to put as much distance
between him and the threat as possible, but he found himself rooted in place.
His legs, as if they had a mind of their own, adamantly refused to obey the
frantic commands of his mind.
Cathy's
monstrous hand, large and menacing, wrapped around him, her fingers closing in
a vice-like grip that was as unyielding as steel. In an act of terrifying
dominance, she began to lift him out of the stainless steel sink, his ascent
prolonged by her deliberately slow and calculated pace. Each agonizing second
of the slow rise, like a roller coaster inching towards its apex, intensified
the ice-cold dread coursing through his veins, a sensation akin to being
hunted.
As if
toying with her prey, she squeezed him, not with the intention to cause
immediate injury, but just enough to force the air out of his already
constricted lungs. His breath hitched in his throat, a desperate gasp stuck in
suspension, the crushing pressure of her grip sending jolts of blind panic
through his body, making every nerve scream in terror. The world around him
became a blur, narrowed down to the horrifying reality of his predicament.
Andrew
could only manage a stifled gasp, a sound choked by his sudden, unexpected
struggle for breath. His chest tightened, his windpipe seemed to constrict, as
if the very air around him had turned against him. He could feel the cruel
satisfaction radiating from her in waves, her twisted delight in his discomfort
palpable and chilling. Her eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, her lips curved
into a cruel, taunting smile that was more a sneer than anything else. It was a
smile that seemed to say, "I have you now," and it sent a shiver down
his spine. As she navigated her way out of the compact, steam-filled bathroom,
her captive remained clutched securely in her unforgiving grip. Her fingers dug
into his arm, a painful exclamation point to his predicament. She moved with an
air of triumphant victory, leaving him in a state of powerless despair.
Engulfed
in the soft comfort of her living room couch, Angela found herself lost in a
tumult of thoughts, completely oblivious to the ordeal unfolding for Andrew in
the confines of her bathroom. The bitter tang of guilt gnawed at her, the fact
that she couldn’t manage this predicament on her own weighing heavily on her
conscience. She was forced to seek help from Cathy, but perhaps it was the
right course of action? Was it possible that her own deficiencies had brought
about this situation? Could she, in some way, be held responsible for this?
She
cradled her coffee cup, the warm liquid flowing slowly down her throat as she
contemplated these distressing thoughts. She acknowledged the fact that she had
to make a change, to become better. It was only a matter of a week, she reminded
herself. Shrinkies, as they were called, were small and fragile beings, their
vulnerability reminding her of young children. They required discipline to
thrive, a fact that Cathy had expounded upon with convincing arguments.
Angela
knew she had to muster her strength and determination, to fortify her resolve.
If she faltered, she was doing a disservice to Andrew. Cathy had made a
promise, a guarantee that when Andrew returned, he would be a different person,
transformed by the experience. This was a reciprocal relationship, she mused, a
dynamic interaction between two individuals. She couldn’t afford to stay
stagnant, to remain the same Angela. She had to evolve, to transform, just as
Andrew would.
Cathy,
after spending a significant amount of time in the other room, made her careful
way back into the spacious, well-lit living room. Angela sat there, her posture
relaxed, each woman sharing a warm, genuine smile with the other.
Cathy's
voice echoed slightly in the room as she called out, “So, see you in a week
then, Darling?” Andrew, still firmly held in her unyielding grip, found himself
incapable of uttering a single word, with Cathy’s slightly sweaty,
callous-marked index finger wrapped around his mouth like an unconventional
gag.
Angela’s
voice was full of gratitude as she responded, “Sure, Cathy… and thank you so
much for this. I’ll definitely visit those websites you mentioned. You really
are an angel in my life.” Angela said, standing up from the comfortable chair
to accompany her friend to the door.
Cathy,
with her trademark charm, leaned in, pressing a lipstick-stained kiss on
Angela’s cheek. “Any time, Love, just leave the little troublemaker to me. I’ll
handle him.” she assured, her smile warm and encouraging. Both women then
embarked on a slow, leisurely walk towards Angela’s elegantly carved front
door.
As Angela
held open the door for Cathy, she gave her friend a nod filled with thanks.
“Call me yeah?” she asked, her voice tinged with a hint of necessary
reassurance. “Of course.” Cathy promised, her voice ringing with sincerity, as
she stepped out onto the sunlit porch.
Once the
door had closed softly behind her, Cathy sighed with a deep sense of
satisfaction, turning her head to take a leisurely look around the quiet,
peaceful neighbourhood. She wanted to make sure no one was around to witness
her next action, which was slightly unusual. With complete disregard for
convention, she reached up and, without a second's hesitation, stuffed Andrew
deep in-between the warm confines of her sweaty breasts, before she began to
jog lightly down the stone-built pathway.
Suddenly
and without warning, Andrew found himself ensnared in an environment that was
akin to a blistering, stifling inferno. He was wedged uncomfortably between
what felt like two enormous mounds of damp, quivering flesh, each one affected
by the inevitable pull of gravity that comes with aging. The aroma that
assaulted his senses was nothing short of stomach-churning, a potent mix of
sweat and the distinct musk that clung to aged skin, permeating his nostrils
and adhering to him like an unwanted second skin.
The
sensation of being enveloped in such a space was intense, akin to being trapped
within a damp, pulsating cocoon of sagging flesh. The skin that held him in its
damp embrace was not the firm, youthful skin he was accustomed to, but rather,
a weathered and aged canvas of wrinkles and fine lines. Each crease, a
sensation that sent shivers of revulsion coursing down his spine, painting a
grim portrait of his horrifying predicament.
Amidst
this disconcerting experience, he was made aware of another sensation.
Something that was markedly different from the soft, yielding flesh that
imprisoned him. It was something less pliant, more solid, a foreign entity that
seemed to possess a life of its own within the suffocating confines of Cathy’s
chest. This realization, this understanding of an alien presence, sent a fresh
wave of panic coursing through him, awakening him to the chilling truth that he
was not alone in this oppressive darkness.
Straining
his ears, he caught the faintest trace of muffled, indecipherable words. He
strained harder, desperate to glean any meaning from the unintelligible sounds,
but they remained elusive. Their true sense, their actual meaning, was masked
by the steady, rhythmic throb of Cathy’s heartbeat; a sound that seemed to echo
from the depths of her body, and the damp, sagging embrace of the flesh that
encased him.
The harsh
reality of his predicament hit him like a punch to the gut, the initial shock
giving way to a raw, gnawing fear, as raw and gnawing as the aged sweaty skin
that held him captive. He tried to voice his terror, to cry out for help, but
the soft, damp prison of flesh swallowed his screams, rendering them silent.
The relentless drumming of Cathy’s heartbeat echoed ominously around him, a
cruel metronome that marked the passing seconds of his grim ordeal.
As Cathy
jogged down the path, she was blissfully unaware of her surroundings. Despite
the unusual circumstance of having two shrunken individuals nestled securely
between her breasts, she was unperturbed. The rhythmic thud of her feet against
the pavement accompanied her thoughts, which were preoccupied with the
delightful prospects awaiting her at home. Her imagination was already painting
vibrant pictures of the entertaining scenarios that would unfold, adding a
spring to her steps. The world around her seemed to fade into the background,
its mundane reality eclipsed by her exhilarating expectations.
Suddenly,
her tranquil reverie was interrupted by the distinct sensation of her phone
vibrating. The rhythmic pulsations spread through the fabric of her jogging
pants, pulling her back into the present moment. With a swift motion, she
reached into her back pocket, her fingers closing around the familiar shape of
her phone.
Isabelle,
a commanding and powerful figure, reclines leisurely on her untidy bed in a
state of undress. Her colossal frame, a testament to her unique lifestyle,
stretches across the full surface of her bed, making the furniture seem
diminutive in comparison. Her sheer enormity is such that it overshadows even
Cathy, her mother, who is an equally formidable presence in her own right. At a
towering height of 6’1, Isabelle's body sprawls across the length of her bed in
a display of unapologetic dominance.
Her ample
bosom sags heavily on either side of her, their surfaces etched with a network
of stretch marks that spread across the vast landscape of her 400-pound form.
These are the battle scars of her body, testaments to a life lived on her own
terms, without bowing to societal norms of beauty or health. Her skin is a
tapestry of a life lived in defiance of societal expectations. A myriad of
stretch marks, an unruly growth of body hair, an array of skin tags and moles,
and patches of rough, crusty skin collectively paint a raw, unfiltered picture
of her unconventional lifestyle, characterized by disregard for traditional
hygiene norms, an unhealthy diet, and complete indifference towards self-care.
However,
amidst this chaotic canvas, there are elements of her appearance that she
meticulously maintains. Her arms, for instance, serve as a gallery for a
collection of tattoos, each representing a different metal music band,
reflecting her passion for the genre. She also attentively maintains the
piercings that adorn her nose and ears, injecting a touch of rebelliousness
into her unconventional look. Her short, black hair, which is styled in a
haphazard fashion and shaved short at the sides, further enhances her distinctive
appearance.
Isabelle's
living quarters serve as a mirror image of her disorderly and chaotic
lifestyle. The room is strewn with the remnants of her most recent meals -
takeaway containers in various stages of decomposition and empty soda bottles
discarded carelessly. The air within the room is dense and heavy, carrying with
it a medley of odors that are far from pleasant. The stale tang of human sweat
permeates the space, mingling with the pungent stench of food that has long
since started to rot. Layered on top of these odors is the musty, earthy smell
of grime that has been allowed to build up over time, as well as the
unmistakable sharp, sweet aroma of freshly smoked marijuana.
Despite
the state of her surroundings, Isabelle remains utterly unperturbed. She is
caught in the throes of pleasure, her voluptuous face distorted into an
unmistakable expression of lust. A low, guttural groan escapes from her lips,
the sound echoing throughout the room. Her chubby toes curl in delight, a
physical manifestation of the pleasure coursing through her body.
In one
swift, practiced motion, she lifts the copious folds of her stomach to reveal
the hidden area between her legs. It is here that a tiny man named Kevin has
taken up residence, a small oasis of calm and order amidst the chaos of
Isabelle's life.
Kevin, a
man who once stood tall and proud, had now been diminished to a mere five
inches in height. He was barely discernible amidst the shadowy recess that
formed beneath Isabelle's first stomach fold. The sudden and unexpected lifting
of the fold introduced a sliver of light into his dark world, a fleeting beacon
of hope against the shroud of darkness that had enveloped him for the better
part of an hour.
Once upon
a time, Kevin was a handsome man in the prime of his mid-twenties. He was known
far and wide for his long, sun-kissed blond hair and an athletic build that
exuded strength and vitality. These were the features that drove women wild
with desire, pulling them towards him like moths to a flame. But now, he was
merely a shrunken version of his former self.
His
once-toned physique was showing signs of early weight gain, a direct result of
a diet that consisted solely of junk food. His once radiant skin had lost its
glow, turning a sickly pale from a severe lack of sunlight. He belonged solely
and entirely to Isabelle, his world now confined to the shadowy realm beneath
her folds.
His tiny
feet were lodged securely within the fatty crevices of her buttocks. This
provided him with a measure of stability, a firm footing that allowed him to
perform his duty amidst a pool of her sexual fluids. Despite the drastic
changes in his life, Kevin realized that he had a role to play, and he was
resolved to play it to the best of his abilities. It could always get worse…
In the
swirling vortex of the moment, a sound slices through the air, as sharp and
clear as a knife through butter. It's Isabelle's voice, a resonant melody that
echoes through the space. Her words, as always, are laced with a mixture of
affection, gamer terminology and profanity, a unique blend that seems to
perfectly encapsulate her character.
"Hey,
hit the pause button," she instructs, her tone firm but not unkind. Her
words are a command, a directive, yet there's a softness to her voice that
belies the harshness of her language. It's a dichotomy that Kevin has come to
associate with her - the harsh gamer lingo softened by the underlying affection
in her voice.
"I'm
about to call my mother," she continues, the casual mention of her mother
adding a touch of normalcy to the otherwise surreal situation. The image of
Isabelle, gargantuan in her size and unapologetic in her dominance, talking to
her mother while he was nestled between her legs was a prime example to the
bizarre reality of his existence.
"I've
levelled up three times now," she announces, gamer terminology slipping
effortlessly into her sentence as she refers to her climaxes. The words are a
reminder of the task he's been performing, a task that under any other
circumstances would be intimate, personal, yet here it was being narrated like
a game commentary.
"You
can take a breather," she permits, a concession that offers him a
momentary reprieve from his duties. The relief, though temporary, is a balm to
his overworked body, a short-lived respite in the otherwise relentless rhythm
of his existence.
"I
know it's like a level zero down there," she acknowledges, the gamer lingo
painting a vivid picture of the dark, enclosed space he's been inhabiting. But
then she issues another command, her words pushing him to action. "But
respawn, read the damn game chat."
Without
waiting for his response, she does something that sends his world into a
tailspin. She releases her stomach fold, a curtain of flesh that had been held
back only by her will. The fold crashes back down, a tidal wave of warm, damp
flesh that engulfs him, burying him in the depths once more.
He is
submerged in a world of flesh, fluid, and rough body hair, a sensory overload
that is as overwhelming as it is familiar. The world as he knows it narrows
down to this - the warm, moist enclave of Isabelle's body, a part of her yet
separate, an existence that is defined by her and yet inherently his own.
The call
is finally answered, the familiar voice of Isabelle’s mother resonating from
the other end of the line. Cathy, a loving and caring mother, is making her way
home, a home that is several states away from where Isabelle currently is. “My
darling, it's been such a long time since we last talked - a full week, to be
precise. Is everything okay at your end?” Cathy expressed her concern.
"Everything
is perfectly fine, Mom. I just decided it was time to check in with you. I do
have a favor to ask, if you can spare a moment," Isabelle responded over
the phone. Her tone was devoid of her usual profanity-laced gamer jargon. She
shifted uncomfortably, a sudden rumble in her stomach causing a fleeting
unease. The unease quickly escalated into a moment of embarrassing discomfort
as Isabelle inadvertently released a rather loud, ungraceful wet and blubbery
passing of gas. The odor that followed was strong and immediate, filling the
room like a noxious cloud.
Trapped
within this oppressive, stifling environment, Kevin was immediately assaulted
by an intense, overwhelming odor. The smell was a relentless wave of decay,
rolling over him with a force that seemed to penetrate every fiber of his
being. It was as if death itself had washed over him, evoking an instinctual
response that was as primitive as it was powerful.
He began
to thrash wildly in his confined space, his small form dwarfed by the
labyrinthine expanse of Isabelle's moist, flesh-filled folds and dense swathes
of body hair. Each movement was magnified by his minute size, transforming his
desperate writhing into a frantic, almost insect-like scramble for escape.
The odor
was a suffocating presence, an entity as tangible and overpowering as the damp,
flesh walls surrounding him. It seeped into his senses, filling his nostrils
and clinging to his skin. This oppressive stench fueled his desperation,
amplifying his fear and heightening his sense of urgency. With each passing
second, his need to escape the confining, stifling environment grew more acute,
driving him to push the limits of his small, fragile form. His world had
narrowed down to this - a desperate struggle for survival within the
suffocating confines of Isabelle's body.
On the
opposite end of the phone line, Isabelle’s mother responded. "Oh, and
what's that? I'm a bit tight on funds for a few days, darling," she said,
completely oblivious to the rather unusual predicament her daughter was
currently subjecting a 'shrinkee' to on the other side. It was an ordeal that
made the struggles of the two other shrinkees, tightly wedged between her own
perspiring breasts, seem pale in comparison.
As Kevin
writhed and fought within the cavernous folds of Isabelle's body, his frenzied
movements inadvertently provoked an all-too-familiar stirring within her. Sensing
her dormant desires starting to reawaken, Isabelle sprang into action. With a
swift flick of her thumb, she muted the ongoing phone conversation, relegating
it to the background of her immediate attention.
In the
same moment, her other hand reached down to hoist the voluminous layers of her
flesh, revealing the tiny, struggling form of Kevin. He was noticeably gagging,
his minute body convulsing in a futile attempt to expel the nauseating odor
that had assaulted his senses. The contrast between his minuscule figure,
battling amidst the vastness of her skin folds, and the perverse pleasure she
derived from this spectacle was jarring.
Kevin's
struggles, though seemingly insignificant given his small size, had a profound
impact. They disrupted the precarious balance that had held him lodged within
the moist crevices of Isabelle's body. His sudden release from this unnerving
perch sent him spiralling downwards, his tiny frame tumbling uncontrollably
until he landed with a small, echoing splash.
The
surface he crashed onto was far from dry or comforting. It was a slick, damp
patch on the mattress, soaked in the remnants of Isabelle's arousal, a
grotesque blending of their worlds where Isabelle's bodily fluids had seeped
into the fabric of her mattress. This formed a pool of wetness that now became
Kevin's new, unsettling environment.
The
overall experience was overwhelming for Kevin. His senses, already heightened
due to his reduced size, were bombarded with an array of sensations – the
suffocating dampness, the repulsive stench, the looming presence of Isabelle's
flesh. Each element amplified his feelings of terror and disgust, painting a
vivid picture of the horrifying ordeal he was subjected to.
"Enough,
you little shit! I didn't fucking mean that. Every dude's a fan of some
backdoor action, so just suck it up, you whiny noob. I told you my mother is on
the call you inconsiderate asshole!" Isabelle growled with an intensity
that made the room seem to vibrate.
She
released her grip on her enormous stomach roll, allowing it to descend in a
stomach-churning display of uncontrolled momentum. It crashed downwards with
the weight and force of a fleshy wrecking ball, the resonating smack of skin
against skin echoing ominously in the room. The sight was as mesmerizing as it
was horrifying, a testament to Isabelle's unapologetic self-indulgence.
However,
the impending impact didn't make contact with Kevin, much to his relief. The
protective layer of stretch marks and sores that crisscrossed her thighs like a
grotesque roadmap stood as a bulwark against the tumbling belly. These scars,
born from years of unhealthy living, now served as Kevin's shield, a barrier
that kept him safe from the descending mass of flesh.
In a
demonstration of a chilling lack of empathy, Isabelle slowly moved her hand
downwards towards her lower body. With an air of unsettling nonchalance, she
managed to lift one of her butt cheeks - a section of her body so large that
from Kevin's perspective, it was akin to shifting a mountain and hovering flesh
cloud as she shifted further down the bed, the shadow of her fleshy mass
draping over him. The ease with which she performed this action was unnerving,
a sheer display of her physical dominance. With an alarming disregard for
Kevin's comfort, she maneuvered him back under her, ensuring her own
convenience during the call.
His face
was met with an ungodly sight - her poorly cleaned anal cavity. It was a
horrifying spectacle, stained a deep, sickening brown from years and years of
neglect and improper hygiene. Her full, overwhelming weight descended with a
gradual inevitability, trapping the horrified shrinkee within her ass cheeks.
This was an enclosure that was far from welcoming.
Despite
Isabelle's best efforts, the task of cleaning such an area was far from
satisfactory. The vast expanse of her body made even the most mundane of tasks
a monumental chore. Kevin had been forced to endure unimaginable horrors with
Isabelle, but nothing could have prepared him for the gruesome reality of being
pinned beneath her by the slimy orifice.
The smell
was something that transcended the boundaries of normal sensory experience. It
was a cocktail of repugnant odors that seemed to assault Kevin from every
direction. Despite having grown accustomed to the many unpleasant scents that
clung to Isabelle’s body and home, this was a whole new level of revulsion. The
odor was a testament to years of neglect, a nauseating mix of stale sweat,
bodily waste, and a distinct musk that was uniquely Isabelle's.
To
Kevin's minute size, the experience was magnified tenfold. The nauseating
stench seemed to permeate every square inch of his tiny body, clinging to his
skin and infiltrating his nostrils. The damp, slick surface of her flesh
against his was an unsettling sensation, a constant reminder of his horrifying
predicament. His world, once vast and diverse, had now been reduced to this - a
damp, fetid prison of flesh and unimaginable odors.
As soon
as Kevin was taken care of, Isabelle was quick to unmute her phone. An easy lie
slipped past her lips to explain her brief silence. “Sorry Mom, I had a sneeze
building up and decided to spare you.” Isabelle's lie was more palatable than
revealing the grim reality. On the other end of the phone, Cathy blissfully
unaware of the bizarre circumstances her daughter was navigating - laughed.
“Oh, is that what happened? You had me worried there." The concern in her
voice was evident as she issued a warning, “I told you, clean your damn house
Darling, that’s what’s making you sneeze. I better not come visiting to find
the same mess I did last time.”
Isabelle’s
response came in the form of a scoff, a dismissive sound that echoed her
denial. Her eyes rolled dramatically, a clear representation of the massive
brat she personified. “It’s clean Mom…” Isabelle retorted, quickly changing the
subject, a bullet skilfully dodged "Now listen. You remember my best
friend Harley, right? Green hair, likes the same stuff I do…" She painted
a vivid picture of Harley. "She practically lives at the dispensary with
how often she goes there, yeah?"
Isabelle
paused for a moment, allowing the information to sink in, before she dropped
the bombshell. "Well, she has a shrinkee problem. It's become too much for
her to handle." The words hung in the air, a silent plea for help. Then
Isabelle added, "The only solution we could think of was you. Would you be
willing to tackle another one for me?” Isabelle's voice was hopeful as she
explained the situation, awaiting her mother's response.
Cathy's
lips, the color of a ripe peach, curled into an excited smile that spread
across her face, a face that was several states away from her daughter
Isabelle. This smile was not just a mere expression of joy, but a testament to
the thrill she felt. The wrinkles around her mouth, a proud display of her age
and wisdom, were enhanced by this broad smile. This was to be her third
shrinkee, and the prospect excited her. After all, three times the shrinkee
meant three times the delight.
"Why
of course, Darling," Cathy responded, her voice filled with enthusiasm,
"I always have time to lend a hand to another one in need." Her mind
wandered to Kevin, Isabelle's previous shrinkee. "I trust your little
Kevin is doing well? Oh, he was such a good boy, so obedient and well-behaved.
I miss his company, you know." Her words were laced with a tinge of
nostalgia.
"I'm
sure you haven't been forgetting to feed him," she continued, adding a
playful note of accusation to her tone. She had always taken the responsibility
of looking after the shrinkees quite seriously, and she expected Isabelle to do
the same. Cathy then decided to broach a slightly sensitive topic. "You
know, I've been thinking. Have you given any thought to that diet plan I
suggested some time ago? I must tell you, it's been working wonderfully for
me."
Cathy's
tone was gentle, considerate, as she broached the topic of her daughter's
weight. She was fully aware of Isabelle's feelings about her body image, yet
she felt it was a conversation that needed to be had. "There's a beautiful
girl under there, I promise you," she said, her words filled with love and
assurance. Unbeknownst to her, however, her daughter Isabelle was far from
appreciative of these sentiments.
Isabelle’s
weight shifted uncomfortably at her mother's words, the bed beneath her
protesting with a low groan as it took on her considerable mass. As if in
response, she clenched her anal muscles tightly, a brief sensation of Kevin
twitching beneath her serving as a reminder of his existence. He was fine. “I'm
treating him like a king,” she retorted, her tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.
“He's probably eating better than you are, for all you know.”
Isabelle
paused for a moment, her mind working quickly to gather her thoughts. She was
careful not to react in anger, despite the irritation simmering beneath her
calm facade. She needed something from her mother, after all, and it wouldn't
do to antagonize her. “We’ve been over this, Mom,” Isabelle finally responded.
Her voice held a certain level of defiance, a faint growl underlying her words.
“I am beautiful. Period. No ifs or buts about it.”
“I'm just
saying, dear…” Cathy's voice trailed off, the soft sound of her sigh carrying
across the phone line. She seemed about to say something else, but then thought
better of it. “I'm pulling up to the house now," she said instead, her
tone light. "I'll call you later, and you can fill me in on all the
details, okay?”
Cathy's
words hung heavily in the air, a promise of a conversation to be revisited
later, a conversation that Isabelle was not looking forward to. Then, the line
went dead, Cathy's voice receding into a profound silence that seemed to
reverberate around the room, bouncing off the walls and filling the space with
a dense, uncomfortable void.
Isabelle
remained there for a few moments longer, a silent storm of anger and resentment
brewing within her over her mother's uninvited comments about her weight.
Just as
she was about to lose herself in her thoughts, a desperate twitch from Kevin
reminded her of his existence. It was a timely reminder, perfectly timed as if
on cue. Reacting to his discomfort, her body rolled over and shifted upwards,
her enormous stomach folds moving like a colossal wave in slow motion to free
the tiny man trapped beneath her ass.
As soon
as he was released, Kevin immediately began gasping for breath. Any air, no
matter how stale or foul-smelling, was a welcome relief to replace what he’d
just ingested, it could not possibly be worse. Isabelle’s sweaty hand, large
and chubby, dug under herself to locate him. She pulled him out from beneath
her, her fingers wrapping around him easily.
She
glanced at him briefly, her eyes scanning his tiny form before her grip
loosened just enough to allow him to lean against her palm for support. Kevin,
meanwhile, struggled to his feet, his body still disoriented and fighting to
regain his senses.
As she
looked at him, she noticed some brown smears on his body – remnants of their
recent activities. Raising her other hand, she brought her thumb to her mouth,
sucking on it for a moment to wet the digit. Then she reached over and started
rubbing the damp tip of her thumb over his stains, a half-hearted attempt to
clean him up.
“Sorry
lover," she began, her tone a blend of apology and flirtation. "I
told you, that was my Mom on the phone. Sometimes, you just can’t help what the
body does. If you’d stayed put like a good little player, that wouldn’t have
happened." Her words were affectionate, her idea of an apology.
"But
anyway, I am feeling pretty shitty. My mom can be a real boss level bitch and I
am really needing to feel beautiful right now…" she trailed off before her
mood lifted slightly. "So, back to it. Round four, my little warrior!” she
laughed, her hand closing back over his form to guide him back to her
insatiable nether regions.
Despite
the recent unpleasantness, she was still in high spirits, the weed Harley got
her proving to be a reliable mood booster. "That weed Harley got was,
without a shadow of a doubt, the best shit..." she mumbled, her words
trailing off as she lost herself once more.