Chelsea Hanover strode down the empty hallway of the main university building, the rubber soles of her fiery red Converse shoes squeaking earnestly with each light step.  No one except the social hermits would be ridiculous enough to stay in the classrooms studying on a Friday night, leaving the building almost entirely empty.  Chelsea knew and relied on this fact.

            Passing by the school’s track and field trophy case, she gazed into her reflection.  She slid her fingers easily into the lush blonde jungle that made up her meticulously maintained hair, allowing a few extra curls to descend over her forehead.  Her white top seemed to have slid its way further up her body than she wanted, so she shimmied it further down until the crevice between her bulbous breasts was more clearly visible.  She smiled cheesily, running her slender tongue over her glistening ivory teeth and using it to poke at a tiny chunk of food between her molars.  She batted her profoundly azure eyes, and almost got lost in her own stunning gaze.  Finally, puckering her hauntingly hot pink lips and blowing a kiss to her own reflection, she sauntered off again.

            As usual, even feeling somewhat worn out from a long day of classes followed by cheer practice and a debate team meeting, she looked perkily perfect enough to catch and command the attention of even the legally blind.

            Of course, it wasn’t these common people Chelsea was interested in being noticed by.  With her almost-otherworldly flawless looks and ability to project liquid sensuality with every flick of her fingers or blink of her eye, the vast majority of the population was mere chicken feed to her. 

            Sure, she could have any of them she wanted in a second.  And she had in the past, not because she returned their mad sexual desires in any measure, but just because she knew she could.  But she had gone through most of that phase as a teenager and gotten bored of it.  She had indeed inherited the masterful lawyer genes of her father.  In many ways, she was far better than he would ever hope to be at it.

            At thirteen, she had finally accepted the pleading offers of courtship from the hottest guy in her middle school.  She would not let him touch her without express spoken permission, but was able to take great delight in kicking him in the crotch through his pants.  They stayed together for a year until she dumped him.

            At fifteen, she had successfully split up twelve different couples simply by sending out a mass sext.  After they had all dumped their girlfriends and came crawling back to Chelsea, she sent them all gratefully packing with a flick on the wrist.

            At sixteen, in a class she was in danger of failing, she was propositioned by the teacher for an exchange of sex for a passing grade of a D.  However, after about half an hour of negotiation, Chelsea had rearranged the terms such that the teacher got to suck on her toes, and in return would give her an A+ and $100.  She hadn’t had to remove a single piece of clothing except for a shoe.

            At eighteen, she had gone after one of the most politically and socially conservative senior girls in the high school who had organized a number of anti-gay rallies.  It was not out of a desire for women, but simply because she knew it could be done.  After two months of subtle coaxing and coy flirtations, Chelsea had driven her classmate to a state of near psychosis over longing, and the young woman begged her love to just let her kiss her once.  Chelsea obliged and, in the privacy of a bathroom stall, had yanked her pants down and ordered the young woman to run her tongue along the deepest crevice of her ass.  The girl had complied without hesitation, and when it was over, Chelsea had slapped her toy across the face, laughed, and never spoken to her again.

            Chelsea snickeerd smugly to herself, knowing the only downside of leading the life she did was that she couldn’t write a book on her exploits.  Although even if she did, she knew most people would assume it was anything from embellishment to downright fiction.  Yet every shred of it was true.  And these only scratched the surface.

            She felt no pity for these lost souls she used and then abandoned.  Most of their names and faces were already forgotten to her.  She wouldn’t have cared one way or the other whether they ceased to exist after she was finished with them.  So many of them were desperate that she knew it was reward enough for them to have had their existence acknowledged by her.  Lately, her previous games were all so easy that she lost interest in trying again.

            The situation had changed once Chelsea got her hands on a Portable Matter Reduction Device.  She’d known about them but decided the difficulty of acquiring an unlicensed one was far too much trouble.  Once she’d made a few connections at the school, though, the doors opened up to her. 

            Hers was personally retrofitted into her iPhone by a robotics prodigy also in his sophomore year at the university.  Of course, he had spent six months working on it for her, personally footed the bill for the unlicensed PMRD, and in return, she allowed him to spend five minutes kissing her abdomen.  Nothing above the bra strap and nothing below the belt.  She didn’t slap him once he was done, knowing she might need him to fix the device in the event of a hiccup, but she didn’t look him in the eyes again either.

            That encounter was a mere five hours before.

            And now, finally, phone in hand, Chelsea was on her way toward Professor James Brandel’s office.

            While waiting for her new trinket to be completed, Chelsea had spent long hours poring over a university yearbook, searching for the perfect first one to experience it.  At first she considered choosing the school’s top jocks, most of whom were a couple years older than her, but she soon realized this was going to be far too easy.  She was going to be playing the game at a whole new level now.

            Professor Brandel was kind, generous, and caring.  His eyes never darted onto the asses and breasts of girls in the class when they thought he wasn’t looking.  He had a beautiful family at home whom he referred to often in class as his meaning for living.  Most importantly, he worked late almost every night to help students struggling with material in the class.

            Chelsea knew he was the perfect choice.

            Finally, she stopped in front of his office at the very end of the hall, darkened partially because the ceiling fluorescent was out.  The door was cracked open slight, as it always was, to welcome students in.

            “Professor Brandel?” Chelsea whispered, pushing the door open and peering in.  “Can I talk to you?”

            Professor Brandel’s face lit up at the sight of Chelsea stepping through the door and saying his name.

            “Chelsea!  Great to see you.  What can I do for you?” he queried pleasantly, setting his pen and gradebook down as Chelsea slowly took a seat in front of his meager desk.  Despite his peppered gray hair, the professor’s cheerful demeanor and healthy lifestyle made him look younger than his fifty-one years.

            Chelsea brushed her fluttery skirt under her toned cheerleader’s thighs in the seat and settled in, leaning forward far enough in her chair that Brandel could’ve easily peeked down her shirt.

            For a moment, she watched his eyes, and saw them locked politely and confidently with her pupils, not wavering downward for a second.  So, clearing her throat, she sighed, “I just wanted to talk about some stuff in the class.”

            “Of course!  You must be one dedicated student to be in this building on a Friday night.   What would you like to talk about?  If you want, we could review some of Chapter 8 again from in class today.  I know that’s a tough subject for newcomers, and-” he continued excitedly, but Chelsea interrupted.

            “Actually, I had a question about you.”

            Brandel smiled sheepishly and blinked a few times, then nodded.  “About me, huh?  Trust me, I’m not nearly as interesting as some of the stuff we’re learning on Monday.”

            Chelsea giggled her classically adorable bubble gum laugh, which alone was often able to turn heads.  “I highly doubt that, Professor Brandel.”

            “You can call me James.  I like to think of the students here as adults.  After all, you are!”

            “Great.  James,” Chelsea repeated, slathering on the sultry charm when saying his name.  She emphasized it slowly and delicately, as though holding a chocolate on the tip of her tongue before swallowing it.

            “Yep, that’s it,” he answered, giving her a strange smile and leaning back in his chair.  “So, what is it you wanted to know?”

            “Your family,” Chelsea said, nodding toward a picture frame on the corner of the desk.  In it was Brandel with his arm around his wife and his young son and daughter standing in front of them in a yard.  “You love them, huh?”

            Brandel’s face lit up again in a smile as he picked up the frame, gazing sunnily at it.  “Oh, you know it.  I talk about them all the time in class, probably more than you guys care, but I just can’t help it, you know?”

            Chelsea had to keep herself from grinning devilishly and clapping her hands with satisfaction. 

            Now she had confirmation, and she knew exactly how this would go down.

            Admittedly, Chelsea was surprised that her tactics already hadn’t caused Brandel to sneak obvious peeks at her cleavage.  In fact, had she used these mannerisms on most other people in the university, they’d have already been preparing to proposition her for a one-night stand.  It was clear Brandel was not the same.  He would not cave in to the mere peripheral sight of a couple of breasts that would make the newest female porn talent jealous. 

            However, the promise of getting him to change his mind made it all the more fun, and if it took more severe measures, then so be it. 

            Besides, Chelsea acknowledged, she hadn’t been able to go all-out in a long time.

            Adjusting her spot in the seat, Chelsea subtly tugged at her shirt until another button came undone, allowing her tight breasts to push forward through the folds of cloth a few more precious centimeters.

            Brandel’s eyes flickered downward for a moment, but it seemed more out of notice of the action than in gazing, because he returned his attention to Chelsea’s face again, a slight look of confusion creeping into his countenance.

            “Oh, I get it.  Definitely.  Somebody who loves their family is awesome.  Commitment, caring, passion, all that.  People my age might actually call that kinda sexy,” Chelsea admitted as calmly as if she were discussing the local news.

            “Umm, all right, that’s… great,” Brandel answered, biting his lip and raising an eyebrow.  “Anyway, was there something about the class you wanted to know?  The lessons, from yesterday, or today, or… Monday?” he continued, clearly baffled by his student’s words, which rendered him unable to proceed fluidly.

            “And you know what I think?” Chelsea said, ignoring his attempt at a change of subject.  “I think it’s sexy because it means a guy knows what he’s doing.  He can do whatever his wife needs, and he’s experienced at it.”  With that, her smooth fingertips were digging at the button of her shirt again, but she did nothing to hide it as it popped open.  Her thin bra was clearly visible at this point.

            “Chelsea, are you sure you don’t want a… jacket or anything?” Brandel asked, somewhat dumbfounded, clearly now averting his eyes from the sight.

            “Oh, no, James, I’m actually too warm for a jacket,” Chelsea answered, swiping her tongue over her pouty lips and slaking a small streak of saliva over them to glisten in the dim lamplight.  “I’m really just in the mood for some extra lessons.  Like you said.”

            “Maybe… we should cut this… short,” Brandel said, scooting his chair further back and rubbing his forehead stressfully.  “And I’ll see you in class on Monday, Ms. Hanover.”

            “I liked it better when you called me Chelsea, James,” she insisted, now slowly working at the remaining buttons on her white top until it hung loosely around her arms, leaving only her bra covering her sculpted upper body.

            “Please, Ms. Han… I mean, Chelsea,” Brandel said, clearing his dry throat.  “You need to stop what you’re doing.  This is wrong.  This is very, very…”

            “I don’t think so.  And who are you to tell me what’s wrong?  We’re not in class.  You’re not grading me,” Chelsea chuckled, relishing every silly-sounding word dribbling from her sensuous lips like it was gospel.  “I’m just here to be taught.”

            “I need you to put your shirt back on and leave now,” Brandel insisted, standing up and heading for the door to open it.  “Now.  Please, before someone sees this and gets a bad idea about it.”

            “Why would that matter?  I’ve got plenty of bad ideas myself,” Chelsea said with a smile, tossing her shirt to the floor as she stood up and began working her skirt off around her thighs.  “Bad, bad, bad ideas.”

            “This stops now.  I’m going to leave, and when I come back I want you to be fully clothed and on your way out, Ms. Hanover.  This has gone on much further than I could reasonably be expected to handle,” Brandel said, finally gaining confidence in his words, as he marched toward the door.

            “Nope, I don’t think that’s true,” Chelsea said with a sigh, whipping her iPhone out of her pocket and aiming it at her professor until the augmented PMRD camera application had lined him up.  She clicked the button, and in a bright green flash of light, her teacher was practically folding into himself in a whirl of lightning-fast bending particles until he stood at two inches tall on the carpet in front of the door.  “And trust me, you’ve got a lot more to handle ahead of you.”

            Chelsea honestly had to wonder how she had managed before without this kind of feedback from her previous toys. 

            Really, it was almost too glorious.

            She had slowly stepped forward toward her newly miniscule professor as he scurried in terror across the threshold of his office, screaming all the way.  She took her time catching up, letting him sprint at least ten feet down the hallway on his tiny legs before she overtook him.  She slammed each Converse-clad foot down with enough force that she could tell Brandel was experiencing seismic activity through the tile floor, nearly tripping mid-sprint, and when she was right behind him, she planted her heel down hard enough that he was toppled a few inches from the rubber rim of her shoe. 

            As she scooped him up between a probing thumb and forefinger, still hearing him yell, she got to experience his tiny fists and knees slamming at her powerful digits.  She squeezed him in her fingertips, experiencing his squishy fragility and becoming aware that if she applied about triple as much pressure, she could snap a few ribs.  It would be so easy to cause so much exquisite pain. 

            Finally, she let him plop into her creamy palm, where he squirmed on his back for a moment before lunging in a tackle at her thumb, which quickly pinned him back into the center of her hand.

            Every sensation was beyond amazing.  Every little cry, every tiny punch, and every kick of his legs.  It was more than she possibly could’ve asked for.

            “You’re going to wear yourself out, James.  You might want to take a breather,” Chelsea said gently as she re-entered her professor’s office and kicked the door behind her with a tap of her heel, locking it for good measure.

            “YOU!  Y-Y-YOU!” he peeped out at the top of his lungs as Chelsea’s massive thumb finally relinquished pressure from his chest, leaving him cowering in her cupped palm.  He coughed a few times before pointing an accusing finger up at her face.  “You got one of those illegal… shrinking… things!” he cried out.  “You… you USED it on… on…”

            “Look, I’d love to give you the full time to piece together the logic, but I’m gonna get bored if we do that, so here’s the facts, James: yes, I shrunk you.  No, I did not get one of those illegal shrinking things.  I got someone else to get one for me.”

            “How could you?” he shrieked, his voice seemingly rising higher and higher until Chelsea had to giggle again. 

            “Please, James, save it.  I’m impressed.  I’m down to my undergarments right now, and you still didn’t even look at my tits.  What, are they just not good enough for you?”

            “Please… what are you… you…”

            “Maybe I should just stick you between them, huh?  Would being hugged by them give you a better appreciation of how perfect they are?”

            “Bad… bad… bad dream,” the tiny professor gasped.  “Must be.”

            “Aww, you really think this is a bad dream?  Being held in the hand of the hottest girl you’ve ever laid eyes on, when she’s barely dressed and throwing herself in your direction?  Sounds more like a wet dream to me, unless you’re super gay.”

            “Chelsea… you can’t… you can’t do this… please, I’m sorry I yelled, just change me back, and we’ll talk about… whatever problems you’re having right now.”

            “James, my only problem right now…” Chelsea began, taking a seat on top of the desk in the center of the room and crossing her legs.  “…is that you don’t seem to be getting with the program yet.  You’re little, I’m big, my tits are even bigger, and you’re about to snuggle with them.  Hang on.”

            “NO, STOP!” Brandel screamed as Chelsea’s thumb and middle finger pinched him lightly around the chest and plucked him from her expansive palm, transferring him easily into the incredibly supple cleavage awaiting his arrival.

            “There we go.  So much better.  Does this change your mind yet?” Chelsea giggled eagerly, wrapping a hand around each breast and squeezing them closer together so that her professor became even more tightly wedged. 

            He gasped in a panic, losing all his air to the crushing pressure of the pair of monstrous melons.  He tried flailing his arms from side to side, striking the thick, jiggly flesh that surrounded him on every side below his shoulders.  The rest of him was completely immobilized in the omnipotent embrace of Chelsea’s golden tanned breasts.  It felt like fleshy mattresses being pressed in relentlessly by forklift trucks.

            “Now don’t tell me you can’t even love these, James.  Your wife couldn’t have had these at my age even if she got a boob job from a magical doctor who does perfect boobs every time.  People like you never get to even think about touching these, and right now I’ve got you as close as you could possibly be,” Chelsea drawled, feeling far more drunk on the adrenaline of this moment than she had from any alcohol or illicit substance combined. 

            She leaned further back on the desk, brushing papers off the surface and making room for her to get comfortable.  Tossing her hair back, she looked to the ceiling and laughed at the continuing squirming between her ticklish pair as she arched a lithe leg up into the air.

            With her whole body stretched out across the desk in her underwear, her head back and her feet pointed into the air with ecstasy, she knew that any Sports Illustrated photographer would do unspeakable things to be able to do a shoot of her in this exact pose.  And it happened so very naturally.

            Brandel sputtered, half choked out by the weight coming from both sides and forcing air for his lungs, and half terrified out of his wits that Chelsea would simply lean forward again and allow him to go tumbling out the top of her cavernous cleavage. Never before had he experienced such simultaneous acute claustrophobia, and yet still felt the ache in his gut of the surrounding space threatening to destroy him with a single pull of gravity.

            “PLEASE, STOP!” he bellowed, coughing meekly.  “Let me… out.  Please, I don’t… don’t want to fall… please, we’ll talk about your problems, whatever they are… for however long you want… just…”

            “I’m not the ones with problems here, James, you are, because you’re still fighting me,” Chelsea informed him, leaning forward again and digging her fingers around his body as she curled him up into a fist against her palm. 

            For a moment, she kept him encased in her fingers, and could feel his tiny chest heaving hard against the soft flesh of her hand as he fought for breath unsuccessfully.  The pace of his chest pounding increased, and Chelsea made no attempt to adjust her grip, which left him tangled in her grip in a position more befitting someone vomiting drunkenly over a toilet.

            Chelsea had to savor this moment.  She wanted to lock it away in her mind forever.  She wanted to taste the memory in her mouth and let it flow to all parts of her body.

            He fought hard.  His limbs floundered and quivered with all their strength in trying to press up against the casket of massive feminine fingers, his last pathetic gulps of air puffing insignificantly against Chelsea’s gorgeous skin. 

            He was powerless in her presence.  Absolutely bare of all ability.

            Chelsea thought she had known a feeling of limitless power before in manipulating hilariously useless suitors.  She had thought that was all there was.  But it wasn’t.  This was so much more.

            This was life.  Literally in her fist.  Her hands.

            She didn’t know if she believed in a god, but she decided at this moment that if there was one, this was what it felt like. There could be nothing higher.

            In that same moment, it occurred to her that if she could feel like a god, there was absolutely nothing separating her from one.

            There had never been such a feeling of intense warmth and purpose in her body before.

            Finally, satisfied from soaked in the joys of having her professor writhe like a cockroach in her mighty hand to the point that Chelsea thought she might almost pass out from the elation, she opened her palm again and splayed her fingers out.

            The professor seemed to enact a combination of gasping for air and screaming as he was brought back from the brink of drowning inside Chelsea’s hand.  He rolled over and seemed to dry heave continuously, his body going into a retching motion.

            Chelsea was almost too preoccupied to notice his difficulties as her eyes bugged unblinkingly, her mouth open, her whole body awash in the afterglow of what she had just experienced. 

            And in that moment, she knew the precise end of the game.  She saw it more clearly than she ever had any strategy in controlling her admirers.

            “I have one more question for you, James,” Chelsea sighed throatily, still trying to get ahold of herself again.  “How much do you love your family?”

            Despite his ragged attempts to refill his lungs, the tiny sweat-soaked professor seemed to jolt abruptly back into reality at the sound of Chelsea’s words. 

            She could hear his breathing increasing rapidly again despite the freely available oxygen, and she grinned.  The old feeling of satisfaction was returning that she hadn’t felt for a while.  The strength of her words, the mere soft sounds passed between her lips with seductive nonchalance, able to impale fear directly into the heart of her captive listener like a serrated blade.

            Her only regret was that the brilliance of the moments she knew were coming might never be surpassed in her lifetime.  Luckily, Chelsea was only 20, and she had plenty of time to try and one-up herself.

            “W-W-Wha… w-what?” he gagged, his voice barely there, as he crawled forward across the cushy surface of the creased flesh in his student’s hand.

            “You heard me.  I want to know how much you love your family.  You told me you love them a lot.  But I want to know what… you’d do… for them.”

            “I’d do anything,” Brandel said solemnly, his voice beginning to crack.  Evidently, he could already tell where this was going.  “Chelsea, I will do anything.  Anything you ask.  If you just leave them all alone.”

            Chelsea smiled, tilting her chin and batting her long eyelashes.  He was good.  Sharp.  She almost wished he didn’t have to become useless again as soon as this conversation was over.

            Almost.

            “Good, sounds like you finally get how this works between you and I.  All right, then.  We can play it like that,” Chelsea said, mulling slowly over her words and watching the fear clouding in her professor’s beady eyes.  With her free hand, she reached to her side and grabbed up the picture frame of the Brandel family in her fingers.  She carried it swiftly up to the view of her other open palm so her little subject could gaze up at it.

            At the sight of the picture, the reduced man bowed his head, and Chelsea could hear him sobbing quietly into his hands with guttural bitterness the young woman had never thought possible to come from even the most deeply suffering human being.

            She had never experienced chills so rampant as at that moment.

            “But here’s the thing, James,” she said slowly and with icy intent, making sure each word registered and hit him in the head like an anvil.  “No matter what you offer to do for me, I’m still in charge.  I still hold the power.  And even if you just bend down and do the hokey-pokey on my tits for me, I can still go to your house right now if I want, shrink your entire family to the size of my thumbnail, and sprinkle them in my iced tea.”

            Had Brandel not already been cowering on his knees in Chelsea’s hand, he would’ve been bowled over by the words.  His shaking became almost uncontrollable to the point of verging on a seizure.

            “P-P-Please…” he whimpered, his words trembling so much that Chelsea had to lean her head in to hear well enough.  “D-D-Don’t… I’m… I’m…”

            “Don’t worry, I’m not.  Probably.  It depends on you.  Like I said, I want to see what you’ll do for them,” Chelsea explained, casually bouncing the heels of her shoes against the front of the large desk.  “So here’s my best offer.  I’ll only do it to one of them.  Your wife, your son, or your daughter.  Pick one of them for me to shrink and swallow, and I’ll leave the other two alone.”

            The silence that followed seemed, despite its nothingness, to echo wrathfully against the tight walls of James Brandel’s office.  It hung heavily and stank like corpses left to rot in the searing sun.  For a while, all that seemed to move in the entire earth was the tiny professor’s chest as it heaved heavily, his cries now hollowed out into dry swallows that still left him with so many tears he could barely see.

            A man lost in a nightmare worse than he could’ve imagined in three lifetimes, and a young woman lost in her fruitful daydreams that flowered with more life and passion for her than she had ever experienced in any game before.

            She knew this was what was missing from her life.  It wasn’t enough to toy with and break the weak emotions of her lessers.  She needed more than just their undying love.

            She needed their being.

            “Y-Y-Y… you’ll j-just… leave the other t-t-two… alone,” Brandel repeated after it felt like hours of cold and darkness had consumed the room in its entirety.  He swallowed so hard Chelsea could hear it clearly without leaning in.  “And you’ll… s-s-s-swall… s-s-s…”

            “I promise,” Chelsea said completely truthfully.  “To just swallow one member of your family for dinner.”

            The full-body quivering began again in Brandel’s knees, rumbling against Chelsea’s fingers.  She felt as though, with so much subtle movement, she was hyperaware of every square micrometer of her skin as the pathetic subject in her hand wallowed in his limited options.

            His cry of anguish erupted so loudly in the silence that even Chelsea was thrown off for a moment, flinching uncomfortably.

            “ME!  TAKE ME!” he screamed, wild-eyed, spit spraying from his mouth as his whole body continued jittering as though a variety of deadly diseases were in the process of chewing through his intestines.  “EAT ME!”

            “Eat you?” Chelsea laughed piteously.  “Why would I want to eat you?  You’re old.  You probably taste like crap.  Now, your kids…”

            “ANYTHING, then.  I will bow down to you as I go down and thank you as loud as I can from inside,” mumbled Brandel, settling back in to a broken down state.  “Just make it me.  Whatever it takes.”

            “Whatever it takes, huh?  Then strip.  Take off the clothes.  I’m not eating your clothes.”

            In spite of his battered frame, Brandel whipped off his garments faster than Chelsea would’ve thought possible, tugging his pants to his ankles and his shirt over his head in one motion. 

            He soon stood naked in her palm, quivering in the fresh chill he experienced from the draft, and Chelsea relished it with breathtaking fervor before barking out again.

            “Now tell me you hate your family.”

            “What?”

            “TELL ME YOU HATE YOUR FUCKING FAMILY’S GUTS!” Chelsea screamed in encouragement, knowing her voice would not reach a single other soul in the building with how isolated they were.

            “I… hate my… family’s… g-g-guts…” Brandel choked out, practically throwing up in the act.

            “Tell me you wish they were dead.”

            “I… w-w-wish they…” he continued, the retching in his throat returning violently again.  “…they were dead.”

            “Good.  And finally, if I eat you, I’m not going to swallow you and let it be quick and painless.  I’m going to chew on you.”

            “Okay,” Brandel croaked.

            “I’m going to chew you slowly.  It will not feel good.  You will probably still be awake when your arms come off.  Are you okay with that?”

            “Yes.”
            “And it happens now.  Ask me to eat you, right now, and I leave the other three alone.”

            “Eat… eat me… now…”

            “And say please.”

            “PLEASE!” screamed Brandel, his words devolving into gurgling sobs as he fell face-down in the girl’s palm, his whole body vibrating with terrified tremors.  “PLEASE DO IT NOW!”

            Chelsea nodded to herself.

            It was that time.

            It had all worked just as she had planned.

            She brought the heel of her hand to her chin, slid her moist lips open slowly so that dangling threads of crystalline saliva could stretch plainly from her rippling tongue to the roof of her mouth.

            “Climb in,” she demanded simply.

            She could feel his little feet dragging slowly as he hiked up the slope of her fingers like a man climbing the steps of the gallows, clambered over the slippery edge of her mouth, and tumbling over her lower row of glistening teeth.

            She wasted no time in throwing her head back, allowing him to be swished quickly in a sea of hot, sticky spit in circles back and forth across her teeth.  Using her tongue, she pushed him into the roof of her mouth, feeling him writhe uselessly against the red frictionless void, and finally, she poked him toward the side of her mouth and pinned him against a cheek.

            Wedging him into the corner, she felt his knee press across her left molar, and she bit down.  Hard. 

            It was as easy as biting through a pie crust.

            The specificity of the next moments were blurred as Chelsea felt the thrashing of tiny limbs ceasing as one by one she pressed the little mass of body under her molars and chomped them off, the thick moat of her gooey saliva becoming tainted with gushing blood. 

            Soon, all she could feel was a blob balled up on the back of her tongue, as if she was just taking dinner and chewing through the main course.

            The taste was disgusting, metallic and dirty, and Chelsea wanted to gag and spit him out, but she knew she couldn’t.  This was too important to her, and in the heat of the moment, she forgot the bitter taste of the mulched human body currently inside her shapely jaws.

            Instead, she allowed a light to fill her entire body, from the tips of her bare toes as they scrunched against the carpet of the office, to the ends of her soft fingertips as they grasped the desk edge for support.  She could feel it in her face, in the ends of her gorgeous blonde locks as they hung over her shoulders, and she smiled more brightly than she had in years.

            She swallowed.

            She had a direction now.

            For a few moments after picking it up again, she simply gazed at the iPhone in her hands.  It was her one key to achieving her full potential.  No one could know, and no one could ever come close to her again without risking it.  She couldn’t just play the old games anymore.  The rules had changed now.

            It was worth it to protect her power.

            She knew almost anyone else might choose to squander such a tool by shrinking everyone in sight, claiming themselves as an unearned queen.  Chelsea knew she would never resort to such boring measures.  There would be no true meaning to it, and she’d be left alone with legions of weak-minded fools who would surely bow to her before she so much as raised a hand.  She knew she would only ever achieve this pure a feeling again if she could find more like James Brandel.

            It would be tough.  People like him were rare.  As usual, though, Chelsea was up to the challenge, and she knew without a doubt she would track them all down.  In fact, it was what she lived for.

            Casually, she got dressed again and practically skipped her way back down the deserted hallway of the university, the only sound once again coming from the squeaks generated by the rubber treads of her powerful red Converse.

            “I am,” Chelsea sighed, reciting the only words she could vividly remember from any of those Sunday school classes she’d been dragged to in her youth.  “That I am.”