It was almost quitting time. Bill was determined to make it. Less because he was gripped by any kind of industrious spirit, and more by his want to sleep in a real bed that evening, instead of drooling all over his desk again.

He sipped at his cup of hot coffee in spite of the late hour, and watched the monitors in front of him. They tracked the agonizingly slow progress of the various assembly lines. The plant had six chemical-heavy streams still active that Bill needed to complete before he could shut it all down.

Three processes involved the usual output of synthetic materials that the factory was one of the biggest producers for, globally.

Two were regular big batch orders for Dubois Unlimited Formula S. That was the official name for the "miracle miniaturizer," employed by everyone, everywhere: tidy homemakers who wanted their closets and pantries to store an excess well beyond their traditional capacities; prison wardens who found the convicted easier to control and contain when they were the size of bugs—just that morning Bill had read how budget-minded airlines experimented with micronizing passengers who traveled at the back of the bus, so to speak, to pack more of them in.

Even Bill used Formula S to reduce the volume of his garbage and recycling, just like everyone else. And to miniaturize his summer and winter wardrobes whenever the seasons flipped, and to control his overflowing tool shed, and. . .

If you could imagine it, there was probably a good reason to shrink it.

"It's a small world after all," a string of printed words on every bottle declared.

The last production stream was a special rush request for Valentine's Day chocolates, of all things. The company that sold them expected a greater demand than it had previously anticipated. A buzz had developed that the chocolates were the most adorable shapes that anyone had ever seen.

They were cute character designs or some shit—Bill did not know; Bill did not care. As far as he was concerned, it was a dumb holiday for dumb people.

Romantics? Please!

Romance was not something that you penciled in on the same day every year; that you bought the same old trite cards for, and gifted sterile branded products that were a mockery of any real emotion. You could not shrink wrap true love, for fuck's sake!

Where was the spontaneous impetus, and actual thought? The individual, intimate consideration? If you really loved someone, was it unreasonable to think that every day would contain qualities of Valentine's Day? That when this energy peaked, any day of the year might quietly become its own Valentine's Day, in spirit? To Bill's mind, the fourteenth of February was truly a boon for the laziest among Erato's flock. To label and commercialize the event spoiled the whole thing—an ultimatum which held love at gunpoint, and demanded a ransom of romance.

(Don't listen to Bill, lovebirds—and do not get him started on destination weddings, bananas that come individually wrapped in plastic, or how "kids these days" traded ownership of tangible goods for digital rentals. Christ.)

"V Day." It was only one week away.

Ha; Bill wanted to spit, but stopped himself—the cleaning staff had already come and gone, which meant he would be the one who had to wipe it up. In fact, he was pretty sure he was the last person still at the plant.

So he sat there and glared at the monitors instead.

The way the factory hummed—he heard that endless sound even when he was away from work, and in his dreams. It was not produced by a single source, Bill knew, but rather was a melded cacophony of machinery and disparate mechanisms, which all joined together to create a flat choral drone.

Bill's eyelids drooped. . .

A section of the production line for the chocolates turned red and roused Bill before he fully drifted away; the man cursed.

It was a simple blockage. In the next few moments, the factory's automated systems corrected the anomaly detected in the process, and signalled to Bill that it was good to restart.

Bill yawned and pawed in the command for the chocolate assembly to resume. All of a sudden, streams five and six were combined, which put Formula S and the Valentine's Day sweets in the same production queue.

"Oops."

Bill halted both lines. His fingers pecked his keyboard with more care, and in short order he had both processes up and running—separately.

Only a hundred batches or so of the chocolates were contaminated.

Bill picked up his phone and dialed the warehouse.

No answer.

Bill grumbled.

The man flagged the affected units in the system. He would go down and personally remove the boxes before he left for the evening, so that they would not go out in the shipment the next morning.

Whew, almost there, Bill thought.

Almost there; almost there.

The factory whirred on and on, softly—a mother who sang her most effective lullaby.

Bill's eyelids drooped. . .

Wow! Get a room, motherfuckers.

Sure, Central Park could be romantic. Especially there along the mall, its stony avenue lined by handsome long-limbed trees. Bright white snow covered their branches, thick as the margins on a page. It was as if one sat inside of a wintry postcard.

But that did not forgive the display that April was a witness to at that present moment.

As she scowled at the couple who sat on the bench opposite of hers, she was forced to recall the facehugger from Alien, for they grappled and glommed in wild fashion.

With all that slobber shared between the pair, it was a wonder that their mouths did not freeze together. And how did that feel good—were they going to have any teeth left when they were done? The way they clawed at each other's faces, it was a surprise to April that they did not shave off a cheek, or an ear. It was about as sweet and appealing as observing a couple of wolverines

And, of course, every few moments, April and the woman who kissed her lover across the way locked eyes; his eyes flashed at her, too.

That was one dynamic in particular that always bugged April to no end, when an amorous couple enjoyed the attention that their gross kissing frenzy might attract.

April just wanted to sit at the mall and get some fresh air, do a little people watching, read her book. In peace.

She had entirely forgotten that it was Valentine's Day besides, until the noticeable glut of mouthy twosomes caused her to wonder what the hell was in the water.

April stared at the couple; she stared through them.

The pair carried on snuggling, and kissing, and feeding one another chocolates from the red heart-shaped box that was perched between them—their eyes flickered every so often toward April.

It took her a moment to realize that, at some point, they had disappeared.

And no, they had not gotten up and gone: they just vanished. Poof!

Their clothes were still there on the bench and on the ground, two untidy piles.

Their red heart had fallen, too, its treats scattered.

April looked to her left; she looked to her right.

There was no one else nearby to share her surprise.

And she did not spy the couple running off naked somewhere.

April replaced her book in her bag and stood. She went over to the other bench, where the piled garments were. Irrationally—or, perhaps, quite intelligently—she was as nervous as she was excited by this sudden curiosity. How did people just disappear into thin air? Was she going to disappear as well?

April paused. She searched the sky, just to make sure there were no flying saucers or anything like that; she glanced around, but there were no other heaps of haphazardly discarded clothes.

Just these two piles that the face-hugging couple had left.

With the pointed toe of her boot, April poked at the mounds. Yep: those are clothes, she thought. She did not want to touch the abandoned attire with her bare flesh, worried that they might be contaminated.

She kicked a few of the chocolates around: they appeared to be little faces that wore all manner of different expressions. Their designers meant for them to be cute or funny, April imagined. One in particular caught her eye: it winked at her, and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

April sighed. She quickly grew bored of the mystery.

Then she spied movement. A bump slowly worked its way along one of the sleeves of the man's sweater. April's eyes widened as she watched the lump progress. Had some critter already burrowed through the garments? Should she step on it? Whatever it was moved with purpose and determination toward its freedom.

She gasped at what emerged from the end of the sleeve: a tiny creature that was clearly human-shaped.

A tiny, naked little man.

The man, now naked and tiny.

Oh, god, April thought, of course—just like criminals, perverts, or idiots, they had managed to shrink themselves. This was too good. So which of the latter two categories did this pair fit into, she wondered.

April squatted so that she could better examine him; there was something pleasing about how massive her shadow was around his miniature form.

He glanced down at his own nudity, and then gazed up at her. His head had raised slowly; the slow motion of someone who did not quite know what it was that they took in, and did not want to believe what they knew they beheld. His itty-bitty face became horrified and he let out a quiet scream that she could only just hear.

It probably was not the appropriate response, but April laughed before she could catch herself. It was not his fear, so much—although, after how she had boiled at the pair, there was an odd relief in that—but he was like a little cartoon character; a living doll. A toy.

Instinctively, without really thinking, April reached her hand toward him.

She was big, he was tiny.

She could pick him up if she wanted to.

What was he going to do about it?

He watched her clawed fingers lower, his terror plainly painted. He screamed even louder this time—though it was still little more than a squeak to April's ears.

Her hand paused in the air. Gosh, he was so scared of her!

I must look like a scary giant to him, April mused.

That's cool.

April's hand resumed its motion, only to pause again in another second. From the other pile of clothing, the woman had emerged from the waistline of her deflated skirt, likewise tiny and just as naked.

April watched her with interest: as the man had, she glanced down at her own nudity, and then glanced at her partner's—and then she slowly, stiffly gazed up along the length of April's looming body and she shrieked. Like, she put her hands on either side of her face and wailed as if she was a pathetic damsel in some dumb movie.

So this is how Godzilla feels, April thought with a chuckle.

The little man turned and ran, even as his lover was frozen in place. He left her behind.

"Wow! So much for your knight in shining armor."

April did not have to lean forward. She reached out and her hand caught up with him. He twisted when he sensed her fingers above him, and swung his arms at the air as if he might swat her appendages away—each of her fingers was thicker around than he was, so April really could not fathom what he hoped to accomplish. Like, with anything that he had tried.

Her fingertips formed a ring around his narrow waist.

She pinched him and hoisted him upward—

Oh!

A long jet of blood shot out from the tiny man's mouth, splashed across her fingers and painted a slash of a line along the ground before the screaming woman, who afterward screamed more ardently; at the same time, what looked like all of the inch-tall man's internal organs ejected downward from between his legs and slopped against the pavement to form a gruesome pile.

"Oh. . ."

He twitched, then went limp between April's comparatively giant fingers; a stream of crimson leaked from between his legs as if his anus was a faucet that was left running.

"Um. . ."

April relaxed her fingers and the corpse slid from their ends, dropped like it was a boneless heap, landed with a brutal snap. The man fell flat, still, lifeless; an expanding pool of bright blood and dark plasma spread from under his ass.

"Wow. Gosh! Shit."

April looked at the woman, then; the woman was silent, and stared back at April.

Her mouth was agape. Even with how small her face was, April could discern how the woman's features twitched.

Now the woman turned and ran from her.

Flash: the woman's eyes flickered impetuously at April as she locked lips with her lover on the opposite bench.

"Well—No. No, I don't think so."

April stood; up and up she rose: her face tilted down and down as she tracked her prey. She had never felt particularly tall before, but she did right then—she was towering, looming; a skyscraping woman. What a rush, god!

The diminutive woman got nowhere fast. She was wholly swallowed up by April's shadow. The gloom spread out all around her, a landmass of darkness; it would take her many minutes to escape its borders.

April took a step forward. A simple step—not even a full step.

Her sleek black boot cla-clacked onto the stone of the avenue just beside the fleeing bug-person. Suddenly the little woman was like one of those goofy windblown characters at a car dealership: her limbs flew all around her like loose spaghetti noodles.

Wow, she was really freaking out.

April indulged in her laughter.

The de facto colossus smirked and brought her other foot forward; she tapped at the tiny woman's back with the toe of her shoe.

The woman shrieked, fell forward, tumbled.

On the ground she writhed, and April realized that the simple motion was probably enough to break her back, or at least put her in some serious hurt.

April stood with her hands on her hips, and allowed the woman a moment to right herself as best she could. She flopped onto her back, and even as she spasmed and curled uncontrollably, she raised a fearful arm to shield herself as she gazed up at April. Oh, those itty-bitty eyes... Even from the heavens, they were so wonderfully full of horror!

Then April lifted a leg, and held the sole of her boot over the tiny woman—a little off to the side, so that April could still watch her.

April permitted the woman a little more time, so that she could scream her pain, and futilely wriggle backward, grub-like. Though April could barely hear her, it was clear: this tiny creature begged her to spare it.

They both knew.

What happened to him was an accident.

This. . .

April swallowed from how her mouth watered.

She licked her lips.

Lowered her foot.

Carefully she pinned the woman beneath her shoe from the neck down. Only her little head was visible beyond the boot's keen sable peak. Her tiny body was as fragile a presence as a wisp's.

With great interest April studied the tortured face of the tiny woman.

April stared into her eyes; the tearful eyes stared back.

Shake, shake, shake, went the little head.

April's eyes flashed, like she was in her bedroom with a lover—

It was effortless: the barest bit of weight and the woman was ruined in an instant, crackling like a stepped-on cricket.

Ruby tendrils snaked across stone.

April had felt the minuscule skeleton crunch through the sole of her boot, just beneath her toes and the ball of her foot. That minute rattle traveled up her leg and gathered in her hips, electric.

The tiny woman's expression was frozen—a Munch-esque scream.

Her eyes were flat; lightless, lifeless.

April licked her open lips, a lioness.

An ice-cold shiver raced up her spine and tickled all of her ribs.

Hot exhale; she remembered where she was.

April looked ahead of herself; she looked behind herself.

There was no one nearby to share in her exultant arousal.

She twisted her foot at the ankle and considered the mess on her boot sole. There was a splatter of scarlet on the ground, but the woman's pulped body was strewn across the smooth bottom of her shoe. Beyond the boot's point, the fruit pit of a head was still intact.

April's lips curled as she plucked at what was left of the woman—her flattened form peeled off like a wet leaf—and flung the remains with disdain.

The tiny woman's head crunched beneath the heel of April's boot as the lioness prowled onward—claclack, claclack, claclack—hands stuffed in her jacket pockets.

Her fingertips teased the flesh of her stomach through the layered material, traced the edges of the bone at her hips.

Oh yes: she was headed straight home.

To her tub.

Vibrator.

Wine.

And a bit more of her book. In peace.

It was not just chocolate.

Oh no: it was chocolove.

That was literally what it said on the menu—not some stupid diddy that Chad made up.

Two big scoops of it, perfect to share, and topped with those smirking little chocolate candies that were all the rage.

There was one of the anthropomorphic chocolates on the menu board: a cheeky winking character that grinned like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

The line was packed with couples; everyone in front of Chad was one part of a pair. They all ordered the chocolate special, and strutted back down the line carrying a bowl to share. The hungry couples in line would eye the anointed with open jealousy.

Whenever a twosome reached the front of the queue, the cashier would grin big and shimmy her shoulders and ask them, "Here for a little chocolove?"

Then Chad reached the counter. The uniformed ice cream scooper, dressed in all white, her short pale blond hair tucked under an equally pristine cap, wore her big grin, and her eyes searched to either side of him, and then her grin faltered.

She did not ask him if he wanted some chocolove.

Would they even let him order it, he wondered.

Would they haul him away if he tried?

Sorry, Chad, you're under arrest. Your crime: no one loves you.

"What would you like," the cashier asked finally, plainly.

"Vanilla," Chad replied bitterly.

"Cone or cup."

"Cone."

"One scoop or two?"

"Three."

At least the marina had a beautiful view. The boardwalk that the ice cream stand was situated on offered one of the best vantages to take in lower Manhattan. At sunset, it was as if Chad beheld a marvelous painting that continually evolved. The sun and the towers competed with one another, a natural show of scintillating light versus a dazzling synthetic presentation.

The sun's dying light was neither quiet nor subtle—blazing hot orange, razor sharp shadows. The towers were star-painted; the sky was a cloudless inferno. The color slowly molted as the celestial furnace melted against the horizon; that vibrant orange morphed into gloom.

The buildings displayed columns and blocks of shining squares; some of these blipped off as the workers who inhabited each structure left for the evening. Patterns emerged formed by the lit squares that remained and the windows that went dark. As Chad sat there and licked at his three scoops of vanilla on a cone, he tried to imagine what it was that they formed: that one looked like a dinosaur; this one, a giant robot.

Especially as the ruddy hues faded and shadow swallowed up more of the colors of dusk and transmuted them into evening hues, the city appeared less like a collection of spires and more like a empty void where spectral squares hovered in the nothingness, orphaned spirits. At the base of the towers the red and white lights of traffic drifted by one another like opposing flows of particles.

If only all these damn couples were not around to spoil the view.

Chad was not a particularly angry person. Most of the time, he was actually quite sweet.

But he had had enough. February Fools' Day had been shoved down his throat. There were hearts plastered all over the city; every store he went into played some sappy tune; the world continually assumed that Chad had That Special Someone, and Chad was tired of being reminded of the love that he lacked. It really ground him down: he did not want to go out, and he slept more just to escape reality—to force himself out that evening, to treat himself, had seemed like a good idea, but, oh, what a stupid inkling it had been.

An ice cream parlor—really, Chad?

Today?

Chad shook his head ruefully; "I know," he mumbled to no one in particular.

The dejected man was down to his last scoop when the first barrage of fireworks lit up the night sky in front of him; they were launched the first moment that it was deemed dark enough to fully appreciate the exhibition.

Chad glanced up, startled but in a good way, fully ready to ooh and ahh and be awed—

For fuck's sake.

There in the sky was a massive red heart surrounded by pinwheeling sparklers.

The couples gathered around Chad went "ooh" and "ahh."

They could not simply be pretty lights, could they? A firework display that anyone could enjoy. No. With each boom and crackle, Cupid flew by and slapped Chad across the face.

Hearts. Roses. Lips. Blue and pink sparks that mixed together.

Boom.

Fuck you, Chad.

Hiss.

Fuck you.

Chad frowned up at the sky.

A massive face exploded above him, pinpricks of yellow. It was the face of one of those stupid little chocolates, Chad realized.

He sighed and stood from his bench, turned his back on the display.

Chad did not realize that a pair of revelers were walking right toward him, and half a scoop of ice cream was plenty to create a gooey mess all over this guy's very nice jacket.

The man was taller than Chad. More handsome. Thinner. Stronger. He probably made a lot of money. Probably had a really big cock.

He hit a lot harder than Chad imagined that he could, too, when the guy slugged him square in the nose.

Chad's cone fell and cracked like an eggshell.

Chad slumped onto his knees and coughed.

"Fucking asshole!" The guy said, and kicked at one of Chad's legs.

"Goddamn idiot," the woman with him said.

They waited there, but like an animal frozen in place that hoped its predators might not notice it, Chad did nothing.

Chad sniffled and wiped his wet cheeks as the pair moved on.

He stood and stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked away, giving all the couples who drifted by him a wide berth.

Boom. Crackle. Hiss.

Fuck you, Chad; fuck you.

Chad half-considered going back into the parlor to get a little more ice cream. Vanilla was fine, but really, he had wanted cookies and cream. Those were just spite scoops. Might as well grab something sweet for the train, he thought.

Oddly, there was no one behind the counter; no one in line.

Someone screamed behind Chad; startled, he turned around.

The marina was totally empty. The gloomy boardwalk flashed this color and that as the fireworks continued to go off, but there was no one around to enjoy them. No one but Chad. All of the couples were gone.

That made no sense. It had been packed a moment before.

In the red, then blue, then yellow, then green din, Chad spied heaps everywhere. At first, he was worried that these might be bodies, but no, they were not the right shape for that.

From where he stood, he studied the mounds closest to him: it appeared very much like a pile of clothes.

Chad's first thought was rancorous: it was a romantic mass exodus. All of the couples had shed their clothes to go skinny-dipping, and now wriggled naked in the water.

But no heads bobbed in the water.

All of the little hairs across Chad's flesh stood on end as his more rational center awoke: What was happening here? Might it happen to him?

The man was reminded of one of his favorite episodes of the Twilight Zone; the very first one: where someone wakes up to find that everyone on Earth had disappeared, and that they were inexplicably the only soul who remained.

On another day that might have been a chilling prospect, but on that awful occasion, Chad had to admit, it was not such a terrible thought.

Chad gasped.

Movement: all across the ground before him, tiny shapes flittered to and fro. They scurried like little mice who scattered under the cover of darkness, revealed only by the fireworks above. But they could not be mice. These things ran on two legs. Like little people.

They were little people!

Chad was reminded of another story then, by a writer he adored: the scribe, Nyx, penned a tale in which—like that Twilight Zone episode—a woman discovered that she was the only person on Earth who had not been reduced mysteriously to the size of a bug. Shrinking fantasies were popular to consider in a world with the likes of Formula S, and a genre Chad was particularly drawn to. Nyx's character found herself grappling with her sense of humanity, faced with god-like power over the tiny people around her. . .

Chad glanced down.

In front of his sneakers, a small crowd had formed. A dozen or so tiny naked people gazed up at him. They were hard to see between each vibrant firework flash; their little bodies oscillated between hues, as if they were wholly painted red; purple; blue; green; white; yellow.

Women and men.

Pairs.

People here for a little—shimmy shimmy—chocolove.

Why had they. . .

But not he. . .

Chad's eyes widened; chocolove!

At the front of the group was a couple that Chad recognized: the man who stole the rest of Chad's scoop with his jacket, who had punched Chad; the woman who was with him.

They waved their arms up at him as one might at a rescue plane, desperate to escape the wilds.

They need help. I should call the police. I should take them to a hospital. I should—

That little man's face; his tiny lips; "Fucking asshole," his voice repeated in Chad's head.

Boom. Crackle. Hiss.

Fuck you, Chad.

Shimmy shimmy.

Chad sneered.

He kicked at the man in the dark.

Boom; there was his little body, but his head was missing, and there was a long line of blood that showed which way it had gone. Next to his fallen form, his lover held her head and wailed.

Crackle; the crowd scattered—all the tiny shapes in front of him fled.

Hiss; the ground before him was empty, save for the body of the tiny man who Chad had decapitated.

In the light of the fireworks, Chad noticed a dark splotch on the toe of his sneaker. The murder weapon; point of impact. Chad stared at the stain with wide eyes.

Then his face relaxed.

How long had it taken Nyx's character to unravel her humanity, in that story he had read how many times?

You're a monster, Chad.

"I know," Chad whispered

He chased after the tiny shapes in the dark, in the flashes of light.

He gathered them up in his fists, and his fists quickly filled; he scooped them up in discarded ice cream cups, and those cups quickly filled.

If only Chad could see himself. What an insane figure he appeared, dashing back and forth, cackling, in that wild flickering light across a waterfront that should have been fully packed by an amorous crowd.

"I'm not insane," Chad protested.

He entered the little ice cream parlor. It was not empty or deserted, he found: no, the attendants had also enjoyed a little chocolove. He scooped them all up, including the cashier who was so blasé before.

By the time Chad was done, he had dozens of squirming naked little people included in his collection. They were various sizes; some were a full inch tall—those who were largest—and others ranged all the way down to something like a centimeter.

Chad was suddenly self conscious. He had dumped his gathered tinies into an empty ice cream drum. Now, it seemed, all their eyes were on him.

"Hello, everyone," Chad stammered. "Don't worry, I'm not going to. . ."

Chad had held up his hands in what he meant to be a reassuring gesture.

In the lit parlor, he noticed how his hands were covered in blood.

There were tiny bodies stuck to his fingers.

Chad glanced between his gruesome hands and the tub full of people.

Screams and shrieks and shouts bubbled up from the dozens in the drum.

"No, no, no. Shhh." Chad leaned down over them. His genial expression slowly melted. "Stop it!" An angry smile. "I'll make you stop!"

His next movements were quick and mechanical.

Chad grabbed a large spoon.

Ah, there was the cookies and cream—he took a generous scoop.

Chad then plunged the loaded spoon into the roiling mass of naked flesh; when he raised the scoop up to his face, there were a dozen people all shapes and colors—most of them as small as grains as rice; a few larger—stuck to the ice cream.

He opened his mouth as wide as it would go.

And watched the writhing scoop pass underneath his nose.

Chad's teeth and lips closed, and his mouth was stuffed with the mixture.

Cream. Cookies. Squirming bodies.

He pushed his tongue through the mass, pushed the little people all around.

And then Chad's jaw came together and he chewed.

The cream was soft and yielding.

The cookies, a little more firm, but just as sweet.

The people burst, little pockets of salt—their bones crunched.

Chad chewed and chewed and he smiled.

The salt was pleasing. It was unlike, say, salt poured into coffee, and more a shock of sea salt on a piece of chocolate.

What a wonderful crunch.

Thinking on it, it struck Chad that this should have been gross. It was anything but.

Oh no, Chad: you just discovered that little people make a wonderful ice cream topping.

"Yes," Chad murmured.

He swallowed and licked his lips, and loomed over the tub full of people. "I'm a monster," Chad told them.

They screamed in agreement.

"I'm going to gobble you all up!"

They screamed and screamed.

Chad took his time and prepared himself a proper bowl of ice cream.

He heaped it high his favorite flavors, raided the fixings section, sprinkled his mountainous dessert with his new favorite topping.

They whined and protested and Chad had to herd them with his spoon to keep them from escaping, for his bowl ran over. Some of them fell, but Chad did not care. He laughed as they splattered against the tiled floor, or smeared those who survived under his sneaker.

His treat only needed one last touch: he scanned his tub of victims to see who might serve as his cherry on top; he spotted the cashier from earlier and grinned ear to ear.

Chad plucked her up, dunked her in red syrup, and dropped her onto his hill of scoops.

The man sat on the ground of the parlor behind the counter and ate scoop after squirming scoop. Sugar and salt. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Oh, it was wonderful.

"Yes it is," Chad murmured around his sloppy chewing. Cream ran down his chin; blood ran down his chin.

He ate a circle around his shimmying little cashier; he giggled and watched

The longer that his captives stayed in his dessert, they grew cold and hard. The crackle of their bone was less bitter and unpleasant. They were like chocolate out of the freezer, but with that touch of salt. And the blood! Oh, their blood was a nice warm blast, like hot fudge, but not as thick.

The syrup-coated cashier managed to free herself from the summit, and rolled down the hillside of cream.

Chad scooped her up and crunched her in his mouth, too.

Oh, she tasted particularly sweet.

When he was finished with his bowl, he was full. Overly full. Those three—well, two and a half—scoops from earlier would have been enough. His belly was big and round and full. Chad studied the bulge of his belly. How many people had he consigned to its depths?

The man burped.

He giggled and rubbed his stomach.

There was barely anyone left in his drum.

Still, he eyed them greedily.

A promise was a promise.

"Why, yes it is!"

His spoon dived into the nearest tub of ice cream, then plunged into the drum of people, then slotted into his mouth.

Scoop, scoop, gulp.

Over and over.

One flavor after the next.

Chad cackled and gobbled all the little people up, just like he said he would.

In the tub, they tried to escape from his falling spoon. They ran all around. They shoved and pushed one another—they even tried to toss people at his approaching scoop, as if he would be satisfied, and would not come back for them.

Chad laughed. "Silly itty-bitties!"

Cookies and cream. Strawberry. Rocky road. Cookie dough. Green tea. Chocola—

Chad paused.

There on the spoon was a grinning face, bit in half.

His eyes sank toward the tub.

The tub that read "chocolove."

Slowly, the man looked up.

Boom; an explosion outside the parlors windows, a formation of brilliant yellow dots that formed a grinning face—that face.

"Oh no," Chad whimpered.

Crackle!

He looked down at himself; he was falling into the dark void of his billowing clothing.

Hisss!

"Seriously gotta up your game, bro."

"Are you done in the bathroom yet, Damon? I need to pee."

"You wanna die a virgin?"

Brent sighed. "I'm not a virgin."

"A blowjob after your senior prom doesn't count."

"Ludmilla and I were together all through college—for years."

"Makes sense why you didn't bang, though. That name." Damon gagged. "Ludmilla. Lud. Ugh. Ludzilla! Damn!" Damon cackled.

"We had sex plenty of times." Brent sighed again and pressed his fingers into his temples. "Why am I even talking to you?"

"Bro. You're on one epic dry streak. You know? Gang peeps are wondering if you're a fag or something. You know?"

Damon did not have friends. He had peeps. Peeps in a gang. And not a cool gang, where they ruled the night and owned the streets and robbed old ladies at knife point and shot each other for fun—no, Damon's gang ruled one little corner at the local public house, and owned far too many bottles of spray-on tanner, and held drunken contests that tested the various attributes of their flatulence.

"I mean, are you a faggot? You can tell me if you're gay, bro. That's cool."

"I'm bi, Damon."

"Bro! You can't tell ladies that shit. Ladies don't wanna think about you taking it up the ass all the time. Gettin' your dick dirty like that. That's a total boner killer."

"Ladies don't have boners, Damon."

"Don't be dumb. Shit. You know what I mean. You gotta play girls the right way, man. Or else you're never gonna get any pussy."

"I'm not interested in a relationship at this current time."

"Shit, you don't have to fuckin' marry 'em! Just get your dick wet, dawg."

Damon exited the bathroom, totally nude, just so he could snap his towel at Brent.

"Ow!"

Whap! Thwap!

"Cut that out!"

Damon laughed and went back into the restroom before Brent could push by him.

"Yeah, candy-ass fuckin' faggot. That's why ladies aren't lookin' your way. What a fuckin' nerd. It's gotta be harder with me around, huh? Stealin' all the tail comin' your way. I intercept those bitches like this shit is Top Gun."

"Top Gun was really, really gay, Damon."

"Just call me the goddamn Goose Man!"

"What! Goose may have been a bit of a womanizer, sure, but he was also sweet, and gentle. And married! And dead. Besides, Goose Man is not even a character. You're thinking of Ice-"

Damon let out a wild whoop and carried on, "I'm like a fuckin' CRUISE MISSILE! Yeah, boy!"

"Cruise missiles don't intercept anything, christ."

"Like a motherfuckin' attack chopper," Damon said, and popped open the bathroom door once more; he wagged his fingers at Brent, accompanied by his best approximation of a machine gun.

"Would you please put on some clothes? Or at least just let me pee."

"Woo! That's right." Damon said to no one in particular. He left the bathroom door open and studied himself in the mirror, flexed his everything. "Listen, I'm sorry, cous', I'm just fired up."

"It's fine." Brent squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. Maybe he could just pee in the kitchen sink.

"Got a hot date tonight. Smoking hot."

"Mhm."

"Gonna fuck her brains out."

"That would be murder."

"Gonna blow her up with this monster cock," Damon boasted, and reached down and lifted his penis in his hand. He presented it to Brent like a prized sausage.

"Okay. All right. I don't need to see that."

"Why do you care? Hey, I thought you said you were bi."

"Yes, but-"

"You ever seen a nicer dick than this?"

"I'm not going to answer that, Damon."

"Just look at it. Really look at it. Anyone with a bigger dick ever fuck your ass?"

"Great talk. This is just a really great discussion. All around."

"You know, maybe if you get really lonely, and I get really bored, I'll let you suck this dick sometime."

"Okay. I'm going to go pee in the kitchen sink."

Brent started walking down the hall away from the bathroom.

"What! You can't do that!"

"You're taking forever! And waving your penis around."

"You're a fucking animal, bro."

Brent whirled around. A frisson seized him; he jabbed his finger at his chest and screamed at Damon. "Oh, I'm the animal? I'm the animal? Is that right?"

Damon smirked knowingly at his mirrored self and cackled. "Got 'im!"

"Ah, fuck off," Brent mumbled.

As Brent entered the kitchen, there came a knock at the front door.

"Yo! Can you get that?"

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Brent muttered under his breath and went to answer the knock. Through the peephole he spied a beautiful woman—a rather impatient-seeming woman—who was surely Damon's date that evening.

Brent opened the door and greeted her with the cheeriest "hello" he could muster.

He managed to utter almost a full syllable before she wagged her hand in the air and pushed by. "Get out of my way, loser."

Brent rolled his eyes. That was uncalled for—then again, Damon probably talked a lot of shit about him to his date. It would not be the first time.

What a shit night. Every passing moment of that evening had left him with a feeling that he was dirty, and awful, and small. Could his mood get any lower?

He pursed his lips and eyed the kitchen sink. Well, maybe.

Brent shrugged.

Down the hall, he heard the woman and Damon:

"What the fuck, we're going out!"

"Baby, not so fast, I've got flowers, and massage oils, and music you'll love, and chocolate—"

The door to Damon's room closed.

Brent was able to not only urinate in a civilized fashion, but he enjoyed a little solitude, then; some peace and quiet. The night settled, and was soon like any other night. In his tiny room, Brent stripped down to his underwear. On one of his monitors, a buzz of activity: a bevy of chat programs, a few tabs of porn, a stream of someone playing a new game Brent was interested in. On his other monitor, Brent played a game of his own.

He gamed a little, got off a little; one hour passed, two.

His stomach growled. . .

He slipped on some jeans and opened his door and peeked.

It was quiet. No Damon or date in sight; not even a peep from the other man's bedroom. They must have left—Damon usually put on quite a show, even if it was only heard.

Brent sighed, and fully relaxed. Alone, finally.

He marched down the hallway toward the kitchen to fetch himself a snack. He still had his headphones on, and had one foot out of reality as he listened to a mix of audio: a streamer describing the game she played, chat programs that bleeped at him, women who moaned as they got each other off.

Brent finished his snack and padded barefoot down the hallway once more, toward his room.

He made it about halfway before his foot landed on something soft and crunchy.

"Oh, gross," Brent cried, and nearly knocked his headphones off in surprise.

He pulled them down around his neck; reluctantly he glanced at whatever it was he had stepped on—it had felt disturbingly large in size, like a roach, but more fleshy, like a small mouse.

There was a diminutive figure on the ground. Two arms, two legs. A body, a head. It was awfully familiar, in shape. A person! Too familiar—

It was Damon's date.

She was an inch tall.

She was in a bad way—she twitched, lying in a pool of her blood. Upon closer inspection Brent realized that her limbs were crumpled, her body was smashed. She gazed up at him with fear, like a dying doe.

He had stepped on her.

"What the fuck."

Brent knew that people sometimes people used Formula S to spice up their sex life. It was pretty deviant play. Now that he thought about it, he was not surprised that Damon would—

Brent's thoughts were halted as he spotted another tiny figure. "Oh, shit!" It was Damon!

The little man jogged over to his crushed date and kneeled beside her. Damon, the same size as her, appeared to gesticulate wildly and shout up at Brent, but Brent could not hear him, or really make any of it out.

He could have tried to beseech Brent's help—more likely he was furious, and spat epithets are his now-giant roommate.

Brent stared down at the half-crushed woman; he stared at the tops of his bare feet.

He had stepped on her.

He had stepped on a human being. Like a bug.

This thought should bother you, Brent admonished himself.

She needed medical attention, and she needed it soon.

Brent really had no idea how to calculate such things, but he imagined that her lifespan was measured with minutes, then.

Maybe not a lot of minutes, even.

Yeah, she was probably a goner no matter what either of them tried to do for her.

Her rude entrance earlier reappeared in Brent's mind. An awful sense of satisfaction filled him as he thought about how snide and smug she had been, and how pathetic and hurt she was now. She had been so high and mighty. Now she was tiny, weak, conquered.

I stepped on you, Brent thought.

He smiled.

Her eyes had shifted between Damon and Brent—now they stayed on Brent. No doubt she saw the expression on his face. Brent did not care.

A pang of regret shot through him. Not for how he had stepped on her, but that he did not get to really enjoy it. That he did not get to watch her beg before he did it. To order her to kiss—and lick!—his feet if she wanted to live. That would have been sweet indeed.

Brent chuckled at his thoughts.

His foot rose over the fallen body of the woman; Damon noticed the shadow and scurried out of the way. He was like a spooked rodent.

She gazed up at Brent, full of fear.

"How about you get out of my way, you stuck-up cunt," Brent grumbled.

Her tiny eyes became round wet circles.

This time, Brent anticipated the sensation, and was able to enjoy it: her itty-bitty body, which fit so neatly beneath the pad of the ball of his foot. Brent felt her push up into his flesh, and squirm weakly, and then he pressed down, and she flattened with a crackle. She was barely anything. A little wetness; a few pops. He twisted his foot on top of her for good measure.

Brent lifted his foot again.

There she was, but now her body was a twisted mess. She no longer twitched. She no longer looked like a little person anymore, even a crumpled one—she appeared more like torn paper and spilled jelly.

Damon sat nearby; he stared at his smashed date.

Brent waited, watched Damon.

His little roommate gazed up at him. He shook his head. Leapt, took off at a sprint.

Brent laughed. "Damon, wait. I had to," he said, but none of it sounded genuine. He did not even bother trying to school his voice. "She wasn't going to make it, okay? It was an accident. I had to put her out of her misery."

Damon did not stop running. He also did not get anywhere. It was almost as if Damon moved in slow motion, but no, he was just tiny.

Brent padded after him, purposefully stepping again on the tiny woman as he did; her body stuck to his sole for a few steps before it fell off.

Maybe it was the way Damon ran from him, or the moans that still eked out of Brent's headset around his neck, or how good it had felt to step on Damon's date, but Brent's cock was awake—he was suddenly so hard it was hard to walk. There was something truly intoxicating about how powerful he had become.

Damon was such a pain in the ass.

And it was not because he was overly jocular—plenty of Damon's friends were all right.

He constantly belittled Brent; treated him like a less-than.

And now. . .

"C'mere," Brent said, and he carefully scooped up Damon. He had to force himself to be extra careful. Oh, he wanted to shake the little bastard around, but the tiny man's date had taught Brent how gentle he had to be. Snuffing her out had been effortless.

Brent did not even pause; he walked straight to the bathroom.

His erection guided him like a divining rod.

When he stood in front of the toilet, Damon's little body in one hand, his other hand unzipping his jeans, it was almost as if Brent watched someone else go through these motions, and that he could just sit back and enjoy it. As if he watched porn starring himself. Instinctively, Brent knew what he was about to do—what he really wanted to do. But was he really going to do it?

Brent grinned down at his tiny roommate. Damon wiggled fiercely. He pushed and punched at Brent's fingers, though Brent did not feel any of it; his appendages did not budge. Damon was totally weak, completely powerless.

Beyond helpless.

Christ—

Brent's free hand fished out his rock-hard cock.

He lowered Damon next to it.

"Check that out," Brent gloated. "You ever seen a nicer dick than this, Damon?"

Damon writhed and shrieked as Brent brought him closer to his erection, which only excited Brent more.

"You ever see a cock bigger than mine, Damon? Let's see. . ."

Brent laughed cruelly as he pressed Damon to his flesh, and walked him carefully along its length: his penis was just over seven Damon's long, he found.

Brent moaned; he stroked himself with Damon's tiny form. That Damon fought him and was powerless to stop him made it all the sweeter.

Already, Brent teetered on an edge.

Brent had his fair share of kinks, and was used to spending an entire night revving himself before finally, eventually, coming. He could last. Now he was like a kid again, discovering his arousal. Every touch of Damon's body against his cock threatened to push him over the edge. And after how many seconds? He was ready to burst.

"Like a fucking cruise missile, huh, Damon?" Brent chuckled, and held the tiny man against the tip of his penis. "I'm going to explode all over you, bro."

Brent groaned. He stroked himself. Damon fought against his cockhead to no avail; his screams of protests were like little squeaks—his fear and protests were fucking hot.

"Fuck you, Damon," Brent growled. "You think you can stop me, you little shit?"

Brent gripped his rigid shaft.

He lifted his cock, and Damon was left in the cradle of the fingers of his other hand.

Lips locked in a sneer, Brent swung his manhood, and brought it down onto Damon's tiny body like a falling tree.

SMACK!

Damon was clearly dazed. The fight was knocked out of him, just like that.

"Pathetic," Brent growled still.

Brent lifted his cock once more; now Damon held his arms up, both pleadingly, and as a poor shield—

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Damon curled up in the fleshy hammock of Brent's fingers. He twitched and spasmed, he held himself, he whimpered and whined.

Brent smirked.

He brought the head of his cock down so that it hovered over Damon, and pumped himself with a loose fist.

His mind went back to stepping on that tiny asshole unaware; how her body stuck to his sole step after step, as if he was the tyrannosaurus rex in Jurassic Park. Now, Damon, the size of a bug, beaten half to death by his rock-hard cock. . .

It was effortless.

Brent came into his curled fingers, all over Damon.

It had been a while since he came that long, or that hard.

His clouded cum squirted out in stringy streams at first, thick like a gel.

Then it oozed as he gasped and gasped, and kept his hand working; he buried Damon underneath a heap of goop.

Hot, wet, sticky syrup oozed between his fingers.

Brent brought his fingers together, tight, to keep his mana from draining out of his hand. He raised his hand to his face.

Damon was covered, head to toe. A little sliver of flesh in a milky pool of viscous liquid. Weakly, Damon squirmed, but despite his struggles he remained submerged in the stuff.

Brent's eyes lit up as he watched, excited.

He made no motion to help his drowning roommate.

Damon twitched in the slime—twitch, twitch, twitch—and then he was still.

Brent was still, too. For a while he just admired the way that Damon appeared, submerged in his cum as it dried and hardened. Like a bug in amber.

All the while women had moaned and continued to moan from the headphones draped around his neck; another woman's voice calmly discussed some thoroughly geeky stuff.

Brent let the semi-firm goop, roommate and all, dribble from his fingertips into the toilet; he wiped his hand with paper, and tossed that in, too.

Then Brent had a nice, long piss, and flushed, only half paying attention to Damon's corpse as it swirled around and vanished.

Damon's date received a trash can burial in a makeshift coffin of crumpled paper towel.

What a shame—it would have been fun to toy with her, too.

But, oh, Brent felt grand as he sat down at his computer again.

There was his paused game, chats to catch up on, his porn still played, his stream—maybe he would order a pizza. That was the kind of thing Damon would always ride him for—"Bro! You can't dump that garbage in your body, come on!"—maybe he would get a pizza with extra toppings.

He would also need to find a new roommate, and soon, Brent mused.

At least the rest of the month was paid off.

Idly, Brent clicked on a link that someone had sent him.

A news post: something about an alert for a very popular Valentine's Day chocolate. Apparently, a few boxes—very, very few, the company spokesperson assured, and "we've already recovered most of the affected units"—were contaminated by Formula S thanks to a goof at the production plant.

Brent whistled. Pure, unrefined Formula S.

The stuff that came in cans was processed and safe. You could spray yourself and you would not shrink or anything like that—the worst that could happen was that you got it in your eyes or ingested some of the vapor, and then you might need to go see a doctor. The type of Formula S that worked on human beings was reserved for the authorities and precious few others.

The company promised to cover any costs by anyone affected by the shrinking sweets, though "we haven't heard from anyone yet," and "there is no cause for alarm" or "reason
not to buy our adorable little chocolates for that special someone!"

Damon had bought some chocolates for his date. . .

Maybe there were still a few left?

Brent's fingertip tapped at his grinning lips.

Gabriella was hoping for some action; it was night—late at night. Her phone had been silent for a good hour. Her dinner plans had fallen through (Maria decided to get dinner with her deadbeat boyfriend after all, and then one by one excuses felled the rest of the guest list); the flick she was going to see with a few other friends had sold out by the time she arrived at the theater (and of course no one snagged her a ticket); the friend that she had planned to meet up with, after it all, ended up going home with someone as she was on her way to him (she got the text while she was on the the train).

Now she was on the train again.

Supposedly she was headed home.

But she had already watched her stop come and go.

She was headed nowhere in particular. She followed the tracks, the train rocked her through the gloom.

She was headed anywhere.

Her eyes skipped over the couples that shared the car with her—they were no good.

Her glance would pause on groups, and people who were alone.

Maybe she could crash a party, or cozy her way into someone else's interesting evening plans.

Anything could happen.

Anything; anything. . .

Gabriella eyed a man who stood alone in the corner.

Fuck, he was handsome.

Fuck, he held roses and and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

Her eyes roamed on.

Her phone was still silent. She thumbed through the webwork of apps it contained to distract herself. She checked social media, browsed through some recent photos she had taken, she read some blog posts.

There was buzz about bad chocolates laced with Formula S. Some kind of mixup at the plant that had been responsible for a few last-minute batches of the treats—of course the most popular chocolates for Valentine's Day was some factory-made bullshit. Gabriella scoffed.

The chocolates were these queer little faces with Cheshire cat grins.

She lost interest when she read that there were no reported cases of people being affected by the contaminated chocolates—that would have made her giggle.

She could use a laugh.

Fucking "V Day."

Gabriella sighed and put her phone away. She glanced again at the eye candy she shared the car with. She wondered where he was headed. Some nice romantic evening. He was dressed in a way she hated (a way that she hated that she loved): fresh fashion, a nice coat with a tall collar, leather gloves, skinny jeans tucked into boots. He was so put together. Not a single day in her life had Gabriella ever looked in the mirror and felt that together. It was as if he had not gotten out of a bed that morning, like a regular human being, but instead rolled right off an assembly line, just like—

Gabriella's eyes dipped to the big red heart he cradled; sly eyes and a Cheshire grin stared back at her.

—just like the box of chocolates that he held.

Ah-ha.

Suddenly there was him in her mind, the size of a doll. No, smaller—Formula S reduced you down to inches. An inch. Sometimes even smaller.

There he was, tiny and helpless, after eating one of his silly chocolates. Maybe whatever dumb, skinny bird he was off to fuck would shrink with him. Ha-ha. Two little hipsters the size of bugs. What were the odds that he held one of the bad batches, though?

Nothing fun ever happened. Not really.

But how hilarious would that be?

He had a worried expression on his face; he was looking right at her.

Oh, I'm staring.

Gabriella glanced away.

She could see his reflection in one of the subway car's windows. Still he gazed at her.

She smirked.

If only he knew what she was thinking!

Rock, rock. Claclack-clack. Claclack-clack.

The car carried them on into the void. Station after station.

How far was he going to ride, she wondered. They had already passed all the gentrified neighborhoods.

What, was he lost?

Nah, he appeared too relaxed.

He was making that face again; shit, she was staring at him again.

At the next stop he got off in a hurry; he raced out of the doors.

Gabriella took a step to follow him. It was an automatic step. She did not realize that he had become her target for the night, until she took that step.

But then the doors closed.

Nope, the subway said. Not him. Find something else to do, young lady.

Gabriella huffed and scoffed.

She stared at her reflected self in the door's window opposite her; she stared through herself.

Rock, rock.

Gabriella gazed around at the mostly empty car and sighed. No one interesting. He was her last catch, and she had over-baited her hook. It was probably time to turn around. She was almost at the end of the line anyway—a loop of shame typically reserved for sleepy drunks.

She rode the train to Coney Island, the end—why not—pulled her hoodie's hood up, zipped up her jacket, walked out onto the raised open-air platform. The chill was biting; she had failed to bundle up enough. She had stacked indoor plans for that evening, and the past version of herself had wanted to skip wrestling with jackets and excess bulk all night.

The city was pretty quiet right then: distant trains and their distinct gait, cars that groaned by under the raised platform, the not-too-distant sigh of waves. Now, to pop out of the station and get a bite first, or did she just head over to the opposite—

A familiar shape shared the platform with her. He walked ahead of her. His damn nice coat, skinny jeans tucked into boots—red roses, red heart-shaped box.

That way he had rushed off the train. . .

The asshole had switched cars!

Wow—did I creep him out that much? What a loser.

Gabriella quickened her step. She was bored enough to mess with him. Why not. She had taunted frightened boys for less.

She neared him and was just about to call out when she stopped herself.

That box he carried—what were the chances? Like, really? A million to one? A billion to one? But people won the lottery. Lightning did strike twice. Why not roll the dice, see if she couldn't cash in a little of that cosmic luck.

Gabriella continued to follow him, but from a ways back, and mostly out of sight.

She shadowed him.

It was easy.

And then caught up with him where she could pull him into an alley.

He cried out but she kept it playful. She smiled at him—I mean you no harm, her smirk said.

"What are you doing," he asked.

He had a nice voice. Soft, but kinda deep. The kind of voice she wanted to listen to over the phone when she was about to fall asleep.

"Got a hot date, cowboy?"

"With my girlfriend, yeah. It's our anniversary."

"You fucking kidding? You asked her out today?"

"She asked me," he said; his eyes flickered back toward the street.

Gabriella stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. His heart pounded against her palm. Scared gazelle. She stared into his eyes and grinned at him. He was nervous. That eye-sheen—he was a little drunk. Fresh meat. An easy kill.

"You're cute."

"Well, thanks."

He was uncomfortable. That was okay.

"How long have you two been going out?"

"Just a year."

"Just a year! Wow, that's like, no time at all."

"Well. . ."

"You two fucking yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do. You. Fuck. You look like a nice Christian boy, you know?"

He really squirmed; he got angry.

Good, good.

She pressed her hand on his chest. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

"Look, I'm going to be late."

"Not yet, huh?"

"I've got to go."

"Think she's going to suck your cock tonight?"

Now he made a move. Of course her hand was not enough on its own to hold him there, not if he really wanted to escape. But that was not the point. If he was going to run, this was it. If he did not get away. . .

He squirmed; she pressed.

"Because I will."

He squirmed less. She brought her face in close to his; her lips close to his.

"Right here, right now."

Their eyes met. She could see parts of herself reflected in his eyes.

"Hm?"

She kissed him; she kept her hand pressed on his chest. Thumthumthumthum—

(Oh, shit. He's probably a virgin!)

Gabriella sighed against his lips and held him against the wall with her body and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him on the lips. Slow, soft, steady.

He tried to murmur something around her mouth. "What if someone—"

"No one will see anything."

She placed a hand over the crotch of his pants and pushed on his erection.

There it was. Good, good.

(She was a swooping hawk, he was her field mouse.)

She stared into his eyes. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," she said, and grinned. (Grinned like a shark.)

He laughed.

"Okay," she kissed him, "Okay."

With one hand, Gabriella unbuttoned his jeans, she zipped down his fly. Her hand snaked between the denim and his underwear and she cupped his cock.

"How's that feel?"

"Good," he murmured.

She rubbed her hand on his cock; she kissed his neck—wet and warm kisses, she breathed against him, she licked him. His very obedient cock was as attentive as a charmed viper.

"Baby, baby," she whispered against his neck. He was as stone still as the wall. His eyes were closed. She took his roses from him, and then his heart. He let her have them—no resistance.

Slowly the cosmic lottery was calling out her numbers.

One by one; match after match after match.

The red grinning box stayed in her hand. He opened his eyes when he heard the pop of the lid.

"Hey," he protested.

"Gotta make it official."

She plucked a single treat and replaced the lid, then put the box down, too.

"She'll know something's up."

"You were hungry, on the train." Her free hand found his cock, squeezed. "Shut up and close your eyes."

His lips obliged her when she pressed the chocolate to them.

Time to roll the dice.

(She was a mad woman on a rainy plain who danced with lightning.)

With her finger she pushed the chocolate into his mouth; his teeth clamped down on the treat, and bit it in half. The rest of the chocolate would go no further—his teeth formed a wall.

She cursed in her head, and considered forcing the rest of it on him. But how could she make that work in regard to their natural scene?

She chucked the other half away, and it landed with a plop atop the box on the ground.

"Something sweet for you," she said, and kissed his neck. "Something sweet for me," she said, and started to kiss her way down his body.

She gazed up; he chewed, slowly.

C'mon, c'mon.

Her kisses slowed near his hips.

Please don't be just an actual piece of fucking chocolate.

(What did you expect, Gabriella? What were the odds?)

She prepared the area around his penis, pulled down his underwear, pulled at his pants to make some room. Above, he chewed away.

Swallow, you bastard!

Gabriella glanced at the cock she had promised to put in her mouth—

Fellatio 101: Never Look At Their Penis.

So rarely did a penis appear tantalizing. Rarely, like, never. He bent to the right. His hair on his head was so straight, so why the fuck was this hair so curly? He had ringlets. Bitch, trim.

Gabriella sighed.

She held onto his dick for a moment. She waved it around a little.

Rock, rock.

Nah.

She stood up and looked at him. Eyes still closed, he leaned against the wall, his face all blissful, euphoric.

"Did you swallow," she demanded.

His eyes opened slowly, and were clouded, as if he had fallen asleep. He focused on her. "What," he stammered.

"Fuck. Nevermind."

Gabriella pulled her hoodie's hood up, zipped up her jacket. She made her way toward the exit of the alley.

"Hey, where are you going," he called to her.

She did not look back.

"Wait, aren't you—"

Gabriella rolled her eyes.

She was just about at the sidewalk.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—"

Gabriella glanced back behind her.

Her eyes lit up.

He was shrinking!

"Oh, shit!"

No—really? No, no, no—really?

Before her eyes, he dwindled against the wall. His clothes sagged off of him. He looked at her, tears in his eyes, and his voice was far more quiet as he demanded, "What did you do to me?"

Gabriella laughed, and strode toward him.

"Shrink, ya loser!"

Wait.

The effect had stopped: at about half his height, he shrank no further.

His eyes were level with her navel—about there.

"What the fuck," Gabriella asked the air.

He took one look down at himself, then at her, and then he started running. His clothes fell away as he did, until he wore only his now oversized shirt, and no underwear. He did not run from her, but right at her—the opening of the alley was his only escape.

Fat chance!

Gabriella swung her arm at him as he came near. She struck him across the face with a closed fist. He collapsed backward onto his ass, and gazed up at her with shock and fear.

Now he was looking good and small.

It was like a mixed-size wrestling match, Gabriella thought then. The woman did enjoy watching wrestling—especially lucha libre, as the sport was taken seriously in Mexico.

One of her favorite luchadoras, a fighter who went by Emma Gear, was famous for her mixed-size exhibitions. They were called "squash matches" for how brutally the woman dispatched her opponents.

Gabriella grinned viciously as she loomed over the pale little man—she channeled Emma.

He tried to get back to his feet but she kicked out, and her foot struck his shoulder. He yelped like a dog and fell back again. She pressed her attack, pinned him under one foot placed on his chest. A firm, hard squeeze, until his face was red and he was out of breath.

This was fun, but not the kind of fun Gabriella was really after.

This half-size of his was a problem.

Gabriella's eyes flashed at the bitten chocolate.

She hurried over to the heart-shaped box, recovered the morsel.

A scuffle behind her—"Oh no you fucking don't!"

It was easy to catch up to him.

Gabriella grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled, tossed him to the ground.

She sat down on top of him, then, and gripped his jaw. With a simple squeeze, she forced his mouth open.

She pushed the chocolate between his lips and teeth.

He whimpered as she covered his mouth with her hand.

"C'mon. Eat it."

He shook his head as best as he could, trapped by her hand. His body squirmed beneath her, but her bulk surely held him. Gabriella had watched Emma pin down a half-sized person enough times to know exactly how to position herself to keep this little man contained, and all his limbs controlled.

He was helpless.

He was right where she wanted him.

Gabriella pinched his nose.

He mmm'd desperately; he convulsed.

(She was a witch in the forest, who shook her body to a beat no one else could hear.)

The man was forced to swallow, and choked the chocolate down.

She released his nose, but kept her hand over his mouth so that he could not scream.

For a moment, nothing happened.

"C'mon!"

He dwindled beneath her, and Gabriella cackled as she felt his frame diminish. It was glorious.

Reluctantly she stood off of him, but only because she worried that the weight of her body would crush him.

And she stood there, waiting, her hands on her hips as she watched the lump hidden by his shirt shrink smaller and smaller.

When the process finally stopped, Gabriella was satisfied—he was no larger than one of the chocolates then. He was bite-sized.

Without blinking she watched the protrusion travel along the length of his deflated shirt. His tiny naked form emerged from the collar.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

A squeaky scream.

(Ha!)

She squatted down over his inch-tall form and blocked his pitiful flight with the wall of her hand.

His flesh bumped her flesh. He was so small. So very small.

Oh-ho; the universe had called all her numbers.

(Oh, thank you, Jesus.

Well, no: thank you, Lucifer.

Let's be honest, right?)

Gently she plucked up her prize.

Her naked little choir boy.

He squeaked protests at her.

She squeezed him just a bit and he cried out.

"You're mine, now," she said with a predatory grin.

She put her hand in her jacket pocket, and held him trapped inside of a loose fist. She almost left—her head whirled like she was drunk—but she remembered to take the smiling box with her. She left the red roses, and the rest of his shit.

Claclack-clack, claclack-clack; it was a quick trip home; it was the longest trip ever.

She did not pull him out of her pocket, not until she got back to her apartment. There, she grabbed a nice tall glass and dropped him into it. She left him on her small kitchen table as she went to her room, kicked off her sneakers, stripped off her jacket and hoodie. . .

Paused to think—

Shirt, pants, bra, panties, socks fell to the floor, one after the other.

Gabriella marched back toward the living room, nue comme un verre. As she approached the tiny man in the cup, she experienced an odd sense of enhanced height. Of having real mass. Of being big.

(And just look at that fear in his eyes—delicious.)

Gabriella squatted down and peered at her tiny captive through the glass. He was naked, too. A nice kind of naked. He had a wonderful body. Almost entirely hairless, despite that silly patch of ringlets. Lean, muscled. A flat stomach. Long and straight limbs. An angular face with gorgeous cheekbones. (Boy, you must have the prettiest skull.)

Gabriella reached for the cup; he flinched, shrank back against the glass wall behind him.

(Where are you going? There's nowhere to run.)

Her hand paused in the air. She smiled.

What was this feeling? Lust, yes. But what else. Something pulled her. A real gravity.

"Listen up, smallstuff. I am in a mood right now. We're gonna get hot and heavy, just like I promised."

Gabriella wrapped her hand around the glass and lifted it—that precious squeak. She held his cup before her breasts and stared down her nose at him.

"Here's the thing—"

Gabriella raised the glass to her face and peered inside; she stared hard. (Yes, that was it: power.)

"—I'm the boss. You will do what I say, when I say it. Got it?"

He was frozen. Muscles tight. Horror-faced.

(Complete control.)

She shook the glass. His delicate little head rebounded off its side with a crack. When he curled into a ball, she wondered if maybe she had shaken the glass too hard, but he gathered himself up. He bled from one nostril—just the smallest line of blood. That was fine.

He nodded.

"Good."

Gabriella puckered her lips and pressed them to the glass right in front of that adorable, terrified face.

He screamed.

She laughed.

(I'm a giant. You're my toy-boy. I can do whatever I want with you.)

Gabriella sat on the couch. She lowered her hand and tipped the glass; her tiny captive spilled out in front of her feet. At least he did not run right then. That was smart. She probably would have crushed him under her foot without a second thought.

(Girl, you would have stepped on him? Yes; yes I would have.)

Gabriella slid a foot near him. He sputtered and recoiled away from it. Was he that scared? Well, yeah, but. . .

Gabriella paused, lifted a leg. She pulled her foot up to her face, and sniffed at the air just under her toes. Her nose wrinkled. What a stink! After a long day on her feet, on the move, in socks and sneakers, she had worked up quite a tart funk.

She brought her foot back down next to him. He recoiled from it again, only to find her other foot at his other side—she gently, surely pinned him between her soles.

"You're not going anywhere, little boy," Gabriella murmured. With a sighing gasp she fell back into the couch cushions; she brushed the fingers of one hand over her clit and lips. "Other than
right where I want you to be."

As she stroked herself: a telltale line of dampness, like morning dew that traced the outline of a petal.

"Mm. God." She slid her soles against one another and rolled him between them. "Smell that. Smell me."

Thumb on her button, Gabriella slid two fingers inside of herself, in and out, nice and slow. Rock, rock; she warmed, wetted.

The tiny body had squirmed in the envelope of her sensitive flesh, at first. His struggles quickly subsided. There was nothing he could do to stop her. He was powerless against even just her feet. She was free to roll his limp form around to her heart's content.

When she finally released him, he slumped against the floor.

She loomed over him, stared down at the pathetic little figure between her feet. He did not sputter or flee, now. He was nice and docile.

She stomped her foot next to him.

He jump-flinched.

"Get on your knees."

Like someone made to play a game they did not know if they wanted to play, his movements were slow and stiff.

Gabriella reached down and hooked a finger under his tiny chin—that pale little face caught in the nook of her brown finger. (Christ, I could crush his skull like a grape.)

"WhatI say, when I say."

He was crying!

"Think I won't crush you?"

Oh how those eyes widened.

She raised her foot, let him take in the sight of her sole as it hovered overhead—

STOMP! right next to him.

He fell forward onto his hands, quaked.

"Look at me."

He looked up at her. He sobbed like a child. Tears poured down his face.

She stared at him.

A car honked outside; a train passed not too far away—claclack-clack, claclack-clack.

"Good."

She positioned her foot in front of him, snapped her fingers, pointed at her foot.

"Kiss my toes. One at a time. More than one time."

The diminutive man crawled forward. His tiny lips could only just be felt on the tips of her toes. The barest pecks. His kisses were fast and quick.

"Slower! And press your lips to my toes like you're kissing a lover. Like you're kissing your dumb Puritan girlfriend."

His kisses were slow, and his presses long.

"Good, boy."

Gabriella sat back and closed her eyes and resumed how she softly raked her fingers across her womanhood. (A white man the size of a bug is kissing my toes.) "Christ." (My stinky, sweaty toes.) "Oh god."

God.

"Slave! Each time you kiss my toes, I want to hear you say, 'Gabriella is my goddess,' over and over. 'I worship Goddess Gabriella.' Say it!"

With each kiss came a mumbled utterance that Gabriella could only just hear.

"Louder!"

Still he was quiet, but she could tell he shouted—that was good enough.

Gabriella looked down across herself as she fingered her sex. Usually she hated her body—her wide, fat breasts and bulging tummy and the way her flesh bunched up like folded dough whenever she sat down. Not right then, though: that body was big—big

and powerful. Strong, full curves. She could crush him without even trying with any part of herself. Every inch of her was more impressive than all of him. She could crush hundreds of him.

She was a landscape unique to her.

She was a goddess.

"Ah. . ."

Gabriella pushed her foot forward and bowled over the tiny figure who was busy worshiping her. Her toes found him, and then forced him roughly underneath their row. She flexed her digits on top of him, held him down. Big. Powerful. He could not stop her. He tried—he squirmed and pushed at her toes; at times, desperately.

She flexed her toes around him. She flexed until his rebellion ceased. She flexed until she felt something pop.

Gabriella's womanhood tightened. She clenched her teeth, bucked her hips. "Oh, fuck."

When she leaned forward and gazed down at her tiny toy, he writhed on the ground before her feet. He clutched his arm; that arm was bent the wrong way around at the elbow, she saw.

"Stop crying," she growled.

STOMP!

"STOP!"

She glared down, satisfied, as the bug at her feet did its best to stay still. It twitched, but it could not control that, she knew.

She replaced her foot on top of her prey. His tiny body pressed up into her flesh as she smothered him.

"Kiss my sole, insect."

Peck, peck, peck—then he remembered, and his kisses were slow, his presses long.

"I could crush you, little boy. It'd be so easy. Just a little bit of pressure. . ."

She added the absolute minimum of weight that she could manage and even still he screamed so loud she could hear it.

She laughed. "Lick. Lick my sweaty, smelly foot. Smell and lick my sole, worm!"

He did—"Oh. . ."

Gabriella fell back against the cushions. She kept her foot on top of him and fingered herself, thumbed her clit. Rock, rock.

(Fucking loser; I should crush him.)

She thought about it. She really thought about it. His tiny body crumpling beneath her. Right as she came. She almost—

She squeezed her eyelids together as muscles deep in her hips contracted, held, held, relaxed and trembled.

"Fuck me."

Gabriella sat up and lifted her foot from the tiny man. "Still alive?"

She scooped him up and inspected him. He was flush, gasped for air. His eyes were red, face soaked. That one tiny arm was not a straight limb anymore, but crinkled. Even the way she held him, she noticed, aggravated his injury. She changed nothing about the way she held him.

Gabriella brought him close to her face and stared at his doll-like countenance.

"Gabriella is a big, powerful goddess. Say it."

He was close enough now that she could hear him speak, and how his voice warbled. He repeated her words.

With her other hand, she teased her lips.

"'Gabriella owns me.'"

"Gabriella owns me," he stammered.

""You are my superior brown goddess.'"

"You are my superior brown goddess."

"'My Mexican queen.'"

"My Mexican queen."

"'I'm a disgusting, ugly, inferior white bug.'"

"I'm a disgusting... Ugly... Inferior white bug."

"'Please crush me.'"

Soft folds of skin, hot and wet; she flicked her clit with her thumb.

"Say it, little boy."

Glittering tears trailed down his cheeks like a shower of shooting stars.

"SAY it."

"No," he cried at her.

Her eyes flashed.

Gabriella scooted back on the couch and cocked her hips. She brought the tiny man down between her legs and pressed his cool little body against her hot lips. With her fingertips she pushed him into her layered petals, and he was lost in them—in her. His body squirmed inside her depths; only his little head stuck out. She found his head with her thumb, and pressed it against her clit.

"Suck me," she ordered.

His squirming struggles sent tingling waves of pleasure all throughout her body: the energy started in her hips and traveled out to the corners of her. She moaned mightily.

"SUCK!"

A delightful pressure enveloped her clit as her slave fit the tip of her nub into his mouth. That was all he could fit, apparently. Her thumb was determined to help: she pressed down on the back of his head and pumped him up and down on top of her. He squirmed inside of her all the more—he really thrashed. Thrashed with pain.

"Yeah, bitch," she murmured.

She worked her thumb; he wriggled, desperate.

Her fingers pushed on his body, her thumb kept his head pinned and his mouth around her clit, which was too big for his little orifice; her vaginal muscles squeezed tight. This time, as she came, she came along to a staccato of crackling pops. How his bones broke rippled through her walls and echoed outward.

With a cry Gabriella fell forward off of the couch and onto her knees. She heaved.

Between her legs, he was still stuck inside of her. Only his little head popped out.

She gazed down at his minuscule face and noticed that a horrific visage stared back at her: his wide-open eyes, and his wide open mouth—all of his teeth had been knocked out by how she had forced him onto her too-large clit. His maw was a fleshy, toothless cavity, like an stretched-open anus.

Gabriella gasped with disgust; she moaned with pleasure.

(So strong; too strong.)

She brought her hand down, slipped her fingers into herself. She held his body against her contracting walls as she came once more—he crackled more and more. She pushed his tiny head inside of her and rode the waves which shook her.

Rock, rock.

Cracrack-crack.

Gabriella collapsed against the floor of her apartment, a happy mess.

She fished inside of her sex and pulled him out by the string of his spine, like a used tampon. He was smashed into an unrecognizable log of flesh, horribly mangled, caked in thick globs of ejaculate.

She stomped him flat, just for good measure.

It was as easy as she had told him: one firm press—squelch!—and he was a thin sheet of gore.

Gabriella dumped his little body in the trash and clomped toward the bathroom to clean-up.

She grinned at herself in the mirror, like one of those silly chocolates.

Goddess Gabriella.

There you are.

Those chocolates. . .

She had cashed in one of her cosmic gifts.

She had eleven winning lottery tickets left.

The restaurant had completely rearranged its seating for Valentine's Day. Every tabletop was set for a pair—there were no solo operators or parties of more than two, that night.

The clientele was young and fashionable. The restaurant attracted a very specific crowd, as if it were all part of some precise plan. Its chef's cuisine was too modern and experimental to please an aged tongue; portions too paltry for anyone actually hungry for a meal—sips 'n' nibbles. The price of even a single dish positioned the space as demarcated territory for the well-to-do. So the room ended up filled by younger, successful, hip patrons.

In that place, that night, a fashion photographer could aim her camera in any direction and snap happily and sure.

Uneven punky cuts and form-hugging vêtements bought yesterday; nobody was without twinkling piercings or vibrant tats; makeup on men, men's attire on women—ask or you would never know who was what—not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle, not a crease or tear that was not in fact a concession made to fashion, no bags under these eyes, teeth straight white sparkling. . .

"Everyone is queer nowadays. Ever notice that?"

"Adrian, please. Not so loud."

"It's the big hot fad, now. Oh, I'm not gay, I'm bi. Wait, you're bi? No, I'm not bi, I'm pan. Pan and poly." Put-on pitch: "I love everyone!" Chortle. "Think I'm a man? No, sorry: I'm trans. Fuck you!"

"Language; please."

"It's all bullshit. Just a bit of fun. Idiot kids staging their play rebellion. This room reeks of Oedipal bewilderment. Whores for daddy's checkbook. Charlatans wearing mommy-says-I'm- special pins. The meek have surely inherited the earth, and they all have fat trust funds and no clue, and too much time on their hands to pursue any dumb whim."

"You're so bitter tonight, Adrian."

"Am I, Kelly? Bitter? Are you sure that's not just the candied chard and vaporized grapefruit disagreeing with you? Please, sweetheart, keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut. You don't know what you're talking about. Fucking kid.

"This room is a testament; you can't read the writing on these walls. This crowd wouldn't have existed twenty years ago—ten years ago. Hell, five years ago! How old are these babies?

"We're in a fold of space-time; a ripple in the fabric of existence. I had to fight to get to where I'm at, Kelly. I had to survive."

Adrian's thumb had jabbed and was now jabbing at his broad chest as he continued.

"If I wanted space to breathe, I had to work to create it. I ran away when I was fifteen. My parents disowned me at the drop of a hat. No million-dollar atta-boy for this man right here."

He was flanked by a quartet of frowns; an ogdoad of eyes that flickered. The tables were tightly packed, yet Adrian roared as if he gripped a podium, rather than a svetle table barely wider than his plate.

"I am what I am. I am what I made me. I am captain of my ship; master of my destiny."

Kelly sighed, languid.

"I mean, have you taken a good look at our waiter? Did you not see that gauche symbol on his neck? Do you know what that is?"

"No."

"Right there. A circle with an arrow and cross combined."

Adrian waited; Kelly blinked.

"Please don't stare," was all Kelly said.

"He's trans."

Kelly's head turned to glance at their waiter. "She, I imagine."

"No, he and his penis are male, no matter what cattle-brand he stamps on his flesh; no matter how confused that dumb fuck is. Wake up to reality, kid."

Kelly slowly broke apart his last nibble of candied chard and vaporized grapefruit with his tongue; he glanced between his empty plate and Adrian, and held onto the thin neck of his drink to save it from tumbling over the cliff's edge of their disturbed table.

The waiter happened to come by, then. Thin and quiet, he placed a fresh course down in front of them and took away their empty plates.

Kelly happened to catch the waiter's eye.

Yes, the waiter probably heard Adrian.

Everyone always heard Adrian.

"You're right, Adrian. Of course. I don't understand."

"Gender experiments; explorations in sexuality. These kids don't get it. They don't understand what a queer is. What being gay is. They got it all confused—like it's some grand identity. Like everyone else in the world has gotta know."

"Then what is it?"

"An appetite," Adrian grumbled.

With his fork, Adrian scooped up the entirety of what was on his plate, demolishing the delicate arrangement. He pushed the mass into his mouth and chewed with his lips open.

The man laughed. Bits of food speckled his chin, his suit.

Kelly ate in silence, small bite after small bite.

He only half listened to Adrian as he prattled on.

The waiter came by again—Kelly's eyes stayed fixed on the table.

Kelly gazed down at the dessert that was placed before him, then. A small chocolate dome. A face was there at its top; it grinned up at Kelly, Cheshire-like.

Well. I'm glad you're having such a good time.

He rose out of his seat.

Adrian stared at him like an angry King might stare at a peasant who interrupted his banquet.

"Adrian? Don't come straight home." Kelly leaned down and they locked eyes; he spoke louder than was polite, but he did not care, not at that moment. "Talk a walk first. A nice long walk. You're drunk. You stink."

Kelly was treated to a round of applause and he walked out the door. He waved and blew a kiss outside as he carried on into the night. Neither gesture was aimed at Adrian.

"Oh, fuck off. All of you."

"You're rude," one of the wo/men who sat just beside Adrian said.

Adrian glared at them until they sighed and averted their eyes.

In front of him was another pathetically small portion. A single bite, for the size of Adrian's mouth. It had been Kelly's idea to go there. It was his kind of place.

A chocolate face grinned at Adrian.

Adrian grinned back.

He plucked the morsel up with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.

He chewed absent-mindedly, swallowed.

All around the room, people pecked at their desserts. Took it in small bites. Like it was some special experience, to be savored.

You dumb fucks—you're just eating money.

Adrian glanced from face to face. What jokers. Fools!

What a bunch of bullshit that whole night was.

Loudly Adrian's chair scraped the floor. Rudely he rose, and knocked the table beside his with his bulk as he shifted through the narrow aisle.

A piss, and then he was out there.

Adrian glared around the room as he marched through the center of the space, daring any eyes to meet his.

His head swam.

His stomach gurgled.

All around the room, then, Adrian found that he was not alone: the other diners appeared equally perturbed.

Adrian opened his mouth in askance, but he failed to utter a single word. He did not have any time to.

The man had skydived, once, when he was younger and in better shape.

He went skydiving again, right then: he plummeted, impossibly, into a billowing, dark cavern. That cavern was formed by his clothes, and they settled on top of him in a pile when he hit the ground. At the very least, his clothes saved him from a hard—from a fatal—impact.

Adrian scurried in the dark in a panic. He tried desperately to find a way out. His clothes were a stifling prison. His own smells were magnified to a disturbing degree. The fabric was heavy and suffocating, and it was impossible to tell if he made any headway.

Even as the rest of him tried to deny it, part of him knew what had happened.

He had shrunk.

Like a criminal. Like the demented. Like the unwanted.

He was tiny.

No—no!

Whoever did this would pay. Adrian would make sure of that. The reversal procedure was expensive enough that Adrian could create a fat lawsuit around it.

Adrian emerged into a lit space again, fresh air. . .

The dining room was colossal. It took his breath away. The chairs, the tables—everything loomed, so large that it all appeared alien to him, despite the familiar shapes. The ceiling was miles away.

No one else shared that room with him, or so he thought, at first. Just other piles of clothes.

Everyone else had shrunk, too.

Oh, this was too good.

Now it was a class-action suit, and he had allies.

This pretentious restaurant, that flummoxed waiter, his hell-mouthed bitch of a chef—they were all fucked.

From the piles around him, shapes emerged. Other people, naked and scared.

Adrian would gather them.

He could use them, now.

He would lead this charge.

The people closest to him motioned to him. They appeared absolutely terrified.

Adrian grinned at them.

Yes, you ninnies—worry not, I'll handle everything.

The ground shook something awful.

A shadow crept across the land around Adrian, and the air cooled.

He gazed up, and there was the waiter. Not tiny and nude, like him, but a giant who towered, hundreds of feet tall. The sylphlike, long-haired young man was absorbed by his thoughts, and totally oblivious to Adrian in his path.

"Look down, you fucking muppet!"

What were the chances his foot would land on Adrian, though? But with every step, a dark dread seized the tiny man. For the first time in a long time, Adrian experienced an acute sense of powerlessness; a total helplessness.

"Down, down, down," Adrian shrieked like a broken record.

The waiter took a step forward, and Adrian screamed wordlessly, hysterical, as the crisscrossing tread of the giant man's huge sneaker fell through the air, right at him—

—Molly took a step backward. Something had just crunched messily beneath her sneaker, and she hoped to hell that it was nothing important. Nor was in a foul state; Chef would have her head.

No, literally: she was pretty sure Nor would chase her around with a cleaver and cut off her head, if Molly just fucked something up.

That woman was a little scary, at times.

Though Molly admired that aspect of her character.

Nor was fierce, passionate.

On the ground was a smashed something. It did not look like any kind of bug Molly had seen before. Really, it appeared to be a tiny human being, though squashed into red ruin.

The blond glanced around the room. She fully expected every patron to leer back, as if she had dropped a tray full of plates.

No one stared at her.

The room was totally empty.

"What the fuck?"

Instead of customers sitting in seats, there were only messy piles of clothing, jewelry, phones. As if their patrons that evening decided to dine and ditch and go streaking all at the same time.

This better not be some flash mob shit, Molly thought.

On the floor, she spied movement. Small somethings scurried around. A waiter in the city, Molly's mind could not help but jump to rodents first, but there was that curious human-looking thing she had stepped on—these small somethings appeared to be little people, as well.

"What the hell is going on?"

Molly froze where she was. She did not want to take another step, lest she crush someone else. Oh god. So it was a person she had stepped on. She was a murderer now. A killer! Is that something you could get arrested for? Or put in jail for? It was not her fault, not really—she was going to get put away for stepping on a damn bug.

Molly glared at the splotch at her feet. Then she noticed that other little people had come close to her. Some of them gave her a wide berth as they stared with horror at the smashed body in front of her, but the braver of the miniaturized lot stood in front of Molly's sneakers and waved their arms. When she paid attention to them, she noticed that they actually called out to her, too, but the noise was so faint, she really had to listen for it.

"Um. Hi. Listen, I didn't mean to step on that, uh, person. That was totally an accident. I didn't see 'em. But I see you! I won't hurt you, okay?"

This seemed to reassure the people directly in front of her shoes, and even some of the others who hovered nearby. Lord, the room was full of tiny people. It appeared as if everyone in the room had been reduced down to an inch tall or less. Now the space was littered with naked little bodies, all shades and shapes and minuscule sizes. Some people even looked like ants, to Molly's high vantage.

The waiter sighed—the restaurant was probably going to get sued into oblivion now.

Fuck; she really liked this job, and working for—

"MOLLY!"

Oh shit.

Nor burst through the door that led to the kitchen. Her dark eyes were two hot coals. Nor was tall and slim, with a flat chest. With her pixie cut and her predilection for wearing pants and dress shirts and shoes, she was often mistaken for a man. She had a brassy voice as rough as gravel.

The woman's mouth was open, ready to roar. But nothing came out. She took one look at her empty dining room, and then at Molly; then she noticed the piles of clothes, and glared at Molly.

"What is the meaning of this?"

As if Molly knew!

"Shit, Chef, everyone shrunk!"

"What," Nor growled.

Nor took a step forward and Molly cast out an arm, hand held up. "No, Chef, wait!"

"What," Nor asked, startled by Molly's evident worry.

"Look down, Chef." Molly pointed to the people gathered before her. "Look right here!"

Nor peered down at where Molly pointed. Her eyes scanned the room. As usual, Nor's expression was inscrutable. She had exactly two expressions: a stoic stare, or a peeved glare. Even as the woman surveyed what was quite possibly the most gonzo situation that Molly had ever been witness to, Nor showed no surprise, or worry, or anything else.

The chef simply turned around and marched back into her kitchen.

Nor returned to the dining room with a large, clean mixing bowl. The woman cared little about where she stepped, and Molly spied several tiny shapes that scurried out of the way of Nor's approaching feet.

Nor handed the bowl to Molly.

"Gather them up. Flip the sign and lock the door. We're closed."

"Chef?"

Nor already marched toward the kitchen. "Now, Molly! Hurry up, and bring them to me."

Molly watched her boss leave the room. She glanced down at those micro-sized persons gathered in front of her. She swallowed. Then she did as Nor had commanded.

Many of the tiny people came willingly. For most of them, all Molly had to do was squat down and hold out her hand and they climbed onto her offered palm. "Don't worry," she would tell them. "Let's get you off the ground, and put you somewhere safe." She filled the bowl with dozens of living naked dolls this way.

Some of the tiny people made Molly hunt them down; she would lecture them as she plucked them up. The tiniest people—those who had dwindled down to maybe a centimeter tall or even less—Molly had to be particularly careful with; though, these teeniest folk tended to give up the moment that she came near. They were so small that she felt awful really. How could they not be scared of her? So to them, she apologized as she placed them in the bowl with the rest.

In truth, Molly cared less about what anyone in that bowl might think, or worried more about catching any more of Nor's substantial temper.

Molly turned the sign on the door. She locked it.

She turned out the lights as she left the dining room, and then entered the kitchen.

Molly was happy to leave the dining room. Every step she had taken, she had worried that there would be another crunch beneath her sneaker.

The kitchen was a large, beautiful space. Clean, brightly lit, all white tile and gleaming steel. Even after the service that night, the room was mostly spotless and orderly: Nor was an exacting chef who studied a precise cuisine.

Molly set the bowl full of people down on the large island in the center of the kitchen. Nor stood on the other side of the room with her back turned. When she heard the bowl clink down, she spun toward Molly.

Nor eyed her charge; then she eyed the bowl.

She strode toward it and put her hands down on the island on either side of the bowl, gazed into its contents, intently, as if she searched for something. At that moment, she wore her stoic mask.

As stern as Nor could be, and as harsh a mistress as she proved as Chef, Molly could not deny how alluring the woman was. She had a palpable magnetism. She was less like a cook in a kitchen, and more like a captain of a ship. And above all, to Molly's mind, Nor was an artist.

Molly was happy to be part of her very small crew. Other than Molly, there were only a few people who helped around that kitchen, though they were preppers and purchasers—when it was time to cook, it was just the two of them. Really, it was an honor. Molly liked to think that Nor trusted her more than most, and she considered herself lucky to work under such a remarkable person.

Nor pursed her lips. Her lean, hard face was as unreadable as ever as her dark eyes searched the bowl. Then Molly spied something truly rare: the ghost of a smile found Nor's mouth.

Nor plucked a naked little person between her fingers. A man, Molly guessed.

Nor confirmed her waiter's suspicion: "There you are, Mr. Peterson."

By the way Mr. Peterson squirmed about between Nor's fingers, it did not appear that he was as happy to see the comparatively giant woman.

Nor had donned her peeved mask.

"Do you know who Arlie Peterson is, Molly?"

The waiter shook her head.

"Well he knows who you are, dear. He called my server as confused as my cuisine."

Molly's eyebrows knit together, her lip twitched. Who was this little man, and why did he feel the need to be such an asshole?

"He's a food critic. I would say a big one... But." Arlie Peterson squirmed mightily; Nor put an end to his revolt with a curt shake. "I remember that review very well, Mr. Peterson. It's hard enough to open a restaurant. Your shot across the bow—days after I opened, no less—turned my uphill battle into a mountainous war. 'I've now taken a bite of Nor Rachman,' you cheekily declared, 'and I didn't like it—not one bit.' Well, Mr. Peterson. . ."

Nor raised the tiny man above her face. She grinned at him. Molly's mouth dropped open a little bit as horror dawned on her, even before comprehension.

Nor licked her lips.

"I'll happily review you back."

"Chef—"

Nor's small, stern mouth opened, she stuck out her long pink tongue. There she placed a tiny, naked Mr. Peterson, and he was helpless to how Nor pulled him into her maw.

"Chef!"

A chorus of screams sounded from the bowl. Molly realized, suddenly sick: that bowl was too tall and too smooth for any of those people to escape.

It was Molly who had trapped them in there. Doomed them, maybe.

Nor stared at Molly and smiled. Slowly, she chewed. Every time her jaws came together there was an awful, grinding crunch of bone. Molly could hear Mr. Peterson snap and squelch. The sound lessened the more Nor chewed.

Then, she swallowed.

"Salty." Nor remarked. She smacked her lips; blood trickled from her mouth and she giggled and wiped at it with her finger, licked her chin, sucked her red finger clean.

Molly had never heard Nor giggle before.

"And a little bitter," Nor pursed her lips and admitted.

Molly swallowed the dry terror that had lumped in her throat.

With swift, wooden movements she walked over to the kitchen's landline phone.

"Molly. Stop," Nor said.

Molly dialed nine, one, one.

She held the receiver up to her ear.

THWACK!

The line went dead; Nor had chopped the phone cord with a cleaver.

She pulled it from the wooden counter and brandished it at Molly—her stoic mask was back.

"No, Molly."

"Chef, you killed him."

"Yes."

"That's insane!"

"I saw the blood on the floor out there, Molly."

"What?"

"You already had your fun."

"Chef, that was an accident!"

"But how did it feel?"

"What?"

"What if it was that fat old troll who ran his mouth all night?"

"What? I know what I said back here, but—"

"You'd be glad to step on him."

Molly backed away from Nor, palms raised. "I'm just going to leave. Okay? I won't call the cops. I won't even take these people. Hell, I won't even ask for my next check."

Nor swiped at the air with the cleaver; Molly yelped and hopped backward.

"No."

"Stop!"

"You stop."

Molly started to cry.

Nor's mask cracked, she grinned.

She swung again, but this time sunk the cleaver deep into a nearby cutting board.

When Nor marched up to her, Moll flinched, expected the worst. But when Nor's hand wrapped around her neck, it held her gently.

"Do you trust me, doll?"

Molly flushed. "Yes, Chef, but—"

Nor was just a little taller than Molly, and her dark eyes did not blink. Molly wanted to look away, but something had changed about the way Nor gazed at her.

"Do you love me, Molly?"

"Chef," Molly stammered.

"I know you revere me. I see the way you glance at me. Do you know why I trust you so much? You do everything I ask without question. You trust me."

"I do," Molly admitted; she exhaled desperately.

Nor's face was so close to Molly's that the woman's breath warmed her flesh; a coppery tang teased her nostrils.

"Trust me now, Molly."

"I will, Chef."

"Nor."

"Yes, Nor."

It was the first time Molly had ever uttered the woman's name to her. Yet it still felt like a title—not in a stuffy or entitled fashion, but because it was majestic. It carried a silent "Queen" before it; a silent "Mistress."

Nor's fingers tightened around Molly's throat and the chef closed her eyes.

Molly's eyes widened.

Nor's face filled her vision, and Nor's warm lips pressed against hers.

Molly moaned—in protest, with pleasure.

Nor moaned hungrily, triumphantly.

In some corner, a clock counted all the seconds of that kiss.

In the bowl, the tiny people who filled it still screamed at what they had seen, or moaned liked victims of a plague who lied around waiting to die—who knew that they would surely die.

Nor's lips retreated, but only so she could lick them, and then she kissed Molly again; wet, soft flesh.

This time Nor's tongue knocked on the gates of Molly's lips, which parted to let her in.

Nor's big tongue filled Molly's small mouth, and Molly moaned, helpless.

When Nor was finished kissing Molly, she did not wear one of her masks, but instead her countenance revealed a naked happiness. The woman appeared radiant then. Her dark magnetism was gone, and a sun's gravity had taken its place.

Nor did not wear makeup. She did not color her nails, or have pierced ears—Molly had beaten her to that, even. She was a natural, unpainted woman.

A pure, raw beauty.

An untarnished image of a woman.

"I love you," Molly whispered.

Nor's dark brown eyes flashed. She took Molly by the hand and led her back to the bowl.

"Don't be afraid. Do you know what Formula S is?"

"Yes."

"Some chefs think of it as something different: as the ultimate spice." Nor glanced down at the dozens of people trapped in the mixing bowl. "The cosmos has gifted us one of the rarest ingredients on Earth. It's morbid, yes. Sinister. To eat another person, I mean." Nor's hand drifted over the bowl; her fingers raked softly over it writing contents—wails followed her passing fingertips in a wave of sound.

"Close your eyes," Nor ordered.

Molly closed her eyes.

"Open your mouth."

And Molly opened her mouth.

She knew what was about to happen, but did not know how she would react when it did. Her whole self was frozen. Her breathing had stopped.

Sure enough, a squirming body was placed on her waiting tongue. A small one—maybe half an inch tall.

"Molly: Close your mouth."

With her eyes still shut, Molly brought her lips together, and then her teeth, sealing the tiny person inside of the cavern of her mouth. She could not tell whether it was a woman or a man that she trapped. The contours of the tiny body were so slight. But she could discern how the person fought and struggled against her. A few moments ago, Molly would have felt awful; with her more relaxed state of mind, Molly felt something else. She felt powerful.

What if the person on her tongue was that loud-mouthed asshole from the dinner service?

Nor was right; Molly did enjoy the idea that she had stepped on him.

She had passed by his table several times while he made choice remarks about her in particular.

This tiny person, however—well, Molly knew nothing about whoever it was.

Frankly, she did not care.

All she knew was that she would do whatever Nor told her to.

"Chew."

The tiny person was surprisingly pleasing to Molly's palette: their flesh was mostly neutral—a little salty. Molly loosened her jaw. Obediently she rolled her tongue, slotted the squirming body between her teeth.

She bit down.

The crunch of bone was irksome, but it was accompanied by an explosion of rich flavors. A sharp bloom of salt. Metallic sweetness. A tinge that was sour and savory.

For such a tiny body, blood filled her mouth. She was careful to keep her lips closed.

As Molly chewed, the bones were quickly ground, and the experience grew less objectionable. Only the blood and meat remained—Molly masticated until those remains were paste.

She swallowed. Other than the flavor that lingered on her buds, any trace of that person was gone. Whatever was left of them would be absorbed or processed by her body. Converted into energy, Molly thought, and waste. This idea only pleased her more. The sense of power that she experienced left her head-drunk.

I just devoured a person, body, mind, and soul, Molly mused with relish—the thought did not bother her in the least.

She opened her eyes, only to watch Nor's palm as it approached just before the chef blocked her sight.

Molly opened her mouth, only for Nor to place another little person in there.

This person was larger than the last, and screamed like a woman.

Then Nor's lips pressed against Molly's, and sealed the woman in the tomb formed by their maws.

Nor's large tongue filled Molly's mouth again, and the tiny woman thrashed helplessly between their slick muscles, awash in their wet heat, lost in the dark, deafened by their moans.

Suction—

Nor pulled her lips away, pulled her hand from over Molly's eyes. Molly watched as Nor grinned and sucked a pair of kicking legs between her lips like errant strands of spaghetti. Chef chewed with her mouth open. The woman inside was torn apart by Nor's gleaming teeth. Blood dribbled out of Nor's mouth. She smiled like a vampire.

"Let's eat."

Nor fed more pleading, screaming little people to Molly; Molly fed her in return.

They swallowed them raw, and shivered as the itty-bitty bodies squirmed down their throats and wriggled in their stomachs.

Nor deep-fried a pair of people and drizzled honey on their crusted-over corpses. They were absolutely delectable.

A few of the tinies fled across Nor's cutting board, before her knife thwack-thwack-thwacked them into pieces, and she used them as fillings for mini bao buns. Delicious.

The chef carefully plucked out some of the smallest of their captives, and froze them with liquid nitrogen—she then topped blocks of fruits and chocolates with them. Molly savored each and every bite.

They drank and ate, talked and laughed, gazed into one another's eyes and stood close, kissed.

Less than half the contents of the bowl remained by the time they had their fill.

Nor took Molly's hand again, and led her as if her arm was a leash. She scooped the bowl up as they passed it.

The chef lived right above the restaurant in a small studio, just as tidy as her kitchen—her kitchen was probably larger, even, though that did not surprise Molly. The woman was always down in her space, toiling, creating.

To enter her apartment... Molly tingled as she stepped into that sanctuary.

Nor let go of Molly's hand as they entered. She put the bowl down on a table, which was accompanied by only one chair.

Nor entered the bathroom, closed the door.

Molly heard the shower turn on.

She weaved her fingers together, a nervous tick, and glanced around the room.

It was a spartan space. There was very little in the way of personal effects.

The apartment did not have a kitchen, only a sink and a counter, and a bare assortment of cooking instruments.

Curiously, there was a red heart-shaped box on the counter, though Nor obviously had not spent her Valentine's Day with anyone else.

On the wall was a single photograph, a large one, which depicted a jungle scene: soaked rice paddies, elephants, buffalo with long, curved horns—a large family full of the young and old and everyone inbetween sat on the porch of a long wooden house raised on stilts; a gold plate at the bottom of the frame read, "Rachman Kampung."

From the shower, a whistle.

Sheepishly Molly opened the door to the bathroom.

"Hurry up. Water isn't included in my rent."

Molly laughed and bit her lip.

Nor had snuck in a few of the tiny people with her. Half a dozen littles huddled on the wall ledge that was meant for the soap. The absent bar Nor held in her hand—she was already covered in suds. When Molly entered, Nor pulled her into the water, held her close, started to work the soap over her body.

Nor's nudity was glorious. The white suds washed over her dark flesh. She had lovely skin. A thin, straight body. Small round breasts. Molly was a bit awed to be there, naked, with Nor. The woman was the most beautiful lover in Molly's experience. But if Nor was repulsed by Molly form, she did not show it; her deft hands lathered Molly up all over. She kissed Molly's body as she worked, and then worked Molly's cock with soapy hands.

Nor plucked a little man from the ledge. She dropped him on top of Molly's budding erection, and trapped him inside of her fist when she grabbed Molly by the shaft. Nor worked her hand along the length of Molly's sex until she was fully aroused; she squeezed. Molly gasped as the tiny body burst against her flesh. She looked down: blood poured from off her cock and swirled into the water at their feet.

Nor gripped Molly's cock tight, then released it.

"Not yet," she said. "I just wanted to make sure. But no cumming—not 'til I say so."

"Yes, Nor."

Nor reached for another tiny person from the edge; they all jostled and fought as her hand came down, and one woman shoved another right into Nor's clutches—the unfortunate sacrifice screamed as she was hoisted skyward.

This time Nor placed the tiny woman in Molly's hand. She wrapped her arms around Molly and kissed her in the torrent of the shower.

Molly lowered her hand between Nor's legs and pressed the squirming captive to her lips; Nor's body wriggled against Molly's in response. The woman buried her face in the crook of Molly's neck, and breathed against her, and kissed her sensitive flesh. It was exciting to be the source of Nor's pleasure—to turn the table slowly around.

Molly rubbed the trapped woman against Nor's folds. With her thumb, she teased Nor's clit; her fingers curled and pushed the tiny woman into the cavern of Nor's sex. Nor gasped. She bit lightly at Molly's neck.

Nor moaned. She pressed Molly against the glass wall of the shower stall, pressed on Molly's shoulders. Molly lowered herself down, kissed along the length of Nor's body as she did so. Her lips and her tongue reached the hard button and plush folds of Nor's womanhood, and she slowly and carefully stoked the fires of her boss's arousal.

Nor's fingers pushed into Molly's hair, made a fist.

She smashed Molly's features into her womanhood as she moaned and grunted.

An awful crack from within Nor—

With a guttural growl, she crushed the tiny woman inside of her.

Molly pulled her head back and watched as blood seeped from between Nor's lips. The woman gazed darkly down at her.

"Pull her out," Nor commanded.

Molly slid her fingers into Nor's cavern and pinched—the tiny body was still in one piece, but crumpled awfully, as surely as it would be if she had been squished inside of a fist or under a foot. The body fell to the shower floor, to be washed away by the water. It drifted over toward the drain, unnoticed by the two comparatively giant women, and rested there on the grill.

The women embraced. Nor's hand drifted down to Molly's cock, she stroked it inside of her loose fist. "Good, girl," Nor murmured.

A tiny scream—a wet plop. The pair glanced over to find one of the tiny people had plummeted from the soap ledge. Now the little man twitched on the ground; a thin line of blood ran from his head.

"Idiot," Nor grumbled, and lowered her bare sole down onto the man.

Crrrunch.

Nor's eyes flashed at Molly. She grinned, and with a finger tipped another tiny person off from the ledge. The woman shrieked on her way down, and hit the shower floor with a terrible splat.

Molly smiled back; she placed her naked foot on top of the fallen woman.

Molly considered the first person she had stepped on: it had to have been that boisterous asshole. They had not found him inside of the bowl, and they did look, during their gruesome dinner. The guilt and dread that had welled up in her then, with that first crackle. How far she was from that now.

Nor watched Molly intently; Molly stared back at her. She snared her lip between her teeth, and pressed her foot down.

Snap-pop-crack.

Delicious fractures. Molly crushed the woman slowly, with great deliberation. Then Nor placed her foot on top of Molly's and sped up the process: she added pressure as she leaned in close. Molly gasped happily as the body beneath her foot flattened all at once, just as Nor kissed her.

And kissed her and kissed her.

A pair of screams—the last two little bodies writhed on the floor of the shower. Even with the water running, blood was everywhere. Bodies lied crumpled or crushed. Shredded remains piled up at the drain.

Nor placed her foot on the woman who squirmed beneath her; Molly's foot lowered onto the man.

Nor held onto Molly's cock, squeezed affectionately; Molly cupped the woman's labia, and teased her lips and clit.

They locked lips, added weight to their feet at the same time. Like they both stepped on bubble wrap. Just as pleasurable and satisfying. Molly hardened in Nor's grip; Nor's grip tightened.
No cumming until I say so
, the woman's voice repeated in her mind. Nor's sex was hot like a furnace in the cradle of Molly's fingers.

Nor pushed Molly down the length of her body once more, and grabbed the woman's hair in her fist. With one leg raised, foot pressed against the wall, Nor held Molly's face against her womanhood, and Molly obediently lapped.

"Tongue out," Nor growled, and pumped Molly's jaw against her, bucked her hips against Molly's face—she fucked Molly's tongue; her muscles squeezed all around Molly's organ. Nor groaned happily.

The hot water from the shower—it was like being out in the rain with Nor.

Molly lost herself in the minutes that followed. She went mostly limp. She was a tool for Nor's pleasure. She was Nor's new favorite sex toy, and the woman used her, deftly and thoroughly, to completion, to completion, to completion.

Molly did not consider herself expressly into BDSM as a kink, or that she was a sub. But she had watched some Dominant/submissive porn, read a few hot stories along those lines, knew some friends into the same.

She really enjoyed serving Nor. It felt right and natural.

She had already served Nor for years as her waiter.

Now, it was as if she was a servant to her beloved Queen.

"Dry me," Nor ordered, as she stood outside the shower stall, hands on her hips.

The woman glowed from the orgasmic waves that she had teased out of herself, having rubbed against Molly's face, and how she had thrust her servant's tongue inside of her.

On her knees, Molly carefully and gently worked a plush towel over every inch of Nor's flesh. Her arms and legs, front and back, top and bottom. The woman put a hand on her shoulder and raised one leg after the other so that Molly could dry the soles of her feet.

Molly blushed; her face ached. It was a wonderful soreness.

It truly was as if she served a goddess.

Yes; she served her goddess.

Goddess Nor—she loved the way that sounded in her head.

"Come," Nor said, and took Molly by the hand.

Out in the room of her studio, Nor slapped Molly lightly on the ass. "On the bed," she ordered.

Molly did as Nor commanded. She splayed out across one side of Nor's low bed. Like everything about the chef, it was simply done: solid colors gray and orange—just a sheet and a duvet, a pair of plump pillows. There was a single arched bar at both the head and the foot of the bed.

Nor went to a closet, then approached the bed with something behind her back.

"Do you trust me, Molly?"

"Yes, Nor."

"Good."

Nor climbed on top of her servant. She sat down on Molly, her warm thighs atop Molly's hips, her soft hot womanhood on the woman's cock.

"Arms up and out. Grab the post."

Molly swallowed. She raised her arms and with her hands found the arched bar above her head.

Nor showed what it was that she hid behind her back: a pair of black handcuffs with a long chain between them.

The chef paused, as if she wanted Molly to really consider what it was she looked at—what it was Nor meant to do.

When Molly kept her arms and hands where they were, Nor leaned over her—the woman's chest and shoulders and the underside of her chin filled Molly's view. Nor was slight of build, but in that moment, she loomed large. Nor looped the chain around the post of her bed a few times, and then cuffed one of Molly's wrists, and then cuffed its twin.

Molly was attached to the bed.

She could barely move her arms.

A slight shock of panic seized her, and her heart started to beat, beat, beat.

She had never been restrained before, and a sense of her true helplessness quickly sank in.

Do you trust me, Molly?

Nor placed a hand on Molly's flat chest. Her hand slithered upward, fingers curled around Molly's throat. Nor leaned down and kissed Molly softly.

"Shh." Kiss, kiss. "Relax. Focus on me. What I do to you. How everything feels. Let go of your body. Give me your body."

"Yes, Nor," Molly whispered; "My goddess, Nor," Molly breathed.

Nor chuckled.

Her sex was hot and wet. It kept Molly's cock pinned. Nor shook her hips ever so slightly, but the small movement rippled powerfully throughout Molly; the blond grew hard, got breathy.

Nor scooted from off of Molly's restrained body and left the bed. She sauntered over to retrieve the bowl. When she returned, she stood next to the mattress wearing a mischievous smirk.

Nor waved the bowl over Molly's body, and tipped it as she did: a dozen or so little bodies, all shapes and sizes, sprinkled across Molly's flesh. They tickled, and struggled; Molly tingled, and squirmed.

Nor tossed the bowl to the ground with a clatter. She settled on her knees beside Molly, atop the bed, and eyed the little people who squirmed all over her with a hungry glint.

Molly yelped as Nor's hand swatted her tummy. The bound woman did not even have to see it—a crunch and a spray of warmth told her that someone was splattered beneath Nor's falling hand.

Molly was more interested in watching Nor's handsome face, anyway, and the delight she took in her play.

Those tiny people did not stand a chance.

Ecstasy seized Nor's eyes, and parted Molly's lips.

Nor appeared like a youth playing with dolls or action figures, lost in her imagination at that moment—and the complete control she had over the scene.

A cruel smile shaped Nor's small mouth.

Molly glanced down the length of herself.

Someone the size of an ant traversed her chest. There were inch-tall people who ran from the gore strewn across her stomach. Nor curled a finger and tracked one of the runners, then attacked a screaming man who failed to get away from her; his head popped off from the blow, flying by Molly's face in a blur and drawing a line of red across her—his body tumbled over the curve of her ribs and disappeared at her side.

On her legs, little shapes tried to stay atop Molly's limbs as the comparatively giant form moved with every tickle and tingle—some fell between her legs, or off of their flanks. These cast-offs Nor retrieved none-too-gently, and dropped them, dazed, back onto Molly's form.

The people who Nor "rescued," Molly noticed, were mostly placed at around hips, and her cock. Molly's excitement grew from the attention of the tiny bodies, and from Nor's attention to her form.

Nor caressed Molly's sex with her fingers, and teased out Molly's length. When Molly was fully erect, Nor seized her cock in her fist; she dropped a few tiny people into the pocket formed by Molly's flesh and her hand. Nor lied down next to Molly as she stroked her; her warm lips found Molly's.

Molly closed her eyes. She lost herself; surrendered to Nor's ministrations, her soft kisses.

Little bodies crumpled and crunched as Nor stroked her shaft. Quiet voices screamed and were silenced; the tiniest hands and feet scurried all over Molly's body.

Nor shifted beside her—

The woman swung a leg over Molly, sat on top of her.

Molly gasped as Nor mounted her.

Inch by inch Nor's womanhood consumed Molly's sex. Bodies squirmed in Nor's depths, pressed to her walls by Molly's cock. Crashing waves of pleasure spread through Molly with all of their struggles: there was some poor soul trapped right at Molly's tip; half a dozen or more writhed along the length of her shaft; a few hapless wretches found themselves between the titans, atop Molly's hips and underneath of Nor's spread lips and ass and thighs.

Nor fucked Molly. She rocked her hips up and down on top of her waiter-turned-toy, slid Molly's length up and down inside of her, but never let her out.

On its own, the sensation would have been enough. Molly fit inside of Nor as if she was made specially for her. And for Molly, it was perfect sex. Nor fucked her, not the other way around. Nor was the initiator. Nor used Molly's hard cock as if it were her own.

But there was more. . .

Carnage:

As Nor slid and squeezed, she crushed and popped the bodies along the inches of Molly's shaft. The luckless sod trapped at Molly's tip was pulverized into nothing once Nor really started to get going, and even inside of Nor's hot cavern, there was a shock of warmth. The minuscule bodies stuck between their relatively giant bodies struggled as flesh clapped together, and clapped them all into paste and nothingness with pleasing crunches and crackles.

Bursting flesh. Hot blood. Bones that popped.

Molly moaned, she gasped—

Nor's heat suddenly left her, and Nor's fingers squeezed Molly's throat, hard.

Molly whined, choked—

Nor smashed her sex down onto Molly's cock, and pressed it against Molly's stomach—Molly came across the flesh of her own body, her cum splashed over the blood that had dried on her stomach.

Molly whimpered as she came down from her orgasm.

The pair lied together. The bed was still—not a soul remained, save for those two.

Cum dried on Molly's body, blood dried on her.

Molly did not care.

Nor ran a hand up and down along Molly's flesh, idly petting her.

The bound woman's arms were sore. Yet she was happy to be restrained. Even still, she had to ask, for the pain mounted: "Do you think... Do you think you could take these off?"

"No. Soon."

Molly swallowed; she closed her eyes and nodded.

Outside, she heard passersby who talked to one another, cars that drove along. No one out there knew the slaughter that had just taken place in that room.

Molly's eyes opened.

"What would you have done. . ."

"When," Nor asked.

"What if I had just freaked out, and didn't come along with you on this journey."

Nor laughed softly. "You would have ended up like the rest of them."

Molly gasped; she gazed up at Nor, who lied against her. The woman's dark eyes stared back.

"You would have shrunk me?"

"Yes."

"You did this to them? You knew this would happen?"

Nor grinned. "No. It was not intentional. It was the chocolate we used in the desert. Apparently a very small number of boxes contained chocolates laced with Formula S—purely an accident. It was just dumb luck that one of the boxes was ours."

"Oh. Wow."

Nor glanced away, but Molly stared at her goddess.

She was so beautiful that it was painful. And here she was, Nor's lover. It was a dream.

Molly's head was full of imaginings of where this relationship might take her next as it flourished.

From below, it was easy to imagine her looming, a giant. Nor would make a ravishing, handsome giant, Molly concluded. She would be quite a sight hundreds of feet tall. If the night had gone differently, Molly might have been treated to such a sight. Would she have suffered the same fate as everyone else that day?

At some point, Molly fell asleep, held in the crook of Nor's arms, her face pressed into Nor's warm breasts.

When she awoke, Nor was still nestled against her. The chef lied there smoking a cigarette.

Molly's arms ached fiercely—she was still handcuffed to the bar of the bed.

When Molly stirred, Nor teased her hair with her fingertips.

"Welcome back, pet."

Molly did not know what to say—whether she should say anything at all. The silence then was comfortable, consummate. But she was overwhelmed. . .

"That was perfect." Molly whispered. "You're perfect."

Nor chuckled.

Molly kissed at the flesh of Nor's breasts.

"We'll have to do it again sometime," Nor said.

Molly pulled herself up a little bit so that she could look at Nor's face—her cuffed hands did not allow her to move much at all. She grinned, and Nor smiled.

But there was something about that smile.

A certain quality.

There was a bit of Nor's stoic mask worn on that face.

Molly swallowed, suddenly nervous.

"What's wrong, toy?"

"I just... I don't know."

Nor chuckled again. Now she did smile warmly. She hooked errant strands of Molly's long hair behind her ears. But Molly could not ignore the caution of a smile like that.

"Is this," Molly asked slowly, and stopped.

"Oh, Molly. Don't overthink this."

"I'm not. I don't think I am." Molly was suddenly crushed, seized by a weary spirit. "This was just a one-time thing. Wasn't it? I mean, that's okay."

"No. It doesn't have to be."

Molly licked her lips. A small hope bloomed within her. "I like you, Nor. A lot."

"You love me," Nor stated.

"Yes."

Nor shrugged.

"Then don't worry so much. See what happens. Explore with me."

Molly shook her head a little. "I don't know if that's enough for me. I mean—"

Nor cleared her throat. "Breathe, Molly. And think carefully."

Hope left her.

But Nor's arm pulled her in and pressed Molly against her. "Why do you need to label this?"

"I guess I'm just that kind of girl."

"That's not a real answer. Speak from your heart."

Molly murmured against Nor's flesh. "I don't want to sound pathetic. I just haven't had a good run, I guess. It's hard for me to trust. To feel safe. And I love you. I really do. I've admired you for years, but never really hoped that we might... Well. . ."

Molly pulled back; her chains jingled.

"I want to be yours, Nor. Goddess Nor. I don't want to be with anyone else."

"That's sweet," Nor said in her soft, rough voice.

She gazed elsewhere, pulled on her cigarette.

Nor appraised Molly with an inscrutable look; she blew a cloud of gray and and then smashed the end of her smoke in an ashtray on the nightstand. "And what if I want to be with other people?"

Molly slumped. "There are other people."

Nor shrugged. "Sure. I have lovers." She grinned. "I guess I'm just not that kind of girl. I don't do love by a contract, doll. No possession. It's a turnoff. I prefer naked trust. What if this isn't forever? It just feels like a silly aspiration to wave around. It's childish." Then Nor laughed, she reached over and cupped Molly's chin. "Let's be in the moment. Together."

Molly turned her head away. She found it hard to hear Nor's words, even though they were spoken with affection. None of it made any sense to her. All of it sounded distancing, to her ear.

"Oh, Molly! Don't be so sad."

Molly shook her head.

Nor sighed and stood up from the bed. She pulled on a robe.

Molly regretted even that small turn of her face away from Nor. Now she was going to kick her out, no doubt.

"Coffee?"

Molly glanced up at her chef, unable to catch the startled expression that overtook her.

"Okay," she replied quietly.

Nor did not have a kitchen in her studio, but she did have a press and a self-heating pitcher. She hummed as she boiled some water, and poured it over dark grinds in the press.

She turned toward Molly, and gazed over her form.

"I adore you, Molly. Don't question that."

Molly nodded, but her stare sank toward her own feet.

Nor laughed. "What? Not enough for you? Is my affection not sustaining, pet?" Nor's gravel-filled voice took on a sardonic tone. "Do you want to run off together? Get married at the courthouse? Plaster pictures of each other all over the Internet? Meet each other's parents? I'll get to know all your friends. We'll be the perfect picture of monogamy, the very spitting image of—"

"No," Molly said, and cut off Nor's words.

Yes, she had imagined those things.

Fuck!

Nor chuckled.

Molly glared at the woman. "Don't mock me."

Nor shrugged.

Now Molly's ire really bubbled up. She struggled to sit up—the chains attached to her wrists clanged loudly as they were pulled taut from her motions.

"Do you think you could have had this night with anyone else? I'm more than just a casual fuck, Nor. We've worked together for years. Hell, I'm like an extension of your body. Another pair of arms. And tonight, I think I proved that I'm an extension of you in more ways than that, too. I love you, Nor. I still haven't heard you say it back. 'Pet.' 'Toy.' You just see me as a bit of fun. No, that's not enough for me."

Nor was silent. She stared at Molly.

Nor's lips parted as if she might say something.

Molly shook her head. "Just... Take these things off. I think I'd rather just go home."

Nor's lips came back together; she started toward the closet with heavy steps.

Molly's head continued to shake as she watched the woman.

Inside of her, it was as if her emotions teetered over a cliff. Breathe, a rational voice in her head told her. Regroup. Leave it there. Calm down.

It was such a quiet, tiny voice.

"You know. . ."

Nor paused her stride and cast a sidelong glance at Molly.

"Maybe you should find a new waiter, too."

Hurt. She had never seen Nor hurt before, not really.

Indignant. Shocked and angry. Righteously furious.

But never hurt, even with all the sticks and stones the woman had weathered—not until then.

Nor turned toward Molly. She put her hands on her hips; her robe was open in the front, and Molly was given a peek of her nudity: a strip of dark flesh. How quickly that stoic mask returned, as if it was never far from her reach. "Fine. You're fired."

Molly hated Nor's face right then. Already so resolved and strong.

Molly hated that Nor had already assumed control of the situation, as she always did.

Tears threatened the bound woman, and she fought with them.

Thrown away in an instant. Without a second thought.

So Molly reached inside of herself for another sharp knife—

"And I expect you'll be very generouson my way out the door."

Nor arched an eyebrow.

Molly licked her lips.

"It'd be a shame if any of this got out. Star chef poisons her patrons. . ."

Nor glared—yes, Molly thought, there it is—and the stormy-eyed woman marched over to the closet.

"You'd lose your restaurant, Chef."

Nor pulled open the closet door, disappeared from Molly's view.

"So you better take care of me. Because trust me, I'm capable of anything. I don't care what happens to me—"

"Good," Nor said as she walked toward Molly's prone form. She laughed.

She laughed!

Molly's eyes widened as she spied what Nor held: another pair of black handcuffs.

"No! No you fucking don't! Get away from me!"

Molly thrashed on the bed. Her bonds rattled; her wrists hurt, cut, bled.

She kicked at Nor when the woman came close. Nor looped the long chain of the handcuffs around the bar at the foot of her bed.

Then she grabbed for Molly's flailing legs, a wild smile on her face.

"No! No!" Molly shrieked. "It was an empty threat! I won't tell anyone! Nor!"

A cold metal hook slapped against one of Molly's ankles; the cuff clicked closed.

"Nor!" Molly was shrill. Desperate. She was in tears. She whined as she swung her last free limb at her tormentor.

Nor seized Molly's unchained leg and held it down and fastened the metal restraint to her.

Molly was completely immobile, then. She wailed and yelled. She screamed for help.

Nor just laughed at her, and walked back toward the closet.

Molly was not exactly sure what it was that Nor held, then, as she approached the bed, and sat next to her spread-eagle captive—an apparatus fixed to a strap.

Molly's beseeching calls turned into begging, and her begging was silenced as Nor held a hand over her mouth.

The cuffed, naked woman shook her head, mmm'd in protest—

With her other hand, Nor lassoed the strap around the back of Molly's head. Molly's eyes goggled as Nor punched her in the throat. Then Nor brought the device down onto her mouth, and firm pegs covered in rubber slotted between Molly's teeth—

Her lips and mouth were stretched wide open, and a depressor lowered into place over her tongue, pinned it down.

Molly could not move her arms or legs, save for by inches; she could not close her mouth, or even speak, for the apparatus spread her teeth and gagged her.

Her scream was a quiet gurgle.

Nor patted her on the cheek.

"I'm going to take care of you, toy. Don't you worry."

The chef stood and turned away from Molly; her robe trailed behind her like a cape as she strode.

Molly struggled and struggled, but it was useless.

All she could do was watch as Nor put a saucepan on a small free-standing burner, which the woman turned on. She went to the red box of chocolates on her counter; when Nor popped off the lid and held it aside, a cartoonish face leered at Molly. A mean little face. A face that reminded of her the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

A chocolate from the box was dropped into the saucepan.

Nor poured herself a cup of coffee, and ignored Molly while she drank it, black.

The chef watched her treat heat and melt.

"Chef! Chef, please! I just wanted to scare you! I wasn't going to betray you! Nor! I love you! I was hurt! I wanted you to hurt!" At least, that's what Molly would have said, if she wasn't gagged—

All her words were a blubbered, indiscernible mess.

Nor returned to the bedside. She held a small white saucière.

With a hand on Molly's forehead, Nor steadied her charge's shaking head.

"Don't fight me, pet."

Tears streaked down the side of Molly's face as she gazed up into the abyss of Nor's dark eyes.

"This is exactly what you want. Now, you'll be mine."

The saucière tipped, and hot chocolate poured from it, fell into Molly's held-open mouth.

Molly turned her head to try to avoid the stream, but Nor gripped her hair in her fist, and held her.

"Mine, Molly."

Nor's eyes flashed.

"My little Molly."

She grinned like the face on the heart-shaped box.

"All mine."