Isabelle, a towering figure at 6'1", is a 22-year-old woman whose heavy-set body tips the scales at an alarming 400 pounds. Her monumental frame is a testament to her unique and unhealthy lifestyle choices. Her large breasts, barely contained by a black laced bra, droop heavily over layers of fat folds that are marred by a mottle of stretch marks - an unsightly testament to the excessive weight gain she has experienced.
For the past week, she has been continuously adorned in a pair of black sweatpants, which have become as worn and grimy as the skin they cover. Her attire is not the only distasteful feature about her.
Her plump arms serve as grotesque canvases, decorated with an array of tattoos representing various metal bands. The inked symbols and names appear to be the only indication of her interest in music, standing out starkly against her pallid skin.
Isabelle's hair is a jet black, cut short and unkempt, with the sides of her head shaved down to a rough stubble. Her unconventional aesthetic is further accentuated by a nose piercing - a stud spike on the right nostril, and a multitude of mismatched piercings that puncture her ears.
Despite her abundance of body art, Isabelle abstains from beauty products. Her chewed-down fingernails and unkempt feet, complete with overgrown toenails, suggest a disregard for personal hygiene and conventional beauty standards.
Most of Isabelle's time is spent in a strained computer chair that groans under her colossal weight. Her hands, however, maintain a surprising agility, rapidly navigating the keyboard and mouse as she immerses herself in the multiplayer game, World of War and Magic. The speed of her hands is a stark contrast to her otherwise lethargic demeanor.
Her living conditions mirror her disheveled appearance. Empty soda bottles and takeaway food boxes, some still harboring remnants of stale, rotting food, litter her immediate surroundings. Her home is a reflection of this chaos, with dirty clothes strewn haphazardly, contributing to the overpowering stench of sweat and neglect.
Personal belongings are discarded amidst the clutter, lost in the sea of disarray. The entire home reeks of neglect just as much as Isabelle does. However, she seems utterly oblivious to her squalid living conditions, engrossed in her own world of music, games, and a distinct lack of self-care.
In the stifling, damp confines of Isabelle's mouth, Kevin's existence has been reduced to a grim spectacle. A diminutive figure at just five inches tall, he is at the mercy of his towering captor. His tiny body is a stark contrast to her enormous size, ensnared within the moist recesses of her mouth. He is cradled uncomfortably between the burdensome heft of her unclean tongue, and the grimy, yellowed teeth that encage him. These teeth, unbrushed and discolored, bear the evidence of Isabelle's lax approach to personal care.
His position within this oral prison is further complicated by the constant, oppressive presence of her chapped, dry lips. These cracked barriers serve as the gateway of his grim enclosure.
Kevin's blond hair, once lively and radiant, now lies sickly against his scalp and face. The strands are matted and sodden, their vibrancy lost under the unrelenting onslaught of Isabelle's saliva.
His body, which once displayed the firmness and vigor of an athletic build, now portrays a growing roundness. This softening of his once-toned muscles is a manifestation of the unhealthy diet of takeaway food that Isabelle has been forcing him to live on. The physical toll of his incarceration is evident in the gradual loss of his fitness and the emerging softness of his form.
Kevin's facial expression is one of resignation and defeat. His features are drawn and weary, the spark in his eyes dimmed by the relentless misery of his situation. His face, bearing the brunt of his daily torment, portrays a haunting image of his suffering. The lines etched around his eyes and mouth speak volumes of the despair he endures each day within this grotesque environment.
For more than a year now, Kevin has been held captive by Isabelle. His skin, once vibrant and sun-kissed, now shares the same unhealthy pallor as Isabelle's, victim to the countless months he's spent trapped within the confines of her disheveled abode. There's a striking contrast between his past and present state, a reflection of the harsh reality of belonging to Isabelle. The overpowering stench of his surroundings, once a nauseating assault on his senses, has now become his normal. His once active and lively life has been replaced by a static and monotonous routine, his world reduced to the chaotic mess of Isabelle's neglected home.
His position, lodged securely within the yellowed confines of Isabelle's unbrushed teeth, creates a pitiful tableau. His legs hang limply, wedged unnaturally within the grimy crevices between each row of her stained teeth, resting on the inflamed, neglected gums. His left arm is contorted awkwardly across the rough, plaque-coated surface of her teeth, acting as a crude pillow for his weary head, while his right arm dangles precariously over the chapped edge of her lower lip. Periodically, a viscous stream of Isabelle's saliva, slithers down his dangling right arm, pooling onto the vast, sweat-streaked expanse of her breasts landscape.
Isabelle's grotesque tongue, a ceaseless and loathsome companion, presses oppressively against Kevin's minuscule, helpless form. The coarse, taste bud-covered surface writhes and undulates with a perverse satisfaction, savoring the texture of his diminished, weakening figure against its vast, fleshy, saliva-drenched expanse.
The putrid stench of her breath, a sickening concoction of decaying food particles trapped between her neglected teeth and the sour, acidic tang of a mouth left uncleaned for far too long, assaults his senses. A miasma of oral neglect and decay, it forms a constant, repulsive cloud around him, pervading the damp space of his confinement.
This once nauseatingly repugnant odor, a testament to Isabelle's complete disregard for basic oral hygiene, has now, through a cruel twist of adaptation and resilience, become a scent that Kevin has grown disturbingly accustomed to. This sickly-sweet, rotten scent has invaded his nostrils so frequently and persistently that it has imprinted itself upon his sensory memory, a result of the abhorrent conditions of his captivity.
He has been unwillingly forced into a state of desensitization to these abject elements of his horrifying confinement, his senses numbed by the ceaseless onslaught of repugnant stimuli. His sensory perception has been cruelly warped, the foul odors and discomforting pressures of his surroundings now forming an unwelcome, but familiar, part of his existence.
The once lively and vibrant Kevin is now reduced to a mere plaything, a tiny captive within the repulsive oral cavity of his gargantuan captor. His life is subjected to a grotesque routine dictated by Isabelle's whims, his world defined by the craggy landscape of yellowed teeth, the rough, ever-pressing tongue, and the festering, putrid breath that forms the air he breathes. His tormented existence within this oral prison is a testament to human adaptability, resilience, and the horrifying depths of despair one can be pushed into.
Yet, despite his grim predicament, Kevin's attention manages to tear itself away from the disgusting confines of Isabelle's half-open mouth. His eyes, filled with hopelessness, remain firmly fixated on the computer screen that flickers in the dimly lit room. As Isabelle navigates the landscape of her virtual universe with a surprising dexterity, Kevin finds himself engrossed in the pixelated world displayed before him. This digital realm serves as his only escape, his sole distraction from the harsh, nightmarish reality of his existence.
This monotonous routine of observing Isabelle's gaming is broken by two grotesque occurrences. The first is when Isabelle decides to swallow the accumulated saliva that has pooled in her mouth. The act of swallowing, a mundane task for most, becomes a moment of intense sound for Kevin as her throat muscles constrict, creating a wet, repulsive sound that reverberates deafeningly in his tiny ears. The accompanying rush of saliva forces him to cling desperately onto the grimy surface of her unbrushed teeth to avoid being swept away.
The second interruption to Kevin's monotonous routine arrives in the form of a truly grotesque experience. With an unsettling nonchalance, Isabelle decides to treat him akin to a piece of hard candy, a human lozenge residing in her mouth. The sensation is nothing short of abhorrent. He becomes a victim to the harsh, relentless scrape of her colossal tongue, as it moves over him, grating against his diminutive form like sandpaper against delicate skin. The tongue's texture is a horrifying mosaic of taste buds, each one a small, fleshy bump that rubs against him with an agonizing persistence.
The air that rushes past him when she inhales is biting and cold, a chilling gale in the vast cavern of her mouth. It stings his skin, a harsh contrast to the damp, oppressive heat that otherwise pervades his surroundings. The sensation is akin to being caught in a gruesome storm, his tiny body buffeted by the biting wind and the relentless downpour of her saliva.
The wet, squelching sounds that accompany these actions are not just sounds to him; they are a deafening cacophony that reverberates in his tiny ears. They echo grotesquely within the dank, cavernous expanse of her mouth, a monstrous symphony of oral horrors. The noises are amplified due to his size, each squelching sound vibrating through him, a constant, repulsive reminder of his horrific situation.
Over two agonizing hours have elapsed in this macabre manner. The minutes stretch into an eternity, each second marked by the relentless scrape of her tongue, the biting wind of her inhales, and the deafening squelches that echo around him. There is no hint of a reprieve, no glimmer of hope as each minute melds into the next, creating a timeless, horrifying tableau of his suffering.
Isabelle, however, continues to immerse herself in her gaming world, her hands moving with a surprising agility over the keyboard and mouse. She remains blissfully ignorant, or perhaps disturbingly indifferent, to the miniature captive held hostage in her mouth. Her attention is fixated on the flickering computer screen, her mind engrossed in a world of fantasy and warfare. The pixelated characters on the screen hold more reality for her than the tiny, suffering human in her mouth, a chilling testament to her disturbing detachment from the grim reality of her actions.
Finally, with a sudden and guttural grunt, Isabelle's mouth gapes wider. The vast cavern of her oral cavity expands, her tongue, a loathsome, fleshy mass, forcefully ejects Kevin from the damp prison he's been confined to. With a sense of horrifying inevitability, Kevin is thrust into a brief, terrifying freefall onto the expansive landscape of Isabelle’s massive breasts. These twin peaks of flesh are held firm over her even larger, distended stomach.
He lands somewhat awkwardly on the soft, yielding surface, his body temporarily frozen in place. A cocktail of fear and relief courses through his veins, the sudden change in his environment proving to be a shocking experience.
Meanwhile, Isabelle begins to produce a series of guttural roars and frustrated screams at her computer screen. Her voice, already rough and abrasive, takes on a terrifying intensity as she vents her fury. “You fucking NOOBS! Is is that difficult to guard a FUCKING flag. You can all kiss my fat vagina, I refuse to bear the burden of carrying you pathetic scrublords another round,” she bellows, her words dripping with venomous scorn.
Her right fist, heavy and calloused, crashes against her desk with a force that rattles everything in its vicinity. The impact is so intense that everything on her cluttered desk, including the computer, begins to shake violently. The force of her anger seems to permeate the very air around them, creating a palpable tension that hangs heavy in the room.
In response to this sudden movement, Kevin bounces slightly on her breasts, the soft flesh acting like a grotesque trampoline. He chooses to remain silent for now, his attention focused solely on ensuring his precarious balance. He has been a reluctant witness to this outrageous display of gamer rage countless times before, and Isabelle’s violent outbursts have become an unsettling yet commonplace spectacle in his diminished life.
Finally, Isabelle's attention shifts to the tiny man, who has now slid in-between her breasts due to her erratic movements. She begins addressing him, her voice a grating combination of frustration and desperation. “Kevin, did you fucking see that? We were mere fucking seconds away from a win and that cock-gobbler decided to abandon the west side base. What a waste of my precious fucking time!” she blares, her voice echoing around the room, a distorted soundtrack of fury and exasperation. She seems to be looking for some form of support or agreement, an ally in her war against both her online opponents and her own simmering frustration.
To placate Isabelle and ensure her unpredictable mood swings do not veer towards him, Kevin has mastered the art of agreement. It's a delicate dance, a performance he has honed over time. As she vents in frustration about her game, he nods in understanding, his voice barely a whisper against the cacophony of her rage. "Yeah, I saw that," he murmurs, his words carefully chosen. "It was bullshit, you played exceptionally well. Fucking noobs…"
His comments are calculated, each word meticulously placed to feed her ego and validate her anger. He compliments her gameplay and criticizes her teammates, a delicate balancing act designed to keep her volatile emotions in check. It is a survival skill he has perfected, a necessary adaptation to his horrifying circumstance.
As he speaks, he is acutely aware of the discomfort that his body endures. His skin, once smooth and dry, is now pruned and hypersensitive from being bathed in her saliva for two long hours. Her saliva, a sticky and vile fluid, has soaked his skin, causing it to wrinkle and swell in a grotesque imitation of over-soaked skin from a prolonged bath. The sensation is bizarrely familiar, a perverse twist on a mundane experience.
His skin feels alien to him, the slickness a stark contrast to the dry, warm environment he was accustomed to before she decided to suck on him.
Exhaustion and frustration etched into her features, Isabelle pushes her chair back from the desk, her body sinking into the worn fabric with a weary sigh. "I am just done," she declares in a tone that speaks volumes of her defeat, the words hanging heavy in the stagnant air of the room. Her arms, bearing the weight of her frustrations, drop listlessly to her sides.
The mundane silence is abruptly pierced by a jarring ring from her computer. At the sound, Isabelle's listless posture straightens, her lethargic demeanor shedding away. Dwarfed by the looming figure of the gargantuan woman, Kevin watches as an enormous hand, magnified by his minuscule size, descends towards him. The hand, a monstrous entity in itself, showcases a disturbing disregard for personal hygiene. The nails are chewed down to the quick, jagged and uneven, each gnawed edge victim to her nervous habit. The nail beds are discolored, a sickly yellow against the pallid, calloused skin of her fingers.
The lines on her palm writhe like a maze, each groove and crease a riverbed etched deep into her skin. They crisscross, forming an intricate network of life lines, heart lines, and head lines. Each line, magnified to grotesque proportions.
With a surprising agility that contradicts her enormous size, Isabelle's hand swoops down, her gargantuan fingers closing around him. The sensation is overwhelming, her skin rough, the callouses on her fingers scraping against his tiny form. The residual dampness from her saliva on his skin makes contact with her hand a slick, uncomfortable experience.
She gently lifts him, the motion akin to an elevator ride for Kevin, and places him down on the chaotic landscape of her desk.
Reaching out, Isabelle grabs her headset from its resting place amongst the detritus of her desk. With a practiced motion, she slides it onto her head, the microphone hovering near her lips. "It’s Harley," she announces, directing the comment at Kevin as though he might care to know.
Harley’s voice filters through the speakers, a digital ghost in the room. “Hey Dude, didn't wanna call when I saw you were wrecking scrubs in the Sand Lands. Getting harder to keep up with ya.” Harley muses, the sound of her taking a deep drag from her joint punctuating the sentence.
Isabelle exhales a sigh, the sound a cocktail of relief and simmering frustration. She fires back, her voice bristling with a corrosive bitterness, a testament to countless botched games and botched strategies. "If it wasn't for these absolute shit-tier, head-up-their-ass noobs I keep getting paired with, tanking my fucking rating, I'd have blasted my way to the goddamned legend rank by now. Harley, for the love of all that is holy, get your ass online. I need a teammate who's not a fucking potato, before I flip my shit and hulk smash my fucking keyboard." Isabelle spits out the words with venomous intensity.
Harley cracks up, her laughter a raw, unfiltered sound on the other end of the line. “You're a fucking riot, Izzy. Don't ever fucking change, dude. I'm about to jump into the fray, and together we'll annihilate these noob fuckers. But before the bloodbath, there's some wicked awesome news I've been itching to tell you.” Her words are punctuated by the unmistakable sound of her taking a deep drag from her joint, the sound clear as a bell through Isabelle’s headset.
Isabelle grunts, the sound a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Well for Christ's sake, Harley, quit blazing that goddamn herb. I need your few remaining braincells in top form if we’re gonna climb the fucking rank ladder. So…spill it already. What's the big news? Pray tell, did your douche canoe ex get steamrolled by an eighteen-wheeler or something equally satisfying?” Isabelle retorted, her words laced with a crude humor that was typical of their banter.
There was a moment of triumphant silence before Harley blared out in her typical stoner drawl, “Dude, check this out, I scored a fucking shrinkee!” Her voice came out muffled and distorted through the speakers, due to the low-quality headset she used.
Isabelle’s eyes, previously glued to her computer screen, drifted down to her own shrinkee. Kevin, a minuscule figure amidst the chaos of her desk, was attempting to clean off her saliva from his naked skin using a paper napkin. The napkin, which had been discarded haphazardly next to one of the many greasy takeout boxes littering her desk, was now serving as his makeshift towel.
Isabelle couldn’t help but smirk as she processed Harley’s announcement. She shot back at her friend, her tone laced with playful curiosity and jesting mockery, “Who in the seven hells of Razaroth gifted a broke-ass noob like you a fucking shrinkee? You couldn’t have scraped together enough gold to get one for yourself, even if you spent an eternity farming in Hella.”
There was a brief pause, before Harley’s laughter rang out through the headset. The sound was raw and genuine, a reflection of their years of friendship and countless gaming sessions. “Look who’s talking, Izzy," she retorted, her words coming out between fits of laughter. "Weren’t you the one who was bragging about your mom caving and getting you one last year?”
Isabelle couldn't help but chuckle at Harley's comeback, her head shaking from side to side in amusement. Her mood, previously soured by the disappointing gameplay, had seen a significant improvement since Harley had called. The familiar comfort of their shared interests, coupled with Harley's laid-back stoner vibe, had a way of making even the shittiest of game sessions bearable.
"Alright then, Harley, spill the goddamn beans," Isabelle demanded, her words heavy with impatient curiosity. "I'm itching to know all the juicy deets about this new shrinkie of yours. Is it a dude or a chick? How frickin' tiny are we talking here? Is it modded, or do you gotta handle 'em with kid gloves like they're made of fucking glass?" Isabelle fired off her questions like an automatic weapon, her words echoing with the distinct lingo of their online gaming world. Each question was a bullet, aimed and shot with precision, meant to extract the maximum information.
Harley, no stranger to Isabelle's rapid-fire questioning, kept pace easily. A seasoned player in both the gaming world and their friendship, she responded in her typical stoner gamer drawl. Her words, slow and elongated, were an entertaining contrast to Isabelle's sharp, quick-fire chatter.
"She's a killer six-inch, dude," Harley began, her voice oozing with pride. "Definitely modded, if the cheat codes that came with her packaging are any clue. She's not some fragile, unenhanced model. Nah, she's sturdy as a fortress in the Sand Lands, can take a beating and still keep going."
Harley paused for effect, a theatrical touch that Isabelle was all too familiar with. "And brace yourself, Izzy, 'cause this is the clincher. She's a smoking hot little Asian number," Harley finished, her words resonating with a boastful pride that filled the room.
Isabelle seemed to pause, her thoughts meandering around Harley's most recent proclamation. It wasn’t like she herself had shied away from using her own miniature captive, Kevin, for her personal sexual satisfaction. This involved numerous hours where she subjected Kevin to intimate service in the most private and unclean recesses of her anatomy.
This was no gentle exploration, but rather a grueling ordeal that forced Kevin to navigate the complex labyrinth of her unwashed body. The reality of her personal hygiene, or lack thereof, was an aspect Kevin had become all too familiar with during his ongoing oral incarceration. This grim reality was further magnified in her intimate areas - a veritable minefield of odors, textures, and discomforts that Kevin was forced to endure.
The overwhelming stench of her unwashed body, the discomforting warmth that radiated from her, and the damp, sticky conditions that were a constant in his existence, all combined to form Kevin's nightmarish reality. He was forced to endure these relentless assaults on his senses, his every moment spent in a state of heightened discomfort and revulsion.
However, the thought that Harley might be indulging in the same practices was surprising to Isabelle. Harley, with her laid-back demeanor and stoner lifestyle, seemed an unlikely candidate for such activities, at least not this soon. Harley was the epitome of tranquility and unhurry, never one to rush into anything. The idea that she might be diving headfirst into such intimate interactions with her new shrinkee so quickly was a revelation that had Isabelle's mind spinning.
The thought of Harley, her friend and gaming ally, engaging in such intimate activities with her own shrinkee was a concept that Isabelle found both shocking and curious. "Alright, hold up, Green Bean," Isabelle interjected, using the playful moniker she'd assigned to Harley. Her words were sharp, her tone laced with a mix of curiosity and incredulity. "Now when you say 'smoking hot', you're not implying what I think you're implying, are you? You sneaky little devil... Did you actually... I mean, for fuck's sake, did you... take it for a test drive already?" The question was left hanging in the air, a tantalizing morsel of unspoken implications and assumptions.
Isabelle was met with a pregnant pause on the line, a silence that spoke volumes as Harley seemed to wrestle with her words. This was unusual. Harley was typically a pro at shooting the breeze, her words flowing out in a chill, stoner stream of consciousness. But now, she was choking on her words, stumbling over them like a noob tripping over his own controller. The sight was so fucking amusing that Isabelle couldn’t help but chuckle, a wide, unrestrained grin plastering itself across her face.
Finally, Harley seemed to get a grip on her spluttering words. “Okay, look, Izzy," she began, her voice a blend of embarrassed reluctance and stoned nonchalance that was so distinctly Harley. "I didn’t plan on diving right into it at first, but… I was so high I could have fist-bumped the moon and well, you’d been blabbering on about your experiences with one and the way he got you all hot under the collar. You remember, don't you? How that bastard Matt was into that seriously twisted, kinky-ass shrinkee smut? It was like the first thing that shot into my mind when I got my hands on my little shrinkee. I was on cloud nine, and I don’t even remember half the shit that was said or done. All I know is she was cute as a button, hotter than a flaming phoenix, and you know I have a major thing for Asians."
She paused for a moment, a silence hanging in the air before she continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "Hey Izzy, weren't you the one who said you just gotta rip the band-aid off when you got your first… what was his name again?”
Isabelle couldn't help but roll her eyes at Harley's stoned forgetfulness. "His name is Kevin, Harley. Kevin… and yeah, I did say that, and now he's like putty in my hands, worships every curve and edge on me. But let's cut the bullshit, Harley… I want the nitty-gritty details. How long did it take before you did the deed?” Isabelle asked, her words laced with a teasing curiosity and a gamer's love for a good backstory.
Caught off guard, Harley seemed to stutter again. She was a terrible liar and it was clear she hadn’t prepared for this question. “Uh, well, you see… I don’t really remember," she admitted, her words stumbling out in a rush. "I was high as a kite, my mind was in another dimension… maybe it was ten minutes? I don't know, dude. Time is a construct, right?"
Isabelle choked on her words, her breath hitching with the shock of what she'd just heard. She took a moment to compose herself, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. Then, unable to contain her disbelief, she yelled, "Ten fucking minutes? HARLEY!” Her voice echoed around the room, her shock palpable in the air.
"No fucking way," she began, her voice climbing to an incredulous pitch, "you're seriously trying to convince me, you absolute mad bitch, that merely ten fucking minutes into her arriving on your damn door, you had her completely invested in your co-op campaign, chugging down Harley's love potions like it's the grand finale? And you expect me to believe that, don't you? That you're some sort of sex speedrunner, a god-tier fucker who's out here breaking world records for the quickest fucking sex initiation?"
"And just how do you do it?" she continued, her voice now a blend of wonder and disbelief, "How the hell do you manage to cut through the awkwardness, the small talk, the 'getting to know you' bullshit, and dive straight into the deep end in a measly, godforsaken ten minutes? Are you following some kind of secret tutorial I'm not aware of? Do you have cheat codes up your sleeve? Are you a fucking shrinkee whisperer?"
Her words were punctuated by a disbelieving laugh, the absurdity of it all causing her to shake her head in stunned amusement. She thought of her own experiences, the time it took to establish a relationship with her own shrinkie. "It took me a damn week to even think that Kevin was geared up for love," she confessed, her voice now a notch softer.
"But you," she continued, her voice once again rising with disbelief, "you just Leroy Jenkins right in, don't you? You don’t bother with the tutorial, don’t even pause to read the quest text. No, you just go balls-to-the-wall, like a fucking hardcore raider!” Isabelle's words were punctuated by bursts of laughter, the shock of Harley's actions causing her to shake her head in bemused disbelief.
A moment of silence lingered as Isabelle waited for Harley's comeback, still reeling from the verbal barrage she had let loose. Harley, on the other end, fumbled with her words, her sentences punctuated by stutters and pauses, her thoughts tangled up like vines. "Dude," Harley began, her voice a languid drawl, "I was so stoned I could have been orbiting Jupiter, you know? My head was all over the place, not really thinking straight. But, like, I called you for something else, man. I'm kinda stuck in a maze here, and I need your help," Harley confessed.
Isabelle hoisted an eyebrow, leaning in towards her glowing monitor before she let her voice drop into the headset mic. "What's up? Let me guess... did you manage to fuck up already? Can't say I'm shocked! You were probably so out of your gourd that your tiny new roommate had no clue what was hitting her," she jabbed playfully. Harley, her voice coming through the speakers, cut in, needing to get real. "Isabelle, quit your shit. I can't get her to eat or even utter a word. She just lays there like a damn log. I've only shared space with her once... I've been busting my ass trying to win her over and I'm drawing blanks. Your mom's like a fucking shrinky whisperer, right? She even managed to train one that doesn't know a lick of English? I need some guidance," Harley pleaded with a hint of desperation.
Isabelle paused, rolling the problem around in her head before letting out a deep sigh that seemed to echo off the walls. "You do get they were just like us once, right? This is a shitload for them to take in, and let's face it, you're not exactly leveling up in the brains department, considering you showed her your secret level before even letting her get to know the player," she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm stumped too, I'll have to hit up my mom for some advice. Congrats, you broke the fucking dungeon master." Isabelle concluded, her tone a mix of resignation and frustration.
Harley responded, her voice thick with gratitude, “Thanks, Izzy. I appreciate the assist. I know I majorly fucked up here. Maybe I hit the weed too hard. It’s like she’s just a static sprite, but she's a player, you know? And I lost sight of that.”
Isabelle cracked a smile, touched by her friend's vulnerability and grateful that Harley had reached out. “Alright, but listen up. I had a similar shitstorm with Hendry, and my Mom who lives a few states away was a lifesaver. You might need to send your shrinkee on a side quest to her. I did, and when he respawned, not only was Kevin back in the game, but he also made me feel like a fucking queen. You deserve to feel that too, girl. I've got your six,” Isabelle said, her voice warm with affection.
Harley's laughter echoed across the line, sounding like a distorted cackle through the low-quality microphone of her budget headset. Isabelle, well-acquainted with Harley's stubborn refusal to upgrade her tech, just rolled her eyes, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Listen, thanks a shit-ton, Izzy," Harley chimed in, her tone a laid-back blend of gratitude and amusement that was so quintessentially Harley. "I'll bring over a bag of the primo shit, the good stuff that you're so fond of. Send my regards to Henry and like, I dunno, maybe our miniaturized pals can hang out or something," Harley pledged, her words rolling out in the unhurried drawl of a seasoned stoner.
Isabelle just responded with a guffaw, the sound a raw, unfiltered burst of laughter that reverberated in the room. "You damn well better make good on that promise, Harley, it's been too long since I last indulged in that mind-blowing stuff," she retorted, her voice laced with crude humor and a sharp, biting wit. "I remember what that shit did to me last time. I was flying high as a kite, and horny as a rabbit in springtime. Poor Kevin was worked to the bone that week," she jested, her words a playful jab at Harley's expense.
Then, as if a lightbulb had suddenly flickered on in her head, a realization dawned on her. "You know what," she began, her voice a blend of amused disbelief and curiosity, "I think I now understand why you decided to take your shrinkie on a crazy, one-way trip to the Harley highzone. That shit seriously screws with your head more than the regular stash if that's what you've been puffing. It's like you're floating in a whole different dimension, isn't it?"
She paused for a moment, her mind racing with the implications of her newfound understanding. "Why don't you try talking to your shrinkie when you're not stoned off your ass? You might actually make some progress, get her to open up a bit. And who the hell knows, it might even save you a buck or two on postage," Isabelle suggested, her words dripping with a teasing sarcasm. She was snickering now, the sound a low, throaty chuckle that filled the room.
Her hand instinctively reached out for Henry, who had just finished mopping up the last remaining traces of Isabelle’s drool from his body during this entire, lengthy conversation. He flinched, taken aback as he felt the touch of Harley’s massive, clammy thumb stroking down his back, a sensation that sent a shiver running down his spine.
Isabelle started to wrap up the chat. "Alright, it's time to hit the old dusty trail, but I'll give my mom a ring. She's always game for a new tiny sidekick, so I reckon she won't flip her lid at the thought of lending a hand. Buzz me later and we'll smash some noobs in PvP, yeah?" Isabelle proposed, her tone laced with gaming jargon and a sprinkle of irreverence. Harley, her voice distorted by laughter, responded. "For sure, dude. Gonna try to ease off Mary Jane beforehand, but you know I need a little green to stay on my A-game. It's a delicate balancing act, you feel me? I'll swing by tomorrow. Peace out."
Harley's voice trailed off, and with the sound of disconnecting, their call ended. Isabelle was left grinning, her mood considerably improved after her disastrous gaming session, all thanks to talking to Harley - her best friend, she had to admit at this point. Isabelle had always found it tough to make friends, largely due to her brash and domineering demeanor. But Harley's chill attitude was the perfect counterbalance.
Isabelle's gaze returned to Kevin, filled with teasing affection. "Not sure why you wasted energy sprucing up, tiny dude. I gotta take a shit, but when I'm back, brace yourself, because mama could really use a wild ride," she chuckled, pushing her hefty body off the chair with some effort. She made a beeline for the bathroom, kicking aside empty takeaway containers along the way. Kevin remained in place, like a specter, silently dreading the all-too-familiar, distasteful journey through Isabelle's body that he was about to embark on. "Oh, fucking shit…" he muttered, his resignation lost in the silence.