Adela lived with her mother in a spare two-story home, with a small backyard. On the first floor there was a kitchen, bathroom, and general living space. One staircase, visible from the front door, led up to the second floor, where Adela and Holly had separate bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, furnished with a sink and toilet. There was a bathtub in Adela’s bathroom, but only Holly’s and the one on the ground floor were equipped with shower stalls. (Later on, this information will come in handy.)

Just before Adela turned the latch to the front door with her key and stepped within, I heard the bells chime 4 o’clock from the bell-tower of the Catholic church across the street. Moments passed, and the loud pop and crack of a bag told me she was in the kitchen, or pantry, opening up some chips, and having a snack. While she was munching, her fingers pressed gently against my back; she was trying to knead my face into the sensitive flap of skin above her clitoris. When she let me go, and reached in the bag for another chip, or pretzel, or whatever she was eating, I took the initiative and stroked the spot vigorously, with my whole body, until it became erect, and her labia began to swell and grow moist. While she said nothing, Adela gave me an appreciative tap through the thin, damp cotton of her panties, walked in a leisurely way out of the kitchen, and ascended the stairs.

The stairs were uncarpeted, planked with old, dusty wood, and creaked under the weight of her body as she climbed. I remembered the man she called Rich, and thanked my stars I was no longer underneath and between Adela’s giant, grimy toes, or living off the scraps I could find inside her shoes. It was beyond belief—it was inconceivable—how different this girl treated me, and others, now that there was a five foot difference in size between us. There was no compassion. There would be no appeals.

I dreamed a little as I stroked the sensitive and erotic tissue around her pussy, and listened to the sounds of the outside world. Before I knew it, she had pried back the elastic border of her underpants, and picked me out.
She put her forefinger to her pursed lips, “Shhhh…”
“What is it?”
“Mom may be home.”
Holly! This was her door! “What’s the matter?” I said.
Adela looked at me very coyly, and then pretended—with a slight southern belle, Gone With the Wind, accent—to be slightly piqued by the question, “Goodness, Martin! My word, you ain’t thinkin’ straight this evenin’. I can’t jest shake you out onto the floor, and ‘spect nothing of it. What kinda woman you think I am! Now shush.”
Unbelievable. It seemed as though I would never understand this girl’s mind. At times she seemed scarcely human—maybe more monkey, or reptile, than homo sapiens. At times her behavior was comprehensible, and I knew what she wanted me to do. But most of the time she was inscrutable, and I felt instead the impulse, and the need, to placate rather than pleasure her. She was beyond the range of my understanding: perhaps at such times she could only be worshiped as a goddess.

Adela opened the door a few inches and looked around. Her mother wasn’t home yet, which meant only one thing. I looked up at the bottom of Adela’s chin, a little downy like her cheeks, and with a few scars and scratches from the years past: I knew I would have to stay with her for a few more minutes, maybe a couple hours at the most. My heart pounded with dread, as my imagination conjured up images of her room’s interior. But as she stepped back from the door, and closed it carefully, I didn’t even get a peek.

The house now seemed utterly silent. Adela glided over to her door, and then hesitated a moment before entering.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Want a chip?” she rooted through her right pocket and produced a single chip and a few dirty crumbs. “Don’t worry. It’s still fresh.”
“Sure.”
She ate the chip, and then offered me the crumbs. I ate them.
“Good boy.” I was grateful, but after all the strange objects my stomach had taken throughout the day, I started to feel slightly green and nauseous. She turned the doorknob, and we stepped inside.

Adela’s room was dark as night. She walked with me to the wall opposite the door, and pulled back the shades to let in the sunlight. The first thing I noticed was how clean the room was—for a seventeen year old girl. The furniture was polished to a sheen, the floor was well-swept, and the large open windows poured natural light into the room. Adela leaned out one of the windows, still holding me in her hand (which was growing sweaty), and filled her lungs with the crisp, delicious, early-autumn air. It was a beautiful late afternoon. Then she turned around and plopped herself on the bed. She dropped me on the coverlet, and told me to “Shut my mouth.” I obeyed. An eerie, uncanny feeling of trepidation crept over me.

There were two roll-out compartments, each with two handles, under the bed. Adela bent down and opened one, while slipping out of her shoes and socks. She tossed them down to the end of the bed, and then plopped her feet down on something fleshy, with a large slapping sound. I couldn’t see what was happening; Adela said one word, “Sniff,” and then opened the other compartment.

When she lifted her hands, I saw that she was holding a tiny little cage, made of copper wires. This she deposited on the bed, not too far from where I was resting. Inside the cage, two tiny naked men, each roughly my height, were asleep.
“Wake up!” she shouted. At that instant, they leapt to their feet.
“Where is Joel?” she demanded. The men pleaded with her. They didn’t know. He must have escaped. He couldn’t have gone far. Etc. Etc. I could see in Adela’s cold gray eyes that the wretched begging of these poor creatures was making her sick. I didn’t know what stronger or nobler force held her back from crushing the cage with her fist, but she restrained herself.
“How pathetic. You useless, wriggling little worms. You don’t have a shred of dignity left. I ought to kill you now .” She looked daggers at them—and the men were all but stabbed. “You don’t get dinner tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” She stuffed them back in their cubbyhole, and rolled it back under the bed. Then she lifted her feet, and did the same with the other compartment (I never did see what lived inside the other). Adela sat still for a moment, cupping her chin in her hands, and then looked over at me. “Let’s go find Joel,” she said. “He’s around here, somewhere.”

Joel was indeed in the room, and Adela wasted only five minutes in locating him. The man was in his mid-thirties, naked, and about two inches tall. He was also petrified of his mistress, who wasted no time in arranging his demise. With an excited grin on her face, she ran down to the kitchen and raced back in fifteen seconds with an empty clay plate, a bowl of pasta, tomato sauce, and some orange juice. 
“I’m starved, Joel. How you doin’?”
 Joel watched these proceedings with a mournful look in his eye, but said nothing. Adela chirruped a lot of sweet nothings while she was working, peering at Joel now and again to study his reaction, and then finished preparing her food. A few strands of dark hair slipped from her ear and covered her eyes; in no hurry, she lazily pushed them back, and then yanked up Joel between two of her fingers. 
“So you’re not hungry, Joel?” Joel couldn’t speak. “You’re shaking!” Joel was indeed trembling all over, from head to foot. “Aww. Are you cold? Here’s a kiss-kiss.” Adela leaned in and, with a loud, murderous smacking sound, sucked him in between her bright red lips, and rolled her massive, wet tongue over his face. She pulled him farther in, slurped on him for a few seconds, and then pulled him back out by the legs, sloshed in her saliva, like a lollypop. She rolled her tongue over her lips very slowly, and then gave a satisfied grin. “Tasty!”

Joel’s stoic demeanor began to change. He started to panic, and mutter random syllables. No longer confused, paralyzed, or resigned to death, he trembled violently all over. I hoped for his sake that he was having a stroke, or a fit, but I doubted it. I was watching a normal man act in an abnormal way under extraordinary pressure. Adela didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. She picked Joel up and dangled him for a little over her plate of pasta, which smelled like heaven, and then over her glass of orange juice, which was just as beautiful to me (whatever it must have been for Joel). She released him, and he fell with a tiny ploop and swish into the bright orange liquid. Adela reached out her hand and touched the damp side of her glass. She raised it to me with a nod and a smile, and then began to tilt its contents toward her mouth. After a few sips, Adela opened her mouth, and I saw Joel again for the last time, lying belly-flat on her tongue. Long, silvery strands of saliva caged him in, and looked, somehow, both beautiful and terrifying in the natural light of the room—like the beginnings of a spider-web when the sun strikes it in the morning. I felt his fear, and knew what would happen.

Adela pushed his head between her lips, and then sucked on him playfully and wide-eyed for a few precious seconds. His eyes fluttered and I realized what she was doing to him—how completely she wanted to own him before she sent him down. She shut her eyes.

Suddenly a high, piercing cry filled the room, and Adela bit down on the two-inch man, and started to chew. His head disappeared into her cavernous mouth, as she shoveled in the first spoonful of pasta, finishing it off with one last gulp of cold orange juice. For a full minute she chewed on this crimson mash of flesh and pasta, and then swallowed. I watched as the little wad of food passed down her pretty throat.

I waited, terrified and astonished at what I’d just seen. Adela opened her eyes again, and patted her belly contentedly. She belched, took a deep breath, and then started to finish her meal. I realized she wasn’t going to say anything to me, so after a few moments I finally dared to speak.
“How could you do this?”
“I’ll tell you later. I had a very low opinion of Joel. At least he got to live through the first beautiful moments of his death. He may still be alive, actually. I only severed his legs. Only wish he didn’t cry so much. He doesn’t know how many men would take his place, willingly. How many have.” She munched on her food, and didn’t say anything more.

When she finished, she leant back in her chair and sighed with pleasure. At that point, the door opened, and I saw Holly’s face. Adela wheeled around quickly, and then relaxed and smiled.
“Hey mom.”
“Hey dear. How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Hey Martin.” 
“Hi.” 
“Let’s talk.”
I looked around at the room, at Adela, and finally at Holly.
“Okay,” I said. I was ready to talk.