Carrying her purse with the strap across her chest, Ingrid strolled through one of the tackier tourist districts in Caracas.  She stopped at a spinner rack full of postcards and pretended to browse.

“Directly across the street,” she said to her pendant, “the Alta Vista building.”

“Gradenko said that Matador keeps offices on the seventh floor,” said Gregorio from inside the capsule, splitting the on-board display between the video feed from the purse cameras and the building plans.  “If you can get met to the lobby, I can take it from there.”

“I’m still not keen on you going in there alone.”

“You’re being ridiculous.  This mission requires stealth and sound judgment, and I think I’ve demonstrated both so far.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but in the end she bit her tongue.  She selected and bought two postcards, then crossed the street, passed the target entrance, then doubled back pretending to be lost.  Then she walked into the Alta Vista building and headed straight for the concierge.

She set her purse down on the floor at the end of the concierge desk closest to the wall.  While she asked for some complicated directions in broken Spanish, Gregorio emerged from her purse and scurried to a darkened corner of the lobby.

The foot traffic was light, giving Gregorio more opportunity to move unseen, but it also meant that he had to wait longer to hitch a ride to the seventh floor.  The offices of Matador Productions took up half the floor, but after rolling under the door and scaling the furniture of a dozen rooms, Gregorio was half-convinced that it was a false front.  Then he arrived at the door to a large office marked, “Isabella Mastica, Managing Director.”

Inside was a lavishly-appointed suite with several indications of a well-developed taste in fashion and popular culture.  A leather sofa faced a bank of televisions, a well-stocked mini-bar was flanked by a pair of easy chairs and a serious Bang & Olufson stereo rack, and a minimalist glass-top desk was backed by floor-to-ceiling windows.  In the rear corner hulked a brushed-steel filing cabinet.

Gregorio headed straight for the filing cabinet, which was of course locked.  One of the few advantages of being three inches tall was the much greater finesse that Gregorio could apply to lockpicking.  Prying the drawer open and paging through the files required greater exertions, but Gregorio could find nothing indicating any interest in Figura or anything even distantly related to his research.

He levered the drawer closed and relocked the cabinet, then swung down to the desktop.  All he had found was a few notes regarding a local video shoot next month when Isabella Mastica walked into her office.

She had smooth brown skin, with wide brown eyes and even a wider smile.  She wore a cream-colored sleeveless blouse over her C-cup breasts, and a tight knit skirt hugged the upper half of her long athletic legs.  Her brown hair was bound up in a bun behind her head, held together by a slender wooden spike.

Gregorio crouched behind the phone on the desk, but when Isabella headed for the mini-bar, he decided to try to escape from the desk.  He leapt down into the seat of the high-backed office chair, but he was rocked off his feet when the chair was pulled back by Isabella, who had apparently changed her mind about the mini-bar and was now about to sit at her desk.  He rolled over onto his back just in time to see the twin hemispheres of her ass descend and crush him into the leather.

Gregorio was pinned tighter than when Melissa had tucked him into her cleavage.  The buttocks are supremely adapted for distributing the weight of a sitting person, but Gregorio felt every ounce of the enormous woman perched atop his tiny frame, the heat of her spreading cheeks reflecting off the leather and starting to poach him.  He dared not move lest she detect him, but as the fabric of her skirt dug into his skin and his heart pounded in his skull, he started to panic.

Isabella fit the phone handset over her ear and pressed the speed dial, but she aborted the call and twitched her ass in her seat.  Perplexed, she stood up and looked down, her formidable jaw hanging open as she stared down at the three-inch-tall man gasping in the impressions left in the leather by her irresistible ass.

Gregorio still hadn’t recovered when Isabella set the phone handset down and reached for him, her long brown fingers curling around his torso and limbs, leaving his head poking out of her fist.  She brought him in front of her face, and he could not help gazing up into her beguiling wide eyes, her nostrils flaring with excitement, and her two rows of perfect, deadly teeth.

“Miniature spies,” she deadpanned.  “What will they think of next?”

Gregorio still hadn’t quite caught his breath, but even if he had, there was something in her knowing expression that would have made any denial sound absurd.

“Who are you working for?” she demanded, her smile fading slightly.  “M.I.6?  O.S.S.?”

Gregorio finally tore his gaze from her giant unquenchable eyes.

Isabella tilted her head, raised her eyebrows, and gave a toothless smile, affecting disappointment at his silence, but actually enjoying the escalation.  She lowered him to the desk and pinned him to the blotter on his back with her giant index finger, while her other hand retrieved segments of adhesive tape and taped each of his limbs down in spread-eagle fashion.  Then she brought her beautiful face and divine smile down over him, until she filled his entire sky.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who you’re working for?” she asked teasingly.

Gregorio finally found his voice.  “Never!” he shouted up at the gigantic woman.

Isabella raised her powerful arm above her head, and he flinched in anticipation of the blow from her boulder-sized fist, but all that fell toward him was a thicket of brown wavy hair as she withdrew the pole-sized skewer.

Her enormous face was overcome with demonic glee as she twirled the long spike above him, then arrested it with the sharpened end pointed directly at his face.  With teeth that could sever his torso in an instant, she gently bit her lower lip as she brought the spike closer and closer to his tiny head, until it made contact with the blotter a half-inch away.  He turned his head to see the pole bored into the pad by her unstoppable strength.

Isabella then pulled the spike back and pointed it at Gregorio’s crotch.

“Still sure?” she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer but stabbed the skewer down and she heard it penetrate the skin, along with his tiny scream, which trailed off when he realized the point hadn’t actually pierced his body.  The spike had broken through the blotter right next to his tiny cock and balls, which trembled against the large wooden shaft impaled between his legs.

Isabella wrenched the skewer free and hovered the point over Gregorio’s tiny abdomen.  She raised her python-sized eyebrows at him.

“Who are you working for?” she asked impatiently.  He shook his head in reply.

A devilish twitch took hold of the edge of her smile, and she again approached his crotch with the sharp piece of lumber, but now it was parallel to the desktop.  With her other hand she pinned his tiny ankles to the blotter with her thumb and index finger, reinforcing the adhesive tape bonds.  Progressing delicately, she slid the wooden point under his microscopic junk until she felt it nestle in between his tiny butt cheeks.

Gregorio had once passed a kidney stone, but that pain in his urethra paled in comparison to the agony at his rectum as the subjectively 150-foot-tall woman proceeded to shove a sharpened eight-inch-diameter pole up his ass.

Isabella chuckled at his plight, and she leaned over him so closely that he couldn’t see a world beyond her.  Her enormous eyes possessed him, and shutting his own eyes left him with only the pain.  Desperate, he gazed into her cavernous mouth, glistening in anticipation of his torment.  Behind her merciless teeth he glimpsed it: her instinctive tongue, undulating like some creature from the deep.  He began to long for that wet and powerful muscle to swim out and gather him into its lair, past the taunting lips and obliterating teeth, down into the depths of this mountainous woman, as long as it took him away from the pain.

Isabella must have noticed a change in Gregorio’s expression, as her eyes narrowed and her smile disappeared.  “I think you’re starting to enjoy this,” she said.  She pursed her lips and gave the skewer a final shove, and his vision exploded in a constellation of pain.

Then she removed the shaft.

Gregorio must have blacked out for some number of moments, because when he returned to himself, the strips of tape had been removed, he was curled up with his strained wrists guarding his balls, and his thighs were shaking with the reflex not to permit the slightest contact with his screaming rectum.  Isabella had apparently been talking to his oblivious body for some time.

“...it’s called waterboarding.  I’m sure you’ve heard of it; it’s all the rage.  Do you know how it works?  It instills the fear of drowning in the subject.  They say a person will do anything to escape it.”

She stood up and towered over the three-inch-tall man cowering on her desk.  She placed one hand on her cocked hips and with the other she seized him about the upper chest and brought him to her grinning face.  Her tongue slicked her upper lip and she gave a sultry moan, “Mmmm.”

Then her massive jaw swung down and she inserted the upper half of his tiny body into her mouth, her moist lips closing about him like warm, ruthless elevator doors that stopped just short of pinching him in half.  He could feel her giant incisors just above and below him, like stony axe blades, awaiting the signal to rend him apart.  His siren her tongue was there, too, pulsing with her chronic chuckling and frequently sponging his face.

Curiously, Gregorio was not wholly deprived of air.  Isabella’s lips failed to perfectly seal his upper body in her mouth, and they even occasionally pulled back entirely to let her teeth hold him.  This was painful for him, but the resulting air and light were not unwelcome.  He even recovered enough of his senses to notice that Isabella’s head wasn’t holding still, either, and he felt his orientation shift from lying on his stomach to hanging head-down.

Sure enough, when Isabella finally plucked Gregorio from her mouth and held him before her face, he could see that her head was below him and she was now lying on the couch.

“I won’t tell you anything,” he said.

An expression of surprise came over her giant face.  “You thought that was it?” she said with a wide smile.  “How precious!”

She held him up and moved him down her body, and he saw that she had removed her skirt and underwear.  Her long brown legs, longer and more massive to him than a dozen charter busses, were spread wide and draped over the back of the couch and onto the floor.  Between them lay her bald and brown pussy lips, as powerful and timeless as the Venus of Willendorf.

“Little man,” said Isabella, “we haven’t even started.”  She reached down and with her index and middle fingers she opened her outer lips to expose the pink cave of her vagina.  “Let’s call it...twaterboarding.”

Gregorio was entranced by her giant vulva as it rushed towards him, and he barely remembered to take a breath before she plunged him head-first into her canal and released her lips about his legs.

It was tighter, hotter, and stuffier than being in her mouth.  She gripped him through the salty membrane with muscles he could neither see nor resist.  No light or air reached him through her inner lips, his tiny feet dangling out of her like a tampon string.  The deep resonance of her heartbeat was all around him.

After two minutes Isabella pulled Gregorio out of her twat by one of his tiny ankles.  She brought him up and dangled him over her face.

“Feel like talking now?” she asked.  He simply gasped for air while she sniffed his flailing frame.

“Not quite immersed yet, are we?” she said, lowering back to her crotch.  He thought he saw the inner lips of her vulva open on their own to receive him.  He sucked in lungfuls of air as her hungry pussy yawned to swallow him whole.

She became his world.  Dark, hot, wet, the rushing of her blood and the taste of her sex, Isabella engulfed Gregorio, removing him from everything he was and entombing him in her viscera.  Her innards surrounded him and extended to infinity, and their rhythms were all that he would ever know.

The membranes enclosing him started to buck and slicken, slowly drawing him deeper into her cunt.  Her moans reached him through her bowels, and the contractions of her unseen muscles jostled him like ominous foreshocks.  The heat and lack of air drove everything else from his mind, and his panic returned.  His involuntary spasms were reflected tenfold upon his helpless frame by her unconquerable Kegels, which ultimately buffeted him back to the world of air and light.

Isabella brought Gregorio sputtering and blinking to her gigantic face.  Her terrible jaws opened and he hoped for a quick death from her teeth, but she only lapped his face clean of her juices.

“Now that’s more like it,” she purred.  “I admit I’m finding your near-death throes somewhat stimulating.  You would be wise to tell me who you’re working for.”

“Alright, alright,” he panted.  “I’m working for National Geographic.  We’re doing an all-swamp issue in April.”

Somehow, her smile widened even father.  She stuck him head-first in her mouth again, and he waited for her incisors to slice through his spine, but she quickly pulled him back out with one hand and with the other displayed the curious ring she now wore on her middle finger.  It was porcelain and bulky, extending over an inch from the underside.

“Is that a joy buzzer?” he asked mockingly.

“Of course,” she replied jauntily, “but I’m afraid the joy will be all mine.”

Isabella’s vulva had swollen since Gregorio’s first passage, and her clit was now peeking out of the top of her glistening pussy.  She pressed the mouse-sized man to her mons, tapped his tiny face against her swelling bud, then shoved his whole body past her inflamed lips and as deep into her cunt as she could.

She flipped a small switch on the side of her ring, which then started humming with a vibration unprecedented in commercial devices of its size.  She closed her eyes and pressed the buzzer to her clit.  It started as an inaudible exhalation, but she let it become a low moan; interrupted by spasms in her lower abdomen.  Her pussy and asshole clenched in unison, and the tendons in her thighs stretched taut under her skin.

She lifted the buzzer away from her sensitive nub and she gasped for a couple of breaths.  Then her face regained its determination and she pressed the buzzer back down.  Tremors in her pelvis forced small sharp cries from her, slowly increasing in duration and intensity.  Her legs jerked toward each other, and her shoulders rose slightly from the couch.  Her pussy lips contracted even harder, and fluids began to appear on the surface; first a trickle, then a rivulet, and finally a surge flooded out, soaking her engorged lips and dripping down her taint and puddling on the couch.

Isabella did not know how long she lay there, her chest heaving and her thighs trembling, but eventually she shut the buzzer off and fished Gregorio out of her twat.  Drenched and motionless, he seemed even smaller.  She held him over her face by his tiny feet, and as her juices dripped off him onto her tongue, she thought she saw some of it flow out of his little mouth.

He didn’t respond after a brief shake, and she shrugged and tossed his wet and wracked body into the small waste basket by the mini-bar.  Then she stood up, wiped down the couch, and retrieved her panties and skirt.  After she had recomposed herself—including rewinding her hair and pinning it with the wooden spike—she sat back down at her desk.

She reached for the phone, then thought better of it.  She scrutinized the notes on the desk, then got up to confirm that the file cabinet was locked.  She stood a moment with her hands on her hips, then strode out of the office.

Ingrid waited at the rendezvous with increasing impatience.  Her tolerance for nursing cappuccinos had grown over the years, less so for Caribbean lotharios.  The last five guys who touched her had left with their fingers sprained—not broken—but she wasn’t sure how much longer her restraint would hold out.

It had been four hours since she had left Gregorio in the lobby across the street, and he had said he would be back in three.  He never did tell her how he planned to cross the street once he got out of the building, and somehow she couldn’t imagine him hitching a ride with a pedestrian.  At no time during her vigil had she looked up at the windows of Matador’s seventh-floor offices, but now she started glancing upwards at regular intervals should Gregorio decide to come gliding down like Secret Squirrel.

Ingrid decided that her next drink order should have more kick to it, and she shifted her leg as she glanced about for the waiter.  Her foot came down on something soft, and she looked down to see two tiny legs protruding from underneath her pump, which she immediately lifted to reveal the prostrate form of Gregorio.

Moving swiftly but naturally, Ingrid set her foot and purse down on either side of Gregorio to shield him from view, then gently transferred him to her purse.  Sitting back up, she looked for the waiter to settle her bill, but she also determined that no one seemed to have noticed the pickup.

Isabella sat in a security office, scanning a bank of surveillance monitors.

“What are you looking for?” asked an unseen, raspy masculine voice.

“I’m betting our little visitor caught a ride here,” replied Isabella.

She fast-forwarded through several hours of footage from the day’s coverage of all entrances to the Alta Vista building.  She stopped one of the lobby feeds and froze it.

“There!” she said.  “Why does she put her purse all the way over there?”

“Zoom in,” said the unseen voice.

Isabella complied, zooming in on Ingrid’s face in profile.

“Do you know her?” she asked.

“Madre de Dios.”

Gregorio had returned to his capsule by the time Ingrid arrived back at the hotel room, and the on-board medical monitors did not indicate any critical injuries.  Nevertheless, he had been uncharacteristically quiet since the pickup and she insisted he come out of her purse for the debrief.

For better or worse, Ingrid had chosen the desk as the venue for this encounter.  Mercifully, she had lain her purse on its side so Gregorio didn’t have to scale its walls before walking slowly out onto the desktop.  He wryly noted the familiar blotter beneath his feet before looking up at his giant partner.

Seated at the desk, Ingrid towered over Gregorio from a subjective height of 50 feet.  She was still wearing  the modest-yet-stylish short-sleeve blouse from their visit to the Alta Vista building, but from his low perspective there was no escaping the rise and sway of her full breasts.  In one construction-crane-sized hand she held a ten-foot-long pen, but she didn’t twirl it.  Neither did she hover her face over the tiny Gregorio, but her enormous eyes did transfix him with intimate scrutiny.

“I must apologize for stepping on you, Agent Cortez,” she said finally.  “It was an inexcusable lapse of attention.”

“No, Agent Avellan,” he replied, “the fault was mine.  I should have found a safer approach.”

“I almost crushed you.”

“Hardly.  I would have rolled away before you put your full weight down.”

Ingrid put the pen down on the desk and rested her redwood-sized arm not more than ten subjective feet from Gregorio.  He didn’t know how he would react if she tried to pick him up.  She tilted her head, pursed her lips, and leaned down ever so slightly.

“You are clearly distressed,” she said.  “Whether you admit it or not, I believe you continue to suffer bodily pain, which may limit your ability to continue with this mission.”

“Your concern is touching beyond words,” he replied.  “I don’t see how I am any less indispensible to getting Figura out.”

“No, but your impaired judgment might present complications.  For instance, why did you approach me at the rendezvous at foot level without first calling me?”

“I exited the building and crossed the street via an underground electrical vault,” he explained.  “In their wisdom, the city fathers saw fit to combine this passage with the sewer system, a detail that was omitted from the building plans.  I must have shorted out my comm gear.”  In reality, Gregorio first discovered his rig’s failure shortly after he revived in the waste basket.

Ingrid suspected he was lying, but she didn’t know what about.  Looking up into her billboard-sized face, he saw her suspicion bloom and flicker, and a tendon in her nearby arm twitched.  He stood straight and didn’t flinch, but it had less to do with fear-paralysis or resignation than simple fatigue.

In the end, she raised her eyebrows, looked away, and sharply exhaled.  “So,” she said boredly, “what did you find out?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “No one was there, most of the space isn’t even in use.  The managing director’s office was active recently, but unless they’re planning to miniaturize Los Lobos for their next beach video, there was nothing to link Matador to Figura.”

“Seriously?” she said with disdain.  “Well, I suppose it was worth a look just to be sure.”

Gregorio had nothing to say to that.