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

            Really, it was almost too glorious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Please… what are you… you…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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