"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.