Gabriella was hoping for some action; it was night—late at night. Her phone had been silent for a good hour. Her dinner plans had fallen through (Maria decided to get dinner with her deadbeat boyfriend after all, and then one by one excuses felled the rest of the guest list); the flick she was going to see with a few other friends had sold out by the time she arrived at the theater (and of course no one snagged her a ticket); the friend that she had planned to meet up with, after it all, ended up going home with someone as she was on her way to him (she got the text while she was on the the train).

Now she was on the train again.

Supposedly she was headed home.

But she had already watched her stop come and go.

She was headed nowhere in particular. She followed the tracks, the train rocked her through the gloom.

She was headed anywhere.

Her eyes skipped over the couples that shared the car with her—they were no good.

Her glance would pause on groups, and people who were alone.

Maybe she could crash a party, or cozy her way into someone else's interesting evening plans.

Anything could happen.

Anything; anything. . .

Gabriella eyed a man who stood alone in the corner.

Fuck, he was handsome.

Fuck, he held roses and and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

Her eyes roamed on.

Her phone was still silent. She thumbed through the webwork of apps it contained to distract herself. She checked social media, browsed through some recent photos she had taken, she read some blog posts.

There was buzz about bad chocolates laced with Formula S. Some kind of mixup at the plant that had been responsible for a few last-minute batches of the treats—of course the most popular chocolates for Valentine's Day was some factory-made bullshit. Gabriella scoffed.

The chocolates were these queer little faces with Cheshire cat grins.

She lost interest when she read that there were no reported cases of people being affected by the contaminated chocolates—that would have made her giggle.

She could use a laugh.

Fucking "V Day."

Gabriella sighed and put her phone away. She glanced again at the eye candy she shared the car with. She wondered where he was headed. Some nice romantic evening. He was dressed in a way she hated (a way that she hated that she loved): fresh fashion, a nice coat with a tall collar, leather gloves, skinny jeans tucked into boots. He was so put together. Not a single day in her life had Gabriella ever looked in the mirror and felt that together. It was as if he had not gotten out of a bed that morning, like a regular human being, but instead rolled right off an assembly line, just like—

Gabriella's eyes dipped to the big red heart he cradled; sly eyes and a Cheshire grin stared back at her.

—just like the box of chocolates that he held.

Ah-ha.

Suddenly there was him in her mind, the size of a doll. No, smaller—Formula S reduced you down to inches. An inch. Sometimes even smaller.

There he was, tiny and helpless, after eating one of his silly chocolates. Maybe whatever dumb, skinny bird he was off to fuck would shrink with him. Ha-ha. Two little hipsters the size of bugs. What were the odds that he held one of the bad batches, though?

Nothing fun ever happened. Not really.

But how hilarious would that be?

He had a worried expression on his face; he was looking right at her.

Oh, I'm staring.

Gabriella glanced away.

She could see his reflection in one of the subway car's windows. Still he gazed at her.

She smirked.

If only he knew what she was thinking!

Rock, rock. Claclack-clack. Claclack-clack.

The car carried them on into the void. Station after station.

How far was he going to ride, she wondered. They had already passed all the gentrified neighborhoods.

What, was he lost?

Nah, he appeared too relaxed.

He was making that face again; shit, she was staring at him again.

At the next stop he got off in a hurry; he raced out of the doors.

Gabriella took a step to follow him. It was an automatic step. She did not realize that he had become her target for the night, until she took that step.

But then the doors closed.

Nope, the subway said. Not him. Find something else to do, young lady.

Gabriella huffed and scoffed.

She stared at her reflected self in the door's window opposite her; she stared through herself.

Rock, rock.

Gabriella gazed around at the mostly empty car and sighed. No one interesting. He was her last catch, and she had over-baited her hook. It was probably time to turn around. She was almost at the end of the line anyway—a loop of shame typically reserved for sleepy drunks.

She rode the train to Coney Island, the end—why not—pulled her hoodie's hood up, zipped up her jacket, walked out onto the raised open-air platform. The chill was biting; she had failed to bundle up enough. She had stacked indoor plans for that evening, and the past version of herself had wanted to skip wrestling with jackets and excess bulk all night.

The city was pretty quiet right then: distant trains and their distinct gait, cars that groaned by under the raised platform, the not-too-distant sigh of waves. Now, to pop out of the station and get a bite first, or did she just head over to the opposite—

A familiar shape shared the platform with her. He walked ahead of her. His damn nice coat, skinny jeans tucked into boots—red roses, red heart-shaped box.

That way he had rushed off the train. . .

The asshole had switched cars!

Wow—did I creep him out that much? What a loser.

Gabriella quickened her step. She was bored enough to mess with him. Why not. She had taunted frightened boys for less.

She neared him and was just about to call out when she stopped herself.

That box he carried—what were the chances? Like, really? A million to one? A billion to one? But people won the lottery. Lightning did strike twice. Why not roll the dice, see if she couldn't cash in a little of that cosmic luck.

Gabriella continued to follow him, but from a ways back, and mostly out of sight.

She shadowed him.

It was easy.

And then caught up with him where she could pull him into an alley.

He cried out but she kept it playful. She smiled at him—I mean you no harm, her smirk said.

"What are you doing," he asked.

He had a nice voice. Soft, but kinda deep. The kind of voice she wanted to listen to over the phone when she was about to fall asleep.

"Got a hot date, cowboy?"

"With my girlfriend, yeah. It's our anniversary."

"You fucking kidding? You asked her out today?"

"She asked me," he said; his eyes flickered back toward the street.

Gabriella stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. His heart pounded against her palm. Scared gazelle. She stared into his eyes and grinned at him. He was nervous. That eye-sheen—he was a little drunk. Fresh meat. An easy kill.

"You're cute."

"Well, thanks."

He was uncomfortable. That was okay.

"How long have you two been going out?"

"Just a year."

"Just a year! Wow, that's like, no time at all."

"Well. . ."

"You two fucking yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do. You. Fuck. You look like a nice Christian boy, you know?"

He really squirmed; he got angry.

Good, good.

She pressed her hand on his chest. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

"Look, I'm going to be late."

"Not yet, huh?"

"I've got to go."

"Think she's going to suck your cock tonight?"

Now he made a move. Of course her hand was not enough on its own to hold him there, not if he really wanted to escape. But that was not the point. If he was going to run, this was it. If he did not get away. . .

He squirmed; she pressed.

"Because I will."

He squirmed less. She brought her face in close to his; her lips close to his.

"Right here, right now."

Their eyes met. She could see parts of herself reflected in his eyes.

"Hm?"

She kissed him; she kept her hand pressed on his chest. Thumthumthumthum—

(Oh, shit. He's probably a virgin!)

Gabriella sighed against his lips and held him against the wall with her body and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him on the lips. Slow, soft, steady.

He tried to murmur something around her mouth. "What if someone—"

"No one will see anything."

She placed a hand over the crotch of his pants and pushed on his erection.

There it was. Good, good.

(She was a swooping hawk, he was her field mouse.)

She stared into his eyes. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," she said, and grinned. (Grinned like a shark.)

He laughed.

"Okay," she kissed him, "Okay."

With one hand, Gabriella unbuttoned his jeans, she zipped down his fly. Her hand snaked between the denim and his underwear and she cupped his cock.

"How's that feel?"

"Good," he murmured.

She rubbed her hand on his cock; she kissed his neck—wet and warm kisses, she breathed against him, she licked him. His very obedient cock was as attentive as a charmed viper.

"Baby, baby," she whispered against his neck. He was as stone still as the wall. His eyes were closed. She took his roses from him, and then his heart. He let her have them—no resistance.

Slowly the cosmic lottery was calling out her numbers.

One by one; match after match after match.

The red grinning box stayed in her hand. He opened his eyes when he heard the pop of the lid.

"Hey," he protested.

"Gotta make it official."

She plucked a single treat and replaced the lid, then put the box down, too.

"She'll know something's up."

"You were hungry, on the train." Her free hand found his cock, squeezed. "Shut up and close your eyes."

His lips obliged her when she pressed the chocolate to them.

Time to roll the dice.

(She was a mad woman on a rainy plain who danced with lightning.)

With her finger she pushed the chocolate into his mouth; his teeth clamped down on the treat, and bit it in half. The rest of the chocolate would go no further—his teeth formed a wall.

She cursed in her head, and considered forcing the rest of it on him. But how could she make that work in regard to their natural scene?

She chucked the other half away, and it landed with a plop atop the box on the ground.

"Something sweet for you," she said, and kissed his neck. "Something sweet for me," she said, and started to kiss her way down his body.

She gazed up; he chewed, slowly.

C'mon, c'mon.

Her kisses slowed near his hips.

Please don't be just an actual piece of fucking chocolate.

(What did you expect, Gabriella? What were the odds?)

She prepared the area around his penis, pulled down his underwear, pulled at his pants to make some room. Above, he chewed away.

Swallow, you bastard!

Gabriella glanced at the cock she had promised to put in her mouth—

Fellatio 101: Never Look At Their Penis.

So rarely did a penis appear tantalizing. Rarely, like, never. He bent to the right. His hair on his head was so straight, so why the fuck was this hair so curly? He had ringlets. Bitch, trim.

Gabriella sighed.

She held onto his dick for a moment. She waved it around a little.

Rock, rock.

Nah.

She stood up and looked at him. Eyes still closed, he leaned against the wall, his face all blissful, euphoric.

"Did you swallow," she demanded.

His eyes opened slowly, and were clouded, as if he had fallen asleep. He focused on her. "What," he stammered.

"Fuck. Nevermind."

Gabriella pulled her hoodie's hood up, zipped up her jacket. She made her way toward the exit of the alley.

"Hey, where are you going," he called to her.

She did not look back.

"Wait, aren't you—"

Gabriella rolled her eyes.

She was just about at the sidewalk.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—"

Gabriella glanced back behind her.

Her eyes lit up.

He was shrinking!

"Oh, shit!"

No—really? No, no, no—really?

Before her eyes, he dwindled against the wall. His clothes sagged off of him. He looked at her, tears in his eyes, and his voice was far more quiet as he demanded, "What did you do to me?"

Gabriella laughed, and strode toward him.

"Shrink, ya loser!"

Wait.

The effect had stopped: at about half his height, he shrank no further.

His eyes were level with her navel—about there.

"What the fuck," Gabriella asked the air.

He took one look down at himself, then at her, and then he started running. His clothes fell away as he did, until he wore only his now oversized shirt, and no underwear. He did not run from her, but right at her—the opening of the alley was his only escape.

Fat chance!

Gabriella swung her arm at him as he came near. She struck him across the face with a closed fist. He collapsed backward onto his ass, and gazed up at her with shock and fear.

Now he was looking good and small.

It was like a mixed-size wrestling match, Gabriella thought then. The woman did enjoy watching wrestling—especially lucha libre, as the sport was taken seriously in Mexico.

One of her favorite luchadoras, a fighter who went by Emma Gear, was famous for her mixed-size exhibitions. They were called "squash matches" for how brutally the woman dispatched her opponents.

Gabriella grinned viciously as she loomed over the pale little man—she channeled Emma.

He tried to get back to his feet but she kicked out, and her foot struck his shoulder. He yelped like a dog and fell back again. She pressed her attack, pinned him under one foot placed on his chest. A firm, hard squeeze, until his face was red and he was out of breath.

This was fun, but not the kind of fun Gabriella was really after.

This half-size of his was a problem.

Gabriella's eyes flashed at the bitten chocolate.

She hurried over to the heart-shaped box, recovered the morsel.

A scuffle behind her—"Oh no you fucking don't!"

It was easy to catch up to him.

Gabriella grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled, tossed him to the ground.

She sat down on top of him, then, and gripped his jaw. With a simple squeeze, she forced his mouth open.

She pushed the chocolate between his lips and teeth.

He whimpered as she covered his mouth with her hand.

"C'mon. Eat it."

He shook his head as best as he could, trapped by her hand. His body squirmed beneath her, but her bulk surely held him. Gabriella had watched Emma pin down a half-sized person enough times to know exactly how to position herself to keep this little man contained, and all his limbs controlled.

He was helpless.

He was right where she wanted him.

Gabriella pinched his nose.

He mmm'd desperately; he convulsed.

(She was a witch in the forest, who shook her body to a beat no one else could hear.)

The man was forced to swallow, and choked the chocolate down.

She released his nose, but kept her hand over his mouth so that he could not scream.

For a moment, nothing happened.

"C'mon!"

He dwindled beneath her, and Gabriella cackled as she felt his frame diminish. It was glorious.

Reluctantly she stood off of him, but only because she worried that the weight of her body would crush him.

And she stood there, waiting, her hands on her hips as she watched the lump hidden by his shirt shrink smaller and smaller.

When the process finally stopped, Gabriella was satisfied—he was no larger than one of the chocolates then. He was bite-sized.

Without blinking she watched the protrusion travel along the length of his deflated shirt. His tiny naked form emerged from the collar.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

A squeaky scream.

(Ha!)

She squatted down over his inch-tall form and blocked his pitiful flight with the wall of her hand.

His flesh bumped her flesh. He was so small. So very small.

Oh-ho; the universe had called all her numbers.

(Oh, thank you, Jesus.

Well, no: thank you, Lucifer.

Let's be honest, right?)

Gently she plucked up her prize.

Her naked little choir boy.

He squeaked protests at her.

She squeezed him just a bit and he cried out.

"You're mine, now," she said with a predatory grin.

She put her hand in her jacket pocket, and held him trapped inside of a loose fist. She almost left—her head whirled like she was drunk—but she remembered to take the smiling box with her. She left the red roses, and the rest of his shit.

Claclack-clack, claclack-clack; it was a quick trip home; it was the longest trip ever.

She did not pull him out of her pocket, not until she got back to her apartment. There, she grabbed a nice tall glass and dropped him into it. She left him on her small kitchen table as she went to her room, kicked off her sneakers, stripped off her jacket and hoodie. . .

Paused to think—

Shirt, pants, bra, panties, socks fell to the floor, one after the other.

Gabriella marched back toward the living room, nue comme un verre. As she approached the tiny man in the cup, she experienced an odd sense of enhanced height. Of having real mass. Of being big.

(And just look at that fear in his eyes—delicious.)

Gabriella squatted down and peered at her tiny captive through the glass. He was naked, too. A nice kind of naked. He had a wonderful body. Almost entirely hairless, despite that silly patch of ringlets. Lean, muscled. A flat stomach. Long and straight limbs. An angular face with gorgeous cheekbones. (Boy, you must have the prettiest skull.)

Gabriella reached for the cup; he flinched, shrank back against the glass wall behind him.

(Where are you going? There's nowhere to run.)

Her hand paused in the air. She smiled.

What was this feeling? Lust, yes. But what else. Something pulled her. A real gravity.

"Listen up, smallstuff. I am in a mood right now. We're gonna get hot and heavy, just like I promised."

Gabriella wrapped her hand around the glass and lifted it—that precious squeak. She held his cup before her breasts and stared down her nose at him.

"Here's the thing—"

Gabriella raised the glass to her face and peered inside; she stared hard. (Yes, that was it: power.)

"—I'm the boss. You will do what I say, when I say it. Got it?"

He was frozen. Muscles tight. Horror-faced.

(Complete control.)

She shook the glass. His delicate little head rebounded off its side with a crack. When he curled into a ball, she wondered if maybe she had shaken the glass too hard, but he gathered himself up. He bled from one nostril—just the smallest line of blood. That was fine.

He nodded.

"Good."

Gabriella puckered her lips and pressed them to the glass right in front of that adorable, terrified face.

He screamed.

She laughed.

(I'm a giant. You're my toy-boy. I can do whatever I want with you.)

Gabriella sat on the couch. She lowered her hand and tipped the glass; her tiny captive spilled out in front of her feet. At least he did not run right then. That was smart. She probably would have crushed him under her foot without a second thought.

(Girl, you would have stepped on him? Yes; yes I would have.)

Gabriella slid a foot near him. He sputtered and recoiled away from it. Was he that scared? Well, yeah, but. . .

Gabriella paused, lifted a leg. She pulled her foot up to her face, and sniffed at the air just under her toes. Her nose wrinkled. What a stink! After a long day on her feet, on the move, in socks and sneakers, she had worked up quite a tart funk.

She brought her foot back down next to him. He recoiled from it again, only to find her other foot at his other side—she gently, surely pinned him between her soles.

"You're not going anywhere, little boy," Gabriella murmured. With a sighing gasp she fell back into the couch cushions; she brushed the fingers of one hand over her clit and lips. "Other than
right where I want you to be."

As she stroked herself: a telltale line of dampness, like morning dew that traced the outline of a petal.

"Mm. God." She slid her soles against one another and rolled him between them. "Smell that. Smell me."

Thumb on her button, Gabriella slid two fingers inside of herself, in and out, nice and slow. Rock, rock; she warmed, wetted.

The tiny body had squirmed in the envelope of her sensitive flesh, at first. His struggles quickly subsided. There was nothing he could do to stop her. He was powerless against even just her feet. She was free to roll his limp form around to her heart's content.

When she finally released him, he slumped against the floor.

She loomed over him, stared down at the pathetic little figure between her feet. He did not sputter or flee, now. He was nice and docile.

She stomped her foot next to him.

He jump-flinched.

"Get on your knees."

Like someone made to play a game they did not know if they wanted to play, his movements were slow and stiff.

Gabriella reached down and hooked a finger under his tiny chin—that pale little face caught in the nook of her brown finger. (Christ, I could crush his skull like a grape.)

"WhatI say, when I say."

He was crying!

"Think I won't crush you?"

Oh how those eyes widened.

She raised her foot, let him take in the sight of her sole as it hovered overhead—

STOMP! right next to him.

He fell forward onto his hands, quaked.

"Look at me."

He looked up at her. He sobbed like a child. Tears poured down his face.

She stared at him.

A car honked outside; a train passed not too far away—claclack-clack, claclack-clack.

"Good."

She positioned her foot in front of him, snapped her fingers, pointed at her foot.

"Kiss my toes. One at a time. More than one time."

The diminutive man crawled forward. His tiny lips could only just be felt on the tips of her toes. The barest pecks. His kisses were fast and quick.

"Slower! And press your lips to my toes like you're kissing a lover. Like you're kissing your dumb Puritan girlfriend."

His kisses were slow, and his presses long.

"Good, boy."

Gabriella sat back and closed her eyes and resumed how she softly raked her fingers across her womanhood. (A white man the size of a bug is kissing my toes.) "Christ." (My stinky, sweaty toes.) "Oh god."

God.

"Slave! Each time you kiss my toes, I want to hear you say, 'Gabriella is my goddess,' over and over. 'I worship Goddess Gabriella.' Say it!"

With each kiss came a mumbled utterance that Gabriella could only just hear.

"Louder!"

Still he was quiet, but she could tell he shouted—that was good enough.

Gabriella looked down across herself as she fingered her sex. Usually she hated her body—her wide, fat breasts and bulging tummy and the way her flesh bunched up like folded dough whenever she sat down. Not right then, though: that body was big—big

and powerful. Strong, full curves. She could crush him without even trying with any part of herself. Every inch of her was more impressive than all of him. She could crush hundreds of him.

She was a landscape unique to her.

She was a goddess.

"Ah. . ."

Gabriella pushed her foot forward and bowled over the tiny figure who was busy worshiping her. Her toes found him, and then forced him roughly underneath their row. She flexed her digits on top of him, held him down. Big. Powerful. He could not stop her. He tried—he squirmed and pushed at her toes; at times, desperately.

She flexed her toes around him. She flexed until his rebellion ceased. She flexed until she felt something pop.

Gabriella's womanhood tightened. She clenched her teeth, bucked her hips. "Oh, fuck."

When she leaned forward and gazed down at her tiny toy, he writhed on the ground before her feet. He clutched his arm; that arm was bent the wrong way around at the elbow, she saw.

"Stop crying," she growled.

STOMP!

"STOP!"

She glared down, satisfied, as the bug at her feet did its best to stay still. It twitched, but it could not control that, she knew.

She replaced her foot on top of her prey. His tiny body pressed up into her flesh as she smothered him.

"Kiss my sole, insect."

Peck, peck, peck—then he remembered, and his kisses were slow, his presses long.

"I could crush you, little boy. It'd be so easy. Just a little bit of pressure. . ."

She added the absolute minimum of weight that she could manage and even still he screamed so loud she could hear it.

She laughed. "Lick. Lick my sweaty, smelly foot. Smell and lick my sole, worm!"

He did—"Oh. . ."

Gabriella fell back against the cushions. She kept her foot on top of him and fingered herself, thumbed her clit. Rock, rock.

(Fucking loser; I should crush him.)

She thought about it. She really thought about it. His tiny body crumpling beneath her. Right as she came. She almost—

She squeezed her eyelids together as muscles deep in her hips contracted, held, held, relaxed and trembled.

"Fuck me."

Gabriella sat up and lifted her foot from the tiny man. "Still alive?"

She scooped him up and inspected him. He was flush, gasped for air. His eyes were red, face soaked. That one tiny arm was not a straight limb anymore, but crinkled. Even the way she held him, she noticed, aggravated his injury. She changed nothing about the way she held him.

Gabriella brought him close to her face and stared at his doll-like countenance.

"Gabriella is a big, powerful goddess. Say it."

He was close enough now that she could hear him speak, and how his voice warbled. He repeated her words.

With her other hand, she teased her lips.

"'Gabriella owns me.'"

"Gabriella owns me," he stammered.

""You are my superior brown goddess.'"

"You are my superior brown goddess."

"'My Mexican queen.'"

"My Mexican queen."

"'I'm a disgusting, ugly, inferior white bug.'"

"I'm a disgusting... Ugly... Inferior white bug."

"'Please crush me.'"

Soft folds of skin, hot and wet; she flicked her clit with her thumb.

"Say it, little boy."

Glittering tears trailed down his cheeks like a shower of shooting stars.

"SAY it."

"No," he cried at her.

Her eyes flashed.

Gabriella scooted back on the couch and cocked her hips. She brought the tiny man down between her legs and pressed his cool little body against her hot lips. With her fingertips she pushed him into her layered petals, and he was lost in them—in her. His body squirmed inside her depths; only his little head stuck out. She found his head with her thumb, and pressed it against her clit.

"Suck me," she ordered.

His squirming struggles sent tingling waves of pleasure all throughout her body: the energy started in her hips and traveled out to the corners of her. She moaned mightily.

"SUCK!"

A delightful pressure enveloped her clit as her slave fit the tip of her nub into his mouth. That was all he could fit, apparently. Her thumb was determined to help: she pressed down on the back of his head and pumped him up and down on top of her. He squirmed inside of her all the more—he really thrashed. Thrashed with pain.

"Yeah, bitch," she murmured.

She worked her thumb; he wriggled, desperate.

Her fingers pushed on his body, her thumb kept his head pinned and his mouth around her clit, which was too big for his little orifice; her vaginal muscles squeezed tight. This time, as she came, she came along to a staccato of crackling pops. How his bones broke rippled through her walls and echoed outward.

With a cry Gabriella fell forward off of the couch and onto her knees. She heaved.

Between her legs, he was still stuck inside of her. Only his little head popped out.

She gazed down at his minuscule face and noticed that a horrific visage stared back at her: his wide-open eyes, and his wide open mouth—all of his teeth had been knocked out by how she had forced him onto her too-large clit. His maw was a fleshy, toothless cavity, like an stretched-open anus.

Gabriella gasped with disgust; she moaned with pleasure.

(So strong; too strong.)

She brought her hand down, slipped her fingers into herself. She held his body against her contracting walls as she came once more—he crackled more and more. She pushed his tiny head inside of her and rode the waves which shook her.

Rock, rock.

Cracrack-crack.

Gabriella collapsed against the floor of her apartment, a happy mess.

She fished inside of her sex and pulled him out by the string of his spine, like a used tampon. He was smashed into an unrecognizable log of flesh, horribly mangled, caked in thick globs of ejaculate.

She stomped him flat, just for good measure.

It was as easy as she had told him: one firm press—squelch!—and he was a thin sheet of gore.

Gabriella dumped his little body in the trash and clomped toward the bathroom to clean-up.

She grinned at herself in the mirror, like one of those silly chocolates.

Goddess Gabriella.

There you are.

Those chocolates. . .

She had cashed in one of her cosmic gifts.

She had eleven winning lottery tickets left.