- Text Size +
Author's Chapter Notes:

Anita plays the billionaire's game, and Braden tries his escape.

The business with Pfizer went even quicker than she could have hoped. Apparently, her lawyers, and, more important, the rest of her C-suite, had not wasted the intervening days since her flight from California. They had rounded off all the corners of the deal, hammered out all the aggravating sticking points, and more or less finalized it in her absence.  She had walked into the meeting with a copy of the finished version, all signatures on the paper but hers, sitting ready for her on the conference room table.

The review took thirty minutes, the questions took less than half that, and then she was out the door and on her way downtown.

Her thoughts were barely on the little man in her bra at all anymore. One time, or only one time that she noticed, did he stir briefly, apparently trying to rearrange his carelessly-placed body into a more comfortable position. It wasn't the effort of a toy trying to please, nor was it the struggle of a slave trying to escape. It wasn't erotic, it wasn't even all that distracting. It was just a polite reminder that, at that moment, there was an unwilling, unwitting passenger trapped against her body. A slave that was her secret, even amidst the dense and highly-scrutinized metropolis of Manhattan.

That subtle, invisible expression of her power was enough for her to roll into the Goldman meeting with her head high and shoulders back, ready to take on that doughy fuck and all of his elitist Yuppie lackeys. The door to the meeting room swung open, and she was stunned to see David Solomon himself sitting at the head of the table, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap, all smiles.

"Ms. Lee!" he exclaimed. Casting a subtle look at his wrist. She already knew the time. Two minutes before the meeting was to start, and she had been lucky to make it this early. "It's so good to see you again!"

David had a considerable physical presence, something she had seen him use, along with classic New York bluster, to cow lesser men into submission. Along with his expensive shoes, expensive watch, expensive suit, and expensive necktie done up in an amateurish schoolboy knot, he seemed to take up an outsized portion of the cramped, conservative, windowless meeting room. More New York bullshit, she supposed. But she had come to the table, more or less on accident, with the appropriate gear as well. Her knee-length red dress with the plunging neckline and matching flats, completely inappropriate for the New York winter but totally necessary in the glare of a TV studio, made her the most colorful thing in the room.

"David Solomon," she said warmly, approaching the front of the table. Another, somewhat insistent stirring against her breasts. Oh, right. She had come with more statements of her power than just her clothing, even if nobody present could see it. She shook his hand firmly, keenly aware of how the single, brief motion made her breasts bounce, and the little man in her bra slide down a hair. "It's a pleasure."

After shaking her hand, showing none of the interest in the bounce of her tits that a younger man would, David sat back down and scooted up to the table, unfolding a binder that was in front of him. "So, let's get started. Your IPO is scheduled for March 16th. All of the appropriate disclosures are in place at this point, and..."

"Dave, I'm sorry," Anita interrupted. She hadn't taken her own seat yet, and she affected the air of someone ashamed of something they had done. "I ordered a couple of sandwiches from a shop down the road for this meeting. I heard from a Bloomberg reporter that tuna fish was your favorite, so..."

David eyed her with a look that she couldn't quite read, then shrugged and declared, "It's a working lunch, then. So, we have these documents that..."

"Oh, and I entered a medical deal with Pfizer. I don't think I told you."

David Solomon stopped mid-sentence, his bag-eyed stare snapping up to her. She maintained her look of innocence, and kept her joy buried deep, deep down as she saw the veins in his bald head start to surface. Anita broke his gaze to take her seat, getting herself all situated, then looked back up at David's murderous look. "Oh," she said, "Was that not..."

This was when it got exciting.

*****

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

David Solomon, who sat the throne of one of New York's most powerful banks. Anita Lee, his high-profile client who warranted his personal time and could risk pissing him off.

Anita Lee, the superstar Silicon Valley genius who had built the Syze app from nothing.

That was his woman? That was the woman who had turned Braden into her property? The woman from his textbooks? The scientist-entrepeneur who he had been taught was everything he wanted to be? That was the person who had turned him into their living, breathing, unwilling sex toy? He couldn't believe it at first, but, as he slowly worked his way through the facts, starting from his helpless position in the hot, stinky confines of her bra cup, he realized that it was absolutely, irrevocably true.

The app was built to protect its users. Nothing could happen without their consent, and anything that did would alert the cops immediately. That was the key point that had rocketed it to success. But that whole safety net was just programming, wasn't it? Who controlled, at a fundemental level, all of that programming? Who could circumvent every protection that the users thought they had?

None other than the creator of the whole thing, Anita Lee. America's latest and greatest billionaire. The woman herself was the subject of a seemingly infinite quantity of deepfake porno, most of it size-related. The lascivious social media attention had made the news more than once, but it only served to make the woman that much larger than life. In the worlds of tech, business, and sex simultaneously, she was a superstar. She was Scarlett Johannsen and Mark Zuckerberg rolled into one, and here he was, trapped in her bra just an inch below her nipple.

How the hell did that happen? Braden knew for a fact that the Internet was flooded with people who were practically begging her to make them her slave. Men and women alike. From coast to coast and around the world. She had brought the size fetish to the mainstream in a way that he would have never believed. She had even managed to rope in those who were not really interested, but were curious enough to try. Through her efforts, she had turned a niche interest into something bigger than Tinder.

She was the standard-bearer of a new mainstream fetish, and there was an army of people willing to sacrifice their entire lives to her. He had seen it on the news, no less. People who begged her on every accessible social media platform to shrink them, to take total control of their lives, to do unspeakable sexual things to them. She could have a hundred slaves in the sole of her shoe with a snap of her fingers, and they would thank her for the privilege. How the fuck did he end up here?

Whatever it was, it had to be bad. He thought back to that moment when he had shrunk so abruptly in that Starbucks bathroom. Anita had burst in fully prepared, an empty bag on her back big enough for all his clothes, and she had turned his phone off less than a minute after entering, ensuring that nothing about what was happening to him could be tracked to his phone. As far as the outside world knew, he had disappeared in that bathroom with no explanation, and he was sure that nobody would even be able to investigate far enough to reach that conclusion.

That wasn't the behavior of someone who decided, spur-of-the-moment, to abuse their powers as the app's administrator for their own pleasure, especially given that she had been hidden in the profile of one of his own matches. That was premeditated, practiced behavior. It was the behavior of someone who knew exactly what they were doing and, more importantly, how to get away with it.

It meant that she had done it before. He couldn't imagine that her other victims had met happy endings. Best case scenario, they were sitting in a jar on a shelf in her house back in California because she couldn't risk traveling with one. Best case, absolute best case, she had felt like grabbbing a new toy for the few days that she was in New York, and he had been the unlucky one.

If that was true, there were only three possible end states for him. She could discard him in a way that would keep him from ever resurfacing, even if he was immortal as the Syze app claimed. Otherwise, she could store him somewhere safe, and he'd have to endure ages trapped in a soundproof lockbox until she returned to New York to retrieve him.

Or she could just kill him. A brief fling turned into a tiny snack.

Braden had no idea, so far, whether that third option was even possible, but it terrified him all the same. He had endured some impossible shit so far at his size, so maybe there was truth to the advertisements about the invulnerability offered to shrinkees. Maybe it was something she couldn't even overcome. But, even if that was the case, the picture wasn't great for him. He had to find a way out, and fast.

Maybe now was the time. In the middle of a meeting that had, by now, turned into a shouting match between Anita and David. If he somehow managed to pop out of her clothing and onto the floor, people would notice. Questions would be asked. He might very well earn his freedom and Anita's imprisonment at the same time.

But he could struggle for a year and not claw his way out the top of the woman's bra, with how much she was moving about. Every step, every gesture, every shouted word sent a vibration through her breast that pushed him further down into the bottom of the cup of her bra. At his size, he stood no chance of fighting against that, so there was only one other way out.

He tried, failed, tried, failed again, and tried again to reorient himself. He cursed the weakness of his size, that he was unable even to push aside the compressive force of the giantess' bra to position himself. But, eventually, through several minutes of back-breaking effort, sweating from the exertion and the heat that surrounded him, he managed to get to the point where he could wrap his hands around the wire frame of the bottom of the woman's bra. All he had to do was squeeze through that and he would be free.

The effort was punishingly difficult. The constant bouncing caused by Anita's energetic motion was too chaotic for him to handle, and the fit of her bra against her breasts was too tight for him to fight against. He had to force his body out inch by inch. He got his head out, and then she made a sudden move, and the solid frame of her bra closed violently around his neck. He choked, gasping futilely for air and flailing desperately before he was able to free himself, and edge his body just another few inches further downwards.

Inch by inch, minute by minute. Eventually, he was hanging upside-down, the massive woman's bra holding him by his shins. As she moved about, he swung freely in the relatively spacious confines of her dress, red silk on one side and smooth, tanned skin on the other. The light filtering through the cloth of her dress colored the whole world around him a deep, romantic red color.

Finally, she made a too-sudden movement, and he fell free of her bra. He tumbled down her dress, striking her body once, then falling the seemingly infinite distance to the carpeted floor below. He had the unfortunate privilege of seeing it happen facefirst, watching her legs recede behind him and her feet quickly rush up to meet him, until he hit the ground with a deafening THUMP.

He lay there, gasping for breath that wouldn't come after the violent impact. Stars danced in his vision, and he had trouble remembering where he was or what the hell he had just done. Eventually, the stars faded, his vision returned, and he finally caught his breath. He rolled over onto his back, staring up at the incredible sight of the woman's thighs and panties beneath her dress. Her legs were spread beyond shoulder-width, and she was leaning forward on the table in front of her, presenting an unmatched view of the gap between her thighs and the slightly-damp spot in the crotch of her panties.

He was gay, but he knew that that was an impressive sight. Either way, this was his first and best chance to escape. There were no other faces that could see him; Anita was alone on her side of the table, so he had to get moving, and fast. He struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the titanic movements of the giantess above him, and started running.

Then, without any warning, her right foot, bare but for the thin mesh of pantyhose, slid effortlessly out of her shoe and crashed down on top of him, driving him facefirst to the floor in an instant. He should have died, he knew, just from the blinding pressure that he felt in that moment when the woman's weight came bearing down on him. But, somehow, he survived, the heat of the woman's foot at his back and the rough texture of the carpet on his face.

Anita slid her foot back, slowly, until his head was caught between her toes, and then she lifted him up. Slowly, carefully; he could still hear her and David screaming at each other far above, and she obviously didn't want the motion to be obvious. He could shout all he wanted, but nobody would hear it. Eventually, he was suspended by his neck over the mouth of her fancy red flats. Just do it, bitch. Just make it..

Anita opened her toes and let him fall. He crumpled into the hard sole of her shoe, the impact as confusing as it had been when he had fallen from her bra. After a few seconds (minutes? hours?) of disorientation, he found himself staring upwards at the sole of the woman's feet, ready to come slamming down on his helpless body.

He let out a brief yelp, but it was immediately smothered as the woman's foot filled her shoe. Suddenly, her entire weight pressed down onto his face, with only hard leather at his back. He should have popped like a grape, but, somehow,  he survived.

Survival was no blessing, he realized. Anita took a few steps, only a few, but each one sent her entire body weight slamming down on top of his fragile body. He felt like his eyes were about to burst out of his skull. He couldn't move, he could barely even draw breath. What little air he could suck down, with desperate, shallow breaths, was thick with the nauseating stench of the woman's sweaty feet.

Holy shit.

He had made a mistake. He shouldn't have tried to escape. If he thought life in Anita's bra or her panties was torture, this proved that he was a fool. It could get so much worse. Her foot came crashing down in a new spot, and her weight settled down on top of him, leaving him unable to breathe for ten, twenty, thirty, sixty, a hundred seconds.

Every step up was a too-brief reprieve to the too-long torture of her weight being planted firmly on her foot. The pressure always lasted longer than he could stand, longer than he thought it could possibly have gone on, and then his short relief was over before he even had the chance to recover.

When he had been trapped inside her panties, he had at least been able, slowly, to get used to the suffocating heat and stench of her crotch pushed directly up against his face. But now, his brief breaks from the crushing pressure of being trapped beneath her foot were too unpredictable and irregular for him to get used to it. Every time she raised her foot, the relief was too short, and every time it hit the ground, it came as a surprise. The misery never ended and never lessened, and there was absolutely no escape.

The next time her foot lifted from the ground, Braden wasted precious seconds sobbing, tears welling up in his eyes, drawing choking, heaving breaths of the hot, sweaty air that surrounded him. Please, God, just make it end. Just let me die.

You must login (register) to review.