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Story Notes:

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Chapter Notes:

An introduction to the characters. The slightest intimation of panty entrapment and little more.

Slowly, deliberately, Vivianne pulled off her goggles, pausing to check her face in the mirror for any sign of pressure ulcers. The edges of the goggles, and the straps that kept them fast to her head, had left seemingly permanent impressions in the skin of her face, but, despite their ugly red appearance, none of them seemed to be harmful.

She sighed, scanning the scars on her face, temporary though they were, from eleven uninterrupted hours of wearing her PPE. It was difficult for her to think that all this effort was worth it, after months of setbacks and failed efforts. It was her job, but she couldn't help but feel like they were chasing down nothing but dead ends. Hopefully, someone, somewhere would accomplish what they couldn't.

Her gown was next. She undid the straps behind her and rolled it up, careful only to touch the 'clean' inside surface, and tossed the bundle of thin cloth in the trash. Finally, her mask was all that was left. She couldn't help but watch herself in the mirror as she stripped the respirator off her face, exposing ugly red lines that were even worse than the ones her goggles had left behind.

Her contaminated mask hung loosely in her left hand as she stared at her own face in the mirror, bearing the tattoos of elastic straps and uncomfortable plastic.

You didn't sign up for this, she thought, tossing the mask into the trash. Free from the burden of her protective gear, she let loose a deep, exhausted sigh. It was supposed to be a recession-proof job, a stable career that paid well and let her retire in comfort after a lifetime of caring for people. She wasn't supposed to be fighting the front lines of a pandemic.

The train of self-pity was cut off by a text notification that rang out from her locker. She breathed another sigh and grabbed her phone. She had, on her shift, missed three calls, half a dozen text messages, and fully thirty emails, a burden of backlogged messages that was exhausting just to look at. But the last text was from her coworker, the only one who shared her schedule and would have the next two days off as well.

'Omalleys. U in?'

In spite of everything, Vivianne grinned. She could use a drink. 'Meet you there. 30 minutes,' she texted back.

Connor O'Malley's was halfway betwen the hospital and her apartment. On any other night, she'd drive right past it and pass out in her bed, but she had some time off tonight, and she intended to use every minute of it to squeeze as much fun out of her life as she could amidst this chaos.

She stripped her scrubs and tossed them into the laundry bin, but paused in front of the mirror before putting on her casuals.

Every part of her body bore the truth of her awful job. Her pale skin, her tired, sunken eyes, the marks on her face and on her wrists from her protective wear, even the tiny lump in the crotch of her panties.

Well, there was at least a silver lining to all this. It was thin and it was dim, but it was there.

She slid on her jeans and her T-shirt, and raced out of the hospital before she could get any surprise tasks from her supervisors. It was her weekend, such as it was, and she was going to take as much advantage of the time off as she could.

A little over thirty minutes later, she was on the patio outside O'Malley's with her coworker Alex. She had a drink called the "Irish Republican Army" in her hands, which was green in color but tasted like rubbing alcohol, and she was working through it like it was her job. It was seven in the morning on a Tuesday, golden sunlight streaming through the clouds, rush hour traffic jamming the highways, and Vivianne and Alex were well on their way to getting good and drunk.

That's what it meant to work the back shift. Thank God this town had a bar that was even open at this hour.

"So my old college boyfriend had a 'pandemic party' this Saturday," Alex told her.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Vivianne asked. "After all this time?"

"Not at all," Alex replied. "I saw it on Facebook. I just thought he was an idiot, but, turns out..."

"Anything I can help you ladies with?"

Both of them looked up at the waiter who had interrupted them. Behind his mask, behind his gloves, and behind his safety goggles, he was all smiles. Vivianne raised her half-full blackout potion, "I'm fine, thanks."

Alex had one of her own and was nearly finished. "I'll take another IRA, please."

"Sorry, ma'am, you've already had two, and I can only give two to any customer."

"Then give me a 401k," she said.

The waiter laughed, and scribbled something onto his order pad. "Alright, your second IRA, coming right up."

The waiter walked away. Vivianne was going to wait for him to leave before she continued the conversation, but Alex cut her off before she could even speak. "Turns out he's a fetishist."

"No shit!"

"He didn't admit it to anyone else, but he told me," Alex told her. Her expression was pure scandal. "And nobody at the party knew it either. They were all hoaxers."

Vivianne shook her head, taking a deep drink from her glass. Hoaxers, after all this time, after all the lives that had been broken... "So what happened to him?"

Alex shrugged. "Too early to tell. He hasn't shrunk yet, though."

There was a sudden, insistent stirring between her legs. Caught off guard, Vivianne straightened up, her knees clapped together, and she let loose a surprised yelp. "Oh!"

Alex, deep in the booze though she was, recognized it immediately. "Seriously?" she asked.

Vivianne felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She didn't expect to be found out so quickly. "He wants it," she responded.

"And he's diseased."

"He's not contagious. It's been weeks."

"You don't know that," Alex replied. "He could have lied to you. Shit, we don't even know for sure if they're not contagious after they've finished shrinking."

"Give me one..." Vivianne paused, screwing her eyes shut at the sudden, pleasurable squirming against her crotch. "Give me one example of someone getting infected by someone with a settled size."

Alex eyed her with transparent amusement. "Just tell me there's at least two layers of clothes between me and your little virus vector."

Vivianne sighed. "Fuck you."

Alex downed the rest of her drink and slammed the empty glass on the table. "Good enough."

"I noticed that you're still single."

Alex frowned. "There's a fucking pandemic on, Viv," she began, but was cut off by the arrival of the waiter.

"Your 401k, ma'am," he said, placing the green-colored drink down in front of Alex. "Anything for you?" he asked Vivianne.

"Maybe later," she replied.

"Enjoy," the waiter replied, smiling at both of them. He slid away silently.

"Holy fuck, he gave me his number," Alex said, pulling the napkin from underneath her new drink and showing it to her. Only seven digits, clearly a lifelong local.

"Have fun with your virus vector," Vivianne told her.

"Fuck you, alright?"

"Love you too, Alex."

Alex took another long swig of her drink. "Got any plans for the weekend?"


"You know what I mean."

"Pandemic life," Vivianne responded. "Curl up in a ball under the bed and pray for it to all end."

"And what role does this little virus vector in your pants play?" asked Alex, gesturing downwards with her drink.

"First of all..."

"Yeah, I know," Alex interrupted.

Vivianne groaned. "Well, he's gonna join me under the bed, and we're going to pass the time together," she said. "What are you gonna do with that waiter?"

"Well, first, we're gonna trade virus tests..."

"Don't be a bitch," Vivianne cut in.

"And then," Alex continued, ignoring her, "We're going to do what normal-sized people do." She put her drink down, clenched her fists, and made a thrusting motion. "So enjoy your virus vector."

"You could get a 'virus vector' of your own, you know," Vivianne told her. "They're loads of fun."

Alex shook her head. "So help me God. If you come in on Friday and I see that your fucking shoes don't fit, then I'm gonna get you locked in quarantine for the next two weeks."

Vivianne sighed, looking at her coworker levelly. After a few seconds, she tossed back the rest of her drink and set the cup down on the table. "I'll be fine, okay?"

Francis was living in a world that was both heaven and hell.

In his hell, there was an uncompromising heat that emanated from all sides of his body. He was soaked in sweat, but, no matter what he did, there was no relief forthcoming. His every motion was a struggle against an insistent pressure that enveloped his entire body, heat pushing him deeper into heat, with no escape to be found. Bodily fluids, thick, salty, and disgusting, filled his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, his entire world. Nothing he could do could free himself from this slimy, viscous reality. It was torture.

In his heaven, he was nestled up against the most intimate part of a goddess, living every part of her life as a completely helpless passenger. All he could see was the pink flesh tucked away beneath her labia, all he could smell and all he could taste was the thick, heady world of feminine sensation that she normally kept trapped inside the cotton prison of her underwear.

And now he was trapped inside that world as well. It had been days now, carried along with the routines and exigencies of her life, smelling the salt of her sweat and enduring the heat of her arousal. He could feel her moving, he could tell when she was lying down or when she was sitting or when she was walking, but he couldn't make heads or tails of what she was actually doing. He could feel her speaking, but he couldn't hear a word she was saying.

In this reality, he could only make sense of two parts of the woman's life. He knew when she slept from the long, quiet hours spent stuck motionless against the her pussy; he slept in fits and starts throughout the day, and was rarely able to sleep through the night as she did; and he knew every intimate detail of the noisy, fluid-soaked chaos of her masturbation.

He was trapped in this world of heat and darkness and flesh and stench for so long that any reprieve seemed surreal. And reprieve came rarely, when she was in the shower or when she was using the bathroom. In either case, his breaks from the environment of her massive body were so brief that they might as well be meaningless. The cold air on his skin was punishing, the fresh air seemed almost toxic. Returning to Vivianne's body, being lifted up to her pussy in the crotch of her panties as she slid up her underwear, felt like coming home to him by now.

Six weeks ago, he had been doing IT work for a local law firm. He had spent the four months prior avoiding the virus, but secretly hoping that it would infect him. He wasn't sure how he had caught it, but, once he did, he shrank down to three inches faster than he could have believed.

After three weeks in the monotonous boredom of the hospital's shrunken shelter, one of the doctors who attended to him offered a relationship that was a little more... interesting. He jumped at the chance; it was what he had been waiting for since the first moment he had heard of the shrinking virus. For the two weeks that had followed, his life had been... different.

In some ways, it was just as boring as it had been before. There was literally nothing to do but lie there, listening to her heartbeat and her muffled speech, breathing the smell of her and wondering what the hell she was doing. Maybe it got exciting when she decided to masturbate, but, otherwise, it was mostly monotonous, especially when she was sleeping.

In other ways, though, it was perennially exciting. Only two people in the world knew where he was: anonymity mixed with exhibitionism in a thrilling and unexpected way. Also, because of where he was, he had the power to make himself known to her whenever he liked. If he felt like arousing her, he could do it. If he felt like making her orgasm, he could do it. If he felt like making her lose all control, it would be hard, but he could do it.

Despite his abject subservience to this goddess, it was a position of power that set his heart racing whenever he thought about it.

Out of respect for her and the job she was doing, he rarely did it whenever he wasn't completely certain that it wouldn't impede her work or interrupt her life. Out of respect, and out of the fear that she might get annoyed with it and put him somewhere safer, and far less exciting.

That wasn't to say he didn't mess up. Occasionally, he got a little uncomfortable and had to adjust himself; and, once or twice, he got so horny that he could not resist the urge to jerk off. But, where he was, even minor motions set her off. She didn't follow through every time, but he was definitely aware of her arousal. He could feel it in the heat that surrounded him, and in the fluid that started to fill his tiny, fleshy world.

But, by and large, he was still. He was careful. And Vivianne rewarded him by leaving him in her panties for the entire time. It wasn't the best thing in the world, but it was the closest thing to it.

Once or twice, he considered sealing the deal, or so to speak. He was awake for most of the time she was asleep, after all, and he was positioned perfectly to do it. All he had to do was shimmy his way down, slide his feet into her vagina, and it would be an easy task to push himself all the way inside her. Commit his body entirely to hers. He had already spent many of those boring nighttime hours wondering what would happen if he did, but he had so far restrained.

He would have done it ages ago if not for the concern that the giantess herself had communicated to him about it. There were a handful of anecdotes out there about how those who had been hit by the virus could survive seemingly impossible things given their size, but real scientific studies had been slow in coming so far. The ethical concerns about testing the survivability of the victims of an impossible pandemic loomed large over the medical community, she had told him, and she had no desire to learn the hard way that the rumors of his survivability were overblown.

Francis had to admit that he understood. He had survived without serious discomfort for weeks in her panties, but nothing had happened so far that would really challenge him. No matter how horny and wet the giantess got, he had no trouble breathing, even though the air was heavy with her stench. When she sat down or crossed her legs, the pressure was not inconsiderable, but it wasn't cause for panic. Even when she masturbated, she did it around him, giving him an incredible front-row view of her most intimate, frenetic moments, but she didn't do it with him.

And when her fingers withdrew from between her legs, he could lie there, having safely witnessed the chaos from inches away, soaking in her fluids and savoring his new life.

But being inside her would be a different matter. At his size, her vagina would wrap around him like a latex glove. And, though he thought that it would be the sexiest thing in the world, it would leave him with very little room to breathe. If she wasn't careful, he would suffocate under the sheer weight of her flesh, or, God forbid, drown amidst the steady flow of her fluids. His instinctive, oxygen-deprived thrashing might only make things worse, leaving her aroused while totally unaware of his desperate situation.

He told her, mostly joking, that that was the hottest way he could think of to die. But, joking or not, she wasn't willing to risk it. And, frankly, neither was he. He could take advantage of her weekend blackouts and experiment with it himself, but how would he escape if it went poorly? The flesh around him was soft and pliant, his every motion sinking into it like quicksand. Her pelvic muscles had the strength of a hydraulic vice, more than capable of keeping him trapped no matter how close he was to death.

There was no getting around it. Like it or not, this life, lying in the heat and stench of the crotch of her panties, only inches away from heaven, was the closest he could get to the giantess safely.

At least, so far as anyone knew.

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