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Author's Chapter Notes:

The morning after. Moderate insertion and entrapment, all from GTS perspective.

Ugh. Fuck.


No. Bathroom.


It was well past sunset. When did she go to bed? Right after getting home from work, right? Her bra was still on, and falling asleep with that stifling corsette was definitely not something she did sober. Groggily, she reached behind her back and undid the clasp, letting the bra fall wherever the hell it did, and breathed a sigh of relief.

She smacked her lips. Her mouth felt like it was made of cotton. Her body felt like a shriveled raisin, despite the complaints of her bladder. Water first, then bathroom.

She slammed into her doorframe on the way out of her bedroom. Fuck. Why do you do this to yourself? You're not making your work week any better by wasting your weekends bouncing between hungover and hammered. How the hell did a person like you even get to be a doctor in the first place?

She grabbed the biggest glass she had and started to fill it at the tap on the fridge. With the lights from the kitchen overhead and the bumpy black surface of the fridge, she could see at least the vague shape of her reflection in its surface. Without thinking, she turned to the side, inspecting her profile. Haven't gone for a run in a few weeks. Probably start up again today once you're clear of this hangover.

The cool water was the best thing she had ever tasted. She downed the entire thing in seconds, then poured a little more and tossed that back as well. She glanced at the shadow of her profile in the reflection in the fridge one more time, then headed to the bathroom.

She felt better, at least a little, with some water in her. But everything still hurt. She paused at the door to the bathroom, dreading the surge of pain that would come with turning on the light, and decided against it. She could take a piss in the dark.

Slowly, she stumbled over to the toilet, wrapping her thumbs around the waistband of her underwear. She knew by now how to disrobe in such a way that didn't threaten the tiny man's home in the crotch of her panties, and she wasn't so stupid that she couldn't pull it off hungover.

Standing over her toilet, she pulled down the waistband of her underwear a bit, then ran her thumbs down the elastic around her crotch, pulling the rest of the garment down as well. But something was wrong... She didn't feel the weight in her panties that she was used to.

She frowned, legs slightly spread, panties halfway down around her thighs, and looked down. There was a slimy white stain of discharge there, but no shrunken man. Confused, she looked down at the floor, even raising her legs to check underneath the soles of her bare feet. Had he somehow fallen underneath the toilet seat? No...

Fuck, she needed the lights. She stumbled over to the light switch and flicked on the dimmest set. Even so, she felt the sudden illumination as a surge of pain in her head. She squinted, cursing the light bulbs, and started looking through blurry eyes for a shrunken man somewhere on the tile floor. Maybe she was blind, but he was nowhere to be found.

Her stomach dropped. Fuck, he was inside her! The realization hit her in a wave of panic. Shit shit shit shit. She had just killed one of her own patients, and she had been too drunk to even remember how.

She dropped into a crouch, her panties mid-thigh, and reached uncomfortably into her vagina. The flesh was painfully sore to the touch; what the hell had she done to him? And she had to dig deeper, with thumb and middle finger, than she would have thought possible before she finally reached him.

She wasn't sure what part of his body she got ahold of, but she pulled it out as quick as she dared, depositing his miniature figure into her palm and holding it up to inspect the damage.

He was soaked in fluid, thin smears of pale, cloudy white streaking his body from head to toe. His hair was matted down, and his limbs were limp. But she could see him stir.

Suddenly, he doubled over and started coughing violently. Every cough sent a tiny squirt of fluid onto the palm of her hand, and it seemed like it was impossible for him to really catch his breath. She hated to see him like this, but she was elated to know that, despite everything, he was alive.

Fuck, he was alive! She had really thought that she had killed him. "Francis!" she said. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

He glanced up at her briefly, and threw up his finger to say 'one moment' as he kept coughing. It was her own fluids he was coughing up; he was recovering from a situation she never should have put him through. She felt terrible about it, but she still couldn't help but be astounded at the whole thing. She had left him inside her vagina overnight, and he was still alive. As far as she knew, nobody had ever even tried a test of a shrunken victim's survival like that.

"It's fine," he said finally. His quiet voice had the same tinny sound as a cell phone on speaker. She had to hold him barely a foot from her face just to make out what he was saying. "I'm fine."

"I didn't know... I'm so sorry," she repeated. "I was drunk... What happened?"

"You were masturbating," he said, looking at least a little uncomfortable. He coughed, and continued. "You shoved me inside you. I couldn't escape, and..."

"Oh God," Vivianne whispered, covering her mouth with one hand.

Francis had another violent coughing fit, then struggled to his feet in the palm of her hand. "It looks worse than it is. I was fine. It wasn't fun, but it was hot as hell."

Vivianne frowned, "Don't be gross."

"I'm not. I thought I was gonna die," he told her. "It took a long time for me to realize that I wouldn't." He shrugged. "You're stuck in there, there's no air to breathe. Your body hates it and wants the fuck out, but eventually you get used to it."

Through the mind-fog of her hangover, Vivianne realized that this was the chance to further the scientific understanding of exactly how sturdy the victims of the virus were. But was she capable of admitting that she had accidentally tried to kill one while shitfaced? "It was still dumb of me to risk it," she said.

"Yeah, it was," he responded, jabbing an accusatory finger at her. "But you got lucky, and so did I. It worked out."

"Never again, I promise."

"Are you kidding? That was the sexiest thing I've ever experienced. You should keep me in there all day."

What...? "That's..." Fuck, she could barely stand to look at the discharge stains in her own panties. It took ages for her to overcome her incredulity at the idea that a shrunken man would want to live inside them, and even that was with her selfish desire for near-constant erotic stimulation. This... This was something else. "You don't think that's gross?"

"I can't think of anything sexier."

"What if I kill you on accident, though?"

"You had me inside you the whole night," Francis replied. "I literally drowned in your bodily fluids." He spread his arms, and his dick, which would have been an impressive sight had he been full size, flopped around amusingly when he did so. "And here I am."

"Nobody has ever experimented..."

"Trust me on this," said Francis. "You weren't there. It's not comfortable, but I can't die."

Vivianne dropped her head into her other palm. Fuck, she was too hungover for this shit. "Look," she said, rubbing her forehead, "I gotta take a piss. Can we talk about this later?"

He bowed deeply, maybe a little sarcastically. "As you wish, mistress."

She groaned, and lowered him to the floor. He jumped off her palm and onto the tile as she crashed down onto the toilet. He had the good coutesy to look away as she did her business, at least, though there was nothing else in the bathroom that could possibly capture his attention. She leaned down with a sigh, massaging her pounding head.

She sat there for quite a long time after having finished, her eyes screwed shut. The sick smell of post-bender urine drifted up from between her legs, just another thing for her to hate about herself. She could just fall asleep right there, but her racing heart and aching head made it impossible.

"Ugh. Fuck," she moaned. She looked at the shrunken man through one half-open eye; he was kicking around a dust bunny he had managed to find, made up of more than a few of her own hairs. Clearly, she needed to clean up around her apartment, too. "I can't. Not today."

He looked back at her and raised his arms in a shrug. Even if he spoke, she wouldn't be able to hear him, but he was decent enough at the non-verbal communication.

She wiped herself, flushed the toilet with her elbow, and stood up. "What do you want?"

He raised his arms again. He knew she couldn't hear him. She leaned down and scooped him up in the palm of her right hand, bringing him close enough to her ear that she could hear what he had to say. "Just put me inside you," he said.

She shook her head. "It's too risky to try. It worked once, but I can't be sure it'll work again."

"You're the boss," he said with a shrug. "But I think you want it. Just think about how fun it would be for you."

Vivianne pinched her nose and shook her head. "Look, I'm going to put some clean underwear on, and try to keep sleeping this off. You can ride along in my panties again." She paused, bit her lip, and added, "If you decide you want to go inside me, I won't stop you."

His face brightened, and she raised a finger to caution him, "If it goes badly, I won't be able to save you, okay? And I can't let anyone know what happened. If you die, you disappear forever."

That seemed to give him pause, at least for a moment, but he nodded. "I get it."

She sighed, and flushed the toilet with her elbow. As she washed her hands, she gave him the chance to shower underneath the tap as well, with reduced flow and a glob of handsoap on the side for him to use. No point in changing into clean underwear if she was going to put a tiny man covered in yesterday's discharge into them.

She didn't give her groin any more cleaning attention than a wet wipe; the little man didn't deserve any more, and, frankly, didn't seem to want any more; then she changed into a pair of boyshorts. Underwear that would keep her shrunken toy permanently secured, but that she could wear comfortably for the entirety of a no-pants weekend day.

When he was done 'showering,' Vivianne plucked him up by his ankles, pulled open the waistband of her underwear, and dropped him in headfirst. The shrunken man bounced off the springy cloth like a trampoline and hit her body before crumpling into a pile in that spot where the cotton of her panties met her body. Even amidst the pounding pain of her hangover, his total submission to her in that position did give her a little smile. He could sort himself out from there.

She let the waistband of her panties snap shut and stumbled groggily back to bed. The shrunken man was already squirming by the time she threw the blankets over herself. Fuck. Between her pounding heart, her aching head, and the insistent struggling between her legs, how the hell was she supposed to sleep this off?

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