Chapter 9

Warren quickly looked around for the remote to turn off the news, but he couldn’t immediately locate it in the folds of his bedsheets. His lungs were tightening up again as he desperately searched, first for the remote, and then for any kind of distraction from the fast-incoming signals of his panic attack. He thought of calling for Irina, and he nearly did…but the barest hint of a voice inside his head kept him from giving it all up and crying out to her.

‘She’ll know you’re completely helpless,’ said the voice. ‘She already knows you’re getting smaller and smaller…weaker and weaker…do you really want her to know that you can’t last a few minutes without her? Without freaking out?’

Warren had just spent sixteen thousand dollars on expensive clothes (and many other accoutrements) for his housekeeper, and he knew that his second thoughts about this purchase, coupled with the image of that sexy blond reporter Aly Singleton on TV, were combining to cause his panic attack. He couldn’t fight it — he had to accept the things he could not control…that he had just made that purchase…that the Whipple Virus was a reality…that Irina (and every other woman) was getting bigger, taller, bustier, and that he, along with the rest of the men, were becoming shorter, smaller, and weaker.

*In and out…In and out*

He had to accept these things. If he was going to try and resist these facts, of course he was going to freak out. He wiped his brow, not enjoying how cold his sweat felt on the back of his hand. Hadn’t he been running a fever just the other day? And now…he felt chilly!? Warren continued to take deep breaths as he felt his heart rate slow down briefly. He had kept his mouth shut, and as he felt his body begin to return to normal, he started feeling just a tad bit proud of himself. He hadn’t called her — he could handle his own emotional challenges on his own.

Just then, he heard the sound of something closing downstairs…a door of some kind, maybe? But then, immediately accompanying the sound, he caught a snatch of singing. Irina was humming something to herself downstairs, and the deep, pleasant sound of her tune reached Warren’s ears. He ached for her to come back to him. Even though she was only downstairs, he felt like she was so very far away from him. He wanted to be near her…desperately. He wanted to smell her scent, and feel the warm weight of her body close to his. Those huge, soft breasts of hers, that were getting bigger and bigger by the day…and the way that she had just…just casually talked to him about how much bigger she was getting. And that catwalk up to him, slow and sauntering…did she know what she was doing!? She HAD to. And yet, Warren still couldn’t be sure. Irina was a true professional, and it didn’t seem compatible with her genuine and innocent nature that she would use her body to play coy with him, to tease him.

Rich, creamy smells, mixed with the light and fluffy scent of pastry, reached Warren’s nose, and he realized that it was the door to the oven that he had heard close. Irina was preparing his dinner. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious. What had she put on the menu tonight? Pot pie? Warren snuggled back under his covers and turned to look back at the TV, satisfied that he had managed to hold his boy in check, at least for the moment. Irina would be back soon, and he could truly relax then.

But his eyes locked back into Aly Singleton, that gorgeous blond, who was now interviewing a different man in the newsroom studio. Warren couldn’t look away — the contrast between the two was so striking. There Aly was, in her bright blue dress, which left little of her voluptuous curves and exaggerated bust to the imagination…and there was this other man, middle-aged by the look of him, who had, with difficulty, walked up to stand next to Aly on the smooth floor of the news studio. What looked to be his female partner, an attractive, middle-aged, amazonian woman, was sitting in the background, and had just lifted her partner up off her lap, effortlessly holding him airborne as she placed him down on the floor, with silent instructions to go walk to the news reporter. Warren couldn’t believe it — even the act of walking seemed to make this poor little man tired. He tottered and struggled over to Aly, who looked huger and huger in comparison to him the closer he got. Once he stood next to her, it was clear that the to of his head only came up to the middle of her stomach.

Warren felt his own stomach tighten up, and his heart started beating fast again. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, and his hand landed on the missing remote, which had been hiding in the sheets the whole time. But against his better judgement, he didn’t change the channel. Instead, he turned up the volume.

“…to Mr. Peterson here,” came Aly Singleton’s strong, bright voice. “Who decided to come into the studio today — along with his wife, of course — despite his increasing weakness and diminishing size. And why did you decide to do that, Mr. Peterson?”

Not bothering to bend down at all, the news reporter simply extended the microphone out to the tiny man with an upward flick of her wrist. Her arm was by her side, completely extended downward in a resting position, except for her wrist and hand.

“I…I j-just wanted to…t-to come in here…” stammered the man, his voice halting and uncertain as he glanced over at his wife, who blinked lovingly at him and gave him a slow, smiling nod.

“To c-come in here and…and s-say…to any men watching…th-that…that —”

“Mmmmm, yes Mr. Peterson?” came Aly’s sunny enjoinment. “I know it’s hard, with all the lights and cameras…but you can say it. Lots of men need to hear it, unfortunately, as they’re not taking heed of the medical warnings. Running wild in the streets, hiding from women…diminishing slowly, agonizingly, with no treatment, no one to look after them…all because of some perverted, misplaced sense of pride. Go on, Mr. Peterson, tell them.”

“J-just…you men watching,” said Mr. Peterson, steadying himself and looking straight into the camera, “J-just know that…that it’s n-not a…a strike against your pride that, uhh…that you need a w-woman to take care of you. Th-this…this is a pandemic, a-after all.”

“Mmhmm!” agreed Aly, nodding exaggeratedly down at Mr. Peterson. Warren couldn’t help but notice how she seemed to be treating him like he was a little child, with her smiling, her nodding, and that exaggeratedly sweet tone in her voice.. But at the same time, her demeanor seemed…strangely appropriate. The man didn’t look good; he looked like he was about to collapse under the pressure — he was trembling, sweating, teetering precariously on his little legs, which were mere sticks, especially in comparison with Aly’s thick, vigorous, luscious legs, a single one of which appeared to weigh as much or more than Mr. Peterson himself.

“A-and…and if y-you’re one of the d-deniers,” stuttered Mr. Peterson, again casting a nervous glance back over at his wife, “Th-then…then you’re hurting yourselves m-more than anyone else. A-and the health authorities will…will f-find you and quarantine you w-with…with a caretaker f-from…from…”

“From the STATE, yes!” finished Aly, giving Mr. Peterson a little clap of her hands as she turned back toward the camera. “As Mr. Peterson has most astutely pointed out, the state and private sectors have banded together in an unprecedented partnership to combat this crisis, under the new auspices of an all-female leadership, of course. Thousands of un-partnered private-practice caretakers have made themselves available for State assignments, so hopefully, if Mr. Peterson’s message is taken to heart, NO MALE will be left uncared for.”

Warren’s heart rate was still increasing as the reality of the situation became clearer and clearer. So there were men who were…resisting all of this!? They were hiding out? Wandering the streets alone as they succumbed to the infection? Part of Warren immediately dismissed these men as fools who didn’t know what was good for them, who were denying the plain realities of science. But another part of him, the part that was causing his body to slide back into its pre-panic-attack mode, couldn’t help but think that these men were the ones holding out for a noble cause. They were…trying to preserve the last vestiges of what the world had been like before the virus. THEY were the only ones who hadn’t gotten swept up in the hysteria. Everything had happened so quickly that it all seemed almost…prearranged…prearranged by some kind of sinister authority, dead-set on subjugating the entire male population. What if the virus wasn’t naturally-occurring!? What if it had been…created, by some kind of crazy group of female scientists who were…who were…

“And how old are you, Mr. Peterson?” Aly Singleton’s sweet voice cut through the panic in Warren’s mind.

“I’m…53 y-years old, ma’m,” mumbled the man, bowing his head deferentially.

“53!? Woowwwwww!” laughed Aly, jockeying her body back and forth in place so that her immense curves wobbled and trembled gently, right around his eye-level. She took a step closer, so that it became clear that Mr. Peterson couldn’t even see her face; her overhanging breasts were in the way, and cast a visible shadow over his whole body.

“You’re 30 years older than me!” Aly continued, her body shaking softly with her laughter. “Can you all believe that!?”

She spread her arms out incredulously to the audience.

“I mean…everyone, if you all had any doubts about the Whipple’s effects…haha, look at this!”

Reaching her hand down, she snaked it around Mr. Peterson’s shoulder and gently pulled him to her body. He stumbled from the force of her motion, only coming to rest when his body had contacted the hard, unmoving pillar of her leg. His wife was standing up now, and in two strides, she had crossed the studio floor and was standing on the other side of him. She was a few inches taller than Aly, and her husband’s face was exactly even with the triangle her crotch, patently visible on TV thanks to the form-fitting violet dress she wore.

“You all can barely see him anymore, can you?” chuckled Aly, looking down at Mr. Peterson, who was now indeed almost completely hidden in between the legs of the gigantic women. “And he’s 4’8, which, I hear, is a good deal taller than many of you men out there who have been exposed to…shall we say…heavier viral loads. The science is clear. For all the un-partnered men out there, either by accident, by bad luck, or by some foolhardy attempt at making a political point, there IS help out there. Call the Whipple hotline you see on your screen down below, and find comfort and solace in the arms of —”

Warren managed to switch the channel. His heart rate was getting out of control. Just seeing how small and weak that man had looked next to those two women…and how Aly had reminded Warren of the “viral load” problem. He had the virus. How big of a “viral load: had he been exposed to? He had never been in the best health to begin with, and he remembered hearing something about that being a risk factor for more severe complications from the virus. He wiped his forehead again as he felt the impinges of more cold sweat beginning to break out across the rest of his body. Wait a minute…chills…difficulty breathing…sudden onset of rapid heart rate — hadn’t all those things been the signs of acute onset of Whipple complications!? Warren KNEW that he had read about that in one of the news articles just the other day. And his early fever…his fever, his fever…it had been quite high…over 101! That was a bad sign too!! He felt his forehead — it was burning up! No wait, it was cool, clammy….no, that was just his fever sweat, underneath his skin was hot. His head was spinning; each breath secured his body less and less oxygen. He tried to take deep breaths, but his attempts at slowing his breathing down only made his head spin.

He switched rapidly through the channels, desperately looking for a distraction. But everything he saw only fueled his deteriorating condition — huge, buxom news reporters, their tits looking to burst out of their professional tops…an advertisement for specialized shock collars for problematic “escapee partners”…a cuddly, warm montage of gigantic wives snuggling and cuddling their tiny husbands…a public service announcement, with the tiny, shriveled hand of a man, curled into a weak little fist, next to the strong, firm fist of a manicured hand, crossed together in front of the words “Together We Win”… a towering female doctor in a white lab coat, addressing a packed auditorium, indicating at a naked male subject on stage with a metal pointer, his head only coming up to her waist as she bent down over him, calling attention to his deteriorated biceps…

Warren couldn’t talk, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He had no idea why NOW, of all times, this attack had hit him, especially when he had it under such good control before. But he didn’t have time to think or ponder; he was too busy suffering through the terror that he thought could very well be death itself, come to take him away at last.

“Now I KNOW this smells good,” came Irina’s cheery voice as she came back into the bedroom, wheeling a cart with Warren’s dinner, “But you need to give it a few minutes to cool off a little, since I just took it out of…out of…Warren! WARREN!!”

Irina had seen that he was completely flushed, with his mouth open, seemingly paralyzed as he sat up in bed, trembling helplessly, with the sheets clutched in his shaking hands and pulled up to his chin. Irina immediately thought that his fever had spiked, and she forgot the dinner and rushed over to him, collapsing a little untidily into the bed next to him as her big ass shook the entire frame. She put her hand up to his forehead.

“Warren! What’s wrong!? You look so scared! Awww, your forehead’s all sweaty, are you feeling more feverish, baby?”

“I…I d-…I c-ca—” stuttered Warren, almost totally paralyzed by his panic attack. But even as he suffered through it, the gaping, yawning pit of terror that had been opening up inside him was being quickly filled in by Irina’s presence. And she…she was so close to him. Her big breasts were actually pressed UP AGAINST him. He could FEEL the rise and fall of her quick breath in the big body next to his. She was…in bed with him.

“Ok, ok…don’t talk,” interrupted Irina quickly, her left hand swiftly wrapping around his far shoulder as she pulled him even closer into her body, so much so that his face actually squished up against her left breast. “You look worse, baby…let me take your temperature.”

It wasn’t lost on Warren that Irina had just called him “baby” twice, apparently without even thinking about it. As his cheek pressed even harder up against her breast, he looked up into her face, and saw it rapt and set in concentration. She wasn’t flirting with him right now; she was all business. Her calling him that had been totally an accident…or just…second nature? Warren couldn’t be sure…but he knew that he wanted to hear her say it again.

“Now just…be still for a minute, ok?” Irina asked, sticking the thermometer under his tongue. Warren felt himself getting hard, getting easily manhandled like this, especially since his cheek was now actually rubbing up against her nipple…a nipple which, from the strength of the impinge against his skin, seemed to be getting harder and harder with each passing moment. Warren tried to struggle away from it — he was getting too hard too fast, and he didn’t want to make it so obvious to Irina what was going on. His heart was beating faster now, but for a different reason. His panic attack was already beginning to pass.

“Shhhh, no…no! You’re not going anywhere,” clucked Irina firmly, clicking her tongue as she held him firm against her body. “I need to see if your fever’s worse, Warren. Come on, work with me here…just relax, relaaxxx, relaaaaxxxxx…”

Each syllable of her words seemed to calm Warren down more, and yet had the paradoxical effect of turning him on more too. He felt himself softly melt into her bosom, even as his erection poked the underside of her breast, which was now so big that it was nearly in his lap while also squishing into his face. Together they sat in the bed silently, breathing in tandem, Irina holding him fast. Warren realized that it wasn’t just his panic that was making him breathe faster — that had already largely subsided. As he felt Irina’s size and breath around him, he had calmed down quite quickly. But now, even though he was calmed down, he couldn’t help but realize how much slower she was breathing than him…and how much slower her heartbeat was. For every two or three breaths he took, Irina only seemed to take one…and the same held for their heartbeats. Warren realized that her heart and lungs were just that much bigger than his, and strangely, this realization made him even more aroused.

“Hmmm…102.3,” muttered Irina, taking the thermometer out of his mouth and frowning down at him slightly. “Still high, but not what I was afraid of….you just looked so…so flushed and feverish there, Warren!”

“I’m…I’m s-sorry,” he said, immediately feeling sheepish. “I just…I don’t know what happened but I…I just kinda, uhh…freaked out there for a minute.”

“Awww, poor baby!” Irina said again, making Warren’s cock bounce with delight, “Was it just another panic attack? Were you watching too much news again?”

“Y-yes!” he answered, even though he knew that wasn’t completely the whole story. “I j-just…I just started worrying about…you know…about the virus and everything and…and how sm-small I might get, and what it all means, and—”

“Now Warren!” interrupted Irina, pulling him off her breast and holding him firmly by both his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. Both of them, in their own ways, marveled at how big her hands felt on his shoulders.

“Y-you just…you just NEED to learn to relax and TRUST me, ok?” breathed Irina down at him, shaking him gently to convey her urgency. “Now I know…I know that you just had a traumatic experience, with your fall and everything…”

“N-no, that was…that w-was totally my fault!” exclaimed Warren. He felt like he was trying to stave something off, something that he WANTED, and yet was still drawn towards all the same. He didn’t really know what he was saying, or what he was trying to accomplish. At this point, he was simply operating on instinct.

“Well, exactly,” came Irina’s swift reply as she tilted her head down at him, looking deep into his eyes.

‘This is it,’ she thought to herself, feeling a fire growing behind her breasts as they heaved to and fro with greater frequency. ‘This is one of those moments…where I lay it bare for him.’

“You can’t look after yourself the same way you used to, Warren,” she said out loud, feeling the moment seem to imprint itself in the air. “You can’t be trusted with your own safety…and that’s…FINE. That’s OK. You know WHY that’s ok, Warren?”

Warren felt his brow darken as it creased together. What Irina had just said had been so blatant, so…so brazen…and so matter-of-fact, that it had taken him completely by surprise. He didn’t altogether like hearing these words, and yet, hearing them made him feel more excited and transfixed than he had ever felt before. His cock grew still harder under the bedsheets, tenting them in an obvious way.

“Wh-why?” he heard himself squeak.

Irina took a deep breath, pulling him in closer towards her body, even as she maintained eye contact with him. She hesitated a moment, right as his upper chest began squishing up against her tight cleavage. She didn’t want to overdo it…she didn’t want to go too far all at once. But his little body…next to hers…barely touching…her breasts churning, aching…her nipples round, hard, and firm, threatening to poke holes in her top. That fire in her chest was threatening to rage out of control. She wanted him to suck on her nipples so badly. But later…later…that would be too much, right now. But she could at least do…this.

She applied gentle pressure to his back, pressing his little body up against hers, up against the plush, warm softness of her breasts. She saw his eyes dart around in alarm for a moment, until they once again fixed on hers, blinking rapidly a few times.

‘Oh god…’ she thought to herself, ‘Oh my god…he wants it…he wants it soooo bad.’

She could feel his cock pushing up against the underside of her breast now. Irina grit her teeth behind her closed lips as they curled into a knowing smile, almost a smirk. She would distract herself from the urge to wrap her big hand around his cock.

“Why?” she breathed out loud, barely above a whisper, even though her voice seemed to fill the room, holding Warren at spellbound attention. “Because you have ME to take care of you, Warren. You have ME to look after you…to feed you, to clothe you…” She glanced down clearly at his cock, and then looked back up at him, her eyes holding his effortlessly in their power as she spoke. “To attend to your every need.”

Warren tried to make a noise, but he couldn’t seem to get his throat, chest, and mouth to work together, and all that came out was a little whimper.

“You can’t even watch the news alone in your bedroom without having a panic attack,” continued Irina calmly. “You can’t even get a book out of your library without hurting yourself, Warren. The time has come to accept it — you need help. You NEED a caregiver. And…well, you hired me at the perfect time, haha!”

Irina’s laugh seemed to break the intense spell between the two of them, and she broke off, letting him go, shifting back towards the end of the bed, and smiling at him. She was proud of herself — she had resisted the urge to take it too far all at the beginning. Now…now that the ice had been broken, the spring water could come bubbling forth. He looked so cute there, under his covers…those big eyes of his…scared, and yet, not scared. Thrilled. Transported. Desirous.

“Heh…haha, uhhh…y-yeah…yeah, I am lucky!” Warren laughed, joining in with her.

“Have some dinner!” she said brightly, wheeling the cart over. “One of your favorite recipes — chicken pot pie!”

“Ahh, awesome!” he exclaimed. Irina jokingly produced a napkin, unfurled it in a flourish, and, after pausing to look down on him for a moment, suddenly bent down and tucked it into the front of his shirt. Warren exhaled in arousal, remembering that he had just ordered himself a baby bib, among many other things.

“Mmhm…perfect,” murmured Irina, nodding her head. Warren couldn’t tell if she was joking or not now, at this point. He had turned his body to the side and slightly crossed his skinny legs under the sheets, to hide his erection. But he was sure that Irina had already seen it…yet again.

“S-so,” he heard himself say, pausing his fork over his meal. He wasn’t even hungry for food. Not solid food. All he wanted to do right now was talk to Irina…to watch her…and maybe even to somehow feel her plushness against him again. “I…uhh…I ordered you some clothes just now.”

“Oh?” asked Irina warmly, crossing her big legs sexily as she sat on the end of the bed. “That’s soooo very sweet of you, Warren. I hope you didn’t go too overboard. Got me an outfit or two? Lovely…how much did it all end up costing?”