Tiny Torments

[Justhereforamoment1]

Here's the new one as requested. Hope you enjoy!

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The dorm lounge pulsed with uneasy murmurs. Flickering light from the wall-mounted TV threw jagged shadows over sagging couches and wide-eyed faces. Students huddled in clusters—some whispering, others frozen—as the state seal gleamed coldly on the screen.

A sharp-suited official appeared at the podium, the crimson flags behind him motionless. His voice rang clear, slicing through the static-laced air.

"Effective immediately, all tiny rights within state borders are hereby revoked. For public safety and order, every tiny must register under a giant guardian’s ownership. Failure to comply will result in immediate seizure."

Gasps erupted across the room. Onscreen, the camera panned over a crowd outside the capitol. Cheers erupted from giants; some cheered with fists raised, others glanced at their tiny companions with silent dread. Tinies among the crowd stood frozen or scattered, faces pale with shock and fear.

"About time," a giant muttered.

Near the back of the lounge, a tiny girl dropped her coffee. The ceramic mug burst on the tile, and she bolted, not daring to look back.

Kara sat curled in her dorm nook, a six-inch sanctuary nestled atop a narrow shelf. Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. Six inches of defiance—that’s all she had. And she had clawed her way here, to this university, to this sliver of hope.

Thick black hair spilled around her bare shoulders, emerald eyes gleaming with fire. Her full breasts swelled beneath a snug green sweater, her narrow waist tapering into soft, womanly hips. Faded jeans hugged the lush curve of her ass—an ass she knew got stares, but never acknowledged.

This campus had been a haven. A progressive oasis. Her scholarship was more than money—it was survival. Now, the words from that podium slashed at her like razors. Nowhere was safe.

Her fingers, tiny and trembling, clutched her student ID. Running was useless—too far, too expensive. Her degree was the only weapon she had against a future of being bought, collared, and used.

She drew a slow breath, pressing the trembling fear deep down. She would not run. She would endure. Tinies always endured.

By morning, the campus was different. The sun still shone, the leaves still burned amber, but the warmth was gone. Everything felt colder. Tighter.

Giant boots thudded across the cobblestones with heavier force. Their stares lingered longer. Tinies walked in pairs now, whispering, glancing over their shoulders.

Kara moved fast along the quad's edge, close to the hedges. Beside her walked Marla—her bright, sharp-tongued friend from history class. Marla’s golden curls bounced as she tossed her head, grinning.

“Bet I finish that paper before you, slowpoke,” she teased, nudging Kara’s arm. Her hazel eyes sparkled, crinkling at the edges. “Loser buys coffee.”

Kara rolled her eyes, warmth easing her nerves. “You’re on. But you’ll be broke by Friday.”

Marla laughed, her voice a bright chime. They’d spent nights hunched over textbooks, swapping stories of high school crushes and dreams of grad school. Marla’s fire had kept Kara steady through late assignments and lonely days.

“We’ll stick together, right?” Marla asked, voice softer now, her curls catching the sunlight.

Kara’s smile faltered. “Always,” she said, squeezing Marla’s hand.

A heavy shadow fell over them.

A greasy, sweat-stained giant lunged from behind a tree. His thick hand shot down like a trap. Marla’s scream barely left her throat before his fingers crushed around her torso, lifting her like a doll.

Kara gasped and ducked behind a nearby dumpster, her curvy figure quivering as she pressed against the cold metal. Her emerald eyes, wide with horror, peered out as the giant chuckled and strolled away with his prize.

Marla’s cries echoed once, twice—and then silence.

Kara stayed there, trembling, for what felt like hours.

She saw Marla again that afternoon.

The same giant lumbered past the quad, a thin silver chain dangling from his meaty fingers. At the end of it, Marla hung like a perverse ornament.

Her bare body swung limply, nipples pierced and pulled taut by tiny metal rings. Her skin glistened with semen—thick, sticky streaks painting her breasts, belly, and face. Her once-bouncy curls were plastered flat, streaked and clumped.

The giant paused, grinning as he noticed a group of giants nearby. He flicked the chain, making Marla spin, her body jerking as the rings tugged her tender breasts. A ragged gasp tore from her throat, her limbs twitching in pain.

“Check out my new toy,” he drawled, yanking the chain higher. Marla’s head lolled, her glassy eyes rising as she dangled, semen dripping from her chin. He pinched her thigh, smirking as she flinched, her cum-slicked curves quivering under his grip.

Her gaze met Kara’s for the briefest instant.

Pleading. Shamed. Broken.

Kara’s breath hitched. Her stomach turned. Guilt crawled up her throat as she stumbled away, her hips swaying with every trembling step.

By nightfall, she knew what she had to do.

The library was hushed, a maze of looming shelves and cold fluorescent lights. In a back corner study nook, she found him.

Nick.

Tall, broad, quiet. Tousled blond hair framed his soft blue eyes—the same ones that crinkled when he used to joke about their professor’s monotone drone. They weren’t close, but he’d once shared notes with a gentle smile.

Now, Kara stood on his desk, breasts rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“Nick, please. Register as my owner. I’ve seen what they do. I can’t end up like that. I need you to keep me safe.”

His pen stilled. Eyes traced over her: the trembling form, black hair cascading down, those desperate emerald eyes, her hips quaking with fear. His jaw tightened.

“Kara, that’s… that’s serious. Are you sure?”

She nodded, fists clenched at her sides.

A long breath. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The registration office reeked of coffee and defeat. Paperwork rustled, and the air hung heavy. A trash bin overflowed with scraps of tiny clothing—shredded panties, torn shirts, discarded bras.

The clerk, wiry and grinning, didn’t bother to look up at first. “Who’s the tiny?”

“Kara,” Nick replied, setting her gently on the counter.

The clerk glanced over, and gave a low whistle. “Damn. Looks like you caught yourself a good one. Cute tits, great ass… lucky bastard.”

Kara flinched, her arms crossing to shield her breasts. Nick’s jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the counter, as if willing himself not to look.

The clerk smirked wider. “Just ‘Kara’? C’mon, I got a whole list of cuter names. She looks like a ‘Lassie’ to me. Or maybe ‘Sugar’.”

“Her name is Kara,” Nick repeated flatly.

The clerk shrugged. “Your loss.” His eyes flicked to Nick, glinting with malice. “Alright, strip her down.”

Nick froze, his hand hovering over Kara, his blue eyes flickering with doubt. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching as he hesitated.

Kara’s small voice cracked. “It’s fine.”

Her fingers trembled as she peeled off her sweater. Her full breasts bounced free, rosy peaks stiffening in the stale air. She shoved down her jeans, baring her smooth hips and lush ass, her skin prickling under the clerk’s leer.

“You’re gonna keep those?” the clerk said, eyeing the clothes Nick folded carefully. “Most just rip ’em off and toss ’em. Don’t see the point of souvenirs.”

Nick didn’t respond. His hands moved slowly, folding her sweater with care.

The clerk reached under the counter and brought out a thin metal collar. Two slender chains dangled from it, each tipped with sharp steel studs.

“Time for the branding,” he said. “Hold her still.”

Nick’s eyes flicked to the studs, his brow furrowing. “Is that necessary?”

The clerk snorted. “If you want her registered, yeah. No chains, no collar, no deal. You want her snatched by someone else?”

Nick’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching. “Kara… just a little longer,” he said quietly, placing gentle hands on her arms.

The clerk moved quickly. His fingers seized one breast, squeezing harshly as he lined up the first stud. Kara shrieked as the needle punched through her nipple, pain exploding in her chest, blood beading around the piercing.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” the clerk muttered, his grin widening.

He yanked the chain through, the metal tugging cruelly, then grabbed her other breast. The second stud pierced faster, her scream sharper, her body quaking as tears streaked her face.

He snapped the collar shut with a metallic click, the chains swaying heavily from her raw nipples. “Pretty little thing,” he said, flicking one chain. Kara gasped, her curvy figure trembling as the pain flared again.

Nick released her slowly, his eyes still on the counter. Her body shuddered, black hair clinging to her wet cheeks as she sobbed, chains whispering with each movement.

The clerk stamped the form lazily. “She’s yours now. Try not to break her.”

Nick helped her redress, guiding her arms into her sweater. She winced as the fabric dragged against raw skin, her breasts throbbing under the chains’ weight. He eased her jeans up her hips, his fingers careful but stiff, avoiding her gaze.

“You’re safe now,” he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, but her eyes were far away.

Behind her lids, Marla’s lifeless gaze still lingered.

Safe, Kara thought. But the collar said otherwise.

The days that followed were wrapped in a fragile illusion of peace.

Nick’s dorm—cramped, cluttered, steeped in the scent of old laundry and stale takeout—became Kara’s uneasy sanctuary. A padded jewelry box served as her bed, its flannel lining warm beneath her skin. He shared his meals with care: delicate bits of sandwich or pizza set on a bottle cap, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he placed them beside her. Each morning, he slipped her into his shirt pocket, the soft swell of her breasts pressing into the fabric, her curves swaying subtly with each step he took across campus.

Kara clung to the routine. Her emerald eyes never stopped scanning—each lecture hall, every crowd. Giants stared longer now. Some looked curious, others hungry, their eyes lingering on the outline of chains beneath her sweater or the sway of her hips against denim. The other tinies had all vanished or been claimed. Those left were collared, trailing behind owners like silent pets. The campus felt narrower, colder. Her untouched history book sat on Nick’s desk, a relic from a life she was slipping away from.

Nick was steady—quiet, watchful. She perched on his shoulder in class, whispering notes into his ear, her black hair brushing his neck. When someone snickered, “Nice pet, Nick,” he gave them a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. At night, he set her on his desk, the lamplight pooling over her jeans, the faint clink of her chains a constant undertone. His gaze lingered more often—on the soft line of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts—but he always turned away. Eventually.

He saw more than she realized. Caught her once behind a pile of books, mid-change, her sweater halfway up, full breasts bouncing into the open air. She gasped and scrambled to cover herself, and he turned away—too slow. Another time, she stood in his sink, water running down her back, her ass swaying slightly as she washed her hair. He offered a towel without meeting her eyes, the words thick in his throat.

But Kara didn’t notice. Couldn’t. Her mind still burned with Marla’s last look. Gratitude soured to tension, and tension to something sharper.

It began as small things.

When Nick overslept, she hissed through his pocket, “Maybe try a second alarm? I can’t afford to miss class.” His jaw tensed. “Sorry,” he muttered, and rushed across campus, strides longer than usual.

The criticisms kept coming. “Your dorm’s a mess—I can barely walk over here without tripping,” she snapped one morning, punting a pen off the edge of her jewelry box. Nick stared at her a moment, then tucked it away in silence.

Walking across the quad: “Slow down. My chains are catching.” Her voice clipped, her hair flicking as she turned away. He adjusted his pace without a word, but his shoulders didn’t relax.

He gave up his nights for her. Skipped parties. Shared food. Walked through rain to pick her up from the library. She barely blinked. “Could’ve figured it out,” she’d said once, climbing onto his desk, her hips swaying slightly with the motion. Another night, he brought her dinner—slivers of chicken, carefully sliced. “Cold again?” she said, poking the meat with her nail, not bothering to eat.

Every word chipped away at him. He smiled less. Moved more stiffly. His fingers lingered when he set her down. His gaze caught too long on the curve of her thigh, the flash of chain beneath her collar. His patience turned to performance. His kindness stretched thin.

By the sixth week, the air between them crackled.

Rain poured as they crossed the quad, Kara sheltered under his jacket. Her voice sliced through the quiet: “You’re soaking my notes. Could you try not to ruin everything?”

Nick said nothing. Just set her on his desk, shoulders tight, jaw locked.

Later that night, he stayed up helping her study. She yawned. “This is taking forever. Can we just finish?” His pen stopped. His lips parted—then shut. He said nothing, just stared at the page.

Seven weeks in, the thread finally snapped.

It was a Thursday night. The dorm was quiet, lit only by the glow of Nick’s laptop. Kara sat on the kitchen counter, her history book open beside her, long legs stretched out. She shifted, bored, her chains whispering against her sweater.

Nick hunched nearby, typing. His hair was a mess, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. His phone buzzed, ignored—another invite declined, another night with her.

Kara sighed loudly, brushing crumbs from her book. “This is pointless. I’m stuck reading about dead empires while you can’t even keep your desk clean. I thought you were supposed to help me, not make everything worse.”

The words landed hard.

Nick froze. The laptop hummed. His fingers curled slowly into fists, knuckles whitening.

He turned.

“What did you just say?”

His voice was low, calm—terrifying. Kara’s chest tightened.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No. Say it again.” He stood, the chair screeching behind him. His body loomed over her, shadow cutting across the counter. “You think I’m your maid? Your guard dog? I’ve been protecting you for two goddamn months, and all I get is attitude.”

Her spine hit the wall. “Nick—please—”

“You have no idea,” he growled, stepping closer. “No idea how easy it’d be to hand you off to someone who wouldn’t be so patient.”

His fingers shot out. They found the outline of her nipple ring under the sweater and yanked.

Pain exploded in her chest. She screamed, small body convulsing as her breasts jiggled, chains biting into raw flesh.

“You don’t get it,” he growled, voice low and shaking with rage. “I own you. The chains, the collar—they’re not for show. I could’ve used you from the start. Caged you. Sold you. No one would’ve stopped me.”

Kara trembled, tears streaking her cheeks. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—please—”

His hand clamped around her waist, unyielding. He lifted her like nothing. She thrashed, fists pounding against his fingers, helpless. Her hips twisted, chains clinking, soft curves shaking in his grasp.

His gaze swept over her—lingering on the swell of her breasts, the soft rise of her belly, the glint of metal biting into her skin. Then, without a word, he grabbed the hem of her sweater and yanked it upward.

The fabric caught on a nipple chain, jerking it taut. She gasped, a sharp cry slipping out as pain lanced through the swollen bud.

He didn’t pause—just tore the sweater the rest of the way off. The chain snapped free with a jolt, leaving both nipples trembling in the cold air, bare and bound, metal gleaming against flushed skin.

Next came her jeans—ripped down in one rough motion, the seams splitting as scraps hit the counter.

Her panties clung for only a second before he hooked a thick finger beneath the waistband and tore them away. The snap echoed as the fabric fluttered to the floor, leaving her exposed—nipples pulled tight by the chains, thighs trembling, every inch bare and vulnerable.

She gasped, arms flying to cover herself, but her chains swung loose, flashing silver across her bare skin.

Nick’s face twisted—dark with fury, flushed with hunger. His breath came hard through gritted teeth. There was no restraint in his expression now. Just raw, aching want and a fury stoked for weeks.

“You’ve spent all this time acting like you were still in control,” he growled. “Time you remembered what you are."



Kara writhed in his grip, her six-inch frame helpless against his crushing hold.

Rain tapped softly against the window, a faint patter that did nothing to cool the searing heat between them. The laptop’s dim glow flickered across her slick, flushed skin, casting shadows over her tangled black hair and tear-streaked face. Her emerald eyes, once defiant, now flickered with cracks of fear, her trembling lips betraying the fight draining from her.

Nick’s fingers tightened, feeling every quiver, every ragged breath shuddering against his palm. Her body—delicate yet defiant, with its lush curves—had taunted him for weeks. Now, stripped of her biting sarcasm, she was just a bare, trembling form, her choked gasps whispering his name.

“Kara, you’re mine,” he snarled, voice thick with fury and hunger.

Each word dripped with raw possession, his blue eyes blazing as they devoured her quaking body—swollen breasts heaving, soft waist flaring into plush hips, the round ass he’d watched sway for weeks. Her endless complaints, her ungrateful jabs, had kindled a fire that now roared, demanding he claim her. He’d shielded her, but her words had twisted his protection into a burning need to dominate.

“Nick, please—I’m sorry!” Kara gasped, tiny fists hammering his fingers.

Her hips jerked, curves jiggling with each frantic twist, thighs clenching as her slit’s faint heat grazed his skin. The chains clinked, a desperate chime that stoked the molten hunger in his gut.

He shook his head, teeth gritted, jaw tight.

“You don’t get it,” he spat, voice raw with weeks of pent-up rage. “Everyone on campus has been at me—grinning, telling me to take you, to pin you down, drag your soft body along my cock until you’re soaked in cum. They said to strip you, chain you, break you. And I held back. For you. While you treated me like garbage!”

Her breath caught, emerald eyes locking onto his—wide, panicked, pleading.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up!” he roared, his free hand seizing the nipple chains and yanking her upward.

Kara’s scream shredded the air as she dangled, suspended by her tortured breasts.

Her body convulsed like a live wire, chains stretched taut, sharp studs biting into raw, swollen flesh. Her back arched in agony, small feet kicking at empty air. Her sobs fractured into high, frantic wails as he shook her—once, twice—the chains tugging mercilessly, pain searing through her chest like white-hot blades.

“You wanted my protection?” he growled, voice thick with ownership and hunger.

Her swaying form hung like a broken toy, breasts trembling under the chains’ cruel bite, plush ass rippling with each brutal jolt. His cock twitched against his jeans, fueled by the intoxicating mix of her pain and his surging fury. He lowered her slightly, blue eyes locked on her quivering curves, and gave one final, savage bounce, wrenching a shattered cry from her lips.

With a guttural groan, he tore down his boxers, his thick, veined cock springing free. A glistening bead of precum pulsed at the tip, throbbing with need.

“It comes with a price now,” he hissed. “And you’re paying it.”

Kara’s scream pierced the air. “No—Nick, don’t—”

Her chains clinked with every desperate twist of her hips, lush curves frantic in his iron grip. He held her firm, unrelenting, driven by the fire she’d ignited and fanned with every defiant word.

He pressed her screaming face against his cock, its searing heat branding her cheek. Her full breasts mashed along the rigid shaft, nipples scraping thick veins, chains biting deeper with every pass. Her plush ass quivered, thighs trembling as he stroked her up the length, her helpless squirming a maddening tease. Every twitch, every broken sob, sent electric jolts ripping through him.

“Fuck,” he snarled, breath shuddering, fury and lust knotting in his chest like fire and gasoline.

Her body was a perfect toy—six inches of trembling perfection, her slick skin gliding through his precum, coating her curves in his musky heat.

Kara’s screams splintered into sobs, her tiny hands clawing at his cock, hips twisting as she fought.

“Stop—please!” she wailed, glossy lips parting as he dragged her toward the leaking slit, smearing thick precum across her cheeks.

The sticky heat coated her face, her choked gasp buzzing against his skin, stoking the fire in his gut.

“You’re mine,” he snarled again, voice dripping with possessive fury.

He rubbed her along his shaft, her breasts quivering with each stroke. He tilted her, letting her stiff nipples scrape the sensitive underside, chains glinting as they tugged her raw flesh, her cries sharpening with each jolt, feeding his anger and arousal.

Her black hair clung to her face, matted with sweat and precum, emerald eyes wide with panic.

He pressed her harder into him, her plump ass shuddering as he ground her against his cock, the wet squelch of her body slicing through the room. Her thighs clenched, her slit brushing his veins, her struggles only making him harder, his rage pulsing with every twitch.

He dragged her back to the tip, pinning her face against the pulsing slit. Another bead of precum flooded her mouth, her small tongue brushing his skin as she gagged, her body shuddering in his grip. Her breasts stretched against his cock, the chains biting deeper, her ass glistening with his mess as he worked her, savoring every frantic jerk against his burning anger.

Nick’s breath was a ragged snarl, his cock twitching with each squirm, heat coiling tight in his gut. He spread her creamy thighs across his shaft, her ass jiggling with each grind, her breasts squishing against his length.

Her cries trembled against his skin, her hands clawing weakly, her curves sliding through his slick heat.

His fingers tightened around her waist, smearing her through the precum coating her from head to toe. Her lips parted in a broken sob, the sticky mess drowning her face, her lush body a warm, trembling toy in his furious grip.

Nick’s cock pulsed, his anger and lust surging as one. With a guttural roar, he pinned her against the tip, a brutal jet of cum erupting with savage force. It slammed into her tiny frame, drenching her breasts, coating her hair, her ass, her thighs in thick, sticky strands.

Kara choked, her emerald eyes wide with terror, her plush body buckling as the hot flood poured over her, her small hands flailing weakly in the cum.

Her breasts dripped, her ass slick, her chains glinting through the sticky heat. Nick smeared her through it, milking every jolt of pleasure, his cock still hard as he stroked her along his shaft, her broken whimpers a faint hum beneath the rain’s patter.

His breath still seething, he opened a desk drawer and tossed her inside, her slick body hitting the wood with a wet thud. Nick’s hand lingered on the drawer’s edge, his breath ragged, blond hair falling into his eyes.

Kara lay sprawled inside, a quivering wreck—her black hair matted with his cum, full breasts glistening under the glinting chains, plush ass trembling as the sticky mess pooled around her. Her emerald eyes, once fierce, stared blankly at the drawer’s wooden ceiling, chest heaving with fractured sobs. The air reeked of musk, the laptop’s hum a faint drone beneath her choked gasps.

He zipped up, his shadow cutting across the counter.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, voice cold and sharp as a blade. He tossed a scrap of cloth—torn from her sweater—into the drawer, letting it land on her cum-soaked thighs. “You’re a fucking mess.”

Kara flinched, tiny hands scrambling for the cloth, chains clinking as she wiped at the thick, clinging cum. It smeared across her breasts, her belly, her face, the sodden fabric useless. Her sobs broke into a whimper, lush curves shaking as she tried to erase the violation.

Nick watched, blue eyes glinting with cold satisfaction, before turning to his laptop, dismissing her like a used toy.

The next morning, Nick carried Kara to class, his fingers curled tight around her waist. She wore a fresh green sweater and snug jeans, but the fabric chafed her raw nipples. Each step tugged the chain at her collar, a sharp sting. Her black hair was swept back, her emerald eyes cast down to dodge the giants’ leers in the lecture hall.

He placed her on his desk like a prized ornament. Her plush ass quivered as she settled, opening her textbook with feigned focus. The professor’s drone blurred into static. Kara’s hands shook. She couldn’t escape the memory of Nick’s hands ravaging her the night before.

That night, he didn’t speak. Just stripped her with ruthless ease. The sweater tore, jeans ripped down, and her panties shredded in a heartbeat.

Writhing in his hand, naked and helpless, she barely managed a whimper before he pressed her body to his cock—searing hot and mercilessly hard. Her soft curves melted against the shaft’s rigid heat.

“You’re perfect,” he groaned, stroking her slowly along his shaft, precum already slickening her body.

Each stroke coated her more—breasts bouncing with every motion, chains clinking softly against her skin, legs flailing in futile protest. He angled her just right, letting her stiff nipples graze the thick veins pulsing beneath her, her ass twitching as he ground her harder against the heat.

“No—Nick, please,” she gasped, twisting in his grasp, but his fingers only tightened.

He didn’t slow, didn’t speak. Just used her like something made for it. Her sobs broke against his shaft, her face slick with musk. When he came, it was fast and brutal—thick heat spilling over her form, flooding her mouth, soaking her skin.

He dropped her on the counter with a thud, tossed a rag beside her.

“Clean up,” he said, already walking away.

For a while, he kept bringing her to class. She rode on his shoulder now, whispering answers into his ear, her chest brushing the warm skin of his neck. He touched her more often—casual brushes across her thighs, sharp little tugs at her chain that made her flinch and gasp. She felt the eyes of other giants on her, but it was Nick’s gaze—possessive and ravenous—that made her stomach twist.

By the second week, the desk was forgotten. He held her in his palm instead, fingers curled snug around her waist. Her sweater clung to sweat-slicked skin, and when his thumb slid over the curve of her ass—slow, deliberate, taunting—she couldn’t help but flinch.

“Be still,” he murmured, flat and cold.

That night, he stripped her again. She didn’t resist. He yanked on her chains first, enough to rip a scream from her throat, then ran her slowly along his cock, his strokes long and deliberate as his breath deepened.

He parted her thighs and dragged her across the underside of his shaft, her slickness smearing along the swollen heat. Chains tugged mercilessly at her aching nipples, each shift of his grip sending tremors through her body. Her sobs turned shallow, mingled with gasps she couldn’t stop.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he groaned, voice rough as he watched her squirm.

She didn’t fight anymore—just wept softly while he used her, her limbs loose, body limp. When he came, it was quick and thick, warm ropes streaking her face, breasts, thighs.

He set her down like a tool he no longer needed.

“Clean yourself up,” he muttered, not looking at her.

By the third week, she had no clothes left. Just her collar, the chains always dragging, her breasts left exposed. He carried her in his backpack now, wedged tight between his books. When the zipper sealed, darkness swallowed her whole.

She screamed once. It didn’t matter.

At night, he’d unzip the bag, pull her out without a word, and grind her along his cock while reading or studying. Her sobs echoed off the walls. He didn’t care. She was there to ease the tension.

Her face dragged through his leaking slit, precum thick and constant, flooding her mouth until she gagged. Her lips trembled, her breasts rubbed raw against his shaft, chains biting deep as her plush ass shimmered with his mess. A reluctant shiver ran through her core, betrayed by the warmth blooming low in her stomach.

“Clean up,” he said, not even glancing down.

Eventually, even class stopped. When she begged to go, he shrugged.

“You don’t need it.”

She pleaded harder. He locked her book in a drawer. Marla’s empty stare flashed through her mind—chained, soaked, broken.

“Please, Nick, let me study,” she cried, voice thin and cracking.

“It’s pointless,” he said, cold and distant.

“I’ll do anything,” she whispered, clinging to his finger, chains clinking softly.

“You already are.” His voice dropped into a growl as he shoved her back.

Now he used her during calls. His tone stayed even while his hand moved methodically, stroking her body up and down the length of his shaft. Her stomach swelled with each load, her limbs shaking, her cries lost beneath his voice.

“You’re such a mess,” he muttered, wiping her down with a crumpled tissue, discarding it like she was nothing more than a dirty tool.

By the fourth week, the backpack was gone. So was the shoulder perch. She lived in his boxers now, pinned tight against his cock. Each step pressed her deeper into him, her body trapped between heat and fabric, struggling for breath.

“Fuck, Kara,” he murmured one night, palming the bulge she made. “You were made for this.”

She didn’t need prep anymore. Her skin stayed coated in sweat and precum, soaked and ready. He pulled her out and stroked her faster now, the friction brutal.

“You’re not leaving,” he growled.

His cum spilled over her again—face, chest, stomach. She choked on the warmth, but he was already done.

He opened the drawer, dropped her in, and slammed it shut.

The silence was thick. Her body stuck to itself in the dark.

She didn’t even try to clean up.

A few months in, Nick hosted a party—packed dorm, air thick with sweat, beer, and the pulse of music rattling the floor. Laughter roared off the walls, raw and drunken, bodies grinding together in a haze of booze and bass.

Kara was the centerpiece.

Naked. Spread-eagle. Bound to a dartboard.

Chains stretched her limbs taut across wood, her lush body quivering under flashing strobes. Her full breasts shuddered with each bass thump, nipples raw and erect, her slick belly twitching, thighs splayed wide, pussy bare and exposed. Her face twisted in panic, black hair matted to her cheeks with sweat, mouth gaping in a sob drowned by the music.

Darts flew. Some missed, others hit. One grazed her ribs. Another pierced the soft flesh of her thigh, blood trickling beneath glinting chains. She screamed, “No!” They cheered.

“Dead center’s her pussy!” a guy shouted.

“Bet I nail a nipple!” another laughed.

Her body jerked with every close call, breasts swaying, slit clenching in the chill air. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Could only hang there, trembling, every curve on display.

Nick lounged nearby, sipping a beer, hand buried in his jeans. His eyes devoured her. She was a masterpiece—glistening, shaking, flawless. He unzipped slowly, freed his throbbing cock, flushed and leaking, and began stroking it as the crowd hurled darts and roared for more.

The first strokes were slow, deliberate.

Then he grunted.

A thick jet of cum arced through the air. It struck her face dead-on—cheek, lips, nose—followed by another that splattered her eyes, blinding her instantly. She cried, “Please, stop!” head snapping back, but he wasn’t done. More spurts rained down, coating her breasts, streaking her belly, drenching her thighs in searing heat.

“Bullseye!” he roared, still stroking, cock pulsing as the last drops oozed out.

The room erupted in laughter.

“Get in line!” a guy yelled, lurching forward, cock already out. Another followed, both jerking off as they ogled her cum-soaked form.

Kara sobbed, face sticky and sightless, chains clanking as she writhed in vain. The next guy came fast, groaning, “Fuck, yeah,” as he sprayed her tits with thick heat, the mess slapping her skin in bursts. Another missed, cum splattering her knee and the dartboard.

One guy grew bold, stepping close, stroking frantically. He aimed at her pussy and moaned, “Take it,” as his cum hit her swollen slit, dripping down her inner thighs, pooling below. Her body flinched, hips jolting involuntarily at the warm flood.

By then, her body was glazed—cum trailing her ribs, streaking her belly, dripping from her nipples in slow rivulets. Her chains glistened, clinking as she quaked, her mouth gaping in a sob muffled by the mess coating her tongue.

Then Nick stepped forward again. He raised a hand.

“Hey someone untie her,” he grinned.

A guy laughed but complied, fumbling to unhook her wrists and ankles. Kara collapsed when the last chain fell, but Nick snatched her by the waist.

“She’s all yours,” he slurred, and with a drunken chuckle, hurled her toward another guy.

The catch was sloppy and the guy missed.

Kara slammed into the wall with a wet smack, but she didn’t fall.

She stuck.

Her body, drenched in layers of hot cum from countless men, adhered to the wall like sodden cloth. Her back arched faintly, arms limp, one thigh twitching. Cum oozed from her face, dripped from her tits, clung to her thighs and plush ass like adhesive. Her hair hung in sticky strands, her eyes sealed behind a crusted mask, her mouth barely parting.

“Holy shit,” a guy cackled. “She’s fucking glued there!”

No one helped her down. They snapped photos. Threw more darts. Moved on. Kara sagged against the wall, breathing shallow, cum sliding in lazy trails across her skin. She didn’t move.

She stayed there, plastered in place, twitching.

In the morning, Nick shuffled back in, yawning, shirt half-off, rubbing his eyes. The dorm stank of stale beer and musk. He stepped over crushed cups and sprawled bodies, scratching his stomach as he glanced around.

Then he saw her—still stuck to the wall.

He blinked.

“Damn,” he muttered, grinning. “Forgot you were there.”

He walked up and peeled her off. Her body came away with a wet, sucking pop, cum stretching in strands from the wall to her back. She didn’t speak—just twitched, barely conscious, limbs limp and face crusted behind a veil of cum.

“What a mess,” he laughed.

Without another word, he carried her to his desk, opened a drawer, and dropped her in. Her slick body landed with a soft, sticky splat. She didn’t move.

Months later, Kara was nothing but a used-up shell—her emerald eyes dulled to a murky green, her voice no louder than a breath. Her once-lively curves were now perpetually glazed in Nick’s cum, her skin tacky with layers of it, some still warm, most dried into a crusted sheen.

He barely seemed to notice her anymore, grinding her cum-slick body against his cock with idle ease during study sessions, her plush ass sliding across his girth, chains jerking taut with each lazy thrust.

Her history book lay forgotten in the drawer, pages warped from neglect. Knowledge and dreams meant nothing now—just relics buried beneath the thick glaze of his cum.

She lived in his boxers, wedged against his shaft, her breasts mashed flat, breath drawn in shallow gasps through a haze of heat and musk. Her sobs were faint now, swallowed by fabric, ignored by him.

One night, sprawled across his bed with a textbook propped on his chest, Nick slipped his hand down. His fingers curled around her trembling form—six inches of soft heat, her body warm and pliant from hours trapped against his cock.

Her full breasts were flattened along the veiny shaft, her chains clinking faintly as he moved. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window. Inside, only her stifled breathing broke the silence.

He tightened his grip around her waist and pinned her down, flesh to flesh. She didn’t resist. The cock pulsing beneath her twitched with need, veins thick and ridged.

Her black hair stuck to her face, her mouth slack, emerald eyes hollow.

He dragged her slowly upward, her ass squishing through the sticky coat of cum. Her inner thighs stuck to him, and every shift pulled on her overstimulated nipples, the studs in her collar tugging the delicate tissue until it flushed red.

When he slipped a finger through one chain and yanked, she arched with a ragged whimper.

The scream she gave was pitiful—cracked, barely a sound—as the chain wrenched one nipple high, skin splitting just enough to bleed. Her hips bucked reflexively, slick slit catching a thick vein, and Nick hissed through his teeth, his textbook already forgotten on the floor.

“Fuck…” he muttered.

He dragged her higher, jerking the chain harder, making her sob as her breasts stretched painfully. Sweat and blood smeared down her chest as he ground her face against the leaking head of his cock.

Precum smeared her cheeks, slick and heavy, pooling at her lips. Her hands clawed weakly at his skin, but he pressed her mouth harder into the pulsing slit, hot fluid flooding into her.

Then he yanked both chains.

Her body snapped upward, suspended by her nipples. She shrieked, voice shredding the quiet. Her breasts stretched high and taut, metal biting into soft skin.

Her ass jiggled against the underside of his shaft, slippery with cum, and his cock twitched again.

He shoved her face to the head. Her lips parted involuntarily. A guttural groan spilled from him—and then he came.

The first blast hit her square in the face, forcing her mouth wide as thick cum surged in. It splattered across her nose, her cheeks, flooded down her throat. Her stomach stretched as she swallowed helplessly, the sheer volume rounding her midsection.

She choked, gagging, cum spilling from her lips and pouring down her chest in molten white.

But he didn’t stop.

He pinned her mouth against the slit, ropes of cum flooding over her face and into her mouth. Her scream turned to a wet gurgle.

The chains jerked violently, nipples straining, her ass twitching wildly as her body sagged from the pressure.

With a final, broken sob, she vomited.

A steaming mix of cum and bile burst from her lips, splattering over his cock, her chest, her trembling thighs. Her stomach convulsed, cum dribbling from her nose, her mouth open in a soundless gasp.

“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” Nick growled—but his cock only swelled thicker in response.

He dragged her limp body down the shaft, smearing her through the cum. Her tits glistened with spit and cum, her belly bloated and round, her thighs twitching as her slit grazed his underside again.

That small touch, accidental or not, made her body tremble—shamed heat prickling through her, uncontrollable.

He yanked the chains again, tearing a scream from her raw throat. Her nipples bled freely now, red streaks glinting beneath the flood of cum.

He used her faster, grinding her along his length, each thrust turning her into nothing more than a soft, pliant sleeve.

Her legs kicked weakly. Her lips, swollen and sticky, pressed against the tip once more.

Another flood burst forth, thicker than before.

She gurgled as her stomach stretched wider, belly ballooning obscenely under the pressure. Cum poured from her in every direction—nose, mouth, the corners of her eyes.

Her body spasmed in his grip, limp and twitching.

Still he stroked.

A third load spilled out of him, slower now, but heavier. Her hair clung in wet mats to her back, her chest and thighs coated in layer after layer of cum.

She didn’t struggle anymore. She didn’t scream. Her breath came in shallow, wet hiccups. Her eyes, barely open, shimmered with the glaze of ruin.

Nick gave one final stroke, dragging her spent, cum-soaked form down his cock, milking the last twitch of pleasure.

Then, without a word, he opened the drawer and dropped her inside.

She landed with a slick slap, cum pooling around her—seeping from her lips, leaking from her overstuffed stomach, tangled in her hair.

Her chains clinked faintly as she curled in on herself.

From the shadows, the spine of her history book peeked out, warped and yellowed.

Her dreams drowned in molten white.

[Vic391137]

Great story - it more than lived up to my hype! Glad I could help inspire something like this. And I hope it the prompt was a fun one to work off of. If you’re in need of other ideas and I come up with something I’ll be sure to let you know!

[Justhereforamoment1]

Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed. Yeah this one was a fun one to work off of. Felt like I probably could have eneded after he was done with her the first time, but I still had some ideas (really wanted to do the dartboard scene) so it just kept going.

I'm probably going to take a break from writing for a bit so I hope anyone reading this can enjoy the previous chapters I've written. I'm always interested in feedback, so while you guys wait let me know your favorite short(s) and what you like about it or them. Honestly a critique and rating of every short so far would be awesome lol.

Anyways, thanks for reading!

[Justhereforamoment1]

Welp that break didnt last long, I'm back at it again with a new story. I got an idea too good not to write. This one diverges from the norm of what I usually write. It features 0 giant cocks or giant pussies! Instead, the giants treat her like a beloved pet. The guinea pig on the other hand...?

Anyways, its my 2nd longest story and has a lot of psychological stuff as well as tiny/beast sex so if you enjoy that have fun. Enjoy!

---

The pet store stank of cedar shavings and quiet misery. Rows of glass tanks lined the walls like coffins, each one lit by flickering fluorescents that hummed above the silence. In one of them crouched Elana—six inches tall, naked, and shaking.

She hugged her knees, goosebumps on her skim from the cold. Her long brown hair draped over her shoulders in tangled waves, hiding part of her face but not the glare in her green eyes. Her breasts rose and fell with fast, shallow breaths. A thin steel collar circled her neck, its weight aching against her throat, chains trailing down to her chest—each tipped with a cruel little stud that pierced her nipples. They pinched sharply every time she shifted, a raw, throbbing reminder of what she was now.

Two weeks ago, she was free.

She’d run barefoot through a flooded alley near the border, hair plastered to her face, lungs burning. Behind her, boots pounded the wet concrete. She was one of the last tinies to try and make it out before personhood vanished entirely. She’d dodged a reaching hand, scrambled over a crate, and then—a net. She hit the ground hard, kicking and screaming until the world went dark.

Now she was on display. A price tag taped to the glass read: Premium Tiny. Female. $199.99

She hadn’t even had time to scream when they collared her. The clerk had held her down and clipped the thing on with practiced ease, ignoring her cries as the studs punched through soft flesh. Blood welled and crusted on her chest, catching in her hair. Her shredded jacket went into a bin with other discarded clothing—torn panties, ripped bras, bits of fabric that once meant dignity.

“No clothes for pets,” the clerk had muttered without looking at her.

Each day, boots rattled the linoleum. Children pressed greasy fingers to the glass, laughing when she flinched. The chains caught on the tank’s rough floor, sparking pain in her nipples until she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Adults came by more slowly, their gazes lingering in ways that made her stomach turn.

“She’s got good hips,” one man had said, tapping the glass with a knuckle. “That ass is damn near perfect.”

She pressed herself into the corner, trying to disappear. But the tanks were clear on all sides—there was nowhere to hide.

The clerk smirked every time he passed. “Prime stock,” he’d say, like she couldn’t hear.

Yesterday, a woman with sharp eyes had stood in front of her tank for longer than most. Her gaze raked over Elana’s body, pausing on the curve of her ass and the red metal glint of her collar.

“She’s feisty,” she said. “But that body? That’s a fucking prize.”

“I’m not a pet,” Elana hissed, the words low and hard, even though her chest ached.

The woman just smiled and walked on.

They called it spunk. Her resistance. Her glare. Even the bleeding piercings were a marketing feature now.

She wasn’t alone. Tanks lined the wall, each one with a girl like her—silent, bruised, branded. Some curled up and rocked, like the brunette with matted curls who whispered prayers under her breath, her rusted collar chains trembling. Some stared into nothing, like the redhead who screamed nightly until her voice broke, her nipple piercings inflamed. One sobbed until her voice cracked, her own collar raw against her throat. Another had dug at the silicone floor until her fingers bled. The clerk swatted her back with a rolled-up flyer.

No names. No voices. Just numbers and prices, stickers slapped on like meat labels.

Most didn’t speak anymore. A few didn’t even flinch.

The days bled together—stale pellets dropped into trays, a water bottle that always dripped too slowly, the corner reeking of the litter pan. At night, Elana traced imaginary escape routes across the ceiling, mapping cracks and fixtures she couldn’t reach.

Once, she’d tried the lid. Braced her back against the wall, pushed until her shoulders screamed, the chains snagging her nipple studs with each shove, searing her chest. It didn’t budge. The lock was solid. Her arms gave out long before the hope did.

Now, each footstep that passed her by without stopping felt like another inch of herself slipping away.

Then the Hendersons arrived.

They swept in on a Saturday afternoon like a Norman Rockwell family come to life. Clara wore a pastel sundress and pearls, her lipstick perfect, her smile tightening when she glanced at the price tags. Mark followed a step behind—broad-shouldered, bearded, calm in a way that suggested authority without saying a word. Their son, Toby, practically vibrated with excitement, darting between tanks, his sneakers squeaking across the floor.

Clara leaned toward her husband, voice low.

“Toby needs a sturdy one,” she said, her pearls clinking faintly as she adjusted her posture.

They began their loop through the aisles, pausing here and there. Clara stopped at a tank where a tiny girl with a buzzed black crop sat hunched in the corner. The girl didn’t look up, her collar’s chains limp against her chest.

“Too thin,” Clara murmured, her smile fading briefly. Mark gave the tag a glance and frowned.

The next one—blonde, bruised, vacant—got a wrinkle of Clara’s nose. “No.”

Toby paused by a redhead who snarled through the glass when he got too close. Her chains jingled as she lunged. He laughed, eyes wide, then skipped to the next.

And then he saw Elana.

“Mom! This one’s so pretty!”

His face was nearly pressed to the glass, breath fogging the surface. Clara stepped closer, her shadow stretching across the tank like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked Elana up and down.

“She’s got a strong build,” she said at last, her voice soft with approval. Her finger traced idle circles just above the curve of Elana’s ass. “Wouldn’t take much training,” she added, ignoring Mark’s slight frown at the cost.

Mark crouched beside her and read the label. “Pricey,” he said, his voice firm. “But sturdy. Toby needs this, Clara.”

He glanced at his son. “What do you think, bud?”

“I’ll take care of her! I swear! I’ll clean her cage and feed her and—and—and give her baths if she needs them!”

Elana shoved herself upright, fists clenched. The sudden movement made the chains snap tight against her chest, the studs burning her raw nipples.

“I’m not a pet!” she shouted. Her voice cracked, but her glare didn’t.

Clara laughed. Not unkindly. In fact, she looked delighted.

“Oh, she’s a firecracker,” she said, her smile sharp as she glanced at Mark. “So much personality. She’ll keep you on your toes.”

Greg, the clerk, arrived with a practiced smile and popped the lid without hesitation. His fingers reached in, thick and impersonal, closing around Elana’s waist like tongs.

She screamed.

Her legs kicked, arms flailing, hair whipping around her face. The chains swung with every thrash, wrenching fresh pain through her chest as the studs tugged. Greg adjusted his grip, her ass shifting in his palm as his thumb pressed against her thigh.

“Still got some fight,” he muttered. “Keep her tank locked. She’s fast.”

Toby bounced beside him, eyes sparkling. “Can I name her Sprinkles?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “Sprinkles it is.”

Elana twisted in Greg’s hand, face flushed red, eyes wet with fury.

“That’s not my name!” she snapped, the collar’s metal pressing into her aching neck.

Clara clapped, practically beaming. “Sprinkles. Oh, that’s perfect. It suits her.”

At the counter, Clara’s expression tightened. She reached out, brushing a finger near the chains where they dangled from the collar.

“These,” she said, voice clipped, her pearls clinking as she shook her head. “Barbaric. We’ll take them off when we get home. There’s no need to be cruel.”

Mark nodded. “She’ll behave,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “She just needs a loving touch.”

The ride home was nausea and noise.

They’d put her in a plastic carrier, the kind usually used for reptiles, lined with a towel and nothing else. Every turn sent it sliding across the floor of the backseat, the air holes turning each gust of wind into a sharp sting against her face.

Toby chattered nonstop from the back. Plans for obstacle courses, snack schedules, ideas for how to decorate her tank. Every bump in the road tugged at the chains still fixed to her nipples, the studs throbbing with each jolt. She winced with each one.

Curled up as tight as she could, she buried her fists against her temples. The collar dug deeper into her neck. The plastic box rocked again.

With every mile, the world she knew slipped further away.

The house smelled like lavender and roast chicken—clean, warm, lived-in. Too normal. Too gentle for what it contained.

Elana’s new cage sat on the kitchen counter, nestled between the toaster and the spice rack. It was barely two feet wide, more display case than enclosure, its clear walls dressed in cheerful lies: a glittery sign reading Sprinkles’ Palace, a pink plastic litter tray, a miniature water bottle clipped to the side. A patch of synthetic grass lined the floor, snagging the collar’s studs when she moved, sparking sharp pain.

Clara knelt beside it, her perfume sweet and powdery. She unlatched the chains from Elana’s collar with a quiet click, careful not to tug too hard. The piercings throbbed, raw and red, and Elana hissed through her teeth as the metal pulled free, her breasts trembling with relief.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clara murmured, genuinely sympathetic. “Those awful things. No pet of ours needs to suffer like that.”

The studs remained, small cruel points of steel still embedded in her tender flesh. But the chains were gone. The collar stayed—light now, but still locked around her neck.

Elana stood naked, arms across her chest, trying to shield herself from the cold and their gaze. Her long hair hung damp from a recent bath, hiding little. Her nipples ached, swollen and exposed. The chill drew goosebumps across her skin, down the curve of her back to her tight, clenched ass.

Clara dropped a food pellet through the mesh lid. It bounced once and rolled toward her toes.

“Eat up, Sprinkles.”

Elana didn’t move.

“I’m Elana,” she muttered, shoving the pellet aside with her foot.

Clara only smiled, her pearls clinking as she tilted her head. “Picky, aren’t you?”

Before she could respond, Toby burst in, waving a plastic doll brush. He was on her in seconds, plucking her up like a toy. Her scream caught in her throat as his fingers closed around her torso, her chest flattening against his palm.

“Sit still!” he giggled, dropping cross-legged on the floor.

He tugged the brush through her tangled hair, each stroke rough, each pull jerking her head to the side. His thumb brushed over her nipple stud without noticing, and she flinched. The accidental touch sent a jolt through her—embarrassment, discomfort, and something else she didn’t want to name.

“She’s so soft,” he said.

Mark passed by, pausing just long enough to nod.

“Brush her every day. Keeps her coat glossy.”

And so the days blurred.

Mornings brought Toby’s pokes and prodding, fingers trailing across her hips as he fed her. Clara cleaned her cage, gentle but firm, her cool hands steady as they bathed her—fingers gliding over thighs and back, never lingering, never apologizing. Mark read from leather-bound books at night, his deep voice rolling through the house. They didn’t speak to her. She was just… present. A fixture. A pet.

They doted, in their way.

Clara knit a scratchy little blanket that Elana barely used. Toby built her a maze from cereal boxes, scowling when she refused to run through it, his whine sharp until Clara snapped at him to behave. Mark installed a treat dispenser, mechanical and impersonal, as if she were a hamster. They watched her navigate the tunnels, eyes following the bounce of her breasts and the sway of her ass like it was entertainment.

Her protests dulled with time. Clara just tapped the glass, laughing.

“Oh, you’re a naughty little pet, aren’t you?”

One night, Elana spat out a pellet with deliberate disgust. Mark didn’t hesitate—just reached in and flicked her thigh, firm and fast. Her skin stung.

“No,” he said calmly. “Bad girl. Eat, Sprinkles.”

She stared up at him, trembling. Then she bent down and picked up the pellet, jaw clenched as she swallowed.

Later that night, they brought her cage into the bedroom.

She turned away from the bed as Clara climbed into Mark’s lap, pretending not to hear the soft creak of the mattress or the quiet giggle Clara gave when his hands slid under her nightgown. The sounds grew louder, wet and rhythmic. Elana pulled the itchy blanket over her head, but it didn’t help.

She told herself she wasn’t watching.

Mark’s voice was low, murmuring something into Clara’s ear. Her moans answered him. The cage vibrated slightly with the rhythm of their bed. Elana’s thighs pressed together as heat rose between them. She hated herself for the flush crawling up her chest. Her nipple studs ached under the collar’s pull. Her fingers trembled.

Then Clara slid off the bed.

She knelt beside the bed, her hair falling forward as she took Mark’s cock into her mouth. Her tongue moved slow and deliberate, her hums of pleasure sending a shiver through the room. Elana couldn’t look away. Mark’s eyes stayed half-lidded, one hand in her hair, his breathing steady as her head bobbed up and down his shaft.

Clara pulled back, licking her lips.

“Hard already?” she whispered. “Good boy.”

He grabbed her waist and turned her, bending her over the edge of the bed.

Elana pressed herself into the corner of the cage but didn’t close her eyes.

Mark slid into Clara with one smooth thrust. Clara moaned, voice high and breathless, her ass shaking with each motion. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, each stroke deep and full. The slap of skin filled the room. Clara’s tits bounced with every thrust, her fingers clutching the sheets.

Mark grunted, speeding up, one hand smacking her ass.

“Fuck,” he growled.

Clara arched into him, voice muffled in the pillow as he pounded into her. The cage rattled with their motion. Elana’s breath hitched. Her legs shook, the collar digging into her neck. Her hand hovered near her thigh, fingers trembling.

Mark pulled Clara’s hair, dragging her upright. Her back bowed as he thrust harder, relentless now. The cage rocked, the sound of fucking constant. Clara cried out, high and wild, her pleasure raw.

Elana watched, breath shallow, her nipple studs pulsing with arousal. Shame clawed up her throat, but it didn’t stop her. Her fingers touched herself once, softly, then jerked away. Her chest rose and fell, thighs clenched.

The moment stretched. Twisted.

They never looked her way. Not once.

Three weeks in, Clara returned from the pet store, a small cage in hand. “Meet Peanut!” she chirped, setting it beside Elana’s tank. Inside was a male guinea pig—sleek, brown, and twice her size, his black eyes glinting at her through the bars.

“He’ll keep Sprinkles company,” Clara said, smiling. “They’ll be pals.”

Toby clapped. “Best friends!”

Elana froze, green eyes wide, the thin metal collar around her neck feeling heavier. Peanut squeaked, his eyes locked on her form, paws scraping at the bars.

That night, Clara lifted Elana from her cage, fingers brushing her chest in passing, grazing a nipple stud and sending a cold ripple through her body.

“Play nice, sweetie,” Clara murmured, then dropped her into Peanut’s tank.

Elana landed hard, stumbling onto the layer of wood shavings. A strong musky odor filled her nose—animal, thick, and sour. She straightened quickly, eyes darting, the collar clinking faintly.

Peanut was massive up close—round and heavyset, with matted fur and black, unblinking eyes. He sniffed the air, nose twitching rapidly as he waddled toward her with clumsy determination. Beneath his belly, a pink, fleshy tip emerged, his penis swelling visibly, lengthening with slick, pulsing heat as he sensed her presence.

Elana backed away, heart pounding, the nipple studs tingling under her collar’s weight. She held out a hand instinctively.

“No, don’t—”

Peanut surged forward. His bulk bumped into her, knocking her flat. She yelped as he climbed over her without hesitation, fur brushing against her skin. His weight pressed down on her chest and stomach, claws scraping lightly, the swollen cock now rigid and brushing her thigh. She squirmed, trying to push him off, panic rising as he nuzzled at her with blunt curiosity, huffing wet air against her skin.

She turned her face away, trembling.

“Please!” she screamed. “Get it off!”

From outside the tank, Clara just smiled at the scene. “Aw, he likes you. I think this is his way of saying hello.”

Clara turned and walked away.

Elana screamed, thighs quaking, fear icing her veins as she felt his thick cock probing at her pussy.

Elana tried to pull back, but Peanut was too big—too heavy. There was nowhere to go. No space to run.

Peanut bore down on her.

His cock was huge—thick, blunt, unyielding. It forced its way into her tight, unready pussy, stretching her wide, tearing at slick flesh. Her large ass clenched in a desperate, futile spasm, trying to resist what was happening. But he didn’t relent. He kept thrusting, hard and fast, his high-pitched squeaks drowning out her panicked screams.

Her wavy brown hair tangled in the scattered shavings, soaked in sweat and scent. Every sharp breath caught in her throat as his dense, furry weight pressed her down, rutting into her with savage determination. He filled her suddenly, cum surging deep in a wet, searing rush that left her gasping.

And still, he didn’t stop.

His balls slapped against her thighs with every heavy thrust, a brutal, rhythmic smack that echoed inside the tank. The bulk of his body crushed her beneath him, forcing her deeper into the soft bedding with each piston-like movement. His claws raked down her sides, rough and careless, drawing sharp lines across her skin. His nose twitched against her cheek, flooding her senses with the sharp, musky stench of him.

Elana gasped, her pussy sore and stretched, flooded with sticky heat. Pain throbbed from the piercings in her nipples, each breath choked by the collar digging into her neck. She sobbed quietly, voice shaking.

He picked up pace again, thrusting harder, wilder. Each stroke drove her ass deeper into the shavings, leaving her raw and dripping. Her green eyes went wide, glassy with tears, as he pumped through a second brutal climax. Cum spilled from her, leaking freely across her thighs and pooling beneath her hips.

Her screams cracked and fell into broken whimpers.

Pinned beneath him, she could hardly breathe. His furry bulk smothered her chest, and the sour reek of his fur coated her tongue with every breath. The collar bit tighter. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the floor, legs trembling, cunt pulsing helplessly around him.

He jerked suddenly, pulling out just enough to smear wetness along her slit before driving back in. He squeaked, short and sharp, as another gush of cum spilled into her, heat blooming deep and thick, oozing down her ass in messy streaks.

She twitched, spent and shaking. Her limbs sagged. Her head lolled to the side, lips parted, drool trailing down her chin. Her eyes stared out blankly through a curtain of sweat-matted hair, every breath ragged and thin.

Peanut slumped forward at last, his weight fully collapsing onto her. Her chest buckled beneath him, crushed under his furry mass. The collar dug deep into her throat. Her pussy throbbed, stretched and leaking, filled past its limit with his cum.

He didn’t move.

Not until a voice pierced the silence.

“Mom! I can’t find Sprinkles!”

“I left her in the tank with Peanut to play,” Clara called back. She stepped into the room, then froze as she peered down into the enclosure.

Peanut’s bulk covered most of Elana, but her legs were visible, tangled and limp. Clara reached in and nudged Peanut’s front end.

A slick, wet sound peeled away as his belly lifted.

Elana gasped at the sudden light. Her green eyes stared up, wide and glassy, cheeks streaked with drool. Her pussy gaped, swollen and dripping, thick cum trailing in strands from her thighs.

Clara smiled.

“Look at them cuddling,” she cooed, gently letting Peanut fall back into place.

Elana’s muffled whine went ignored.

He stayed there for a long moment, heavy and still. His fur soaked with sweat, his softening cock twitching inside her, leaking slow, lazy dribbles of cum into her sore, stretched cunt. Each shallow breath she managed came with effort, her lungs straining under his weight. Her limbs were numb, pinned and trembling, her raw pussy clenching weakly around the thick heat buried in her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All she could do was lie there, smothered and shaking beneath his panting, reeking bulk.

With a wet pop, Peanut finally rolled off her. His cock slid free, coated and still twitching. Elana curled into the corner, shivering, her pussy leaking, thighs sticky and sore. Her sobs were quiet now—numb, exhausted.

Days later, the fight came rushing back.

It happened during a bath. Clara was rinsing Elana’s legs, humming like she always did, when Elana struck. Her teeth sank into Clara’s finger—deep, hard. Clara shrieked, jerking back. Elana tumbled from her grip, splashing down hard into the tub. Water closed over her head. She kicked, flailing in panic, bubbles rising as her collar dragged her under.

Clara fished her out, dripping and gasping.

“Bad pet!” she snapped, cradling her bitten hand. Her smile was gone.

Mark appeared in the doorway a moment later. He didn’t speak at first—just looked at Elana, wet and heaving, hair plastered to her face. His shadow fell long across the tile.

“She needs discipline,” he said, voice flat.

He stepped forward and reached in. Elana barely had time to brace before his fingers closed around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly, her slick skin sliding against his palm. Her large ass trembled as he set her down on the kitchen counter, face pressed to the cool surface, ass raised. Her nipples throbbed where the studs scraped the countertop. She blinked water from her eyes, heart pounding.

“Hold still, Sprinkles.”

His voice brooked no room for arguments.

Then his hand came down.

The smack cracked through the room, sharp and sudden. Pain bloomed across her ass, her soft flesh rippling. She yelped, body jolting forward, her chest grinding against the counter. Another spank followed—harder. Her thighs shook, skin burning. He didn’t pause.

A third strike. Then a fourth. Her cries turned ragged, breath catching. Her hips bucked reflexively with each blow, her cheeks reddening in more ways than one.

Then Clara stepped close. Calm again.

“That’s enough,” she said gently.

Her fingers stroked Elana’s damp hair, smoothing it back. She trailed her hand down, slow and deliberate, until her palm rested on Elana’s stinging backside. She rubbed in slow circles, cool touch easing the fire.

“There we go,” she cooed. “Be good now, sweetie.”

Mark’s thumb grazed the inside of her thigh, firm and steady, grounding her. Not punishing anymore—comforting. Elana’s body betrayed her, shuddering under their touch. Her nipples tightened again, that unwanted heat curling deep in her belly.

They lowered her back into the cage with care.

Her ass throbbed, marked and warm. Their hands had faded, but the feeling lingered—burning and gentle, all at once.

A week bled by, every day melting into the next, the edges of Elana’s existence worn down to a routine both cold and humiliating. Toby’s constant pokes bruised her skin. Clara’s baths, once methodical, grew gentler—yet more invasive—her fingers lingering over Elana’s bare chest, brushing against the studs piercing her nipples.

Mark was less gentle. Sharp flicks to her thigh or backside kept her obedient and alert. At night, Elana curled beneath her thin, scratchy blanket, clutching it like a lifeline as she whispered her name under her breath—Elana—over and over again. A prayer. A tether.

The cold metal collar on her neck never let her forget what she’d become.

Peanut was always close. Even when he wasn’t in sight, she could smell him—musk and fur, thick in the air. The constant low rustle from his tank grated at her nerves, like a whisper of what was coming.

Clara’s touch blurred the line between affection and ownership. Sometimes she would hum as she bathed Elana, fingertips absently grazing her nipples, making her shiver even when the water was warm.

At night, when Elana watched Clara curled against Mark, that warmth would crawl into her belly again. Unwanted. Confused. Her thighs pressed together under the bars of her cage, a traitorous heat twisting deep inside her gut.

Then came the night Clara decided they needed “playtime.”

She dragged the cages together with a cheerful clink of glass against glass, opening the side panel between them. The scent of bedding, fur, and stale cum wafted in almost immediately.

Elana’s muscles coiled tight. Her green eyes scanned the plastic terrain—tunnels, wheels, scattered shavings—searching for cover. The collar around her neck jingled softly with each tremor of her breath.

She’d only been trapped with Peanut a few times since the first, each one leaving her sore, stretched, and shaken. But this time, she told herself, she wouldn’t let it happen. Not again.

Across the cage, Peanut stirred. His whiskers twitched, his stubby paws shifting beneath his thick belly as he caught her scent. The moment the door slid open, Elana darted.

Her heart pounded, legs pumping as she fled behind a plastic burrow-shaped tunnel. Her chest burned, panic clenching her lungs, breath loud in her ears.

Peanut lunged.

His bulky body crashed through the shavings with shocking speed. High-pitched squeals echoed through the cage, full of manic hunger. He chased her down, paws thudding like hammers behind her.

She zigzagged, breath hitching, her hair flying wildly, body slick with panic.

But he was too fast.

Near the water bottle, his front paws slammed into her hips, knocking her sprawling. Elana cried out as she hit the floor, caught on hands and knees. Her hair spread across her face, chest heaving.

Before she could scramble away, he mounted her, his furry belly pressing down.

But this time was different.

Instead of the familiar pressure at her pussy, she felt the hot, blunt tip of his cock grind against her asshole. He didn’t know the difference. He didn’t care. He only knew it was tight, and warm.

“No!” she cried, voice high and breaking. “Not there! Please—don’t—”

But Peanut was already pushing in.

The head breached her tight rim, splitting her open with a burning stretch that made her choke on the scream caught in her throat. Her fingers clawed at the shavings. The floor scraped her nipples raw as the studs dragged along the plastic.

Her back arched in shock as he pressed in deeper—inch by inch of thick, unrelenting pressure.

He began to thrust.

Each movement was brutal and steady, his thick fur rubbing her spine, the weight of him anchoring her in place. Pain flared with every stroke, but so did something else—something electric and horrifying that flickered under her skin, blooming against her will.

Peanut grunted, pace quickening. His hips slammed into her ass, driving her forward with each rutting motion. Her toes curled. Her jaw trembled. The cage rattled faintly under them as his cock pumped in and out, heat and pain melting together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

Then Clara appeared.

She paused at the doorway, eyes catching the shape of her pets mid-motion—Elana pinned, Peanut grinding deep between her cheeks.

Her body stiffened. For a second, her hand jerked toward the cage, half-lunging, ready to rip Peanut off her.

But she stopped.

She blinked, uncertain, her mouth slightly parted.

Her expression shifted—surprise, then something else. Something softer. A flicker of interest? Curiosity?

She hadn’t realized what their “play” had become. She’d thought they were just wrestling. Or cuddling. Not sex. And certainly not like this.

Her fingers twitched at the knob. Then she let it go.

“More than friends, I see,” Clara murmured with a quiet laugh, closing the door softly behind her.

Inside the cage, Peanut kept going.

His cock slammed into her with wet, punishing strokes. Her body rocked forward with each thrust. Her ass burned, stretched raw and leaking. Her breath hitched in sharp, gasping sobs, tears trailing silently down her cheeks.

When he came, it was sudden—a jerking squeal and a heavy pulse of hot cum that flooded her asshole. The thick fluid oozed down between her thighs as he twitched atop her, still thrusting lazily.

He pulled out with a wet squelch.

Elana collapsed onto her side, chest heaving. Her limbs trembled, muscles twitching in exhausted spasms. Her asshole was red, stretched and slick, with cum oozing slowly out of her and running down the backs of her thighs.

She didn’t cry anymore.

Not out loud.

But the heat inside her hadn’t gone away. It lingered—thick and awful and confusing. Wrapping her in shame. Soaking into her bones.

Weeks slipped by in a haze of routine. Each day, Elana ran the maze Toby built, her large ass swaying with every step. The collar jostled against her neck, a constant reminder with every turn she made. Toby watched with wide eyes, giggling whenever she stumbled or scowled—oblivious to her glare. Her protests had become background noise, just part of the show.

In the afternoons, he’d seat her at a dollhouse tea party table, wedging her bare body into a plastic chair too small for her curves. Her thighs pressed tightly together as he positioned her, knuckles brushing her skin while he adjusted her limbs with meticulous care. Every touch was innocent. Every reaction, not. If she squirmed too much, Mark would offer a quiet correction—a flick to her thigh, a firm tap to her hip.

“Sit still,” he’d murmur, watching the curve of her back, her flushed cheeks, the way her breasts trembled when she breathed. His approval was silent but ever-present, threaded through every glance.

Nights were worse. Clara and Mark’s lovemaking had grown slower, more affectionate—kisses lingering, bodies swaying in a practiced rhythm. Their moans filled the room while Elana curled up in the cage beside their bed, nipples tingling, thighs clenched under the blanket. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t dare move. Shame pooled low in her belly, thick and constant. And still, the heat wouldn’t leave her.

More and more often, they placed her with Peanut.

He was quiet, heavy, with glassy eyes and twitching whiskers. At first, she avoided him—turning away, curling up in corners of the cage to stay out of reach. But the warmth of his body, the way his soft bulk settled against hers, became harder to resist. Sometimes he just lay beside her, brushing against her hip. Other times... he didn’t stop there.

Elana never said a word. She couldn’t. Not when the alternative was being alone.

Meanwhile, Toby prepared for the science fair. His project was simple: Sprinkles the Amazing!

Her cage now lived on his desk, polished and brightly lit, the walls lined with glittery stars and smiling sun stickers. Inside, Elana huddled beneath the scratchy blanket Clara had knit, her bare body chilled in the constant draft. The collar gleamed at her throat like a trophy.

Toby leaned over the glass, beaming. “You’re gonna win!” he chirped, then reached through the bars to poke her large ass, making her shift.

She flinched as the cage rattled, the jolt shooting straight through her spine. His knuckle brushed her inner back and her breath still caught. Toby just giggled.

A month had crawled by. The cages hadn’t been connected since the last cleaning, and Clara, distracted today, had left the divider just slightly ajar—barely enough for Elana to slip through.

She was cautious at first, wandering into Peanut’s space like a trespasser, her eyes flicking between scattered tunnels and bedding mounds. Curiosity led her toward a narrow gap between two plastic hideouts, where she tried to squeeze through sideways—and got stuck.

Her hips jammed tight, her ass wedged firmly between the slick walls of the houses. Elana grunted in frustration, trying to push forward or back, but couldn’t budge. Her arms flailed for leverage. Then she heard it.

The shuffling.

Peanut was awake.

Her heart lurched as she twisted her head. He was already there—massive and silent, his weight thudding softly over the shavings. His black eyes locked onto her exposed face, nostrils flaring. A thick shaft slid free from his fur, twitching and slick, flushed a deep, eager pink. She froze, panic surging up like a scream caught in her throat.

“No—no, you idiot, not this end!” she snapped, her voice cracking with fear.

She tried to twist, push herself through, anything—but the gap held her tight. She could only watch as his cock inched closer, brushing a line of sticky precum across her cheek. He placed his front paws on the plastic housing, looming over her with a kind of curious confidence. His instincts didn’t care what hole was what. Only what was tight. Wet. Willing or not.

“Get off—go around—use my pussy, dammit! Go aroun—mmph!”

Her plea was cut off as his cock rammed into her open mouth, prying her lips apart. She gagged violently, head jerking as the thick tip forced its way across her tongue, sliding deeper. Her eyes went wide, filling with tears as her throat stretched, collar tightening with each jolt of motion.

He started slow, dragging himself in and out with heavy, deliberate thrusts. His coarse belly fur scraped against her cheeks. Her breath came in gasps around him, jaw straining, tongue pinned beneath his weight. The plastic dug into her ribs, and her hands clawed helplessly at the floor for leverage as his pace began to build.

He hadn’t touched her in weeks. Clara had been busy. Illness. Distractions. Missed routines. All of it had built into something primal inside him—a need that now poured out in every deep, hungry stroke. He rutted into her mouth with abandon, cock thick and hot, pounding against the back of her throat.

Her chest heaved, legs shaking where they strained against the floor. Then the first flood hit.

His cock throbbed deep inside her mouth as cum surged down her throat, thick and sudden. She gagged again, the warmth filling her belly like a hot stone, her whole body jolting in response. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull back, but the collar dug in, and Peanut pressed closer.

He didn’t stop.

Another set of thrusts followed, faster now—harder—his claws bracing against her cheeks, the slap of wet flesh echoing in the tight tank. Her lips ached, stretched wide around him, jaw burning. Then another gush. Cum spilled down her throat again, thicker this time, leaking out the corners of her mouth, running down her chin.

Time unraveled into something shapeless.

He pulled back slightly—just enough to build momentum—then slammed forward again with brutal rhythm. Her vision swam. Every breath was a choking gasp. Her hair clung to her face, soaked with sweat and spit. Her arms had given out completely, her body trembling under the onslaught.

A third orgasm struck without warning. The pressure pulsed through her throat, flooding her mouth so fast it gushed from her nose. She twitched violently, stomach swollen with the sheer volume, her mind slipping into a fog of overstimulation and numb disbelief.

And then the fourth came.

Her knees buckled. Her thighs shook once and went limp. Her arms sprawled uselessly to the sides, and her entire weight slumped forward. The only thing keeping her upright was the plastic walls digging into her hips—trapped, wedged tight. Her legs no longer responded, her muscles wrung out and quivering, barely able to twitch.

Peanut kept going.

A fifth release pulsed into her, slower but no less hot, drenching her throat in another wave of sticky warmth. Her body didn’t react anymore. She couldn’t even gag. Her breath came in faint, trembling gasps, her lips bruised and slack around his cock.

Six. Seven.

His hips jerked wildly, his pace losing rhythm, driven purely by instinct. Cum spilled from her mouth with every thrust, dripping steadily down her neck, soaking the bedding. Her jaw hung open, too tired to close, tongue flattened beneath his weight as he drove into her mouth again and again. Her only movement now was the occasional weak tremor—a thigh twitching, a hand spasming faintly. Her eyes stared unfocused, wet and dazed, her thoughts disintegrated into a haze of exhaustion and lingering heat.

His final release came deep and grinding. He buried himself to the hilt, fur trembling, squeaks high and breathless as his cock pulsed one last time. A long, hot stream of cum poured into her, pooling thick inside her throat.

Then, with a wet pop, he slid free.

Elana didn’t collapse—she couldn’t. She was still jammed tight, hips caught between the plastic housing, her limp body slumped forward like a rag doll. Her lips were swollen and slack, chin glistening with drool and cum, her throat working weakly as she tried to swallow what was left.

Her legs hung useless behind her. Her arms barely twitched. Every muscle ached, spent. Her pussy throbbed with unfulfilled need, untouched and burning, the only thing still awake in the sea of numbness.

She hung there, trembling, twitching, leaking.

Minutes passed.

Then the lid of the cage clicked open.

“There you are…” Mark’s voice was soft and fond.

He reached in, hands gentle as he slid them beneath her limp frame. Elana didn’t resist—just twitched faintly as he worked her hips free with a slow, wet pop.

She slumped into his palms, legs slack, chin glossy with drool and thick streaks of cum.

Mark cradled her to his chest, brushing her sweat-damp hair from her flushed face.

“Have too much fun?” he murmured, teasing but kind.

She gave a faint, broken whimper.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and warm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

And he carried her off with quiet care, her small body trembling against his chest.

Then came the Science Fair.

The gym buzzed with noise—squeaking sneakers, kids laughing, cardboard volcanoes fizzing and star charts taped to tri-fold boards. Toby’s table sat near the center, bright with glitter glue and paper stars. At the middle of it all, in a clean glass cage labeled Sprinkles the Amazing!, Elana crouched—naked, still, and trembling.

Her hair hung in soft waves around her shoulders. Her collar sat snug, familiar now. Her green eyes darted across the crowd, heart hammering as giants loomed above her. The air was cold against her bare skin. Her nipples stiffened. She curled tighter.

“She’s the best pet ever!” Toby declared, beaming. He tapped the glass with both hands. “She can do tricks and everything!”

Elana flinched as the tank shook. Her large ass tensed under the sudden attention. Her cheeks flushed as the crowd leaned closer. A man nearby muttered, “Good hips.” A woman smiled down at her with mild curiosity. “Well-trained,” she said approvingly. “Must be a lot of work.”

A teacher adjusted her glasses. “Remarkable conditioning,” she said, voice clinical. “That gait… that posture. She’s clearly been handled with care.”

A boy giggled as he tossed a crumpled paper ball at the tank. It missed, but she startled anyway, shame prickling under her skin. Her collar shifted with every motion. The studs in her nipples tugged faintly with her breath.

“Run the wheel, Sprinkles!” Toby chirped.

She hesitated—then obeyed.

The crowd murmured as she ran, her body moving on instinct. Her modest chest bounced with every step. The cage vibrated faintly as the wheel spun beneath her. When she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled into the tunnel, the room quieted just a little. Her hips swayed unconsciously. Her ass arched with each motion.

“She’s doing a little dance,” a boy snickered.

Sprinkles smiled.

The thought came unbidden. She caught it a second too late—blinked, corrected herself—but the damage was done. The name sat in her head like it belonged there. Like it always had.

Elana’s smile faltered, but the warmth in her belly didn’t fade.

Applause erupted. Toby grinned, glowing under the attention. A blue ribbon was pressed into his hand.

Elana stayed crouched at the center of her glass world, breathing hard, body flushed, eyes glassy.

She should’ve felt humiliated. Instead, she just felt warm.

---

Epilogue (1 year later)

Time blurred in the warm rhythms of the Hendersons' home.

Sprinkles woke to the clatter of breakfast dishes and the hum of Clara’s morning routine. The scent of toast and coffee filled the kitchen. Peanut stirred beside her, his fur twitching. Without warning, he mounted her, his thick cock pressing into her slit with practiced ease. She gasped, head tilting back, the collar cool against her throat. His squeaks mingled with the faint clink of chain as he rutted her, rough and urgent.

Her cunt stretched around him, wet and ready, slick from need she no longer questioned. He drove into her hard, balls slapping her ass as her fingers curled into the fleece beneath her. Cum spilled deep inside her, thick and hot, her thighs trembling as he finished with one last sharp thrust. He slumped over her, panting, his musk heavy in the air.

She lay still beneath him, chest heaving, cunt pulsing.

When he finally rolled off, her hand slid down without thought. Fingers dipped between her thighs, spreading the mess he left behind. She moaned softly, hips rocking as she circled her clit. Her other hand pinched a nipple stud, sparks of sharp pleasure rolling through her chest. Her modest breasts rose and fell, her large ass shifting with each motion.

Sprinkles didn’t think. She didn’t need to.

She just came.

Clara’s voice drifted from the counter. “Such a happy little thing.”

A yogurt chip dropped through the slot. Mark tapped the glass once, absently. “Good girl,” he murmured, not even looking.

His fingertip brushed her thigh on the way past. Warm. Barely aware. She shivered anyway.

Life settled into a kind of gentle, twisted peace.

Clara pampered them both—yogurt chips, fresh towels, soft coos as she wiped between Sprinkles’ legs with a warm cloth, fingers brushing the curve of her chest. Peanut nuzzled her often, sometimes mounting, sometimes just curling close. Toby clapped whenever they “played,” delight shining in his face as he reached in to adjust her pose or comb her hair. His knuckles often grazed her ass, careless but familiar.

Mark built new tunnels and obstacle courses. Sometimes he’d pause beside the cage, just watching. His gaze slid over her curves, lingering at her breasts, her hips. He never said anything, but Sprinkles saw the way his lips sometimes parted. The way his hand drifted toward the tank before pulling away.

She liked those moments.

Nights brought soft moans through the glass. Clara and Mark tangled in the bed, the cage pulled close like an afterthought. Sprinkles pressed against the pane, breath fogging the glass. Her blanket slipped down, baring her chest, nipples hardening from the cold—or maybe from the sounds. Clara’s breathy gasps. Mark’s low groans. The rhythm of their bodies shaking the cage.

Sprinkles didn’t cover herself.

She lay beside Peanut, his cock twitching lazily against her thigh. His warmth soothed her. She curled in tighter, her mind soft and quiet.

She didn’t think about anything before the cage. The world outside felt like a story she’d overheard once and forgotten.

She was a good girl.

She was theirs.

She was Sprinkles.

And she was home.

[Justhereforamoment1]

Just a quick short idea I had. Let me know what you think!

---

Comic-Con throbbed with noise and color—blaring music, flashing lights, and a crush of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the convention center’s high ceiling.

The air reeked of sweat, cheap deodorant, and fried food. Booths flared with LED signs and poster walls, selling comics, figurines, and overpriced snacks. Cosplayers moved in mobs—Deadpools, Sailor Moons, Chainsaws, Marios—laughing, posing, shouting over each other.

Perched on her friend’s shoulder, Macy held tight to the blue fold of his Himmel cape. Her six-inch frame was barely a wisp in the chaos, and her heart beat fast—not just from excitement. The sheer scale of everything buzzed through her, both thrilling and dangerous.

Her Frieren costume was perfect: a flowing white dress trimmed in gold, a deep green sash, and a tiny wooden staff with a glittering gem at the tip. Her silver braid brushed her back as they moved, her big blue eyes scanning the crowd.

She looked ethereal, serene—if not for the tension coiled in her shoulders. Her body was soft and curvy in miniature: full breasts pressed into the bodice, hips flared beneath the sash, and a rounded ass that peeked through each shift of the fabric.

And everyone could see it.

The state had tiny rights, but the laws were toothless. Tinies were allowed to attend events like this, but it was barely more than a gesture. Stares lasted too long. Giants leaned too close. She caught murmurs as they passed—“cute little thing,” “look at that ass”—never loud enough to confront, but always enough to chill her spine.

Once, at a vendor booth, she’d seen a tiny girl vanish mid-conversation. The vendor looked the other way. Security didn’t even pause.

But Macy had Lewis.

He was a mountain beneath her—tall, broad, solid. His Himmel costume looked almost regal with its gold epaulettes and fluttering cape. A messy blond wig tousled over warm hazel eyes that always, always looked at her—not her breasts, not her legs, not her ass. Just her. The way he smiled when she talked made her feel human again.

“You see that Gundam model?” he said, tilting his head slightly toward a booth. His voice vibrated through her bones, deep and gentle. “I think it costs more than my entire apartment.”

Macy giggled, her staff tapping lightly against his jaw. “You don’t have an apartment. You’re still living with your cousin.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “My rent is zero. That thing’s at least seven hundred.”

Their banter was a welcome rhythm, a familiar dance in a sea of strangers. Macy pressed closer to the curve of his neck, her thighs snug around his shoulder. His skin was warm where she leaned against him, and her body relaxed, just a little.

They moved through the hall slowly, Lewis’s steps steady as she pointed out booths and cosplayers. She caught another stare from a group in Naruto headbands—one of them licking his lips—but Lewis shifted his shoulder subtly, turning her out of view. She didn’t think he noticed what they’d said. He always seemed to notice.

They paused at an artist’s stall with a gorgeous Frieren print. Lewis leaned in to haggle, and Macy stepped forward on his shoulder to get a better look. Her breasts swayed with the motion, her skirt rising slightly as she pointed.

She didn’t notice the man a few paces behind them.

He blended easily into the crowd—thirties, pale, soft around the edges, with a worn Evangelion hoodie stretched over his frame and a plastic con badge swinging from his neck. His name tag read Daryl, but no one ever really looked at those.

He moved slowly, hands tucked into his sleeves, pretending to scan booths while his eyes flicked from one tiny girl to the next. A pair of tiny twins in cat lingerie at a Funko stand had caught his attention earlier, and a dark-haired one with a mini-lightsaber passed too fast to grab.

Then he saw her—white dress, silver braid, smooth curves, perched confidently on her giant friend’s shoulder—and started following.

Casually.

He paused here and there to thumb through prints, glance at a box of model kits, but his eyes never wandered far. When they stopped at the art stall, he drifted closer, pretending to study some keychains. His hoodie was half unzipped. The pocket inside was deep.

A gang of Deadpool cosplayers barreled through the aisle, knocking elbows and swinging swords. Lewis jerked sideways, shoulder dipping—

And Macy slipped.

She yelped, her staff clattering against the concrete as she tumbled. Her tiny body hit the ground hard, the world exploding around her in stomping feet, towering legs, and shouting voices. Her dress fluttered around her hips as she scrambled up, disoriented.

“MACY!” Lewis’s voice boomed somewhere behind her.

She scrambled upright. Her legs felt shaky, but she bolted anyway—ducking under a swinging tote bag, veering around a pair of bulky calves. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned out everything else.

She didn’t even realize someone had stepped into her path until it was too late.

A hand swept in from the side—fast, precise, practiced—and clamped around her waist.

She screamed. Her arms kicked, legs thrashed, her whole body fighting as the world tipped sideways and his grip lifted her off the floor.

“Put me down! Let me go! Lewis!!”

Nobody looked. The crowd just kept flowing.

She slammed her fists into his thumb, but he didn’t flinch. Her bare legs slipped against his skin as he tucked her quickly into the inner pocket of his hoodie. She was plunged into warmth, then darkness—cotton walls pressing close, the scent of stale body spray and synthetic fleece all around her.

She tried to push out. Kicked as hard as she could. But his hand was right there again, firm against her thighs, holding her in place.

Outside, she heard Lewis yelling her name—closer, maybe. Or maybe not.

She screamed again, but the pocket muffled it.

The crowd swallowed them whole.

Time stretched endlessly inside the sweltering hoodie pocket.

Macy had no way of telling how long she'd been trapped there. The motion of his walking had settled into a rhythm—each step a jolt, each sway a reminder of how easily he could crush her without thinking. It might have been hours. Or minutes. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Her legs were cramped. Her mouth dry. The air was thick with body heat and fabric, smelling faintly of detergent and sweat. Every now and then, the pocket shifted or bounced, and she’d be thrown against the coarse inner lining. She’d stopped struggling—she’d learned that only made his fingers come back.

She was starting to drift, her thoughts foggy from exhaustion, when the motion suddenly stopped.

A soft sound. Fabric moved.

Then something dropped in beside her.

Macy startled, instinctively pressing herself to the far side of the pocket.

It was another girl—petite, dressed in a tight-fitting Ahri costume, the white-and-red fox ears matted slightly from being clenched in his hand. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted in a gasp as she hit the bottom of the pocket and scrambled upright.

“Where—what the hell—” she whispered, breathless.

“You’re in his pocket,” Macy said softly.

The Ahri cosplayer froze. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. “Oh god.”

“You too?” Macy asked.

The girl nodded numbly, then winced as the pocket jolted. “I was just posing for a photo and then—” She trailed off, swallowing. “It's my first con. I saved up for months.”

“Macy,” she offered, voice quiet.

“Claire,” the girl replied.

They sat in silence for a long moment, both trying to stay still as the footsteps resumed, steady and unhurried.

“I think he’s taking us somewhere,” Macy whispered.

Claire’s hand found Macy’s, trembling fingers lacing tight. “I just wanted to feel big for once,” she choked, fox ears quivering. “Not… this.”

Macy squeezed back, her heart twisting. “We’ll get out,” she promised, voice fierce despite the dark.

Outside, the city sounds grew fainter with every step—voices, traffic, life—all falling away as Daryl carried them deeper into the quiet, away from the crowds, and back toward his apartment.

It was small, dim, and stifling.

The blinds were drawn tight, letting in only narrow slashes of afternoon light that cut across the floor like prison bars. The air was warm and stale, thick with the scent of old takeout, cheap body spray, and sweat ground into carpet. Empty soda cans lined the base of the TV like a lazy barricade, and the only clear path through the clutter was the worn trail from the door to his desk.

Posters of anime girls plastered the walls—busty, scantily clad heroines in provocative poses, their glossy surfaces curling at the corners. A few of them were signed. Some had clear tape along the edges, yellowing with age.

The centerpiece of the room was the massive fish tank on his cluttered desk. LED strips flickered dimly along its top edge, giving the glass enclosure a dull, ambient glow. Inside, two tiny girls already waited—one in a torn Rem outfit, the other in a filthy, half-shredded Jinx costume. They sat in opposite corners, battered, silent.

Then the lid opened.

Macy hit first.

Her skirt flared up as she tumbled in, a grunt escaping her lips when she landed on her side. Her silver hair spilled out over the floor, dress twisted up her thighs. Claire followed seconds later, her Ahri costume in disarray, the oversized tails knocking her off-balance as she crashed beside Macy with a startled gasp.

The lid snapped shut behind them.

Macy groaned, sitting up quickly, brushing dust and a faint stickiness from her knees. Claire scrambled after her, panic in her voice. “What—where the hell are we?”

The two girls already inside didn’t answer at first.

The one in the Jinx outfit lifted her head slightly. Her braids were tangled and crusted, her eyes sunken with exhaustion. The Rem girl only curled tighter into herself, costume hanging from one shoulder, exposing bruised skin.

“Don’t yell. Don’t try to run,” Jinx muttered hoarsely. “He likes that.”

Macy’s eyes narrowed. “Who does?”

A beat.

“Daryl,” Rem said quietly, still not looking at them. “He collects us.”

Macy’s stomach twisted.

A shadow fell over the tank as Daryl approached.

He loomed above them, his expression gleeful and hungry. His hoodie clung to his chest in the warm apartment, his breathing slightly heavy. He leaned down, eyes scanning each of them—but they settled hardest on Macy, then Claire.

He smiled.

“New additions,” he said, voice thick with excitement. “You two are gonna look real nice in here.”

Claire recoiled, clutching Macy’s arm. The tank rattled as Daryl reached in without hesitation and snatched the Jinx girl by the ankle.

“No—no, please—” she screamed, kicking wildly, but he was too strong. He dragged her out like she weighed nothing and dropped her on the desk outside.

Macy stepped in front of Claire, shielding her.

She didn’t want to look. She tried not to.

But the sounds were everywhere—Jinx’s panicked sobs, the slick drag of flesh, the low, guttural grunts as Daryl claimed her with ruthless hunger. Her shrill cries broke into fractured whimpers. His thick cock pressed her tiny frame against its searing length, her plush breasts scraping throbbing veins, her rounded ass quivering as he dragged her through his slick precum. Her body twisted, braids tangling in the sticky heat, her legs kicking futilely as he ground her harder, muttering to a signed Asuka poster, “She’s perfect, just like you.”

They heard it all.

The desk creaked as he pinned her face to the pulsing slit, a thick bead of precum smearing her lips, her choked gasp buzzing against his skin. Her soft curves molded to his shaft, her breasts trembling as he yanked her upward, her sobs sharpening into screams.

With a shuddering moan, he came—a brutal jet coating her tiny frame, drenching her braids, glazing her breasts, dripping from her thighs in thick, molten strands. Her body convulsed, slick and trembling, as he milked every jolt of pleasure, arranging her cum-soaked form on the desk like a prized figurine before lifting her again.

He dropped her back into the tank with a sickening splat, her body limp, braids soaked, her tiny form coated in white. She lay there twitching, breath barely audible.

Next, Rem.

He didn’t speak to her. Just lifted her, tore the remnants of her outfit away, and pressed her to his cock. Her body moved dully, face blank, arms slack against the searing heat. His fingers dragged her along his shaft, her tender breasts grinding against thick ridges, her ass jiggling with each brutal thrust. As he neared climax, Daryl grunted and tilted her—pinning her face to the drooling tip, his cock throbbing against her lips.

Her eyes widened.

A thick surge erupted, flooding her mouth and throat, her cheeks puffing as she gagged. Her belly swelled grotesquely, cum bursting through the seams of her torn corset, her limbs thrashing helplessly. The torrent continued, her body quaking, her soft curves drenched in sticky heat as he held her there, enjoying her spasms.

He let her go.

She slumped back into the tank in a wet heap beside Jinx. Her face was smeared, her stomach round and bloated, twitching with aftershocks.

Daryl exhaled slowly, a pleased grunt slipping out as he shook the last drop from his tip. But he wasn’t done.

He turned toward the tank again—eyes flicking past Macy—and reached for Claire.

“No—no, don’t touch me—” she yelped, kicking at his fingers, but he caught her easily, wrapping his thick fist around her waist and yanking her up into the air.

“Relax,” he murmured, turning toward the couch with her wriggling in hand. “You’ll see.”

Macy watched, frozen.

Daryl dropped onto the sagging cushions, sweatpants already down to his thighs. His pale, hairy ass spread as he leaned back and casually pulled her down behind him.

Claire shrieked once—just once—before he shoved her face-first into the puckered hole. Her legs kicked furiously, her arms flailing against his cheeks, fox ears trembling as he pressed her deeper. “No—please!” she screamed, voice muffled by the suffocating flesh. He worked her in slowly, her shoulders quivering, hips twitching, until her thighs sealed tight inside, her body consumed by the pulsing heat.

He let go.

His cheeks closed, sealing her inside.

Daryl moaned softly, sinking into the couch with a slack-jawed grin, muttering to a poster of Asuka on the wall.

“Perfect fit, huh,” he chuckled, his voice low, amused.

He shifted, adjusting his weight, a faint shudder rippling through him as Claire’s muffled struggles buzzed within.

Macy stared, her breath catching.

He pulled up his sweatpants and lounged back, fingers twitching as he reached for a soda can, popping it with a hiss. The TV flickered, casting a sterile glow over his satisfied smirk.

The hall fell silent, save for the drone of a distant anime opening.

Macy sank to her knees, her silver braid trembling against her chest. Her hands gripped her skirt, nails biting her palms.

She whispered, barely audible, her voice cracking with desperate hope.

“Lewis,” she breathed. “Please… hurry.”

Hours crawled by.

Daryl slumped on the couch, snoring, the TV muttering in the background. His hand rested on his lap as he twitched in his sleep. The tank reeked—of cum, fear, musk.

Inside, Jinx curled tighter, her braids crusted with dried semen. Rem stared blankly, her swollen belly quivering faintly. Macy sat frozen, her eyes locked on the glass, her breath uneven.

A knock shattered the silence.

Daryl stirred, grumbling, his hoodie shifting as he rose. He shuffled to the tank, muttering, “Stay quiet.” His fingers swept the three tinies up—Macy’s dress snagged, Jinx gasped, Rem whimpered—squeezing them in a bruising grip.

He paused, his other hand slipping behind him.

With a low groan, he tugged at his sweatpants, fingers delving deep. Claire’s choked sob emerged as he yanked her free—her tiny body slick with filth, glistening and pale, fox ears matted and quivering. Her limbs twitched, her breath ragged, eyes wide with shock. Daryl dangled her by an arm, smirking as she writhed faintly, then tossed her into his palm with the others.

The drawer yawned open.

He dumped them inside, a slick tangle of limbs and cries. The lid slammed shut, plunging them into darkness. The air reeked of hus musk, their sobs stifled by the damp wood.

Macy curled around Claire, her silver hair shielding her friend’s trembling form. “Lewis is coming,” she whispered, voice fierce despite the dark. “You’re so strong, Claire. Hold on.”

Claire’s hand clutched Macy’s, her voice a broken whisper. “I… can’t… forget the smell. The heat...” Her fox ears trembled, tears mixing with the filth on her cheeks.

A muffled crash outside—wood splintering, a shout cut off. Daryl’s voice came, sharp and panicked. “Who the hell—?”

“I’m tracking her phone,” Lewis’s voice boomed, unyielding. “Macy’s here. Let me in.”

A scuffle, a grunt, then a heavy thud. Daryl’s yelp choked off, followed by another brutal hit. Macy’s heart pounded.

“Where is she, you sick fuck?” Lewis roared.

The drawer flew open.

Light flooded in. Lewis stood above, cape torn, knuckles bloodied, hazel eyes fierce. His gaze locked on Macy. “There you are,” he breathed.

She surged forward, silver hair matted, dress in tatters. “Lewis!” she sobbed.

He lifted her gently, cradling her against his chest like glass. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. His eyes swept the others—Jinx, Rem, Claire, slick and trembling—his jaw hardening.

Daryl groaned on the floor, face bruised, hoodie askew. Lewis stepped over, slamming a boot into his side, his low growl coming from his throat. “Stay down.”

He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, blood smearing the screen.

The police arrived quickly. Two officers—a wiry man and a stocky woman—scanned the scene with sharp, calculating eyes. The man’s fingers brushed through Jinx’s cum-glossed braids before pinching one of her breasts, a smirk curling his lips when she shivered beneath the touch.

“Rough night?” he murmured, eyes dragging over Claire’s quivering fox ears with open, hungry curiosity.

The woman seized Rem, her gloved hand pressing into the girl’s swollen belly. Her thumb grazed a raw nipple as she grinned.

“Tinies always wind up in some giant’s house,” she said, fingers gliding down Rem’s thigh, leaving behind a faint, possessive mark. Her gaze flicked to Macy, then to the heavy canvas sack in her other hand—a faded police emblem stamped near the zipper, the word EVIDENCE barely legible beneath a smear of something sticky.

Macy clung to Lewis, trembling. The wiry officer’s hand slid down Claire’s ass before he shoved her roughly into the bag.

“Poor thing,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery. Claire whimpered, limbs twitching as the zipper closed with a soft, final hiss.

Lewis’s jaw tightened. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“They’ll be taken to processing,” the woman replied smoothly, adjusting the bag against her hip.

A protest rose in Macy’s throat, but she swallowed it, too shaken to speak.

Later, in the hotel bathroom, Lewis lifted her onto the counter and gently wiped her down with a warm cloth. Her dress was gone, her skin raw but clean. Her blue eyes never left his, though her hands still trembled. He moved with slow, steady care—his touch soft, never straying.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice low and sure.

Macy nodded. “I know.”

She leaned into his hands—not just for comfort, but to feel something solid.

But her mind kept drifting. To the drawer. To Claire’s broken whimpers. To Jinx and Rem’s hollow stares. To the way that evidence bag shifted as it was carried away.

Not everyone had a Lewis.

And in this world, that was the true terror.

[Sumguy14]

Comic Con was brilliant. Your description of the show floor were truly spot on. I'm curious if Daryl was a practiced thief of tinies or if these ladies were nabbed at the beginning of his career?

[1InchGirl]

Amazing stories, each one is perfect in there own ways. There's a few that aren't my kink but that's not my issue lol as long as others like family then write whatever you want! Obviously I would love to see a sequel or spin-off to chapter 20. Instead of... Drawing a blank on names, my apologies! But instead of the perspective of the girl who hid while her friend was taken until she saw her later that day, I'd love to read the the friends story of what happened to her after she was grabbed and walked off with coming full circle until he brings her to show his friends when the 2 friends lock eyes for a moment before they end up separated. If you wanna write even more passed that of what happens and what her life becomes now owned by the guy who grabbed her off the street.
Huge fantasie of mine to be shrunk and just taken like that, love the thought of being bound, objectified, humiliated/degraded, feet, and being kept and treated like nothing more than a toy.
Glad to see you're back, hope life is going well!
If you have any questions or would like any help with ideas or a plot, anything really don't be afraid to ask!
I make foot fetish content for a living currently and I have a lot of tiny edits of myself random people have made for me as gifts. Haha I only bring that up just to share content I have but have no stories to go with it. Also, in case you didn't want to write a spin-off on that story and wanted something new potentially with a photo to go with it. Just wanted to share that with you, anyway, keep up the good work. Love reading the new stories especially the crueler ones
My Instagram is: Submissivefootfreak
I check your messages daily on there so just thought I would share that. Plus I do have some not much but some of the GTS content on there. I think there's more on my Twitter which is: @Goddessjessica4200
Had I would post more of the folders I have however, I always find photos with stories with them more appealing than just the photos alone. Lol
Anyway, I apologize for a long message or comment whatever it would be classified as aha But love the stories, love the detail, I hope to continue to see updates to your thread and like I said, if anything I could do to help I'd be glad to!
Thanks,
Jessica

[Justhereforamoment1]

Hey thanks for reading! I like to think that Daryl has been doing this for a couple years. He used to have more cosplayers, but they get worn out so he gives them away. The first two he may have had from a different con earlier that year, something smaller.

And thanks for the long message Jessica! I can definitely write a short from her perspective. I'm currently working on a short about a tiny athlete grabbed and stuffed inside a giant's pants, which will focus mostly on the entrapment in his underwear, then I plan to work on one of the stories Eddiegiantman asked about a while ago (I'm thinking the detective vs evil ceo, maybe a F/f? Havent done that in a bit), but after that I can start on your request. I saw that you love feet content so I'll try to work that in

[dubiouskey]

I loved this one! I used to be a Jinx main back during my League days. Haven’t played it in like 3 or 4 years, though.

By all means, work on the stuff you’re doing, but continue the cosplay one! Maybe a prequel about how he started grabbing cosplayers? I dunno what you’d have in mind, but a collection of sexy cosplayers is a great idea and I love it.

[Justhereforamoment1]

I did have the idea for a guy to grab different cosplayers for his collection where they wouldn't get out at the end, but that morphed into this one when I realized I hadn't had a girl escape since like my 2nd short lol.

Maybe in the future I could do it. If you have any ideas for how it'd go, let me know! Dunno if it'd be an anthology following multiple girls with this one guy, a short focusing on just one girl, or a short focused on the giant. Maybe even an entirely different giant? He's not the only giant grabbing cute tiny cosplayers after all. What does everyone think?

[Justhereforamoment1]

Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this new story!

On a side note, which hopefully you read and answer, I don't know if you've realized this, but I pre-write a bunch of my stories and realease them slowly. I'm currently writing my story about the tiny detective breaking and working for the villian like I mentioned, and the set up is taking a bit longer than I thought. It'll definitely be longer than the Souvenirs one. Do you think it'd be better to make it its own post or drop it here?

---

Gwen had a lot to prove.

The Great Trans-Wilderness Race wasn’t built for someone like her. A brutal, week-long cross-country gauntlet stretching from the jagged cliffs of Blackthorn Ridge to the cracked salt flats of Solace Point—two hundred miles of raw, unsupervised terrain. For giants, it was the ultimate test of stamina and strategy. For a six-inch tiny, it was suicide.

But Gwen didn’t care.

At six inches, she was lean, all muscle and fire wrapped in stubborn defiance. Her short, tousled brown hair stuck damp against her forehead, hazel eyes blazing with purpose.

Her tight, athletic body moved like a precision machine—modest breasts pressed against her fitted tank top, toned thighs driving beneath snug running shorts, and a firm, tight ass flexing with every step. She wasn’t running just for herself—she was running for every tiny who’d been told to stay small, invisible, trapped.

She carried their hopes on her shoulders, a beacon proving tinies could stand tall among giants.

The starting line thrummed with giant bodies—massive runners stretching, bouncing, laughter rumbling like thunder. The ground shook beneath their powerful strides. Their sneers were barely hidden.

“Who let a mouse in?” one giant snorted as he passed.

“Think she’ll even last an hour?” another laughed.

Gwen ignored the jeers. Her micro-pack was snug against her back, every checkpoint memorized. She was ready, she had her grit and a will forged through years of training, dodging careless feet and giant eyes hungry for a show.

The signal flared.

She shot forward, boots pounding the dry dirt, the world shaking with the giants’ stampede around her. Dust rose in clouds, branches snapped. For now, she stayed low, weaving through shadows, breath steady and legs pumping. The giants thundered overhead, too big and fast to spot her tiny form darting through the underbrush.

Gwen pressed on through the underbrush, the pounding footfalls of the giants fading behind her. Trees loomed like ancient towers, their roots weaving jagged, uneven paths through the dirt. Shafts of golden light filtered through the canopy above, catching in the dust kicked up by her sprint. Her breathing stayed steady, trained and practiced, but her thighs were already burning.

She didn’t care. Pain meant progress.

Her route curved down into a gully, narrow and shaded, with a muddy stream winding through it. She leapt across rocks slick with moss, boots landing light and sure. Every few minutes, the earth would rumble—a giant crossing nearby—but she stayed tucked beneath ferns and bramble, a blur of motion too small to track.

A broken log ahead gave her pause. It lay across the path like a collapsed bridge, its underside hollow and dark. Gwen crouched, slipping beneath it, letting her hand trail across damp bark for balance. A pause, a breath—and then she moved again, boots striking soft earth.

High above, sunlight shimmered on open trail.

Little did she know, someone was watching.

Daron was a runner built like a storm—at 6'6 his thick, powerful legs propelled a body honed by endurance and driven by ego. His dark skin gleamed with sweat beneath the noon sun, muscles flexing with each long stride.

He’d run this kind of course before. Won more than a few. The GTW race was just another opportunity to show off. He jogged easy, barely winded, eyes scanning the trail—but it wasn’t the terrain that caught his eye.

It was movement. Small. Fast. Out of place.

He slowed, brow furrowing slightly as he peered downward. There—just off the path, darting behind a root. A flicker of motion like a fleeing insect.

His lip curled. Was that… a tiny?

He let out a soft chuckle, amused.

“Well, well,” Daron muttered, brushing a thumb across his lower lip. “Didn’t think they were serious about letting one of you in.”

He paused at the edge of the trail, letting his gaze track her movements. She was fast. Determined. He could see the way her body moved with discipline and purpose.

She was a cute little thing, too—legs pumping, her tight littlr ass flexing beneath tiny shorts, completely oblivious to the fact she’d just wandered way too close.

His cock twitched against the fabric, swelling at the sight of her.

And just like that, a new idea formed.

No one around. No oversight. She was on the trail just like him, which made her fair game—didn’t it?

His eyes darkened with amusement. Looks like he just found himself a little morale booster.

Daron adjusted his pace, quieting his steps as he veered just off the trail, eyes locked on the tiny shape flitting through the shadows. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her focus was forward, legs driving hard, breath visible in tight, disciplined rhythm.

He licked his lips.

She was hugging close to a fallen log now, disappearing beneath its curve. The dip in the terrain worked in his favor—each step he took was masked by distance, the sound of distant runners still echoing through the trees.

He stayed just close enough to keep sight of her. Watched her leap a slick rock. Saw the twitch of her tight little thighs, the way her ass flexed with every motion.

His cock stirred again, heavier now. He adjusted himself slightly with one hand, eyes locked on her little form weaving through the gully.

She’d dipped into a shaded patch of trail, probably thinking she was alone.

He picked up his pace just a little.

Gwen’s breath stayed steady as she moved through the underbrush, eyes flicking toward the shafts of sunlight ahead. She was doing well—no injuries, no wrong turns, and most importantly, no giant boots crashing down nearby. The ground had been calm for miles.

Then a twig snapped.

She froze and turned.

And there he was.

A giant. Tall and broad. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his dark skin gleamed under the dappled sun. He was just standing there casually, looking her up and down.

“Yo,” he said, nodding slightly.

“…Hi,” she replied warily, eyeing him.

“You’re the tiny, right?” he asked, stepping closer. “Didn’t think that was real. Figured it was just hype to stir up attention.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m real. And busy.”

He chuckled. “No doubt. Just didn’t expect to run into you off-trail like this. Kind of dangerous, huh?”

“I can handle myself,” she snapped.

He looked her over slowly, openly appreciative. “Clearly. I just figured someone your size would be… dodging feet and praying for daylight.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t hot,” he added with a smirk. “You’ve got some bounce on you.”

“Charming.” She turned to go.

Then he moved.

His hand shot down before she could take a step, and suddenly she was in the air, his fingers warm and firm around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground like she weighed nothing.

“Hey—HEY! What the fuck?! Put me down!” she shouted, legs kicking wildly.

He held her at eye level, his gaze amused and unhurried.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re light. You’ll barely slow me down.”

His heart thudded—not just from the run, but from what he was about to do. Her tiny body squirming in his grip was already getting him hard.

He adjusted his grip, thumb tracing slowly across her stomach as he began to lower her.

“Just figured you could use a ride,” he murmured. “Save those little legs some effort.”

“I don’t need a goddamn—wait, where are you—no, no, no—”

But he was already tugging open the waistband of his shorts, just enough to reveal the thick shape of his cock straining against sweat-damp mesh.

“No—NO! You can’t—!”

“Let’s be honest,” he cut in, voice low. “You were never gonna finish this thing. But lucky for you, I’ve got a spot open…”

His fingers shifted. Before she could squirm free, he slipped them beneath her tank top and ripped upward. The fabric shredded like tissue, baring her breasts as he flung the scraps aside without a glance. Her shorts were next—torn clean down one side, peeled from her thighs and ass in one fluid motion. Strips of fabric fluttered to the dirt, forgotten.

He held her up, fully exposed now, her bare skin glistening with sweat. She kicked and twisted, but it only made her bounce helplessly in his hand.

He turned her slightly, thick fingers gliding over her chest, kneading her breasts with lazy interest before sliding down her slick torso. He traced her hips, dragged his thumb along the curve of her ass, then dipped lower to brush the insides of her thighs. Every twitch and squirm just drove her tighter into his palm.

She was soft, warm, trembling—and he was getting harder by the second.

With a low, pleased sound in his throat, he tilted her downward—guiding her straight toward the humid heat waiting below.

She screamed as he lowered her, bare feet brushing the hot, firm curve of his shaft. His cock twitched at the contact, growing harder by the second. The waistband snapped shut above her, sealing her into the heat, the scent, the constant movement.

Outside, Daron exhaled slowly, a grin spreading across his face as he settled back into stride.

“Now that’s a boost,” he muttered, cock twitching with every jostle of her squirming little body.

The world narrowed to heat and motion.

Gwen’s bare skin was mashed against a wall of pulsing flesh, the damp mesh of his shorts pressing her forward with every stride. Her limbs twisted, struggling to find leverage, but the space was too tight—she was wedged between slick heat and damp fabric, smothered in humid darkness. Her breasts flattened against the thick shaft, the tip riding just above her face, slick with sweat and precum.

She kicked. Pushed. Squirmed.

It only made things worse.

Daron groaned.

The squirming little runner was almost too much. Her frantic writhing only made him harder, every panicked twist of her body stroking across the sensitive underside of his cock. She was soft and warm and constantly moving—pressed right against him, stimulating every inch. He almost tripped when her tiny hands grabbed at the shaft, her fingers digging for a hold, but he caught himself mid-step.

The touch made him throb, precum welling up and spilling across her fingers, down her wrists, hot and slick and endless. She jerked her hands back, but there was nowhere to go—his cock just followed, rising up under her body, lifting her with it. Her stomach dragged over the ridged underside, her chest catching and sliding against the head, forced upward with each pulse.

Her cheek mashed into the spongy head. Sweat and precum smeared across her face. She turned, gasping, but a fresh pulse splashed over her lips, into her nose, filling her mouth with thick, salty heat. She gagged, choking, limbs flailing—but every twist only made her grind harder against him, soft tits and belly sliding across the hungry length.

The air was thick with his scent—musk and salt and heat. Her chest heaved, but every breath was tainted. Her body, fully exposed and glistening with sweat, was trapped in a prison made of flesh. She tried to turn her face away again, but the next step jolted her right back into it—mouth open, nose flattened against the tip, another splash of precum flooding her throat.

He shifted her slightly with a swipe of a palm on the outside of his shorts, adjusting the shape of the bulge and forcing her hips downward.

His cock flexed, already reacting.

Then he started jogging.

Each step slammed her body forward, then dragged her back. Her tits bounced wildly, flattened and scraped. Her hips smacked into the base of him, spread helplessly around the thick shaft. She reached again—fingernails catching for a second on the underside ridge—only for his cock to twitch violently in response, precum bubbling and spilling across her chest.

The friction was endless. Her struggles only made her body grind deeper against him. Her face slid over the underside again and again, lips parting in choked screams that were swallowed by flesh and heat. Sweat soaked her hair, her back, her thighs. Her naked form shuddered with every bounce, used and shaped to his pleasure.

Daron bit his lip, eyes scanning the trail. The extra weight in his shorts wasn't slowing him down at all—in fact, he was picking up speed. Every time she squirmed, he felt it ripple up his spine. A constant low pleasure throbbed with every step, his cock alive with motion.

Then the trail dipped into water.

Gwen only had a second of warning. A shift in heat. A sudden coolness. Then the flood came.

The cold rush hit her all at once—icy water soaking through the mesh, gushing over her skin, submerging her chest, her face, her thighs. She tried to scream but choked on water and precum as it filled every crevice, muffling her entirely. The cold was a slap against overheated nerves, but the current just swirled her tighter against him—her breasts crushed to his shaft, her body wrung between cock and fabric.

Daron exhaled sharply, the shock of icy streamwater making his cock twitch hard. The mix of cold and friction was brutal—intense. He could feel her writhing even more now, the frantic jerks of someone fighting to breathe. His cock pulsed eagerly, and he kept moving, water splashing around his thighs as he pressed through the stream.

When the cold finally passed, it left her drenched, breathless, and still helpless. Every inch of her body was soaked, her hair plastered to her skin, her curves slick and sliding with every bounce. Her ass was grinding into the base again, thighs spread wide around the swollen girth.

Then the rhythm shifted.

He was climbing.

The steps deepened, and each motion yanked her tighter against him. Her face was mashed into the cockhead once more, her legs dragged wide around the base. His shaft throbbed, so hard now she could barely move at all. Her hands pushed uselessly at the underside, the tip spitting another rope of precum across her face.

Daron grunted softly. The incline made every motion work her deeper against him—like she was being pressed into him by the trail itself. His cock ached, slick and pulsing. She was a constant, hot pressure grinding up and down with every effort.

She squirmed, twisting violently.

He rolled his hips, adjusting her. It shoved her higher, forced her chest back up against the head. She tried to scream, but the heat and the slick swallowed her voice. Her arms pinned, her breasts mashed and jostled with every movement, her soft curves nothing but stimulation against the rock-hard length.

Then, without warning, he crouched.

The motion slammed her downward. The waistband snapped tight, driving her between his cock and thigh. Her whole body bent with the pressure, face shoved into the swollen shaft, thighs squashed flat. His muscles shifted around her, and the space compressed like a fist—squeezing her from every angle. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Only feel.

He crawled now, and each movement rolled through her. Her breasts were crushed, her stomach scraped raw against the hard heat of his shaft. Her legs were drenched in sweat pooling in the dark. Her bare ass slid with each shift, grinding into the twitching cock beneath her.

She tried to scream—but the fabric swallowed her voice, muffled and useless.

She felt the pulse of his shaft—thick, pleased, hungry.

Then he stood.

He started jogging again.

The rhythm exploded—no more gentle jolts. Each step slammed her forward, then dragged her back. Her naked body bounced helplessly, breasts slapping against the shaft, her hips dragged and jerked by the flexing girth. The cock was fully hard now—unyielding, throbbing, its surface slick and burning hot.

Daron’s breathing was heavy now, sweat running down his chest, his shorts clinging wet to his skin. He didn’t even try to hide his grin—whatever place he was in the race, he didn’t care anymore. Not with the way she felt. She was practically milking him just by trying to escape.

She was nothing but stimulation.

Outside, the world rolled by—sunlight and trees and open trail—but inside, Gwen was just heat, wetness, motion, and cock. Her sweat-slick body moved only as he did, trapped and jostled, reduced to sensation and friction.

It continued like this for hours.

Gwen was bruised from the relentless bouncing, her skin rubbed raw by the unending friction. Pain blurred across her body—she couldn’t tell where one ache ended and the next began. All she felt was heat, pain, slickness, and motion.

Her face had been mashed against the cockhead so many times she could still taste him, even when she wasn’t choking on it. Her thighs burned. Her stomach throbbed from the constant grind against ridged flesh.

Every bounce shoved her body against the rock-hard shaft. Every twitch of him spilled fresh precum across her chest, her belly, her face. The world was just heat and motion, her body jolting forward and back, useless limbs bouncing with every step.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

No more bouncing. No more jolts. The relentless pounding of footfalls gave way to stillness, broken only by the lazy twitch of the cock still pinning her in place. It throbbed under her with every beat of his heart, holding her locked against the wall of his shorts.

Gwen blinked uselessly into darkness. Her lungs pulled in air thick with musk. Her lips were parted against the curve of the head, face smeared and glistening. Every breath burned.

She barely had the strength to squirm.

Outside, Daron stretched lazily, wiping sweat from his brow as he stepped into the checkpoint clearing. Runners milled around in loose clusters, some collapsing on benches, others refilling bottles and checking their watches.

He gave a friendly nod to the volunteers. “Whew. That climb got me.”

One of them laughed. “You’re still ahead of schedule. Hey, did you happen to see that tiny?”

Daron blinked, then put on a thoughtful expression. “The tiny…” He gave a slow shake of his head. “She was way behind earlier. Probably tapped out.”

One of the volunteers snorted. “Or got carried off. Something that small in this heat?”

“Owl food,” someone else joked.

They laughed.

Gwen screamed, but it only came out as a muffled sob, soaked into fabric and cock. Her body gave a weak jerk, trying to push out, but the shaft pressed against her harder in response, flexing lazily.

“Shame,” one of the runners said. “Cute one.”

Daron chuckled, "Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “She *was*.”

He grinned to himself as the volunteers moved on. Another twitch rippled down his cock as Gwen kicked in protest—barely a nudge, but enough to make the head flex again, smearing more precum against her chest.

He made his way to the outer edge of the camp and laid out his sleeping roll in the grass, far enough from others to avoid small talk. The sun was dipping low, painting the trees in gold. All around, the sounds of settling—zippered bags, quiet murmurs, the soft crush of boots on dirt.

Gwen writhed weakly as he sat down.

The new angle pressed her even deeper. She was wedged in completely now, thighs squashed to the sides, back bowed, breasts flattened to the underside of the shaft. Every inch of her naked skin stuck to him, wet with sweat and precum. She pushed again—once, twice—but there was nowhere to go. His cock had her sealed in place.

Daron scratched his chest and gave himself a subtle adjustment through the fabric, pushing her hips down to relieve some pressure on the tip. The shift made her body slide again, dragging her slick skin along the throbbing underside.

“Mmph. Finally,” he exhaled, low and pleased, voice dropping to something quieter.

He lay back. His cock pulsed once beneath her—fat, heavy, content. She was still buried in it. Still soaked. Still trapped.

Her limbs were trembling. Her lips were swollen. Every inch of her skin ached with exhaustion—but she couldn’t rest, couldn’t move, couldn’t even cry. She was stuck. Sealed inside his shorts and flattened against his cock.

Outside, night settled over the camp.

Inside, Gwen didn’t even have space to breathe.

The next days blurred into a cycle of heat and motion.

There were no breaks. No mercy. Just sun and sweat and endless trail.

Every morning, Gwen woke still trapped in his shorts, her body already pressed to his cock before her mind could catch up. She would struggle weakly—reflexively—but the shaft was always waiting, hard and ready, flexing against her before she could even push.

And then he would run.

The bounce started slow. A jog at first, then a full sprint, his cock hammering against her body in rhythm with every footfall. Her raw skin rubbed over the same ridged flesh again and again. Her breasts bounced uselessly, smashed against the underside, while her ass rocked into the thick base, thighs splayed helplessly.

The friction never ended.

Each day blurred into the next, and so did her thoughts. She stopped thinking in hours or miles. She stopped thinking at all. There was only the heat. The motion. The cock.

Sometimes he’d climb. Sometimes he’d crouch. Sometimes he’d slog through icy streams that soaked her bare skin and made her gasp before pinning her even tighter against him.

But it didn’t matter what the terrain was. Her world didn’t change. It was always the same: thick flesh, salty slickness, and pounding, jostling pressure.

She screamed less and less.

By the third night, she didn’t bother.

Her limbs stopped fighting. Her voice went hoarse. Her body stopped trying to escape. She just lay there—soaked, stretched, and spread—molded to him. Her thighs fit the curve now. Her breasts settled naturally against the underside. Her mouth stayed parted against the shaft, barely flinching when he pulsed.

She was soft now. Quiet.

When he adjusted himself through his shorts, she didn’t even try to resist. Just a little slide of her hips, a little push of his palm, and she shifted where he wanted her—slick, compliant, warm.

By the time the final leg of the race came, Daron didn’t even feel her struggle anymore. She was just pressure. Constant, soft friction. Her body worked perfectly against him—every motion a tease, every bounce a reward.

He crossed the finish line at full speed, chest heaving, cock swollen and twitching. His shorts were soaked through, but no one looked too close.

The crowd cheered. Volunteers rushed to record times. He accepted his medal with a lazy grin and a flex of his thighs, the bulge in his shorts giving the smallest, satisfied twitch.

One of the officials clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hell of a run. What was your secret?”

Daron gave a crooked smile, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Let’s just say I had a little incentive riding along," he said with a crooked grin, voice low.

He walked off toward the recovery tent, cock still gently pulsing, the soft body inside it barely stirring.

She didn’t even try to escape.

Later that night, Daron collapsed onto his couch, the soft cushions swallowing his weight after the brutal, week-long race.

He kicked off his caked, mud-streaked shoes. The scent of earth and sweat clung to him like a second skin. The condo was still, bathed in the flickering blue of the television. The news droned on in the background, but his attention was elsewhere—on the weak, trembling shape still tucked snug against his body.

He leaned back, one hand idly scratching at his bare chest while the other crept to his waistband. His shorts were still damp, clinging to his skin, the bulge at the front swollen with heat. Gwen hadn’t moved in minutes. She lay limp inside, her body soft and sticky with sweat and precum, molded tight around the shape of his shaft.

A low hum left his throat—pleased, possessive.

“Time to unwind,” he muttered, his voice rough and low.

He peeled the waistband down just enough to let the light spill in. The fabric parted, and cool air rushed in to kiss Gwen’s raw, sweat-soaked skin. She stirred, blinking blearily, her hazel eyes stinging in the light. Her short hair clung to her face in damp strands. Her petite body—athletic, lean—shivered from the sudden chill, skin flushed and glistening with days of heat, friction, and use.

Her limbs twitched with the last scraps of energy, hands pushing weakly at his fingers as he reached in. Her breath hitched in a raw gasp when his fingers curled around her waist—firm, unyielding. She squirmed, but her struggles barely moved her. All they did was make his cock throb, the thick shaft already twitching in anticipation.

Daron smirked.

He dragged her out slow, letting her slick, naked form slide across the head of his cock on the way. Her breasts bounced as she cleared the fabric, nipples stiff from the air, skin flushed and trembling. Her thighs were slick, her ass quivering with each breath. She sagged in his palm, too sore to resist, every motion sluggish and spent.

He turned her over, pressing her face-down into his hand, ass lifted just slightly.

His thumb traced her spine.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he murmured, his breath warm against her trembling body.

He slowly brought her down to his shaft.

The thick length pulsed with need, the head already smeared with precum. She wimpered as her chest met the soft ridge first, and her breath caught as her nipples grazed the slick surface. He guided her down inch by inch, rubbing her torso along the throbbing underside, her slick body grinding against the thick veins with a soft, wet squelch.

She struggled.

Her breasts flattened against the length, soft mounds catching on every ridge as he stroked her slowly down. Her hands clawed at his skin, slipping in the mess, but she couldn’t stop the slow descent. Her face met the tip, smearing fresh precum across her lips and cheeks. He paused there, pressing her mouth into the leaking slit, rubbing her gently side to side.

Then he started to move her.

He dragged her up again, lifting her so that her breasts slipped back over the shaft, leaving streaks of slick across the pulsing skin. He rolled her hips side to side gently, letting her slick thighs rub over the girth, the soft skin of her inner legs catching and smearing the precum already gathered there.

Down again, slower this time. Her slid against his shaft, the firm plane of her abs grinding into the sensitive underside. She was shaking in his grip now, tiny sobs escaping her lips as the friction worked into her tired muscles.

He pressed her down until her breasts were mashed against the base, her face ground against the curve of his shaft. Then up again, steady and slow, her body dragging slick and glistening.

Again and again, he stroked her along his length.

Each motion was deliberate—pausing at every ridge, every vein, letting her twitch and squirm before sliding her on. Her face rubbed over the leaking head, then down the shaft. Her breasts left wet trails, her skin catching where the cum had thickened. Her tight slit kissed the shaft over and over, smearing thin wetness each time.

He tilted her slightly, angling her so that one nipple dragged just beside the thickest vein. Her back arched, her muscles convulsing faintly, the rawness making her cry out again.

He dragged her up again, faster this time.

His grip tightened. The rhythm shifted—no longer slow or indulgent, but brutal and relentless. He moved her with purpose, the soft slap of her body against his cock growing sharper, wetter. Her slick form was a blur as he worked her up and down, her limbs flailing uselessly, her head lolling with each thrust.

Faster.

Each pass smeared more precum across her trembling skin. Her toned form, once lithe and balanced, was now a mess of twitching limbs and flailing motion, overwhelmed by the force of each stroke. Her body slapped against the thick shaft with wet, obscene squelches, her breasts bouncing wildly, nipples dragging raw with every pass.

Faster still.

Her body jolted like a ragdoll, thrown from base to tip and back again, muscles seizing and relaxing in quick, shuddering bursts.

She struck the swollen head with each trip upward, only to be slammed back down across the thick shaft seconds later. Her limbs jerked and spasmed—then went limp. Her head lolled sideways, eyes fluttering half-shut as consciousness slipped from her with one final, shaking breath.

He didn’t notice—or didn’t care.

He kept going, her limp body a blur of motion, chest and thighs sliding slick across every pulsing ridge. The friction burned through her soaked skin, her belly bouncing wildly with the force of each plunge. Her face hit the head again, cheeks smeared and glistening, mouth slack.

Then—

He slammed her face directly against the leaking slit, pressing her into it, grinding her lips and nose hard into the twitching head. His fingers held her fast, her face sealed tight to the source as the cock jumped in his grip.

The first shot of cum burst free with a deep, shuddering groan. The hot blast struck her face point-blank, thick and heavy, flooding into her slack mouth and spraying across her cheeks.

Her body jerked violently.

Her eyes flew open, breath catching in a wet, ragged gasp as the scalding heat forced her awake. Another rope surged forth, and he didn’t let her move—his grip pinned her head to the spurting tip, keeping her lips locked over the gushing slit as wave after wave poured out.

Her lips parted helplessly, swallowing what she could, but the tide was relentless.

The pressure built fast—his release spilling over her chest, pooling on her small breasts, slicking down her stomach. Her belly began to swell, growing taut and round beneath his grip, filled with the hot flood. The skin stretched tight, glistening as it strained against the sudden fullness.

What had once been the toned, athletic form of a runner slowly transformed under the weight of his cum—her belly ballooning outward, swollen and heavy, impossibly distended.

The firm lines of her abs softened and stretched, her body reshaped into something almost unrecognizable—a living vessel utterly filled and stretched beyond its limits.

More came—thick ropes pressing deeper, filling her so completely that it had no where to go. The cum surged upward, creeping to the edges of her lips, seeping into the corners of her mouth, running down her chin and cutting off her nose.

She gagged weakly, unable to take more, but Daron’s grip didn’t loosen.

Her small hands clawed weakly at his skin, trembling against the overpowering sensation. Her breath hitched in a choked, ragged gasp, the warmth pooling and pressing inside her like a living weight. Her taut belly flexed with every thick pulse, every jet of release.

Finally, with one last brutal jerk, he emptied himself fully, the flood slowing until the last thick drops spilled out, leaving her utterly filled and dripping with his seed.

He kept her pressed firmly to the tip, grinding her slowly against his still-hard shaft, savoring the slick friction of her swollen, cum-filled body sliding along him. Her broken whimpers and gurgled breaths hummed faintly against his skin, soft and helpless.

The news droned on: “The search for the tiny racer has officially ended. Experts suggest she was most likely eaten during the event.”

Daron smirked, eyes closing as he leaned back into the cushions. The heat of the week faded, replaced by a slow, heavy satisfaction.

He cradled Gwen’s trembling form in his palm, her slick body glistening with his cum, her hazel eyes dull and distant. He pressed her against his softening shaft on last tine, letting her feel the last lazy pulse, her swollen belly stretched tight, molded perfectly to his skin.

With care, he tucked her back into his shorts, the damp fabric holding her warm, heavy body in place. Her faint twitches hummed sweetly against him—a quiet reminder of what she was now.

The TV flickered on, the world outside still turning, but here, in the stillness of his condo, Gwen was his—broken, glistening, and forever trapped.

[Justhereforamoment1]

Hey! So uh... I may have gone a bit overboard with this one. It's a bit long. Like 18k words long. Anyways, there's good stuff sprinkled throughout a foot scene about a third of the way through and lots of pussy stuff near the end.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

---

Bethany Kline had it all.

As the sole heir to Kline Industries, she possessed wealth that made world leaders jealous. Private islands, superyachts, an executive tower with her name on it—there was nothing she wanted that she couldn’t have. Boardrooms bent to her will, governments bowed behind closed doors, and anyone who dared challenge her wound up bankrupt, disgraced, or quietly gone.

And yet, none of it satisfied her.

From a young age, Bethany felt disconnected. Not from people, but from the illusions they clung to—equality, empathy, consequences.

She didn’t see cruelty in domination.

She saw clarity.

When she denied her nanny a hospital visit to teach her discipline, no one batted an eye. When a competitor’s daughter went missing days after a hostile takeover, no one found a link. Not because the links weren’t there, but because no one dared look for them. The world rewarded power.

She was simply taking what it offered.

Tinies were just another part of that. They lived in cities, worked, paid taxes like everyone else. But their communities, their politics, their problems—those were so far beneath her that they might as well have been gnats. She never gave them much thought beyond the occasional headline or awkward diversity push from HR.

That changed the night one of her oldest friends, half-drunk at a charity gala, gifted her a tiny woman in a crystal case.

“Caught her squatting in my Malibu place. Figured you could use a stress toy,” her friend had laughed.

Bethany had taken the glass with a curious tilt of her head, watching the trembling little thing throw herself at the walls, screaming through the soundproof barrier.

Pathetic.

At first, she hadn’t known what to do with the thing. Display it? Step on it? Toss it in the trash? She wasn’t worried about legal backlash—she had teams of lawyers on retainer who could erase entire case files from federal databases. The bigger issue was novelty.

It didn’t become fun until she was lying in her bathtub, glass of wine in hand, holding the tiny in her palm.

She watched her try to cover her modesty under the water droplets and felt a curious warmth stir in her core. The tiny’s breasts bounced as she stumbled, her hips shifting with every slip on Bethany’s wet skin.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, she pushed the girl between her thighs, letting her fingers slide her in inch by inch.

The moment that tiny squirmed inside her, the heat that flooded Bethany's system was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Every twist, every desperate kick against her inner walls sent sharp sparks through her, stoking the fire between her legs. Her pussy clenched tight around the writhing body, drawing her deeper with every pulse.

She moaned, deep and slow, as the little thing struggled and screamed inside her, trapped between her slick walls with no hope of escape.

She came hard, gasping into the steam, hips arching as the pressure built and broke. She lay there for hours afterward, pulsing and warm with afterglow, one hand resting lightly over her mound as if to feel the last of the movement.

By the time that first toy stopped moving, she already knew she'd need another.

And another.

Now, after years, it was routine. Tinies sourced from the black market. Some hand-delivered in gift boxes. Others caught in the wild, then sent to her with bows and whimpers. She used them until they broke. Then she found more.

Bethany leaned back in her leather armchair now, one bare thigh crossed over the other, a glass of champagne in hand. Her body was mature and indulgent—lush hips, toned legs, heavy breasts barely restrained by a silk robe. Waves of perfectly styled dark auburn hair framed a sharp, ageless face with icy green eyes.

In her other hand, the tiny detective squirmed. Muscled, stubborn, screaming her throat raw like it would make a difference.

Bethany smiled, slow and indulgent.

“This,” she purred, watching Kelly thrash, “is going to be a very good night.”

---

Nine days earlier…

Detective Kelly Harper was having a hell of a day.

At six inches tall, she was used to being dismissed, ignored, forgotten. She'd worked harder than anyone at the academy—top scores in tactical analysis, investigation, and interrogation—but still, most people only saw her size, not her badge.

But that didn’t mean she had to take their shit.

"No, sir," Kelly said, exasperated, crossing her arms. "I don’t need a damn step stool. I need the security footage you were legally obligated to preserve."

The giant man blinked down at her, scratching his neck like the request had physically pained him. His eyes dropped—not to the console—but to the curve of her hips under the snug black uniform. Then up, lingering just a moment too long at her chest before flicking back to her eyes.

A bulge shifted in his pants, subtle but unmistakable.

"Right, yeah... sorry," he mumbled. "Just figured someone your size wouldn’t be able to, y’know... interface with the console.”

Kelly stared at him, her expression flat.

"Do I look like I'm here to play with the buttons?" she asked.

He hesitated, opening his mouth.

“Uh…”

She sighed through her nose. “The footage. Now,” she said, her voice like steel.

He shuffled off.

It was like this everywhere. Giants either patronized her, flirted with her, or tried to carry her around like some kind of rescue kitten. More than once, she'd caught them staring—eyes lingering on the curve of her ass in her utility pants, or watching the way her tight uniform gripped her chest when she moved.

Kelly was lean and wiry with tight curves and a compact, athletic frame built for movement and force. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a utilitarian knot, highlighting sharp cheekbones and stormy gray eyes that didn’t forgive mistakes.

She’d built up a reputation just to be taken seriously, but the badge never seemed to weigh enough when strapped to a tiny chest.

Especially not now.

Especially not when her sister was missing.

Ann Harper had been a lot of things—reckless, impulsive, frustrating—but she didn’t just vanish. She didn’t go three weeks without texting. And she sure as hell didn’t ghost her only sister.

Not when she’d finally started getting her life together.

She’d just started a new job—something tiny-focused, with better hours and real pay. Kelly had been proud of her for that. For once, Ann was doing something grown-up, something with a future.

And then she was gone.

Ann was everything Kelly wasn’t—full hips, soft thighs, an hourglass figure made to turn heads. Her long honey-brown hair spilled down her back, and she had a habit of wearing skimpy crop tops and high-cut skirts that barely covered her plump ass.

Kelly had warned her about that more than once.

“Giants look,” Kelly had said. “And not all of them look with good intentions.”

Ann always laughed it off.

“Sis, I like the attention,” she had said. “Stop acting like I’m some helpless bimbo.”

And maybe that’s what pissed Kelly off most.

Because she was helpless. They both were. No matter how hard Kelly trained, no matter how many commendations she earned, she was still a six-inch woman in a world that stepped over her without noticing. She knew what could happen. What did happen. And now, somewhere out there, Ann was living the consequences of pretending otherwise.

Ann had gone to a party the night she disappeared.

Some kind of popup. Loud music, dark lighting, oversized drinks. The kind of scene Ann always fell for—fast-paced, a little chaotic, full of strangers who acted like friends after one shot too many. She’d found it on a local events app and sent Kelly a blurry photo of the flyer.

“Looks wild. You’d hate it. "

Kelly hadn’t responded.

She knew how nights like that ended. Tinies let their guard down, ended up in a giant’s hand, a pocket, or somewhere worse—and tried to pretend it was all just part of the fun. Ann always said she could handle it. Said she was just in it for the thrill, the flirting, the free drinks.

But that night, she didn’t come back.

Her phone went dark at 12:16 a.m. The last signal pinged from the edge of the warehouse district—half-abandoned, poorly lit, barely patrolled. No security. No witnesses.

Just silence.

“Damn it, Annie…” Kelly muttered, rubbing at her eyes.

The security tech finally returned, holding a dusty external drive like it was radioactive.

“Here you go,” he said. “This is the backup system. Might be some timestamps in there.”

Kelly didn’t bother thanking him. She plugged it into her belt rig and started scanning through the footage.

It was grainy. Half the angle was wrong. But there—a car, black and gleaming, parked outside the warehouse five minutes before Ann’s phone went dark. Dark windows. No plates. Just a shadowy shape.

Then—barely visible—a logo on the back windshield.

Kline Industries.

Her breath caught. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around her.

Kline.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She knew the name. Everyone did. But seeing it here, tied to this… it made her gut twist. A chill slid up her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Of course it was Bethany Kline.

Ann always said Kelly was too suspicious. That not everything was some grand conspiracy. That people like Kline didn’t care about girls like them.

But Ann was wrong.

Ann had always been wrong.

And now she was gone.

Kelly clenched her jaw, staring at the paused frame. She didn’t know what Kline wanted with her sister, but she was going to find out.

When Kelly presented her findings to the chief, he barely glanced at the footage. Instead, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose like she’d handed him a parking ticket.

“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You want me to get a warrant against Bethany Kline—arguably one of the most powerful people on the planet—based on what? A grainy piece of surveillance footage?”

He finally focused on the frozen frame Kelly had paused on: a black car parked outside the warehouse, no visible plates, windows too dark to see inside.

“There’s a logo on the back windshield,” she said, tapping the corner of the image. “Kline Industries.”

He squinted. “That could say anything, Harper. It’s not even legible.”

“I know it’s not clear,” she said quickly. “But look at the timing. That car showed up minutes before Ann’s signal went dark. And it’s not the only thing.”

Kelly stepped forward, voice steady. “There’ve been reports—multiple reports—of tinies going missing around her properties. I think—”

“Let me stop you right there,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “No offense, Detective, but tinies go missing all the time. If we followed up on every one, we’d never get anything done.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“She’s my sister,” Kelly said quietly.

The chief gave her a pitying look.

“She’s probably with some giant who got a little too excited,” he said with a shrug. “They play rough, they get carried away. She’ll spend some time in his pants, make him feel good, then he’ll let her go.”

Kelly’s jaw clenched until it hurt.

He stood and walked behind his desk, palms open in finality.

“There’s nothing we can do without more evidence,” he said firmly. “You want to keep looking, do it on your own time. But this department isn’t risking a war with Kline Industries over a hunch.”

“You’re not even going to try,” she said.

“Bethany Kline owns half the city,” he said. “And she funds this precinct’s pensions. So no. I’m not.”

Then he looked down at her like he was doing her a favor.

“Take a vacation. You’ve been through a lot.”

Kelly spun on her heel before she said something that would get her suspended. She kept her face calm as she strode out, but inside, the rage burned.

A vacation?

She didn’t need a break.

She needed to find her sister.

That thought kept her moving as she drove across the city, cutting through traffic with the same quiet focus she used on the job.

By the time she reached Ann’s complex, night had settled in—thick and humid, casting the skyline in a hazy gold.

The place was quiet.

Evening had dulled the usual buzz of traffic and conversation. Towering windows glowed softly high above, while down at ground level the tiny sector sat like a forgotten afterthought—crammed up against the side of the main building, tucked low and out of the way.

Kelly’s own place wasn’t huge—no tiny’s ever was—but it was cleaner, newer, better lit. Part of the union precinct housing. One of the perks of putting your life on the line every week. This? This was something else. Paint peeling from the walls. Lamps flickering like they were trying to give up. The walkway sagged slightly beneath her boots.

A plastic divider separated the micro-sector from the rest of the complex. Waist-high to a giant, but a wall to someone her size. There was even a little placard nailed to it: Tiny Community Access Only—as if that made it sound welcoming. As if this wasn’t just the city’s way of tucking its smallest residents out of sight.

She walked in silence, her badge clipped to her belt, catching the occasional glint under the streetlamps. She passed shuttered shops, dead screens, and a tiny café with its chairs stacked up, sign swinging in the breeze.

Then she saw it.

Unit 9C.

Ann’s place.

Kelly stopped outside the door, staring for a moment. Her hand rested on the knob.

The apartment wasn’t locked.

She stepped inside.

Inside, dishes sat in the sink. A pair of heels were abandoned by the door, one upright, one on its side. The vanity in the corner still glowed faintly, casting a soft light over a clutter of makeup and scattered jewelry.

It was exactly like Ann—careless, colorful, halfway between party-ready and falling apart. She’d always lived like she was running late for something better.

Kelly touched a cardigan tossed over a chair. The fabric still held the faint warmth of her sister’s favorite scent—fruity, sweet, a little too loud.

The ache crept up fast, sudden and sharp.

She forced herself to breathe. Focus.

She moved through the space with quiet efficiency. Drawers. Closet. Trash. Under the bed. Her hands worked fast, her eyes scanning for anything that didn’t fit—anything that pointed toward why.

Ann wasn’t famous. She wasn’t connected. She didn’t have money or power. She was just a tiny who posted too many selfies and worked temp jobs she never kept. If Kline had wanted a pawn, or a project, or a warning—why her?

Then, near the bed, Kelly paused.

A hoodie lay half-crumpled on the floor. Something glossy peeked out from underneath. She crouched and pulled it free.

A business card.

It was heavy. Black with silver foil, smooth between her fingers. The design was elegant, minimal—the kind of thing made to impress.

Elevate.
Exclusive Opportunities for Tinies in the Luxury Market.

And there it was. In the corner: a silver logo, simple and unmistakable. The stylized K in a diamond frame.

Kelly’s stomach turned.

This was it. This was the “new job” Ann had mentioned. The one she said was finally legit. Real pay. Real benefits. She’d sounded so proud—like this was her way of proving she wasn’t just some flighty little sister playing dress-up in the adult world.

Kelly had wanted to believe her.

She stared at the card, fingers tightening around its edges. The paper flexed but didn’t bend—high-end, just like everything that came out of Kline’s world.

This wasn’t random. She still didn’t know why Kline had targeted her sister—but this card gave her a lead. A name. A context. Maybe even a clue.

Kelly slipped the card into her jacket pocket and stood, spine straightening with purpose. Her expression sharpened—jaw clenched, eyes burning.

No more guessing. No more hoping this was some kind of misunderstanding.

Ann hadn’t just gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. She’d been taken—by a woman who made empires out of people like her.

Kelly didn’t waste time.

She spent the morning working her contacts—making quiet calls from borrowed lines, slipping through backrooms and corner booths where the real conversations happened. The badge stayed hidden. So did her name. She asked carefully worded questions and listened even harder, chasing rumors that felt too polished to be lies.

It took a few hours before someone mentioned a name she recognized.

Chuck.

He wasn’t so much a lead as a last resort.

Officially, Charles Denman called himself an “independent data strategist.” Unofficially, he was a scumbag who traded secrets and swallowed guilt like cheap whiskey. If something illicit was happening anywhere in the metrozone—especially if it involved tinies—Chuck had either facilitated it or watched it go down with a drink in hand and a smirk on his face.

Kelly had busted him once, years ago, on a tip about black-market shrinking tech. He cracked in twenty minutes, rolled on two buyers and a distributor, and walked away with a suspended sentence and a shit-eating grin. She’d never forgiven him for how proud he’d been of that deal.

But he owed her. And that was worth something.

She found him exactly where she expected: second-tier leisure tower, private sky lounge, afternoon haze soaking through wide glass panes and half-poured bourbon fogging the table.

He was sprawled on a reclining couch big enough to house a tiny village, shirt open to the third button, sunglasses perched on his forehead. And in his hand—struggling between his fingers—was a tiny woman.

Naked, sweaty, and breathless, she twisted helplessly against the soft pads stroking her curves. Her flushed skin glistened, hair matted to her face as she writhed, a quiet whimper slipping free.

Kelly stopped at the edge of the table, disgust twisting her gut. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

“Put her down, Chuck,” she said flatly.

He looked up, grinning like a man who’d never faced consequences.

He gave the tiny a slow squeeze, making her squeak. His thumb slid over one of her nipples, teasing the sensitive bud with deliberate mockery. She wriggled, fingers scrabbling uselessly against his palm.

“Well, well. Detective Harper. My favorite crusader. To what do I owe the interruption?” his voice drawled.

“Put her down,” she said again, jaw tight.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” he said with a shrug. He turned the tiny woman so her bare chest faced out, thumb circling one nipple in a slow, mocking swirl. She flinched, legs kicking weakly in the air.

Chuck twisted her around again, eyeing her ass as she squirmed.

“This little thing didn’t pay me what she owed,” he said. “And as you know, being a big ol’ officer of the law and all, there are rules about that. I’m simply collecting compensation in my preferred fashion,” he added with a smirk.

The woman whimpered, eyes wide and pleading, flicking to Kelly’s like a desperate call for help.

Chuck stroked her chest again, fingers kneading the soft mounds. Then he squeezed one nipple and gave it a sharp tug.

The tiny yelped, her whole body jerking.

Kelly’s stomach turned. There was nothing she could do.

The law was clear. Ownership of a tiny granted near-total physical rights, so long as the contract had the proper signatures. Tinies in debt could be handled however their holder saw fit—until the debt was resolved or bought out.

And Chuck, sleazy as he was, always made sure the paperwork was airtight.

“I’m not here for her,” Kelly said, forcing the bile down. “Just… put her away for a bit. I need to talk.”

Chuck considered it, then gave the tiny a loud, smacking kiss on the face. She jerked like she’d been slapped, her cheek wet with spit.

“You hear that, sweetheart? Time for a nap,” he chuckled.

He tugged open his waistband with one hand. She screamed and struggled, beating at his fingers, but he ignored her, pressing her tiny face firmly against the swollen tip, forcing her mouth into the leaking slit before sliding her down inside.

He groaned softly as she slid along the curve of his shaft, her squirming form molding to the heat of him. Her hands slapped helplessly at his skin as he tucked her against the thick length of his cock. One final shriek—a high, gurgled cry—vanished as the band snapped shut, trapping her inside the dark fabric.

Her tiny form remained visible, pressed against the denim, pinned between cock and cloth, writhing faintly.

Chuck sighed contentedly and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Now. What can I help you with, detective? Or should I grab a coffee can for you to stand on?” he asked with a grin.

Kelly didn’t rise to the bait. She kept her eyes fixed on his face.

“I’m looking into a group called Elevate,” she said. “They target tinies. Claim to offer lifestyle upgrades, placements, luxury contracts.”

Chuck’s brows lifted. “Oh. Those guys,” he said.

“So you’ve heard of them,” she said, tone cool.

“I hear about everything,” he said smugly. “But yeah. Elevate’s been sniffing around the circuit a few months now. High-end pitch. White-glove bullshit. But it’s a meat grinder underneath.”

Kelly said nothing, watching him.

Chuck glanced at his drink, swirled it lazily, then took a sip like he was weighing how much to give away.

“They don’t come to guys like me. Too clean for that,” he said. “But I’ve heard things. Disappearances, mostly. Tiny girls looking for a better gig. Elevate reels them in with a smile and a contract. Looks legit at first. Then they vanish. Nobody I know has seen one come back.”

He shrugged. “And it’s always the cute ones,” he added with a chuckle.

Kelly crossed her arms, jaw tight. “And no one goes looking for them?” she asked.

He gave her a look.

“Come on, Harper. Who the hell’s going to look for a missing tiny? Especially if the trail leads to Kline,” he said with a snort.

Her expression didn’t change. “You know more than that. What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

Chuck tilted his head, grinning. “They’ve got a second location. A front. Office space in the 47th Street Stack. Classy setup—glass walls, marble floors, polite smiles. But you won’t find anything behind the desk. Paperwork’s clean. Company’s shielded behind five layers of shells and dummy corps. Trucks go back and forth from Elevate to that office sometimes. Once or twice a month,” he explained.

Kelly scribbled the address into a burner notepad, eyes flicking back to him.

“What about anything off the books? Secret storage, transport routes, places to keep girls hidden?” she asked.

Chuck paused, then shrugged.

“There’s talk—whispers, really—about a private floor in the tower. Restricted access, no cameras, no oversight,” he said. “If Elevate’s holding anyone, that’s where they’d stash them.”

Kelly gave a sharp nod. It was enough to start with.

As she turned to leave, Chuck called after her.

“Hey, Harper,” he said.

She stopped, glancing back.

“You still think you’re gonna fix this city one tiny at a time?” he asked. He smiled like it was an inside joke. “Careful. You keep poking around like this, and one day someone’s gonna decide you’d look better laying naked in a birdcage.”

Kelly didn’t answer.

She just turned and walked out, boots echoing against polished stone, bile thick in her throat.

She spent the next two nights casing the place.

The 47th Street Stack pulsed with quiet life—soft white lights glowing behind mirrored glass, skyway drones tracing slow, mechanical arcs above the towers, and the fading scent of rain still clinging to metal and concrete. The front office didn’t make mistakes. Lights off by nine. No late arrivals. No unscheduled meetings. The silence was too clean, too rehearsed.

So she waited for midnight.

When the moment came, she moved like a shadow—black from head to toe, hood drawn, gloves tight. Every step was precise. Measured. Focused.

She slipped in through a narrow maintenance duct behind a billboard panel, crawling through a shaft barely wider than her shoulders. The metal hummed under her hands and knees, faint vibrations from the building’s systems echoing through the dark.

After what felt like an endless crawl, she dropped into a junction space behind an access panel on the forty-third floor—just four levels below Elevate’s listed suite.

She paused and listened.

Soft sounds drifted through the walls. Wet. Breathless. Rhythmic.

She followed them.

A side hallway opened onto a break lounge lit with soft blue underglow, glass stretching floor to ceiling beyond a sprawling couch. A man lounged across the cushions in a security uniform, pants open, one hand wrapped around himself, eyes glued to the screen.

The footage played with shaky, handheld angles. It was amateur, intimate, and cruel.

The title hung at the corner in white block letters:
“Tiny Torments: Backdoor tiny never sees daylight again!”

Kelly’s stomach turned.

Onscreen, a tiny girl sobbed, body slick with lube and tears, as she was lowered toward a massive, twitching asshole. She thrashed, kicked, screamed—but there was nowhere to go. The giant fingers guiding her down didn’t stop. Her face hit the puckered rim and pushed inward.

Her screams were muffled, then silenced completely.

She vanished slowly, swallowed by the tightening ring, until only her feet remained, trembling just outside the stretched rim. The moment her legs disappeared, the camera panned back just enough to catch a thick cock shoving in right after her—burying to the hilt in one long, brutal push.

The giant watching groaned, fist speeding up. “Fuck… yeah,” he murmured, hips jerking against his grip.

Kelly turned away, swallowing hard. She moved quickly, silently, hugging the edge of the wall and using the shadow of a trash bin to duck behind the couch, then scaled the side of a wall-mounted vent with practiced ease.

From there, it was a careful crawl to the office suite—an all-glass enclosure trimmed in steel and matte gold. Two doors blocked the way, each locked with panels she couldn’t reach. But the maintenance slit near the floor had a loose screw, and a few minutes with a rigged pin bar let her pry it wide enough to slip through.

Inside was sleek, minimalist luxury. Polished marble, gold fixtures, the air scrubbed and cool. No one in sight. No cages. No screaming.

No sister.

She kept low, eyes scanning for motion as she moved between furniture legs and the low underlighting that ran along the floor.

A filing cabinet to the side had one drawer slightly ajar, just enough. She climbed its base, pulled herself up with effort, and slipped through the narrow gap.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and paper. She found herself standing between the folders—each one nearly twice her height, the heavy cardstock sides pressed close like towering slabs. The space was tight, barely wide enough for her to ease sideways through the rows.

She moved carefully, one hand on the cold divider, the other guiding her forward along the hanging tabs until she spotted one marked with a faded sticker. With both hands and a braced foot, she shoved at it until it shifted aside, then slipped into the narrow opening.

The folder yawned open above her, stiff paper rustling softly as it settled. She tilted her head back to read the page.

Intake forms. Lists of names, dates, physical stats—height, weight, bra size, flexibility index. Lines of dense code trailed each entry, stamped in crisp black ink: VLX–214–C, VLX–215–T, DRX–207–C

Most of them began with the same three letters: VLX. A few didn’t.

She had no idea what they meant.

Personal Assets Division – Internal Transfer Approved.

Her stomach clenched.

She pushed deeper, using her whole body to turn the next page. The paper resisted at first, then peeled away and flopped forward like a heavy curtain. Photos stared down at her—rows of faces, printed small but clear. Most looked frightened.

She scanned each one, heartbeat hammering through her chest.

No Ann.

She stepped back, squeezing sideways through the next gap in the row.

Then footsteps appeared. Close.

The floor beneath her vibrated faintly with each step, and light shifted across the front seam of the drawer.

She froze.

A heavy shadow passed in front of the opening.

“Huh,” the guard muttered just outside. “Who left this open?”

Kelly’s breath caught. She dropped flat, pressing herself into the narrow space at the bottom of the drawer. Paper rustled over her back as she wedged herself low between the last folder and the cabinet wall.

The metal creaked as the guard leaned against the drawer. She could hear the rustle of his uniform, the weight of his hand shifting the folders.

One of them moved—just inches from her—and she clenched her jaw to keep from reacting as its edge scraped her shoulder. There was a low grunt, followed by the slap of another folder being returned too roughly. A ripple moved down the row. A stiff sheet peeled loose and dropped directly onto her legs, masking her in shadow and print.

Another pause.

A sharp push jolted the drawer, knocking the folders slightly askew. Then the grind of rails as the entire drawer was shoved shut.

Darkness pressed in from all sides. The scent of glue, paper, and dust filled her lungs. She stayed completely still, flattened between the folder and the wall, the heavy page draped across her like a canvas.

The guard’s footsteps lingered nearby. One pace. Two. A third, moving slowly toward the center of the room. Then a pause. No muttering. No movement. Just the hum of lights and the rising throb of blood behind her ears.

Finally, the footsteps receded. Not fast, not in a hurry. Just bored, unconcerned.

She waited.

Ten seconds. Then twenty.

When she was sure he was gone, she peeled the sheet off her legs and rolled her body just enough to reach her collar. She tapped the cam and snapped photo after photo, capturing every visible document—the intake forms, the distribution logs, the redacted lines, and faces that still stared out under the folder flap. Her hands shook, but her focus held. She shifted slightly and caught the last form at an angle, the Skyview Spire mentioned again in its footer.

Click. Then one more.

Click.

With the last image saved, she moved carefully, her muscles tense and already sore. The drawer hadn’t latched completely. She wedged her back against the folder and planted both feet on the inner wall, then pushed.

Nothing gave.

She repositioned higher, braced harder, and shoved again with everything she had. The drawer groaned, slid a fraction of an inch. She grit her teeth and pushed again. A crack of light split open beside her. She dragged herself toward it, shoulders scraping the inside frame, and shoved with her hip until the gap widened just enough to force her way through.

She slipped out in and landed on the edge of the drawer’s face, then dropped the rest of the way to the floor, catching herself in a low crouch. Her arms trembled. Her legs burned. She crouched for a breath, made sure she wasn’t being watched, and then clicked the cam one last time as a backup.

The office was still.

She moved with care, slipping back beneath the furniture and toward the vent she’d come through.

At home, Kelly had changed into something more comfortable—an oversized tee and shorts soft from too many washes. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the photos spread across a worn blanket. Her ceiling fan buzzed faintly, throwing soft, uneven light across the sheets. It was the only thing moving in the room besides her fingers, which kept drifting back to the intake forms.

She looked at the codes again—Neatly printed. Uniform. Cold.

They had to mean something. She muttered them under her breath, trying different breaks, different emphases, hoping for a pattern that still wouldn’t come.

Frustration simmered low in her chest. She shoved one photo aside, then another. No hidden notes. No annotations. The redactions weren’t consistent either.

She stood, paced once, and pushed off the bed. She needed food. Air. Anything to stop her thoughts from looping themselves to death.

Outside, the city wrapped around her in heat and motion. Crowds flowed in slow, semi-organized currents. Sunlight bounced off mirrored towers, scattered through a tangle of overhead banners and steel rigging. The hum of distant engines mixed with chatter, but Kelly barely heard it. Her mind clung to the codes, spinning patterns that refused to fit.

She kept to the tiny lanes on the side, ducking around giant kiosks and trimmed hedges, only half-aware of the direction she was heading.

A giant woman strode overhead in platform wedges, the ground trembling slightly beneath each step. A shopping bag swung from one arm, her laugh loud and effortless.

Ahead, a man in cargo shorts and flip-flops slurped something fluorescent pink from a cup, heels slapping lazily against the concrete.

A tiny man stood stiffly beside a vendor stall, both hands clenched around a takeout box. A tiny woman sat on a low bench ledge, thumbing through her phone and glancing up every so often to make sure no one was veering too close.

The café was just ahead—striped awning, wide sunshade, the smell of something fried drifting from its open side window. Her feet moved toward it on instinct.

A couple brushed by, big and carefree. One of them tossed a laugh over their shoulder; the other nearly stepped on her without looking. She just dodged, her mind still turning over the codes.

She didn’t see the hand until it closed around her.

Thick fingers locked around her midsection, sudden and unyielding. The world tilted sideways, and her breath caught in her throat. She twisted, but the grip only tightened.

In an instant, the street was gone. Light vanished behind a wall of skin. A heartbeat—not hers—pulsed steady and slow through the palm pressed against her ribs.

Before she could scream, she was stuffed into a pocket.

The hand was still wrapped around her, muffling sound and movement both. Cloth surrounded her—rough, stale with sweat. The last thing she saw through the narrow gap below was the café’s striped awning shrinking into the distance.

It was hot.

Her face was crushed against fabric—coarse, unwashed. The scent of sweat clung to every thread, sharp and sour. Breath came shallow and fast, but there wasn’t much air. Every gasp tasted like cotton and skin.

Kelly couldn’t move. The hand that had grabbed her never let go completely, fingers curled firm around her midsection, pinning her arms against her ribs. She twisted once, but the pressure only increased, steady and unbothered, as if she were just some loose item being secured during a walk.

Everything was muffled.

Footsteps boomed, thudding rhythmically through her spine. The hum of city life filtered in—a low wall of conversation, street traffic, music from somewhere. The person holding her didn’t speak. Didn’t draw attention. Didn’t hurry.

Then—movement.

She lurched forward suddenly as the hand withdrew, and for a second she was falling. Then came the jarring slam of impact. Concrete bit into her skin, gritty and cold. She rolled, coughing, blinking up into the sudden brightness as her ribs heaved for air.

The world around her resolved into shapes.

A warehouse. Wide and empty, its high ceilings crisscrossed with steel beams. Pallets and crates were scattered across the concrete floor. A single light flickered weakly overhead.

The air was cooler here, thick and dim.

She gasped, pulling in a lungful of stale warehouse air, blinking hard to clear the blur from her vision.

With effort, she pushed herself up, breath still ragged and knees trembling.

Then a shadow shifted nearby.

She turned.

Cargo shorts. Flip-flops. A loud slurp from a plastic straw.

The man stood casually before her, one hand slipped in his pocket, the other gripping a fluorescent pink drink. The cup crinkled as he took another long pull, his cheeks hollowing slightly. His eyes didn’t blink.

Then he smiled.

Raised a hand.

And waved.

“Hey there,” he said, his voice easy and bright, like they were just two strangers meeting in line for coffee.

Another slow slurp.

He didn’t step closer. Didn’t reach out. Just stood, watching.

Kelly drew a shaky breath, forcing her legs to lock straight even as they threatened to buckle beneath her.

“Who the hell are you?” she snapped. Her voice came out small in the cavernous space—but steady enough to carry upward.

The man took another loud slurp from his drink, his eyes drifting over her like she was a bug on the floor. The straw made a wet, final hiss as it emptied. He didn’t answer at first, just smirked lazily, shifting his weight so his heel lifted, flipping the edge of his worn sandal. The sole loomed above her, broad and dark with sweat patterns.

“No one,” he said finally, with a shrug that dismissed her completely.

Kelly clenched her fists. “What do you want?”

Another sip. He drained the last drops, then let the cup fall. The plastic bounced with a hollow tock, rolling to her feet like a careless warning.

“I want you to stop,” he said. Casual. Distant.

“Stop what?”

He stepped forward. Not quickly. Just a smooth, heavy slide that carried his immense body closer. The flip-flop rasped across the concrete, then lifted. The worn edge dragged close—then up—until the entire underside of his foot blocked her view. The scent hit a moment later: warm, stale rubber and salt, sweat-soaked fabric clinging faintly to the skin.

“Stop looking,” he said, as the sole lowered like a lazy guillotine.

His big toe tapped her breast—lightly at first. Almost playful. But the pad was broad enough to take up her entire chest. She stumbled back under the casual nudge, heartbeat stammering.

She glared up, trying to stay upright. Defiant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled. Not unkind—like her protest amused him.

Then he slid his foot free of the flip-flop. It landed with a soft slap behind her. His bare foot came in again—slow and deliberate. She barely managed a breath before it descended, the ball of his foot pressing directly onto her, forcing her small frame down like she was nothing more than a warm spot on the floor.

He didn’t bear down yet. Just let her feel the full presence of him—his heat, the slight grit of his sole’s texture, the flex and shift of his toes above her.

“You know,” he said.

She tried to squirm out, but his foot followed—grinding in slow circles, spreading his toes to map her shape. The ball of his foot mashed into her breast, toes curling slightly to pinch the swell of it between them. Her back arched under the subtle pressure. Her thighs kicked.

He smiled.

Then he twisted his foot to the side, dragging her across the floor. The concrete scraped at her back, and her limbs twisted awkwardly as he rolled her like a ragdoll beneath him. When she tried to rise, his toes found her face—the big toe settling directly across her cheek and mouth, pinning her head sideways. He rubbed slow, lazy arcs across her face, smearing sweat and grime along her skin like he was wiping his foot off on her.

She gasped beneath it, tasting the salty musk through her nose. His second toe curled around her jaw, gripping, tugging her to the side like a toy that had gotten stuck.

“Please—”

“See, I’m trying to be nice,” he said, still toying with her face underfoot. “Just passing on a message.”

His foot moved again—sliding down her body. The arch of it dragged across her chest, flattening her breasts beneath the curved pressure. The toes scraped down her side, found her hip, and caught it like a handle. He rolled her onto her belly with an idle push, then dragged her back with the top of his foot curling against her stomach.

The concrete bit her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his sole.

“If you don’t stop sniffing around Elevate,” he said, adjusting his foot to pin her thighs, “they’re gonna send someone who isn’t as nice as me.”

She grunted, breath catching as his toes found her ass and squeezed—big toe and second toe gripping the curve, kneading slowly, possessively. Then he released, dragging downward over the backs of her legs, toe seam catching the waistband of her shorts and tugging them slightly down before letting go.

He stepped back briefly, just to slide her with the arch of his foot closer to the wall. Then he pinned her again—this time upright, one toe under her chin to tilt her head back, another pressing into her stomach.

“They’ll send a velvet box,” he said, smiling wider. “You don’t wanna end up in one of those.”

She didn’t answer. She could barely breathe. His toes tapped rhythmically next to her cheek, the scent thick around her nose and mouth.

Then the foot came down again. Slow. Deliberate. His big toe found her face once more, pressing until her nose was squashed flat against the damp cleft between them. The pressure increased just enough to seal her in—no air, no light—only the heat and smell of him filling her senses.

Her fists pounded weakly against the floor as he rocked slightly on her. Not hard—but steady. He moved his toes, pinching her head lightly between the first two, adjusting her as if to remind her just how completely he controlled the space between his feet.

He dragged the side of her head across the floor, then pinned it again—this time using the heel of his foot to cage her between his arch and the floor itself.

“You’re lucky I like tinies,” he said at last.

Then, as a final gesture, he lifted his foot and wiped it slowly across her face—heel to toes—leaving a warm smear of sweat and grime across her skin like a signature.

I’m gonna go now,” he added, already turning. “Think about what I said.”

The flip-flop slapped back on. He walked off without a second glance, every heavy step echoing across the warehouse like punctuation. Kelly lay sprawled in the dust and his scent, ribs rising and falling, too stunned to move.

The warehouse echoed behind her, silent now except for the fading slap of flip-flops against concrete.

Kelly didn’t move.

She lay in the same spot he’d left her, her body sprawled like something dropped and forgotten. Her skin still bore the heat of him. Her cheek tingled where his toe had smeared sweat and grit across it, and the sharp scent of him lingered around her nose and mouth like a brand.

She forced her arms underneath her and pushed herself upright. Her limbs trembled. Her knees threatened to give out, but she locked them straight and held her breath until the shaking slowed. One leg throbbed with a dull ache from where he’d pinned her, and her lower back felt scraped raw from being rolled across the warehouse floor.

She brushed dust from her shirt, but it didn’t help.

The fabric clung to her, stretched and sweat-damp where his foot had pressed her into the ground. Her shorts were twisted, one side pulled down too low on her hip, and her hair hung wild and tangled across her face.

She limped toward the warehouse doors.

They loomed in front of her—massive, heavy, industrial—and she had to take the narrow metal side-hatch built for tinies like her, just to slip out unnoticed. The evening air hit her like a slap. It was cooler now, but the breeze stung her skin where it had been scraped and pressed, and her bare feet winced at the feel of gritty pavement.

A car passed on the far end of the street. The driver didn’t slow, but Kelly saw their head turn in the mirror. Just a quick glance—one of those half-curious, half-disgusted looks that stuck to the back of your mind long after it passed.

She kept walking.

A couple on bikes passed next. The woman made eye contact. The man said something under his breath. Neither of them stopped, but both of them stared as they rolled by, their eyes dragging over the filthy, tattered tiny girl limping along the sidewalk, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Her pace never faltered, but her shoulders curled in a little more with every step.

By the time she reached her block, the ache had spread through her thighs and calves. Every joint felt too tight. Every movement came slower than the last. Her foot dragged once, catching on a crack in the sidewalk, and she nearly went down. She caught herself, just barely.

Her front door waited for her—small, wooden, weather-worn. The frame came up to her chest, scaled to her height like the rest of the house. A tiny lock, a little brass knob. Familiar things. Safe things.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, the quiet click of the latch the first gentle sound she’d heard all day. Her home greeted her with stillness. Not silence—she could hear the hum of her fridge, the faint ticking of the wall clock—but it felt like the right kind of quiet. Her kind of quiet.

She didn’t make it far.

Just a few steps in, and she stopped, staring down at the worn rug just past the doorway. A smear of dirt had already trailed off her soles onto the fabric. She blinked down at it, dazed, her arms hanging loose at her sides.

Then, slowly, she sank to the floor.

Her knees bent stiffly. Her hands rested on her thighs. Her head bowed. Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rise and fall of her chest uneven. The tightness in her throat had been building since she left the warehouse, and now it pressed up behind her eyes, threatening to spill over.

She almost cried. Came right up to the edge of it. Her whole body felt brittle with the urge to collapse, to just fall into it and let it happen.

But something stopped her.

Not strength. Not pride.

A word.

Velvet.

She blinked. Swallowed hard. Her brow furrowed slightly as the word echoed in her mind again.

He hadn’t said they’d send someone else. He hadn’t threatened to hurt her, exactly. What he’d said was: They’ll send a velvet box.

And he’d smiled when he said it. Not cruelly. Not like someone bluffing.

Like someone remembering something that had already happened.

It stuck with her. Not just because it was strange—but because it was specific. A velvet box wasn’t a warning. It was a promise. Something real. Something that already had a name.

She rubbed the side of her neck absently, feeling where his toes had squeezed her there, and her fingers came away smudged with grit.

That word stayed in her head, sharper than pain, louder than the humiliation still clinging to her like sweat.

Why velvet?

And why did it sound like she was supposed to know already?

The word followed her into the shower.

She stepped beneath the narrow stream and let the warm water mist across her skin, the thimble-sized shower head barely more than a gentle patter. It wasn’t powerful, but it was steady, enough to ease the sting of raw spots and coax the grime from her body in slow, curling streaks.

Sweat, dust, and the warehouse floor’s filth slid down her legs, trailing faint, diluted shadows as they swirled toward the drain.

She stayed under the spray longer than usual, eyes half-lidded as the water traced the shape of her body—across her collarbones, over the soft weight of her breasts, down her stomach and the inside of her thighs.

Every inch of her still felt claimed somehow, like the pressure of his foot hadn’t lifted at all.

The tread that had pinned her hip seemed stamped beneath the skin. Her lower back still throbbed where the concrete had scraped it raw.

She reached for the soap and scrubbed until her skin turned pink, driven not by vanity but by a deeper, more desperate urge to erase every trace of him. His scent, the stale sweat, the heat of his sole against her chest—it lingered in ways the water couldn’t quite reach. She worked at it anyway, refusing to stop until the cloth came away clean.

And still, the word stayed with her. Velvet.

When she finally stepped out, the room was thick with steam. She toweled herself off briskly, rubbing the heat and moisture from her limbs with quick, practiced movements. Her hair frizzed as she worked through it, a damp tangle she barely managed to contain.

She didn’t bother dressing—just slung the towel around her chest and crossed the floor barefoot, still trailing warmth and the scent of soap as she dropped into the chair at her desk.

The computer screen blinked awake beneath her fingers. She pulled up a browser window and began to type.

Her first search—velvet box—turned up a mess of unrelated links. Fashion blogs, novelty boutiques, jewelry packaging companies. Pretty things, useless things. She scanned through them anyway, half-hoping for something out of place.

Then she added Kline Industries.

One result caught her eye almost immediately: Valex Velvet Emporium. A luxury retailer, technically, though the site gave away almost nothing.

Appointment-only. High-end. Minimal photos.

Just a polished glass façade and a tagline so vague it bordered on meaningless: Refining the experience of ownership.

Still, the name stuck—Valex. And there it was. VLX. The same identifier she’d seen stamped across those intake forms.

Her stomach clenched, and she clicked deeper.

She found archived news articles, half-written press releases, registration documents. The more she looked, the more obvious it became.

Valex wasn’t a storefront—it was a front. No pricing. No testimonials. No images of the interior. Just a handful of legally mandated filings and an endless echo of exclusivity. Everything about it radiated secrecy.

Her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard as she opened a new tab and searched other codes she remembered from the intake documents.

DRX linked to Drexler Biomedical, a sterile biotech company claiming to work on neural interface systems. The site was clinical, cold, and completely impersonal—but the Kline Industries connection was buried in the legal footer. AGP led her to Argon Point Logistics, a transportation firm with vague claims about biometric asset movement, a phrase that turned her stomach.

But Valex came up again and again. It was tied to more than half of the files she’d copied. It wasn’t just a part of the system—it was at the center.

She leaned forward slightly, the towel slipping a little lower around her hips, unnoticed. One hand still rested lightly against her stomach, and the other hovered over the mouse as she stared at the screen. Her lips were parted, breath slow and shallow, eyes fixed in a tight, unblinking focus.

This was where Ann had gone. This was what she’d been marked for. It wasn’t a guess anymore—it was a fact.

The heat of the shower was fading, but something hotter had begun to smolder beneath her skin. Not fear. Not even grief. Rage. Not wild or explosive, but cold and concentrated, settling deep inside her ribs where it could burn without showing.

She stayed that way for a long moment, skin bare and damp, towel barely clinging, breathing slow and even as her thoughts narrowed down to a single, sharpened point.

She had a name now, a place to look. And she was going to find her sister if it killed her.

Kelly’s apartment had become a war room.

Maps, photos, and intake forms blanketed the walls in crooked rows. Her tablet glowed with hacked manifests and traced IPs, while her desk was buried in coffee cups, torn sticky notes, and furious scribbles.

She hadn’t really slept—just blinked through the hours in a blur of screenlight and adrenaline, chasing ghosts through logistics reports and encrypted files.

But now, the ghosts had names.

Valex Velvet Emporium wasn’t a storefront. It was a route. A system. She’d pieced it together one thread at a time: luxury shipments routed through shell companies, labeled as “delicate inventory” with no weights, no units. She’d found references to custom crates—small, velvet-lined containers—flagged for high-clearance destinations.

She even pulled footage from a warehouse drop: multiple packages the size of breadboxes, handled like priceless merchandise. She didn’t need to see what was inside them. She already knew.

One manifest made her stop cold.

Three days after Ann vanished.
Destination: Kline Tower.
Recipient: Private Penthouse – Bethany Kline.
Code: VLX–211–B.
Contents: Personal Asset. Priority.

No description. No image. Just those words.

Kelly stared at the screen, frozen. One hand covered her mouth. Her breath caught in shallow pulls. Her stomach turned cold, and in her mind, the details filled in themselves: a velvet box. A girl curled inside. Her Ann—curvy, naïve, too small to fight—boxed up like a luxury accessory.

She didn’t want to imagine what Bethany had done with her.

But she knew the kind of woman Bethany was. The way she smiled on magazine covers. Kelly had felt what kind of use tinies were put to.

Bethany wouldn’t have wasted a body like Ann’s.

But the worst part wasn’t the imagining.

It was knowing—deep in her gut, with the same certainty that made her fists shake—that Ann was still alive inside that penthouse.

Being used.

Bethany moaned as she thrust her toy in and out of her pussy.

She lay nude across her bed, one long leg hooked lazily over a pillow, the other bent at the knee and spread wide. The smooth, thousand-thread-count sheets were damp beneath her hips, clinging in patches to her skin.

Her body was a vision of power wrapped in luxury—full, mature curves glistening with sweat and pleasure. Her breasts shifted with every motion, heavy and natural, nipples already hardened by the slow climb of arousal. Her stomach flexed with each breath, and her inner thighs were streaked with juices.

Her hair—dark auburn and falling in loose waves—clung damply to her collarbones, framing a sharp, timeless face where a satisfied smirk teased the corners of her lips. Her icy green eyes stayed half-lidded, fixed on the squirming, soaked little figure in her hand.

Ann.

Drenched and gasping, her limbs weak from overuse, she glistened with Bethany’s juices. Her hair was plastered to her face and shoulders, her whole body pink and trembling from exhaustion. She was slick from head to toe, breath coming in ragged bursts as she tried to squirm free. But Bethany's grip was steady—thumb and fingers wrapped below her hips, her dangling legs twitching with every movement.

"Still wriggling," Bethany cooed, drawing her closer. "Good girl."

Without another word, she parted her lips and pressed the tiny body against herself again, rubbing Ann’s chest and face along her swollen clit in long, deliberate strokes. Bethany shivered at the contact, head tipping back slightly as she let out a shaky breath.

Ann cried out, but the sound was swallowed instantly by the wet heat of Bethany’s folds. The older woman ground her hips upward, working her toy in slow, teasing circles against the pulsing bud until her thighs started to tremble.

Then, without warning, she pushed.

Ann’s shoulders slipped easily between her folds, Bethany’s slick heat drawing her in like a hungry mouth. She kicked instinctively, feet flailing—but the more she moved, the deeper Bethany fed her inside.

"That’s it," Bethany purred, one hand sliding up to palm her breast while the other worked the tiny girl in with steady precision.

"Keep wriggling," she moaned, "God, you feel divine when you squirm."

Ann was halfway in now, only her legs still visible. Her arms were pinned tight to her sides by the slick, gripping walls pulling her deeper with every subtle twitch of Bethany’s inner muscles.

Bethany groaned again—low and full—tilting her hips so she could watch in the mirror across from the bed. It was angled just right to show her the glistening, flailing legs still jutting from between her lips.

She licked her lips and gave a sharp, sudden thrust with her fingers.

Ann disappeared with a wet, obscene squelch—completely enveloped.

Bethany gasped, hips rolling, her muscles clenching tight around the toy inside her. She could feel every movement Ann made: each desperate kick, every tiny twist and struggle against the hot, velvety grip that trapped her.

She began to move in slow, grinding circles, savoring the friction—the sensation of a living woman fighting inside her.

One hand stayed between her thighs, pressing behind Ann to urge her deeper. The other roamed freely—palming a breast, dragging nails down her stomach, gripping the thick curve of her thigh.

Inside, Ann was terrified.

Her whole body was trembling violently from overstimulation, every inch slick with Bethany’s juices. The heat was unbearable, the pressure unrelenting. Her arms were pinned tight against her sides, and every breath was shallow, stifled by Bethany’s scent and the crushing heat.

She tried to scream, but it barely escaped her lips before being swallowed up by the wet, rhythmic pull of the pussy around her. The more she moved, the more those slick muscles flexed and dragged her deeper. Her feet scraped uselessly along the slick walls. Her shoulders were wedged tight. Her entire body burned—overused, overstimulated, and utterly helpless.

Slowly, Bethany drew her out. Ann gasped at the sudden rush of air and light.

"You belong in me," she whispered, breathless. "Every inch of you is perfect."

Then she slammed Ann back in.

Her fingers curled around the tiny ankles and drove her deep in one hard, unrelenting push, burying her past the second knuckle with a slick plunge that made Bethany’s entire body jolt in pleasure. The small, struggling shape twisted helplessly, but there was no escape—not from the heat, not from the pressure, not from the obscene grip of her pussy swallowing her whole.

Muffled screams echoed inside her, smothered and useless.

Her walls clamped down around them—around Ann—slick muscles tightening in greedy, pulsing waves that dragged the girl deeper. Bethany gasped and thrust again, harder, her entire hand working in quick, rhythmic strokes. Wet sounds filled the air, each pump squelching loudly as juices spilled down her thighs.

Her moans came louder now, wild and hungry. She twisted onto her side, one knee hitched up for better access, her hand working like a piston—Ann’s legs flashing in and out before vanishing again with each deep stroke.

"God, you feel incredible," Bethany panted, her voice ragged.

Inside, Ann’s body thrashed, barely able to move in the crushing heat. Each desperate kick sparked another moan from Bethany. She shoved her deeper—no mercy—until only her knuckles kissed her folds, pussy stretched full and soaked, greedily sealing the toy inside.

The pressure was exquisite. It surged through her—sharp, electric, unstoppable. Every fluttering limb, every helpless squirm inside her drew her closer to the edge.

With one last push of her fingers, she drove Ann the final inch in, sealing her completely. Her folds clenched tight, pulsing hard around the tiny, writhing shape now buried within her.

And then she came.

Her back arched off the bed, a hoarse cry ripping from her throat as her body locked in a wave of climax. Her muscles spasmed hard, pussy tightening in relentless surges around the woman trapped inside. Ann was caught in a furnace of rhythm and heat—no light, no air, only the suffocating grip of Bethany’s orgasm pulsing around her again and again.

Bethany shook with the force of it, her thighs trembling, one hand clawing at the sheets while the other stayed pressed to her mound, feeling each twitch, each squeeze, each helpless kick deep inside.

It lasted for long seconds, wave after wave crashing through her—her pussy tightening again and again to wring out every last wriggle from the toy buried inside.

Only when her breath slowed and the tremors faded did she relax. Her fingers brushed her soaked folds, just enough to feel the faint twitch within.

She smiled, slow and pleased, eyes still half-lidded, and murmured softly to herself. "Mmm… still alive. Good girl."

[Justhereforamoment1]

Well apparently there's a character limit. So here's part 2.

---

Kline Tower’s delivery bay was a cavern of echoing concrete and steel.

For two days, Kelly watched from a gap behind a crate tucked near the wall, just above a grimy drain. The place was a maze of metal shelves, humming fans, and constantly shifting bodies. She memorized the patterns—food drop-offs in the morning, maintenance vans at noon, security sweeps twice per shift.

Then she found it.

Every afternoon at three, a refrigerated truck from a boutique floral company rolled in. Its white sides were unmarked except for a silver orchid near the cab. Two men unloaded a single, massive flower box and rolled it straight to the private elevator—no stops, no inspections.

It was her best chance.

On the third day, as the truck backed in and hissed to a stop, Kelly moved.

She darted from her hiding place, boots skimming across the floor as she kept low. The wheels of the flower cart were taller than she was, the box even more so—nearly a small room. As the deliverymen hoisted it onto the trolley, a loud bang cracked through the space.

One of the storage racks had tipped just slightly—enough for a stack of catering trays to come crashing down. The sound drew a barked curse from the far end of the bay, and the workers both turned to look.

That was all she needed.

She sprinted to the cart, scaled the grooved side of the wheel rim, and jumped to the lower metal lip. The box was built with thin ventilation slits, just enough for airflow. She slid her fingers between them, wedged in her shoulder, and squeezed through the gap.

It was like stepping into a wet greenhouse.

The air inside was thick and heavy with floral perfume. Her face was instantly damp from the humidity. She stumbled forward, catching herself on a waxy lily petal. The stems were slick and cold, their cut ends pressed into a soaked sponge lining the bottom. Pollen clung to everything—her hands, her shirt, even the sweat building at her temples.

There was no space to stand. She crouched low between the flower stalks, pushing aside petals to make herself a pocket of air. Her back pressed against the cardboard wall. Her heart thudded in her ears.

The box jolted.

She gritted her teeth and went still.

Outside, the deliverymen began rolling it forward. She could hear every bump of the wheels, every creak in the metal frame. The noise from the delivery bay faded behind them, replaced by the dull hum of the building’s inner corridors.

Then came silence.

The cart stopped. She held her breath.

A mechanical click. Then another.

The elevator.

It was eerily quiet inside the lift. No music. No vibrations. Just the faint whoosh of air conditioning. The shift in weight pressed her harder into the flowers as they began to rise. Time dragged. Her legs started to ache. Her knees were soaked from the sponge below.

She blinked through the pollen dust, struggling to stay alert.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened. She heard footsteps—sharper now. Hardwood under heels. Someone speaking softly, a woman’s voice. Maybe a housekeeper. The box jolted again as it was lifted.

Bright light flooded in as the lid came off.

She flinched, blinded, and crouched deeper among the lilies. Everything was exposed now—open air above her, a vast space beyond. But the woman wasn’t looking down. She was focused on her task, pulling the flowers out one by one and arranging them in a tall vase on a gleaming black table.

Now.

Kelly scrambled forward, slipping free of the flowers and hauling herself up the smooth inner wall. She swung her legs over the edge and dropped to the tabletop. The polished surface was cold under her palms. A few steps brought her to the edge. Then she leapt.

She landed in a crouch on the floor below, the thick rug muffling her impact. She took cover behind the closest table leg, the thing wide as a tree trunk, and pressed her back to the wood.

When she peeked around, her breath caught.

The penthouse stretched out like a museum—cold, clean, and lifeless. Marble floors gleamed under skylights. A grand piano sat in the distance, glossy and untouched. The furniture looked expensive but untouched.

Everything was silent.

Kelly didn’t waste time exploring the cavernous open spaces. She already knew who the flowers were for—and what kind of woman Bethany Kline was. A predator like her wouldn’t leave her favorite toys lying around. She’d want privacy. Intimacy. Control.

Sticking to the shadows, Kelly darted under furniture and along the sleek, low baseboards. Vast panes of glass framed a glittering skyline, but she didn’t spare them a glance. Her focus stayed tight. Floor-level. Tactical. She crossed open expanses in short bursts—rug to chair leg, ottoman to table base—never slowing, never rising.

Then she heard it: a low, wet sound, soft and rhythmic, echoing faintly from the far end of the penthouse.

She crept toward it, breath shallow, every step guided by instinct and training. Her boots made no sound on the polished floor, but her heartbeat thudded loud in her ears. Then the scent hit her—thick, musky, unmistakably aroused. She gagged behind her teeth.

At the end of the hall, a towering door stood slightly ajar. She slipped through the gap—and froze.

Bethany Kline lay sprawled across a sprawling bed, silk robe parted to expose her pale stomach and the full swell of her breasts. One leg was draped lazily over a pillow, the other bent and parted just enough to suggest everything. Her hand moved slowly between her thighs, obscured by the curve of her knee.

Her head rested back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in quiet, indulgent moans. She was completely absorbed and unaware.

Kelly didn’t waste the opportunity. She moved like a shadow—under the dresser, behind a crimson-soled heel, past the base of a marble nightstand. Her eyes scanned every surface, every shadow. Closet. Vanity. Under the bed.

No sign of Ann.

The sounds from the bed grew louder—obscene and relentless. Kelly tried not to look. Tried not to listen. But it was everywhere: the scent, the heat, the wet, rhythmic noise. It wrapped around her like static, impossible to ignore.

Still, she kept moving. Somewhere in this room, her sister was waiting.

And for now… Bethany had no idea she wasn’t alone.

Kelly crouched beside the leg of the nightstand, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might shake the floor. She pressed a hand into the thick fibers of the rug, eyes scanning every shadowed crevice—searching for a box, a cage, anything.

Above her, the bed creaked faintly. The wet, rhythmic sounds hadn't stopped—in fact, they were growing louder. More indulgent. More focused. Bethany’s breath had deepened into soft, open-mouthed moans that drifted through the air like silk.

Kelly tried to ignore them. She crawled to the next corner of the nightstand, eyes sweeping beneath the baseboard and across the gleaming legs of the vanity. Nothing. No movement. No hint of life.

She pressed onward.

From above, there was a sudden gasp. A breathy little exhale. Then more—soft, wet sounds, steady and unhurried. Bethany shifted, one knee sliding across the sheets, making the whole mattress groan faintly under her weight. The robe rustled, barely clinging to her hips now. A low, almost purring hum escaped her lips as her pleasure deepened.

Kelly’s stomach twisted.

She ducked behind one of the heels on the rug, trying to get a different angle on the far end of the bed. Still nothing. Her palms were damp against the floor. The musky heat in the air pressed down like a weighted blanket. She was getting too close—too exposed—but there was nowhere else to go.

She rounded the edge of the nightstand again, positioning herself behind the thick leg, just as Bethany’s hips rolled forward with a quiet, breathless sigh.

The pace of her fingers had changed. Slower now. Deeper.

Her head tilted to the side on the pillow, auburn hair tumbling over one bare shoulder. Her lips parted again in a silent moan, eyes nearly shut, lashes casting soft shadows against flushed skin.

Kelly gritted her teeth and lowered her gaze, scanning the dark corners for anything she might’ve missed. Her eyes adjusted slowly, tracking the shifting light and shadow. She checked under the bed again, then behind the leg of the nightstand.

Still nothing.

She was just about to move forward when the sounds above her stopped—abruptly and completely. The sudden silence made her freeze.

A breath followed. Long and steady. Then a soft, satisfied sound floated down—somewhere between a hum and a purr. It wasn’t startled.

It was delighted.

A broad shadow slid across the rug, swallowing the light and casting the space around her into sudden darkness. Her heart pounded as she slowly turned.

Bethany was standing now—tall, composed, and flushed with lingering heat. The silk robe hung open at the shoulders, one hand still damp, the other loosely holding a half-empty glass of champagne.

“Detective Kelly Harper,” she purred, voice low and indulgent, the vibration of it humming through the floor. “I’ve been following your little investigation. All that sneaking and scurrying. It’s almost adorable.”

The glass settled onto the nightstand above Kelly’s head with a soft, deliberate click—a sound that landed like a gunshot.

"I’ll admit, I was a little worried my man had sent you scurrying away for good after your little chat in the warehouse. He can be… persuasive. But I'm so glad to see he didn't," Bethany continued, a smirk playing on her lips. "It shows you have spirit. Fire. That makes for a much more interesting toy."

Bethany didn’t rush. She bent at the waist with smooth, terrifying grace, reaching down without a hint of hesitation.

The moment Kelly saw the hand descending, she bolted.

She tore across the rug, legs pumping, lungs tight. Her feet slapped against the fibers as she wove toward the shadows beneath the dresser—but the hand was faster.

Crimson-tipped fingers curled through the air and caught her mid-stride. There was no panic in the motion, no urgency. Just perfect confidence. Total control.

The fingers closed around her torso, smooth and strong, pinning her arms to her sides. The world dropped away. The ceiling soared closer. She was lifted effortlessly through the air, brought face to face with icy green eyes and a flawless, merciless smile.

Bethany carried her to the bed and sat down, the robe falling open as she moved. Her cheeks were still flushed, her thighs parted with casual abandon. In her grasp, Kelly writhed and kicked, screaming hoarsely, muscles straining with everything she had. It didn’t matter.

Bethany only watched, amused, indulgent.

“This,” she said, voice husky and full of promise, “is going to be a very good night.”

“Where is she?!” Kelly shouted, rage barely covering the tremor in her voice. “Where is my sister?!”

Bethany’s smile deepened, slow and pitiless. “Still worried about her?” she murmured. “You came all this way. You deserve an answer.”

She placed Kelly gently on the nightstand, arranging her like a delicate figurine. Then, with a slow, practiced ease, she leaned back onto the bed and let the robe fall away entirely. It slipped down her body, pooling at her hips, baring the smooth arc of her breasts—nipples stiff, rising with each quiet breath.

One hand drifted between her thighs, fingers slipping out of sight.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, eyes heavy-lidded and calm. “She’s here. She’s been keeping me company all day… somewhere warm.”

From her place on the nightstand, Kelly could see it all. Bethany’s thighs were spread, her posture languid and confident. There was no mistaking her intent—the way her hand dipped between glistening folds, two fingers pushing in with practiced ease. The motion was deliberate, intimate, horrifying.

Bethany’s own breathing quickened. Her free hand curled into the sheets, hips giving a subtle jerk. Wet sounds filled the silence—soft, rhythmic, inescapable—followed by a quiet moan that lingered in the still air.

Then, with a soft gasp, her hand withdrew.

Between her glistening fingers was a tiny, limp figure.

Ann.

Broken. Filthy. Barely conscious. Her limbs dangled. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. A faint whimper escaped her lips as Bethany dropped her onto the bed like she was nothing.

Kelly didn’t scream. She couldn’t. The sound was locked behind a wall of ice in her chest. Something inside her broke. The fire, the drive, the sheer desperation that had carried her this far—it all went cold.

She stood motionless on the nightstand, six inches tall and completely hollow, staring at the ruined form of her sister lying in the sheets of the woman who had destroyed them both.

Bethany looked back at her, that same satisfied gleam still shining in her eyes. She reached out again, slow and certain, scooping Kelly up like a prize.

“She’s almost worn out,” Bethany said with a delicate, dismissive sigh. “It’s a good thing I have a replacement.”

Kelly didn’t move.

The words echoed in her skull, muffled and distant, as if they’d been spoken underwater. Her body felt like it wasn’t hers anymore. Her legs refused to respond, her arms hung useless at her sides. Her chest still rose and fell, but there was no breath behind it—just instinct keeping her going.

Bethany’s fingers returned—elegant, relaxed. They moved with the kind of confidence that came from never needing to rush. They opened slowly, casting a shadow over Kelly’s tiny form.

Kelly stared as they approached. Her eyes didn’t even flinch.

The fingers curled around her with disarming gentleness, pressing into her sides with a warmth that sank through her clothes and skin. She was lifted effortlessly, like a delicate, expensive thing. Her feet left the ground, the room tilting and falling away beneath her. Her arms hung limply at her sides. Her breaths came in shallow, automatic pulls—barely enough to feel real.

Bethany lifted her, tilting her to eye level.

“Well,” the woman murmured, brushing a thumb over Kelly’s cheek as if appraising a new ornament, “I can’t say I’m surprised. They all break eventually. I hoped you'd last until we started though.”

Her breath still smelled faintly of champagne and something sweeter. Beneath that, the musk of her own arousal clung thick in the air—hot, humid, overwhelming. She studied Kelly’s face with a lazy sort of interest, eyes half-lidded and smiling like she was admiring a painting, her gaze lingering on the faint outline of Kelly’s breasts.

“You look so much like her,” she murmured. Her breath was warm and tinged with champagne. “Same stubborn little mouth. Same fire in the eyes. Or there was, anyway.”

Kelly blinked. Just once. It felt mechanical.

“I always find that first moment so... precious,” Bethany went on, her tone indulgent, almost fond. “When a heroine realizes she’s not the rescuer in the story. Just the next piece of furniture.”

Her fingers shifted slightly, cradling Kelly as she leaned back against the pillows. The robe was still open, her thighs slick and parted, heat radiating off her bare skin. With a slow, deliberate motion, she tugged at Kelly’s uniform, stripping it away to expose her bare breasts, nipples stiffening in the cool air.

Kelly didn’t struggle.

She didn’t speak.

Her mind was a dim, echoing chamber. All she could do was see—see the slow press of Bethany’s fingers wrapping around her now-naked torso, feel the smooth pads of her captor’s fingertips shifting against her back. Every touch was precise, confident. There was no question of where this was going.

And no strength left to stop it.

She tried to summon something. Anything. Rage. Terror. Even the dry, aching pulse of guilt. But all of it was buried beneath the same freezing weight.

Then—

A sound. Barely audible, almost missed.

A whimper.

Kelly’s head twitched, neck stiff as her gaze slid across the bed. Ann.

She lay curled on her side, her body half-buried in the creased sheets, arms tucked weakly beneath her. Her skin was flushed and slick, hair tangled, her chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. Her eyes were open, dazed and unfocused—but they turned. Slowly. Toward Kelly.

They locked eyes.

That was when Kelly felt it.

Not pain. Not anger.

Shame.

Deep and immediate. Ann had seen. Her sister—half-dead, wrecked, and discarded—had watched her be stripped bare, her breasts exposed, and picked up like a plaything. There was no rescue. No justice. Just the quiet sound of one more woman breaking.

Kelly’s breath caught. Her fingers twitched. Then clenched. Then—

“No,” she whispered, the word scraping out of her throat.

She twisted in Bethany’s grip.

Her arms slammed weakly against the giant fingers holding her. She kicked, thrashed. She clawed at the thumb digging into her back, twisted her neck and bit down hard against the pad of Bethany’s finger, her breasts bouncing with each desperate move.

Bethany smiled, a shuddering breath, more moan than sigh, coming from her mouth. “Oh, there you are.”

Without another word, she spread her thighs.

Kelly’s eyes widened.

The heat hit her first—a wave of damp, humid scent that rolled over her like steam. Her gaze dropped instinctively. Bethany’s folds glistened, flushed and open, still sensitive from use. The bed beneath her was stained with sweat and juices. Her body stretched out in a pose of utter indulgence—one leg bent, the other lazily extended, every line of her mature, powerful figure gleaming with arousal.

“No—stop—” Kelly gasped, struggling harder.

Bethany didn’t answer. Her hand tilted downward, fingers parting slightly as she pressed Kelly’s writhing, naked form between her thighs.

The heat was suffocating. Kelly’s feet struck damp skin. Her arms flailed.

And then her head met flesh.

Bethany groaned softly, the sound luxurious and low as she rubbed the tiny woman’s face along her clit in a slow, wet stroke. Kelly bucked against the touch, thrashing in her hand, but Bethany was already guiding her downward—lower—until her face was pressed between slick folds and her shoulders slid into the pulsing heat beyond.

She screamed.

The sound vanished instantly into the wet pressure around her.

Bethany pushed.

Kelly’s shoulders disappeared into the tight, gripping entrance. The slick, velvet heat pulled her in like a mouth. Her arms were forced back against her sides. Her legs kicked violently, feet slapping helplessly against Bethany’s mound, her breasts compressed by the clenching walls.

“God, yes,” Bethany breathed. “Keep fighting.”

She pushed again, deeper.

Kelly twisted in panic, her back arching, but her body was already being swallowed. Her ribs scraped along the hot, rippling tunnel. The muscles clenched around her, pulling her deeper inch by inch. Her skin was coated in thick juices. The pressure around her was unbearable—wet and alive, flexing around every desperate movement.

Her head was spinning.

Bethany reached down with her other hand, fingertips teasing at her folds, pressing against the bulge already beginning to form as Kelly vanished inside her.

Then, with a moan, she shoved Kelly in up to her waist.

The tiny detective vanished halfway with a slick, obscene squelch.

Inside, the pressure doubled. Kelly’s body was squeezed from every direction. Her arms were trapped. Her chest compressed with each clench of muscle. The heat was overwhelming—too much. Too close. She tried to scream again, but her mouth was already full of Bethany’s juices.

Bethany began to move her hips in slow, hungry circles.

Her muscles rolled around Kelly, gripping her tight and working her deeper with each pulse. Every time she squirmed, the walls flexed harder, dragging her down. Her fingers beat against the slick tunnel, but the flesh gave and gripped and pressed back.

Bethany gasped.

“Keep fighting,” she panted. “You feel divine.”

Kelly kicked harder, writhing in the molten grip of the pussy that refused to let her go. Her foot struck something hard—Bethany’s fingertip—and then she felt herself being shoved.

Another thrust.

Another inch.

Her thighs disappeared. Her knees were pulled tight together, pressed by the slick heat as it closed around her legs. The entrance sealed behind her with a wet clench. Only her ankles remained.

Bethany groaned deep in her throat, voice ragged with pleasure. “Almost…”

She pushed again.

Kelly screamed—muffled and useless—as the last of her slipped inside.

The world went black.

The heat swallowed her whole.

Bethany’s fingers stayed between her thighs, pressing against the bulge deep in her pussy. She rubbed slow, grinding circles, feeling every frantic movement inside.

Her folds clamped down.

Kelly thrashed wildly, her body wedged deep in the furnace of muscle and slick walls, every inch of her engulfed, every struggle answered by a tighter squeeze. There was no air. No space. No escape. Her limbs were trapped, her breath stifled. All she could hear was the wet pulse of Bethany’s arousal and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Bethany moaned louder now, hips bucking.

“Yes… oh, yes,” she gasped.

She came.

Her body locked, shuddering around Kelly in crushing spasms. Her pussy clenched and milked her like it wanted to absorb her completely—rippling around the toy trapped inside, dragging out every movement, every twitch, every helpless struggle.

Kelly was wrung out in waves of heat and pressure, suffocated by the pulsing walls around her.

When the spasms slowed, Bethany let out a long, shaky breath, smiling to herself in a haze of bliss.

Fingers brushed gently over her soaked folds.

“Mmm. Much better.”

Inside, Kelly whimpered—just once.

But no one heard it.

The world returned in fragments. First came the pressure—a deep, phantom ache pulsing through her entire body, a lingering memory of being squeezed, held, and used until everything went black. Then, the silence. Not peaceful, but thick and muffled, pressing in on her ears, her bare breasts trembling with every shallow breath.

Kelly’s eyes fluttered open. She found herself staring at a flawless, gleaming wall of crystal.

It took a moment for her mind to catch up. She was curled on her side, naked, her nipples stiff against the impossibly soft dark velvet beneath her. The air was cool and still, scrubbed of every scent except the faint, sterile smell of glass. She pushed herself up slowly, muscles screaming in protest, every joint aflame, her ass aching from the ordeal. Her prison was no bigger than a shoebox—a crystal case set on the polished marble surface of Bethany’s nightstand.

Through the transparent walls, the penthouse stretched out like a muted painting. The grand piano stood silent in the distance. City lights glittered beyond the vast windows, indifferent and unreachable. It was a diorama of a world she could no longer touch.

Her gaze dropped to the bed. The silk sheets were a battlefield of sweat-stains and tangled fabric, and in the center lay a small, discarded shape. Ann. She hadn’t moved, lying where Bethany had dropped her—a broken doll with limbs twisted unnaturally, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths, breasts slick with sweat. Even from here, Kelly could see the remnants of Bethany’s juices clinging to her skin, matting hair to cheek, her ass glistening faintly in the dim light.

A soft hiss caught Kelly’s attention—the distant sound of a shower running in the adjoining bathroom. Muffled, cold. The thought of someone washing away the evidence made her nipples tighten with dread.

Desperately, Kelly scrambled to her feet, stumbling on the velvet, and slammed her palms against the smooth, unyielding glass. Her breasts pressed against the cold surface as she pounded with frantic fists, the sounds swallowed by the silent space.

“Ann!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Annie, wake up!”

But her sister didn’t stir. The shower shut off, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before. Kelly slid down the glass, back scraping its chill, landing in a heap on the velvet floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around them, trembling, nipples aching in the cool air. She was a detective, a protector—the one who should have fixed this. And yet here she was, trapped in a glass box, forced to watch her sister die on the sheets of the woman who had broken them both.

The next day brought a lesson in routine. Bethany emerged from her dressing room immaculate in a tailored business dress, hair coiled in a severe yet elegant knot, makeup flawless. She moved with unhurried grace, making Kelly’s stomach twist with helpless rage. She barely glanced at the crystal case.

Instead, she approached the bed, her heels clicking softly on the floor as she looked down at Ann’s limp form with the detached air of someone inspecting a stain.

“Well,” Bethany murmured, voice a low purr, “time to tidy up.”

With two fingers, she lifted Ann away as if she were something soiled, breasts dangling limply. The sound of a faucet turning on came from the bathroom, followed by the faint, pathetic sputtering of her sister rinsed under cold water, her trembling ass exposed to the stream.

Minutes later, Bethany returned cradling Ann in a soft towel. Though clean, Ann was no less broken—nipples pink and raw. Gently, Bethany placed her back in the crystal case beside Kelly. Ann curled into a tight ball, shivering, eyes squeezed shut.

Leaning down, Bethany’s face filled the other side of the glass. Her icy green eyes found Kelly’s, and she whispered, “There now. All clean. You know, she cried for you the first few nights. Every time I took her out, she’d whimper your name—begging for her big, strong sister to come save her.”

A slow, cruel smile spread across Bethany’s lips. “It was quite touching. She had so much faith in you.”

Rage boiled through Kelly. She lunged at the glass, screaming curses, fists pounding until her palms were raw, breasts bouncing with every furious strike. But Bethany didn’t flinch, only watched amusedly until Kelly’s energy dissolved into exhausted sobs, collapsing back onto the velvet.

“Such fire,” Bethany said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the glass, right over Kelly’s face. The soft tink tink was deafening. “I do admire that. But you need to learn your place.”

She straightened, thoughtful. “I have Dobermans. Two of them. Beautiful, powerful animals with a taste for live prey. It’s satisfying to watch—a tiny body just… come apart in their jaws. The snap of bone is exquisite.”

She let the threat hang like a shadow—blood and teeth and torn flesh—her own breasts rising subtly with each breath.

“Your sister is fragile,” she said, glancing at Ann’s trembling form, “but you, Detective? You’re a fighter. Don’t make me give my pets a new chew toy. Be a good girl, and maybe I’ll let her rest.”

That night, the real lesson began.

Bethany returned late, smelling of perfume and wine, her nipples faintly visible through her silk dress. She said nothing, simply opened the case and slipped a hand inside. Kelly flinched back, but those fingers wrapped around her waist with practiced ease. From the corner, Ann whimpered, curling tighter, breasts quivering.

Bethany lifted Kelly up to the light, her gaze raking over every inch of bare skin.

“Tonight,” she said, voice thick with pleasure, “I think we’ll try for a matched set.”

She laid Kelly on the damp silk sheets, breasts splayed and exposed, then returned for Ann.

Horror washed over Kelly like a shroud. She tried to scramble away, sliding helplessly on the sheets, but her limbs felt like lead. Bethany placed Ann beside her, skin pressing together, Ann’s nipples brushing Kelly’s back. Ann was limp and cold, barely registering her sister’s presence.

“No,” Kelly whispered, voice cracking, “please don’t.”

Bethany’s smile deepened as she loomed. “Oh, I think I will.”

Bethany gathered them both in one large hand, her grip unyielding as she pressed their bodies tightly together—chest to back, limbs tangled in a grotesque parody of an embrace. Kelly’s breasts flattened against Ann’s trembling frame, her slit pressed firmly to her sister’s warm skin. She could feel Ann’s faint, frantic heartbeat fluttering beneath her chest.

Ann’s head lolled against Kelly’s neck, then back over her shoulder, hair damp and clinging. Their legs tangled helplessly, bodies slick with heat and fear.

Bethany moved her free hand between her thighs, parting her glistening folds with casual confidence. The scent of her arousal rose like steam, thick in the air.

“I was thinking about your sister this afternoon,” she murmured, voice soft and disturbingly fond. “Remembering how she felt inside me—the delightful little squirm just before she broke. So tight. So warm.”

Her words slid in like knives, even as her tone stayed warm and musing. Kelly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out—but there was no escaping the trembling body pressed to hers, or the wet, obscene sounds of Bethany’s hips flexing as she stroked herself open.

“Let’s see if two is even better,” Bethany purred.

She guided them downward, positioning their faces side by side before her waiting entrance. “I want to feel you both,” she added, almost reverent. “Every inch of you.”

Then she pressed them forward.

The suffocating heat surged up to meet them as the slick lips of her pussy parted hungrily. Wet flesh wrapped around their heads and necks, swallowing them with ease. Kelly’s face was buried against Ann’s, her sister’s hair in her mouth, nipples scraping slick skin as Bethany pushed them inward.

Their upper bodies slid in together, side by side, crushed breast to breast, chest to chest. The muscular walls stretched to take them, then clamped down with a slow, greedy pressure—tight, twitching, alive.

Kelly felt her body mashed flush against Ann’s, their slits grinding wetly in the dark, clenching heat.

The pressure was immense.

Ann’s body tensed briefly—an agony held in silence—then went limp, a heavy, unresisting weight in Kelly’s arms as the pulsing walls squeezed tighter, drawing them in with slow, relentless contractions.

The thick, slick flesh shifted and tightened around them, pulling them deeper. Helpless and entwined, there was nothing left but heat, pressure, and the smothering press of skin against skin, flesh against flesh, all of it swallowed into Bethany’s greedy, aching heat.

Then Bethany pulled them back out.

A tight, suctioning pop sounded as their shoulders slipped free. Cool air hit Kelly’s face for just a second before Bethany shoved them in again, harder this time, rotating them slightly within the slick grip of her sex.

“Unnh… just right,” she moaned, beginning to thrust them in slow, rhythmic strokes.

Every push drove their heads and shoulders deeper into her furnace heat; every pull sucked them back just far enough for air to brush their faces before they were plunged in again. Her pussy clamped down, pulsing tighter, wrapping them in wet velvet muscle.

Kelly’s arms were pinned, her face buried in Ann’s hair, their skin slick and mashed in the darkness. Bethany’s moans deepened as she adjusted her grip, wrapping her fingers around their torsos and starting to pump faster. Wet sounds filled the air: the obscene slurp of juices, the slap of their skin mashing against one another inside her.

Kelly felt Ann’s body spasm—a tiny, involuntary jerk that shattered something in her.

Bethany grunted, shoving them deeper and holding them there. The pressure built, a suffocating hug. The world vanished into pressure, heat, and wet friction. Her pussy spasmed, dragging them inch by inch until only their hips and legs remained outside.

And then, with one last wet lurch, she enveloped them completely.

The lips closed behind them. She clenched hard, sealing them inside. Her inner muscles flexed around them again and again, milking them, kneading their helpless forms to stroke herself from within.

Inside, it was black, slick, and unbearably tight. Kelly felt Ann’s body mashed against hers, their hips sealed together by pulsing wetness as Bethany began to roll her hips slowly, rhythmically.

Her orgasm hit like a quake.

Her inner walls convulsed, an earthquake of wet muscle, crushing and milking them in spasming waves. Kelly’s scream was lost in the thick flesh and the sound of Bethany’s own cry—long, throaty, ecstatic. Juices gushed around them, a flood of sticky heat coating every inch of their tangled forms.

The world vanished into pressure. Heat. Wet friction. The sound of Bethany panting, moaning, grinding her hips into the mattress as she fucked herself on their squirming bodies.

When she finally pulled them free, they came out in a slow, wet pop—smeared in juices, limbs tangled, breasts heaving. Bethany’s hand was gentle, careful, like she was savoring the sensation.

She dropped them onto the sheets.

They landed in a heap—wet, tangled, and motionless but for the trembling rise and fall of their chests. Ann curled instinctively into Kelly’s side, hiding her face.

But the night was far from over.

Bethany’s hand returned for Ann. It closed around her waist, lifting her away from her sister, breasts dangling helplessly.

Too stunned and broken to resist, Kelly watched as her sister was carried away.

“That was exquisite,” Bethany breathed, eyes gleaming with a new, terrifying idea, nipples stiff with arousal. “But I feel we’ve only scratched the surface.”

She rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up on elbows, lush, rounded ass rising into the air. With one hand, she parted her cheeks, revealing the tight, puckered ring nestled just above the glistening lips of her pussy.

Bethany’s mouth closed around Ann's form, lips sealing around her waist with possessive hunger. A low, delighted moan vibrated through her throat as she sucked the girl deeper, savoring every helpless twitch.

Her now-free hand reached for Kelly.

Bethany’s fingers curled around Kelly’s ankle and lifted her effortlessly, holding her aloft by one leg so she dangled upside down. Her breasts swayed with the motion, tugged by gravity, her hair spilling downward in disheveled streams.

Kelly gasped, the breath catching in her throat—but her body no longer had the strength to resist. She writhed weakly, limp in the giant woman’s grasp, as Bethany studied her with a gleam in her eye. In the low, golden light of the room, it wasn’t a human gaze. It was something feral.

Bethany lowered her—not to the bed, but toward the smooth rise of her own hips. With her free hand, she spread her massive ass apart, exposing the tight, puckered ring nestled between the flushed cheeks. Then she let go.

Kelly landed with a soft, fleshy slap against the warm, sweat-damp valley. Her face sank into the curved plane of skin, trapped between the powerful swell of Bethany’s ass. The air was thick—heavy with a musky, heady heat that clung to her lungs. For a breathless moment, she lay stunned, her bare breasts pressing into the slick surface.

A low, guttural moan rolled from Bethany’s throat—deep and pleased. The sound vibrated through the flesh beneath Kelly’s cheek, a primal purr of indulgence.

Inside her mouth, Bethany’s tongue continued to move with slow, deliberate strokes. Ann was still trapped on it, naked and trembling, every inch of her soaked in the slick fluids of Bethany’s arousal. Her body glistened, hair clinging in wet strands, thighs smeared with the sticky residue of the woman’s climax.

Bethany licked her like candy. She turned her slowly, savoring her taste—pressing her flat against the roof of her mouth, then dragging her tongue across the curve of Ann’s back, over her tiny breasts, down between her legs. The tongue slipped between her thighs, coating her pussy again, slathering her with fresh, warm saliva.

Ann twitched with each motion, her breath catching in tiny gasps. Bethany moaned again, louder this time, her mouth parting to draw the girl in deeper. Her lips sealed around Ann’s hips, tongue circling her entrance with lewd affection before curling under her ass, lifting her deeper into the waiting heat.

Before Kelly could even orient herself, Bethany let the cheek she’d been holding snap shut. It clapped back into place with shocking force, the muscular halves slamming together in a wet, thunderous smack.

Kelly cried out. Her body was engulfed by darkness and heat, the world reduced to the crushing embrace of Bethany’s ass. Her limbs were pinned. Her face was buried deep in the soft, sweat-slickened flesh. The pressure was absolute—smothering and final. Even the softest part of this woman could break her without effort.

Just as quickly, the pressure relented. Bethany parted her cheeks again, slowly, almost teasingly. Her hand reached back and wrapped around Kelly’s waist, the fingers easily spanning her tiny torso. She lifted her up, turning her with casual strength until her face hovered directly above the exposed, wrinkled star of Bethany’s asshole.

Bethany’s thumb pressed into the small of Kelly’s back, forcing her down at an angle, her arms dangling, her breasts swinging forward. Her nipples brushed the rim as her face was brought closer.

“Let’s see how you fit,” Bethany murmured, her voice low and velvety. The words vibrated through Kelly like a threat and a promise.

She pushed.

Kelly’s face mashed against the tight, textured ring. Her nose and lips flattened against the puckered entrance, coated instantly in slick warmth. The scent hit her like a wall—thick, earthy, impossibly intimate. Bethany held her there for a long moment, her muscles flexing, hugging Kelly’s features in a suffocating seal.

Then she pulled her back. Just an inch. Then forward again.

Over and over, Bethany ground Kelly’s face into her asshole with slow, methodical force. Not yet penetrating—but marking her. Rubbing her in, like claiming a scent.

With each humiliating press, Bethany’s moans deepened. Her tongue worked Ann harder, dragging her tiny frame across every slick surface inside her mouth. She licked her again and again, tongue curling beneath her thighs to lap at her overstimulated pussy, then sliding up her belly, her breasts, circling her nipples and tasting her helpless shudders.

Ann was limp, soaked, her body responding despite her mind’s panic. Her moans were swallowed up by the warm walls around her. Bethany drew her fully into her mouth, suckling gently, rolling her over her tongue like a piece of fruit. Her wet skin slid across teeth, palate, and lips—bathed in the constant, slow worship of Bethany’s hunger.

Kelly whimpered. Her struggles weakened, her muscles giving out. This was beyond violation. Beyond even the degradation of being handled like a plaything. It was something deeper. A tearing away of identity, a burial beneath heat, scent, and power.

Her body sagged.

Bethany felt it. She smiled—slow and triumphant.

“There you are,” she purred.

With her free hand, she reached down between her legs and drew a thick coating of slickness from her dripping cunt. She smeared it first over her waiting entrance, the glistening ring of muscle glistening wet. Then she rubbed the slick fluid across Kelly’s head, stroking it into her hair, her cheeks, her lips.

Positioned again at the center, Kelly hung limp.

And Bethany shoved.

There was no resistance. The tight ring stretched, yawned open around the slick crown of Kelly’s head, and swallowed her whole in one slow, wet gulp. The sound was obscene—flesh sliding around flesh, a deep, hungry slurp.

Kelly’s face disappeared into heat and darkness. Her shoulders followed, the pressure mounting as the muscular passage clenched around her. Her breasts were flattened tight to her chest, dragged inside with her, while her arms were pinned helplessly at her sides.

Bethany groaned, her back arching as her hand worked slowly, feeding Kelly deeper. Inch by inch, the tiny woman vanished, dragged into the smothering tunnel of living heat. Her waist, then her hips, then her thighs disappeared between the flexing cheeks.

Her feet slipped in last, with one final, gentle push.

The entrance clamped shut behind her, sealing the detective inside a world of absolute blackness. Heat. Scent. The rhythmic, slow squeeze of inner muscles kneading her deeper.

Outside, Bethany exhaled through a moan, sucking more of Ann into her mouth, tongue curling around her, teasing her swollen clit with slow, deliberate strokes.

Trapped and helpless, buried in Bethany’s depths, Kelly could only feel the deep, resonant vibration of the giantess’s pleasure—pleasure drawn from the same throat that now worked her tongue lovingly across her broken sister’s sex.

The days that followed blurred together. The cycle never changed: the suffocating darkness of a body cavity, the raw exhaustion of being used, and the sterile silence of the crystal case.

The fight that once burned in Kelly’s eyes had dimmed to barely a flicker, replaced by a hollow ache that spread deep into her bones. She wasn’t a detective anymore—wasn’t even entirely a person.

She was an object, passed from one whim to the next, her purpose reduced to whatever Bethany desired in the moment.

Then one afternoon, something shifted—small, barely noticeable. Bethany, immaculate in a tailored business suit, was fastening a pearl earring when the tiny backing slipped from her fingers. It bounced off the nightstand’s edge and vanished into the shadows behind it.

She clicked her tongue in faint annoyance, bent halfway to retrieve it—then paused. Her posture straightened, and her lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

Her voice dropped to a velvety purr. “Why don’t you get it for me?”

The lid of the crystal case swung open. Kelly’s stomach dropped as Bethany’s fingers plucked her up and set her down behind the heavy furniture, where the air hung thick with dust. But this time, it wasn’t about being used. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she had a task—one that required doing, not enduring.

Her eyes, dulled but not blind, scanned the dim floor until they caught a faint glint of gold. She crept forward, hands and knees pressed into the carpet, and closed her fingers around the tiny piece. It felt familiar. Tangible. Real.

She returned to the edge and held it up. Bethany took it without a word, her face unreadable.

“Useful,” she murmured, then closed the lid.

But something had changed. A flicker of purpose sparked in the emptiness.

The days crawled by with slow cruelty. Bethany seemed distracted; her sessions lacked the usual sharpness. Then, one evening, the rhythm snapped back into place with terrifying force. The lid lifted again—but this time, Bethany reached past Kelly.

Her fingers curled around Ann’s fragile form instead.

“Let’s have some fun, dear,” she purred, her tone husky with hunger.

Kelly’s breath caught. She could only watch as Bethany raised her sister’s limp body into the air, eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. But what followed wasn’t the usual calculated play. It was wild. Frantic. Unhinged.

Bethany thrust Ann into her pussy with no buildup, no grace—just brutal, raw force.

The rhythm was harsh and unrelenting.

Ann’s limbs flailed helplessly as she was driven in up to her shoulders, her head whipped back by the force of each stroke. Every plunge smashed her tiny skull against the hard pressure of Bethany’s cervix. The muffled, wet slaps echoed between Bethany’s thighs as her juices coated the tiny girl, making the thrusts easier—slipperier—faster.

Ann whimpered, then gasped, then fell silent as the thrusts became even harder.

Her body folded awkwardly under the pressure, crumpling inside Bethany’s depths, her twitching limbs lost in the pulsing heat. Every tremor, every struggling jerk, was milked for more sensation, her torment used as texture for Bethany’s pleasure.

Bethany climaxed with a shuddering groan, her pussy clamping down in a wet, convulsive grip. Her body twitched with release as her fingers clutched at the bedspread.

Then, with lazy, indulgent precision, she withdrew Ann’s trembling form and used her to rub slow circles around her clit. Ann’s spine bent with each motion, slick from both sweat and cum, her cries too faint to be heard.

When Bethany was done, she casually tossed her back into the case like a ruined toy. Ann landed in a heap and didn’t rise. She sobbed into her arms, curling in on herself, unable to look at Kelly.

That sound—the broken, wordless cry—shattered whatever was left of Kelly’s numbness. It cut deeper than anything Bethany had done to her.

For days, Kelly was still. Silent. The guilt crushed her like a weight. She clung to some last, desperate illusion of choice. Of control. But it slipped further with every passing hour.

Her breaking came quietly. Not with a scream. Not with defiance.

Just a breath. A decision.

The next time the lid opened, Kelly moved without being told. She scrambled forward on her knees, bowed her head, and knelt.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered. “Just leave her alone. Please. Use me. Just… not her.”

Bethany studied her for a long moment. Then, with unsettling gentleness, she brushed a strand of hair from Kelly’s face.

“All right,” she said softly. “She’s not your concern anymore. Just do a good job for me.”

After that, Ann was gone. Whenever Bethany summoned Kelly, the other side of the crystal case remained empty.

And each time it did, Kelly felt a sick wave of relief.

She told herself she’d done the right thing. That she’d protected her sister. She had sacrificed herself.

It was almost enough.

But the truth was darker.

Bethany had lied.

She liked Ann too much to let her go.

When Kelly wasn’t looking, Ann was still being used—just elsewhere. Buried deep in the tight grip of Bethany’s asshole, her small body clenched inside that merciless ring as the giantess lounged or walked or sat through meetings with a secret toy writhing inside her.

Sometimes, Bethany slipped her into her pussy again—when the craving struck. The taste of Ann’s helpless little form was one she never tired of.

Meanwhile, Kelly’s “new purpose” became her anchor. She was a servant now. An assistant. She retrieved pens, smoothed hems, straightened papers. Tiny chores that felt, in their own pathetic way, like control. They made her useful. Needed.

Then came the test.

One evening, Bethany cleared the marble floor of her study and scattered folders across it—intake forms, dossiers from Elevate.

She placed Kelly among them and took a sip of wine.

“I have a board meeting tomorrow,” she said, voice casual. “We’re expanding acquisitions. I’d value your opinion.”

Kelly’s eyes locked on the files. Photos. Notes. Names.

All women. All vulnerable.

Her heart seized.

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

Bethany’s smile thinned. The warmth drained from her voice.

“I thought we had an arrangement,” she said, her tone ice. “I leave Ann alone. You help me. Or do I need to revise the terms?”

Kelly’s gaze dropped again to the papers.

Her training kicked in. Patterns and vulnerabilities leapt out at her even as she tried not to see them. Her hands trembled.

She wanted to resist. But she couldn’t.

Unbeknownst to her, Ann was there—placed silently on the edge of the desk, forced to watch.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She just stared.

Ann saw her sister’s face tremble. Saw the battle behind her eyes. And then she saw the moment it ended. She saw Kelly’s hand rise.

“This one,” Kelly said flatly. “Angela West. No family. No corporate connections. Low-risk.”

Ann didn’t cry or scream. She just sat in silence, lips parted, her eyes wide and empty, watching her sister name the next victim. She saw the woman who had once been her protector use everything she once stood for to condemn someone else, and whatever had been left of her mind—of Ann Harper—slipped away for good.

There was no dramatic collapse, no final cry of anguish. Just the soft click of understanding as everything went still inside her. Her thoughts, her hope, her identity—gone.

A breathing doll. Nothing more.

The polished marble of Bethany’s bedroom floor was still cold beneath Kelly’s bare knees. But the chill didn’t register anymore.

It had been months.

Months since the fire in her gut had burned out. Months since the last scream tore from her throat. Her uniform—once a badge of defiance—was long gone. In its place was the delicate silk shift that now draped her six-inch frame, a permanent fixture in Bethany’s decadent world.

The defiant detective was a memory, a ghost.

Kelly, the eager servant, remained.

Her thoughts no longer tangled with rage or strategy. They circled simpler things now: the exact moment Bethany would stir from her afternoon slumber, the subtle shift in her breathing that meant desire, the precise arrangement of the intake forms for Bethany’s next acquisition.

She moved with eerie calm.

Hands that once picked locks and disarmed threats now smoothed silk and velvet with practiced care. There was pride—dark and coiled—in how well she served. She anticipated needs before they were spoken. She found patterns where others saw chaos. And she served with a devotion that bordered on worship.

The old life? Justice, duty, the endless, pointless battles?

Naive.

Forgotten.

She passed the cage next, casting only a brief glance at the woman inside—a tiny, naked figure thrashing at the bars, her breasts heaving with each panicked breath. Fresh prey. Newly taken. Bethany had plans for her tonight.

Kelly felt no kinship. No pity.

She kept walking, the hem of her shift brushing her thighs as she entered the vast bedroom.

Bethany lay sprawled across her bed, nude, the silk sheets tangled beneath her long, powerful limbs. The scent of her filled the air: musky, sweet, thick with arousal. It was a perfume Kelly had come to crave, as natural to her now as oxygen.

She stood at the bedside, holding the tablet aloft—her whole body needed to brace its weight just so her mistress could scan the profiles displayed.

“This one, Mistress,” Kelly said, her voice steady, professional.

Her tiny finger tapped the image on the screen: a trembling young woman, dark hair in disarray, eyes wide with fear.

“Anya Petrova. Excellent physical attributes. No discernible family ties. Minimal digital footprint. Low-risk. High-yield. She’ll integrate well into your collection.”

Bethany’s hum of approval rumbled low in her throat. Her icy green eyes drank in the details, hunger flickering in their depths.

“Mmm. You always pick the best ones, Kelly.”

Then—just a shift of Bethany’s hand. Or maybe the lazy parting of her thighs.

Kelly felt it, understood without a word.

She lowered the tablet gently onto the bed, the soft click of plastic on silk. And then she squirmed between those massive, waiting thighs.

The heat hit her first—humid, intense. The scent, heady and overwhelming.

She pressed forward, hands splayed wide on yielding flesh. Her lips found the swollen clit, and she kissed, licked, worshipped, her entire tiny body devoted to Bethany’s pleasure.

Bethany sighed, long and deep, hips rising to meet the delicate, eager tongue. Inside her, another tiny squirmed—forgotten, except for the constant, delicious pressure it provided. Kelly remained blissfully unaware her sister was but a few inches away from her. She was lost in her task, body arching, pressing, offering everything she was.

Bethany’s fingers pressed against Kelly’s back, firm and unhurried. She pressed down. Kelly gasped—the world narrowing as her small frame folded, then slid inward. The slick heat consumed her, enveloped her, pulled her into the pulsing wet dark.

Bethany purred, hips rocking, savoring the dual torment of the tinies squirming inside her.

"This…” she moaned, voice thick with satisfaction, “…is going to be a very good night.”

[AB23]

Been meaning to leave a comprehensive review!

I love the stories where the tinies have a bit of rights only to get them snatched away when they get too pretentious. Def loved the last story too, the slow mind break reminded me of some various horror movies that escape me right now.

Would you ever consider writing a story that involved a M/f cousins theme? Basic idea I had once was that the M cousin always harbored a secret crush on his F cousin, but only acted on it when she shrunk during a trip to the beach. I know your stories don't show the actual shrinking process but it can always be reworked somehow.

Looking forward to the next batch!

[Justhereforamoment1]

I was thinking of creating some sort of "Sweet Home Alabama" type story (that being the name as well), but I couldn't figure out how to get the giant and tiny to actually be related. Alternatively I could do step siblings and call it "What are you doing step bro?"

[Justhereforamoment1]

Well as requested, here is a sidequel (just learned that word) to chapter 20 "What are friends for?" focused on the titular side character Marla. Contains cock, feet, and one big breasted tiny.

Working on the cosplayer one next, so look out for that!

---

Marla sprawled across her dorm bed, jaw slack, a half-empty bag of tiny pretzels tucked against her hip and forgotten.

She’d been deep in a rom-com marathon, giggling at a cheesy proposal scene, when the screen flickered and an EMERGENCY ALERT screeched through her earbuds.

The pretzels shifted as she sat up. Her golden curls fanned across her pillow, hazel eyes wide as the state seal glared coldly from the screen. She wore an oversized T-shirt and soft cotton panties, her bare legs tangled in a fuzzy throw blanket that wouldn’t even cover a giant’s hand.

The warm comfort of her six-inch sanctuary evaporated as a sharp-suited official stepped into view, his voice clear and final.

“Effective immediately, all tiny rights within state borders are hereby revoked. For public safety, every tiny must register under a giant guardian’s ownership. Non-compliance will result in seizure.”

Her breath hitched. The bag tipped, pretzels spilling across the bed. She didn’t move. The rom-com’s cheesy music resumed in her earbuds, completely wrong against the cold weight pressing into her chest.

Seizure.

The word echoed, cold and sharp. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her fingers dug into the throw, knuckles paling. The rom-com’s sappy soundtrack resumed, a jarring mismatch to the chilling pronouncement.

Marla came from money. Old money. One of the richest tiny families in the country—maybe the world. When she’d announced she was going to a mixed-scale university, her parents had been horrified.

“Don’t you know how giants treat us?” her father snapped, slamming his glass onto the marble countertop. “It doesn’t matter how much we have if they get their hands on you!”

“Please, honey,” her mother had pleaded, gripping her hand across the breakfast table, pearls trembling. “We’ll send you to the best tiny-only college in the country. You don’t have to do this.”

But Marla had shaken her head. They didn’t understand. The math program here was world-class. And she was tired of being pampered, swaddled in caution and wealth. She wanted brilliance. Challenge. Something real.

Now, pacing her room under the orange glow of her desk lamp, she wondered if she’d been reckless.

The emergency alert still glared from the screen, that state seal etched into her vision. Her earbuds lay in a tangle on the nightstand. She rubbed a hand through her curls, fingers tight in her hair, and turned toward the mirror near her closet.

Her reflection stared back—anxious, tousled, breathing shallow.

She had a soft, heart-shaped face framed by a wild halo of curls that refused to behave. Hazel eyes, bright and expressive, darted over her own features. A small, upturned nose. Rounded cheeks flushed with tension. Her lips parted slightly as she exhaled through the tightness in her chest—plush, pink, and trembling.

The oversized shirt had slipped off one shoulder.

The soft fabric clung to her chest, and even loose as it was, it couldn’t hide the shape of her breasts—large, heavy, and impossible to ignore. The cotton stretched where it brushed over them, pulled taut just above where deep, warm cleavage pressed together beneath the fabric.

She shifted slightly, watching the fabric rise as her chest moved. Her nipples were stiff beneath the shirt, pushing visibly through the thin cotton. One careless stretch, one tug in the wrong direction, and they threatened to spill free—like they had too many times before.

It was always her chest that drew attention.

Her bras never fit right. Every shirt either hugged too tight or dipped too low, exposing that inviting, perfect line between her breasts. And giants, always towering over her, always had a view straight down.

She shifted her weight, turning a little, her eyes narrowing as she took in the rest of her reflection. Her soft cotton panties hugged her hips, clinging to the curves of her thick ass. Her legs were long for her size, smooth and shapely, the subtle flex of her thighs visible even now as she fidgeted on bare toes.

Every step she took made her ass bounce slightly, the way it always did when she walked down the hall and caught a giant’s eye.

She tugged the shirt lower, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed she felt.

The window beyond the desk showed nothing but black sky and scattered dorm lights. It was late. Her room was quiet.

But sleep wasn’t coming tonight.

She tugged on the oversized hoodie that lay crumpled at the foot of her bed. The sleeves nearly swallowed her arms, the hem brushing past her thighs, but the weight of it was grounding—something familiar. Something safe.

She needed air.

The dorm halls were quiet. Too quiet. Her bare feet padded along the cool floor as she crept toward the side exit, slipping through without a sound.

Outside, the night was cold and still. Crickets chirped softly somewhere in the distance, but the usual hum of campus life was missing. The pathways were empty, the lamplight golden and hollow. Trees loomed larger than they had this morning. Every rustle of leaves made her flinch.

She walked quickly at first, arms tucked tight under her chest. Her curls bounced behind her, the hood slipping from her shoulders with each step. Her eyes flicked from shadow to shadow. There were no giants in sight… but the world felt too big.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

The shadows stretched long across the path, and suddenly it felt like they were moving. Reaching. Watching.

Marla picked up the pace.

Her thighs brushed together beneath the hoodie, heart thudding louder with each step. Her breath came faster. She darted a glance behind her—nothing. Still, her pace quickened. The sidewalk blurred. She was running now, legs pumping, bare feet slapping the pavement. Her hoodie flew out behind her, hair tangled around her face.

Don’t stop. Just get home. Just get inside.

She burst through the side door, slammed it behind her, and leaned hard against the wall, chest heaving.

Her room greeted her with silence. No emergency alert now. Just the faint hum of her desk lamp and the soft creak of her bed as she climbed back into it.

She curled beneath her throw blanket, the hoodie still clinging to her skin, and shut her eyes. Her body was still trembling. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was loud. The kind of loud that filled your ears when you were waiting for something bad to happen.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

But eventually, it came anyway.

The next morning, Marla kept her pace deliberately steady, her shoulder occasionally brushing against Kara’s. They’d fallen into that habit during history class—a quiet alliance against the leering presence of giants. Their curvy frames had always drawn attention. Now, it felt less like convenience and more like survival.

Marla’s blouse clung tightly to her chest in the rising heat, the fabric catching in the breeze with every step. Her cutoff booty shorts did little to hide the length of her legs, but changing into something baggier hadn’t even crossed her mind that morning. Stubborn pride, maybe—or just the desperate need to feel normal, to feel seen on her own terms.

Kara walked with her eyes fixed on the pavement, her silence brittle. Marla felt the weight of every stare they passed—heavier now, more predatory. Her jaw tightened, but she refused to flinch.

In an effort to break the tension, she nudged Kara lightly.

“Bet I finish that paper before you, slowpoke,” she said, her voice too loud in the tense air. “Loser buys coffee.”

Kara gave her a faint smile, eyes flicking up just briefly. “You’re on. But you’ll be broke by Friday.”

That tiny flicker of normalcy warmed Marla’s chest. She let out a soft laugh, almost convincing herself they were safe.

Her smile faltered. “We’ll stick together, right?” she asked, more quietly.

Kara didn’t hesitate. “Always,” she said, squeezing Marla’s hand.

And then the shadow fell.

A rancid, sour smell hit her nose—sweat and grease. Before she could react, a massive hand slammed down around her. Fingers like steel bands crushed her ribs, lifting her into the air like she weighed nothing at all.

Her scream split the air—but it didn’t last. His grip squeezed the breath from her lungs. Her legs kicked uselessly as the world blurred below.

The last thing she saw was Kara, wide-eyed, diving behind a dumpster.

Marla’s heart twisted.

The giant chuckled low in his throat as he walked away.

Her limbs flailed helplessly, each jarring step rattling her like a doll. His other hand fumbled at his jeans, tugging down the zipper with crude impatience.

“No—! Stop—!” she gasped, voice breaking with panic.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at her. Just grunted, popped the button, and peeled open the waistband of his boxers.

The smell hit her first—hot, thick, humid. Her eyes widened in horror as he shoved her downward, angling her straight toward the heavy shape swelling in his shorts.

“Let’s see where you really belong,” he muttered, cock already half-hard and stiffening at the sight of her struggling.

She kicked violently, twisting in his grip, pounding her fists against his fingers. It was useless. Her bare thighs brushed against the swollen shaft. Heat rolled off it in waves—oppressive, suffocating.

Her scream tore through the night.

Her shoulder hit the elastic. She shoved herself backward with all she had, fingernails clawing at his skin. For a split second, she slipped loose—chest heaving, curls wild, breath ragged as she twisted midair.

But he caught her again with a growl, his grip clamping hard around her ribs.

“No—let go! Get your hands off—!” she cried, but he shoved her down again, rougher this time, smashing her face-first into the waistband. The head of his cock pressed against her belly, hot and slick with precum. She strained to keep her face away from the throbbing length, twisting to the side, legs kicking, arms pushing at the thick tip to buy herself space.

She managed to slide slightly free.

Her second scream came sharper—piercing.

Then his fingers wrapped around her skull, forcing her down, smothering her face against the burning flesh. Her cry cut off as her cheek dragged across the twitching shaft and into a dense mat of coarse pubes. The waistband snapped shut above her, sealing her inside.

Darkness swallowed her. Her body flattened against the pulsing heat, every breath filled with the scent of sweat and musk. His palm pressed over the bulge, grinding her down.

“Mmm,” he rumbled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Perfect fit.”

Her muffled cries went unheard. All around her, thick fabric and damp skin pressed in close, sealing her against the hard length rising behind the cotton. He zipped up slowly, as if savoring it, and then walked off into the dark—his cock twitching with every step, and Marla squirming helplessly inside.

She didn’t know how long she was trapped.

The world had become a humid, stifling nightmare—tight cotton soaked with sweat and smeared with precum. Her blouse clung to her back, damp and useless, while her bare thighs stuck slick to the heat pulsing beneath her. The fabric of her tiny shorts had ridden up between her cheeks, twisted uncomfortably as she lay facedown across the veined girth.

Her breasts bore the worst of it.

Pressed full and heavy against the shaft, they squashed with each bounce of his cock, the soft curves smearing across the sticky surface. Her blouse had ridden up during the struggle, exposing the underside of her tits to the hot, precum-slick skin.

Each jolt from his stride made them slide across it, dragging wetly, soaking in the mess. Her nipples were stiff and sensitive, flattened against the throbbing heat, twitching every time his step bounced her deeper into the shaft.

Every breath dragged hot, sour air into her lungs. Her nose was buried in coarse, sweat-drenched pubes, the scent overwhelming—ripe with musk, stale piss, and something thicker clinging wetly to the base of his cock.

She couldn’t lift her head an inch.

The pubic hair scratched her cheek with every movement, the sticky tang of drying fluid clinging to her face, matting in her curls.

The shaft throbbed beneath her like a furnace, every motion stirring more of the translucent fluid that now seeped freely up its length. It clung to her chest, smeared across her belly, leaking into the waistband of her shorts. Her skin was glossy with it, tits sliding through the mess with each grind, the blouse bunched uselessly around her ribs.

She thrashed, fists trapped under her, legs kicking uselessly in the confined space. The cock twitched again, pulsing thicker as her helpless movements only added to its pleasure.

Outside, the man was whistling.

Victor hadn’t been having much luck the night before, but the moment he spotted that busty little thing walking next to another tiny, he’d practically sprinted. God, she was a dream—legs for days, hips like sin, and those tits. Fuck, those tits.

The way she squirmed now, face mashed into his shaft, just made it better.

Victor grinned to himself, hands in his pockets, casually palming the bulge where she writhed.

She was panicking, trying to crawl away from him, but it only made her slide deeper against him. She was probably crying in there. The thought made his balls ache.

He was just rounding the corner out of the campus—thinking maybe he’d duck into a alley, unzip, and rub one out with her body—when a voice cut through the air.

“Evenin’, sir,” came the dry drawl from behind. “Gotta say, that’s quite the movement you’ve got down there.”

Victor froze.

Turning slightly, he came face-to-face with a uniformed officer—badge glinting under the streetlamp, arms folded, one brow raised as he nodded toward Victor’s pants.

“You wouldn’t happen to have your registration on hand, would you?” the officer asked, voice all politeness with an edge of warning. “Seeing as it's a crime to, ah, store merchandise before processing.”

Victor winced, color draining from his face. “Shit—sorry, officer, I just found her,” he said quickly, hands half-raised. “Didn’t think—I mean, I wasn’t gonna keep her untagged. I just got excited.”

Inside his pants, soaked in heat and desperation, Marla’s heart stuttered.

She could hear them. She could hear them talking. The officer knew. Maybe—maybe he would pull her out. Maybe someone was finally going to help.

For a heartbeat, hope flared.

The officer exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “Uh-huh. Look, I get it. Big day. Lotta folks getting their firsts.”

He paused, gave Victor a hard look, then nodded down the street. “There’s a registration center two blocks that way. You take her there now, get her collared, pierced, and filed. You understand me?”

Victor nodded quickly. “Absolutely. Right away.”

“Good.” The officer stepped back. “Just don’t let me catch you with another one unregistered, or I will confiscate them. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

The moment the officer was gone, Victor exhaled in relief—then grinned.

“Close one,” he muttered, palming the twitching bulge again. “Bet you thought he was gonna save you, huh?”

Inside, Marla’s scream went unheard.

When he finally arrived at the registration center, Victor made a beeline for the bathroom.

He’d considered pulling her out in line—he really wanted to—but figured dropping his pants in the middle of the lobby might not go over too well. No sense in getting banned before she was official.

Inside the cramped bathroom, he locked the door and unzipped with a grin, eager as he reached in and tugged her free.

She came out wriggling, slick, and soaked to the skin. His grin faltered immediately.

“Shit,” he muttered, holding her up by the waist.

She was absolutely drenched. Glossy with sweat and precum, smeared from head to toe in a thin, viscous sheen that clung to her like oil. It dripped from her hair, her arms, the undersides of her tits. Her shorts squelched softly when he touched them. Her chest rose and fell in frantic little hitches, throat flexing as she choked and gagged on the fluid still sliding from her lips.

Victor grimaced. If someone saw him walking around with her like this, he’d get slapped with a sanitation fine for sure.

Scowling, he turned the faucet on and cranked it to full heat.

The moment he shoved her under the stream, Marla shrieked.

The scalding water hit her like fire, and she writhed in his grip, but he just twisted her roughly, turning her this way and that, scrubbing her with his fingers to rinse away the worst of it. Water rushed into her nose, choking her mid-scream. She sputtered hard, thrashing in his hand, but he didn’t stop—just kept dragging his fingers over her skin.

The precum came off in milky swirls, circling the drain in globs. Her skin was flushed bright red by the time he was done, breathing ragged, legs trembling. She hung limply in his hand, dripping into the sink, eyes squeezed shut as if willing it all to vanish.

Victor grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser and began wiping her off without ceremony, blotting her skin hard enough to make her yelp.

Then, with a satisfied grunt, he grabbed her by one ankle and let her dangle upside-down, walking casually back into the main lobby.

“Let’s get you processed,” he said cheerfully, stepping into line with a few other men, all holding their own tiny catches.

Marla didn’t move.

She just hung there, upside-down, arms limp over her head, her hair dripping onto the tiled floor. Her eyes stared blankly at nothing, lips parted around silent, broken breaths.

The line inched forward.

Victor shifted his weight from foot to foot, the cold tile pressing through his shoes. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed steadily, casting the lobby in a flat, sickly glow. Somewhere behind the front desk, a printer clicked and whirred. Someone coughed—loud in the stillness.

A few men waited ahead of him, each with their own tiny.

One of them—a lanky guy in a rumpled polo—was idly toying with a brunette curled up in his palms. She was dressed in nothing but a bra and panties, hair tangled, her chest rising and falling with each shallow, panicked breath. He was using his thumbs to roll and squeeze her tits, pressing them in from both sides. When she whimpered and tried to push him away, he flipped her over and gave her ass a sharp pinch.

Victor caught a glimpse of her face—wide, red-rimmed eyes and lips pulled tight with fear. The man just smiled and kept playing with her.

A pair of guys behind him were chatting, oblivious.

“Yeah, my girlfriend was thinking about getting a toy,” said one—stocky, with a backwards cap, holding up a sobbing redhead between two fingers. “And then the law passed. Perfect timing, right? This little thing’s gonna live in her ass.”

He jiggled the girl gently, smiling as she flailed. Her legs kicked weakly, tiny arms batting at the air while tears streamed down her cheeks. He laughed at the sight.

His buddy—tucked-in tee, slacks, bit of a dad vibe—gave a low whistle. “Shit. I don’t even know what I’m gonna do with mine. Might give her to my kid. Or hell, maybe the dog. If he doesn’t chew her up too fast.”

He opened one side of his jacket to show a tiny woman zipped inside the inner pocket. She was limp, blinking slowly in the dim light, her arms wrapped around her chest. When the jacket parted and light hit her face, she opened her mouth to scream and clawed toward the opening.

“Found her walking past the Starbucks,” the man said, zipping the pocket shut again. “Figured hey—law says I can grab one. Wasn’t about to miss the window while they’re still free.”

Further up, a few more guys waited silently, scrolling through their phones. Their tinies dangled forgotten from their hands like bags of fast food.

One man had two of them—both completely nude—stuffed together in a clear takeout container. Their legs were tangled, breasts mashed tight, nipples pressed flush where their chests met.

Victor adjusted his grip on Marla, still holding her upside-down by the ankle.

She hadn’t moved.

Her wet curls hung in a dark tangle, dripping steadily onto the floor. Every so often, a faint wheeze escaped her chest, but her eyes didn’t track anything.

Eventually, he was at the front of the line.

“Finally,” he muttered, stepping toward the desk as the man in front of him went to sit down.

The counter stretched wide—faded beige laminate, edges chipped, a cloudy divider separating it from the back office. There was a worn coffee ring near one corner, and the drawers didn’t sit flush. Behind it sat a woman in a state-issued polo, hair scraped back in a severe bun. She didn’t look up.

Without pausing her typing, she held out one hand.

“Registration form and tiny,” she said flatly.

Victor grunted and slapped his filled-out form onto the counter. Then he dangled Marla over the laminate by her ankle, her wet hair brushing the stained surface.

The woman finally looked up. Her gaze flicked from Marla’s limp, dripping body to the paperwork. She didn’t comment. With a bored expression, she tore a ticket from the dispenser and slid it across the counter.

“Wait for your number to be called,” she said flatly, already turning back to her keyboard.

Victor snatched the slip and made his way over to a row of hard plastic chairs bolted to the floor. He dropped into one with a heavy sigh and let Marla fall beside his boot like a soaked rag.

She hit the tile with a wet slap and gasped at the cold—but didn’t move. She curled tighter, her blouse soaked and clinging to the plush curves of her body, trembling where she lay in a growing puddle.

The stale air in the waiting area was thick with quiet misery and the faint scent of sweat. A digital display on the wall ticked through numbers in harsh red light. The fluorescent bulbs overhead buzzed relentlessly.

Scattered around, other men sat with their own soft, struggling catches. A few scrolled on their phones. One man tried to coax a piece of granola bar into the mouth of a tiny woman sobbing in his lap. When she turned her head away again, he gave up with a shrug and stuffed her back into his coat pocket.

Marla stared at the ticket Victor held.

83.

The screen read 76.

Each changing number felt like a countdown to something final. She squeezed her eyes shut. For a fleeting, agonizing second, she saw her dorm room—the soft throw blanket, the half-eaten bag of pretzels, the warm glow of her desk lamp. A sob caught in her throat, bitter and sharp.

Then the loudspeaker blared. “NOW SERVING 83 AT STATION 4.”

She jolted. Victor stood and grabbed her by the waist. His fingers sank deep into the softness of her sides, her legs kicking feebly in the air.

“About damn time,” he muttered, striding toward a cubicle near the end of the row.

The clerk at Station 4 barely glanced up. Thin, balding, with a permanent squint, he gestured toward the counter.

“Place the tiny here.”

Victor dropped Marla on the surface. She stumbled to keep her balance, feet slipping slightly on the cold laminate. Her chest heaved. Her heart felt like it might punch through her ribs.

The clerk scanned Victor’s form.

“Alright,” he said dully. “For final processing, she needs to be nude. Strip her.”

A slow, ugly grin spread across Victor’s face.

“My pleasure.”

Before Marla could react, his thick fingers hooked under the collar of her blouse. He gave it one brutal yank. The fabric tore with a loud rip, buttons bouncing across the counter like kicked marbles.

“No—!” Marla gasped, trying to shield herself.

But her arms couldn’t cover much. Her breasts spilled free—large, soft, and heavy, still damp from her earlier soak. They bounced slightly as the ruined shirt dropped from her body, nipples pebbled in the cold.

Victor let out a low whistle. “Goddamn. Look at the tits on this thing,” he said, eyes locked on her chest. “Knew they were big, but shit.”

His voice made her stomach turn. Heat flared in her cheeks—humiliation burning up through her chest, through her scalp, making her legs shake.

He wasn’t done. With one hand, he caught the waistband of her tiny shorts and panties and tugged them down in a single pull. The fabric peeled away from her thighs, exposing more smooth skin, the soft curve of her hips, and the vulnerable plushness between her legs.

He glanced over and spotted a large bin tucked against the wall—overflowing with scraps of tiny clothing. Torn dresses, ripped underwear, shredded jeans. With a smirk, he tossed Marla’s ruined outfit onto the pile.

She stood there trembling, arms hugged around her bare chest, legs pressed together. Cold air kissed her skin. The clerk didn’t react but his gaze lingered too long, drinking in the swell of her breasts, the subtle quiver of her trembling thighs.

“Name,” he said, tapping a blank line on the form. “Field’s empty. She needs a designation for the registry.”

Victor snorted and looked down at her.

“Let’s call her ‘Tits.’ I mean—look at ’em.”

The clerk didn’t blink. He nodded and typed it in. Then he reached beneath the counter and brought out a thin metal collar, connected to two delicate chains. At the end of each chain: a sharp steel stud.

Marla saw the glint of metal and panic surged.

“Wait—please!” she burst out, her voice raw. “I can pay you—my family—we have money, we can—”

Neither man even looked at her.

“Hold her still,” the clerk said.

Victor’s hand clamped down on her torso, pinning her in place. The clerk reached out, thumb and forefinger encasing one of her breasts, feeling the squish and weight as he lifted the soft mound.

“Tiny thing, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. He poked the tip of her nipple with the cold stud, making it stiffen instantly. “There. Gotta have a target.”

Then he pushed.

Marla’s scream was high and piercing. It sliced through the air like wire. In the next cubicle, someone else shrieked. Another sobbed. The walls echoed with pain.

The stud punched clean through her nipple, blood welling around it. The clerk tugged the chain through the wound with a slow, merciless pull, forcing a second scream from Marla’s throat. Her body convulsed.

He didn’t pause. He moved to the other breast and did it again.

This time her scream was hoarse—raw and choked by sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her body shook violently, legs barely holding her upright. The chains hung from her chest now, long and gleaming and slick with blood.

With one final motion, the clerk snapped the collar closed around her neck. It clicked tight.

He stamped the form and slid it across the counter. “Registration complete. ‘Tits’ is yours.”

Victor reached down, lifting her into his palm. She was trembling, chains whispering with every breath, her eyes wide with shock.

“There now,” he said, voice low and pleased as he tugged one chain with his fingers. She gasped in pain as her tender nipple was pulled. “Officially mine.”

[Justhereforamoment1]

Okay what the heck? This didn't even feel that long. Enjoy another long one I guess!

---

Victor pushed open the registration center’s door with his shoulder, his newly registered prize dangling from his fingers.

Outside, the street was starting to swell with activity.

Dozens of people were approaching—mostly men, but a few women too—each carrying their own freshly caught tiny. Some held them tightly by the torso, others by limbs or hair, but all of them were wriggling, panicked, half-dressed or entirely nude. It looked like the start of a parade.

Victor smirked.

Just in time, he thought. Beat the rush.

He turned and started home.

Marla twisted weakly in his grasp, pinned between his fingers. Her skin still gleamed with moisture, her collar tight against her throat, the chains hanging from her chest swaying with each jolt of movement.

She tried to push away from his thumb. Her tiny hands shoved at the ridged pad of his fingerprint, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

She glanced around frantically, wide-eyed.

She recognized this street. And that coffee shop. And the old bookstore on the corner. Everything was familiar—and wrong. Wrong because she was naked. Wrong because she was being carried like a keychain. Wrong because everyone around her looked directly at her as she passed, eyes roaming over her curves without shame.

She saw other tinies—scattered beneath parked cars, pressed flat into sidewalk cracks, clinging to the undersides of benches. Some ran. Others hid. One girl was yanked screaming from a planter box by a teenager who didn’t even break stride.

Marla’s breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Victor didn’t look at her.

He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

The place was a mess. Clothes on the floor, takeout containers on the counter, the air stale with the faint scent of sweat and old food. But none of it mattered.

Victor was already unbuckling his pants.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since he grabbed her off the sidewalk. The long wait at the registration center only sharpened his need—the way her soft body had hung limp in his hand, drenched and trembling, her heavy tits caught in the harsh fluorescent light, the fresh piercings gleaming with every shiver. It left him on edge. Desperate.

Victor held her up to eye level, watching the chains sway between her breasts.

“You’ve got no idea how much I'm going to enjoy this,” he said with a grin.

With that, he shoved his pants down, cock springing free, thick and pulsing with need.

“I believe you two are already acquainted,” he said with a chuckle, lowering her toward it.

Marla screamed.

She squirmed harder than before, her legs kicking, hands shoving at his fingers as she tried to twist away.

“No! No, don’t—please!”

Her pleas vanished into the thick, humid air of the apartment—muffled by musk, swallowed by heat.

Victor’s grip never faltered. His fingers pressed into the supple flesh of her waist, sinking deep into her softness as he guided her down, inch by inch, toward the stiff, glistening heat of his cock.

The scent hit her like a wall—hot and raw, a heady mix of sweat and precum that curled into her lungs. Her thighs tensed as the shaft brushed them, scorching and slick, leaving glossy streaks that clung to her smooth skin like oil. She let out a sharp, panicked cry, legs flailing, but her body only bounced in his grasp—helpless.

He brought her lower.

The tip shoved between her large, plush tits. The shaft flexed, smearing precum as it slid between the soft swells. Her piercings caught the light, glinting wetly as they dragged over his skin. Her breasts, full and sensitive, squashed against the length, the soft mounds molding around it, leaving messy trails in their wake.

Her face mashed against the swollen head. Her screams cut off instantly, silenced by the slick heat pressed tight against her features.

“Shhh,” Victor grunted, breath heavy, voice thick with satisfaction. “Gonna make you feel right at home.”

Her cries turned into desperate, muffled sobs—each whimper spilling directly into the head of his cock, vibrating through the slick, sensitive tip, like a soft buzz deep in his nerves.

It made his cock throb.

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t patient. He was a storm of pent-up need, and she was trapped at the center—soft, helpless, and overwhelmed.

Her limbs trembled uncontrollably, muscles refusing to obey as she fought to twist free. Every breath was a jagged rasp, scraping raw against her throat.

He didn’t stroke her down his shaft—he slammed her. Her petite frame, barely six inches of warm, yielding flesh, whipped up and down in a rhythm as brutal as it was unrelenting. Each jarring impact made her tits flatten and smear across the thick shaft, her body grinding messily through the slick sheen of precum that now covered both of them.

Her face struck the swollen tip again and again—each bounce making her round cheeks press and slide across the glistening surface. Golden curls plastered to her face, heavy with sweat and cum.

Victor twisted her in his fist, rotating her around the throbbing cock like a toy.

Her full breasts, heavy and sensitive, squashed beneath his grip, the new piercings catching and dragging along his shaft. Chains jangled between her nipples, jerking cruelly every time he turned her.

Then he flipped her, grinding her plush belly and soft inner thighs against the wiry hairs at his base. The friction burned, but he didn’t stop—he rubbed her down hard, until her skin was flushed and slick.

He shoved the slick head back at her face, smearing her lips and nose with precum until it dripped from her chin. She twisted away, choking on her cries, but he pressed harder, letting the slick heat coat her features entirely.

“P-ple—sto—mmf!” Her scream was cut off mid-word, drowned as thick, salty precum surged into her mouth.

He pushed her face in deeper, burying her in the heat of it, the tip flexing against her tongue as her sobs vibrated through him.

A guttural groan rumbled from deep in his chest. He shifted his grip, adjusting her soft, slippery body against the underside of his cock, grinding her hips into his groin until every curve molded to the rigid heat.

Her plush thighs slid helplessly, her legs pinned tight. Every part of her was soft—sweet tits squashed, warm belly smeared, ass grinding wetly with each movement. She wasn’t a person anymore. She was a sensation. A shape to be used.

The piercings burned. The chains snagged and tore against her bruised skin, white-hot bolts of pain flaring with each movement. Her screams were muffled into his shaft, her lips coated in leaking slick.

She choked on it. On the humid air. On the smell—musk and sweat, rank and overwhelming. Her breathing came in desperate gasps, clogged with the thick tang of cum and fear.

Still, she fought. Her tiny hands scratched at his grip, her hips bucking uselessly. But her panic only made him groan louder, her squirming adding to his pleasure.

Victor was lost in it—eyes shut, lips parted, her tiny body bouncing in his grasp like a wet, curvy toy.

He slammed her down harder. Her soft ass smacked against his groin with a wet slap, and he pinned her there, her legs twitching against his thighs.

Then he slowed.

The rhythm changed—grinding, deliberate, obscene. He rubbed her up, then dragged her back down in long, soaking strokes, her breasts trailing across the thick length, leaving slick smears of precum in their wake.

Her eyes stared up, wide and dazed, barely blinking. The flickering overhead light painted a dull shine across her tear-streaked cheeks, her cum-slick lashes, her flushed chest. Her body was slick from head to toe—glistening, soft, soaked in his heat.

A sob rattled out of her chest.

Victor moaned.

The first blast of cum hit her hard—splattering across her tits and face with a wet slap. Her body jolted, and he seized her head, shoving her forward.

Before she could breathe, her mouth and nose were buried in the throbbing slit.

Panic overtook her. The second spurt poured down her throat, hot and choking. She gagged, body convulsing in his grip as he held her in place, forcing her to swallow.

The third came harder. The fourth, deeper.

Her belly bloated, stretched tight with every drop forced inside, her plush middle visibly rounding and taut as it filled. And still, it poured.

Finally, he pulled her back.

She dangled in his grasp, twitching, glistening. A thick, bubbling sob escaped her, just before she retched—cum and spit and bile spilling messily down her chest, across her tits, splattering his cock and hand.

Victor wiped his hand on his pants, eyes narrowing in a pleased grin.

“Shit,” he muttered, casual and breathless. “Made a mess.”

His gaze drifted to the bathroom. A cheap metal hook jutted from the back of the door, meant to hold a towel that now lay crumpled on the floor.

The grin widened, eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and ownership.

He walked over, still holding her dangling from his fist. With his free hand, he gathered the two thin chains hanging from her collar.

Marla’s eyes flew open in fresh panic as she realized what he was about to do.

“No—wait, please, it hurts!” she cried, her voice raw, cum still leaking from her mouth.

He ignored her.

Without a word, he looped the chains over the metal hook, pulling them taut.

Marla’s scream tore through the room as her weight slammed downward, suspended only by the cruel piercings.

She dangled there, naked and drenched, her body quivering with each excruciating throb of pain from her chest. Her arms hung limply, her legs twitched feebly, and tears mixed with the filth streaking her face.

“There,” Victor said, stepping back with a low chuckle. “Perfect. Don’t go anywhere.”

He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the squeak of the faucet and the hiss of the shower starting.

The world dissolved into a universe of raw, white-hot pain.

Marla dangled from the hook by her pierced nipples, her full weight hanging mercilessly from two tiny rings of metal. Her scream tore through the air—ragged, guttural, animal—but it vanished beneath the hiss of a shower running behind the closed bathroom door.

Her tits felt like they were being peeled from her chest. Every shallow breath sent another bolt of agony shooting through the stretched, inflamed tissue. The studs dug into her flesh, biting deeper with every twitch, every spasm. Her limbs trembled uselessly, hanging slack, spasming in rhythm with the torment burning through her.

Filthy streaks of cum and bile clung to her body, sticky and sour in her nose and mouth. Her stomach ached, still bloated from the forced feeding, her belly bulging slightly, gurgling with thick fluid. The sour taste of it still coated her tongue.

Through the thin wood of the door, she could hear him humming.

Time lost meaning. Pain became her world—scalding, suffocating, inescapable. The steady patter of water on tile was the only rhythm she had to cling to, the only way to mark the seconds as they stretched into eternity. She longed for unconsciousness. For silence. But the fire in her chest refused to let her slip away.

When the bathroom door opened, the sudden shift in air sent goosebumps prickling across her skin.

Victor stepped out, wrapped in a towel, steam clinging to his bare chest and dripping hair. He was relaxed, refreshed—casually toweling off his neck as if she weren’t strung up like a decoration in the corner of the room.

Her body jerked involuntarily when he approached, her nipples pulling sharply at the chain as she whimpered.

His eyes barely glanced at her face. Instead, he reached for the thin chains and gave them a sharp, effortless tug.

Marla’s scream came out hoarse, broken, as her body dropped into his grip. Her weight wrenched the piercings downward again, the studs twisting deep into raw, swollen flesh. Her vision flashed white as another wave of pain tore through her chest.

Victor barely reacted. He just slung her easily in one hand, letting her hang limply by the chains, her feet dangling, her body swaying.

Still humming, he walked to his dresser and began pulling on a t-shirt, jeans, and socks—casual, like getting dressed for errands.

Marla swayed with every step he took, the motion bouncing her tits subtly against the tug of the chain. Her skin was flushed, glistening with sweat and filth, her breath coming in shallow little gasps. Her swollen nipples twitched every time he moved.

Each bounce, each swing, sent fresh sparks of heat and pain pulsing through her. There was no escape—not from the humiliation, not from the awful awareness of her body pressed bare against the open air, not from the cruel, relentless stretch of the chains.

Her mind drifted, dazed and foggy, to how she must look—soft, glistening curves swaying gently from his hand, her heavy breasts bobbing with every step, a trembling little ornament hung from her own tits.

Victor grabbed his keys and phone. His grip tightened slightly on the chain.

“Time to go, Tits,” he said, casually. His voice wasn’t cruel. Just indifferent. She was a possession now—an object he could name, parade, and flaunt.

He carried her out of the apartment, her naked body swinging in sync with his stride. The cool hallway air swept over her flushed skin, and goosebumps rose again across her trembling frame. The motion was unbearable—her breasts dragged and pulled with every step, the pierced nipples aching, raw nerves screaming with every bounce.

Voices murmured behind nearby doors. Someone laughed. A TV played somewhere behind thin walls. No one noticed her. Or worse—no one cared.

In the elevator, she swayed gently at his side. The downward lurch of the descent made her body rise for a split second, then drop again, the full weight landing right on the cruel metal threaded through her nipples.

She gave a wet, broken cry—too weak to scream now, too exhausted to fight.

When the doors opened, the outside world hit her like a flood. Sunlight, loud voices, the scent of hot pavement, fast food, and cologne—all of it too bright, too loud, too alive.

And there she was—stripped, filthy, exposed to it all.

Victor strolled out into the sunlight like he was showing off a prize. Giants moved all around him, talking, laughing, sipping coffee, their conversations rising like a tide. None of them saw her for what she was. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Her slick, flushed body swayed gently from his fingers, a slow pendulum of agony. Semen clung in dull streaks to her belly, across her breasts, up her throat and cheek. Her curls, once bouncy and bright, now hung in matted clumps plastered to her face and neck.

The skin around her nipples was stretched a violent red, tight and swollen, every nerve lit with pain. Each step made them pull harder—sharp, grinding jolts that radiated through her chest and down her spine.

Victor paused near a group of giants, grinning.

“Check out my new toy,” he said, and yanked the chain higher.

Her whole body jolted upward with a ragged cry, her head falling back, breasts yanked brutally skyward as her legs fluttered uselessly. The chains dug deeper, twisting the flesh, her full weight tearing mercilessly at the rings buried in her sensitive nipples.

She spun when he flicked the chain, her body twisting midair. The motion made her scream—a high, cracked wail—and then he caught her thigh between two fingers and pinched hard, smirking as she flinched and writhed.

Her slick, helpless curves quivered under his touch.

And then—her eyes met someone else's.

Kara.

Wide, horrified emerald eyes. Her friend. Her anchor.

For a single breathless second, the world froze.

Marla’s eyes locked on hers, and in that fragile, flickering connection, everything spilled out. The pain. The shame. The broken plea for help.

Kara staggered back.

Marla watched as Kara ran, her emerald eyes wide with horror, hips swaying as she stumbled backward before turning and fleeing. Marla didn’t blame her. How could she? She just hoped Kara stayed safe—stayed free. She wouldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all her best friend.

Victor’s laugh boomed as he turned back to his friends, swinging Marla’s body like a prize on display. The chain glinted in the sunlight, tugging sharply at her swollen, raw nipples with each careless bounce.

Jake, a shorter giant with shaggy brown hair, shook his head, grinning.

“Man, you’re disgusting,” he said with a laugh. “Couldn’t even clean her off before coming around? Ain’t no way I’m touching her when she’s covered in cum, dude.”

Victor smirked, scratching the back of his head. “Who says you’d get to touch her?”

That got a round of chuckles. Victor glanced down at Marla, her flushed, cum-streaked body swaying from the chain.

“Yeah, I kinda forgot,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. “Grabbed her this morning, had some fun after I registered her. Took a shower after, got distracted wanting to show her off to y’all. Didn’t even think about cleaning her.”

Another giant, Jim, leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Where the hell did you even find her?”

Victor puffed up a bit, pride in his voice. “Saw her walking with some other tiny this morning. Just out there, strutting along the quad like she owned the place. Wasn’t gonna pass that up.”

He gave the chain a tug, hoisting Marla higher so they could all see. Her body jerked upward, a broken little whimper escaping her lips as her nipples took the weight.

“Registration was boring as shit, but these chains? Kinda cool, huh?” He swung her slightly, the thin metal glinting as her breasts bounced under the strain.

They stood around for a while longer, laughing, tossing crude jokes back and forth as Victor showed her off. Marla’s body swayed with every motion, every step, the fire in her chest never easing.

Eventually, Victor said his goodbyes and strolled off toward a takeout joint, whistling as he went. Marla hung limp, her body bobbing with his stride, every jolt making her whimper softly. He picked up food, the smell of greasy burgers and fries filling the air as he walked home.

When they got back, he hooked the chain onto a bent nail on the wall, letting her dangle while he ate. The sounds of him unwrapping sandwiches, the crunch of fries, the glug of soda—ordinary noises that felt surreal against the backdrop of her pain.

Afterward, full and satisfied, Victor wiped his hands on a napkin, stripped off his jeans, and flopped onto his bed. The lights dimmed. His soft snores soon filled the room.

Marla swayed gently in the dark, the chain pulling at her battered nipples with every tiny breath she took, left hanging as he drifted off to sleep.

The world returned slowly, wrapped in a dull, throbbing ache.

Marla hung motionless in the dim light, her body limp and suspended by the two points of fire in her chest. Every breath pulled against her swollen, stretched nipples, sending sharp pulses through the raw flesh. The weight of the chains never eased. Each tiny sway, each movement of air, made them tug deeper.

Victor’s soft snores drifted from the bed, steady and oblivious. The sound only made it worse. While she hung there in pain, he slept in comfort—like she was just part of the furniture.

Time passed without meaning. Then she heard him stir.

The bedsheets rustled, and a low grunt told her he was awake. His footsteps shook the floor. A moment later, his hand appeared—fingers wrapping around the chains like they were a leash.

He unhooked her from the nail with a flick of his wrist.

For a brief moment, the release gave her a flicker of relief, but it vanished as he let her weight fall into his grip. The chain pulled hard, dragging the studs downward and sending a fresh bolt of pain through her chest.

He didn’t notice.

Victor yawned as he carried her into the kitchen, still half-asleep. “Morning, Tits,” he mumbled, setting her down on the cold counter. Her bare skin flinched at the sudden chill, and she struggled to breathe as her weight shifted and her heavy breasts settled painfully beneath her.

Victor turned away, digging through the fridge. His focus was already on breakfast.

That was when she saw it.

The apartment door hadn’t closed all the way. It hung slightly ajar, just enough to show a slice of the hallway outside.

A rush of adrenaline surged through her.

She didn’t think. Her body just moved.

Marla forced herself upright, the chains clinking softly against her skin as she stumbled forward. Her breasts bounced heavily with each step, the studs pulling cruelly with every motion. Her bare feet slapped against the counter as she ran, and then she jumped—landing hard on the kitchen floor.

Pain shot through her legs, but she pushed through it. She crawled toward the door, arms and legs burning, chest swinging beneath her, chains tugging with every desperate movement. Her ass swayed wildly with each frantic crawl, soft cheeks jiggling from side to side as she dragged herself forward.

Her fingers stretched for the gap in the door.

She was almost there.

Then a shadow fell over her.

Victor’s voice came from above, low and amused. “Really?”

His hand closed around her waist, lifting her off the floor like she weighed nothing. She kicked, but he barely reacted. His fingers squeezed tightly around her middle, holding her in place.

“Did you actually think that was going to work?” he said, chuckling as he carried her back to the center of the room.

He dropped her onto the coffee table, and she landed flat on her stomach. Her breasts spread beneath her, squashed under her own weight, the chain falling across her ribs. She tried to push herself up, but he was already returning—with a spool of dental floss.

“No—don’t—” she started, but it was too late.

He pinned her down with one hand and caught her wrists, pulling them tightly behind her back. The floss wound around them again and again, digging into her skin. She squirmed, but his grip was quick and practiced.

He tied her ankles next, cinching them tight until she couldn’t move an inch. Her thighs pressed together, ass high in the air, tits pushed out wide beneath her. The chain still tugged at her nipples, every breath bringing another sting.

Victor looked satisfied.

“There,” he said, patting her lightly on the head. “Problem solved.”

He walked away without another word, humming softly as he dropped onto the couch.

Marla lay bound and exposed, her naked body trembling on the table. The cool air brushed across her skin, making her nipples throb. Her tits spread wide beneath her, flushed and marked from where the piercings still pulled. She could feel every tiny movement, every breath, echoing through her chest.

And there was nothing she could do but lie there—stripped, helpless, and aching—waiting for whatever came next.

That night, he picked up her bound form without ceremony.

“Time for round two, Tits,” Victor said with a grin, already tugging his zipper down as he dropped onto the couch.

His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, flushed dark with anticipation. A bead of precum clung to the tip, swelling at the slit, glistening in the low light.

Her limbs were useless. Her wrists were cinched tightly behind her back, her ankles lashed together with that same thin floss. Her body was completely exposed, vulnerable in his grip.

She couldn’t push at him. Couldn’t claw, couldn’t kick. All she could do was writhe helplessly as he wrapped his fist around her midsection and lowered her toward his throbbing cock.

The soft weight of her full, round breasts met the shaft first, spreading around its girth as he began to slide her along its length. The chains dangling from her pierced nipples tugged with each stroke, the swollen tips dragging directly across his sensitive skin.

The studs caught faintly, adding small jolts of pain as they twisted and bit with every pass.

Victor shifted his grip higher, cupping the back of her neck and guiding her head downward toward the glistening tip. Her breath hitched as her lips neared it, the scent of him overwhelming—thick, musky, invasive.

He didn’t pause.

His thumb pressed firmly against the back of her skull, slow and unrelenting, pushing her until her lips and cheek smeared against the bead of precum. It clung to her skin, sticky and hot, streaking across her mouth and chin as he rubbed her face in it.

The fluid glued strands of her tangled, sweat-matted hair to her cheeks. He angled her head downward, dragging her across the underside of his cock, gathering every drop on her skin.

Her muffled cry vibrated weakly against the slick head as he worked her over it, using her face like a rag, spreading the mess over every curve of the tip.

Holding her tightly by her bound torso, he brought her down again, pressing her soft breasts against the thick shaft, gliding them along the full length. Her ass flexed faintly—trembling, straining within its bindings—as he ground her slowly against himself.

He adjusted her again, pressing her chest more firmly against the shaft, her full tits flattening and spilling around it with every stroke.

The chains tugged taut as her nipples dragged across his skin, sharp jolts of pain mixed with the warm slick of precum now coating her chest. The studs caught and twisted on each pass, biting into her raw tips.

She twisted in his grip, moaning softly into his flesh, but she couldn’t move more than an inch. He held her easily, ignoring every sound.

Sliding her lower, he dragged her body along the underside of his cock—her belly, chest, and thighs collecting streak after streak of precum. The slick friction built steadily, grinding it deep into her skin as he worked her back and forth.

Her face met the tip again. The pulsing head pressed against her lips, smearing more precum across her nose and cheeks. Her muffled cries buzzed faintly against him as he used her face again, dragging it across the slit, coating her with each pass.

He held her there for a long, slow moment, the heat of him pressing against her from chin to forehead. Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps.

“Fuck,” Victor groaned, jaw tight. “You’re good for this. Real good.”

He stroked her down again, slowly, pressing her through the slick mess along his cock.

Her soft ass quivered with each pass, her heavy breasts sliding over every vein. The chains pulled sharply at her pierced nipples, keeping her tips pinned in direct contact with his shaft. Each motion smeared her curves further, building layers of slick heat and shame.

He kept her moving—controlled, steady—savoring the glide of her helpless body. She couldn’t resist. She couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t do anything but take it.

Her cries were breaking now—muffled, breathless, wet with sweat and humiliation. Her skin glistened from friction and buildup. Her lips dragged helplessly over the shaft as he ran her from base to tip in a long, slow stroke that left her shuddering in his grip.

His fingers tightened around her waist as he ground her down harder. His cock twitched beneath her, the sudden pulse telling her everything she needed to know.

He came with a groan, shaft jerking violently under her chest as hot ropes splattered across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Thick strings of cum coated her curves, dripping from the chains at her nipples, streaking across her sweat-slicked skin.

He didn’t stop. He rubbed her through the climax, grinding her along his shaft, smearing the mess across every inch of her.

When he finally stilled, he stood with a grunt, her limp, bound body still dangling from his hand. She was soaked—slick with sweat, cum streaked down her front, her breasts glistening, the pierced nipples red and raw from the abuse.

He turned and walked across the room toward the old fireplace.

Above it, among cracked beer steins and dusty trophies, sat a crooked brick ledge. Without ceremony, he brushed aside just enough space and reached up—grabbing one of the rusted nails hammered into the brick.

Then he hung her on the mantle.

Her body dropped several inches before the chain caught, yanking her up with a sharp jolt that made her whimper. The sudden pull on her pierced nipples sent a flare of white-hot pain through her chest.

Her heavy tits bobbed from the impact, glistening with streaks of cum that slid slowly down her curves as she swung softly from the nail in the wall—bound, used, trembling.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. The chains tugged cruelly with every subtle shift, each tiny sway tightening the burn across her chest.

Her arms stayed cinched behind her, legs bound together, completely exposed—stripped down to nothing more than a living ornament, displayed for his satisfaction.

And so it continued.

Days passed in a blur of heat, hunger, and aching skin. Her world shrank to two places: the mantle, where she hung like a trophy, and the coffee table, where he left her when she wasn’t in use. He never fed her—unless the slick, salty fluid she was forced to swallow after each session counted.

It coated her throat and settled in her belly, leaving her sick and aching. But it was the only thing she had.

Hunger bloomed slowly at first. A dull, nagging pain. Then it sharpened—ravenous and consuming, gnawing at her until even the steady, searing throb from her piercings felt distant in comparison.

Her limbs grew weak. Her thoughts fuzzed at the edges. She started to shake constantly, too empty to cry, too tired to scream.

Finally, she broke.

Victor had just finished another round of TV, his post-laugh snores soft and even, when she found her voice—hoarse, fragile, barely more than a breath.

“Please,” she whispered from her hook, the chains trembling with the strain of speaking. “I’m so hungry.”

The TV clicked off. Victor glanced her way and smiled, a slow, cruel grin spreading across his face.

“Hungry, Tits?” he said, standing and stretching lazily. “Food isn’t free. Not for you.”

He walked over and unhooked the chain from the nail, letting her drop into his hand. She winced as her weight shifted—another sharp tug to her swollen nipples—but he didn’t notice. He carried her like an afterthought and dropped her unceremoniously on the floor.

“You want to eat?” he said, settling into his chair. “Then you’re gonna have to earn it.”

He leaned back and planted one bare foot in front of her.

It was massive. Yellowed and callused, stained with the grime of the floor. His toes flexed idly, thick and rough, the nails uneven and blunt. The smell hit her almost instantly—a sour, humid wave of sweat and skin and filth that made her gag.

“Start licking.”

Bile crept up her throat. Her stomach turned.

“Please,” she rasped, shaking her head weakly. “No…”

He laughed.

His foot moved—slow, deliberate—and pressed down onto her. Not a stomp, just a firm, steady weight that sank into her like stone.

The ball of his foot settled on her torso, flattening her soft breasts and belly against the cold tile. The pressure wasn’t enough to break her—but it was enough to remind her just how small she was. How easily he could snuff her out.

The chains dug between her skin and his sole, pressed tight, grinding against her chest with every shift of his weight. She squirmed instinctively, trying to escape, but his foot followed—grinding in a slow circle, toes flexing and spreading, tracing her curves through flesh and pressure.

Then he rolled her.

An idle shift of his foot flipped her onto her belly. Another sweep dragged her back again. His toes curled against her stomach, nudging her upright before gripping her ass—his big toe and second toe pinching the soft flesh, kneading her like a stress toy. Her cheeks jiggled helplessly with each slow squeeze, the friction only amplifying her humiliation.

She whimpered.

He rolled her again, and this time, rested his foot across her chest. The sole flattened her breasts, squashing them wide. Then his toes lifted, hooking the chains hanging from her piercings.

One sharp tug.

The scream tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her nipples felt like they were being ripped open, the studs twisted deep in her raw, swollen flesh.

“There we go,” Victor murmured, voice low and pleased. “Now you’re paying attention.”

He shifted forward, lifting his foot, and hovered it in front of her face. She flinched at the sight of it—the damp creases between his toes glistening with sweat, the musk now almost unbearable.

Then he moved in.

His second toe curled around her jaw, forcing her head sideways like she was nothing. Then he pressed in harder, pinning her cheeks between his big and second toe, sandwiching her face between thick, humid flesh.

“Start with the toes,” he ordered. “Every one.”

Her nose pressed into the warm, sticky gap between them, the scent drowning her instantly. It was everywhere—on her skin, in her lungs, clinging to the back of her throat. Sweat smeared across her face, soaking into her tangled hair and coating her lips.

There was no escape. No room to turn, no space to breathe.

Just heat, pressure, and stink.

Overcome by hunger and fear, Marla let the last of her resistance drain away. Her lips parted, and her small, pink tongue slipped out, trembling as it met the filth clinging to Victor’s foot.

The taste hit her like a punch—thick, briny, foul. Sweat, skin, grime. She gagged softly, her throat tightening, but he didn’t give her any space to recoil. His toes clenched around her face, pinning her lips against the base of his big toe, forcing her to keep going.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice lazy with amusement. “Clean every inch. Make sure to swallow.”

So she did.

Her tongue dragged along the curve of his arch—small and shaking, working slow, choking strokes over leathery skin. The taste was unbearable: old sweat soaked deep into cracked ridges, the bitter tang of foot funk baked in by time. She tongued between the wrinkles, gathering slick grit and swallowing it down.

When she toppled sideways—her bound limbs useless beneath her—his foot returned. Two thick toes clamped around her cheeks again and lifted her like she weighed nothing, setting her upright on her knees.

He didn’t wait.

“Keep going.”

Marla leaned forward again, her tongue darting out in quick flicks as she licked across the base of his sole.

Her heavy breasts swayed with the movement, squashed slightly against her chest each time she leaned in. The sweat-smudged chain dragged softly against her skin, tugging gently at the studs in her raw nipples with every shift.

She moved toward the space between his toes, where the stench thickened—moist, sour, lingering like mildew in a sock drawer. Her nose crinkled in disgust, but her tongue went in anyway, pushing through the damp crevice and swirling gently. Her jaw trembled with the effort.

Each drag pulled grime into her mouth, and she swallowed it with tight, choking gulps.

Victor watched idly, his smirk widening as she smeared sweat and filth across her flushed cheeks. Her curls stuck to her temples, damp and tangled. Her soft ass twitched faintly behind her, flexing helplessly with the effort of staying upright as she kept licking.

“Other side,” he said casually, tilting his foot.

She obeyed, though her tongue was raw and her mouth burning. Down to the heel—cracked, callused, dry and flaking—she scraped long, wet passes across the hardened skin. Grit clung to her lips, and she tongued through it, lips parted in small gasps as she mouthed around the rough patches.

She gagged again. Victor just smiled.

Then came the toes. Again.

Each one had to be cleaned—under the nail, along the pads. Her small pink tongue darted out again and again, brushing every crevice, sliding slowly across each digit while her bound body trembled in place. Her cheeks flushed bright, her chest rising and falling with the effort.

Once the first foot was finished, Victor leaned back and lifted the other.

This one was worse.

He rested it on her shoulder first, then smeared it slowly across her breasts and collarbone. The scent rolled over her—hot, wet, suffocating. She shivered beneath it. Her breasts jiggled softly as she shifted, the chain tugging faintly at her tender nipples.

Then she bent again and resumed her work.

She licked the top first, her tongue dragging across the curve with practiced desperation. Then down—under the arch, along the tendon, into the dark, wet space beneath. Her lips moved numbly now, guided by need more than thought.

Victor sighed, watching her. His other foot pressed gently against the back of her head, nudging her forward.

“Get in there.”

She did. Her nose buried between his toes, her tongue reaching deep, swirling in lazy, wet circles. Sweat coated her lips, clung to her cheeks, streaked down her chin. Her full breasts squished lightly against the tile beneath her, her ass lifting slightly with each twitch of her hips as she adjusted for balance, driven by the singular thought of earning her food.

By the time she reached the last toe, her tongue felt raw and swollen. Her face was glazed in spit and grime. Her chest heaved with every shallow breath.

Victor finally leaned back and pulled his foot away.

She collapsed where she knelt—breasts flattened, arms straining against their binds, her whole body slack.

For a long moment, she lay there, too exhausted to move or even cry.

Then he lifted his foot once more and wiped it slowly across her face—heel to toe. A final mark.

He dropped a single pretzel onto the floor beside her.

It landed right where his foot had just been.

She didn’t hesitate.

Driven by hunger more than thought, she dragged herself toward it, bent her head low, and licked it once from the cold tile before taking it carefully into her mouth.

It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

This became the new ritual. Her survival was tied directly to her submission.

If she wanted her single daily crumb of food, she had to earn it—perform for him, obey him, let him use her however he pleased.

Some days, it was his feet. He’d drop her at the base of the armchair and order her to worship, her bound hands twitching uselessly behind her as her tongue worked over his callused soles. He made her swallow everything. The smell was overpowering—sour, earthy, soaked deep into her pores—but she did it every time, desperate and trembling.

Other nights, he’d unzip his pants and yank her by her chains into his lap, grinning.

“Do what you’re good for, Tits,” he’d order.

And she would begin.

Still bound, wrists tight behind her back, her body became a helpless tool—pressed against his cock, forced to stroke and grind along the thick, veined shaft until he was satisfied. He’d make her kiss and lick the tip, cleaning up every drop of cum with her tiny, obedient tongue.

Her tits—slick with old cum or fresh sweat—smeared along his length, the studs in her nipples dragging gently, painfully, as he used her over and over.

She was never unbound. A living toy. A puppet.

When she wasn’t being worked along his cock or licking his filthy feet, she hung on the mantle—suspended by the chains in her pierced nipples like a grotesque little ornament. She would sway there for hours, legs tied, arms aching, her tits stretched tight under the constant tension.

Nothing to do but wait in silence until hunger gnawed at her so fiercely she would beg for her next debasement.

And all the while, the world kept turning.

Eventually—after weeks, maybe months—her parents found her.

They had searched relentlessly. Pulled every string. Called in favors from their most powerful government allies. Threatened lawsuits. Demanded action. They even managed to call Victor directly—while he was using her.

Her mother’s voice crackled through the speaker, sobbing, begging, offering more money than most people would see in a lifetime.

Victor laughed and hung up.

“Wow. Guess you really were a rich girl, huh?” he groaned, crushing her face against the tip of his cock as he pumped his load forcefully into her already bloated body. Her throat and stomach swelled with the thick, sticky fluid.

“You learn something new every day,” he joked, watching her tiny form twitch and convulse, her belly distended with cum.

She would have screamed if she could.

[AB23]

I was thinking of creating some sort of "Sweet Home Alabama" type story (that being the name as well), but I couldn't figure out how to get the giant and tiny to actually be related. Alternatively I could do step siblings and call it "What are you doing step bro?"

Yeah step siblings could work. I just like the power dynamic of 2 people once being close and then it shifting.

[TheMacroMan]

Ever made a story where a tiny girl was just big enough to be used as a cock sleeve?

[Justhereforamoment1]

I like the step siblings more than the cousins. I may do that one. Also does anyone know how to do a poll on this site? I've got a couple ideas I'd like people to vote on.

As for you Macro, sort of? I wrote a story about tinies getting to a world of giants through some sort of portal. It altered them so they were stretchy and basically indestructible, so a giant could slip his cock into one without them ripping apart. Its since been deleted and I dont have it saved anywhere but I did enjoy it. I had a couple shorts in that universe.

One of my favorites was a tiny that was just about to graduate college and be able to return home. She'd been careful and safe for almost 4 years, never drawing attention to herself. Then a giant desperate for some tiny action snatches her and head to the bathroom to use her. After a prolonged session he heads to class, still lodged inside her, but a professor catches him and makes him return her. He's docked 5 points for being late and kidnapping a tiny. She's also punished for being late, but hers is being the teacher's personal toy from then on.

[TheMacroMan]

Ah ok. Would love to see you write a similar story like that on here!

[Justhereforamoment1]

Ah ok. Would love to see you write a similar story like that on here!

I'd want to make it a different post but I'll consider it!

[Justhereforamoment1]

Hey so I'm currently working on the cosplayer one. Wanted to ask if there was any characters you'd like to see a cosplayer snatched as. This is the current planned list:

1. 2B (NieR: Automata)
2. Asuka Langley (Neon Genesis Evangelion)
3. Tifa Lockhart (Final Fantasy VII)
4. Lisa Minci (Genshin Impact)
5. Random cat girl
6. Princess Zelda (The Legend of Zelda)
7. Lucy Heartfilia (Fairy Tail)
8. Mai Shiranui (The King of Fighters/Fatal Fury)
9. Jinx (Arcane)
10. Morrigan Aensland (Darkstalkers)
11. Harley Quinn (DC Comics)
12. Cammy White (Street Fighter)
13. Catwoman (DC Comics)

[Noneja]

Is this list of possibilities from most to least likely? Or are they all going to be in the story? Maybe throw in some Persona 5 gals, and Makise Kurisu from Steins Gate, I know there's a docop gif with her that could be good inspiration!

[Justhereforamoment1]

These are all the girls already planned. Like, they will be there in the story. I'm making 600-1000 word sections for each of them, so its pretty easy to set write. I figured I'd open it up to suggestions. Some may appear in the same section (like 2b and asuka), but most will have their own section.

There's a lock of cock rubbing scenes, but I try and vary how they happen. Some of these girls are treated a little better than others, with one basically being left alone, so keep in mind that your suggestion may not be used how you'd like.