Tiny Torments

[TheMacroMan]

Could you add Jane Doe and Zhu Yuan fom ZZZ to the list?

[Justhereforamoment1]

Try to get your requests in before end of day Friday! Im going to try and get a new chapter out Sunday. Try and limit the amount of requests to 1 or 2. If I get too many they may not be chosen (unless I find them particularly hot)

[AB23]

Tinkerbell!

[Vic391137]

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)

I really liked the B-plot story, and I’d love more stuff set at colleges! The investigations story was fantastic too. For the cosplayer one, Samus and Kim Possible would be fun adds.

[chriscmacd87]

Busty ema out for a Halloween part where she ends up shrunken by a an admirer naturally

[Sumguy14]

Tinkerbell!

Yeah, as far as the cosplay goes... Tink is just too ironic a choice to pass up. She has my vote as well.

Actually Tink and the fae from Ferngully would be a fun two-fer.

[Justhereforamoment1]

After this next chapter I'm planning on doing something a bit simpler and shorter. But after that I don't have a plan for what to do next. Here's some ideas I've had, let me know your favorite:

Title: The Corporate Ladder
Idea: An ambitious tiny intern at a massive corporation is abused by her giant coworkers, making her perform sexual favors in exchange for "promotions," which are just more intimate and degrading tasks.

Title: Human Resources
Idea: A by-the-book tiny HR manager tries to discipline a giant employee for misconduct. He laughs off her authority, captures her, and "reassigns" her as his personal, on-site "stress-relief equipment," turning the tables on who holds the power.

Title: Bedside Manner
Idea: A compassionate tiny nurse is praised for her gentle care of a giant patient recovering from a major injury. When he's discharged, he kidnaps her, deciding her "healing touch" is something he requires permanently for more personal therapy.

Title: Civil Liberties
Idea: A sharp tiny public defender fiercely argues a case for her client, angering the giant prosecutor. After he wins the case, he corners and captures her, telling her it's time to learn about his interpretation of "justice."

Title: Foreign Relations
Idea: A tiny diplomat travels to a foreign country to negotiate a treaty with a powerful giant leader. He finds her "passionate arguments" charming and decides the best way to foster "international unity" is to make her a permanent, personal gift to himself.

Title: Room Service
Idea: A tiny maid is cleaning a penthouse suite when the wealthy giant guest returns. Amused by her, he traps her in the room and informs her that from now on, she'll be part of the "in-room service" he expects for the rest of his stay.

Title: Party Favor
Idea: A giant loses his tiny girlfriend at a party in a state without tiny rights. She fell off his shoulder and people thought she was his party favor.

Title: Group Project
Idea: An intelligent tiny student is forced to partner with a lazy giant. He contributes nothing to the assignment and instead make her the project, documenting her slow degradation and forced submission to present to the class.

Title: Road Trip
Idea: A giant American backpacker traveling through the French countryside comes across a beautiful French tiny. He snatches her, stuffs her in his jeans, and decides she'll be his "travel companion" and secret toy for his journey across Europe.

Title: Double Date
Idea: A tiny girl is dragged along by her roommate to go on multiple double dates with strangers. The roommate gets enchanting nights out, the tiny gets to come home later covered in cum.

Title: Cruise Control
Idea: A tiny lounge singer on a massive cruise ship is "requested" for a private performance by a VIP giant couple. In their suite, they inform her the "performance" involves her becoming a sexual instrument for them to share for the remainder of the voyage.

Title: Flight Risk
Idea: To escape oppressive new laws, a tiny woman stows away in the first-class cabin of an international flight. She's discovered by a male flight attendant who, instead of turning her in, hides her next time his cock for the 14-hour flight, using her as his personal entertainment in the galley.

Title: Open House
Idea: A tiny real estate agent is showing a secluded mansion when the only viewer, a towering giant, locks the doors. He informs her that he's buying the house, and she's now the first "furnishing" he's claiming.

Title: Book Club
Idea: A celebrated tiny author is the guest of honor at a giant women's book club. The members, bored and drunk on wine, decide she's more interesting than her novel and pass her around, using her body to "illustrate" their favorite scenes.

Title: Girl Next Door
Idea: A giant 18 year old lives next door to a tiny family he's grown up with. The tiny daughter, who he's always had a crush on, is back from college to watch the house while her parents are away. Things get heated when he spots her tanning in the backyard.

Title: Ghost Writer
Idea: A talented but poor tiny writer is hired to ghostwrite a novel for a famous giant author. He keeps her in a cage on his desk, forcing her to write while he uses her body for "inspiration" whenever he has writer's block.

Title: Slapstick Comedy
Idea: A show host in a state without tiny rights uses tiny women for various dangerous "jokes". Many of them don't survive, but there's always more to choose from.

Title: Studio Audience
Idea: During the taping of a late-night show, the giant celebrity guest spots a tiny woman in the audience. He plucks her from her seat and, to the riotous approval of the crowd, makes her the subject of a humiliating on-air "interview" that continues privately backstage.

Title: Method Acting
Idea: An intense giant actor is cast opposite a tiny actress. To "get into character" for his role as a villain, he begins to torment and use her off-set.

Title: Traffic Stop
Idea: A tiny woman is pulled over by a giant highway patrol officer. Instead of a ticket, he gives her a choice: go to jail, or serve her "community service" right there in his patrol car for the rest of his shift.

Title: Press Pass
Idea: A determined tiny journalist uses her press pass to get backstage at a rock concert. She's caught by the giant lead singer, who rips up her pass and tells her if she wants a "story," she'll get one by experiencing life as the band's new toy.

Title: Family Therapy
Idea: A tiny therapist tries to mediate a session between a giant couple with a toxic relationship. They find common ground for the first time in years by turning on her, deciding that sharing and breaking her together is the ultimate "bonding experience."

[AB23]

Road Trip, Flight Risk & Girl Next Door all get my vote.

[Fanta]

I hope to see all of them cause they all sound great but my favourites of the lot are Girl next door, Press Pass, and double date

[dubiouskey]

Group Project and Girl Next Door get my vote.

[Sumguy14]

Slapstick comedy has my interest.

[eddiegiantman]

Method, Group, Girl Next Door for me.


Also, wondering if you have any idea for my trapped in a terrarium/sex toy for so long, she's forgotten her name.

[Justhereforamoment1]

Welp heres the cosplay one as requested. It's large so it's a two parter. Looks like Girl Next Door won so after I finish this next one I'll start working on it. Hope you enjoy!

---

Brendan’s apartment was his sanctuary—a lived-in nest built around the things he loved most.

It smelled faintly of old pizza and ozone, the latter rising off the tangle of electronics humming softly around him. Consoles from every era lined the shelf below the TV, each one hooked up and ready to go. Controllers coiled neatly in their drawers. His chair, worn smooth at the elbows, faced the massive flatscreen like a throne.

A cool blue glow bathed the room, flickering off glass-fronted shelves packed with manga, Blu-rays, and boxed collector’s editions. Bright-eyed anime figurines lined the upper ledges. Funko Pops stood in tight little rows like grinning fans.

And tucked among them, almost easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for, was his real collection.

They weren’t just for display. Each one was nestled in its own custom-built enclosure—made to match the world they were dressed for. A cozy cabin, lit from inside by a flickering hearth. A high-tech bunker glowing with cold green lights. A ruined temple half-swallowed by tiny jungle plants.

He didn’t build them just to look good. These were living spaces, after all.

Conventions were the best place to find new pieces. All that noise, the packed halls and swaying crowds—it made things easier.

You could brush past someone and be gone before they noticed. Slip one into your pocket between booths. Offer a drink, a smoke, a quiet spot to sit—and wind up with a warm, squirming body pressed against your cock all the way home.

He only picked ones that fit. The outfits had to work. The detail, the effort. Some of those cosplayers looked better than the actual characters. Their tiny breasts spilling out of sailor tops or fantasy armor. Thigh-high socks. Skirts barely covering anything. Half the time they were posing like they wanted to be taken.

He knew better, obviously. He wasn’t stupid. Tinies had rights, and rules. But no one was watching that closely. Not in all that chaos.

He remembered his first—Spider-Gwen. Mouthy little thing. He kept her in a shoebox beside the bed. Watched her pout and kick at the lid for hours. She stopped eating first. Then stopped yelling. By the time he moved her, she didn’t move much.

He hadn’t known much then. He wasn’t proud of that one.

Now the setups were cleaner. More secure. Temperature-controlled. He fed them regularly—just enough. Some cried. Some begged. Some just stared. That didn’t bother him. They looked better when they weren’t moving anyway.

He never talked about it. Not with anyone. But every time he clicked open a panel and saw one there—curled up on a bed that looked just like the one from the show—it felt good. Like finishing a long campaign. Like beating a boss without taking a hit.

They weren’t dolls. They were achievements.

And he had plenty of room left on the shelf.

Her name was Mia.

A tiny graphic design student with a gift for capturing motion—flow, grace, rhythm in stillness. At just under six inches tall, she lived in a world that hadn’t been built for her, where every countertop was a cliff and every stair a wall.

But she made it work.

Navigated crowded sidewalks and packed bus rides by weaving through legs and dodging swinging bags. Ignored the half-joking warnings to “watch her step” and the way coworkers bent down to talk to her like she was a child. She rented a place in a mixed-scale housing block, used scaled tech, sketched on receipt paper because she liked the texture. Her custom earbuds clipped like backpack straps, trailing a cord that curled neatly behind her.

She’d chosen to cosplay 2B because she loved the aesthetic. The clean, striking lines. The elegance wrapped around strength.

And, truthfully, because—like 2B—she had a large, round ass and wasn’t shy about showing it off.

That tight, black gothic-lolita combat dress had hugged her curves perfectly. The lifted chest, the cinched waist, the short skirt that did nothing to hide her figure—she’d spent four months sewing it herself with a needle thinner than a sewing pin and thread she had to wind by hand. She was proud of it. She liked the attention back then.

She regretted it now.

He’d found her at a con in San Diego, near a meet-up stage swarming with cosplayers. She’d been resting on a display counter, sipping from a tiny cup of ginger soda, watching the crowd drift by in waves of bright wigs and clacking heels.

It only took a second.

A hand brushing past—then a quick snatch and a slide into a pocket lined with soft cloth. She’d kicked. Fought. Bit down on a fingertip hard enough to draw blood.

It hadn’t mattered.

Now, she wore that same outfit every day—no change, no comfort. It clung to her small frame as she moved through the ruins of a perfect, four-foot replica of NieR: Automata’s decaying cityscape. Her prison. A glass box on a shelf, lit from above like a museum piece.

The white blindfold she once wore as a photoshoot prop was now a mercy. It blurred the room into vague shapes and shadows, dulling the sharpness of her new reality.

She was always watching. Always listening.

Tonight, it was Rin’s turn.

He had her out of the case—an Asuka Langley cosplayer. Her red plugsuit shimmered under the glow of the TV, clinging tight to her athletic frame. The suit exaggerated every curve: the firm swell of her breasts, the taut line of her thighs, the fullness of her ass.

She was pressed against him. Pinned lengthwise along his cock, her small, squirming body helpless against the slick, twitching shaft beneath her.

Mia could hear everything.

The soft, wet smacks as he stroked her across his length. The strained, breathy whimpers Rin couldn’t keep in anymore. The sticky slide of precum smeared across her chest and stomach, coating her bright red suit like a fresh layer of gloss.

His grip was firm, practiced. Fingers curled around Rin’s waist, guiding her up and down his cock like she was just another accessory.

He wasn’t even watching her.

His eyes were locked on the TV screen, face bathed in pale, flickering light. A boss fight, probably. Something loud and chaotic. His focus never wavered, even as he pumped Rin harder, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of her ass.

He sighed softly, enjoying the feel of her body—warm, glossy, compliant—as it slid over his shaft.

Her cries vibrated through his cock, muffled and rhythmic.

Her bright orange hair was tangled and soaked. Her suit clung wetly to her skin, transparent in places. She looked dipped in glaze—shiny, soft, and ruinously pliant.

And still, he never looked away from the game.

Then his hand tightened.

A sharp grunt escaped him as a jet of cum erupted against Rin’s tiny body. It hit hard—slamming into her face, her chest, her soft belly. Her mouth opened on reflex, coughing and gagging as he forced her to swallow through the onslaught.

Her stomach bloated visibly beneath his grip.

Thick strands of cum clung to her hair, her face, her suit—ropes of it dripping down her thighs as her body trembled from the inside out.

When he was done, he dropped her.

She landed in a heap by the controller—sticky, shivering, and used.

Mia didn’t flinch.

She stood still in her glass ruin, her expression flat, detached. The blindfold kept her from seeing the worst of it, but the sound was enough. She’d learned not to react.

At first, she used to scream. Now she only listened.

The part of her that was Mia—the girl who stayed up late sketching, who slurped ramen while watching fight AMVs—was long gone.

All that remained was the soft hum of the air filter. The faint tap of keys. And the glow of the screen.

Jessica had been a fighter.

A tiny personal trainer. A martial arts obsessive. One of those tinies who still believed strength meant safety. She'd always said just because you were small didn’t mean you couldn’t be strong too.

She was one of the rare ones—six inches tall and fearless about it. Taught full-sized clients as often as her own scale, running bootcamps from a raised mat at her studio. Her voice was sharp, commanding. She didn’t tolerate excuses, especially from giants who thought her size made her a novelty.

She never tried to fight one herself. She wasn’t stupid. All the skill in the world meant nothing if someone decided to grab you.

She’d picked Tifa Lockhart for a reason.

That iconic white crop top hugged her full, heavy breasts like it had been painted on. Her black miniskirt barely concealed the swell of thick thighs and a plush, perfectly rounded ass. She looked every bit the sexy bruiser—tight abs, sculpted arms, a confident smirk that dared anyone to underestimate her.

She’d owned her strength. Wore it like armor.

That power felt like another lifetime now.

Brendan had spotted her at a fitness-themed cosplay shoot just outside the convention center—scaling a rubber dumbbell, posing mid-kick on a tiny crash pad while a full-size photographer tried not to trip over his own camera rig.

She’d wiped sweat from her brow with a sliver of towel and flashed a wink toward the crowd. Confident. Controlled.

Then someone bumped the platform.

Not hard—just enough. She stumbled. Lost her footing.

By the time her photographer reached down to check, she was gone. Snatched from midair, palmed effortlessly, pocketed like a trinket. No one noticed. Not in that crowd.

Now, her reality was the crushing weight of Brendan’s hand pinning her to his desk. Her face was mashed into a sticky puddle of spilled soda, the cold liquid seeping into her top, clinging to her skin. The sickly sweetness filled her nostrils, an insult layered over the thick, musky scent of his arousal.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

His eyes were locked on the screen, thumbs twitching over the controller, immersed in the chaos of some flashy on-screen battle. His other hand worked his cock lazily, the thick shaft twitching and slick.

She’d just been wrapped around it a moment ago.

Then he’d knocked over his drink—and without missing a beat, he’d grabbed her and rubbed her into the mess.

“Don’t want the desk to get sticky,” he muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Her crop top was soaked now. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Her chest was raw and reddened from the rough wipe. Soda dripped off her in syrupy strands as he lifted her again.

She didn’t fight. Couldn’t.

She had, at first. Kicked, screamed, bit. He liked that. But not as much as breaking her.

Her arms hung limp, her body trembling as he brought her back to his cock. The soda turned slick under his grip, a grotesque lube that helped her slide along his shaft.

He resumed stroking.

Her body, tacky and wet, was stroked across his length in slow, grinding passes. The friction was messy, inconsistent—barely pleasant—but he didn’t care. She was good enough.

He pumped faster, the sounds of wet contact mixing with his ragged breathing. His grunts fell in rhythm with the digital explosions on screen, the controller rattling in one hand while he used the other to abuse her broken form.

Then the game climaxed—and so did he.

A violent jet of cum slammed into her, hot and thick, splattering across her body in wave after wave. It mixed with the soda, a disgusting cocktail that clung to her skin and hair, sliding in globs down her face and chest.

She gurgled, her small body convulsing under the sudden flood. Her limbs twitched weakly.

And then he tossed her aside.

She hit the desk with a wet smack, left in a crumpled heap under the flickering glow of the screen—broken, sticky, and forgotten.

Her name had been Kayla, once.

Now she didn’t use it. Not aloud. Not even in her head.

She lived inside a replica of the Mondstadt library—scaled down, stylized, and silent. Weathered stone walls ringed her enclosure, ivy crawling up the corners in perfectly artificial symmetry. Books—blank, foam-filled props—lined the shelves. A fake sunbeam cut across the floor, filtered through painted glass panes above.

The warmth was artificial too. Gentle, steady heat radiated from a hidden panel behind the desk, keeping the glass case comfortable year-round. Brendan had calibrated it to match Liyue’s average climate, just because he could.

Her abduction had been swift.

She’d been resting near a booth in the crowded dealer’s hall, perched on a stack of art books to catch her breath. Then a giant had gotten too close for comfort.

Before she could say anything, his hand had descended, scooping her up in a practiced motion. He'd opened his bag, revealing a tangle of soft, brightly-colored plushies, and simply dropped her among them.

The plastic rustled shut above her, plunging her into a dim, stuffy darkness, her protests muffled by the giant, inanimate faces pressed against her.

Her day always started the same way.

The lights faded in slowly, mimicking morning. A soft chime played—library ambiance on loop. She woke on a crushed velvet chaise built to her scale, her limbs stiff from sleep, her body wrapped in that same figure-hugging costume.

The Lisa cosplay didn’t flatter her—it reshaped her.

The corset crushed her waist into an hourglass, pushing her breasts high and tight until even shallow breaths felt indulgent. She’d long since stopped trying to take full ones. The off-shoulder neckline left her collarbones bare and vulnerable, her pale skin flushed a soft pink beneath the violet straps and delicate black lace.

Her thighs, plush and inviting, were sheathed in dark, sheer stockings. The garters disappeared beneath the layered purple skirt, which clung when she moved and rode high when she sat—always threatening to reveal more than it should.

Her heels—four-inch purple stilettos with gold trim—had molded to her feet by now. She never took them off.

Not because she wanted to.

Because he didn’t let her.

The wide-brimmed witch hat framed her face like a crown. Long dark hair curled over one shoulder in thick, styled waves—slightly greasy now, not from neglect, but from being brushed daily and never truly washed. Brendan liked her hair soft, not clean.

And her eyes, once sharp behind glasses, had gone slightly glassy.

Each morning, she swept the floors. It wasn’t necessary—there was no dust—but Brendan had installed a miniature broom anyway. Part of the “immersion.”

She wasn’t allowed to rest until she made a full circuit of the marble-patterned floor, circling the same stack of false books like a satellite caught in orbit.

After sweeping came shelving.

There were only ever a few books out of place. He’d rearrange them at night, just enough to reset the task. She climbed the tiny step-ladder, legs trembling in the heels, and placed each foam-filled volume exactly where it had been the day before.

Sometimes, she hesitated—stood with a book in hand, eyes lingering on the spine, wondering if this had been how real Lisa felt: surrounded by beauty, burdened by routine.

Then she’d hear the faint sound of the TV in the next room. The hum of a controller. A grunt. The rhythm of stroking.

She’d shelve faster.

She got breakfast after that. A small hatch opened in the far wall—an elegant wooden tray sliding partway through.

Always a perfect portion: fruit, grains, sometimes a little meat or cheese. Enough to keep her soft, but not heavy. She knelt to eat it, always kneeling, always facing away from the glass.

Brendan didn’t like to see chewing.

Afternoons were for the reading nook.

There was nothing to read, of course. The books were empty. The pages stuck together or completely blank. But Brendan liked her to sit and pretend. Legs crossed. Head tilted. A finger to her chin like she was thinking something brilliant.

Sometimes he took photos.

Once, he’d added a pair of reading glasses to the display. She hadn’t liked that. But she wore them now. Every day. They left faint red lines along the bridge of her nose.

Evenings were worse.

The lights dimmed, the ambiance shifted. A candle flicker effect. Low, warm tones. The kind meant to suggest intimacy. Quiet. Comfort.

He’d watch her then. Sit on the couch, half-shadowed behind the glass, his gaze fixed and unfocused. Sometimes he had the controller in his hand. Sometimes not.

But his other hand always moved.

She didn’t look at him. Not directly. She knew better. But she posed. Lifted her chest just slightly. Arched her back in the velvet seat. Crossed her legs high, the slit of her dress sliding up to bare more thigh.

That was the only way to end it faster.

She hated how easily it came now. How automatic.

She knew where he liked the folds to fall, how the gold embroidery caught the light if she turned her shoulder just right. She’d been cosplaying for years. It was just another performance.

But she didn’t feel like Kayla anymore.

Not a girl. Not a person.

Just a fixture. A living loop in a dollhouse diorama.

When the lights finally went out, she curled into herself on the velvet chaise, hat still perched, heels still on. The library was quiet. Clean. Perfect.

And she’d be ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Her name was Sara.

In her former life, she was an IT professional—a woman who found beauty in clean code, neat cables, and perfectly managed server racks.

Precision was her world.

Logic was her comfort.

She took pride in keeping systems running smoothly, often working late into the night surrounded by humming machines and blinking lights, a tiny figure perched at a vast desk cluttered with keyboards and monitors far too big for her.

Now, she wore a catgirl outfit.

It was a simple but undeniably seductive original design: a skimpy white bikini, a snug collar with a jingling silver bell, and a pair of soft, fluffy ears perched atop her head. A matching tail swayed at the base of her spine, stitched into the waistband.

The minimal costume left little to the imagination.

Her toned, wiry frame was on full display—slender limbs, defined stomach, and small, perky breasts that barely filled the triangle-cut top. The clingy white fabric pressed tight to her chest with every breath, the outline of her nipples clearly visible beneath the thin stretch.

Below, the bikini bottoms hugged her firm ass, the soft fabric riding high between her cheeks and keeping them exposed at nearly every angle. Once, it had felt like playful indulgence. Flirty. Empowering.

Now, it felt like a uniform—something designed not for fun, but for function.

Sara had been snatched quickly, a brief slip between bustling legs and a distracted hand at a crowded convention.

One moment she was perched on the edge of a laptop, taking a quick break from the chaos, and the next she was yanked backward. Before she could process what was happening, she was dropped into the dark side pouch of a backpack. The zipper ground shut above her, and her protests were muffled by the heavy canvas and the press of fabric within.

Her cage was a detailed replica of a high-tech server room. Rows of miniature server racks lined the walls, glowing faintly with simulated status lights. It looked almost real—down to the cables and cold floor panels.

It was meant to be familiar. That’s what made it cruel.

Tonight, she had a job.

Brendan plucked her from her cage and lowered her onto his desk. His fingers were warm and lazy, curling around her body with practiced ease. He didn’t speak at first. Just tilted her upright, squinting at her chest.

His thumb slid under one triangle of her bikini top and tugged it aside, exposing the pale curve beneath.

“Might be my favorite part,” he muttered absently.

His fingertip pressed against her bare breast, stroking slow and deliberate. Not gentle—just idle. A bored sort of fondling, like testing the give of a stress ball. He flicked her nipple once, then twice, watching the twitch of her tiny body. She winced but didn’t flinch.

She knew better than to flinch.

“Still soft,” he said with a faint smirk.

Then, he dropped her onto the keyboard.

The keys towered around her like matte black skyscrapers. Between them, shadowy gullies reeked of old sweat and dust. RGB lights pulsed beneath her, bathing the landscape in shifting waves of color.

The little bell at her throat chimed softly as she stumbled upright.

“Get the gunk,” he grunted, voice thick with amusement.

He handed her a Q-tip. The cotton head was larger than her torso, fat and unwieldy. But she didn’t protest. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned toward the nearest crevice and began.

It was revolting.

The space between the keys was packed with grime—layers of dust, hair, and crumbs, all held together by the greasy residue of his fingers. She shoved with her whole body, each plunge of the cotton sinking into sticky decay.

The cotton dragged it all back up—sticky and foul. It smeared onto her skin, onto the white of her bikini, matting her hair and clinging to her bare thighs. The bell jingled faintly with every shove, each motion punctuated by its pathetic chime.

She’d done this before. She knew how many strokes each key needed. How deep the worst ones went. How long he liked to watch.

Brendan leaned back in his chair, half-focused on a loading screen, lazily amused.

Then, without warning, he pressed the key beneath her.

The floor dropped.

She plunged downward into the dark, her body scraping along filthy plastic walls until the key bottomed out with a thunderous CLACK. A breathless moment passed—then it sprang back up, launching her onto the keyboard’s surface like a piece of debris.

He chuckled, satisfied.

“Found a sticky one.”

He did it again.

And again.

She became a tool—his tiny piston—slammed down into the keyboard’s depths over and over until the mechanism no longer stuck. The bell at her throat rang with every impact, a bright, delicate sound that felt like mockery.

Every impact left her more filthy, more exhausted, her arms shaking with effort, her eyes stinging with tears.

When the key was finally clean, he gave her one last task.

The mouse.

She was ordered to polish its slick, curved shell. Her sore limbs worked in slow, trembling arcs, smearing streaks of damp cotton across the plastic. His hand hovered above her the entire time, fingers twitching lazily on the buttons.

The bell jingled softly with each motion—quiet, rhythmic, inescapable.

She didn’t ask how much longer. That had been trained out of her weeks ago.

When she was done, he picked her up without a word and returned her to her cage.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t cry.

She just curled beside the replica rack tower and tried not to taste the dust still clinging to her tongue.

Her name was Elena.

A graduate student in mythology, she’d spent her nights buried in ancient epics and sacred texts, obsessed with legends and goddesses. She wrote papers on divine femininity, on the transformation of female archetypes in folklore.

Her shelves overflowed with dusty tomes and collector’s guides, and her walls were pinned with maps of fictional realms.

At barely six inches tall, she moved through the towering world of the university like a wandering scholar—ducking under chairs, scaling piles of books, using styluses like walking staffs. People often overlooked her, but she didn’t mind.

She liked being underestimated.

That passion had shaped her cosplay—a version of Princess Zelda that was anything but traditional.

Not the modest royal gown.

This outfit was seductive by design. A skimpy green-and-white top hugged her chest, barely containing her soft, rounded breasts. Sheer panels flowed from golden rings at her hips, teasing glimpses of her smooth stomach and the gentle curve of her ass with every step.

It was playful. Bold. Meant to turn heads.

Brendan had found her at a mythology-themed cosplay contest, standing on a velvet-draped pedestal near the back of the room.

She’d just finished posing for a crowd of full-sized fans, her tiny voice projecting confidence as she quoted lines from Skyward Sword.

When the audience turned their attention to the next contestant, she ducked behind a paper backdrop to fix her sash. She didn’t see the hand coming—large, quick, practiced.

Fingers closed around her like a cage. The pedestal wobbled, but no one noticed. She was gone before the next flashbulb popped.

Now, it framed her captivity.

Her prison was a scale model of the Temple of Time—majestic, silent, reverent. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. Echoes of a world she used to love. Now, it was a mockery of everything she’d once admired.

Tonight, she was called for a ritual.

Brendan was facing the final boss of a dungeon when he paused the game and reached for her. His cock was already hard—thick, flushed, and slick with precum.

“Time for a blessing, Princess,” he chuckled.

He brought her to his lap, grinding the swollen, glistening head of his cock against her tiny face. The fluid smeared across her delicate features—her cheek, her lips, the bridge of her nose—glistening under the TV’s flicker.

She whimpered, but he was already guiding her trembling hands to the base of his shaft.

“Hold it,” he said.

She obeyed.

Her arms wrapped around as best they could—barely covering the underside of his thick cock. It took all her strength just to steady it, her tiny fingers slipping on the slick skin as his pulse throbbed beneath them.

He made her wait like that.

Silent. Still.

Seconds dragged into minutes. His cock twitched with each beat of his heart. Precum dripped in slow, sticky lines—over the head, down the shaft, onto her arms, her face, between her soft breasts.

She didn’t move.

Not anymore.

The first few times, she’d begged. Screamed until her voice went hoarse. Now, silence was survival.

He watched her squirm in silence, the corner of his mouth curled in amusement. Her arms trembled. Her shoulders quaked from the effort. But she held on.

“Good girl,” he finally groaned, voice thick with arousal.

The words rumbled through her.

Then he moved.

His own large hand closed over hers, and he began to stroke—forcing her to follow the motion. His pace quickened, each thrust slicker than the last, his cock dragging through her hands as he pumped himself toward the finish.

“Gotta make sure the final blow is powerful,” he grunted.

His hips flexed. A pulse. Then release.

He came in thick, heavy spurts—ropes of hot cum streaking across her chest, her throat, her flushed face. One glob landed directly on her lips, splashing into her mouth. She gagged, choking on the taste, the heat, the sheer weight of it.

Her costume, once regal and elegant, was soaked—stained with filth, dripping with defeat.

She didn’t speak as he lowered her back into place.

The Temple of Time loomed around her once more, majestic and indifferent.

Brendan didn’t look at her again. His eyes were already back on the screen, thumb flicking the controller, ready to win.

Her name was Riley.

In her old life, she was a street performer—a tiny with a flair for spectacle and a fire to be seen. Just under six inches tall, Riley had carved a niche in a world that rarely noticed her kind. She juggled matchstick torches on corners, danced across tabletops, and pulled cheers from giants who tossed coins into her thimble-sized hat.

Her sharp timing, quicker tongue, and sultry swagger made her a minor legend on her side of the city.

She chose Jane Doe from Zenless Zone Zero for her convention cosplay because it fit too well. Sly, smart-mouthed, a chaos agent wrapped in cropped leather and menace—Jane was the kind of girl who never begged, never lost.

Her outfit had been hand-made in her cramped apartment. A tight, black tactical jacket hugged her frame, half-zipped to tease the soft curves of her breasts. Underneath: a cropped tank and tighter shorts that clung like skin, hugging the shape of her thighs and ass.

Her boots—custom-made and knee-high—clicked as she walked. A flexible tail twitched behind her, wired to mimic attitude. She topped it off with headband ears and a half-smirk she’d practiced in every mirror she owned.

At the con, she stalked the tabletops like she owned them—dodging giant feet, flirting with cameras, soaking in the attention.

She liked being looked at.

So when Brendan spotted her posing on a fake crate at the ZZZ fan meetup—knife in hand, grinning like a deviant—she just thought he was another admirer.

She didn’t know he was choosing.

The crowd masked his approach. His hand moved fast. One swipe, and fingers wrapped around her torso like a steel trap. She shrieked, kicked, landed a boot to his thumb.

“Let me go, asshole!”

He only smiled and slipped her into a padded pocket. Her prop knife clattered to the floor behind them.

Now, she lived in a glass enclosure modeled after New Eridu’s Hollows. Cracked pavement, flickering LED signs, neon graffiti. It was atmospheric. Meticulous. A stage built just for her.

Her costume was the only thing she had left.

The jacket clung tighter now, darkened with old sweat and cum. Her boots were scuffed, tail bent. Brendan liked her this way—caught mid-heist, forever on the run. Jane Doe, just before the fall.

She’d fought at first. Bit, screamed, scratched. Drew blood once.

It didn’t matter.

Brendan didn’t punish. He conditioned. He gave her space when she behaved. Pressure when she needed correction. Praise when she stopped resisting.

It blurred fast—pain, arousal, humiliation, heat.

She began watching him. Studying what shows got him worked up. What moods made him reach for her. She’d pose a little longer. Stretch when he looked. Pretend to sleep, eyes cracked just enough to see the drawer slide open.

And when it did—when his hand reached in—her pulse would spike. Heat would pool low in her belly.

She wanted him to pick her.

Tonight, she didn’t wait for the fingers to close around her.

She stepped into his hand.

He said nothing. He never needed to.

By the time he was on the couch, cock tenting his sweats, she was crawling up his thigh. Her boots ticked softly over skin, her tail swayed like bait, and her jacket clung slick against her back. The room glowed dim with TV light, but neither of them cared about the screen.

She reached the waistband and tugged with all her strength. He lifted his hips, letting her drag the fabric down.

His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already twitching. It struck her as it rose, knocking her back onto her ass.

She laughed, breathless. “Already hard?” she teased, brushing hair from her face. “You have been thinking about me.”

She pressed both hands to the shaft, fingers splayed across heat and skin, then leaned forward and kissed it. Once. Then again. Her lips dragged over the underside, soft and reverent. Her tank rode up. Her breasts—barely bigger than his fingertip—pressed flush to the shaft as she hugged it, letting her whole body mold around the curve.

“God, you’re warm,” she murmured.


She started to move.

Long, slow strokes at first—measured, teasing. Her thighs gripped the shaft, her boots digging in for balance as she began gliding her body up and down its length.

Her tank slid with her, the soft fabric dragging against hot skin, already darkening with sweat and precum. She let her chest press in fully on each pass, flattening her tiny tits to the shaft like she was trying to mold herself to it.

Every movement was intentional. Practiced. Seductive.

She hugged the girth with her whole body, arms wrapped as far around as she could reach. Her hips rocked in smooth rhythm, grinding her stomach and pelvis into the underside. Her back arched with every forward push, her breath hitching softly in time with the motion.

Not for herself. For him.

Her face brushed the side of the shaft as she moved, lips parting for breath, sometimes dragging open-mouthed across the skin. She kissed it between strokes. Whispered to it. Laughed against it.

“Fuck… You’re already twitching,” she murmured, lips brushing the curve of the vein. “You like this, don’t you?”

She picked up speed.

Her whole body moved like a dancer—fluid, controlled, deliberate. She smeared herself along the slick underside, thighs straining for leverage, boots squeaking softly against his lap. Her tail dragged in lazy arcs behind her. Her chest heaved with effort, her breaths hot against the skin she worshipped.

She reached the tip. Kissed it. Hugged it.

Then dragged herself back down in a long, slow slide—cheek pressed to the side, tank hiked up, stomach bare and slick. Her nipples grazed the length as she moved. Her moans were soft, breathy, made more of heat than sound.

She reached the base. Ground her hips against it.

And started back up again.

Each pass was faster. Tighter. Wetter. Her hands stroked in rhythm with her hips now, her tank sticking to her skin, the shaft slick beneath her.

Her voice was low, needy.

“I wait for this,” she breathed. “All day. Watching you. Waiting for you to need it. Wondering if I’ll be the one you pick.”

She smiled, pressing her face to the side of his cock. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered. “I want to feel it.”

Her strokes grew desperate. Her tank darkened from sweat and slick. Her body moved like it belonged to this act, like every inch of her was built to be here, wrapped around his cock, small and eager.

“Come on,” she begged, voice breathy, eyes locked to the crown. “Please—I want it on me. I need it—”

The shaft twitched.

She felt it.

Her body pressed flat. Arms wide. Legs straddling, chest flush, hips grinding like she wanted to melt into him.

And then—he came.

The first blast hit her with enough force to jolt her backward, splattering her chest and tank, soaking instantly through the fabric. She gasped, moaned, clung tighter.

The second caught her in the face, warm and thick and sticky.

The third splattered her stomach, thighs, even her boots. She gasped, moaned, then laughed through it—drenched and dizzy with it all.

She stayed wrapped around him, letting it cover her.

Her jacket soaked through, hair plastered to her face, her tail glossy and limp with cum. His breathing slowed.

She lay against his shaft, drenched, eyes closed, still rubbing her cheek slowly up and down the length, content.

“Mmm… thank you,” she whispered, smiling faintly. “Always makes me feel wanted.”

His finger traced her spine—gentle, approving. Her back arched into the touch.

She sighed happily, nuzzling against his cock like it was home.

Because for her, it was.

Chloe had been so proud.

She was a community college student juggling two part-time jobs, scraping together enough to fund her passion. Her Lucy Heartfilia cosplay was her masterpiece. Months of late nights, budget fabric hunts, and stitch-by-stitch perfectionism had gone into it.

At the convention, she’d felt like a star.

The blue and white halter top hugged her full, ripe breasts perfectly, lifting them just enough to tease but never quite cross the line. The pleated white miniskirt bounced with every step, drawing attention to the soft swell of her plump ass.

She glowed under the eyes of the crowd. She smiled for every picture. She’d never felt more beautiful.

And then the dream ended in a hotel room.

The click of the lock behind her was the last sound of her old life.

Brendan's smile faded as the door shut, replaced by something flat and hungrier. Possessive.

Before she could react, his hand shot out. She barely had time to scream before his fingers closed around her body—tight, unyielding. He lifted her like nothing, her limbs flailing uselessly as he brought her up to eye level.

She squirmed, kicked, begged.

He didn’t speak. He just watched her, calm and silent, as his other hand moved in.

Slowly, carefully, he undressed her.

Each piece was removed with the same reverence one might use unwrapping a rare collectible. Her tiny whip and keys were placed neatly on the nightstand, as if they mattered. As if she still did.

Then his eyes returned to her body.

She was naked. Trembling. Perfect.

He lifted her from the bed, holding her by the ribs, his fingers a cage. She could feel the heat radiating from his cock—thick, flushed, and twitching with anticipation.

Her cries were muffled against his thumb as he brought her to it.

The first contact was a shock.

He pressed her against the slick head, dragging her quivering frame along its veined length. Pre-cum smeared across her chest and thighs, warm and sticky, clinging to every soft curve. Her plump ass twitched in his grip. Her breasts flattened against the shaft, leaving glistening trails as he stroked her up and down.

She kicked harder. It only excited him more.

He turned her over in his hand, adjusting his grip so her tits pressed firmly into his length. Her soft stomach rubbed through the slickness. Her tiny legs thrashed helplessly as her ass bounced in his palm.

He groaned under his breath.

The friction was exquisite. Her squirming body, slick with sweat and precum, was the perfect texture. A living toy.

He stroked her harder, pumping with slow, practiced rhythm. Each pass smeared her more—his cum coating her chest, her stomach, the insides of her thighs.

She was warm and pliant in his hand. A doll built for use.

His breathing hitched.

A thick, hot rope of cum slammed across her body. She gasped, the first blast striking her square in the chest. The next hit her face—filling her open mouth, splattering across her cheeks and forehead.

More followed. Heavy spurts that coated her skin, painted her breasts, soaked her golden hair until it clung in matted clumps to her neck and shoulders.

She writhed in his grip, choking, her sparkling brown eyes wide with shock as the warmth kept pouring, kept flooding, kept claiming.

And then… silence.

He looked down at her, a mess of blonde hair, trembling limbs, and skin slicked with white.

Her eyes had dulled.

The bright gleam she’d carried in the hallway, when she posed for photos and laughed with strangers—gone. In its place was the first thick glaze of horror, raw and real and sinking in too fast.

He held her there for a moment longer, admiring the way his cum dripped from her nose. Down her thighs. Off her nipples.

Then he let her go.

She landed on the bedsheet with a soft, sticky smack.

Her name was Megumi.

She had been a dance instructor—graceful, disciplined, always in control of her body. At just six inches tall, she built a name for herself in a world that didn’t cater to tinies. Her studio was a hidden gem: mirrored walls, polished floors, bars set at miniature height.

Giants came for private lessons, drawn in by the elegance of her movements and the precision of her eye. She taught control, taught confidence. Her voice was soft but firm, her presence commanding despite her size.

Megumi moved like water. Every gesture clean, deliberate, powerful. In class, she could silence a room with a simple lift of her arm or tilt of her head.

She carried herself with the serene poise of someone who knew the limits of her body—and knew how to push past them.

She’d chosen to cosplay Mai Shiranui because it felt right. The boldness. The allure. The strength wrapped in silk and flame.

And the look suited her.

Her hips rolled with effortless grace, wide and fluid beneath the white sash cinched at her waist. Her breasts—impossibly full for her frame—strained against the thin red halter that barely kept them contained.

Every step, every breath, made them bounce and sway like part of the performance. The deep slit of her flowing loincloth teased soft glimpses of her round, firm ass, framed perfectly by the drape of fabric.

Her long ponytail, tied high and trailing like a crimson banner, completed the look. She was the kind of cosplayer who didn’t need to pose. Standing still, she looked choreographed.

Brendan had spotted her backstage at a cosplay contest. Even small as she was, she drew attention—the kind that made people pause mid-sentence to watch.

She’d been stretching, poised on a tiny platform set beside the stage, rolling her ankles, arms lifting in slow arcs. The soft flutter of her robe caught the colored lights, the fabric flowing around her like flame.

She didn’t see him coming.

A pair of full-sized techs brushed past, their shadows crossing over her like nightfall—and in that instant, she was gone. His hand moved with practiced ease, fingers scooping her up like she weighed nothing at all.

She gasped—barely had time for it—before the world became heat and pressure. A massive thumb pinned her to his palm. The rush of air, the press of skin. Then darkness as she was stuffed into his waistband, wedged between the hard, pulsing bulge of his cock and the stiff fabric of his underwear.

Her small body was crushed tight against him. She kicked. Fought. Pounded her fists against the wall of cloth. But the fabric didn’t budge. Neither did he.

She felt every twitch of him beneath her. Every heartbeat. Every swell.

That had been months ago.

Tonight, Brendan had a headache. It throbbed behind his eyes, dull and slow, barely softened by the pale light of his phone screen. He tossed it aside and reached for the shelf.

He grabbed Megumi without looking. Fingers closed around her middle, lifting her easily, like she was weightless.

She trembled in his grip as he brought her close to his face.

He pressed her gently to his temple.

“Work,” he muttered.

Her body knew what to do. Even now.

Shaking, she obeyed.

Her tiny hands pressed into his skin, soft palms working slow circles just above his cheekbone. She moved with care, with rhythm, each step of her bare feet measured and precise. She imagined it was a dance floor. Imagined she was helping a friend between rehearsals. Anything but this.

Her tiny feet padded against his face.

She adjusted her stance to maintain balance, weight shifting with each turn. She tried to fall into the motion. To focus.

Brendan closed his eyes.

For a moment, there was peace. The whisper of her feet against his face. The soft press of her hands. The room felt quieter somehow, as if the world had stilled to watch.

Then he felt it.

The gentle, rhythmic bounce of her breasts against his skin. A faint, fleshy pat with each shift of her weight. He opened his eyes.

Megumi had wandered closer to his eye socket, balancing above his cheekbone. The deep V of her halter top left nothing to the imagination—the heavy, perfect curves of her breasts swayed with each careful step, barely restrained by the thin red fabric.

A soft sheen of sweat made the cloth cling tighter, highlighting every jiggle, every contour.

He stared.

Watched the hypnotic sway. The tiny tremble of effort in each of her steps.

His lips twitched. A smile, slow and mean, spread across his face.

The motion rippled under her feet. She gasped, dropped to her knees, bracing herself on his warm skin, heart hammering in her chest.

His headache was gone.

His cock stirred beneath the loose waistband of his sweats, thickening, pressing upward.

Without a word, he plucked her from his face. Two fingers lifted her easily, like she was nothing more than a morsel. Her tiny cry of confusion barely registered.

He brought her down to his lap.

His cock was already rock hard—thick, veined, a glistening bead of precum at the tip.

“Found a better use for you,” he murmured, voice low and final.

He pinned her by the waist. Her arms scrambled against his palm, but he didn’t hesitate. He pressed her down, flattening her soft, heavy breasts against the head of his cock. The heat of him radiated through her chest.

Then he started moving her.

Up and down, slow at first. Her pillowy tits molded perfectly to his shaft, the friction warm and slick as precum smeared across her skin in sticky layers. Her cries were muffled against him, tiny sobs swallowed by the sound of his breath, by the wet glide of her body across his cock.

He picked up the pace.

His grip firmed. Fingers wrapped tighter. He stroked her across his length in smooth, practiced motions. Her breasts bounced helplessly beneath the pressure, soft flesh jiggling with every pass.

To him, she wasn’t Megumi anymore. She was a living toy. A breast-sleeve. Warm. Yielding. Perfect.

His breathing quickened. His eyes glazed. The world shrank to her curves and the building pulse in his cock.

Then he groaned.

The sound was low, guttural, as he came—thick jets of cum splattering across her back and chest, flooding the valley between her breasts. It hit hard, overflowing instantly, splashing her face, soaking into her hair.

She gagged as it filled her mouth, as it drenched her skin.

The pulses slowed. His grip eased.

But he didn’t let go.

Megumi sagged in his hand, limp and coated in cum. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky breaths. His release clung thick between her breasts, smeared across her stomach, dripping slowly from her chin in lazy strands. One eye was sealed shut beneath the mess. The other fluttered open, unfocused.

His fingers curled slightly around her waist, holding her upright.

She didn’t try to move.

A string of cum stretched from one nipple to his knuckle, trembling as she breathed. Her halter top was soaked—useless now—clinging to her skin in translucent patches. Her legs dangled freely, limp and twitching with aftershocks.

Brendan watched her for a moment, gaze calm, unreadable.

Then he thumbed a streak of cum from her cheek, smearing it casually across her ponytail.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

He placed her gently back in the shelf’s cradle, between a half-finished model kit and a stack of unopened mail. Her knees folded beneath her automatically, more from habit than choice.

He didn’t look back as he reached for the controller again.

The screen lit up.

And Megumi stayed there in his handprint, dripping, breathing, blinking through the haze. Too tired to clean herself. Too well-trained to speak.

In her old life, she was Zoe—a punk artist with blue-streaked hair, sharp eyeliner, and an even sharper tongue.

She’d grown up in a city that never quite made space for tinies. Navigating crowds meant slipping between shoes, dodging spilled drinks and careless elbows.

But Zoe never played small.

She’d skateboarded down stair rails, painted six-inch murals across power boxes, and flipped off giants who stepped too close.

Her apartment had been the top shelf of a shared kitchenette, converted into a cramped but chaotic micro-loft. Paint-streaked canvases, torn fishnets, and blaring speakers stacked haphazardly around a nest of old blankets. She called it her fortress. Her kingdom.

She was loud, proud, and unapologetically defiant in a world that tried to step on her.

Jinx from Arcane wasn’t just a cosplay—it was a mirror. The madness, the grin, the chaos-in-my-pocket energy? Zoe lived it. She didn’t just wear the outfit—she was the outfit.

A tiny, striped crop top stretched tight across her chest. Dangerously short shorts hugged her ass, stitched with patches and scuffs from nights out. Every piece was hand-sewn—the belts, the fraying straps, the miniature boots. Even the braided wig had been her own creation.

It wasn’t a costume. It was armor.

Now she wore it every day.

Now she was trapped.

Her cage was a stylized slice of Zaun: flickering neon signs, faux rusted pipes, fake graffiti on cracked concrete. A diorama, like all the others—just another background prop on Brendan’s shelf.

He’d taken her during a convention afterparty—one of those warehouse raves where the bass made the walls sweat. She’d been cooling down on a speaker rig, sipping from a thimble-sized shot glass, boots kicked up, the echo of camera flashes still dancing in her vision.

She didn’t hear him coming.

One second she was lounging. The next, fingers wrapped around her legs and waist, rough and unrelenting. Her glass went flying. Her breath vanished. A thumb pressed into her stomach, hard enough to make her gasp.

She screamed.

She kicked.

She fought like hell.

But she was six inches tall and maybe half a pound, and he was already laughing as he slipped her into the warm dark of his jacket pocket.

“Relax,” he murmured against the fabric. “You’re coming home with me, powder keg.”

Now, she stood barefoot in her cage, heart pounding as Brendan lounged on the couch across the room.

He had company tonight—some guy from work, apparently. The two of them sat sprawled in front of the TV, tearing into a bag of chips, half-drunk and arguing over loadouts like it was any other game night.

Zoe watched from behind the bars, fists clenched at her sides.

Then Brendan stood.

He moved with the easy, careless confidence of someone reaching for the remote. His fingers slid into her cage like it belonged to him. Warm, wide, and unhurried, they wrapped around her legs and lifted her upside-down into the lamplight.

She shrieked, twisting violently, her blue-streaked hair whipping as she thrashed in his grip.

“Check this out,” Brendan said, smiling lazily.

He let her dangle for a beat, letting the squirming play out—then pinched her crop top between two fingers and peeled it up over her head. Her arms flailed, legs kicking, but it came off in one smooth pull. He flicked it aside.

Her breasts bounced free, pale and flushed, nipples stiff in the chill.

His friend let out a low whistle.

“Damn,” the guy muttered. “You always strip 'em first?”

Brendan shrugged. “Depends on how hungry I am.”

He turned toward the table.

A plastic bowl of French onion dip sat half-eaten between them, thick ridges already crusting at the edges. He held Zoe over it, fingers still gripping her by the thighs, her arms reaching upward, trying to brace herself against nothing.

“Jinx loves a good dip,” he joked.

And then he lowered her.

The cold hit like a slap. Her chest plunged into the slop, thick globs clinging instantly to her bare skin. She yelped, squirming harder now, twisting at the waist, but he held her steady until her breasts were fully submerged.

Then he lifted her again.

Strings of dip clung to her, white and viscous, stretching from nipple to collarbone. It reeked—sour, heavy, sharp with onion.

His friend laughed. Brendan smirked.

“Snack time,” he said.

He brought her to his mouth.

His tongue met her with a slow, wet swipe—broad and hot and overpowering. It dragged across one coated breast, collecting the dip in a single stroke. Her body jerked. She cried out, but his lips closed around the other, sucking it into his mouth with lazy, practiced ease.

He suckled.

Not rough. Not fast. Just steady, rhythmic pressure, until her nipple throbbed and her legs spasmed with effort.

Zoe twisted in his grip, shoving at his nose, kicking his chin, but his only response was a contented hum.

Then he set her down.

She landed in a heap on the coffee table beside the dip bowl—slick, dripping, humiliated. Her thighs trembled as she tried to sit up.

The game started.

And she became part of it.

Brendan didn’t look at her. He didn’t even pause. Between rounds, his hand would wander over, pinch her up with idle ease, redip her chest, then lift her to his mouth for another casual lick. Another long, wet suck.

Just a snack between cutscenes.

The dip coated her thicker each time. It smeared across her belly, clumped in her hair, soaked into her shorts until they sagged on her hips. Her nipples were raw, her skin clammy, her thighs sticky and trembling.

She squirmed more weakly with each pass. The chill started to burn. Then it went numb.

And still it went on.

Dip. Lick. Drop. Repeat.

She arched, twitched, whimpered. But the resistance drained out of her, minute by minute, until shame gave way to something duller. Quieter.

She stopped fighting.

By the time the controller hit the table and the credits rolled, she barely noticed.

Brendan finally glanced down.

She lay curled in a sticky heap beside the bowl—shivering, hair plastered to her face, streaked blue and white and brown. Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes didn’t track him.

“See?” he said. “Useful.”

Then he picked her up again.

Her body left a damp smear across the table as he dragged her—smearing up chip crumbs, dabbing onion dip along the way, wiping a faint ring of grease off the controller’s edge.

Only when the surface looked clean did he lift her again.

No words.

Just the soft click of her cage door, locking shut behind her.

[Justhereforamoment1]

Their names were Yuna and Aki.

Identical twins, born minutes apart, but different in all the right ways. Yuna was the louder one—talkative, expressive, the natural lead. Aki was quieter, more focused, the planner.

Cosplay had been their shared obsession since high school. They didn’t just make costumes—they lived them.

Rem and Ram had always been their favorite. The bond between them—fierce, loyal, wounded—it resonated. They could quote every scene, every emotional beat. They’d practiced their poses, choreographed their interactions, even dyed their hair: soft blue for Yuna, delicate pink for Aki.

The costumes they made were flawless.

Short black maid dresses with crisp white aprons, cut just low enough to frame the curve of their chests. Yuna’s breasts were fuller, soft and round beneath the tight lace-trimmed neckline, while Aki’s sat higher—smaller, perkier, always framed just right by the ruffled collar.

Their skirts flared just above the thigh, revealing smooth, pale legs wrapped in sheer white stockings. Yuna had thicker thighs, plush and shapely, tapering into a soft curve where her ass swelled beneath the hem. Aki’s were leaner, taut and toned—but her backside, small as it was, still arched perfectly beneath the frill of her dress.

They’d been a hit at the convention.

People swarmed them for photos. One full-size photographer asked if they could pose in character while he filmed—Rem looking fierce, Ram cold and distant. Yuna played it up, eyes intense and lips curled in a soft sneer. Aki stood beside her, cool and quiet, fingers laced in front of her skirt.

They didn’t notice the man watching from behind the booth curtain.

Brendan didn’t usually take two at once. But they were small—even for tinies—and they fit so perfectly together. Like they were meant to be shelved.

He caught them between shoots. Lured them toward a service hallway with a promise of “better lighting” and “no crowds.” They hesitated. Then followed. It was Yuna who stepped through the door first.

By the time Aki turned to say maybe they should go back, the hallway was already empty.

They lived now in a split enclosure.

Two matching halves of a stylized Roswaal mansion, divided down the center by a clear glass partition. Blue and pink dominated the color palette—Yuna’s side cool and serene, Aki’s warm and quietly cheerful. Each had a twin-sized bed, a tiny vanity, and a display shelf filled with props and trinkets.

They weren’t allowed to talk through the glass. But they could see each other. All the time.

The outfits hadn’t changed.

Short black maid dresses, laced tightly around their waists. Frilly collars, low-cut bustlines, sheer stockings held up by garters that clipped just below their skirt hems. Matching flower pins sat above their bangs, tilted slightly outward like mirror reflections.

He kept their hair dyed too. Blue for Yuna. Pink for Aki.

Brendan never took both out at once.

Tonight, it was Yuna.

Aki watched from her side of the glass, fists pressed against the barrier as her sister lay sprawled across Brendan’s lap, her small frame glistening under the flicker of the TV.

He’d already stripped her of her apron, leaving the frilly maid dress hiked high around her waist. Her stockings were smeared with precum, her thighs trembling as his fingers dragged her slowly up the length of his cock.

Yuna sobbed.

Her full breasts were pressed into the thick ridge of his shaft, sliding through the slick mess that coated him. Each stroke smeared her body further—her belly, her chest, even her cheek streaked with the warm sheen of his arousal.

Brendan leaned back into the couch cushions, eyes on the screen. Some chaotic anime battle played out in flashes of light and noise, but his attention barely flickered.

He shifted his grip, curling his fingers around Yuna’s waist, adjusting her against the underside of his cock.

“Always liked Rem’s look better,” he muttered. “Softer curves. Just the right shape.”

He began stroking in earnest.

Yuna’s body rode the thick shaft in long, slow arcs—her back bowed, her thighs kicking weakly as her small form slid through pools of precum. It smeared across her chest, her chin, her soft lips. Her blue hair clung in damp strands to her flushed face.

Aki could only watch.

Her sister’s tiny hands pressed against Brendan’s cock, trying to push away from it—only to be dragged forward again, her breasts squishing into the leaking tip, her mouth catching a fresh spill of precum that made her gag.

He didn't even glance down.

“Look at that,” Brendan murmured. “She fits just right.”

Yuna screamed—but it was faint. Raw. Her voice cracked as her body was pulled upward, then dragged back down, her soaked thighs spread wide across the veined girth of his shaft.

Then he paused.

His fingers shifted, pinching her legs apart—spreading her across the tip, pressing her tiny pussy directly against the leaking slit of his cock.

Yuna’s eyes widened.

She thrashed.

“No—no, please—!”

But he didn’t answer. Just sighed and groaned softly as his cock twitched.

A thick jet erupted against her, blasting into her with enough force to lift her slightly before Brendan slammed her back down, pinning her against the leaking head. Hot cum flooded over her belly and thighs, soaking her from the waist down as he stroked her again.

Her scream choked into a gurgle.

Her stomach bloated visibly beneath his grip—swelling with the pressure of his cum pouring over and into her. Her hips spasmed, twitching as her body convulsed against the slick heat, every inch of her coated in the mess.

He didn’t stop until she sagged.

Then he peeled her off slowly, a thin string of cum stretching from her inner thighs to his cock.

Her dress clung to her, transparent and ruined. Her ass twitched with each slow breath. Her braid had come undone, blue strands plastered to her sticky, tear-streaked face.

Brendan looked at Aki through the glass.

“You’re next,” he said simply.

He carried Yuna back toward her side of the enclosure, one hand cradling her sagging body, the other reaching lazily for a tissue he used to wipe her off.

Aki backed away from the glass, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

Her name was Lana, and she’d built an empire on her body—and the unapologetic confidence to flaunt it.

A tiny, barely six inches tall, she’d carved out a space in a world that tried to treat tinies like novelties. Her streams weren’t just popular—they were legendary.

Every broadcast drew tens of thousands, giant and tiny alike, all tuned in to watch the show. And Lana always gave them what they wanted. She teased. She played. She owned the camera with every slow smile, every practiced sway of her hips.

Her Morrigan Aensland cosplay had made her a star.

The glossy black leotard clung to her like paint, cut low in front to reveal the soft curve of her cleavage, the swell of her perfect tits pressed high and framed by the scalloped edges of faux bat wings. It cupped her ass just as tightly—round, perky, and barely covered, the fabric riding high to leave the lower curves exposed with every sway.

Purple tights shimmered across her legs like oil on water, clinging to every line of toned thigh and sleek calf. The outfit didn’t hide her body—it celebrated it. Highlighted her hourglass shape, the sway of her hips, the soft bounce of her chest with every breath. Even her little bat wings bobbed flirtatiously behind her as she moved.

She knew exactly what she looked like—and she made damn sure everyone else did too.

She thought she was untouchable.

She was wrong.

Brendan had been in her chat for months. A username she’d laughed off at first. Then a fan who sent gifts—custom props, lights, rare gear sized for tinies. She’d unboxed them on stream, thanked him with that signature wink.

The con had been packed. Lana had been posing on a miniature backdrop—Morrigan’s throne, wings spread behind her, surrounded by full-size fans snapping pics from every angle. She’d waved, blown kisses, soaked in the attention. Didn’t notice the hand until it was too late.

A shadow. A warmth at her back. Then thick fingers clamped around her, palm swallowing her soft body, wings crushed to her sides. The throne vanished beneath her feet.

She barely had time to gasp before he stuffed her down the front of his pants—pressed snug against the heavy warmth of his cock, the glossy leotard sliding over the pulsing skin as he tucked her tight into the curve of his bulge. His waistband snapped shut above her, sealing her in the humid dark, his shaft twitching lazily against her face.

She thrashed, wings bent, face flushed with trapped heat and panic—but it was no use. She was gone, swallowed into the dark, muffled by the thump of his heartbeat and the slow, steady rise of his breath.

No one noticed. Not in that crowd.

Now, she was his.

Tonight, he carried her to a small-scale replica of the Hidden Leaf Village gate. Another tiny girl sat slumped there—Yuki, a former Hinata Hyuga cosplayer. Pale, shivering, her jacket clung to her body in translucent patches, streaked with drying cum that glistened in the lamplight.

Brendan lowered Lana beside her.

“Look at her,” he said, voice flat, casual. “She’s filthy. You’re gonna clean her up.”

Lana blinked, stunned. The words felt unreal. Like a joke that didn’t land.

“I said, clean her.” His tone hardened. His finger flicked sharply against her ass.

She yelped, stumbling forward onto her hands and knees. The smirk, the confidence, the queen-of-the-screen persona—shattered under his gaze. Her heart pounded as she crawled toward Yuki, Morrigan’s black and purple costume clinging tight, now just another layer of humiliation.

Up close, Yuki’s body was a mess. The cum had dried in crusty patches, clinging like glue to her chest, her belly, her thighs. Lana gagged at the smell—stale, salty, bitter. But Brendan was watching.

So she leaned in.

Her first lick was shaky—a quick, uncertain pass of her tongue across Yuki’s stomach. The taste hit hard, sour and bitter, layered with sweat. She flinched back on instinct, bile rising in her throat.

Brendan's shadow loomed behind her, silent but heavy.

Gritting her teeth, she leaned in again.

Her tongue moved slower now, dragging along the soft dip of Yuki’s belly, picking up streaks of grime and drying seed. The residue clung and thickened, warming in her mouth into something foul, almost solid. She struggled to keep it down, jaw tight, lips sticky with the mess.

She worked higher, tracing slow, shaky circles between Yuki’s breasts. Each lick lifted more of the crusted filth from her skin, leaving a slick trail in its place. The musky scent was overwhelming—intimate and revolting—and it clung to her nose, filled her lungs, coated the back of her throat.

Their breath mingled—hers quick and shallow, Yuki’s low and trembling.

Brendan’s voice cut through the silence.

“Swallow it.”

She froze, tongue heavy with the disgusting slurry.

Tears welled in her eyes. She gave a weak shake of her head, barely more than a twitch.

“Now.”

She obeyed.

Her throat convulsed as she forced it down. The taste didn’t leave—it stuck, clinging to her insides, making her stomach churn. She coughed, gagged, but kept going. There was no pause, no relief.

Just the next lick.

The next swallow.

Her mind folded in on itself, retreating somewhere small, somewhere numb. There was only the task now: lick, clean, swallow. Over and over. The filth coated her lips, clung to her tongue, blurred into a sickening rhythm.

Yuki whimpered softly beneath her, but Lana didn’t react.

The succubus queen was gone.

No smirk. No wink. No power.

Just a tiny girl on her knees, licking cum from another’s body while a giant watched, satisfied.
Anya had been a psych major.

At just under six inches tall, she’d learned early how to read a world that didn’t see her. The way giants moved without looking down. The way they spoke over her—about her—like she wasn’t there. She turned that invisibility into an advantage. Studied motive. Compulsion. Need.

People were puzzles. She loved pulling them apart.

But what really thrilled her was slipping into something short, tight, and unhinged—something that made everyone look. Something that let her own the spotlight.

Harley Quinn was her favorite.

Wild. Unfiltered. Shameless. There was power in that persona. Permission to be loud. She strutted through cons in glitter and mesh, fishnets hugging every inch of her legs, crop top clinging to her chest, pigtails bouncing with every step. She knew how to make giants stare—wink, grin, flash of thigh.

Her tiny breasts pressed tight against the cracked “Daddy’s Lil Monster” top she’d stitched herself. The letters faded, stretched with wear. The red-and-blue shorts hugged her hips like second skin, glittering sequins tracing the curve of her ass. She felt invincible in that outfit.

She never saw him coming.

Brendan found her at a cosplay mixer, darting between bar tables that loomed like towers. She’d paused to catch her breath—one booted foot up on a coaster, sipping spiked soda from a thimble-sized glass. The bass shook the floor beneath her.

Then came the shadow.

A hand—broad, casual, unhurried—swept down. Fingers closed around her like a clamp, pinning her arms to her sides. She shrieked, kicked, bit down hard enough to taste blood.

Didn’t matter.

He chuckled, tucking her into his pocket like a stolen prize.

“You’re coming with me, puddin’,” he murmured. His breath reeked of beer.

Now, her world was a cage.

A tall, ornate birdcage. Brass bars curled with delicate flourishes, the kind that might look charming from a distance. Inside, it was a prison dressed up nice. The curved bars stretched overhead like golden ribs. A swing dangled uselessly from a chain. The polished wood floor offered no warmth. No cover. No comfort.

Tonight, Brendan had company.

Nora sprawled next to him on the couch—half-drunk, flushed, laughing too loudly at the football game. A red Solo cup swung from two fingers. Her black crop top slipped off one shoulder with every bounce. No bra. Tits jiggling freely each time she cheered.

She was loud. Tipsy. Curious.

Between yells, her gaze drifted to the shelf. She squinted. Then smiled.

“This the one you told me about?” she slurred, pushing up to her feet. Bare toes scuffed along the carpet. She leaned in close, mango vape-sweet breath fogging the bars. One finger jabbed between them—thick, chipped nail polish scraping the air.

Anya flinched hard.

Nora laughed. “Aw, she’s shy! Come on—I thought she was supposed to be crazy.”

Brendan didn’t look away from the screen. He just smirked.

“Go on, Harley. Show her how nuts you are.”

Anya froze.

Her pigtails hung limp. Her glittery shorts caught the light. Her body trembled, the cracked red-and-blue shirt stretching tight with every shallow breath.

Nora rattled the cage door.

“Dance, little clown!” she cackled, hiccupping mid-laugh. The strap of her top slipped lower. One pale breast popped free. She didn’t care. Or didn’t notice.

Brendan sighed and set the controller down.

In a few long strides, he was towering over her. The latch creaked. His hand reached in—two fingers, slow and deliberate—then flicked her hard across the ass.

The crack echoed through the cage.

Anya yelped, stumbling forward. The sting bloomed hot and instant.

“She said dance,” Brendan said, boredom curling at the edge of his voice.

Her nerves lit up. Her face burned. Sobbing now, she pushed herself upright. Her knees shook. Her balance swayed. But she danced—if it could be called that.

A broken parody.

Her hips twitched, off-rhythm. Her arms flailed in uneven arcs. The fishnets shimmered, stretched taut as she turned in shaky circles. Her pigtails slapped wetly against her cheeks, streaked with tears.

They howled.

Nora shrieked, collapsing against Brendan with laughter. “Like one of those little wind-up monkeys!” she wheezed. “Jesus—do the clappy thing! Oh my god, look at her!”

Brendan chuckled, arm sliding around Nora’s waist.

She leaned into him, tits pressed to his chest, nuzzling under his jaw. One hand slipped down, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweats. His breath hitched.

“Told you she was fun,” he murmured.

Nora’s hand worked lazily. Her smile turned slow. Drunken. Cruel.

“You get all the weird ones.”

Anya kept dancing.

Her strength failed. Her knees gave mid-spin. She collapsed in a heap of sequins, fishnets, and tears, gasping on the polished wood floor as the cage bars blurred through sobs.

Outside, the world didn’t stop.

Nora was on Brendan’s lap now, crop top pushed up, tits out, rocking slow against him with breathy moans. Brendan’s eyes weren’t on the cage anymore.

But Anya still moved. Still twitched. Still tried.

As if not moving would be worse.

She wasn’t Harley anymore. Not wild. Not fearless. Just a shaking, obedient little doll in a cage.

Forgotten.

Outside, Nora moaned.

Inside, Anya curled in on herself. Arms over her head. Eyes shut tight.

Trying not to hear.

Her name was Lexi.

She was a theater student by trade, a dancer by training, and a flirt by nature. Confidence wrapped her like a second skin. She loved the spotlight, loved playing to a crowd—laughs, gasps, all of it. That thrill of being watched and knowing she looked good doing it.

She wasn’t afraid of her scale. Not the way some tinies were. She turned it into an advantage. Flash a smile, flip some hair, add a wink—they noticed her. And she knew how to use that.

Her Ann cosplay had been a knockout.

Red latex, polished to a mirror shine. Skin-tight from collar to heel, it clung to every curve like it had been sprayed on. The chest cut low enough to tease, the zipper slightly undone for effect. A whip coiled at her hip. The mask perched above her brow like she’d just finished a scene.

She’d spent months on it. Reshaping the vinyl. Matching the boots. Sculpting the mask. Posing in front of mirrors until every angle was perfect. She liked the way people stopped to stare. Liked being asked for photos. Liked bending just a little too far when someone wanted a shot from behind.

She had power in that suit.

Until someone took it from her.

It had happened fast. After a panel, backstage—half-hidden behind a standee for some JRPG collab no one cared about. She’d been scrolling through photos on her phone, legs crossed on a folding chair, still riding the rush of attention.

Then everything tipped.

A blur. A massive hand. Fingers closing like a vice. The world rushed sideways and she was gone—shoved into a padded side pouch, her body crumpled between foam panels and the bulk of a water bottle. She kicked. Screamed. Clawed until her nails cracked. No one heard. No one came.

Now she was in Brendan’s apartment.

No case. No display. Not yet.

She was sprawled on his desk—face flushed, hair wild, suit creased from the struggle. Her boots had been removed. Her mask torn off and tossed aside.

He hadn’t even set up her enclosure yet.

He was still testing her.

“You don’t get to touch me,” she spat, voice sharp. “You’re going to regret this, you sick f—”

His thumb pressed against her face.

Hard.

He shoved her onto her back with one slow push, smearing her cheek against the desk’s surface. The latex of her suit squeaked faintly under the pressure.

“Still got some spark,” he murmured, amused. “Bet I can fix that.”

She twisted, trying to bite him—but he was already moving.

His fingers hooked under her arms and lifted her like a toy, her feet kicking helplessly as she struggled.

Then he slammed her down across his cock.

She gasped—a sharp, shocked sound—as her body landed belly-first against the hot, slick shaft. The heat soaked instantly through the latex, the pressure flattening her tits, smearing precum along her chest and thighs.

"Fuck off!" she snarled, twisting, shoving against his fingers.

He just chuckled, adjusting his grip—thumb and forefinger clamping around her waist.

"You'll learn," he murmured, dragging her slowly up the thick length of his cock.

The red suit squealed with friction as he stroked her along it, the latex growing glossy with each pass. Her legs were forced apart by the girth beneath her, her stomach forced to grind against the leaking slit at the tip. A string of precum smeared across her midsection, gluing her to the pulsing head for a second before he dragged her back down.

"You really went all-out on this suit," he said casually. "Bet you thought people were jerking off to your photos."

He squeezed her tighter.

"You were right."

He flipped her over—small spine arching, ass slick and red from pressure—and lined her up with his tip.

"No—" she gasped, eyes wide, limbs thrashing. "Don't—don’t you—"

He pressed her face into it.

His slit oozed precum as her cheek mashed against the heat, smearing her in it. Her mouth opened on reflex—a gasp, a scream—but it was too late.

He ground her face into the wet, swollen head, her lips slipping across the leaking tip until it they were pushed inside the slit.

"Open wide, Ann," he said, voice thick.

She tried to yank back—he held her there.

His fingers wrapped around her hair, yanking it tight, angling her head just right. Her scalp ached under the pressure—but he didn’t stop.

Then he came.

The first blast hit like a punch—slamming into the back of her throat, forcing her jaw wide with sheer pressure. Her body jolted in his grip, arms flailing as a second jet followed, just as thick, just as violent.

She tried to scream, but there was no room. Only cum.

It poured down her throat in heavy, choking gushes, filling her mouth, her lungs, her stomach. Her belly distended visibly under his fingers, a grotesque bulge stretching the red latex until the seams creaked.

He held her there.

Forced her to swallow.

Every pulse of his cock pumped more into her, hot and constant, running from her lips in pearly streams when she couldn’t keep up. Her eyes rolled. Her limbs twitched. Her whole body sagged forward, arms draped across his shaft, hair matted and soaked.

“Good girl,” he breathed, panting.

When the final spurt oozed free, he rubbed her face against his head, smearing the last sticky trails across her cheeks, her forehead, her limp mouth.

Her eyes were glazed.

Her lips hung open.

A dribble of cum slid from the corner, drooling down her chin to join the slick mess coating her tits and thighs. Her stomach was grotesquely swollen, the suit stretched tight around it like she’d been stuffed full of air.

He lifted her lazily, held her at arm’s length.

Lexi coughed—a wet, pitiful sound. More cum spilled from her lips. She let out a weak moan.

Still conscious. Barely.

"Try that attitude again," he muttered, brushing a sticky strand of hair from her cum-slick face. "See what happens."

Then he set her down—half-curled, still twitching—beside the game controller.

Her red suit clung to her like a second skin, glossy and soaked, every breath causing her bloated belly to tremble. Her ass was streaked white. Her boots were missing. Her pride, too.

Brendan didn’t even look at her.

He picked up the controller, thumbed the analog stick, and sighed as the loading screen faded.

And Lexi lay there—soaked, sore, moaning—while the next loop began.

Her name was Ellie.

She hadn’t spoken it in months. The last man hadn’t asked. Some twitchy reseller with a sheen of grease across his forehead and nicotine stains on his fingertips. He dealt in stolen customs and “personal use” collectibles, like the euphemism softened anything.

To him, she was a product. A specimen. A thing. Bitch, sometimes. Or just it.

She still remembered how he’d gotten her.

Out for a walk through the park—sneakers hitting pavement, a little Bluetooth speaker clipped to her belt, humming to herself while dappled sun filtered down through the trees.

Then a shadow.

A twitchy hand.

She’d barely turned before fingers clamped around her waist and stuffed her headfirst into the damp heat of his waistband, pressed tightly against the pulsing length of his cock. She screamed, but the world was too loud, and his steps too quick. No one saw. No one helped.

She forgot what real clothes felt like. What actual food tasted like outside of cum. What it was like to be anything other than an object for sale—a body to trade or stroke or stash.

Then Brendan bought her.

She remembered the moment clearly.

He hadn’t said much at first. Just wandered in late in the day, hands in his pockets, letting the reseller ramble.

“Strong legs, healthy hair, clear skin. No tearing. Still fights a little, but that’s just a phase.”

Brendan didn’t flinch when the carrier opened to reveal her curled up inside—naked, shivering, smeared in dried fluids. He just leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning over her like he was taking in the details.

She'd watched him study her.

Her body was still firm despite the neglect. Small breasts with soft pink nipples, a taut stomach, round hips that tapered into slim thighs. Her ass was full for her scale, thighs plush but toned, and her hair still held its luster, even tangled as it was.

Then he spoke.

“She’ll be perfect for the Kurisu cosplay,” he said, voice soft. Almost pleased.

And he handed over cash without hesitation.

She expected the same routine. Another dark cage. Another pair of careless hands. More hours of being ignored until he needed to get off.

But Brendan surprised her.

There was no pain. No constant, degrading routine. No moldy glass box, no rank smell of semen and sweat. No sleeping on warped plastic in the dark.

He gave her a place.

Still a glass enclosure—but this one was clean. Roomy. Modeled after a lab office. The walls were decorated with miniature corkboards pinned with replica research notes. There were books, tiny fake monitors, and a desk. A real bed with a proper pillow and soft, tucked sheets.

And clothes.

He lowered them into the space like an offering. A cream shirt, red tie, and tan jacket. Custom-cut shorts. Black tights scaled perfectly to her legs.

She touched them with trembling fingers.

She hadn’t worn anything in weeks. Not since the last man let her dry out, slick with leftover cum, curling into herself inside a grimy takeout container. Her skin had chafed for days.

But Brendan… he didn’t touch her. Not then.

“You’ll look good in this,” he said, crouching beside her enclosure. “It’s all made just for you.”

She dressed in silence, her chest tight.

The fabric clung to her skin like water. The cuffs hugged her wrists snugly, the jacket stiff but shaped. The belt had a real clasp. The tights were smooth and faintly glossy, whispering over her thighs with each movement.

When she turned to look at him, a smile spread across his face.

“I knew it,” he said. “Kurisu’s confident. Try and carry yourself like that, okay?”

Ellie said nothing.

She was too busy trying not to cry.

There was a mirror on the far wall—angled so she could see herself while seated at the desk. She stepped in front of it, hands limp at her sides.

Kurisu looked back at her.

The jacket framed her torso perfectly, cinched just above her curves. Her breasts pressed lightly against the shirt, red tie falling between them, buttons straining when she breathed deep. The shorts clung tight around her ass, the cut high enough to show the shadow of her cheeks when she turned. Her legs looked longer than they were, sleek and defined.

For a moment, she looked like someone again.

It didn’t take long to adjust.

There was food. Real food.

Thin slices of apple, warm grains of seasoned rice, soft bread torn into perfect bites. A capful of clean water, cool and clear. Once, he even left her a square of chocolate beside her pillow like a hotel mint.

But she wasn’t naive.

She knew what he wanted. She saw it in the way he looked at her. In how he lingered a second longer when she bent to pick something up. In how his fingers drummed the plastic edge of her case when she stood too still.

She knew it when he reached in.

Two fingers—firm, but not rough. His thumb pressing her gently into his palm, a soft reminder of ownership.

She didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry like she had before.

Just lay obedient as he lifted her from the lab setup and set her down across his cock. She could feel the heat of it, the subtle throb, the slick line of precum already wetting his skin.

The first stroke was exploratory. Long. Measured.

He ran her thighs along the warm, firm length, letting her tights catch on the skin. She gasped—soft, startled, more reflex than protest.

The second pass smeared precum along her calves. Her jacket stuck slightly where it met the head. The third stroke pressed her chest against him, her breasts flattening beneath the fabric as his cock flexed.

He groaned. Deep and low.

She let herself go limp. Felt the ridges of his cock glide beneath her. Her face mashed into his skin on each pass, the salt of his precum on her lips.

She closed her eyes.

And let him use her.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just kept her there, slowly rocking her along his cock like a living, willing toy. The heat of his arousal soaked into her bones.

Some nights, after he finished, he cleaned her.

Warm water in a glass cup. A folded paper towel. A cotton swab dipped in mild soap, brushed carefully between her legs and under her arms. She’d sit still on the towel, hair mussed, lips parted, and let him do it.

He didn’t say much.

But sometimes, when she was curled up at the edge of her bed in her now slightly rumpled Kurisu outfit, he’d glance through the clear plastic and say,

“You’re such a good girl for me.”

And she’d whisper back, voice hoarse:

“Thank you.”

Not because it was okay. Not because she wanted this.

But because it was better.

Better than the pain. Better than starvation. Better than the sharp emptiness that came from being no one.

She wasn’t free.

But she was clean. And dressed. And seen. And loved, in a twisted sort of way.

She could be his toy.

As long as she got to wear clothes. As long as she wasn’t alone.

Her name was Alina.

She’d always loved Tinkerbell.

For tinies, there weren’t many characters to look up to—ironically enough—but Tinkerbell was different. She was their size, their spirit, a spark of mischief wrapped in wings and light. It wasn’t just admiration; it was belonging.

Every tiny girl owned at least one Tink costume, and conventions were always dotted with glittering green dresses and trembling wings.

Alina was no different.

She’d spent years practicing the pout—chin tilted, arms crossed, lips pursed in that perfect little huff. It was always her dream to look like Tinkerbell. To be her. To slip into that dress, flutter those wings, and feel like she belonged in the magic she’d grown up believing in.

Though she wished she’d bought a different one.

She’d picked it up from a booth on the giant side of the convention center—a risk, but the stall had looked reputable, and the wings were gorgeous. But when she’d slipped it on that morning, the skirt barely covered her ass. The neckline plunged in a way that didn’t feel flirty so much as exposed. And the fabric, while soft and shimmering, hugged her hips so tight it left nothing to the imagination.

Giants liked their fairies sluttier.

They called it cuter, more realistic, but everyone knew better. It wasn’t made for tinies at all—it was made for the ones looking at them.

She’d told herself it was fine. Just a costume. Just one day. She could walk the floor, take some photos, maybe find a few others in similar outfits to blend in with.

The green petal-cut dress clung to her lithe frame, so short it barely counted as clothing. The hem fluttered as she moved, grazing her plush thighs and flashing glimpses of pale, smooth skin. The neckline plunged between her perky breasts, framed by a corset-style bodice that hugged her curves a little too well, the soft, clingy fabric outlining every swell and dip of her torso and soft hips. With each breath, her chest rose tight against it, the shimmer drawing attention she didn’t want.

Still, she’d tried to make it hers.

She’d added a ribbon at the waist, re-stitched the seams to better fit her small frame. Her blonde hair was swept into a polished pixie bun, soft wisps artfully curled to frame her face.

She’d dusted her collarbones and thighs with body glitter that sparkled with each twirl—an extra touch of whimsy that made her feel like she was part of the magic.

The wings were her favorite. Delicate and arched, they shimmered in the light with hints of lilac and gold. They fluttered faintly when she walked, trailing sparkles like a real fairy in flight.

It had felt like a celebration.

But she hadn’t realized just how visible it had made her.

Brendan spotted her at the edge of a crowded hallway, her fingers tugging desperately at the tight skirt, trying to cover her ass from eyes that lingered too long. She shifted awkwardly, every glance a sharp reminder that she was more exposed than she’d ever wanted to be.

The hall buzzed with chatter and footsteps—voices blending into a low, endless hum.

Alina didn’t notice the hand before it landed on her waist, too focused on smoothing down the fabric that barely clung to her hips. His grip—broad, warm, and shockingly fast—closed around her before she could even react. The sudden weight in her chest stole her breath, a jolt that made her freeze.

Before she could scream, he tugged his waistband open and slipped her next to his cock with a smooth, practiced motion.

Her body bounced with every twitch of his length. Her frantic movements only made it swell beneath her.

No one saw the fairy vanish.

Now, she was his.

Her prison was a glass orb on Brendan’s shelf—a miniature Neverland forest, glowing with faux fireflies and strung with a silk hammock. The dress, once her pride, had become her cage: hem frayed, wings bent, glitter smudged. She curled in the hammock, dreading the creak of his footsteps.

Each time Brendan’s shadow loomed, Alina scrambled to hide. She knew what his hands brought—heat, abuse, and cum.

The orb offered little cover, but she tried. She wedged herself under a plastic fern, its leaves scratching her thighs, or burrowed into the folds of the hammock, heart pounding as his fingers hovered over the latch. Her wings, torn at the edges, caught on everything, betraying her with their faint shimmer. She held her breath, praying he’d pass her by.

He never did.

He’d pluck her out, chuckling at her futile attempts.

“Hiding again, Tinkerbell?”

His voice was thick with amusement as he peeled her free, her tiny body trembling in his grip.

The first time she’d tried to hide, she wedged herself into the hollow of a fake tree, wings pressed tight, breath coming shallow. Her body was stuck, folded into the cramped space with desperate hope.

But his fingers found her easily. They probed with slow, unyielding pressure, then gripped her firmly and yanked her out. The pull tore her wing further—and shredded the back of her dress.

The delicate plastic straps of the wings caught on the edge of the tree and snapped, one side peeling free with a crack before the other was ripped loose in his hand. The thin harness stayed tangled in her hair for a moment, until Brendan flicked it off with a grunt.

She squealed.

The fabric caught as he pulled, splitting down the side with a sharp rip. By the time he had her in his palm, she was half-naked—the skirt dangling from one hip, the bodice twisted around her ribs, wings hanging by one torn strap.

He didn’t even look at the damage. Just smiled, took her to his bed, and lay back.

With casual ease, he stroked her along the length of his cock. Her bare ass dragged against the thick, veined skin, catching on every ridge. The friction was unrelenting. What remained of her dress rode up to her armpits, smeared with precum, then peeled off entirely—ripped loose as he shifted his grip.

The wings tore the rest of the way off with it, crumpling like foil in his fingers.

She was naked now.

Tiny breasts bounced as he dragged her up and down, her soft curves streaked with leaking cum. Her belly pressed flat against his shaft, her inner thighs parting with every stroke.

Then he tilted her.

Her face and chest pressed into the swollen head, soft skin molding against the heat of it.

He groaned—and came in heavy, pulsing spurts.

Cum spilled across her in thick, roping strands. It glazed her hair, her wings—what was left of them—her delicate skin. Her nipples glistened under the mess. Her thighs twitched as it oozed down every trembling curve.

She gasped, lips parted, barely able to breathe.

He wiped a glob from her cheek and smeared it across her lips, slow and deliberate, before finally returning her to the orb.

She curled there—soaked, shivering, and nude.

The next time, she’d tucked herself behind a faux log, knees drawn tight, glitter smearing the bark. She clung to her new costume like it might protect her, wings carefully straightened and strapped in again—but he found her anyway, fingers peeling her from her hiding spot like she weighed nothing.

This time, he didn’t bother unfastening anything.

He grabbed a wing between two fingers and yanked. The cheap plastic frame snapped at the base, the entire right wing ripping free with a crunch. The costume’s back tore with it, seams bursting as the pressure twisted her sideways.

He carried her to his desk, dropping his sweats to reveal his thick, twitching cock.

Alina’s breath hitched as he pressed her face against the swollen tip, her lips mashed into the musky heat.

The slick head smeared precum across her cheeks and mouth—coating every delicate feature in a sheen of arousal. She kept her mouth clamped shut, twisting in a vain attempt to turn away, but she couldn’t breathe.

Her lungs burned.

When she finally gasped, it only made things worse. Salty precum rushed into her mouth, flooding it instantly. She gagged, throat convulsing, her body twitching as he ground her down harder, drowning her in warmth.

The wing on her left shoulder tore off as he rolled her body forward, dress catching beneath his thumb. Her bun came loose, blonde strands falling across her cum-slick face, sticking to her cheeks as she choked and trembled. Her struggles grew frantic, and that only pushed him over the edge.

With a low grunt, he came.

A thick jet slammed down her throat, forcing her mouth wide. She gulped instinctively, each swallow swelling her stomach.

Cum poured past her lips, spilling from the corners, running in hot streams over her chin and down across her bare breasts. Her dress was already ruined, peeled off during his handling, and he flicked the last strip of green fabric aside with his thumb, revealing her trembling, cum-glazed pussy.

She gurgled and coughed, her stomach swollen with the force-fed climax.

When he finished, he let her slump against his cock, twitching, dripping.

Then, with a careless flick, he dropped her back into the orb. She landed hard, cum trailing from her lips and across her naked chest. Her belly swollen, her wings gone, the new set already shredded like the last.

The next costume didn’t survive even a minute.

She’d hidden under the vines, hoping he might miss her. But he didn’t. He plucked her out by one wing and snapped it clean off in the motion. The other wing caught on a leaf and tore sideways as he pulled—she screamed, but he didn’t stop.

He carried her to the couch and rubbed her up and down his shaft while playing, not even glancing down. Her new dress clung desperately to her form—until his fingers gripped and twisted, tearing the top clean down the front.

Her tits bounced free.

The skirt shredded next, ripped from the waistband in one careless tug. The wings hung limp until he casually stripped them off, cords catching in her hair before dropping to the floor.

She was nude—small, bare, slick—and he used her like a toy.

Eventually, he paused the game. One hand shifted her, the other peeling her slowly off his cock. Her limbs fluttered weakly in protest. She pushed against his fingers, but he only smiled.

Then he pressed her pussy-first against the leaking tip.

Her bare thighs spread across the twitching heat. Her slick pussy kissed the swollen head of his cock, lined up perfectly with the pulsing slit.

She writhed in terror, screaming.

Then, with a groan, he came.

Cum surged into her, overfilling her womb instantly. Her stomach ballooned, her back arching. Her scream turned into a gasp, then a choke. Another shot, heavier, slammed inside her, stretching her soft belly even more.

Her skin sparkled faintly, the glitter mixing with the cum that poured down her thighs in slow, sticky trails. Her hips jerked, quivering as her body was filled with his mess.

He kept stroking her until she sagged in his grip, drenched and ruined.

Then he dropped her into the orb again, landing in a puddle of his cum, every inch of her soaked and spent.

Each new outfit—each hopeful new pair of wings—met the same fate.

Torn. Shredded. Discarded.

Her naked body was the only thing Brendan cared to see. Her breasts bounced every time he used her. Her soft belly bloated after every climax. Her trembling thighs, her sticky mound, her cum-slick hair—those were the only details he preserved.

She stopped fighting. Her hiding became half-hearted. She didn’t even bother straightening her next set of wings.

Brendan always found her.

The orb’s fireflies glowed on, indifferent, as she lay in the hammock—belly swollen, throat sore, body painted in cum.

Alina stayed still. A broken, wingless fairy.

Her name was Tara.

In her old life, Tara was a systems analyst—a tiny woman who thrived in the quiet logic of code and circuits. At six inches tall, she navigated a world too big for her with a guarded precision—always watching, always calculating.

She preferred the hum of servers to crowded rooms, the glow of a monitor to the chaos of human interaction. Giants made her uneasy. Their steps shook the ground. Their hands loomed too close. She’d learned to stay low, move fast, and trust her instincts when something felt off.

Cosplay was her one rebellion. A way to step into a skin that felt stronger than her own.

Samus Aran was her choice—not just for the power fantasy, but for the armor. The idea of being untouchable, sealed in a suit that could face anything, was a shield against a world that always felt one misstep from crushing her.

Her Zero Suit Samus was a masterpiece of her own making. Months of late nights in her cramped apartment, stitching metallic-blue fabric by hand, shaping foam into sleek curves. The bodysuit hugged her like a second skin, clinging to her lean frame, accentuating the swell of her breasts and the curves of her hips. It shimmered under light, the legs molded to her toned thighs and full ass.

She’d added a tiny, nonfunctional stun pistol at her hip. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, with a few strands left loose to frame her sharp, wary eyes.

Tara hadn’t wanted to go to the convention.

She’d told her friends—other tinies from her online cosplay group—that cons were a gamble for someone her size. Too many giants. Too many hands. Too many stories of tinies vanishing in crowds.

But they’d pushed.

“You’ll be fine,” they’d said. "We’ll stick together. Your Samus is too good to hide.”

Against her better judgment, she’d agreed—heart pounding as they stepped into the buzzing convention hall.

The noise was overwhelming. Booths hawked merch. Cosplayers shouted for photos. The thud of giant footsteps vibrated through the floor. Tara stayed close to her friends, perched on a raised platform near a replica spaceship display, posing for a few cautious shots.

Her suit caught the light, and she forced a smile, trying to channel Samus’s confidence. But her eyes kept darting to the crowd, scanning for threats. Every passing giant felt like a shadow ready to fall.

It happened during a photo op.

A full-size photographer asked her to step forward for a solo shot.

“Just one, Samus. You’re killing it!”

Tara hesitated. Her friends nodded encouragingly. She took two steps.

The crowd surged. A shoulder bumped the platform. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a prop crate.

Then the hand came.

Broad. Warm. Unyielding.

Fingers curled around her torso, pinning her arms before she could react. Her pistol prop clattered to the ground. She opened her mouth to scream, but a thumb pressed against her breasts, crushing her chest and stealing her breath.

The world tilted. And she was gone—slipped into a padded pocket, the zipper grinding shut above her. Darkness swallowed her, the roar of the convention fading as her captor’s steps carried her away.

She fought. Kicked. Clawed at the fabric. But the pocket held firm, and her struggles only sank her deeper into the soft prison.

She heard his voice—low, amused.

“Perfect for the collection.”

Her stomach dropped. She knew what that meant.

Now, Tara lived in a cage.

Not a crude box, but a meticulously crafted replica of the Galactic Federation lab from Metroid. Sterile white walls. Glowing blue panels. A miniature control console with fake buttons that lit up on a timer.

A small bunk, scaled to her size, sat in one corner. The sheets were crisp but cold. The enclosure was glass, curved like a dome, offering no shadows to hide in. It sat on Brendan’s shelf, nestled between a model kit and a stack of manga—part of his curated shrine.

Her Zero Suit was intact, for now. The blue fabric still clung to her body, though it was creased from her initial struggle, the shine dulled by sweat and fear.

She hadn’t been touched. Not yet.

No rough hands. No slick heat. No violation like the stories she’d heard whispered in forums and private chats. But the threat hung over her, thick as the air in the dome.

She heard them.

The others.

Muffled cries, faint and distant, seeping through the walls of her enclosure. A sob. A scream cut short. The rhythmic creak of a couch. The low grunt of Brendan’s voice—too soft to make out, but heavy with satisfaction.

Sometimes, a wet, slick sound—flesh against flesh—made her stomach churn. She’d press her hands to her ears, but the noises slipped through, burrowing into her mind.

His shadow was constant.

His giant frame passed by the shelf a dozen times a day, looming like a storm cloud. Sometimes he’d pause, his silhouette filling the glass, his breath fogging the edge as he leaned in to check something—a figure, a disc. Never her. Not directly.

But she felt his eyes. Even when they didn’t linger.

Her skin prickled. Her pulse raced. She froze—waiting for the hand that never came.

She tried to stay Samus.

Tried to hold onto the strength, the defiance. She’d pace the enclosure, fists clenched, practicing the stances she’d rehearsed for photos—legs spread, shoulders back, chin high.

But the suit felt heavier now. Less like armor, more like a costume she couldn’t take off.

The fake pistol at her hip mocked her. Useless against the bars of her world.

At night, the sounds were worse.

The TV’s glow cast flickering shadows across her dome, and the noises sharpened—a gasp, a whimper, the unmistakable rhythm of something being used.

Tara would curl up on the bunk, knees to her chest, trying to block it out.

Once, he paused longer than usual.

His face filled the glass—close enough she could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint curve of his lips. He tapped the dome lightly.

The sound rang like a gunshot in her ears. She flinched, backing into the console, her ponytail catching on a fake button.

He didn’t open the latch. Just stared, then walked away.

Her heart didn’t stop pounding for hours.

In another life, her name was Kim.

A decorated soldier. Disciplined. Focused. A six-inch force of will in a world that saw tinies as fragile, cute, or harmless. Kim had been none of those things. She’d served in scaled security detachments, ran obstacle courses built for bodies twice her size, and earned her place in every unit that tried to wave her off.

Her Cammy White cosplay had been more than a costume. It was a tribute. A statement of strength.

The iconic green leotard hugged her compact, muscular frame like it was made for her. Thick, powerful thighs that could crush a man’s finger if she got the angle right. A high, round ass shaped by discipline and drills, not vanity. Biceps that rippled when she moved. The signature red beret, pinned tight to cropped dark hair.

She’d worn it all with pride, boots polished to a shine, gloves stitched by hand.

She’d turned heads at the con, standing atop a display case to get a better view of the floor, barking orders to full-size friends who thought it was hilarious. She’d posed for photos, flexed for the crowd, reveled in the rare moment when being tiny didn’t mean being overlooked.

That’s when it happened.

Brendan’s hand came from nowhere—casual, practiced. Fingers bigger than her torso wrapped around her torso, squeezing the air from her lungs.

She’d swung, kicked, cussed him out in a voice that could drill through concrete—but he’d just smirked, unzipping the front pouch of his backpack and tucking her inside like loose change.

“Got me a souvenir,” he muttered, turning back to the crowd as he zipped the pouch closed.

No one noticed. No one cared.

Now, she stood at rigid attention on the cold slick of Brendan’s bathroom counter. A soldier still—but stripped of purpose. Her bare feet squeaked against porcelain. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, waiting.

Below, Brendan shaved.

The mirror fogged at the edges. The razor slid in slow, methodical strokes. His gaze stayed on his reflection. He didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

Then, with no warning, his finger flicked.

A fat dollop of shaving cream splattered across her chest, exploding over her leotard, her face, her beret. She gasped, sputtering, arms swiping at the foam that blinded her, clogged her nose, clung to her mouth.

“Whoops,” he said lightly, not bothering to hide his grin.

The faucet roared.

A blast of lukewarm water hit her full force, slamming into her tiny body like a wave. She went down hard, soaked through, foam dissolving into runny white streaks that streamed down her limbs. The beret slipped free, washing into the drain.

He plucked her up.

One hand—wet, warm, massive—wrapped around her drenched frame. She felt the tremor of his heartbeat through his fingers, the casual squeeze that pinned her arms to her sides, the way he shifted her like nothing more than a tool.

His cock was already hard.

Thick, flushed, jutting from his waistband with lazy urgency. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He pressed her to it.

Her face mashed into the veined length, the heat of him overwhelming. The musk filled her nose, the slick skin twitched beneath her cheek. His hand guided her body along it, dragging her from base to tip in slow, grinding strokes.

She shouted—a raw, muffled cry that vibrated against his shaft.

Brendan groaned softly.

“Fuck... you feel good,” he muttered, breath hitching.

The texture of her body excited him. Firmer than the others. The pressure of her thighs. The tight swell of her ass. That hint of strength that couldn’t save her. He could feel it fading, pass by pass, as her struggles weakened.

He pressed her harder, dragging her up and down. Foam smeared between them, slick and frothy, marking her path along his cock. Her boots kicked at the air. Her gloves curled into fists that could do nothing.

Then he tilted her.

Her lips met his swollen head—wet, pulsing, leaking precum.

“Drink,” he said, voice low, amused.

She tried to turn her head, but his grip tightened.

The taste flooded her mouth—salty, musky, inescapable. She gagged, swallowed, gasped for air that didn’t come. Every drop forced down.

His breaths grew heavier. His strokes faster. Her small frame slid along his cock, reduced to friction, to sensation, to use.

Then he came.

The first jet hit her like a punch—hot, thick, splattering across her face and chest. More followed, in sticky, heavy ropes that soaked her leotard, clung to her hair, dripped down her thighs. The dark green fabric darkened further under the mess.

She hung limp, coughing, coated head to toe.

Without a word, he turned and held her under the faucet.

A lazy rinse.

The water poured over her, washing away just enough to make her not an eyesore. Her arms twitched weakly. Her gaze was blank.

When he was done, he set her in the soap dish.

The porcelain chilled her skin. Foam and cum dripped from her body, trailing down the curve of the dish. She curled up instinctively, small and shivering.

The soldier was gone.

All that remained was a toy—used, rinsed, and set aside.

Her name was Selina.

Before this life, she was a gymnast—graceful, disciplined, endlessly in control of her body. Being tiny didn’t change that. At just under six inches tall, she owned every inch of herself.

She trained harder than most of the full-sized athletes at her gym, flipping through scaled obstacle courses, balancing on railings no wider than a finger, sticking landings on surfaces that would terrify others her size.

Selina lived for precision. For the rush of strength and mastery. Her world was motion—fluid, perfect, hers.

Cosplay was just another stage.

Her Catwoman was legendary at the mixed-scale conventions. The suit wasn’t just accurate—it was art. Sleek, high-gloss vinyl hugged her every curve, tracing the hard lines of her abs, the powerful sweep of her thighs. It clung to the swell of her hips, framed the perfect roundness of her ass, made her look untouchable.

A silver zipper ran from her throat to just below her navel, always left just low enough to tease. Tiny seams followed her limbs like stitched leather, and a miniature belt circled her waist, its faux pouches bouncing with every catlike step. She made the whip herself—braided wire, perfectly scaled.

She’d loved the attention. Loved the gasps when she vaulted onto tabletops or flipped down stair rails. Catwoman didn’t ask permission. Catwoman took.

That night had been no different.

She’d been on a full-size stage at a cosplay contest, striking poses between towering heels and boots, eating up the cheers. The crowd was massive. The lights, blinding. The music, loud enough to shake the floor.

And that’s when it happened.

A hand. No warning. No chance.

Warm fingers closed around her waist, fast and sure. A giant’s grip—Brendan’s. One second she was waving to the judges. The next, she was dragged offstage, her protests swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

He’d just walked off with her. No one noticed.

Now, she was one more prize in his collection.

Tonight, while Brendan was in the kitchen—distracted by the hum of the microwave and the smell of reheated nachos—she saw it. The latch on her cage, a sleek glass box styled like a Gotham rooftop, wasn’t fully locked.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She moved.

Fast.

Her trembling fingers eased the tiny latch open. She slipped through the gap, dropped to the desk, and then to the floor below. The world stretched out around her—a vast sea of polished wood, cold under her bare feet.

She ran.

Silent. Focused. Every step deliberate, light, perfect. Her breath came fast, her chest tight with adrenaline—but for those few seconds, she felt free again. Like flying.

Twelve perfect seconds.

Then the shadow fell.

A deafening thud cracked the air. Brendan’s foot hit the ground, massive, inevitable. The ball of it landed hard, pinning her in place. She didn’t even have time to scream properly—just a muffled, choked cry as his weight pressed down, flattening her against the boards.

He didn’t see her at first. Just stepped forward, heading back to his desk, a plate of nachos balanced in one hand. Then he felt it, a faint twitch beneath his foot, something soft and squirming.

He stopped.

The weight shifted slightly as he tested the sensation, brow furrowing.

Then he looked down.

“Well, well,” he said, a lazy grin spreading across his face. His voice rumbled low, thick with amusement. “What’s this? Little cat out past curfew?”

A soft chuckle shook his chest.

Then he shifted, just enough to let her feel it.

Selina whimpered. The vinyl of her suit squeaked faintly as his sole ground against her. He wiggled his toes, savoring the heat, the softness, the helpless little body trapped beneath him.

“Thought you could run, huh?” he murmured. “Bad kitty.”

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his foot.

Selina lay sprawled on the floorboards, trembling, hair mussed, wide eyes shining with panic. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He bent down and scooped her up with one hand, his fingers curling around her body like a fist closing around a toy.

“That earns a punishment,” Brendan said, voice mock-stern, warm with satisfaction.

He turned and dropped into the chair, pulling her down over his knee in one smooth, practiced motion. She sprawled across his thigh, her body pinned by the firm weight of his hand.

His other hand cupped the curve of her ass, palm spreading over the slick vinyl that hugged her like a second skin. His grip was broad, possessive—easily covering both cheeks and then some.

She wriggled helplessly beneath him, but he only drew his hand back.

The first spank cracked through the air, sharp and unrelenting. The impact blossomed into a hot sting across her ass, making her gasp and jerk against his thigh.

He pulled his hand back, then sent another spank crashing down onto her rippling cheeks.

Then another.

And another.

Each strike landed harder than the last, flattening her ass beneath the clinging suit. The vinyl squealed beneath his palm, heating with every slap. Her breaths came in ragged little sobs, each one more desperate than the last. She tried to bite them back, but he knew how to break her silence. How to make her squirm, make her feel it.

Her ass trembled with every blow, the tight material barely muffling the sound of flesh meeting flesh. The soft cheeks bounced under his hand, reddening beneath the glossy stretch of her suit.

When he was done, he didn’t speak right away. Just kept her draped across his thigh, limp and flushed, her ass stinging, her body too exhausted to resist.

Then his fingers returned.

They slid lower this time, tracing over the curves of her thighs, dragging up along her hips and back to her butt—still hot from the spanking. His thumb slid along the crease between her cheeks, pressing in just enough to make her shiver. The vinyl offered no protection. Only sensation.

He flipped her over lazily, letting her slump onto her back across his palm.

His other hand came down—fingertip tracing over her belly, stroking the rise of her breasts through the suit. They were small, firm, perfect. He pinched one gently through the vinyl, just enough to make her gasp again, then brushed his thumb across her face. Her lips trembled under the touch.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” he murmured.

She turned her head away, shame burning behind her eyes—but he just chuckled.

He fondled her for a while—lazy, possessive, like handling a favorite toy. There was no urgency, just indulgence. The slow satisfaction of owning something utterly helpless.

Finally, he stood, crossed the room, and flipped open the cage door.

He dropped her inside.

She hit the floor hard. The vinyl of her suit stuck slightly to the glass beneath her, her body limp, her skin flushed and stinging.

The latch clicked shut.

It was a small sound—but it echoed like a death sentence.

[dubiouskey]

This was my favorite part of the cosplayer chapter, so I made a clip for it. (I generated her costume as best I could)

https://pro.klingai.com/h5-app/share?wo ... arget=home

[Justhereforamoment1]

As I said earlier, I needed a bit of a breather. So here's a more simple, shorter chapter. No sex but dont worry, the tiny is still tormented. (Roll credits). Next is Girl Next Door.

Enjoy!

---

The light was failing.

Marco gritted his teeth, the salt-laced wind whipping strands of dark hair across his face. Golden hour on a private beach in the Maldives—an exclusive setup that cost his magazine more than most annual salaries—and yet the photos were flat. Dead. Beautiful women in breathtaking scenery, and it all felt sterile.

Zara and Chloe stood poised in the surf, glowing skin and designer bikinis positioned just so. Their bodies were flawless. Sculpted. Oiled to perfection. But their expressions were bored. Rehearsed. Marco had shot the same cover five times this year already, and none of it had teeth.

He needed something alive.

That’s when he saw her.

She was walking along the edge of the shore, no taller than his hand, barefoot in the sand and unaware she’d wandered into a closed set. Just a tiny out for a stroll, taking in the ocean breeze with a relaxed sway in her hips.

Her bikini was sky-blue, the same shade as the water beyond her, and hugged every curve of her petite frame. Her curves, miniature but lush, mirrored the full-sized models to uncanny perfection. Soft thighs. A narrow waist. Full, high breasts that peeked from the narrow strip of fabric, and a round ass that swayed with every tiny shift of weight.

Not a model. Not a crewmember. Just a stray.

A local, maybe. A tiny who’d slipped past the perimeter security. She wasn’t supposed to be here. A pink resort wristband clung to her arm—one of the public beaches further down the coast. Lost, maybe. But Marco didn’t see a person.

He saw art.

“You,” he called out, voice sharp as glass. “Get over here. Now.”

The tiny froze, her head snapping up. Fear flashed in her wide eyes as she saw him striding toward her. She took a single step back—then turned and ran.

Big mistake.

Marco was on her in three strides.

She barely let out a squeak before his hand shot down. His fingers clamped around her waist and chest, lifting her effortlessly from the sand. Her legs kicked in the air, tiny fists pounding uselessly against his thumb as he brought her up to eye level. She trembled in his grasp, eyes wide, breathing fast and shallow.

“Don’t move,” he commanded, his voice low and intense. He turned back to his models, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “Ladies, I’ve found our secret ingredient.”

Zara raised a brow. “Stray?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marco said. “She’s ours now.”

The tiny thrashed wildly in his grip. Her voice was shrill and frantic.

“Let me go! I’m not part of this—I didn’t sign anything, I—stop!”

Marco didn’t even glance at her.

Zara and Chloe exchanged a look, their professional indifference shifting to mild amusement. Marco walked over to Chloe, who was kneeling in the surf, and without pause, planted the trembling girl on her broad, sun-kissed shoulder.

“Stay,” he ordered the tiny, already backing away, camera rising. “Chloe, look over your shoulder. Seductive. Like you’ve got a little secret.”

The tiny tried to bolt, slipping toward the curve of Chloe’s shoulder—but Chloe casually reached up, pinching her by the hips and setting her back like a misaligned brooch.

“Careful,” Chloe said with a smirk. “She slippery.”

Click. Whirr. Click.

The photo was stunning. The tiny’s frantic, terrified expression was a perfect contrast to Chloe’s sultry smirk, the absurd scale making the image feel surreal. She clung to the shoulder with both hands, her feet slipping on wet skin, her breath shallow and fast.

“More tension,” Marco barked. “Give me a real reaction.”

She gave it.

She screamed as Chloe abruptly tilted her shoulder, nearly tossing her off. Her hands slipped. Her feet scrambled. For a breathless moment, she dropped—until Chloe caught her by the arm.

Now she dangled like a doll in the wind, body swinging helplessly as Marco’s camera clicked in rapid bursts.

“Oops,” Chloe murmured, giving her a little bounce. “Feisty thing.”

“Perfect,” Marco muttered. “Zara, lie on your stomach. Let’s up the scale.”

He retrieved the tiny again—ignoring the way her nails scraped desperately at his fingers—and carried her to where Zara lay stretched across the wet sand, propped lazily on one elbow.

Without ceremony, he dropped the trembling girl into the small of Zara’s back. A living ornament on a canvas of glistening flesh.

“Crawl. Toward the shoulder. Look terrified.”

She hesitated.

Marco waited a heartbeat, then pressed the tip of a finger into her back. She stumbled forward, feet sliding on slick skin, arms trembling under her weight. He clicked with each movement.

“I said crawl, not walk,” he growled, giving another firm push, causing her to scramble forward on all fours, leaving tiny streaks in the oil. Zara smirked beneath her, saying nothing.

He had Zara roll slightly, shifting her weight—enough to tilt the landscape. The tiny lost her grip and slid sideways down the model’s hip, catching herself barely at the waistband of Zara’s bikini bottom. She clung to it like a lifeline, panting.

Marco zoomed in.

Her tiny body quivered. Her hair was matted with sweat. Her thighs were slick, her arms streaked with sand. Her foot slipped again—and she screamed as she dropped between the swell of Zara’s cheeks.

Click. Click. Click.

Marco crouched, checking the preview. The shot was surreal—fear framed in flesh. But it needed more.

He reached down and peeled the bikini from the tiny with a few practiced tugs—slipping the top over her arms, then hooking his thumb under the waistband of her bottoms and dragging it down her hips in one smooth motion. She squealed in protest, squirming in his hand, but he ignored her.

Now she was completely bare.

Her breasts were small and soft, barely larger than grapes in his fingers, and her nipples stood stiff from salt air and fear. Between her thighs, slick with oil and sweat, her pussy glistened vulnerably—smooth, exposed, helpless.

“Much better,” he muttered. “Now she’s real.”

Zara chuckled. “You’re stripping her?”

“She’s the contrast,” Marco said, adjusting his focus. “You two are the fantasy. She’s the fear.”

He laid her on her back in Chloe’s palm, her arms pinned by the curve of the model’s long fingers. The tiny girl’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, exposed and vulnerable in the dusky light. Her legs kicked uselessly, thighs trembling, her slick folds faintly parted with each frantic twist of her hips.

“Hold her up to your lips,” Marco instructed. “Almost kissing. Just a breath away.”

Chloe raised the girl, bringing her tiny, naked frame level with her mouth. Her full lips parted, tongue just barely visible, glistening.

Click.

“Closer,” he said. “Let your lips brush her thighs.”

Chloe did. The tiny gasped, legs thrashing as the model’s mouth pressed a mock kiss to her upper thighs, tongue flicking just enough to make her cry out.

“Beautiful,” Marco whispered. “Now turn her around. Present her.”

Chloe flipped the girl onto her stomach and lifted her again, exposing her tiny, round ass to the camera. She arched her brow. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” Marco said, circling. “Keep her legs open.”

He snapped another dozen shots, catching her twisted face, her bare ass framed in Chloe’s fingers like a centerpiece. Her cheeks flexed as she squirmed, the faint curve of her slit just visible between her parted thighs. Her breasts swayed slightly beneath her, nipples brushing Chloe’s palm.

Zara stepped in smoothly, fingers glistening with oil. Without a word, she reached out and slipped one long finger between the tiny’s trembling thighs.

The girl jolted, a panicked whimper escaping her lips as Zara pressed gently upward. Her slit parted around the smooth fingertip, slick and twitching, the soft folds barely able to resist even the slightest pressure. Her legs kicked reflexively, her hands clenching.

“Hold her still,” Marco said, breath catching.

Chloe tightened her grip, pinning the girl’s wrists. The tiny was utterly exposed—ass up, breasts dangling, her pussy spread open by the slow, deliberate nudge of Zara’s finger. The contrast was obscene. And perfect.

Click. Click.

Marco was breathless with the thrill of it.

Click. Click.

He exhaled slowly, breath fogging the back of his camera.

“Now, for the real art,” he murmured, voice low, breathless with inspiration.

Zara lingered a second longer.

She slid her fingertip slowly along the girl’s slit—just once—gliding through the slickness with lazy precision. The tiny jerked in Chloe’s grip, a strangled cry bursting from her as her folds parted around the touch, trembling.

Zara gave a soft, amused hum, then stepped back without a word.

Marco didn’t even glance up. “Let’s move.”

He plucked the slick, panicked girl from Chloe’s hand, holding her by one ankle like a dripping ornament. She writhed, oil-slick and heaving, her breasts bouncing with each twist, nipples stiff and glinting. Her legs flailed beneath her, parting in helpless rhythm to reveal the subtle pink folds between them.

He didn’t give her a moment’s rest.

He had Zara get on all fours, her perfectly round, gleaming ass rising into the golden light. Her skin shimmered with a fine sheen of oil, flawless and taut. Marco poured another slick coat over the tiny, watching as the girl writhed in his fingers, her screams breaking into breathless sobs as the oil coated her face, ran down her back, and slid between her breasts.

“No—please—I’m not a—stop—stop!”

Marco ignored her. This was perfect.

He set her at the top of Zara’s ass. “Try to climb down,” he said, camera already lifted, his lens locked in close.

She obeyed—more slipping than climbing—her oily limbs scrambling helplessly for grip. Her bare breasts pressed flat against the swell of flesh, nipples smearing the oil. Her feet skidded. She slid down the curve, tumbled, landed on her side, then tried again, her tiny hands squeaking against slick skin.

Each time, she failed.

Each time, he clicked. And clicked. And clicked.

One frame caught her collapsed at the base, curled in defeat, the twin hills of Zara’s ass rising behind her like a fleshy horizon. Another caught her mid-slide, face twisted with effort and dread as her thighs spread in a desperate sprawl, exposing her pink folds

And then—he brought Chloe closer.

He had her press against Zara, the two women’s asses merging in a single, glistening press of skin. The tiny girl vanished between them, her arms barely visible as four plush cheeks closed in around her. Her body flexed under the pressure, face contorted with fear and suffocation.

The final shot was a masterpiece of claustrophobic, helpless sensuality.

After plucking her out he stared at her naked form, considering. Then he turned to Chloe.

“Lie back,” he said. “Breasts lifted.”

Chloe obeyed with a knowing smile, reclining into the surf until her chest rose proud and buoyant, nipples taut beneath the stretched fabric of her bikini. Her breasts swelled upward—massive, glistening, waiting.

Chloe didn’t need direction. She reached out, took the tiny girl gently in both hands, and flipped her over.

The girl shrieked, but it was cut short as Chloe pressed her face-first into the deep, oiled valley of her cleavage.

The warmth swallowed her instantly.

Then Chloe brought up a single finger—long, smooth, glistening with oil—and placed it gently between the girl’s thighs.

“Shhh,” she cooed softly, her tone low and indulgent.

Her fingertip pressed in as she pushed down, guiding the tiny deeper into the soft flesh. The girl jolted with a gasp, her slick folds spreading helplessly around the smooth pressure. Her hips twisted, legs fluttering as Chloe’s finger stayed firm, coaxing her into the deep, sweltering press of cleavage.

Her breasts parted to accept the tiny, folding around her with soft, unrelenting pressure. Chloe hugged inward with a single, firm squeeze, burying the girl to the waist.

Only her legs remained, kicking and flailing helplessly between the slick curves of Chloe’s chest. Her bare feet thrashed. Her thighs flexed, and her glistening pussy pulsed open and shut against the firm skin around her. Her muffled scream was barely audible beneath the soft creak of flesh.

Marco circled them like a predator, his lens catching every angle.

“She’s squirmy,” Chloe said with a low laugh.

“Keep her there,” Marco said. “Now bounce. Just a little.”

Chloe gave her chest a teasing shake. Her breasts rippled, jostling the trapped girl inside. The movement sparked fresh panic—legs kicked harder, feet fluttered, hips twisted in short, frantic bursts.

Click. Whirr. Click-click.

Marco captured everything—the twitch of her calves, the flex of her toes, the helpless rhythm of her squirming body as it stirred the soft mounds around her.

Chloe gave another squeeze, just enough to smother.

Marco zoomed in, catching the exact moment her legs kicked out once more—then began to slow.

“She looks amazing in there,” Chloe murmured.

She lifted the girl halfway out again—then stuffed her back in harder, burying her up to the ankles this time. The slick skin of her breasts closed around the tiny form, holding her snug.

Marco caught it all.

Only once the girl went limp, her limbs slack in the tight valley of cleavage, did Chloe take her out. She was pulled free with a slick sound, her tiny nude body glossy with oil and sweat.

Marco smiled, taking one last photo, “Perfect.”

Chloe placed her in Marco’s waiting palm. The girl coughed weakly, her chest heaving, eyes glazed.

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple. The air clung thick with salt and sex. The models were glowing now—flesh slick, eyes half-lidded with a lazy, curling arousal. Whatever boredom they’d felt earlier had long since burned off, replaced by something languid and cruel.

The tiny woman was limp in Marco’s hand. She didn’t fight anymore. Just whimpered—thin, hoarse little sounds barely audible over the crash of distant waves.

It was time.

“The finale,” Marco murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He looked to Chloe. “Hold her up. By the feet.”

Chloe obeyed without hesitation, her manicured fingers pinching the tiny’s ankles delicately. She raised her high, letting the girl dangle upside down—small body trembling, arms flailing weakly. Her breasts hung, shifting with every twist, and her pussy glistened faintly in the dying light.

“Zara,” Marco said, his voice low and smooth. “Open up.”

Zara tilted her head back, parting her lips slowly. Her mouth stretched open into a glistening cavern, tongue resting wet and ready against her lower lip, gleaming in the fading light.

Marco moved in, his camera a third eye. He focused on the terror etched onto the tiny’s face as she dangled over the abyss of Zara’s mouth.

“Perfect,” he breathed. “Lower her in.”

The tiny screamed again—louder now, wild with panic.

“No—NO—please!”

Her legs kicked harder, body twisting in Chloe’s grip as she was lowered toward the waiting mouth. Her breasts jiggled. Her thighs trembled, twitching with fear. Her arms reached for anything, clawing the air in desperation.

Marco stepped in, camera up, his lens zeroed in tight.

He captured the moment Chloe dipped the girl’s head between Zara’s lips.

“No! Please! Don’t!” the tiny screamed, muffled by saliva.

Her shoulders vanished next, pulled forward by the warmth and suction of Zara’s tongue. She writhed, her torso wriggling as it slid inside, her bare breasts flattening against soft wetness, her glossy, oil-slicked skin shining in the lens.

Marco snapped shot after shot—her waist, her hips, her thighs. He got one last shot of her parted lips flashing pink just before they too vanished into the mouth.

“Close your lips, Zara,” he instructed. "Gently."

Zara’s lips enveloped the rest of the tiny’s body, sealing her lips around the tiny girl’s thighs with an audible, wet sound. Only her calves and twitching feet remained, sticking out between glistening lips like the end of a cigarette.

Then, slowly, luxuriously, Zara sucked them in. Her tongue curled around, dragging the tiny’s soles across the slick surface before they vanished past her lips. Marco’s shutter clicked furiously, catching the slight bulge of the tiny’s form inside Zara’s cheek before it disappeared.

“Now,” Marco commanded, his heart pounding with artistic triumph. “Swallow.”

The tiny sobbed, voice barely a murmur inside Zara's mouth, “No, please! I’m sorry! Don’t eat me! Please!”

He watched through the lens as Zara’s throat contracted, a single, elegant ripple. He caught it—the motion, the hint of pressure beneath her skin, the delicate swell that traced a path down her neck.

And then nothing.

The finality of it was intoxicating. It was the ultimate statement on consumption, desire, and the ephemeral nature of beauty.

She was gone.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of the waves.

Marco exhaled slowly, his heartbeat steady and low as he lowered the camera for just a moment. A calm washed over him, thick and final.

"Open your mouth again, Zara,” Marco ordered, his voice hushed. “Wide.”

She obeyed, tilting her head back once more. He moved his lens right up to her face, the autofocus sharp and precise.

Her lips parted.

An empty, glistening cavern. She was gone. A perfect void of beautiful, dark, finality remained.

He lifted the camera again and took the final shot. The last echo of a vanished life.

A perfect ending.

He lingered on it—savoring it—before finally lowering the camera, a deep, profound satisfaction settling in his bones. He knew, without a doubt, that he had just created his masterpiece.

[DocRick]

I like it, but very unrealistic ending........everyone knows these models are bulimic. She should have vomited the tiny, washed her off and repeated the shoot over and over and over............

[Justhereforamoment1]

Well I can't argue with that. Made me laugh so here's a short extended ending that only people actually scrolling through the thread instead of using the TOC will find:

---

After the shoot wrapped, it was time to pack up. Zara kept her distance from Marco—the talentless hack had already wasted enough of her time. Chloe was fine, professional at least, but Marco? That man genuinely thought his own farts were avant-garde.

Her stomach gave an angry gurgle.

She groaned, clutching it.

Why the fuck had she let him talk her into eating that tiny? Sure, the lead-up had been hot, but she was on a diet for fuck’s sake. Protein or not, that wasn’t the kind of post-scene cleanup she signed up for.

When everything was packed, she walked over to Chloe, who was finishing up with wardrobe. Marco, thankfully, was still lost in whatever fantasy he thought he was capturing.

“Hey, I need to hit the restroom,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “We still good for drinks later?”

Chloe gave her a look—a knowing one, but not judgmental. “Yeah. I’ll see you later, Zara.”

They parted ways without another word.

Zara headed down the sand toward one of the private restrooms the resort kept stocked for talent. She found the cleanest stall, locked the door behind her, and dropped to her knees.

She hated this part.

Jamming two fingers down her throat, she forced herself to gag, wincing as bile rose in her chest. Stupid fucking Marco and his even stupider “masterpiece.”

Finally, after a few heaves, she felt something shift—and then the tiny girl slipped past her lips, hitting the toilet bowl with a light splash.

The tiny was still alive. Barely. She floated in the shallow water, half-conscious, her skin blotched and raw from stomach acid. Her resort band was somehow still clinging to one wrist.

Zara stared down at her for a moment, thumb resting on the flush handle. The tiny’s legs twitched weakly.

She was about to send her down—until she paused.

She could always use another toy. And to be fair, everything before the swallow had been hot. Tinies were getting harder to source lately, too. Fewer imports, more regulations. That part of the market was drying up.

With a sigh, she steeled herself, reached into the bowl, and plucked the little woman out.

The tiny stirred, eyelids fluttering. As soon as she saw Zara, she started to struggle—weak, flailing limbs slapping uselessly against her fingers.

Zara didn’t say a word.

She walked to the sink, turned the faucet on to full heat, and shoved the tiny under the stream.

The scream that followed was sharp, shrill. The girl twisted, her body jerking as the scalding water hit her already tender skin. Zara kept her pinned, rinsing every inch of her off, scrubbing her clean with casual cruelty. The resort band came off and got tossed in the trash.

By the time it was over, the tiny’s skin was flushed bright red, her breathing ragged, legs trembling as they hung limply from Zara’s grip.

Zara glanced around, listening. No footsteps. No voices.

Still holding the tiny by one ankle, she slipped her bikini bottoms aside with her free hand and shoved the girl in. Her slick folds welcomed the little body with ease.

The reaction was instant—tight, warm, perfect. The girl writhed on instinct, and Zara let her eyes flutter shut for a moment, biting back a low sigh. God, that felt good.

She pulled her bottoms back into place, smoothed herself out, and unlocked the door.

As she stepped out into the sun, her body thrumming with satisfaction, she glanced toward the nearby bar and smirked.

Should she go with a mango margarita? Or maybe just vodka soda with lime when she met Chloe?.

[Justhereforamoment1]

Also 'Girl Next Door' is coming along nicely. If everyone could go find their next favorites from the list I last sent earlier, please let me know what you'd like to see after I finish. Or if there's something not listed but you think would be great please let me know!

I'm also open to adding specific things into a story if it'd fit. If you really want one of the stories for the potential of a certain scene, just let me know and I may be able to adapt it to whatever wins.

[DocRick]

Better....much better. I just can never see the purpose of wasting a perfectly good tiny when they can be used over and over again......

[AB23]

The Corporate Ladder & Flight Risk for me. Only other thing I could think to ask for was the step siblings story.

[Justhereforamoment1]

The Corporate Ladder & Flight Risk for me. Only other thing I could think to ask for was the step siblings story.

Got it I'll send the updated list below so you might want to repeat your votes.

Heres the list again with some new additions I came up with:

Title: The Corporate Ladder
Idea: An ambitious tiny intern at a massive corporation is abused by her giant coworkers, making her perform sexual favors in exchange for "promotions," which are just more intimate and degrading tasks.

Title: Human Resources
Idea: A by-the-book tiny HR manager tries to discipline a giant employee for misconduct. He laughs off her authority, captures her, and "reassigns" her as his personal, on-site "stress-relief equipment," turning the tables on who holds the power.

Title: Bedside Manner
Idea: A compassionate tiny nurse is praised for her gentle care of a giant patient recovering from a major injury. When he's discharged, he kidnaps her, deciding her "healing touch" is something he requires permanently for more personal therapy.

Title: Civil Liberties
Idea: A sharp tiny public defender fiercely argues a case for her client, angering the giant prosecutor. After he wins the case, he corners and captures her, telling her it's time to learn about his interpretation of "justice."

Title: Foreign Relations
Idea: A tiny diplomat travels to a foreign country to negotiate a treaty with a powerful giant leader. He finds her "passionate arguments" charming and decides the best way to foster "international unity" is to make her a permanent, personal gift to himself.

Title: Room Service
Idea: A tiny maid is cleaning a penthouse suite when the wealthy giant guest returns. Amused by her, he traps her in the room and informs her that from now on, she'll be part of the "in-room service" he expects for the rest of his stay.

Title: The Afterparty
Idea: A giant loses his tiny girlfriend at a party in a state without tiny rights. She fell off his shoulder and people thought she was a party favor. Shes passed around the group.

Title: Group Project
Idea: An intelligent tiny student is forced to partner with a lazy giant. He contributes nothing to the assignment and instead make her the project, documenting her slow degradation and forced submission to present to the class.

Title: Road Trip
Idea: A giant American backpacker traveling through the French countryside comes across a beautiful French tiny. He snatches her, stuffs her in his jeans, and decides she'll be his "travel companion" and secret toy for his journey across Europe.

Title: Double Date
Idea: A tiny girl is dragged along by her roommate to go on multiple double dates with strangers. The roommate gets enchanting nights out, the tiny gets to come home later covered in cum.

Title: Cruise Control
Idea: A tiny lounge singer on a massive cruise ship is "requested" for a private performance by a VIP giant couple. In their suite, they inform her the "performance" involves her becoming a sexual instrument for them to share for the remainder of the voyage.

Title: Flight Risk
Idea: To escape oppressive new laws, a tiny woman stows away in the first-class cabin of an international flight. She's discovered by a male flight attendant who, instead of turning her in, hides her next time his cock for the 14-hour flight, using her as his personal entertainment in the galley.

Title: Open House
Idea: A tiny real estate agent is showing a secluded mansion when the only viewer, a towering giant, locks the doors. He informs her that he's buying the house, and she's now the first "furnishing" he's claiming.

Title: Book Club
Idea: A celebrated tiny author is the guest of honor at a giant women's book club. The members, bored and drunk on wine, decide she's more interesting than her novel and pass her around, using her body to "illustrate" their favorite scenes.

Title: Ghost Writer
Idea: A talented but poor tiny writer is hired to ghostwrite a novel for a famous giant author. He keeps her in a cage on his desk, forcing her to write while he uses her body for "inspiration" whenever he has writer's block.

Title: Slapstick Comedy
Idea: A show host in a state without tiny rights uses tiny women for various dangerous "jokes". Many of them don't survive, but there's always more to choose from.

Title: Studio Audience
Idea: During the taping of a late-night show, the giant celebrity guest spots a tiny woman in the audience. He plucks her from her seat and, to the riotous approval of the crowd, makes her the subject of a humiliating on-air "interview" that continues privately backstage.

Title: Method Acting
Idea: An intense giant actor is cast opposite a tiny actress. To "get into character" for his role as a villain, he begins to torment and use her off-set.

Title: Traffic Stop
Idea: A tiny woman is pulled over by a giant highway patrol officer. Instead of a ticket, he gives her a choice: go to jail, or serve her "community service" right there in his patrol car for the rest of his shift.

Title: Press Pass
Idea: A determined tiny journalist uses her press pass to get backstage at a rock concert. She's caught by the giant lead singer, who rips up her pass and tells her if she wants a "story," she'll get one by experiencing life as the band's new toy.

Title: Family Therapy
Idea: A tiny therapist tries to mediate a session between a giant couple with a toxic relationship. They find common ground for the first time in years by turning on her, deciding that sharing and breaking her together is the ultimate "bonding experience."

Title: Parasocial Relationships
Idea: A tiny streamer is known for her playful personality and suggestive content, teasing a growing fanbase of giant viewers. During a late-night stream, one obsessed viewer finds her location, breaks in, and lifts her right off her desk mid-broadcast. The camera keeps rolling as she’s turned into a real-time toy, her helpless squeals drowned out by cheers in the chat.

Title: A Hell of a Drug
Idea: A tiny girl wakes up buried in a giant's stash—white powder, pressed pills, scattered tabs all looming like alien terrain. She's forced to crawl through the haze, her skin soaking in whatever she touches. The chemicals flood her tiny system, warping her senses and twisting her movements.

Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue
Idea: A tiny bridesmaid helps her best friend prepare for the wedding, unaware she’s part of the gift. On the wedding night, the bride presents her to the groom—something small and special they can both enjoy.

Title: What are you doing Step Bro?
Idea: A tiny stepsister is used by her giant stepbrother. Nothing planned past that atm. This could be more psychological where they loved each other until he used her, or one like Package Deal where he hates hers guts but loves her body.

[AB23]

Corporate Ladder, Flight Risk & def "What are you doing step bro?" I def like the theme of your previous stories where the tinies had rights, only to find them suddenly legally revoked. Maybe they go on a family trip & when they're there the laws get revoked & she gets claimed as his pet since their parents are fine with it?

[Vic391137]

Corporate Ladder, Group Project, and Double Date all sound intriguing to me

[dubiouskey]

Parasocial relationships and What are you doing step bro get my votes.