New AI Stories - GPT & Grok

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter IV

Ashley’s heart pounded as she swayed on the velvet pedestal, her six-inch body moving with forced sensuality under the genie’s predatory gaze. Her midnight-blue pencil skirt clung to her hips, the slit flashing glimpses of her thigh with each slow roll. Her stilettos clicked softly, her silk blouse shifting to highlight her curves. Suddenly, a violet glow enveloped the pedestal, and the genie’s booming laugh filled the air. “Let’s take your performance on a journey, little lawyer,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief. Before she could protest, the world blurred, and the pedestal lurched, teleporting through a magical spell.

His voice echoed, distant yet inescapable: “Keep dancing, slow and sultry, or you’ll be a speck by my next breath.” The threat seared into her mind, fueling her movements despite the rising panic. Ashley’s hazel eyes widened, her chestnut hair swaying as she fought to maintain her rhythm, her body trembling with a cocktail of fear, fury, and defiance. The pedestal would now appear in diferent crowded places, each for one minute, exposing her tiny, provocative dance to unsuspecting onlookers.

The pedestal materialized on a sleek conference table in a bustling corporate office. Glass walls framed a room filled with suited executives, their eyes snapping to the tiny figure dancing in their midst. Ashley’s heart raced, her cheeks burning with humiliation as she swayed, her blazer hugging her waist, her stilettos glinting under fluorescent lights. The executives gaped, some leaning closer, their murmurs a low hum of shock and curiosity. “Is that… a doll?” one whispered, his tie loosening as he stared at her curves, the slit in her skirt drawing his eye.

Ashley felt exposed, her skin prickling as dozens of eyes dissected her. The weight of their attention was suffocating, each gaze stripping away her dignity. Yet she forced her hips to roll, her arms gliding sensually, knowing the genie’s threat loomed. Her anger surged—she was a lawyer, not a spectacle—but a spark of defiance pushed her to make each move flawless, as if daring them to look away. The minute felt eternal, their stares a violation, but she refused to falter, her pride battling her shame.

AND SWASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The pedestal reappeared on a teacher’s desk in a crowded high school classroom. Teenagers gasped, their phones snapping up as Ashley danced, her tiny form illuminated by sunlight streaming through windows. Her blouse shimmered, her skirt accentuating her hips as she moved, her stilettos clicking faintly. The students whispered excitedly, some giggling, others staring with wide-eyed fascination. “She’s so… real,” a boy muttered, his gaze lingering on her legs, the glossy heels mesmerizing him.

Ashley’s stomach churned with mortification, her heart hammering as she felt like a circus act. The youthful, unfiltered stares made her feel raw, vulnerable, their curiosity tinged with something she couldn’t name. She hated the genie’s game, hated how her body betrayed her with its grace, drawing their eyes. Yet she leaned into the dance, her movements slow and deliberate, channeling her fury into precision. She’d outlast this, she told herself, her defiance a shield against the humiliation that threatened to swallow her.

AGAIN SWASHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The pedestal landed in the center of a long, candlelit dinner table, surrounded by a boisterous family reunion. Plates clattered as guests froze, their eyes locking onto Ashley’s tiny, swaying figure. Her necklace gleamed, her blouse clinging to her chest as she moved, the skirt’s slit flashing with each turn. “What the hell is that?” a man slurred, wine glass in hand, his gaze tracing her curves with drunken intensity. Women whispered, some scandalized, others intrigued, their eyes on her stilettos and flowing hair.

Ashley’s breath hitched, her skin crawling under the intimate scrutiny of strangers. The warm, flickering light made her feel like a centerpiece, a perverse decoration for their meal. Humiliation burned, but the genie’s warning echoed, forcing her to keep dancing, her hips swaying, her arms arching gracefully. She felt like a trapped animal, yet a strange thrill flickered—she controlled their attention, her beauty undeniable even at six inches. Her anger flared brighter, fueling her resolve to survive this ordeal with her spirit intact.

AND AGAIN SWASHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The pedestal appeared on a sticky bar counter in a crowded pub, surrounded by raucous patrons clutching pints. The air was thick with smoke and laughter, but silence rippled as they noticed Ashley. Her tiny form danced under neon lights, her blazer accentuating her waist, her skirt hugging her thighs. A man leaned close, his breath reeking of beer, his eyes fixating on the curve of her hips, the delicate click of her heels. “Bloody hell, she’s gorgeous,” he muttered, his friends crowding in, their stares brazen and hungry.

Ashley’s heart pounded, her body trembling with rage and shame. The pub’s chaotic energy amplified her exposure, their leering gazes making her feel like prey. She wanted to scream, to fight, but the genie’s voice rang in her ears, and she forced herself to move, her dance slow and provocative, each step a battle against despair. Yet within her fury, a defiant spark burned—she’d make them look, make them see her strength, even as her cheeks flushed and her soul recoiled.

As the pedestal vanished from the pub, returning to the strange room, Ashley’s dance slowed, her body shaking with exhaustion and emotion. The genie’s massive form loomed, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Well done, little lawyer,” he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. Ashley glared up at him, her tiny chest heaving, her spirit bruised but unbroken. She’d endured his twisted game, and though her dignity was battered, her resolve hardened. She’d find a way to turn the tables—she always did.

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter V

Ashley stood on the velvet pedestal, her six-inch frame trembling from the ordeal of dancing across the world’s crowded stages. Her chestnut hair was slightly disheveled, her hazel eyes blazing with defiance despite the exhaustion weighing on her. The genie’s massive form loomed above, his bronze skin shimmering, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and unyielding desire. His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile as he leaned closer, his voice a low rumble. “Such a spirited performance,” he purred, “but I think we can make it… more intimate.”

Before Ashley could react, his enormous hand descended, moving with agonizing slowness, each finger curling with calculated precision. She froze, her heart pounding, as his thumb and forefinger, each larger than her torso, closed around her tiny body. His touch was warm, the roughness of his skin brushing against her tailored blazer, sending a shiver through her. “No! Stop!” she shouted, her voice sharp but thin, like a needle in the vastness of the room. She squirmed, her stilettos kicking against his palm, her skirt stretching as she twisted, but his grip was unyielding, gentle yet inescapable.

“Don’t struggle, little lawyer,” he murmured, his breath hot and spiced, washing over her like a desert wind. “I won’t harm you. I only wish to… admire you further.” Ashley’s protests grew louder, her fists pounding against his fingers, but the genie’s movements were deliberate, savoring her resistance as he began to strip away her clothing, piece by piece, leaving her in only her lingerie, stockings, and stilettos.

The genie’s thumb pressed lightly against her chest, pinning her gently as his forefinger hooked the edge of her midnight-blue blazer. His touch was slow, almost reverent, as he peeled the fabric back, the tailored jacket sliding off her shoulders. The blazer caught briefly on her arms, and he chuckled, his finger nudging it down with a teasing flick. “Such fine craftsmanship,” he said, his eyes locked on the cream silk blouse beneath, now clinging tightly to her curves. The blazer fell to the pedestal, a crumpled heap beside her tiny feet.

Ashley’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushing with a mix of fury and humiliation. The loss of her blazer felt like a violation, stripping away a layer of her professional armor. Her skin prickled as the air hit her exposed shoulders, her blouse offering little protection under his gaze. She squirmed harder, her arms crossing instinctively to shield herself, but his grip held her steady, amplifying her sense of powerlessness. Yet, beneath the shame, a spark of defiance burned—she glared up at him, her hazel eyes fierce, refusing to let him see her break.

His fingers shifted, his thumb brushing along her side as he grasped the hem of her silk blouse. He tugged it upward with maddening slowness, the fabric sliding over her skin, revealing the delicate black lace bra beneath. The blouse caught on her hair, and he paused, his finger gently untangling the chestnut strands with a perverse tenderness. “So delicate,” he murmured, his eyes drinking in the sight of her exposed midriff and the curve of her breasts. The blouse was pulled over her head, leaving her arms briefly trapped before it joined the blazer on the pedestal.

Ashley’s heart raced, her body trembling with rage and vulnerability. The cool air against her bare skin made her feel naked, even with her lingerie still in place. The lace bra, perfectly scaled to her six-inch frame, hugged her chest, but his stare made it feel like nothing at all. She shouted, “You’re disgusting! Stop this!” but her voice cracked, her squirming growing frantic. The intimacy of his touch, so deliberate and unhurried, sent a wave of nausea through her, yet her defiance held firm—she wouldn’t let him reduce her to a whimpering doll.

The genie’s forefinger traced the waistband of her pencil skirt, his touch lingering on the slit that had teased him during her dance. He pinched the fabric between his fingers, pulling it downward with excruciating care, the skirt sliding past her hips and thighs to reveal matching black lace panties and sheer thigh-high stockings. The skirt pooled around her stilettos, and he flicked it aside with a satisfied hum. “Perfection,” he said, his gaze fixating on the stockings’ delicate sheen and the curve of her legs.

Ashley’s face burned, her body shaking with a mix of humiliation and fury. The loss of her skirt left her feeling stripped bare, her legs exposed under his predatory eyes. She kicked against his fingers, her stilettos clicking uselessly, her stockings catching the light as she moved. “You can’t do this!” she yelled, her voice trembling but fierce. The sensation of his fingers, so massive yet precise, made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to keep fighting, her pride refusing to let her crumble. She felt like a prized artifact, handled with lustful care, and it fueled her resolve to escape this nightmare.

Left in her black lace bra, panties, sheer stockings, and glossy stilettos, Ashley stood on the pedestal, her tiny form radiating defiance despite her exposure. The lingerie clung to her curves, the stockings accentuating her legs, and the stilettos forced her to balance with grace, even now. The genie’s eyes roamed over her, his breath quickening, his fingers hovering as if tempted to touch again. “Exquisite,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

Ashley’s heart pounded, her body trembling with a storm of emotions—humiliation at being reduced to a spectacle, fury at his audacity, and a burning need to reclaim her power. Each piece of clothing he’d removed felt like a theft of her identity, yet her lingerie, stockings, and heels remained a defiant reminder of her beauty and strength. She glared up at him, her hazel eyes blazing, her voice steady despite her size. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed, her mind racing for a way to turn his game against him. She was Ashley, and no genie, no matter how giant, would break her.

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter VI

Ashley stood trembling on the velvet pedestal, her six-inch frame clad only in black lace lingerie, sheer thigh-high stockings, and glossy patent leather stilettos. Her chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders, her hazel eyes burning with defiance despite the humiliation of her stripped-down state. The genie’s massive form loomed above, his bronze skin glinting in the dim light of the artifact-filled room, his eyes alight with predatory delight. He leaned closer, his breath a warm gust that ruffled her hair. “Enough of these fleeting stages, little lawyer,” he purred, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her tiny body. “Let’s take you somewhere… familiar.”

Before Ashley could protest, a violet glow engulfed the pedestal, and the world blurred once more. When the light faded, they were in an enormous, empty courtroom, its high ceilings and polished wood bathed in the eerie silence of night. The vast space was hauntingly familiar to Ashley—a place where she’d once commanded respect, her sharp mind and poised presence dominating legal battles, with only the judge being able to outshine her. Now, it felt like a cavern, its grandeur mocking her diminished size. The genie stood towering beside the judge’s bench, his silken robes billowing, his grin wide and perverse.

With a slow, deliberate snap of his fingers, a pulse of magic surged through the air. Ashley gasped as invisible bonds snaked around her wrists and ankles, yanking her off the pedestal. She shrieked, her voice high and thin, as the magic lifted her and stretched her across the judge’s desk, her tiny body laid flat on her back, arms and legs pulled taut. The polished wood was cold against her bare skin, her lace bra and panties offering little protection, her stockings and stilettos accentuating her exposed vulnerability. The desk, reserved for judges who wielded ultimate authority, now held her like a sacrificial offering, her position a cruel mockery of her profession.

Panic surged through Ashley, her heart hammering as she tugged against the invisible restraints. “Let me go!” she screamed, her voice echoing faintly in the vast courtroom. She twisted her wrists, her manicured nails scraping uselessly at the air, her stilettos kicking against the bonds, the glossy heels glinting under the dim overhead lights. Her chest heaved, the lace bra straining slightly, her stockings stretching as she struggled. The more she fought, the tighter the bonds felt, her body stretched and helpless, facing the distant, ornate ceiling. “You can’t do this!” she shouted, her voice cracking with desperation, but the emptiness of the courtroom swallowed her words.

The genie moved with deliberate slowness, his massive form casting a shadow over the desk. His footsteps echoed like thunder, each step unhurried, savoring her panic. His face loomed closer, his grin stretching wider, a perverse gleam in his eyes as he studied her bound form. “Such fire,” he murmured, his voice dripping with lustful amusement. “A lawyer, bound on a judge’s desk. How fitting.” His gaze roamed over her, lingering on the black lace bra that hugged her perfect round chest, the panties that barely covered her, the sheer stockings that shimmered against her legs, and the stilettos that forced her feet into an elegant arch.

Ashley’s breath came in short, frantic gasps, her body trembling with a mix of fear, fury, and humiliation. The cold desk pressed against her back, amplifying her sense of exposure. Her struggles grew frantic, her arms pulling against the invisible ropes, her legs straining, but the bonds held firm, leaving her spread-eagled and powerless. The genie’s size made her feel like a doll, a plaything in a world that was once hers to command. Her mind raced, searching for a way out, but the sight of his massive hand descending toward her silenced her thoughts.

His fingers, each thicker than her torso, moved with agonizing slowness, hovering just above her lace bra. The tip of his forefinger brushed the air, so close she could feel the warmth radiating from it, but not quite touching the delicate fabric. The suspense was unbearable, her skin prickling as if his touch had already landed. His eyes locked onto hers, his grin widening, relishing her fear and defiance. “What a delicate prize,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. The finger lingered, teasingly close, the threat of contact hanging like a storm cloud.

Ashley’s heart pounded, her cheeks flushing with a mix of dread and rage. The anticipation of his touch was torture, her body tensing as she braced for what might come next. Humiliation burned in her chest—this was her courtroom, her domain, now twisted into a stage for his perverse game. Yet, beneath the panic, her defiance flared. She glared up at him, her hazel eyes fierce despite her predicament, she’d endure, her mind already scheming for a way to turn this nightmare to her advantage.

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter VII

Ashley lay stretched across the judge’s desk, her six-inch frame bound by invisible restraints, her black lace lingerie, sheer stockings, and glossy stilettos leaving her exposed and vulnerable. “Surprise, little lawyer,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the vast courtroom. “I’ve brought someone you’ll be delighted to meet.”

Before Ashley could process his words, a swirl of violet smoke spiraled from his outstretched hand, coalescing into a shimmering magic cloud that pulsed with arcane energy. The air grew thick, a faint hum vibrating through her tiny body as the cloud expanded, its edges crackling with power. Ashley’s heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as the genie’s massive hands moved with sudden purpose

Before Ashley could process his words, a swirl of violet smoke spiraled from his outstretched hand, coalescing into a shimmering magic cloud that pulsed with arcane energy. The air grew thick, a faint hum vibrating through her tiny body as the cloud expanded, its edges crackling with power. Ashley’s heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as the genie’s massive hands moved with sudden purpose. The cloud parted, and his fingers closed firmly around another figure, lifting it into view. The new captive squirmed violently, her limbs flailing, her voice erupting in a torrent of angry shouts—“Let me go! What is this madness?”—yet the sound was eerily muted, as if muffled by an invisible barrier despite the clarity of her words.

Ashley’s eyes widened, her struggles against the restraints pausing as she stared at the other woman. There was something hauntingly familiar in the curve of her jaw, the wild toss of her hair, the fire in her younger eyes. As the genie held the figure closer, Ashley’s breath hitched—she realized with a jolt that it was herself, but not the poised lawyer she’d become. This was her at eighteen, an adult but long before the courtroom had shaped her, a version of herself brimming with youthful energy and untested defiance.

The younger Ashley was dressed for sleep, clad in a short, transparent nightgown that barely reached her thighs. The sheer fabric, a soft lavender hue, clung to her slender frame, revealing the outline of a thin white panty beneath. The nightgown’s delicate lace trim fluttered as she squirmed, her bare feet kicking uselessly against the genie’s unyielding grip. Her skin glowed with the freshness of youth, her chestnut hair loose and tousled, cascading over her shoulders in a way that mirrored the older Ashley’s current state but with a raw, unpolished beauty.

Ashley’s mind reeled, a flood of emotions crashing over her—shock at seeing her younger self, humiliation at her own exposure mirrored in this vulnerable form, and a deep, protective anger. “What have you done?” she shouted, her voice trembling with rage as she pulled against the bonds. The younger Ashley’s protests grew louder, her muted cries—“This is insane! Release me!”—filling the air, her bare toes curling in frustration. The older Ashley felt a pang of recognition, remembering those nights of restless dreams, the nightgown a comfort from her pre-lawyer days, now twisted into this perverse display.

The genie’s laughter rumbled, his eyes glinting as he held the younger Ashley aloft, her nightgown shifting to reveal more of her legs, the thin panty a stark contrast to the older Ashley’s lingerie. “A reunion, of sorts,” he said, his tone thick with delight. “Two versions of you, both mine to command. And remember your last wish - I will not hurt you, but this one in my hands is not you now, is a bygone image of you that no longer exists, so I guess unfortunately the mighty wish only applies to you and not to her, ” The older Ashley’s chest heaved, her defiance flaring brighter despite her predicament, her mind racing to protect her younger self and unravel this magical nightmare.

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter VIII

The today´s Ashley, bound and stretched across the judge’s desk in her six-inch form, felt a cold dread settle in her chest as the genie held her eighteen-year-old self aloft. Her younger counterpart, squirmed in his massive grip, her muted cries of protest echoing faintly in the vast courtroom. The realization hit Ashley like a blow—the genie’s promise not to physically harm her applied only to the lawyer version, not this magical echo of her past. This younger Ashley, as vivid and real as she felt, was unprotected, a vulnerability the genie could exploit without breaking his sacred wishes rule.

Her heart pounded as the genie’s massive hand tightened carelessly around the younger Ashley. With a sudden, powerful tug, he ripped the nightgown away. The fabric resisted at first, the delicate lace catching on her skin before tearing with a sharp sound, threads snapping under his strength. The nightgown fluttered to the floor in shredded pieces, leaving the younger Ashley exposed, her thin white panties the only barrier against complete nudity. Ashley’s stomach churned with horror, her hazel eyes wide as she watched, her own restraints preventing any action.

The younger Ashley’s body was a striking contrast to her current form—fresher, softer, unmarred by the years of stress and courtroom battles. Her skin glowed with youthful vitality, a smooth canvas of pale peach, unlined and tender. Her breasts were smaller but firm, her waist narrow, her hips gently curved, all accentuated by the innocence of her youth. Her chestnut hair fell in wild waves, framing a face still round with adolescence, her lips parted in an endless gasp of shock and anger. The thin panties clung to her, their simplicity highlighting her vulnerability against the genie’s towering presence.

Panic surged through the trapped lawyer Ashley, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she pulled futilely against the invisible bonds. “Stop! Don’t you dare!” she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. But the genie, his perverse smile widening, paid her no heed. With one giant hand clamping the younger Ashley firmly against his palm, he tilted his head back and revealed a grotesque, enormous tongue—wet, glistening, and unnaturally large even for his size. The sight sent a wave of nausea through Ashley, her body trembling with a mix of rage and terror.

The genie’s movements were careless, almost dismissive, as he brought the tongue toward the younger Ashley. He licked her with no regard for her protests, the massive appendage sliding over her body with a powerful, sloppy motion. First, it dragged across her chest, the rough texture scraping against her tender skin, leaving a slick trail that glistened under the courtroom lights. The younger Ashley writhed, her muted cries growing frantic, her body twisting as the tongue’s weight pressed her against his hand. The genie’s tongue then slid downward, rubbing forcefully over her stomach, the wet heat overwhelming her senses, her skin reddening from the friction.

With a careless flick, he dragged it up again, the tongue sliding over her shoulders and neck, the tip curling slightly to brush her face. The younger Ashley’s head jerked back, her hair sticking to the moisture, her eyes squeezed shut in disgust. The genie’s tongue moved with a rhythmic, powerful glide, each pass careless and unrefined, smearing saliva across her thighs and legs, the panties offering no protection as the wet mass enveloped her lower body. The lawyer Ashley felt each motion like a violation of her own soul, her panic peaking as she watched her younger self endure this grotesque assault, her mind racing for a way to save not herself now, but her past self from this impossible nightmare.

[dubiouskey]

Love it! Really good stuff.

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter IX

The genie’s booming voice cut through the courtroom’s silence, his tone laced with cruel amusement. “Fear not, little lawyer,” he said, his eyes glinting as he gazed at the bound Ashley. “I’ve crafted a special spell for your younger self. She’ll feel no fear or anger now—only pleasure. I’ve awakened her libido, intensified to match the fervor you knew at eighteen when you pleasured yourself in the quiet of your youth.”

Ashley’s face flushed with fury, her voice erupting in a desperate scream. “No! You monster, stop this!” she shouted, her tiny fists pounding against the restraints, her stilettos scraping the desk in vain. The violation of her younger self’s autonomy ignited a firestorm of protest within her, but the genie’s magic held her fast, her words lost in the vastness of the courtroom. Her mind reeled with horror and outrage, knowing she could do nothing as her past was twisted into this perverse display.

The younger Ashley, still held in the genie’s grip, began to change under the spell’s influence. Her body, previously contorted with resistance, now arched and writhed in a visible shift to pleasure. Her muted cries of anger morphed into soft, involuntary moans, her expression transforming from defiance to a wishful, desire-filled gaze. Her chestnut hair clung to her sweat-dampened skin, her lips parting as the genie’s grotesque tongue continued its careless assault. The massive appendage slid over her chest and stomach, and she trembled, her body responding with a shuddering delight that horrified the older Ashley.

With a slow, deliberate motion, the genie turned the younger Ashley around, exposing her back and ass cheeks to his tongue. The wet, powerful muscle dragged across her back, leaving a glistening trail as it moved downward, rubbing forcefully over her rounded cheeks. The younger Ashley’s reaction was immediate and shocking—she curled her arms and legs around the fluid, grotesque tongue, her fingers and toes digging into its slick surface as if embracing it. Her movements grew eager, her body pressing into the tongue, urging it to move wilder and faster. Her hips rocked against it, her thin white panties shifting with each thrust, her youthful libido fully unleashed under the spell’s control.

The lawyer Ashley’s panic peaked, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she watched her younger self succumb. “This is sick! Undo it now!” she yelled, her voice breaking with desperation, but the genie only chuckled, his perverse smile widening. The sight of her eighteen-year-old self, once innocent and untainted, now lost in a forced ecstasy, tore at Ashley’s soul. Her anger burned hotter, fueling a fierce determination to break free and reclaim her past, even as the genie’s magic held her captive, forcing her to witness this twisted transformation.

[Hand-Holder]

Love it! Really good stuff.

Glad to contribute back to a great contributor, cheers

[dubiouskey]

Love it! Really good stuff.

Glad to contribute back to a great contributor, cheers

Messing around with AI is fun, isn't it? It's an addicting rabbit hole, though!

[Hand-Holder]

The Old Attic - Chapter X

Ashley, bound and stretched across the judge’s desk in her six-inch form, glared up at the genie with a mixture of fury and despair. Her black lace lingerie, sheer stockings, and glossy stilettos clung to her tiny frame, her chestnut hair splayed wildly as she strained against the invisible restraints.

The genie’s massive form loomed, his perverse smile unwavering as he held her younger eighteen-year-old self in one giant hand. Suddenly, his voice thundered through the courtroom, shaking the wooden panels. “Pleasure and joy harm no one,” he declared, his tone dripping with twisted logic. “So now, tied lawyer, you shall feel exactly what your younger self experiences. This does not break my granted wish to spare you harm.”

Before Ashley could protest, the genie shifted his grip, turning the younger Ashley upward in his hand with deliberate care. Her youthful form, clad only in thin white panties, trembled as the genie’s grotesque tongue moved with newfound focus. He licked her with a teasing, aimed motion, the massive appendage brushing over her arms, legs, and torso in a rhythmic dance. The younger Ashley, still under the spell, could not resist the sensation. Her body began to tense and relax in waves, her arms and legs wrapping around the moving tongue as if seeking its energy. She squeezed it with her tiny limbs, pulling it closer with a wild, involuntary embrace, her movements growing more fervent as she seemed to chase an overwhelming rush.

The bound Ashley felt a sudden jolt, her body reacting as the genie’s magic linked her senses to her younger self’s experience. A tingling warmth spread through her, inch by inch, starting at her fingertips and toes. Her arms, pinned by the restraints, stretched upward as far as they could, her legs arching against the desk despite their bonds. The sensation was like a gentle wave crashing over her, a surge of energy that coursed through her chest, making her breath quicken. Her spine arched, the cold wood pressing against her back as a pleasant hum radiated from her core, spreading to her shoulders and down her thighs. The stockings and stilettos, firmly bounded on her shapes, seemed to amplify the sensation, her skin prickling with a light, exhilarating buzz.

Her hazel eyes widened, a mix of shock and reluctant awe as the feeling intensified. The warmth enveloped her neck and face, her cheeks flushing with a glow that mirrored the younger Ashley’s animated movements. Her body, though barely able to move, responded with subtle stretches and arches, each motion a reflection of the energy coursing through her younger self.

The lawyer Ashley felt a strange, uplifting vitality, like the rush of a triumphant courtroom victory, yet tinged with the surreal nature of the genie’s magic. Her mind raced, torn between anger at the violation of her will and an involuntary appreciation for the vibrant life force she was experiencing.

Ashley´s body helplessly responded to the genie’s spell, her chestnut hair fanning out with each subtle movement. The pleasant warmth that had begun as a tingling wave now surged through her, guided by the energy her eighteen-year-old self exuded under the genie’s teasing tongue. Despite her initial resistance, her body and senses seemed to surrender to the sensation, letting go into the growing rush, now all over her body parts, as she started wildly moving in harmony with the experience. No logic, no decision, just an animalistic wild ride into somewhere more than good, more than hot, more that pulsing pleasure !!!

The uncontrollable pleasure waves spread, first with a gentle crescendo that lifted her spirits, like the thrill of a hard-won case. Her arms, though restrained, stretched upward as far as the bonds allowed, her fingers curling slightly as a soothing heat flowed from her shoulders down to her chest. Her legs arched against the desk, the stilettos pressing into the wood, amplifying a light, invigorating powerful and endless pulse that traveled up her calves and thighs. The sensation was building overwhelmingly and steadily, her breath quickening as her torso lifted involuntarily in a graceful arc. Her hazel eyes softened, a reluctant acceptance of what it was to come was now clearly flickering within them.

NO HARM WOULD COME TO ASHLEY, SHE WOULD NOT BE HURT ON THAT STRAGE ROOM HIDDEN BELOW THE OLD ATTIC !!!

THE END

[Hand-Holder]

Love it! Really good stuff.

Glad to contribute back to a great contributor, cheers

Messing around with AI is fun, isn't it? It's an addicting rabbit hole, though!

Yes and I'm very focused in the prompting details, I like how I can direct the whole situation and follow-ups but the AI does the detailed parts. That doesn´t mean I don´t have to insert my spoon here and there...

Grok is much more daring than GPT, although it completely snowflaked and refused the last chapter and only after I gave him some loose course it complied !!!

[dubiouskey]

Generating pictures and videos can be the same. Sometimes I tell it to do something and it flat out ignores me, but other times it will do what I want it to without even asking it...

[Hand-Holder]

Generating pictures and videos can be the same. Sometimes I tell it to do something and it flat out ignores me, but other times it will do what I want it to without even asking it...

Yes, actually sometimes I get surprised by how it can take things even further than I expected, completely out of the snowflake borders, when it wants to go wild it can really be DARING WILD

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter I

Andrea glided through the dimly lit corridors of Willow Creek Mental Hospice, her presence a striking contrast to the sterile, quiet wards. She was a vision of beauty, with cascading chestnut hair that shimmered under the fluorescent lights, framing her heart-shaped face. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled with a mix of compassion and quiet confidence. Her figure, curvaceous yet graceful, was accentuated by her attire—a form-fitting nurse’s uniform that pushed the boundaries of professional attire. The white dress hugged her body, its hemline daringly short, ending mid-thigh to reveal long, toned legs. The top two buttons were left undone, BARELY hinting at a lacy black bra beneath. Her outfit was completed by a pair of glossy red stilettos, their four-inch heels clicking softly against the tiled floor, adding a sultry sway to her walk. A delicate silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant rested against her collarbone, glinting faintly as she moved.

It was well past midnight, and Andrea’s nightly routine began. She carried a ring of keys, each one unlocking the heavy doors of the patients’ rooms. Her task was to ensure they were truly asleep, a duty she performed with meticulous care. She approached each door, her slender fingers turning the key with a soft click. Leaning in close, she observed the patients, her breath steady as she checked for the rise and fall of their chests. She moved with a quiet grace, her heels barely making a sound now, as if she knew the intimacy of her proximity required discretion.

In Room 17, however, things took a turn. The patient, a wiry man named Victor with wild eyes and a sly grin, was not asleep. As Andrea leaned over him, her pendant dangling close to his face, he whispered words she couldn’t quite catch—strange, guttural syllables that seemed to hum with an unnatural energy. Before she could pull back, a flash of green light enveloped her. The world spun, and Andrea felt her body compress, her vision blurring as the room expanded to impossible proportions. In an instant, she stood only seven inches tall, her clothes and shoes shrinking perfectly to fit her diminutive frame. Her nurse’s dress still clung to her curves, the fabric now impossibly fine, and her stilettos, though tiny, retained their glossy sheen. Even her pendant had scaled down, resting delicately against her tiny chest.

Victor’s grin widened, his excitement evident in the grotesque bulge beneath his thin, striped pajamas. His hands, now monstrous to Andrea, reached down, scooping her up with a gentleness that belied his intentions. His fingers, warm and calloused, enveloped her tiny form, the heat of his skin overwhelming. Andrea’s heart raced, a mix of fear and disorientation flooding her senses. Her tiny body trembled as she felt the sheer scale of his touch—his thumb alone was nearly as long as she was. The sensation was surreal, like being held by a living mountain.

Her breath hitched as she realized how powerless she was, her once-confident demeanor replaced by a dizzying vulnerability. Victor brought her closer to his face, his breath hot and uneven. His eyes, now massive, gleamed with a lustful curiosity as he began to examine her. His giant fingers moved with deliberate slowness, each touch sending shivers through Andrea’s tiny frame.

Victor’s fingertip, almost as wide as Andrea’s torso, carefully undid the tiny buttons of her nurse’s dress. The fabric parted, revealing the delicate lace of her black bra. His touch lingered, the pad of his finger brushing against the exposed skin of her chest, making her gasp at the overwhelming sensation.

With a single finger, he traced the outline of her hips, the pressure gentle but inescapable. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the cool air, and Andrea squirmed, her tiny body hyper-aware of every movement.

He pinched the hem of her dress between two fingers, lifting it to expose her matching black lace panties. His eyes widened, and he tilted her slightly, studying the intricate patterns of the fabric as if memorizing every detail.

His thumb brushed through her chestnut hair, now as fine as spider silk. He twirled a lock around his fingertip, marveling at its softness, his touch tugging lightly at her scalp, sending tingles down her spine.

He turned her upside down, her tiny stilettos dangling in the air. His finger nudged one heel, testing its delicate structure. The sensation of being inverted made Andrea dizzy, her heart pounding as she felt his gaze linger on her legs.

His fingertip grazed her cheek, the texture of his skin rough against her smooth complexion. He tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his giant eyes, his touch both tender and possessive, making her feel exposed in a way she’d never experienced.

He hooked a finger under the chain of her pendant, lifting it slightly to examine the heart-shaped charm. The movement pulled her closer to his face, his breath washing over her as he studied the tiny trinket, his fascination tinged with something darker.

Finally, Victor set Andrea down on his bed, the mattress a vast, rumpled landscape to her seven-inch frame. The coarse fabric of the sheets towered around her, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air. Her tiny stilettos sank slightly into the mattress, and she stood, trembling, as his massive form loomed above her. His voice, now a booming rumble, broke the silence. “Sing me a song, little nurse,” he said, his tone a mix of command and mockery. “Sing me to sleep.”

Andrea’s voice quavered, but she forced herself to sing, choosing a soft lullaby she’d heard as a child. Her tiny voice, high and clear, echoed faintly in the vastness of the room. “Hush now, my darling, it’s time to rest…” she began, her words trembling but steadying as she went. Victor’s eyes, still gleaming with that unsettling excitement, softened slightly as he lay back, watching her tiny form perform for him. The surreal horror of her situation battled with her determination to survive, her song a fragile thread of defiance in the face of his giant, unpredictable presence.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter II

Andrea’s tiny voice trembled as she sang the lullaby, her seven-inch frame perched on the vast expanse of Victor’s bed. The giant patient’s eyes, heavy with a mix of fascination and fatigue, began to droop. His massive chest rose and fell more slowly, each breath a deep, rumbling gust that stirred the air around her. The bulge beneath his pajamas gradually softened as sleep overtook his excitement, and his head lolled to one side, his wild grin fading into a slack expression. The quiet but giant breathing filled the room like a distant storm, a constant reminder of the danger lurking even in his slumber. Andrea’s song faltered little by little as she watched him drift off, her heart pounding with a mix of relief and lingering dread.

The indecent examination had left her shaken, her mind reeling with incredulity at her impossible situation. She was still grappling with the reality of her shrunken state—seven inches tall, a living doll in a world now monstrously oversized. As Victor’s snores began to punctuate the air, Andrea’s hands instinctively moved to her body, checking herself as if to confirm her own existence. Her fingers traced the contours of her tiny frame, still perfectly proportional despite her size. Her chestnut hair, though now as fine as gossamer, fell in the same soft waves. Her nurse’s dress, shrunken to fit her precisely, clung to her curves as it had before, the fabric smooth and intact. Her red stilettos, tiny as doll toys, still gleamed with their glossy finish, perfectly scaled to her tiny feet. The silver pendant at her neck rested in place, its heart-shaped charm a miniature echo of its former self. The realization that everything about her had been so meticulously reduced was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

With a surge of instinctive defense, Andrea’s trembling hands moved to her dress, quickly buttoning the top where Victor’s giant fingers had left it undone. She smoothed the fabric, adjusting the hem to cover her thighs, the act grounding her in the face of her vulnerability. The lacy black bra and panties beneath, though tiny, felt like a shield as she ensured they were properly in place. Her stilettos sank faintly against the mattress as she straightened, her mind shifting from shock to survival. She had to escape—now, while Victor slept. Her heart pounding panic was not only about their size difference and the full control Victor had over her, it was mainly related to the patient´s well know unpredictable behaviour, something everyone took for granted, adding extra precautions when dealing with him. Also the way he exerted his power, not only grabbing her for total control, but examining her with a clear sexual intent.

The bed was a vast, rumpled landscape, its sheets a tangle of small fabric hills and valleys that extended far beyond. The edge of the mattress loomed like a cliff, easily ten times her height. Andrea’s sharp mind began calculating a way down. The sheets, though coarse and heavy to her tiny hands, offered potential. She noticed a quite long fold that draped over the edge, creating a steep but navigable slope, from where she could fall relatively safe into the Hospice flooring. She could use it as a makeshift wide rope, anchoring herself against the fabric’s weave, pressing it between her knees to smoothly control her descent. The headboard, a distant wooden monolith, was too far to be of use, and the pillows were too big to be moved. The sheet was her best option.

Andrea moved cautiously, her tiny heels sinking into the mattress with each step. Victor’s rhythmic snores, deep and resonant, vibrated through the bed, a constant warning that any misstep could wake the giant. She reached the folded sheet, gripping its coarse fibers with both hands. The texture was rough against her delicate skin, but she held firm, embracing what fabric she could with her legs, allowing sequencial easing on the pressure, to lower herself inch by inch. Her arms strained, and her stilettos dangled in the air as she descended, the drop below dizzying. The quiet breathing of the sleeping giant still managed to ecoe in her ears, urging her to move with utmost caution. One slip could send her tumbling, and the sound might rouse him.

After what felt like an eternity, her tiny heeled feet touched the cold tile floor. The room, now a cavernous expanse, stretched before her. The door to Room 17 stood ajar, a habit Andrea had developed to allow quick access for security if needed. The sight of the open door was a beacon of hope, though it was a distant one. The floor was a vast plain, littered with specks of dust that seemed like pebbles to her. The bell near the door lock, meant to summon help, was hopelessly out of reach, mounted high on the wall and requiring a strength she no longer possessed.

Andrea’s heart raced as she plotted her final run. The distance to the door was daunting, almost equivalent to a city block for her tiny legs. She kicked off her stilettos and grabbed each one in one hand, the glossy red shoes too cumbersome for speed, and sprinted barefoot across the tiles. Each step was a gamble, the cold floor jarring her tiny frame. Victor’s snores remained steady, but their sheer volume kept her on edge, a reminder that her escape hinged on silence. She dodged a stray sock, its fibers like a forest to her, and pushed forward, her breath ragged but determined.

Reaching the door, she slipped through the narrow gap, her tiny body just small enough to fit. The corridor beyond was another challenge, but for now, she was free from Victor’s grasp. The memory of his giant hands, his lustful examination, and the surreal terror of her shrunken state fueled her resolve. She had to find help, reverse whatever had been done to her, and ensure Victor could never wield such power again.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter III

Andrea stood trembling in the vast corridor of Willow Creek Mental Hospice, her seven-inch frame dwarfed by the towering walls. Her tiny hands clutched her glossy red stilettos, which she had gripped tightly during her desperate sprint from Victor’s room. Now, catching her breath, she knelt carefully on the cold tile floor to slip the shoes back on. The stilettos, perfectly scaled to her shrunken size, slid onto her feet with a faint click, their minuscule heels—mere millimeters high—gleaming as they had before. She smoothed her nurse’s dress, ensuring the buttons were fastened and the lacy black bra and panties beneath were concealed, a reflexive act to reclaim some semblance of control. Her silver heart pendant, now a tiny charm, rested against her chest, grounding her as she faced her surreal reality.

Her mind raced to formulate a plan. She needed help to reverse whatever had reduced her to this doll-like state, but who could she trust? The corridor stretched endlessly before her, lined with heavy doors and bathed in the dim glow of fluorescent lights. A chilling fear gripped her: even a sound-minded staff member could be a threat. At seven inches tall, she was a curiosity, a helpless toy vulnerable to anyone’s whims. The memory of Victor’s lustful examination—his giant fingers probing her shrunken body—made her stomach lurch. The next person she encountered, regardless of their role, could exploit her fragility depending on their character. A kind soul might protect her, but a less scrupulous one might see her as an object to manipulate. The thought sent a shiver through her, but she forced herself to focus.

The night guard, Marcus, was her best hope. Stationed at the security post at the corridor’s far end, he was a distant goal for her tiny legs, but his duty was to ensure everyone’s safety—patients and staff alike. Marcus, known for his calm professionalism, seemed the least likely to abuse her vulnerability. Steeling herself, Andrea resolved to reach him, her tiny stilettos clicking faintly as she took her first steps.

She was fortunate in one regard: the doors lining the corridor were not solid panels but made of metal bars, their gaps just wide enough for her seven-inch frame to squeeze through. The keys in her pocket, now uselessly small, were irrelevant—she could slip between the bars without them. Each door was a hurdle, but she navigated them one by one, her tiny body wriggling through the narrow spaces. The cold metal brushed against her dress, snagging briefly on the fabric, but she pressed on, her heart pounding with each crossing. Victor´s door was left open, but a few corridor barriers ensured now he was no longer a threat to her.

As she approached the final door before the security post, Andrea’s hope surged. Marcus was close, his station just beyond this last barrier. She squeezed through the bars, her tiny frame barely fitting, and emerged into the open corridor. But her relief was shattered by an unexpected event. A side door swung open, and two giants emerged—a nurse, Clara, escorting a patient to the bathroom. Their massive forms filled the hallway, their footsteps booming like thunder. Andrea froze, her tiny body dwarfed by their approaching shadows. Clara’s white sneakers and the patient’s shuffling slippers loomed like moving furniture passing by, and one misstep could crush her. She dove toward the base of the wall, her stilettos slipping on the tiles as she narrowly avoided being trampled. Her heart raced, the near-miss amplifying her vulnerability as she pressed herself against the cold wall, praying the giants wouldn’t notice the tiny nurse cowering in their path.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter IV

Andrea pressed herself against the cold wall of the Willow Creek Mental Hospice corridor, her seven-inch frame trembling as the massive forms of Nurse Clara and the patient, Mrs. Rugger, loomed above her. Her glossy red stilettos dug into the tiles as she held her breath, praying to remain unseen. The giants’ footsteps echoed like distant thunder, but as they moved toward the bathroom door, Andrea’s hope rekindled. If she could stay motionless and invisible, she could wait them out, then make a final dash to Marcus, the night guard, whose security post was just beyond the last barred door. His calm professionalism was her lifeline—she just needed to grab his attention somehow.

She visualized her plan: slip through the final set of metal bars, their gaps just wide enough for her tiny body, and wave frantically or shout to catch Marcus’s eye. Her voice, though small, might carry in the quiet corridor, or she could climb along something, maybe a computer cable, right onto his desk to make herself seen. But before she could move, the unthinkable happened. Mrs. Rugger, a heavyset woman with a distant gaze and a habit of muttering to herself, suddenly froze mid-step. Her eyes, clouded with her own peculiar thoughts, locked onto Andrea’s tiny form. Clara, focused on guiding the patient, didn’t notice as Mrs. Rugger’s massive hand darted down with surprising speed. In an instant, Andrea was scooped up in a rush of motion, the world blurring as she was lifted into darkness. The patient’s fingers, warm and slightly clammy, enveloped her, and before Andrea could react, she was carelessly slid and tucked into the wide, soft pocket of Mrs. Rugger’s night robe.

Andrea lost all caution, now in pure panic, she screamed, her voice high and clear to her own ears but pitifully faint in the vast space of the corridor. “Clara! Help! I’m here!” she cried, her shouts desperate as she pounded her tiny fists against the fabric. But her voice, though normal to her, was no louder than a mouse’s squeak to the giants. Clara, oblivious, continued ushering Mrs. Rugger toward the bathroom, her sneakers squeaking on the tiles. The door closed behind them, sealing Andrea in the dark, swaying prison of the robe pocket.

Inside, the pocket was a suffocating world of soft, worn cotton, its fibers coarse to Andrea’s tiny hands. The space was tight, pressing against her shrunken body, the fabric shifting with every step Mrs. Rugger took. The faint scent of lavender soap and something mustier clung to the air, and the warmth of the patient’s body radiated through the cloth, making Andrea feel both claustrophobic and vulnerable. Her stilettos caught on the pocket’s seams, and her nurse’s dress bunched slightly, but she was unharmed, just trapped. The rhythmic sway of Mrs. Rugger’s movements, combined with the muffled sounds of the bathroom—running water, Clara’s low voice—disoriented her further. Andrea’s heart raced, her mind grappling with the surreal horror of being a silent prisoner, a living doll tucked away for whatever odd purpose Mrs. Rugger had in mind.

Mrs. Rugger wasn’t violent or aggressive, which gave Andrea a flicker of relief. The patient was known for living in her own world, often lost in strange, harmless fantasies. Her actions suggested curiosity rather than malice—she might see Andrea as a doll, a treasure to keep hidden. Still, Andrea’s earlier fears resurfaced: even a well-meaning person could be unpredictable, and Mrs. Rugger’s mental state made her intentions uncertain, she was not at Willow Creek Mental Hospice just by any Doctor´s whim. But as a female patient, she was less likely to treat Andrea with the lustful menace Victor had shown. This thought calmed Andrea slightly, enough to consider reasoning with her captor.

“Mrs. Rugger,” Andrea called softly, her voice muffled by the pocket’s walls. “I’m a nurse, not a toy. I need to get to the staff—please, let me out so I can get help.” She spoke calmly, hoping to connect with whatever lucidity the patient might have. The pocket shifted as Mrs. Rugger sat, presumably on the toilet under Clara’s supervision, but there was no response. Andrea’s pleas were too faint, lost in the giant’s private world. Desperation crept in, but Andrea clung to a new resolve: she didn’t care who found her next, as long as they were staff, someone mentally normal, reasonable and not another unpredictable patient.

She just wanted out of these giant, intentional capture and back to a world where she could be seen as a person, not a fragile, shrunken curiosity.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter V

Andrea’s tiny body jolted as Mrs. Rugger began now moving faster, surely being guided by Nurse Clara back to her room. The tight pocket of the patient’s night robe constricted around her, the coarse cotton pressing against her shrunken frame with every careless step. Her seven-inch form was squeezed relentlessly, her nurse’s dress bunching against her curves, making her feel like a trapped useless insect. The warmth of Mrs. Rugger’s body radiated through the cloth, and the swaying motion, combined with the muffled sounds of Clara’s instructions, disoriented Andrea further.

The motion slowed as Mrs. Rugger was clearly being led to her bed. Andrea felt a shift in the pocket’s orientation, the fabric loosening slightly as the robe was carefully being removed by Clara. The faint rustle of the garment being hung—likely on a hook or chair in the room—confirmed Andrea’s suspicion. The pocket tilted, leaving her in a crumpled heap at its base, but the pressure eased, giving her a moment to catch her breath. The room fell silent, save for the soft creak of the bed as Mrs. Rugger settled in. Clara’s footsteps faded, followed by the heavy click of the room’s door closing. Mrs. Rugger seemed now quiet, her earlier muttering absent, as if she’d forgotten her tiny prisoner. Andrea’s heart flickered with cautious hope—perhaps she could escape once again, completely unnoticed, although the closed door meant she would probably have to wait in a corner until morning came and some staff opens it.

Determined, Andrea began her ascent inside the dark pocket. The cotton walls were a tangled maze, and her tiny stilettos snagged repeatedly, slowing her progress. She gritted her teeth, using her hands to grip the coarse fibers, pulling herself upward inch by inch. Her muscles ached, and her dress caught on loose threads, but she pressed on, driven by the need to escape. After what felt like an eternity, she reached the pocket’s edge. Clinging to the rim, she pulled herself up and took a long, desperate breath of fresh air. The room was pitch-black, silent except for the faint hum of the hospice’s ventilation, but the cool air was a relief after the stifling pocket.

Andrea prepared to climb out, eyeing the fabric’s folds as a makeshift rope, much like she had navigated Victor’s bedsheets. The robe, now hanging vertically, offered a steep but possible descent to the floor. She adjusted her dress, ensuring it wouldn’t snag, and steadied her heels, ready to lower herself. But the hugest pounding scare of her life struck, right when she was about to make her move. A voice—Mrs. Rugger’s, impossibly loud and incredibly close—shattered the silence, right from behind her and already at the pocket´s height. “Here you are, my little slut,” she said, her tone dripping with venom. Andrea froze, her heart hammering as she realized the patient had crept close in the dark, her giant face looming just inches away, barely unseen but palpable in the blackness. The patient’s breath washed over the pocket, warm and heavy, as she watched Andrea’s every move.

The next words hit Andrea like a second shock, each syllable laced with a cruelty she hadn’t anticipated. “I always knew how much of a slut and sinner you were, using high heels and walking sexy for all the male patients to admire you, but feeling safe because they know several muscle nurse men have your backs all the time. Well, it’s time to teach you a good lesson and stop all your sins at the face of God Almighty.” The revelation of Mrs. Rugger’s religious unknown fanaticism sent Andrea into full panic and despair.

The patient’s voice, once merely eccentric, now carried a righteous fury, her words painting Andrea as a moral abomination. The accusation stung, twisting her professional care into something sordid, and the threat of divine retribution chilled her to the core. Mrs. Rugger’s quiet demeanor had masked a dangerous zeal, and Andrea, trapped hanging by the pocket, at seven inches tall, was utterly helpless against this new, unpredictable menace. Her mind raced, her earlier resolve to reason with the patient completely crumbling as she realized the depth of Mrs. Rugger’s delusion—and the peril it eminently posed.

[dubiouskey]

This is a good one.

[Hand-Holder]

This is a good one.

I went all deep into the perspective of the mini and not the ones of the Giants, also trying to make it more of a mental triller than just physical sequences, let´s see where my imagination leads me !!!

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter VI

Andrea’s heart pounded in her seven-inch chest, her tiny body frozen at the edge of Mrs. Rugger’s robe pocket as the patient’s venomous words echoed in the dark room. The air grew heavy with menace as Mrs. Rugger’s massive hand stretched forward, fingers looming like shadowed claws in the pitch-black. Andrea braced herself, her glossy red stilettos digging into the pocket’s rim, her nurse’s dress catching on the coarse fabric. But before those fingers could fatally seize her, the room flooded with light. The sudden glare of fluorescents stung Andrea’s eyes, and Clara’s sweet but unexpected voice cut through the silence. “Mrs. Rugger? Is everything alright?” The giant patient froze, her hand retreating as she turned to face the nurse, her expression shifting from righteous fury to startled guilt.

Clara, standing in the doorway, tilted her head with concern. She had returned after hearing Mrs. Rugger’s voice, an anomaly since the patient never spoke after being settled in bed. “I heard you talking,” Clara said gently, stepping closer. “Is something bothering you?” Mrs. Rugger stammered, her eyes darting nervously. “I… I thought I saw a bug,” she mumbled, her voice unconvincing as she gestured vaguely toward the wall. Clara frowned, scanning the room, oblivious to the tiny nurse clinging already outside the robe’s pocket.

Andrea’s mind reeled with desperation and exhaustion. The madness of her situation—shrunk to seven inches, trapped by one patient’s lust and another’s menacing fanaticism—pushed her past caution. She couldn’t wait for another close call. Seizing the moment, she let herself slide from the pocket’s edge, her tiny hands barely clinging to the robe’s coarse fibers to slow her descent. The drop was dizzying, the hard floor rushing up to meet her. She landed awkwardly, her stilettos wobbling as she fought to regain balance, her silver heart pendant bouncing against her chest. The impact jarred her.

She thought for a moment that if she could shout or wave strong enough, Clara would finally see her, but Mrs. Rugger presence offered no good odds, since Clara did not know about her but the patient did, being able to squash her for revenge, before Clara could grasp the whole situation. What good would it be to have Clara finally spotting her, but too late to save her ?

With Clara and Mrs. Rugger ominous but distracted presence, Andrea sprinted toward the opposite wall, her heels clicking faintly on the tiles. She pressed herself against the baseboard, her tiny form hugging the narrow strip where wall met floor. The baseboard’s slight overhang offered minimal cover, but she moved swiftly, her eyes fixed on the semi-open door, still far for her, but just straight ahead. Salvation lay beyond—Marcus’s security station, where the night guard’s calm presence promised safety. Her heart raced as she crept forward, the giants’ voices a low hum behind her. Clara’s back was turned, her focus on Mrs. Rugger, who was still fumbling through her excuse about the nonexistent bug.

Just as Andrea reached the door’s threshold, her tiny frame poised to slip through, she glanced back. Mrs. Rugger’s eyes locked onto her, the patient’s face twisting with recognition. The giant’s expression was unmistakable—she’d spotted Andrea, her tiny form scuttling along the baseboard. For a moment, Andrea’s breath caught, expecting Mrs. Rugger to lunge or call out. But the patient hesitated, her lips tightening as she glanced at Clara. Fear of being deemed unstable and sent to the Psychiatric Floor kept her silent, her hands clenching at her sides. Andrea, caught in a cruel dance of luck and peril, seized the chance.

She ran, her stilettos no longer a hindrance but a rhythm to her desperate sprint. The door’s gap loomed, and she dove for it, than finally squeezing her seven-inch body between the metal bars of the corridor door. The cold steel grazed her dress, snagging briefly on her pendant, but she wriggled through, emerging into the vast hallway. Ahead, Marcus’s station glowed under fluorescent lights, its door open, a beacon of hope. Andrea’s tiny legs burned, but she pushed forward, her eyes fixed on the guard’s desk, where Marcus sat, unaware of the tiny nurse racing toward him, her survival hanging on the fragile thread of her relentless will.

TO BE CONTINUED LATER...

[dubiouskey]

Anticipating more!

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter VII

Andrea stumbled into Marcus’s security station, her seven-inch frame dwarfed by the vast room. Her tiny red stilettos clicked faintly on the tiled floor, her nurse’s dress clinging to her curves, the silver heart pendant at her neck glinting under the fluorescent lights. Above her, Marcus loomed like a giant, his broad figure hunched over a computer, engrossed in a video, oblivious to her presence.

The desk towered like a 3 floor budling, its surface cluttered with papers and a coffee mug the size of a small car to her. Andrea’s heart raced with desperation. She waved her arms, her tiny hands flailing in the air, and shouted, “Marcus! Help me! It’s Andrea!” Her voice, though clear to her, was a mere squeak, lost in the hum of the station’s air conditioning. She jumped, her heels leaving the floor, but her movements were too small to catch his eye. She clapped her hands, stomped her feet, but nothing broke through the giant’s focus. Marcus feet were off the ground, resting on a chair bar, so she could not try and pull his trousers hem.

Her eyes darted around, searching for a solution. Against the wall, she spotted Marcus’s umbrella, its black canopy leaning precariously against the baseboard. It was her best chance. She sprinted to it, her stilettos skidding slightly, and pushed against the metal tip with all her strength. The effort was agonizing, the cold metal unyielding against her tiny shoulders. Slowly, painfully, the umbrella slid to one side, its balance faltering. With a final heave, Andrea sent it out of balance and sliding downwards across the wall, crashing to the floor, the clatter echoing sharply in the quiet station. Marcus’s head snapped around, his eyes scanning the room for the source of the noise.

Andrea stood bravely in the open, her heart a chaotic mix of hope and sheer panic. This was a crossroad—Marcus could be her salvation or another unpredictable threat. And she had absolute zero control on what was going to happen next to her. As he leaned down to retrieve the umbrella, his gaze fell on her, and his face erupted in pure astonishment. His jaw dropped, his eyes wide as he stared at the perfect, seven-inch replica of his coworker, Nurse Andrea. Her chestnut hair, form-fitting dress, and glossy stilettos were unmistakable, down to the delicate pendant at her neck. He froze, speechless, his mind struggling to process the impossible sight.

“Nurse Andrea?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. She shouted again, “Marcus, it’s me! I’m real! Help me!” But her voice was too faint, a mere whisper drowned out by the distance and the room’s ambient sounds. Marcus squinted, leaning closer, his massive face filling her vision. “No way,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “This has to be some kind of robot toy. So realistic…” He shook his head, marveling. “The security team must’ve set this up—a prank. But how’d they get a mini robot of Nurse Andrea that looks and moves this perfect? Every detail… her face, her dress, even those heels.” He noticed her tiny mouth moving, her faint voice barely audible. “It even talks. Unreal, what the fuck !”

Before Andrea could react, Marcus’s giant hand descended, scooping her up with a gentleness that belied his size. His fingers, warm and calloused, enveloped her, the sensation overwhelming yet oddly careful. She squirmed, her stilettos kicking uselessly against his palm, her dress shifting under the pressure. Marcus, still convinced she was a high-tech toy, tilted her curiously, his eyes wide with fascination. “Let’s see how this thing works,” he murmured, his tone devoid of lust but brimming with childlike curiosity. He lifted the hem of her dress with a fingertip, exposing the lacy black panties beneath, searching for seams or buttons that might reveal her artificiality. Andrea’s face burned with humiliation, her tiny fists pounding against his skin, but he didn’t notice, too absorbed in his examination. He tilted her forward, peering at her cleavage, the lacy bra visible through the unbuttoned top of her dress. “No joints, no wires… incredible,” he said, turning her gently to inspect her back, his finger brushing her hair aside to God knows what, maybe checking for a battery compartment.

Andrea’s emotions churned—humiliation, frustration, and a creeping sense of dehumanization. Marcus’s touch, though not perverse, stripped her of agency, reducing her to an object of curiosity. Each prod of his finger, each adjustment of her dress, felt like a violation, not of her body, because it had no evil intention, but of her dignity and identity. She was Nurse Andrea, not a toy, yet his gentle, inquisitive handling made her feel more like a fragile artifact than a person. Her heart sank as she realized he didn’t see her as human, his marveling words—“This is next-level tech!”—cutting deeper than any intentional cruelty.

Trapped in his hand, she felt the weight of her powerlessness, her hope of rescue teetering on the edge of despair as she struggled to make him understand she was real.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter VIII

Andrea’s tiny heart pounded as Marcus’s massive fingers held her aloft, his grip firm and careless, treating her like a delicate plastic doll. Her seven-inch frame trembled in his palm, her nurse’s dress slightly disheveled from his curious prodding, the glossy red stilettos dangling uselessly, and her silver heart pendant catching the fluorescent light of the security station. She shouted relentlessly, her voice a faint, high-pitched plea: “Marcus! It’s me, Andrea! I’m real! Help me!” Her words had been lost in the vastness of the room, but something shifted in Marcus’s expression. His curiosity, initially focused on her as a technological marvel, turned toward the faint sound of her voice. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing, and brought his ear impossibly close to her tiny form. His warm breath washed over her, stirring her chestnut hair, and the proximity of his giant ear—larger than everything else—made her feel both hopeful but still vulnerable.

For the first time, Marcus could hear her. “Marcus, please! It’s Andrea, the real Nurse Andrea!” she cried, her voice strained but clear in the quiet of his ear. “Victor in Room 17 did this to me—some kind of power shrank me to this size! I’ve been running from him, from Mrs. Rugger… they both grabbed me, trapped me! I’m not a toy!” To prove her identity, she poured out details only she could know. “You like your coffee black with two sugars, always in that blue mug on your desk. You’re on the 8 PM to 4 AM shift tonight, and you always complain about the vending machine stealing your quarters!” Her words tumbled out, recounting her harrowing escape from Victor’s lustful examination, her imprisonment in Mrs. Rugger’s robe pocket, and the religious fanatic’s terrifying accusations.

Marcus’s eyes widened, his grip on her loosening slightly as realization dawned. The details were too specific, too personal, for a prank or a robot. His fingers, once careless, adjusted to cradle her more gently, his thumb no longer pressing against her tiny waist. “Andrea…?” he whispered, his voice a low rumble of disbelief. Slowly, he lowered his hand to the desk, setting her down on a clear patch beside his coffee mug. Her stilettos clicked softly as she found her footing, smoothing her dress instinctively and stepping back to gain some space. Marcus leaned back in his chair, his massive form still towering but now giving her room to breathe. His expression shifted from astonishment to concern, his eyes locked on her as he listened intently.

“Tell me everything,” he said, his tone now serious, almost protective. Andrea stood bravely, her tiny frame trembling but her voice steady. “I don’t know how Victor did it—a flash of light, some strange words, and I was like this. He… he touched me, examined me like I was a thing. Then Mrs. Rugger grabbed me, hid me in her pocket, called me a sinner. This place isn’t safe for me like this, Marcus. I need help—someone to figure out how to reverse this, to keep me away from the patients!” Her pleas were desperate, but the act of being heard, of being seen as human again, gave her a flicker of hope.

Marcus nodded slowly, his hands resting on the desk, careful not to crowd her. “I believe you,” he said, his voice softer now. “This is… insane, but I believe you. We’ll figure this out, Andrea. I’ll keep you safe.” He glanced around the station, as if assessing the dangers of the hospice even here. “No one’s getting near you while I’m here. We need to get you to someone who can help—maybe Dr. Ellis in the morning. For now, stay close.” His tone was reassuring, his earlier curiosity replaced by a sense of duty. Andrea’s relief was tempered by the lingering fear of the hospice’s unpredictable environment, but for the first time since her ordeal began, she felt a glimmer of safety, standing on Marcus’s desk, no longer a toy but a person in need of protection.

[Hand-Holder]

Willow Creek Mental Hospice - Chapter IX

Andrea stood on Marcus’s desk, her seven-inch frame trembling slightly as she adjusted her nurse’s dress and glossy red stilettos. Marcus, his giant form now a protective presence, leaned forward, his voice gentle but resonant. “Andrea, do you need anything? Food, water… or, uh, to use the bathroom?” His concern was genuine, though his awkwardness betrayed his struggle to grasp her situation. Andrea shook her head, her tiny voice carrying just enough for him to hear. “No, Marcus, I’m okay. This all happened less than an hour ago. I just… I just need to be safe.” Her ordeal—Victor’s shrinking power, Mrs. Rugger’s fanaticism—had left her too wired for physical needs, her adrenaline still surging.

Marcus nodded, his eyes scanning the desk for a secure spot. “Alright, you can stay right here, next to my laptop screen,” he said, pointing to a clear space by the glowing monitor. “You’ll be in plain sight, and nothing’s getting to you without me seeing it. I’ll figure out how to call Dr. Ellis without sounding like I’m pulling a prank.” He rubbed his chin, already strategizing how to phrase the impossible to the hospice’s head scientist. Andrea’s shoulders sagged, the tension in her tiny body finally easing. She shuffled closer to the laptop’s edge, its warmth radiating against her. Exhaustion hit like a wave, her legs wobbling in her stilettos as she nearly fainted, catching herself against the screen’s frame. For the first time since her nightmare began, she felt a flicker of relief, her muscles unclenching as she sank to her knees, breathing deeply.

Marcus picked up the phone, his fingers dwarfing the receiver as he dialed Dr. Ellis. The call connected, and Andrea listened, her heart pounding anew. “Dr. Ellis, it’s Marcus from the night shift,” he began, his voice steady but cautious. “Something… extraordinary happened. It’s Nurse Andrea—she’s been… shrunk, sir. She’s seven inches tall, right here on my desk. I know it sounds insane, but she’s real, not a toy. She says Victor in Room 17 did this to her, some kind of power.” A long pause followed, punctuated by Dr. Ellis’s gruff voice, sharp with skepticism. “Marcus, if this is a joke, I’m not amused. It’s 4:30 AM.” Marcus pressed on, detailing Andrea’s knowledge of his coffee habits, her shift details, and her accounts of Victor and Mrs. Rugger. “She’s standing here, talking to me, sir. I’ve seen her move, heard her voice. It’s no prank.” Dr. Ellis’s tone grew curt, demanding Marcus hold the line while he processed the claim. After tense minutes of back-and-forth, the scientist relented. “I’ll be there in under an hour. Don’t let her out of your sight.” Marcus hung up, turning to Andrea. “He’s coming. Less than an hour. I won’t let you out of my sight, I promise.”

Andrea’s relief was tinged with fresh fear. Dr. Ellis, the hospice’s head scientist, was a figure of dread. A harsh old man in his sixties, he was known for his brusque manner, few words, and zero warmth. His gaunt face, framed by thinning gray hair, always bore a distant, calculating look, his pale eyes scanning people as if dissecting them. Colleagues whispered about his “mad scientist” tendencies—his obsession with experimental treatments and his reclusive nature. Andrea’s tiny hands clenched, her voice trembling as she pleaded with Marcus. “Please, whatever Dr. Ellis decides to do, don’t leave me alone with him. He makes me nervous, Marcus. Everyone knows he’s… weird, a bit scary. The way he looks at people, like we’re puzzles to solve. I don’t trust him, not like this.” She gestured to her shrunken form, her stilettos clicking as she paced nervously by the laptop.

Marcus’s expression softened, his giant hand resting carefully on the desk, far enough to give her space. “I hear you, Andrea. I won’t leave your side, no matter what he says. You’re safe with me.” His reassurance steadied her, but the thought of Dr. Ellis’s cold gaze on her tiny body sent a chill through her. She sat by the laptop, her dress smoothed against her thighs, and waited, her hope tethered to Marcus’s promise as the minutes ticked toward the scientist’s arrival, each one heavy with the uncertainty of what a man like Dr. Ellis might do with a living, seven-inch anomaly.

Andrea realized that she was in a permanent state of danger, no matter what choices she made, the power to control any situation was completely zero on her side. What seemed utterly evil could become her ultimate salvation and what seemed final salvation could become her worst nightmare, she could get in a 100% secure and official environment and nevertheless be dissected for the best of Science... Basically and in sum, it was all in the hands of whomever managed to be holding her, grabbing her, FUCKING having her !!!

TO BE CONTINUED LATER...