The buzz of fluorescent lights and the clanking of weights echoed through the late-night gym, nearly empty save for two women sculpted like statues—Ebonee and Chantae. Both were drenched in sweat and endorphins, muscles gleaming, their every movement exuding power and control. They had no idea someone was watching them—someone who had no intention of letting them leave as they came.
In the far corner, behind a broken vending machine, Marcus stood in silence, his eyes fixed and unblinking. Clutched in his gloved hand was a device he’d spent years crafting—a sleek black instrument no longer than a hairdryer but humming with quantum energy. The Shrink Ray.
He had tested it on rats, then cats. It worked. And tonight, it would work on something far more perfect.
With one silent pulse of blue light, the world shifted for the women mid-set.
The barbell fell with a thud.
The gym was suddenly vast, alien. Cold. Both women stood in their shrunken forms, a mere seven inches tall, naked, confused, trembling on the rubber mat.
Ebonee looked up, eyes widening at the towering silhouette above. A shadow moved over them—boots the size of cars, fingers like tree trunks reaching down.
"No!" Chantae screamed, backing toward a dumbbell rack like it might protect her. It didn’t.
Marcus knelt slowly, savoring the moment. “You two looked far too strong for your own good,” he murmured, voice a low rumble to their now-sensitive ears. “Let’s fix that imbalance.”
He pinched Ebonee first, her miniature body flailing wildly in his grasp. Her strength, once awe-inspiring, was meaningless now—a doll's resistance. Chantae tried to run, but he caught her just as easily. Both were dropped into a reinforced glass terrarium in the back of his van, the lid clicking shut like the punctuation mark on their old lives.
---
Back at his apartment, the terrarium sat in the center of a wrestling ring diorama he'd built by hand—ropes taut, mats pristine. Red Bull cans and lotion bottles towered like monuments behind them.
They weren’t prisoners, not exactly. They were pets.
Toys.
Trophies.
Marcus lounged nearby, watching their every move, jotting down notes in a black leather-bound journal labeled "Behavioral Studies: Prime Specimens." But it was never really about science.
He had taken strength and shrunk it.
He had taken beauty and caged it.
And now he had two fine, defiant, squirming reminders of how absolute his control had become.
His tiny wrestling slaves!
-
Weavelg0d
- Shrink Adept
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Thu Dec 31, 2020 12:01 am
Re: His tiny wrestling slaves!
At first, they refused.
They screamed. They pounded at the glass walls. They cursed Marcus from the shadows of his bedroom shelf, voices like insects to him. He let them rage for a day. Maybe two. No food. No water. Just the oppressive presence of his looming body every few hours, when he'd open the terrarium lid and watch. Shirtless. Smirking. Knowing exactly what would come next.
By night three, hunger gnawed at their guts. Their muscles, once cut from discipline and protein shakes, now trembled from dehydration. Ebonee’s lips cracked. Chantae’s knees buckled. When Marcus’s hand returned, they didn’t run. They stared.
And then, he said the words that rewrote their lives:
> “Earn your meals. Wrestle my cock tonight.”
He placed them on his bed—his giant, body-warmed kingdom. The mattress bounced with every step he took. His thick erection pulsed upward from a nest of trimmed pubes, his balls heavy and relaxed like sleeping beasts.
“Get to it,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head.
Ebonee looked at Chantae. A glance of shame. Of fury. Of resignation.
Then they moved.
They began to climb.
---
The Ritual Begins
Each night, Marcus brought them out. Each night, they performed. It had become routine. But it was never easy.
Ebonee took the left testicle—her assigned “opponent.” Chantae took the right. They’d scale it like a moving hill, the scent of sweat, musk, and power soaking into their tiny bodies. They learned how to press their feet into the loose skin and use their full strength to roll and knead it like a gladiator warming up her prey.
Sometimes it bounced. Sometimes it tensed. And sometimes, it smacked them back down to the sheets like a punishing counterattack. But they got back up.
They always got back up.
Marcus would moan above them, eyes half-lidded, body barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath and the twitch of his cock. He called them his wrestling girls. Sometimes he even provided commentary.
> “And Chantae's got him in a squeeze! Look at that grip on the shaft... Ohhh, but Ebonee’s going for the tip—she’s climbing! What a move!”
The shaft loomed between them like a god’s column. Ebonee was the first to wrap her arms around it one night, hugging it with all her might, pretending it was just a training pole at the gym. She tried to choke it, strangle it, fight it—but it only pulsed harder, hotter, stronger.
Then came the inevitable.
The twitch.
The tightening.
The flood.
He came like a storm over both women, blasting them back across the sheets, coating their bodies in thick, white strands. Their cries were muffled in the aftermath, buried under the warm stink of submission.
And then... dinner.
---
They Knew Their Place Now
By week two, they had stopped resisting. Not because their minds had broken—yet—but because it was survival. A job. A twisted, nightly performance that guaranteed food, water, and maybe a warm towel to sleep on if they’d made him orgasm hard enough.
They still hated him. But they feared the hunger more.
Marcus would sometimes dangle them over his cock by their ankles, letting them “drop into the ring” like professional wrestlers before the bell. He added little LED lights around the mattress. He called it the Arena.
> “Let’s get ready to tumble, girls,” he’d whisper, stroking himself slowly.
And tumble they did.
Ebonee and Chantae—two former gym queens—now existed solely to grapple, choke, squeeze, and massage Marcus’s cock and balls every night. And no matter how much they hated him… their bodies still remembered how to perform.
Even when their dignity didn’t.
They screamed. They pounded at the glass walls. They cursed Marcus from the shadows of his bedroom shelf, voices like insects to him. He let them rage for a day. Maybe two. No food. No water. Just the oppressive presence of his looming body every few hours, when he'd open the terrarium lid and watch. Shirtless. Smirking. Knowing exactly what would come next.
By night three, hunger gnawed at their guts. Their muscles, once cut from discipline and protein shakes, now trembled from dehydration. Ebonee’s lips cracked. Chantae’s knees buckled. When Marcus’s hand returned, they didn’t run. They stared.
And then, he said the words that rewrote their lives:
> “Earn your meals. Wrestle my cock tonight.”
He placed them on his bed—his giant, body-warmed kingdom. The mattress bounced with every step he took. His thick erection pulsed upward from a nest of trimmed pubes, his balls heavy and relaxed like sleeping beasts.
“Get to it,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head.
Ebonee looked at Chantae. A glance of shame. Of fury. Of resignation.
Then they moved.
They began to climb.
---
The Ritual Begins
Each night, Marcus brought them out. Each night, they performed. It had become routine. But it was never easy.
Ebonee took the left testicle—her assigned “opponent.” Chantae took the right. They’d scale it like a moving hill, the scent of sweat, musk, and power soaking into their tiny bodies. They learned how to press their feet into the loose skin and use their full strength to roll and knead it like a gladiator warming up her prey.
Sometimes it bounced. Sometimes it tensed. And sometimes, it smacked them back down to the sheets like a punishing counterattack. But they got back up.
They always got back up.
Marcus would moan above them, eyes half-lidded, body barely moving except for the rise and fall of his breath and the twitch of his cock. He called them his wrestling girls. Sometimes he even provided commentary.
> “And Chantae's got him in a squeeze! Look at that grip on the shaft... Ohhh, but Ebonee’s going for the tip—she’s climbing! What a move!”
The shaft loomed between them like a god’s column. Ebonee was the first to wrap her arms around it one night, hugging it with all her might, pretending it was just a training pole at the gym. She tried to choke it, strangle it, fight it—but it only pulsed harder, hotter, stronger.
Then came the inevitable.
The twitch.
The tightening.
The flood.
He came like a storm over both women, blasting them back across the sheets, coating their bodies in thick, white strands. Their cries were muffled in the aftermath, buried under the warm stink of submission.
And then... dinner.
---
They Knew Their Place Now
By week two, they had stopped resisting. Not because their minds had broken—yet—but because it was survival. A job. A twisted, nightly performance that guaranteed food, water, and maybe a warm towel to sleep on if they’d made him orgasm hard enough.
They still hated him. But they feared the hunger more.
Marcus would sometimes dangle them over his cock by their ankles, letting them “drop into the ring” like professional wrestlers before the bell. He added little LED lights around the mattress. He called it the Arena.
> “Let’s get ready to tumble, girls,” he’d whisper, stroking himself slowly.
And tumble they did.
Ebonee and Chantae—two former gym queens—now existed solely to grapple, choke, squeeze, and massage Marcus’s cock and balls every night. And no matter how much they hated him… their bodies still remembered how to perform.
Even when their dignity didn’t.
-
Weavelg0d
- Shrink Adept
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Thu Dec 31, 2020 12:01 am
Re: His tiny wrestling slaves!
The sheets were already slick with sweat.
Moonlight bled in through half-closed blinds, striping Marcus’s bare chest in silver bands as he lay sprawled across his bed. His breaths came slow and deep, chest rising like waves, arms stretched lazily at his sides like a man floating on calm water. He barely twitched—except down below, where the war was raging.
Ebonee had locked in her position on his balls—feet wide for stability, hands digging into the soft, tensing skin. Each testicle moved like a living thing under her, twitching and pulsing with heat. She clung to the left one, riding it with all her strength, pressing her whole body into its side and pounding it like a heavy bag. It bounced, rolled, but she stayed on—sweat dripping down her spine, legs flexed like ropes. Every move counted. Every strike was a message.
She gritted her teeth. “You like that, huh? You fucking like that?”
But higher up… Chantae was the real show tonight.
Perched on the swollen ridge of Marcus’s cockhead, her thighs wrapped tight around the girth, she had both arms locked around the engorged rim like it was a beast’s neck. Her fingers dug into the taut skin just under the slit, pulling, squeezing, choking the tip like she could make it submit. Her whole body flexed, her muscles straining under the dim bedroom light. Her moans mixed with grunts, each squeeze more desperate than the last.
She didn’t even glance at Ebonee. This was personal.
> “Come on, you bastard,” she hissed. “Let’s see how much you can take.”
---
The Camera Pans Up
It was like a movie.
The invisible camera rose slowly—up the glistening, pulsing shaft, past the battlefield of Marcus’s pelvis, up across his tense stomach, where each breath made his abs twitch. Higher, across his chest, broad and glowing with heat… until it reached his face.
Bliss.
His eyes were shut, long lashes brushing his cheeks. His mouth hung open slightly, lips parted just enough to let out the low, rumbling moan that vibrated through his body and down into the mattress. His nostrils flared as he exhaled, and his jaw tensed faintly with every squeeze, every punch, every little touch from the tiny warriors battling below.
He wasn’t watching. He didn’t need to. He felt everything.
The chokehold on his cockhead, the body slams to his balls—it all played like symphony notes across his nerves, composing a song of power, ownership, and pleasure that crescendoed with each passing second.
> “Unh…” he breathed, soft but primal. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop…”
---
Down Below
Ebonee redoubled her assault, wrapping her whole body around the tightening ball, digging her elbow into a vein. Chantae lifted her body up and dropped it again around the head, jarring a twitch so strong it nearly launched her into the air.
The moan from above deepened.
The flesh beneath them pulsed, surged, tensed like a wave about to break.
And still they clung on.
Still they fought.
Not for him.
Not for pleasure.
But for survival.
And the cruel, mocking rhythm of their nightly purpose.
Moonlight bled in through half-closed blinds, striping Marcus’s bare chest in silver bands as he lay sprawled across his bed. His breaths came slow and deep, chest rising like waves, arms stretched lazily at his sides like a man floating on calm water. He barely twitched—except down below, where the war was raging.
Ebonee had locked in her position on his balls—feet wide for stability, hands digging into the soft, tensing skin. Each testicle moved like a living thing under her, twitching and pulsing with heat. She clung to the left one, riding it with all her strength, pressing her whole body into its side and pounding it like a heavy bag. It bounced, rolled, but she stayed on—sweat dripping down her spine, legs flexed like ropes. Every move counted. Every strike was a message.
She gritted her teeth. “You like that, huh? You fucking like that?”
But higher up… Chantae was the real show tonight.
Perched on the swollen ridge of Marcus’s cockhead, her thighs wrapped tight around the girth, she had both arms locked around the engorged rim like it was a beast’s neck. Her fingers dug into the taut skin just under the slit, pulling, squeezing, choking the tip like she could make it submit. Her whole body flexed, her muscles straining under the dim bedroom light. Her moans mixed with grunts, each squeeze more desperate than the last.
She didn’t even glance at Ebonee. This was personal.
> “Come on, you bastard,” she hissed. “Let’s see how much you can take.”
---
The Camera Pans Up
It was like a movie.
The invisible camera rose slowly—up the glistening, pulsing shaft, past the battlefield of Marcus’s pelvis, up across his tense stomach, where each breath made his abs twitch. Higher, across his chest, broad and glowing with heat… until it reached his face.
Bliss.
His eyes were shut, long lashes brushing his cheeks. His mouth hung open slightly, lips parted just enough to let out the low, rumbling moan that vibrated through his body and down into the mattress. His nostrils flared as he exhaled, and his jaw tensed faintly with every squeeze, every punch, every little touch from the tiny warriors battling below.
He wasn’t watching. He didn’t need to. He felt everything.
The chokehold on his cockhead, the body slams to his balls—it all played like symphony notes across his nerves, composing a song of power, ownership, and pleasure that crescendoed with each passing second.
> “Unh…” he breathed, soft but primal. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop…”
---
Down Below
Ebonee redoubled her assault, wrapping her whole body around the tightening ball, digging her elbow into a vein. Chantae lifted her body up and dropped it again around the head, jarring a twitch so strong it nearly launched her into the air.
The moan from above deepened.
The flesh beneath them pulsed, surged, tensed like a wave about to break.
And still they clung on.
Still they fought.
Not for him.
Not for pleasure.
But for survival.
And the cruel, mocking rhythm of their nightly purpose.
-
Weavelg0d
- Shrink Adept
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Thu Dec 31, 2020 12:01 am
Re: His tiny wrestling slaves!
Time lost all meaning in the Arena.
The hours passed in slow, aching battles. Ebonee and Chantae fought relentlessly—climbing, gripping, squeezing, slamming. The skin beneath them grew hotter, sweatier, the veins thicker and more volatile with every pulse. Marcus had moaned at first, his breaths heavy, deep, worshipful.
But now…
He snored.
A deep, rhythmic snrrrrhhk vibrated through the room like a machine on idle. His head tilted to the side, lips parted just enough to let the air whistle out in soft gusts. The giant had dozed off in pure bliss, lost in the afterglow of domination, barely aware of the two tiny, exhausted women collapsed on him.
Ebonee slid down the shaft slowly, sweat coating her from head to toe, her thighs trembling. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she staggered to where Chantae already sat—right atop Marcus’s left testicle, cross-legged and glazed in a mix of sweat and dried pre-cum.
They said nothing.
There were no more insults. No curses. No bitter stares.
Just survival.
Chantae leaned back on her hands, sighing. "I swear to God, my arms feel like rubber bands."
Ebonee laughed weakly. “If God cared, we wouldn’t be furniture.”
The air grew still.
The only sound now was Marcus’s snoring and the dull thump of his heartbeat under their feet. His balls rose and fell slightly with each breath—pillowy, living platforms beneath them. For a moment, it almost felt… still.
And then, it happened.
---
The Rumble
GGRRRGGGHHHHHHHH.
A long, guttural gurgle echoed beneath them—from deep inside Marcus’s vast, slumbering stomach. The kind of noise a beast makes when waking. Ebonee sat upright.
“…What the hell was that?”
Another rumble, sharper this time. A shift of muscle. A roll of gas.
Chantae’s eyes widened.
“Oh no.”
Too late.
BRRRRRRROOOOOTTTTTPPPPHHHH!!!
The fart erupted beneath them like a bomb. The heat was instant. The blast of warm, sulfurous wind lifted both women a full inch off his scrotum before they crashed back down, coughing, gagging, clutching their noses as the awful stench surrounded them like a smothering fog.
It wasn’t just the smell—it was the sheer force. The way the flesh beneath them vibrated like a subwoofer. The sound shook the sheets. One of the LED ring lights flickered from the shock.
Marcus didn’t even stir.
Still snoring. Still grinning.
Chantae was doubled over, gasping. “This motherfucker just crop-dusted us with a nap fart!”
Ebonee wiped something off her leg. She wasn’t sure what. “He’s turned us into his goddamn butt air fresheners…”
They both sat there in stunned silence, the giant’s body rumbling beneath them like an uncaring engine, letting out a few more soft toots as his belly settled.
> They weren’t warriors tonight.
They weren’t even pets.
They were accessories.
Living furniture.
Too small to matter.
Too strong to break.
Trapped between a cock and a hard place—quite literally.
And somewhere above, in the haze of dreamless slumber, Marcus murmured:
> “Mmm… good girls…”
The hours passed in slow, aching battles. Ebonee and Chantae fought relentlessly—climbing, gripping, squeezing, slamming. The skin beneath them grew hotter, sweatier, the veins thicker and more volatile with every pulse. Marcus had moaned at first, his breaths heavy, deep, worshipful.
But now…
He snored.
A deep, rhythmic snrrrrhhk vibrated through the room like a machine on idle. His head tilted to the side, lips parted just enough to let the air whistle out in soft gusts. The giant had dozed off in pure bliss, lost in the afterglow of domination, barely aware of the two tiny, exhausted women collapsed on him.
Ebonee slid down the shaft slowly, sweat coating her from head to toe, her thighs trembling. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she staggered to where Chantae already sat—right atop Marcus’s left testicle, cross-legged and glazed in a mix of sweat and dried pre-cum.
They said nothing.
There were no more insults. No curses. No bitter stares.
Just survival.
Chantae leaned back on her hands, sighing. "I swear to God, my arms feel like rubber bands."
Ebonee laughed weakly. “If God cared, we wouldn’t be furniture.”
The air grew still.
The only sound now was Marcus’s snoring and the dull thump of his heartbeat under their feet. His balls rose and fell slightly with each breath—pillowy, living platforms beneath them. For a moment, it almost felt… still.
And then, it happened.
---
The Rumble
GGRRRGGGHHHHHHHH.
A long, guttural gurgle echoed beneath them—from deep inside Marcus’s vast, slumbering stomach. The kind of noise a beast makes when waking. Ebonee sat upright.
“…What the hell was that?”
Another rumble, sharper this time. A shift of muscle. A roll of gas.
Chantae’s eyes widened.
“Oh no.”
Too late.
BRRRRRRROOOOOTTTTTPPPPHHHH!!!
The fart erupted beneath them like a bomb. The heat was instant. The blast of warm, sulfurous wind lifted both women a full inch off his scrotum before they crashed back down, coughing, gagging, clutching their noses as the awful stench surrounded them like a smothering fog.
It wasn’t just the smell—it was the sheer force. The way the flesh beneath them vibrated like a subwoofer. The sound shook the sheets. One of the LED ring lights flickered from the shock.
Marcus didn’t even stir.
Still snoring. Still grinning.
Chantae was doubled over, gasping. “This motherfucker just crop-dusted us with a nap fart!”
Ebonee wiped something off her leg. She wasn’t sure what. “He’s turned us into his goddamn butt air fresheners…”
They both sat there in stunned silence, the giant’s body rumbling beneath them like an uncaring engine, letting out a few more soft toots as his belly settled.
> They weren’t warriors tonight.
They weren’t even pets.
They were accessories.
Living furniture.
Too small to matter.
Too strong to break.
Trapped between a cock and a hard place—quite literally.
And somewhere above, in the haze of dreamless slumber, Marcus murmured:
> “Mmm… good girls…”