Nouveau Riche by D.X. Machina Chapter One A Gentleman’s Wager "A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you're talking real money." --Sen. Everett Dirksen (R-IL) Sir George Anderson wanted for nothing. Since taking Virtua Records from a tiny independent label in Manchester to one of the largest media companies in the world, Sir George had everything he had ever wanted, everything he'd ever desired. And he had a sense of humour (he would insist on the u--bloody Americans with their bastardized English--uncivilized, to be sure) that was unparalleled in the community of the super-rich. So when he made the acquaintence of Greg Fletcher, the too-brash heir to the Fletcher Hotel fortune, he knew he would have to have some fun. Greg Fletcher was the son of a hotelier, and he had long ago given up trying to be anything but a professional heir. Oh, he was on the board of Interhostel, but he didn't care about the business. That was for others to worry about. No, Fletcher had two passions. One was doing anything and evertything to get into the public eye. At the age of twenty-three, he had already appeared on a reality show, three documentaries, and Saturday Night Live. That those appearances drove many high-grade women his way was a nice side benefit. His second passion was gambling. Fletcher's competitive streak was overdeveloped even for a billionaire. He would wager on anything and anything. Any competition, any event. It was his greatest passion--higher than love, higher than fame, higher even than money. It was said that he had wagered a cool eight million on one hand of blackjack, lost, and anted up another ten–and won. It was winning that drove Greg Fletcher. So when Sir George came across the things he came across (thanks to a starlet who knew a person who knew a person, the sort of ways these things come to be found), he knew he would have to see just how far he could drive Greg, the soft, callow, playboy heir to a fortune that he seemed content to fritter away. Sir George would be surprised. * * * "A billion dollars?" "Yes, Mr. Fletcher. If you succeed in reaching the designated suite in the Bellagio within ten days, you get one billion dollars. And if you lose, I get one million. Good odds, those." The two had crossed paths again at a gala fundraiser in New York City, the kind of event you went to if you were a billionaire committed to finding tax shelters. They were in Sir George's Manhattan apartment, if one can call a 7900 sqare foot luxury flat with eight bedrooms and a staff of fourteen an "apartment." Fletcher frowned. It seemed too easy. He would be drugged and dropped at one of his North American hotels, without money, and he had to make it to Las Vegas within a week and a half. No stipulations, other than that he could not use anything he already owned–including his own identity–and that Sir George could try to thwart him along the way. It wouldn't be simple, mind you. But a billion dollar wager at 1000:1 odds? How could he pass that up? "All right, Sir George. You have yourself a deal. We start when?" "With your permission, within the hour." Anderson smiled. This was going to be fun. * * * The vest had a transponder and a camera, and some other equipment that he wasn't sure about. "Are you sure all this is necessary?" George smiled, and said simply, "Quite sure, Mr. Fletcher. Now, as we agreed, you'll be sedated for about eight hours. You should awake tomorrow at ten in the morning, in the bed of one of your hotels in the United States. From there, you have ten days to make it to Las Vegas. You can ask for help, but you must deny your identity and your fortune--you can only admit to being in need of assistance and without cash. Do we have a deal?" Greg smiled, envisioning the ways he could convince some girls to help him. He wasn't without looks. Sure, the money helped, but being described as a young Robert Redford didn't hurt. "Deal, Sir George. Let's make this happen." "One last thing--you understand that I have placed some impediments on the road to your success?" "It's in the contract, isn't it? Let's go!" "Very well," said Sir George. "Let us begin." * * * If the afternoon clerk at the nondescript FletcherInn thought anything was amiss, she didn’t show it. “You want to rent the President’s suite, and then give it away?” she asked, her voice showing very little in the way of caring what the two men wanted. “Yes, miss. It’s a special promotion from Interhostel--we’re actually testing the promotion here. In a few months we’ll roll it out nationwide. Ad campaign, celebrity endorser–we’ve booked Keanu Reeves.” “Whatever. So why are you paying in cash?” The man smiled. “Don’t want the competition getting wind of this, now do we? At any rate, we just have to go in, put the gift basket in place and then we’ll be on our way–after we check the guest list, of course.” The woman looked up at that. “Why the guest list?” “Why, to pick the winner of course. Now let’s see....” The man slid behind the counter and scrolled through the list of names on the terminal. Presently, he came to the lucky winners. “Yes. Those are our winners,” he said with a big smile. “Mr. Fletcher will be quite pleased with them.” * * * Greg awoke fitfully, the effects of the sedative still working on his system. Disoriented, he sat up and swore under his breath. “Man, my head must not be clear yet,” he muttered, shaking the cobwebs out of his fuzzy mind. He remembered everything, but awakening was slow. Greg blinked, and blinked again. And slowly, his mind cleared. He looked around what appeared to be an alien landscape. He was on a rolling plain of red and blue curlicues that seemed to run off to the edge of the world, which seemed to be about a half-mile or so distant. Behind him, the same plain rose up into good-sized hills, bracketed by a sea of beige. Greg looked at the landscape for almost a full minute before it dawned on him that he had stumbled upon an impediment. “Fuck!” he cried, and then nothing more. * * * Meanwhile, on a highway leading into town, a blue Ford Expedition lumbered down the road, headlights on, heading for a hotel at last. * * * It was another minute, maybe two, before the vest started speaking. “Hello Greg,” came the clipped voice of Sir George. “I’m sorry to surprise you like this, but I thought it more enjoyable than simply telling you what was going to happen in advance.” “What the hell is going on, George?” said Greg, or he tried to, but the vest kept speaking. “Don’t bother replying. This is only a recording. If all has gone to plan you are about three millimeters in height. Yes, Gregory, this is the twist in our bet, the impediment you let me add. To this, let me add another: your height is not stable. “During the next week, your height will vary between one millimeter and one decimeter. The vest will give you ten minutes’ warning before the change happens. It will not, I’m afraid, tell you what the new height will be–so you may want to get out of a confined space before you get trapped. Don’t worry, Greg. See the red button on the vest?” Greg looked down and confirmed its existence. “It’s a transporter. Press the button and you are whisked out of trouble–but of course, you also lose the bet. “At any rate, you have ten days to meet me in Las Vegas. Good luck Greg. And good night.” Greg looked around the room, despondent. He had no idea how to even get out of this room, much less get–well, he had no idea how far away Las Vegas could be, or what direction he needed to go. But he would have to chance it. He just wished he remembered how long a decimeter was. * * * Four hours after their initial arrival, the gentlemen who had placed Greg successfully into the room greeted the big winners. “We’re trying this out as a promotion,” said the bald one. “Please fill out a comment card to let us know if you’re satisfied, and what we at Fletcher can do differently.” The woman looked at him. “You’re sure we just get the President’s suite? For free?” “On us. How long will you be in town?” “Just the night.” The brown-haired man handed her $500. “Well, then, use this at your next hotel.” The woman beamed. “It’ll be a FletcherInn, you’d better believe it!” “That’s what we wanted to hear,” said the bald man. The woman then turned to the others in her party and excitedly shared the news. * * * Greg was staring down into infinity. Well, maybe not infinity, but a long, long way. At least a third of a mile, give or take a bit. Shrugging, he started looking for the clearest path down. He couldn’t just hang out on the bed all day. He might as well just press the button, get it over with. Suddenly, there was a clicking sound from a long distance away. Greg froze, and looked up. He searched the room for a door, but the door was already open. He exhaled quickly panic rising, until he realized that this was a suite. He was in one of the bedrooms off of a common area. . Damn, my nerves are playing tricks on me. Think, Greg. Calm down. It was about two seconds later when the girl appeared. “LOOK AT THIS BED!” the voice thundered, and Greg fell backward. She was enormous. Titanic. Immense. She–mere adjectives didn’t do it justice. She was over half a mile tall. Greg looked at the hem of her pink shorts, and up at the white t-shirt with “Princess” spelled out in glittery green. He stared at the “Princess, and that’s when he really started to panic. For the “Princess” went across the girl’s chest. A chest that did not swell, not even a little bit. He stared up at the face of the girl. The little girl. She couldn’t be older than eight or nine. Her smile showed off braces, her cheeks were filled with freckles the size of his hand. He struggled to see that high, but her face was plenty big enough that he still could take it in. “Oh, please, don’t jump on the bed!” he shouted, praying as hard as he could. “NOW MEGHAN, THIS IS YOUR DAD’S AND MY ROOM. YOU AND MOLLY HAVE THE ROOM WITH THE TWO BEDS.” Greg exhaled, and then boggled again. Standing in the door was an even more immense figure, this one almost two-thirds of a mile tall. She was a bit older–early thirties, perhaps, with faded jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, and a chest that most assuredly did swell. “Oh my God,” he whispered. It was the girl’s mother. * * * Sarah Michaels sighed as her daughter Meghan left the room. “Thank God,” she murmured in a most un-motherly display. She loved her daughters, and her husband, but she didn’t love being with her daughters twenty-four hours a day for the past four days. She couldn’t blame anyone. It’d been her idea to take a car trip from Des Moines to Washington. And it was her idea to swing by Lancaster. Lucky that they’d won this suite, though; she was about to burst with frustration. Absently, she tossed her carry-on bag onto the bed, and began to unpack her stuff for the night–nightshirt, toothbrush, contact lens solution. As she dug through the bag, a little smirk crossed her face. Yes, she thought; if any night would give her opportunity for the black lace undies, this would. Wantonly, she tossed them onto the bed too. * * * Greg dove as the enormous bag passed over him like a starship, lifting him slightly off the bed before it slammed down, creating an earthquake unlike anything he had ever experienced. He bounced a dozen feet up in the air before landing. He was stunned, mostly at the fact that he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even hurt. He watched the woman unloading her bag, and realized immediately that his cause was hopeless. She was so–fucking–big. There was no way he could possibly make it in a world with people that big! He was no more than an insect. A small one. He was doomed. But as he watched her drop a house-sized contact lens container out of the bag, his mood changed. The bet let him get help, as long as he didn’t advertise who he was. Yes...yes, that was it! He just had to get the woman’s attention, tell her that he’d been shrunk against his will (true), and that the mad shrinker had told him he had to get to Las Vegas in ten days–and that he didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t (also true). She’d have to help him! She was a mom, after all. (A MILF, he thought, though he put the thought out of his mind quickly. Oh, who was he kidding–no, he didn’t.) He started to run to the container. She’d certainly be looking at it–he could get her attention! He didn’t see her pull out the panties until she was dropping them on top of him. * * * Humming softly, Sara gathered her things under one arm. “Dan, I’m going to take a quick shower. Can you handle the girls?” “Sure, hon,” her hubby replied. “See if you can get them to bed soon, honey. I think you could use a night in bed.” She smiled seductively at her husband. He smiled slightly, catching the hint. “All right, rascals, time to start getting ready for bed.” Sarah turned on the water and tossed her nightshirt and panties onto the counter. She took her contacts out quickly, and dove in. She wet down her long, brown hair and washed the day of sitting in traffic off her body. She idly let the water run over her pubic mound for a moment, feeling the warm bubbly feeling that she knew her husband would soon be amplifying. Before she got too far, though, she finished the shower and toweled off. She pulled the lacy black thong on, and paused to admire herself in the mirror. Not bad for a 33-year-old who had given birth to two girls. Not bad at all. As she looked herself over, a different bubbly feeling started. One she’d never felt before. “Maybe that’s what a day on the road does,” she muttered, smiling. She pulled on her night shirt and returned to the bedroom. She hoped Dan would hurry up and get the girls to bed. * * * Greg realized the instant the dark canopy dropped on him that he was in trouble. Within seconds, the canopy was collapsing around him. His first thought was that it was a kleenex, that the woman had thought him some sort of insect and was trying to kill him. “No, God, No! Please! I’m a person!” he cried, and started towards the button, when suddenly the world rose up, and he was moving quickly. There was thunderous conversation which he barely understood. Something about a shower, and the girls. Then they were off to...somewhere. He didn’t know where. The pile of whatnot was suddenly dropped, and Greg fell through the web of black fibers into a netting. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked, wearily. He started to struggle for a moment, before giving up. He could tell he was almost dead-center in a ball of fabric. There was no way he could figure out the best way out of here. Instead, he waited for a few minutes, debating whether or not to end this now. He was a multi-millionaire. A million out of his pocket wouldn’t bankrupt him. Then again, he still had a shot, if he could just get this woman’s attention. He resolved to stay put. Whatever the hell he was encased in had to have been brought in for a reason. He’d wait for her to unball him and then he’d get her attention. It had to work. A few minutes later, the tomb was lifted and pulled apart, and suddenly began to drop. “Hey, look down–oh, shit!” he cried, as the fabric was moving downward at a rapid clip. He clung to it, trying not to become dislodged. Then, the fabric reached the ground, and Greg stared upwards. He was looking up two more-than-skyscraper length legs, at the suddenly-rapidly-approaching crotch of the woman. He didn’t even have time to register as the woman hiked the panties quickly up, pushing Greg right up against her neatly-trimmed womanhood. Greg was trapped between the netting of the lace and the thick, relatively short hairs of her bush, his left arm leaning up against the left lip of her labia, and her scent everywhere. “Oh my God,” he whispered, in awe of his situation. He’d been in a girl’s panties before, but never this way. Carefully, trying not to get a rise out of her, he pulled himself rightward so he would face her slit. He didn’t know why; he just knew it seemed to make the most sense of any move he could make. Carefully, he rubbed his tiny hands over her giant lips, and felt an almost imperceptible shudder. “Wow,” he whispered, his predicament playing second-fiddle to the incredible circumstance he found himself in. He was touching a goddess’s vagina. He was in heaven. Carefully, he tried to pull himself upward. He had a destination in mind. He wanted to see what it looked like at his size. * * * The girls were in bed, and Dan and Sara were back in their room, with the door closed. And locked. They locked lips, like they did too rarely lately, like they had done when they were first dating in college. Sarah felt his rough hands sliding down her back, working down to remove her nightshirt. Good, she thought, he’ll like what he finds underneath there. Slowly Dan lifted the shirt above his wife’s head. He regarded his spouse, and her lacy black panties, and smiled. “Oh, honey, that’s a great present,” he said, easing her back onto the bed. As he did, Sara bit her lip. Panties must be rubbing my clit, she thought, loving the feeling of it. Dan wanted to neck a little before he got down to business–always did, truthfully. Take your time, she thought. * * * It was huge, pulsing and alive. Greg was unaware of anything but its size–bigger than he was, for God’s sake! He reached out to touch it, and the world shuddered. He touched it again, and suddenly, the world dropped backwards. He touched it again, and then started to kiss and caress it. And then to hump it. It felt amazing. He wondered if this would get the woman’s attention, and then suddenly stopped short. The woman. He’d almost forgotten. He wondered what had come over him. Maybe it was the pheremones. He was so small–they’d overwhelmed his system. He could barely think straight. But what if she found him down here? Surely she wouldn’t take kindly to it. She’d probably flush him down a toilet, if he was lucky. He started to think he had to leave, and quickly, when it became apparent that he wasn’t alone anymore. The sky above was suddenly opened up, and the hand of a man appeared, yanking the panties away. Oh no, thought Greg, as he saw the man’s growing member above him. Oh, Hell no. * * * Dan was maneuvering for the coup de grace. He wouldn’t ordinarily; usually he would work on Sara’s nether regions a bit. But she had told him forcefully that she wanted him now, and what man didn’t want to take his partner now? So he was kissing and caressing her, and she was spreading herself wide, and then, without warning, he slid himself inside of her. * * * Greg watched in horror as the ground started to part. “No! No! I’m down...” but he didn’t finish the sentence. The woman had spread her lips enough to take in a three-millimeter-tall man, and take him in she did. He fell into a soupy mess of vaginal fluid, and he was aghast as a train-sized cock joined him. The next three minutes Greg was never quite sure of. He was sliding deeper and deeper into the woman as her husband pushed himself inside of her, until he came to a spot deep in the recesses of her vagina that her husband was not quite big enough to reach. This was no better, though, as a torrential downpour of come was raining down above him. Then, just as he thought he would drown in the woman’s juices, the man came, shooting gallons of thick gelatinous goo into Greg’s world. He coughed and sputtered, and kept searching for elusive air pockets. Occasionally, he’d find them, before being pulled under. Finally–blissfully–the man withdrew, and Greg found himself pulled along by suction with a river of various secretions, until he came tumbling out of the vaginal canal of the woman, landing in a foot-deep puddle on the bed. “Never slept in the wet spot before,” he muttered, looking at the incredible vista created by the woman’s thighs leading into her still-moist womanhood. Far above him, thunderous whispers told him the couple was heading for sleep. For his part, Greg knew he had to get out of there. He had nearly died. He had to get to safety, and contemplate his next move. His opportunity came quicker than he’d expected. The man left, and returned with a towel. Greg screamed as the towel descended, blotting up the sticky mess. But as the towel and Greg were tossed into a corner, he realized it was for the best. He was on the floor. He could find his way into the woman’s bag, and then wait until they got to the airport. He’d find a plane to Vegas, and sneak aboard. Indeed, though it took him almost until the morning to secure himself in the woman’s travel bag, he thought it was worth it. He’d be in Vegas within a day. He probably would’ve been more concerned had he known the family was traveling by car. Better he didn’t know. He slept better that night, slept so soundly that he didn’t even wake when the bag was tossed into the back of the car. He needed the rest. The hard part was coming soon.