"For what doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul?"

                                                    --Matthew 16:26

"When you come to a fork in the road, take it." 

                                                    --Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra, American Philosopher (1925- )

One

Brenton Eld fished out his key from his left pocket with a trembling hand, and carefully fit it into the lock on the door. He jiggled it, shifted it slightly, then turned it. He quickly grabbed the door knob with his other hand and opened it, moving quickly into the small studio apartment that was his home. Closing the door behind him, he bolted the door shut, switched on the light, and sighed with relief. Safe. He was safe.

"Safe? Is that what you think?"

Brenton dropped the keys. He knew the voice; it fit in that hollow spot of his soul just as the key fit the tumblers in the lock. 

"I've taken precautions," he said, not daring to turn to the kitchen, to the one he feared more than anyone. The one he should fear more than anyone.

"Oh, Brenton. Do you really believe that you have?"

"I've washed the walls with Holy Water. There's a crucifix watching over the apartment. I've --"

"A crucifix?" The voice was mirthful, mocking. "I'm not a vampire, Brenton."

"I know," he whispered.

"Did you hang up garlic? Maybe buy some silver bullets? Come now. Do you really think that these...precautions...will protect you from Me?"

"No," Brenton replied, as a single tear tracked down his cheek.

"Good. You have disappointed Me enough, Brenton. At least you do not underestimate Me."

"I would never underestimate you."

"Excellent. Look at me, Brenton."

Brenton Eid finally allowed himself to turn toward the kitchen, where He stood, calmly, hands on his hips, foot tapping impatiently. He was dashingly handsome, a tall, thin man with a ruddy complexion and a neatly-trimmed goatee, a red rose in the lapel of his black pinstripe suit. 

"Lord Satan, I --"

"Now is not the time for explanations, Brenton. You failed Me. You know it, and I know it. We hada deal."

"Yes, I know, but  --"

"I would allow you to live, and you would corrupt someone."

"It's not that I haven't been trying, but --"

"And yet eighteen months later, what have you done? Lost the girl you told Me you had to live for. Lost the fortune you swore you were days away from making. Lost everything -- and yet, you still have not turned anyone toward Me. You haven't even tried."

"Please, Lord Satan, give me more time, I just need to --"

"If you were actively trying, I'd forgive you. I am very patient. Oh yes -- I am. But you come here at the end of each day and hide in the shadows, as if you can ignore our little bargain. And you cannot, Brenton. You exist at My pleasure; I can end your existence at any moment. And I will, you know. I will end it today."

"Please, Lord Satan. Not the Pit. Not yet. I can turn someone, I swear it."

"It is only because you know someone who is wavering that I come here today," Satan said, calmly. "And so here is your mark: Tom Lane. You know him well, don't you."

Brenton knew his jaw had dropped. When he picked it up, he said, "Lord, not Tom. Don't...don't make me corrupt Tom."

"I don't make you do anything, Brenton. If you do not wish to corrupt Tom, you do not have to. I can end this as easy as switching off that light; say the word, and we go back to the Pit -- and Tom is safe. It's your choice."

Brenton looked at the Prince of Lies, and bowed his head.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Shaitan Lucifer Iblis smiled his most winning smile. He gave Brenton his choice. And Brenton, he had chosen poorly.

"Just one little thing," Satan said. "Just one little thing."

*  *  *

At the precise moment that Satan was explaining his plan to Brenton, Tom was across town in the back row of an aging, mid-sized lecture hall at a small local college.

It wasn't a required course or anything; Tom had been out of college for five years, and had no desire to return any time soon. No, he was attending the lecture for strictly personal reasons. The topic being presented fascinated him. 

"White's Disease manifests itself differently in almost every victim," said the lecturer, an oncologist with a slight Hyderabadi accent. "Sometimes it comes on slowly, sometimes fast. Sometimes its effects are permanent, sometimes they abate. There is no clear vector of infection, no clear mechanism by which the disease progresses. We have only tantalizing clues that raise far more questions than they answer."

He took notes; he was hardly the only layperson in the room. White's Disease was viewed theway AIDS once had been -- a terrifying prospect, one that could kill with no warning. Most peoplecame to university lectures like this to try to find ways to prevent infection.

Most people did. Tom was not one of them.

"As best we can tell, when molecules enter the body of a patient, they shatter, or split, intomolecules of an equivalent mass, molecules that the patient can process as food or air. When molecules pass out of the person through waste products, they come back together into molecules of the proper size. It is as if in vivo the victims are literally in a parallel world, where physics behave differently. But how that could be, we have no clue."

"They wouldn't," said a mellifluous voice to his left.

Tom started, and turned, and looked into the big brown eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could swear she hadn't been sitting there, in the cramped seat right next to him, just a few moments before; he could not possibly have failed to notice her.

"Hello, Tom," she said, smiling coquettishly. "Enjoying the lecture?"

"How...how do you know my name?" he asked.

"I know quite a bit about you. Most of all, I know why you're here," she whispered, leaning in close. She smelled delicious, exotic, a sweet, musky scent that Tom felt like he should recognize.

His very soul vibrated as if plucked by a master guitarist. He felt about eleven years old, talking to a high school cheerleader; he felt about eighty, talking to his beloved wife of sixty years. He would do anything this woman asked. He was hers.

"I want to shrink down," he said, quietly.

"I know, sweetie," she said, softly. "I can make it happen."

His heart leapt. "What must I do?" he asked. It did not occur to him to doubt her. Somehow, he knew that this was no joke, this was no put-on; this was serious as death.

"I will explain," she said, pressing a small stone into his hand.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Aphrodite," she said. "Aphrodite Ourania. Aphrodite Pandemos. Aphrodite Pornos. Aphrodite Praxis."

"Aphrodite Kataskopia. Aphrodite Philommeidês. Aphrodite Symmakhia," breathed Tom. He knew not from where he drew the names, or how they formed on his lips. He only knew that he had vocalized them the same way one might whisper an urgent, desperate prayer.

"Yes," she said, smiling broadly. "I am She."

He knew She told the truth, knew She was the Goddess of Love. How that was possible he neither knew nor cared to know; he was too deep into ecstasy. . 

"Tell me, Iridescent-throned Aphrodite, deathless child of Zeus, wile-weaver, why have You come to help me?"

"You have the chance," she said, "to use this for a good purpose. I am here to give you the chance to do so."

He looked at the stone in his hand. It glowed white, as bright as a spotlight. "How does it work?"he asked.

"Like thought. You simply hold it, and envision your size. It will take you anywhere from six inches tall down to one-sixth of an inch. Or it will return you to normal. You may use it until its power is gone; it will fade, and then change to yellow, then orange, then red; when it reaches red, youhave two more transformations left. There is more to it; the knowledge is now in your mind."

And it was. Exactly how to hold it, exactly how to ask to change size, exactly what the different shades of color meant, everything he could need to know, save for one thing.

"How many changes to I get?"

"Well, that depends. It can be recharged. But I cannot tell you how; you will have to discover that for yourself."

Tom turned the stone over in his hand, examining it carefully. It was a miracle. He knew it would work, knew it like he knew that the Earth held him to the ground.

He had been blessed. 

"You've given me all I ever wanted. How can I ever repay you?"

"Choose well, Tom," said Aphrodite, deadly serious. "This can take you down a most wonderful path, or the path of destruction. I can give you the tool; you must wield it."

Tom nodded, dumbly.

"Now," she said, smiling, "I know that you're going to want to talk to a friend in a few minutes, and then, sooner than you can imagine, you will use this. Choose well, Tom. Choose well."

And with that, Aphrodite left.

Tom turned back to the lecture, not listening. Instead, he sent an urgent text to his best friend. He needed to talk to Brent. Grab a beer, see what he thought. Because he knew what he wanted to do -- but he was terrified at the prospect of doing it. Brent would help him think it through. He always had before.

*  *  *

Satan had left, not moments before Tom sent his text. Brenton read it with dread. He didn't want to help Satan out, didn't want to help guide Tom wrong. Now, what Satan had asked Brent to do was nothing overtly terrible; he was just to steer Tom down a path. But it wouldn't be for the best, not if the Prince of Lies wanted it.

Then again, Tom knew that if he didn't, Satan would claim his soul. He did not want to die, and though he knew that Hell awaited him after death, he was in no rush to get there. 

He texted Tom back that he'd meet him at their usual bar, and opened the door.

A woman was standing there, unperturbed and indescribably gorgeous. She looked vaguelyItalian, with long, dark hair and eyes the color of mahogany. She was dressed remarkably immodestly, wearing a wisp of a skirt and a halter-top that barely covered prodigious breasts; around her neck was a simple gold chain with a pendant hanging from it; it appeared to be a trident, but with the center post replaced with an arrow. It nestled into her cleavage in such a waythat it was impossible to pull one's eyes up without considerable effort if one was even remotelyattracted to women, not least because at her considerable height, it was just below Brenton's eye-level.

"Who are you?" Brenton asked, forcing his gaze north to meet hers.

"Voluptas," she said. "And you are Brenton Eld."

"I am. What can I do for you? I'm supposed to be meeting a friend, but, I mean...I could maketime."

She smiled tightly. "I am not here for that, and I could not cleave unto you if I was; you are forfeitto Satan. I cannot violate that."

Brent sighed. "You're an angel?"

"No. I'm the daughter of gods. And Aphrodite's agent in charge of desire for women. And you, Mr.Eld, are about to do something you will regret."

"I already know that. I have to go."

Voluptas did not move.

"Listen, I...I can't go to Hell. I just can't. Not yet. You don't understand."

"I do. I understand that you put your well-being above your friend's."

"It's not like that."

"Oh no? Do you want to see what it will be like if you go to him, and do as Satan told you to?"

She grabbed his wrist. He felt the world start to dissolve. As a new one started to form around him, one in which he would see the damage he would cause, he wrenched his hand away, and pushed the goddess aside. "No," he said, as the world crystalized again. He pushed her aside, and walked out the door, feeling not entirely in control of himself. "I don't want to know."

"You will know," Voluptas said. "You do not have a choice. If I do not tell you, you will find it out on your own, but it will be too late to change things. To late to put it right. I want to help you."

"Leave me alone," said Brenton, as he stormed down the hallway. He had to do this. He had no choice.

*  *  *

It was just a few moments later he found himself in the bar. It felt almost as if he'd cut directly from one scene to the next, but he knew that couldn't be the case; he knew he'd been simply daydreaming as he walked, trying to push the words of Voluptas out of his head. They still rang like an accusation, and echoed in his soul. He knew he would regret this; how could he not? But he also knew that he would delay his eternal torture as long as he could, and if that meant selling Tom out...well, he had to. He had no choice.

Tom was there already, a bit shorter than Brent, a bit thicker, but still reasonably handsome. He waived Brent to a corner table, and Brent ordered his customary martini; Tom already had a glass of scotch. 

The usual pleasantries were exchanged; Brent asked how Tom was doing since he broke upwith Sharon, and Tom asked how Brent's health was doing, as the near-fatal heart attack he'dsuffered had scared everyone. They talked about work and sports and old friends. And before too long, Tom dug out a small, glowing stone, and set it on the table.

"I don't know if you'd believe me if I told you how I got this," Tom said. 

"It's pretty," said Brent. "What is it?" 

"It allows people to change size."

Brent looked up at Tom. "You're kidding. Like, you know, you'd finally have your giant women?"

"Yeah," Tom murmured. He had been embarrassed when Brent found out about that; he'd forgotten to clear the web history on the computer they shared at their apartment. Brent hadbeen good-natured about it, though. Aside from the occasional playful jibe, he treated it like theweird-but-not-particularly-terrible thing it was.

"Somebody went to a lot of trouble to rip you off, you know."

"Nah," said Tom. "It's real. Can't tell you how I know...you wouldn't believe me if I did. But it's totally legit. It will work."

"Well, assuming it is -- isn't it phenomenally dangerous? I mean, it's a weird fantasy and all, but whatever. But if you're mouse-sized, can't you get stepped on? Sat on? Something like that?"

"I can be hurt, but only on purpose," said Tom, soberly. "Again, don't ask me how that makes sense. If someone wants to crush me, she can. But only if she wants to."

"All right," said Brent, who of course knew that Tom was telling the truth. "So...what? Are you going to go down to a locker room, fire it up?"

"No," said Tom, chuckling. "I thought...I know this will sound dumb...but I thought I'd talk to Rose about it."

Rose Russell had been a friend of both Tom's and Brent's since college. She was single these days, and Brent knew that Tom had always carried a torch for her. 

And he also knew that this was where he was to apply his influence -- to keep Tom from talking things over with Rose.

"Rose? Really? Talk to her?" said Brent.

"Yeah. I know...I know she'd probably say no, but --"

"Probably? Yeah, she'll probably say no to 'I know we've been friends a long time, can I shrink and go muff diving?' I think that's a given."

Tom looked up at Brent. "You really think she'd just shoot it down?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, if you had ever worked up the courage to ask her out, it might not be such a surprise. I suppose you could just try dating her normally, see how things go. But you'd have to be patient with that thing. Wait a while. But man, if I'd been given that thing, and I were you, I couldn't."

"Yeah," said Tom, quietly. "You're right."

"Damn right I'm right. What you should do is not ask."

"What?"

"Just show up at her place, shrink down. See her up close and personal. Just to get the edge off.Maybe you let her find you shrunk, say it just happened."

"Yeah," said Tom. "That's not a bad idea."

"She can't say no if you're already there, see? That's your ticket."

"Yeah, you're right," said Tom. "I always kind of liked the voyeurism stuff anyhow."

"There you go," said Brent. He downed the martini, letting it settle sourly in his stomach. Theyexchanged pleasantries for some time longer before Tom headed off. As Brent followed, a good-looking man with a ruddy complexion brushed by him.

"Well done," the man said, and the words felt like ice in Brenton's soul. He'd done as Satan asked. He'd convinced Tom that she shouldn't ask Rose out. He hadn't made Tom choose his path, but he had pointed to it.

He hoped Tom would find happiness. He rather doubted it. But it didn't matter. He'd earned his reprieve, for now.

He'd go home, and go to sleep, and hope against hope that he wouldn't dream. Somehow, he knew he would.

*  *  *

In the dream that he did not want to dream, Brent was watching television, when Tom appeared on it. Brenton was watching Tom walk down the street, looking this way and that, as if he feared being followed or seen.

He walked through the halls of a condo building that Brent recognized; it was Rose's. Tom walked down the hall resolutely but trepidatiously. His mind raced; how would he explain it if Rose happened to run across him? Once he'd snuck into the building (he helped someone with the door; it wasn't hard to finagle), he would have to explain why he didn't ask Rose to buzz him in. And he didn't have a good explanation.

But he would risk it. He was risking everything on this. The chance to see Rose in all herglory...he couldn't pass it up. Part of him still questioned whether this was the best idea; part of him still thought he should go to her, be honest, be up-front about what he wanted. But Brent was right; that would be disastrous. No, if this worked out, he could be with Rose without her even knowing. 

He came to her door. He knew this would be the most difficult part. Looking both ways to ensure the coast was clear, he grasped the stone in his pocket, and thought, "One-sixth of an inch."

There was no sensation to it at all. One moment he was his usual 5'9", the next he was standing on a gray field of uniform gray posts, about half his height and as wide as he. He followed them to a metal rise that towered over him, a brass monolith fifteen feet high and hundreds of feet long. Above it was a twenty-foot tall mass of tangled black sticks, which affixed to a blank wall that stretched out into the heavens, broken only by the house-sized knob that stuck out a dizzying height above him.

Tom swallowed hard, and began walking to the front door of Rose's condo. 

It was a good ten-minute walk to the baseplate, and then another twenty minutes of difficult climbing to reach its summit; fortunately, the plate had been scored and scratched aplenty overthe course of its existence; there were handholds for an insect-sized man to hold onto. But it was no easy task, and by the time he faced the strip along the bottom of her door, he was readyto lie down.

But he didn't. Instead, he pushed forward, through the brambles of the brush that sat underneath the door, to keep the wind and vermin out. It was quite effective; Tom had thought it would be aneasy walk through the fibers, but each one pulled and poked at him, refusing to yield to the tiny man's pushing and prodding. He had to wrap himself around every one along the arduous, one-inch journey.

He was beginning to fear that he was going sideways, that he'd be stuck here until Rose opened the door in the morning, at which time he'd probably be killed. But gradually, light began to appear, and then sound, and then he pushed through, and tumbled down twenty feet to the hard linoleum of her entryway.

He groaned. But he knew it would not be smart to rest here. He rolled over, and sat up. 

The immense entryway was dimly lit by one light from the kitchen. Three pairs of immense objects sat in a more-or-less organized fashion to the left of the door; it took a moment for Tom to register them as shoes, rather than buildings -- a pair of sensible black pumps, a beat-up pair of trainers, and a nice pair of red high heels. For a second, Tom thought about going over to them and climbing in, but he stopped himself; he wasn't taking this crazy risk to waste time on the appetizer, not when the main course was so close by.

He decided to risk possible detection; he grasped the stone and envisioned himself six inches; the largest he could become without growing back to full size. It was risky, but he was throwing caution to the wind at this point; if she found him, she found him. Not that he wanted to be found, of course; it was just that he had already cast the die.

And so he grew, and rushed to the baseboard, and peeked around the corner to get the lay of the land.

She was not in the living room or the kitchen; those rooms were dark and silent. So she was either gone, or she was in her bedroom. 

He slid down the hallway carefully, cautiously. It was late. She was probably asleep. But he was no fool. He waded through the knee-deep carpet, going deeper into the darkness.

He heard the noise as he approached her room, a steady back-and-forth, like a bellows. It was not overwhelming; indeed, had he been larger he knew he would not have heard it, not like this. But he knew what it was; it was Rose.

She was sleeping. 

In the dim light, he looked up at the mesa that was her bed, one that was topped by her outline. She was laying on her side, eyes closed, peaceful. Her blankets had slid a bit down her, just far enough that he could see her enormous, bare right breast.

He swallowed. Hard.

He would have to get up there. He would have to find a way.

It wasn't much later that he finished climbing the bedspread on the far side of the bed. Even from here, he could feel the heat she radiated. The bed was full of her scent. The dark form of Rose rose up above him, laying on her side, her mammoth arm rising and falling with each breath. 

He walked across the bed, growing ever closer to her. It occurred to him that he should probably shrink; there would be no explaining himself if she found him at this size, in her bed, with her naked. And yet something drew him onward, toward her sleeping form. Sense had gone out the window. There was only her.

He walked up to her back, the part that stuck out above the covers. It was terrifying, like standing right next to a dinosaur. And yet he could smell her, feel her heat, he could taste the miasma that surrounded her.

He reached out a trembling hand, and felt her back. It was soft. It felt like an electric current passed between them.

He looked down into the cave that the blankets formed. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see just the faint outline of her butt.

For a moment, he hesitated. He thought about turning toward her head, calling to her. For a moment.

Instead, he strode purposefully into the darkness.

"What by a straight path cannot be reached by crooked ways is never won." 

                  --Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German Poet (1749-1832)

In the dream, Brenton was shouting at the screen like a viewer at a horror movie. "Don't go in there! Look out!" But Tom was not listening. He was creeping through the dark, up against Rose, moving inexorably toward her truly spectacular ass. The slumbering form of the woman-mountain radiated warmth and a sweet, intoxicating scent that Tom knew he'd sensed before, but never so strongly.

He slid his hand along the soft skin of his object of desire, brushing his hand over the unending tapestry of skin. He reached her hip, and leaned up against her behind, planting a kiss upon it before he continued on to the point where it sloped away into her thigh.

His eyes had adjusted now to the dim light filtering into the cavern of Rose's bedsheets. He looked up to the top of her thigh, and noted that the leg on top was set forward some distance, and there, in the space between, he saw the bottom border of her labia.

He paused. He paused for a good minute, staring up at the cleft of her pretty pussy, trying to decide what to do next. He probably should turn around now. Go to her head. Get her attention. He could make up a story about being shrunk; it wasn't like he hadn't read a macrophile story or two. He could probably convince her that it had happened when he came over to visit; yes, that seemed likely to work. He'd shrunk in the entryway. Sure. He could tell her that. She'd probably believe him.

Or he could climb up her thigh, and look at her vagina more closely.

He knew he might never get this chance again if he went to her. She would help him, of course, if she thought he was in trouble. But would she ever put him here? At this size? Here was a girl he had wanted for years. And her pussy was a short climb away.

He began to ascend the thigh.

He was drawn like a moth to the flame. He could smell her, feel the heat radiating from her. He ascended along the thigh where buttock met it, pulling himself inexorably along, grabbing at the skin as if it were a rock wall.

And then he was there. Even in the dim light, he could see the bottom of her labia, two lips poking out between her thighs.

He reached for them, and slid his hand between them.

What happened next was unexpected by Tom, to say the least. He had read a ton of stories on giantess sites, and unconsciously or not, those stories informed what he thought would happen. Which is to say, he didn't think much would happen. The objet d'amour always would remain unaware in those stories until it was time for her to pay attention.

Rose was not an objet; Rose was a woman. She reacted the way most of us would react if, three-quarters of the way to being fully asleep, we suddenly felt our gentials being played with by something mouse-sized.

The world exploded, near as Tom could tell. Rose rolled, and Tom found himself flung through the air by her sudden movement. He bounced twice, and fell off the cliff of the bed, falling some distance down and landing on a soft, warm surface -- the belly of Rose, who had in her sudden panic rolled completely out of bed and onto the floor.

Still dazed, Rose looked down at her stomach, and saw the tiny man -- Tom -- sitting there. He'd been the one poking her. Not a mouse. A Tom.

Tom looked up at Rose, looking down at him bemusedly. He started to raise a hand in greeting.

But he stopped when her eyes began to narrow.

The goddess whose stomach he rested on recognized him. He could see it. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know about what she thought.

"I...uh...I was shrunk, and...uh...."

He stopped. He had been of a mind, briefly, that maybe he could bluff his way through. Claim he'd been shrunk, claim he'd just been trying to get her attention.

But he could see it in her eyes. She was mortified. And she was furious.

When she finally reached for him, as he'd always dreamed she someday would, she did not grasp him gently.

Indeed, Rose had to fight the urge to simply deposit him in the toilet and flush.

Instead, in short order he was dumped unceremoniously in a drawer in her nightstand. He found himself unable to speak as she shut the drawer, not even gazing at him.

Some time later, through the wood, he thought he heard the sound of her crying.

*  *  *

It was deep, deep into the night when the drawer finally opened again.

He couldn't explain why he hadn't used the stone to change his size. He could have shrunk to nothing, so she couldn't find him. He could have grown to full size, and exploded the nightstand in an awesome display of the power he wielded. But he had done neither. He had been too in shock to even contemplate it.

She was dressed, now. Nothing fancy; a shirt, some shorts. Her enormous eyes were red with the tears she had cried.

"What the fuck were you doing, Tom," she said. It was not a question. It was an accusation.

"I'm sorry," Tom said. "I didn't -- I didn't mean to...."

"You didn't mean to stick your hand in my vagina? No, Tom, I'm not buying that one at all. What, did you shrink, trip, and suddenly fall into my vagina? Nope."

"I just...I was shrunk, and I...you were so...."

"It isn't a fucking complement, Tom!" she said, eyes cold. "You didn't ask."

"I just...."

"You. Didn't. Ask."

"No," he said, quietly. "I didn't."

She stared down at him. "What really sucks, Tom, is that I actually liked you. If you'd asked...I might have said yes."

Those words wounded him far more deeply than anything ever had.

"I was shrunk...." he said, lamely.

"I know; you got White's Disease, evidently. Sucks for you. Maybe you found your way here heroically. Maybe you were going to get my attention or something. And if you had done that, I would have taken care of you.

"But you had to go and rape me. That I won't forgive."

"I didn't!" he cried, but she stopped that line of attack cold.

"What do you call sneaking into someone's bed and stuffing your hand in someone's pussy without her consent, Tom? A friendly hello? You bastard. You don't deserve to live, you know that, right?"

Tom couldn't answer her, because it had finally penetrated his skull that she was absolutely and completely right. What he had done in service of his fetish...what kind of man was he?

"I'm not going to kill you, though I probably should. But I'm not going to make life easy for you, either. We're going."

"Going? Where?" Tom mumbled.

"I didn't catch that, but assuming you're wondering where we're going, the answer is simple: somewhere else. Somewhere where you can't find your way back to me, ever again. And before you think you can find some other friend to assault, believe me, Tom, I'm going to let everyone you've ever met what happened to you, and what you tried to do to me. If you ever poke your head up in civilized society again, I will press rape charges."

Tom thought about arguing with her, thought about telling her that she was bluffing, that she had no proof. He could grow back, go home, tomorrow when she was telling people that he'd raped her while shrunk he could simply call her a liar, say it never happened, it was a delusion.

But he looked up at her giant, wounded visage, and he knew he could never do that. He had hurt her so badly already. How could he hurt her more?

And so when she shoved him in her purse, he did not fight. During the several hours in which he felt the car in motion, he did not attempt to escape. And when she dropped him, alone, in the high grass in some bland suburban cul-de-sac, he did not run, and he did not return to normal size.

She dropped him on the ground, paused only a moment, and headed back to the car, and as dawn broke, she drove away.

"I'm sorry," Tom said quietly, and then he began trudging through the shoulder-high grass, looking for a place to lay his weary head.

Three

"The safest road to hell is the gradual one -- the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."

--Clive Staples Lewis, British Theologan (1898-1963)

It was three days before Tom grew back to normal.

Of course Tom grew back to normal. It would be ridiculous to think he wouldn't. He could do so at any time. And while he didn't really want to do it -- he wanted to simply die, to have God switch off his life like a light switch -- eventually he realized he would have to. Just to get situated.

He wasn't going back to his life, mind you. He didn't think Rose was bluffing, and even if she was, he had no intention of calling said bluff. The life that he'd led was over. He could never go home.

But that didn't mean that there wasn't a future for him. There was. He had the stone. Yes, his first experiment with it had gone disastrously wrong. Yes, he'd destroyed his relationship with Rose, his life, everything.

He had the stone, though. He had more than one fantasy. He could use it to live them out. If his life was over, he might as well enjoy the half-life he had left.

Besides, over the three days he spent hiding in the bushes of the suburban cul-de-sac, he had the opportunity to see a few women who reminded him of why he had been fascinated by shrinking.

There was the late-twenties MILF who stayed home with her young kids. They'd almost found him twice while they played outside. The second time, he'd managed to work his way underneath the chair where the monolithic mother sat; her bare legs were magnificent, her bare feet awesome.

There was the pair of teenage sisters who went out tanning in their backyard one afternoon each wearing skimpy swimsuits. The older one was in her late teens, maybe a senior or college freshman. He felt okay about ogling her. The younger one...well, he'd ogled her anyhow. He'd done so from a distance, at the base of their fence, but even at a fair distance they were mammoth, and he tore himself away from them with difficulty.

There was the slightly older mother who was gardening, and damn near found him as she pulled weeds. From the shadow of a variegated hosta, he'd watched the tremendous woman, still radiant despite being in her late thirties or early forties. As she bend over, her breasts swelled and dangled above him. He found his throat was dry as he looked at them; he wondered what it would be like to be in her bra.

So on the third day, he snuck into the older mom's house. Not to get into her bra; he had bigger plans. Her husband departed, her kids departed, she departed, and he was alone in the house.

He worked quickly. He grew himself to normal, and dove into the shower, scrubbing quickly. They would be working, he knew. The kids would be in school. Still, he showered for less than three minutes. Then he rushed into the master bedroom, and grabbed shorts, a shirt, and a pair of underwear; there was no time to debate the niceties of wearing another guy's clothes. He wanted to be at least somewhat presentable.

He grabbed his wallet, the stone, and his keys, and jammed them into the pockets the shorts were a bit loose, so he cinched them with a belt. He then purposefully strode out of the house, and began to run, quickly, down the street.

He didn't care where he was going, not at the moment. Absently, he kneeled down by a storm drain, and tossed his shirt and pants and cell phone into it. He would get rid of his wallet soon enough.

But for now, he had some purchases to make.

He walked on for a good half hour before he got to a main road; he walked along it for another hour before he found what he was looking for -- a big box store.

He walked out with three new outfits, some underwear, a pair of shoes, a backpack, and all the cash he could grab from the ATM. He called a cab from a pay phone, and took it to the nearest hotel. He needed time to think, time to plan the next move.

He played through old fantasies as he looked at the white stone. (Was it tinged yellow? He couldn't tell for sure. Maybe.) He'd ordered a big meal from room service and wolfed it down, and he was perusing a map of the moderately-large suburb he'd been deposited in.

There was a community college not too far from here; he could go peruse the ladies there. He could wander over to a gym near the hotel, and he could hang out in the locker room. He could go to the office park across the street, look for some hotties at work, dressed to the nines. He could go to the high school....

No, he stopped that one before it fully materialized. That was an old fantasy, one that dated back to his time in high school. He was too old for it now.

Instead, he kept looking over the map, and then he saw it. His target. It was obvious. It was perfect.

He didn't go right there. He'd sleep. Eat. Get ready. And then he'd go. And it would be awesome.

*  *  *

Brent was aware of Tom's travels, in a distant sort of way. Since he'd turned his friend to a bad path, Satan had been almost friendly. Indeed, the next day, a very hot blonde had damn near thrown herself at Brent; he knew damn well that it was a payoff. A bonus for a job well done.

Rose had called Brent the day after she'd dumped Tom, agitated and angry. She said that Tom had been rude to her, but she also said she worried she'd been too hard on him. Not that she hadn't had reason to, mind you. She was right to be angry. But was what she'd done just as bad? She didn't know, and since she didn't say what she'd done, at least not to Brent, he couldn't tell her whether dumping a shrunken guy outside in a suburb was better or worse than raping someone. He was glad, actually; he wasn't totally sure, himself.

He calmed her as best he could, but she was shifting through her thoughts and emotions quickly. Brent told her to calm down, get a drink, told her she was right to be mad at Tom if he'd been a jerk, and that she shouldn't worry about him. But no, he admitted, Brent hadn't head anything from Tom.

Rose had hung up with Brent, and had cried harder. Tom was a rapist. But the outdoors had beasts that could kill a shrunken man, and she had no way of knowing that Tom was in no actual danger.

She felt that she'd sentenced him to death for his crime. Maybe he deserved it, in a karmic justice sort of way. But she did not have the temperament of an executioner.

She thought about searching for him, but how? He was so small, and he could be anywhere. And what if she found him dead? What if she found him maimed?

Perhaps if she'd told someone exactly what she'd done, they could have helped her. Talked her through it. Helped her find him. Something.

But she had done more than defend herself. She'd as good as killed him. She couldn't admit that to anyone. Not just because of the legal concerns, but because she saw herself as a monster. Tom had raped her, yes. But she had killed him.

And she couldn't bear it.

Two days later, as Tom was planning his next adventure, Rose took the bottle of sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed her.

She would never wake up.

*  *  *

Tom woke up refreshed and ready. His destination was within walking distance, and what's more, he had realized it was a Saturday. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

If you had not spent your life imagining places to be shrunk around giant women, you might think Tom's destination was something less than extraordinary. It was a typical suburban mall, nothing to write home about. It had the usual mix of department stores and boutiques and restaurants and such. Nothing particularly interesting about it.

Tom whistled tunelessly as he entered the mall, hummed as he looked over the directory. So many choices, he thought to himself as he looked them over. Should he go to the upscale department store, hide out in petites? Or should he go to one of the boutiques that targeted the girls in their teens and twenties? Or should he do something completely off-beat, like hide out in the food court, or the movie theater?

He settled on the mid-priced department store nearest to him. He'd be able to blend in better. If he went into the lingerie store he'd considered, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He'd have to shrink outside and traverse the whole store, risking -- well, not death -- but getting stepped on, or found by someone he didn't find appealing.

No, the department store was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He went in, and cased it quickly; men's clothing was on the same floor as women's, petites, and juniors, and he quickly located the dressing room. He looked around, and seeing that the coast was clear, he got a few racks of clothing into the petites section. He kneeled down as if to tie his shoe, grabbed the stone, and asked for two inches tall.

Instantly, he was insignificant, though not as insignificant as he planned to get. He hid under a rack of blouses, and making sure that the coast was clear, ran to the rack of slacks. This rack was soon shaking, as an immense woman pushed trousers back and forth, looking for a pair that would fit.

He looked up her long leg, and realized that she was shopping in the petites section; he found this amusing, as he gazed at the point where her leg disappeared into a pleated skirt.

For half a second, he thought about targeting her, but she soon took off for points distant, and the lane was clear between him and the dressing room.

He took off at full speed, and rushed into the first room, which he could see was unoccupied. He would have to time this well; he didn't want to hide on the floor. So he quickly grasped the stone, and asked for full size. As soon as he was, he sat on the bench, and envisioned himself one-sixth of an inch tall.

He backed away from the edge of the precipice, which now was more than a thousand feet off the ground, and walked toward the nearly-infinite mirror on the wall. He would wait for the perfect girl. And he'd go with her.

This time, she wouldn't know what he was doing to her. He could explore to his heart's content.