A toilet flushed and with the click of a light switch, the
room materialized, giant white walls, all-surrounding. My pupils contracted in
the burning light, and I grimaced; the flushing sound created a sympathetic
effect in my body; pressure ripped through my bladder.
She had been feeding me sweetened milk, sometimes mixed with coffee, oats, rice or tiny shreds
of chicken. These improvised soups made me nauseous but it's all I got, so damn
me, I gulped it all down. Luckily or not, the drug patches suppressed my
appetite.
I jolted up, suddenly finding my butt pushed against a couch
cushion, with no memory of how I got there. Not only was the couch unfamiliar,
the entire room looked different.
It was a different hotel room; a different hotel. A
different neighborhood in fact, no longer Tiferno. A different city, no longer
St Palma. The drugs kept me from panicking. And anyway, no more time to ponder
on that.
With her silver contacts and her white hair Anya glided into
the room like some ungodly tall, statuesque, supernatural creature. Her
presence alone made the room unnaturally brighter, somehow burning hot, as if
the ceiling bulbs were straining to blow up from an electrical surge. A buzzing
in my ears seemed to indicate this.
The window was the only patch of inky darkness on the wall;
it was night outside. The recollection was slowly coming back; I had spent the
day in a drug-addled haze, and now it was almost midnight. Anya had just
returned from performing at a late night concert per her tour along the coast,
but which city were we in now?
The huge girl’s dreamy stride slowed as she approached the couch
I was lying on. Her eyes narrowed with curiosity as her lips pursed a little. The
thick black eye makeup and lipstick was gone. I squinted at her. Something was
off. Her characteristic porcelain skin came up too dark under the light, a
honeyed brown, offset substantially by the surrounding white walls. She must
have applied a fake tan – a bizarre contradiction to her aesthetic. With the
combination of her shock of seraphic hair and toned skin I appeared to be
staring into the face of a bad impersonator of my fiancée; a vision so
surreally freaky my stomach folded over with nausea.
But her cheeks and neckline had the faintly pink glow of
having just showered, so she could not be wearing a tan. It was the other way
around: she must bleach her skin. Much later I would learn her real name was
not Anya.
My eyes got snagged a moment on her sheer pajama top – no
more concealing than an x-ray – which was so thin that when she slipped a hand
beneath, it exposed her hand adjusting the black bra beneath and rubbing her
ribs.
Her fingertips were lined with glittery cyan acrylic nails. As
I stared foggily, her mass halted right in front of the couch, and as her upper
body bent over me, one of these bright blue nails gleamed right in front of my
face as she poked my head. This made my brain tingle.
“Anya, I…” I said.
The drugs relaxed my vocal cords and made my voice smooth,
deceptively calm and even happy sounding.
“….I need to use the bathroom.” The confession escaped me
like air out of a balloon.
She straightened again, arms folded, long blue nails digging
into her forearms, her eyebrows low, inquiring, not white like her hair, but
shadowed and defined; dyed a weird grayish blue, pantherine. My heart skipped a
beat. Actually it was just the angle of bright light, an illusion. Her eyebrows
were regular black.
My muscles sunk with exhaustion into the cushion, even
though I’d just slept a long time. Standing directly over, she looked down at
me from what seemed like the top of a tower. As I seriously considered she’d
refuse my request, my organs turned into jellyfishes. So what if I peed on the
couch? So what? But I didn’t want to. I still had my dignity. Trembles ran
through my body like I was a cornered animal.
She shuffled a foot in thought, pivoted, spun fluidly to
unheard music, totally oblivious to the spell she had over me. The moves came
effortlessly, without her even thinking, like sleepwalking. She was dancing while
I needed to bust my bladder. The debasement was excruciating.
“Please…!” I wailed, my lower region cramping. “I can’t hold
on …!”
Her feet stopped shuffling, she swished around put a hand on
her hip.
“YOU USE THE BIG PEOPLE FACILITIES, RIGHT?”
Her voice was candied, sweet. It struck me that she was
younger than I was.
“Whatever! I’ll pee in a tissue. In a litter box. I don’t
care!”
Her brows furrowed in disgust.
“BIG MEN USE THE BIG MAN SEAT. ARE YOU A BIG MAN?”
“I…can’t climb up onto the toilet. It’s too high.”
She took a sudden step forward.
“SO...” she sighed. “THIS IS MY JOB NOW, HUH? I’M YOUR MAID
OR WHATEVER.”
My cheeks grew hot.
“No, Anya, please
– ” I hesitated a fraction, hating how much like desperate pleading my voice
sounded.
“Anya, I’m asking you very nicely. Please just open the door
and I’ll do it outside.”
Her lips spread in a knowing smile.
“OH, I GET IT. THEN YOU’LL RUN AWAY. HA HA. CLEVER.”
Her feet were traipsing closer to me now, closing the
distance fast.
“Wait – it’s just – I’ll be real quick – just let me – !”
Her huge body swooped down upon me, long blue nails biting
inwards around my ribcage – making me feel like a tiny morsel of food stabbed
up by a bright blue fork – and lifting me into the air, stabilizing me against
her chest as she marched out of the room. With each of her strides, her weighty
boob bounced and pushed bodily into my front, causing my full bladder to revolt
in pain.
She swung into the bathroom; nudging the door open with her
shoulder, and not bothering to close it behind her.
Pincered by her nails, I was moved down through the air
until my feet were hovering just over the front edge of the smooth white ring
that was the toilet bowl.
She released me a moment before my feet touched down, causing
me to totter unsteadily – not making the greatest impression of being
independently able to use the toilet. My lower spine was given a jab with a
nail tip, sending me hair-raisingly close to the edge of the seat. I squealed.
The weight of her hand pressed in, collecting me an instant
before I dropped into the toilet bowl like a dead goldfish. Two fingers rested
on my chest and belly, the thumb between my shoulder blades. She gave my body a
reassuring squeeze and I realized she intended to hold me while I peed.
“ANYTIME IS GOOD, SLIM,” she said impatiently.
"Slim?" I said weakly.
"IT SUITS YOU."
With no choice, I focused on aiming a stream into the
porcelain bowl. The tiny tinkling sound was utterly belittling. One of her
nails idly raked up and down my spine, tracing the depression between my
shoulderblades to the small of my back. This elicited a tingling sensation that
made my butt scrunch up, and my stream tapered off instantly, to my
frustration, as I still had half a bladder full.
“ALL FINISHED?” Her hand shifted in preparation to lift me
again.
“Wait!” I squeaked, a little shakily. “I’m nearly done, I…” my
voice trailed off at her long sigh, which came out as a stream of air that
ruffled my hair. She must have had her face bowed right down over me. The
thought made me uncomfortable.
Her nail tips kept shifting over my flesh, poking my ribs,
trying to incite me to hurry up. Another couple of minutes passed and I was
only able to get drips out.
Before I could figure out what was happening, a long pointer
finger slammed into the small of my back and slid down my butt crack. My breath
sucked in in one big whoosh and my muscles pulled tight. The last of the stream
released. As soon as the tiny splashing sound ended the hand squeezed around my
middle, lifting me up.
At the sink, she splashed my front with water. I screeched
from the cold shock, squirming vigorously in her hands before her nails dug in,
pinning my limbs with steel trap efficiency. The water was run over my dick,
and the tip rolled back and forth between her fingertips. The contrast between
the cool water and her warm fingertips provided such relief that my member
sprung up into a firm balloon in sheer gratitude.
My mind was blank, riding the arousal without reflection,
like an animal being stroked. It was too painful to contemplate; I had fallen
from independent movie star to toddler-in-toilet-training.
“YOU DIRTY LITTLE DOG!" she chuckled as she took me
back into the main space of the hotel room. “THEN AGAIN, I GUESS WITH YOU BEING
A NEWLY MARRIED MAN YOU MUST BE ALWAYS READY FOR IT...”
“Not yet,” I said thickly.
“OH, YOU ARE,” she insisted solemnly. “WE JUST SKIPPED THE
CEREMONY AND NOW IT’S HONEYMOON NIGHT.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“We? What are you talking about?”
She put me down on a walnut writing desk, next to a lamp,
and then fished something out of her handbag. It was a marker. She took a seat
on the sofa and propped one leg over the other, baring one smooth sole. I
stared, bemused as she used the marker to draw on the flat, smooth underside of
her big toe. Then she wiggled her toe at me to show me what she’d drawn. A pair
of thick-lashed eyes.
“NOT ME,” she said. “HER.
SAY HOLA TO YOUR NEW WIFE, MR MOUSSEAU!”
My mouth hung open. I wondered whether to laugh or not.
“You’re joking right?”
Patting her foot, she leaned back.
“TAKE MY HINT – IF YOU CONSUMMATE THE MARRIAGE – TONIGHT –
IT WOULD JUST LIGHT HER LITTLE FIRE.”
“Anya…you’re being absurd. That’s your toe.”
She pulled out a tube of lipstick from her leather handbag
and to my bewilderment, started applying it to her littlest toe until the
appendage was cherry red. Then she put away the lipstick and said to me:
“ANATOMY LESSON—” she pointed to the space between her
fourth and fifth toe, “—THAT’S HER VAGINA.” Then she pointed to the now
lipstick-reddened pinky toe. “AND THAT’S HER CLITORIS.” She leaned down towards
me, holding my gaze, before proceeding:
“LET ME WALK YOU THROUGH IT: IF SHE WANTS TO PUT HER CLIT IN
YOUR MOUTH, YOU LET HER. IF SHE WANTS TO PUT HER CLIT IN YOUR BUTT, YOU LET
HER. WHAT SHE WANTS, YOU DO. OR SHIT IS GOING TO GET WACK.”
I let out a heavy, shaky breath. I didn’t even think my anal
area was big enough to admit the passage of her little toe.
“This is wack –
and you’re wacko!”
Her lips twisted in a small scowl, not out of irritation but
confusion.
“HOW CAN YOU JUDGE? YOUR SIZE IS SYNONYMOUS WITH FETISH. YOU
CANNOT HAVE NORMAL SIZE SEX, I MEAN, LITERALLY.”
Her words made my insides burn with embarrassment, even
though it was plainly true. Even after all this time of being tiny I still felt
the sting of emasculation. She went on:
“SO I REALLY DIDN’T EXPECT YOU’D BE THIS UNCOOL.”
Her tone suddenly brightened. The switch was alarming.
“NO MORE TALK, OR YOUR WIFE IS GOING TO PUT SOMETHING IN
YOUR MOUTH TO MAKE YOU STOP. SHE CAN’T WAIT ANYMORE. SO I’M GOING TO TUCK YOU
AWAY INTO YOUR BED SO YOU TWO CAN GO AT IT LIKE RABBITS!”
“What bed?” I said.
In response, she stretched a pair of pantyhose in front of
my face, and let it snap, causing me to jump. She got to her feet, hiked up her
skirt and began pulling them on one, slender pale leg.
Then, before I could react, she bent and pinched her thumb
and forefinger on either side of my neck, lifting me into the air. I yelled and
slapped at her fingers, trying and failing to wrench myself free. At the height
I was suspended at, it would probably hurt to drop to the floor, but I didn’t
care, I was willing to take the impact if it gave me any chance of escape. My
floppy, drug-dulled body would probably have lessened the pain of impact,
anyway.
“Holy crap!” I shouted. “Stop! Put me down!”
But she had already lifted the empty pantyhose leg and was
dangling me above it.
I threw up one last desperate look at the inquiring platinum
eyes looming above me.
“Anya, please!” I gasped.
Then her fingers released, and my stomach plummeted, the
cool air rushed around me as I was falling. As I continued to drop, the opening
of the pantyhose surrounded me in a black mesh tunnel. I fell the length of the
stocking leg, before bouncing on the springy bottom of the stocking and coming
to a stop. The pantyhose floor scratched against my face.
Then I was suddenly flung about the inner stocking, like it
was a jumping castle, as Anya jiggled and tilted the end of the stocking to
shift me into a preferred position. This turned out to be with me lying on my
back with my head in the toe section.
“GIGGING IS A BLAST, BUT MY FEET SUFFER FOR IT AT THE END.
YOU’LL MAKE A GREAT MASSAGE THERAPIST; YOUR BODY IS SOOO DELICATE.”
“You can’t do this – you’ll crush me!” I protested.
From my perspective she was now a fuzzy silhouette standing
on the outside of my nylon prison.
She said, soothingly:
“UM…IF I FALL ASLEEP OR FORGET YOU, AND YOU GET A LITTLE
SQUASHED, JUST TAKE SLOW, DEEP BREATHS OR SOMETHING. RELAX YOUR MUSCLES, MAKE
YOURSELF AS SMALL AS POSSIBLE, AND YOU’LL BE FINE. EVERYTHING I’VE HEARD ABOUT
YOU IS ABOUT HOW STRONG AND RESILIENT YOU ARE.”
I squeaked hysterically:
“You don’t understand – look how big you are; you’re gonna
scrunch me like a bug. I could seriously die!”
“WORST CAST SCENARIO, YOU GET A LITTLE SQUASHED, SLIM. I
GUESS THEN YOU’D BE REALLY, REALLY
SLIM.” She laughed. “MAYBE TOTALLY FLAT.”
Quick as a flash, her pinky toe jabbed forward and penetrated
my mouth. She worked the toe around and then she gave the toe a squeeze so that
it hooked around my cheek, snagging me like a fish on a hook. My tongue worked
fruitlessly to eject the enormous unpleasant-tasting, lipstick-greased intruder
from out of my mouth. My cheek stung as she applied yet more pressure, I could
feel her long, untrimmed pinky toenail pricking the inside of my mouth. Then
the stinging grew acute, the side of my head exploded with pain as, to my utter
horror, I felt the sharp toenail slice through the skin of my cheek, allowing
the tip of the toe to poke right through to the other side. My stomach did a
backflip and sweat broke out on my forehead.
I yelled out, but my speech was slurred because my lips were
forced apart by the pink toe that was like a monstrously huge cork in my mouth.
The toe then tightened once more, causing my cheek flesh to
be pushed further down its length. I cried in pain. This process was aided by
her toe’s rhythmic clenching motions, and my head was helplessly waggled back
and forth in the process. With her toe-tip protruding from out of my cheek I
really did feel like a fish on a hook now. I would probably never be able to
look at fishing the same way again.
Tears of pain streamed down my face and the side of my head
throbbed madly. Considering the relative size of her toe I knew the hole she’d
created in my cheek must be pretty big. It was a wonder she hadn’t ripped my
lips wide open. I felt like my head was being cleaved in two. The nauseating
feeling of her toe puncturing my mouth made me feel like I was going to puke or
pass out, but I put all my willpower into staying awake – who knew what kind of
further damage she could unwittingly cause me if I went unconscious?
Every time she shifted her toes my ensnared little head was
bounced against the ground. I gasped every time I took a breath. The nylon
sweltered in heady foot odor. The rest of my body was baking in sweat – both
hers and mine – and my body was slippery, slicked with the stuff. Anya was now
able to slide me around frictionlessly beneath her toes, and with dizzying
speed. My body was flicked and shuffled around, even if my head was anchored to
her pinky toe, however this did bring stress to my neck and spine, which was
forced to stretch and compress repeatedly. Her toes wrapped around different
body parts; my ankles, my chest, my stomach, my neck, even my shaft, and
squeezed and pulled. I sometimes panicked that I could feel my head separating
from my body at the stress this was doing to my tiny frame.
I was constantly aware of her toes dancing all over me;
patting me all over like the most invasive airport strip search imaginable. I
was rolled like dough beneath them, kneaded and molded into the space under the
toes, right against the ball of her foot. As soon as I was tucked in there
tight, her toes would suddenly work furiously to free me again, wiggling madly
to jostle me out. This was when I might feel one of her long toenails
accidentally rake up my body, leaving a scratch. I couldn’t see behind the dark
curtain of the hose, whether they were deep enough to draw blood. I just knew
it was painful as hell when she by chance happened to scratch the same spot
twice, like pouring salt into a wound.
At some point her toes cinched my chest and went in for a
series of killer squeezes, like she was trying to crack her toe joints. With
each compression, the air was forced from my lungs. I felt oddly like a balloon
being blown up, except if the person doing the blowing was also sucking the air
back in at the end of each breathe, resulting in a balloon that neither got
bigger nor smaller.
By the third squeeze, there was a small pop – but it wasn’t
her toe joints. It had been one of my ribs breaking. I gasped in pain and
horror, and began clawing at her toes, screaming for her attention, but my
voice was more slurred and muffled than ever. My energy was sapped. My vision
seemed blurrier. My head spun.
I tried to bite down on her pinky toe, but it was forced so
far into my mouth that my jaw had locked up. I groaned helplessly. The world
spun away mutely for a microsecond and then came back. My brain was threatening
to blackout. A miserable, high pitched wail escaped my throat as I fought to
stay conscious.
Another firm squeeze around my midsection caused pain to
shatter up my chest like broken glass shards. There was another sick wet pop as
another rib caved in.
I didn’t fight it anymore. I was limp as a ragdoll. My head
was whipped from side to side by her bouncing toes. My head was so painful at this
point I felt like someone had driven a stake through it. My sense of hearing
was shot; I heard little but a ringing sound. Time seemed to move slowly one
second, then jump ahead the next. I could no longer be sure what was happening
anymore. I kept hallucinating I was free, and then suddenly find myself back
inside the dark nylon prison, having never left. Pinpricks of light burst in
front of my eyes (and stayed there even when I closed my eyes), and my vision
was unfocused. My mouth was dry from being forced open for so long – apart from
the rivulets of footsweat that occasionally dribbled in.
My arms were numb and flailed uselessly with movement, which
made it harder to protect them. This unfortunately resulted in one of my hands
being caught in a very tight spot right at the base of the space between her
pinky and fourth toe – the place she had much earlier referred to as her toe’s
‘vagina’.
Well, it turned out this ‘vagina’ had teeth. Because my arm
was numb, I didn’t realize my hand was trapped in there, and didn’t pull it out
in time. The muscular toes flexed alarmingly, and my hand crunched unnaturally
as bones fractured. I shrieked – more from the shock than the pain at this
point. Though it was painful; like an electric shock up my arm.
Then her toes relaxed again and my crumpled hand, with bent
fingers, dropped out from the space. In the darkness, without witnessing the
full extent of the injury, the twisted silhouette of my hand proved foreboding
enough. I shut my eyes and prayed that, if I was going to die in here, at least
let it be quick. Let my skull be crushed quickly. Don’t let my appendages and
non-vital parts be crushed one by one.
Another agonizingly firm squeeze of my broken chest caused
the world to spin away and go dark for a brief moment. Then I was horribly
conscious again, though drunkenly so. My body was now shaking involuntarily,
and then I felt my bladder release; felt the warmth seep between my legs. This
brought no reaction from me. I was already warm and soaked by the sweat. Plus
the odor of Anya’s footsweat more than overpowered the ammonic stench of urine.
Very little could surprise, panic or disgust me now. I was bathing in throbbing
waves of pain, sweat-stench and the constant, abrasion of toenails and nylon
fabric nearly rubbing my skin raw.
The massive weight lifted and pointed nails dove down and
plucked up my ankle. My limp body stretched down like a ragdoll as I was lifted
out of the nylon. Pain banged through my body like hammer blows.
Anya’s enormous face seemed to swim around, upside down, as
she looked me up and down.
"THAT WAS TOTALLY DOPE,” she hummed, and far below, her
foot stretched gratefully. "LITERALLY, YOU WERE LIKE DOPE FOR MY FEET. IN
SAYING THAT, I THINK YOU DESERVE A LITTLE SOMETHING BACK FROM ME.”
She slid back, opening her thighs, palms resting on her
legs, and seeing my gaze trained on her, smiled, and waved a couple of adhesive
stickers in front of my face like a card dealer tempting me to hit. The white
squares wavered as my broken bones sent bolts of arresting pain into my brain.
"ONE PATCH OR TWO?”
Weakly, I grabbed for them. She tore the paper backing off
both patches and slapped them over me – one on my chest, the other on my back.
The firm percussion of her fingertips against my ribs as she patted the sheets
firmly to my body made me cough and drag my breath. Then the chemicals kicked
in; my gasping hits of oxygen became euphoric and my memory lapsed.