Chapter 1: Live from Studio H

Car rides are something else when you’re two inches tall.

The first thing: seat belts don’t work right, meaning you’re relegated to a cupholder (dangerous) or a pocket or purse (humiliating, and not much safer). Worse, your height multiplies the motion of the vehicle. Every swerve sends you swaying like plastic cartoon animals dangling from a mobile over a crib. Carsickness is the least of your worries. Simon Groff had heard stories of tinies taking Lyfts home from tube-stations, breaking noses or worse against car windows when an inexperienced driver took a bend too fast. Sufferers of Regressor’s Syndrome like him were tougher than their size belied—but nobody was invincible.

Luckily, Simon didn’t have to worry about any of that.

He reclined in Beck’s palm, cradled in her lap in the passenger’s seat of the Jeep with her other hand cupped beneath for support. His sister Milla drove—and whenever she came to a turn or a hard stop on the rain-slick downtown streets, Beck would counterbalance against it, angling her hands under Simon so he didn’t tumble. It was a relaxing way to travel, propped up on his elbows, breathing in the heady perfume of Beck’s hand lotion while the two giantesses sang along to a Spotify mix, occasionally groaning in disgust when Siri’s voice cut in with directions.

Recalculating, she scolded more than once. Recalculating.

“You wanna hear something interesting?” he shouted above the noise.

Milla turned down the volume from the Jeep’s speakers. “What’s that?”

Simon pointed to his sister’s phone in its dock. “The female voice for Siri. She’s a tiny.”

Beck craned her neck to look down at him, curtaining him with her dark hair. “No kidding?”

He shook his head. “Voice acting’s good work for tinies. Size-blind. And the money stretches really far too, if you can get it. Outside of our tech, everything costs less for us.”

Beck looked impressed. “Think you’d ever do something like that?”

“Naw.” Simon caught Milla’s eye, grinning. “I’m fine mooching off my big sister.”

Milla laughed. “He’s got me chauffeuring him around now. Him and his girlfriend.”

Conversation hit a strange lull then—the only sounds were the road and the radio, Can’t help it, girl, can’t help it, oh please… Simon’s face felt heavy and hot. Beck looked out the window.

Siri cut in: In a quarter mile, the destination will be on your right. Studio H.

“What’s so special about this bar again?” Simon found his voice again.

“It’s the renovations,” Milla explained, searching for a parking space. “It’s the first place in town to get proper accommodations for people with Regressor’s Syndrome. Walkways, ladders, pipettes for the drinks. You’re going to love it.”

“Why’s it called Studio H?” Beck asked. They were parked now; Beck unlatched her door before swinging her long legs onto the sidewalk, keeping Simon as steady as she could in her hands.

Milla fished in her purse for meter change. “It used to be a hair salon, if I remember right. They kept the name—it’s kinda funky, I think. But the locals have another name for it. Studio ‘HGH’.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon asked. “What’s the HGH stand for?”

His sister smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Human Growth Hormone.”

Simon buried his face in his hands. “Well—now I definitely need a drink.”

“Come on,” Milla sang out, herding them towards the tint-glass doors. “We’re getting my little brother White Girl Wasted tonight.”

Simon shrugged and looked back at Beck. Her mint-green polo shirt was tight across her shoulders and upper arms, showing off her fighter’s musculature—and the undone buttons showed just a hint of the valley of her cleavage beneath. He dragged his eyes upward.

“Your mission,” he said, grinning. “Should you choose to accept it.”

Beck blushed—but grinned back and nodded.

#

Through the double doors—immediately the trio were slapped by a wall of sound. Clinking glasses, dive-bar chatter, and wailing rock music from box speakers hung in ever corner. Booths lined one wall under a row of huge windows covered in beat-up French blinds; high circular tables dotted the main space, some with stools, some without; and a wraparound bar beckoned at the back of the room, flashing with neon lights set under the shelves housing bottles of liquor so large Simon could swim in them.

Milla shouldered through the crowd, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Come on—I know the bartender. First round’s on me.”

She led Beck by the hand (the one not cupping Simon) up to the bar. Beck set the tiny boy down on the counter, wiping it clean with her other hand first once it was free again. The two girls took stools next to each other; Beck put her hands flat on the bar top to either side of where Simon stood, protectively hemming him in. All across the counter were napkins, mugs, and even shot glasses as tall as Simon himself—and the thumping fists and elbows of a half-dozen normal-sized bar patrons, talking or shouting at the sporting event on TV.

He hadn’t been worried about being swatted off the counter before—but now, in the crush of the room, he was thankful for Beck’s protective instinct. He moseyed over to her right hand and crawled onto the back of it, patting her warm skin gratefully.

The touch prompted a deep blush from the girl. Nice to know I can still do that, Simon thought.

Out loud, he called up to Milla, over the crowd noise: “What’re we having?”

“Hold that thought.” She put up one finger, then waved down the bar to the woman working behind it. “Yo! Ash! Whose dick do I have to suck to get a drink around here?”

Simon’s eyes bugged; so did Beck’s. He’d never heard Milla talk like that before, at least, not around him. The bartender turned. She was one of the tallest girls Simon had ever seen in his life—not muscular like Beck, but long and slender, like something bounding in herds across the Serengeti. She had a long face and large eyes with shadows powdered on beneath them, and her lipstick were similarly dark, the color of oil. Her hair, arranged in a messy bob, was bright green.

Those huge expressive eyes turned toward Milla, and her lips pulled back into a crooked smile that showed the top line of pink gums. “Milla—you raggedy bitch,” she snarled affectionately.

The two girls leaned across the bar for a hug and a slap on the back. Simon looked back at Beck, mouthed Who’s this? Her response was a shrug and a flash of a frown.

Milla turned back to the group. “Guys—this is Ash. We were sorority sisters at Constance U, she knows where I buried all those bodies junior year. Don’t you Ash?”

Ash smirked; it made her mouth a long black line like a censor bar. “Shore. Swamp off the Ashford ramp on the 2. Black plastic bags for the parts. Baa, baa, black sheep…”

Then she spotted Simon, still perched on Beck’s hand.

“Well—hello, little man,” she purred. “Am I gonna have to card you?”

Milla rolled her eyes. “Ash, be cool. We’re twins, remember?”

The taller girl’s eyes went round with recognition. “This is him? Your brother?” She dropped her head lower, not quite to Simon’s eye level but such that her face loomed over him. “You look taller in her selfies,” she teased. “What’s the saying? The camera adds ten pounds?”

Milla reached across to slug Ash in the shoulder. “You’re such a bitch!” she crowed. “Si’s in town from the colony for a week. He wants to do all the big-world stuff, and that includes getting twisted at the H. So—what do you say?” She drummed her fingers on the counter; Simon could feel the click of her nails vibrate the plastic surface. “You gonna hook us up?”

Ash’s eyes flicked to Milla before returning to Simon. “What’s your poison, little man?”

The weight of her gaze was huge, but Simon shouldered it, finding a brave smile and sticking it to his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never really drank before.”

It was true; other than sips of drinks Milla mixed, he’d never really sat down with a boozy concoction of his own. And back in the colonies, tiny bars were full of tinies.

“He’s a little sheltered,” Milla teased. “Aren’t you, Si?”

Ash’s eyes never left Simon. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we? And I’ve got just the thing…”

Winking at the three of them, she knelt beneath the bar, disappearing momentarily except for the crown of her shaggy green head. But instead of returning with drinks in hand, she held a wooden bucket shaped like a tiki head in both hands. She turned it over, making the tiki do a headstand on the bar, then peered over it down at Simon.

“Do you know what this is?”

Simon didn’t. Milla and Beck just shrugged. “Real fancy beer bucket?” he guessed.

Ash shook her head, then poured something the color of honey into a shot glass and pushed it across the bar towards the girls. From atop Beck’s hand, Simon sized the drink up. It wasn’t quite a swimming pool compared to him, but it was several dozen gallons—easily enough to immerse his body completely. “I’m supposed to drink all that?” he scoffed.

“Not by yourse-eee-elf…” Ash trilled. Her long black fingernails drummed the bottom of the tiki bucket. “It’s not a bucket,” she instructed. “It’s a diving platform.”

Then her grin widened wolfishly. 

“What’s the matter, little man? Never done a trust fall before?”

Chapter 2: Trust In Me

Simon’s glance flicked between the shot glass immediately beside him, the upturned tiki bucket, and back to the liquor in the glass. His eyebrow quirked upward, staring up at the now-three giantesses surrounding him.

“Don’t tell me what it is,” he instructed Ash. “Let me guess.”

The green-haired girl shrugged; her wolfish grin hadn’t left her lips. Simon started to pace on the bar counter, tapping his chin in a pantomime of deep thought.

“First, tell me this,” he said. “This ‘Trust Fall,’ this is something specifically for tinies—yes?”

Ash nodded. “Look at little Sherlock. Good so far.”

In his pacing, Simon swung to face away from her; his face was suddenly reddening. There was something about how she spoke to him… as though she were only pretending to address him, the way one spoke to a pet or a doll. It was almost a performance.

But for whose benefit? Beck’s or Milla’s?

And there was the way her gray eyes never left him, even when she spoke to the other girls…

He cast the thoughts aside. “Then I have two guesses,” he said, deciding to play along with an over-produced British accent. “Or rather—two deductions. Number One is that I’m supposed to dive off Mister Wiki Tiki here into the shot glass. But we can discount that theory. Even at my size, the glass is too shallow. And you, being a seasoned tavern wench, would know better than to endanger a paying customer in such a fashion.”

He looked back at Ash as he said this last part. Her arms were crossed over her chest, measuring him with her gaze. “You’re getting warmer. What’s your second deduction?”

“It’s only logical,” Simon continued. “That if the trick doesn’t end with the tiny in the glass, it begins with the tiny in the glass. I climb in and—what? Get tossed back with the shot?” Here he glanced saucily at Beck, who pressed a hand to her burning cheek, half-covering her face.

Milla snorted. “That’s one way to get drunk. But…”

“But that theory can be disregarded as well,” Simon said. “If for no other reason that it doesn’t involve the diving platform. Which means…” He spread his arms in surrender. “I give up.”

Ash smirked down at him. “You got closer than I thought. But no dice.”

She fished in her jeans pocket for her phone. While she searched, Beck cupped a hand beside her lips and mouthed to Simon: “Logical…?” He winked at her but said nothing.

“It’s a social media challenge,” Ash was saying. “Like the thing with the ice buckets.”

“Or the Harlem Shake,” Milla agreed. “God—we’re old.”

Finally, Ash had her iPhone out, held low enough that even Simon could see the video she’d pulled up. The pause screen showed a bar similar to Studio H: a selfie-cam view of a young woman kneeling near the lip of the counter, her chin just disappearing under the edge. As the camera jostled in her grip, Simon noticed the teeth of a familiar wooden grimace squatting on the bar itself—a tiki head, just like…

“This video’s from here, isn’t it?” he asked.

Ash shushed him. “Just watch.”

On screen, the young woman turned towards camera, a big giddy smile on her flushed face. “You ready?” she said—presumably to somebody off camera. Without waiting for a reply, with the hand not taking video, she put a shot glass to her lips and drained the liquor in it into her mouth without swallowing. Then, with the liquid still in her mouth, she turned back towards the bar counter, repositioned her chin beneath the lip, and opened her mouth.

“Get ready,” Ash breathed excitedly.

From the speakers came a little shriek—then a little splash.

“Mmph!” said the girl on screen.

Beck, Milla, and Simon all gasped at once.

It had been a blur. But a tiny form had sprinted to the edge of the diving platform, swan-dived off… and plummeted directly into young woman’s jaws.

“What the hell…” Milla murmured, laughing in spite of herself. Beck didn’t say a word; she just kept a hand clamped over her own mouth, not trusting herself to speak.

On screen, Simon saw the woman’s head bob back, then lean forward as she opened her lips again. A tiny woman spilled out onto her palm, soaked with saliva and liquor and wiping her eyes, but laughing and hooting like she’d just come off a roller coaster.

“I thought you were going to…” she started to say. Then the video ended.

Three pairs of eyes, two large, one tiny, turned towards Ash.

Simon was the first to speak. “That’s a trust fall?”

The taller girl nodded eagerly. “It’s the hot new thing. And people come in here all the time because, well, it’s a mixed size bar. Look around.”

She gestured around Studio H. For the first time, Simon really looked at the clientele of the bar, gathered at standing tables and booths. At first he only saw the dim shadowed forms of normal sized women and men, but as his eyes slowly adjusted, he started spotting tinies as well: standing on booth tables, perched on shoulders, or held in the hands of their larger companions.

There weren’t so many of them—maybe a dozen in all. But it still surprised Simon.

“I had no idea there were so many in the city,” he said.

“It’s a Saturday,” Ash said mysteriously—as though this explained anything at all. “So, what do you think? You want to take the plunge?” She’d lifted her phone off the bar top, ready to film.

“Oh! Ah…” Simon felt like a spotlight had swung into his eyes. But he wasn’t scared. After all, he’d taken far more extreme risks that weekend already, though not in so public a forum. He felt eyes on him: Milla’s and Beck’s, plus Ash’s peculiarly scorching stare…

Finally he shrugged, staring to pull his t-shirt off. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

Beck gasped audibly. Ash whooped and clapped, then tapped a few touch-keys on her phone, pulling up her camera. “Hold on, hold on. I’ll go live…”

Milla raised her eyebrows at her little brother. “You’re crazy,” she sneered. “Are we actually doing this?” Then she clapped Beck between the shoulder blades. “I guess you’re up,” she teased. “Of course I can’t do it—he’s my brother. Unless you’re volunteering, Ash?”

The green-haired girl shook her head. “I don’t drink with customers while I’m working, not even when the customers are in the drink. That’s my cross to bear.”

Beck looked like a headlight-blinded deer. But to Simon’s surprise, she shook herself all over and rolled her shoulders, psyching herself up. “All right. I’m in too.”

“Beck’s in too!” Ash crowed, grinning ear to ear now.

“Just try not to gulp him down,” Milla urged, hiding a wicked smile behind her hand.

“Oh God, can you imagine?” Ash said.

Beck blanched, but she put a brave face on when she looked down at Simon. “You’re sure about this?” she asked, offering a hand to him, palm up.

He’d removed his shirt and tossed it aside; now, he slipped his sneakers and tiny socks off, setting those neatly on the bar top as well. In answer, he scrambled up into the hollow of her massive hand, clad now only in his mesh shorts. Beck’s fingers trembled with excitement as they lifted him up to the top of the tiki bucket. When her hand withdrew, he looked up into her face, not surprised at all to find her flushed, almost panting.

He wondered if she was salivating—at the prospect of having him plunge between her lips again, even if only for a moment or two.

But he thought better about teasing her for it. He was no less excited. In fact, he was regretting wearing mesh shorts out that evening. If he’d been much larger, his erection straining the fabric on the front of his shorts would have been plainly visible.

He hoped it didn’t show on camera.

“All right Beck,” Ash said, leaning right over Simon to get the best angle. She was so close now that he could feel the heat of her body, as well as her breath on the back of his neck. “You saw the video, you know what to do. Put the whiskey in your mouth and open wide—and Simon, when you’re ready, you…”

“I think I get the idea.” Simon leaned over the edge of the platform. He was used to heights, and wasn’t afraid of falls. But even from the top of the bucket to the corner of the counter was the equivalent of thirty feet for him. Quite a plummet, even if it didn’t end in somebody’s mouth.

“Aim for the middle of her tongue,” Ash whispered to him. “I’ve seen what happens when tinies overshoot their mark… and that’s why it’s a trust fall. You get me?”

Simon flashed her a thumbs up, then waved to Beck. “You ready?” Wide-eyed, she nodded.

Ash squealed with delight. “And we… are live!” she announced. “Folks, this is Simon Groff’s first-ever trust fall. Can we get some love in the comments for the little man?”

Behind Simon, Ash’s phone pinged and blooped—likes and comments already rolling in.

“Whenever you’re ready…” she instructed him.

Beck scooped the shot glass off the counter. She raised it to her lips, but before she drank, Simon waved his arms to stop her. “Give me a little of that first.”

With a shy smile, Beck raised the glass up to Simon’s level. “Here you go.”

After a moment’s indecision, Simon plunged both hands into the yellow-amber liquid and scooped up a mouthful, bringing it quickly to his mouth before it slipped away. It burned his lips and throat going down, but almost immediately a bolt of intense warmth shot through him, and he felt his whole body go honey-soft. “Hey—that’s good!” he said.

“Of course it’s good, that’s top shelf stuff,” Ash replied. “Now, come on, come on, come on, you’re keeping your audience waiting. We’ve got a hundred and fifteen people tuned in!”

A hundred and fifteen people! The figure made Simon’s brain do cartwheels. But before he could ponder it further, Beck clinked the shot glass lightly against the front of him before bringing it back down to her lips.

“Cheers,” she said. She upended the glass into her mouth, draining it all.

Then she tilted her face, put her chin just beneath the lip of the counter—and opened wide.

It was an arresting sight. Her red lips, open in a loose O shape, framing the darkness waiting inside, and the liquor pooled at the very back of her mouth. He couldn’t see down her throat, her tongue was blocking it, keeping the whiskey in her mouth. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that when he jumped, he’d fall straight down into her and just keep falling, booze or not.

The thought made his head swim—and his pants tighter than ever.

Fuck it, he thought to himself. He turned toward Ash, and the watching online crowd.

“Bottoms up!” he sang out to them. Then crouched… leapt… and fell.

Air rushed past his face in a sudden terrific blast…

Then suddenly he was plunged into humid darkness. He slipped down Beck’s wet tongue like a Slip-n-Slide before splashing into the liquor at the back of her throat. He’d gone in feet first, and for a second his bare legs dangled over the precipice of her gullet. But then her tongue rose up, pressing him gently but firmly against the roof of her mouth. All around him, liquor drained away, until Beck swallowed it all with a single gulp that echoed around him.

“Mmmh,” Beck moaned—either at the flavor of the whiskey, or his own taste.

She sucked on him for a second, repositioning him inside her mouth. Then light spilled through her lips and she tilted her head forward, letting Simon spill out into her waiting hand. As his eyes readjusted to the bar lights, her face came into view: open-mouthed and panting slightly, with a look of sheer wildness in her eyes.

She brough her hand briefly back up to her lips. “My room again. Tonight. Please.”

Shivering but exhilarated, Simon could only nod.

Then Beck held her hand up toward Ash’s camera. Simon sprang to his feet in her palm, shook his hair out of his eyes, and swept forward into a deep theatrical bow.

“Aww. He enjoyed himself.” Ash’s gaze lingered on Simon’s groin, his enjoyment of the plunge fully on display through the crotch of his shorts. Sheepishly he swiveled away from the camera, covering himself with crossed hands. Ash continued narrating:

“And that’s how we play at Studio HGH! Check out our website for our weekly drink specials…”

Then she ended the stream. Beck set Simon down on the counter and fetched him a clean napkin to dry off with. “You want your clothes back?” she asked, watching him shiver.

Simon shook himself, heart still pounding. “Nah. With my luck, I’ll just get wet again.”

“Suit yourself,” she replied. But the implied invitation made her lips curl.

Ash thumped the bar top with her fist. “All right, party animals, what am I pouring now? After that show, I think you three earned a round. On the house.”

Chapter 3: Lost In a Crowd, Alone, and Drinking My Third

One round turned into two, and two turned into four. The girls traded straight liquor for mixed drinks (Long Island Iced Tea for Milla, and a pair of screwdrivers for Beck), then traded the cocktails for a towering pair of pints.

Simon never got a drink of his own. He took sips of Beck’s, or his sister’s, accepting lifts up to the rims of their drinks on their hands or occasionally astride a single finger. The cocktails went down smoother than the whiskey had, and without a glass of his own to measure by, he had no clue how much he was actually drinking. The inside of his head felt muddier and muddier, and it was harder and harder to keep his balance on the slippery bar counter. By the fourth round he’d forgone the counter entirely and instead balanced precariously on the rim of Beck’s pint glass, occasionally slipping in and bumping against her huge lips when she drank.

Milla watched this display with a mixture of disbelief and bemusement on her face. And even when she caught Simon sneaking a kiss between sips, she didn’t do more than roll her eyes.

But finally, after two hours had passed and she’d drained the last of an IPA from her glass, she slapped the bar with both palms and went to stand. “I need the little girls’ room.”

“I’ll come with,” Beck responded on instinct.

They both stood—then glanced down at Simon, collapsing into fits of tipsy giggles. “Oh shit…”

“What are we going to do with…”

“He can’t, he’s…”

Each sentence was too impossibly hilarious to finish. Both girls’ faces were scarlet, and their eyes were the same sheen as window glass, with the lights behind them dimmed.

Simon tapped his wrist mockingly. “Wha’s the holdup here?” His words came out in a strange slurry, and the bar lights bled together into a gentle yellow smear high overhead.

“It’s not…” Beck hiccupped, a perfect Looney Tune drunk. “It’s not, it’s not…”

“Isss not like we can take you with us,” Milla finished for her.

“You ca’ leave me here a little while,” Simon protested. “I’ll be…”

“I don’ think it’s gonna be a little while.” Beck looked sheepish, like she’d been caught out.

“Tha’s right… little man.” Milla waggled her head at her brother, imitating Ash. “Girl talk.”

“Girl talk,” Beck agreed.

“Abou’ you,” Milla added. “And, and, and abou’ her.”

Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Beck’s shoulders crept up around her neck, but when she tried to protest, Milla pressed a silencing finger over her lips. “Ssssss.” It wasn’t a full shush, just a snake’s complaint. “Save it for the stalls, girlie. You and I gotta…”

“Girls, it’s fine. I’ll watch the little guy while you… horse-trade.”

Ash drummed her long nails on the counter, right to either side of where Simon stood, danger-close. For the first time, he noticed that her black nail polish was not all black. There were white dots scattered on each, making each fingertip a self-contained night sky. They were even textured, each star a slightly raised mound on the surface of the nail.

“I just got off shift anyhow,” she continued. “Me and Simon can hang ‘til you get back.”

Milla beamed and dragged Beck off before she could protest.

“Ash, you’re a doll,” she cooed. Then they were gone, vanishing into the crowd and darkness.

Simon felt breath kiss the back of his neck and bare shoulders.

“How ‘bout it, Si? What’s a girl gotta do to have a man buy her a drink around here?”

Simon looked up: Ash’s face, her black lips, were only a foot from him. That curious, wolflike grin was back, and now it was so close to where he stood. He rubbed the back of his neck with an open hand, grinning nervously, lost for words. But his hesitation only lasted a moment. This was Milla’s friend, he reasoned, just like Beck had been. And she’d left him in Ash’s care—surely that meant this woman could be trusted.

And his pulse was still elevated from his dive before…

“All right.” Simon smiled up at her. “Pour another, you’re on.”

#

It turned out, beer was Ash’s poison of choice. But rather than lift Simon up to the rim of a pint glass for his infrequent sips, she fetched a second shot glass from beneath the bar and filled it with (for her) a mouthful or two of a local stout, something heavy and dark as pitch. For her own part, Ash poured herself a yellowy IPA with a foam head on it, which left a white mustache across her black top lip every time she drank.

“Look,” she was saying. “Sorry about all that ‘little man’ stuff. I didn’t know Milla was bringing you out tonight and—well, I got a little over-excited. That’s all.”

“Over-excited?” Simon’s face burned at this, but the sensation was distant, coming through miles of numbness. At Ash’s urging, he’d already decreased the level in his shot glass by about an eighth—a considerable feat for his height.

“Well. I forgive ya,” he said. “Losss of people get weird around tinies. I‘m used to it.”

“I guess you must be.” Ash swirled her beer.

Simon looked at her over the top of his beer shot. “Wha’s that supposed to mean?” He burped, trying to disguise the tiny sound behind his hand.

Ash ignored the question. “Remind me. You and Milla are twins, right?”

Simon nodded. “Shore. Frat. Frat. Frat-turnal—obviously.”

“And that’s supposed to be…”

“…impossible,” he finished for her. He went for another sip of his stout, having to lean over the rim of the shot glass to reach the level of the liquid now. “That’s me. Simon, the miracle baby.”

Ash’s eyebrows went up. “You and your sister must be pretty close.”

“She’s my best friend,” Simon admitted. “But it’s the first time we’ve gotten to hang in a while. She’s been at school… I’ve been living in the Gulliver colony. S’ hard to get together.”

“Uh-huh. And what about her roommate? Beck?”

Simon paused, a white flash of embarrassment shooting through his veins. What should he say to this? There was a part of him, in his addled state, that almost wanted to brag, girlie, you’ve got no idea how close… But the gentleman in him won out. But: what was he to Beck? They certainly weren’t strangers, after everything they’d done. But he wasn’t her boyfriend, either.

Surely—that wasn’t what she wanted, was it? Not from a man so small as him.

He settled on honestly. “I only met her yesterday,” he replied.

“I see.” The bar trembled when she set her glass down—already empty. And when she leaned her elbows on the counter, just to each side of where Simon stood, her breasts pressed against the edge of the wood surface, angling the valley of her cleavage toward him. He angled his eyes away, but it was tricky not to stare. Her chest seemed to be everywhere he glanced.

Had her top always been that low-cut? Did she undo a button when he wasn’t watching?

Looking into her face was no better: with her chin cradled on her hands, the look in her eyes was halfway between the wolfish intensity he’d seen before mixed with a softer expression he couldn’t place. The pressure of her stare was immense.

“You want another one, Si?” she asked, flicking her eyes over to his shot glass.

“Oh!” he stammered, thankful for the excuse to look away. “I’m still, ah. Working on mine.”

“I’m having another one,” Ash replied. She put her pint glass under the tap, pouring another foamy draft of the yellowy IPA. She clinked the glass against Simon’s drink, then took a long swallow, draining almost a fourth of the beer at once before stifling an airy belch.

“You ever tried this one?” she asked, waggling the pint glass.

Simon shook his head. “Whassit?”

“The new Shade brew,” came the reply, as if that meant anything to him. “You want to try it? It’s smooth—more drinkable than that stout, anyhow.”

She pushed her glass towards him, leaving a snail-film trail behind it on the counter.

Simon shrugged and padded over, realizing too late—he was, of course, far too short to reach the rim of the pint glass. “You need some help, little man?” Ash asked, a laugh in her voice.

Before he could respond, her hand closed around him.

The sudden contact, plus the equally sudden lift, took his breath away. He was used to being handled: by Milla, by his parents, and now of course by Beck. But to put his life in a stranger’s hands was always a risk—and a thrill besides. And while Milla and Beck usually laid their hands flat so he could climb into their palms, Ash had simply scooped him up without ceremony.

At least her hands were soft—though not as soft as Beck’s.

She didn’t keep him wrapped in her fist for long. After the initial snatch-and-grab, she rotated her wrist to let him rest in the hollow of her hand, ferrying him up to the glass-rim. But before she let him drink, her warm breath washed over him. He didn’t have to turn around to know that her darkened lips were likely mere inches from his bare back.

“You know,” she told him. “I saw the way she looks at you.”

“Wha’sss that?” he asked. But the cup was already tilting towards him, the golden beer sloshing closer to his face. He put his mouth down to drink, accidentally wetting the entire lower half of his face, prompting a rather rude chuckle from Ash.

The glass retreated. But Ash didn’t put him down.

“Beck,” she said. “She can’t take her eyes off you. Whaddaya make of that?”

Simon flushed—from head to foot, it felt like. He searched for a lie: “I… hadn’t noticed?”

Ash didn’t blink. “I bet girls stare at you all the time.”

“Pffft. Go on.”

He turned to face her, swiveling on her palm. She wasn’t looking at him. Her pint glass was at her lips again, upended, blocking his view of her face. When she finished drinking at last, the level in the glass had dropped again to half.

Quarter, half… It was like a countdown. For some reason, the thought made Simon shiver.

Her intense gaze turned toward him again, softened only slightly by the hazy bar lights.

“I mean it,” she said. “Lots of girls are into tinies. I see it all the time here.”

Simon played dumb: “What do you mean, into?”

“I mean, into-into. Interested in. You want me to spell it out?”

“I guess not.” Simon hid his burning face behind one hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this… what was this? Not embarrassed, exactly. Ash’s white-hot gaze danced across his body, seeming to drink him in. And while he couldn’t admit it fully to himself, he was enjoying it—at least partway. He felt like he was alone on center stage with a rapt audience waiting just on the other side of the darkness.

Except—Simon’s audience was holding him aloft in the palm of her warm hand.

“Are you… most girls?” he asked suddenly, playing coy.

“Take a guess, little man,” Ash purred.

Then suddenly she laughed, throwing her head back and covering her open mouth with the other hand. “Naw—I’m me,” corrected, her eyes sparkling. “Most girls, he says. Get out of here.”

She wiped under her eye with one finger before continuing: “Although, I admit I can see the appeal, from a certain point of view. Lots a girl could do with a boy your size.”

Simon’s mind went on spin cycle. Beck had told him once before—about stories she’d read along those lines. Where was she? And where was his sister?

“Oh yeah?” he challenged, sounding more in control than he felt. “Like what?”

Ash leaned close. When her lips parted, the warmth of her words spilled across him:

“Use your imagination…”

He wished suddenly that he hadn’t had quite so much to drink. Thinking was getting difficult—his brain seemed to swim in a kind of thick swirling stew. And every time he glanced away from Ash’s searching hungry eyes, he found his gaze falling into the crevasse of her cleavage.

She’d popped another button, he realized, somewhere in the back of everything.

She was trying to…

She was trying to…

“A Trust Fall,” he said desperately. “That… that’s one thing.”

The giantess grinned, again showing the pink upper line of her gums.

“Why, Simon. I thought you’d never ask.”

What happened next, happened like close-up magic. Without setting him down, she reached across the bar, seized Simon’s shot glass full of dark stout, and drained it in a single gulp. Then she wiped her mouth, reached beneath the bar, and fished up the bottle of honey-colored liquor from before. She poured this into the shot glass, then looked expectantly at Simon.

Simon did a double-take. “What, right now?”

Ash shrugged. “I’ve never done one,” she admitted. “And besides, my cup’s run dry.”

She angled her hand just enough to turn Simon around. Her pint glass was indeed empty now, the countdown reaching zero at last. When had it happened? Simon couldn’t think.

Or, he didn’t want to think. He couldn’t tell which.

And there was the embarrassing matter of the warm sudden tightness below his beltline…

“Ash, I don’t know…” He glanced around, half-hoping he’d see the dim forms of Beck and Milla returning through the evening crowd. Their return, he reasoned, would rescue him. But from what? Something risky. Something dangerous. Something he shouldn’t even be considering.

Something he shouldn’t want to do. He shouldn’t want to.

Wanting to…

He wanted to…

The crowd in HGH had thinned somewhat.

At least in that corner of the bar, he and Ash were almost alone.

Ash brought him close again, lifting him a little so her hand was just level with her face. “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” she teased. “What’s the matter, Si… afraid I’ll swallow you whole?”

Simon stared—at her black lips, then farther down, along the length of her tan neck.

“You wouldn’t,” he stammered. “Would you?”

 “I might,” she purred. “And I might not. That’s why it’s a Trust Fall. Don’t you trust me?”

Without waiting for him to respond, she lifted him higher, above her head. Her palm was angled slightly now, tipping him ever-so-subtly towards her upturned face.

With the other hand, she raised the shot to her eager lips. “Don’t you trust me?” she repeated.

“I…” Simon felt himself slipping forward, closer to the precipice. “I…”

He wanted to.

“I trust you,” he said, his voice sounding a million miles away.

Ash grinned. “Then, down the hatch!”

“Wait!” Simon cried out as she went to drink. “Give… give me a little of that first.”

But Ash only grinned. “Come and get it.” She poured the liquor between her lips.

Then, she opened her mouth wide.

Simon only had a split-second to take it all in. Her black lipstick framed the opening like a dark portal, her teeth beyond doubling that outline like a windowframe. There wasn’t as much liquor in her mouth as there’d been in Beck’s—maybe her mouth was larger, or maybe she’d already swallowed some of it by mistake. Whatever was left was collected in a shallow pool, right at the very back of her throat. It bubbled slightly when she giggled in her nose, in eager anticipation.

It was a long, long way down. Longer still if she…

The alcohol pushed that thought from his head. There was only the challenge ahead now. He stood unsteadily on Ash’s palm, inching closer to the edge of her hand, and the plunge…

Later, he would wonder if he’d really jumped. Or if Ash, impatient to complete the game, had simply tipped him off into her open mouth. In the moment, he only knew he was falling.

That the cave of her mouth was rushing up right at him…

Then—instantaneous darkness. The warmth inside her hit him like a solid wall, just as his backside collided with her tongue. Her lips were already shut tight behind him. But instead of pinning him against the roof of her mouth, Ash kept her head angled back. Her tongue rose beneath him, funneling him irresistibly backward. The liquor drained down her throat.

Ash hummed happily—momentarily tasting Simon’s taste alone.

Then his world went completely vertical.

He didn’t even have time to shout. The tongue beneath him bucked upward, squeezing him back after the liquor. Ash’s uvula slid across his cheek, then everything constricted around him.

When he finally screamed, it was too late.

#

Ash easily gulped the tiny man down, idly following the path he traced down her throat with one finger. The tight squirming pressure passed from the soft spot beneath her chin, down the length of her long neck, and finally under her collarbone, where she momentarily lost the sensation of him. But she traced past this anyhow, between her breasts, until her hand lay flat against her stomach. She felt him land inside, her body welcoming fully its new passenger.

Splashdown. She felt him struggling inside her. She could almost hear his voice, shouting.

Begging to be let out. Out of her.

Her hands gripped the bar top hard.

She knew it would feel like this. She’d always known it would feel like this.

She pulled her shirt up slightly, running fingertips across the spot where she knew Simon was. “I did warn you,” she whispered. Then she slipped out from behind the bar and disappeared into the crowd. No eyes followed her. Nobody watched her leave.

Nobody knew she was even gone.