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.