It was dark out and the outside warm air radiated in through the open window. I was back in the Hotel room, while Anya had gone out to get something to eat. Now there were sounds outside the Hotel bedroom, like she had returned and someone else was with her, their voices bounced off each other indistinctly until the front door shut.

The hotel bedroom light switched on. A HVAC unit outside droned as the air conditioning switched on.

Her quaking footsteps crossed the room and her lithe pale form came to a stop before the hotel bed. Humming softly, she slipped her shirt off, and unclasped her bra, allowing her milky pale breasts to swing free, each red nipple approximate to the size of my fist.

She turned her head, observing me lazily. I lay on a fuzzy sock on the bedside table. A shiver ran down my spine even though it was warm. Without warning she picked up a pillow from the bed and giggling, threw it at me. It whumped down like a giant inflatable mattress, covering me completely.

When it lifted again she had removed her pants and was just wearing a G-string. She also had a fresh drug patch. I was scooped up in one hand as a sharp nail came at my torso, scratching painfully at a corner of the adhesive gummed to my skin.

“Put me down!” I slurred, kicking my legs in sluggish arcs.

The edge was torn and entire thing given one huge yank, ripping off, the bare sweating flesh underneath mechanically slapped over with a new patch, and massaged into place with blunted fingertips so forceful it creaked my ribs inward. Quickly, the chemical ran through my body like a warm bath, soothing the pain. My arms and legs slackened. 

Satisfied the spirit had been anesthetized, she began idly playing with the tip of my member, nipping at it and wiggling her fingers against it. I groaned as my balls screamed for release and didn’t have the energy to fight back.

Her eyes went from me to her G-string, and back. She hooked a finger into the waistband and let it snap in front of my eyes. The thin waistband was peeled away again, and wound around my rigid penis. Then my head was thrust beneath the band, the string looped around my neck. Her fingertips lifted from my torso, and I snapped against her outer hip. She shimmied her hips, ensuring I was secure; the wobbling motion tugged the string, putting pressure on my windpipe and the base of my shaft until both began to throb. A pleasurable prickling crawled over my body.

The light went off, and she settled down on her back on the bed in the dark. Her fingertip idly twirled, tugging the G-string tight and then loose again repeatedly, toying with pulling my dick as far as it would go. I began to drool and gag as the string repeatedly tightened and relaxed, longing for each brief window of relief when the string went loose, and dreading the inevitable winding motion of her finger stringing me up until I thought I would go crazy.

My dick responded to the stress by getting bigger and bigger, and there was no way to fight the building delirious arousal.

In the dark, I felt her eyes all over me, watching me with bated breath, seeing if I’d pass out as she plucked the G-string, sending ripples of constriction through my throat and groin, listening for my tiny groans to confirm I was still conscious. She didn’t know I could hold my breath for a long time, and became fascinated with my endurance, teasing my breath out, bit by bit.

The string was drawn out tight. I was going to burst.

Please let go… I prayed. Coming was going to bring on a world of pain. I fought with everything I had not to come, to hold out the punishment for a little longer. But she was determine to push me to my limit and I was determined to endure.

She held the string for an extra moment, patiently waiting for me to capitulate. After another moment she let out a bored kind of sigh. She played with the string, twisting it, pulling it faster until it was capably milking me, and basically throttling my neck at the same time.

Like a hot, heavy shroud, the musk of her pussy swirled into my senses as the crotch of the thong was repeatedly peeled back and snapped. My head whirled; in the sweltering, odorous darkness, I was at severe risk of passing out. My mouth cracked open to speak, but no sound issued. The string wrapped around my neck was putting too much stress on my larynx.

The tension eased giving me an extended period of forbidden heavenly relief. Her fascination was now focused totally on my response. Her face drew very close in order to make out my tiny prick in the dark, until her eyes loomed large over my face, glinting in the moonlight. My erection hummed joyously as it was bathed in her warm, ticklish breath, the force of her aroused panting enough to make it waggle. I squirmed beneath the heat of her gaze, evaluating my size.

Her whisper seemed to boom out like movie quotes played out of IMAX, ringing through my pounding skull and sending a tingling sensation throughout my boner:

“I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GO UNTIL YOU CURB YOURSELF. I CAN DO THIS ALL NIGHT IF I HAVE TO.”

Her fingertip landed on the head of my penis, delicately probing how firm it was. As her fingertip dug around to examine my frenulum, sensation jolted through my balls.

She intuited this and casually pinched my tip between her forefinger and thumb to stem the orgasm.

I sensed her grinning down at me.

“HARDER?”

Trapped in the vice of her fingertips, my tip was given a small scrunch. I gritted my teeth.

My member was so engorged it felt like a bar of iron, keeping me weighed down, practically paralyzed by the fiery stimulation thumping through my body.

She slipped me out of her thong and I practically groaned with dismay. My balls were heavy and tight, an unfulfilled. But then the grinding constriction of the string was suddenly replaced with a very different sensation in the darkness.

There was a fan of warm breath before a moist crawling feeling that took its time travelling up and down my shaft, pulsing and squeezing my erection. And the additional feeling of something like a fingertip probing up and down the underside of my length, before an intense suctioning around my balls. It was not a fingertip but actually the tip of her tongue, because she had taken my shaft between her powerful lips and was smacking on it, over and over, taking her time.

I squirmed in fear as her teeth softly grazed my flesh, trying to pull myself out, but a deep breath from her was all it took to yank me back inside and my face smacked into the tip of her nose. She giggled in between slurping on me over and over, stretching my dick until it was at the limit of full length. Meanwhile, the tip of her tongue trace delicate circles on my balls, sometimes experimenting with compressing them softly against the padded surface of her tongue until they were painfully dense.

My back landed on the mattress as she deftly turned over and placed me down. Now, as I lay on my back, her head remained suspended oppressively just over me. Succumbing to her passion, the weight of her head started to increase until I felt like Atlas with the world balanced upon me, not on my shoulders but my torso, centering around my belly and groin. At the same time she continued to exact unstoppable waves of pressure upon my defenceless penis; every time her massive lips pursed, my shaft was irresistibly reeled in, partially lifting me off the bed until my face slapped into her nose. Then the tip of her tongue eagerly darted forward and tapped into my glans, sending a shattering ache straight into my balls, which was quickly massaged into as her tongue travelled down my shaft and began working circles around my butt and balls.

She was trying to learn, quickly, what I liked, and repeat what worked. And I was helplessly giving her all the information she needed. My body no longer belonged to me, but felt like it was working parasympathetically with her whims.

The boundaries between my body and hers seemed to dissolve. It felt like the tip of her tongue was exploring my insides, the sensation of the tip of her tongue was enlivening a feathery poking feeling on the inside of my body.  The weight of her head, poised over me like a dark moon, seemed destined to crush me to a pulp.

The orgasm was painful alright. My muscles were screwing up tight, burning with the strain of orgasm, the firmer and stronger I felt to her, and the more weight she experimented with forcing me to support. My ribcage had begun to buckle inwards, and I was stuck in-between breaths. I felt like a piece of paper trapped under a rock. While my body was lodged beneath her lips, I was powerless but to feel the ticklish path traced by her tongue as it rooted around my balls. It jiggled my balls and flicked my member out of the way as it acted like it was searching for something, or trying to figure out how to enter my body. I prayed she would not try to ram up my butt, and clenched my butt cheeks as hard as possible.

 Then all the air seemed to race out of my body, and with it, muscle tension. I went slack and numb like a ragdoll.

Her head was like a big black eclipse in the dark as she surveyed me. Then it raced back down at me to apply a big kiss to my face that tugged my head up off the mattress.

My thoughts spun and scattered as the weightless feeling reasserted itself and I lost track of time.

*

The air was gray and quiet. I took a deep breath, and surprisingly cool air raced into my lungs. It was still night. The occasional car grunted up and down the roads outside. 

My thoughts were weirdly sharp and skittish.

Anya had forgotten to put a new patch on me before she went to sleep. The previous patch had worn off, and with it, the mental sluggishness had melted away.

What was the situation? I was trapped inside a hotel room in an unknown location, and only Anya knew where I was. Jennifer would think I was back at my apartment. Raf and Natalie assumed I’d found temporary lodging. Samantha’s state of mind was too mystifying to second guess, and if Darcy had responded to my voice mail, it didn’t matter because I didn’t have my phone.

My phone.

Did Anya still have it?

Her Lanvin shoulder bag was lying near the bed, its silhouette rising up off the ground like a big distressed leather hill, with a gold chain shoulder strap that reflected the outside moonlight.

The zipless opening was covered by a flap secured with a metallic clasp. I couldn’t open the clasp, but I could try and slide in under one corner of the flap. So I climbed up the chain shoulder strap and forced myself beneath the flap. It was like forcing myself through a mail box slot; the leather grinded against my back and belly.  I let out my breath, sucking in my tummy, turning my head to the side, and kept going. Reaching the opening, I wrenched myself over, took a deep breath and tumbled head first into the black interior, thick with the smell of leather mixed with spilt perfume and powdery, flowery cosmetic smells, which made me dizzy before I’d even stopped falling.

It was too fast for me to put my hands out and brace my landing; I hit something firm face first, and dazed, rolled onto my side.

Trying to ignore a eye-watering headache building up from the intense, cloying fragrances, I began sweeping my hands around, identifying objects by touch. Most objects were mysterious, but eventually I found something that felt familiar. My phone.

Now I had to reverse the climb out while carrying it. In desperation, I turned it side on and clamped it between my thighs, then started up the interior bag’s satiny fabric wall, grasping with my hands, bracing my feet against the material, digging my toes into it for grip while keeping my thighs clenched together. This was harder than the climb in, but my tiny size and muscle strength gave me abilities not possible at normal size.

Hauling myself up to the opening, I managed to pull myself over, and drop, but became lodged in a tight space between the exterior bag and the flap. I shuffled and wriggled, trying to free myself, until I began to feel my phone loosening from between my legs. I stopped.

For several panic-filled moments I was convinced I was trapped in the bag and destined to wait until morning to be found, losing my chance to escape.

Trying to remain rational, I reached down, clawing at the leather below to pull myself out. Suddenly I popped free and collapsed onto the floor with my phone.

Clambering to get upright, I put my phone on my lap and brought the screen up. My heart suddenly felt like it was being squeezed by my ribcage. There were some texts from Jennifer from earlier that night:

On a scale of your size to 100 i want u bad

The fact this didn't make a lot of sense made me think it was a drunk text. My suspicion grew with the next one, sent a couple of minutes after:

imagine lick an army of tiny jerries and i'd be the leader we'd take over the world

—and immediately after:

*like not lick. lol
fwiw i would also lick my army of tiny jerries :p:p:p

I typed a reply:

I’d rather have an army of you

Then my words ran out. It was stupid but the thought of anyone finding out about this was shame-inducing. Worse, I was famous; this time it was going to get out and ruin my profile. But for Jennifer to find out, of anyone…

She’d already suffered this once.  Once was an accident. Twice was becoming a pattern. Why would she leave me on my own again until it happened a third time? She’d respond by wrapping me up in her hand and dragging me home if she had to. And ensuring I remained there.

My job, gone. My independence, gone.

Then, willing myself not to regret saying more, I hit send and the text screen disappeared.

Who could I tell about this? Natalie? – she couldn’t be trusted not to tell Jennifer anyway, even if she meant well. I needed someone who could stay cool and not respond by freaking out and doing something impulsive; and the pool of candidacy was incredibly small. But if I didn’t hurry up and choose someone it would be morning, Anya would get up and then my tiny hope of escape would be snuffed. She might even get up to go to the bathroom any second, and inconveniently remember that I wasn’t wearing a patch and seek to rectify that error ASAP.

Another problem: what if Anya found the phone and realized I was using it? Any message needed to be vague enough to give me a plausible denial. I started tapping out a text, but what I read back sounded unintelligible. That was good if Anya found it, but not good if the recipient didn’t understand it, or take it seriously.

Every passing second was pure anxiety. The half-metabolized drugs lingering in my system didn’t help.

Terrified Anya would wake up any second, I ran on wobbly legs into the main living area. At my size, the beige wainscoting was less like interior walls, and more like the tall sides of skyscrapers hemming me in. The floor stretched on like the floor of a lecture hall. Shadows cast from immense furniture ran long over everything, absorbing me completely in darkness as I passed.

A low, feminine groan from the bedroom.

A chill through my body. I froze on the spot.

Bed springs creaked.

Anya’s colossal form appeared in the doorway, her lashes rose and fell with fatigue-heavy blinks. My breath surged like a river. Before I could glimpse whether she’d seen me, her feet were driving ahead, fast filling up my perception as they lifted and swooped with airy whumps, straight in my direction. She’d seen me. On a shadowy patch of carpet I stood rooted to the spot.

Run!

My breath trembled inside my lungs. I couldn’t move.

Her feet came bowling at me, filling the sky, and dropping, while the rest of her seemed to shrink away behind them with every step. The rest of her was floating toward the ceiling, unseen behind her pale wrinkled soles. She had slender, graceful feet and an oddly angelic, weightless gait, hypnotizing me with their rhythmic motions, toenails glimmering like polished glass as they shifted in and out of my sight, swiftly aligning closer and closer with my nose. At this momentum, if even her pinky toe landed on my head, it would knock my lights out.

She was still half-asleep and the floor was another world a long way down, a hypothetical world inhabited only by dust mites, lint, specks of grit and whatever had flicked off the bottom of her shoes; nothing that lived in the carpet fibers was important enough to notice.

Her left foot made a lightning fast arc through the airspace, and came swinging into my face like a bowling ball set to knock me like a pin. She wasn’t stopping; she hadn’t seen me. She was oblivious to my presence on the floor. I realized this too late and was a fraction of a second from being squashed and smoothed into the crevices under her toes.

But by some luck her big toe barely sailed over. But the tip of the toenail scraped sensitively over the crown of my head, giving me a rapid, painful scalp massage that prickled my skull.

The floor quaked behind me before she disappeared into the bathroom. Maybe so much alcohol from an after gig drinking session.

I ran to the side of the room, hiding in a big shadow. Finished, she returned to the bedroom and seemed to go back to sleep. I came out of the shadow. Every extra moment I spent on the floor now sent chills through my body, hyper aware I’d narrowly avoided one of her soles accidentally punching me down into a cute sticker decoration for the floor. Or having my head accidentally tweezered between two of her toes and forced to cushion the ball of her foot for a couple of steps before falling out.

Overwhelmed, I stood in one place, digging my toes into the carpet, thinking…thinking…

The TV stand was one of the lowest objects in the room, but still too high for me to reach the card. The closest object to the stand was a dining chair, then the coffee table, and then the couch and sofas. Applying some ‘the floor is lava’ logic and some flying leaps, there was a feasible pathway from the floor to the TV stand.

I stepped up to the front of a couch. The base was over triple my height. At normal size, it would have been impossible to climb a vertical fabric wall, but my tiny fingers and nails could dig into the grainy Chenille fabric, and at the weight of a tennis ball meant less resistance by gravity. Lucky for me the couch wasn’t smooth leather, which would have provided no means to grip.

Soon I had made up the base, the sofa sunk under my feet with each step across the seats, then I pulled myself up onto the armrest.

Standing at the edge of the armrest, I leapt onto the seat of the fabric-base chair near the glass-top kitchen table, my tiny lightweight body capable of greater acrobatic distance in flight. Landing on the seat, I made a second jump across to the TV stand, landing on my hands and knees by the folded Hotel card containing the swipe pass which, up close, was the size of a small rug. There was also a guest notepad and pen, both inscribed with the Hotel name and logo – ‘The Abruxo’. It can’t have been the same one in Tiferno, but a different one in the chain.

Lifting the pen and balancing it, I scrawled messily on the top sheet:

Then tore it off and took it back into the bedroom. With the phone propped up against the wall, I held up the paper and took a selfie. Using a website to encrypt the photo with a password, I then logged into my email and attached the photo. The email said:

The password is yesimanidiot.

It struck me I could just sent the message in the body of the email but the drugs made me paranoid about Anya getting into my emails, as unlikely as that was.

I deleted the photo. Then, hand hovering over the screen – why was it so hard? – I delete the email. Without sending it. Perverse relief coursed through me.

Until I brought up my sent emails folder and confirmed, I had accidentally sent it. I stared at the page a moment longer, until I grew disappointed with myself, and not sure why. For everything? – Being here. Being unable to get myself out. Being unable to express that I needed help.

My phone had a reply from Jennifer, even now, at 2.46 AM. It said:

so cocky arent we haha u can barely handle 1 of me, literally. but if ur down to prove urself ill put my big toe in ur hands n u can lift my foot up. an if u can do that &u like xtra challenge ill lift my other foot off the ground at the same time ballerina style. thatll show me huh? >:p     

This sent a shiver up my spine considering the unfortunate coincidence that Anya had nearly stepped on me earlier.

Then I thought: what would Jennifer do if she was me? She would never have sent the email. I quickly put that thought out of mind. She would try everything, explore everything, search every inch of the room for an escape, or a tool, or something, anything. By pure luck I had this window of time while Anya was asleep again, so I needed to rely on my own wits to figure out how to escape.

Wide awake now, I quickly assessed my situation: I was trapped inside a Hotel room with a gigging pop star slumbering in the room, intent on keeping me as a personal keepsake to keep her company on tour.

My heart was thundering like a spooked stallion. And not totally in beat. It couldn’t take more nights like this for much longer or it was going to give out from excitement.

Suddenly I was in motion again, crossing the floor, reaching the perimeter of the room, sweeping around for passages out of the main living room area. It seemed to take forever to cross rooms at my size, but I was determined, no, desperate.

But I was in for disappointment. The gap under the main door was too narrow, and there were no windows open. I found myself following the perimeter of the room like a prison inmate, or a trapped animal.

Except…

…How could I have forgotten? – I’d felt the cool breeze the moment I’d woken up. Plus, the sound of the cars had been sharp and clear. There had to be a window open.

Dizzy with hope, I stumbled back into the bedroom and stared up. Midway up the wall, the great glass face of the window shutter opened slightly into the glittering night outside, partly obscured by the shades, from which the cool air filtered in.

 For the second time, I went into Anya’s handbag for a climbing tool, clawing up the leather, entering the poorly ventilated pocket of dizzying hyper-fragrance, and feeling around in the pitch black. Finally I hefted out a pack of dental floss. I unwound a generous length, and, holding onto the loose end, spun the pack around my head like a lasso and threw it up at a lamp protruding horizontally from the wall. It sailed short and fell back down onto the carpet. On the third try, it went over. Then I created a loose knot and pulled the loose end. The pack lifted from the carpet until its weight kicked in, and the knot tightened.

Then, taking the loose end, I climbed up onto the bed where Anya was dozing, and positioned myself at the head, facing the window.

The sky outside was like deep blue mist. Still plenty of time before morning.

Gripping the end of the floss, I ran and leapt over the bed edge, and swung through the air beneath the lamp. The gap in the window came flying towards me just over my head. The floss reeled backwards and I pushed off from the wall, swinging towards the window again, and back to the wall, and again to the window, trying to get some momentum until every swing brought me a little closer to the gap.

After several swings, I had enough momentum, and steeled myself to make the leap.

At the last second, the pane shivered as a fan of cool air breezed into my face. If a draught had caused the window to drop at wrong moment I could’ve been paste. I lost my nerve and the floss drew back again.

Just one more swing…

For a second, there was just the sound of my heart in my ears. Then—

My phone’s ringtone. An incoming call.

The bedsheets rustled.

The floss slipped through my hands but I caught it at the last second. I reached the height of my swing without jumping, and the window began to recede again, while my heart pounded.

There was a feminine squeal of surprise, and the sheets were kicked off violently –

BANG

The cool air fanning inside was instantly cut off like a switch, and now there were a pair of cyan-nailed fingertips grasping a small knob on the inside window frame.

The ringtone had stopped.

Her voice hummed as if ironically thrilled; relief from having caught me.

“I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT’S A BIG NO-NO LITTLE GUY.”

Her statuesque form bent over me, hands on her thighs, studying me as my floss lifeline wobbled in front of her face.

“I KNOW; SO BORING COMING BACK TO THE HOTEL ROOM AFTER A GIG,” she murmured, “AFTER THE ADRENALINE HAS COME DOWN.”

Her eyelids were heavy with sleep but her pupils were fixed on me. When I said nothing, she leaned closer and sent a stinging blast of her mouthwash-flavored breath straight into me, sending me spinning around.

She straightened and drew back.

“LEMME THINK AND I’LL FIND SOME FUN LITTLE THINGS FOR YOU TO DO…”

I let out a yelp as suddenly her fingertips spread apart in front of me, only to close firmly, trapping my tiny entirely. The air rushed past as I was lifted; I dropped the floss before it burned through my palms. My skin tingled under the force of her menthol breath.

She dropped me into the stale lacy black pouch of a stocking and tied it to the end to a bedpost while she caught another few hours’ sleep.

* * *

It was dark, which was weird because I was sure it should be morning. Soft fabric was pressing into my body and the smell of fresh laundry was all around. A cacophony of confusing sounds played. Footsteps clunked over hard floor, passing back and forth; seeming too close; every time seeming about to stand on me. Drawers and cabinets opened and closed. An electronic beeping.

“– OH NO…”

Male laughter.

“UM, SO GUYS I THINK THE MICROWAVE IS TOO POWERFUL IT NUKED HIS BURRITO.”

Nothing made sense; I was drugged again. 

Vibrations rolled through my body to the sound of very low. There was a queasy swinging sensation, left, then right. I was inside a big vehicle as it was turning. It took another long, labored bout of concentration to put together that it was Anya’s tour bus. The laundry smell told me I must have been inside a luggage bag with clothes. The bus seemed familiar; in fact, on various days I awoke to find myself in the bus, surrounded by chatting, laughter, noises – not to mention drinking.

“THINK I’LL HAVE TIME FOR A GYM SESSION AFTER THE MEET AND GREET?” came Anya’s voice, sounding slightly tipsy. “OTHERWISE I’M GOING TO HAVE TO USE THIS FOR WORKOUTS—”

“THAT’S A HANDRAIL.”

“NOW IT’S A STRIPPER POLE.”

The engine vibration became sensitive, acute, and for some reason, sourced at my leg. A little light flashed, giving me a glimpse of the dim fabric interior I was trapped in. A mesh pocket, allowing some air inside. The light was from a screen; my phone. I dragged myself across the fabric towards it. The low battery symbol flashed in the corner, texts, missed calls going to voicemail, an email.

I pulled up my inbox first. The email said nothing. Totally blank.

I stared hard at the screen, confused. Then I noticed the photo attachment. Downloading it, I pulled it up on my screen. It was a selfie of Samantha, sitting in a chair fixing the phone camera with a displeased stare. She was holding up a piece of paper with writing on it which said:

I wracked my brains to remember the message I’d sent her. Then it became clear, and my heart sank. The email had been too ambiguous. She thought I was having an affair with Anya. She must have read the 'HELP' meaning not to rescue me, but to help me keep the ‘affair’ a secret from Jennifer.

…I was, of course, assuming the ‘she’ in the message referred to Anya, and not Jennifer.

Before I could check the texts and voicemail, my phone battery died and my brain drowned under the fabric-softener scented darkness again.