Off to the side, a lone woman offered a distraction. She sat in a bathing suit reclined in a wicker chair with long legs stretched up onto the glasstop table, hair wet from a swim. She had been thumbing through her phone, but now her eyes had lifted from the screen and hung on the sight of me. Her eyes weren’t sparkling in the mad way of an adoring fan, so I immediately decided she was okay.

“That’s my chaperone!” I spluttered, pointing her out to the woman who was holding me. “She’s pretty, right? How’d I get so lucky?”

The woman’s lips drew together and the sparkle in her eyes dimmed somewhat at this crush-killing disclosure.

Finally I was lowered onto the edge of the pool, onto the paving, and luckily, by this time, the French bulldog had moved on out of sight. At ground level, I now stood in a world devoid of faces, but filled with toes, perfectly manicured toenails, and polished shoes, sandals, pant hems, and smooth bare ankles, and occasionally the flapping skirt of a full length evening dress. Wet feet left damp huge damp footprints on the concrete, and wet bodies sent droplets flying over my head.

Only the path to the watching woman in the seat was clear of bounding bare feet, so it was the most obvious direction. As I watched, her feet touched down on the ground, smooth bare legs folding into a crouch. She extended one arm towards me, motioning with a forefinger and thumb in mid-air as if to pluck up my head. Without explanation, this motion was supposed to invite me closer.

As if disconnected from my brain, my legs started in small plodding steps in the direction of the great plucking hand. My eyes were captivated by her shiny pink lips, which drew tight and irresistibly full in repeated motions, and reeled me in with a playful, moist smacks. She was now the second woman to unsubtly communicate what she wanted to do to my little body by playful kissing lips and filling my imagination with desire. I didn’t question it. The diet of drug patches fed my soul with a spark of adventure and playfulness; I saw myself reaching her face and kissing her back, and imagined her lips were ripe like fruit.

In response, her smile grew as she realized the immediate effect she was having on me and with only the tiniest motions and sounds.

As I reached her giant pair of ankle-strap heels, her arms seemed to sweep around me, light pressure of her wet fingertips against my back goading me along as her form became bigger and bigger, her eyes taking in my entire negligible shape in close detail.

One long, over-manicured fingernail gave my cheek a curious poke and then, to happily gauge how light and small I was within her grasp, reached over and easily captured my shaved head, underestimating her strength and lifting me completely off the ground.

Surprised by my lightness, her nails accidentally dug in, sending a flash of pain through my scalp.

When the ground came up to my feet again, I staggered backwards. But her fascination was now hopelessly snagged on me. My head was quickly snatched and I was lifted again and placed back down right by her heels. I groaned, realizing I was now trapped.

She lifted me again, this time more slowly, weighing me for amusement, unable to believe my lightness. I was brought up higher until the perfectly round basketballs of her breasts seemed to rise and fall right in front of my face. One of her nipples almost brushed right by my nose.

She lifted me up past her chestline, bringing me to a stop level with her chin, to dip her head over my substantially smaller one, and attach her vast pouting lips upon my chest. The power of the kiss sucked my pecs into the depression between her two lips, and was held there for several extended moments, until my entire torso began to ache from the pressure. Her lips were artificially thickened, so big that the crinkled top lip pushed up into my throat. My head balanced on her top lip, baked by the hot exhalation pouring out of her nose. I strained to shut my eyelids before the bursts of hot air smeared over the surface of my eyes and gave me an eye irritation.

It was not the romantic kiss I had imagined. The prickly pain of her fake nail tips across my scalp distracted me from taking in the softness of her lips or enjoying the sensation in any way.

Air once again passed over the front of my body as I was drawn back so she could survey my reaction.

“QUESTION…” she said.

“Yes?” I said, rubbing my face.

“HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT A WOMAN MAKING THE FIRST MOVE?”

I didn’t want to point out I’d just escaped a woman who made the first, second, and third move.

“Well, I’d buy you a drink,” I said, “But then I have to deliver it, and who here has a tiny forklift?”

All the while I was still being lifted like a tiny clasp bag, for her amusement. The crowd continued to do its own thing around us, while she loomed large to me, blocking everyone else from view. The entire landscape consisted of her upper torso, pendulous chest stretched and outlined against her bikini top. This oversized portrait of feminine fertility shifted as I was raised higher, until level with her bright inquiring eyes, lashes fluttering keenly. She adjusted her grip on my head without thinking, and her nail tips shuffled around my temples, sending an aching, prickling stretch through my scalp.

She relished the power she had over me, dangled me for an extended moment.

“Can you put me down now?” My voice came out smaller than I hoped.

“WHY THE SHYNESS?" She smiled. "EENSY LITTLE THING LIKE YOU SHOULD BE UP WHERE PEOPLE CAN SEE YOU.”

Across the pool, another female voice peeled away from the music and laughter:

“HEY! DON’T KEEP HIM ALL TO YOURSELF! SHARE THE LOVE!”

I began to stammer:

“Let’s keep this between us, there’s so little of me to share.”

The woman stared down at me as if seeing me for the first time. I tried to meet her look with confidence, even if I was dangling by my head. Her smile grew into a wall of sparkling teeth.

“HEY, STUNTMAN…CAN YOU GIVE ME A LITTLE SHOW?”

I was thinking of what I could show her; some climbing, standing flips and jumps. Maybe then she’d let me go. Then decided aloud:

“Slight occupational hazard: there’s a lot of people in the way."

“YEAH, BUT WE CAN BE YOUR BACKUP SUPPORT,” she replied, and next moment she threw me into the air.

I yelled and kicked my legs as I went tumbling over the shimmering pool water.

Two hands clapped on either side of me, bringing me to a grinding halt. Ringing pain travelled the length of my skeleton from the impact, blood hammered through my body. The hands moved circularly against each other to adjust my position, rolling me around between them, yanking and pinching my joints. They were soft hands and belonged to a woman in the pool. She shrieked and laughed with the delight of having caught me. Before I even saw her face I was tossed into the air again. Then caught by a different woman, who threw me to her friend. This time I bounced off a big inflatable ball, which sent me springing up before diving head first into a narrow, dark tunnel.

The wild motion came to an abrupt halt. I was stuck, upside down, with the soles of my feet exposed to the air, at first, horribly disoriented, but with the sound of a regular heartbeat, it became clear I was packed between a pair of well-endowed, pillowy breasts.

One finger slid down through her substantial cleavage to investigate me, unintentionally teasing my butt and balls. There was a rising sensation, before the breasts began to pound over and over. The owner of the breasts had left the pool and was walking over to friends sitting at a table. She slid down into a seat and the voices of several women began chatting, slightly muffled by the all-surrounding chest.

In the pool, the water had supported her bust, but on land, my body was forced to take their full weight. Crammed in deep, my face felt like it was squished between boulders. Taking a deep breath, I focused on pushing sound out of my throat and getting it to form words.

“Help…” I rasped, “…Get me out of here…”

The world shifted and there was a squeak of furniture nearby. A deck chair. The woman must have sat down. She then gave a long, soothing sigh, and her chest expanded tightly around me, then relaxed again.

For what seemed like a very long while nothing happened. Bare footsteps padded back and forth, the music droned, and voices chatted away. Bored and restless, I tried flexing my arms and legs. My muscles pulled and ached. But no budge. Her breasts were practically wrapped around my body, more restrictive than a straightjacket.

I remained there for the next fifteen minutes as she enjoyed a drink. Her cleavage expanded and shrank with calm regularity, placing my body under constant squeeze. Every long swallow of her cocktail resounded through her upper chest wall, occasionally followed by a quiet moan of satisfaction.

Stuck in her chest, I had time to think, and despair. My thoughts started verging on the idea that there was no true escape from the party. It was a choice of either being unhappily reunited with the band crew, or having one of these fame-hungry socialites steal me home for the same purposes as Anya did.

Without warning, fingers grabbed my ankles and I was slid out backwards. Then I hung upside down, limp and resigned.

"ARE YOU JERRY MOUSSEAU?" the woman blurted, pushing her upside down face into mine to get a close look at me, voice bursting with gin-flavored air which quickly dried up my body.

"I might be…I guess you want an autograph?"

A pen was thrust into my hands and I was dangled just above her cleavage. She peeled her bikini down and I scrawled on her bare flesh, trying to write as large as possible, and finishing with my signature ink covered handprint, which caused her to erupt with a squeal of delight.

She snapped a photo of it with her phone. She glanced around, her cheeks turning pink as she gushed:

“JERRY, THESE ARE MY HOMEGIRLS—”

I was put down on a circular bistro table when suddenly, four other giggling, squealing, bikini-clad women had gathered around me like a ring of towering trees, blocking out the night sky.

“—GIRLS, IT'S JERRY MOUSSEAU! TAKE A LOOK; ISN’T HE ADORABLE? ISN'T HE JUST THE TINIEST?!"

Hands dove in from every direction to poke around at my chest, tummy, face and butt, staggering me back and forth. Four sets of cleavage swelled up into my face as each woman in turn bent for me to sign with an autograph and tiny handprint. After each signature, my face was swooped upon and lavished with grateful kisses until it was a bright, sticky mix of pinks and reds.

The women took seats and squeezed around the table, and I was made to walk onto each of their upturned palms in turn, balancing in place as they smilingly lifted their hands to measure my insubstantial weight. They cooed at how dainty I was, and at the tiny bunches of muscles showing through my t-shirt, and frequently snuck a look at my bulge.

One of the women called a Firebird over for service, drinks and a basket of crabmeat and steak fries. The smell of hot food wafted in the air, making my mouth water. For the duration of the tour, I had been fed leftover snacks by Anya, usually out of the Hotel kitchenettes: nuts, chocolate, potato chips, Pepsi. I craved a hot meal.

“SO, J,” one of the women, a blonde, asked: “ARE YOU SEEING ANYONE?”

I cried:

“Food! Gimme! Oh God!”

A torn off piece of fry and crabmeat was placed in my eager hands and I began to wolf it down.

The women eyed each other. A redhead frowned at the blonde:

“YOU CAN’T JUST ASK THAT!”

The blonde replied:

“WHY NOT? EVERYONE’S THINKING IT, RIGHT?”

The redhead said, in a lower voice:

“BECAUSE HOW DOES HE…?” She made a suggestive gesture with her pinky finger.

One of the others, a brunette, took a drink and with a straight face, asked me:

“WHEN YOU GET EXCITED DOES YOUR LITTLE THING GO UP LIKE NORMAL?”

A couple of the girls were giggling and sipping their drinks to stifle it. 

A fingertip with a glossy painted nail came out of nowhere and gave my junk a quick, investigative poke. The others watched for clarification.

“EVERYTHING CERTAINLY FEELS NORMAL,” she reported.

The air was roaring and warm. I was blushing now, and kept eating so I’d be excused from talking. My eyes searched the area for an escape.

Then I saw her.

Standing on one side of the balcony, it was the magenta Firebird from earlier, the one who looked exactly like Samantha. She was standing with another Firebird, in identical magenta garb who was turned away from the pool, coyly enjoying a cigarette. They were chatting, covertly surveying the party on the floor below. The white Firebird wasn’t with them.

I waved my arms grandly, then jumped up and down. Then, yelled out ‘Hey! Down here!’

Finally, my arms fell loosely to my sides. She couldn’t see me. From the balcony, I was practically a speck.

“WHO’S UP THERE?” one of the women inquired, craning her neck as if I had spied a rarefied celebrity.

“Er, it’s just…the Firebird.”

She thought I was looking for table service.

“YOU WANT A DRINK REFRESHMENT?” She twisted in her seat. “I’LL CALL SOMEONE. LET’S SEE…WHO’S ON THE BAR RIGHT NOW…?”

I perked up.

“Call that one.” I pointed up at Samantha. “Call her! –Just her!”

I must have sounded too eager. The woman gave me a long look. Then her eyes slowly lifted to the balcony again, and narrowed. There was a flicker of something resentful in her face as she took in Samantha’s impressive profile, up and down. Then looked away, blinking, and the expression vanished. She concluded in a clipped tone:

“SHE’S ON BREAK. TOO BAD.”

Her head began to swivel around the pool floor for another Firebird, forgetting the balcony in a heartbeat.

“IS THAT THE BABE WITH OUR APPLETINIS?” She gave an enthusiastic clap.

I took up a napkin and began to wipe my face obsessively of lipstick marks, before a Firebird parted the crowd and arrived at the table, martini glasses raised. As the Firebird gracefully spread the glasses upon the table, I dashed over the chromatic surface to halt before her toned bare stomach. Swallowing back the feeling of infantalization, I gasped up at her:

“I need a bathroom escort!”

She looked startled.

“SWEETIE, I’M TAKING ORDERS. BUT THE HOTEL MIGHT ARRANGE A SPECIAL ESCORT JUST FOR YOU, HOW ABOUT THAT?”

“Not even this one time as a tiny favor for a tiny guest?”

She betrayed a smile.

“OKAY, PRECIOUS. DO YOU MAYBE WANT ME TO JUST PICK YOU UP AND CARRY YOU?”

I obediently lifted my arms and her fingers closed around me, regrettably chilled from holding glasses, and loosened me from the tabletop. Then she began to stride towards the nearest bathroom.

As the air whisked past, I began to shiver.

“OH, I AM SO SORRY,” her fingerpads began to anxiously stroke back and forth against my torso, trying to warm me with friction, “MY HANDS ARE SO COLD. AND I CAN’T LET YOU FREEZE NOW, CAN I?”

A wet, hot wind started blowing across my body, powerfully ruffling my hair. I looked up, expecting to see a big heater fan, but there was instead a giant pair of shiny fuchsia lips sending repeated blasts of warm breath into my face until I stopped shivering. I spoke up, shouting over the music:

“Actually, I don’t need the bathroom.”

The bobbing motions of the Firebird’s gliding walk paused as she looked down at me in confusion.

“I want to go up onto the balcony –” I quickly explained, pointing, “—see that Firebird up there, with the black braid?”

“IS SHE USHERING YOU TONIGHT?”   

“Err, sure.”

“REALLY, THE NEW GIRL? IT LOOKS LIKE BRIGITTE’S TAKING HER FOR AN INDUCTION.”

Brigitte must have been the other Firebird Samantha was talking to. She was a striking blonde with bright smile in loud lipstick, glittery nails and hoop earrings.

Stilettos began to clack up the glass panelled stairs to the balcony, meanwhile the woman holding me subconsciously pressed me against her belly to absorb the shock of her movements. Her abdomen was tight and toned with little give, and felt like being squashed against a trampoline.

For a second I struggled to speak, every step up the stairway, I bounced against the woman’s stomach and my cheek squished against the wall of pliant abdominal muscle.

“Did you see another – ugh – new girl– oof –in a white costume?”

Glancing around, the woman replied, conversationally:

“YAH KNOW, I CAN’T TELL YOU. IT’S A BIG CROWD TONIGHT AND I’M TOO BUSY LOOKING OUT FOR THE CLIENTELE…LIKE YOU.”

At the top of the stairway, I looked out over the balcony railing, searching for someone who had noticed that I’d left. But the crowds had moved on.