Steve Clover needed a drink. Not just in the sense that he had an extraordinarily trying day, but in the sense that it had been several days since his last one. He hadn’t realized just how much he had been consuming daily, didn’t think that alcohol withdrawal was really a thing. But when he held his hands up, they were shaking. It could be attributable to his terrifying ordeal in Emma’s stomach, sure, but it felt like more than that. He felt…squirrely. Twitchy. Itchy. He just didn’t feel right.

The rest of the evening was mercifully uneventful. He and Emma had hit up a fast-food drive-through on their way back from her school, Steve once again marveling at the girl’s metabolism. She had joked that the weight seemed to go straight to her tits nowadays, but he still couldn’t fathom how someone could consume two burgers, large fries, and a large soda, then chase it down with two apple pies, and look like she did.

By the time they had gotten back to his home, it was already around 8:00 at night. Amy would be back within the hour. Emma had helpfully retrieved one of his outfits from the newly-coined Rubber Ducky Fashion Line (the name she had given it had stuck), this one comprised of forest green sock fabric with teddy bears on it. He resolved to keep this one, somehow, after the pink number with yellow daisies was left behind in Emma’s gut somewhere. She was right that he probably didn’t want it back…if there was anything left of it.

The question was how they would explain his skin looking red and inflamed, and where his other outfit went. And in Steve’s experience, the best lies start with a kernel of truth. Not that Amy would ask for it, but they had the fast-food receipt. The plan was to explain to Amy that Steve was hidden from sight in the cupholder as Emma went through the drive-through, and she had spilled hot coffee all over him as she went to put it next to him in the cupholder. They had extracted Steve immediately, who tore off his outfit (without Emma seeing, of course) to get the scalding fabric off him. It had been inadvertently thrown out when Emma cleaned her car.  

It was a stupid excuse. They both knew it, felt like kids lying to their parents about getting drunk. But Amy trusted Emma, and if Emma corroborated it, well, there really wasn’t anything to contradict the story, was there?

Emma had hung out with him for a bit before Amy got in, Steve deciding to introduce her to Cowboy Bebop now that it was on his mind. He hadn’t seen it in 25 years, and he knew Emma liked anime. “It’s an all-time classic,” he had explained. He found it patently ridiculous, and borderline unbelievable, that she had never heard of it. So, they had agreed to swap their favorites as long as they were going to be spending so much time together. Up next on the slate of various intellectual properties was Oshi No Ko, a show that Emma insisted was amazing despite the truly bizarre plot synopsis she had provided. He had his doubts and reservations, but she had humored his desire to trot down memory lane, so it was a fair trade. They were going to start it after they finished Cowboy Bebop.

They made it through a handful of episodes before the headlights of Amy’s car illuminated the hallway outside the bedroom, Emma standing up and grabbing her keys before meeting Amy at the door for the changing of the guard. She had uttered one last sincere apology, her face conveying a desperate need for Steve to tell her she was forgiven, her lip trembling as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom before Amy came inside. And he had, in fact, forgiven her. As mature as she seemed at times, she was just a kid. A kid with her own trials and tribulations, her brain stuffed to the gills with emotions, hormones, and personal drama. Steve believed that Emma had done the best that she could, even if Emma’s best had almost gotten him killed. Emma vowed that she would keep track of her school schedule and coordinate with Amy going forward so there wouldn’t be a mix-up like this again. They both agreed that the absolute LAST thing either of them ever wanted was for Steve to end up at Emma’s high school again. It seemed like nothing good happened there.

Emma had been terrified over the looming confrontation with her mother, her cellphone having blown up with missed calls and texts in the hours after band practice had concluded. Jackie had undoubtedly spoken with Mrs. K, and surely intended to tell her daughter just how she felt about that conversation. Much like their contrived story to Amy, Steve had suggested that she just tell the truth. Well, a version of the truth that had some key details omitted, such as her neighbor being one-inch tall and hitching rides in her tits, her boot, her stomach, and Ashley’s butt in the span of a few short hours.

He had recommended to Emma that she confide in her mother about her nerves, about her conflict with Sheila, about the professional creep otherwise known as Barnyard Levy, about the bullying she suffered on a day-to-day basis. Steve was banking on Jackie’s empathy and maternal instinct subsuming any lingering rage. He hoped for Emma’s sake that he was right about the approach. The concert was supposed to be tomorrow night, and both he and Emma firmly believed she would not be in attendance, a suspension being the likeliest of outcomes in her meeting tomorrow morning with the Principal. All things considered, she was taking it pretty well.

There was another problem, besides the booze. A different itch of sorts that needed scratching. When he was boiling alive inside Emma’s stomach, he thought that he would never jerk off to his macrophilia again. But being a few hours removed the ordeal, his lower brain took over gradually like it always did. Being back in the safety of his own home, calming down, his heart rate achieving normalcy, the old libido kicked in retrospectively. He had caught a glimpse of Emma’s friend Ashley in the parking lot, and the girl was simply stunning. Steve being a lifelong fan of the Spider-Man franchise, Ashley seemed to him like what he was sure every horny teenager imagined Mary Jane Watson to be in real life. Ashley had silky, flowing, natural red hair that tussled about effortlessly as she moved her head, rounded cheekbones mounted on a narrow face that boasted a smattering of freckles, bright, piercing green eyes that bordered on being unnatural, a radiant grin with pearly white teeth, and thin, pink lips that looked soft enough to sink into.

Ashley was slender, sure, but so was Amy. Whereas Amy had been blessed with genetics that allowed her butt to pop out a little despite her slight, wiry frame, Ashley’s butt was more proportional to her size and weight. That didn’t make it any less of a natural wonder to behold, however. It fit her perfectly. Seared into his mind was the rhythmic rise and fall of Ashley’s buttcheeks in her tight jeans as she strutted away toward her car after kissing Emma one last time, the knowledge that he had been nestled between them moments earlier being posthumously arousing as he contemplated it from the safety of his own bed.

And though he really didn’t want to think about it with everything Emma meant to him as his friend, especially with the significant age gap, the time he had spent with her was likewise replaying on an endless loop in his mind’s eye. When they got back to his house, Emma kicking off her boots again as she flopped casually onto his bed, crossing her legs as she leaned back and reclined against the headboard, his eyes were drawn to her chest. He couldn’t help it. He was a man, and Emma was a woman. A very, very attractive woman. He felt like the definition of pure sleaze for the things he thought about her, felt like he would be thrown in prison if anyone were ever able to read his thoughts. But as she laid there on his bed watching the TV, her toes pointing upward to the ceiling, curling and wiggling on occasion, her mountainous chest popping out from her relaxed, reclined posture, her stomach quietly gurgling as it processed the fast-food, her pale legs with thighs seemingly twice as thick as Amy’s extending toward the foot of the bed, the glistening, black lipstick that her tongue occasionally darted across for moisture…

It was just…a lot. As an adult male, Steve had long since perfected the art of scoping women out with his peripheral vision, such that he could look at the TV and still take in “the sights” without being obvious. But during one particularly egregious instance of ogling, he realized his head had been turned COMPLETELY in Emma’s direction, his gaze locked onto the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed in and out, for several uninterrupted minutes. And Emma wasn’t oblivious to his attention either. At her age, most girls were familiar with the sensation of a man’s eyes lingering on them. At one point, Emma had glanced over in his direction out of the side of her eyes when his unabashed stare continued, a faint smirk cracking her lips as she crossed her arms across her body, underneath her chest, seemingly making her tits pop out even more prominently…on PURPOSE. NOT fair, he had complained to himself mentally. He quickly averted his gaze when she caught him, but the damage was done. For the second time in two days, Emma had caught him red-handed taking in the sight of her breasts like tourists photograph mountains.

Yes, he had known this girl since she was 9, for literally half her life. Had dressed up like a princess before for teatime to humor her after her father had suddenly vanished from her life. Had been a literal shoulder to cry on as she went through puberty and learned the harsh lesson of just how petty, vindictive and eviscerating young girls’ bullying can be, how the cuts and barbs could be so hurtful that they often felt like physical wounds. Had pushed Emma and her brother on swings. Had sung “Happy Birthday” to her at one of her parties, burying his face in the slice of cake on his plate and smearing it all over him to Emma’s immense delight. She had always thought that eating “like piggies” was truly hilarious, and the nice, goofy neighbor man was consistently all too happy to oblige. Sometimes, he agreed with Amy’s repeated accusation that he was a man-child. He was actually proud of it, in fact. Wore it like a badge of dopey honor.

It all added up to an inescapable sense of taboo perversion, a predatory sensation that made him uncomfortable with self-loathing. But God dammit, this girl was HOT now. Like, no way around it. Emma Cooke had become the type of girl he would’ve killed to have under his arm during his own time in high school. In fact, Emma’s adult body was such that he would’ve had someone like her as a poster on his wall in college. He truly felt bad about it, but Emma was just…hot. Super, super fucking hot.

He had asked for one last favor from Emma before she left. He knew that if he wanted to get what he was hoping for out of his wife this evening, he needed “Flamy” to make an appearance. That was the moniker they had designated for when Amy got a few drinks into her and became ravenous and insatiable, her sexual appetite exceeding even Steve’s on those occasions. He was hoping against all hope that when Amy got in he could get her a little liquored up, which would hopefully pierce through her normal self-consciousness and reservations, and grant him permission to play around with her butt a bit. And her feet. And her pussy. And her tits. Really all of her, but her butt was the one thing that had been consistently, patently verboten unless she was a little tipsy.

That was why at the conclusion of the evening he had asked Emma to fetch two of his whiskey tumblers with ice, Emma inquiring as to why they would need two when it was just him and Amy, and he was one inch tall. He hadn’t elaborated, just asking her to go along with it. And after what she had put him through earlier in the day, Emma didn’t ask questions, all too happy just to feel helpful. She had placed the two whiskey tumblers on the nightstand, adding healthy pours from the bottle of Blanton’s Gold per Steve’s instruction, the bottle having remained on the nightstand still from the night he shrunk. And before Amy came inside, Emma had offered Steve a little wink. “Have fun you crazy kids, hope you get laid Mr. C,” she had said with a smile as she left. That level of directness and dirtiness in discourse with a girl he had practically helped raise should have felt like crossing a line, but after what he had seen of her, it didn’t. He imagined she felt similarly. They had both seen too much of each other over the preceding hours for off-color humor to feel taboo.

All of this was to say that by the time Amy’s head poked into the bedroom with a tired smile, her bare feet becoming unbound from her flats as she kicked them off into the closet, her bra becoming visible as she unbuttoned her blouse and placed it in the laundry bin, her little bubble butt poking out as she unzipped and then shimmied out of her skirt, Steve was fired UP. He had worked himself up into a lather, a fit of aroused pique that positively SCREAMED for immediate release. Plus he really, really, really wanted that drink. Needed it, if he was being honest, even though he didn’t want that to be the truth.

And so when he saw Amy start to walk toward the bathroom in her underwear to inevitably shower before slipping into her PJs, he called after: “…don’t.”

“What was that, babe?” Amy responded with evident confusion as she unclasped her earrings, an inverse echo of the same action he had watched her do more than 12 hours earlier.

“Don’t….shower,” he instructed. He was sure that Amy would recognize the look on his face. She had seen it so many times before. Even when Steve was at his normal height, the sight of Amy half-naked had never failed to entrance him. Never failed to send his privates into overdrive, to make him mad with lust.

And he could tell by the look on her face that she knew EXACTLY why he didn’t want her to shower. He wanted her DIRTY for what they were about to do. Hopefully.

Amy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, her gaze falling upon the two filled whiskey tumblers. She approached the bed in a confident saunter, exaggerating the motion of her hips a little. Even if she had no intention of acting on it, Amy was never above teasing him.

“What’s this for?” she asked, gesturing at the bourbon.

“For us, dummy. Nobody else here,” Steve offered with a grin.

“Steve, if you’re hoping to get laid tonight, and I STRONGLY suspect you are, you’re off to a bad start calling me ‘dummy,’” Amy playfully admonished. As she looked at him more closely, however, her gaze widened in alarm.

“Why are you so red? And where’s the pink outfit?”

“Oh, uh…Emma and I went to get McDonald’s earlier, and she spilled the coffee on me. Total accident, not her fault. I don’t know what happened to the outfit though. She must’ve tossed it when she cleaned up,” Steve explained. The lawyer part of him found irony in the lie. He was reminded of the famous court case that resulted in fast-food coffee cups having “WARNING: HOT” slapped all over them.

“Oh,” Amy frowned. “Are you okay?”

“I mean, I’m a little burned, but nothing an ice bath won’t fix,” he responded as he wagged his eyebrows suggestively in the direction of the bourbon.

“I’m not enabling your habit you sloppy drunk. It’s long past time for you to dry out,” Amy answered flatly.

“I know, I know…just this once though. It REALLY, REALLY burns!!” he pleaded.

Amy rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, sighing audibly. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this…”

“YES! Thank you Ames!!”

“I said I’m CONSIDERING it, jackass. I have half a mind to leave you here staring at it while I go shower,” she answered with a tone that indicated that she was only KIND OF joking.

“Oh come on, now you’re just being cruel. We don’t have to fool around if you don’t want to, but can we sit and talk at least? I want to hear about your day. What was with the Order to Show Cause?”

He saw an amused smirk come across Amy’s face. She knew exactly what he was doing. Yes, she liked it when he would actually listen to her recount her day, especially after a long one, but she harbored no illusions about what was really going on here. Steve wanted her to start talking, forget about the shower, take a couple of casual sips, and then…see where the night goes.

“Hold on, I gotta put these away,” she said, gesturing at the earrings in her palm. That’s when Steve saw it. The little ant wandering around on the hardwood floor, barely perceptible with its brown body against the dark grain of the wood. He had only noticed it because of the movement. He gulped. He knew it was objectively a dark thing to root for, to watch this little creature’s life be snuffed out. But Amy’s feet were bare, had just come out of her work flats… And he had way, way more in common with that ant than he would care to admit. He’d never told Amy that this part of his macrophilia existed, knowing that in her mind it would be crossing some sort of line with how sweet she normally was. Telling her he wanted her to kill little bugs for his enjoyment would be a step too far.

That said, Amy was smart. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had already put it together. The way he would stare in rapt attention, his jaw dropping when Amy would see a bug skittering across their floor and just…stomp on it. Usually with her sneakers on. This…this would be a first.

Amy turned around, pivoting on her back foot as she began to stride toward the dresser. He saw her footfalls getting closer, closer…her bare feet leaving little footprints of moisture on the comparatively cold floor. Her eyes still locked on the dresser, Amy’s right foot lifted up hanging over the poor, unwitting ant like a guillotine. Her foot came down and Steve’s breath caught. The next step she took, however, he could see the little thing was still mingling around. It must’ve been between her toes when her foot had landed. Lucky little devil.

Amy finished crossing the room, extracting a small black box from the top drawer and carefully putting the earrings inside. He had actually purchased those earrings for her after the MicroMD verdict. That was a frivolous purchase, the diamond-studded hearts really having no personal significance to either of them. Those things were fucking expensive, he recalled. Amy had never displayed much interest in material things, having come from relatively humble means herself. Other than to the extent that she wanted to be there for him when he lost a trial, or celebrate with him when he won, she didn’t really care whether he netted a massive retainer fee. She didn’t care whether he bought her a fancy car or took her on expensive dates. She had always just been along for the ride, as she put it. Excited to see where life took them. Together.

Amy saw life as an adventure of sorts, a story being actively written. She would sooner take a stroll on the beach than accept a diamond ring. That was how he had gotten talked into Costa Rica instead of his preferred destination, Hawaii, for their honeymoon. Amy wanted to go ziplining, and against all odds had talked him into it. He hadn’t wanted to seem like a coward or look like he didn’t know what he was doing, so he had told the instructor he didn’t need directions. And like a true dope, his pride on the line as the self-appointed alpha of their tour group, he had volunteered to go first after the instructor reached the other tree. It was only when he saw the man frantically gesturing over his head for Steve to press down on the cable that Steve realized what the giant rubber pad on the glove was for. He had gone full speed into the trunk of the tree like Tom chasing Jerry into a wall. There might still be a Steve-shaped impression on the bark. He had heard a shocked gasp from Amy at first, and then when she saw he was okay, she had doubled over laughing. He had been super annoyed at the time, but in retrospect, it was kind of funny. And he liked it when she laughed, even when it was all-too-frequently at his expense.

Amy came walking back toward the bed, Steve’s brain forecasting her path and realizing she would be well wide of the little ant. Sorry about this, my little dude.

“Hey Ames, can you get me a piece of tissue?” he called out, stopping her in her tracks.

“What for?” she asked.

“Gotta blow my nose, unless you’d prefer that I do it on your pillowcase,” he responded.

“Ewww, don’t do that. Alright, hold on,” Amy did an about-face, this time stepping directly over, and bypassing, where the ant was still milling about without a care in the world. Darn.

He heard her extracting a tissue from the box on the kitchen sink, a brief pause as she presumably tore off the tiniest piece of it. She came striding back into the room, Steve’s eyes glued to her feet. And then it happened. Her left foot hovered directly over the little ant like the proverbial executioner’s axe, before stomping down and, presumably, obliterating it. Steve inhaled sharply, feeling guilt as he felt the blood rushing toward his dick. Your sacrifice will not be in vain, comrade. As Amy approached the bed, Steve searched the floor, looking for the smushed carcass. Where is it?

Amy handed him the tiny piece of tissue and glanced at the TV as he pretended to blow his nose. “Were you two watching cartoons? What are you, five?”

“Hey! That’s Cowboy Bebop and I’ll have you know it’s fucking awesome!!” he shot back defensively.

“Uh huh. I don’t suppose that has anything to do with Ms. Purple-Hair-Impossible-Measurements-Squeezed-Into-Skimpy-Outfit sauntering about?”

Of course Faye would be on the screen. That’s how it always seemed to happen. Amy would walk in during the parts of his shows that he wanted her to see the least.

“Um, no. You’re wayyyyyy hotter babe,” he said, trying his trademark lopsided grin.

“Steve, the boys hitting on me in middle school had more subtlety in their game than you do,” she said as she grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. That’s fair. Probably accurate.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Scootch over or I’m sitting on you,” she warned.

He opened his mouth to respond, Amy cutting him off. “I swear to fuck if you say ‘don’t threaten me with a good time’ you’re sleeping on the couch,” she said while staring him down, daring him to say it.

Am I really that predictable? “Yes, Steve, you’re really that predictable,” she said. Holy shit, can she read my mind?

“You realize I don’t need to ask right? I can just enforce compliance?” she threatened as he hesitated.

As if to prove her point about his predictability, she answered her own question at the exact time he did, both of them saying simultaneously: “that’s hot.”

Amy was grinning at him, clearly enjoying needling him a bit. He found he was smiling back. He made his way to the edge of her pillow, hopping off and moving a few inches further along the mattress. Still in her underwear, Amy plopped down onto the bed, reaching over to grab one of the whiskey tumblers off the nightstand. Steve had underestimated the distance he had needed to go to make room for her, the depression in the mattress from Amy’s weight tumbling him down toward her.

He looked up and gulped, praying Amy wouldn’t realize what happened before she leaned back over. He had rolled directly under her pink panty-clad butt, in the imprint her bottom had left on the mattress. Her ass was hanging inches over him, elevated and angled slightly with her body leaning over to grab the glass of bourbon. And then she leaned back over.

He wished he could have slowed the movement down, recorded it somehow in his mind. This precise scenario was something he had dreamed about countless times. It happened all too quickly for his liking. As Amy had leaned back over, her right cheek had collapsed down on top of him like a falling building. The silky fabric of her panties made contact first, and then Steve was knocked onto his back by the weight pouring onto him.

He felt the soft, warm flesh envelop him, the pressure mounting as Amy’s weight realigned on the mattress, her butt sinking down into the memory foam. He remembered seeing the imprint her ass had left on their mattress a few days ago and wondering what it would be like to be flattened under it as his size. And now he knew.

The downward force on his body built and built, to the point where he thought he might pop, but Amy was done realigning. He was in complete darkness, his petite wife living in her own world what felt like miles above him, his body interred under her butt with her none the wiser.

He couldn’t breathe, felt the air forced out of his lungs with Amy’s tiny (but comparatively enormous) body perched on top of him. It was warm, a little damp, and a little stale, her butt having only recently been freed from the confines of her tight skirt after having sat it in all day at the office. And it was SOFT. Squishy. It wasn’t lost on him that, with Amy’s short height, he used to be able to fit an entire cheek into his hand when he would give her butt a squeeze. Now though, now her ass was kicking his. He wanted to reach out and take great, big handfuls of it, but his arms were flattened to his sides. He wouldn’t be moving unless Amy moved. And even though he couldn’t breathe, he kind of hoped she wouldn’t.

“Steve?” he heard the voice faintly above him, sounding like it was coming down from the surface to the bottom of the ocean. Should probably let her know I’m here. He couldn’t move much at all, but he gave a feeble little wiggle. He heard that adorable squeak Amy does when she’s surprised. One of their ongoing pranks was to scare the ever-living fuck out of each other. She had started it, claiming it “kept things spicy” in their relationship. He had a vastly different definition of spicy but had gone along with it because it sounded fun. His Hall of Fame Scare was during recycling night. He had moved all the cans and bottles over to the trash, had grabbed a few empty trash bags, and squatted inside the bin, scattering the bags above him over his head to conceal his appearance. Like clockwork, he had heard Amy’s footsteps on their driveway, hearing her grunt as she titled the can to wheel it to the curb. She was probably wondering why it was so heavy this week. As soon as he felt the can come to a lurching stop at the curb, he flew up and burst open the lid, yelling. On this occasion, he had actually gotten her to scream, and then she started slapping him playfully as the shock wore off and amused annoyance set in. World Class Yenta Jackie Cooke must have heard the scream, because she came outside to investigate. He had snagged Amy’s hand as she went to slap him one more time and pulled her into a kiss, their height discrepancy even greater than usual with the added height of the bin underneath him. He remembered seeing Jackie behind Amy’s head as he kissed her, the woman clearly confused as to why the neighbor-couple across the street was making out in a recycling bin. He was sure the entire neighborhood had learned about it within minutes. Neither of them cared.

It was Amy’s turn to surprise him, however. He had expected her to fly up, terrified over the prospect that she had just squashed her husband, or at least thoroughly embarrassed over the idea of him being so close to her butt after a full day at work. But instead, she toyed with him a bit. He was glad they had tested his durability out a few times now. As recently as two nights ago, Amy would have jumped out of the bed in alarm, mortified over the prospect of crushing him. She seemed to have a good idea of his limits now.

“Hmmm,” he heard her rumble as she feigned consideration. “Where has my darling husband gone?” Keep going Ames, this is hot as FUCK. She gave a playful little wiggle, her buttcheek rolling him slightly to the left and right as he was dragged along the mattress, the friction adding additional heat to what was already a warm position. He felt the pillowy flesh of her butt roll over him once or twice quickly, pressing him deeper into the mattress, before he was suddenly greeted by light once again and an enormous hand plucked him out.

“Whoops, sat on a bug,” she said with a seductive grin. OH COME ON!!! This wasn’t fair. She knew this was one of his favorite scenarios, and she had likely cut if off intentionally just to torture him. Still, it boded well for the evening ahead. She was already feeling playful, and she didn’t even have any booze in her. Good sign.

His face must have been flushed, either from the added warmth under Amy’s butt moments ago or the blood flowing to his loins at the moment, because Amy gave him a small smirk and said, “you look warm. Maybe you should cool off.”

With that, she dangled him over the top of the glass of bourbon by his arms, like a fishing lure about to be dipped into a pond. And then she let go.

The “ice bath,” as he had put it, had been his idea, but he still wasn’t prepared for the shocking, abrupt change in temperature. He went from feeling heated up to suddenly being stung by the ice-cold liquid around him as his body plunked into the glass like just another cube. He had forgotten that alcohol still stung with his acid burns, but the alcohol content of the bourbon was nowhere near as severe as the hand sanitizer, and the ice quickly chilled him to his core. He found himself shivering.

“Okay, this might’ve been a bad idea, I’m cold,” he complained as he floated in the bourbon.

Amy eyed him in the glass. “Waiter, there’s a fly in my drink,” she called out mockingly.

“I’m serious Ames, this is fucking FREEZING,” he continued.

“Too bad hot stuff. You could do with a little cooling off anyway,” she responded, making no move to retrieve him. Any blood flow Steve had going to his dick from moments ago was long gone. He was now fully into the shrinkage experience, in more ways than one. Although… He remembered part of why he wanted to do this in the first place, sinking his head into the bourbon and sucking down enormous mouthfuls of it. Each gulp was probably the equivalent of 2-3 shots at his size.

Either Amy took pity on him, however, or (more likely) she wanted to interrupt him getting drunk, because she lifted the glass toward her mouth and took a sip, tumbling him forward. He had been mid-slurp and wasn’t entirely prepared for what happened, his ice bath suddenly on an angle, finding himself staring down the barrel of the glass at Amy’s eyes, little upturned button nose, and red lips, her pupils locking onto him with an almost predatory aspect as she poured the bourbon into her mouth.

It appeared that she was determined to get him on this sip, because she continued essentially chugging the bourbon as she angled the glass more and more, giving it a little shake to jar Steve loose from the ice cubes. Yeesh…waste of good bourbon. Is she even tasting it? He wasn’t going to complain though. He eventually tumbled to the lip of the glass, his body briefly sticking on Amy’s top lip. Until her cold, wet tongue darted out and slurped him in.

He felt a brief sense of panic over being in another girl’s mouth after his near-death experience earlier. This is Amy though. If he couldn’t trust her, he would be as good as dead because then he couldn’t trust anybody with his one-inch frame. The alcohol probably hadn’t hit her brain yet either, so he wasn’t worried about Flamy taking it too far. Yet.

While initially her tongue was cold, having been bathed in the icy beverage moments earlier, it rapidly warmed up, for which he was immensely grateful. Amy didn’t flick him around tasting him this time or playing with his body. Instead, she did something strange. She pinned him against the roof of her mouth, and took another swig of booze, the freezing liquid shocking his skin all over again. The contrasting sensations between the warmth of Amy’s mouth and the cold drink washing over him was…odd, to say the least. But not unenjoyable.

Oh, I get it. She was teasing him, bourbon literally flowing around his body as her tongue funneled it down her throat while he couldn’t have any. Joke’s on you Ames, I can make this work. The next sip she took, he tried to gulp some of it down himself. He was aware he was basically drinking his wife’s backwash, but he didn’t really care.

Then she did something she hadn’t done yesterday, something that made his ears pop a little painfully. She sucked on him, the tongue bathing him in warm saliva as she skillfully extracted the bourbon from his hair and his now wet clothes. And then she spit him out gently into her palm.

“Let’s get you dried off,” she said as she got to her feet and started walking toward the bathroom. Steve again glanced at the floor as she walked, searching for any sign of the ant from earlier, but it was difficult to see from this distance while she was moving.

Amy brought him into the bathroom, placing him on the counter as she studied him.

“What?” he asked.

“I was gonna tell you to get undressed, but now I kinda want to do it.” Oh, the booze is setting in.

“You know I’m not gonna argue,” he said with a smile. Amy surprised him again. He had been expecting her hands to pluck him skyward once more. Instead, she brought her face down to meet him, her warm, boozy breath washing over him as she opened her mouth slightly, and then delicately bit his sock-poncho, her teeth clenching onto the front of it as her upper lip mashed into his face. And then she started to lift her head up, Steve realizing quickly that he had to slide his arms out of it or else he was going to plummet.

Amy placed the sock-poncho on the sink, looking back over at him. He gestured suggestively at his “underwear.”

“Still clothed Ames.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re doing that one. I’m worried I’ll bite your dick off.” Jeez, why does THAT turn me on?

Steve shuffled out of it, discarding it by the poncho.

“I’ll wash those tomorrow,” Amy said as she started running warm water. She picked his naked form up and moved him under the faucet, rinsing the saliva and any lingering bourbon off his body before grabbing a towel and dabbing him off.

She carried him back to the bed, plopping into it again and placing him on top of his pillow. He was naked and raring to go with the funny business already, but there were two whiskey glasses for a reason. He needed Amy a little drunker.

“So what was with the Order to Show Cause?” he prompted.

“Oh,” she frowned, a hint of anger on her face. “It’s a Jake case.”

Woof. Jake “The Snake” Davidson had been the bane of Steve’s professional career while he was still practicing. Though the legal profession certainly attracted a disproportionate amount of mental illness, mostly everyone understood that they were just punching a clock. Yes, everyone had a duty of zealous advocacy for their clients, and yes, some trials were high stakes, some cases felt personal. But at the end of the day, you should be able to walk out of the courthouse and buy each other a beer. No hard feelings, we’re all just doing our jobs here.

Not Jake Davidson. Steve questioned whether the man had obtained a license to practice law just so he could piss people off professionally and claim it was advocacy. Eminently unreasonable, tirelessly stubborn, and thoroughly uncooperative, every legal argument Steve had ever had with him had devolved essentially into “I know you are but what am I?” level discourse. Schoolyard blacktop “neener-neener” bullshit. And his voice. Like nails on a chalkboard. Seeing “Law Offices of Jacob Davison & Associates” on the caller ID was anathema to Steve.

“What’s that prick up to now?”

“It’s a new one, even for him. He’s trying to vacate a settlement agreement. I guess he decided his client is paying too much and wants to back out of it.”

Steve was stunned. That wasn’t just obnoxious and borderline unethical, it was stupid. It was a waste of time. The courts heavily favored settlement with docket overload. If there was a single email from Jake or his client saying “I agree” with an electronic signature, he basically didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Please tell me you included a cross-motion for sanctions for frivolous litigation in your opposition,” Steve asked.

Amy raised an eyebrow at him. “Who do you think you’re talking to, mister? I’ve been BEGGING for a chance to slap this asshole around for YEARS. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Amy may have just been a paralegal, but there are plenty of paralegals out there that have become so good at their jobs, they’re basically attorneys that just needed a lawyer’s signature on the documents they draft. Amy was one of them.

During their conversation, he noticed Amy had grabbed the other glass of bourbon and was sipping at it. She saw him studying her drinking it and rolled her eyes, emptying a tiny drop into her right palm and lowering it to his pillow.

YES! “Thanks Ames!!” He fell on his hands and knees and slurped up the miniscule amount, feeling the warmth radiating out from his belly. His hands had stopped shaking, his skin had stopped itching so much. He felt…better. He would get sober….at some point. Probably. But you had to wean off this stuff slowly, right?

“Anyway, John was asking about you. Said he hadn’t heard from you in a while and was worried,” Amy advised.

“What’d you tell him?”

She shrugged. “The truth, mostly. That retirement had hit you hard and you had basically become a hermit…” Amy trailed off. “Speaking of which…Steve, if we ever get you back to normal somehow, do you think you might consider going back to work?”

He had thought about this. While not having the stress of the daily grind was quite liberating, he had to admit he was bored. And there was no reason he couldn’t sort of hybridize his retirement. He didn’t need to go back to a level of importance at the firm where the buck would always stop with him. He could just do cases he liked, on occasion. Assist with overflow. Like an attorney working as a part time paralegal, almost.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it,” he answered honestly. “I think it would be good for me.”

Amy smiled warmly, the alcohol starting to color her cheeks a bit. “Good. I think it would be good for you too.”

She stood up again, grabbing both of the now-empty glasses. At some point she had drained the second one as well, which he had asked Emma to pour for this very reason. She teetered and wobbled a bit, her balance a little unsteady. Oh perfect, yes. This is the correct level of drunk we need for Flamy to make an appearance.

“I’m going to put these glasses away before they get broken,” she said as she made her way toward the bedroom door.

“How would they get broken?” he called after her.  She just smiled at him over her shoulder, suggestion plain on her face.

She came back a few moments later, shutting the bedroom door behind her and eyeing him from across the room. Staring him down, her eyes feeling like they were almost promising imminent threat. He was expecting her to come back and sit down, but instead she walked to the foot of the bed, dropping her knees onto the mattress and her hands forward in front of her.

Amy bit her lip, never taking her eyes off him, as she started to crawl across the bed on all fours like a lioness stalking gazelle. He could see the glaze in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks. That lascivious, eager expression she had was a sure sign that the alcohol was working its magic. Is it working a little too well? Steve was briefly concerned. As hot as Amy crawling toward him seductively like this was, she had never done that before. He couldn’t help but feel it had something to do with his size, with the fact that she could actually pounce on him now if she wanted to. And there would be nothing he could do about it.  

Instead, she surprised him again. As she neared his pillow, she laid her stomach and head down on the bed and rested her chin on her hands, which were crossed under her face, smiling sweetly at him, the picture of perfect innocence. She kept her butt up in the air though. He could see that even from this angle. Knew she was doing it for his benefit. Or to tease him some more, which was also mostly for his benefit, he felt.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he whispered back.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked playfully.

“Hopefully you,” he answered.

Amy snorted a laugh. “Walked right into that one.”

“You did,” he responded, matching her grin.

She reached out with both hands, grabbing him and rolling over onto her back before she scootched her butt up along the mattress until she was leaning against her pillow once more, braced against the headboard of the bed, her legs crossed under her. Steve was cupped in her hands, held chest level. At first his eyes were of course drawn to her breasts, being so close he could have jumped onto them from his perch on her upturned palms.

But then, that’s when he saw it now that her feet were crossed under her. He finally got closure on what had become of the ant. There was a little dirt and accumulated grime on the soles of Amy’s feet, both from her full day at work and from walking around the house barefoot for a little bit. On the ball of Amy’s left foot was its flattened, splattered carcass, the ichor that had exploded out of it, as its chitinous body was callously and casually mashed into the hardwood floor, adhering it to her foot. No wonder she hadn’t felt it…it was one of the tiny ones. He wasn’t sure how he even saw it in the first place. He briefly wondered what it would be like to be that small. Hell, even at his current size, he probably could’ve snapped that ant’s neck without much problem. But by the same token, Amy’s foot would have obliterated him equally, with the same level of unaware disregard.

Amy saw him staring at her feet, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, but she noticed where his gaze was specifically. Locked onto the ball of her left foot with the record of her unwitting carnage proudly on display.

She gave Steve a sardonic grin. “Friend of yours?”

“Yeah, kinda,” he answered. He had been talking to it in his head, after all. He again felt mildly sad for the ant’s sacrifice, resenting the dark, seedy part of him that was enjoying this creature’s life being carelessly snuffed out by his wife’s bare foot but…fuck this was hot.

Amy looked at the ant carcass on her foot. “Sorry ‘bout that little buddy. Didn’t know you were there. Hope your friends all learn their lesson though. Don’t sneak around my home unless you’re willing to get squished.”

She’s talking to the dead ant. Definitely drunk. He knew this was being done for his benefit though, particularly with what came next.

She leaned over and flicked the carcass nonchalantly off her foot into the distant recesses of the bedroom. Then, she uncrossed her legs and extended them a bit so that she was able to touch the soles of her feet together, the arches of her feet forming a circular crater of sorts as they touched. And then she dropped him into that pit.

This is…progress, he thought while feeling encouraged. If fooling around with Amy before she showered was off the table, she never would have let his tiny form this close to her unwashed feet. He looked in front of and behind him, Amy’s heels and the balls of her feet forming the boundaries of his prison. The slightly wrinkled but no less soft skin of her soles stretched above him, making him feel like he had fallen into a trap.

Displaying her remarkable flexibility, Amy leaned her torso forward so that her head was just hanging over him by inches, wiggling her toes a bit. Steve felt the muscles in the arches of her feet flexing with the effort, a sudden, wiry hardness clamping around him slightly.

Yet again he caught the lingering scent of alcohol on Amy’s breath as the steamy gust of it washed over him, her voice lowered to a sultry whisper, cracking slightly with vocal fry as the sound came out almost as more of a groan.

“Do you wish you were that ant, Steve?” she asked him rhetorically, not expecting a response. “Do you wish you were that tiny, that you had ended up as a stain on my foot?”

Jesus Christ this is hot. He felt his member twitching to life, the erection fully on its way.

Amy continued to dial up the pressure. “I could do it, you know,” she said as she opened her feet slightly, causing him to tumble to the mattress. She pulled her feet in slightly so that the balls of each foot were on either side of him like a trash compactor. And then she slammed them together. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Amy’s feet squeezed a grunt out of him.

“It would be so easy…I could just push a little harder and you would be gone, the world would have no idea what happened to you…that you had ended up splattered under your wife’s feet.” He was kind of hoping to see her smirking so that he would know this was just foreplay, but the look on her face was somewhat…chilling. She looked serious. Uh oh…is she TOO drunk?

He was also bathed in foot odor at the moment. It hadn’t been as noticeable down by her arches, but up here by her toes, which had been packed into tiny flats all day without the level of aeration the arch has, it was palpable. Not for the first time, he wondered what had gone wrong in his brain during puberty that made this arousing. He could see the accumulated dirt, dust and grime on Amy’s foot. In fact, before she had pinched him between the balls of her feet, he had seen the remains of the ant. He was pretty sure there was a tiny, severed leg still suck. The feet pressing down around him almost felt like they were coating him in a film. The scent from her toes went beyond the ordinary staleness. Now her feet had the pungent combination of cheesiness and acrid locker room odor that was unique to the human foot. He knew she would be embarrassed half to death if she wasn’t drunk, would probably lock herself in the bathroom and scrub her feet until the sun came up if he even hinted at them being dirty or malodorous. So, he didn’t say anything. Because he liked it. It was difficult to breathe, but he was sucking in through his nose. The added odor made it feel again like Amy was his whole world.

She pushed her feet together more, the vice grip around Steve growing tighter as only his head poked out of the top. Okay, starting to hurt a little, he winced.

Amy didn’t notice. “Would you like that, babe? Would you like to disappear from the world like a little, squashed bug? I don’t think I’d even need a full tissue to wipe what was left of you off my foot,” she continued.

The pressure was starting to get intense. Initially, he had still been surrounded by soft skin, the balls of Amy’s feet having a little more padding than her heel. But now he could feel the bones underneath the skin, the hard, unyielding walls closing in and condensing his own bones.

“O….okay…Ames, that’s…enough,” he wheezed.

She tutted like a disappointed parent, lowering her head a little more and staring at him until he made eye contact. “Is that it? Is that ALL you can handle, little bug?”

This is why macrophilia didn’t make any sense. Yes, he was one slight exertion of force by Amy away from death, but God damn was this ever turning him on. Part of him wanted to just answer “do your worst.” The more rational part of him was worried that a drunk Amy wouldn’t know the line. Where to stop before she killed him inadvertently…and effortlessly.

“Amy….please…I can’t breathe…” he grunted.

That got through to her, Amy’s eyes widening in alarm as she dropped the predator/prey façade.

“Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry! I got a little….carried away,” she said looking sheepish. “Are you…are you okay?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m fine Ames. And, don’t be sorry. That was fucking HOT,” he grinned up at her.

She unfolded her legs all the way now, Steve now being positioned between her knees on the mattress as she looked down at him. “….I know it was,” she said with a smirk.

Well, no time like the present, I guess. Gotta take full advantage while she’s still tipsy. “….sit on me,” he said with a straight face.

Amy’s nose wrinkled in partial disgust. “What? No.”

Okay, two can play at this game. If she wanted to dominate him, he was going to take some power back. And hopefully antagonize her a bit. Demeaning name-calling wasn’t ordinarily part of their foreplay, but he knew Flamy kind of liked it. Sometimes. He decided to roll the dice.

“I said SIT on me you dirty little slut,” he said making eye contact. That got her. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Bring me over to your desk chair, put me on the cushion, and sit on me,” he directed. “Or are you too scared?” he goaded.

“Scared? No. But YOU should be,” she said as she reached out and grabbed him suddenly, her fist clenching around him a little roughly. Amy got to her feet, walking slowly toward the desk in their bedroom she ordinarily used for private work calls, Steve feeling like she was the warden escorting a prisoner to the gallows.

Amy yanked the chair out from under the desk aggressively, and then tossed him onto it carelessly. She bent over, bringing her head down to his level.

“You sure you’re up for this, little man?” she teased.

“Bring it on, you big bitch,” he shot back. Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk myself.

He saw Amy’s cheeks flush a bit, whether in anger over what he just said, embarrassment over what she was about to do, or (hopefully) arousal, he didn’t know.

“Okay…but just remember. You wanted this,” she warned as she did an abrupt about-face, showing him her bubble butt wrapped in the pink panties. He took in the details voraciously. The crease along each buttcheek from the elastic lining of the panties, the shadow of her crack barely visible through the lining, her thighs pressed together making her butt pop out a little more, the little tag poking out from the hem, which from his current vantage point seemed like it was miles away.

And then she began to lower her butt, slowly. Agonizingly slowly. JUST BURY ME IN IT ALREADY!!! he shouted in mental anticipatory anguish. But she didn’t. Instead, she dropped her ass down just enough for it to make contact, the soft fabric of the silky panties brushing against the top of his head, the warmth from her crack, from her contained cheeks, radiating outward in waves.

He was glad he had gotten a few drinks in her, because she would NEVER do this ordinarily. She really didn’t care for his predilection for her filth, preferring to see herself as a spotless, dainty and demure picture of a perfectly ladylike woman. The fact that she had squeezed her butt into a skirt, sat on it all day, and hadn’t showered since getting home meant there would CERTAINLY be an odor.

And there was. It was hitting him now that he could reach out and sink his arm into her panties, pushing them into her buttcrack even if only by a few millimeters. He caught a waft of it. Not the smell of scat like from his experience hours ago mashed into Ashley’s butthole, but the smell of fermenting human sweat. It was similar to the smell of an unwashed armpit, except with added pheromones and lingering aroma from her vagina added to it. It was faint at this distance, but he knew he would be getting the full experience shortly.

Fuck, this is amazing, he thought, fully erect at this point. He did, in fact, reach out an appreciative arm, intending to wedge it through the panties into Amy’s buttcrack. But as soon as she felt him make contact, she took it away from him.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she taunted as she wagged a finger over her shoulder. “Not yet little man. Lay down.”

What does she have planned? He did as instructed, laying flat on the chair cushion. Again, he was greeted by the sight of Amy’s butt slowly being lowered down on top of him, this time angled slightly off center. He felt the softness of her panties covering her right cheek brush against his face, against the rest of his naked body. She was feeling him out with her butt, trying to get a sense of where he was.

And then she sat down a little more, applying a fraction more weight. As it had moments ago in bed, the warm flesh began to descend over him like a curtain, the pillowy softness agonizingly enticing. Dimly, in the recesses of his mind, he had a ton of respect for Amy’s core and thigh strength. Holding this position without quivering couldn’t have been easy.

She lowered her butt a little further, this time blocking out all light as the flesh completely enveloped him. Once again, his arms and legs were pinned down, his face having no choice but to be sunken into the ass cheek. She held herself there for a second, before doing something he found to be ridiculously hot. She started grinding on him a bit, sliding her butt forward and backward. Not hard enough to drag him out of position, but enough for her flesh to roll over him in waves.

She’s giving me a lap dance. This was a scenario he had dreamed up more times than he could count. Amy wiggled her butt from side to side, back to front, occasionally grinding it into him before lifting it up and dropping it down again.

She must’ve felt the tiny prick of his erection burying into her butt, because he heard a soft scoff above him. “Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

He tried to shout back yes, but all that came out was “mmmphh,” Amy’s ass absorbing all of the sound he made.

Suddenly he felt the fresh air of the room again, light rushing back in as Amy’s butt rose back up to a vertical stance. She looked over her shoulder, her unbound hair occluding one of her eyes in a manner reminiscent of Jessica Rabbit, the remainder tumbling down the length of her back playfully in scattered, disorganized tresses.

She gave him a seductive smirk. “You ready baby?”

“Oh you fucking know it!!” he was fired up.

“Okay, but if my butt pops you like a grape, remember you’ll have only yourself to blame,” she cautioned mockingly.

With that, she turned her head around to face forward and sat down. Not a tease this time, not a gradual descent, but actually sitting like she was about to start typing at her computer, her back vertical and arched, her posture leaning forward slightly to take a LITTLE of the weight off her bottom. The rest of that weight though, she knew Steve wanted, sick little bastard that he was.

Amy’s butt floored him. Or, well, chaired him. Whichever. He had seen the shadow of the crack between her cheeks, barely perceptible through the panties, widen as her hips began to open up, her ass spreading outward and backward as it was lowered into the seat with little fanfare. He had seen the pink panties bulging at the seams as Amy’s butt pressed against them, stretching them out as she was sitting down. He had seen the darkness start to creep in, Amy’s ass gradually blocking out the light in the bedroom like a solar eclipse.

And then it was on top of him, feeling almost like it was being poured onto him in immeasurable waves. She had positioned her crack directly above his tiny frame, ensuring that he wouldn’t end up as paste under one of her cheeks. Here, once again, he found that the typical porn depictions of this scenario were somewhat inaccurate. It’s not like Amy’s crack had widened to allow him entry, splitting open like a coconut as she sat down. That wasn’t what happened when humans sat, unless they made a point of spreading their cheeks with their hands while doing so.

All the positioning did was allow him not to be squashed. The point where the two great globes of flesh met still smushed him, still buried him under her ass. But it wasn’t all-consuming, it wasn’t her full weight on top of him.

Still, her cheeks had separated slightly, and that slight separation was enough. As opposed to just the general proximity of the scent when she was giving him the impromptu lap dance, here he was immersed in it, embraced by it. It supplanted the regular breathable air around him, as though someone had sprayed a perfume of her scent onto his nostrils. Just like with the grime and the odor on her foot, he knew he should be grossed out. But he LOVED it.

There were a few reasons for this. Yes, he could smell her pussy, the stale, lingering odor on her panties, even the unavoidable faint hint of urine that afflicted both men and women no matter how much you dabbed off. And the smell of it made his hair stand on edge, pheromones driving him wild. But there were two other factors at play here making it immensely more arousing.

First, he again was delightfully turned on by the naughtiness of it, the taboo nature of what Amy was doing. The way she was always so prim and polished, a perfectionist when it came to cleanliness, hygiene at the front of her mind when she woke up in the morning and when she went to bed at night. She used to insist that she be given the opportunity to shower EVERY TIME before they had sex when they had first started dating. Only once she had realized that he was serious about liking her dirty, that her sweat and stink turned him on, that he wasn’t just pranking her, did she relent, and even then, only on rare occasions.

Cute, proper, demure little Amy was dirty after a day at work, was burying him in it, and he LOVED it.

The second factor upping the arousal was the macrophile in him, the giantess aspect. The fact that if someone walked into the room right now, they’d have no idea that he was here. The fact that if they hadn’t actually planned this out, and Amy had just randomly sat down when he was on this chair, even SHE might not have known that he was here. The fact that she could continue her normal life while he was sealed away in a dark, dank prison. She could send emails, call her mom, file and polish her toenails, whatever, all with him trapped down here under her ass, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. The thought drove him mad with lust.

And then Amy made it almost painfully arousing. She started to hum one of her favorite songs absent-mindedly, shimmying her butt to the rhythm, bopping back and forth in that carefree manner that seemed to be the sole purview of young, energetic women. The weight was on him, then it was off him, on him, off him, on him, off him. All the while, he felt like he was being driven further inside Amy’s butt. Yes, her cheeks didn’t part open fully when she had sat down. But now she was grinding into him a bit, wiggling back and forth, the playful shuffle wedging her cheeks further and further apart, drawing Steve’s body ever further inward.

It was difficult to know that this was happening just based on touch, and he certainly couldn’t see anything. No, the tip-off for him came in the change in odor. The stale sweat smell became sharper somehow, gaining a sting to it. And then the flesh pressing down on top of him, all around him, enveloping and swallowing him, had gone from the pillowy softness that made Amy’s bubble butt so delectably squeezable to the telltale, pliable stiffness of a butthole. He knew what that felt like, having been pressed up against, and partially inside, Ashley’s anus earlier. He knew what it smelt like too. He knew where he was, and he loved every bit of it.

Alright, I can’t take this anymore. He needed the release. He already felt close to bursting, and he hadn’t even tried to touch himself yet. He wrapped a hand around his cock and began stroking vigorously, sprinting toward the finish line.

Either Amy could, in fact, somehow read his mind now, or she felt the slight movement. More likely, she knew him well enough. Knew from the times she had sat on his face, the times he had buried his nose in her butt, that he’d quickly hit a limit and would be seeking release. Because in an agonizingly regrettable move, she stood up, the light flooding back in, fresh air taking back over.

“UGGGHHHH AMES WHY!!!!” he shouted up at her. “I’m so close!!!”

She squatted down so her face was eye level with him again. “I know…and I want you to finish inside me,” she whispered.

What? He was flabbergasted. Astonished. Shocked. Amy was enjoying her career as a paralegal, hadn’t wanted kids yet. Made him wear protection every time they had sex. Was on the pill. Kept a stock of “Plan B” in the bathroom in case of a faulty condom. And they didn’t have a condom for a one-inch man. Not yet at least.

She must’ve seen the doubt on his face. “Steve, honey, ain’t no way your laughably microscopic sperm are gonna get me pregnant. Hell, I doubt your load would even be visible at your size.”

“But…” he began.

She leaned in closer, her warm breath brushing against his genitals. “I said…I want you…to finish…INSIDE me,” she whispered.

Oh fuck that’s hot. “O….okay…” he stammered, practically in a trance.

Amy’s fist closed around him as she plucked him off the chair, sauntering back over to the bed, ditching her panties in the process, before leaping into the bed back-first. She backed up again, dragging her butt across the mattress as she positioned herself in an upright position. And then she opened her legs.

Still with one fist clenched around him, she reached over into the drawer of the nightstand, fumbling around for something. She withdrew a vaguely phallic object. It looked like a golden, pointed tube of lipstick.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she asked defensively. “I wanna get off too.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little, which brought a smile to her face. She began to lower him toward her stomach, before suddenly stopping and bringing him back.

“Almost forgot,” she said, still grinning.

“Almost forgot what?” he asked curiously.

And then she did something she had never done before. In all the times he had wanted her to flip their power dynamic, to abuse him, to step on him, to sit on him, to dominate him, he had never asked her to do this. He knew she would find it prohibitively gross and, honestly, he kind of did too.

Amy leaned forward and spit on him. It wasn’t like she summoned a glob of mucus to do it like a childish bully, bathing him in a slimy loogie hawked up from the depths of her throat. But it also wasn’t just a light spritzing of foam. No, she wanted him lubed up. The spit covered him from head to toe, soaking into his hair, strings of it visible as he lifted his arm, spread his fingers in inspection, shocked at what had just happened. He was coated in it, a small puddle at his feet. Soaked. In his wife’s spit. He could smell the remnants of the bourbon in it still.

His first reaction was shock. His second one was anger. This…this felt like crossing a line somehow. This just felt disrespectful and mean-spirited. He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, which was a mistake as her spit flowed into it.

But then he saw the look on her face. Of predatory anticipation. Of desire. And he heard her whispered growl in his head again: “I want you to finish inside me.” Okay, I changed my mind. This is actually kind of fucking hot.

“Ready?” she asked him with a faint grin.

“Affirmative,” he responded.

“You sure babe? Because this time you’re going ALL the way in. Can you hang on long enough for us BOTH to finish?” she asked in a mocking-but-sultry tone.

“Guess we’ll find out!!” he answered honestly. In all seriousness though, they probably needed a safety signal. He had almost blacked out the last time he was working on her g-spot.

“How about this,” he offered, “if I need out, I’ll stop moving for a few seconds, and then do three consecutive kicks. That’s the signal.”

“Kicks?” she asked with an amused smile. “Test run for when I have a baby growing, huh?”

“Ew, now it’s not sexy anymore. We doing this or what? This spit is starting to make me cold.”

Amy’s response was to lower him down in front of her pussy. Steve was again reminded of the stark contrast between Flamy and Amy. In the shower yesterday, she had covered her pussy out of embarrassment. This time, she had a vibrator in one hand and him in the other, her legs spread open.

He thought she was going to let him hop down onto the mattress and take it from there, but she surprised him again. She closed her hand around him, using her middle and pointer fingers to drag him from her palm onto their tips. He noticed that there was already a good deal of moisture around the entrance to her vagina. Was she…getting off on sitting on me? This evening’s full of surprises.

And then, with all the consideration she would give a dildo, she stuffed him inside her. One moment he was sticky with spit, a shiver overtaking him as it was starting to dry, perched on the tips of her two fingers. The next, he was barreling straight toward Amy’s pussy, the fingers ushering him along as inexorably and irresistibly as a bullet train.

He went from feeling slightly chilly to abrupt, wet warmth. He had a brief moment to take in the sight of her labia framing the slitted opening to her insides, matching pink crescents around the entrance, his mind again noting that it wasn’t a wide-open hole so much as a pliable crevasse through which to squeeze. Over the years together, Amy had remained tight. And then he was pressed into the soft, pink flesh, but the fingers didn’t stop their charge there. This time, instead of hooking upward and backward to hit her g-spot, Amy pushed him in. As far as her fingers could reach. He had a moment to remark mentally on the change in texture from the sort of rough ribbing near the entrance to the smoothness of the cavity he was thrust into. And then….she left him there. The fingers withdrew abruptly. Abandoned him inside her pussy. He suddenly felt very alone despite being literally inside his wife. When you couldn’t look your lover in the eyes during sex, you felt more like a toy than anything.

He knew he didn’t have long though, and he wanted to get off. And it wasn’t particularly difficult either, given the venue. The silky smooth, slick, wet walls pulsated around him, Amy’s scent filling his senses, her vaginal fluid taking the place of her spit as lubricant. A handsome, tall, confident man who never made any secret about his aspirations of becoming a lawyer, Steve had tasted more women than he would care to count. And contrary to what people might say, he thought there were differences. Amy’s juices had the same vague saltiness, the same sticky texture, the same unique aftertaste, but he thought she tasted a little…sweet. It would fit her personality, so maybe he was imagining it.

In any event, Steve remained rock hard and he began stroking himself, determined to finish before he had to abandon ship. He heard a faint buzzing sound, a barely perceptible vibration from where he was deep inside Amy. The walls around him started clenching and quivering, seizing around him like a clamp and then letting go. The moan was what did it. Even from his current location, the outside world gone and entirely drowned out, he could hear her moaning. It was such a rarity for the normally reserved Amy that it drove him wild. He was close already, nearing climax as Amy’s pussy chewed his tiny body like a stick of gum.

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Amy had known what Steve was attempting. What he wanted to happen by leaving two glasses of bourbon on the nightstand. And honestly, dealing with Jake the Snake pissed her the fuck off. She hated him as much as Steve did. Her original intent had been just to have a sip or two to unwind, but one thing led to another and, well, she might’ve gotten a little carried away.

This was different from the playful fingering she had done in the shower. This time her husband was really INSIDE her. So deep, in fact, that she knew he wasn’t getting out unless she took him out. Maybe there’s something to this whole giantess thing….that thought should NOT be as hot as it is. She could feel his tiny motions deep within her, so far in as to be closer to the uterus than the slit.

And there had been…something else. Something she really didn’t want to admit, especially since she knew Steve would run with the idea and take it to the next level. But when he had called her a “dirty little slut,” she’d wanted to PUNISH him for it. It had turned into a sensual lap dance of sorts before she unceremoniously sat on him like a cushion. As she had said to Steve many, many times previously, her butt was an “exit only.” She didn’t like the thought of him being so close to where…stuff…came out of her. Gross stuff. Disgusting stuff. It made her deeply uncomfortable.

That’s what made what had happened next so simultaneously off-putting and exciting. As she had hummed to herself, grinding into his one-inch frame, she had felt the faint tickles on her anus. And it had felt…GOOD. It felt good. Not in the same sense as his body currently stimulating highly sensitive nerve endings deep in her pussy right now, not in the sense of her vibrator circling her clit, but in the sense of utter domination and dire promise. The sensation had tickled more than anything. But that tickle felt like it begged for more, for something else to happen, like it was just foreplay for the main event.

When she had found herself suddenly saying “I want you to finish inside me” (words that had left her mouth before her brain had even processed their implications), she wasn’t….wasn’t talking about her pussy. She had even spit on him, intending to go through with it. The REAL Amy had won out though, finding the thought of her husband being up her butt where gross stuff happened to be a step too far. She had revised her position on the spot, not wanting to go through with shoving Steve up her asshole.

Her face flushed at the thought of it. His tiny body, scratching at the exit, begging for release…begging for a gasp of real air. NO. No. Absolutely not. Never….right?

Even without the stimulation on her g-spot, the current sensations were electrifying. She knew how to manipulate the vibrator to get herself off. She had done it countless times previously. She would’ve cum with or without Steve’s assistance. But the titillating, scintillating squirming deep inside her had put her on edge, and when the vibrator touched her clit, she felt her body light up like a Christmas tree. The combination was….INTENSE. It felt like too much, the sensations so overpowering that she almost wanted to cry, almost wanted it to stop. ALMOST. The other part of her wished it would NEVER end. The hand that wasn’t controlling the vibrator was dug into the mattress, squeezing.

She felt the walls of her vagina clenching around Steve, squeezing him, smashing him, a more. sensual parody of when he had been compressed between the balls of her feet earlier. She felt her body building to the crescendo, a flood of hormones suffusing her with anticipatory warmth. And then…then he stopped moving. Just for a few seconds. And she felt it. The three hard kicks he had designated as “the safety signal.”

NO! No no no no no, mister. Not yet. That thought aside, she really didn’t want her husband dying inside her vagina while she got off to be the legacy of their marriage. She wasn’t THAT horny. Really. But…she was going to get the release she craved, whether he liked it or not.

She took the vibrator away from her clit, passing it into her left hand as she sat up slightly and stuck her fingers inside her, fishing around for Steve. She found him, and pinched his body between her forefinger and middle finger, dragging him out with a sticky, wet ‘shluck’ sound.

It was hard to focus, the room spinning around her a little bit out of a combination of the alcohol and the building toward an orgasm moments earlier. But her pupils did eventually lock onto him, seeing the satisfied grin of a man post-expenditure. Oh hell no.

“You good babe?” she asked.

“Yeah….why? Did you get off?” he inquired.

“Deep breath, honey,” she warned.

“Wha….” she cut him off, stuffing him back inside her before the natural lubrication dried, deep into her pussy, practically against her cervix. She grabbed the vibrator with her right hand again, going right back to taking care of herself.

She trusted that Steve would figure out what was going on. He was a smart guy. Sometimes. And either he had, in fact, put it together, or the sudden submersion back inside her had startled him, because he started moving around with a fervor that he hadn’t previously.

She felt the pins and needles running throughout her body, gooseflesh pricking to life on her arms, her nipples growing hard as she stroked them in a circular motion with her left hand.

Fuck…fuck…yes…keep going…KEEP GOING!!! she willed her husband mentally, knowing he couldn’t hear her. Even if he could, she would have been embarrassed to say that kind of stuff aloud.

And there she was again, teetering on the precipice. It hadn’t taken long to get back to that point, the combined sensations of her husband’s struggles inside her and the vibrator pressing into her clit almost too much to bear. And then she felt it. She was pushed over the edge, the orgasm hormones filling her body to the point where she needed a release, letting out a loud, groaning whimper as she came. Hard. The pleasurable sensation suffused her so completely and utterly that she felt like it would pour out of her mouth if she opened it.

The problem was that her insides clenching around Steve with the orgasm only made him struggle harder, the flailing, tickling sensation from deep within her taking on an air of urgency and desperation. She was still overcome by the sensation of the orgasm, her toes curling and clenching, her body leaned forward slightly, her knees drawn inward and her thighs pressing together. That was probably what contributed to the renewed pressure Steve was feeling right now.

Oh….bad idea babe, stop that. She both wished he would and prayed he didn’t. She felt herself out a bit, tickling her clitoris once more with the vibrator. How long would it take to get off one more time? How long did Steve have in there? She bit her lip almost to the point of bleeding, considering. Fighting every urge inside her to just say “fuck him” and go to town on herself again.

No. This is my HUSBAND we’re talking about. Down girl, she admonished her pussy mentally, almost as if it had a mind of its own that was antagonistic to her rational self.

She turned the vibrator off and carelessly tossed it over her shoulder, hearing it strike the nightstand and knock Steve’s phone onto the floor. Good thing I moved those glasses. And then slowly, carefully, she stuck the fingers of her right hand inside her once more, clenching around him in a vice and pulling him out. Even that sensation, his small body sliding along her wet interior, threatened to put her into overdrive again, the heat flooding her and the sensation to find that fucking vibrator almost overpowering her.

But, he was successfully extracted. If he looked satisfied before, he looked…damaged now. Not dinged up and bruised. It was more the look of someone who had been through an exhausting ordeal. And he was soaked. When she had pulled him out briefly earlier, he had of course been glistening with her juices coating his body. This…this looked like he had been standing in the pouring rain for an hour. She dimly felt a faint sense of regret that he was probably drowning inside her at one point when she came. Eh…he’s fine. He’ll get over it. His idea, right?

Steve visibly composed himself, holding his arms out at his sides and looking at them in wonder, Amy’s fluid connecting them to his abdomen in stringy, clingy strands. He ran a hand through his mop of hair, wringing a glob of her juices out from it in a manner reminiscent of when she had squeezed her long hair in the towel yesterday. And then he did that thing he often did that made her both uncomfortable, because it was gross, and super turned on, because it was HOT.

He looked her in the eyes, his face taking on a serious expression. And then he stuck his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them one by one like they were barbecued ribs. Tasting her. Swallowing her fluid. She shuddered, whether in revulsion or arousal she no longer knew. When she got into this state mentally, a lot of lines were blurred.

“Roll over,” he said with the serious expression still on his face.

“Huh?” Amy was briefly confused.

“I said: roll over. Lay on your stomach,” he ordered once again.

She knew what he was planning and was enormously skeptical about it. She played dumb. “Why?”

“Ames, do you trust me?” he asked sincerely.

“….yes.” The answer was an awkwardly long time forthcoming.

“Then just go with it. Roll over. Now.”

“Or what?” she asked, not liking his tone.

“Or I’m climbing back in there and I’m not gonna stop moving until you’re sore.”

Fuck. That was hot. This man knew what he was doing. He couldn’t dominate her physically anymore, but he knew she liked to be ordered around when they had their playtime together. Knew she liked when he was in the driver’s seat. And even though the threat was patently ridiculous, the idea of the sensation of it, coupled with her being put in her place by the one-inch man, upped her arousal once again.

She resolved to try it. Just for a second. That’s all. Let him get his jollies by fiddling around a bit and then stop him before it got…gross. Or weird. “Okay, but you’re on your own mister. I’m not helping you,” she warned as she slid downward into a fully prone laying position, rolling over onto her stomach and placing her chin on her pillow. And true to her word, she didn’t place him on her back. She dumped him on the mattress.

God dammit. I’m gonna have to clean these sheets tomorrow. She felt a few feeble, tickling motions along the outside of her thigh as Steve was clearly trying to jump up and grab a hold of something, taking the short route to her butt.

“What? My little ole butt too big for you, hotshot?” she taunted.

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t feel the sensation anymore for a few seconds. She was about to turn around and look at what he was doing when she felt a tickle on the toes of her left foot. Clever. He was using her upturned foot as an on-ramp of sorts. She was certain he had chosen the left one so he could take in the obliterated remnants of that poor ant one more time. Sorry about that again, buddy.

She felt the tickle of his steps going up the arch of her foot, then onto her heel, resisting the urge to scratch at it. His footsteps continued across her Achilles tendon, then up her calf, over her knee, up the back of her thighs…

Until he reached her left buttock. She felt Steve run an appreciative hand through the crease where her cheek met her leg, and then she felt his hands and feet digging into the somewhat-springy flesh as he made his ascent. The feel of his footsteps across the top of her left buttcheek tickled more than anything else, and she found she was clenching her hands to stop from knocking him off and just scratching away. But it also felt…enticing. There was a buildup to what he was doing, an anticipation of sorts for whatever taboo activity he was planning.

She felt the depressions his tiny feet made in her butt as he traversed the length to where her crack was. She had expected him to struggle with this part without her assistance. She hadn’t counted on how wet he still was. One moment, she felt his feet planted firmly on her left cheek, the next she felt something slip into her crack and land slightly below her tailbone, above her anus. She let out a high-pitched squeak at the sudden sensation.

Like a hiker shuffling through a narrow crevice, she felt Steve move sideways further downward…downward…downward. And then she felt him stop. She was unsure of what he was doing, but then the sensations resumed. This time directly on top of her anus. She felt herself clench in a subconscious, defensive response, her pucker squeezing shut and her cheeks collapsing in around Steve as she heard a faint “oomph.”

What is he….oh. Oh my. She found herself deeply blushing as she put together what he was up to. It felt like he had gotten onto his hands and knees and was massaging her butthole with all the strength he could muster, which wasn’t much. Not for the first time, she was grateful she had cleaned herself thoroughly after…well, after lunch. She put it that way in her mind.

At first, this sensation also was ticklish, Steve’s miniscule limbs physically unable to make a discernible impact. But those tickles began to become enticing, inviting almost. She was reminded of the feeling yesterday in the shower, when Steve playing around with her labia felt like an unfulfilled promise. A promise that he would be going inside her, satisfying her. That her pussy would be eating him alive imminently.

Except this time…this time it was her ass. She felt her thighs and butt quivering with an anticipation of sorts. He was definitely stimulating a sensitive area, the nerve endings on her butthole only slightly less susceptible to tactile sensations than the skin around her pussy.

Maybe…maybe he’s onto something with this…this um…butt…stuff. No. No way. She had only ever let him toss her salad on exceedingly rare occasions because he had begged, and even then, only after she had showered. Vigorously. She had only ever sat on his face because he had confessed it to be one of his top fantasies, and she wanted him to be satisfied and fulfilled with their sex life. But she had NEVER let him put a finger, or anything else, in her butt, her inner shame repulsed at the thought of what that finger might look like…might smell like when he took it out. She didn’t know what was up there. Or rather, she did know what was up there, most likely. She didn’t know how deep up there “it” was though. On the off chance it was within reach of his fingers, she didn’t want him fiddling around in there and touching it by accident. Or, knowing him, touching it on purpose. Ew.

He must have known she was drunk, though, because he pushed his luck. And she found she didn’t stop him. She felt him crawl forward a bit to be positioned directly on top of it. On top of my… Her brain didn’t want to finish the thought. Going only off of the sensations coming from her rear, Amy was somewhat in the dark as to what he was up to. But she could guess. It felt like he was running his fingers along the creases around her sphincter, tracing the lines down to the center. The entrance…no, EXIT, she corrected herself, to her anus.

And then she felt something else. Something that crossed a line for her in terms of grossness. He had gotten on his hands and knees for a reason. She felt the faintest whisp of his mop of hair dead center on her butthole, and then felt an almost imperceptible tickle. Oh…oh no. He’s…eating my ass. She’d let him do it before, but that was when he was full-sized. That was when she had had the opportunity to clean up first. This…this was something else entirely. And in a deep, dark place in her that she always locked the door on, sealed away, and pretended never existed…she LIKED it.

It was dirty. It was disgusting. It was embarrassing. It was naughty. It was taboo. It was gross. But also…it was hot. Because of all those other things, it was hot. Amy seldom ever let herself cut loose sexually, and something about Steve being his current size made her feel…safer somehow. That she could stop it whenever she wanted. That she was in control, not him. Like it was a safe space to try new things. If he shamed her afterward, she’d just lock him in her desk drawer until either she got over it or he shut up.

I wonder if I could… She didn’t want him to notice, being somewhat against giving him the satisfaction of pushing this for all those years and being kind of…right. She snaked a hand down under belly, slithering closer…closer… And then she started touching herself again. Softly.

When she closed her eyes to focus on the sensations coming from her lower regions, she was gifted with that humbling dose of reality of knowing you’ve had one too many. The room started spinning and she opened her eyes again immediately. Oooofff….tomorrow’s gonna be ROUGH. Amy was in her twenties. She could handle booze. It wasn’t too long ago that she was putting down a dozen drinks in an evening in college. How much did Emma put in those glasses?

Notwithstanding the discomfort from being beyond the point of tipsy, she was bringing herself close to orgasm again. Another soft moan slipped out. Steve must have heard it, because he redoubled his efforts. She felt the sensation welling up within her again of that too-soon-after orgasm that is unique to women but no less enjoyable than the first. She felt her body seize up again, all of her muscles clenching, the fingers on her free hand grabbing a handful of the pillow as she dug her claws into it with the overpour of pleasant sensation.

And then she felt it. Steve’s hurried, frantic movements. They weren’t REALLY on the “outside” anymore. It felt like when you had one of those…clingers that let you know you’re not quite done yet, if that clinger was flailing about with all the fury of a mid-tantrum toddler. Amy’s face blanched, the warmth of the booze and the orgasm afterglow draining out of her rapidly. Oh shit. SHIT!!

Quite likely faster than she had ever moved before in her life, her hand shot to her butt, dug in between her cheeks, and grabbed Steve. Well, what felt like Steve’s legs at least. Oh no… That meant his face was…in THERE. She was mortified at just how stuck he was, feeling like there should have been an audible cartoonish “pop” like a cork when she extracted him. She kind of didn’t want to make eye contact, but twisted around and sat up quickly, bringing him to her face.

There was no visible…stuff, at least, so that was…something. As for Steve, well…he was grinning. Widely. The look on his face brought to mind the self-satisfied expression of SpongeBob when he finds out Squidward actually really does like Krabby Patties. She could practically hear it in her head with the smirk on his face: “…you like butt stuff, don’t you Amy?”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off, holding up a single pointer finger in the symbol universally recognized as “shut it mister.”

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“Say what?” he asked innocently.

She gave him a flat look, hoping that her gaze conveyed precisely just how little she wanted to hear what he had to say.

She had to ask though. Had to know, because otherwise, the thought of what had just happened would haunt her for the rest of her days. “….Steve…” she began softly, “do you…do you actually LIKE that stuff?” She was terrified of the response, feeling like she had just asked a doctor for a diagnosis.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he asked incredulously. “I’ve been barking up this tree for YEARS!!”

“No, Steve, really…I mean it,” she said, her tone sounding to her own ears like someone pleading for mercy. “Do you REALLY like doing that kind of thing? Do you REALLY like what…what just…happened…” she trailed off.

His gaze softened in understanding. He knew her well enough that he could tell she needed the reassurance. “Ames…my only regret about what just happened was that you plucked me out instead of shoving me ALL the way in.” She found herself blushing deeply at the thought.

“Ew!! Isn’t that…gross though?” They’d had variations of this dialogue before, but she still could never fathom where he was coming from, what the reasoning was, exactly.

“Not to me it isn’t,” he answered quickly and honestly.

“But like…that’s where…you know…” she led on.

“Please, please,” he said holding up a hand to jokingly forestall her continuing. “You don’t have to sell it to me anymore, I’m already buying,” he concluded with a faint laugh.

He had a way of disarming her. She found herself smiling in response. “You’re disgusting babe. Truly, truly disgusting.”

“What does that say about you? You married me. You knew the kind of sick shit I was into,” he said playfully. They both chuckled together, enjoying each other’s company for now.

“Seriously though….you didn’t mind it? Like….you’re actually INTO that kind of thing?” she asked again.

“Ames, why do you keep asking that?” She bit her lip to keep herself from answering. She didn’t want to hear the response come out of her own mouth. She saw the understanding dawn on his face.

“You LIKED it, didn’t you??!!” he yelled excitedly.

She blushed again and gave him a playful flick, knocking him on his ass. “You can kindly fuck allllllllllll the way off, babe.” That didn’t stop him from grinning. “And wipe that smug look off your face!”

“Or what…dirty little slut,” he said grinning.

She clapped her other hand down on top of him, sandwiching him between the two. “You do realize I don’t HAVE TO hear or see any of your BS, right?” She opened her hands slightly, wincing when she saw him covering his ears.

“Oh my God, Steve, I’m so sorry!!”

He stood up, his grin returning almost instantly. “It’s fine babe. We should probably get cleaned up though. You know, since I was in your…”

She cut him off. “DON’T SAY IT!!!” she yelled at him as he covered his ears again.

She gave him a smirk. “All things considered, I’d say YOU’RE the dirty little slut babe.” That got a laugh out of him, as she got to her feet, still a bit wobbly, and stumbled toward the bathroom to start the shower. At least tomorrow was Friday. This weekend, they could talk about a real plan for getting him back to normal. And…maybe squeeze in some other stuff too.

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