Joanna leaned against the doorframe, watching the man sleep soundly on her bed, completely unaware of what was about to come. He’d been charming, his laughter genuine, his interest in her sincere. They’d shared a night of passion, and now she was ready for the next step.

She leaned over him, her breath cold as she whispered his name. His eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," he muttered groggily, still half-dreaming.

Joanna held him delicately between her fingers, studying him like a new, fascinating specimen. He was nothing now. A mere plaything. She couldn’t help but smirk.

But this time… this time, she wasn’t going to do the usual. She had grown bored of the routine. The restaurant, the meals—she was tired of it. She craved something different, something more intimate.

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the tiny man in her grasp.

She would keep him for something special.

With the man now in her palm, Joanna smiled to herself, turning away from the bed. He was about to become part of her world in a way the others never had. Something just for her.

Joanna moved through the mall like any other woman on a weekend afternoon—casual, confident, with purpose in her step. The bright overhead lights of Victoria’s Secret bathed the racks in a soft glow, casting shadows over lace, satin, and silk. It was the perfect hunting ground, not for new lingerie—though she did pick out a few pieces that caught her eye—but for something far more twisted.

In her pocket, she kept the glass vial nestled deep in the fabric lining, the tiny man inside barely visible unless held up to the light. He was no more than five millimeters tall now, barely bigger than a grain of rice, and utterly powerless. Every so often, Joanna would slip her hand into her pocket, fingertips brushing the glass as if to remind herself of the secret she carried. The rhythm of it calmed her. Controlled her. Thrilled her.

After selecting a few items—deep burgundy lace, soft black mesh, a silk garter belt—she stepped into line for the dressing rooms. That’s when she saw her.

The redhead in front of her was striking in a casual, effortless way—freckles dusted across pale skin, messy curls falling around her shoulders, holding a bundle of soft fabric in one arm while tapping away at her phone with the other. She glanced back and offered a bright, apologetic smile.

"Hey, do you mind holding these for just a sec?" she asked, already extending the clothes.

"Sure," Joanna replied, taking the bundle carefully.

The redhead turned away again, now texting rapidly, thumbs moving with an urgency that suggested a brewing crisis. Joanna barely glanced at the clothes in her hands—they didn’t matter. Not the garments. Just what they would hold.

With deft fingers and practiced ease, she pulled the vial from her pocket. There was no hesitation. She uncorked it with a slight pop, and tilted it gently, just enough for the tiny man to tumble out silently. He landed with the faintest of touches in the gusset of a soft, lacy pair of panties—navy blue, barely-there. She folded the fabric subtly, pressing him into the lining, and slipped the vial back into her pocket.

"Thanks so much," the redhead said cheerfully as she took the clothes back, unaware she was now carrying something else entirely. Someone.

Joanna smiled politely. "No problem at all."

The attendant called her next, and the redhead disappeared behind one of the dressing room doors. Joanna followed into the stall beside her, closing the door behind her slowly. The room was quiet—just the rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of a hanger—but from her vantage point, Joanna could see the gap between the floor and the wall. She crouched slowly, as if to adjust her own clothes, and peered under.

The redhead’s feet were bare now, her jeans tossed into a heap nearby. One after another, she stepped into various garments, humming softly to herself, utterly oblivious. Joanna watched with a curious mix of glee and detachment as the woman unknowingly pulled on the panties, sealing the man between her body and the silk fabric like a hidden secret.

Her smile was serene, almost tender. He wouldn’t die, of course—not yet. The potion ensured survival, if not comfort. But he’d experience everything. Every movement, every shift, every press of skin and lace.

Joanna straightened, heart thudding in her chest, already imagining what it must be like for him now. Trapped. Helpless. Intimately close to a stranger who would never even know.

She didn't plan on buying anything. This visit wasn’t about her wardrobe.

It was about creating moments. Ones only she would ever know about.

The world had become a blur of sound and motion the moment Joanna tilted the vial. One second he was inside the cool glass, pressed against the curve of its wall like a trapped insect—then the light opened above, and gravity pulled him down into lace and shadow.

He landed with a jolt, soft fibers beneath him, the scent of perfume and fabric softener thick in the air. Disoriented, he tried to move, tried to stand, but everything around him was enormous, unrecognizable, and terrifying. The gusset of the lingerie was warm, lined, and disturbingly intimate.

And then everything shifted.

A soft rustle. The light dimmed.

He heard the murmur of a voice overhead—cheerful, casual—then movement. Sudden, immense movement. He was lifted, jostled, cradled unknowingly in the woman's arms as she walked into the changing room.

Panic gripped him. He screamed, but it was useless. His voice didn’t carry beyond the threads of fabric that now dwarfed him.

Then, warmth. Pressure. The panties were being pulled on.

He was forced against skin. Firm, smooth, and impossibly close. He was pressed into the soft curve of her body, stuck between her warmth and the silky fabric that now held him in place. Every step she took was like a quake. He felt her move, twist, adjust—felt the pulse of blood just under her skin, the tension in her muscles.

And he could do nothing. Not scream. Not struggle. Not escape.

Time passed. Minutes? Hours?

He didn’t know when she took them off, only that there was sudden relief, a cool breath of air as the fabric peeled away. For a moment, he thought he might be free—but the truth was worse.

He was no longer stuck to the garment.

He was stuck to her.

His body clung to her skin, damp with sweat and warmth, too small to be noticed, too light to be felt. She never looked down. Never paused.

She simply redressed.

And then she left.

The world roared around him as she moved through the store, through the mall, going about her day. Every movement dragged him across her skin—sometimes jostling, sometimes bouncing, but always pressed against her like a secret she’d never discover.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about it:

This woman didn’t even know he existed.

But he was with her now.

And there was no telling where she’d take him.

The sounds of the mall faded behind the heavy door of the women’s restroom, replaced by a colder, more echoing world—one of scuffed tiles, dripping sinks, and the occasional flush that reverberated like thunder in the air. The redhead’s stride quickened with purpose, and the man, still hopelessly wedged between the slick gusset of her panties and the curve of her warm, sweat-slicked skin, could feel it: the slight clench of urgency in her every step.

Then—stillness. A stall door closed. A lock slid shut.

The moment the redhead entered the bathroom, the world changed. The cool air hit him first—damp, sterile, echoing with the distant sounds of running water and the occasional flush. Still lodged between the soft gusset of her panties and the curve of her buttocks, the man could feel her pace quicken, her muscles tense with urgency.

Then came the stall. The lock clicked.

She turned.

And sat.

As her body made contact with the cold toilet seat, the shift in pressure released him from his tight prison. For a fleeting second, he clung to her—moisture and body heat keeping him adhered to the smooth skin just below her tailbone. His view was nothing but the vast swell of her lower back, the pale arch of her thighs bracketing the wide, yawning space beneath her.

Then, slowly, he began to peel away.

The tension between them gave, inch by inch, until gravity took hold.

He dropped.

The bowl was a bright, curved world of porcelain and water, and he hit its surface with a tiny splash, the cold shock jarring his tiny frame. He tried to cry out, but his voice was lost in the vast echo of the stall.

Then came the sound—low, muffled, organic.

It started with a rush of urine, hissing down from above like a torrential downpour, splattering the water and bouncing droplets across the bowl. He coughed, sputtered, struggling to keep his head above water as the warm stream churned the once-still surface.

And then the scent hit.

Thick. Pungent. Overpowering.

He gagged.

He retched.

The stench of waste filled the bowl in seconds, a heavy, sulfurous cloud that clung to everything. His body convulsed with nausea as solid waste began to fall, one dense log after another splashing into the water with wet, sickening thuds. The waves rocked him, the water darkening with the mess, the air becoming a choking fog of human odor and chemical cleanser.

Desperate to stay afloat, he kicked and paddled in the filthy water, sputtering as the swirling mess surrounded him. His hands grasped at anything—slippery porcelain, floating tissue—but nothing held.

Then, finally, he found it.

One of the waste logs had settled partially above the water’s surface, thick and gritty. Disgust welled in his throat, but he climbed, clawed, and finally perched atop it, arms wrapped around the mottled mass like a lifeline. It stank, sticky and warm beneath him, but it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Above, she was shifting—he heard it.

The rustle of paper.

Again.

And again.

He looked up, trembling, bile still rising in his throat, as she wiped herself repeatedly, the paper scraping across her skin in great, casual motions. Each sheet was dropped casually into the bowl, some landing perilously close to him, floating like ghost-white islands in a brown sea.

Then she stood.

Her shadow loomed above, immense, her clothes rising back into place with a single practiced motion. She stepped forward slightly and looked down.

Her face twisted in visible disgust.

He could only watch—filthy, broken, clinging to a piece of her waste—as her fingers reached out toward the handle.

And then—

A deafening whoosh.

The world lurched into motion once again.