It had been ten years since the mysterious missiles flew over the horizon from a yet-unidentified nation, but the impact swept throughout American history: the strange chemical in those warheads that shrunk everyone with a Y-chromosome changed life for everyone somehow. Bertha Watkins looked up at the bronzed memorial statue of a missile cracking open like an egg and dumping a glittery stream of chemicals upon a man, represented by a series of neon outlines that flashed to smaller and smaller images in a cycle. She shook her head in wonder and regret about the life that the entire world had left behind. Also she was late for fucking her stepson.

She hauled her baggage cart through the ruined streets of her city, hundreds of cars lodged into storefronts, stagnant by the trees they'd torn down, upended, rusting husks. These weren't recent accidents: they were left there out of respect for all the male drivers who had been operating them when they got shrunk. There sure were a lot of them, thought Bertha. Men sure did like to drive their cars, back in the day. Briefly she wondered how women got around without men to drive them, but that was a lifetime ago and she could barely recall it, like a dimly hazy half-forgotten dream wrapped in clouds and stashed somewhere she couldn't find.

"Heavens to Betsy, if it isn't Bertha Watkins!" said a hefty old woman with two armloads of groceries. "Nice day for it, isn't it?"

"That's for sure, Bridget," Bertha said, smiling, her ample bosom glowing in the morning sunshine. "What brings you out to the Memorial Car Accidents?"

"Oh, just some shopping." Bridget McBride hefted her grocery bags, badly shoved out of place by her own tremendous bosom. "Got to feed the..." She looked down, a single tear running down her cheek and then taking a long time to navigate the expansive real estate of her large boob. "I nearly said 'husband and kids,' just then. Old habits die hard, I guess." She smiled bravely at her friend. "But old Leroy divorced me just before the shrink missiles struck, leaving me with his runny-nosed brats from the previous marriage, don't you know."

Bertha clucked her tongue knowingly. "Ah, but isn't that the way of the world." Her own Vincent had divorced her only three days before the missile strike. It wasn't his choice, however: he'd taken a job with Mysterious Industries, filling in the position of Senior Vice-Not-Wife-Haver. He'd left tremendous sums of money for her and their children, and then presumably he got shrunk and died in a car accident, like most men, but Bertha wondered if she'd ever get over losing him. "Are your stepchildren getting along?"

"Most days, most days," Bridget said. "Two handsome, strapping young men Leroy left me. Good genes from their mother, I guess, as Leroy was the sexual equivalent of a community bathroom washrag. You should see the way they're growing: they must be up to four inches tall now, easy."

"That's wonderful. Even if they're not technically your children by blood, they really can be a blessing. What grade are they in now?"

"They're in their last year of high school."

"So they're legal to fuck."

"Oh, yes. I'm going to fuck the shit out of them when I get home." Bridget laughed and wished her friend a good day. Bertha watched her massive, rolling hips rocking down the sidewalk, imagining a slender young man disappearing in her ass crack. It surely is a different era than it used to be, she mused, waddling home herself.

"Not-my-boy! Girls! I'm home, help me with the groceries!" Bertha heard the stampeding feet of her daughters run up to the front door. They giggled at something, and then there was a wet slapping of meat against the doorknob, accompanied by piteous begging in a thin, squeaky little man's voice. Bertha sighed. "Quit slapping your not-brother against the doorknob and open up, please."

The aging white door swung open, revealing two luscious young women in various states of undress. One had glasses and held large tomes of chemistry and philosophy in her arms; the other was decked in black leather and spikes, holding a riding crop in one hand and her stepbrother in the other. "But he insisted, Mom," said Yvonne, the dominatrix. "He wanted to help, so we let him get the door for you." She thrust the tiny man before Bertha's face.

Neal was a swollen little mass of black and blue, and his arms hung at unattractive angles. "I'm fine, Mom, really," he said, bleeding profusely.

Yvonne snarled. "That's right, you're fine! How dare you agree with me!" Her leather glove creaked as her fingers tensed and snapped his shin. He cried out anguished thanks to her. Bookish Vernice rolled her eyes.

"Can't you be a little nicer to our dear, sweet brother?" she said quietly. "Certainly none of this is his fault. We should be more considerate of those less fortunate. He only needs a little... tenderness to straighten himself out. An extra dose of care." Her eyes went half-lidded and her breathing grew heavy. "Some wholesome... nurturing... between-the-thighs kind of affection." She sucked on her canine and stared at the pulp of stepbrother.

"You two unload the groceries and help me get set up for dinner." She unloaded her cart upon the kitchen table and swatted Vernice's plaid-skirted bottom, but not Yvonne's because it was covered in spikes. "Noah! You come with me." She swiped the bruised mass from her oldest daughter's hand.

"What, is it five o'clock already?" The tiny man swung from his stepmother's grasp, trying to spot a clock.

Bertha assured him it was and plunged her hand into her groceries. "I found these at the store, two for $30, couldn't pass them up. See? It's a little protection suit for you." She pulled out a tremendous purple silicone dildo with a hollow center and a little door midway along the shaft. Inside the dildo was an end table with an alarm clock, a tiny bottle of lubricant, an armoire, and a little bookshelf stocked with everything from classical English literature to the latest titles by POC, LGBTQ, and disabled authors.

"You'll be spending a lot of time in here," she said lasciviously, adding sexily, "and there's a bathroom in the scrotum, next to the washer/dryer combo. You can install your mini-laptop in the tip. The whole thing's wired for Bluetooth."

Neal regarded the entire ensemble with dread. "Two of those, huh?"

He could see his face reflected in her incisors as she grinned salaciously. "Should last us the month."

There was an alarming banging at the door. Startled, Yvonne trotted to see who it was. She let two women inside, guards dressed in very sharp, powerful uniforms. Civic guards never carried guns, which were phallic patriarchal symbols of toxic male aggression: they each hauled enormous, polished, vibrating truncheons.

"Officer Lesbo and Officer Butch, ma'am," they said. "Just wanted to make sure you're about to fuck your legally unbound stepson." Bertha waggled the enormous dildo at them cheerily; they nodded curtly and exited the premises.

Yvonne watched them leave, beginning to touch herself intimately. "I wouldn't want their job."

Bertha bade her daughters get dinner started while she trotted upstairs with her passenger and prop to perform her social duties. Vernice strained to meet her stepbrother's eye, massaging her pert boobs with consummate sympathy.

"You don't want this, I don't want this," moaned Bertha out of earshot. "It's not like I even had that much sex with Vincent when he was around. I'm actually ace, did you know that? Or I was: I guess the same thing that shrunk all the broken chromosomes down made those of us with perfect, noble, intact chromosomes randier than goats. Strangest damn thing."

"You don't have to do this," said Neal. "You could just tell the Stepson Sex Cops that you did. I'd corroborate your story."

She blinked in amazement at the little man in her palm. "Oh, no, you're going in me and no mistake, little man. I'm going to bruise my own lungs with how deep I thrust your little love-condo inside me, understand?" Neal nodded sadly and climbed into the enormous dildo, turning on the stereo he found to a college station. Grunting with satisfaction, Bertha undressed quickly to her sexy lingerie and rolled to her back on her luxurious four-poster bed.

With two hands she introduced the silicone manhood into her sopping nether region. She thrust the manhood in and out of her nether region. When her passion rose, her nether region began to seize upon the manhood, squeezing the manhood with all the power of her nether region. Her love-juices gooshed out of her nether region and pooled on the mattress just below her massive, succulent haunches. Moaning with intense delight, she stuffed the manhood deeper into her nether regions. All of her love-muscles, all five or sixteen of them, rhythmically clenched the manhood in a very seductive pattern.

All the alarm drained out of Neal's body as he watched an indeterminate number of his stepmother's love-muscles rippling over the silicone exterior of his new home. A swelling torrent of her love-juices carried him along and he could almost imagine he was flying up into the sky, leaving Earth's atmosphere, to dwell sweetly within the nether regions of outer space.

"I love you, not-Mom," he whispered, leafing through the latest Harper's. Her guttural moans and howls were untranslatable but doubtlessly meant the same thing.