Ostensibly, Inchers (as they have come to be called) have equal footing with the rest of us. There are facilities in place to allow them into most buildings, discrimination laws are in place, and that's all fine and dandy. But they don't work.
They're the new minority, an easy target. No one really cares when an Incher, or two, or a dozen, all go missing. They're just so little. No amount of legal jargon, no enforced sameness, will ever make them equal to us normal people, and most people know it: When an Incher goes missing, we all instinctively check under our shoes, because that's where they belong. Underfoot. Beneath us.
That is how I have continued doing what I do for so long. I get this . . . urge, an itch I need scratched. So, I quickly head downtown, and skulk around the little tenements, the nearly literal roach motels. Late at night, the little dumb fucks stagger back- drunk, tired, or otherwise drained. Weak. Weaker, I should clarify, than they already are.
But I am human. I am strong. Strong enough to lift the little vermin, muffle their shrieks with my palm, and hide them in my bag. Some nights I don't get my urge, and they're allowed to skitter and breed like the pests they are. Some nights, one or two is enough. Then there are the nights like this. Tonight, there are two fighting in my bag (lined with egg cartons and copper thread on the inside- their screams don't penetrate, and neither do cell signals), one struggling fruitlessly in the crack of my ass . . . and one that I just shoved halfway inside my cunt. I can feel it struggle . . . and God, do I love it when they struggle in there. But not now.
I need to get home . . .
* * * * * * * * *
I love my house. Really, I do. The security provided by not one but five locks protects me from being burgled, keeps out the unmentionables. I made sure that I draft-proofed the whole place, so that no vermin- rats, roaches, or Inchers- has the slightest chance of coming in unless I will it. Still, that much security is a bit of a nuisance when sparks of shooting arousal are shooting through your body from an Incher fighting for its life in your pussy.
Still, I open the door and lock it behind me, and rush to my basement.
My house is definitely not Miniature Human Accessibility Code compliant, especially my basement stairs- nearly three dozen concrete steps, each seven inches apart from one another, making it an ankle-breaking risk for Inchers climbing down . . . and physically impossible to climb up. I hold fast to the railing as I step down- falling down these steps would hurt like a bitch, even for a person.
At the bottom, the concrete floor is covered in a few assorted plastic sheets, layered and tiled across the ground to make a mess quick to clean.
Eventually, I reach the bottom step, and set down my bag as I shed clothing and flip on the lights. I remove the prisoner from my behind for the moment and flick it across the floor as my other hand deeply inserts my vagina's victim, kneading and squeezing it with my inner walls to extract as much pleasure as possible.
The one I freed from my ass looks up at me with a coughing, gasping glare of anger and horror. "Y-you LIAR! I can't believe you! You fucking horrible lying bi-" I rest my foot on the mouthy male vermin, smothering him with it, drowning him in the sweat from a day on my feet.
"Shut up, bug," I growl, free to be crass in my own home. "You worthless vermin make my life, and the lives of all normal people, far harder than they need be . . . so right now, you need to pay your societal debt and be a good living sex toy . . ."
As I trail off of this thought, I feel it- the one struggling in my cunt had broken an arm. My eyes flutter with bliss as my sadistic urge takes over, and I'm pushed over the edge of orgasm with a powerful, reverberating moan. In the throes of my toe-curling release, I feel something cracking beneath my sole- probably the Incher man's rib- and that only draws out my pleasure.
Of course, the frail body of the one I'd masturbated with has crumpled, collapsed entirely, so I'm unable to draw more pleasure from it. With a shuddering sigh, I pull the mangled, matted corpse from my pussy, soaked in its own blood and my cum. With a slight grin, I contemplate the little thing, before deciding it will probably not be too diseased . . . I allow my tongue to loll from my maw, and set the body of the Incher on the dripping wet muscle, before tilting my head back and taking a leisurely swallow.
I let out another satisfied sigh, and lift my foot to expose the broken, bleeding, sobbing Incher beneath. "Hmm . . . no more defiance? No more spirit? Hmph. I didn't even step down, you were beaten by little more than my sweaty toes. Are you trying to prove that you're merely vermin?" I smirk as the little thing gives up, curls up into a ball . . . I simply love it when the excitement of pure power overcomes me, and nothing induces that feeling like completely squashing these glorified bugs. I press my foot down, reducing the Incher to a red smear beneath my sole, and I purr as I feel the distinctive popping of a destroyed body.
I lift my bag, giddy with glee, and pour the two remaining Inchers into my palm before setting the customized item aside. While there are specially designed phones for Inchers, they're not very sturdy, and the jostling from my steps would have rendered the electronics useless . . . and even if it hadn't, I had yet more copper mesh installed in the floorboards of my house. Phone and Internet signals cannot get in or out.
Suddenly, I flash recognition with one of the miniscule beings in my palm, and wear a wide grin. "Ah, Miss Brooks, a pleasure to see you, especially here," I purr with equal arousal and snark. "You're quite fond of my chest, if I remember correctly," I continue, my grin growing ever more self-satisfied.
The little Incher woman nods, her gaze never wandering from my exposed, expansive bust. I will admit that mine are quite the impressive breasts, and I take considerable pride in them, but sexual harassment from a bug quickly grows irritating, and I've been tempted to crush this one quite often; just feign clumsiness and step on her, or swat at her like a troublesome fly, or trick her into wandering on my seat before setting my rather fine ass down atop her. However, nothing is more delicious than irony in matters of retribution.
"Then why not take a closer look, Miss Brooks?" I purr, dropping the lesbian bug betwixt my tits, and grinning as she quickly begins nuzzling the soft flesh. I give the final Incher, a relatively big one at four inches in height, a sly once-over as the shitheaded Miss Brooks attempts to make out with my mammaries . . . and, making sure to grasp the big one carefully so as not to break its body yet, I use my hands to press my breasts together, listening to gurgling crackles and pops until the vermin's body bursts like an overripe tomato in my bust.
"Wh-what are you gonna do with me?" The last one asks nervously as I give off a horny giggle, reveling in the thought that I just squashed the little Incher to paste with my soft, unassuming assets.
"Well," I smirk, getting up onto my knees, "there was another of you pests deliciously teasing my ass earlier . . . perhaps you could finish the job he started . . ." I coo, lowering my fist containing the shrieking, struggling little thing behind me, so her face can only admire the divine piece of ass that will soon become her tomb. Slowly and with purpose, I press her in deeper, deeper, deeper into my behind, her struggling form only succeeding in stimulating my rectum.
Once I've pressed my finger to my anus, assuring myself of how inescapable my bowel is, I lay back once more and gently play with myself. "Four in one night is quite fun, quite fun," I murmur to no one in particular, allowing my pleasure to build . . .
* * * * * * * * *
Being the primary prosecutor in my admittedly small town has its advantages . . . that is, that the police force trusts my word implicitly. So, when I suggest that the high mortality rate among Inchers is random coincidence that can be partially attributed to the pathetic stature of the subhuman vermin, the police conduct no investigation into the subject.
Superiority is truly fun.