A beam of light breaks the darkness, revealing the cellar’s interior for the first time in years. It falls on a marble floor, long which has since succumbed to a centimeter or so of dust. The source of the light can be traced to a doorway some distance up a narrow marble staircase, appearing more worn than the floor. This is made clear but the effect of the woman’s footfalls.

She maintains a somewhat athletic petite frame, and yet each of her modest steps is enough to shatter the marble texture.

“Dang, wasn’t part of the plan.”

She mumbles slowly to herself, as she descends the brittle staircase, getting a slightly better view of the chamber.

“Wherrrre are the li..”

As if witnessing the presence of god, she is surrounded by blinding light and instinctively covers her eyes, briefly losing control of something in her hand. She quickly regains her grip. Just as quickly as it came, the light dims to a more comfortable intensity.

“There it is.”

The woman mutters as she looks down upon new wine stains, then back at the glass she’d fumbled with. With a final, somewhat tipsy step, she makes it to the floor of the chamber, walking fully into the light.

There is silence. The woman takes a sip from what’s left of her beverage. “Humph,” she manages to stammer as she chugs what’s remainder. The rest is drying on her short white dress, damp portions conforming to her slim waste and wide hips. She takes a second to observe the absurdity of her appearance. As exceptional as her natural beauty might be, the stream of red wine coating her outfit is of great detriment to her aesthetic. The aesthetic of the room is still excellent, however, as the light reveals matching white marble walls, ceiling, and floor.

She brushes a few brown locks away from her face, pondering another absurdity. She hasn’t been down here to do... the thing... in years. No one has. This is hers, a gift from the parents. Is she seriously about to come back here for the first time in years to act like an oversexed teenager again?

It only takes her about 5 seconds to make up her mind, and it remains unclear as to whether alcohol has played a role. She sets the glass at the base of the stairs and proceeds further into the cellar.

A new sound floods the room, a hum, followed by..

“Aren’t you a little old for this?”

A new voice, also female, replaces the hum with an inquisitive tone.

The woman slowly looks around her with widening eyes, her lips forming into a smile. “Kronos?” She asks the invisible entity.

“Yes, Rachel.” It coos back at her. “Why are you here my dear?”

The invisible being immediately asserts her motherly programming. She sees the wine stain, she smells the alcohol. The room is littered with unseen sensory equipment.

“Well, Kronos,” Rachel states to the empty room, riding the fine line between sober and intoxicated as she moves carefully to the center of the chamber. “You know me personally, and you know people anatomically. I know you know a),” she mistakenly gestures a 1 with her pointer finger, even as she is speaking letters, “I’m kinda sorta under the influence. 2,” she gestures the number 2, now back in sync, “you know that I’m never down here unless I… want some.” She stands there, resting her hands on her hips, looking upward at a small, black spherical device embedded in the white ceiling. “You look like you haven’t aged a bit, Kronos”.

The surface of the sphere houses a curved screen, which flickers before illustrating a simple smiley face, complete with eyelashes.

“Thanks Rachel,” the room says as the sphere’s lips move accordingly, “I have remained exactly the same. But you see, you haven’t. I don’t know you at 25, I know you at 15. I can’t assist you properly. I was built for your mental health, I am not a toy. I am not….”

“You are mistaken, Kronos,” Rachel rebukes as she pivots on one foot, slowly pacing away from her old friend. The effects of the alcohol are beginning to subside. “Before all this shit went down,” she continues, raising a hand from a hip to gesture upward at the world above, gazing back at the orb in the ceiling. Kronos saw a sullen face, tears welling. “Like, literally, not 5 months ago, I kinda started figuring out a groove. Like..”  Rachel closes her eyes, lifting both hands to her face, hiding a subtle stream of tears. “I was settled, you know? It’s been a long road, but I genuinely felt like I was… alive.” The damp-eyed girl looks back to Kronos, waiting for her unparalleled maternal logic. 

“You are in a foul mood, and this, as a result, is the worst place for you to be,” the machine responds. “I am not convinced that our ‘sessions’ had any positive therapeutic impact on your youthful mind.” Rachel’s somber mug switches to that of frustration, looking away. Kronos continues, “Quite the contrary, it is entirely likely that I played a role in turning you into a monster…”

“Paul Devin,” Rachel commands. There is silence. Kronos knows what to do. “This is not healthy, Rachel,” the digital face pleas.

“Paul Devin,” the woman repeats, slower. “I know his blood is indexed, Kronos.” A hand suddenly grabs her shoulder, someone is behind her. She swivels around, craning her neck slightly so her light blue pupils meet those of Paul Devin. “What the mother fuck, baby?” he manages to blurt as he falls to his knees. He is visibly weak, dressed in large, brown prison-ish uniform. Rachel kneels with him, holding him around the waist.

“Rachel, this is the happiest day of my life,” he says as he appears to regain strength, grinning and bubbling with emotion, now resting in her arms. “I’ve been trapped in... I don’t remember. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to.. feel.”

Rachel looks down at him with a perplexed gaze, raising her eyebrows as she wonders how long... “The boy’s sample was collected on April 22, 2010,” Kronos cuts in, “exactly 10 years ago today. He still inhabits the body of his 18 year old self.”

His expression, at the sound of the metallic coo, quickly becomes one of a startled child. He grows restless, although still not entirely strong enough to ascend to his feet, he remains leaning in her arms. “H-Who said that, Babe. What does that m-mean.”

“It means, my sentient filet mignon,” Kronos continues in a rather apathetic tone. “Your consciousness has been suspended in digital stasis for a decade. A copy of someone else’s memory in a copy of someone else’s body. This someone being Rachel Abigail Presley’s 4th serious boyfriend, the delightful Paul Devin.” Sarcasm is detected throughout the room. Paul was not ideal.

“Isn’t that fucked up?” Rachel mocks at Paul’s clone, sliding her fingers through his hair as if to calm a child. “Welcome to your new body, courtesy of a machine designed to fabricate large amounts of synthetic meat.” Just barely sober enough to complete this sentence without hick-ups. She looks back up in the direction of Kronos’ pixely face.

“He’s still kinda big to be a piece of filet mignon, don’t you think?” She jokingly asks the machine, winking.

“Rachel, I don’t see you in years, you barge in here, you don’t even ask me how I am doing, and now we’re going to play your sick game.” The machine is not amused.

Neither is the clone, who grows increasingly disturbed with each bit of dialogue. He has to get get moving. With what strength he can muster, still shockingly limited as it is, he thrusts the comparatively small woman off of him. Her balance fails her, a casualty of the remaining alcohol in her system. She falls on her ass, splitting her dress, barely noticing. Her full attention is directed at the fleeing clone, who stumbles and falls again.

“Kronos, now!”

Paul is gone.

He’s supposed to be somewhere between 4’5” and 5’. That’s all Rachel wanted. A shorter version of a boy from the past. She’s been in quarantine for months now, starved of any sexual activity. Kronos had no right to withhold her fetish.

“Kronos. I wanted a midget slave boy, bitch!” “And I obliged, bitch.”

“What... are you talking about? Where did he go?”

Rachel has never heard a robot call her a bitch before. More startling is what she sees as she approaches a small pile of clothes on the floor, about 8 feet away, where the clone once stood.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me, Kronos,” Rachel finally says. There, lying in a wrinkled, empty shirt, is the clone. No longer the real Paul Devin 6’ stature, nor the intended height of 4’5”, the clone is no taller than a hamster. He screams in pain as his body responds chemically to its sudden change in mass, a predicament to which Rachel pays very little attention. She is more worried about the brutality of the screams, now far more shrill and high pitched than any human utterance.

Even as the the clone’s reduced size renders his screeches distant and muted, it begins to fill the room, otherwise utterly silent. Too shocked to be annoyed, Rachel stands motionless, casting her shadow all around. Their eyes meet. The screaming stops. Placing one hand on her hip, lifting another, she curiously smirks down at the diminished being. Rachel can barely make out his tiny, horrified, confused eyes.

“This is really cool, Kronos,” she admits, bending at the waste, her ripped dress offering a new amount of flexibility. She reaches for the little teenager, renewing blabbing and hysteria, and effortlessly snatches up the clone, not more than 2 inches tall. He screams all the way to her face. Their eyes meet again.

As the distance between his mouth and her ears has since decreased, the pitch of his yelps has grown more noticeable and thus more abrasive to the ear. It is a sound Rachel imagines hearing emanating from a hurt, frightened baby animal, one less fearful and more broken. It certainly didn’t sound like a man.

Rachel can’t blame the little thing. There he is, wriggling, wedged between her pointer finger and thumb, delicately held by two redwood-trunk-sized masses of soft beige skin. Although she softly giggles at the absurdity of the clone’s new size, he can’t afford to. The only thing on his mind is what lies before him.

As he finds himself suspended before the gargantuan woman’s lips, the clone fails to comprehend the immensity of her face. He can’t picture the number of billboards equating its height, nor the number of standard pools equating its width. It is simply beyond measure. He continues screaming as an additional soft chuckle coats his body with a warm mist.

Rachel remains oblivious to the clone’s existential woes as she shifts her grip, dangling him between her fingers. Slowly swaying him backing forth, amplifying the pathetic wailing, Kronos reminds the room of her presence.

“Rachel, if you want a bigger lover I can...”

“No,” Rachel squints slightly, rolling her head back, drinking in the horror she inflicts. “I don’t think that’s what I want.” She has lots of fantasies, creative as she is. A lot of them have been realized down here, in her parents basement. But nothing like this. She breaks from her trance as she notices her little friend’s new tone, a sort of desperate, persistent cough. He bangs away at the fingers that hold him, now slightly weaker. Clearly, she has pinched him a little too hard.

“Dang, I’m sorry little guy,” Rachel comforts the speck between pursed lips, “little hard to breath is it? You might not know this, don’t know if you have all of Paul’s memories.” He does, and takes the opportunity to connect with her, nodding his head, tears streaming from his eyes. “Yes! Yes, b-babe it’s me, Paul. The real Paul! It’s...”

She doesn’t hear or see any of this, and continues talking, her booming voice eclipsing his squeaks.

“Paul might remember that yours truly,” Rachel brings her hand from her hip and runs it up her side, “was a lifeguard. I bet a small bit of that little brain remembers this ass in a one-piece.” She takes brief notice at his return to screaming, squinting at her fingers. It’s obvious she has no interest in an actual conversation. She continues, more obviously addressing him.

“Do you remember that game we’d play?” She brings him closer to her lips. “I never had to worry about you drowning at the pool, you were a dope swimmer, so we’d have to pretend in your room. Pretend that you might need a little... help.” Her lips part, his screaming becomes far more hysterical. She rests her free hand on her hip as she manages to control her excitement. The small body is yanked forward.

“I didn’t give mouth-to-mouth a lot,” she coos seductively, now rubbing the 2 inch being along the moisture on her lips. “But when I do,” she bites her lower lip, “I’m sure to save a life.” Without much ceremony, the clone is lip-locked with a God. It’s pinhead-head suctioned in the narrow space between Rachel’s lips. The kiss seems to last for an eternity.

She feels him kick at her lips as she lets them take hold, slowly moving both hands to her breasts. She cups them, pleasantly surprised by the hardness of her nipples protruding from her white dress. Lustful moans vibrate the world around the man, half of whose body has slid into the woman’s mouth.

Despite the growing feeling of a living thing thrashing between her lips, Rachel remains in character.

“I think we’re losing him, I don’t think he’s breathing...” she says out of the side of her mouth, briefly catching a hint at his muffled screams. “Not at my pool.” She closes her lips entirely around his torso, and blows.

The thrashing suddenly ceases as the clone’s body is engulfed by a profound stream of air. Rachel, disappointed in his sudden dip in activity, removes her hands from her breasts. One hand snatches the lifeless being from her mouth, holding his form before her face. “Is he already dead… already?” Rachel asks, frustrated. 

“You flooded his body with air, Rachel,” Kronos begins to diagnose, “he is alive, but he is in shock.”

“So, I gotta un-flood him”

“Rachel, no!”

Rachel begins returning the man to her lips, kissing his rag doll body a couple times. It is the third kiss that awakens him, sucking him back into position between. He opens his eyes to familiar surroundings, a humid chasm with a vast, pink, pulsating floor. No human is prepared for the interior of a mouth. He can’t feel his legs. Within moments, Rachel feels his struggles flare up, holding his feet, sucking on him like a lollipop. 

“Ah!” She opens her mouth, letting the clone flop out, holding him at the waste now. His screams are as mortified ever. 

“Looks like I un-flooded you, little guy. Anything else I need to suck out?” 

The little teenager doesn’t respond. Whatever amount of Paul that once lived in its brain is gone. All that remains is a frightened, screaming child. Rachel tilts her head back slightly, continuing to drink in her newfound obsession with domination. Midgets are funny. This is real. She sighs as she gazes back down at the bug. 

“Kronos, looks like there’s something wrong with our guest. Can’t hear. Swimmers ear, maybe?”

“Rachel, I will not play. The clone seems fine.”

“Nah, I think we need to try one more time.”

The clone sees the mouth grow closer once more.

Rachel has really nice, full lips. Normally, they sort of have the texture of a perfectly ripe peach, without the hair. To the man between them, their hug is unlike any force he’s ever attempted to resist. And, even as he resists, resistance is futile. He continues to feel a slight passage of air inward as he, once again, stares into the deep chasm of the woman’s maw. Until suddenly the lips pinch him, all airways are closed, and…

Rachel sucks hard, holding the man’s feet to avoid sucking in his entire body. He manages free one arm from her lips, bashing on them with all his might. She moans in delight at the opportunity to quell resistance, reminding the clone of her dominance with a firm pinch, obliterating its right leg. Screaming amplifies. Rachel sucks even harder. Her pupils dart downed as she feels a faint ‘pop’ between her lips, continuing to suck. Screaming ceases, as well as struggles. The ensuing taste is a complicated blend of metallic and spicy flavors. She squints as she ponders it, continuing to suck for about five seconds, feeling the creature’s limbs against her fingers as they contort and snap with its deflating form. With a gentle pinch, Rachel squeezes it like a ketchup packet. With a faint ‘crunch,’ there is an additional spray of flavor on her tongue. “Mmmmm.” She repeats this a few times, for good measure, before giving the clone a powerful final suck and removing its body from her lips. The lone few droplets of blood dribbling to her chin go unnoticed.

Rachel forms an ‘oh’ expression with her mouth as she takes in the result of her actions. “H-holy fuck,” she mutters.

The clone’s head is no more, having exploded as the contents of his body were sucked through the length of his neck. And sucked they were. The corpse dangles, limp and truly lifeless, between her fingers. Rachel looks up at Kronos, whose digital face reciprocates the ‘oh’ look.

“I fucked him up,” the woman laughs as she flails the withered, deflated balloon of a man before her. She knows the human body is capable of holding tremendous amounts of blood. Only a few drops remain dripping from the clone’s husk. Some make their way to the dress, blending with dried red wine. “I ended him, Kronos.”

“And what are we going to do now, Rachel?”

The woman let the corpse fall to her left palm.

“We’re going to do it again." 

She squelches the remains in a fist.