Droplets ran down the jade glass cylinder: pausing, building, sprinting to the retro laminate tabletop. They pooled around the base of the bottle, spreading around the rim as the volume built up. The pattern in the table was magnified and warped through the pool, and the image trembled and calmed every time a new droplet joined it. Little droplets of water, condensation forming on a chilled bottle of wine, running a short race before joining the pool; little individuals, immediately absorbed, lost in and adding to the mass of something greater.

The symbolism was lost on Simon as he stared at the water, rapt with how thirsty he suddenly realized he was.

“It’s a hot night, isn’t it?” Dotty said, fanning herself theatrically. That was her excuse for stripping down to a lacy black bra and her teal thong, as soon as they arrived at her place. She secured her tiny man under an upended wire fruit basket, weighted down with her heaviest book on hand: The Joy of‌ Cooking. “You’re lucky, you’re so small, you probably don’t have any mass at all to build up heat. And what with your ventilated home”—she laughed, and enormous twin hillsides resting upon the table wobbled in their black lace cups—“you probably feel quite cozy, don’t you? Aren’t you glad you don’t have any tiny clothes to overheat in? If you stripped down now, you’d likely lose them to a stiff breeze or something.”

The base of the bottle lifted away. Simon’s view was hampered by the low ceiling of the cookbook, so he could pick out the bottom of Dorothy’s—Dotty’s—wine glass filling with the rolling deluge of pale golden liquid. It was more reasonable to say his vision was commanded by his kidnapper’s tremendous bosom, but he took pains to focus on anything other than the mountainside of mammaries.

She went on. “Oh, I wish I could share some of this with you, my darling little man. I just don’t know if I can trust you yet.”

“You can trust me. You’re powerful and huge, and you’re quicker than I am,” he called out. “You could crush me on accident, so I’m not going to do anything stupid.” And he even spoke mostly honestly, but much of that was motivated by the enormous monolith of recipes sitting just above his head.

“I‌ know how serviceable you were in the restaurant. But I was a little dizzy-headed with booze back then. It’s had some time to settle, and as I‌ look back on it, I don’t know how ready or willing you were to please me. You know?”

“I promise you—”

“Promises mean nothing, little man. Actions, that’s where it’s at. You can scream your little voice hoarse, if you want, but you have to prove yourself to me with actions.” The stem of her glass rose beyond his view; after some performative slurping noises, it rang elegantly against the tabletop once more. “I know what I‌ look like. I‌ have no illusions about myself.”

Even a whelp like Simon could detect that her tone in that last sentence didn’t match her behavior for the entire evening. There was a new tension, a taut feeling to her words, that told him her initial buzz had worn off and now he was in new territory. That is to say, obviously, he was in her kitchenette instead of the private dining quarters of Jubilee Manor, but what was meant that this was no longer giddy, lusty Dotty. This was the sterner, business-only woman he’d been introduced to at Overmedia. Did that mean he could reason with her now? Was she open to discussion? Would she actually help him out of his predicament?

Estimating how often the big, green bottle and the stem of her wine glass took turns disappearing, the answer to that was “unlikely, at best.” He crept forward, wrapping his thin fingers around the even thinner copper wires of his cage and strained to look up at her. Above her mountainous breasts, a large larynx caked in pale flesh, ringed in deep wrinkles, churned mightily, and in a flash the Chardonnay was gone. “Quaffed” was the word for that, when someone knocks a drink back quickly and wholly. Staring up at the giantess, scantily clad, piles of rounded, soft flesh that rose beyond view, he could easily envision her drinking entire barrels of booze at a quaff.

Fascination with this concept gave way to terror as it dawned upon him what a drunk giantess entailed.

“Hey! I can see you again. You changing your mind about being such a stick in the mud?” After a pause, Dorothy—ugh, Dotty—laughed deeply about that. He saw it struck her as funny, but it was lost on him. “I don’t mind if you wanna come out and join me. You know? It’d be so much better if we got along, considering the night’s agenda. How you feel about that?”

The wine was hitting her hard again. It was astounding to imagine such a gigantic, heavy woman could be a lightweight at drinking. Still, it was loosening her mind and that could be an advantage… “I’d like that,” he shouted.

“Yeah? Really?” The wine glass rang as she set it down, unsteadily.

“I think it’s important that we get to know each other. I‌’d like to feel more comfortable with you.” Simon grimaced deeply, out of her eyesight, as he said the next part. “I don’t want to be just your toy, I‌ want to be your partner. I‌ want to learn how to make you happy.” This wasn’t technically a lie: it seemed to be the only means for his redemption.

Two fleshy hands slapped upon the old laminate table surface. “Well, that sounds lovely! Now you’re seeing it like I do. I really want us to become closer, I think it’ll make things better between us. I‌ mean, you were into me at the restaurant, that was obvious, but… yeah, we’re thinking, feeling adults. Why can’t we… Here, I need to see you better.” The hands disappeared, and then the immense slab of cooking recipes lifted from the roof of his cage. Dotty set the tome aside, beyond the scattered apples and oranges that now populated her table.

When her eyes were averted with her task, Simon gripped the basket wires and heaved. The whole thing lifted easily, revealing a large gap between the rim of the basket and the table. Problem was, he couldn’t race for it while holding the basket over his head. He’d have to get a new grip with successive wires, working his way toward the edge—

A heavy blow knocked him to his knees and shocked the cage out of his hands.‌ He looked up to see the wires overhead biting gently into a fleshy woman’s palm. “Ah, ah, ah, you little scamp,” she said, chuckling. “You haven’t earned the privilege of freedom just yet! C’mere a little closer, you.”

Simon had to crawl forward, naked and frustrated, as Dotty effortlessly slid the cage closer to her enormous boobs, until each alabaster, amorphous sphere bulged through the copper wires as well. The lace of her bra captivated his attention: only he could appreciate the detail of the floral loops, from his perspective. But this was just the fringe to two heavy, dense cups of what looked for all the world like black canvas, and layers of it. After all, they had to contain the immense globes of Dotty’s tits, and they did so under profound duress. The bra cups only pushed a little against the basket’s frame, but the lace and the bare skin looked like they were waiting for anything to set them flooding into his enclosure.

“So you wanna get to know me better, huh? Ask me something, big guy.” She laughed at this as well.

As badly as Simon wanted to back away from the tits that looked like they could crush the goddamn wire cage, he only sat down and hugged his knees and peered up at her around the heel of her palm, weighting the cage down. “Well, what do you do for a living?”

Dotty was in the middle of pouring herself another glass of wine when he asked, single-handedly. She stared at him with huge blue-gray eyes, her brows furrowing, and then she slammed the bottle down and threw her head back to howl with laughter. As frightening as the blast of the bottle against his landscape was, he was relieved to get the desired response. He couldn’t help smiling, even, at the gusto of her amusement.

“I‌ was not expecting that at all,” she said, gasping between laughs. She mopped her eyes with the back of her wrist before resuming filling her glass. “Holy fuck, that hit me in the right place. You’re all right, little man.” She was nearly looking directly down at him, her double-chin forming over the immense cleavage, all of which she seemed unaware of. Her grin widened into a toothy smile, and her blinking was much slower. Under other circumstances…

But Simon watched with dread as her sausage-fingers gracelessly gripped the big, round glass (the wrong one for white wine, even he knew that), watched her massy head cant back as though her neck could no longer support it, watched the garishly painted lips spread and expose imperfectly aligned rows of teeth in a gaping ring to receive the waterfall of bargain Chardonnay. At this point, he no longer knew whether her binge drinking was working for him or against him.

Every time she slapped that glass to the table, he wondered if it would shatter. But now her hand left the glass and did not go for the bottle: Dotty’s hand perched outside of the cage, fingers flexed, ready, waiting. “You look a li’l lonely in there, Sensitive Naked Man.” Once more, she laughed at a reference he didn’t pick up on. That probably happened a lot with old people. “Why don’t you come out here and party with me?”

A metallic ringing noise made him look up: her thick, lacquered nails pinged over the copper cables as her fingers curled into a claw, gripping the fruit basket-cum-prison and lifting it like the lid of a jewelry box. Simon sucked his breath through his teeth: fleeing behind him was ruled out, and running to either side just worked to her advantage. While he strategized, her thick hand lunged and seized him with surprisingly little effort.

Dotty transferred him between hands, carefully planting her thick thumb on his chest and two fingers across his back. “I can’t get over how big you are,” she said, waggling him gently in the empty space above her little dining table. The way her irises flicked downward, how her grin widened, he supposed he was checking out how his penis flopped around as well. “That’s to say, you’re smaller, but you’re bigger than the last guy.”

“What last guy? Tell me about him.” Simon struggled to poke one arm past the webbing between her thumb and forefinger, in order to hug her thumb and make himself feel more secure.

Her eyes squinted almost closed. “I thought guys hated hearing about their girlfriends’ past experiences.”

Her implication turned his blood to ice water. “No, it’s cool. I want to know more about you.”

“You’re bigger’n him, so you got nothing to worry about in that department.”

“Are you talking about… our penises, or…”

Again she burst out laughing, from her gaping mouth to her heaving shoulders, on down to the rolls of fat that disappeared behind the edge of the table. He estimated it to be about a 5.7 magnitude quake. “No, you silly-billy! I’m talking about your size, like, all of you. He was just this little guy, you’re like twice his size.”

She was slurring more now, the wine was catching up with her. He tried to suck in a deep breath but her thumb was like an iron band across his sternum. “How did you get him?”

“I found him in my butt.” Dotty’s eyes were a little sleepy, and her mouth hung open after “butt.” It almost looked challenging, like she was daring him to ask more or maybe call her a liar. “I just rolled over and there was a little man in my butt. I was like… what? And I wanted to play with him but he was already dead.” Her eyes rolled slowly to the side as she held the wine bottle up to the light. “Gonna need a refill soon.”

He was already dead. She just tossed that out casually, like “here’s your mail” or “it’s done raining.” Before he could ask for clarification, Dotty upended the bottle in her mouth and heaved herself out of her chair to toddle toward the fridge.

She was built like a contrast. The top of her wasn’t even that heavy, just a little pudgy. A little belly, huge, round boobs that hung upon it, and some padding on her sides. Round shoulders, padded arms. That was it, just a lot of padding over a normal person’s body, resulting in smooth, soft, milky flesh everywhere. But then you went down to her waist—where she was swinging him casually, in her little trip—and there was an eruption of hips and ass. Where did it all come from? Why was it building up all down there? The teal thong he spotted in the restaurant, her “whale tail,” it was nothing more than a thin, painted line riding over one round hip to disappear either beneath the tuck of her belly or within the plunging crevasse of her ass.

The magnetic rubber seal around the door of her vintage fridge peeled and smacked when she opened it, and the hand pinching him rested against the frame as she stuck her head inside. “So important to keep this stuff chilled, you know. It’s no good warm. Fucking dog piss.” She muttered to herself as glass bowls scraped over glass shelves, contents getting rearranged to clear access to another big, green bottle.

Simon was pinned against the fridge, warm on the outside but cold air spilling like a slow-motion waterfall. From his position he could stare down the length of her puffy arm to the enticingly gentle slope of her shoulder, down the deep groove of shadow her spine formed along nearly flawless skin—couldn’t help noticing a mole here, a cluster of freckles there, the way they stood out—to the almost comical contrast of bulging hips and inflated buttocks. His eyes were drawn to them like a reverse gothic cathedral, running from top to bottom (no pun intended). There was that flash of teal, the overworked and abused thong that would conceal very little on a model and much, much less on this monstrosity. When he saw it run down her lower pelvis and disappear between the vast cakes of ass-flesh, his heart quailed sympathetically. Because, realistically, that could be him, and the way he estimated the bulk and volume of her colossal buttocks… he could easily be lost within. Eight inches of frail intern was nothing against the depths her nearly spherical buttocks formed, and he had to think quickly if he was going to stay out of there.

Before he could think of anything clever to say, Dotty let out a victorious cry and slammed the heavy fridge door shut. It rocked on its feet and hit the wall behind it, its motor complaining with heavy grinding before working back up to speed. Was anything in this house new? How little was Dorothy earning, if she was relying on WWII-era appliances and furniture to last just one more year, year after year? The bills alone…

Dotty held the bottle aloft, parading theatrically back to the table. Simon witnessed those pillowy thighs trembling with each step she took, could even catch her knotted calves, well-developed muscles after decades of hauling all this weight around. in contrast, far off in the distance, her feet looked positively doll-like.

They approached the chair she’d been sitting at, with only one more like it at the little table. He wondered how often she had guests, with such inadequate seating. He was learning more about her, but again, before he could ask anything, she hurled herself into her seat. Simon wanted to cry out a warning, glancing at the vintage vinyl-upholstered chair: Dotty flung her arms out wide, bottle on one side, tiny lover on the other. He had a completely unobstructed view as her mountainous hips piled into the hapless little chair, dumping over the edges and completely engulfing the seat. It was fearsome, it was impressive, both how the chair completely disappeared beneath the spilling rolls of Dotty’s womanly flesh, and how the thin little legs didn’t immediately buckle under her tonnage.

And being as small as he was, easily placed and manipulated, and with mental self-defense mechanisms being what they were, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to lie in the center of that seat, watching those thick, gelatinous thighs sidling into place, watching the light dim as those gargantuan cheeks descended to entomb him… Wow, he really hoped that wasn’t any form of foreshadowing.

Her voice shattered his morbid reverie. “You ready to party with me, li’l man?” She was losing more and more letters in her pronunciation as the minutes ticked away. He wondered what time it was, anyway, until she stuck him between her legs. Yes, just like that: the new bottle and old, empty bottle flashed away, the aluminum-ridged edge of the table raced past, and suddenly he was jammed unceremoniously between her fatty thighs, stored in an afterthought. She needed both hands to wrangle with the foil around the neck of the wine, after all.

The blubber around her legs was surprisingly cold. Wasn’t she cold? She was wearing next to nothing, but she didn’t seem to be suffering for it. No chattering teeth, no blue lips, no stammering… well, drunken stammering, slurring, not stuttering like someone entering hypothermia. Grimacing, he dug his little fists into one wall of flesh. It gave easily, his arms disappearing into the indentations in her cellulite. The overhead lighting in her kitchenette cast harsh shadows on the dimples in her legs, where the fat cells fed and swelled up against each other, where they ran in bands around her legs. it was almost a fascinating study, except they were coupled with a certain resilience: no matter how he pushed at them, there was still more waiting to flood up his arms and cover his face. His back bled heat into her other thigh, chilling down rapidly. He cast his gaze around, looking for a way out, but Dotty had spread her legs just long enough to trap most of his body between them. Kicking and struggling yielded nothing, gave no ground. At best, he could only see where her teal thong spread into a wide triangle, with the hint of a scraggly dark underbrush of pubes beneath it, before it was lost in the chasm of her crotch. Simon liked this less and less.

Dotty, for her part, seemed to be having a party all by herself. She laughed merrily as she popped the cork on the fresh bottle; Simon was doused in the foamy spray of dry white wine, running over her hands. She poured herself another new glass. “I just can’t get enough of this stuff! I buy it by the case when I can get it. Doesn’t seem to be a lot of competition for it. Guess people just don’t know where to find the good stuff.” She clucked her tongue and upended another glass, bouncing in her seat. Immense thighs churned against each other, coated and running with the splash of wine over her skin. Simon reached out and slapped his arm against one leg, hoping to pull himself out of the pinch, but his hand just slid over the booze and came away smelling metallic.

“You’re awfully eager, down there, li’l man! You wanna come party upstairs?” Dotty’s eyes were all that was visible over her flobbery boobs. They widened and leered at him, under the table, and then her hand occluded their view. Simon hadn’t a second to defend himself against her grip, but she loosed him from the depths of her lap in a hot second and hoisted him above her next drink. “Look at me, bein’ all greedy an’ shit! Time for you to let le bon temps roulez!”

Before he could even ask what that meant, she wrapped one fat fist around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides, with only his stunned expression sprouting on top. Below, his legs hung and swung as she held him, until they were doused in cold.

So cold! Fuck! What was that? Simon kicked out in panic, and his toes collided mercilessly against an unforgiving glass wall; the heel of his other foot likewise smarted, striking the other side of her glass. Her glass! She was dunking him like a goddamn cookie! Very quickly he realized how little space he had in there, so he was able to barely refrain from lashing out in alarm.

The alarm returned, however, when Dotty hoisted him out of her drink and held him above her head. She lolled back, lazily laughing at him for any of a number of reasons, and suspended him over her face. Slowly her smile opened to a wide gape and her thick, mauve tongue unfurled and rolled around her streaked lips. Lipstick smeared around her mouth like a murder scene, splotched on her teeth in ragged streaks. “Oh, fuck,” Simon said, watching the older woman’s face spread and grow larger, signifying his descent.

“Come to mama,” she murmured drowsily, seconds before Simon’s soles landed on something soft and hot. Dozens of papillae tickled his feet, a sensation that shot straight up into his crotch like an electrical connection. No, I can’t get hard at this. This is wrong, this is dangerous. What the fuck’s happening to me? Simon closed his eyes and tried to imagine where his feet were descending.

Well, that was obvious: her tongue. Hot, moist bumps rippled up his ankles and calves and the backs of his knees. Very hot, contrasted with the cheap, refrigerated wine she’d dunked him in a moment ago. It was almost a relief, until her upper incisor banged against his knee, and then his imagination was flooded with the ridge of jagged, polished edges of bone her mouth was lined with.

That, at least, kept him from kicking out his legs in a stupid, primal attempt to escape. He shrugged his shoulders, gritted his teeth, but everything north of his ass and cock was firmly bound in a warm, leathery embrace. There was no getting away from that. Dotty’s fingers weren’t budging an inch, no matter what he did. But he could stop craning to look down at her hideous, drunken visage and rest his skull against the inside of her index finger’s knuckle, as he focused on the tactile expression running up his legs to guide him without injury into her mouth.

Her mouth. Was she trying to fucking eat him? That notion was rapidly disabused: Dotty’s heavy, thick, slimy tongue caressed his legs almost lovingly. It parted his knees with its bulk, casually shoving itself between his legs without a hint of resistance. The tip wound around his shins and ankle, prodding his tiny little toes on a course of discovery. It really felt, once he could set his shrieking panic aside, that Dotty was exploring him, trying to learn more about him strictly through her tongue. Granted, that was usually a technique reserved for toddlers, but he was in no position to give her any advice.

Her thick lips bounced over his knees and ankles, and then his moist legs hit the cool air of the kitchen, in the second before being dunked in the wine again. “Good Lord, you’re a tasty li’l guy,” Dotty declared. “I could suck on you all night long! How’s that sound to you? Would you like that?” Without waiting for an answer she stuck him back in her mouth, moaning loudly. The vibrations of her voice ran through his skin, into his muscles. It was foreign, and disturbing because of that, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Kinda like the sensation of sitting on an old washing machine, feeling how heavily it rattled you, all the vibrations running through your entire body. Except this was a huge woman’s mouth…

Dotty shifted her grip. The little intern held perfectly still as her fist seemed to change its mind and her thick, blunt fingers picked at him critically. The first thing he noticed, in the moment she released him, was that those old-woman lips were puckered around his waist. They were thick and long, and they bunched up with a hundred wrinkles as her jaws suckled upon the lower half of his body.

“Holy fuck! Lemme out!” Without thinking, Simon began pummeling her upper lip. He tried to kick, as well, but found his legs slowed by her thick, swollen tongue. It welled against the backs of his legs, and his feet turned against the roof of her mouth, not having anywhere else to go. The knowledge of this fueled the panic in his chest, and he began to scream. His fists, on the other hand, had free range of motion but absolutely no effect: laid bare before him was the thin, wispy mustache of an older woman, sprouting from the wrinkled skin between the nose and upper lip. How fine the skin turned with age, the better for every last crinkle and fold to stand out, apparently. That’s what he hammered against in his fright, a frail old woman’s lip, with nothing but her flared and hairy nostrils to appeal to. Dotty snorted in the course of normal breathing, and Simon was flooded with hot, humid jets of air. He could see the coarse hairs in her nostrils flagging in the breeze; there was even a particle of dried booger stuck at the ends of two hairs, and it trembled in the winds that gusted up from her chest, through her throat, and out her sinuses.

Simon grew dizzy, struck with vertigo as a response to the abrupt awareness of all of Dorothy’s systems, where her air came from, what it passed through to get to him, and where the rest of it went in her body. He was at the entrance of a massive woman, after all, and he barely noticed as her thumb mounted between his shoulder blades and her index fingertip found a resting place on his frail, birdlike rib cage. The huge lips pulsed around his midsection, wrinkling and spreading slightly, suckling on him like a baby on its bottle. That juxtaposition snapped him back to awareness, as he did not want to go sliding down her throat as a form of nourishment. Growling, he fixed his palms hard against the ridge where her lip transitioned to regular skin, and he put his shoulders into it and shoved.

Cool air wreathed his waist as it slowly emerged from Dorothy’s kiss. (She was too threatening to be a Dotty just now.) Her spittle glistened over his abs as he curled his spine and slowly extricated himself from her lips. The progress was heartening, and a goofy smile crept across his face as his heels pedaled inside her mouth, looking for something to latch onto and finding it in what must’ve been her premolars.

Gusts of air blasted into his chest in staccato bursts as the immense woman laughed at him. Simon looked up, wondering what he’d missed, what he’d done wrong, when he finally seemed to be getting somewhere. Her eyes, rimmed with lashes in clotting mascara, were barely visible over her pronounced cheekbones. They stood out, he discerned, because she was smiling as much as she could without relinquishing her lips’ hold upon him. Her nostrils flared from slits to ovals, reddened with the ambient light through her nares, leading to a penetrating blackness as the passages entered into the giantess’s skull, and there Simon stopped staring as his stomach grew queasy with the thought. Bad enough to be swallowed, but to be lodged in the head of a gigantic woman? A similar scene from Moby-Dick rose inexorably to mind and he had to swallow his bile.

Of a sudden, the fingertips pinched slightly harder and he felt the skin around his body tug as his hips, thighs, and legs were dragged out of his coworker’s smooch. “Oh, my Goddess, you sweet li’l man,” Dotty said, fluttering her eyelids ecstatically. “You are such a delicious little morsel. I wish… I wish I could describe what you mean to me right now.” She pulled him away and held him over the table, and her head rose and tilted forward with considerable labor. She was good and sloshed, which concerned him when she picked up her wine glass, the one she’d been dunking him in, and quaffed the contents in a couple seconds. “You are fantastic, you wonderful li’l lover. You’re driving me crazy! How can you do this to me?” All of her teeth presented themselves as she brayed drunkenly at him. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, honestly. You know what? Yes. You know what?”

Her words were a smeary oil painting now, colors and lines bleeding into each other without definition. Simon watched as the behemoth struggled to right herself in her seat, shimmying her shoulders, heaving her bulk to no effect.

“You know what we have to do now. Right now,” she said, struggling to keep her head upright.

Wary, Simon yelled back that he didn’t know.

“You know,” she said, wearing a wan grin. “You know. You know what we gotta do.”

“No, I really don’t. Let me down and we can talk about it?”

“Na-a-ah, nope, uh-uh. Thass the opposite of what we gotta do right now.”

Her grip on him remained firm, even if the hand holding him weaved through space a bit. “What do you think we have to do now, Dotty?”

Her eyes lit up and her tone was sharp. “No, call me Dotty! Like in college!” When she blinked, her lids closed at slightly different times. Simon was ready to shit himself. “Oh, you did. Goo’ boy. What we gotta do right now is, it’s time to make love.”

His skin crawled and his throat dried up. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, we gotta make sweet, sweet love right now. We gotta do this b’fore I‌ pass out.” Her head lolled forward and she regarded him with lowered, sultry brows and a crooked, hungry smile.