The Performance Review, part 2

(Continued from Pt. 1)

Ms. Brigance—Penny—strutted from behind her desk and up to where I knelt on her nice carpet floor, knelt in a white dress shirt with a navy tie and gray boxers. And socks, I was wearing socks. Everything else was folded up on the chair behind me (slacks, blazer) or tucked under that chair (shoes). Her crimson lacquered nails clicked lightly on the small blue bottle she suspended between fingertips in her hands.

I’d seen that bottle before; nearly everyone who works here has seen it. Rumors abound as to what’s in it: prototypical side-project representing a major deviation from our role as a video game company; surplus Soviet psychotropic drugs with unanticipated and irreproducible side effects; the faithful imitation of an ancient formula first scribed by a mad Arabian alchemist. If the legends behind this little potion were outlandish and unbelievable, so too were the actual effects of this potion.

Ms. Brigance, a short, strong woman in an inordinately affectionate gray tweed suit, lazily swung her powerful calves forward, heel after high heel thudding dully through the low-pile copper carpeting, and approached me. Her commands were wordless, and not just because we’d enacted this ritual half a dozen times before: there was something about her commanding presence that filled your mind with flashing concepts of what was expected of you. Upon threat of losing my job (and having my prior performance reviews released on several major social media platforms), I tilted my head back, stuck out my tongue like a moist, pink platform, and my supervisor at carefully distributed no more or fewer than three drops of golden oily liquid upon my tongue.

It doesn’t taste bad, but you don’t notice the taste the first few times because everything goes flying away from you. Here’s what it was like for me: I tasted something with a slight orange and clove accent, then the ceiling disappeared overhead, Ms. Brigance’s desk rocketed off into the distance while growing larger all the time, and if I would’ve looked behind me, I would have lost track of my suit folded on the chair that towered over me. I would have focused on the brown shoes so large I could have moved into one with a kitchenette in the toes.

And Penny—Ms. Brigance, the short and powerful sex-bomb who ruled our office with an iron fist—likewise towered over me. Once my enormous, billowing shirt settled around me like a hot-air balloon, settled around my tiny nude frame, I found myself before Penny’s hard, glossy pumps in deep brown. I looked up her ankles to the long shins quite above my head, her calves swelling like twin cannonballs behind them. Looking up to her knees was both a strain on my neck and a little rude, as the only thing after that was an unobstructed upskirt shot between her powerful, chiseled thighs. Not the only thing, but it was equally uncomfortable to crane all the way up and catch a small wedge of her face gazing down upon me, all that was visible between the plunging cleavage of her huge boobs.

For now I was only a few inches tall—four, I estimated—a warm and fleshy action figure left on the floor of a normal-sized business office, in front of a cruel and perpetually horny supervisor.

It didn’t matter what I said now: my tiny trachea produced wavelengths so short she couldn’t possibly have heard them. Or maybe she enjoys ignoring frantic pleas of “Help!”, “What the hell’s going on?!”, and “Oh God, not there! Not again!” That would be in keeping with her persona, but I really think she can’t hear me at all.

From my perspective, she was standing a considerable distance away from me—or her huge feet were—but distances were relative. Far overhead, one lightly tanned, somewhat padded arm swung away from her towering body to drop the little blue bottle upon her desk: I heard a resounding clink of glass upon glass in the distance overhead. And as far away as I thought she was, she didn’t even need to take a step forward as she reached down, her splayed fingers falling out of my sky like a disabled satellite, and plucked me up in her warm, leathery fist.

The ground fell away and my ears popped twice as I raced past her body: her knees disappeared under a skirt even more distressed than I’d noticed before; a flat plane of burgundy silk ran up until the massive protrusions of her twin mammaries, so pronounced they nearly struck me in my “carriage”; then the famous decolletage that could swallow me now as easily as any office supplies, which gave way to her neck and, too close for my comfort, her gigantic, leering face.

“Hello, Neil,” she thundered all around my airspace. “Welcome to the second half of your performance review… emphasis upon performance.” Thank God she threw her head back to laugh, or the sound waves could have shattered my eardrums until they bled. Still, it was no treat to see that huge throat of hers shaking and leaping beneath the skin of her neck. When you’re this small you can only focus on things in relation to yourself, and I could have slid down her throat without triggering a gag reflex. I sincerely hoped it would never come to that, but by now I was sure Ms. Brigance was hysterically insane so anything could’ve happened.

“You’re not a bad worker at all, Neil. I’ve watched you.” Her dark, full lips parted before me, revealing slabs of glowing white rock, evenly sculpted: her perfect, wolfish smile. “I’ve watched you a lot, often when I didn’t need to. At inappropriate times, some might say,” and she laughed again. I was simply frozen with terror in her fist, watching the grotesque theater of her exaggerated emotions coupled with the absurd close-up of too many facial features to register at once. And I was naked, I think I mentioned, but this didn’t bother me for two reasons: 1) I was almost completely enclosed in her fist, and 2) there is nothing on my bare person she hasn’t seen at least six times before. Shame would be redundant and wasteful right now.

“I’ve watched you, and I’ve seen you handle high-stress situations with aplomb. That means grace,” she said, needlessly. I’m a damned writer, I knew what it meant, but one of her favorite games was to make a person feel useless or inept. “But what we need to find out now is whether you can handle high-pressure situations, as well.” The room, pale in the distance, spun much faster than anything that huge should have, and Ms. Brigance’s desk sailed beneath me as though a team of whales were hauling it out of the way. I saw her chair approach us for a moment until the room spun again, we plummeted through space together, and her voluptuous rump collided with that imperiously strong office chair. “But you know about high pressure, don’t you, Neil? You’ve been here almost longer than any living person in this company.” She laughed again, and I have to point out how uncomfortable this joke is.

People do leave this company, but they’re not fired and they don’t quit. They just stop showing up and contractors arrive to collect their personal effects. What happened? Nobody knows for sure but, this being an office, people love to gossip and formulate rumors. Some of us think they quit from remote, having sold their possessions and fled the state. Others think Ms. Brigance has called them in for one last meeting. And I do mean, one… last… meeting. I can’t state that ominously enough, so I’ll just blurt it out: we think she kills them through various sadistic, sexual, and physically improbable means. It would only be too easy to dispose of a tiny body, of course.

That’s why this isn’t an entirely thrilling situation: it would be one thing to be dominated by an attractive, overly powerful woman, but there’s always the threat of death in the mix. I think about it when her fist tightens involuntarily around me, or when her teeth flash less than three feet before my head. And other situations, like everything after this.

She tossed me to the ground. Being tiny, I had the slight benefit of wind resistance and lower mass, but it still knocked the wind out of me after my long journey downward, smacking against the plastic mat that protects her carpet from her office chair’s rollers. Without wasting a second, she raises one foot, shucks the close-fitting shoe off to the side, and plants her bare foot—no nylons—upon my body. Smack-O, just like that. I’m lying there; her shoe flies up off the ground from next to me; her heel slips off and her toes fling the shoe to the side (where it crashes fairly loudly on the carpet), and her toes flex and the ball of her foot pins my chest down. I could see up the length of her very curvy calf to where her knees hooked over the edge of her chair.

Penny leaned down to leer at me—this whole thing is hilarious to her—and she made some kind of foot pun I won’t dignify with repeating. I only nodded assent, and she pantomimed grinding me into the ground. Tiny though I am, something in the potion prevents me from being crushed: right now I should be as flat as a Wrigley’s gum wrapper. But my chest rises against the pad of her foot and her large toes shadow my view, wagging left and right, permitting view of her left calf and then her right.

Then she wrapped her toes around my head and cool air ran over my body as she stretched her leg up and hoisted me off the ground. No feat for her (pun not intentional): I must weigh mere grams. And there she is, laughing and smirking at me in the distance, above her huge boobs, far beyond the day’s journey represented by her leg. She’s not tall in real life, but at this size I’d want to pack a lunch if I were going to hike up from Penny’s Ankle to the Inner Thighs of Brigance.

Not really, I exaggerate. Forgive me my liberties, I’m freaking out in my head about this time.

Freaking out, because there is nothing beneath me for a very long way until the plastic chair mat. No matter how many times I’ve fallen upon it from tremendous heights and lived to walk away, I can’t get over the psychology of absolutely nothing beneath me. So I snake my hands between her huge toes and hold on. The second toe is easy, my hand slips right through; wrapping my arm around her big toe is more of a challenge.

But she spread her toes, which is my signal to climb up, so I struggle to hoist myself upon the bridge of her foot, where upon I slide down to her ankle. She lowers her leg until it runs horizontally off her seat—she is so well-toned, I bet she could hold her leg there for an hour—and I skid to a halt. She doesn’t need to signal me, but she raises one huge hand and arches her finger, her crimson nail swinging through the air to beckon me. I have to find my legs (turned to rubber) and stagger up her shin and not look down.

My bare feet pad along her smooth, shaved skin. It’s terrible when she applies body lotion, but this time it was just bare skin and I had some traction to keep me from rolling off over her muscled calf and into oblivion. Shortly (again, no pun intended) I accessed her knee and knelt. This would be her decision-making process: would I proceed over her skirt or under it? The objective was to reach the top of her head, but the route was constantly under negotiation.

I got no breaks today: she spread her thighs and lifted her leg enough to send me sliding down toward her chair, down toward the black cavern of her gray tweed skirt. I ran as far as I could before her powerful thigh curved down too far, then leaped the distance to tumble upon the hem of her skirt on the chair. Now there was no mocking expression above me, only a floor and ceiling of rough fabric and two long walls of firm, shifting flesh.

No face, maybe, but still an overpowering sense of expectation… and reprisal. I was to perform now—the “high-pressure” allusion—and if I failed, those well-toned thighs were waiting to give me one massive inguineal (look it up) hug to snuff out the tiny, flickering flame of my life. So far—four out of six performance reviews—I have not failed, but when the judge is insane…

I walked carefully along the skirt, stepping up over the short slip she always wore beneath it. The first time my bare feet trod that smooth satin surface, I almost yelped with surprise. It was impossible to guess who would stick to the traditions and who never knew them: Penny had an old-fashioned streak in her somewhere. Useless information to me now, as her inner thighs swelled and rose up around me, narrowing along my progress. I raised up my hands and ran them along her skin to let her know where I was—she responded with an involuntary twitch, walls shuddering around me—and when I reached her panties, I grabbed them with both fists and yanked hard.

This was not to pull them down, I wasn’t nearly strong enough for that. It was just another touchpoint, a little “I’m here” for her benefit. There was very little light here, all of it glowing behind me down the lengths of her thighs and emanating from between her knees. I could make out the pattern of her lacy, sheer panties but not their color. I ran my hands over them, quite conscious of the heat and humidity coming through them, as I looked for the hem tucked up inside her crotch.

I found it, I heaved it aside, and I squirmed my tiny body under it.

My bare back shimmied against her thigh, the swell of a woman’s leg right before the groin, and I fit neatly into the crook of her crotch. Once the canopy of her panties covered me, I had to claw my way grasping handfuls of short hairs or even folds of skin to pull my body along. Up above me, through the dampening fabric, I could hear Penny gasp and moan, and then came a roaring rasp like ocean waves crashing: her huge ass was scooting toward the edge of the chair, the better to stretch out her legs and back.

I was suspended in her lacy undies so there was no threat of falling now. The threat, instead, lay where I was headed: my hands crept over her thick, dry labia majora to pull one huge flap aside, and then my arms were coated in muggy, sticky syrup. As I seized her inner lips, so were my face and shoulders and chest. My naked body slid over her skin, over her labia and then into the folds of her skin as I clutched every last wrinkle to pull me in here. More and more of me became coated in her lubrication and then it was a matter of swimming: I stroked and wriggled until I lined up with the length of her vagina, my feet tickling her taint, my cheek rubbing against her clit. It sounds strange but at this point of the review I find I’m overwhelmed with affection for her. I feel like being laid out here along the folds of her pussy, feeling her juices run down my legs and mat my hair to my scalp, I feel very close to her. Not just physically close—obviously—but like I’m being admitted to a private chamber in her personality. Mind you, every male office worker and a few female coworkers have been exactly where I am right now. This is not private or secret, but… I can’t explain it. When I’m here, I feel like I’m being accepted and embraced for who and what I am.

That’s why it’s so easy to turn my head and kiss her clit, to lap the juices off the swollen grapefruit surface of her love bud. That’s why I’m so willing to bend my knees and slide my feet into the entrance of her vagina, into the welcoming clench of her first vulvic rings around my calves. And once my legs are in, the rest of me follows: I feel hot juices and soft folds of skin slurping up my thighs and sucking in my cock and ass, sucking me in whole. Now she can clench my waist and my ankles, and when I draw my arms in and her labia minora wrap themselves around my neck, just under my jaw, no fewer than three vulvic rings are separately hugging my entire body in gratitude and excitement. That’s what I tell myself: gratitude. I feel accepted, and I tell myself she’s happy I’m here.

I took a deep breath and ducked. My kicking legs helped draw me in deeper in her vaginal canal, despite the clenching, and my flailing arms stroked her inner walls. The tiny inner folds of her labia closed over my head and I was in perfect darkness—hot, wet, spasming darkness.

It wasn’t long before my feet kicked around something sticking out at me, and I stopped kicking. Her cervix was very sensitive and… yes, I was in a position to exploit her vulnerabilities, but not really, One certain finger hooked in at just the right angle would have fished me right out of her cunt and left me cold and writhing on the hard plastic floor of her computer chair mat. Between two large feet—and a chair roller—waiting to crush me. No, this called for affection.

I knelt, not for the first time, and caressed the mound behind her cervix. I shimmied my shoulders against her clenches and swam in her fluids. There was no threat of me drowning—as far as I could tell, I was breathing differently sized molecules. I could extract air out of liquid like a fish, to a certain extent. I could stay in Penny’s pussy for quite a long time, and sometimes I did.

You, the reader, might think this weird, but I kissed her cervix. I didn’t know whether she could feel it—I think there’s a gap in sensitivity between “nothing” and “bruised”—but in my mind it was a gesture of trust. I pressed my tiny face against the large, blind ring that covered my jaw, and I stroked the sides of her uterus, and I gently caressed the velvety chamber closing in on me with my legs. With my entire body I tried to make love to her, to bring her some happiness. She didn’t like me as a person, and she didn’t have to, but I tried to do this one thing very well for her.

She rewarded me with a tremendous, frenzied shudder all up and down the length of her canal. Juices began to flow, and I spread out my arms and legs to reach out and caress her everywhere I could. I kissed her, I rubbed my face against her walls, and I stretched out against the vulvic rings that clenched me. More shuddering, and even in the middle of her tissue I could feel the velocity of her hips bucking. I couldn’t hear anything, but my tiny body was heaved up and down in the middle of being squeezed and gooshed all over. I started flailing and kicking, trying to heighten the moment and swim toward the exit.

Here’s a little trick I learned. On my way out, I felt my way around to guess which end was “up,” and that was a ceiling of spongy, ribbed tissue. I pressed my shoulders against the opposite wall of her pussy, kneaded this spongy region with my hands and knees, and I got the desired result: a huge sploosh of liquid that shot me out of her pussy, squeezed through her labia, and dumped me on the very edge of her office chair.

Reflexively, her tremendous palm tumbled from the sky and flew up her skirt, clutching the edge of the chair and guarding me from falling. Her palm was drenched, I could hear liquid spatter on the floor of the plastic mat, and her labored, husky moaning way off in the distance suggested to me I’d passed my review. No need to climb all the way up to her head to prove my worth. I curled up in a puddle of her warm juices, soaking into the satin slip, enjoying their receding warmth in the shade of her protective hand-cum-wall, letting her catch her breath.

At length, she thumbed me into her palm and hauled me up to her face. Penny wasn’t frowning but she wasn’t smiling, either. Her breath was labored and it washed over me in blasts. “You,” she started, then breathed some more. “You’re very good, Mr. Folger. I think… you have justified your existence for another six months.” And her red-brown lips parted, an enormous pink and hot tongue rolled out to cover me, and she gave me a very thorough tongue-bath right in her hand. This was a rare treat: usually she toted me in a Kleenex to the women’s room and rinsed me under cool water. Much less desirable an outcome than being ravished by her gaping maw and a highly energetic and attentive tongue. I hugged her tongue as she cleaned me, hugged it with arms and legs, and Ms. Brigance gave the cutest little laugh when she tasted a tiny daub of my cum on the side of her muscle. She wrapped her lips around my neck—boy, would that leave a stain—and sucked me off thoroughly from shoulders to toes before extracting me to lay in her palm. She started to speak, stopped, and simply hugged me against her cheek for a moment. I thought I saw water forming in her eyes when she pulled me away and set me back down among my dress shirt and underwear on the floor.

“Open wide, Mr. Folger,” she whispered, and I opened my jaw as far as it would allow, to enable as much of the droplet from the violet bottle as I could hold. Once the cinnamon-and-wine potion touched my tongue, it evaporated immediately and all the furniture came rushing at me again. The lush undergrowth of copper acrylic fibers shrunk back down into low-pile carpeting, and I was a normal-sized office worker lying naked in her office.

“Get dressed,” she barked, standing and turning her back to me as she replaced the bottles to her desk drawer. “I believe you have a beta gold to wrap up.” I agreed, buttoning my shirt down and hopping into my boxers. For a moment I wished the review could have gone on a little longer, as if she would have opened up to me and intimated something just on the edge of being spoken, but that’s quite likely why the review had to end so quickly and so completely.

I was feeling warm toward her, but I knew in a couple work-weeks she’d take pains to beat that weakness out of me and get me back in line. And in a month I would also forget this intimacy, focusing instead on getting the translations for the new realm ironed out (sometimes the Korean students slip in obscene jokes I wouldn’t be able to detect if I weren’t running it against a certain restaurateur of my acquaintance, a reliable man from Inch’on) and relearning my dread of this highly unusual performance review.

Eh, whatever. It pays the bills.

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