Stan’s shoes echoed down the stairwell. He hummed a song that had nothing to do with the tempo of his pace, just something he woke up with that morning. With jaunty energy he shoved at the push-bars of the large steel doors on the second floor and burst into the hallway, startling two women who were talking nearby. Stan was startled too, snapped out of his reverie.
The taller woman only glanced at him and continued her conversation. The shorter, much wider woman took a moment to refocus from their discussion: when Grace recognized Stan, she wore a big, squinty grin and waggled her fingers at him. Standard Midwest greeting in a corporate setting. They resumed their conversation with barely a hiccough.
But Stan paused before the door that held his team meeting, turning to stare at the two women. The tall one was nice enough, with a sporty little springtime haircut and long, toned legs swishing within a gauzy mid-length skirt. It was Grace that he wanted to study, however. Today she was packed into a pair of Capris that showcased her globular, planetary rump. Sunlight kissed in a wide arc the periphery of her hip, and two enormous, nearly spherical buttocks cuddled each other like amorous pandas, bulging here and sliding there as Grace walked. All the air whooshed out of Stan’s lungs as he stared, one hand resting on the door.
The tall woman happened to turn slightly and glance at the stationary character behind them. She stiffened and rose to her full height, drawing a breath to deliver some withering retort, doubtless, but Grace spoke up first. “I’ll handle this, Angela,” she announced just above conversational volume. She assured Angela she’d meet her in her office, then began to stride toward Stan. Frowning, Angela nonetheless turned and walked off to their department.
“That was pretty crass,” Grace said, much quieter. “Why don’t you just announce yourself with a banner and a bullhorn, next time?” She came to a stop mere inches away from him, her fat, Midwestern breasts poking into his personal space. “Is this your meeting? Shouldn’t you be in there?”
Stan looked at the door, then back at her. “I think I can be a little late. You got anything going on?”
Grace looked down and swore quietly. “We have to be quick,” she said, and they strode one more door down to the men’s room. When Stan confirmed it was clear, the two of them trotted down to the furthest stall and Grace wedged herself inside. Similarly, Stan practically crawled on top of her to give the door room to close. They cursed and giggled, quietly, desperately. Her abundant hips mashed against one wall and the toilet roll dispenser opposite it; her pudgy fingers fiddled with her snap and zipper, and Stan struggled to cinch her tight pants down over her hips. “Quit fucking around,” she hissed at him, but he could only grasp her waistband at certain sections and tug it down in a battle of inches. Finally her abundant ass was set free—wearing only a thong, easily pulled aside—and she anchored herself against the chrome toilet fixtures as Stan shed his slacks in a thrice. His cock was dark and shiny and arrogant, pointing at the deep crack of her ass as though magnetically drawn to it.
“Here, gimme a second,” she said, spitting on her fingertips and rubbing her vulva; Stan did the same, slicking up the head of his cock. Resting his palms upon her vast butt cheeks, he nudged his hips toward her prodigious rear, trusting the solidity of his penis to guide him home. Her labia scratched lightly around the end of his cock, then spread and inducted him into the embrace of a moist furnace. “Slowly, slowly,” she growled. He moaned, digging his nails into her flesh, struggling to hold himself back from stabbing her as deeply as he could go. With a few meditative thrusts, back and forth, her lubrication began to flow and their labored breathing matched tempo.
“Do you got another one o’ those?” Stan’s voice was low and husky.
Grace only spat, “Pocket.” Resting himself happily upon her erotic platform, he reached down and fumbled for the waistband of her Capris. His fingers scrabbled like a crab for her front pocket, squirming inside and fumbling until he found his prize. Still thrusting gently into her tremendous rump, he bent the foil packet, tore it open, and dumped the purple capsule into his waiting maw. He drew a deep breath and savored how greedily her pussy sucked at him, wishing desperately to pound into her but not wanting to bash her head against the pipes. Again.
“You feeling it?”
“I just took it. Hold on.”
Her pussy trilled all along his length, clenching and shivering, and he grinned at how his pubes became caked with her juices. Moaning, he looked down at the vast expanse of her ass: merely witnessing how those delicious spheres shuddered with every thrust of his ass nearly pulled his trigger. He wanted more than anything to haul off and smack one, eager to watch it dance, but it wouldn’t do to attract unwanted attention to the bathroom with unusual noises. Again.
“You’re gonna be late for your meeting,” she panted.
“Hold on! Oh, here we go.” Stan wrapped one fist around her thong—not the thin, taut blue rope around her waist, but the thinner string that disappeared into her plunging cleft. “Here we go!” Her ass swelled and rose, spreading over his chest. He slapped one arm upon her pelvis, his palm groping at her lower back, then sliding down to her bulging buttock, until it was the only thing keeping him suspended. His feet left the ground, his shoes and socks fell freely, and within a minute there was nothing but a naked little man clutching a stretchy blue thong, dangling just below Grace’s crotch.
She straightened up, groaning as she kneaded her lower back, then smiled to herself. “I hope you’re ready for the rest of it,” she purred. “I’ve been waiting for this all week.” Whatever he said was lost as a series of squeaks, bouncing off the steel stall partitions. Licking her lips, she hooked her thumbs in the Lycra rope ringing her waist and tugged up. The miniaturized little man was sucked up between her immense cheeks, clinging tenaciously to the thong, until every last ounce of him had disappeared within, deep within the quivering buttocks.
Grace struggled to dress herself once more and collected Stan’s clothes. She rolled them up into a thick, sloppy cylinder and tucked them under one arm, then checked her hair and makeup in a mirror. She smirked, feeling how her little lover squirmed, deep in her ass. On her way out she bumped into an intern, surprising him. “Pardon me,” she said, [INSERT ASS-RELATED PUN]
“Insert ass-related pun?” exclaimed Grace. “That’s fucking lazy! Did you even try with this one?”
Stan lounged in the hard plastic lounge chair in Grace’s office, staring out the window over her shoulder.
She smacked the printouts with the back of her hand. “Look at this! This is lazy. I swear I’ve read this scene three times before.”
“Well, of course you did,” he drawled. “There was that time you hit your head on the pipes, and the time the vice president caught us.”
She propped herself on her desk with elbows and glowered at him. “So that’s it, huh? You’re just going to relive this one scene over and over?”
He shrugged. “It’s my favorite, what can I say.”
“The only thing that seems to be changing are your ever-worsening analogies. My ass looks like two pandas wrestling? What the fuck was that?” Stan’s voice croaked as he searched for words, but Grace scanned the pages in her hands. “And good Lord, you make my butt sound monstrous. This is humiliating!”
He smiled crookedly. “You know I love your big bottom. Love it more’n anything.”
“Oh, please. It’s not that big. You make it sound gigantic.”
“It could be.”
Grace rose abruptly, slamming her chair against the wall. “You want to see a large ass, little man?” She dropped the papers into her waste bin, but before Stan could protest, she rounded her desk and gently closed her office door. “I’ll give you a large ass, if that’s what you want to see.” She flicked her Capris open and jammed them down around her knees: thick, pillowy thighs rolled against each other, one slim azure thong rising from a valley of days-old shaven skin. Stan sat bolt upright in his chair, hands clenching his knees obediently. She swept a brass spray bottle from the corner of her desk and spritzed him once in the face. He gaped at her, little rivulets of purple fluid crawling down his cheeks; her cheeks dimpled as she smirked at him and turned around. She gripped her buttocks with pudgy little hands, spreading them as wide as he could manage, and backed into him.
Between immense, swelling spheres of heavy flesh, a jagged, pink seam ran down her valley. It rubbed against Stan’s nose, and then it rose overhead and his nose fit into Grace’s puckering anus. It retreated at the touch, then puffed and swelled for another contact. Her fingers released her buttocks, and her ass expanded over his cheeks, over his shoulders, over his chest.
She gave him a little clench. He felt immense walls of flesh shudder around him, hugging his shrinking body, as his legs left the hard office chair. Grace stepped forward and walked into the center of her room, with two spindly little legs poking from between her cheeks. She giggled: “What are you doing down there? Get your hands out of my asshole!” And then, after a moment, “No, put them back.”
Grace’s right boob rested heavily upon Stan’s shoulder, both of their faces glowing before his monitor. “That makes even less sense,” she said, straightening up and sighing.
“What’s wrong with it?” He turned in the darkness of his office to look up at her.
“For one thing, I go from zero to horny in 2.6 seconds.” She raised a palm to the words on the screen, then let her arm fall. “No one’s gonna believe that. Scratch that: men will. This is more male-fucking-porn, Stan. Why can’t you write something for me?”
Stan struggled to hold her gaze, what with her fat Midwestern breasts swaying inches from his face. “How is this not for you? It’s all about female empowerment. Look, there where you spray me in the face with shrinking formula. How is that not empowering?” He turned and clicked and scrolled. “And look at this one, the one where you’re stretched out on the bed in the motel. You’re poking your beautiful butt up in the air, and I’m diddling your butterhole, and what am I saying? ‘How may I worship you, Goddess?'” Stan turned back to her in triumph.
Grace rubbed her temples. “There is so much wrong there, but that’s another thing. What is this newfound obsession with my butthole? You’re just writing story after story as an excuse to get up into my butthole.”
His teeth glinted with the light of the monitor. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s about as subtle as projectile-vomiting on the Prime Minister of Japan.” She stared at him a long while, then began undressing. “You know what? Fine. You’re so obsessed with going up my ass, then that’s where you’re going to go.” She knocked him back in his seat when he got up to shut the door. “No, everyone gets to see this. I don’t care if the executive director walks by right now!” She kicked her Capris aside, thrust her index and middle fingers inside her vaginal canal, and quickly smeared glistening fluid over his forehead and cheeks. “Nå vil du krympe!” she sang, and the lanky man before her immediately shrank into a fraction of his former self. Little more than an action figure, he flopped around in her pudgy fist as she scooped him up and considered him.
“Yeah, you’ll go up my ass, all right,” she growled, “and not so’s you’ll like it.” Resting one elbow upon his desk, propping one thick leg upon his chair, Grace reached back and stabbed her anus repeatedly with the tiny, shrieking morsel.
Stan’s office door flew open, but most of the light from the hall was blocked by Grace’s considerable hips. “What the fuck is the meaning of this,” she enunciated with barely concealed tension. In one fist she held a crumpled scroll of papers.
His veins immediately flooded with ice water. “What’s what?” He tried to set his expression as neutrally as possible.
“What in God’s name are you writing about me?” The large woman stomped inside and thrust her belly into him, pinning him awkwardly against his desk. “What is this smut? Using our real names? Is this how you think of me?”
Stan gasped and stuttered. “How did you get that?”
“And writing it on a work computer! Fucking genius! IT handed this over to me, because they knew exactly who you were talking about!” She threw the papers into the air and slapped him a good one across the chops. “This is more than an HR issue. Oh, my God. I’m going to sue you right through your goddamn pants, mister.” Her chest heaved with fury, revealing and concealing his frightened expression beneath her fat Midwestern boobs.
“Please don’t,” he gabbled into her belly. “Please don’t, I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything, just please—”
The pressure on his face and chest relented as Grace stepped back. “Anything?” She relished the word, all the promise it held, all the possibilities behind its door. “I’ve really got you over a barrel, haven’t I?” The wretched man nodded frantically, keeping half an eye on the hallway outside his office. Normal workplace sounds floated down the corridor, the world outside seemed to be operating completely normally, utterly unaware of the drama within.
She smirked, folding her arms, pushing her breasts up prominently. “Maybe I don’t need to sue you. Maybe you’ll just cough up some money voluntarily, out of the goodness of your heart. Does that sound right?”
Stan gulped hard. Pinpricks of sweat sparked in his armpits.
“And what’s all this nonsense about shrinking, anyway? Is that a thing? Is that something you’re into? On top of writing this disgusting smut about your coworkers, are you also some kind of perverted freak?” She reached for a sheet of paper, ostensibly to read it aloud to him. Beneath it was his ring of keys, with two large black fobs attached. His arm shot out to seize it but Grace was quicker, bringing a mallet-like fist upon his wrist. His arm banged loudly upon the desk. She simply picked up the key ring.
“What’s so important about these?” She turned them over, scrutinizing them in the dim light of his office. “This one’s just a car control. Locked, unlocked, alarm.” She grinned and clicked the alarm button several times, though it was unlikely to reach through several concrete walls to the lot where he’d parked. “But what’s this one, with the person and the tiny person?”
“No! Don’t!” he shrieked, instantly silenced when she pressed the button. Grace’s eyebrows raised quite high, and her mouth formed a perfect O, as she stared at the tiny little version of her coworker sitting in the center of his office chair cushion.
“Holy fucking shit,” she breathed. “Does that…” She stepped back and clicked the other button. Stan instantly reappeared at normal scale, with a deep bass BWOMPH that echoed down the hallway. Other people’s voices raised in irritation, wondering what was going on in Stan’s office.
Shakily, Stan said, “Please, Grace, just put that down. It’s dangerous, you don’t know how it works. Listen, I’ll give you whatever you want—” He started to reach for her. She scowled at him darkly, called him something obscene, and pressed the second button again.
She screamed as the entire room immediately contracted around her, her throaty bellows ringing down the hallway. Coworkers ran into the room to see what was going on, then immediately backed up, horror plain on all their tiny little faces. “Help me,” she gasped, unable to breathe comfortably with a steel door jamb ringing her rib cage. Her arms bent at awkward angles, she was unable to manipulate the strange key ring, and even if anyone dared to approach her, no one could possibly squeeze past her to get into the office and use it.
Behind her, his consciousness guttering beneath an unyielding ton of ass-meat, Stan rasped, “Not like this…”
Grace’s brow furrowed in the dim blue light of her phone. “That one was kind of morbid,” she said, shutting it off and setting it on the nightstand. “I didn’t like that one at all, Stan. It’s bad enough that you make my ass sound huge, but did I have to kill you?” She stirred fitfully where she perched, in the center of a motel mattress.
Beneath her bulging ass cheeks, Stan’s eyeballs similarly bulged. He stared up the broad, smooth cliff face of Grace’s spine and shoulders, where her poufy Midwestern hair hovered like a cloud. Bearing it as long as he could, he finally patted her hip, and she rolled to one side.
“Are you almost done,” she whined.
He gulped stale, perfumed air down, realizing how thirsty he was. “Almost, almost,” he panted. “Can you, like, play with me or something?”
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I’m sorry, lover, I can barely reach around you. It’s an awkward position.” He waved his arm, trapped beneath one pillowy thigh and one bulging calf, waggling it like a broken leg on an insect. The dark room glowed briefly as a car outside wheeled around in the parking lot, running its headlights over their closed sheers.
Grace sighed and settled herself down upon his face without asking whether he was ready. His nose tickled her anus, which was cute, so she plucked at his half-hard cock with a little playfulness. “Can’t believe you’re into this,” she muttered. “What if I fart? Hell, you’re probably into that, too.” She rolled the hot, heavy lump between her palms, listening to it slap against her skin. Beneath her ass, she felt Stan shudder, probably releasing tiny pockets of air to pace himself. He could hold his breath up to two minutes, and that kind of impressed her. She leaned forward and raked her fingernails lightly beneath his scrotum, smirking as his sack shrank in response. “So strange.” Ringing her fingers, she slowly stroked the spongy member until it stood up on its own. Grinning, she spat in her palm and twisted her grip on it, thrusting and tugging, trying to read his body.
His fingers dug into her thighs. His narrow face was struggling beneath her, turning to gain a little space to breathe, then burrowing even deeper into her crack. But it was his thighs that informed her: Stan’s inner thighs twitched hard, flexing with a deep, shadowy line running up their length. That was her cue to grab him harder, thrust him harder, work him harder. Her nails tickled his balls and scratched his taint as she squeezed his cock, running the folds of his velvety skin up and down his shaft. Finally his abs seized between her thighs and he let out a muffled scream from deep within her butt.
His cock jerked in her hand, and Grace pointed it toward her. It kicked and spurted a couple hot jets of fluid, striking her in her fat Midwestern boobs. Proud of herself, she continued to grind his cock in her fist, milking the rest of it out and slowly massaging his spooge into her skin. “There you go, good boy. Get it all out,” she purred. Within a minute, his cock went soft and shrank out of her grip. He straightened his legs out, and she watched them reduce and draw up beneath her, getting smaller and smaller. His head disappeared between her butt cheeks, leaving an empty memory.
Rolling onto the pillows, she heaved one leg aside and examined him. Tiny little Stan lay glistening in a pool of her own moisture. She grinned and leaned over him, nearly burying him beneath a single breast. “Do you like that, little man?” She ran her fingertip lightly over his legs, his little chest, beneath his tiny jaw. Stan’s smile was no more than a sliver, smaller than a fingernail clipping, but it shone brightly in the motel room. “Yay! I’m glad. Because you know what that means.” Grunting, she lifted herself up on all fours and crawled over her diminutive coworker. Her breasts and belly hung low, brushing him. She giggled to see him reach up and stroke her skin, then crawled past to the other half of the bed.
“Now it’s my turn.” She pinched the hot, moist little man carefully between thumb and forefinger. It amazed her, how fragile his ribs were in this state, how she could actually feel him breathing between her fingertips. Resting her chest upon the quilted sheets, Grace poked her butt up at the ceiling and gently deposited the limp little man upon one smooth, huge hillside. “Go on, get in there, little man. Give me my cookie.”
Heart pounding, burning with a full-bodied orgasm, Stan dragged his gluey little body down into the valley of his coworker’s ass crack. How could he possibly do this again, he wondered, slapping his palms along the angry-looking pink seam running down to the blossom of radial fissures that ringed the entrance to her body. He laughed. An exit, technically, but if he wanted inside, this was one way to go.
He marveled at that. Actually inside Grace’s body: not just a finger or his penis, but his entire, tiny body could be lodged deep inside her hips. He could live within her, she could bring him around everywhere she went, surrounded by thick walls of her ass and hips. What a world, he thought, turning himself around until his gummy legs dangled over her labia.
“Come on, little man.” Her voice boomed within the dark and cavernous motel room. “You won’t get big again until I get mine, so get to work.” For emphasis, Grace gave her hips a little wiggle.
Stan cried out in alarm as his tiny body slammed against opposite hillsides. Were it not for the liberal, drying coat of her vaginal fluids, he might have been flung aside and lost or crushed. Drawing a deep breath, he spat on one sticky palm and began to work himself back into hardness. It took a minute—his refractory period was especially thorough, after cumming so hard—but finally his little soldier stood at attention. He saluted it and inserted it between the wrinkles of her asshole, then laid down and nudged it into her sphincter.
The erotic, immense hillsides around him shuddered threateningly. “What do you sa-a-a-ay?” the gigantic woman hollered.
Stan chuckled to himself and curled one hand around his mouth. “How may I worship you, Goddess?”
Stan blinked and discovered he was gripping his cock. He wiped his tiny hand wiped across the broad smartphone panel, but there was no more text. “Holy crap, that was really exciting,” he called up. “You can be kind of sweet when you want to.”
Grunting in the fight to pull her Capris down over her abundant hips, Grace turned to regard her diminutive coworker, perched in the center of her office chair’s cushion with her smartphone. Misreading her flushed expression and furious eyes, he yelped in a thin, quiet voice, “Goddess! I meant Goddess! I’m sorry, Goddess!”
Her pants finally slipped over her hips and fell freely to the floor. She chuckled to herself at his panic, mistaken as it was. She rose, towering over him, and slowly rotated to allow him to fully take in her majestic structure. When her broad ass hovered above him, she spread her cheeks and exposed to him the home to which all his paths led.
“Say Grace,” she said, taking her seat.
Stan smacked his forehead. “A pun. You’re killing me. After all that?”
“Why not? I thought it was cute.” Grace simpered and poked at her salad.
He closed her notebook and slid it back to her. “What a buzzkill. I don’t even know if I want to do this anymore.”
She dropped her fork. “That’s not funny. You take that back.”
“You take that back.” She raised her voice. “You’re not backing out of this, not after everything I’ve given up.”
“Oh, not this again.” He rolled his eyes and leaned back in the cafeteria chair. “I’ve given shit up too, you know. It ain’t been easy for anyone.”
The heavy blonde woman narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “You listen to me, Stan. I don’t need you to like my writing, but if you think for one second you’re going to use this as an excuse to back out of what you owe me—”
The tall, lean man chuckled. “Owe you? I don’t owe you anything, babe. And get your tits outta your salad.”
Grace looked down and swore, dabbing at herself furiously with a fistful of paper napkins. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Stan. We’re going to finish our lunches. We’re going to walk back to our building. You’re going to walk me to my office and close the door behind you. And you’re going to mix that purple powder into a glass of water, and you’re going to drink it, and”—her voice dropped to a harsh whisper—”and you’re going to shrink down, and I’m going to store you in my ass for the rest of the day. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”
He straightened up and frowned at her. “How’m I s’posed to get home, then? Call a damn taxi? I ain’t made of money.”
“Not my problem. You can walk for all I care.”
He waved something invisible away from his face. “Not gonna happen. I’m not playing your game anymore. You don’t call the shots, got it?” He laughed. “Christ, the idea of a woman ordering me to fuck her. You had a sweet ass, all right, but you’ve let yourself go. Why’n’cha find some hot, desperate intern to jam up your ass? Plenty of ’em around, desperate for a piece of cake.”
Tears stung the corners of Grace’s eyes. She pulled out her phone and dug through some folders, then held it up to him. “What’s this look like, Stan? Do you see what that folder’s called?”
He squinted, then glared at her. “You said you deleted that. Shit, it looks like you updated it.”
“I’d be a fucking idiot to delete that.” She tucked her phone away. “I don’t trust you any more. Not a lick. I needed some security. So you’re going to come with me, tonight, my house, or everyone’s going to get a copy of this. Your boss. Your wife. Her brother, the cop.”
Stan clenched his fists and checked the exit to the cafeteria, then looked around to see how many people were sitting around them.
Stan’s hands lifted from the keyboard. “Shit, that got dark.”
Grace, hugging him from behind, nibbled his ear. “Anything you need to talk about, lover?”
He laughed nervously, listening for activity in the rest of the office. “No, I promise. I don’t know what the hell that was.” He craned to look at her. “I don’t want to write something so angry. Jesus. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so tense. Do you know what would happen if we got caught?”
She stood up and hugged his head into her fat Midwestern boobs. “You can do this, I know you can. You need some inspiration?” His head nodded, dragging her breasts with them. “Okay, write something about the time we met, but like we already know each other. Can you do that?”
“What, the bathroom?”
She licked her lips. “Wasn’t that magical?”
He reached around and gave her broad, round ass a hungry embrace. Turning back to his laptop, he took a sip of coffee and began to type.
Stan’s shoes echoed down the stairwell. He hummed a song that had nothing to do with the tempo of his pace…