Two perfect, creamy spheres hovered over Marco. Each one was more than enough to crush him, and each one was nothing more than the buttock of a woman.
Marco laughed inwardly: this would be the point when a narrator would comment “and not just any woman,” but no. Dorris was absolutely any old woman, any random and unexceptional woman in the center of a sample population. Nothing noteworthy about her at all, except her supernatural capacity to evade remarkability.
Inwardly, he laughed, because he couldn’t move his body. He was curled up in a curve to perfectly fit the pelvic section deep in her ass, deep between her butt cheeks, perfectly molded to lay flush against her anus because of some magic spell she had or something. That was the only unusual thing about her, he had to admit, that she could shrink a guy down and take away his ability to move. Marco strained, trying to twitch a finger or even straighten his spine, but Dorris commanded this power over him and he couldn’t do anything about it.
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