"Okay, Miss Longstreet, you can come out now."
The voice was loud and deep, the words clipped, sharp. Echoing through the thin walls of the box, they might've been spoken by a drill sergeant giving a command, or possibly an auctioneer, bringing out a new item for sale. Instead, they came from the mouth of one Mr. Roger R. Hunter, a nervous-looking man with a hawkish nose, abnormally large ears, and the beginnings of a receding hairline at the crest of his thirty-two-year-old forehead.
"I said, you can come out," he repeated, lower lip quivering. The faint traces of five o'clock shadow tinged his chin, which bobbed up and down in tune with his bulging Adam's apple as he swallowed dryly.
The top of the cigar box lifted up just so, and a tiny head peered out. A woman's face, wide as a dime and punctuated by thick black spectacles, stared up at Roger in obvious fear. She hesitated, frozen by the sight of him, a giant twelve times her size. Gulliver, as perceived by a Lilliputian.
Except that "Gulliver's Travels" was just a story. This...this was reality. He was normal, and she, tiny--a fact she now had no choice but to accept.
"I said come out!" the giant repeated, raising his voice to thunderous levels. His hands moved swiftly, and the top of the cigar box flew open, throwing the miniature woman backwards. She crumpled pitifully and lay still. A swath of brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, flopped down across her eyes, obscuring her view of the monstrous presence above.
Mr. Hunter grinned at the tiny figure lying there, dressed in a clingy azure blouse, enticingly short navy-blue skirt, and shiny black knee-high boots. The outfit was professional and businesslike, yet suggestively sexy at the same time. Dressed so, she could've been an accountant, or perhaps even an attorney, but that wasn't her job at all. Roger knew what she was. Knew very well indeed.
Miss Longstreet was a math teacher, and nothing more--yet to him that seemed like everything. How well he remembered her from his high school years. She was, he knew even then, quite aware of her effect on the teenage boys fortunate enough to be in her class. The way they fought over front seats so they could watch her stretch to write on the top of the blackboard. How they leaned in close to catch a whiff of her intoxicating perfume, or possibly--if things went just right--brush against those silky legs as she strode past during a lecture. She had to like teasing them, or else why wear such slinky, scandalous outfits? Why reveal tantalizing glances of the smooth, perfect flesh they could never touch?
To boys like young Roger, on the cusp of adulthood, she was like something out of a dream, but not everyone appreciated her antics. Some on the school board complained, of course, as did the occasional parent, but Miss Longstreet didn't keep her charms confined to the classrooms. Always there were rumors of impropriety, of certain favors granted by one party or another, but nothing could ever be proven. She had a power over the men on staff, just as she did on the boys who dreamed and swooned over her. The kind of power that lasted far too long. A haunting power no woman should ever have.
And now here she was, after all these years. The luscious and unobtainable Miss Longstreet was, at last, within his grasp. Roger's knuckles popped loudly as his wrung his hands over the box, bringing a new cringe to the tiny woman below. She pushed back the hair from her face, straightened the glasses that always looked so out of place on one so beautiful, and gazed up at him piteously.
"W-what are you going to do?" she wailed, tiny voice wafting out of the box like a whisper on the breeze. The words themselves seemed to quiver along with her trembling form.
"Fine, if you won't come out, I'll make you," the giant stated, ignoring her question as he reached abruptly down into the box. Fingers like tree trunks wrapped around the little woman's stomach, and she screamed as he lifted her upwards into the harsh light. Two monstrous eyes, steely gray with hate and pent-up desire, surveyed the squirming catch.
How long, thought the eager Mr. Hunter. How long have I dreamed of this? Miss Longstreet, in my power at last...!
And oh, how she struggled! "Let me go!" yelled the flailing little thing, kicking wildly and pounding tiny fists against his thumb. Her helplessness thrilled him beyond his wildest dreams. Over the years, those long lonely years of bachelorhood, Roger enjoyed many fantasies involving the sexy young schoolteacher. In some, she came to him, whispering sweet words as she slipped nimbly from her clothes. In others, he had her under a spell, commanding her ensorcelled mind to do his bidding. In most, though--the most by far--he held her writhing body down, forcing himself upon her as she screamed and fought with all her might.
Even as he took her thus, Roger always knew in the back of his mind that such a thing was wrong. He would never be able to do something that rash, that cruel. After all, Roger Hunter was a soft-spoken man, a timid sort who programmed computers for a living, never challenging anyone and avoiding confrontation at all costs. How could he ever find the strength, physically or mentally, to corral a woman as strong and powerful as Miss Longstreet?
He couldn't--until now.
Yes, now. She was no longer the towering, impressive, confident presence she once was. The high heels on her boots no longer made her his equal in height, so that her piercing blue eyes looked directly into his when she stood before him. Now, those heels only made her tall enough to equal the height of a soft drink can.
How delightful, thought Roger as she finally gave up the fight and dangled limply. He held her up and opened his fingers, enjoying the sight of her panting breathlessly in his palm. The scholoarly glasses were askew now, but she didn't even bother to set them straight. He observed, with a lick of his lips, that the top button on her blouse had popped free during her fight. He could just glimpse the top of a black, lacy brassiere beneath the soft curve of her left breast.
All too well, Roger remembered the sight of those ample mounds as they strained (in his mind) to escape the confines of countless tight-fitting blouses and soft, cushiony sweaters. Sometimes, on rare and cherished days, she would drop something and bend over to retrieve it. Woe betide the boy whose next turn came at the blackboard after such an event!
She knew what she was doing, of course. She always knew. That was why she deliberately chose the closest young man, the one whose embarrassment would be obvious. Sometimes she even went so far as to smile impishly at the unfortunate victim. Roger himself was selected more than once, and knew well the piercing red-faced shame that followed.
Oh, how he hated her. Loved her, too, as only he could. She tortured him, even now, years after graduation...and now, today, with her finally in his grasp, all of that would at last come to an end.
Almost unconsciously, Roger reached down with a finger, catching the edge of her blouse with a recently nibbled nail. The jagged edge caught, and with the slightest pull another teensy button broke away. The black lace curved down, down...and Roger realized with pounding heart that he could see more of her cleavage than ever in his life.
The miniature woman gasped suddenly and yanked her blouse from his fingernail, covering herself and curling into a fetal position. "Please don't!" she cried weakly. "Please...!"
Yes, beg, he thought, but he kept the words to himself. "Why not?" he asked with more confidence than he felt. Even now, with her so pathetically small and vulnerable, she still had power over him.
"Because," she answered shakily, shuddering at the sight of his moon-like face, replete with scars from the acne of his youth. Swallowing, she looked into his eyes, trying to sound authoritative. The effect was pitiful, and she must have known it was doomed to failure. "I'm still your teacher, Mr. Hunter! I order you to put me down right now!"
Roger opened his mouth and laughed, and the woman in his hand cowered at the thunderous sound. "I don't think so, Miss Longstreet," he informed her insistently. "Or should I call you Miss Shortstreet?"
She hung her head. Was that a tear on her itty-bitty face? "Please," she whined, "I don't want to be like this any more! I don't want to be so tiny!"
"What, you don't like being helpless?" Roger chuckled, his confidence already building. She couldn't control him any more. "You don't like being a little doll for me to play with?"
"N-no," she sniffled. "Make me big again! I'll do anything--"
"So you can run away, or claw my eyes out? I don't think so," snapped Roger roughly. "No, no, I think I'll keep you just this way. I like you like this, Miss Longstreet! Now stop trying to hide that lovely body of yours. Come on, stretch yourself out. Go on...yes, just like that..."
Shuddering, the tiny woman complied, coming out of the fetal position slowly until she lay face-down in his palm. She probably thought she was better off, keeping her front hidden from him, but he didn't mind. The schoolteacher's behind was just as attractive, especially in the short, clingy miniskirt, hiked up ever so slightly from her struggles. As if unconsciously, she reached down and gave the skirt a tug, intending to pull it down but succeeding only in showing off her curves more effectively.
Roger reached down and touched that round, pert little behind, eliciting a yelp of surprise from his captive. She tried to squirm away, but he didn't hold her, taking the opportunity to stroke his finger down her exposed leg. The firm flesh, muscular yet feminine, felt as soft and silky as he always imagined.
The miniscule woman tried to crawl in between his fingers, as if that could help her escape. He began to massage her left thigh, ignoring her futile attempts to keep her legs closed. She cried out in protest as he rolled her flesh between his fingers, but this only increased his excitement.
She couldn't escape, he told himself. Throughout school, she was untouchable, and now here he was, touching her. The feel of her soft warmth under his fingertip was like electric courage coursing into his soul. There was nothing she could do to stop him, was there? No, nothing. Nothing at all.
She was his, and he could finally do what he wanted to her. What he always dreamed of doing. All those years...all those years of unfulfilled desire...
Something snapped within Roger Hunter then. Something he had long kept bottled up within himself--a part of him that he let out only late at night, alone, in the midst of his deepest fantasies. The dark side everyone possesses, but few admit exists.
She wasn't a real person any more, really. She was a toy now. A little toy for him to play with, just as he told her earlier. And play with her he would. Oh, yes...!
Without any further hesitation, Roger gripped the edge of her skirt and pulled. The garment's weak clasp broke at once, and the miniature teacher wailed in protest as the garment came away. Black lacy panties, styled in a revealing French cut, awaited his eager gaze.
The tiny prisoner tried to crawl away, still begging him to stop, but when she reached the edge of his thumb, she got a look over the side. Somewhere far below, a carpeted floor awaited. Even if she survived the fall, what then? The hotel room was only sparsely furnished, with nowhere to run or hide. He would simply snatch her up again.
So she stayed, continuing to squirm and dodge his fingers as Roger grabbed for her shirt. Her struggles only enthralled him more. Each time he caught a piece of the flimsy fabric, it tore away from the rest, until only a few silky rags covered her bare skin. In a final flourish, he swept these away, leaving only the low-cut black bra behind.
Roger caught his tongue between his teeth and lowered his fingers once more, catching her writhing body in his grip. With tiny hands she tried to push him away, but failed utterly. The brassiere came away with the barest tug, and she covered herself with both hands, pleading and begging.
Ignoring her weak attempts to hide her ample assets, he ran his finger down her exposed torso, enjoying the feeling of soft, pillowy flesh under his touch. The nipples were miniature bumps, as if a single Braille dot occupied the center of each breast. The feel of those pointed mounds was almost as enjoyable as the way she screamed and struggled to avoid his gentle fondling.
Her lithe little hands were still struggling against his fingers, so he allowed her to think she was winning, easing his probing digits away and downward. For the briefest of instants a look of relief crossed her face, and then he pressed on, grasping the edge of her panties and giving a quick, sharp yank. Again she tried to cover herself, forgetting her magnificent bosom for the moment, lest she be fully exposed to him in all her naked glory.
Roger took a moment to stare at her then, enjoying the sight of his high school teacher trapped helplessly in his palm, clad only in the black boots that always made him drool. Her eyeglasses were gone now, fallen away somewhere during her struggles, lost along with the last of Roger's inhibitions.
With another quick motion, he ripped away the bow that held her ponytail back, allowing her long brown hair to tumble down about her face. He thought then that he had never seen anything so sexy in his life.
"Please," she whimpered pitifully. "Please don't hurt me..."
He couldn't, of course. He wouldn't even think of hurting her. At least, not physically. She was too perfect, in every possible way.
Hurt her, no. Humiliate her, though...
He began to play with her then, fondling and stroking her wondrously soft and supple little body. She continued to resist, hopelessly of course, for each time she moved her arms or legs she only exposed some other part of herself to him. The breasts were firm and taut beneath his fingertips, her behind a curvaceous double lump beneath his thumb. Her legs were soft to the touch, but when she struggled, he could feel the rigid female muscles tightening beneath the skin. Yet nothing was quite as desirable as that dark, furry spot below her abdomen, the one place she kept hidden by hand or leg as much as possible.
With a questing finger he sought out this place, pushing aside her futile attempts at resistance. So soft, he thought as he probed the hidden area, drawing a sudden burst of strength from his struggling captive. "No need to fight, Miss Longstreet," he muttered, almost to himself. "Isn't this why you always dressed like that? Because you secretly wanted this all along?"
"N-no," she complained, trying futilely to push his finger away. "No...noooo....please...don't..."
"Yes, this is what you wanted," he told her. "This is why you wore those sexy outfits all the time. You wanted us to watch you, to dream of you. To wish we could have you. Well, now I've got you, so you might as well enjoy it."
He was working her now, moving his finger back and forth, around and around, enjoying the feel of her and the way she screamed. The moistness on his fingertip surprised him, but only for a moment. He had read about such things, in tawdry magazines, and seen his fill of porn. He knew exactly what that wetness meant.
In time her cries of protest changed to something more, and Roger chuckled softly with each moan. So easy, he thought. Was it always this easy? Could he have done this to her at any time, even when she was big? Would every woman melt like this under the touch of a strong, powerful, confident man? Or was she like putty only because she was, quite literally, in his hand?
In due time she arched and squealed, before finally sagging in his grip. She was soaked with sweat now, covered in a glittering sheen that almost made her look otherworldly. In the low lighting, typical of such cheap hotel rooms, she seemed to glow ever so slightly. Perhaps that was where the expression came from, he thought idly, enjoying the sight of her panting form, now sprawled unabashedly amidst the wrinkles of his palm.
The power she held over him was almost gone now, but he could still feel its distant tug. She still owed him more, and he aimed to collect. With care, he walked over to the bed and climbed onto it, setting her down onto one of the flimsy pillows. She didn't protest or try to escape, as though resigned now to her fate.
He unzipped his trousers and worked his way out of his boxers, half-amazed at his newfound courage. Before tonight, the thought of exposing himself to a woman would've left him shaking with terror. There was no reason to fear this particular woman, though. Not any more. He had conquered her. He owned her, and all he had to do now was finish the job he started.
She didn't move as he began to stroke himself, holding the tip of his swollen organ in front of her sweat-slicked body. Instead, she simply closed her eyes and awaited what she knew was coming. That was fine--he didn't want to fight her any more. Her passiveness was proof of her defeat, and of his newfound strength.
The release came within moments, covering her tiny form with hot white stickiness. The flow seemed endless, and even in the throes of passion, Roger managed to direct the gushing ooze atop the defeated doll. Soon she was completely immersed, covered in a thick coat of quickly cooling goo, even her face. She wiped the gunk away from her eyes, ignoring the harsh salty taste that slipped unbidden between her lips.
When the deed was done, he grinned down at her in satisfaction, now and forevermore her master.
Elsewhere, a hidden timer began to buzz.
"So did you enjoy yourself?" The booming voice, forcing its way through the rushing flow around her, was female but no less deep for the fact.
Five minutes of standing beneath lukewarm sink water didn't seem like long enough to get clean, but Kathryn emerged anyway, shivering in the suddenly cool air. A gigantic dry washcloth, bigger than a tent, awaited her, and she ran to it even as a huge female hand turned off the spigot high above.
"Of course not," the tiny woman answered timorously, even as she dried the blobs of water with a few quick strokes of the huge towel. "Is it always like that, at the end? Do they always--?"
"Yeah, if you've done a good job," chuckled the giantess, whose face now appeared above the oval-shaped edge of the sink. Loribeth was her name, and she was noticeably older than her little charge. A few creases marred her face, the tiny imperfections magnified by her sheer massiveness. Black hair, tinged with streaks of gray, hung down to her shoulders, a few locks dangling down just out of Kathyrn's reach.
The naked, doll-like figure shuddered briefly as she clambered out of the sink. Though now sparkling clean, smelling fresh from the scented liquid soap, the former Miss Longstreet still felt soiled. A new outfit awaited her, a pleated skirt with a white blouse, suspenders, and knee-high socks. First a schoolteacher, now a schoolgirl, she thought with a sad little sigh.
Loribeth began to speak, paying no attention to the miniature woman's mutterings. "Mr. Hunter was very satisfied with your performance," the giantess boomed proudly. "You did great, considering it was your first time. I think he really might've believed you actually were his old schoolteacher, even if you were just a miniature substitute."
Kathryn didn't reply, instead slipping on the new outfit, which, she noticed, was provided without underwear. The choice of costumes, drawn from the firm's catalog, spoke volumes about her next client. For Roger Hunter, his dream doll was an old schoolteacher--the next one obviously lusted after someone he knew in school. Or maybe he just had a thing for this kind of costume. Not that it really mattered much, from Kathryn's point of view.
"Okay, enough talk, get in the box," ordered the giant madam high above, placing the velvet-lined cigar box on the counter. "The night's still young, you know, and we have a schedule to keep."
Kathryn nodded and crawled inside, almost glad to see the box lid close and plunge her into darkness. She knew that when the top opened again, she'd be looking into the face of her next client, a man who needed the kind of release only a pitiful, six-inch doll could provide.
The beginnings of a tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped the offending moisture away swiftly. I'm not going to cry, she insisted to herself. Think about the money. That's all that matters now. If I do this right, the money I'm earning will set me up for life. All I have to do is endure being tiny for a few more years...
Outside, she could hear the giant voices. Loribeth's, of course, followed by another, more timid man's words. The box shifted, and began to shake ever so slightly. Kathryn knew she had been handed off to the new customer. The client' gait was different, with longer strides and a kind of side-step that might've been a limp. He carried her down the hall, into another hotel room. A room where he could enjoy a unique, if expensive, half-hour with his newly purchased mini-whore.
Five more appointments tonight, Kathryn told herself. Five more. Then I can go back to my drawer, with my little tissue-box bed and bottle-cap lavatory, where I can hide my face in the darkness. Maybe then I can sleep, and try not to think about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...
"You can come out now," the giant outside ordered sternly, and as a tiny tear fell unnoticed to the bottom of the box, she obeyed.