by Aaron Farkas


 It was a fantasy come true: Robert, who'd adored fat women all his life, who drooled over thick thighs in shorts and sighed audibly whenever a full-figured woman bent over in front of him at the supermarket, was finally alone with Michelle in her apartment. The moment she led him in, he suspected that this was it--she swung the door closed with such decisive force. Michelle was only 5'3", but what she lacked in height she made up for in amplitude. Her tight blue sweater emphasized her swelling breasts and big belly, and her bottom formed two huge globes barely contained in stretch pants whose stripes warped appealing at mid-thigh. She turned her back on him, but only to insert an old Billy Joel CD into her player. "Wanna dance?" she asked, her full arms invitingly outstretched. As they shuffled back and forth, he felt the full soft weight of her front mold itself against his body.

But Robert was 5'10", and he found himself stooping. His hands loosely interwove just above the almost-horizontal swell of her rear, which was as low as he dared go just then. Since he'd always wanted a woman whose girth he couldn't reach around, Dorothy wasn't quite it--but that was his fault as much as hers. As her hands groped from his shoulders to his torso, he also felt at greater liberty and began gently to massage her buttocks. She sighed in pleasure, and Robert let his hands roam lower down, circling her queenly thighs.

Finally he knelt at her feet. The music hadn't stopped, and Dorothy was still swaying, but Robert's head was now just at the level of her groin, which bulged in a double curve through the tight fabric of her pants. He couldn't help himself. "God, you're big," he murmured like a little child, reaching out to hold on to one massive thigh.

"Hmm...wouldn't you like it if I were even bigger?" Dorothy looked appraisingly down at him, ruffling his brown hair.

"Sure! I mean--" he stumbled, "you're fine as you are--I don't want you to think--"

"I don't think." Dorothy's hands continued to move through his hair, but with a certain possessive roughness. Her plump pudenda was now an inch from his face. "I know how men like you fantasize. So," she continued, half-hauling him to his feet, "would you like me twice as big? Even bigger?"

She had wide curves, no doubt about it, but once again the sight of her a head below him made up his mind. "Okay," he answered, "what do you want me to do?" He figured she was about to propose a special diet, though he didn't see how that was going to make her any taller.

"Just cooperate," she whispered, pulling him down to her level. "Don't take your eyes off me. I'll do all the work. And don't move."

He nodded, half-hypnotized by her wide hazel eyes. Slowly she reached up to touch the top of his head, exerting a pressure that he barely felt at first. Her broad forearm obscured his vision as she pressed downward. She began to hum softly, an odd tune that calmed his mind as it disturbed another part of him. He felt as if he were sinking through the ground, and his legs began to tremble. Searching for a source of strength, he kept his eyes fastened on her great, unblinking orbs. After a minute or so, he noticed that he was looking up rather than down, but figured he had sunk to his knees again. His head had slipped downward, past Dorothy's monumental breasts and down the steep slope of her belly. Her voice came from above now. After a while, she said, "Done," and he looked around.
As he scrambled to get to his feet, he realized with horror that he was on his feet. My God, he wasn't even as high as her waist now! "What happened?" he cried, clutching one of her huge thighs as support.

Dorothy's plump chuckle, which had seemed so delightful at dinner, now boomed down at him. "Silly boy! You said you wanted me bigger. That means either I grow or you shrink. So--am I big enough for you now?" And she lifted him into the air, squeezing him against the resilient cushions of her breasts.

"I--umphh." Her breasts were easily bigger than his head, her arms padded bars. She was suffocating him. "Put me--umph--down!"

"Okay. Down you go." And she dumped him in a heap at her feet. When he stood up, breathing heavily, his face was level with her groin, now a bulge as wide as his face. The chairs in the room now looked barely climbable--he had to be less than three feet tall. She smiled at his _expression. "'re just the right height for what I had in mind." She hauled down her pants, revealing white underwear that looked like a tautly stretched tent.
"But I--"
"C'mon." She chucked him under the chin, not so playfully. Pulling down her panties to reveal a giant diamond of blue-black pubic hair, she pulled him between two thighs that rested on either side of him like walls. When he pushed back, she squeezed him unmercifully. "Or I just might squash you between my legs."
He had no choice--she was huge down there. Her parted labia revealed an orifice like a fleshy tunnel. As he peered into its opaque depths like some uncertain spelunker, she impatiently pulled his head forward, burying it in her snatch. Then she clamped her thighs around his little body.
He tongued her until he thought he was going to faint from lack of air, licking away at her clitoris as big as his nose.
 Above him he felt seismic shifts in her body and a series of groans as she came again and again. But he couldn't budge from the soft prison of her thighs. Finally she hauled him upward, his face red and streaming with her juices.
"That was fun," she purred. "Now let's try something for you." Setting him astride one mammoth thigh, she reached downward for his little prick. Big as a catcher's glove, her plump hand completely enveloped his entire groin, stroking and massaging. Her pinky alone was larger than his whole erection. Her thigh shivered underneath him, a bucking ton of flesh to ride. 
When he was fully erect, she simply lifted him in the air and plopped him down against her steaming pudding. His face rested against her full belly, as if he were lapping at a lake. His little arms couldn't even begin to reach around her waist, so he clung to her guiding hands. "That's it, little man," she cooed. "A little, down a bit....
But when she parted her thighs, her cunt swallowed up both his cock and balls, and so fast that he thought he'd lost his equipment. Plastered against her smothering lower paunch, he could move only feebly--until Michelle's giant hand came down to push him. "Up, down, in, out," she ordered him. But after about ten strokes, she plucked him off her. The casual frown on her town-clock face was slightly terrifying. "Hmm, this isn't working. Tell you what--let's try your arm."


She shook him impatiently, a bone-shuddering sensation. "Your arm, little man. It doesn't look like that's going to penetrate very far, does it?" She pointed at his tiny penis.

Robert bit his lip. There he was, poised above the biggest woman he'd ever made love to, only to be judged inadequate. Looking down at Michelle's snatch, as wide as his face, he gulped. He flexed his arm, bringing a smile to the giant woman. "Much better," she told him as she lowered him onto her vast expanse of quiver-flesh. Plunging in his arm up to the elbow, he worked it around vigorously as she moaned pleasurably. It was hard work, like kneading a vat of liver, but whenever he slackened he felt her grip from above, squeezing him
The notion that she could compress him against her so casually scared him, but also sexually aroused him even as he performed his slave labor. She insisted he keep it up until she came again in a spurt of white foam that drenched him. Like a beached castaway, he lay exhausted on the summit of her belly, rising and falling with her breathing.

Finally she picked him up again. Her broad arms held him in midair, inspecting him. "That was pretty good," she told him, smiling. Then her town-clock face grew stern. "Of course, you realize I'll have to snuff you out now."

As he wriggled in her firm grasp, he realized that she could do exactly that--smother him in any of a dozen ways, or simply crush him with her gigantic weight. "P-please," he begged, his whole body shaking. "Let me go."

She laughed as she put him down. "Don't worry, this is too much fun for me." As she rose to her full height, he realized again how insignificant he had become compared to her. She had become a veritable wall of woman. "But of course, I can't let you go." She leaned forward so that her bosom nudged against his head like a soft mountain. "You're mine now."

He took a step backward. "Wh-what do you mean?"

She laughed so that her belly shook. "You've heard of kept women, haven't you? Well, you'll be a kept man."


"Shh." She placed a thick forefinger against his lips, effectively silencing him. "It's late, and I'm tired, so let's go to bed. I'll let you sleep with me." Picking him up with one arm, she held him against her bosom as she walked into her bedroom. As she stripped for bed, he was able to take in all her breathtaking vastness, from her huge columnar neck to her whale breasts, her full belly and broad buttocks and her trunklike thighs.

Placing him by her side, she reached out to encircle him in the dimpled cleft of her elbow. Her upper arm was as thick as his torso.

"But what if you roll over during the night?" The thought was humiliating to voice.

"Scared of my weight, huh? I thought that was what you liked about me." Michelle's voice boomed even as it teased. "Tell you what--you can sleep on my belly tonight." Lifting him onto her stomach, she reached out to shut off the light, then placed her arms around him as a sort of cradle.

Looking around at his bed of flesh, with Michelle's belly underneath him like the softest of mattresses, he again felt both immensely happy and threatened. His head was gently pillowed against the foothills of her breasts. This has got to be a dream, he finally convinced himself, as he was ineluctably lulled to sleep by the rise and fall of a bosom as big as he was.

But the next morning, Robert woke up not in his own bed but on the pink sea of Michelle's belly-flesh, still gently rising and falling. When he tried to lever himself up in panic, a huge arm fastened over him to keep him still. He was pressed into the depths of her fat tummy, where he decided not to move or he might stifle. Her snores were like the rumbling of a truck. When Michelle rose mightily half an hour later to head for the shower, she left him on the bed.

"But what about me?" he pleaded, sliding helplessly into the immense crater left by Michelle's body-imprint.

"Wait," she commanded, "like a good boy."

For breakfast, she kept him on her ample lap and fed him scraps from her plate of eggs and sausage. When she had to leave for work--she worked as a secretary in Robert's law office--she led him into back into the bedroom and unpacked what looked like a crib with a top. The top had a padlock. "Just until I can trust you," she smiled, lifting him into the cage over his wild protests. She tossed in some food, a few books, and the television remote control. "You'll be good, won't you?"

He rattled the wooden bars futilely. Clearly some planning had gone into this. "What the hell have you done to me?"

She leaned down, her big breasts pressing into the bars. "What you always wanted. I gave you the huge woman of your dreams."

"But I can't stay here, I've got to--"

"Got to what, lover? You can't go to the office this way." She giggled, her belly shaking his cage. "They'll never guess what happened. And after a while, all the fuss'll die down." She turned to go.


"Weight?" She smiled at her pun. "Is that what you want?" Slowly she lifted her skirt to sit on top of the crib, her global buttocks spreading above as if a blimp were passing overhead. "Imagine if I were sitting right on top of you," she suggested. Before she left, she reached inside to give him a good strong squeeze.

When she came back that evening, she fed him and fondled him. When he tried to bite her, she forced his face under her grotto-like armpit for a minute. "Promise you won't do that again?" she inquired sweetly as she eased him out pasty-faced from her plump nubbled flesh. He nodded weakly to his mistress, his flesh-goddess, who explained quite carefully how she could tit-smother him in a moment if he misbehaved. And that was the beginning of Robert's days as a slave.


"And the beauty part," said Dorothy as she settled her broad bottom in the cushioned armchair, "is that the men do it willingly." She smirked as the chair groaned a little under her weight. "At least in the beginning."

Ellen, a big-boned woman with a pronounced paunch, leaned forward at this. She'd had trouble with her latest boyfriend, a Fat Admirer named Charles who kept whining for her to get bigger. She pursed her lips, thinking of last night's scene in the bedroom, when Charles squeezed her hard around the midriff and buried his face in her lower belly. "But how do I get him to, um, you know..."

"Grow smaller?" Dorothy leaned back in her groaning chair. "It's hard to say exactly what makes it happen. But when a man wants it so bad, you acquire a certain power." She stroked her several chins thoughtfully. "You make rigid eye-contact with him, holding him tight against your body, visualize him getting smaller and smaller...and he just shrinks. Usually to around groin-height, which is just right for most women. Isn't that right, Cody?" She rose from the chair, revealing a splayed male body on the seat-cushion, half-stifled, half-crushed. She yanked him up a little roughly from his supine position, like an overgrown girl with a doll she'd grown slightly tired of playing with. "Ellen, allow me to present Cody, my husband."

Cody tried to nod politely even as he gulped in huge draughts of air. His head reached no higher than the oceanic swell of his wife's belly, and he clung pitifully to her thigh, which was bigger around than he was. When Ellen reached out to shake his hand, she marveled at how small it was, how her own feminine hand enveloped it like a paw. She thought of Charles' big, groping mitts and nodded to herself. Yes, she could see getting used to a smaller, more acquiescent Charles. One who would stop hectoring her about getting bigger. She watched in fascination as Dorothy got ready to go.

"There's a whole group of us, you know--the Society of Small Men. Just let us know if you decide to go through with it," said Dorothy pleasantly, as if talking about a perm at the beauty parlor. At the mention of "it," Cody began to mutter something, but Dorothy reached down and with one plump hand covered his entire face. "That's enough, Cody. Now let's get going, or"--she reached into her purse, where something jingled--"I'll have to use the leash."

That night Ellen submitted patiently to Charles' rough handling until she'd had enough. When Charles wished aloud that she had bigger breasts, she sat back on the bed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Charles," she said softly, "how would you like it if my breasts were bigger than your head?"

He scowled. "Implants, huh? Well, it's something to think about, anyway." He leered in what he thought was a humorous way. "A man likes something to bury himself in sometimes."

"Oh, I know, I know." Ellen shifted so that the nipples of her breasts, which were 36C's, were staring at him. "So, what would you give to have me bury you in my breasts?"

Charles rolled over like a dog, his head in her broad lap. "Oh, honey--hey, I'd give anything. You know I would."

"All right." She reached down to hug him closer, cosetting his head in the wide vee of her thighs. "Just look at me...that's it...keep looking at me...." And in front of Charles' eyes, Ellen's breasts got larger and larger and larger. After a few minutes, they looked like giant wrecking balls.

"Amazing, babe!" cried Charles happily. But as he tried to sit up, Ellen clamped her thighs around him, imprisoning his dwarfed body. "Hey, what's happening? I--mmmph!"

His pathetic yells for help were quickly stifled by one lazy boob, pressed against his face as he struggled vainly against the slick purchase of her jelly-belly. With a deep sigh, Ellen pushed him into her cleft, his arms held fast against her heavy forearms. "So," she murmured as his struggling slowly ceased, "how does it feel to be buried alive?"


One by one, the fat-admirers in the city disappeared from public view: the prosecuting attorney who kept back issues of Fat City in his office desk, the accountant who hung out at the Fat Cat Club to ogle big women in bathing suits, the grocery clerk who placed all the tampons on the lowest shelf so he could see women bending over to get them, and many, many more. They disappeared in the soft, voluptuous night, enticed by big dreams. The Society of Small Men was a grass-roots movement, spread by word of mouth among the heftier set of women, particularly those who'd had it with chubby chasers. Within a year, the Society of Small Men numbered over two hundred unwilling male members, each imprisoned by the mammoth woman of his desires. Once the men were reduced, of course, the women could do whatever they wanted with them. The men were all trapped, caught in the shadowy intersection between desire and nightmare.

After years of insults by the general populace for their size and pestering by lovers for not being big enough, the women delighted in humiliating men as pets and playthings. They forced them into painful cunnilingus, severely brain-damaging a few by squeezing too tightly. They let them sleep against the broad sea of their bellies, occasionally drowning them unintentionally. They suckled them on their head-size tits, smothering a few by accident--or on purpose. The SSM, they joked, could just as well stand for "Sexual Sadomasochism."

"Ah, they may squeal, but they love it," the women told each other, echoing an old male chant. The men bit their little lips and didn't complain too hard. One man who couldn't stop talking, ran the rumor, was forced to breathe through his mistress' asshole for a day. "Now whenever he says too much, all she has to do is wiggle her ass at him, and he shuts up at once."

The women put the men in closets and cribs and cellars until they learned that trying to escape wasn't worth the excruciating punishment if they were caught. Some women were even so bold as to snap collars around their men when walking with them.

"But Arnie can't keep up with my stride," confessed one collar-user at a meeting of the SSM, "so I usually have to carry him all the way home." Arnie, seated by her side like a balding dwarf, nodded crookedly but obediently. It was said that his mistress had damaged his functioning somewhat by stepping on his head.

"I know what you mean," said a large-bosomed woman. "George likes to snuggle between my breasts. But sometimes I can't do that, especially if I have packages, so I just tuck him under my arm." George squirmed in embarrassment, trying to hide under his mistress' skirt.

"Oh, I had to discipline Tommy last week." This woman, possessed of an enormous rear end, sat alone like a monument in the far armchair. "He tried to run away from me on a walk. So I sat on him."

"Well, that should teach him a lesson."

"Yes," smiled the woman, "maybe in the next life."

Most women had grown more casual about "accidents," and a growing percentage had shrunken new men into smalldom after disposing of their first. Even long-term husbands disappeared this way. All the women expected servility and punished any transgressions speedily. Most used their bodies as the most immediate, compelling form of payback. They crushed their poor little men between their thighs or squashed them between breasts that surrounded the men from knees to chest. The worst was the near-death experience of being smothered against a quivery paunch, crushed underneath buttock tonnage, or even casually strangled by a plump arm around their frail necks. The women were simply too big and strong to be denied--as all the men found out sooner or later.


Ted had once worshiped women with big bellies, which was how he'd met Georgette, who at 5'1" weighed 250 pounds. Now Georgette dominated Ted with her fearsome size, wrestling him with one arm behind her bulky back. One awful afternoon, when he had to use the bathroom in a hurry, she prevented him from leaving the room by simply standing in the doorway and bouncing him off her belly whenever he got near.

Even for a normal-sized man, Georgette's belly was a wonder to behold, a hanging mass that preceded her into every room. Yet she always sheathed it in loose, flowing fabric, anything from a purple mu-mu to an XLG T-shirt. Even after she shrank Ted, her belly remained for him a billowy form whose real contours he had never seen. All he knew was that it dominated him, looming larger than his whole body. It turned Georgette from a short woman into a supergirl, with a heft that could bulge open a shut door. In fact, Ted had seen it naked only in a wide ripple of rose and ivory, exposed in the momentary gap between her tent of a T-shirt and her voluminous sweatpants. It was a monument of nature, a sex object, and a weapon all in one jiggling body part.

Mostly Ted's duties were housekeeping and occasional sexual service down below--though "down below" was quite far: Georgette got off on having her little man suck her toes and tickle her insoles. When she got really aroused, she would place her feet on Ted's body, covering him from his groin to his neck, and threaten to exert all her force. "Smoooosh," she would whisper, with Ted afraid even to cringe for fear of being crushed under so much woman. At night he dreamed of lying on her belly, which he imagined as an ethereal combination of feather bed, water bed, and warm woman-flesh. In his own way, he had helped add to that belly, preparing sumptuous meals as her tiny chef-in-residence. Thanks to his fettucine alfredo and crème br*lée, Georgette's stomach had grown into a monstrous apparition with a will of its own, growling irritably when it was hungry and purring with contentment after it had put away almost a tenth of Ted's diminished weight in carbohydrates. But the bigger it got, the more Georgette abused him.

"Get down on all fours," she announced one night. "I want to use you as a foot-rest."

"But I--ow!" Georgette had grabbed him by the arm and was pulling him onto the bed.

"Cooperate, little man, and maybe I'll let you see my belly."

Ted nodded all right and assumed the position. When Georgette's huge heels came to rest on his back, he almost buckled but kept himself upright with the thought of Georgette's belly, plump and waiting for him. Then Georgette began to snore.

Did she care at all about him? Was she just teasing him about her belly? He endured three miserable hours underneath his mistress' legs before deciding that he'd had enough. He had to do away with his lover before she did him in. Lowering Georgette's rounded calves as delicately as he could, he padded into the kitchen and returned with a steak knife, intending to plunge it into Georgette's body. The serrated knife was as long as a sword to him, but when he arrived back in the bedroom, the shrouded bulk of Georgette's gigantic rising and falling belly cowed him. Suddenly the weapon he'd brought looked ridiculously insufficient, like a pin to poke a truck tire. As he stood there, wondering what to do, Georgette's eyes fluttered open and saw her little man poised with his sword. Almost in reflex, she disarmed him with one flick of her broad forearm, the knife clattering onto the floor.

She gazed at him for a long moment, gathering him into the padded crook of her arm. She said nothing, which was far more awful than anything she might have uttered. She knew what he had done, and he knew she knew it. As he squirmed helplessly in her grasp, she calmly lifted up her nightshirt, exposing her enormous, rippling belly. It was like a lake, an overflowing cauldron, a creamy expanse swollen and rippling in its abundance. He sighed in ecstasy even as he flinched in terror. Because he knew what she was about to do. As she plunged him into the luxurious depths of her belly, the smooth surface molded firmly against his body, warm and soft and suffocating. When she suddenly rolled over, he was pressed into her stomach like a marble in dough, ending all struggle. His nose was instantly pressed into her soft navel, his limbs trapped against her fat tummy. "Goodbye, darling," she sighed heavily, as her silky plump flesh covered his mouth so that he couldn't even scream.


Harry was married to a severe asthmatic named Marjorie, a thick woman who wore sloppy sweaters to conceal her 46F breasts, and who always nagged him about his encroaching on her side of the bed. But Harry made the mistake of asking for even bigger boobs, and she obliged by making them the size of beachballs--to him. After Harry was cut down to size, she simply took over the whole bed and made him sleep on the floor. Once the one who had to get up to make him coffee, she now made him bring her breakfast in bed. When she wheezed at him, her size made her sound to him like an old steam engine. When he'd wished for his wife to have bigger breasts, he hadn't bargained for the casual way she could pick him up and shake him. Taking her pleasure with the new Harry, she rubbed him against her monstrous breasts like a live sex toy. As her asthma grew steadily worse, she kept her husband on a long leash and jerked on it whenever she wanted him to perform.

Temporarily off the leash in the backyard, completely fenced in by a landscaper that Marjorie had hired, Harry patroled the limits of his new world. Even the garden rocks were the size of boulders to him. As Marjorie's wheezing became more pronounced, she took it out on him, half-choking him with angry pulls on the leash. He fingered his neck, which still bore an angry red welt from yesterday's yanking.

So when Marjorie lumbered into the garden to refasten her husband, Harry decided to act. He knew she couldn't move fast, and that was part of his plan. Darting forward, he kicked her as hard as he could in one well-rounded calf.

"Ow, you little toad!" She almost dropped the leash and wheeled around as he ran for the one tree in the garden, a large maple. When she got to the tree, he was by the fence.

"Ah-ah-ah, can't catch me!" He taunted her as her face grew red, her cumbrous body only slowly gathering speed. Her bosom heaved wheezily as her thick body overshot into the rose bushes.

"Oops--too late!" Harry danced around his fat wife, tempting her to whirl around so quickly that she almost fell. For a while, they went around and around the maple, as Harry taunted and Marjorie threatened, half out of breath.

"When I catch you...heee...I'll...eee...squash you!"

"Yeah? With those ten-ton tits, you'll be lucky to come in second."

But her heavy stride began to match his frantic scurrying, even as her wheezing growing more and more pronounced. She almost popped two buttons on her extra-large blouse as she sat down on the ground with a seismic thud. Her face was the color of a beet, and she was gasping. Harry came within two feet to administer one last goad. Marjorie's mammary shelf was wobbling dangerously, like two globes struggling for release.

"Harry...eee...get me of water." Her plump arms flailed helplessly. Seeing his wife so near collapse, Harry almost took pity and was about to fetch a glass when Marjorie jingled the leash. He took a step back.

"Sorry, but I'm not a pet." And he stood his ground as Marjorie's flailings grew slower and weaker. When the great engine animating her bosom shuddered to a halt, Harry stepped closer in fascination to touch her hugeness. But just as she seemed to breathe her last, with a final burst of energy she pounced on her husband, burying him under her huge chest. Harry's last sensation was one of unbearable heavy softness, sealing off the outer world as he flopped about in vain. A nipple the size of a quarter poked him in the eye, and her mammoth right breast pancaked against his face. Marjorie's sheer weight pressed him into the chasm of her cleavage, and as she expired, he lay trapped in a vault of flesh.

Two women members of the SSM found her body in the backyard, with Harry still immobilized underneath his wife's breasts. They buried Marjorie with loving ceremony, her husband still struggling in the coffin.


Catching her house-husband Jack in the den with a pistol from his old gun collection, Susie disarmed him with a quick swat that sent him flying. When he came to, she informed him that the penalty for attempted murder was death. He immediately began to babble for mercy. She folded her arms impassively above her massive chest, telling him that he'd never leave the room alive.

He had no friends he'd kept up with since he shrank a year ago, no more contact with the outside world since his wife had placed him under permanent house-arrest. He was a slave to her every command, and when she told him that he had to die, he knew she was correct. She had "the right of weight"--a well-worn joke between them, only it wasn't much of a joke any longer. Jack's shrinking had been unusually gradual, spread out over several months, with him too vain to seek help until it was too late. By the time he'd diminished to the height of her belly, he was a virtual prisoner. Susie had always been a hefty woman, but now she was an immovable force. His body still bore the bruises from several of her "lessons."

She led him into the bedroom--once their bedroom, in which they had slept conjugally as husband and wife--and tossed him casually onto the bed. "Stay," she ordered him, "or it'll just be worse for you."

Jack stayed. He sat obediently on one of the overstuffed pillows as his wife slowly stripped, revealing a tonnage that never failed to awe him. Her upper arms were plump and heavy as his body, her torso ridged from underwear elastic that had several times bound him to her in mock crucifixion as

she made him adore her broad belly. Her buttocks were colossal, solidly supported by thighs that could quickly become a vault of pain. As she slowly exposed every bulge and orifice, he felt hopelessly enthralled.

When she was stark naked and her husband was trembling, she placed her hands on her broad hips. "I'll tell you what," she said to him. "SSM rules say that any little man caught with a deadly weapon must be put to death--but they don't say how it has to be done." She reached out to cradle the smothering bulk of her right breast. "I'll give you a choice as to how you want me to do it."

Jack gulped. To be squeezed to death between her thighs, smothered against her friend of Susie's, he knew, had slowly smothered her man in the lush grotto of her armpit. And if Susie simply strangled him with her bare hands? She was a woman-mountain, and there was no escape.

He swallowed hard again, his Adam's apple bobbing like a little cork. The sight of her fatal bulk sent shivers down his spine. "But we've been together seven years!"

She shook her huge head. "You're not the man I married. It's time I put you out of my way."

When her muscles of her plump calves flexed, he flinched. My God, what if she cracked his ribs between them? Already he felt utterly crushed and defeated. "Wh-what would do it quickest?"

She considered the question, inspecting her statuesque bulk. "Probably squashing you under my buttocks."

Since Jack wasn't a rump-man, he'd never much considered Susie's rear. But now, as she turned and flexed her mighty rump, he nodded his broken assent. How ridiculous to be executed by one's own wife. But he had little time to consider his own helplessness. Soon he lay pinned by Susie's ponderous arm as she bent over and her buttocks expanded to dwarf his body. Susie had fed well since he had shrunk. Her massive butt-cheeks, separated by a wall of a crack, settled heavily all over him. The great weight pressed him into oblivion, crushing his ribcage and driving all the breath from his body. In his last moment, he had a vision of his wife when she was thinner and he was full-size, before he foolishly gave up his size and strength. Susie sat back against her puny mate, humming as she squashed him flat.


Multiply these stories by a hundred. The Society of Small Men continues to swell its ranks, enlisting as many big-lusting men as women ready to throw a little weight around. From time to time, a revolt breaks out, but of course it gets crushed, usually literally. As a special punishment, sometimes the men are forced to watch the squashing and stifling of their fellow revolutionaries before their own demise. In the hastily improvised arena of one woman's basement, ten men are imprisoned in the laps of their mistresses as two naked-bellied women slowly squeeze a man to death between their immense paunches. In an opposite contest, two women each take an arm of a shrieking man and pull him apart.

But the worst is the peephole torture, where a few defeated men watch the induction of a new small man who thinks he's alone with his lover, proudly shrunk to groin height and held up for inspection.

"No, don't do it!" the men want to scream. But their mistresses' pudgy hands cover half their faces, and they can make only muffled sounds as a full-grown man dwindles between a woman's thighs. How is it done? they wonder furiously. And how can they ever return to their former state?

"All you have to do," one big woman confesses to a victim she's about to sit on, "is stop being so entranced by huge buttocks, breasts, and bellies. If you didn't love it, it wouldn't happen."

The man about to be crushed shuts his eyes against his torturer's giant ass, trying to get her all-encompassing body out of his mind--but can't. As she lowers herself upon him, her massive roundedness pressing him into a blot, his last sensation is an orgasm.


"The truth is," says one man, "I can't get Cynthia's tree-trunk thighs out of my mind, even though she may squeeze me to death between them one day." As Cynthia comes by to pick up her little man, carrying him off in her stout arms, he gazes at her as one gazes at a goddess--in helpless adoration and fear.