Timmy's New Life, part 2
by C.L.T.
A young man is brought to heel by tall dominant women

In this Chapter: Height comparisons, domination, ballbusting, facesitting

[NOTE: Part 1 was posted a few weeks ago on this site. There are a total of five 
parts, planned. I'm aware of some misspellings, errors, and formatting 
imperfections in part one. Please forgive me since English isn't my mother 
tongue. When I'm finished with the whole story, all of the parts will be revised 
and reposted as one long document. 

*** Any comments from readers would be VERY encouraging to me; please email me 
at eslepov@yahoo.com ***]




Chapter 2: Under Brooks' Thumb / Under Martha's Bum

As they entered the front door of the mansion they called home, Timmy and Aunt 
Rose were greeted by Brooks, their French maid. 

The twenty-something girl was actually of typical American "mutt" descent, 
though she sometimes stressed that she was half French-Canadian. She didn't know 
a jot of Francais, but still she dressed in the classic French maid style: black 
and white with lace trim; black pantyhose running up under a skirt that ended at 
mid-thigh; and shiny black shoes with a two-and-a-half-inch heel, which added 
unnecessarily to Brooks' already imposing six-foot stature. Though she had never 
shown much skin in Rose Nordegren's house, from what one could tell that Brooks 
Ursula Frazer was quite solidly built and athletic.

Timmy had never known what to make of this maid situation. On the one hand, his 
rich aunt seemed flighty and pretentious enough to want a real maid. But on the 
other hand Brooks herself seemed to take the job and its dress-code as a bit of 
a fun joke, as if she were wearing a maid COSTUME rather than a uniform, and as 
if she were play-acting rather than working. Not that the girl didn't clean and 
perform other maidly duties--she did--but she often did so with a coquettish 
wink and a lackadaisical air. His aunt seemed to enjoy the younger female's 
spunky attitude, however, and Timmy got the impression that she was taking 
Brooks "under her wing" so to speak. 

Brooks had dark hair that didn't quite touch her shoulders, green eyes, and a 
pretty face that nonetheless slightly reminded Timmy of a pug dog's. Timmy had 
never seen her out of her maid clothes, but her attitude seemed to suggest that 
she was a tough girl who had grown up on the street, who could handle herself, 
and who could still retain some conventional feminine allure. Her "iron lady" 
exterior was not infrequently broken by laughter; Timmy had noticed that Brooks 
and Aunt Rose had shared many jokes together, many of them inside jokes that he 
did not understand. For his part, during the few months Timmy had been living in 
his aunt's mansion, he hadn't gotten close to Brooks or engaged her in any real 
conversations. Secretly, as you might expect, he was attracted to her; but after 
the death of his parents, and after his release from the sanitarium, he simply 
wasn't in the mood to pursue any female. Besides, for all he knew, Brooks 
thought of him as a little oversensitive pipsqueak who needed his aunt to take 
care of him. And that was even before he came home dressed in his new clothes.

At the moment Brooks' pretty pug face registered reined excitement and approval 
over Timmy's transformation. Dressed in little girly clothes--a saffron 
cardigan, pink leggings, his little sailor's hat, and his little dollshoes--
Timmy had already been through the psychological ringer at the mall. He just 
wanted to retreat to his bedroom, take off these embarrassing clothes, throw 
himself on the bed and cry himself to sleep. But this was not to be. So anxious 
was he to return home from his aunt's shopping expedition, he hadn't even 
considered the fact that he'd have to face Brooks the maid in his new post-
"makeover" condition, or what that would mean. Apparently, it would mean 
enduring another humiliating conversation between tall imposing females, in 
which he was spoken over (literally) as if he were a mute object.

Brooks had choked back a gasp of delight when she saw what Timmy was wearing.

"Isn't he sweet now, Brooks?" his aunt asked brightly.

"Oh INDEED, Ms. Nordegren," Brooks replied smartly, with a self-satisfied and 
mock-professional aura that she sometimes assumed when her employer was present, 
as if Brooks were pretending to have gone to charm school. "I just love him this 
way," she added in a more normal casual tone. Then she looked down at Timmy and 
stared into his eyes, scrutinizing him in a way that made him even more 
uncomfortable. 

Standing between these two women he felt--not for the first time that day--like 
he was a specimen on a slide being studied under a microscope. In spite of 
himself, he slunk his head down, couldn't help grumbling a bit, and noted with 
some annoyance that the level of his downcast gaze fell naturally on his aunt's 
taut exposed midriff or on Brooks' modest bust. He didn't know where to look. 
From above he heard both women chortle.

"I take it he's having a bit of trouble adjusting?" Brooks asked his aunt. 

("Did she already KNOW that Aunt Rose was going to do this to me?!" Timmy 
wondered silently, with growing anger. "And, again, here are women speaking of 
me in the third person. But I'm right here!")

"Yes... He is having a little trouble..." Aunt Rose said with perceptible 
compassion, putting her long hands on each of Timmy's shoulders and beginning to 
knead them lovingly. "Our poor little guy has already been through so much. And 
he doesn't like what I'm putting him through now. But he knows that eventually 
it will be for the better."

("I DON'T KNOW that," Timmy thought bitterly. "I don't even THINK it. Whatever 
wackjob feminist or psychological theories she's been reading... I don't want to 
dress like a little pansy!")

"He probably thinks he looks like a girl," Brooks said, almost as if she were 
reading his mind. "Is that right?" Speaking to him directly (finally), she put 
her right hand under Timmy's chin and tilted it up so that he would look into 
her eyes, which were more than a foot above his own.

Timmy noticed that Brooks had smooth but strong hands, and very huge fingers, 
not as long as his aunt's but probably more powerful. Her nails were almond-
shaped and painted a dark metallic purple. He had never noticed anything like 
this before; every other time he had seen her, she had been wearing dainty white 
maid's gloves. He stared up at her, wide-eyed and scared and self-conscious to 
the point of speachlessness.

"Hm?" Brooks goaded him again, waiting for an answer. "Do you think your aunt 
has dressed you like a little girl?"

After a moment Timmy replied "No..." in an unsure, humiliated tone.

"Good!" Brooks said cheerily and with a smile. "But I guess that means I don't 
get to call you 'Tammy' instead of 'Timmy'!"

This brought forth some hearty laughs from Aunt Rose, between which she uttered 
"Little Tammy! How adorable!", and she reflexively clutched his shoulders 
strongly until her laughter subsided. 

Meanwhile, Brooks was smiling down silently at Timmy, and her hand was still 
under his chin. He felt as though she were slowly digging her strong thumbnail 
into him, so he shot his own little hands up, planning to try to pull her hand 
off of him. The moment he did this, however, she seemed to withdraw her cutting 
pressure. But she still held her hand there under his chin, almost daring him to 
feel her one big hand with his two little ones and to test his strength against 
hers. Not wanting to know if he could beat her, even with a two-to-one hand 
advantage, Timmy just froze and stared at her with a quintessential "rabbit in 
the headlights" expression on his face.

"What a pretty little outfit you're wearing," Brooks mused, a teasing lilt in 
her voice as she began to rub his chin with her big thumb in a slow circular 
fashion. Timmy stared up at her, petrified. She gently set her entire thumb over 
his mouth and slid it down so that it brought his lower lip down. "You are just 
adorable," she concluded, then brought her thumb down further so that his lip 
snapped back up with an audible "plop". He was at a loss. She suddenly raised 
her eyebrows and gave him a provocative look.

Aunt Rose had set their shopping bags aside and was preparing to carry her own 
purchases to her room. She had bought almost as much for herself as she bought 
for Timmy's new wardrobe. As Brooks turned to help his aunt sort through the 
shopping bags, Timmy was informed that his dinner would be served momentarily, 
since Brooks had already cooked it.

The meal, for Timmy, was asparagus in olive oil and vegetable rice pilaf. 
Another typical meal for Timmy. Meanwhile, he saw his aunt drinking a soy 
protein shake before her nightly workout. And he saw Brooks preparing a huge 
plate of barbeque ribs that she would eat in the servant's lounge that was kept 
for her in the mansion. 

He picked at his dish, knowing that he was expected to eat it all. Until now, 
his practice was just to "go with the flow". He didn't like vegetables, but he 
had been willing to do whatever his aunt had thought was best for him. He was, 
after all, really shrimpy, and he liked the idea of getting in shape. His fit 
aunt obviously knew a thing or two about diet, and when he saw her thin but 
imposing figure in her workout clothes the first time, when he watched her flex 
her long body into all sorts of yoga poses, he was so impressed that he 
consented to follow the dietary rules she had set for him. But the thing was... 
he was not getting any bigger. Oh, he didn't expect to grow taller, but he was 
still so far underweight. His aunt had warned him, however, that he may actually 
lose more weight at first, once whatever little fat there was on him had 
disappeared, before new healthier body-mass could grow. That sounded reasonable 
enough to Timmy, who had no experience in these things. He tried exercising once 
a few weeks ago, but the next morning his arm and shoulder muscles felt pulled 
out of joint. And he had only done one set of twenty reps with 10-pound 
dumbbells. His aunt told him not to try exercising again anytime soon. Though 
never exactly excited about any of it, he had at least been agreeable to 
anything she proposed for him. But tonight he sat looking at his great feast of 
asparagus and rice, picking at it disinterestedly for over half an hour before 
it was gone.

Almost the second he had eaten the last piece of asparagus, Brooks appeared with 
a glass of water and his daily dose of after-dinner diet pills. ("Strange that 
she knew the exact moment when I was finished eating," Timmy thought. "It really 
is like these women have gotten inside my head. I'll be glad when this day is 
over.) 

"Drink up," Brooks said, as she offered him the glass and the pills. The glass 
was held in her huge left hand, the metallic purple nails clenched like a dragon 
claw. And the four pills, which he always had trouble swallowing because they 
felt so big in his throat, looked so small placed in the center of her smooth 
right palm.

"You have really big hands," Timmy said, taking the glass and pills. He never 
would have said something like that to Brooks before, but at this point he had 
been so overwhelmed by so many details of the day that he was exhausted. His 
strength and willpower were gone, but so were some of his inhibitions. For a 
young man--really a 25-year-old boy--as timid as Timmy, losing inhibition meant 
risking a casual remark to the maid.

"Oh, you like?" Brooks said happily, holding her hands up before her face, 
showing Timmy all ten of the beautiful dark purple nails.

"Yeah," he said. Another daring move for him, to insinuate that he liked 
something about a girl. He began to hope that the conversation didn't go any 
further, and started to sip the water and swallow the pills one by one. But 
rather than go away, as she would have any other night, Brooks remained standing 
before him smiling down, waiting in silence for a minute or so until he finished 
taking his medicine and could give her his full attention again.

"What made you remark on my hands?" Brooks asked, as Timmy set the empty glass 
down.

"Um," he squirmed a bit in his chair, and offered her the glass, hoping that she 
would take that as an excuse to return to doing the dishes or whatever. For some 
reason, he did not want to stand up in her presence again tonight. He was sick 
of height comparisons. "Well, you always wore gloves before," he concluded.

"Yes I did," Brooks agreed, taking the empty glass from him but giving no hint 
that she was preparing to leave. "Today is different, though."

He didn't take the bait and reply. Still she stood there.

"Don't you agree that today is different, Timmy?" she continued, seeming to 
extend her gaze to indicate his new pansy clothing.

"Oh. Uh. Yeah," Timmy said and felt some shame. His own stupid responses 
reminded him of the stupid blonde girl with the nice ass whom he had seen in the 
women's room earlier that day.

"Today your aunt told me that there would be a lot of changes," Brooks said, 
smiling with self-satisfaction. "And one of those changes is that I don't have 
to wear white maid gloves anymore."

"Oh."

Finally Brooks turned to leave, but as she walked out of the room, her heels 
clicking on the hard floor, she called over her shoulder: "And there might be 
some other changes too." The enigmatic line made Timmy feel anxious. By this 
point, however, he was too exhausted to feel much active fear.

Moments later, he was climbing the spiral staircase to his room. He dramatically 
stripped off his loathsome new clothes, dropped them to the floor, and stepped 
into his personal, luxurious bathroom and shower--one of the better perks of 
living in his aunt's mansion. He started the boiling hot water and soon turned 
the large marble and linoleum shower stall into his own private sauna.

Resting against the wall, he let the steam fill the room, took a deep breath and 
tried to relax. He thought about all that had happened to him that day. His aunt 
dragging him to the mall under spurious pretenses, imposing a new dress-code on 
him--"Similar," he thought, "to how she tricked me into changing my diet." And 
then there were all the women, and girls, who had pinched him: pinched his 
cheeks, pinched his ass, pinched his nose. They treated him like a little child. 
And why not? He had wet himself like a child. He looked like a child, kind of.

Steam had filled the shower stall and the rest of the giant bathroom as well. 
Timmy crouched down on the floor and sat near the place where the hot water was 
falling from the showerhead high above. He breathed in the steam and every now 
and then a stray drop of hot water would sting his naked body. It was not an 
unpleasant sensation. Timmy felt quite at peace with himself, despite the 
thoughts running through his head. He was finally in a place in which he could 
detach from everything and just think about all that had happened. 

He thought about Sarah and how big and tall she was now. She must be like 5'8", 
he figured. He felt like a little twerp in her presence, especially when she 
mashed her strong dancer's body against him. He couldn't believe that she 
invited him to her Sweet Thirteen party. It was absurd. He couldn't actually 
imagine himself attending. That wouldn't really happen; he was sure.

And he thought about Mrs. Thollen, Sarah's mother. "Martha," he corrected 
himself. "She told me to call her Martha." And she invited him over to her house 
when Sarah wasn't there. He actually wanted to do that. Even something as 
mundane as having tea or coffee with that plump, middle-aged busybody appealed 
to him, if only to make himself feel like a sociable adult again. And he 
wouldn't even tell his aunt that he was going to visit her.

His aunt. He didn't know how he felt about Rose. Everything about her was so 
strange and intimidating. He lived under her roof and he was beginning to feel 
like he lived under her rule as well--a rule that was much harsher than one 
would expect. Aside from her astonishing height, everything about Rose Nordegren 
screamed "New Age health nut", not fascist "feminazi". And yet look at what she 
had done to him today. "But look at what she's done FOR me as well," Timmy 
thought. She took him in and gave him so much. "And today she had to wash my 
urine-soaked body," he noted, disgusted with himself.

Sitting naked in his makeshift sauna, the scenario of his earlier "bath" played 
itself out over and over again in Timmy's mind. In the bathroom of the lingerie 
store, his aunt had just lifted his tiny body up like it weighed nothing, and 
she had washed him naked in the sink as if he were a little baby. Timmy began to 
feel a stirring in his loins, so he consciously decided to think of something 
else.

He looked down at his thin arms and legs. Jeez he had gotten tiny. He was always 
on the slim side, but he never had such little chicken arms. 

He finally stood up and pulled himself together, putting his arms across his 
chest and rubbing his shoulders, almost giving himself a "self-hug" so to speak. 
He turned off the hot water and grabbed a towel. The bathroom was still full of 
steam. He couldn't see anything. For a moment, he feared that one of the 
giantesses in his life was going to appear out of nowhere, coming at him through 
the fog, and attack him at his most vulnerable. But, no, he was alone now, and 
he valued his aloneness very, very highly. 

He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped the steam 
away from one of the mirrors. He looked at himself. He didn't look like a young 
boy, but he still had a boyish charm. He noted his and felt good about himself. 
Maybe life wasn't so bad after all. Maybe things would be okay eventually, after 
he could get his life back on track and could get himself together enough to 
move out of his aunt's mansion.

Stepping back into his bedroom, he instantly knew that something was wrong. The 
clothes he had discarded before going into the shower were now gone. He supposed 
that the maid could have taken them, but Brooks had never done that before. 
Going into his room unannounced and taking away his dirty clothes was not part 
of her usual routine. But, he supposed, perhaps such an expansion of her duties 
was part of how "things had changed." It didn't really matter; he would simply 
make sure to lock his bedroom door from now on. And, in a way, he didn't want to 
look at those clothes again today, anyway. So he was glad they had disappeared.

He yawned as he walked over to his closet. He just wanted to put on an old 
reliable pair of boxers and go to bed. Opening the closet door, however, he 
received a shock that caused him to let out a high-pitched yell--a yell that 
might kindly be called "boyish", but could certainly not be called "manly". 

All of his old clothes were gone. No new clothes were in their place, however. 
Not yet, at least.

Timmy turned and examined the rest of his room. In the passing seconds, he 
couldn't find any other notable alterations. Of course, he hadn't brought much 
with him when he moved from the sanitarium into his aunt's mansion, but all of 
his books and magazines were still there. No clothes however. Still naked, he 
put his hands on his hips and turned this way and that, confused about what to 
do. The expression "like a chicken with its head cut off" came to mind as he 
felt totally aimless. Should he put his towel back on and make his way 
downstairs to ask where his clothes went?

Before he had time to think about doing that, he noticed two tall figures in his 
doorway. Aunt Rose and Brooks, of course. His aunt was dressed in her yoga 
workout clothes: a turquoise spaghetti-strap top that (again) showed her midriff 
and her nice but modest cleavage, and tight form-fitting white spandex workout 
short-shorts that hugged her crotch and super-tight buns, revealing her 
unbelievably long tan legs. Brooks, however, was dressed in ripped jeans and a 
leather jacket that was studded with rhinestones; she looked like she was about 
ready to leave the mansion for the night and go back to her apartment. Both 
women had annoyingly whimsical expressions on their faces. They said nothing but 
just gazed down at Timmy with slight smiles, and this annoyed Timmy all the 
more.

He boldly marched right up to them, not caring that he was naked and not caring 
how silly he might have looked, a tiny little male marching up to two very tall 
females like that. His aunt's head nearly touched the high doorframe. Brooks was 
not as tall, but she still stood a good six feet, not counting the 2- or 3-inch 
heels she was wearing, and her shoulders were very wide. It was a scary sight, 
to be confronted by such women, especially when you're a little naked man who 
has just come out of the shower, but Timmy faced them, his frustration giving 
him a bit of courage.

"Where are my clothes?!" he said in a tone that he knew would be considered 
rude, but he no longer cared.

"Brooks took them down to wash them," his aunt calmly replied.

"Not those clothes," Timmy said impatiently. "You know what I mean. My real 
clothes. My own clothes. My old clothes. You know what I mean! Stop playing 
games with me!"

"Brooks has your dressings for the night and she was just returning with me to 
place them on your bed before she left for the evening. That's when we heard 
your horrid scream."

"We thought maybe you hurt yourself and needed help," Brooks added. "But here, 
here are your clothes."

She shoved a fistful of fabric at him, a purple and pink blur. He took what she 
offered and spread it to reveal some fuzzy pink sweatpants and a delicate purple 
negligee.

"I'M NOT WEARING THESE, YOU CRAZY BITCHES!" he screamed and shoved the clothes 
back towards the women. He turned and began to run back--where? There was 
nowhere to go except back into his bathroom, and even in his distress he knew 
how pathetic that would be, to go hiding in the bathroom. He ran to his window, 
looked out at the night for a few pointless seconds, and then turned back around 
in confusion.

The women had advanced further in. His aunt sat on his bed, and Brooks had 
closed the door behind and was walking towards him, holding the pink sweatpants.

"Be a good little boy," Aunt Rose said, disarmingly calm, "and let Brooks dress 
you for bed. Come on now, you're holding her up. She has to get home."

"It's not her job to dress me," Timmy said in a voice much quieter than he would 
have liked it to be, but he was so exhausted and weak.

"Actually, uh, YES," Brooks replied arrogantly and stepped close to him, "IT 
IS."

Timmy shot his aunt a quick glance, as much to say "It is?" as to say "Help me!"

But Aunt Rose just looked on as Brooks the maid began to manhandle Timmy. He put 
his arms up to defend himself, but each twig-like arm fit very easily into one 
of Brooks' giant hands, and there was even room for her to keep carrying the 
clothes as well. Timmy looked helplessly at his little arms held by Brooks' 
mighty hands, her scary metallic purple fingernails dangerously close to his 
delicate skin. She smiled down menacingly at him, and her grip was so strong 
that he knew that should she desire she could easily snap his arms like the tiny 
branches of a sapling. He winced in pain and fear as she dragged him over to his 
bed. He didn't even try to fight back, so scared was he of what she might do to 
him if he resisted.

Brooks effortlessly hoisted Timmy up into the air, let go of his now aching 
forearms, and bounced his little naked body onto the bed. He landed next to the 
long shapely bare thighs of his aunt, who was still sitting there. Disoriented, 
he tried to collect himself, looked up, and suddenly noticed that Brooks' 
leather jacket wasn't zipped, and that she wore no shirt beneath it. It looked 
as though all she was wearing under the jacket was a black leather bra. This 
only further confused Timmy, at the worse possible time.

Both Aunt Rose and Brooks began to lay their hands on him. He flopped this way 
and that, tried to roll himself away, and grunted in frustration.

"Timmy!" his aunt declared authoritatively. "If you continue to behave in such 
an ill-mannered fashion, you will receive sound punishment the like of which 
you've never undergone at the hands of such strict disciplinarian women! We are 
both more than capable!"

"Shut up!" Timmy whined, still trying to struggle away though his aunt had 
placed a firm hand on his back and was holding him face-down into his bed. "Shut 
up! I don't care! I hate you!"

"That is ENOUGH from you! I do not tolerate outbursts such as this! Brooks will 
now discipline you as I have instructed her!"

Timmy suddenly froze as he realized the precarious, hopeless situation that he 
was in, especially now that the "shit was going to hit the fan". He felt two big 
claws grab him--Brooks' hands--and cruelly turn him over in a dangerously harsh 
jerking motion. Before he knew what was happening, Brooks was on top of him, the 
shapely ass of her jeans pressing down on his crotch, and her imperious--but 
still sexy--pug face sneering down at him. For a moment this view crystallized 
itself and the old clich' line "You're beautiful when you're angry" popped into 
Timmy's head, a remembrance which at the moment only further distracted and 
annoyed him. 

The next thing he knew, it seemed as if they had switched places; now Brooks was 
below him and he felt as if he were being lifted upside-down by one of his 
thighs, which Brooks had wrapped one of her hands around. Then he was face-down 
in Brooks' lap. Since she had always been in her maid's outfit before, he never 
noticed that she had such bulging thighs, but there her big thighs were, covered 
by her fashionably trashy ripped acid-wash jeans. Finally he oriented himself 
mentally and realized that Brooks was simply sitting next to Aunt Rose on his 
bedside; he was draped face-down across Brooks' lap and his face had suddenly 
been rammed against the side of his aunt's bare thighs, which were not as 
bulging as Brooks' but were perhaps more shapely. Despite the frenzied 
situation, he noted that his aunt's tanned skin felt nice and smooth and warm 
against his cheek, and momentarily he thought that he'd much rather be draped 
over her lap, if he had to be over anyone's; if he had to be punished, he'd 
rather his aunt punished him. She didn't seem as mean and rough as Brooks. And 
at least Aunt Rose was older than he was; Brooks was a few years younger than 
him, a perception which added to the insult and shame of the whole affair.

"You know what comes next, don't you?" a voice asked. In his alarm, he couldn't 
even tell which female the voice belonged to. He winced and prepared for the 
worse spanking of his life, the first spanking he had received in twenty years.

Instead, Brooks flipped his naked body over. At first he was relieved that he 
wasn't actually going to get a spanking, but instantly a new horror began to 
dawn on him as he instinctively raised his head and noticed that he had 
developed another inappropriate, unwanted hard-on.

"Nnnn--!" he uttered, his thoughts a blur as Brooks' big left hand pressed on 
his chest, holding him down and in place. She then brought her right hand up and 
flashed it in front of his face, smiling down maliciously at him as she flexed 
her hard-edged fingers for him. With her nail polish, they looked like five 
purple-headed snakes, and they promised to prove just as deadly.

Suddenly Brooks shot her right hand down to Timmy's testicles and began to 
squeeze and pinch. Timmy screamed. Brooks laughed, and Aunt Rose gently took one 
of his frightened little hands in her big hands, gently massaging it and 
intoning a low "Shhhhhh" sound.

First Brooks pinched Timmy's ballsack with her thumb and forefinger. Then she 
placed his (inexplicably still hardening) penis in between two of her knuckles 
and squeezed until Timmy ran out of breath screaming. Then she grabbed his 
ballsack with her whole hand and simply crushed it, her nails digging into the 
surrounding flesh. Then she grabbed the tip of Timmy's penis between her thumb, 
fore, and middle fingers, and gave it a sharp, targeted three-pronged squeeze. 
She then gripped Timmy's rigid little penis as if it were a joystick, yanked it 
around a few times, very wildly, and then squeezed it so hard, digging her nails 
in violently, to the point that Timmy was afraid she was going to slash his 
member apart or dissect it from his body. She repeated this series of techniques 
several times through. 

The worst was when she methodically adjusted the length of his penis between her 
thumb and the side of her index finger. "LOOK!" she barked at him, and Timmy 
fearfully tilted his tearstained face up. He observed that Brooks' thumb, with 
its creamy white skin and egg-shaped purple nail, was substantially longer, 
thicker, and just plain bigger than his fully erect little penis. "SEE IT? SEE 
HOW MUCH BIGGER I AM?" Brooks demanded authoritatively. "Y-yeah," Timmy said 
weakly. "GOOD. NOW WATCH!" Between her thumb and the side of her index finger, 
Brooks gave Timmy's little penis an insanely hard, sharp squeeze. Timmy threw 
his head back and screamed louder than he ever suspected he could scream, 
closing his eyes and trying with all his might to hopelessly wiggle out of the 
situation, to no avail. Brooks did not let up on the pressure one bit, and 
indeed she continued to press on further, a sadistic smile creeping ever wider 
across her pretty face, the face of a streetwise modern young woman. The 
underside of Brooks' thumbnail aligned with the tip of Timmy's penis, and she 
took care to apply progressively intense pressure in that exact spot, crushing 
the head of Timmy's penis and mashing it down as far as possible into the side 
of her strong index finger, which caused Timmy the most pain he had ever felt in 
his life.

By the end of it, Timmy had cried and screamed himself hoarse and had no idea 
how much time had passed. The torture was too great. When it was over, he had 
trouble even realizing it, having gotten accustomed to the thinking that there 
was no way he would survive it. He shook nervously, like he had just suffered 
longterm trauma. He was weak as a kitten and shivering with anxiety. He didn't 
realize that he was being dressed for bed until Brooks pulled the waist up on 
his new pink jam-jam bottoms. As Aunt Rose pulled the purple negligee over his 
head and adjusted it he found himself taking great comfort in her continued 
"Shhhhhh" sound. And he hugged her tight after she looked him in the eyes and 
told him "I know, Timmy. I know. It's over now. It will be okay."

He had wrapped his arms around Aunt Rose's shoulders and was instinctively 
moving onto her lap. He still shook neurotically. Meanwhile Brooks had turned on 
his bedside lamp and had turned off the main room light.

"Okay. Okay. It's okay," Aunt Rose said to him, getting up off the bed and 
carrying him in her long arms. He found himself wrapping his legs around her 
chest and gripping her shoulders even tighter, obsessively. He pushed his little 
face against her cheek and was about to kiss it when she told him: "I'm giving 
you back to Brooks now--"

He panicked and began to fuss and cry wordlessly, exactly like a baby.

"NO, TIMMY, HUSH," his aunt said firmly but with no anger. "She's not going to 
hurt you. She's done hurting you."

"Th-th-then what?" Timmy asked meekly, turning in Aunt Rose's grasp to look at 
Brooks, who was holding out her arms for him expectantly. She had taken off her 
jacket and was dressed only in those ripped blue jeans and--just as he 
suspected--a black leather bra. ("What is wrong with these women?" Timmy 
thought, now able to think a bit clearly again.)

"You've had a big day," his aunt said. "A hard day. It had to be done. These are 
just like birth pains. But you've got a LOT of anxiety, Timmy, I know."

"Y-yeah," Timmy said, and shivered one more time.

"Brooks is going to help you relieve some of that, sweetheart, so you can have a 
good night's sleep."

Timmy was confused but docile. His aunt passed his little body over to Brooks, 
and Timmy noted that the younger woman's embrace--her whole body, really--was a 
lot harder than his aunt's was. Brooks held him with one arm and pulled the 
bedsheets down with the other. She calmly sat down on his bed again and placed 
him in her lap.

"Nnnn!" Timmy uttered, beginning to become very fearful again.

"Timmy, hush," Brooks said. She guided her left hand underneath him, crept it 
under his pink jammy pants and moved it down directly beneath his naked butt so 
he was literally sitting in the palm of her big hand. With her right hand, the 
hand that had destroyed him just a few minutes earlier, she approached the front 
of his pants, slid her hand in, and grasped his aching penis, which was still 
somewhat hard--only this time she grasped it much more gently. Timmy moaned 
uncertainly, half in overwhelming nervousness, half in relief.

With her smooth, hard right hand, Brooks fingered Timmy's penis delicately, 
curiously, tapping it rhythmically, rubbing it affectionately, slowly running 
the backside of her deadly nails along its length. Timmy moaned again and 
gyrated his hips a bit.

With her other hand still under his butt, Brooks lifted Timmy up towards her 
mouth. He stretched his head towards hers like a baby bird begging for food from 
its mother. She smiled a big white smile and totally embraced his lips within 
her much bigger mouth, sucking on the front of his face and lapping her tongue 
first against his lips and then forcing it down his throat. Meanwhile she 
continued to play with his penis and he continued to gyrate his hips more 
insistently.

Suddenly, however, he felt that she was withdrawing her right hand from his 
penis and taking it out of his pants. He moaned with dejection and gyrated his 
hips in a bit of a tantrum. She kept his lips locked within hers as she guided 
herself back onto his bed in a smooth, controlled motion. Now she was lying on 
his bed and he was lying facedown on top of her. She stopped sucking his face, 
smiled, gave him one more peck on the lips, and told him: "Little boy, time to 
dry hump."

Timmy moaned again, resigned to something less than what he had begun to hope 
for, but still in anticipation for some release. Through their clothes, he 
humped Brooks' front side with much friction. Brooks had now placed both of her 
hands under the backside of Timmy's pink pants, and she was squeezing Timmy's 
butt and pinching it with her hard fingers, sometimes giving him sharp but 
exciting little pains whenever she happened to pinch a bit of his flesh with 
just her nails.

As orgasm approached, Timmy moaned like a little animal and sloppily kissed 
Brooks' lower neck (which was where his shorter stature had placed his lips; his 
little feet ending at Brooks' knees) until there was spit running down all over. 
As he came in his pants, Brooks' clutched him to her very strongly and raised 
her knees up to better envelop his spasmodic body. She squeezed him in every 
conceivable way as he came.

And then his body seemed to deflate a bit, as he exhaled with enormous relief. 
He breathed deeply again and audibly blew out a stomach-full of air, becoming 
exhausted dead-weight lying atop of the much larger, still alert female form 
below him. Brook tilted her head up a bit and smirked down at the spent male 
whose head happened to be using one of her boobs as a pillow. 

After the all-too-brief ecstasy and the moment of silence afterwards, Brooks 
guided Timmy's body under the covers. Through his pink pants, which now had a 
wet little tent in them, she gave his shrinking cock a final, affectionate 
squeeze in her mighty clawlike grip. This had the effect of smearing the 
ejaculation around; and if Timmy had been more cognizant, the chill, moist 
feeling would have embarrassed him. Then she pulled the covers up and over him, 
gave him a peck on the cheek, said "See ya tomorrow, little guy", collected her 
jacket, tossed her head to the side to get a wisp of her dark hair out of her 
eyes, and finally left the room to go walk the city streets back to her 
apartment.

His aunt looked down at him, said the word "Adorable", turned off his lamp, and 
left the room as well.

Timmy lay there, frozen in silence. Vaguely, he wondered what was going on. He 
had never had so much intimate contact with so many different females, all in 
one day, and yet the nature of the contact seemed to do nothing but challenge 
his male ego and debase his already wounded self-esteem. Twenty-four hours ago, 
if Timmy had been told that in the next day he would have been rubbed against, 
washed, fondled, and masturbated by various females, all of them with sexy faces 
and nice bodies, he would have been overjoyed and would have expected his libido 
and confidence to receive some much-needed shots in the arm. But the events of 
the day had played out in a vastly different manner, and instead of renewed 
confidence he was left with unsettling questions.

Specifically, he wondered why Brooks and Aunt Rose hadn't changed his pants or 
cleaned him off before they tucked him in. Focusing on this one issue, after a 
time, exhausted as he was, he began to think that perhaps they wanted to--not 
exactly shame him--but to leave him soaking in his own sperm as a way of proving 
their dominance over him. Or rather of proving to him that they were dominant 
over him. Maybe that would be a better way of wording it, he thought. When he 
noted that his crotch was wet with his own messy come, did he not have to admit 
the fact of women's dominance over him? For women had taken control of him, 
manipulated him, and put him in this position, with all that it signified. Yes, 
he began to conclude after many minutes had passed, it was something like that; 
there was some logic at work, to train him--

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone in the room. The door had cracked 
open and, despite the darkness, he sensed that a figured had entered and was 
standing over him. In the dim light he could tell that it was his aunt, for the 
shadowy shape was exceptionally tall, slim, and it moved with grace. She wore 
only a white bra and panties--were they not white, he would not have been able 
to make them out. He could not help but admire her body; maybe it was just his 
imagination augmenting all that it could in the darkness, but he was suddenly 
very taken with the outline of the statuesque body he was seeing.

His aunt bent down. "My little man," she said in a low voice.

("She must think I'm sleep," Timmy thought. "So I'll pretend to be. This is... 
kind of weird." But it also, somehow, began to thrill him.)

She rubbed her nose gently against his cheek. She breathed on his ear, blew a 
gentle breath on it, then kissed the ear, then licked it and giggled twice, 
softly. It was the first time he had ever heard his aunt giggle that way.

Timmy was aware that his erection had returned. He was also aware that the front 
of his pajama pants was very sticky, and his penis was probably stuck to his 
pants in a way that would be very painful to separate. He toyed with the idea of 
telling his aunt about this now, asking if she could help him with this 
predicament, but decided not to. He could not help but squirm, however, when he 
felt his aunt set her big hand on top of the covers in the spot directly above 
his groin. She slowly gave that area a long hard stroke.

"I'm going to make you into my nice little BABY," Rose Nordegren said to Timmy, 
unknowingly lighting her nephew's mind on fire. "And then I'm going to give you 
to the world. To prove that I can."

She gave him a long tender kiss directly on the lips before turning and leaving 
the bedroom.

Timmy's mind began to race, but at the same time he felt as if his aunt's lips 
had been laced with a sedative or something, because he coincidently began to 
feel the pull to drift off to sleep. To fight both contrary impulses, he rolled 
over on his stomach. He didn't want to think about his aunt, but he still wanted 
to think to try to set things right in his mind; he didn't want to go to sleep 
yet, because he felt that in doing so he would loose the thread of his thoughts 
forever, and he needed to make a stand now if he was ever going to have a chance 
of winning his life back. 

But on his stomach he felt a renewed growing wetness. His come. He had gleefully 
ejaculated in his pink pants simply because Brooks told him to, and because she 
presented her luscious body for Timmy to dry-hump. As if he were a dog. But he 
couldn't help it then, and he couldn't help it now, as his hands crept down 
beneath him and he began to dry-hump the sheets. But it would be shameful to 
think of Brooks, his torturer, again.

So as he began to masturbate he stopped thinking of Brooks and let a different 
tall figure appear into his mind. An outline. Lithe and thin. So tall. It was 
his Aunt Rose. No one else could be so tall and fit.--But, no, he decided, and 
even though he was halfway sleeping now, halfway dreaming, he willfully forced a 
change in his mental vision. He blurred out his aunt's face--continued to hump 
the sheets, still feeling the wetness of his past ejaculate--but then the face 
of the figure was replaced by... Sarah's face. It was not Sarah as she was now, 
but Sarah as she would be maybe ten years from now, when she was fully grown. He 
imagined her as tall as his Aunt Rose. He imagined her face as so adult, with 
model-like features. The figure in his mind opened her arms to him, and in his 
mind he jumped into them. He threw his arms around this grown-up (grown WAY up) 
Sarah and she put her hands under his butt, holding him up, and kissed him on 
the cheek. He wrapped his legs around her and began to hump her body in mid-air. 

After a few moments, Timmy came again, in total ecstasy, soaking his crotch with 
another round of wet ejaculate. His mind went blank and he fell asleep.


*****

He was awakened the next morning by a knock at his door. Before he could answer 
it, Brooks walked in. She was wearing her maid's outfit again, but it was now 
sleeveless. As Timmy's mind snapped into focus, the first thing he noted was how 
big and solid (but still distinctly feminine) Brooks' biceps were. This was the 
first time he had seen them.

He sat up in bed.

"Sleep good?" Brooks asked, a hint of bad attitude in her voice letting Timmy 
know that their current interaction could go either way for him, depending on 
how cooperative he was going to be.

"Y-yeah," Timmy said, not wanting to rock the boat, with painful memories of 
last night flashing back through his mind.

"Good!" Brooks declared. "Now time to get up."

He noticed that she was carrying a clipboard, some clothes, and a few other 
items that Timmy couldn't make out yet. She set them all down behind her and 
bent over Timmy's bed. He became self-conscious and moved his body under the 
covers in an indistinct manner, making it look like perhaps he was preparing to 
rise but also wanting to just put his head under and disappear.

"Timmy, get up. When I say it's time for you to get up--you get right up. 
Promptly. Not like a scared little baby who doesn't know what he wants to do."

Brooks' remark shamed Timmy. He sunk his head down, crawled out from the covers 
and stood next to her on the floor. He looked down and into the corner of the 
room, not wanting to meet her cold, evaluative gaze.

"Okay, COME on," Brooks said has she put her hands (gloved again!) on Timmy's 
shoulders and guided the spaghetti straps of his negligee over his head. He 
cooperated, lifting his arms up so that she could take the garment off him, 
revealing his bare, thin little chest. Then she turned her attention to Timmy's 
pink pants.

"Do you want to remove them or shall I?" she asked placidly.

Timmy hesitantly brought his small hands up to his waistband and began to pull 
his pants down. Before he had gotten very far, he sensed that his penis was most 
definitely stuck. It had been plastered to the fabric by his dried come.

"Um," he said, and Brooks knew exactly what the problem was.

Brushing aside Timmy's little hands, she moved her big white gloved hands into 
position.

"Okay, think happy thoughts," she said. Timmy closed his eyes. A moment later he 
felt a single second of sharp, excruciating pain as Brooks yanked his pants down 
to the floor with a single thrust, as if she were performing a magic trick. As a 
result, his raw penis bobbed up and down a few times before settling.

"Hm," she said, looking at his dick. "Let's see it. Did I leave any marks or 
booboos?"

Timmy obediently reached down and turned his penis all around so they could 
inspect it. He was surprised that the punishment she'd given him last night 
hadn't left any scarring. Her nails had felt so hard and sharp, and she had dug 
them right in so viciously. There were some marks and shallow gouges in his 
shaft, but amazingly the skin hadn't been pierced. There were a lot of bruises. 
His penis looked beaten and swollen. But the organ did not appear to have been 
as destroyed and decimated as he felt it had been. His sense of manhood was 
evidently more injured than his manhood itself.

"Hm," Brooks said thoughtfully. "Not that bad."

She reached behind her to retrieve a tube of antibiotic ointment.

"This will help soothe you. It's got aloe and menthol in it too."

Timmy's mind, still sleepy, began to process and anticipate what apparently 
about to happen. He still had great reservations about Brooks, and did not like 
her new position as his ersatz governess--but he most definitely and eagerly 
began to anticipate that she would rub that ointment onto his testicles.

Brooks removed her white gloves and he saw the powerful bare hands that had done 
so much to him the previous night. The purple nail-polish had been removed, 
however, and replaced with a shiny black polish that had little silver sparkles 
in it. Timmy began to harden as he imagined those hands methodically working the 
cooling salve deep into his aching dick and nuts. 

She squirted a golfball-sized mound of ointment into her palm and held it out to 
Timmy. Timmy stood on his tiptoes and stretched towards her eagerly and rigidly. 
But she made no further movement and just continued to hold her palm out towards 
Timmy.

She snickered, then said "What? I'm not going to do it for you. Here." She 
thrust her upturned palm towards Timmy again.

With visible disappointment Timmy sunk back down, dropped his shoulders, and 
hesitantly scooped some of the ointment from Brooks' big palm onto his little 
baby hands.

"Rub it in good," she instructed him. He did so, and as Brooks predicted the 
aloe and menthol ingredients had an exhilarating effect on Timmy's wounded 
member.

"That feel good?" Brooks asked.

"Yeah..." he said, silently noting that it would have felt even better if it was 
being administered to him by a young woman like Brooks. Of course, he had a 
raging hard-on by this point.

"I bet it does feel good." She began seemingly to pose for him provocatively. 
She put a hand on her hip and thrust her chest out. She shot him sexy glances. 
She licked her lips hungrily. "Don't forget to rub it into your little ballsack. 
I did quite a number on that too."

Rock hard, he scooped the remaining mass of ointment onto his hands, squatted 
and bent his knees a bit so he could get better access, and like a little monkey 
began rubbing his scrotum as his greasy penis strained upwards toward the 
heavenly figure above him.

"Good job," Brooks said when he was done. "Now go wash your little hands off."

He obeyed, going into his private bathroom. While soaping up, he looked at 
himself in the full-length mirror. He didn't know what was happening to him. His 
usual instincts told him to grab a towel and wrap it around his waist. His 
deeper instincts simply told him to go back into his bedroom and, like a horny 
puppy, just start trying to hump Brooks' legs right then and there. He wanted 
release again.

Instead he simply returned to his bedroom, naked as he left, and saw that Brooks 
had placed a portable scale in his room, a model complete with a tall vertical 
bar meant for measuring height. She began to write and mark the date on her 
clipboard.

"Okay, Timmy," she said in a no-nonsense professional manner, not looking at him 
while she was writing notes. "This is what we have to start doing every month. 
Please step on."

"Um," Timmy said, but slowly and uncertainly stepped on the scale.

He and Brooks both watched the numbers below whirr by.

"One hundred..." Brooks announced, "No, wait... Oh, okay: One hundred pounds... 
and a quarter. One-zero-zero-point-two-five." She noted the figure on her 
clipboard. Only 100.25 lbs.

Timmy had been under the impression that he weighed a good 105 lbs. He thought 
back, though, and couldn't remember the last time he had weighed himself. And, 
besides, he was completely naked right now. Probably when he weighed himself the 
last time he was wearing clothes. And clothes could weigh five pounds, easily. 
So that must be the explanation.

Next Brooks began to adjust the height tab.

"Okay, Timmy. Stand up nice and tall for me."

Timmy hated moments like this. He thought about standing on his tiptoes, but the 
idea came to him too late, and it probably wasn't a good idea to try cheating 
with a girl like Brooks around. She was too indomitable and strict.

"Jeesh," Brooks said dismissively to herself as she finished measuring, fixing 
the horizontal tab so it just touched the very top tip of Timmy's head. "Five 
foot... and three-quarters of an inch."

"What?!" Timmy squawked.

"Five-zero-and-three-slash-four," Brooks recited as she marked down the 
measurement.

"No!" Timmy protested.

"See for yourself," she said.

Timmy stepped back and looked up at the lines on the device. Sure enough, the 
bar only set at 5'0.75". It was actually closer to the 2/3 inch mark, but Brooks 
had read it wrong--or perhaps she had been generous--in saying that it was more 
like 3/4s of an inch. Timmy didn't like this one bit.

"Hey, don't be sad," Brooks said as he stepped off the scale. She crouched down 
to look him in the eye. She actually crouched down so low that she had to look 
up at him. "If you're a good little boy, things will work out all right."

"Yeah..." Timmy said, unsure how to respond because he was unsure what she 
exactly meant. He looked down and away, into the corner again.

"Can I have a kiss?" Brooks asked suddenly, and turned her cheek to face him, 
pointing to a spot on it with her big, black-nailed index finger.

Timmy leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Aw, that's my special boy," Brooks said, and Timmy thought he could detect a 
hint of sarcasm in her voice, but wasn't sure. She stood back up to her full 
height, which Timmy realized was about 11.33 inches higher than his own--and 
that was without her two-inch heels. Meanwhile he was barefoot. ("Too bad boys 
don't wear high heels," Timmy thought morosely. "I could actually use them.")

"Okay, one more thing," Brooks said, turning back to her clipboard and writing 
down a few more notes. Timmy wished he could know what she was writing. She 
looked down again, paused, crouched and set her eyes on his penis. It was still 
quite erect, but not fully. She slowly brought her right hand close to it, 
paused, then tapped the head of his penis with the tip of her index finger, 
making a "Boop!" sound as she did so. Then she stood back up again, wrote down a 
final note and turned to Timmy.

"Okay, that's it for this month," she said with a smile. "Now you can put on 
some nice new clothes and join your aunt for breakfast. It's going to be curds 
and whey for you this morning. Yum."

"Yeah," he said, still unsure of himself. ("Good for a growing boy like me," he 
thought, with annoyance.)

Brooks left, her modest heels clicking on the way out, and he turned to examine 
the clothes she had left on his bed. A pink halter top. Red lacy panties. And a 
white skirt with vertical ribbed folds all around it. He put on the clothes--
What else could he do?--and left his room to go have breakfast.

*****

The next couple weeks passed--unbelievably for Timmy--without any major 
incidents. It helped matters immensely that Timmy neither tried to leave the 
mansion nor was bidden by his aunt to accompany her outside. Despite the changes 
in his dress-code, the fourteen days that followed seemed quite like the first 
three months Timmy had spent with his aunt. He ate the vegetarian food that she 
had selected for him. He still lazed around the house, ambitionless, watching TV 
and reading magazines. Brooks still cooked and cleaned for him, although she did 
treat him in a slightly sterner manner than was proper to a maid. But things 
were relatively normal. Every now and then Aunt Rose, or sometimes Brooks, would 
make a passing remark to "the change" that had been instituted, "the change" 
that Timmy was presumably undergoing, but aside from the assortments of pansy 
clothes that were laid out for him each morning, Timmy was pleased to find an 
utter sameness in his existence.

He had, of course, thought about how he could ever leave the house again, after 
all of his old clothes had been confiscated. He made steps toward solving this 
problem by ordering a new ensemble of clothes online. He ordered some real 
clothes for himself, clothes for a young man; he did not skimp on expenses, 
either. He had some money saved away, and since he didn't pay rent and his aunt 
bought all of his vegetarian cuisine, he felt it was time to splurge. He ordered 
some nice $80 fitted button-up shirts, $100 khaki pants, $90 stylish jeans, $200 
suede-leather boots with zippers on the side, a $50 leather belt, a nice winter 
hat and gloves, a nice winter jacket, and even a tiny container of cologne. He 
took his chances, ordered the clothes and had them shipped right to his aunt's 
mansion. And, as luck would have it, on a certain morning a week or so later, 
his aunt had left for the day and Brooks was busy doing laundry when the 
delivery man dropped the large package off. Timmy hurriedly brought the box up 
to his room, not without difficulty, and hid it under his bed. He didn't know 
when he would work up the courage to leave his aunt's mansion again, but now at 
least he had proper clothes in which to be seen in public.

Later that evening, he tried on the pair of new leather boots--new MENS leather 
boots--and found that they fit him well enough, without him stuffing them with 
tissue paper. For whatever reason, perhaps because his aunt had shamed him so in 
the shoe store a few weeks ago, he consigned himself to order a smaller, more 
appropriate size--albeit the boots themselves had a 1-inch heel. As long as he 
was more than a smidgen over the 5-foot mark--that was the important thing. He 
still wished he was taller, however, and the recent revelation that he was 
actually shorter than he had thought he was stuck in his craw.

He even mentioned this issue to Brooks and his aunt one day, when they were all 
having lunch. (Yes, the maid was allowed to eat with them now, even though she 
ate such large pieces of meat, which Timmy always eyed longingly.) The two women 
were admiring each other's shoes, Brooks' new red pumps with their 3-inch heels, 
and Aunt Rose's new black thigh-highs with their 4.5-inch heels. Timmy 
involuntarily sighed during their discussion. They turned to him and asked what 
the matter was.

"Heh," he said. "Well, it's just that... neither of you need heels. If anyone 
does, it's me. But--" he hurriedly added, "that's not an invitation to force me 
into high heels or platforms!"

Both Brooks and Aunt Rose smiled at him good-naturedly. They all had a bit of a 
laugh together, Timmy included. His aunt then gave a brief speech about how she 
simply liked the style of high heels and how they made her feel elegant and 
confident. Brooks agreed with her sentiments, then asked Timmy, in a serious 
manner, "Your height really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Well," Timmy began. "Yeah, I guess it does. Between the two of you I feel... 
just like I'm nothing. And when you're in heels like that, it's just like it 
adds insult to injury."

This provoked an "Awww!" from both women. Aunt Rose said she couldn't believe 
how insensitive they were being. Timmy quickly told her not to worry about it, 
that it wasn't her fault, and that he didn't seriously think their wearing heels 
around him was a deliberate dig. At this, Brooks and his aunt exchanged a smile.

The conversation concluded when his aunt pushed her empty plate away from her, 
stood up, and walked away while informing Timmy: "Well, if you ever would like 
to go for some heels to improve your height, just let me know. The stores we got 
your new wardrobe from do sell heels for little people--including little boys."

Nothing more was said on the subject, and in the following days Aunt Rose and 
Brooks both continued to clomp around the mansion in their fabulous heels. It 
did not annoy or intimidate Timmmy TOO much.

Meanwhile, though he hid it, and though no other physical interactions had 
occurred between them, Timmy was developing quite a crush on Brooks. Several 
times a day he remembered the night in which he punished him and then allowed 
him to dry-hump her. He replayed the events over and over in his mind, 
especially when he masturbated in his room or in the shower.

When Brooks got a new haircut--even shorter--Timmy did everything he could to 
compliment her on it and let her know how good she looked. It had been very long 
since Timmy had fawned over a girl this way, but all of his efforts went for 
naught. Brooks would still have conversations with him, but whenever his 
utterances approached flirtation territory, Brooks seemed to put up a wall, 
mutter a "Thanks" in exchange for Timmy's compliment, and then proceed to return 
to "maid" mode, and exit the room with a dirty dish or something.

One night, very late, when he was sure that his aunt was sleeping and that 
Brooks had left to return to her apartment, Timmy snuck into the lounge room 
that was kept for Brooks in the mansion. This was where she rested and hung out 
during the day, when she didn't have any housekeeping duties to perform. There 
was a cot in the room, but as far as he knew Brooks never spent the night here. 
Maybe she had napped in it a few times. Timmy, dressed only in his little pink 
silk panties, imagined Brooks' gigantic, athletic form curled up on the 
relatively small cot before him. There was also a couch, a desk, a coffee table 
and a small refrigerator in the room. Timmy hurriedly checked the fridge. He was 
disappointed to find that it contained nothing that he could get away with 
stealing. Sure enough, there were several meat products here, but the package of 
microwavable chicken wings had not yet been opened. And there was a big stick of 
beef jerky, but only one of them. Brooks would know if anything was missing, and 
she knew that he was the only one in the house who would have had deigned to eat 
meat. There was a half-full 20 oz. bottle of Pepsi there, however. Timmy twisted 
the cap off, put it up to his lips and licked and sucked the mouth of the 
bottle, imagining how Brooks' big mouth had been around the same piece of 
plastic. He took a small swig of soda, hoping that perhaps some of her saliva 
was in it, and then put the bottle back.

On the desk he found a framed picture of what looked to be Brooks, her mother 
and father. Her mother was quite a bit shorter than she was, though the facial 
resemblance was there; so her mother was not unattractive. Brooks' father wore 
sunglasses and a baseball cap, and looked to be around 5'8". So the daughter was 
the tallest one in the family, taller than her two parents, one on either side 
of her in the picture. Timmy wondered what it was like when Brooks outgrew her 
parents. She probably outgrew her mother when she was in grade school. Her 
father she probably outgrew when she was in junior high, or high school at the 
latest. Timmy imagined a teenage Brooks Frazer, feeling her oats and yearning to 
run the streets at night and claim whatever sort of fun she might get into; no 
way could her smaller parents have held her back. Timmy wondered how a daughter 
could grow so much taller than both her parents. But it was not an unusual 
occurrence; it was happening fairly often now. Boys had always often outgrew 
both their parents; and as often as not girls would outgrow their mothers. But 
now for the first time in history, a not insubstantial percent of girls were 
outgrowing their dads.

Timmy held the framed picture and noticed that when it was taken Brooks' dark 
hair was much longer. It was long and wavy. Timmy instinctively liked it better 
that way. He liked the incredibly short haircut she had now, too, even though he 
had grown up thinking of girls with short haircuts as "dykes". But there was 
something about a female with such long hair. So few women let their hair grow 
long anymore. Things were changing, styles were changing and women were changing 
with them. He was insanely attracted to the Brooks he got to see every in her 
maid costume, but just for a moment he wished that he could have known the 
younger Brooks as she appeared in the picture, for in her earlier days Brooks 
seemed more conventionally feminine in a way that made Timmy seem safe and 
secure in his masculinity.

He had developed a raging hard-on, however, and he needed to do something about 
it. He grabbed some tissues from the desk, set the framed photo on the side of 
the cot, got down on the sheets, and began to masturbate away, imagining again 
that Brooks' body had once slept in this very spot. He looked at the photograph 
as he wanked. Would he ever really get to have sex with her? He sure wanted to. 
Would he ever really get to have sex with anyone again? He came while focusing 
on Brooks' lips, which in this picture were drawn up into a twisted, sneering 
smile and were painted a dark purple.

*****

Two Sundays after getting the invitation, Timmy decided to take Martha Thollen 
up on her offer. He wanted to visit the woman. He would dress in his new 
clothes, the MENS clothes that he had ordered and hidden under his bed, and he 
would sneak out of the house when Brooks wasn't looking and when his aunt wasn't 
around, and he would go to the Thollen's house and visit Martha.

The idea excited him. Even though he saw two somewhat younger, much taller, 
sexier women every day, he still liked the idea of seeing Martha. Especially if 
he could do it, well, as a man.

He knew this was against his aunt's wishes. And that, actually, excited him all 
the more.

On Sunday afternoon he snuck a portable phone into his room (since he didn't 
have a cellphone) and dialed the Thollen's number. He hoped to God that little 
Sarah wouldn't answer. He had almost forgotten about her. One of the reasons he 
wanted to go to see Martha was to finesse his way out of having to attend 
Sarah's birthday party, which was just in a few weeks now.

"Hello?" a female voice answered. It was Martha.

"H-i!" his voice was too loud and it cracked a bit. But he couldn't help it--he 
was excited. "Um, h-hi, this is Timmy."

"...Timmy! How delightful for you to call!" 

It actually warmed his heart, how Mrs. Thollen carried on. The pretentious 
traits that sometimes annoyed him about his aunt, similar things had always 
amused him when they came from Mrs. Thollen.

"Oh, yeah, well--"

"Sarah and I were just talking about you the other day! She is very much excited 
for you to attend her Sweet Thirteen party!"

"Uh, yeah, that's great, um--" He didn't want to get into this now. He didn't 
want to disappoint Martha before he had even been able to pay her a social call 
and get out of his aunt's house for once.

"But I hope you won't wait till then to grace me with that private visit you 
promised me!"

"Yeah! Um, that's actually what I was calling about," Timmy said. Mrs Thollen 
had done his work for him. He didn't even have to ask. She was anxious for him 
to visit her. On a lark, Timmy hoped she was anxious for something more.

"We-e-ell..." Martha mused. "I sup-POSE I might let you visit me tomorrow, in 
the afternoon, say?"

"That sounds good!" Timmy said happily.

"Sarah will be gone at school and then at ballet practice, and we'll have the 
house to ourselves. For grown-up talk."

"That sounds great," Timmy repeated.

"O-kay!" Martha Thollen's voice said brightly. "So I'll see you tomorrow, around 
2:45, say?"

"Yes, yes, sounds good," Timmy said, trying to contain his excitement. 

But if you would have told him, a year or even a month ago, that he would be so 
excited about visiting one of his parents' old friends, a middle-aged woman whom 
he had never considered particularly attractive, or particularly interesting 
(although he supposed she wasn't THAT bad), he would not have believed it. How 
did he ever get into this lowly position where such a social call could have 
become so looked-forward-to, as if it could in someway be his salvation? And 
yet, there he was.

*****

It wasn't difficult for Timmy to escape his aunt's mansion. He simply walked out 
the door. His aunt--as he had predicated--had left for the afternoon. She was 
going to have lunch with whatever ritzy society people she wanted to impress 
this time, and then she was going on another shopping expedition to purchase 
some more modern "art". She would be gone until the evening. And Brooks was busy 
cleaning the pool, the patio, and subsequently she had told his aunt that she 
was going to lie in the sun, just as his aunt did sometimes, even though it was 

still winter. Momentarily Timmy did think of cancelling his visit. After all, 
the chance to see Brooks in a bikini (if she was going to wear a bikini and not 
just sun herself in her maid's outfit) was very appetizing. There would be other 
opportunities, however, he was sure of it. And taking into account the slightly 
chill manner in which Brooks had been treating him as of late, she might not 
consent to sun herself in his presence anyway. So he closed the door of his 
room, and hoped that would be enough to make it look like he was in there and 
did not wish to be disturbed. That in and of itself meant nothing. But he had 
hid in his room like that before, many afternoons for hours on end, and neither 
his aunt nor the maid had been the wiser.

He got a good night's sleep before the big day, and in the morning he 
scrutinized his face in the bathroom mirror. He had planned to shave, but upon 
reflection saw that he didn't really need to. It had been almost a week since he 
had last shaved, and he had assumed that on this Sunday he'd be showing more 
stubble than he liked. But, strangely, he didn't have all that much facial hair 
growth. Still, he decided to give himself a fresh shave for the occasion.

After lunch he splash some of his new cologne on, put on his new clothes, looked 
in the mirror, considered himself "dashing", and dashed out the door carrying a 
backpack with some of his pansy clothes in it, which he hid in the hedges 
outside his aunt's mansion. On the way back, once he had returned to his aunt's 
grounds, he planned to change back into the femmy clothes that he was expected 
to wear. There was no way of telling whether or not he could get back to his 
room without someone seeing him, so, though he hated to take the pansy clothes 
with him, he thought it was a good precaution. 

It was a chillingly cold January day, and quite windy. He took the bus to the 
Thollen's house. Along the way, he simply enjoyed being in society again, 
especially since he was dressed normally. This was the first time he had been 
out and about in two weeks, and it was also the first time he had worn normal 
clothes again. 

He was elated. From a street vendor he purchased a dozen pink roses for Martha, 
remembering that pink was her favorite color and that roses were her favorite 
flower. This wasn't exactly a "date" that he was going on--he was sure that Mrs. 
Thollen didn't view it as such, either--but he thought the gesture couldn't 
hurt.

He was in a great mood and was feeling really confident. Whatever would or 
wouldn't happen, he was ready and willing for any and all of it. It just felt so 
good for him to be out in society again, dressed as a grown man and away from 
the watchful eyes of his aunt and the bullying maid. Finally, he felt like he 
was in a position of at least moderate power over his own life. But he rang the 
Thollens' doorbell and a second later, after the door opened, he found himself 
staring directly into a gigantic pair of breasts wrapped in a fuzzy red sweater. 
The shock instantly sapped away a good deal of his confidence, at least 
temporarily.

He instinctively stepped back, looked up, then down, then up again. It was 
indeed Martha who stood before him and, no, she wasn't wearing platform heels, 
nor was the doorstep all that high off the ground. He stood there, dumbstruck, 
his mouth gaping at the smiling figure before him. Martha was dressed in what 
seemed like a makeshift Santa outfit. She wore a Santa hat, under which her 
toothy grin beamed down at him ("Like a cracked Mad Hatter grin," Timmy 
thought.) Her shoulder-length dirty blonde hair contrasted nicely with her red 
sweater, which was so tight that her jutting boobs looked more like a thick 
shelf. Beneath the red sweater she wore a matching red skirt with white trim at 
the bottom. Between the skirt and sweater was a wide black belt with a big 
square buckle. She also wore what seemed to be green leggings, and on her feet 
were nice black leather boots with modest but chunky two-inch heels.

"Timmy! COME IN!" Martha Thollen said, evidently elated.

He followed her through the doorway and stood in the Thollens' warm entryway. He 
had forgotten how cold it was outside and now he began to be enveloped in nice 
heat that, he feared, might soon turn oppressive, especially if he became 
socially uncomfortable. But he forcefully put those nervous thoughts out of his 
mind, and handed Martha the pink roses he had brought.

"For me?" she said, taking them with one hand. "Oh you little dear!" She snaked 
her other hand around Timmy and with her forearm she hooked him towards her, 
into a hug. His face mashed against the side of a boob. It was a noticeably long 
embrace. A few seconds in, Timmy thought to bring his arms up to hug Martha 
back; he couldn't see anything, but his hands naturally seemed to find their way 
to Martha's buttocks. They felt firmer than he thought they'd feel, even through 
her skirt and layers; but most of all he was impressed by their size. He 
couldn't exactly wrap his arms around her; each respective hand only reached the 
midway point of her ballooning buttocks. He had always considered Martha Thollen 
to be a "fat-bottomed lady"; her body-type wasn't his favorite, but he had begun 
to think that he definitely could get used to it. His face immersed in her 
bosom, he began to feel smothered. "What if I can't breathe?" he wondered. "She 
really could kill me this way if she wanted. Heh." But no sooner had the thought 
crossed his mind than Martha let him go. He took a few steps backwards to steady 
himself and catch his breath.

"Let me put these in a vase," Martha said and walked away, her still-smiling 
vision fixated on the roses.

"Damn," Timmy thought. "She's still so... cracked or something. Like she doesn't 
quite know how she's acting but is just so... over-socialized or something. 
Still, wow, what an outfit she's wearing. She's crazy for wearing something like 
that... but I like it."

His eyes wandered and he took note of all of the framed pictures on the entryway 
wall. He had seen most of them before. He remembered this house well and it 
hadn't changed much since he last saw it some years ago when he had been hired 
to babysit Sarah.

He suddenly saw some tiny penciled markings on the corner of a wall. A height 
chart. Sarah's height chart. He instinctively honed in on the highest mark. He 
was afraid, but he had to know how exactly tall she was. Way up, next to the 
topmost horizontal pencil mark it read: "Sarah age 12 yrs. & 11.5 mos. ' 
5'9.6"!" This chilled him. "She's over five-nine!" he exclaimed silently in his 
mind. "And, the date--her birthday's in just two weeks, so--she must've just 
marked that very recently. And it's so like Sarah to write something like that, 
with all of the 'point' numbers. I just saw her two weeks ago, though--she 
didn't look five-nine then! Tall, yes, but--wow, five-nine. Over five-nine. 
Closer to five-ten!" He squirmed nervously and began to really fear the idea of 
having to attend this young girl's birthday party. He had to figure out a way of 
getting out of that, but at the moment he was simply locked in a state of 
dreadful apprehension.

Martha had returned without his realizing it. He was still gazing up at the 
height chart when she silently came up behind him and placed her hands gently on 
his shoulders. He jumped with a shock, quickly turned around and faced her, or 
rather faced the upper part of her chest. Martha giggled and again placed her 
hands--which were actually relatively small compared to the rest of her body, 
and had nice clean, close-cropped nails--on his shoulders.

"Ah, a little jumpy?" she mused rhetorically. "Yes, Sarah has sure shot up in 
height, hasn't she?"

"Y-yeah," Timmy said, unsure of where this was going and not wanting to discuss 
Martha's daughter right now. "You, um, you seem taller than I remember too," he 
offered.

"Hm. Yes. Well," Martha said coyly. "I'll tell you about that in a little bit. 
First of all"--she stepped back--"What do you think of my Santa outfit?" She 
smiled her crackpot smile again and raised one of her hands up to her Santa hat, 
to hold the white ball vertically upwards.

"You look great," Timmy said. "I was shocked, I mean..."

"I know that Christmas is passed. And, we're Jewish anyway. But we still 
celebrate Christmas for the presents and the festivities."

("Yup," Timmy thought. "Same Mrs. Thollen. If it involves buying things, eating 
sweets, and making a big public deal of something--she's there. And I know for a 
fact that she's only half-Jewish, at most, and doesn't practice any religion. 
But calling herself Jewish is just another social marker for her to revel in. 
She can be such a busybody. But, her body...")

"So," she continued. "I thought I might do the best I could and dress up like 
Santa and surprise you. Now follow me in and let's sit down and have a chat. 
Because we're long overdue."

Timmy followed her. He was glad that she didn't make him take her hand. He 
remembered all of the long conversations he had had with Mrs. Thollen during the 
era when he would babysit Sarah. Mrs. Thollen would return home from a cocktail 
party somewhere, would be somewhat tipsy (though not shamefully so) and would 
insist that he stay an extra 30 to 60 minutes. Sarah would have been in bed by 
then, usually, and Mrs. Thollen would ask Timmy all about his hopes for the 
future and what he wanted to do after college.  She also engaged him on the 
topics of art, literature, and politics. Timmy always thought that Martha's 
views were predictable and silly in a way that was distinctively feminine--in 
his somewhat prejudiced opinion, anyway--but still he couldn't say that he 
didn't enjoy discussing serious matters with an adult woman. He had never 
thought of her sexually, but, at the moment, watching her big hips and bigger 
buttocks sway back and forth as she walked into her den, his thoughts eagerly 
turned in that direction.

"I've taken the liberty of pouring us some wine," she said as they passed a 
counter on which two glasses stood. Timmy took a glass when Martha's pretty pale 
hand offered it to him. And he stared at the dark liquid monotonously as Martha 
went on an altogether too long monologue about what sort of wine it was, how she 
learned about it, how she acquired it, and what she thought of all of the snobs 
and shopkeepers who had anything to do with her knowledge and acquisition of 
this particular bottle of wine. Timmy didn't care about wine, but he'd drink it. 
Wine in the afternoon with a lonely spinster dressed as Santa Claus (without the 
beard, thankfully) and who happened to have a great--and great big--ass. Sure, 
he'd indulge as much as fate would allow his afternoon. Why not.

"But I'm probably boring you," Martha said--the first words of hers he had paid 
attention to in a few minutes. "Here, let's drink up." She held her glass aloft 
and began to make a toast, or at least tried to. "To..." she began. "To...", but 

the words weren't coming to her.

"To lovely Jewish women who dress up like Mrs. Claus," Timmy offered, taking a 
chance.

She laughed. "And to the boys who visit them on cold wintry afternoons!" She 
clinked her glass with his and they drank up.

Still holding him up at the counter where the wine was, Martha immediately 
launched into a verbal interrogation of Timmy. Where had he been? What had he 
been doing with his life? She was sorry about his parents dying. She was very 
sorry and had thought of him so much. Was he doing okay? Did he like his aunt? 
Did he like living with her? Did he know her all that well beforehand? Where had 
she come from? Was he thinking of going back to college ever? Did he know how 
smart she always thought he was? Did he mind her saying that she thought he 
should do more with his life?

Amazingly, this conversation did not annoy Timmy in the slightest. He was 
actually glad to talk about these things with someone. These were topics and 
questions that Timmy had long felt much anxiety about, but in truth the answers 
to them were rather simple. Even if he didn't know where he was going next in 
life, or when he was going, still he could feel much comfort in giving an 
account of his recent status.

The minutes flew by and Martha refilled their wine glasses a second and a third 
time. Absentmindedly, Timmy began to lean against the counter. Though he was 
small and weighed little, he could hold his alcohol quite well. So he wasn't 
drunk or anywhere near it, but he was quite relaxed.

"Oh poo," Martha said, finding that the bottle of wine was empty. "Well I 
suppose we've had enough for the moment anyway. And--look at this, how rude of 
me--I've kept you standing all this time! Come this way, please, Timmy, and 
let's sit down."

"Oh, okay," Timmy said, following her--and she DID grab his hand this time. "But 
I've been fine standing, Mrs. Thollen, so don't worry about not--"

By this time she had led him toward a corner of the den, right next to a roaring 
fireplace. There was only one chair, however: a big overstuffed leather 
recliner.

"Um, where will you sit?" Timmy asked, as Martha paused.

"Why, in the chair," she responded, looking down at him with amusement.

"And where do you want me to...?"

Suddenly Martha walked over and sat down with a dramatic, exhausted sigh. She 
smiled at Timmy--even sitting she was almost eye-level with him--then patted her 
thighs with the green tights on them.

"Come sit on Santa's lap, little boy, and tell her just what you want." 

Timmy was embarrassed, but his dick sprang to attention. 

"Unless," she added, "you'd prefer we switch places so I can sit on your lap. 
But I don't think that would work as well, since your teensy boy body might get 
lost under my bottom."

He furtively crept over and pulled himself onto Martha's lap, unsure what to 
say.

"Now," Martha began, looking down at him in an almost motherly fashion. "First 
thing's first. A few moments ago you called me a naughty name."

"I-I did?" Timmy asked. He suddenly hoped that this lapsitting session wasn't 
going to turn into a spanking session.

"Yes. You called me 'Mrs.', 'Mrs. Thollen.'. That's not what you call me 
anymore. You know that."

"Oh, r-right," Timmy said. "M-Martha. I call you Martha now."

"Yes!" she said, and snuggled him close to her, the big red "shelf" of boobs 
covering Timmy's torso, its expanse reaching down to his crotch as he sat 
sideways on her lap.

("Should I start trying to make out with her?" he asked himself. "Should I start 
playing with her sweater? With anyone else, I'd know for sure that she wanted me 
to go for it. But Mrs. Thollen is so cracked. She always kind of treats people 
as if we were all precocious children or something--herself included. She kinda 
acts like a precocious child herself. No wonder Sarah has acted the way she 
always has--I... I'm not sure what to do here.")

"There is a rule for sitting on my lap, however," Mrs. Thollen declared in a 
mock-serious tone.

"W-what?" Timmy asked hesitantly. He hoped the rule was that he had to help her 
take off her sweater so he could start sucking her big basketball tits.

"You must take off your shoes or boots," she replied.

"Oh, o-okay."

Timmy reached down and undid his expensive new boots. He'd be losing an inch of 
height now. He noted that she had left her boots on. ("Not fair," he thought. 
"But, then again, everything involving these women nowadays isn't fair. They 
just dictate the rules as they want and we--or at least *I*--have to obey.")

"That's a good boy," she said after his second boot had dropped unceremoniously 
to the carpet below. Then she promptly brought her head down next to his and 
gave him a peck on the cheek. This confused him but did instantly put him in a 
better mood. Her cheek felt soft against his. He wondered why she didn't just 
kiss him on the lips already, assuming she wanted this to go farther.

"Now," she said, folding him sideways across her lap, putting one of her arms 
against his head and putting the other one under his butt, easily folding his 
docile body up into a ball. He felt the size and some of the weight of her 
breasts against the length of his balled-up little body. "Now let's get to know 
each other better."

Strangely, this line didn't lead to any further action from Martha. She just 
beamed down at him, holding him in her arms in silence. The fireplace crackled 
away and Timmy felt the heat.

He said, "Um... what now?"

A moment of silence and then she calmly said, "I believe you had a query 
earlier? About... my body changes?"

"Oh. Yeah. Um. What happened?"

"You probably remember me as somewhat smaller."

"Y-yeah. I, uh... Even when I saw you a few weeks ago you didn't seem quite 
as..."

"Well," Martha noted quietly. "I had my big fluffy coat on then. But, yes. I 
have changed a little bit in the last few weeks as well."

"What, um, happened?"

Martha smiled. "I've gotten in better shape, if I do say so myself."

"Yeah. Um. How?"

Martha repositioned his body so that he was sitting sideways on her lap again, 
his little socked feet dangling off the floor. She fished around in a little 
pocket on her skirt and pulled out a handful of pills.

"I take these," she said.

Timmy was astounded. "I do too! I recognize those! My aunt--Oh, wow."

Martha smiled at him and put the pills away. "Yesh, yesh," she muttered, in a 
babyish voice.

"Wow," Timmy continued. "And they did THIS for you?" He motioned with his hands 
to indicate her whole body, but one of his eagerly spreading hands inadvertently 
brushed roughly against her boobs. "Oh, I'm sorry, um--"

"It's okay," Martha said dismissively. "But, yes, these drugs are a wonder."

"That's-that's great. I-I've been actually kind of nervous about taking them, 
because my aunt gave them to me, to help me to, um, to help me be healthier. But 
I've actually lost some weight and--"

"Yes I did too at first," Martha quickly replied. "It happens to some people, to 
varying degrees, I'm told."

"Well how long were you on them before, uh, you started to grow?"

"It's hard to say," Martha mused. "But it's different for everyone. I'm sure 
you'll start to see a turnaround soon."

She smiled and bounced him once on her knee.

"Yeah, I hope so," Timmy said, looking away.

"It has to burn away all of the bad cells in the body before it can rebuild new 
ones." Martha looked at him intently.

"Yeah. My aunt told me something about that."

She continued to look at him, a quizzical expression on her face.

"Um," Timmy continued, so as to break the silence. "How big are you now? H-how 
tall, I mean?"

"Ah," Martha mused, "clever boy not to ask a woman's weight. Yesh... Timmy, I am 
a hair over five-eight."

"Wow," Timmy said. "That's much bigger than you--"

"Yesh," she interrupted. "I used to be about your height, if I remember. A 
little shorter, I think, actually. Though I was perhaps plumper than you in a 
few places." She squeezed him a bit. "But now I am somewhat bigger than you 
everywhere, in every way, aren't I?"

"Y-yeah. You look nice."

"Fenk yew," Martha added quietly in a babyish voice.

For a moment Timmy began to speculate about how tall those same pills might 
eventually make him, if they had already made Mrs. Thollen over 5'8". He was 
excited and happy, but--"Wow, she's over five-eight. It is kind of scary to see 
her like this, so much bigger than me now. And, she looks great, really 
voluptuous, but she's got to weigh about twice what I weigh... I don't really 
know what to think about this, especially with how she's acting.")

Suddenly Martha spun him around to face her. He sat on her lap with her boobs 
spilling into his chest, and with one of his legs on either side of her.

"Would you like a horsy ride?" she asked.

Stunned, he managed to squeak out an "O-okay."

She positioned him on her hip and began to--for whatever reason--pull down her 
green tights.

"Do you realize that these used to be my old sweat pants?" she said, starting to 
chatter on as she sometimes had a tendency to do. "They were once quite loose on 
me, but now they fit me like tights or leggings. I didn't have any other green 
bottoms, and I needed green for Christmas colors for my Santa costume. So, I 
decided to wear these as tights. And they are quite tight on my body now. Not 
uncomfortably so, but still..." She stopped and turned to him after her 
sweatpants had been pulled down, exposing her bare thighs beneath her red skirt. 
"I thought you would like a horsy ride better if it was bareback."

She placed him, facing her, on her right thigh and began to bounce him up and 
down. She smiled at him and he instinctively put his hands down around her 
thighs to balance himself. Wow did they feel big and solid. Large and curvy, not 
particularly muscular but definitely not "fat". He thought that each of her 
thighs were probably bigger around than his waist. It made him feel small.

"Would you like to be bare-bottomed as well?" Martha asked.

Timmy nodded and quickly shot his hands up to undo his belt and pants. But 
Martha brought her hands down, one to steady him on his shoulder, the other to 
put over his own hands, to stop them.

"I'll do it," she said. "You just hold on to the horsy so you don't fall and 
hurt yourself. That wouldn't be very good, would it? Nooo..."

He put his hands back on her thigh. It was so weird that she was talking to him 
like he was a baby. He wouldn't have accepted that in many situations, and he 
resented it a bit even now. But at the moment it wasn't all that important to 
him.

"Hm," she noted and paused, as if talking to herself or to no one in particular, 
"I think I like being bigger than men."

When Martha had undone his belt and pants, she swiftly held him up with one hand 
and quickly dropped his drawers with the other hand, taking his underwear along 
too, then plopped him back down on her big smooth thigh.

His nakedness, particularly his bare balls, felt so good resting against her 
supple thighs. Her thighs felt warm to him, and the sensation against his cold 
testicles was amazing. Before ten seconds had passed, his erection was rising 
before him and pointing right at Martha's smiling face above.

"Is that for me?" She asked him. 

"YES," he said, exhaling and surrendering himself.

"Awwww..." she replied. "Little boy has a present for Mrs. Claus..."

He squirmed and bucked. She began to reach towards him with her smooth pale 
hands, which he anticipated feverishly.

She raised him high with her knee, then clutched his balls with one hand as she 
simultaneously clutched his penis with the other. As soon as he felt his much-
anticipated touch, he simply ejaculated before Martha could even rub him once. 
He couldn't help it. He moaned and shot a huge load upwards which hit Martha 
right on her very cute (though rather large) nose. Secondary ejaculations hit 
Martha's chin and her red sweater, dribbling down in thick white cream.

Martha roared with laughter. Timmy was embarrassed and disappointed. He 
continued to bounce up and down on her knee as she shook--not unlike a bowl full 
of jelly--until the laughter got out of her system. Then she wiped happy tears 
from her eyes and examined a sullen Timmy.

"Oh don't worry!" she exclaimed. "We still have plenty of time! Sarah won't be 
home for a few hours. Now... let me see here. I have to change, and--" She 
noticed some come still on the tip of Timmy's declining member. "Let's just 
clean that off quick."

She lifted him upwards and leaned over a bit so that his penis poked her in the 
boob, which dabbed the remaining come onto her already soiled red sweater. Then 
she picked him up and guided him down to the floor.

He stood without his boots on now and faced her seemingly-even-bigger body as 
she got up, took off her Santa hat, and stripped off her sweater, turning it 
inside-out in the process. He noticed that she was wearing an extremely elegant, 
extremely large, pinkish red bra with all sorts of frills and intricate lace. 
Her cleavage was immense and yet her boobs did not sag all that much. He 
strained towards her and gyrated in place. He couldn't help it; he was so turned 
on by her right now.

Martha chuckled at him and then playfully pushed him away with a casual hand 
placed on his chest. She didn't mean to be rough, but Timmy nearly fell over. 
("Damn I'm light and weak," he thought. "But at least it seems like I'm going to 
be getting some more action.")

Martha pulled her green bottoms back up but then unbuckled her belt and took off 
her skirt. So she stood in front of little Timmy wearing only her bra, green 
tights and black chunky boots. He wanted her much bigger body; it was indeed so 
voluptuous. Even though he had been living with two extremely fit amazons, 
neither Brooks nor Aunt Rose had boobs or buttocks as big as Martha's. Make of 
it what you will, but right now Timmy wanted nothing so much as big breasts and 
big shapely ass-cheeks. And no one could deliver quantity in those two areas 
like Martha could. At the moment, her curvy form seemed to be the peak feminine 
ideal.

"Imagine if someone walked in and saw us right now," Martha mused. "What would 
Sarah think? But let's go into the bedroom. For my part, I haven't gotten off 
yet. You still have much work to do for me."

She bent way down and led him through the house by his dick. He was rock hard 
again and wished that she would have simply lain down on the floor anywhere so 
that he might climb upon her and start humping.

When they reached her dark bedroom, she plopped the clothes down and told Timmy, 
"Stay here a moment, dear. I shall return once I wash your spunk from my face. 
Then we shall get down to business."

He watched her big sashaying ass as it left the room, then turned his glance 
downward and thought to remove the rest of his clothes. His eyes slowly adjusted 
to the darkness and he noted that the clock on the wall said 4:17. He really 
hoped to be out of here before Sarah returned home from ballet--and, more 
importantly, before his aunt or Brooks noticed that he was gone.

When Martha reentered the room he had to look even further up to see her smiling 
face. She was wearing her platformed "stripper heels" again, the footwear that 
she had been wearing when Timmy and Rose met her and Sarah in the mall two weeks 
ago. Standing tall in the doorway, she gyrated sexily and rubbed the shiny 
thigh-high pleather boots against each other. She had to stand over six-two in 
them, Timmy thought; there was no way she was this tall two weeks ago. Thinking 
back, the very notion of Martha Thollen, whom he had always considered a rather 
short women, being over six feet tall, even in heels, seemed nothing short of 
incredible to him. He noted with pleasure that she still wore her frilly red bra 
and skin-tight green bottoms.

She tossed something onto the bed but Timmy didn't see what it was. Then she 
walked into the room and backed him up against a wall.

"Hello, little boy," she said, staring way down at him and pressing her crotch 
into Timmy's chest. Her gigantic boobs now hung over Timmy's head like a roof. 
"What do you have to say for yourself, huh?"

Timmy was speechless but found the will to bring his little hands up and start 
feeling Martha's big ass.

She suddenly, violently thrust her crotch outwards, knocking Timmy hard against 
the wall.

"I think it's time to start playing a little rougher!" she said merrily. Then 
she turned around and leaned back, her big ass crushing Timmy against the wall. 
Her buttocks were so big, and his body so small, that they reached from the tip 
of his chin to the tip of his erection. By this time Timmy had become so 
disoriented that the very pressure of Martha's big ass against the wall was the 
only thing holding him upright. He made a pitiable muffled sound as Martha 
gyrated her ass in a circular fashion, which had the effect of picking his body 
off the ground a bit and smearing him hard against the wall.

"I cwould cwush yew like a widdle bug, Timmy!" she said.

When she pulled away, Timmy's tiny body promptly fell in a little pile on the 
floor. Martha giggled a girlish giggle more appropriate for a female far younger 
than her 40 years. She faced Timmy and pulled down her green sweat pants a bit, 
exposing her naked thighs and also a pair of frilly reddish pink panties that 
matched her bra.

"Would you like some more, little boy?" she asked, slowly spinning around and 
showing Timmy her ass-cheeks, the thin line of lingerie in the crack looking so 
little. Still balled up on the floor, he imagined that his body could probably 
fit within one of her ass-cheeks. Martha was not fat, just voluptuous in the 
right places. "Would you like Big Martha to dominate you? Can you think of 
nothing else that you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?"

"Yes, I want more," he said, even though he was exhausted.

"Very well! Then put these on!" She turned to the bed and tossed something at 
him. It turned out to be a pile of little clothes.

"What are these?" Timmy asked, trying to sort through them.

Martha turned on a dim bedside lamp.

"Mrs. Claus needs her elf," she said matter-of-factly. "And since her elf didn't 
bring his elf clothes, elf clothes will be provided for him."

Timmy saw what her angle was. 

"These are Sarah's ballet clothes," he noted. He flopped another item over in 
his hands. It was a pointy green hat that looked like it did belong in an elf 
costume.

"Correction," Martha said, squatting down before the small man, which had an 
unintentionally menacing effect. "These WERE Sarah's ballet clothes. She outgrew 
them a year and a half ago. These were from the days when she was my little 
ballerina. And now you are my little elf. Just as little now as she was then."

Timmy looked at them: little red tights, a white leotard, and two small ballet 
shoes.

"I don't think--"

"Oh, they'll fit you," Martha said, cutting him off. "I've no doubt of that. And 
I've added one modification." She snatched the tights from Timmy and wiggled her 
finger through a hole cut in the crotch area. "For your naughty little Mr. 
Willy. Now put them on your little boy body before I put them on your little boy 
body for you, and I'm in no mood to be gentle."

He complied, trembling a bit but still feeling sexual excitement. He felt new 
shame when he realized that the clothes that Sarah wore when she was eleven did 
in fact fit him perfectly. In retrospect, he was glad he stopped babysitting for 
the Thollens when he did, when Sarah was 9 or 10. He couldn't imagine what it 
would have been like to babysit that girl as she outgrew him.

Finally dressed in his tights, leotard, elf hat and little ballet slippers, he 
turned to face Martha, his erection poking through the hole, begging for 
attention.

She chuckled. "Come here," she said.

He approached her and she moved his little body so that it faced a full-length 
mirror.

"Look how cute," Martha remarked.

The contrast between their bodies astonished him. This was a middle-aged woman 
who had literally been "on his level" a few years ago. Now she towered over him 
by well over a foot, thanks only partly to her audacious platform pleather heels 
with silver spikes on them. Her immense chest burst forth from her very sexy 
pink lace bra, and her green pants were pulled down provocatively to expose her 
big curvy thighs and sexually inviting pink panties. She suddenly added her 
Santa hat to complete the ensemble--a fashion touch which for whatever reason 
nearly made Timmy's penis explode again right then and there. Meanwhile he stood 
with the top of his head barely reaching the bottom of her boobs. And he looked 
like an elf, certainly not like a man in his mid-20s. His thin body looked so 
tiny and insecure next to Martha's curvy, voluptuous fortress of femininity. She 
smiled down at him and he trembled. But still he couldn't pull his eyes away 
from the mirror before him.

From out of nowhere, Martha grabbed a camera and snapped a picture of their 
reflections.

"I'll send you the picture and then you and little Mr. Willy can have fun 
whacking off to it EVERY--SINGLE--NIGHT!" With these last three words she bent 
down and gave Timmy's straining, thobbing penis three sharp tugs. 

Then in one mighty motion she simply tossed Timmy, head over heels, onto her 
bed. He landed on top of something soft, but didn't know what the object was. He 
turned himself around and saw that it was a stuffed animal of Simba, the Lion 
King. Next to it was a small mountain of other stuffed animals, most of them 
Disney characters. For a second he wondered if Martha had actually taken him 
into her daughter's room, but, no, he remembered what Sarah's bedroom looked 
like from when he tucked her in years ago when he was babysitting, and this 
wasn't that room. It was simply the case that Martha slept with stuffed animals. 
What a strange touch, Timmy thought, and then felt Martha's big body pounce upon 
him.

He squealed in discomfort as Martha wrestled with him like a predator playing 
with her prey. She yanked and bent his body in ways that it wasn't supposed to 
bend. She squashed him beneath her curvaceous bulk and shoved his head hard 
against various parts of her body, particularly against her lingerie-covered 
boobs and crotch.

Then she seemed to sit down Indian-style on her bed and flip Timmy's body 
upside-down. He begged her to stop and put his hands on her arms, as if he could 
possibly hold her back. Martha was not muscular, and her arm muscles weren't 
even defined, but they were big meaty arms, not fat but plump in a very feminine 
way, and Timmy could not hold them back in the slightest. Martha bellowed with 
laughter at his feeble little efforts.

"How adorable to watch a tiny elf trying to hold back a force of nature such as 
myself!" Martha said with relish. Then she brought Timmy's upside-down crotch up 
to her mouth and engulfed his swollen member.

She sucked on it so hard that he thought she was going to rip it off. With a 
chaotic, fevered mix of pain and pleasure, he began to ejaculate involuntarily. 
Martha's sucking mouth instantly sped the stream of semen down her throat in 
short order. To Timmy's growing consternation, however, she did not stop sucking 
after he came but instead proceeded to suck even harder. She brought her lips 
out so that they sucked on just the head of Timmy's penis, and then she further 
concentrated her sucking so that it targeted the exact hole of Timmy's dick. The 
sensation was extremely painful, as it attacked the very most sensitive part of 
the male anatomy right after it had just ejaculated and was thus even more 
sensitive. Timmy began to blat, cry and scream.

Finally Martha stopped sucking and brought Timmy's little body down so that he 
could lay on her lap again.

"My my," she teased. "What a little baby. But you have gotten off twice so far, 
and I've not got off once. Is dat anyway tew tweat your pwrospectiv gwirlfwend?"

Timmy didn't like the sound of any of this, not the babyish voice in which 
Martha was talking, and certainly not the intimation that they could perhaps 
become a serious romantic item. Most of the sexual excitement that he had been 
feeling had worn off by now. He just wanted to get his real clothes on, and 
escape.

But Martha was not about to let him go. With her relatively small pale hand, she 
gave Timmy's still-erect dick a long hard painful squeeze.

"Aooooow!" he screamed. 

Martha laughed. She put one hand behind his head and crammed his face down into 
the bed, straining his back in the process. Then she stood up on the bed and set 
one platform heel atop Timmy's back. With this foot she pressed down on Timmy, 
forcing his body even lower against her bed. Then she kicked her legs out and 
simply dropped her whole body atop him, bouncing against the bed as if it were a 
trampoline. She had pulled her green sweatpants back up, and--after the bouncing 
stopped--her tremendously large rear-end came to settle upon Timmy's head. 
Thankfully for him, his face was against the bed, but Martha soon changed that, 
twisting Timmy's body around--almost breaking his neck in the process--and 
positioning his face right against her ass, his nose right in her crack.

The green fabric of her sweatpants became awfully wet and sweaty as she roughly 
rubbed her ass against Timmy's head. He suddenly felt a sharp pain and realized 
that she was again squeezing his poor abused penis with her hands again. He 
screamed but the sound was entirely stifled by the large blubbery expanse that 
was pressed against his head.

He began to rub her ass against his head harder, and he feared that he would 
have a rash all over his face by the time she was done. Martha's big body 
gyrated and squirmed, feeling unstoppable pangs of desire that needed to get 
their way no matter how delicate Timmy's body might be, or how insufficient his 
manhood was at allaying this feminine leviathan.

Finally she let up and raised her ass, but only to pull her sweatpants down. 
Then she repeated the same process with only her elegant pink panties on. This 
was at least less rough against Timmy's face. He still had to fight for air, but 
Martha's naked ass-cheeks felt cool against his hot face, and the scant fabric 
of the panties did not generate anywhere near as much friction as the sweatpants 
had. Still, Martha was getting very horny and her juices began to mix with the 
sweat on her ass. He felt her squeeze his dick and balls again at the same time 
and he felt himself come, though by this time he had lost total control of his 
body and bodily functions.

Next Martha raised herself again and swiftly took off her panties. She plopped 
her now completely naked ass back against Timmy's face and began to gyrate and 
grind harder than ever, forcing his nose further into her ass-crack, and 
beginning to slide her underside further and further against Timmy's face. He 
felt everything from her pussy to the full length of her ass-crack sliding wetly 
against his face. His head and nose being in such a confined area, he started to 
literally drown in her juices, and the smell was beyond description. 

Meanwhile he felt his legs being crushed. Martha had drawn his knees up and was 
squeezing his much smaller limbs in between her own, which made his look brittle 
and severely malnourished.

As Martha roared and moaned; as her loins, ass muscles, and pussy muscles played 
roughly with what felt like Timmy's entire head; and as his penis mustered all 
it could for a fourth ejaculation--Timmy lost consciousness.

*****

When he awoke, he found himself alone, sprawled out on Martha's bed. He was 
naked, or--no, he felt something on him. A giant pair of panties--the big frilly 
pink panties that Martha had been wearing. As if in a show of dominance and 
possession, she had evidently stripped his unconscious body and draped him in 
her own underwear, and--he still had Sarah's old ballet slippers on.

He sat up and looked at himself, his thin little legs sticking out of Martha's 
panties, which were big enough to make a blanket out of. The panties were so 
large and inappropriate for Timmy in a multitude of ways--they seemed only to be 
a way for Martha to say "I OWN YOU". He rubbed his eyes and felt sore all over, 
like his body had been totally destroyed. He actually checked himself but found 
to his surprise that no bones were broken. That in itself was a miracle. She had 
totally squashed him and treated him like a tiny living dildo. "But, really," he 
reflected morosely, "that was the only way the body of someone like me could 
have pleased the body of someone like her."

Suddenly the door opened and Martha burst back in. She was dressed in normal 
clothes now: a full length skirt and a black cardigan.

"Wake up! Sarah's home! You have to go!"

"What?!" Timmy squawked. How long had he been knocked out? And where were his 
clothes?!

"You'll have to sneak out through here," Martha said urgently, almost yanking 
his arm out of its socket as she dragged him out of the room and into a bathroom 
across the hall. "There--go out the window!" she ordered him.

"What?! I can't--Why--Where are my clothes?!"

"Oh crap!" Martha exclaimed. "There's no time--She'll see if I go retrieve them 
from the den.--Here, wait a second!"

Timmy's mind was a blur. It was so weird to see a mother so afraid of her 
daughter finding out about something sexual that she (the mother) did. Usually 
it was the other way around. But Timmy certainly didn't want to face Sarah, and 
he didn't like the idea of Sarah knowing anything about his visit to Martha. 
And, despite the current uproar, Timmy found a moment to curse himself for not 
having been able to tell Martha that he wasn't going to attend Sarah's birthday 
party.

Martha returned a few seconds later and held out the same old leotard and tights 
that Timmy had been wearing while they had sex. "Here. Just wear these," she 
said, almost whispering now. Sarah must be close by.

"Wha--? I--" Timmy began.

"There's no time!" Martha half-yelled, half-whispered, and she grabbed Timmy's 
little body with one hand and roughly pulled the ballerina clothes on him with 
the other. The clothes were still damp--WET, even--with Martha's juices. She 
opened up the high, frosted bathroom window and lifted Timmy up.

"N-no!" Timmy said. "It's freezing out there, and--I need money for the bus, and 
my wallet is--"

"Okay, here," Martha said, setting him back down and quickly getting out her 
wallet. She handed him a $50 bill and swiftly unbuttoned her cardigan, causing 
her boobs to bounce in a way that hypnotized Timmy, and wrapped the large 
garment around him like a shawl.

"I--"

She put her hand to her lips and raised him up again.

A voice came from just outside the bathroom door: "Mom...?" It was Sarah.

Silently Martha hoisted Timmy to the window, began to shove him out, then 
paused. She craned her face towards his and gave him a long unwanted French 
kiss, at the end of which she daringly bit down on Timmy's lips. He winced and 
gasped; she smiled as she shoved him out the window.

He landed softly in the snow outside. He gathered himself together, wrapped 
himself tightly in Martha's cardigan, and turned around to face the Thollen's 
house one more time before leaving for home. 

The wind howled and he couldn't hear anything, but through the frosted bathroom 
window he saw a plump shape that was Martha, and it seemed to be arguing with 
another feminine shape. This second shape must belong to Sarah, and it seemed to 
dwarf Martha by as much as a foot. Timmy didn't remember if Martha, at the end, 
had been wearing heels or not, and there was no way to know if Sarah was 
currently wearing heels, but--he didn't want to know. He would find out when he 
attended her accursed Sweet Thirteen party in a few weeks. For now, he turned to 
make his way home.

*****

He knew he was in for it the moment he returned to the grounds of his aunt's 
mansion. His usual pansy clothes were no longer there where he left them, hidden 
in the hedges. The trip back, wearing Sarah's old ballerina clothes and wrapped 
in Martha's big cardigan, had been hellish enough. And now he would have to 
enter the mansion dressed in these clothes. He did not even hold out hope that 
perhaps he could sneak to his room without someone seeing him. Of course they 
would see him. This was his luck. His aunt had, no doubt, been the one to spy 
the clothes that he had hidden in the hedges.

Morosely, shivering in the early evening winter air, he opened the big mansion 
door and was instantly intimidated (though not surprised) by the scene before 
him. His aunt and Brooks were right there waiting for him, stern looks on their 
faces. 

Brooks had evidently received a new maid's outfit and had gotten a bit of a 
makeover that day. Her new uniform was not only sleeveless, designed to show off 
her well defined biceps, but also backless, and she now wore calf-high black 
leather booties with 4-inch heels. She had gotten a haircut as well, not that 
she needed one, and her short dark locks now only reached her neck. She wore a 
bit of eye-shadow, and dark lipstick completed the ensemble.

Aunt Rose was, strangely, dressed in an old-fashioned English riding outfit. ("I 
didn't know she rode horses," Timmy thought. She looked so imposing, standing 
there at her immense height, in what appeared to be calfskin riding boots, with 
a generous heel that surely put her past the 7-foot mark.

Timmy seemed to shrink as he closed the door behind him, nervously.

"WELL?" his aunt asked loudly.

"U-u-um..." Timmy said. 

This provoked a chortle from Brooks, who put a big glistening hand on her hip. 
There were those nails again, painted dark metallic purple like before. Timmy 
wished that he could just disappear or die.

"WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, TIMMY?" his said again, drawing a riding 
crop out and beginning to pat it audibly into the palm of a leather-gloved hand.

"I--I had to get out for a while," he said.

"Uh, WE KNOW," Brooks said, in a very snotty way, then gave him an evil smile, 
her perfectly white teeth contrasting menacingly with her dark lips.

"I was--"

"MRS. THOLLEN CALLED A FEW MOMENTS AGO," Aunt Rose interrupted. "SHE WONDERED IF 
YOU MADE IT HOME OKAY. SHE SAID FOR YOU TO EMAIL HER WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE, TO 
LET HER KNOW YOU ARRIVED HOME SAFELY."

("Oh no," Timmy thought. He knew that his aunt didn't want him to visit Martha. 
She had cautioned him against it, and--"I really didn't want her to find out 
where I'd been. Damn Martha for being such a motherly busybody!")

Brooks strode over to Timmy and held out a scrap of paper on which was written 
Martha's email address. Timmy reached one arm out to grab it but Brooks 
immediately pulled it away.

"What are you WEARING?" she asked, and with her other hand began pulling 
Martha's big cardigan away from Timmy's still-shivering little body. He made a 
half-hearted attempt to keep the garment on him, but within a few seconds he 
just gave up, not wanting to play tug of wear with women's clothing and knowing, 
anyway, that one of Brooks's arms was probably much stronger than his entire 
body. He considered that even one of her hands alone might be stronger than his 
entire body.

"Oh...my...GOD," Brooks said as it was revealed that Timmy was wearing a little 
girl's ballet outfit. "HOW ADORABLE!"

His aunt smirked. "I see you must have borrowed that from Sarah. How lucky you 
are that her baby clothes fit you, Timmy. Perhaps you can borrow more of her 
hand-me-downs in the future."

"N-no!" Timmy protested, with an understanding of how pathetic he sounded. "A-
and these aren't her baby clothes! She wore them just a few years ago."

"Well I'm so dreadfully sorry, Timmy," his aunt said, sarcastically. "How rude 
of me to say that you fit into baby clothes when you actually fit into the 
clothes of a 9-year-old girl. I am so sorry to have inadvertently BELITTLED you 
that way."

With that she took a step toward him and glanced down. He could have given her 
bellybutton a kiss without stooping even a centimeter. He gulped and felt far 
too intimidated to make the correction that Sarah had been 10 when she wore 
these clothes, not 9.

Brooks, who had still been examining his outfit with a wicked smile on her face, 
suddenly turned to Rose and said, "Oh, who can be mad at a darling little 
fairyboy like this! Are you sure you won't let me fix him supper tonight?"

"Unfortunately," his aunt declared, putting one of her very big gloved hands on 
Timmy's trembling shoulders, "the punishments will stand. This little man, who 
needs nourishment so badly, deserves no meal this night. Do you hear me way down 
there, Timmy?" She leaned way down so that she could look her nephew in the 
eyes. Timmy was struck again by how beautiful his aunt was. He hated that those 
deep brown eyes were so angry at him, and found himself wanting to kiss his aunt 
on the cheek right then and there and apologize to her profusely. "YOUR PUNY 
LITTLE BODY WILL GET NO DINNER TONIGHT. BECAUSE YOU ARE A BAD BOY."

He wanted to cry.

"Aww..." Brooks said, and turned him to face her as his aunt backed away. She 
held out the scrap of paper again, but then suddenly stopped short again and 
laughed.

"W-what?" Timmy asked.

"Look!" Brooks said brightly and pointed to his crotch with a sharp-nailed index 
finger.

Through the hole that Martha had cut in Sarah's bottoms, Timmy's penis stood at 
stiff attention.

("Another unwanted boner!" Timmy thought, very annoyed. "Why do I keep getting 
these lately, without even knowing that I have them until it's too late and 
someone else has spotted them!")

Brooks shoved her hand toward Timmy's crotch, but only to stuff the scrap of 
paper inside the hole, almost as one would stuff a dollar bill in the lingerie 
strap of a stripper.

His aunt observed him with her long arms folded seriously across her chest. 
"Something needs to be done, Timmy," she said. "We were hoping that you would 
take the initiative and proceed along this program I've set for you at your own 
pace. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, Timmy, and trying to take a 
more or less hands-off approach. But I can see that things aren't working. 
Evidently you need a woman to supervise you every second of the day so that you 
do not go off track and get into trouble! For your own good, you need this, 
Timmy."

He shivered. Again he wanted to cry. He hated so much of what his aunt wanted to 
do with him, but he didn't want to disappoint her. He was caught and didn't know 
if he hated her, or loved her, or both.

"I specifically told you not to visit Mrs. Thollen without the presence of 
another female there. You disobeyed me, didn't you? Young Sarah was not even 
there when you arrived at the Thollen's house, was she?"

"...No," Timmy said, feeling palpable shame.

"And Mrs. Thollen herself--Did she or did she not abuse you sexually?"

"I-it wasn't like that!" Timmy protested. "It was--"

"You are too LITTLE," Aunt Rose said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, "and 
MALE, and STUPID, TO KNOW THE DIFFERENCE! You are too LITTLE, and MALE, and 
STUPID, TO KNOW WHEN IT IS APPROPRIATE TO HAVE ANY SORT OF SEXUAL CONTACT--WITH 
ANYONE. Or at least with anyone whom I do not authorize. AND I EXPLICITLY DID 
NOT AUTHORIZE YOU TO HAVE ANY SOLO RELATIONS WITH MRS. THOLLEN!"

She paused, her nostrils flaring, and she looked down at Timmy haughtily, as if 
he were a dog that had just messed on the carpet for the tenth time. 
Appropriately, he actually was so scared that it was all he could do to not pee 
his pants. The stature of this women, her beauty, her high-fashion sense and 
total confidence and ability to control any situation--even a normal-sized man, 
even a tall man, even a captain of industry, celebrity or politician, would have 
cringed before the towering figure of Rose Nordegren. So what chance did a five-
foot-tall pipsqueak have?

"I'm sorry," Timmy said. "I-I-I just wanted..."

"I know what you wanted," his aunt said, her voice soft now, but still 
commanding. "But if you wanted to go on a little date--one without the fear of 
being raped by a cracked woman like Martha Thollen--I could have arranged such a 
venture FOR YOU."

"W-what?"

"If you want to feel like a nice little man who gets to go on a date, then I'm 
sure Brooks would be happy to take you on one."

Timmy's mind began to race with confusion. He shot his eyes over to look at 
Brooks, who was smiling at no one in particular and rubbing her hands together, 
as if she were preparing to crack her knuckles.

Then his aunt put her enormous hands under his chin and forced him to look way 
up at her model-like, high-cheek-boned face.

"Would you like that? Would you like go to on a date with Brooks?"

"Y-yes!" Timmy squeaked with difficulty, his aunt's huge hands under his chin.

"Okay, then. I think that actually might be good practice for you. But for now"-
-his aunt pulled away from him--"there is still the matter of your punishment 
for what you did today."

Timmy threw himself at Rose's feet. "N-no! No! P-please! PLEASE, AUNT ROSE!" He 
groveled, his tears rubbing off onto Rose's riding boots.

"Get up, Timmy," she said calmly. "It won't be that bad. You're only getting 
ONE."

He stood shakily to his feet, eager to comply with whatever she demanded of him. 
She took her riding crop and held it aloft.

"Please stand up straight, Timmy, and put your hands behind your back. Put them 
well away from your penis."

("Oh no," Timmy thought, but he obeyed her.) 

His dick still showed through the hole in Sarah's leotard, but it was not as 
erect as it had been a minute or two ago.

"Hm," his aunt considered. "Let's get that up a bit, Timmy. Think of how proud a 
little man like you will be to be escorted by a great big girl like Brooks for a 
night on the town. I'm sure she will behave very chivalrously towards you. And 
though she does not quite dwarf you as if you were an irrelevant insect and she 
an invincible goddess or titaness--THE WAY *I* DWARF YOU, TIMMY--she still cuts 
a fairly impressive pose and I'm sure you will enjoy feeling like a needy little 
child in her imperious presence! Yes, I'm sure your little date next weekend 
will be quite a delight for you. Certainly it will be a nice appetizer in your 
social life, since the weekend after that will be Sarah Thollen's party. I bet 
you can't wait to find out how much bigger she has grown since you last saw her. 
And I bet you can't wait to find out how absolutely pathetic a 'man' of your 
stature will look dressed in your nice little pansy clothes next to all of 
Sarah's big teenage friends! Yes, I'm sure you will want to enjoy your date with 
Brooks very much before all of that happens. I'm sure you'll have a hard-on for 
the entirety of next Saturday night!"

By this time, of course, Timmy was rock hard this very moment.

His aunt patted the riding crop forcefully several times against the palm of her 
glove. Then she held it aloft again, paused, then brought it down like 
lightning.

With a CRACK! it snapped whiplike against the head of Timmy's penis. He screamed 
and fell backwards in pain, hitting his head on the floor.

Luckily, he did not pass out, but his mind wallowed in semi-consciousness as he 
felt huge hands (Brooks's or his aunt's, he wasn't sure) lift his little body up 
and carry him up the staircase to his room, laying him on his bed.

A few minutes later, when he found himself cognizant and alone, he dragged 
himself to his desk and sat down before his computer.

He kept the email to Mrs. Thollen very brief, just told her that he had made it 
home okay. He wanted to tell her "Don't call here ever again! And I don't want 
to go to Sarah's party!" but he knew that would do him no good. For one thing, 
Mrs. Thollen would do whatever she wanted to do. And for another thing, it was 
apparent that his aunt had already determined that he would attend Sarah's Sweet 
Thirteen, as insane as that sounded.

Then he paused and looked down at his penis. There was a blister on it, right at 
the end, where Aunt Rose's riding crop had hit. "Ouch," he said aloud. He hoped 
it would heal soon, before next weekend. He could not even begin to know how to 
feel about the prospect of going on a date with Brooks. All of these conflicting 
emotions--with everything--were simply too much for his little, overwhelmed male 
mind.

He suddenly decided to email an old friend of his. A guy he went to college 
with. Jerome. For the first time Timmy realized how little contact he had been 
having with other men. He needed to remedy that, as soon as possible, for his 
own sanity.

So he opened up a new email window and began to write. His thoughts were a blur, 
though:

"Jerome, hi, oh my god man i'm so sorry that i havent kep in touch better man. 
Jesus things are crazy here. Im living with my aunt sarah i mean my aunt rose, 
sarah's a diffferent girl, lol, anywayyyyyy um'm things are really crazy here 
with all of these females and i have soo much to tell you, dude that its just 
crazy I don't even know where to start, let's see with marta martha mathre 
marthe tholen thollennnnn and brooke brooks whose last name i dont know oh yeah 
its fraser brooks fraser or frazer but am going on a date with soon and sara i 
mean and tholen sarah rose nordgren nordegren i mean nordegren i meannnnnnn sarah thollen i mean"

He broke things off and looked at the gibberish he had written. He turned off 
his monitor and just left things for the morning. But he needed to talk to 
Jerome soon.

[To be continued in Part Three: A Date with Brooks; A Night Alone with Rose]