Timmy's New Life: The Story So Far, part 1
by C.L.T.
A young man is brought to heel by tall dominant women

Some heights, ages, weights, relations tweeked to meet some readers' demands.

The players' opening stats:
Timmy, 5'2" and shrimpy
Rose Nordgren, 6'7" and fit
Brooks Fraser, 6'0" and muscular
Martha Thollen, 5'6"-ish and plump
Sarah Thollen, 5'8'-ish and fit

Comments and suggestions welcome!: eslepov@yahoo.com



Chapter 1: Aunt Rose's Plan / Meeting Sarah Again


Timmy felt so tiny literally being dragged by his 6'7" tall Aunt Rose toward the 
ornate entrance of one of the many exclusive shops that lined the most 
fashionable thoroughfare in town. His aunt probably didn't intend to be so rough 
with him, rather it was just that her strides were so gigantic compared to his 

own; he would have needed to run to keep up with her, and after a whole 
afternoon of accompanying her, he was tired of running. Timmy's consternation 
was also due to the fact that their next stop appeared to be a certain shop 
that specialized in poufy children's clothes.

Timmy had always been small for his age. Even though he was almost 27 years old, 
he stood only 5-foot-2 and weighed only about 105 pounds the last he checked.

The last time that he had been in a store like this was years ago, when he 
was shopping for a gift for the daughter of one of his parents' friends. Even 
back then, almost all of the little girls he saw in the store were taller and 
bigger than he was. And girls nowadays seemed even bigger. He shuddered a bit 
as he saw them browsing the racks in the distance, all these girls who evidently 
wanted to turn themselves into real-life Disney Princesses.

When he hesitated at the entrance, his aunt, who seemed more like a giant 
preying mantis to him, took a firm grip on his hand--her long fingers nearly 
covering his entire forearm--looked down at him, and said insistently, "COME 
ALONG, Timmy!"

"But, Aunt Rose, this is a little KID'S store. Why do you want to go in there?"

She paused, midstride, turned around and glanced down at him, bemused but stern, 
the hint of a smile (or was it a snarl?) on her otherwise haughty, impossibly 
high face. She arched her eyebrows and paused, the silence making him feel even 
smaller and more self-conscious than ever. 

Rose Nordgren was a very attractive woman, the sort of striking female whom it's 
difficult to imagine ever looking any younger or older. Timmy didn't know her 
exact age but reasoned based on what little he knew of his family history, that 
she would have to be at least in her mid-30s, if not older, though showed no 
signs of being past her prime. "She seems to exist in a permanent springtime of 
beauty," Timmy thought, and he would have been embarrassed for thinking such a 
thing and using such flowery phraseology, except his aunt seemed to warrant 
those sorts of accolades. He wasn't attracted to his Aunt, but she really did 
impress him in many ways. She had naturally dark lips and short chestnut hair. 
Her light caramel-colored skin indicated the not infrequent mornings she spent 
sunbathing, though her nephew also suspected that her complexion had something 
to do with her veganism as well. Timmy was not happy about his Aunt having 
forced changes in his own diet, and though her great height made at least some 
sense due to her family's Swedish heritage, Timmy himself resented that he had 
not been blessed with any of these advantages, despite his similar genetic 
background, for his family was Nordic as well. "It's not fair," Timmy had often 
thought as of late, "she's eaten nothing but yucky vegetables and is so super 
tall and fit, and yet in the first 20-some years of my life I ate so much meat 
and potatoes, but I turned out so small and weak. And after all, I'm a boy." He 
didn't seem to be getting any bigger or healthier, however, even after meat was 
stricken from his diet. If anything, as of late he seemed shrimpier than ever, 
but there may have been other reasons for that.

Aunt Rose let the moment sink in, placing her free hand on her hip. She wore 
skin-tight dark blue jeans and brown leather boots with a modest heel (not that 
she needed it). The boots had a cowgirl vibe to them, and they looked slightly 

worn but stylish--probably made to look slightly worn even when they were new--
and they each went up higher than her calf but below her knee. She also wore a 
high-fashion blue denim top that resembled something between a jacket and a 

shirt. Though Rose Nordgren only had pert B-cup breasts, her tight fitted top 

had a plunging neckline that did reveal some slight cleavage. It zipped up in 

the front and ended just above her bellybutton, showing off an inch or two of 

her taut tan midriff.

"Come along now, Timmy," she said, with all traces of amusement now washed from 
on her impassive face. Timmy couldn't help but feel that she was often 
patronizing him, though he could never quite discern any actual proof that she 
thought so little of him or treated him duplicitously. She seemed to deal with 
him honestly, and yet her words often seemed condescending. It was tough to 
decide whether she intended to belittle him or whether she simply would have 
addressed any younger person this way. "No fussing, please," she added, as they 
entered the store. 

A helpless Timmy found himself being propelled abruptly into this delicately 
scented haven of childishness, with an emphasis on old-fashioned babydoll 
femininity. Aside from the Princesses (thankfully, all of the little girls there 
turned out to be shorter than he was), Timmy noticed a few little boys in the 
store as well, each of them towered over by a female guardian or two. All of 
these young males were dressed in clothes that looked borderline feminine, some 
pink and frilly, others purple and form-fitting, like some kind of gaudy 
homosexual dream, except the boys themselves weren't gay (as evidenced by the 
scowls on their faces).

"What is this place?" Timmy wondered aloud. "I know this store didn't used to be 
this weird."

"Well," his aunt replied, "from what I understand this store has changed hands 
and has become the trendiest source for various new fashions to suit the needs 
of certain types of modern little people such as yourself."

"Little people?" Timmy wondered, this time silently. "What does she mean by 
'little people'? 'Little' in stature? Or 'little' as in young? Because I'm not a 
midget and I'm damn sure the oldest 'young' person here by at least 10 or 15 
years."


Before Timmy had time to voice his concerns, a smartly dressed older lady--tall 
but not nearly as tall as Aunt Rose--hurried forward to meet them. Timmy felt so 
tiny standing between these gigantic amazons. He also felt that all the little 
girls milling around in the store were gazing on him in disapproval of his 
intrusion. He didn't blame them. Had he not been in the firm grip of his 
powerful aunt, he would have fled posthaste.

"Ah, good day, Ms. Nordgren," the tall woman said to his aunt. "I presume this 
is the little person you spoke to me about."

"Hello, Madame. Yes, this is my nephew Timmy."

"My but your a teeny tiny little thing," the saleslady said as she bent over so
her face was even with his, a motion which caused him to inhale a cloud of 
potent perfume. She pinched his cheek, as if to make matters as awful as 
possible for him. 


"You've gotta be kidding me," Timmy thought. "Who does this stuff? Pinching 
kids' cheeks? Okay, I'm not a kid, but--And what's with her calling me a 'little 
person'?"

"Your aunt told me about the terrible tragedy in your life," the saleslady 
continued. "I am so sorry and hope some of our nice clothes here can give you 
some comfort and in some small way help you move on in life."

The reference was to the death of Timmy's parents, which happened six months 
previous. It had been quite traumatic for the young man, causing him to drop out 
of graduate school (wasting all that tuition!) and actually enroll in a 
sanitarium for rest. It wasn't a place for crazy people; more of a resort for 
people who needed time away from the world. His days there were long and 
monotonous, but he felt socially paralyzed and often wondered if he'd ever 
leave, or even get up the courage and ambition to want to leave. Thankfully, 
three months into his stay, his Aunt Rose emerged to take care of him and nurse 
him back to relative health. He had never met her before that day when she 
collected him from the sanitarium and brought him to live with her in the new 
mansion she had bought for "next to nothing" in his home town. "Next to 
nothing," he had thought, skeptically, when he first learned of his aunt's 
purchase. "Even in the post-housing bubble crash that the U.S. seems cursed to 
never to recover from--even, even then... This place must've cost over a million 
dollars." Not that he was complaining. He generally liked living in his aunt's 
mansion. 

It was kind of odd, his Aunt swooping in to save him this way, though they'd 
never even met before. She told him she felt guilty and wanted to make up for 
lost time. He did remember his parents referring a few times to his rich young 
Aunt Rose who lived in Europe, who had married Uncle Michael, the brother of 
Timmy's father. Years ago he remember his parents remarking upon how Rose had 
taken such good care of Uncle Michael while he was dying. But now his parents 
were dead and Aunt Rose was the only relation Timmy had left. Several times in 
the last few months, Timmy asked his aunt about the past, about his deceased 
Uncle and what their life was like in Europe, and about where exactly her 
wealth came from--but he never received a clear answer. It had something to do 
with market shares and trading. As far as he could tell, his aunt no longer 
did any real business but simply lived off her laurels, sunbathed, did yoga, 
and facilitated acquaintances with ritzy, obnoxious people such as the 
saleswoman in front of him.

Madame's eyes coursed over Timmy's tiny body, giving him the feeling that he was 
completely nude. "He appears to be a most suitable subject, Ms. Nordgren. I 
believe you'll be pleased with the result." She indicated the rear of the store. 
"This way, please."

"Why are we going back there?" Timmy inquired as Madame led the way.

"Shush! You will soon learn," his aunt said. "Just come along, be polite, and no 
more whining!" Obviously his aunt meant business. He followed dutifully behind 
the women, thankful for the moment at least that he did not have to hold his 
aunt's big hand.

On the way they passed a pretty young clerk who smiled curiously at Timmy. She 
was about Timmy's age, maybe a little younger, fair skin and red shoulder-length 
hair. She wore a form-fitting black pantsuit, stood only a couple inches taller 
than Timmy, and was actually the sort of girl he thought he might have a chance 
with. He wondered if he would ever again enjoy the company of such a girl in any 
situation not related to buying and selling. It had been a long time since 
anything like that had gone his way. Over her shoulder Madame said, "You will 
please join us, Mary." The clerk fell in behind them. Timmy didn't know if he 
was glad or not to have the girl accompany him on...whatever surprise he was in 
for. 

They arrived at a small corridor with closed doors on either side. Madame opened 
one and bade them enter.

"Aunt Rose, why do I have to go in there?" He tried to sound as dignified as 
possible with Mary around. But his Aunt simply yanked him inside without any 
noticeable effort, and he found himself in the delicately scented atmosphere of 
a fitting room. He turned in dismay as he heard the door close once all four of 
them were inside. Obviously, he was at the mercy of these two amazonic females; 
he apparently had to try on whatever clothes they chose for him, and was to 
undergo the further humiliation of having a girl like Mary present to watch and 
aid in the proceedings.

He then heard Madame exclaim, in an authoritative tone, "Young man, please start 
removing your clothing."


"Are you out of your mind?" he screamed at her. "I'll do nothing of the kind! 
Let me out of here!"

Madame sighed, "Very well, then. Mary, you know what to do. You know what we do 
with bad little boys."

Before Timmy was quite aware of her intentions, Mary had seized the collar of 
his jacket and lifted him off the ground. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just my 
job." In a flash, Madame reached out and unbuckled his belt and trouser 
fastenings. As his trousers slithered down to his ankles, Timmy's voice took
on a new note of hysteria. "No, no! Please don't do this to me," he cried, but 
to no avail, for his underpants followed the path his trousers had taken. In 
short order, Madame and Mary had reduced him to a state of crimson nudity--all 
with his super-tall Aunt Rose smiling down at him wolfishly, her pure white 
teeth framed by her angular dark lips. He hunched over and tried to hide his 
nakedness, turning towards the corner.

"Come now, Timmy," his aunt said, her voice suddenly very tender. "We've all 
seen bodies quite like yours before. Don't throw a fit like a toddler. You're 
bigger than that. I'm sorry to have surprised you this way, but I had to do it. 
You never would have agreed to come here if I told you where we were going 
beforehand and why, but I think it will be fun if you give it a chance."

What choice did he have? Timmy turned around and let the three women see his 

small thin body in the soft light of the scented fitting room, with its high 
ceiling and weird red velvet draped walls. Of all the worries he had in the 
world, he suddenly focused on one: "I hope Mary doesn't see the tissues I 
stuff in my shoes to make myself taller," he thought to himself, eyeing his 
shoes from across the room.

Madame surveyed his mortified person in the manner of one with vast experience 
in such matters. "He really does have a very suitable figure for the styles you 
suggested, Ms. Nordgren. And," she added with a wink, "a nicely fitted corset 
would simply do wonders for it!"

"A corset!" Timmy exclaimed in disbelief.

His expression sent peals of laughter reverberating through the room. He noted  
that Mary chuckled as well, though not as loudly as the older women. Smiling, 
Aunt Rose retorted, "Don't worry, Timmy, no corsets today. I think that 
transition would be too drastic and shocking."

"What do you mean?" Timmy asked. He couldn't tell if they were being serious 
about wanting him to wear a corset.

"Timmy dear," his aunt continued, speaking very seriously, almost as if her 
words had been rehearsed, "some progressive changes need to be made, starting 
today. You have had enough rest, have mourned and let yourself go long enough. 
Now it is time for you to adjust back into society in some capacity, and I've 
every intention of transforming your mournful, cranky self into a demure little 
person whose adorable exterior shall encourage a more delightful and agreeable 
inner disposition. This is the way things are going to start to be for you." Her 
words were like a bombshell to Timmy. He sank to his knees before her pleading 
that she not do this to him. "Not another word!" she replied sharply. "Get to 
your little feet this instant and act like the polite little person I know you 
can become!"

"'Little person' again!" Timmy thought, very annoyed. But he stood up and faced 
them--what choice did he have?--his shoulders slumped in dejection.

Madame bade Mary to "fetch the things I gathered together for our little Timmy." 
Mary left hurriedly and obediently, her pantsuit material making a swoosh.

After a few moments of silence, Madame addressed Aunt Rose as if Timmy were not 
even in the room. "Should we measure him again? Or are you sure about his 
height?"

"No the figures I gave you are correct. He is five-foot-one-and-a-half-inches. 
And he--"

"I'm five-three!" Timmy squeaked, indignantly.

The two tall women turned their heads to look at him in silence for a few 
moments. Then his aunt slowly moved to crouch before him. Even on her knees she 
was taller than him, and being naked in her close proximity only emphasized to 
Timmy just how much smaller he was than his more genetically blessed (non-blood)
relative. She gave him a hard gaze, and he trembled, not knowing what she was 
going to do or say to him.

"Timmy," his aunt began. "First of all, I know that you stuff your shoes with 
silly paper to make yourself taller. So you can walk around and pretend that 
you're five-foot-three, or five-foot-four, or maybe only five-foot-two. But when 
making calculations for your new wardrobe we are going to go with five-foot-one-
and-a-half, because that is the actual measurement of your tiny little body that 
I will put over my knee right now and spank so hard that you pass out either 
from tears of pain or from exhaustion. And second of all, do not interrupt 
grown-ups when they are talking. Especially ladies like us who are trying to 
help you. Is all of that clear? Or do I need to explain it to you slower?" She 
placed one of her gigantic hands on his shoulder and began to caress it 
threateningly.

"N-no, Auntie. It's clear."

"See that it is," Rose said sharply, then stood back up, shook her head back and 
forth in disgust, and then sighed and raised herself on her tiptoes, stretching in
front of Timmy as if to rub his nose in his own faillings. She looked taller than
ever to Timmy, even when she stopped stretching, and from her imperious view high
above him she seemed to smirk, as if to say "Just try me, little boy. If you dare
lie about your height to make yourself sound taller, I'll make sure you feel
shorter than ever."

After a gentle knock, the door opened again and Mary came back in, her arms
laden with an array of lavish frilled and silken clothing, everything from 
lingerie to shirts, which she placed on a chair. One garment in particular sent 
chills down Timmy's spine: a wasp-waisted pink satin corset elegantly adorned 
with delicate lace and pert baby-blue ribbon bows. Mary handed it to Madame, who 
drew it about Timmy's waist and began the process of lacing him down to the last 
breathless inch, much to his discomfort.

"Oh, no... Please. You can't do this awful thing to me... Say it's only a joke. 
I thought you said I didn't have to wear a corset yet? Auntie...?"

His tormentors found his protests quite amusing and burst into fresh peals of 
hilarity. This time Mary laughed right along with them. Timmy knew now that he 
could expect no mercy from them and more or less resigned himself to the 
indignities to come.

Mercifully, he was allowed to remove the corset, for the time being at least. 
Then, at a signal from Madame, Mary selected a pair of elaborately lace-and-
ribbon frilled panties of finest pink silk and held them out for Timmy to step 
into. 

"But these are GIRLS underwear," Timmy whined.

"They are most certainly not," replied Madame.


"These are for boys now too," his aunt informed him. "All of these clothes are 
the latest thing in fashion for sensitive little people such as yourself, Timmy. 
This is all to make you feel better, if you'll let it."

Timmy sighed dramatically, which provoked a chortle from Mary. He closed his 
eyes as the pretty salesgirl slowly raised the pink silk panties up his skinny 
legs. The clinging silk caressed his limbs as Mary's alabaster-skinned hand 
carefully guided the panties up onto his small crotch and around his small hips, 
the dainty waistband eventually reaching up a little higher than his stomach. 
She held her hand there, as if measuring.

"These are the smallest little panties available in the variety you wanted, Ms. 
Nordgren."

"Hmmm," his aunt mused, placing the tip of one long finger to her dark lips. "I 
suppose they'll have to do, as long as they don't fall down. I do think this 
silken variety of panties suits him best."

"Yes," Mary agreed, taking pleasure in her work. "I think they will fit our tiny 
man just perfect. And they won't be falling down anytime soon," she added, and 
then, when the other two women weren't looking, she threw him a sly wink and 
gave his penis a very sharp little pinch between her thumb and forefinger 
through the soft silk of the new panties. Timmy was too beside himself with 
shame and shock to know what to make of this. "Ouch," he murmured.

"A perfect fit," Mary exclaimed.
 
"They're certainly becoming to him, aren't they?" Madame commented with a 
knowing smile, and his aunt nodded her approval.

"They are not! And I don't want to wear them!" Timmy exclaimed. "I want my own 
underwear back!"

In feigned surprise, his aunt retorted, "But Timmy darling, all the other little 
girls adore their pretty panties," at which Madame and especially Mary roared 
with laughter. "Besides," his aunt concluded, "all of your underwear has stains. 
Yes, multiple types of stains, as our maid tells it."

This new public embarrassment quelled any desire in Timmy to protest anymore. He 
didn't want to be whatever it was his aunt was turning him into, but the 
overriding truth was that what he wanted or didn't want simply did not matter. 
And since his dissent was to no avail, maybe it wasn't even worth dissenting?

Long stockings were decided upon, and as Mary knelt to draw their gossamer 
beauty up his small stumpy legs, her hands seemed more intimate than necessary. 
Madame had taken his aunt out into the salon to select another outfit for him, 
and he had been told that he would be marched out in front of the clerks and 
customers in the salon if he made any fuss while alone with Mary.

As she affixed a pair of frilled garters to his stocking tops, Mary smiled up at 
him. "You do make a beautiful little person, Timmy. I just love dressing up 
little boys, and it's a special pleasure when they're as cute as you are." 
Somehow, Mary seemed to be trying to comfort him in a friendly way.

"Do you dress up a lot of little boys--I mean, boys like-like me?" The 26-year-
old man asked nervously.

"Heh. Not so old as you, no." Mary finished tending to his clothes and stood up 
beside him, resting her elbow on his shoulder. "How old are you anyway? Ten or 
eleven?"

"Um..." Timmy began, but found his thoughts were frozen. What could he say? He 
knew he was very small and thin, but did he really look that young?

"You remind me of my little brother," Mary continued. Timmy was thankful that 
she didn't demand that he reveal his age. "He's only ten. It's weird having a 
brother so much younger than me."

"Oh," replied Timmy. "I'm an only child."

"That's too bad," Mary said. "You're cute. If you had an older brother I'd 
totally be into him. I don't have a boyfriend and junior prom is next month."

"Oh, j-junior prom," Timmy repeated.

"Yeah it sucks to be sixteen and single," Mary sighed, "especially since I'm, 
y'know, kinda short for my age." Timmy was mortified and it must have shown. 
"Hey, you're not upset that I pinched you earlier, are you? I didn't mean 
anything by it."

"No, uh, it's okay, uh, Mary." The reality of this entire situation was sinking 

in for Timmy. Overcome, he started to cry silently, small tears trickling down 
his cheeks.

"Oh...hey," Mary said. "Don't cry. Here. C'mere." She enveloped the crying 26-
year-old in her arms. He pressed his head against her and wept into her dress 
shirt. "Relax. It's okay."

He did relax and after a few moments was able to regain composure and wipe his 
tears away. He felt better. But whatever solace Mary's embrace had given him 
disappeared when his aunt and Madame returned. 

"Darling, look what a lovely pink sailor suit I've found for you! And an 
adorable little white sailor's hat!" his aunt cried, fitting the latter item to 
his head. "And here are some nice pink capri pants! This completely changes your 
appearance. Aren't you glad you don't have to wear horrid trousers anymore? You 
can wear your little sailor suit and pretty capris instead!" 

After another humiliating wardrobe change, Timmy looked in the mirror and 

realized that the little pansy boy looking back was him! The change was 
positively staggering. Madame made a few adjustments, and he was led toward the 
door.

"Oh, Aunt Rose, please don't make me go out in public like this. Everybody will 
laugh at me, and I'll die of shame. I know I will. They'll think I'm a 10-year-
old. And they'll think I'm a... a... g-girl."

His aunt sighed and fussed over him, adjusting his capris, the collar of his 
little pink sailor suit and his hat, then patted his hands tenderly. "Nonsense, 
dear, no one will have the slightest thought that you are a smartly dressed 
10-year-old. They'll simply see that you are a fashionable, modern little man." 
Timmy was humiliated. Here he was: 26 years old, the holder of an MA in history, 
halfway through an aborted PhD, and yet his aunt had quickly remade him into a 
figure who could pass for a 10-year-old pansy. She propelled him rustlingly out 
the fitting room door, his cheeks crimson and his eyes cast down. 

Still in the salon, they passed a customer who remarked on what a sweet little 
boy Timmy was.

They moved over to a long rack on which smartly styled coats were hanging, and 
after several trials, a lovely pink cashmere was selected, its fitted waist 
clinging to Timmy's naturally slim waist-line and its flare skirt flowing out 
over his flamboyant capris. "This is a very expensive coat," his aunt warned, 
"so it will only be for special occasions. And take care that you don't spill 
juice on it. Or stain it in some other way."

Finally, they started for the door, Madame accompanying them part way.

"You have made some very wise decisions," Madame said to his aunt. "It would be 
a waste of his natural loveliness to allow him to wear horrid, coarse 'pants', 
which can't be good for his fragile psyche." 

"Yeah," Mary added. "I never really thought about it before, but he came in 
dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Timmy's dainty personality just, well, 
can't live up to that old-fashioned, rugged male stereotype."

"Exactly right, my girl," Madame said folding her arms in approval. "You're 
beginning to understand the social psychology at work in all of this."

His aunt beamed while Timmy anxiously awaited their departure from the scene of 
his emasculation and demoralization.

Once they joined the stream of pedestrians, Timmy had the dread sensation that 
all eyes were directed toward him in the certainty that he was a pansy boy. 
Tugging at his aunt's hand, he pleaded, "Can't we go home now, Aunt Rose?"

"Why Timmy," his aunt reproached him, "You wouldn't want to deprive all these 
nice people of looking at such a daintily dressed little person as you, now, 
would you?"

In fact, a number of people did stop to compliment his aunt on how lovely her 
little companion was, so prettily dressed that way. Timmy prayed that the earth 
itself would open up and swallow him, and he implored his aunt to take him home 
and out of public view.

"Why, Timmy darling, you should be quite flattered to have people say such nice, 
nice things about you. I'm really at a loss to understand your attitude. Don't 
you WANT people to like you? But we're not going home yet, and that's final!" 
The audible, indomitable will power in her tone left no doubt in his mind, and 
the sibilant rustling that accompanied his every step amplified tenfold his 
nervous state and was a constant reminder of his new status. He tried taking 
mincing steps, but the rustling still remained. In stark contrast, Aunt Rose's 
powerful boots clicked loudly alongside him; he grew to fear every click, as if 
they were nails driving home the point that she was in charge of him and he 
wasn't in charge of anything.

Moments later, he glanced furtively from half-lidded eyes as his aunt remarked, 
"Isn't that Mrs. Thollen and little Sarah coming our way? How nice! They came 
over to the house last week, but you rudely stayed in your room and hid from 
them!"

"I wasn't hiding from them! I just didn't feel like seeing anyone!"

Panic had seized Timmy anew. Sarah was a 12-year-old girl whom he used to 
babysit for a few years ago, during summers home from college. While most of his 
friends were doing internships and looking for real jobs, he was stuck watching 
little Sarah. She was such a precocious child; he could only barely handle the 
job of watching her and often accosted himself for his lack of authority over a 
child. Maybe he didn't deserve any more responsibility. What would she think to 
see him dressed in these ridiculous girly clothes? "Oh, please, Aunt Rose, don't 
let her see me like this! I could never face her again!"

"Nonsense, Timmy, and do stop tugging at my hand!" Each moment was a lifetime of 
horror for him as Sarah and her mother Martha approached. Sarah was dressed in a 
long, smart, charcoal-colored winter coat. Her lips were painted ruby red; she 
wore stylish circular glasses and above her deep brown eyes rested a black 
beret. It was the first time Timmy had seen Sarah in two or three years and she 
looked so grown-up and sophisticated. Her mother, Martha, was dressed in a poofy 
winter coat and her face showed a Mad Hatter-ish grin as she caught Aunt Rose's 
welcoming gaze. The Thollens were half-Jewish. Martha was a dirty blond and 
Sarah a raven-haired brunette.

As the two adult women began making small talk, Timmy kept his head lowered, 
then, taking a quick glance at Sarah, saw that she was studying him with a 
quizzical expression. Perhaps... just perhaps... she would not recognize him!

When Mrs. Thollen inquired somewhat facetiously as to who "this lovely little 
person" was, his aunt said, "This is my nephew, to whom I'm in the process of 
giving a much-needed makeover of sorts. Meet the New Timmy!"

A perplexed expression came to Mrs. Thollen's face and, Timmy's aunt hastened to 
explain. "Beginning this very morning, I decided it would be much more 
delightful to have a daintily frocked nephew fluttering about than a crudely 
dressed sullen nephew who has been such a trial to me." Timmy's heart pounded at 
this denouement and he could feel Sarah's eyes probing him.

"Oh, Mommy, it's really Timmy dressed up in little boy clothes! Oh, he's
cute, isn't he?" She bent down and excitedly but tenderly hugged him, giving him 
a quick kiss on the cheek.

Even though Sarah was only 12 years old, the leggy youngster appeared at least 
6" taller and 60 pounds heavier than Timmy. Dressed as he was in tight little 
girly clothes, he felt so tiny and puny as he looked up into Sarah's 
deep brown eyes.

"Shut up," he whispered, angrily. His instinct was to give Sarah a good shove 
and propel her annoying doe-eyed face away from him, but thankfully he caught 
himself in time. He decided he didn't really want to find out just how 
ineffective or laughable his physical efforts might prove to be against a much 
bigger body belonging to a much younger female. This was a girl he used to give 
piggyback rides to, not so long ago. He felt ashamed and frustrated, and the 
ugly, unhealthy emotions showed on his face.

"That will be quite enough!" his aunt exclaimed. "One more word and I'll drop 
those new taffeta capris of yours and give you a spanking right here in public!" 
Sarah giggled and then gave Timmy a long mysterious stare. Mrs. Thollen grinned 
in approval, then approached Timmy to take hold of his shoulders in a gentle 
embrace. He tried to back away but bumped into his aunt's washboard stomach. 

Martha Thollen kicked her husband out several years ago; the thrill had gone and 
she decided she would enjoy life more if she were single again. Working as a 
bureaucrat in a university library archive served her nature, which was 
obsessive-compulsive but not to a neurotic extent. Timmy had always generally 
liked Mrs. Thollen, remembering her as a stout, pleasingly plump little woman, 
no more than 5'3" or so, with a kind face, big breasts and  bigger buttocks. He 
was never really attracted to her, but had enjoyed engaging her in some high-
minded conversation whenever she and his parents had arranged for him to babysit 
little Sarah. He had always considered Mrs. Thollen savvy, commonsensible and 
respectable, someone Timmy could see eye-to-eye with literally and figuratively. 

But that was in the past. At the moment her puffy winter coat concealed her 
physicality, but Timmy was perturbed to find that she now seemed a tad taller 
even than her skyrocketing daughter. "Surely she can't be growing too," thought 
Timmy. He looked down and saw that Mrs. Thollen was wearing what he would have 
called "stripper" or "dominatrix" boots--black pleather boots that came higher 
than her knee, with rows of silvery spikes running along their svelte length, 
all resting on gigantic metallic heels and platforms. On the one hand, Timmy was 
glad that Mrs. Thollen wasn't really so much taller than him, but on the other 
hand her choice in footwear was just one more disturbing element to take in that 
day. "What is wrong with all these women?" Timmy asked himself. "Mrs. Thollen 
is a mother, and she must be at least 40. Is this what a middle-aged mother with 
a respectable job is supposed to look like nowadays? Why is she wearing boots 
like those? What if she runs into someone she works with, or some teacher from 
Sarah's school? Doesn't she care what people will think of her, dressed so 
ridiculously like that?" He paused. "But look at what I'M wearing. I wonder what 
people will think of me?"

As if Mrs. Thollen could hear his thoughts, she replied, "I think you look so 
very lovely, Timmy, and I'm glad that you have taken the first steps to a nicer 
life." She bent her head down, giving him a nose-to-nose Eskimo kiss as her 
dirty blonde locks fell against his cheeks. She then lightly pressed her lips to 
the tip of his nose before craning her head back up to examine him better, 
smiling, her pale hands still holding his shoulders.

Timmy felt only confusion. His aunt noted pointedly that his "change in wardrobe 
will be accompanied by a change in attitude, whether he likes it or not."

"Oh?" Sarah remarked. "Why? Has he been bad?" Timmy looked up at her and could 
not help but feel threatened after noticing that the girl was smiling knowingly 
at him.

"It's not that he's been bad, per se," Aunt Rose continued, nonchalantly 
separating Timmy and Mrs. Thollen, then placing her hands on the top of her 
nephew's head and leaning down on him. "It's just that he is really going 
nowhere. Like a growing number of men, he just shows no aptitude for anything 
productive. If he is ever to become his own person, he needs to start over, 
with a whole new outlook and a... more appropriate, more conducive public 
persona, you might say."

"I fear it may not be easy," Mrs. Thollen said. "There may be some bumps in the 
road."

"Yes, I'm sure there will be," replied Aunt Rose. "But thankfully he has an aunt 
like me around to guide him back to the proper path, very strictly if necessary, 
whenever he strays or tries to lapse back into bad habits." She smiled down at 
him. "And I can be very strict and very effective in corrective techniques, 
especially to persons who are so much smaller and so much weaker than I am. Yes 
I can, Timmy."

He trembled and slumped down, knowing full well that his big aunt was more than 
capable of carrying out any threat and of controlling him however she saw fit. 
Living with her for the past few months, he had frequently speculated on just 
how much more powerful than him she was, but this was the first day his aunt 
herself had begun to acknowledge her vast physical superiority outright. He was 
not happy to have their size and strength disparity brought out in the open this 
way, especially not in the company of the Thollens.

Mrs. Thollen relieved the tension somewhat by remarking, "Sarah and I were 
shopping for a new dress for her big Sweet Thirteen birthday party next month. 
Would you like to join us? Perhaps Timmy would enjoy helping Sarah make some 
selections. She needs a few new outfits to impress her friends from school and 
ballet class."

His aunt agreed before Timmy could say anything--before he could even process 
what this invitation would entail. He just wanted this nightmare to end. The 
prospect of accompanying these females as they shopped for more clothes was more 
than he could bear to think about. 

Sarah exclaimed, "Oh, good! I'm sure Timmy will be lots of help in choosing my 
new dress." She took his hand in hers and propelled him along at her side. It 
reminded Timmy of how he used to be sure to hold her little hand when guiding 
her across the street a few years ago. Only how Sarah's soft hand was much 
bigger; it totally engulfed his own. With a small but increasingly familiar 
sensation of shame, he thought that he probably couldn't even extract his hand 
from Sarah's grasp unless she let him. Even when he was babysitting her, 
sometimes she broke free of his grip and ran off laughing while they were in 
public, causing him much stress at the time. But she was in control of him now, 
more control than he had ever had over her. 

Each step produced the telltale rustling of his taffeta capris against his silk 
panties, and Sarah couldn't help but hear it. "Mommy, I think Timmy is wearing 
silk and taffeta. Isn't that lovely? I'd just love to see them!" Mrs. Thollen 
just laughed.

"Sarah, don't tease me," Timmy begged, as he looked up into her innocent face 
with tears in his eyes.

Her mood softening, Sarah squeezed his hand affectionately, as they walked side 

by side in the mall. She kept looking down at him, still not believing how tiny 
and adorable he looked as he walked beside her in his polkadot capris, bright 
pink sailor's shirt, and white kiddie-sized sailor's hat.

"Mommy," Sarah said. "Timmy and I will catch up in a minute. I want to tell him 
something."


"Okay, dear," her mother said. "But you kids don't be too long. Ms. Nordgren 
and I will meet you in the dress store."

Sarah sat down on one of the benches in the mall and motioned for Timmy to sit 
on her lap. Timmy looked at her in disbelief. She didn't say anything but her 
eyes bespoke honesty; no teasing or humiliation was implied. She removed her 
hat, allowing her flowing dark brown tresses to fall across her shoulders, and 
took off her winter coat, revealing a knee-length pencil skirt, formal and 
black, and a bright red sweater. She patted her lap again, a little insistently. 
Timmy looked around in embarrassment, but saw no one was paying any attention to 
them, so he climbed up on her linen lap. She snaked her arms up and held him 
carefully, firmly, but not too closely or impolitely. Timmy had to admit that it 
felt very good to sit on this big 12-year-old girl's lap. Stress left him; it 
was the first moment of relaxation he had gotten in quite a while.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," he offered.

"Oh," Sarah said, taking them off. "These are really just for show. Do you like 
me better without them?"

He didn't know what to say. Despite their physical proximity, Timmy didn't 
really want to feel "intimate" with Sarah (of course not!). He didn't really 
"like" her. What should he tell her? He didn't want her to get the wrong idea, 
but he was relieved that she was being nice to him now and didn't want to risk 
her making fun of him again, or bullying him, should he say the wrong thing.

"I can't say for sure," he said finally. "I haven't seen you enough lately to 
make a decision."

She nuzzled him and whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry I teased you, Timmy. I 
can't imagine how you must feel." He flashed a wan smile up at her for this 
small consolation. "Try to make the best of it. Be a big person. Err, I mean, 
try to be as big of a person as you can be. Okay? If it's any help, let me say 
that I like you better this way and that you are very lovely." Coming from 
Sarah, this somehow made him feel a little more comfortable, and a little more 
confident, than before.

"Now jump down, Timmy," she said. "Let's have fun and go shopping. Today, we can 
be just like two girlfriends--except, of course, you're a boy." Once Timmy put 
his old-fashioned, maladjusted male ego aside, he found that Sarah's words 

actually felt really good and gave him a nice cozy sensation. Before sliding off 
her lap he risked giving her a peck on the cheek. She stood up and straightened 
out her pretty skirt. Timmy looked up into her eyes. "Oh Timmy," she said, 
gazing way down at him, a quizzical smile returning to her face. "If only we 
were the same age. Instead you have to be more like my little brother." She 
pulled his little sailor's hat down over his eyes, chuckled, and again grabbed 

his small weak hand and started walking toward the clothing store, where Aunt 

Rose and Mother Thollen were waiting for them. 

As they walked hand in hand Timmy looked so cute; just like Sarah's little 
brother--or perhaps more like her little sister, actually, to anyone who wasn't 
up on what evidently passed for modern male fashion nowadays.

As the four of them entered a fashionable shop for girls, Sarah let go of 
Timmy's hand to go over to a rack from which hung a gay assortment of party 
dresses from satin hangers. "Oh, Timmy, aren't they perfectly darling?" she 
exclaimed; Timmy nodded and stood sheepishly by as Sarah examined the dresses, 
unable to make up her mind. Finally, several were selected, and the clerk led 
them all into the fitting room so that Sarah might try them on.

Once inside the cubicle, Sarah quickly removed her hat and coat and Mrs. Thollen 
helped her out of her clothes. In turn, Timmy's aunt insisted that he remove his 
clothes as well, although he professed to be quite comfortable. As usual, his 
aunt got her way and he was soon undressed. "Oh, Timmy, what pretty panties you 
are wearing," Sarah cried in genuine delight. She herself was now clad only in a 
black pushup bra and sheer half-slip with her black panties showing through. In 
spite of himself, Timmy felt somewhat flattered and was enjoying the approval of 
Sarah in much the same way young children desire approval from the cool big kids 
in the higher grades at school.

"Timmy's lingerie is so becoming on him," Mrs. Thollen said, emphasizing the 
masculine pronoun as if doing so were humorous and ironic. "Perhaps Timmy would 
like to try on some of these dresses"? Even though Sarah's dresses would 
obviously look foolish on Timmy because of their much larger size, his aunt 
nodded her approval.

"Then you could be my little sister!" Sarah exclaimed, giving him a quick but 
dramatic embrace. The clerk glanced at Timmy, an expression of suspicion on her 
face. Had she guessed that this shy little male was over twice as old as the 
very extroverted "tween" girl whose solid, curvy arms were uncomfortably wrapped 
around his thin frame? His mind was in a turmoil but the clerk then busied 
herself by fitting a dress onto Sarah.

"Darling," his aunt said to him, apropos of nothing, "I hope you do not think it 
is immodest for any little boy or girl to show off his or her pretty undies to 
nice ladies. Besides, I am here to oversee everything and protect you."

A few moments later, Sarah suggested that Timmy attend her birthday party. His 
aunt accepted the invitation for him and, sensing his reluctance, said, "Don't 
be shy, darling. Of course you'll go and we can buy you a pretty new outfit to 
wear for the occasion. It will be a great step in your reintegration and 
socialization process."

"Oh, Timmy," Sarah cried, "don't worry, you'll have such a wonderful time! I'll 
make sure of it!" But Timmy's expression hinted that he believed otherwise. As 
the clerk assisted Sarah in trying on more dresses, gowns, tube-tops and mini-
skirts, his aunt also arrayed Timmy in several of the same items. He looked so 
silly in the big-girl dresses that fit the 12-year-old Sarah so perfectly. The 
leopard-skin dress hung off of him as if it were the real pelt of a gigantic, 
prehistoric cat. The little black dress was like a nightgown on him. The white 

dress that ended above Sarah's knee draped down onto the floor as if it were a 
long toga on Timmy. Mrs. Thollen had a loud laugh upon seeing him in each one.

Eventually, Mrs. Thollen and Aunt Rose left the changing room to put some of 
their intended purchases on the counter. Dressed only in a black bra and 
panties, Sarah boldly sauntered up to the tiny 26-year-old, backed him up and 
then pinned him smack against the full-length mirror with her young athletic 
body. "Stop it!" Timmy squealed, very uncomfortable. Sarah just smiled down at 
him and smushed him harder against the mirror. She rammed one of her big strong 
thighs against Timmy's crotch and lifted him up a few inches off the floor. 
"Owwww!" Timmy yelled, though his mouth was muffled by Sarah's chest (not by her 

boobs, thankfully, but by the area right below the neck). "What did you say?" 

Sarah asked mockingly. "I can't hear you very well all the way up here." She 
quickly turned around and pressed her backside into Timmy, thrusting her butt 
against him so that it lifted him off the ground again and he hung there, 
trapped. Her taut butt was crushing him, and her dancer's legs were braced; she 
kept applying the pressure and it really hurt. He was afraid that the mirror 
behind him might break, if his bones didn't break first! Sarah then arched her 
shoulders and leaned her fit back against Timmy's face, smothering him and 
covering his eyes, nose and mouth. He gave another muffled scream. "What was 
that?" Sarah asked mockingly, relaxing a bit and giving him some room for air. 

"Stop it, Sarah," Timmy said weakly, after gasping for air. "You're hurting me." 
His voice sounded so pathetic. Sarah thought it was adorable and it won her 
over. She let him down, turned around and faced him. His body was so feeble and 
he was so exhausted that his knees wobbled and he almost collapsed. Sarah had to 
hold him up as he recovered and caught his breath and balance.

"I'm sorry, Timmy," she said, rubbing his little arms with her strong young 
hands. "I'm a growing girl and sometimes I just don't know my own strength."

"It's okay," Timmy offered, regaining his composure and wanting to get out of 
the situation, which was uncomfortable for several reasons.

"I just wanted to have some fun."

She swiftly grabbed him around his tiny waist and held him up off the floor. Her 
grip was firm but gentle. Timmy didn't know what to do or say. Sarah kissed him 
on the right cheek, then pulled back to examine him, staring into his eyes. Then 
she kissed him tenderly on the left cheek and did the same. Thankfully, before 
it could go any further Timmy noticed that his aunt and Mrs. Thollen had 
returned.

"Make Sarah put me down, Auntie," Timmy squeaked meekly as his legs dangled high 
off the changing room floor.

"Oh Timmy," Sarah cooed softly so only he could hear, "you're such a..." she 
paused and her tone turned sharply as she concluded, with audible disappointment, 
"such a fucking baby." It was the first time he had ever heard the young girl 
swear, and it shocked him. She then set him down, kissed him matter-of-factly on 
the forehead, delicately grabbed his nose between the knuckles of her right index 
and middle fingers, made a honking noise, smiled down at him, and then continued 
to try on some final outfits. Timmy just stood there in his little silk undies, 
watching the leggy young girl as she examined herself in the mirror, occasionally 
shooting him back a self-satisfied smile and an approving glance, as if to 
rhetorically say "Don't I look good in this? Yes, this outfit will do". 

Timmy and Sarah were briefly left somewhat to themselves again while Mrs. 
Thollen and his aunt were at the counter signing for all their purchases. Sarah 
took this opportunity to snake one long arm around Timmy and pull his little 
body towards her. He was caught off-balance and stumbled a bit before his head 
softly landed in the armpit of Sarah's elegant charcoal-colored winter coat. 
"Don't be mad at me, Timmy, for inviting you to my party. It's just that it 
would be wonderful to have you there, dressed so prettily, so we can be 
sisters." It was tough for Timmy to think of Sarah in any respect as like a 
sister to him. Until today his experience with her amounted to twenty- or 
thirty-odd frustrating babysitting experiences, when he had to chase her then-
little body all over the house and sometimes all over the town. And then 
suddenly today, a couple years later, Sarah seemed strangely interested, by 
turns, in teasing him, apologizing to him, comforting him with relatively 
innocent kisses, and making him uncomfortable by cramming him very aggressively 
against her much bigger body, especially when one or both of them were scantily 
clad. His feelings toward Sarah were not lewd or amorous, but they were 
certainly not sisterly either. Nonetheless, he told her he would try and enjoy 
her birthday party, and he meant it, although he had grave doubts about such a 
mad venture. Anyway, the party was a month away; his aunt wouldn't expect him to 
remain in girly clothes for that long... or would she?

Goodbyes were said at the front door of the shop. Mrs. Thollen made a special 
point of telling Timmy to visit her sometime soon. "The library archive is 
closed for winter break, so I have nothing to do with myself most days. Sarah is 
in school and then she has ballet most afternoons. So you needn't worry about 
her 
being underfoot." Suddenly, it was as if Timmy were being treated as an adult 
again. Sarah "underfoot"? As if Sarah were a small child again? Timmy wondered 
how Sarah herself would respond to that characterization, but at the moment she 
was engaging Aunt Rose in a brief conversation about pilates and yoga, so 
evidently she didn't hear what her mother was saying. "I remember the long 
conversations we used to have, Timmy. It would be nice to sit with you, have 
some hot cocoa together, and talk like that again."

"Sure, Mrs. Thollen. Maybe it would be good for me to get out of my aunt's 
mansion." Timmy normally wouldn't really want to go out of his way to hang out 
with a 40-year-old plump mother whom he still thought of as "one of his parents' 

friends", but he honestly did like having the option of escaping from his aunt's 
grasp.

"Call me Martha," Mrs. Thollen said, and she pinched Timmy's cheek after kissing 
him goodbye. "What is it with these women?" Timmy thought. "Mrs. Thollen does 
remind me of that 'Madame' from earlier today, so it is sort of predictable that 
she'd be a cheek-pincher too. Although she never used to pinch my cheeks when I 
babysat Sarah for her. Did all of these women get some sort of memo yesterday 
telling them that they have to start pinching short men's cheeks? Or does my 
wearing these clothes simply bring that out in them? Either way, it's very 
annoying. And embarrassing." 

Finally they parted company, Mrs. Thollen and Sarah turning one way, Timmy and 
his aunt turning another. Before he could get two steps Timmy felt a violent 
pain shooting up his left butt-cheek. He turned around and saw Sarah walking 
backwards away from him, staring at him with a mischievous smile, her right hand 
making pinching motions in his direction.

What in the world had he gotten himself into? It was as if every minute of his 
life now was filled with a new embarrassment or humiliation. Is this what his 
life had come to? To be a 26-year-old man dressed in pansy clothes, for all the 
public to see, and to be disrespected and pinched on the ass by a towering 12-
year-old girl whom he used to be given paid guardianship over just a few summers 
before? Who would give him guardianship over ANYTHING today? What job could he 
do? Would any sane person who had just been examining Timmy's life over the past 
few hours even allow him to watch a five-year-old or even to walk their dog or 
watch their cat? Timmy just stood there in the mall and stared in Sarah's 
direction even after she and her mother disappeared.


"Timmy, COME ALONG!" his aunt bellowed, snapping him back to reality. "You can 
see Sarah again at her party. You just have to wait."

"No, aunty, I don't--"

"YES, Timmy. My goodness, for a boy who was so scared and shy to see the 
Thollens again, you certain fell into the role of little puppy dog once you 
actually saw them again--especially when you saw Sarah."

"Aunt Rose," Timmy attempted, "please I--"

"Aren't you impressed with what a striking young woman she has become? Don't you 
wish that someday you might be as socially presentable as she is--in your own 
little way, at least?"

Timmy thought long and hard about what the least problematic way to respond 
might be. "...Yes, auntie," he said finally, not wanting to argue and knowing 
that she wouldn't allow him to speak enough uninterrupted words to try to 
explain how he really felt anyway. So he may as well just agree with her. And, 
besides, despite the general madness of his aunt's apparent plan to reform him, 
he DID want to be a presentable member of society again.

"That's a good boy. I think little Sarah is a very good role model for you. On 
the other hand, I heard her mother invite you over to their house alone. I want 
to warn you that I definitely DON'T think you are ready for such an adult 
interaction."

"Adult interaction? Aunt Rose, Mrs. Thollen just--"

"Whether she just wants to chat with you about old times, or whether she wants 
to pull your pants down and take advantage of you--and I personally suspect that 
it's the latter--I forbid you to see her without Sarah or myself present."

"What?!" Timmy yelled, confused by so much of what he was hearing. "First of 
all, I'm not interested in Mrs. Thollen and she isn't interested in me that way. 
And--"

"She seems like a pedophile to me," Aunt Rose declared.

"Pedophile? But... What?!" Timmy was so confused. Was his aunt intimating that 
he should be considered more or less a "child"? He had yet to even confront his 
aunt on the issue of her "forbidding" him, a 26-year-old man, from paying a 
social call on whomever he wanted.

His aunt looked down on him and, uncharacteristically, reconsidered. "Maybe I 
shouldn't have said that," she remarked. Timmy wondered if she had changed her 
mind on Mrs. Thollen being a "pedophile", or whether his aunt simply wanted to 
hide her suspicion from Timmy, baseless as it was, in much the way adults don't 
want to trouble children by saying scary ideas in front of them.

"Come along now," she said, grasping his hand and pulling him along with her.

"Are we going home, finally?" Timmy asked, plaintively as he looked up at his 
tall aunt.

His aunt dramatically halted in mid-stride, bringing the heel of her boot down 
on the mall floor so loudly that it generated an echo. Suddenly Timmy was very 
afraid. Aunt Rose looked down at him from her imperious height, squeezed his 
hand very tightly, and slowly drew her free hand behind her shoulder, as if she 
were preparing to backhand him. Timmy winced, closed his eyes, instinctively 
brought his head down and covered it with his freehand in a feeble attempt to 
protect himself.

But she didn't hit him. Instead she lowered her hand and seemed to soften. 
"Timmy dear," she said with a sigh. "No one likes a little whiner. We are not 
going home yet. We have one more purchase to make this afternoon. Can you guess 

what it is?"

"No, Aunt Rose," Timmy answered, annoyed at all this tedium. He had an idea that 
the final stop wouldn't be for anything manly, or anything he would enjoy 
shopping for.

They resumed their walk, hand-in-hand, his aunt's hard heels hitting the floor 
in a rhythmic way that now imbedded itself in Timmy's mind.

"We need to get you some nice little shoes to wear. Some that actually fit you, 
without you stuffing horrid little tissues in them to make yourself look 
taller!"

Timmy opened his mouth to say something, but he was silenced by a wave of her 
long hand. Once again, he felt super self-conscious, as if all eyes were upon 
him as his aunt marched him through the mall.

They entered a shoe store, and moved directly to a glass showcase in which were 
displayed several dainty examples of little person's footwear.

"Are these children's shoes? GIRLS shoes?!" Timmy asked but got no answer.

A 40-year-old clerk behind the counter smiled and asked politely if she could be 
of any assistance to them.

"I'd like to see some nice little shoes, practical but slightly dressy, for my 
little charge here," Aunt Rose said, and then smiled down wolfishly at Timmy.

"Of course, Madame!" the clerk replied. "Such a very lovely little person does 
deserve something special." Timmy wondered whether these women were simply 
insane, or whether there really was a trace of cruel sarcasm in their voices 
that he could never quite perceive well enough. The only other alternative 
possibility would be to consider that someone like him actually deserved to be 
fussed over in this way, as if he really were a futzy little child.

"What size does he wear, Madame?"

That did it. Timmy hated being talked about in the third-person, as if he 
weren't there or wasn't capable of speaking for himself.

"I wear a MENS size 9," he said. He usually tried to buy 9.5s or 10s, because 
over the years he had worked out how to stuff those shoes just right and still 
be able to walk in them, gaining a few inches in height and also having a 
perceptibly larger shoe-size (not that it ever helped him in attracting women, 
but he could always HOPE...). Truth be told, he believed that he honestly would 
have fit into a size 8, or even a size 7.5, but he decided to press his luck by 
announcing a somewhat respectable size 9.

His aunt chuckled in a dismissive way, which brought out a giggle and a smile 
from the clerk as well.

"He'll take a size 6 in these," Aunt Rose said, holding up what appeared to be a 
shiny black dress shoe for little girls. It looked like a little doll's shoe as 
it sat in the big soft palm of Rose's elegant hand. It had a strap that went 
across the front, secured by a little silver fastener. A little white lace frill 
ran along the side and back. Of course, the shoe was totally flat; the sole not 
even a centimeter thick.

"NO, Aunt Rose, those look like little girl shoes--The size--I won't even--"

"Oh those will look adorable on him!" the clerk interrupted, then turned to the 
box-lined shelves behind her, glanced over the labels, took a box and placed it 
before them. With a gentle but weighty hand on his shoulder, Aunt Rose directed 
Timmy to sit down on a little stool, which he did, not wanting to cause a scene 
or 
make things any worse. From the rustling folds of white tissue, the clerk 
extracted the elegant, tiny pair of frilled black dress shoes and held them up, 
remarking that they were a recent import from Paris.

"They are simply darling," Aunt Rose commented. 

"But, Auntie--"

"Try them on, Timmy," she said with palpable goodwill and optimism.

He did try them on. And, to his horror, they fit. He was made to walk around the 
store, feeling shorter than ever without his makeshift lifts. His Aunt Rose 
looked absolutely gigantic to him. Slumping a bit, he felt as though he were 
looking into her bellybutton, which showed on her exposed midriff. There she 
was, a millionaire who effortlessly looked like a model--a model whose height 
was closer to 7 feet than 6 feet, thanks in part to her knee-high heeled 
cowboyish boots. And there he was, only about ten years younger than her (in his 
reckoning), and yet he looked like a foppish little pipsqueak boy dressed in 
girls clothes (or, at best, "GIRLY clothes"). "It isn't fair!" he screamed 
silently, thinking to himself not for the first or last time that the very 
physical presence of his big aunt--the super-rich, super-fit, rich babe--seemed 
to be the embodiment of an insult or cruel joke aimed at his diminutive little 
self.

"He looks very nice," the clerk remarked.

"Hm," his aunt said, "he'd look a lot nicer if he did something about his 
posture. He may be only five feet tall, but it would be better were he a PROUD 
five-foot-tall person."

Timmy groaned, sat back down, and began to undo the strap on one of the shoes.

"Oh you shall wear them home, Timmy. Don't you just adore them? They must fit 
and feel better than any ill-fitting shoes you've worn in quite some time. You 
little boys and the little games you have to play to assuage your 
insecurities... But these shoes, on the other hand, fit both your dainty feet 
and your appropriate demeanor. Don't you agree?"

"I guess so," he answered meekly, preferring to simply lie and say that he 
agreed.

After buying the shoes, Timmy could at least look forward to going home. 
Unfortunately, his aunt decided on the spur of the moment to duck into a woman's 
lingerie shop. Timmy felt so uncomfortable, not least because his aunt insisted 
on continuing to hold hands while she browsed the lacey racks. Timmy couldn't 
bear to look at anything. He put his head down, then closed his eyes (not 
wanting to look at his new capris or his little girly shoes).

To make matters worse, Timmy also began to feel the call of nature. He had to 
pee. At first he thought he could wait until they got home, but his aunt was 
taking so long looking at the lingerie. He told himself that he would simply use 
the bathroom near the exit of the mall, whenever they left. But the minutes 
ticked by and he could bear his problem in silence no longer.

Timmy shuffled his feet uncomfortably, with a full bladder, and said, "Auntie--"

"Please do stop your fussing, Timmy. We shall return home when I am good and 
ready! I would have thought a boy like you would have enjoyed looking at pretty 
lingerie, but apparently it scares you. Is that right?"

His aunt didn't even look at him while talking, so intent was she on running the 
elegant fabrics through her long fingers.

"Here, hold these." She passed Timmy a heap of panties, bras, stockings and 
silken gloves that she intended to purchase.

"Aunty, no, I--"

"I just need a few other items of lingerie before we leave," Aunt Rose 
continued, unconcerned. "Do behave or I will drop you right here, in the middle 
of the store, and give you the sort of spanking that only the very worst bad 
little boys deserve." She said all of this to the 26-year-old man as if it were 
the most natural conversation in the world.

They wandered around the establishment, Timmy growing ever more physically 

uncomfortable and becoming ever more certain that the attractive young clerks 

were laughing at him behind his back and whispering among themselves. His aunt 
spent five or six more minutes looking at bustiers, selecting a few and then 

moving toward a section of "stripper" boots not unlike those Mrs. Thollen was 

wearing. She mumbled, "I hope they carry my size..." Finally Timmy could wait no 
longer to tell her of his dire condition: 

"Aunty, I... I... have to go to the bathroom."

"Well, can't you wait till we get home? You can pee-pee then," she said, 
unconcerned. Not appreciating her use of the term "pee-pee", he shook his head 
vigorously, and said (in the loudest manner he had ever addressed her) "NO!"

"VERY WELL THEN," Aunt Rose hissed, clearly annoyed, as if the levy was 
breaking. She shook her head violently in disgust, jangling her big hooped 
earrings in the process. "COME ALONG WITH ME THEN, LITTLE BOY." In one swift 
motion she somehow swung all of her intended purchases out of Timmy's arms, put 
them on the counter, and swung Timmy himself up high into the air. His mind flew 
and he didn't know how many (or how few) of his aunt's gigantic strides were 
necessary to reach the bathroom. When they finally reached it, he didn't know 
what percentage of the distance was covered with him in the air, with his 
little hand and forearm hanging from his aunt's huge clenched fist.

He looked around. "This is a ladies' room!"

"Of course it is, Timmy. Did you expect this establishment to bother maintaining 
a little lavatory for men? Where else did you expect me to take you?"

He didn't expect his aunt to "take him" anywhere. He expected her to let go of 
his hand for the first time in an hour so he could find his own way to a more 
comfortable place for him to relieve himself. Still, he was glad to be near a 
toilet--any toilet. A moment later he found himself in the scented privacy of 
the most elegant bathroom stall he'd ever been in. From beneath the door he saw 
his aunt's brown leather boots tapping impatiently. It was hard for him to go 
under the circumstances. He felt so self-conscious and rushed, even though he 
really had to pee. 

Nevertheless he took down his capris and pulled down his new silk panties and--
saw to his great consternation that he had a raging hard-on. It wasn't the first 
time he had developed an erection for no ostensible reason. He recalled a few 
lonely bus trips and train trips in which, over the course of hours, the 
rhythmic motions of the vehicles had given him hard-ons for no sexual reason 
whatsoever. But all he had been doing over the last hour was trying NOT to look 
at lingerie. And he hated being in the presence of his aunt. Nonetheless, the 
rock-hard penis staring up at him caused him no shortage of troubling questions 
about his own psyche.

"I don't hear any tinkling!" his aunt bellowed from behind the stall door. Timmy 
shivered. He heard the outside door swing open and shut. Someone else had 
entered the bathroom. Great.

"Do you need any help in there, Timmy?" his aunt asked, clearly annoyed.

"N-no," Timmy replied meekly, trying to keep his voice down. Great, now whoever 
had just entered the bathroom would know that a man was in here--a man who 
evidently had problems going to the bathroom "by himself".

Rather than risk a "fountain shot" of urine, some of which might get on his body 
or his "nice new clothes", Timmy decided to sit down to pee. With all his 
strength he tried to pry his erection down as far as it would go. Gosh this was 
painful. It was as if his erection was the strongest muscle in his body; or at 
least it seemed stronger than his thin arms. He also tried to arch himself back-
-anything to get his aim down low enough to hit the pot. Finally he began to 
urinate, slowly but safely.

"I STILL don't hear anything!" his aunt bellowed again, her exclamation shocking 
Timmy and causing him to break concentration. His penis sprang upright and a 
fountain of urine began to splash all over his body and clothes. He tried to 
control himself and stop peeing, but he couldn't.

"Timmy! Timmy! Are you okay?"

He wished Aunt Rose would shut up. Finally he was able to stop peeing. His 
erection had actually died down, probably because of all the shame he was 
feeling. But it was too late; he was covered in his own piss. He stood up and 
turned around and was finally able to pee like a normal man, right into the 
toilet, though there was not much left in him. He was already drenched, and it 
had soaked into his clothes enough for it to be noticeable, visually and 
olfactorily. He thought he would die or pass out from shame.

The next thing he knew, his aunt's hands were on his shoulders and she was 
crouching down to look him directly in his face. He didn't know if he had 
actually opened the stall door himself or if she had somehow broken the lock to 
come in and get him. She shook him, not maliciously but in an attempt to bring 
him back to consciousness. 

It worked. He cast wide eyes around the bathroom and crimsoned as he saw, 
standing at one of the sinks, a tall teenage girl with long platinum blond hair, 
wearing a dangerously short clingy black dress and calf-high red booties with 4-
inch heels. Timmy estimated her to be 18 or 19. The young beauty was washing her 
hands and looking askance in his direction.

"Timmy, look at me," his aunt said, scrutinizing him very seriously. His aunt's 
face came into focus for him. Her hard, dark features looked genuinely 
concerned; her dark lips were pursed. It was the first time Timmy had to admit 
to himself that his aunt really did have the face of a gorgeous supermodel.

A dozen feet off, the tall teenager had stopped washing her hands and had turned 
to use a towel.

"Are you okay?" his pretty aunt asked.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry. I just couldn't hold it down," Timmy said reflexively. 
What he couldn't hold down was his raging boner, but thankfully his aunt would 
interpret the statement as if he simply lost control of his bladder.

"It's okay," Aunt Rose said tenderly. "I guess this was all a lot for you to 
take in all in one day, huh?"

"Uh...yeah." He did feel some relief. At least his aunt wasn't mad at him. At 
least she wasn't carrying out her earlier threat to spank him in public.

"Come on," she said. "I'll get you cleaned up in one of the sinks here."

"What?! No! I--"

His aunt had already wrapped her hands around his wet, stinky, sticky body, and 
had lifted him at arms' length up in the air. As she carried him over to the 
sinks, Timmy noticed with much embarrassment that the hot young girl was still 
there, looking at herself in the mirror, fixing her black sunglasses so they 
balanced on top of her blonde head, and tugging on the hem of her black dress as 
if in a hopeless attempt to make it reach more than an inch or two lower than 
her crotch.

As Aunt Rose set his butt in one of the sinks and methodically began to pull his 
urine-soaked clothes off, Timmy found that he was too shocked and humiliated to 
say, much less do, anything at all. The seconds passed like hours as he was 
locked into a slow-motion opera of shame.

He heard the clicking of heels and saw the blonde girl's face above him, next to 
the face of his aunt but several inches below it.

"Uh. Is he okay?" the girl asked in what Timmy thought was a very stupid-
sounding teenager voice.

"Yes, he'll be fine," Aunt Rose answered, turning on the faucet now that Timmy 
was--to his horror--completely naked. He closed his eyes and the next few 
utterances almost totally shattered his mind.

"Oh wow," the girl said. "he's got some cute little baby panties... Uh. Huh. 
Look. He's got a little boner."

Timmy cracked an eye open and bravely looked down. He did indeed have another 
raging erection. Was there to be no end to the indignities being heaped upon 
him?

His aunt just sighed, then squirted a heap of bubbly hand soap into her gigantic 
cupped hands. The girl had taken out a cherry red sucker and had put it in her 
mouth. His aunt began to soap up his thin body, removing any urine or scent of 
urine from him. Timmy squirmed and shivered as his huge aunt's freakishly long 
soft hands fingered his body and massaged the soap suds all over his naked skin. 
He watched the blonde teen as she listlessly surveyed the process, slurping on 
her lollypop and occasionally clicking it against her hard white teeth.

Finally his aunt soaped up his dick. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was not a 
long process. Timmy got no relief or release from it and was mercifully glad 
that his aunt did not spend much time on it. As his aunt reached under him and 
guided him under the faucet so as to rinse off the soap, the teen girl asked, 
"Uh, should I get a towel?"

"That would be very helpful," Aunt Rose said, keeping her eyes on Timmy. Her 
every word and glance seemed to say, "I am so disappointed in you, nephew. You 
are just... nothing. So pathetic". A small but growing part of him was beginning 
to agree with those implied sentiments. 

His aunt lifted him high into the air again and set him down on the bathroom 
floor. He noticed that he still was wearing his new little flat-soled dollshoes. 
Apparently those didn't get peed on. Other than that, he was naked. Suddenly a 
shadow fell over him and he felt an immense fluffy white towel being wrapped 
around him. "Thanks," he told the hot blonde girl, looking up--way up--at her 
blank-staring face. "Another typical teenage idiot," he thought to himself, 
desperately searching for anything to make his own ego feel a little better. 
"Aside from the fact that she's like 5'11" or whatever." He looked down again. 
There were his stupid little dollshoes--completely flatsoled and teeny tiny. And 
there were the big teen girl's hot red leather booties with their thick 4-inch 
heels. They looked so powerful compared to Timmy's tiny feet and very thin legs, 
especially with the girls' own legs--long, shapely, toned and naked--rising so 
high above them. And then lastly there were Aunt Rose's big shiny, modest-heeled 
leather boots, which dwarfed Timmy and reached up to his crotch almost, even 
though they didn't even reach his aunt's knees.

After his aunt helped him dry off she began looking in their shopping bags for a 
clean outfit for him to wear.

"Wanna sucker?" the girl asked him.

Timmy wanted to tell her "No! Why are you still here? Get lost!" But instead he 
just said "Sure."

The girl began fishing around her purse, which appeared to be made of the same 
red leather as her high-heeled booties. In another time and place, Timmy might 
have tried to strike up a conversation with the girl by complimenting her on her 
matching fashion sense. But such a situation was hopelessly distant from his 
current position.

"Oh poo," she said finally. "Don't have any more. But. Uh. Here. You can have 
this one."

She bent down so her face was on his level, pulled the red lolly out of her 
mouth with a loud smacking "pop" and then shoved it into his mouth, which, he 
realized, had been gaping open in awe of the very leggy female specimen before 
him. He dumbly sucked on the lolly and savored the cherry-flavored spit that was 
already on it. The girl chuckled stupidly.

"What do you say, Timmy?" his aunt warned him.

"Uh, th-thank you," Timmy said.

"For what?" his aunt prompted.

"For e-everything," Timmy stuttered shakily, uncertain and humiliated.

Still kneeling beside him, the girl smiled a toothy grin, giggled a spitty 
giggle (some lollypop saliva evidently still in her mouth), and then pinched 
Timmy's cheek with a strong thumb and forefinger whose nice shapely nails were 
painted cherry red. Timmy was very much aware of his erection, which was now 
throbbing even more dramatically than his heart was. Then the girl stood way up, 
smiled again, showing her unnaturally white teeth, and left the bathroom. Timmy 
couldn't help but admire how good her tight ass looked in that short black 
dress. He thought back to how Sarah had jammed him against a wall with her ass; 
it was humiliating, but he wished he could get the same sort of treatment from 
this older, blonde girl.

He turned to his aunt, half wanting to bury his head in her stomach. She began 
to help him put on another new outfit that looked more like something a little 
girl would wear than something a 26-year-old man would be caught dead in.

"Don't worry, Timmy," his aunt said sweetly, adjusting his girly choker collar 
and smiling down at him with her wide dark lips. "It's only the first day. 
You'll hold up better, later, under the yoke of femininity." What did she mean 
by that, Timmy wondered? Instinctively, he knew what she meant, but to put it 
into words...? Before he could think about it much, she continued, "You'll soon 
change your mind about your life and about what it means for you to be a little 
male--a little PERSON. You'll change completely before I've finished with you. 
Of that you can be certain. And all of the strong women you encounter in your 
life will help out. I'll see to that. You shall become the sort of male to whom 
women can't help but want to aid and guide--based not so much on a motherly 
instinct, but based on... some other sort of pity and compassion." His shoulders 
slumped in hopelessness as she plopped his little sailor hat back on his head.

They stopped by the wrapping desk to retrieve his aunt's many packages of 
expensive lingerie, and then took their departure from the mall. Much to Timmy's 
relief, they were headed back to their home, back to his aunt's mansion.



* * * * * * * * * *
 * * * * * * * * * *



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 Nordgren's house, from what one could tell that Brooks 
Ursula Fraser 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 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. Nordgren," 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 speechlessness.

"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'! And I was so looking forward to 
that!"

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, looking for all the world like she 
could easily stand in for Catwoman or Uma Thurman in "Kill Bill" -- or maybe 
take both of those women on and WIN, easily -- 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 sternly 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 26-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, crossing her arms across her 
chest 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 Nordgren 
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 had taken him in and given 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 young 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 this 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. She looked taller than ever, and her legs in 
particular fascinated Timmy; such glistening pillars of perfection. Brooks, 
however, was evidently going for a caculatedly trashy look, 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 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. Or was it foolishness?

"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 smiled wide and 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 longer and 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 somewhat 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 brawny 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. Brooks 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 hard 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 figure 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 still 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 Nordgren 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 only 
the second time he had ever seen her bare arms, the first being last night, and 
last night they didn't look quite THIS big.

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, little man," 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 slight marks and shallow gouges in 
his shaft, but amazingly the skin hadn't been pierced. There were a lot of 
bruises, however. 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 was
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 just 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. "A full FOOT shorter than me."

"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 14 or 15 inches higher than his own, 
since she was wearing heels. Meanwhile he was barefoot. ("Too bad boys 
don't wear high heels," Timmy thought morosely. "I could actually use them. And 
I estimated she was about 6-foot even, but I guess she's closer to 6'1". Why do 
I always seem to underestimate women while overestimating myself?" he wondered, 
cursing his default male egocentrism.)

"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 for 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, adding "I just think wearing heels 
is HOT", and then she 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 to her full 6'11.5" (in heels) height, 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 Timmy 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 she 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. He remembered how 
she totally destroyed and belittled his cock, and then how she stroked it and 
allowed him to take pleasure by pathetically dry-humping her.

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, and she had her long hands around their shoulders. 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 Fraser, 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 as well. The exact 
statistics of this were of course impossible to come by, but everyone nowadays 
was slowly becoming aware of this new emerging state of affairs.

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 flowing 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 
everyday 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 feel 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' big 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 middle-aged 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 anymore) and dialed the Thollens' 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 splashed 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 
Thollens' 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, what a 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, while watching her big hips and 
bigger buttocks sway back and forth, chest-level to him as they walked into 
her den, his thoughts eagerly turned in that direction. She was undeniably 
quite attractive now.

"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 high 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 almost 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 estimated that each of her 
thighs was probably bigger around than his waist. That 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 this much-
anticipated touch, he simply ejaculated before Martha could even rub him even 
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 daubed 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. She was so immense and curvy.

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 
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? Or my ex-husband! Haha! 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 man," 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--NAUGHTY ELF!--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 to an elf 
costume.

"Correction," Martha said, squatting down before the small man, a maneuver that 
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-to-late-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, throbbing 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, formalized 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 clever hands. 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 for him 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 Thollens' 
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. She had confiscated them and knew 
that he was up to something that, in her opinion, was naughty--because even 
though he was a 26-year-old man, he evidently couldn't be allowed to dress 
himself or come and go as he pleased.

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 aunt 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' 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 nine-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 eleven when she wore 
these clothes, not nine.

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--all in all, she was an 
astonishingly impressive figure. Even a normal-sized man, even a tall man, even 
a captain of industry, celebrity or politician, would have cringed before the 
towering person of Rose Nordgren. So what chance did a totally dependent 
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, exploitative 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 for a great big girl like Brooks Fraser to escort 
you on 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 and the 
vestiges of your male ego are totally obliterated for good. I'm sure you'll have 
a nice hard-on for the entirety of next Saturday night!"

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

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' 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 high school 
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 Nordgren 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.



* * * * * * * * * *
 * * * * * * * * * *



Chapter 3: A Day In with Rose; A Night Out with Brooks

Jerome sipped hot cider and looked at Timmy skeptically. They sat in beach 
chairs on the veranda of Rose Nordgren's mansion. It was surprisingly warm for 
late January, but even then no one in their right mind would sunbathe. And yet 
that's just what Rose and Brooks were doing, sunbathing, laying out on slinky 
beach chairs on the other side of the balcony, just out of earshot from Timmy 
and his friend.

"Remind me why exactly you DON'T like your situation here?" Jerome asked, 
raising one eyebrow and reaching into his jacket pocket to extract a sheet of 
paper.

Timmy was dressed in a pink winter coat and pink tights. On top of his head sat 

a pink winter hat with a purple poofy ball on top of it.

"Just look at me," he said. "Look at how they--"

"Dude," Jerome said. "I saw how they fuss and fawn over you and how 'cute' you 
look. Yeah it's weird, but what's not to like about the situation you're in?"

"Okay, well then how about YOU start dressing this way and--"

"Maybe I would," Jerome interrupted, "if I lived in a mansion and had two 
superbabes to look after me all day long." He opened up the paper he was holding 
and began to read: "...'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 Nordgren i meannnnnnn sarah thollen i mean YOU GOTTA 
HELP ME!'"

Timmy had buried his head in his hands and Jerome broke into laughter.

"WHAT is the problem, man?" Jerome asked, semi-rhetorically. "Look at those two 
fine females over there. WHAT is the problem?"

He gestured to where the long, leggy forms of Rose and Brooks were laid out. 

Both women wore oversized circular sunglasses, were flipping through fashion 
magazines and listening to their iPods as they sunned themselves. Brooks was in 
a skimpy black bikini that contrasted nicely with her relatively pale skin. Her 
toenails were painted dark purple, and her feet bopped to whatever music she was 
hearing. Rose was more immobile, and seemed to be losing herself in whatever 
article she was reading. She wore a brown, earth-tone bikini that nearly blended 
in with her own caramel skin. Timmy knew that she was white, was pure 

Scandinavian in fact, but she was so tan that she could almost pass for several 
non-caucasian ethnicities. She looked a bit like Nelly Furtado, he thought. He 
still suspected that her vegan diet had something to do with her skintone and 
hoped that her insistence that he become vegan too wouldn't turn him slightly 
orangey-brown as well.

"But don't you see how humiliating this is for me?" Timmy asked his friend.

Jerome looked at him intently. "What do you want me to do about it, man? You 
told me to come over here and look at what you were 'going through'. So I came 
over. And I see that you're living in some sort of paradise mansion with two big 
babes, one of whom is your rich aunt who spends tons of money on you, and the 
other of whom is the maid--who is apparently going on a DATE with you in a few 
days. And you act like this is a problem."

Timmy gestured to his pink attire. "THIS is a problem."

"You could always just--"

"No, Jerome, what I'm getting at is that--This is all part of some scheme or 
something. Don't you see? They want me to wear these clothes. Don't you find 
that almost...psychotically weird?"

"Look man..." Jerome began. "Stranger things have happened. I mean, if you check 
out my wardrobe, I used to dress in baggy pants and oversized white T's. Now I'm 
usually in tight jeans and tight V-necks. Because that's what girlies wanted to 
see me in. And I look good in them. I don't mind showing off my ass or my body. 
I exercise some, so what the hell, you know? It's just fashion. It's better this 
way than literally showing my ass-crack like a bum because my baggy pants are 
falling down."

"Jerome," Timmy broke in, "they've got me wearing pink. I'm basically wearing 
girls clothes."

"They're not for girls, man. I've seen other dudes wear pink before, and it is 
starting to catch on, so--"

"Okay, YOU wear pink then. You wear the kinda clothes I've been wearing and--"

"Look. Tim, this conversation is going nowhere. You're complaining that your 
rich aunt bought you a new high-fashion wardrobe and you don't like the taste 
of it. But don't drag this into some big conspiracy idea. Besides, if you don't 
like it, you can always leave."

"Yeah..."

"Your problem is you just don't know where you'd go or what you'd do. That's a 
YOU-problem."

Timmy looked at the marble floor of the veranda. A chill breeze began to blow, 
breaking up an otherwise incredibly beautiful sunny winter day.

"It IS weird for ladies to sun themselves in January, though," Jerome admitted. 
"I'll give you that. But who the hell could possibly complain?"

"I have to say," Timmy began, unsure how much of his inner feelings he really 
wanted to reveal to Jerome, "I--I'm looking forward to my date. It was weird how 
they sort of set it all up for me and are treating it like some sort of... school 
assignment or community service requirement, on my path back to being a normal 
person in society or whatever, but..."

"That girl is fine as hell, man," Jerome remarked, tracing Brooks' form with his 
eyes and admiring her toned feminine body. "If you weren't going on a date with 
her, I'd totally hit on her."

"Oh as if you'd have a chance, man."

"What?!" Jerome said with indignation that wasn't entirely good-spirited.

"You're like 5'6", man. She's six feet, easy."

"What's that got to do with anything? Tim, you're like 5'2", and YOU'VE got a 
date with her."

Timmy appreciated that Jerome thought he was taller than he really was. But if 
Jerome considered Timmy to be 5'2", maybe that meant Jerome wasn't as tall as 
5'6".

"Well, like I said, it's not a real date, I don't think. It's something my aunt 
and her set up."

"Either way, man," Jerome said. "I bet I could pull that girl. And if your Aunt 
Rose wasn't your aunt, I'd pull her too."

"Yeah. Okay, man. Keep dreaming. You'd be going after a chick who's ten years 
older, over a foot taller, and infinitely richer than you."

"None of that matters in bed, Tim. And besides, she's not 'infinitely' richer. 
Where do you get off?" Jerome laughed.

Lost in conversation, they hadn't noticed Rose and Brooks picking up their 
things and walking towards them, towards the sliding glass door that lead 
inside.

"You guys could've come sat nearer to us, y'know," Brooks quipped. "What were 
you, scared?" Beneath her sunglasses a smirk crept across her face.

Both boys were speechless. Sitting down they were eye-level with Brooks' ripped 
abs and Rose's beautiful tanned midriff.

"I think it was probably too cold for them to sun themselves anyway," Rose 
Nordgren remarked.

"N-No, no," Jerome stuttered, trying to regain his composure. "Just not used to 
sunbathing in January. Maybe next time, though?"

He stood up and awkwardly made his way over to the sliding glass door, which he 
struggled to open but finally pulled free. He gestured for Rose and Brooks to go 
inside.

"Oh, such a gentle-man," Brooks said, more than a touch of sarcasm in her voice, 
as she and her towering employer-cum-friend walked into the house.

When they had passed Jerome struggled again with the door, but finally closed 
it.

"Smooooth," Timmy remarked with a smile.

"Hey," Jerome said, "she digs me, I think."

"Yeah. You come up to her boobs, dude."

"Nothin' wrong with that," Jerome said smiling and sitting back down, "just 
means I'm at a convenient height for certain things."

"Well will you at least admit that she's stronger than you?"

"Um," Jerome paused. "Okay, yeah, yeah I'll admit that. She looks like she's in 
really good shape."

"And you'd date a girl who was stronger than you?" Timmy wanted to know.

"I've never thought about it actually," Jerome mused, suddenly taken aback. "I'm 
on this new diet, though. More greens. And some pills that make me lose fat, 
so... I imagine I'll be pretty buff in no time. Even buffer than I am now, I 
mean."

-----

Jerome's visit hadn't gone as Timmy planned. He was looking for sympathy and for 
his friend to offer him some sort of escape, a way out that he couldn't see. 
Instead, Jerome didn't even see the need for Timmy to look for a way out. What 
really puzzled Timmy was that Jerome hadn't even been taken aback by Timmy's 
clothes. He expected Jerome to die laughing when he saw him decked out in all-
pink; in fact, Timmy was actually looking forward to that moment, just so Jerome 
would know from the get-go that something was very wrong in Timmy's life. 
Instead, Jerome actually seemed to envy Timmy. He didn't get it. But Timmy 
himself, if pressed, couldn't give a logical account of just what was going on 
in his life, or why, anyway.

That week the days blurred together. Every morning Brooks got him up and dressed 
him. She cooked his meals and did his laundry. Every evening he was expected to 
eat dinner with Aunt Rose, and at every dinner his aunt made vague and 
interchangeable remarks about Timmy's "transition" back to social 
respectability. Every night he went to bed and dreamt either nightmares centered 
around Sarah's upcoming birthday party, which was his chief source of anxiety, 
or prurient fantasies centered around tall women whose faces morphed into those 
of the women in his life.

Besides Jerome's visit, only one other incident stood out in Timmy's mind that 
week was an email he received from Martha. It included an attachment: the 
picture she had snapped of Timmy and herself in the full-length mirror. The 
email read: "For Mrs. Claus's naughty little elf and his little Mr. Willy: Hope 
the memory of this moment stays with you always and brings you much enjoyment on 
long lonely cold nights! xxx, Martha".

Upon seeing this email, he felt disgust and shame and wanted to delete it 
immediately. Instead he ended up masturbating to the picture five times that 
week--twice on the first night he had it.

-----

It was Saturday morning, the day of his big date. Much like Sarah's party, 
Timmy had tried to put this event out of his mind as well. Unlike the case with 
Sarah's party, however, he had actually been quite successful in this. The idea 
of going on a date with Brooks could, or should, have been a source of much 
masturbation for Timmy. But as it was, the prospect seemed scary to him. He 
didn't care to investigate exactly why he found it scary--he just wanted to put 
it out of his mind. Anyway, he had plenty of other things to masturbate to.

On Friday night he had gone to bed as usual, though this time he stuffed 
earplugs in his ears and had taken a few sleeping pills. He didn't want to give 
his mind a chance to worry about the date. He was just going to let it happen. 
In a vague way, he obviously liked the idea of going on a date with Brooks. But 
all of the specifics--what they would do, what he would wear, how embarrassing 
or traumatizing it could become--he did not even think about.

He was pulled back to consciousness by a large white-gloved hand on his 
shoulder, shaking him awake.

"Timmy? Timmy?"

It was Brooks, waking him up as usual as part of her maidly duties.

He looked up at her, thought "This won't be so bad," and struggled to sit up in 
bed. He smiled at her.

"Morning," he said, taking the earplugs out of his ears.

"I let you sleep in," Brooks said. "You're going to need the extra energy for 
tonight. And we might be staying up late depending on how long you can last."

She winked at him and Timmy blushed.

"Here," she said, smiling sweetly and handing him some clothes. "Put these on. 
These are your clothes for today, until our date at least."

He took the clothes and was confused. White boxer shorts and a black "wife-
beater"?

"These are... guy clothes?" he asked hopefully. He had gotten in the habit of 
expecting Brooks to bring him apparel that was soft, frilly, and more often than 
not pink or purple.

"Silly," she said, smiling sweetly and honestly--which was uncharacteristic for 
her. "I always bring you GUY clothes. Technically, anyway."

"You know what I mean. These are... really guy clothes, though."

"Wrong again, Timmy," Brooks said, some spunk returning to her demeanor. "Check 
the tags, little guy."

Timmy looked. Both the sleeveless shirt and the boxers were made by Victoria's 
Secret.

"I don't understand," he said, but nonetheless he began to get himself out of 
bed and put the clothes on dutifully.

"They make clothes like these for women too, y'know," Brooks said. "In fact, 
these are some of my clothes. You can wear them for today, though, at least 
until this evening when we go out. I think your aunt has some special clothes 
for you to wear on our date. But she'll be dressing you by then, cuz I'll have 
to go back to my place and get ready."

"O...kay," Timmy said, beginning to get a bit nervous. He didn't like the idea 
of his aunt having something "special" for him to wear on his date. And he 
wasn't all that happy about wearing some of Brooks' clothes. It helped a lot 
that they looked like guy clothes, but nonetheless he was annoyed that one way 
or another every new thing in his life seemed designed to humiliate him in a new 
way. He could finally wear "guy clothes" again, if only for half a day, but they 
were actually clothes for girls modeled after classical garments for guys. 
Either way, they were kind of big on him, a fact that threatened to annoy and 
humiliate him all the more, if he let it.

"Kinda BIG on you, aren't they?" Brooks said, arching an eyebrow and looking 
down at the little male standing before her.

"Yeah," he said. "But-but THANK YOU, Brooks. I like wearing clothes like this."

He wasn't lying, and he wisely decided to make the best of things. Arguing could 
get him nowhere anyway. He had learned that by now.

"Okay," Brooks said, "next thing's next!" She pulled out a clipboard and from 
behind her revealed the scale and measuring device.

"Oh god," Timmy groaned, unable to hold back the sense of deflation that he 
instantly felt upon seeing this. "It hasn't been a month yet. You said I only 
had to do this once a month."

"Timmy, next Saturday is little Sarah Thollen's Sweet Thirteen party. Your aunt 
has a LOT planned for you then. You'll be busy the WHOLE day and we won't have 
time to do it. So we're doing it one Saturday early, 'kay?"

Timmy hated everything he was hearing. It was all he could do not to either go 
into a fit or else feel an overwhelming sensation of paralyzing trepidation. But 
Brooks looked down at him smilingly and picked up her pen smartly, ready to 
record his meager height and weight.

He sighed. Brooks chuckled. And then he stepped on the scale.

The numbers on the wheel whizzed by.

"Uh-oh!" Brooks chimed, mockingly. "Uh-oh! Is he less than a hundred now?!"

Timmy didn't need this. He had tried so hard to put concerns about his body out 
of his mind. He felt like he was becoming some poor clich' of a teenage girl 
with anorexia, only he actually wanted to get bigger, not smaller, but was 
powerless to do so.

The numbers climbed higher but looked as though they were going to settle 
somewhere in the 90s.

"UH-OH!" Brooks said again louder, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Timmy felt 
so tiny and embarrassed.

Then, miraculously, the wheel turned a bit more. 

105! 

Timmy was elated. He smiled up at Brooks like a small child proud of having 
accomplished a pathetically mighty task that all grown-ups could do but the 
child himself hadn't been able to master yet.

"Oh Timmy!" Brooks beamed down at him, her voice still overly dramatic. "How 
MANLY of you! My heart is so a-flutter to be going on a date with a REAL MAN who 
clocks in at ONE-HUNDRED and FIVE pounds of pure-- Oh. OH. Look, Timmy. Look."

She pointed an elegant, white-gloved finger down towards the back of the scale. 
Timmy turned his head back and saw to his horror that Brooks had leaned her leg 
over and placed one of her dressy black heels on the back of the scale.

The moment sunk in, and once it had Brooks curtly removed her shoe, at which 
point the numbers on the scale spun lower.

90 lbs.

"THAT's more like it!" Brooks roared. "Looks like you're not done losing weight 
yet, huh?" She poked Timmy in the ribs and he stepped back, startled. "Oh well, 
I guess you just have to hit bottom before you can come back up, huh? RIGHT?"

She waited for an answer, looking at the little man intently.

"Yeah, I-I guess," said Timmy, rapidly losing any bravery and goodwill that he 
felt that morning. "I-I guess I had more fat on me than I thought, and the 
pills--"

"OR YOU HAD LESS MUSCLE," Brooks said loudly.

"Yeah. P-p-probably."

Timmy wanted to cry. Why did these women always lord their power over him and 
point out his weaknesses so meanly, like an owner rubbing a dog's nose in its 
own poop. But Timmy couldn't help it; he couldn't help being small. And after 
all, it was his aunt who was putting him on this dietary program. Still, those 
same pills had apparently worked wonders for Mrs. Thollen, so...

"Now the REALLY fun part!" Brooks said in a voice so loud that it was almost an 
orgasmic scream. "Time to measure your HEIGHT!"

Bashful, Timmy stepped back on the scale.

"Head UP!" Brooks bellowed. "Or do you WANT to measure less than five feet tall?"

Mercifully, she left that question rhetorically and didn't press Timmy for an 
answer. Above him, her gloved hands adjusted the measuring bar.

"Hm," she remarked when she was done. "Very interesting."

"How tall am I?" Timmy asked in a meager, hopeless voice.

"Oh you are so adorable," Brooks said. "Mouthing those little questions. So 
adorable I could take you right here and rape you right on the floor if I wanted 
to."

Timmy shivered. What the hell was she saying. He hated her and wanted her gone, 
but he was so afraid, paralyzed with fright and indecision.

"Just tell me and stop picking on me!" he yelled.

Brooks looked deep into his eyes, which were beginning to water. "Stop 'pickin'' 
on you?" she asked in a mocking tone. Then she smiled a wicked smile, baring her 
teeth. "You're 4'11", you little shit," she said cruelly.

He fearfully moved his head and looked up at the bar. Sure enough, he was under 
five feet now but, if it was any consolation, he didn't fall short by that much. 
The measuring bar was only one small mark, a sixteenth of an inch, below the 60-
inches mark.


"Four-foot eleven, 15 slash 16," Brooks said, as she recorded his height.

Timmy stepped down from the scale and, silently, he started crying.

Ignoring him, Brooks folded the height ruler down and packed up the scale. She 
put the cap back on her pen, clipped the pen back onto the clipboard, set the 
clipboard down on the scale and then--

"Oh!" she said brightly. "I almost forgot!"

She hurriedly picked the clipboard up again, knelt down before Timmy (who was 
still softly crying), and with one gloved hand she promptly pulled his boxer 
shorts down. A rock-hard erection flopped up and down, sprung by the descending 
waistband, and then steadied itself to point directly up towards Brooks' smiling 
face. 

She noted something on the clipboard and then turned to Timmy. Knelt down like 
this she was just a bit shorter than he was.

"Hey. Timmy. Stop crying."

He looked at her with tearful eyes. His mouth twitched and moaned.

"If you stop crying I'll give you fellatio. Right here, right now," she said.


He moaned a bit more, then steadied himself, trying not to suck in any more 

pitiful gasps of air. His tears stopped.

"Just kidding," she said. 

He moaned a bit, dejectedly.

"Look," she said. "Timmy. Pull yourself together. We're going on a date tonight. 
I want to have a good time. We're going to have a good time. Okay?"

He softly said, "Okay."

"Good."

She reached down and pulled his boxers back up just far enough so that they hung 
from his erection. Then she stood up and looked down at him.

"I know what'll cheer you up," she said. She got the scale back out and slid up 
the height ruler. She kicked off her heels and Timmy noted that her dark painted 
toenails could be seen through her white hosiery.

"Measure me!" she said, stepping on the scale.

Timmy approached her, still too anxious to really say anything.

"NOT THE WEIGHT, THOUGH," Brooks warned loudly. "It's impolite to ask a woman's 
weight."

That was fine by Timmy. He thought--and the thought pulled him back into 
reality--that the last thing he wanted to find out was whether or not this 
brawny, shapely woman before him weighed over twice as much as he did. Brooks 
wasn't fat at all, but she was big and tall and muscular.

"Can you reach?" Brooks asked. "Of course you can't. Here!"

She bent down and wrapped her big gloved hands around his waist. Then she stood 
tall and lifted him aloft. She positioned him to sit on her broad shoulders.

"Can you do it?" she asked.

"Y-yeah," he said, his shaky hands reaching out to lower the measuring bar.

"What is it? How TALL am I?"

"Um... Six-two," he said. "6'2" and a half, really."

"WOW," Brooks said dramatically. "That's a LOT taller than you."

"Y-yeah," Timmy said, trying desperately to grapple with the fact that just a 
few weeks ago Brooks stated that she was slightly less than 6'1".

Silence.

"Um," he said. "C-can you put me down now?"

"SURE!" Brooks bellowed. He knew that she was smiling even though all he could 
see of her was the top of her head and her short, trimmed black hair. He hated 
that she was so condescending to him. He really hated her, he thought.

She set his little body back down in from of her, put away the scale and 
clipboard again, then slid her hosed feet back into her heeled black dress 
shoes. She put her hands on her hips and leaned over him.

"Okay, Timmy!" she said. "Time for me to go! The next time I see you, I'll be 
PICKING YOU UP AGAIN--for our BIG DATE I mean!" She let out a sarcastic laugh.

He looked down at the floor, so nervous. He just wanted her to leave so he could 

cry again.

"Can I have a BIG HUG before I go?"

Without thinking, Timmy threw himself towards her, wrapping his arms around her 
waist and sliding his body against one of her legs. Any hatred or resentment 
that he had just felt for her instantly disappeared. He wasn't even thinking 
now--he was just embracing something that was maddeningly desirable to him.

As he did this, Brooks let out a laugh that was more of a squeal. Then she 
quickly bent down and peeled him off of her leg with one strong hand, holding 
him out at arm's length with her big hand spread over his entire chest.

"Haaaang on, little guy!" she said. "Don't do that yet! We need to save that for 
tonight, 'kay?"

"Okay! Okay!" Timmy said, suddenly out of breath.

"And one more thing," she said, bending down further and reaching toward the 
tent in his boxer shorts. "If you waste any cum today wacking off in the shower, 
or into tissue papers, or anything--I'LL KNOW ABOUT IT." Through her gloves and 
his shorts she squeezed the head of Timmy's penis with a big strong thumb and 
forefinger. "And I'll be VERY ANGRY with you."

"Owwwwww..." Timmy whined, once she let up. "Okay okay okay."

"Heh," she said, standing back up and gathering her things. "You're like a 
little virgin on prom night, aren't you. Don't worry, though. I'll go easy on 
you. AT FIRST, anyway."

With that Brooks walked out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor, 
leaving Timmy to stand there, his boner throbbing, wearing her own boyish 
underclothes and feeling so exhausted already. If he was already that overcome, 
exhausted, mentally defeated, humiliated, craven and horny, what was the actual 
date going to feel like?

He slunk off to his private lavatory to give himself a cold shower.

-----

"Aunt Rose?" he called, stepping downstairs. "Aunt Rose?"

"I'm out here, Timmy." Her voice came from the veranda.

Timmy bundled himself tighter in his puffy pink robe and stepped through the 
sliding glass door. Rose was eating breakfast at a high circular wooden table, 
sitting on one of the tall deck chairs, which looked like smaller versions of a 
chair you might find a life-guard on at the beach. Rose wore stylish white-
rimmed sunglasses, a sleeveless turquoise top, and maroon velveteen pants that, 
on her long legs, became capris, for they ended just above her shapely calves. 
On her feet she wore laceless leather loafers. She greeted her nephew with a 
broad smile, tipping her sunglasses up onto her short brown hair to reveal those 
deep brown eyes that Timmy had begun to find so captivating. Hardly in control 
of his actions at this point, still somewhat traumatized by his interactions 
with Brooks earlier, Timmy felt compelled to walk directly over to his aunt, 
perched high on her chair, and wrap his arms around one of her legs. His cheek 
smushed against one of her bare calves, and as he hugged it he gave it a few 
kisses.

"Oh what an affectionate boy!" Rose remarked happily. "I like it when you're 
this way."

Timmy pulled back and smiled up at her hopefully. Still his hands lingered 
against her leg, not wanting to lose contact.

"Why don't you join me for breakfast, Timmy? Brooks has left but I've made us 
some fixings. Can you make it way up here?" She gestured to another tall chair 

at the table.

These chairs were probably six feet tall. Even Aunt Rose's legs didn't reach the 
floor when she was sitting in one of them. It was a struggle, but Timmy pulled 
himself up slowly, crossbar by crossbar, until he made it to the empty seat 
across from his aunt. He was almost out of breath, and he felt like a child, for 
his feet barely dangled down at all once he was properly seated, but he was 
proud of his accomplishment, and it showed on his face.

"Very good, Timmy," his aunt said, still beaming at him with white teeth, dark 

lips and rosy dimples adorning her supermodel-level face.

Before him Timmy saw a tiny glass of orange juice, a small cup of oatmeal with a 
childish little blue spoon in it, and two multigrain crackers. He thought about 
remarking upon the extremely small portions, but decided against it. He bit into 
one of the crackers. It was probably very healthy, but he still hated most of 
this food that his aunt allotted him.

"And how is Timmy on this BIG DAY?" Rose asked.

"I'm... okay, I guess."

"You don't sound very sure. Tell me, are there any butterflies in your little 
tummy?"

If they were seated any closer, Timmy thought, his aunt probably would have 
tickled him in the stomach as she said that. He didn't know if he wished that 
could have happened or not. On the one hand, he still disliked being treated 
like a child; on the other hand, for some reason he was beginning to crave her 
attention and soft touch.

"Yeah. I am nervous."

"Aw," his aunt said. "Well don't be. Brooks isn't going to HURT you, you know 
that, right?"

"Actually, Aunt Rose--"

"Why don't you just call me Aunty. We've grown close enough for that, I think."

"Okay, um, Aunty. I...I'm actually a-afraid of Brooks. Sometimes. I..." He 
shoved another cracker in his mouth, purposely not wanting to continue talking 
about this if he could help it.

"Well, you know Brooks only does what I instruct her. When she punishes you, she 
only does so because I give her that power. But she and I both just want what's 
best for you. And we all just want this to be a fun night out on the town for 
you. We don't want it to be about you getting scared and feeling like you're 
going to get punished. You know that, right?"

"...Yeah," Timmy said uncertainly, looking down and fingering his juice glass 
nervously.

"And I know it's a big scary world out there, but Brooks will protect you 
tonight. That's what she is. She's your protector, not a person looking to hurt 
you for no reason."

"I know..." Timmy murmured.

His aunt looked at him intently as she downed her own glass of orange juice, 
which was much taller and larger than his.

"Aunt Rose," he asked. "Aunty?"

"Yes?"

"Is Brooks supposed to be my girlfriend?" He asked this with much trepidation, 
not really knowing where the question came from or what he wanted the answer to 
be.

"No, don't be stupid, Timmy." Rose tilted her head at him and glared at him as 
if she were ashamed. But then her look softened. "She DOES like to spend time 
with you, though. She likes to wait on you, and dress you, and watch you eat--
and she especially likes to tease you. And I think you like it when she does 
that."


"...Yes."

"I'm glad you can admit it, Timmy. That's a big step, admitting that you like a 
woman to tease and tantalize you." Rose daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin 
and then smiled broadly at Timmy.

"Aunt Rose, Aunty... I love you," he said earnestly and felt as though he would 
about to cry again. "But I'm so confused with all of this... all of this..."

"I know," she said. "But you're doing a GOOD JOB, Timmy. I am proud of how you 
have behaved this past week. And a little date with Brooks will be just the 
right reward for you."


"But," Timmy began, "but... it's just..."

"Timmy," Rose said gravely, "right now, if it were any other day, I'd pick you 
up in my arms, carry you into my bedroom, lay on the bed, and let you dry-hump 
me until you found release. Would you like that?"

He was shocked but also elated in a way that he couldn't quite process fully.

"Oh yes, Aunty. Oh god, oh god, yes."

"But tonight you have a date with another woman, don't you?"

"...Yes," Timmy admitted.

"So you should save yourself for her. Maybe if you're good tonight, she'll let 
you release while she's touching you with her big strong fingers."

With that Rose balled her napkin up and rubbed it between her hands. At that 
moment Timmy wanted his aunt's hands more than he wanted Brooks'. His aunt's 
hands and fingers were longer, softer, their nails natural and unpainted. They 
looked like the hands of an amateur gardener or a loyal wife. He wanted those 
hands to pick him up beneath his armpits and hold him close to that smiling 
beautiful face that he couldn't help finding so attractive. Even though he was
not related to her by blood, he still felt it was wrong to be attracted to a 
woman who was known as his aunt. But... he just couldn't help it.

"You haven't eaten much of your breakfast, Timmy," she said.

He glanced down and blushed. It was true. Only half of his oatmeal was gone. 
Part of a cracker remained. And he had only had two sips of his orange juice.

"I thought I find finally figured out how much--or how little--to feed you. But 
I guess I overestimated you, didn't I? Anyway, here are your morning vitamins."

She reached over and sprinkled an assortment of pills onto Timmy's little plate.

"Aunty," he said, fingering the pills. "I'm concerned about my size. Brooks 
measured me today and--"

"I know," she said. "You're still getting smaller. But not much smaller, right?"

"No not much smaller, Aunty, but... I can't afford to lose anymore!" He almost 
burst into tears but held himself back.

"Darling," she said. "It's almost over. I've told you before that the medicine 
has to burn away the bad cells before it grows new ones."

"I know," he said. "I know,  but it's just... it's SO hard..."

Silently he began to drink down his pills, one by one, with sips of orange 
juice. The pills felt perceptibly larger in his throat, even though he new for a 
fact that he hasn't lost all that much size proportionately.

While he was doing this his aunt cleaned up the table and stood next to him. 
Seated in the tall chair, he at least came up to her shoulder. When he was 
finished taking his pills his aunt put the tip of one of her long soft fingers 
under his chin and gently made him tilt his head to look up at her. He loved 
her face--so beautiful and feminine, even with its boyish bob of short brown 
hair. She bent down slightly and gave him a tender kiss right on the lips, 
licking his lips with her tongue once or twice after pulling back. He moaned and 
wanted her, and after he stood up next to her, eye level with her abdomen, it 
was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her leg and start rubbing his 
groin against it.

"Come inside with me, Timmy. I have some presents for you that I think you'll 
like."

He followed her like a little lost puppy--a little lost horny puppy. Rose seemed 
more than aware of his growing attraction for her, and it amused her. More than 
once, as he followed her through the mansion, she glanced back, glanced down at 
the tent in his boxer shorts, and smiled knowingly.

She led him into one of the many spare bedrooms in her mansion and gestured 
towards a simple white chair on which several garments were piled. Like a 
curious little monkey, Timmy walked over and began sifting through the items, 
some of which were folded, trying to figure out what they were.

"A dress?" he said, in a surprised but not wholly disapproving tone. He held it 
out before him, as if sizing it up to see how it would fit him. It was silvery 
and polyester; it had almost a retro, space-age style to it, like something a 
girl in the early '60s might where to a sci-fi themed party. Still Timmy kind of 
liked it, which came as a surprise to himself.

"Isn't it neat?" Aunt Rose said. "I got it from a vintage shop. Very chic, I 
think."

"It's for me?" Timmy asked. Things like this still confused him, more than 
anything, but there began to emerge a kernel of hope and grace in his voice.

"Yes, Timmy. It's for you to wear on your date tonight."

"Oh," he replied simply. Suddenly nervousness set in as he began to imagine 
himself wearing this dress out in public, surrounded by a bunch of jeering and 
laughing mean people.

"Don't worry," Aunt Rose assured him, as if she could read his thoughts. "Brooks 
will protect you. No one will dare make fun of you with your mighty guardian 
alongside you. And besides--don't you sort of WANT to wear this out in public?"

"I... guess," he replied, doubtful but honest. "It's not like I have any other 
clothes that are any better. Not anymore anyway. I--"

"Timmy, just stop right there. Don't even go down that road. That's the past. 
Okay?"

"Okay," he said, staring up at his aunt.

"Now look at the other things I got you."

From the pile he pulled out sheer skintone stockings. Wrapped within them was a 
packet of razors and a dainty electric shaver.

"Pantyhose?" he asked in disbelief. "And... What-what do you want me to do?"

"You should start shaving your body anyway, Timmy. I know you aren't very hairy, 
but you should try to clean yourself up a little bit. Balls and all should be 
shaved. If you'd like, I can help you with that, but personally I'd rather you 
do it on your own. And, besides, those aren't pantyhose. They're 'Mantyhose', a 
real brand. For men. It is a cold night out, and if you're going to wear a short 
dress then you should also put on some hosiery. You'll feel good in it once you 
slip it on. I know you will. You'll feel so sexy, Timmy."

Next was a pair of well-heeled booties. They were silver and matched the dress.

Timmy held them in his hands, speechless and not knowing what to think. They 
were actually quite heavy in his hands. Through his shock, the first coherent 
thought to emerge was the rationalization that he would at least be taller in 
these.

Aunt Rose smiled, walked behind Timmy, bent down and wrapped her arms around 
Timmy's shoulders, nuzzling him cheek to cheek. 

"I know you've secretly been wanting heels for sometime. You'll be about 5'3" in 
these--the same height you always said you were."

"The same height I used to BE," Timmy thought, "with slight makeshift lifts in 
my shoes. Now I actually have to wear high-heels to reach that height. Still, I 
suppose it's better than walking around in public while standing 4'11"..."

"Brooks will no doubt be wearing heels tonight, Timmy," his aunt warned. "So 
you'd better wear some too unless you want to get totally blown out and dwarfed 
by your lady."

He grimaced, but then the expression turned into a wary smile.

"Thank you, Aunty," he said.

"These booties were actually mine when I was a little girl," Rose said. "I saved 
them all these years and took good care of them. Do you want to know how young I 
was when I wore them, and how tall I was in them?"

"No, Aunty, no," Timmy whined. "Please, I-I don't want to know that. I feel so 
pathetic as it is. I'm 26, and--"

"Okay. Okay, darling," she said nuzzling his face and hugging his shoulders 
hard, smushing her face against his soft little cheeks, giving him a few kisses. 
"You don't have to know, if knowing would upset you so. But you can imagine, 
right?"

"Yesh, Aunty," he said, his mouth squished by her cheek and smiling lips. "I can 
imagine."

"I was even taller than Sarah is at her age."

The mention of the girl Timmy used to babysit caused him more despair.

"Please let's change the subject," he said.

His aunt released him and stood back up.

"Right. Anyway, Timmy, if you like these heels and you find that you can walk 
well in them, I have another pair, with taller heels, for you to wear next 
weekend to Sarah's party. All right?" 

The notion of showing up to Sarah's Sweet Thirteen party at all, much less 
showing up to it clad in high heels and presumably another dress, normally would 
have disgusted and distressed Timmy. But as it was--resigned to fate as he had 
become--the idea of wearing heels so that he'd be closer to the girls' level 
actually pleased him and gave him a little confidence.

"Okay, Auntie. Sounds good." He couldn't believe he was saying the words, but he 
was.

"Glad to hear it, Timmy. You're coming such a long way. But there's one thing 
you've forgotten."

He looked at her with some confusion and more than a little exhaustion. The 
surprises weren't totally overwhelming to him, but he had had enough of them and 
wanted to get away safely.

"What is it, Aunty?"

"Well. Did you get your date a gift?"

"Um... No, I didn't. I didn't get Brooks anything. I didn't know I was expected 
to."

"Of course you aren't EXPECTED to, Timmy. But a gentleman should do everything 
he can to supplicate himself before the woman. Even if he knows he can never 
really become her boyfriend."

"Right," Timmy said. (And in his head he thought, "Of course you'd say that, you 
feminist bitch." He hadn't wholly gone over to her side yet. He was glad to know 
that a small part of him, an independent and traditionally masculine side, still 
remained. At that moment, even though he remained calm on the outside, he swore 
to never forsake the last of his independence.)

"Since it's too late for us to go shopping for a gift now," Rose said (at which 
point Timmy added a sarcastic "DARN!" in his head), "I have arranged an 
assortment of my jewelry from which you can select one item to give to Brooks, 
from you, on your date.

"Oh," Timmy considered. "Well, thank you, Aunty. That's very kind."

Rose pulled out a large rectangular jewelry box and flipped the lid. Timmy was 
impressed, even though he knew that this wasn't all of his aunt's jewelry. He 
saw many rings, necklaces, broaches, earrings, and other assorted shiny things 
of gold and silver. He saw various rubies and emeralds and tried to imagine 
which might look best juxtaposed with Brooks' haunting green eyes.

At last he selected perhaps the simplest item of all: a featureless silver ring, 
perfectly circular, with no adornments.
 
"Ah," Rose said, closing the lid and putting the box away. "Good choice. 
Seemingly very traditional, but just a touch naughty."

"What do you mean?" Timmy was confused, turning the simple ring over in his 
hands.

"See the triple-X impression?" his aunt asked, steadying his hands with one of 
her long forefingers and directing Timmy to hold the ring at an angle in the 
light. Sure enough, at one place, on a centimeter-long distance, there was a 
tiny impression in the ring that read "XXX".

"One of my old lovers gave that ring to me. It is fitting that you give it to 
Brooks."

Timmy did not want to press his aunt further to explain herself. He frankly just 
wanted to be done with the situation and hoped that Brooks wouldn't notice the 
naughty impression. "Whatever," he thought.

"But you must now write Brooks a nice letter to accompany the gift," his aunt 
said.

She guided him over to a desk, and got out a sheet of paper and a fancy pen for 
him.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said. "Here! I got this for you as well."

She handed him a plush little white pocketbook with a silver latch. It was 
covered with what looked to be soft feathery strands that were probably 
artificial but nonetheless very stylish. Timmy watched as his aunts big fingers 
opened the pocketbook and dropped the ring inside. The pocketbook looked so tiny 
in his aunt's hands, like it was just an accessory for a doll.

He turned back to the paper on the desk but had no idea what to write. But he 
knew he wasn't going to be allowed to leave the room until he had completed this 
task.

From over his shoulder he heard his aunt say: "When you give Brooks that ring--
She's sure to fuck you tonight, Timmy. I just hope that she isn't too rough with 
you and that she doesn't squeeze your penis so hard that the triple-X impression 
becomes indented into your penis flesh."

He felt so embarrassed, and yet his dick sprang to attention. He put his head in 
his hands and leaned down against the desk. At this point, he knew he could 
either begin to cry and have a real nervous breakdown, or else he could write 
the sort of letter that he knew he had to write, the sort of letter that would 

please his aunt, would please Brooks, and would more or less correspond to his 
actual emotions.

He wrote:

"Dear Brooks,

I'm sorry it took us a while to get to know each other. I'm so glad you're in my 
life, but you make me confused. I am so afraid of you, and yet I think I love 
you. I think I'm too little for you, and you scare me, but I want to be with you 
as much as you will allow, in whatever way you will allow. You make me be a 
better boy, I think. That night when you first disciplined me was so traumatic 
for me. I was never so scared in my life. When I think of it, I want to go hide 
somewhere, but I know you'd find me. You scare me so much sometimes. I think 
sometimes that you're going to kill me or crush me or abuse my penis so much 
that it could be injured forever. But then you're nice to me and I want to love 
you, and you've given me release before, which I love you for. But I know you 
like to hurt me, and that makes me hate you sometimes. It also turns me on, 
though, a lot. I can't explain it. I want to hump your legs like a little puppy. 
Sometimes at night I imagine myself doing that, and I imagine you looking down 
at me and laughing at me while I'm doing it. Then I can't help myself. And I 
think about how much bigger and stronger you are then me, and my penis explodes 
at that thought. Thank you for going on a date with me. It means a lot to me. I 
think you know how bad of a crush I've got on you. You still frighten me and I 
can't do anything about it. But I guess I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm so 
lucky for someone like you to even pay attention to me.

Love,
Timmy"

"VERY good!" his aunt exclaimed when she had read the letter.

Timmy smiled. He really couldn't help himself and was honestly so glad that he 
had done a good job of writing the letter.

"Oh I could just kiss you, Timmy!" she continued. "In fact, I think I will!"

She bent down but to Timmy's annoyance she only gave him a peck on the forehead.

"Now go run along and take a shower. You need to shave everywhere, under your 
armpits too. No one wants to see a hairy man in a dress. And the fabric will 
feel so much better against your smooth tender skin."

Timmy did as he was told, and shaved his face too (though, for the second week 
in a row, he thought that he really didn't need to). In the shower it was all he 
could do not to masturbate, but he wanted to save himself for his date.

-----

He was indeed, as Brooks had insinuated, nervous as a virgin on prom night. At 
ten minutes to eight he found himself pacing back and forth in the mansion's 
anteroom, waiting for the doorbell. The heels of the hand-me-down booties his 
aunt had given him clacked against the wood panel floor.

He had shaved and put on his new silvery dress, which ended mid-thigh. With his 
legs being somewhat hairy, and with the dark hairs showing through his sheer 
pantyhose, he SHOULD have looked ridiculous in these clothes. But as it was he 
had to admit, when he examined himself in the full-length mirror, that he 
looked "okay". He certainly didn't look "manly" in any way that he had 
understood that term. But he could live with how he looked. He wondered if this 
was how gay people or transgenders felt, but he wasn't sure. No one was asking 
him to become part of the LGBT community, whatever that was. He really didn't 
understand any of it. But he was simply dressed in clothes befitting a modern 
man of his stature and disposition. 

On one level, of course he still planned to have done with this phase of his 
life as soon as possible. But as it was, he could live with it. Especially if he 
got to go on dates with Brooks.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, sending Timmy's pounding heart up into his mouth.

He hesitated before the door, visibly shaking. His knees actually buckled a bit 
and knocked together. The bell rang again. He didn't want to appear too eager, 
but... Still he hesitated and shook, his little hand reaching toward the chest-
high doorknob but somehow afraid to touch it.

From out of nowhere his aunt's long tan arm descend down in front of him.

"What are you waiting for, Timmy?" he heard Aunt Rose's voice say from behind 
him. "You shouldn't keep women waiting."

Her hand enveloped his and guided it to the doorknob. Together, his hand in 
hers, they turned the big golden knob and opened the door.

Timmy instinctively stepped back at the imposing sight that greeted him. In doing 
so, he predictably bumped into his aunt's unyielding form behind him. Her hands 
came down in his shoulders to steady him as he teetered on his heels. Confused 
and scared, he looked back and up at his aunt's smiling face so high above him. 
But at that point his aunt moved her big hands onto the sides of his head and 
gently, but firmly, guided his head back to face the scary figure before him.

He had often seen hints of Brooks' darker, more imposing side, but never could 
he have imagined a female vision more intimidating than the one that faced him. 
The fact that he nonetheless found her sexually attractive, and that he was 
expected to accompany her for the rest of the evening, made the sight all the 
more overwhelming for Timmy.

Brooks' expression and style of dress projected an aura of fierceness and 
confidence. It was her smoky eyeshadow that drew him in at first; it made her 
mysterious green eyes seem even more hypnotic to him. Then he saw that she had 
styled her short black hair into a sort of pompadour, which went well with her 
"street tough" image. Not for the first time did he notice that Brooks' face 
could flash between prettiness and hardness in an instant. Despite her short 
hair, she did not look "butch", but rather like a beautiful liberated woman. If 
only her fire could be quelled, if only she could resign herself to being a 
traditional, servile woman--Timmy would have loved her gently, he imagined, and 
thought how nice it would be to stroke her hair if she would rest her head in 
his lap. But, no, she was not his to love gently; he was hers to love hardly.

She wore her black leather jacket, which had about a hundred silver spikes and 
rhinestones all over it. For the first time Timmy noticed that, amongst the 
other accessories and studs, the jacket had a silver logo of the video game 
"DOOM" on it--and that's just what Timmy was feeling. Her jacket was open, 
exposing Brooks' alabaster skin. She wore no shirt, only a skimpy black velvet 
tubetop, which was studded with three rows of white pearl-like ornaments--
perhaps they were real pearls, though Timmy didn't think Brooks was so rich. 

She wore matching black velvet panties, which were easily visible through her 
see-through hosiery bottoms, which hugged her shapely, muscular hips, legs, and 
ass. The material of the stockings could be considered fishnet, though the weave 
was tighter and not as open as most fishnet. The most striking aspect of these 
hosiery bottoms was that they were ripped and had runs in them. He had seen 
Brooks' wearing stylishly ripped jeans before--Did stores nowadays also sell 
pantyhose and stockings with rips and runs already in them? Or were Brooks' 
bottoms simply an old undergarment that she had long since outgrown? Their look 
inspired Timmy to imagine the rips being a result of Brooks "hulking out" and 
growing out of them right on the spot. 

The hosiery ran down her thighs and into her boots, which were jet black leather 
boots that reached all the way up to her knees, which were covered with flaps of 
leather. The boots, of course, had huge chunky heels on them; Timmy estimated 
they were 5-inch monsters, which would have brought Brooks up to a height of 
6'7.5". If his aunt were barefoot, he surmised, Brooks might actually be a hair 
taller than her. Meanwhile Timmy stood there in his own little booties, thanks 
to which he was 5'4". He was suddenly most grateful for his aunt's gifts. He did 
not want to face a 6'7" Brooks Fraser if he were only 4'11".

"HI TIMMY!" Brooks bellowed stepping forward and pinning her little date against 
his aunt's stomach and hers. "I'M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU!" Her voice was a mix of 
sarcastic goodwill and irony, like a cat who has just seen its trapped prey. She 
smiled down at him and sneered. He noticed that her lips had been liberally 
painted with very dark red lipstick. She looked so fearsome to Timmy.

"Hi Brooks," he said, and offered her a meek hand.

"Oh a HANDSHAKE?" she said with a snigger. "OKAY, if that's how you'd like to 
start out our date!"

He should have known better. She reached down and grabbed his hand, and suddenly 
he became aware of what Brooks' hands looked like that evening. She was wearing 
fingerless leather gloves, like something a biker might wear. And her nails were 
enough to make Timmy want to run away crying. They were like dragons claws: long 
and sharp and painted with a base of midnight black. Along each razor-sharp nail 
Brooks had drizzled a little dark red, giving the impression of blood running 
down her sharp black talons. Brooks' hands were already huge, her fingers already 
long; these nails made the effect ridiculously frightening--and sexy--as far as 
Timmy was concerned. Were these fake nails? Timmy wasn't sure. Brooks had been 
wearing gloves every time he had seen her lately...

He tried to pull away, but it was no use. Her hand gripped his and squeezed it. 
The "handshake" was more of a crushing session, though Timmy was painfully aware 
that Brooks was using hardly any of her real strength. He sniveled in discomfort 
and both his date and his aunt laughed at him.

"I LOVE what you're wearing, Timmy!" Brooks exclaimed, letting his hand go and 
running the back of her hand down the length of his dress.

"Oh, uh, good," Timmy said.

"You're not embarrassed to go around town looking like a little faggy princess?" 
she questioned, teasingly.

"N-n-no," he said. "I'm okay with this. And, um... I think it will be fun to be 
with you, and that's all that matters."

Brooks and his aunt exchanged a delighted look, then Brooks remarked, "Yes, 
that's very sweet. But no one fucks with me or my men anyway. So you're safe 
with me."

With that she took off her jacket and flexed her right bicep, and muscle 
exploded from her thick arm. Timmy was amazed that someone so strong could still 
be so feminine. Ordinarily, Timmy had no doubt that Brooks could pass for a 
typical babe; her muscles weren't THAT defined all the time. Brooks didn't look 
like a bodybuilder, just a really, really strong girl. And when she wanted to, 
she could definitely make her muscles pop.


"You haven't eaten dinner yet, have you?" she asked.

"N-no, no, you said not to."

His aunt put a hand on his shoulder and said, "He begged me for some crackers 
earlier, but I didn't give him even one. You should have see it, Brooks--when he 
asked me his little tummy actually gurgled. He hasn't eaten since breakfast. I 
wanted him good and hungry for you. And," she added, "I made sure to keep tabs 
on him, and he hasn't had any 'release' all day long, either!"

"Is that so?" Brooks poked his stomach with a long witchy forefinger and said, 

"We'll just have to get some food inside his little 'tomach, won't we?"

"Let me get a picture of you two before you leave," Rose said, getting out her 
camera.

Brooks maneuvered him and made him stand in front of her right leg. He could 
feel her knee bouncing behind him; it reached almost as high as his waist. They 
faced his aunt and smiled. Before the picture was taken he felt Brooks snake her 
right hand behind his neck and grasp its circumference totally with her fingers 
and nails. Then she petted his neck threateningly, scraping her nails 
lightly against his Adam's apple.

She kept her hand there, as if she were a mother dog holding her puppy by the 
scruff of its neck, as she walked him outside and down the steps toward their 
ride.

"A limo?" Timmy said in disbelief. He wasn't expecting his. It was a huge limo 
that looked like an extended SUV.

"Well, YEAH," Brooks said. "You think I'm not going to treat you to the best 
night of your life? I always take care of my men."

The driver opened and closed the door for them, and then for the next ten 
minutes or so they were totally alone. Timmy felt the nice leather of the car's 
interior. There was no visible window between then and the driver. His feet 
didn't even reach the floor--even with his heeled boots on--but Brooks looked 
almost uncomfortably cramped. She had to fold her legs up, and Timmy thrilled at 
seeing the expanse of her thighs beneath the ripped hosiery. She had probably 
put more runs in it just positioning herself in the limo, but no one could tell; 
and, besides, the trashier the dark pantyhose looked, the BETTER and SEXIER it 
looked on her.

"Your whole look tonight, Brooks..." he began, not sure what he was trying to 
tell her, but he had to tell her how much he appreciated it. "I mean, um, you 
look..."

She didn't even let him finish. She knew they only had limited time before they 
got to the restaurant.

First she gave him a quick slap across the face to stop him from talking. To say 
the least, this shocked him and no doubt felt like a much harder blow than she 
intended. But she was just so much bigger and stronger, that she really couldn't 
help it if he was so weak. Before he had time to really process what had just 
happened, though, she had reached over and pulled him against her. She tried to 
stretch out as far as she could, but the space of the limo wasn't quite 
accommodating  for what she was trying to do. Undaunted, she simply began pawing 
at Timmy's body, tossing it this way and that, yanking an arm then flipping him 
over to squeeze his thighs or rake her nails against his rump. 

Timmy was totally disoriented and didn't know what was happening other than the 
obvious: that he was being treated like the toy of a bitch bulldog, and that he 
was probably going to get raped whether he liked it or not--and he wasn't sure 
that he didn't actually like it.

Suddenly both of her hands were shoved up his dress and working their way toward 
his groin. He looked down and saw Brooks' meaty forearms; he noted with a 
thrill, mixed with dismay, that they were bigger than his thighs. She had 
discarded her leather jacket and he had an excellent view of her cleavage and 
impressive bare shoulders. As she picked through his dainty underwear she 
simultaneously rammed his body, but didn't let go of his crotch, until he was 
underneath her, almost head-over-heels. She hunched over him and looked down at 
him with a wicked smile.

When she began massaging his penis and scrotum, she was not exactly gentle, but 
it was just what he wanted. At least she didn't scratch or prick him too much 
with her nails. He reached up towards her with his baby arms and put his little 
hands on her biceps, rubbing them lovingly. As if repulsed by his weakness and 
tenderness, at that moment she grunted and rammed his body harder against the 
leather seat of the limo.

She was treating his genitals like one little mass of Playdoh at this point, 
and the fact that his penis was hard didn't prevent her from bending it 
backwards and twisting it around her fingers any way she wanted to. Timmy winced 
with pain but also in anticipation of the gigantic orgasm that he knew was on 
the way.

She quickly sat down and dragged Timmy's body across her lap. He was looking up 
at the ceiling and noticed that the limo had a sun roof. It was a starry night, 
he saw, has his orgasm began. Suddenly Brooks' beautiful but wicked face blotted 
out the stars. He wanted to come right into her dark red lips if he could. But 
she sneered and worked his penis even harder, grinding it between her two 
viselike hands.

He felt his hips begin to gyrate. Brooks lifted him up in her arms and finally, 
as the moment came, she wrapped her big sexy mouth around the entirety of his 
dick and scrotum.

He got one good--real good--pulse of ejaculate out, but then... something was 
wrong. He couldn't come anymore. Something was holding him back somehow. In 
confusion he looked into his date's eyes, and her mischievous expression told 
him that somehow she was preventing him from coming anymore. As the crisis of 
his frustration passed, along with his thrill, he realized that she was blocking 
the hole of his penis with her incredibly strong tongue. She slowly removed most 
of his penis from her mouth, but kept the pressure up until the end, until there 
was no need for it anymore. As his penis head finally emerged from her blood-red 
lips, she dabbed its blowhole one more time with her tongue, in sort of a 
goodbye kiss.

"How did you--?"

Rather than answer, she swished around the bit of come that was still in her 
mouth and then showed it to Timmy once she had collected most of it in the 
middle of her tongue. She then lifted his now only semi-erect cock back to her 
lips and enveloped it again.

Timmy feared he knew was her plan was, and he was right. Her lips sealed tight 
around its girth, Brooks began to blow into the hole of Timmy's penis, forcing 
it open so that she could push the semen back inside. It was unimaginably 
painful. His penis felt like it was being cut open; she was capable of putting 
so much pressure on it. And he could feel it when the semen went back in. She 
blew so hard in order to shoot the come back from where it came. His penis ached 
so bad when she was done.

She finally sat him on her knee, his little legs dangling down a pitifully short 
distance, an expression of pain and shame on his face. She smiled at him, proud 
of what she had just orchestrated.

"But wasn't that FIRST moment of release WORTH IT?" she asked him rhetorically, 
and then bellowed with laughter.

He had instinctively placed his hands over his crotch area, as if in a 
protective effort, and he held his head down in fear.

"Oh don't WORRY, Timmy!" she said happily. "I'll let you come again later. Maybe 
I'll let you come many, many times before the night is through. But right now 
we're just getting started, and I can't afford you to waste even one drop of 
semen. Do you know why?"

Evidently she expected him to formulate an answer.

"I have n-no idea," he said meekly.

"Well," Brooks began, picking him up in her arms again and hugging him close to 
her chest, bringing his shivering little face close to hers. "If I let you come 
now... for all I know you won't be able to get it up when I need it later. I 
mean, for all I know you might not find me attractive enough to have sex with 
more than once a night!"

She said this sarcastically and brought him so close to her that their eyes were 
almost touching.

"Timmy, I'm SO happy you would go out with an ugly girl like me! I'm not sure 
what a manly stud like you, with your so sexy feeble 4'11" body could ever find 
in a girl like me. But I'm so happy for you to have lowered your standards to 
date me! But--DO you think you could have sex with me more than once tonight? DO 
you find me attractive AT ALL?"

"Um y-y-y-yeah Brooks, I do. I d-don't know why you're talking this w-way, um. 

Y-you should kn-know that I like you. Y-you don't have to act this way." Then he 
added in a quivering voice: "P-please."

She lowered his little body as if she were done lifting weights and set him on 
the floor in front of him. He was able to stand up to his full height in the 
limo, which they both realized had stopped moving. They were at their 
destination.

From her crotched position Brooks stared up at the scared man. There was time 
for one last thing.

"So you mean to say that you DO find me attractive?" she asked plaintively and 
sarcastically.

"Y-y-yeah," Timmy stuttered. "Everything about you scares the shit out of me but 
turns me on."

With that she smirked and punched his shoulder in a "friendly" way.

"GOOD!" she said, and as the door of the limo opened she placed a clawed hand 
behind Timmy's lower back and with one motion roughly flung him out of the 
vehicle and onto the city street.

"Gentleman first!" she said, as she skillfully maneuvered her long legs sideways 
and stepped outside.

-----

His shoulder still ached as they entered the elegant restaurant. He rubbed it 
and tried to move and rotate it around a bit. It didn't feel sore but it felt 
like he had pulled something.

"Oh stop it!" Brooks hissed. "I didn't hit you that hard, you fucking baby!"

The words stung. "Fucking baby"--that was the same thing Sarah had called him 
that day in the mall, when he had whined to his aunt and complained about the 
young girl picking him up off the ground so much.

"I'm s-sorry, Brooks," Timmy said, mentally noting how unfair it was for him to 
be apologizing to her. "It feels like I pulled a muscle or something," he added.

"Ha!" She tossed her head back. "You don't have any muscles TO pull! Not like 
these."

She held one of her mighty hands in from of her little companion's face. She 
made a fist, into which most of her black nails disappeared inside, except for 
her mighty thumbnail, and she squeezed and showed off her strong fingers. Timmy 
had no doubt that just one of those hands would be a match for every muscle in 
his pathetic, emaciated body. He made a low whimpering sound, half because he 
envied Brooks' power, half because he knew that she would find the pathetic 
sound cute. Despite all else, he wanted Brooks to like him, and was evidently 
willing to compromise much (if not all) of his integrity to endear himself to 
her in any way.

"Could this be what a good relationship for me would be like now?" he asked 
himself silently. "Is this the sort of woman someone like me should be with? 
Someone so tall and strong and domineering? Lord knows I don't have any ambition 
left for my own life. But a girl like this--she could just tell me what to do 
and how to act. So in that case it might be okay if I remained an indecisive 
little nothing. But she's SO cruel... I guess that would be part of the package, 
submitting to her and allowing her to beat the hell out of me and dominate and 
humiliate me constantly. Still, she's so damn attractive to me..."

Brooks looked around impatiently. It was Saturday night and the restaurant was 
packed. It was a very upscale place, somewhere Timmy had never been. He was glad 
that his aunt had given him her credit card. He wasn't used to spending this 
kind of money on food. Then again, maybe Brooks would insist on paying, just as 
she had paid for the limo, if only to prove to him how much in control she could 
be.

At the moment a disgusted look crossed her face. "Seriously?!" she groaned 
loudly, in disbelief and annoyance at the line of well-dressed patrons ahead of 
them.

She would have towered over everyone there even if she didn't have her 4.5-inch 
heeled boots on. With them on, she could see over everyone's head, and in the 
distance she spotted the maitre d', an old white-haired man in a tuxedo. He was 

in the front of the line, standing at a podium, taking down people's names and 
looking at his watch regretfully.

"This is ridiculous, Timmy--Come on!"

She snatched his hand in hers and propelled them through the line. She didn't 
even bother saying "Excuse me" but simply pushed the smaller people out of her 

way as if they were lifeless munchkin mannequins. She seemed not to notice their 
calls of displeasure and pain as she shoved past them.

"Do you h-have a reservation?" Timmy asked as she dragged him behind her.

"Do you think I NEED one?" she quipped.

At that moment he looked down and saw Brooks' ass. This was the first instance 
so far that night that he had actually been behind her, so for the first time he 
saw that there were daring holes and rips and runs in the hosiery material that 
covered her rear-end as well. It was the sexiest thing Timmy had ever seen, 
Brooks' round, hard ass cheeks showing beneath the tattered dark lingerie 
bottoms. And right in between the cheeks he saw a black velvet thong strap 
disappear. Timmy's loins began to throb and suddenly he didn't care where they 
were or what Brooks was doing dragging him behind her like a doll. He just 
looked at her plump-but-toned ass cheeks and imagined his dick between them, 
nestled against the scant sexy fabric that was only halfway covering them.

"U-u-uh, Miss, U-u-h, what do you mean to--?!"

"Show us to a table," Brooks said to the stuttering maitre-d'. "Now."

"E-excuse me, d-d-do you have a reservation?"

"Do I look like the kind of girl who needs a reservation?"

The little old man was speechless. Timmy noticed that he and the man were about 
the same height. The man, of course, was not wearing high-heeled booties, but 
still... Timmy felt glad to know that there was someone else on his level.

"That table in the corner there should be fine," Brooks noted, looking over 
everyone and pointing in the distance with a long pointy black nail. "Come 
along, Timmy."
'
She yanked him forward and pushed past the maitre-d' and began to enter the 
dining area.

Suddenly the little old man rushed and flung himself ahead of Brooks again. He 
was quite spry for his age, Timmy noted. And either quite brave or quite stupid.

"E-e-exCUSE me, miss!" he said, a rising tone of anger in his voice. "That is 
NOT the way we do things at this establishment. Justine's not the sort of 
restaurant where one can just-just... Just, please, promptly return to the back 
of the line and--"

That did it. Brooks leaned down so that she was nearly face-to-face with the 
little gentleman. She stopped his annoying speech by smushing his cheeks 
together with her free hand. She glared wickedly at him. By this time several of 
the diners were taking note of the scene.

"I am used to getting what I want!" Brooks bellowed. "And I am used to getting 
what I want WHEN I want! Right now my darling little date-boy and I would like 
to eat. So we are going to go over there to that table and eat. If you would 
like to try to stop me, I promise you that you will be needing an ambulance to 
leave--if not a hearse. And if your waiters and chefs know what's good for 
them, they will serve and wait on us so that we receive our meal as quickly as 
possible. Understand, or do I need to BREAK you?"

The old man was speechless, his eyes popping out of his skull. It was evident 
that no one had ever talked to him this way, and that he had no idea how to 
react to such a threat coming from a person of Brooks' sex, sexuality, and 
stature. When she released his cheeks, dragging her nails slowly down his face 
and scratching his skin only lightly, he murmured wordless syllables for a few 
seconds before saying:

"B-b-but miss... miss... there are o-other people eating at that table now."

She smiled and patted his cheek, gently but threateningly, with one of her open 
palms.

"You're cute," she said. "You men say just the cutest things. These other people 
will simply have to leave so that my little boy and I may sit down."

She strode over to the corner table, dragging Timmy behind her, with the useless 
maitre-d' following behind as well. There was no doubt now that Brooks was in 
charge here; everyone who came in contact with her soon found that out, the easy 
way or the hard way.

At the table was a family of five: a husband in his late 40s, a wife in her late 
30s, two twin boys who looked to be about 13, and a girl of 8 or 9. Brooks 
smiled at them and rapped her knuckles against their table to get their full
attention.

"Hello. My little date and I would like to eat here now. So you need to move."

The husband and wife looked at each other. The children looked up at Brooks' 
imposing, impressive figure. All five had their mouths hanging open, not knowing 
what to say.

The husband, who had a thin beard and thick "hipster" glasses, put down his fork 
and said to Brooks, "I don't understand. W-what do you want?"

"You're an idiot," Brooks said. "I know your type, you cowardly little turd. You 
already heard me: I said I want your table. LEAVE."

"Um, excuse me," the man said again, wiping his mouth with his napkin nervously. 
"We-we're still eating here; we-we're almost done, though, and--"

"I don't WANT 'almost done'"--Brooks pounded her mighty fist on the table. "I 
want you to leave. NOW."

The husband looked at his wife for support. The woman was in disbelief, though 
she seemed less rattled than her husband. She stared back at him, and in a meek, 
anxious voice he whispered to her, "What do you want me to say?"

The wife looked up at Brooks and said, "Is it absolutely necessary that you have 
this table?"

"YES," Brooks said. "I am on a date here"--she yanked Timmy upwards, holding him 
in the air by his hand as if he were a prize fish that she had caught--"and we 
need to move things along so that I can have a perfect night."

"Okay, then," the wife said. "We'll leave."

The husband still looked at her, as if afraid to look back at Brooks. His mouth 
gaped open even lower. "You-you're just going to have us LEAVE?!" he asked his 
wife.

"Well what CAN I do, Benjamin?" the wife said as she began to collect her purse. 
"It's obvious that you aren't going to stop her."

The husband, Benjamin, guffawed a bit and glanced side to side nervously. The 
two twin boys looked at each other but didn't say a word. The little girl calmly 
studied the entire situation.

Suddenly the husband stood up and turned to face Brooks. He wasn't a short man. 
He was nearly six feet tall. Still, at the moment that made him over seven 
inches shorter than Brooks. He had to tilt his head up comically so as not to be 
looking into her chest area.

"Well," Brooks smirked. "Little Mr. Benjamin. I hope you're getting up to give 
me your seat. I hope for your sake that you're not getting up to challenge me."

Rather than answer her, Ben turned to the maitre-d'. "Why aren't you stopping 
her?" he asked.

The maitre-d' had his head down. He murmured something no one could hear and 
then walked off. He went back to the entrance and began taking down people's 
names as if nothing had happened.

Ben let out a loud sigh of dramatic annoyance.

"Look, we're ALMOST done eating here," he told Brooks, trying this angle again. 
"I'm sorry you're having to wait, but you can have the table if you just let us 
finish eating our--"

"NO!" Brooks said authoritatively. Every eye in the dining room was on her, and 
everyone was listening. "You will take your little family and run along so that 
I can get on with my foreplay. Or else I will BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT 
NOW!"

She grabbed the man's collar, balled her hand into a fist, and lifted him off 
the ground so as to look him directly in the eyes.

"Daddy!" one of the twin boys squealed. "Don't hurt daddy!"

"Do you WANT to see your daddy beaten up by a big sexy girl?" Brooks asked.

"N-no!" the other boy said. "No! Stop please!"

She turned her gaze back to Ben. Her crimson lips twisted into a wicked smile 
and she slowly lowered him back to the ground, taking care to let his smaller 
body rub against her larger body as she did so. She didn't let go of his collar, 
though; she held him fast and kept the helpless man totally under her control.

"I think I'll beat him up now," she said matter-of-factly.


"Please don't!"

She turned. This call actually came from Timmy. He couldn't help it. He had to 
do something and he heard himself saying the words even before he decided to say 
them.

Brooks yanked him toward her. His head didn't even come up to the level of her 
boobs. He looked at her toned abdomen as it appeared from between her open 
leather jacket.

"Haha," Brooks chuckled. "Would you care to repeat that?"

"Um, please don't hurt the guy, Brooks. Please."


She yanked his arm up again, which had the effect of pulling him closer against 
her body. He was lifted off his feet and he swung towards her. As it happened, 
his fully erect penis bounced against Brooks' fishnet-clad thigh. He almost 
exploded on the spot. His loins throbbed. He moaned as his erection, through his 
dress, settled against the side of Brooks' big shapely thigh. She laughed, very 
much aware of what Timmy was going through.

She lifted Ben back up into the air, then lifted Timmy higher.

"Two men in two hands!" she said to the table. "I think I'll BEAT one of them up 
now"--she shook Ben a bit--"and FUCK one of them up later"--she shook Timmy. She 
shook him like a ragdoll.

"Why would you want to be mean to someone?" a small voice asked. It was the 
little girl at the table. She asked the question calmly and seriously.

"Because it turns me on," Brooks said, answering in the same honest tone in 
which the question was asked. "Because it turns me on and because it gives a 
pleasant, pleasurable ORDER to the world. And because... secretly, or NOT so 
secretly, they WANT me to be mean to them. Deep down, men like it."

Then she slowly lowered both men down and actually released her grip on Ben's 
collar. The man choked for air and touched his throat.

"Water!" he gasped, extending a hand towards his wife, who put her head to one 
side, paused, and then handed him a glass of water.

"Oh it wasn't THAT bad, Ben," she said. "Quit being so dramatic."

Brooks put her arm around Ben's shoulder and pulled him close to her. "I've 
decided NOT to just beat him up. Rather, I'll give him a chance to fight me. If 
he'd like. If he still doesn't just want to LEAVE ALREADY." Ben glanced up at 
her nervously, but continued to sip his water. "So what do you say?" she asked 
the table. "Should your MIGHTY patriarch fight me, in which case I'll let him 
have the first punch, or should he just use his supposed AUTHORITY to order you, 
his family, to say you can all leave? It's up to you guys."

The wife looked at Brooks intently, then she brought her gaze to her daughter. 
Mother and daughter looked at each other for a long time, as if they were having 
a wordless conversation.

"Don't fight!" one of the boys yelled.

"Yeah c'mon, let's just GO!" the other one said, shuffling in his chair.

"Well," Brooks said, "what say you two?" Both mother and daughter looked up at 
Brooks. "Would you like him to fight me? Would you like to see me break this 
pathetic annoying man of yours, who pretends in some annoying respect to 
actually be in charge of anything?"

Timmy looked at the glances of both mother and daughter, and without a doubt he 
knew that their eyes said "YES".

"No," the mother said, sighing.


"No, don't beat him up," the daughter said.

"Okay then," Brooks said, releasing Ben, and the entire company breathed a sigh 
of relief.

The rest of the family got up, collected their coats, and shuffled off. Timmy 
noted that the father had his head down but was speaking in very fast, soft, 
whispering tones to his wife, no doubt trying to explain himself and make 
himself seem not as embarrassing as he truly was. Meanwhile, the little girl led 
the way, unphased by anything that had just occurred. She looked several years 
younger than her brothers, but Timmy noticed that she was less than half a foot 
shorter than them. Timmy had estimated the twins' age to be about 13 or so. But 
Sarah Thollen was just turning 13, and she was over 5'9". These boys wouldn't 
have even been Timmy's height if he weren't wearing heels. Timmy knew that girls 
were getting taller, but was it really possible that there could be a difference 
of an entire foot between girls and boys of the same age? Surely not every girl 
was taller than her male classmates, but still--

"I wonder if those little boys go to school with that Sarah girl you're always 
talking about?" Brooks asked as they sat down. It was as if she could read his 
mind.

"I don't know," Timmy said. Suddenly he decided to be a gentleman and hurriedly 
rushed over to pull a chair out for Brooks and help her take off her leather 
jacket. It felt SO heavy to him as he lowered it down. He noted that Brooks' 
upper body looked magnificent, dressed as she was in just the black push-up 
tube-top. Suddenly he felt really proud and lucky to be her date.

"Imagine those two little shits playing in the same gym class with her. Isn't 
she pretty tall?"

"Uh. Yeah," Timmy said. He hated the subject of Sarah. He would rather look at 
and think about Brooks herself and was annoyed that she thought he was "always 
talking about" Sarah. He had only mentioned Sarah a couple times when in Brooks' 
company, and in those cases it had been to tell his aunt that he didn't really 
want to go to her party.

As soon as they sat down, two things happened simultaneously: A waiter slipped 
menus in front of them, and people started clapping.

At first Timmy didn't know what was going on. Then he looked around and he saw 
that everyone was applauding Brooks. They evidently liked what she had done, or 
at least they appreciated the show. All throughout the room, Timmy turned to see 
approving faces of ritzy people clapping and raising their glasses to Brooks, 
who took it all in with a polite, understated, self-satisfied grin, putting one 
of her long-nailed hands to her chest as if to say "All for moi?!"

There were several whoops as the cheering continued. Timmy noticed that it was 
the females in the room who were clapping loudest. Some of the males clapped 
politely, as if they were only going along with what their wives, companions, or 
female friends were doing. No male raised a glass to Brooks, but only a few of 

them dared not clap.

Finally Brooks stood up quickly, took a bow, and sat back down, after which 
point the clapping stopped.

"Your meals will be on the house tonight, mademoiselle," the waiter said. 
"Orders of the owner, Justine. And those ladies over there have insisted that 
they pay for your drinks. Shall we start you off with some wine?"

Timmy looked at the women whom the waiter had indicated. They were sitting at a 
table in the opposite corner, just the two of them. Both in their late 20s or 
early 30s. Both attractive. One a dirty blonde and the other a brunette. The 
blonde had short hair, a birdlike face, a pointy nose and circular glasses. She 
seemed tall and thin. The other woman was a plump brunette with flowing hair and 
breasts so large that they almost popped out of her slinky black dress. Both 
women smiled at Timmy, and the blonde raised her glass to him. The brunette 
winked and licked her dark red lips with her tongue. Timmy turned away.

"We'll start off with wine," Brooks said. "Red wine, I suppose. Whatever you 
think would be nice. I'm not much of a wine-drinker. I prefer harder drinks."

"As mademoiselle wishes," the waiter said. "And--"

"And when you bring us the wine," Brooks added. "Just pour it. I don't want to 
sit through any spiel about what sort of wine it is and where it came from. I 
don't care. I just want to drink it as fast as possible and get it over with."

"A-as you wish, mademoiselle."

"And one last thing," Brooks added, looking at the waiter but pointing toward 
Timmy. "He will need a booster seat."

"What?" Timmy squawked. "I don't need a booster seat! Brooks--"

"Do your feet touch the ground?" she asked him.

Timmy lowered his eyes in shame. He could touch the floor with the tips of his 
boots, but he couldn't really place his shoes down on the floor fully, not even 
with the aid of heels. He knew that this wasn't good enough.

"I asked you a question, Timmy," Brooks said. "If you tell me you don't need a 
booster seat, but then I look down under the table and I see a those little feet 
swinging in the air, or dangling down, or even scuffing against the floor--there 
is going to be one naughty, horny little liar of a boy who goes to bed tonight 
without getting his dick sucked." The waiter snorted, and the corner of his lips 
rose to a smile. "So I'll ask you again: Does little Timmy need a booster seat?"

"Yes," he said.

"Very good," the waiter noted, and went away.

Timmy felt so humiliated a few moments later, when he was lifted in the air by 
Brooks and then placed into the booster. What sense did this make? he wondered. 
He had to get a booster seat because his legs weren't long enough to touch the 
ground. But now he was sitting up even higher, which made his legs that much 
further from the floor.

"Now I can look you right in the eye," Brooks said, as if to answer his 
question.

She didn't let him order his own meal, either. He had tried to tell the waiter 
that he wanted steak, but Brooks had interrupted him by laughing.

"Oh Timmy," she said. "You haven't eaten any meat in months, and now you want to 
eat steak! Your tiny little belly isn't used to real meat anymore. You're a 
vegetarian now, and vegetarians can't just all of a sudden process red meat 
again once they've decided not to eat it anymore."

("I didn't decide not to eat it," Timmy thought, resentfully. "Other women in my 
life seem to have made that decision for me.")

"But I WILL let you eat meat tonight," Brooks said. And even though the notion 
of her "letting" him eat something should have come as an insult, Timmy was at 
least grateful for small favors. "I'll have the King and Queen Lobster 
portions," she told the waiter. "With butter. And with steak fries on the side. 
No salad. And our little man over there"--she pointed to Timmy with a long sharp 
finger--"will have a little bowl of cold paella, two stalks of uncooked celery, 
and a child's portion of crayfish." She handed the menus back to the waiter. 
"Are you happy, Timmy? Crayfish have meat in them."

Of course Timmy was disappointed, but he knew it would do him no good to 
complain or argue. He knew that being disagreeable at all could only make things 
worse for him and decrease his chances at having a good time.

Before he could say anything, he felt a weight land against his crotch. It was 
Brooks' foot and leg, clad in her tarty fishnet hosiery. She must have snaked it 
out of her boot under the table. Her heel had slammed right against his cock, 
which was fast becoming erect again, and her wiggling toes reached all the way 
up to his waist. He instinctively shot his hands down to protect himself from 
the initial blow, then found himself massaging Brooks' foot and petting it 
tenderly.

Somehow, as he was rubbing her foot, Brooks caught two of Timmy's fingers 
between her big toe and second toe. Even with her toes--even through the 
pantyhose--Brooks' grip was overpowering and unbreakable. Timmy couldn't extract 
his trapped fingers. He tried with his other hand to pry Brooks' toes apart, but 
found that he couldn't. He was helpless. He winced and looked up at her. She 
gritted her teeth and beneath the table her toes squeezed his fingers even 
tighter.

"Imagine your dick between those toes," she mused. "Oh just imagine what they 
could do to it."

A tear trickled down Timmy's face and he grunted pathetically. She was really 
hurting him.

Suddenly she eased up. He shot his hand out from her toes and up to his mouth. 
He sucked on his fingers, which looked black and blue. They would probably be 
okay, he thought. But it was a good thing she let go when she did. He took an 
entirely too large gulp of wine, to help ease the lingering pain.

Brooks was on her third margarita by the time their meals came. Had she not been 
so sauced, her impatience probably would have caused another scene.

Brooks received two absolutely enormous plates, each with a giant lobster on it. 
A king and queen lobster. The chefs had placed a clumsy, rudimentary gold crown 
on one of the lobsters, and a tall elegant silver crown on the other. Evidently 
the gold crown was for the king and the silver crown was for the queen. The 
queen was, Timmy noted, the larger of the two lobsters.

Next to Brooks' meal--which covered three plates, including one for her french 
fries--Timmy's meal looked absolutely laughable. Some paella in a teeny tiny 
bowl. Three pieces of celery on a napkin (placed on a napkin!). And four dinky 
crayfish placed on a plate that wasn't even as big as one of Timmy's hands (and 
Timmy had very small hands). He looked over and felt sure that all four of his 
crayfish could fit in the lower part of either of Brooks' lobsters' claws. How 
much more than him was Brooks allowing herself to eat? A hundred times more? A 
thousand? And most of what Brooks was eating was meat, whereas there probably 
wasn't enough meat in all of Timmy's crayfish to equal the volume of one stick 
of celery. It was all so unfair. Why was Brooks in charge and why did she have 

to be so much bigger than him?

Again, as if she could read his thoughts, from across the table Brooks told him, 
"It's not my fault that you're so shrimpy, Timmy. Would you rather I have ordered 
you actual SHRIMP instead of crayfish?"

Timmy didn't like the joke. Nevertheless, despite his obvious sulking, he dug 
into his paella and had some celery. As he ate he could feel the sole of 
Brooks' outstretched foot patting his groin lightly.

"Just wait till later," she said to him slyly. "I'll make all of this worth it 
to you. Don't you understand, Timmy, that I HAVE to humiliate you?" He looked up 
at her. "Don't you understand that it really DOES--TURN--ME--ON?" She breathed 
huskily and, under his dress and through his panties, the toes of her foot 
suddenly gripped the length of Timmy's cock. "It REALLY DOES turn me on, Timmy. 
A lot. To humiliate you as much as your cowardly helpless ass will let me. And 
there seems to be no limit to what you're willing to put up with and lie down 
for."

He moaned as her toes gripped his cock harder and then released it. She withdrew 
her foot and bent down to put it back in her boot. Evidently hanky-panky under 
the table was over. Which was okay, because Timmy felt that now if she even 
tapped his cock with her pinky toe he would have exploded in his panties.

Nervously he turned his attention back to the meager "meal" before him. His 
fingers were shaking and it was hard for him to peal the crayfish apart to get 

at the bit of meat in them. The hard shells hurt his fingers and were somewhat 
sharp on the side.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Brooks asked, deadpan. "You can't even do THAT?"

He whined up at her and frantically tried to rip into the crayfish. Brooks 
tossed her fourth margarita back and belched.

"If you can't get those crayfish apart, bring them over here. I'll take them 
apart for you. And then I'll take YOU apart for me. I wonder how much meat is on 
your bones, huh? Timmy? I wonder if there's more meat in this big queen lobster 
than there is on your reedy little bones, Timmy." He shivered. He didn't like 
her talking this way. "Bring those little crayfish over here and I'll get them 
for you."

"No-no, I can get the meat out," Timmy said.

"You don't sound very confident," she remarked.

Once he set his mind to it and really attacked the shells methodically, he found 
that he had just strength enough in his hands to get the crayfish apart. There 
was only a small morsel of meat in each one, but it was the only meat Timmy had 
had in months. He happily chewed each tiny piece five times as long as he had to 
before swallowing. He ate three of the four crayfish this way.

"Very good," Brooks said, her strong hands cracking apart her lobsters. Timmy 
noted how easily she ripped apart the shells, pulled off the beasts' tails and 
expertly cut through various parts of the shell using her long black nails as if 
they were razorblades. Watching her do this turned him on but also made him very 
afraid. It was an emotional mix that Timmy was becoming accustomed to.

"I'll trade you your last crayfish for a lobster claw," she said.


Timmy couldn't resist this. The thought of a whole lobster claw--all that meat--
was too good to be true. He eagerly shoved his plate towards Brooks, who smirked 
and picked up his remaining crayfish. She looked at it, looked at Timmy, and 
then put the crayfish in her mouth whole, shell and all. She smiled at Timmy as 
she chomped down, crushing the shell and evidently feeling no pain or even 
displeasure. In one gulp she swallowed it down. The waiter had returned and had 
brought her two vodka-and-Redbulls, which she drank down on the spot. Next she 
ripped off one of the lobster claws and threw it on Timmy's plate.

"There!" she yelled happily. "Now you try that!"

For the next five minutes Brooks laughed louder and louder as Timmy struggled 
with the lobster claw. His little hands were useless against it. He tried to use 
his fork and knife, but could muster no technique that had any effect. He tried 
to use a specialized lobster shell-cracking tools, but he couldn't seem to get 
the hang of it and it kept slipping out of his hands. In the event that he did 
manage to position the cracking tool correctly, he found that he simply lacked 
the strength to bring it down hard enough.

By now a small crowd had gathered around their table--most of them women, 
including the birdlike blonde woman and the plump brunette who were buying their 
drinks. The crowd snickered and laughed along with Brooks at Timmy's pathetic 
efforts.

Timmy finally put his hands down, exhausted.

"Aw!" Brooks bellowed. "GIVE UP?"

"Yes," Timmy said sorrowfully. "I give up. I can't do it. I'm just not strong 
enough... And I'm too little."

This brought a hearty round of laughter from Brooks and, in turn, from the 
crowd.

"Oh bring it over here!" Brooks said in sing-song fashion, scooching her chair 
out a bit and patting her big hosiery-covered thigh.

Timmy dutifully got down from his booster seat, took the big lobster claw over 
to her--over to Brooks, his maid, his date, his dream date--handed it to her and 
then climbed up on her lap.

"Now watch how I do it!" Brooks said brightly, and she instantly crushed the 
claw apart with just one of her hands. It was as if the shell shattered almost 
as soon as she put even the most infinitesimal amount of her strength into it. 
Again the crowd clapped and applauded her. "Yaaay!" some of them screamed.

Timmy watched, his gaze frozen, as Brooks' big hands picked apart the shell and 
collected the meat. She skewered one of the larger morsels onto one of her razor 
sharp nails and then pointed it at Timmy's mouth.

"Open up, little boy!" she said, but he was too frightened.

She raised her other hand close to his mouth, and put a sharp black nail to his 
lips. In addition to the painted on red drizzles of fake blood, her dark nails 
now had lobster guts all over them. The nails lightly scraped Timmy's thin lips.

"Open up please, little one!" she said and began probing Timmy's lips apart with 
her nails.

He furtively opened his mouth--he was scared to do so, but he was more scared 
NOT to--and then she inserted the nail that had the lobster meat skewered on it.

He lightly took the meat and held it in his jaws as Brooks extracted her finger. 
The morsel of meat felt so big and so good in his mouth. He bit down on it 
cautiously, wanting to savor every second of his experience. He rolled it 
against his tongue.

"I hope you don't need me to CHEW your food for you too!" Brooks teased cruelly.

At that, Timmy began to chew normally. When he was done with that piece, Brooks 
fed him another in just the same way. 

When all of the sizable chunks were gone, Brooks amassed the remaining scraps of 
lobster meat onto the palm of one of her big hands. Then she spit in it.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," Timmy said, though he didn't really know what she was asking.

At that she forced his jaw open by pinching it with her other hand, then she 
shoved the palm with the meat in it into his face. She smeared her hand all over 
his face, getting most, but not all, of the lobster scraps into his mouth. 
Timmy's face was slobbery wet with lobster juice and spit, but he was enjoying 
eating meat again--even if it was only for a night, and even if it was only 
seafood.

When he was done, Brooks wiped his face with her napkin, bounced him up and down 
on her big thigh a few times, and the crowd applauded before going back to their 
seats. Brooks threw back another glass of vodka.

"Do you want to go back to your own seat now?" she asked him. "Or do you want to 
stay here while we have our special dessert?"

"Mmm," Timmy thought. "Stay here," he said. Then he put his arms around Brooks' 
naked shoulders and hugged her big toned form.

"Aw, that's my boy. That's my adorable little pipsqueak fairy-boy," she said, 
before craning her neck down to give him a light kiss on the forehead. "Oh how I 
wish I could just rape and break your little body apart right now on this very 
table."

Luckily, before their special dessert arrived, Timmy remembered the ring.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Brooks, please hand me my pocketbook!"

She smiled knowingly, leaned, and reached a long arm over to the chair in which 
he had been sitting. She snatched the feathery little pocketbook and handed it 
to Timmy.

"I got you a present," he said, and handed her a little black box.

"You aren't going to PROPOSE to me, are you?" She eyed him skeptically.

"No, nothing like that. Um... Just open it."

She paused and considered her date. He thought he was so cute. Such a polite 
little man, eager to make her happy.

At this moment Timmy was closer than he had ever been to being "okay" with his 
entire new situation. At this moment all he cared about was pleasing Brooks and 
making her happy with his gift. For so long he had wanted to be in a situation 
in which he could proudly give a woman he loved gifts of affection, and here he 
was, finally, in such a position. Although in all of his daydreams leading up to 
this moment, in all his years, he never imagined that he would find himself 
sitting on a big girl's lap and giving her a gift of jewelry shortly after she 
had said something about raping and breaking him.

Brooks opened the box and took out the simple little silvery ring.

"Oh Timmy," she said sardonically. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble. Or 
the expense."

"D-d-do you like it?" he sputtered.

"Yes, Timmy. Yes I love it," she glanced down at him. "I love it because it's 
from you."

With that she gave him a half-hearted squeeze, bounced him once on her thigh 
again, and began to try on the ring. It only fit her pinky, but that was still 
good enough. Timmy liked the way it looked on her. He liked the fact that she 
was wearing something he had given her.

"Oh look," Brooks said. "It has a little 'XXX' symbol on it. You naughty, 
naughty boy."

He crimsoned.

"Did you know about that?"

"Y-yeah, I knew," he admitted. He hoped that she wouldn't take offense or think 
the ring was too racy.

"Well I suppose that little 'XXX' will look good when it makes an impression on 
your penis, won't it?" That was just what his aunt had said. "This ring ought to 
really hurt you--in a good way--when we play some games later."

Timmy shivered.

The waiter brought their special dessert, which Brooks had apparently made 
arrangements for an ice cream shop to deliver. ("That's odd," Timmy thought. 
"She didn't bother to make reservations here but she had the foresight to get 
someone else to deliver her dessert.")

The dessert was an ice cream cake on which there was a cartoonish picture of two 
people, a female and male who were obviously supposed to be Brooks and Timmy. 
The character of Timmy was dressed in little pink shorts, a poofy purple shirt, 
and a childish propeller hat. Brooks was dressed in a dominatrix outfit and wore 
spiked gloves, one of which was held out in a fist, and one of which was 
reaching way down to hold Timmy's hand. The picture exaggerated their already 
immense height disparity: the cake showed Brooks towering over Timmy to the 
extent that his head only came up to her crotch. The representation of Timmy had 
a confused, scared expression on its face. Meanwhile the representation of 
Brooks smiled wickedly.

Looking up, Timmy noticed that the real Brooks had a matching smile.

"Do you like it, Timmy?" she asked, breathing on him with breath that smelled of 
alcohol, sex, and power. "I had it specially made for us. This picture is what I 
think of when I think of me and you. You should have seen the man at the ice 
cream shop when I was describing what I wanted him to do. I swear I think the 
man went to the bathroom halfway through just so he could wack off."

She squeezed him again tightly, wrapped her arms around him, and gave him a kiss 
on the cheek.

-----

After the restaurant they were supposed to go to a dance club. Timmy had never 
liked dancing, and right now he certainly didn't feel up to making an attempt at 
it. As if the date itself wasn't overwhelming enough for him, he had just eaten 
a lot of ice cream cake. "Who goes dancing right after eating a meal?" Timmy 
wondered with some annoyance. But he knew that Brooks, at this point, had 
consumed about twelve or thirteen glasses, all told, of wine, margaritas, and 
vodka mixed with energy drinks. The big girl looked borderline manic and out of 
control. The idea of being on a date with a girl like that was no doubt exciting 
to Timmy, but when that girl is someone like Brooks Fraser, the prospect becomes 
scary. Especially when you're a tiny little man whom she's decided to bully, 
throttle, and sexually abuse as she pleases.

In the back of the limo, Brooks went into a laughing fit for no discernable 
reason that Timmy could understand. She had been recounting the experience with 
the little husband and his family, from whom she appropriated their table, but 
something made her "lose it". She was sprawled out all across the seat of the 
limo, laughing and flailing her arms. Timmy was trapped beneath her--her big, 
tight, perfectly proportioned ass laying hard and heavy against his crotch. Of 
course he had an erection again, and Brooks could no doubt feel it--probably her 
laughter was due in part to this--but Timmy had become severely annoyed with the 
whole situation. He was just about to make a stand, wiggle out from beneath her 
and bolt for the limo door--prepared to walk back all the way to his aunt's 
mansion dressed in his dress and high heels--when he noticed that the limo had 
stopped again.

"We're HERE!" he yelled, trying to raise his voice above Brooks' laughter. 
"We're HEEEERE!"

She just rolled over on top of him, laughed in his face, and then sighed, 
breathing heavily.

"Well hello, little one," she said, "where did you come from?" She began to 
laugh again, and with every laugh her body bounced up and down on top of Timmy, 
pressing him deep into the swanky leather seat of the limo.

"Please, Brooks," he said weakly. "You're really crushing me. You gotta get 
off."

"AWWW!" she said. "Poor little man having a tough time?"

"We're at the club!" he yelled.

"At the club? No we're not. We're in a limo!" She began laughing again.

"You know what I meant! Please, get off!"

She sighed.

"You're such a fucking little baby, Timmy. You know that? You are the weakest 
little fussy baby ever."

He hated hearing that, but at least she got up off of him. She began fixing her 
short dark hair again and making sure that her make-up was still immaculate. It 
was. Her dark lipstick and smoky eyeshadow had remained in tact all night.

"We're NOT at the club, though. I told the driver he has to park a few blocks 
away since we're going to be in there for a while. We can just walk there from 
here."

Brooks brashly flung open the limo door and stepped out into the chilly, windy 
winter air. Timmy was instantly chilled to the bone. He timidly began to make 
his way out of the limo when one of Brooks' hands grabbed him around the neck 
and yanked him out. She steadied him with one hand and slammed the limo door 
shut with the other.

"GOD, it's cold out here!" Timmy exclaimed. He was only dressed in his little 
dress, booties and panties.

"Do you want my jacket, BABY?" Brooks asked him in a mean tone.

He didn't reply, too ashamed. He was supposed to be the man.

"C'mon!" she said, taking his hand and leading him down the street.

It was a starry night and the moon shone full.

"How much farther is it?" Timmy asked, his teeth chattering.

"Just a few more blocks. If you keep whining I'm going to rip that little dress 
off of you, so I can look at your sexy pathetic body, and then you'll REALLY be 
cold dressed just in your panties!"

Timmy put his head down and continued to follow her down the sidewalk. He was so 
ashamed of himself, and cold, and scared. And yet Brooks' domineering tone 
really turned him on, even now.

At the end of one block they had to wait for a "DON'T WALK" sign to vanish 
before proceeding. A gust of frigid air swept through and Timmy shivered, 
leaning against Brooks' large form for heat.

"Here," Brooks said tenderly, taking off her big leather jacket. "Here, just 
wear this, honey. It's too cold out for you."

He remembered how heavy the jacket felt when he helped Brooks take it off in the 
restaurant. It felt even heavier to him now, given the environmental conditions. 
He put it on and Brooks zipped it up for him. His hands didn't come anywhere 
near the openings of the sleeves. On Brooks the jacket only reached down to her 
belly button, but on Timmy it was so long that it ended about where his dress 
did, right about his knee. 

"That better?" Brooks asked. Above her waist she was now clad only in her black 
velvet push-up tube-top. But she didn't appear to feel the cold to any extent 
that troubled her.

"Yeah," Timmy said gratefully. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Aw," Brooks said. "Calling me sweetheart, huh?" She bent was down and gave him 
a long French kiss.

The green "WALK" sign illuminated, and they crossed the street. 

The spiky leather jacket felt like it weighed a hundred pounds to Timmy. It felt 
like it weighed more than he did. He had trouble keeping up now, and it became a 
case of Brooks basically dragging him along behind her. In the process he got a 
great view of her ass and reflected again at how sexy it looked in the ripped 
hosiery bottoms. But, overall, the experience was too much for him

"Brooks-Brooks, I can't keep up!" he panted.

She stopped and whirled around. She looked down at him imperiously, like she was 
an empress and he a peon. He cowered and began to say he was sorry. She rolled 
her eyes dramatically, then squatted, picked him up in her arms and carried him 
the rest of the way.

-----

At the club Brooks was like a wild cat. Once another drink was in her system, all 
annoyances of the past fifteen minutes were forgotten. The music pumped and 
Brooks pumped against Timmy on the dancefloor. Timmy had had a few drinks 
himself, and due to his meager bodyweight that was enough for him to feel 
nearly plastered. He resolved to stop drinking so that he could better enjoy--
and remember--the great time he was having. He didn't know any of the extremely 
loud electronic dance music that was being played. He didn't know anyone else at 
the club. Which was a good thing because he was dressed in clothes that he never 
wanted anyone he knew to see him in. He didn't even know how to dance. But he 
was having a great time. Brooks couldn't keep her hands off of him. While 
dancing she mouthed words to the songs, and Timmy couldn't even understand what 
she was saying, but he didn't care. She was constantly looking him in the eye 
with a "Fuck me now, bitch"-gaze. She often gyrated before him and squeezed his dick 
through his dress, hard. She would back him up against a wall and press him to 
his knees, then rub her ass against his face. Then she would lift his exhausted 
form up and press him against the wall, chest to chest, looking down at him and 
smiling wickedly. Once she literally picked him up and dropped him to the 
dancefloor. Were it not for the alcohol he would have been screaming in pain. 
But then before he knew it she had mounted him and was grinding his face into 
her groin. She had wrapped her hands around the back of his head and was forcing 

him to breathe in her warm odors. He loved it.

At one point, when they went back to the bar to get her two more rum and cokes, 
two foolish guys tried to cause some problems. They were both in their mid-20s 
and were dressed to the 9s with trendy dress shirts, pleated khakis, and 
expensive sunglasses (which made no sense, since the club was dark already). 
Timmy couldn't hear what they were saying to Brooks, but one of them gestured to 
Timmy and then put his hand at the level of Brooks' bellybutton, as if to say 
"He only comes up to here on you". Brooks sipped her rum and coke through a 
straw and gave the young men a dismissive look. Both were about 5'10" or so. 
They said something else to her but she turned to walk away, to guide Timmy back 
to the area of the club they had been partying in. One of the young men caught 
her arm as she was leaving, though. Brooks spun around and elbowed the guy hard 
in the side of the head. The blow dropped him to the floor like a sack of flour. 
The other guy bounded up into Brooks' face, but she quickly pushed one of her big 
hands over his face and then threw his head backwards. He went flying and hit 
the floor, the back of his head smashing against the concrete. After this Brooks 
turned back to Timmy and said, "Come along, little baby."

They went into the ladies room and Brooks guided him into a stall.

"Not like this, Brooksie," Timmy whined as she put her hands up his dress.

"Oooh yes," she said. "Mama needs some sex before the ride home. Beating up boys 
makes me HOT!"

"Nooooo," Timmy said in a low tone. "Pleeeease. I want to do it at your place."

"You will," she said. "But I'm going to do it here."

She stripped him of all his clothes, then sat on the toilet. She took a huge sip 
of alcohol, burped, and then shoved her hands down to peel her panties and 
hosiery lower than her cunt. She spread her legs wide and Timmy could see for 
the first time what he was getting into. She was completely shaved and the 
vagina was the largest and most inviting that he had ever seen.

He used his hands and his elbows and his tongue.

"Harder!" Brooks often commanded him. Even though he thought he was doing a good 
job overall, and even though Brooks seemed to be enjoying herself, he knew that 
he just wasn't big enough in any way to please her properly.

When she finally came it was disappointing, for Timmy at least. For all the 
bigness, violence, loudness, and excess that the woman so often reveled in, her 
modest orgasm seemed understated. Still, afterwards she looked up at him 
contented and told him "Thank you, baby" in the sweetest voice he had ever heard 
come from her cruel dark lips.

-----

He sat on her lap during the ride home. She had draped her big leather coat 
around him. They tenderly made out the whole time.

When they got to Brooks' apartment complex, she held him aloft with one arm as 
she handed the driver a tip. The limo drove off and Brooks bounced Timmy in her 
arms as they made their way up to her apartment.

"I hope you have something left in you," she said as she unlocked the door and 
carried him inside.

"Of course I do," he said. "I only ever came once today, and you spit that back 
inside me."

He pressed his groin against her breasts as she carried him high in the air. He 
glided through the dark rooms of her apartment, almost dancing with him in her 
arms. When they got to her bedroom, she tossed him on her springy bed and then 
pounced on him.

"Does my little boy think he can survive the experience?" she asked.

Timmy just moaned, wanting her to take him, craving her roughness and toughness, 
wanting to be controlled and dominated.

"I wanted to come in my pants when I first saw you tonight, dressed like that," 
he said, as he wriggled out of his clothes, tossing his little silk panties to 
the floor.

"Huh," she remarked quizzically. "You looked more like you were going to PISS 
your pants. Or SHIT your pants. You looked like you thought I was going to EAT 
you. Maybe I am!"

She put her mouth over his face. It was large enough to cover his mouth and his 
nostrils as well. She blocked the flow of oxygen into his lungs as she played 
with his body, fingering his penis, pinching him all over with her sharp nails, 
and even tickling him under the armpits. Timmy went into spasms and convulsions. 
He needed air and he was so overwhelmed. He pounded his useless little fists 
against Brooks' muscled flank, but she wouldn't let up, or let him breathe. He 
tried to scream but his voice was lost within her suction cup lips.

Finally, when he thought he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, she took 
her mouth away. He gasped and sucked in breath after breath. His little stomach 
was pulsating rapidly and his thin little body was quaking. Brooks sat next to 
him on the bed, resting one of her big hands on his shoulder.

"Aw, what's the matter?" she asked. "Did you get the idea that I was going to be 
all NICE to you now?"

Timmy whined.

"Oh come here," she said, and drew Timmy onto her lap. She made out with him for 
a few minutes and stroked his body tenderly.

After a particularly long kiss Timmy drew his head back and asked her, "Should I 
wear a condom, or are you on...?"

Brooks bellowed with laughter, startling Timmy.

"Do you actually think any of your wimpy little tadpole sperm could ever have a 
chance of piercing my ovum?" she asked him.

"Um," Timmy said.

"Look at me and look at you," Brooks said pointedly, raising one of her arms. 
"Put one of your biceps up against mine. Go ahead. DO IT."

He raised one of his arms and put it next to hers. He tried to flex but the 
attempt came off as pathetic. His whole body trembled, half in fear and half 
because he didn't even really know how to flex, so his whole body felt the vague 
strain. The disparity between their arms was immense. Brooks' arm was huge. His 
was a pipecleaner.

"And I'm not even flexing," Brooks noted. "Do you want to see me flex?"

"No!" Timmy said hurriedly. He just wanted the humiliation to stop.

"TOO BAD!" Brooks yelled and swung her bicep into Timmy's face, flexing it hard. 
Strands of muscle exploded and Timmy felt total fear. She was squeezing his 
entire body with hers and shoving her bicep right against his nose and mouth, 
blocking his breathing again.

Finally she let up, and when she did Timmy found that he had begun to weep.

"Now do you see how much bigger and stronger I am than you?"

"Yes!" he said desperately. He already knew it before, but now he really knew it 
and didn't want to know it any better than he already did.

"The idea of your sperm piercing my ovum is like the idea of YOU beating up ME. 
Do you think that could EVER happen?"

"N-no," Timmy said.

"Not EVER?"

"N-n-no! Not ever! Not ever!"

"What if I was five years old?" Brooks asked. "Do you think you could have beat 
me up when I was five?"

"No!" Timmy blurted.

Brooks promptly slapped him on the back of his head, causing him to fall forward 
into her chest. He braced himself with both hands against her breasts and picked 
himself back up. He hoped that she wouldn't think this was inappropriate 
touching. It was just a reaction to steady himself. She apparently didn't mind; 
she just squeezed him harder with her thighs as he sat in her lap on the bed.

"Don't be stupid!" she warned. "I know you're a scaredy-cat baby, but even you 
are stronger than a five-year-old! If I was TEN, though, I think I could have 
clobbered you!"

He wiped a stray tear from his cheek. He hated that she had turned on him again. 
He had so hoped that they could have sweet sex. At the club and on the way home, 
and as she carried him through her apartment, she had been so tender to him. He 
thought that finally they were on the same page and that this was going to be a 
beautiful love story. But reality had other plans.

"We're going to play a game where you don't get to breathe until you come," she 
instructed him. "After you come, you get to breathe for a little bit, and then I 
put my hand over your face again and I don't let up until you come again. I 
don't care what you do to make yourself come. You can even tell me to jerk you 
off. But, god damn it, you better be able to come ten times in a row like that, 
or else you don't get to breathe."

"No," Timmy said. "No. No, I don't want to do that. I want to just have sex with 
you--PLEASE!"

"Hm," Brooks thought, tilting her head and resting a big fist against her cheek. 
She considered him. "No," she said.

Then in one motion she socked Timmy right in the jaw with a big punch. His body 
would have gone flying across the room had she not held it fast with her legs.

"Actually," Brooks said, "on second thought--okay. Go for it."

She released him and leaned back on her bed. She stripped off her tube-top, 
allowing her nice breasts to be free, and she pulled down her hosiery and 
panties again to reveal her naked pussy.

Timmy climbed on top of her. Even this was an admission of defeat. He was 
willing to have sex with a girl right after she had punched him hard and abused 
him the way she just had? He wanted to love her and to make love with her. But 
he knew that Brooks had no care for his love and did not love him back. He was a 
plaything to her and at the moment she was just testing to see how much he 
desired her and how much he was willing to put up with.

"There's only one catch," Brooks said. "You can fuck me right now to your 
heart's content, and have one nice big orgasm on your own terms. But after 
that's over we have to play my game. And you have to come... mmm... seven times 
or else you don't get to breathe. Deal?"

"Uh..." Timmy said.

"If you don't take this deal, Timmy, then you have to go home right now. And I 
WILL drag you back to your aunt's mansion right now--I don't care how late it is 
or how cold it is outside or how much you'll whine and blat and cry. I don't 
care." She grinned at the wimpy little man whose thin-boned body was just above 
her. "Those are your options."

"I..." Timmy began, "I...can't help it. I want to fuck you so bad. I-I need to 
fuck you, oh God..."

He sighed, resigned himself to fate, and dropped himself down on top of her. 
Brooks' body felt so big to him now that he was trying to mount it properly in 
the missionary position. He felt so overmatched, but the sensation of her naked 
skin against his was so pleasurable to him. He didn't care what happened 
afterwards, he just wanted to feel his cheek against her bare breasts, and he 
wanted to explore her toned arms and abs with his tiny little hands and tongue, 
and most of all he wanted to feel her pussy envelop his dick and begin to flex 
and suck on it.

Brooks did nothing to heighten the experience for him. She just laid there like 
a cold fish or a beached whale. In a way, Timmy was glad of this. He knew that 
his orgasm was going to be immense. If Brooks excited him any more than he 
already was, he was sure to blow his entire wad right now. But she had told him 
that he needed to come seven more times that night, or else she would suffocate 
him.

He didn't care, though. He put that out of his mind. Right now it was too good 
of an opportunity, to have sex with this big girl, a girl who had been turning 
him on for months now, and who this night had put his mind through the wringer, 
titillating him in ways that were torturous, and torturing him in ways that were 
titillating.

"Ah God Brooks I luv youuu..." he moaned as he reached climax, his little 
haunches humping rapidly, his little legs knocking against her big thighs. He 
clutched her sides as release came, and moaned and pressed his face against her 
breasts.

She let him rest for almost a minute, then she sat up and peeled his limp, 
drained form off of her. He tried to regain some composure, but it was 
difficult. He had just experienced the biggest orgasm of his life. She got down 
on all floors, and turned around on the bed so that her ass was facing him.

"Here," she said. "hop on. Why don't you put your little dick inside my ass. 
Maybe that will get you going again. If you don't do it right now, then I'm 
going to smother you."

Timmy weakly climbed her thighs with his hands and pulled his body up. He felt 
so small. It seemed as if each of her thighs were bigger than he was. But the 
lovely vision of her ass propelled him onwards. It looked so sexy, he thought 
again, that perfect ass inside those tattered fishnets, and those velvet panties 
there too.

"Here you go. Hurry up or I'm going to get angry with you."

She reached back, put a long finger through a hole in the hosiery that covered 
her ass, and with her long black nail fished the thong strap of her panties out 
of her ass crack. She pulled it to the side and bent down lower so that her 
cheeks spread apart further.

"Here you go. Stick it inside."

He didn't need to be told twice. He stood up and shoved his erect dick into her 
asshole. At that point she tightened her ass muscles around him and rocked him 
back and forth. He humped her like a little Chihuahua humping a dog twenty times 
its size. He came hard and fast, and pulled his now-aching, tender cock out from 
between her tight, clenched cheeks.

"Now it gets fun," Brooks said, spinning around and collecting him onto her lap 
in one swift motion. "Now we play the game for real."

She slammed one of her hands over Timmy's face. He couldn't breathe. He 
struggled but his nose and mouth were completely covered with Brooks' big palm. 
He knew it would do no good to try to yank her hand off. Even if he used both of 
his hands, she was still almost infinitely stronger than him. He gave a muffled 
moan.

"Okay, Timmy," Brooks said brightly. "Here we go!"

She reached down with her other hand and began jacking him off. Her hand was so 
big that the length of his penis didn't peek out the end of it. Yet it was the 
hand she had put his ring on. He could feel the ring rubbing against his cock as 
she pumped it steadily. His penis already hurt and ached, and he couldn't 
breathe, but just thinking about how strong Brooks was and how sexy it was that 
she was torturing him while wearing his ring turned him on so much. He came and 
shot a small, barely respectable wad of come into her hand.

"Yuck!" Brooks said sarcastically. "Okay, you can breathe now."

She took her other hand away from Timmy's face. He gasped for air.


"Please, Brooks, no more. Please. Please. Please."

Before he knew what happened, she backhanded him hard with the hand he had just 
come in, wiping some of his ejaculate onto his cheek in the process.

"I don't like whiners," Brooks said. "That can turn me on, but only up to a 
point. And after that point, you don't get to be the lucky little boy who gets 
to fuck the big girls. Instead you get the be the lucky little boy who gets the 
fuck beaten out of him by the big girls." 

Timmy wanted to say he was sorry, but before he could Brooks had grabbed ahold 
of him again. 

"It's time for the next round!" she said, putting her other hand over Timmy's 
face this time. It was the same hand he had just ejaculated in, and there was 
still a little of his come on the palm. Brooks smeared it over his face a bit 
before pressing her palm hard enough to block his breathing. 

Again she began jerking him off, and again he managed, miraculously, to come 
again, just before he would have passed out from lack of oxygen.

"Third time's the charm!" Brooks said, as she switched hands again, not giving 
him a moment's respite this time. "I'm not sure how much more come you could 
possibly be hiding in that teeny little body of yours, but you'll probably have 
lost another five pounds before the night's through!"

"No, Brooks. Please stop," Timmy moaned.

"Have you ALREADY forgotten what I told you about little whiners?" she asked. 
Then she slammed one hand over his face again, and with her other hand she did 
not jerk him off so much as she began to simply squeeze his cock, harder and 
harder, tighter and tighter. It was the hand with his ring on it again. He could 
feel the ring, feel the metal pressing into his penis. It hurt so much and he 
could feel Brooks' long black nails coming down as well, piercing his skin and 
digging in deep."

He wanted to scream, but he had no air. He wanted to come, but he was too 
drained and too terrified. He wanted to breathe, but Brooks' big hand wouldn't 
let him. He wanted to break free, but his abused, malnourished, undersized male 
body was nothing compared to Brooks' gigantic toned form.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was her maniacal, sadistic 
laughing. And the last thing he felt was the sting of the ring on Brooks' pinky 
as it crushed the life out of his penis.

-----

He woke up the next morning in her bathtub. He was naked and everything below 
his head was submerged in warm water. The tap was running a steady little stream 
of hot water, just enough to keep the temperature up, with the excess water 
rising just high enough to trickle down the emergency hole just below the ring 
of the tub. There was the smell of eucalyptus and aloe in the air, and Timmy 
realized that Brooks must have put some kind of soothing medicinal mixture in 
the bathwater for him. He even put a pillow behind his head.

The Sunday morning light came through the high bathroom window. Timmy yawned and 
scooched up a bit in the tub. He wiggled his body a bit and found that he wasn't 
anywhere near as sore as he thought he'd be.

After a few minutes he stood up, then looked down and examined his penis. There 
were marks where Brooks' nails had dug in, and it looked purple and bruised. But 
it wasn't so bad. It would probably heal in a week or so.

He reached for a towel and dried himself off. His clothes were nowhere to be 
found.

A sudden thought struck him, a somewhat dirty thought. For all he knew, Brooks 
was probably still sleeping. The notion of exploring her apartment and rifling 
through her things without her knowing really excited him. Maybe he could find 
some old pictures of her to take back to his aunt's mansion and masturbate to 
when he got lonely and horny at night. He wrapped the towel around his waist and 
exited the room.

Brooks' apartment was a mess. He was seeing it now for the first time in the 
light. There were magazines scattered everywhere, and dirty clothes tossed all 
over the floor and furniture. There was a pizza box in the corner. 

He crept over to the desk on which her computer sat and was just about to open 
one of the drawers when a voice came from behind him:

"What are you doing?"

He turned, guilty and caught in the act of snooping.

She was wearing boxer shorts that barely came down three inches, exposing her 
long shapely pale legs, and a white, tight spaghetti-strap top that ended above 
her bellybutton. Her dark hair was messed up, and she rubbed the sleep from her 
eyes as she sauntered towards Timmy.

"Where you going through my things?"

"N-no," Timmy said, hurriedly putting his hands behind his back and trying to 
look innocent. The last thing he wanted this morning was another bruising.

Brooks grumbled but walked past him, into the kitchen. He followed her, admiring 
the way her ass--which  was chest-level to him--looked in boxer shorts. From a 
stand she picked up a pair of thick-rimmed, rectangular eyeglasses and put 
them on. He had never seen Brooks in glasses before, and he liked the way she 
looked in them. He liked the way she looked in the morning, period, with her 
hair a bit messed up, dressed in boxers and a short shirt. She looked less hard-
edged and mean. She listlessly got a box from a high shelf and poured some 
cereal into a bowl.

Timmy decided to take a chance. He walked up behind her, leaning into her butt, 
put his arms around her and began to rub his hands up toward her breasts.

"WHOA--What are you doing?" Brooks said, flinging his hands away and turning 
towards him accusatorily.

Timmy gulped. "I...I thought..."

"We're not boyfriend and girlfriend, Timmy," Brooks said in a sharp, no-nonsense 
tone that stung his heart. "Last night was last night. You're lucky I didn't 
dump you off at your aunt's at 4AM when I was done with you."

"Oh..." Timmy murmured bashfully. "Well... Thanks for putting me in the bath 
like that, Brooks, after I passed out. That was really nice of you."

"I didn't put you in the bath after you passed out," Brooks said, pouring milk 
on her cereal and getting a spoon. "I played with you for another hour or so, 
then I put you in."

"W-what did you do to me?" Timmy said, alarmed and more than a little insulted. 
He thought this was so unfair. If anything, she should be apologizing to him for 
smothering him until he lost consciousness.

Brooks snorted and smirked, took a bite of cereal, then replied, "I had some fun 
with you. Don't worry about it."

"H-how did you know I w-wasn't going to die? You suffocated me and I--"

"I've done it before," she said calmly. "With lots of guys."

Timmy wondered what it was like for a guy to date Brooks on a regular basis. How 
long had her longest relationship lasted? How long could any guy possibly survive, 
physically as well as emotionally, around her and her abusive personality?

"Can I have something to eat?" Timmy asked, sitting down next to her on a high 
stool.

"Mmm," Brooks considered. "No. I'm going to take you back to your aunt's in a 
few minutes anyway. I have the day off, so I'd prefer not to wait on you and fix 
you a meal with my food, since I only get paid to fix you a meal with your 
aunt's food."

("What a bitch," Timmy thought. Still, she looked so good to him. He glanced 
down at her long, long legs. He wished that when she went back to her maidly 
duties at the mansion she would dress in short boxers like the ones she wore at 
home.)

"Can you STOP undressing me with your eyes?" she asked him pointedly. She had 
never seemed to mind it before whenever he ogled her. "I'd prefer to eat my 
breakfast without being stared at by a horny, pathetic little creep."

He looked down at the table and said nothing for a while. She finished her 
cereal and got up to put the bowl in the sink.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked.

"They're stained," she replied. "Last night you got come all over them. And you 
probably don't remember but I sort of used them to soak up some of my own 
juices. Once you had passed out I could finally make use of your little body to 
actually get myself off. Which you could never do for me while awake. Anyway, I 
believe your dress and panties were purchased by your aunt, so I guess it's my 
duty to wash them for her. I'll bring them back to the mansion tomorrow."

"Well what am I going to wear today?" Timmy asked, afraid of the answer.

Brooks chortled.

"We-ell, unfortunately I don't have any of the clothes that I wore when I was 
ten years old, because those might fit you. But I can probably find something 
for you to wear until I get you back to your aunt's."

She took his hand and led him into her bedroom. Despite all the humiliation, he 
was grateful that she had initiated some physical contact with him.

She rummaged through her drawers and tossed out a pair of pink socks.

"Here," she said, "these will probably fit."

She dug deeper and found a pair of white panties with a bow on the front.

"Wear these," she said. "But DON'T come in them. Or piss in them. Or shit in 
them."

She found a pair of spandex exercise shorts that he could also wear without them 
feeling too loose on him. And she found a sports bra that also fit him quite 
like a normal-sized t-shirt. He stood there, the towel still wrapped around him, 
holding the garments that Brooks had given him.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked. "Go put them on."

"Um. Brooks?" he asked hesitantly.

"WHAT?" she asked, very annoyed.

"I was wondering, c-could you please... um..."

"Spit it out! God damn it, you are a stuttering, sputtering little nervous 
baby!"

"Could we please have sex again? Or could I dry-hump you. Or could you at least 
jerk me off, PLEASE?"

"NO, you pathetic creep. NO." She folded her brawny arms across her chest. "That 
was last night. NO MORE. If you wanted more, you shouldn't've fallen asleep like 
the wimpy little BOY that you are!"

"B-But Brooks--" he started. That was all it took--He should have remembered 
what she said about not tolerating whiners.

A cruel, imperious look flashed across her face. She moved like lightning and 
wrapped one strong, long arm around Timmy's waist and stormed toward her bed, 
carrying Timmy the way one might carry a naughty puppy.

"N-NOOO!" Timmy yelled. He beat his little fists against Brooks, but it did no 
good. He squealed and kicked his legs in the air, but that did no good either.

Before he knew it, Brooks had sat down and had slung his little body face down 
across her curvy thighs. By this time the towel that was around his waist had 
fallen to the floor, and he was naked. His delicate little rump faced upwards; 
Brooks greeted it with a smile and began rubbing her finger-tips against it 
lightly, menacingly. And meanwhile his little pecker was, despite himself, 
beginning to grow, poking Brooks between her thighs. She noted this and quickly 
clamped down on it, painfully, between her kneecaps. She squeezed Timmy's dick 
hard between the bones of her kneecaps: this was one punishment that he was NOT 
going to find release from; his dick was to be squeezed shut in the clamp of her 
knees, which would prevent any semen from pleasurably leaking out.

"I thought I was supposed to take you on a DATE, Timmy!" she bellowed, now 
raking her dark pointy nails across his ass. "I didn't know I was going to have 
to basically BABYSIT you and tend to your every little fussy concern! But if 
it's discipline you NEED--and you DO--then I guess I'll have to dispense with 
it!"

With that her right palm began to thunder down on his ass, raining a hailstorm 
of hard, cracking blows upon him. Timmy screamed and screamed, but there was no 
release. He cried and cried, but Brooks didn't stop until her own durable hand 
began to throb, by which point Timmy's ass was glowing red.