It was Tracy’s freshman year, riding a soccer scholarship from her small exurban high school to the big state university. Trying to find her place in the throng, she saw no reason why she—a short, muscular girl with no impressive social connections—shouldn’t join a sorority. Erring against the side of caution had served her well so far, and she wasn’t afraid of picking up a few new scars.
She rushed three houses, but she felt the deepest affinity for Gamma Gamma Gamma. Their rush dinner was hosted by Kristina, a tall Korean-American woman with long rich brown hair and proud cheekbones. All the Tri-Gams were confident and welcoming, and they seemed quite diverse in their backgrounds and ambitions. Kristina showed more than a polite interest in Tracy’s stories, talking with her long after the other rushees had left. There was a resourcefulness to Kristina’s smile that Tracy wanted to get closer to.
The night before Bid Day, Kristina made a surprise visit to Tracy’s dorm room. Tracy was already in bed, but the six quiet raps on the door brought her to full wakefulness.
“Let me in!” Kristina whispered when Tracy cracked open the door. She slipped inside and hugged Tracy.
“You’re in!” she said giddily. “The Tri-Gams are gonna give you a bid!” When Tracy failed to react, Kristina prodded her. “That is, if you’ll have us.”
Tracy shook herself out of her stupor. “Yes, yes!” she cried.
“Ssh,” said Kristina. “Get dressed. Leave your phone; you won’t need it and it could get damaged.” She led Tracy out of the dorm through a sub-basement Tracy hadn’t known existed.
Eventually they arrived in some kind of storage room occupied by Melanie, President of the local chapter of Gamma Gamma Gamma. She was only slightly taller than Tracy, but more fleshy in the face, chest, and hips. Blonde curls surrounded her sunny face, and her eyes sparkled with beneficence. She said, “I take it our invitation has been accepted?”
Tracy grinned sheepishly at Kristina then turned back to Melanie and nodded. Apricot perfume filled Tracy’s nose as Melanie enveloped her in a happy embrace. “Wonderful!” she squealed.
After releasing Tracy, she finished the latte she had been drinking. “Alrighty then,” she said, putting her cup down. “But first,” she said pulling a hip flask from her jacket, “a little liquid courage.”
Tracy had very little experience with alcohol. She took the flask, said “Bottoms up,” and took a swig. It tasted like no alcohol she had ever had. She felt dizzy and looked with alarm at Melanie, whose eyebrows were raised in anticipation.
“Wha—” Tracy slurred. She turned and saw Kristina’s smile, which she now found terrifying.
Suddenly she felt the floor drop away and she fell into a blur that terminated in a pile of odd blankets, some of which fell from above and buried her. She climbed and crawled to the surface, only to emerge in an impossibly large world.
Giant versions of Melanie and Kristina stood over her, smirking down with undisguised malice, each the height of a twenty-story building. Tracy suddenly realized she was naked and looked around at the giant versions of her clothes that must have fallen off her. They weren’t giant; she was tiny.
Tracy turned to flee but she hadn’t taken three steps before Melanie’s dump-truck-sized patent-leather pump slammed down, blocking her escape. “I don’t think so, honey,” sang the blonde giantess.
Utterly at a loss, Tracy looked up in dread as Melanie regarded her with the most withering smirk. She removed the lid from her latte cup, then folded her legs and lowered herself down within reach of the tiny girl. The tip of Melanie’s tongue emerged from between her teeth as she bracketed Tracy with the cup in one hand and the lid in the other. There was an unmistakable relish in Melanie’s eyes as the lid caught the back of Tracy’s legs and propelled her headlong into the cup.
“Whoopsy-daisy,” chirped Melanie, tilting the cup upright and standing up. Kristina’s giant face joined Melanie’s peering down into the cup. Tracy rolled over onto her back to look back up at them.
“Why are you doing this?” she shrieked. “I thought you liked me!”
Melanie glanced at Kristina, then they both burst out laughing. Their raucous voices lashed Tracy, but her heart ached more than her ears. Kristina recovered first. “Liked you?” she sneered. “You didn’t really think we’d let someone like you into the Tri-Gams, did you?”
Melanie replaced the lid, leaving Tracy alone with her abasement and the dregs of skinny vanilla half-caff as Melanie’s stride swirled it around the cup. She wasn’t one to kick herself for making mistakes, but this one was a doozy.
Melanie’s stride eventually slowed, then stopped. “You ready?” Tracy heard her captress say.
“Oh yeah,” said a new voice. Male. “Here ya go.”
“She’s all yours,” said Melanie as the cup lurched and Tracy fell on her side.
Another series of jostles, then the lid was removed. Tracy looked up to see two faces she didn’t recognize. Men. With terrifying grins.
“Awesome,” said the guy holding the cup. He had short black hair and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. The other guy ogling the tiny naked Tracy had wavy light brown hair.
“Wh-who are you?” Tracy screamed up.
They just snorted and the dark-haired one replaced the lid.
More jostling as they walked to their car, where she had a brief respite in cup holder, then another seasick march up to someone’s room and into a dark enclosure of some kind. With stillness, sleep claimed her.
The sudden seizure of the cup happened before Tracy could fully awake. Even through the cup, the light was blinding. Then the lid was removed and the cup tilted severely, spilling her onto a hard, bright surface.
“Damn,” said someone huge and male.
Tracy’s limbs complained as she scrambled to her feet. She was standing on a desk in a well-used office. A steady bass beat thrummed somewhere distant. The room’s motif was a string of Greek characters: Beta Rho Omicron. More immediately, five giants surrounded the desk and stared down at Tracy, still naked, unkempt, and two-inches-tall.
“I love this part of Rush Week,” said the dark-haired stubbled guy from the night before. Also present was the light-brown haired guy, plus three new dudes: a (relatively) short guy with a crew-cut and a nasty smirk, a beefy pink-faced ginger, and, leaning down for a closer look, a close-cut black guy. “You told me about this,” he rumbled, “but I still don’t believe it.”
“Just remember what I said about Garcia,” said Dark Stubble. “He was never here and you have no idea what happened to him.”
Tracy found a nugget of indignation and hurled it. “What the hell is going on?” she screamed. “Stop gawking and help me!”
Dark Stubble stood back and turned to the others. “Got some spunk, doesn’t she?” he said. “I think we should name her ‘Spunky’.”
Guffaws all around and they all drunk from their Solo cups.
Dark Stubble said, “Now that Spunky here has had her christening, it’s time for her baptism.” He turned toward the ginger and said, “Paul, please fetch the font.”
Still off her feet, Tracy felt the tremors through the desk as Paul walked to the far end of the office. He returned with what looked like a large bowl, extending it over the desk and lowering it straight at Tracy. She got to her feet and ran to one side before Paul rested it on the desktop.
The black guy gathered Tracy into his fist and brought her to his face. She was too startled to scream, gazing up into his enormous deep brown eyes. She felt like nothing in his grasp.
“Put her inside, Ken,” said Dark Stubble. Ken lowered his hand into the center of the bowl and let Tracy step onto the stainless-steel surface.
“Is this it, Matt?” said Crew-Cut to Dark Stubble, clearly the chapter president.
“Indeed it is, Josh,” said Matt, unzipping his fly. Tracy looked around in horror as all five guys either opened their flies or dropped their pants altogether, then crowded around the font, stroking their cocks. No direction was safe.
Tracy had heard about this sort of thing, but she was so repelled by the notion that she never tried to learn more. She started to dissociate from herself, focusing instead on the array of giant cocks and balls laboring to inundate her.
The guy with the wavy brown hair came first, his jism shooting almost entirely over her head, with only a small globule spattering her left shoulder. “Great shooting, Dave,” said Paul.
Ken came next and his wad caught Tracy in the back, right between the shoulder blades, sending her sprawling forward. Then the others started spooging all over her, splashing into her hair, seeping into her ass crack, coating her extremities. The first time she tried to push off with her hands, they slipped out from under her and she fell on her face in the jizz.
“I think it’s time everyone met Spunky Brewster here,” said Matt, zipping back up. He reached both hands underneath the font and lifted, spilling Tracy again. “Josh,” he said, “would you get the door?”
The bass beat got louder as Matt carried the font through the door and down the stairs. A cacophony of giant male voices assaulted Tracy and echoed in the hollow of the font. They reached a louder and more open room, at the far end of which was a much-abused couch and a coffee table, where Matt set the font down.
The music died down, and Matt seized the brief lull. “Gentlemen! It is my pleasure to introduce to you this year’s house pet! Let’s give it up for Spunky!”
Matt gestured toward Tracy, and several guys crowded around, leaned over, pointed and laughed. “She’s a bit messy at the moment,” Matt declared, “so anything you can do to wash her off would be appreciated!”
Matt tapped a passing guy on the shoulder. “Hey, Brian,” he said, “we need a pledge to take care of her the whole year. Interested?”
Brian sputtered his lips in derision, then opened his fly and started pissing down on Tracy, getting most of it into the font. Bystanders started chanting in support of Brian’s stream. Tracy threw one arm over her eyes against the acrid mist, but the urine pooled and swelled around her legs and ass.
When Brian finished his contribution, he zipped up, bent over, and affected to take a whiff of Tracy. “No thanks, man,” he bellowed. “I’d never get the stink out of my room!”
As Brian stumbled off to receive his high-fives, Matt spotted someone else and collared him.
“Chris!” said Matt. “How would you like to keep Spunky here for a year? You gotta keep her alive and in one piece, but beyond that anything goes.”
Chris narrowed his eyes and brought his face down over the font. Tracy looked up dully, but then her heart leapt in her chest. Chris Davenport had been her lab partner all throughout sophomore Chemistry. They hadn’t hung out in the years since, but there was still a nodding acquaintance. It was all she had.
She waved her arms and shouted, “Chris, it’s me, Tracy! You have to help me!”
An intensely quizzical look spread across Chris’s face. He blinked a couple of times, then finally said, “Tracy?”
Tears of relief started in Tracy’s eyes. “Yes, yes, it’s me!” she cried. “Please help me get out of here!”
Chris goggled, then burst out laughing. His laughter was cut off, however, by a faint belch, followed by projectile vomiting, straight down upon Tracy. She collapsed under a torrent of beer, tequila, and partially-digested pizza. Chris’s retching temporarily deafened her, but even through the cum, piss, and puke she could still hear them, all of them, laughing.
Curiously enough, this was my first Cruel January as a participating author. I don’t think I was trying to avoid it; it just never worked out with my schedule before. At any rate, I thought I had a good idea for a cruel scenario, but it was derived from a longer story idea that I never got around to, and now I’m having misgivings.
It’s a fairly common Puritanical trope that when one sees a flaw in oneself or in one’s work, seeing the same flaw in others provokes one to hyper-criticism. The flaw I see in Bitter Dregs is that there’s not much plot, just a series of betrayals and humiliations, none of them deserved. Tracy is strong-spirited, but that’s not enough and in the end she’s defeated.
I haven’t run the numbers, but I suspect Cruel January has had the highest author participation of any of the other quarters, and I believe the reason is that many people believe all a cruel story needs is some really horrific atrocities. Most size fans have a go-to cruel kick, something that’s haunted them from the first, and they figure it should be easy to conjure some cartoonishly evil giant|ess to inflict it, and that’s your story. Gotta say, almost certainly because of my dissatisfaction with my own story, I recognized this lack of sophistication in a number of other stories, and it irritated me. I don’t think any less of the authors, but I hope we can all learn from this and do better. Cruelty is easy, tragedy is hard.
My original draft was much longer, and I think the final cut suffers from the 2k word limit. It is quite clear to me that coming up with a scenario that can be satisfactorily resolved in under 2k words is a skill unto itself, and one that I need to work on. That I tried to cram an idea that was originally novella-sized (about eight times more characters) into this format was probably an error.
On a more positive note, I now have additional motivation to write more about the ladies of Tri-Gam and the dudes of Beta Rho Omicron.