Like many people with a minority sexual fetish, I have become a master of self-delusion and projection. Accordingly, after watching much of his work, I have determined that Robert Rodriguez is a closet macrophile just waiting for the right script. Call me, Robert; we’ll do lunch.
Carla Gugino as Ingrid Avellan
Antonio Banderas as Gregorio Cortez
George Clooney as Devlin
Salma Hayek as Francesca Giggles
Mike Judge as Donnagon Giggles
Michelle Rodriguez as Venezuelan Immigration Control Officer
Teri Hatcher as Ms. Gradenko
Neil Patrick Harris as Simon van der Plonk
Sofia Vergara as Imelda Versace
Nathan Fillion as Horatio Longhammer
Kat Dennings as Melissa Hormel
Quentin Tarantino as Sid Brown
Felicia Day as Hydrangea Jones
Harvey Keitel as Kaspar Figura
Rosario Dawson as Isabella Mastica
Benicio Del Toro as Ernesto Consolado
Danny Trejo as Isador “Machete” Cortez
The penthouse office was still and dark, the only illumination from the data router. The door handle shuddered slightly as the lock was expertly picked, and a frame of light from the hallway briefly outlined the woman in her stylish evening gown as she noiselessly slipped into the office and shut the door behind her.
A narrow shaft of light from her fist heralded her arrival at the desk. After a minute of increasingly frustrated searching, she suddenly froze and switched off her flashlight. A silhouette stepped in front of the window and she turned, pistol in hand.
“Looking for something?” asked a familiar masculine voice. He toggled the overhead lights.
Ingrid Avellan, agent of the O.S.S., kept her weapon trained on her confronter. Her scarlet dress held her breasts tightly but loosened as it swirled around her hips before halting completely mid-calf. How she stored her agency-issued equipment was one of her closest-held professional secrets.
Gregorio Cortez, agent of the O.S.S., ignored Ingrid’s weapon but nevertheless held very still. He was dressed much more practically, all-black climbing gear and plenty of pockets. In his right hand he held a stack of 3.5” floppy disks.
“That’s my target,” she said. “Devlin assigned it to me.”
“He was concerned at how much time you were taking,” he said. “It was suggested that he send you some backup.”
“Suggested by whom?”
“I might have suggested it.”
Her face, already sour, became caustic. “Give me the disks.”
A klaxon sounded throughout the building, and jackboots echoed in the hall. Gregorio tilted his head wryly, then turned to escape via the window he had used to enter.
Ingrid made her pistol vanish and somehow replaced it with a leather-and-lead sap, then hid behind the door. When the first guard burst into the office, she whipped the base of his skull and relieved him of his assault rifle as he crumpled.
She knew she could make her way out of the building without having to kill anyone, but nothing could remove the bitterness of seeing her rival agent drop effortlessly into the night with her mission objective.
Director Devlin appeared by video, as always. Ingrid was in a smart pantsuit, but she couldn’t resist one-inch heels. Gregorio wore a jacket but forgot the tie.
“Good work, both of you,” said Devlin.
“If Spider-Man here hadn’t tripped the window alarm,” protested Ingrid, “I would have gotten the disks out undetected.”
“If you had taken less than three days to penetrate the office,” countered Gregorio, “I wouldn’t have had to get involved.”
“While the issues of detection and timeliness are not wholly immaterial,” interrupted Devlin, “I don’t much care who brought the disks out. What really matters is that they provided the confirmation we need to proceed with the next mission.”
“I volunteer,” said Gregorio confidently, “what is it?” Ingrid glared at him.
“It’s an extraction,” replied Devlin. “A research scientist is on the verge of a revolutionary breakthrough, one that could radically upset the balance of power.”
“What’s the scientist’s name?” asked Ingrid.
“Kaspar Figura,” said Devlin.
“Never heard of him,” said Gregorio.
“That’s funny,” replied Devlin, “because he’s heard of you. He’s let us know that he won’t consider helping us unless we demonstrate our commitment by sending our best agent, whom he identified as ‘Gregorio Cortez’.”
Gregorio beamed at Ingrid.
“That’s it,” she said, standing up. “I’m outta here.”
“Sit down,” ordered Devlin. “You’re going too.”
“What?” sputtered Gregorio. Ingrid kept her feet, waiting.
“Figura’s research facility is in Caracas,” explained Devlin. “I trust you remember your last visit to Venezuela, Agent Cortez?”
Gregorio shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Well, the local security certainly remember,” continued Devlin. “You’re much too hot to handle the mission by yourself.”
“How is sending Agent Avellan along going to keep their surveillance from spotting me?” protested Gregorio. “Is she going to distract them with her slow-motion tradecraft?”
“I’m not working with this clown,” said Ingrid, turning and walking toward the door. “Find yourself another decoy.”
“You won’t be a decoy, Agent Avellan,” called Devlin impatiently. Ingrid halted at the door, her hand on the knob.
“You’ll be calling the shots on this one,” continued Devlin.
Ingrid glanced at Gregorio to see that he didn’t receive this last remark at all well.
“As to your question, Agent Cortez,” proceeded Devlin, “both of you are to report to Dr. Francesca Giggles in R&D. She has all the details.”
“Don’t you mean Francesca Kahlo?” asked Ingrid.
“She and Agent Donnagon Giggles got married while you were on assignment,” replied Devlin.
Looking again at Gregorio, Ingrid returned to her chair. “If I’m in charge of this mission,” she said to Devlin, “what assurances do I have that Agent Cortez will follow my direction?”
“Trust me: he will,” replied Devlin, breaking into a wide grin.
Ingrid and Gregorio took the intra-agency tram directly to Francesca’s lab. The large stainless steel worktable was largely taken up by what looked like a wide, white wooden box or crate that was perforated with several finely-cut square openings.
Francesca herself came around the table. Like Ingrid, she wore heels whenever she could, but even her three-inchers couldn’t prevent the crate from obscuring her petite frame from the door. Stockings and a knee-length skirt disappeared into her flowing lab coat, which wasn’t flowing enough to hide her buxom curves. Her deep brown eyes and game-show-hostess smile lit on Ingrid.
“Congratulations, Cesca!” squealed Ingrid, who hugged the brunette scientist and kissed her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was very sudden,” said Francesca. She looked at Gregorio. “So you’re going to bring Dr. Figura over to the O.S.S. Do you think you can handle the kind of opposition we expect?”
“Well, he asked for me by name, so it seems I’m the only one qualified,” he said, giving Ingrid a sour look. “I’m ready for any situation. Now, how are we going to get me past the heightened security?”
“Like this,” replied Francesca, reaching into her coat pocket and withdrawing what looked like a small flashlight. She shined the beam on him and Gregorio’s world rushed away from him.
Gregorio blinked several times before his vision could re-focus. When he could see clearly again, he didn’t quite believe his eyes. Everything was gigantic. The worktable, the lab equipment, the trash can by the door, and, most dauntingly, his colleagues. He had to tilt his head back to take in the full height of Francesca and Ingrid, whose legs now loomed over him like redwoods. A hundred feet up he could see Ingrid’s face in open-mouthed shock, and Francesca gave him a satisfied smile before she walked over to him. Her unforgiving heels thundered on the floor, reverberating in his guts. He was mesmerized by the sway of her shapely stockinged legs, which folded as she lowered herself and reached out for him with her giant hand. His instinct to flee melted away when he looked into her beautiful round face and let her utility-pole-sized fingers curl around his body.
Francesca straightened up and held Gregorio out to Ingrid, her palm open flat. Gregorio struggled to his feet on the uncertain surface, and he estimated his new height to be no more than three inches. Looking up at his captress, he lost himself in Francesca’s enormous brown eyes and impossibly full lips.
“Do you think you could stash him somewhere now?” Francesca asked Ingrid.
“This mission just got a lot more interesting,” said Ingrid, a smirk creeping across her face. Gregorio turned to look up at his giant rival, whose expression was becoming one of sublime mastery.
Francesca slowly turned and walked to the worktable and lowered Gregorio next to the large wooden crate, which he now realized were accommodations for people of his scale. He stepped out of Francesca’s palm onto a small balcony. Out of an opening to the interior stepped Agent Donnagon Giggles, the same size as Gregorio, who did a double-take. “Donnagon? What’s going on?”
Donnagon chuckled. “We’re pushing the envelope of espionage technology, that’s what’s going on.”
“Congratulations, Donnagon!” boomed Ingrid, who along with Francesca had leaned down to bring her colossal face next to the miniaturized agents.
“We’re not there yet,” shouted Donnagon. “That’s what this mission is about.”
“I meant congratulations on getting married,” laughed Ingrid, joshingly rubbing shoulders with Francesca.
“Oh, thanks,” said Donnagon, beaming up at Francesca. Gregorio looked up at the giant scientist, hovering over her tiny husband, and his gaze couldn’t help disappearing down her unobscurable cleavage.
Gregorio turned back to Donnagon and shook his hand. “Yeah, congratulations,” he said. “How long have you been…” Gregorio trailed off, looking around and gesturing at the giant worktable.
“How long have I been miniaturized?” prompted Donnagon. “We ran the experiment right after the wedding, so it’s been seven days.”
“After the wedding?” asked Gregorio.
“Yes, we wanted to settle all the arrangements first in case something went wrong with the experiment.”
“You mean you’re the first human subject?” asked Gregorio.
“Someone had to be,” replied Donnagon.
“That’s my brave husband,” doted Francesca. Donnagon reddened.
“Come inside,” he said to Gregorio. “This is pretty slick.”
Gregorio followed Donnagon into the structure and down a flight of stairs to his workshop. In the middle of the floor was a large cylindrical object. To Gregorio, it looked about eight feet long and three feet in diameter. It had squared flanges at each end to prevent it from rolling. A seam ran lengthwise along the middle of the tube, and Donnagon unlatched it to reveal a cushioned cockpit. It looked like a cross between a coffin and a torpedo.
“This is where you’ll be when Ingrid takes you through security,” said Donnagon. “The comm link in the lid is patched into the O.S.S. net, and we’re issuing Ingrid a purse that has 360-degree AV sensors so you can see and hear everything outside. She’s also getting a neck pendant with a mike and camera so you can see and hear what she does, and you can talk to her via the standard agency earring-phones.”
Gregorio knelt down next to the capsule as Donnagon continued his presentation. “There’s emergency rations and a waste disposal unit for prolonged sequestration. It even has an airtight seal and air supply should that need arise. The whole thing is shielded, and on an x-ray scanner it looks like a toothbrush kit.”
Gregorio was fascinated by the technological marvel, but he was reminded that he was standing in a dollhouse when the wall swung away and the titanic figures of Francesca and Ingrid filled the space. Ingrid had already been issued her purse.
Francesca brought her enormous face down next to Gregorio. “Ready to go?” she asked, her sultry voice washing over him.
“Just to be clear,” he shouted up at her, “once we’re through customs, Ingrid will re-enlarge me, yes?”
A pitying look came over Francesca’s features.
“Sorry, Gregorio,” said Donnagon. “We haven’t figured out the re-enlargement process yet.”
“Haven’t figured it out?” repeated Gregorio, wilting.
“That’s why we need Dr. Figura,” said Francesca. “His theories on molecular compression are way ahead of everyone else.”
“If you don’t succeed in extracting Figura,” said Donnagon, “you and I will be miniaturized for good.”
Gregorio didn’t notice Ingrid’s giant hand reach into the workshop until it was too late. She scooped him up and brought him to her grinning face. He lay in her palm, looking up into her enormous mischievous eyes.
“It sounds like a perfect opportunity for my patented ‘slow-motion tradecraft’,” she purred.
Ingrid gingerly hefted her purse strap over her shoulder, although she knew Gregorio was strapped down inside the capsule. During the flight to Caracas, Gregorio had exited the capsule to stretch his limbs within the confines of her purse, and twice Ingrid had forgotten the tiny unsecured agent and jolted the purse without warning.
Security prior to boarding in Miami had been cursory, but now Ingrid was headed up the ramp to the Venezuelan Immigration Control. “Fasten your seat belts,” she said, loud enough for only her pendant mike to pick up.
A weaselly officer with a pencil-thin mustache awaited her at the end of the long queue, and as he examined her fake passport with myopic scrutiny a gorilla in a matching uniform spotted her and picked up a phone. Twenty inaudible words later, the gorilla found a partner and instructed Ingrid to step into a nearby examination room.
Alone with Ingrid and the door closed, the gorilla grunted, “Levanta los brazos.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ingrid.
The gorilla stepped closer and said something inarticulate, but then the door opened and in walked a female officer carrying Ingrid’s passport. The gorilla gave Ingrid a narrow look and backed against the wall.
The female officer put her file on the table and walked over to Ingrid and said, “Please raise your arms and spread your legs.”
“Why?” asked Ingrid.
“Surely your State Department advised you of our border security protocols, Ms…” replied the officer, flipping the passport open, “…Ms. Chavez?”
Ingrid glanced at the gorilla, who smiled thinly at her. “Alright,” she said, complying with the officer’s directions.
The officer was professional, neither lingering pruriently or overlooking potential caches. Ingrid ignored the gorilla’s leer as she submitted to the frisking. When it was over, they sat at the table for the questioning.
“What is your purpose in Venezuela?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Do you like to gamble?”
“I like to watch.”
The moment Ingrid had been dreading came when the officer picked up her purse. She tried not to wince as the officer spilled the contents onto the table. She sifted through the items, went through Ingrid’s wallet, then selected the capsule containing Gregorio.
“What’s this, your dildo?”
“No, my dildo is twice that size.”
The officer looked over the items on the table, then peered into the empty purse.
“I left it at home,” said Ingrid, “but even if I hadn’t, I still wouldn’t let you borrow it.”
The officer pursed her lips and tossed the capsule onto the table. She didn’t look at Ingrid as she initialed some form twice, then stamped Ingrid’s passport.
“Enjoy your stay in Venezuela,” she said with cold smile, handing Ingrid her papers.
“I’m gonna kill that dyke bitch,” fumed Gregorio as Ingrid made her way out of the airport and hailed a cab.
“I highly doubt that,” she said to her pendant.
“I’m lucky she didn’t break anything.”
“Oh, be quiet. We’re through, aren’t we?”
“Says the person who’s not being used as a pinball.”
“That frisking was no picnic. I should have let her confiscate you.”
After Ingrid had checked in, they had about an hour to freshen up before their next contact. Ingrid started to change in the main suite until she remembered the cameras on her purse. The hotel bathroom was bigger than her first apartment, so she collected her clothes and closed the door behind her.
When she returned to the bedroom area, she stopped at the vanity to select from those few pieces of jewelry she brought that were not agency-issue. Something descended from the ceiling and stopped next to her head, hanging in her peripheral vision. “Hi there,” it chirped.
She leaped back in alarm, until she recognized Gregorio and his miniaturized climbing gear. “Don’t startle me like that again,” warned Ingrid. “Spiders don’t last long in my house.” She rolled up a nearby tabloid for emphasis.
Gregorio ascended rapidly as he engaged the motorized reel on his harness. When he reached the ceiling, he retrieved his anchor and launched it with his compressed-air pistol at a lamp halfway across the room. The anchor adhered, and Gregorio jumped out, again reeling in his line so he swung in a low arc behind Ingrid, uncoupling when he reached the apex and planting a two-foot landing on the foot of the bed. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he said, stowing his climbing gear.
Ingrid grabbed her three-inch stilettos and walked to the foot of the bed, looming over Gregorio, the pumps dangling from her hips where she rested her hands.
“It’s still a dangerous world, bug,” she said, turning to sit on the bed and don her shoes. The sight of Ingrid’s enormous ass descending on him froze Gregorio for a half-second before he dove clear. He rode out the tremors in the mattress, then stood up.
“I think I should make my own way to the contact,” he said.
“Wrong,” she said, without looking at him. “We can’t risk you even being seen, let alone falling into a roulette wheel.”
“Who’s going to see me?”
“No one, because you’ll be in my purse.”
“I’ve had more experience with this sort of thing.”
“And yet Devlin put me in charge,” she said, standing and walking over to the table. She took the capsule out of her purse and twirled it in her fingers. “Which means it’s the tampon case for you,” she said, reaching for him and smiling.
Ingrid sat at one of the more isolated blackjack tables, outside the pit on an elevated ledge to the side. As befit her cover, she was losing, albeit conservatively. After a half-hour she was the only player at the table, and the dealer went off shift. He was replaced by Ms. Gradenko, who smiled professionally at Ingrid.
“Welcome to Caracas,” said Gradenko. “Was security rough on you?”
“No worse than expected,” replied Ingrid. “Are they all there?”
“Yes. Figura’s cut-out is one of the six players at the center poker table.”
From her seat, Ingrid could see all six. She lifted he purse onto the table next to her.
“I have them,” reported Gregorio via her earring-phones.
“What do we know about them?” Ingrid asked Gradenko, who stood with her back to the pit.
“Starting at the dealer’s left, we have Simon van der Plonk,” recited Gradenko without turning around. “He’s a scientist, although nowhere near as accomplished as Figura.” Ingrid glanced at van der Plonk, a slight man dressed off-the-rack with light hair and handsomely boyish features. He looked at his cards more than needed for this table.
“Next is Imelda Versace, astronomically wealthy socialite. Her patent lawyers have been sniffing around in all the right fields.” Versace was a doe-eyed voluptuous Latin beauty in a very distracting gown.
“Next is Horatio Longhammer. Owns several legitimate businesses, but they’re all cover for his smuggling network.” Tall and rugged, Longhammer had a disarming smile that he beamed at each bettor in turn.
“Next is Melissa Hormel, heiress to the sausage fortune.” Hormel’s cleavage was almost as deep as Versace’s, and her slate-blue eyes drank everything in.
“Next is Sid Brown, producer of dozens of straight-to-video skin flicks.” Brown’s receding hairline was beaded with sweat and he couldn’t keep his ratlike eyes off Hormel’s rack.
“Last is Hydrangea Jones, international violinist.” Jones, a skinny redhead in a modest yet ill-fitting dress, scrutinized every play with severe earnestness.
Ingrid and Gregorio watched the poker game until it adjourned for the evening almost two hours later. Jones was first place in the standings, followed closely by Brown. Versace was a more distant third, Longhammer and Hormel were fourth and fifth, and the wretched van der Plonk brought up the rear.
Gradenko had already rotated to another table for her cover, so Ingrid collected her purse and drifted into the pit, hoping to overhear something revealing.
“I know who the cut-out is,” said Gregorio.
“Really?” said Ingrid.
“To an experienced professional, it’s obvious.”
“Then spill it.”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Of course I do. I just want to see if you were paying as close attention as I was.”
“You have no idea who it is. It’s absurd that an amateur like you is making this approach.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“Wrong again,” said Gregorio, poking his head out of the purse. He aimed his air pistol high behind Ingrid and launched the anchor and line toward a chandelier. The anchor caught and the line went taut as Gregorio leapt from the purse and reeled himself to the ceiling.
“See you back in at the room in three hours,” he said, sailing out of range of his miniaturized comm-set.
Ingrid forced herself not to turn around, lest she call attention to Gregorio’s sortie. She nevertheless lost track of the suspect she had been trailing, who had vanished from the casino.
Melissa Hormel was halfway down the elegantly-appointed hallway to the ladies’ room when Sid Brown slithered ahead to block her path. Conscious of her station and public persona, Melissa did not break her stride to go around the obstruction but instead simply stopped in mid-glide and raised an eyebrow at Sid.
“I couldn’t help notice, Miss Hormel,” he said, his eyes lingering on her chest, “that the cards haven’t been going your way this evening.”
“I’m new to this game,” she said.
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“What is it you’re after, Mr. Brown?”
“I could stake you,” he said, sidling closer and lowering his voice. “Keep you in the game a little longer.”
“I think I can probably stay afloat,” she said, leaning forward and pressing her formidable breasts into his chest. Sid reflexively flinched away.
“You’re making a mistake, babe,” he said, his voice becoming shrill. “You don’t know who I represent. I’m a very big man. Everywhere that counts.”
“Size isn’t everything,” she said, spinning away.
“You’ll change your mind,” he sneered, “and when you do, I won’t be so gentlemanly.” He swatted her ass before stalking back toward the casino.
Gregorio spotted his suspect return to the casino, order a drink at the bar, then start to stroll through a small gallery of priceless art. Setting out to reach the end of his target’s projected tour, Gregorio began a series of leaps and swings via light fixtures, wall hangings, and pillars, making his way across the casino.
His target, Melissa Hormel, stopped to study a Vermeer just as Gregorio reached the lamp above the painting. The journey across the casino was more exhausting than he had expected, and when he tried to retrieve his anchor and line from above the lamp, his wearied hands slipped and he tumbled from his perch. Just then, Melissa leaned forward to examine a detail of the painting, and Gregorio plummeted feet-first into her cleavage.
He sunk up to his waist, with his arms spread wide across the mounds of milk-white flesh. He looked up to see that Melissa’s expression was not one of alarm but rather cool curiosity. Moving slowly but deliberately, she reached up with two fingers and pressed down firmly on Gregorio’s tiny shoulders until he disappeared entirely between her massive and firmly-supported boobs.
Then she casually finished her drink and left the glass at the bar as she made her way to her room.
Sid Brown sat in a different part of the bar, nursing a drink that was too strong for him. Ingrid appeared behind the chair to his right.
“May I join you?” she asked, smiling.
He looked her up and down with a disaffected air. “Be my guest, Toots.”
As she sat next to him, she tried to expose as much leg as she would without it looking deliberate. She placed her drink order, then turned to Sid.
“You’re a brilliant poker player,” she said silkily. “You should play professionally.”
“How do you know I don’t?” he retorted.
“Because you seem distracted,” she said, running her tongue over her teeth. “I’m sure you’d be in first place if you were concentrating.”
Sid slid sideways to face Ingrid, then leaned forward, leering drunkenly. “And what’s distracting me.”
“Issues of scale.”
“Taking small things and making them into big things.” She let her gaze drop to his crotch.
“That’s a serious distraction, I must admit,” he said, nodding. He finished his drink with a gulp and stood up too quickly.
“Tell you what,” he said, “let’s get out of here and you can help me take my mind off things.”
Ingrid beamed her deadliest smile at Sid and stood.
“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator lobby.
He took them to the 12th floor and down a corridor.
“Does your room have a view of the bay?” asked Ingrid coquettishly.
Sid said nothing, then Ingrid felt a gun pressed against the small of her back.
“That’s far enough, Toots,” he said venomously. He herded her out of the hallway into a vestibule with a fax machine and other facilities for business travelers. A tall potted plant partially obscured them as he forced her to face the wall.
His fingers probed drunkenly, but they nevertheless found what the Immigration officer could not.
“I knew you were O.S.S., bitch,” he said, flaunting her pistol, “and this proves it.”
She didn’t say anything as he fumbled through her purse, his gun digging into her ribs and pinning her against the wall.
“I told them they’d send someone for Figura, and now I’ve gotcha,” he sneered. “What kind of flashlight is thi— ”
A strobe flared off the wall in Ingrid’s face, and she no longer felt Sid’s gun or heard his voice.
A pair of hotel employees including the concierge came around the corner and approached the vestibule. Ingrid spotted her purse and its spilled contents on the floor behind her. She quickly stooped and collected her belongings, returning her weapon to its cache, then she walked hurriedly to the elevator.
Gregorio couldn’t move. He was pinned by walls of warm flesh that swayed and bounced with Melissa’s steady strides. Her heart and breath sounds crowded out his own grunts of discomfort and, combined with her soft skin blanketing his face, threatened to send him into a trance.
Finally, Melissa came to a rest and her giant fingers extracted Gregorio from the well of her cleavage. He lay in her palm, looking up at her pillowy sofa-sized lips, cascading wavy brown hair, and eyes like slate-blue spotlights aimed straight at him.
“Agent Cortez himself,” she said, smiling. Her cinder-block-sized teeth glistened less than ten subjective feet from Gregorio’s head. “I knew the O.S.S. was eager to get their hands on Figura’s work, but I didn’t expect them to miniaturize an agent to jump down my dress.”
“That was not my intent, Ms. Hormel, I assure you,” shouted Gregorio. Looking around, he saw that Melissa was seated at a desk in her hotel room.
“Apology accepted,” she said, lowering her hand to let him down to the desktop. “Although I believe we’ve been close enough that you can call me Melissa.”
“As you like, Melissa,” he called. Her hemispherical tits hung over him so massively that he had to back away in order to see her face.
“You must be awfully confident of Figura’s cooperation and the O.S.S.’s implementation to volunteer to be miniaturized,” said Melissa.
“Everyone in the O.S.S. is prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good,” preened Gregorio. “How shall I contact Figura?”
“He’s at his lab right now, but he’ll meet you at the University in two days. Dr. Pandemonium’s office. He’ll be there from 12 to 4.”
“Why can’t we just go to his lab?”
“Because I don’t know where it is, and that’s how Figura wants it.”
“One other thing,” said Melissa. “Figura has been approached indirectly by something called Matador Productions.”
“Is Figura working for them?” asked Gregorio.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know anything about them.”
Gregorio stretched his arms and back before unlimbering his climbing gear. “Thank you, Melissa. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
Melissa licked her lips slowly and raised an eyebrow at Gregorio. “I’m about to take a shower. Would you like to stay a bit?”
Gregorio paused, and his gaze fell to her mountainous chest.
“You can ride somewhere else, if you like,” she purred.
He straightened his spine. “A very tempting invitation, Senorita, but my mission is time-sensitive.”
“As am I,” she said, standing with a rueful smile.
He gave a short wave, then launched his line out an open window and swung into the night.
Ingrid sat at the table of their room, a half-empty tumbler of tequila next to her and the dossier on Sid Brown that she got from Gradenko in front of her.
Gregorio was able to light on the far edge of the table without detection, but when he strolled into Ingrid’s narrow field of vision, she pushed away from the table, knocking Gregorio off his feet. When he recovered, he saw that she was pointing her pistol at him.
“Sorry,” she said, making the weapon disappear again. “I thought you were somebody else.”
Gregorio gave her an incredulous look. “How many three-inch-tall people do you know?”
“Never mind. Did you contact Figura’s cut-out?”
“Of course. It was Melissa.”
“Hormel. The wiener lady.”
“I see. What did the wiener lady say?”
“She said we are to meet Figura at the University at a colleague’s office in two days. She also said something called Matador Productions has been trying to get to Figura.”
Ingrid sat back, lost in thought. “I know I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” she said. Then she leaned forward and selected a page from Brown’s dossier.
“Here it is,” she said, “Known associates: Matador Productions.”
“Why do you have Brown’s file?” asked Gregorio.
“He was here for Figura, too.”
“I took care of him. He’s gone.”
“Really? I do hope you didn’t leave a conspicuous mess.”
“Trust me, no one will find him.”
Melissa was a luscious beauty to gaze upon under any circumstances. Her overflowing breasts, fair silky skin, brazen haunches, plush lips, and beguiling eyes would rivet anyone in their presence.
Of an order of magnitude more mesmerizing, therefore, was the sight, from the vantage point of a three-inch-tall person on the bathroom floor, of Melissa taking a long and leisurely shower. Her long brown hair flowed straight behind her head, weighted by the water into a dripping whip. The drops splashed off her contented brow and clung to her face as they ran down over her red mouth, along her delicate throat, and finally dappling her cetacean tits.
Twin waterfalls cascaded from her pink nipples, scattering droplets as her boobs swayed freely about. The flesh of her ass rippled as she caressed it with her soapy loofah. When she dropped it she had to squat to retrieve it, exposing her pink pussy folds through the steam. These bewitching images and sounds were magnified a hundredfold to the tiny voyeur. It was enough to make one lose all sense of one’s tradecraft, mission, or even simple safety.
At last, Melissa exited the shower, her titanic legs heaving out of the mist and thudding massively on the tiles. She wrapped her pink and perspiring flesh in a floral green robe that stopped above the knee and only loosely wrangled her mighty bosom. The hem crept up the back of her thighs as she leaned over the sink to wipe the condensation off the mirror and examine her face for a moment. Then she pivoted on her elephantine heels and thundered out of the bathroom into the carpeted area of the suite.
The three-inch-tall form of Sid Brown poked his head out from underneath the armoire where he had been hiding. As Melissa’s towering figure disappeared around the corner, Sid found himself walking across the bathroom floor, uninhibited by concerns of stealth, lest he miss even a second of Melissa getting dressed. He looked past the threshold, scanning under the bed and beyond for any sign of her movements. Then his viscera flinched as Melissa’s feet, like two Mack trucks, rumbled back into the bathroom, her toes pointed directly at him.
Awareness of how conspicuous he was knocked the wind out of Sid. He didn’t even frantically cast about for impossibly distant cover. He could only look up at his doom.
Melissa’s barrel-sized toes flexed in anticipation of an absurd pursuit, but it was unnecessary. Her taut calves rose like pale sequoias, curving into boulder-like kneecaps. The green robe still hung over her thighs, and fingers that could squeeze the life from Sid were perched on her Richter-scale-registering hips. Above it all was her triumphant, smirking face.
“Still the gentleman, I see,” she said. Her left foot shot forward and her big toe slammed into his clavicle, knocking him flat on his back. She settled the ball of her foot on his chest, leaving only his head visible between her two largest toes. Her sole was still moist and soft from the shower, but he could not hope to injure or resist it with any method at his disposal. Looking up, Sid could see Melissa’s milk-white thigh extending out of her robe, and he imagined her hamstring tensed within, poised to end him.
“Size isn’t everything,” she said, “but it’s still something.”
Her smile grew wider as she slowly shifted more of her weight to her left foot. He grunted as his last breath was squeezed from his lungs. His innards felt as if they had turned to scorching lava as they were compressed into an ever-tighter volume.
Melissa’s mouth opened slightly and her tongue played on her teeth as she saw Sid’s head fall back in agony. She felt his ribs start to snap, her cheek twitched, and she brought her full weight down on him. Blood gouted from his mouth and nose, and his bones shattered as she ground her foot into the tile.
When Melissa finally lifted her foot, she saw that Sid’s tiny corpse clung to her sole with no more substance than a discarded condom. She scraped her foot on the rim of the toilet bowl, and he barely made a splash. She mopped the bloody tile with a tissue, then flushed all that remained of Sid out of this world.
“No matter how many stars a hotel gets,” she said shaking her head in disappointment, “roaches always find their way in.”
Carrying her purse with the strap across her chest, Ingrid strolled through one of the tackier tourist districts in Caracas. She stopped at a spinner rack full of postcards and pretended to browse.
“Directly across the street,” she said to her pendant, “the Alta Vista building.”
“Gradenko said that Matador keeps offices on the seventh floor,” said Gregorio from inside the capsule, splitting the on-board display between the video feed from the purse cameras and the building plans. “If you can get met to the lobby, I can take it from there.”
“I’m still not keen on you going in there alone.”
“You’re being ridiculous. This mission requires stealth and sound judgment, and I think I’ve demonstrated both so far.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes, but in the end she bit her tongue. She selected and bought two postcards, then crossed the street, passed the target entrance, then doubled back pretending to be lost. Then she walked into the Alta Vista building and headed straight for the concierge.
She set her purse down on the floor at the end of the concierge desk closest to the wall. While she asked for some complicated directions in broken Spanish, Gregorio emerged from her purse and scurried to a darkened corner of the lobby.
The foot traffic was light, giving Gregorio more opportunity to move unseen, but it also meant that he had to wait longer to hitch a ride to the seventh floor. The offices of Matador Productions took up half the floor, but after rolling under the door and scaling the furniture of a dozen rooms, Gregorio was half-convinced that it was a false front. Then he arrived at the door to a large office marked, “Isabella Mastica, Managing Director.”
Inside was a lavishly-appointed suite with several indications of a well-developed taste in fashion and popular culture. A leather sofa faced a bank of televisions, a well-stocked mini-bar was flanked by a pair of easy chairs and a serious Bang & Olufson stereo rack, and a minimalist glass-top desk was backed by floor-to-ceiling windows. In the rear corner hulked a brushed-steel filing cabinet.
Gregorio headed straight for the filing cabinet, which was of course locked. One of the few advantages of being three inches tall was the much greater finesse that Gregorio could apply to lockpicking. Prying the drawer open and paging through the files required greater exertions, but Gregorio could find nothing indicating any interest in Figura or anything even distantly related to his research.
He levered the drawer closed and relocked the cabinet, then swung down to the desktop. All he had found was a few notes regarding a local video shoot next month when Isabella Mastica walked into her office.
She had smooth brown skin, with wide brown eyes and even a wider smile. She wore a cream-colored sleeveless blouse over her breasts, and a tight knit skirt hugged the upper half of her long athletic legs. Her brown hair was bound up in a bun behind her head, held together by a slender wooden spike.
Gregorio crouched behind the phone on the desk, but when Isabella headed for the mini-bar, he decided to try to escape from the desk. He leapt down into the seat of the high-backed office chair, but he was rocked off his feet when the chair was pulled back by Isabella, who had apparently changed her mind about the mini-bar and was now about to sit at her desk. He rolled over onto his back just in time to see the twin hemispheres of her ass descend and crush him into the leather.
Gregorio was pinned tighter than when Melissa had tucked him into her cleavage. The buttocks are supremely adapted for distributing the weight of a sitting person, but Gregorio felt every ounce of the enormous woman perched atop his tiny frame, the heat of her spreading cheeks reflecting off the leather and starting to poach him. He dared not move lest she detect him, but as the fabric of her skirt dug into his skin and his heart pounded in his skull, he started to panic.
Isabella fit the phone handset over her ear and pressed the speed dial, but she aborted the call and twitched her ass in her seat. Perplexed, she stood up and looked down, her formidable jaw hanging open as she stared down at the three-inch-tall man gasping in the impressions left in the leather by her irresistible ass.
Gregorio still hadn’t recovered when Isabella set the phone handset down and reached for him, her long brown fingers curling around his torso and limbs, leaving his head poking out of her fist. She brought him in front of her face, and he could not help gazing up into her beguiling wide eyes, her nostrils flaring with excitement, and her two rows of perfect, deadly teeth.
“Miniature spies,” she deadpanned. “What will they think of next?”
Gregorio still hadn’t quite caught his breath, but even if he had, there was something in her knowing expression that would have made any denial sound absurd.
“Who are you working for?” she demanded, her smile fading slightly. “M.I.6? O.S.S.?”
Gregorio finally tore his gaze from her giant unquenchable eyes.
Isabella tilted her head, raised her eyebrows, and gave a toothless smile, affecting disappointment at his silence, but actually enjoying the escalation. She lowered him to the desk and pinned him to the blotter on his back with her giant index finger, while her other hand retrieved segments of adhesive tape and taped each of his limbs down in spread-eagle fashion. Then she brought her beautiful face and divine smile down over him, until she filled his entire sky.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who you’re working for?” she asked teasingly.
Gregorio finally found his voice. “Never!” he shouted up at the gigantic woman.
Isabella raised her powerful arm above her head, and he flinched in anticipation of the blow from her boulder-sized fist, but all that fell toward him was a thicket of brown wavy hair as she withdrew the pole-sized skewer.
Her enormous face was overcome with demonic glee as she twirled the long spike above him, then arrested it with the sharpened end pointed directly at his face. With teeth that could sever his torso in an instant, she gently bit her lower lip as she brought the spike closer and closer to his tiny head, until it made contact with the blotter a half-inch away. He turned his head to see the pole bored into the pad by her unstoppable strength.
Isabella then pulled the spike back and pointed it at Gregorio’s crotch.
“Still sure?” she asked.
She didn’t wait for an answer but stabbed the skewer down and she heard it penetrate the skin, along with his tiny scream, which trailed off when he realized the point hadn’t actually pierced his body. The spike had broken through the blotter right next to his tiny cock and balls, which trembled against the large wooden shaft impaled between his legs.
Isabella wrenched the skewer free and hovered the point over Gregorio’s tiny abdomen. She raised her python-sized eyebrows at him.
“Who are you working for?” she asked impatiently. He shook his head in reply.
A devilish twitch took hold of the edge of her smile, and she again approached his crotch with the sharp piece of lumber, but now it was parallel to the desktop. With her other hand she pinned his tiny ankles to the blotter with her thumb and index finger, reinforcing the adhesive tape bonds. Progressing delicately, she slid the wooden point under his microscopic junk until she felt it nestle in between his tiny butt cheeks.
Gregorio had once passed a kidney stone, but that pain in his urethra paled in comparison to the agony at his rectum as the subjectively 150-foot-tall woman proceeded to shove a sharpened eight-inch-diameter pole up his ass.
Isabella chuckled at his plight, and she leaned over him so closely that he couldn’t see a world beyond her. Her enormous eyes possessed him, and shutting his own eyes left him with only the pain. Desperate, he gazed into her cavernous mouth, glistening in anticipation of his torment. Behind her merciless teeth he glimpsed it: her instinctive tongue, undulating like some creature from the deep. He began to long for that wet and powerful muscle to swim out and gather him into its lair, past the taunting lips and obliterating teeth, down into the depths of this mountainous woman, as long as it took him away from the pain.
Isabella must have noticed a change in Gregorio’s expression, as her eyes narrowed and her smile disappeared. “I think you’re starting to enjoy this,” she said. She pursed her lips and gave the skewer a final shove, and his vision exploded in a constellation of pain.
Then she removed the shaft.
Gregorio must have blacked out for some number of moments, because when he returned to himself, the strips of tape had been removed, he was curled up with his strained wrists guarding his balls, and his thighs were shaking with the reflex not to permit the slightest contact with his screaming rectum. Isabella had apparently been talking to his oblivious body for some time.
“…it’s called waterboarding. I’m sure you’ve heard of it; it’s all the rage. Do you know how it works? It instills the fear of drowning in the subject. They say a person will do anything to escape it.”
She stood up and towered over the three-inch-tall man cowering on her desk. She placed one hand on her cocked hips and with the other she seized him about the upper chest and brought him to her grinning face. Her tongue slicked her upper lip and she gave a sultry moan, “Mmmm.”
Then her massive jaw swung down and she inserted the upper half of his tiny body into her mouth, her moist lips closing about him like warm, ruthless elevator doors that stopped just short of pinching him in half. He could feel her giant incisors just above and below him, like stony axe blades, awaiting the signal to rend him apart. His siren her tongue was there, too, pulsing with her chronic chuckling and frequently sponging his face.
Curiously, Gregorio was not wholly deprived of air. Isabella’s lips failed to perfectly seal his upper body in her mouth, and they even occasionally pulled back entirely to let her teeth hold him. This was painful for him, but the resulting air and light were not unwelcome. He even recovered enough of his senses to notice that Isabella’s head wasn’t holding still, either, and he felt his orientation shift from lying on his stomach to hanging head-down.
Sure enough, when Isabella finally plucked Gregorio from her mouth and held him before her face, he could see that her head was below him and she was now lying on the couch.
“I won’t tell you anything,” he said.
An expression of surprise came over her giant face. “You thought that was it?” she said with a wide smile. “How precious!”
She held him up and moved him down her body, and he saw that she had removed her skirt and underwear. Her long brown legs, longer and more massive to him than a dozen charter busses, were spread wide and draped over the back of the couch and onto the floor. Between them lay her bald and brown pussy lips, as powerful and timeless as the Venus of Willendorf.
“Little man,” said Isabella, “we haven’t even started.” She reached down and with her index and middle fingers she opened her outer lips to expose the pink cave of her vagina. “Let’s call it…twaterboarding.”
Gregorio was entranced by her giant vulva as it rushed towards him, and he barely remembered to take a breath before she plunged him head-first into her canal and released her lips about his legs.
It was tighter, hotter, and stuffier than being in her mouth. She gripped him through the salty membrane with muscles he could neither see nor resist. No light or air reached him through her inner lips, his tiny feet dangling out of her like a tampon string. The deep resonance of her heartbeat was all around him.
After two minutes Isabella pulled Gregorio out of her twat by one of his tiny ankles. She brought him up and dangled him over her face.
“Feel like talking now?” she asked. He simply gasped for air while she sniffed his flailing frame.
“Not quite immersed yet, are we?” she said, lowering back to her crotch. He thought he saw the inner lips of her vulva open on their own to receive him. He sucked in lungfuls of air as her hungry pussy yawned to swallow him whole.
She became his world. Dark, hot, wet, the rushing of her blood and the taste of her sex, Isabella engulfed Gregorio, removing him from everything he was and entombing him in her viscera. Her innards surrounded him and extended to infinity, and their rhythms were all that he would ever know.
The membranes enclosing him started to buck and slicken, slowly drawing him deeper into her cunt. Her moans reached him through her bowels, and the contractions of her unseen muscles jostled him like ominous foreshocks. The heat and lack of air drove everything else from his mind, and his panic returned. His involuntary spasms were reflected tenfold upon his helpless frame by her unconquerable Kegels, which ultimately buffeted him back to the world of air and light.
Isabella brought Gregorio sputtering and blinking to her gigantic face. Her terrible jaws opened and he hoped for a quick death from her teeth, but she only lapped his face clean of her juices.
“Now that’s more like it,” she purred. “I admit I’m finding your near-death throes somewhat stimulating. You would be wise to tell me who you’re working for.”
“Alright, alright,” he panted. “I’m working for National Geographic. We’re doing an all-swamp issue in April.”
Somehow, her smile widened even father. She stuck him head-first in her mouth again, and he waited for her incisors to slice through his spine, but she quickly pulled him back out with one hand and with the other displayed the curious ring she now wore on her middle finger. It was porcelain and bulky, extending over an inch from the underside.
“Is that a joy buzzer?” he asked mockingly.
“Of course,” she replied jauntily, “but I’m afraid the joy will be all mine.”
Isabella’s vulva had swollen since Gregorio’s first passage, and her clit was now peeking out of the top of her glistening pussy. She pressed the mouse-sized man to her mons, tapped his tiny face against her swelling bud, then shoved his whole body past her inflamed lips and as deep into her cunt as she could.
She flipped a small switch on the side of her ring, which then started humming with a vibration unprecedented in commercial devices of its size. She closed her eyes and pressed the buzzer to her clit. It started as an inaudible exhalation, but she let it become a low moan; interrupted by spasms in her lower abdomen. Her pussy and asshole clenched in unison, and the tendons in her thighs stretched taut under her skin.
She lifted the buzzer away from her sensitive nub and she gasped for a couple of breaths. Then her face regained its determination and she pressed the buzzer back down. Tremors in her pelvis forced small sharp cries from her, slowly increasing in duration and intensity. Her legs jerked toward each other, and her shoulders rose slightly from the couch. Her pussy lips contracted even harder, and fluids began to appear on the surface; first a trickle, then a rivulet, and finally a surge flooded out, soaking her engorged lips and dripping down her taint and puddling on the couch.
Isabella did not know how long she lay there, her chest heaving and her thighs trembling, but eventually she shut the buzzer off and fished Gregorio out of her twat. Drenched and motionless, he seemed even smaller. She held him over her face by his tiny feet, and as her juices dripped off him onto her tongue, she thought she saw some of it flow out of his little mouth.
He didn’t respond after a brief shake, and she shrugged and tossed his wet and wracked body into the small waste basket by the mini-bar. Then she stood up, wiped down the couch, and retrieved her panties and skirt. After she had recomposed herself—including rewinding her hair and pinning it with the wooden spike—she sat back down at her desk.
She reached for the phone, then thought better of it. She scrutinized the notes on the desk, then got up to confirm that the file cabinet was locked. She stood a moment with her hands on her hips, then strode out of the office.
Ingrid waited at the rendezvous with increasing impatience. Her tolerance for nursing cappuccinos had grown over the years, less so for Caribbean lotharios. The last five guys who touched her had left with their fingers sprained—not broken—but she wasn’t sure how much longer her restraint would hold out.
It had been four hours since she had left Gregorio in the lobby across the street, and he had said he would be back in three. He never did tell her how he planned to cross the street once he got out of the building, and somehow she couldn’t imagine him hitching a ride with a pedestrian. At no time during her vigil had she looked up at the windows of Matador’s seventh-floor offices, but now she started glancing upwards at regular intervals should Gregorio decide to come gliding down like Secret Squirrel.
Ingrid decided that her next drink order should have more kick to it, and she shifted her leg as she glanced about for the waiter. Her foot came down on something soft, and she looked down to see two tiny legs protruding from underneath her pump, which she immediately lifted to reveal the prostrate form of Gregorio.
Moving swiftly but naturally, Ingrid set her foot and purse down on either side of Gregorio to shield him from view, then gently transferred him to her purse. Sitting back up, she looked for the waiter to settle her bill, but she also determined that no one seemed to have noticed the pickup.
Isabella sat in a security office, scanning a bank of surveillance monitors.
“What are you looking for?” asked an unseen, raspy masculine voice.
“I’m betting our little visitor caught a ride here,” replied Isabella.
She fast-forwarded through several hours of footage from the day’s coverage of all entrances to the Alta Vista building. She stopped one of the lobby feeds and froze it.
“There!” she said. “Why does she put her purse all the way over there?”
“Zoom in,” said the unseen voice.
Isabella complied, zooming in on Ingrid’s face in profile.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“Madre de Dios.”
Gregorio had returned to his capsule by the time Ingrid arrived back at the hotel room, and the on-board medical monitors did not indicate any critical injuries. Nevertheless, he had been uncharacteristically quiet since the pickup and she insisted he come out of her purse for the debrief.
For better or worse, Ingrid had chosen the desk as the venue for this encounter. Mercifully, she had lain her purse on its side so Gregorio didn’t have to scale its walls before walking slowly out onto the desktop. He wryly noted the familiar blotter beneath his feet before looking up at his giant partner.
Seated at the desk, Ingrid towered over Gregorio from a subjective height of 50 feet. She was still wearing the modest-yet-stylish short-sleeve blouse from their visit to the Alta Vista building, but from his low perspective there was no escaping the rise and sway of her full breasts. In one construction-crane-sized hand she held a ten-foot-long pen, but she didn’t twirl it. Neither did she hover her face over the tiny Gregorio, but her enormous eyes did transfix him with intimate scrutiny.
“I must apologize for stepping on you, Agent Cortez,” she said finally. “It was an inexcusable lapse of attention.”
“No, Agent Avellan,” he replied, “the fault was mine. I should have found a safer approach.”
“I almost crushed you.”
“Hardly. I would have rolled away before you put your full weight down.”
Ingrid put the pen down on the desk and rested her redwood-sized arm not more than ten subjective feet from Gregorio. He didn’t know how he would react if she tried to pick him up. She tilted her head, pursed her lips, and leaned down ever so slightly.
“You are clearly distressed,” she said. “Whether you admit it or not, I believe you continue to suffer bodily pain, which may limit your ability to continue with this mission.”
“Your concern is touching beyond words,” he replied. “I don’t see how I am any less indispensible to getting Figura out.”
“No, but your impaired judgment might present complications. For instance, why did you approach me at the rendezvous at foot level without first calling me?”
“I exited the building and crossed the street via an underground electrical vault,” he explained. “In their wisdom, the city fathers saw fit to combine this passage with the sewer system, a detail that was omitted from the building plans. I must have shorted out my comm gear.” In reality, Gregorio first discovered his rig’s failure shortly after he revived in the waste basket.
Ingrid suspected he was lying, but she didn’t know what about. Looking up into her billboard-sized face, he saw her suspicion bloom and flicker, and a tendon in her nearby arm twitched. He stood straight and didn’t flinch, but it had less to do with fear-paralysis or resignation than simple fatigue.
In the end, she raised her eyebrows, looked away, and sharply exhaled. “So,” she said boredly, “what did you find out?”
“Nothing,” he said, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “No one was there, most of the space isn’t even in use. The managing director’s office was active recently, but unless they’re planning to miniaturize Los Lobos for their next beach video, there was nothing to link Matador to Figura.”
“Seriously?” she said with disdain. “Well, I suppose it was worth a look just to be sure.”
Gregorio had nothing to say to that.
The campus of Universidad Simón Bolívar was relatively quiet, although the research facilities were always busy. Ingrid and Gregorio weren’t visiting the labs, however; Dr. Pandemonium’s office was in the Theoretical Physics department, academic country with nary a Bunsen burner to be seen.
A short dark-haired woman sat behind the department’s reception desk. She looked up when Ingrid entered, her purse over her shoulder.
<”May I help you?”> the receptionist asked in Spanish.
<”Yes,”> Ingrid replied. <”I’m meeting someone at Dr. Pandemonium’s office.”>
Ingrid nodded, perhaps too quickly.
<”He’s reading in the library,”> said the receptionist, pointing to a door down the hall.
<”Thank you,”> said Ingrid, heading for the door.
Inside she found a long narrow room, the walls lined with books and journal collections. A long wooden table dominated the room, at the far end of which sat a man in an ill-fitting suit who was identical to the file photo of Dr. Kaspar Figura.
“Dr. Rodriguez?” called Ingrid, closing the door behind her.
Figura looked up expectantly, without verbal response.
“Dr. Figura,” she began, “I’m Ingrid Avellan. I’m with the O.S.S.”
Figura’s expression remained blank. “What’s the O.S.S.?” he asked.
“The Office of Strategic Services. I’m here to get you out of the country.”
“I don’t know who you think I am,” said Figura, “but you better start making sense before I call the police.”
Ingrid set her purse down at the near end of the table, then reached in an withdrew Gregorio’s capsule. She walked over to Figura and laid the capsule on the table before him. Figura kept his eyes on her, and she directed his gaze to the capsule, which proceeded to open.
Gregorio climbed out onto the table and raised an arm. “Hello, Dr. Figura, I’m Gregorio Cortez.”
Figura leaned down and goggled at Gregorio.
“You’re Cortez?!” he gasped.
“Yes, Doctor. Agent Avellan and I are here to secure your extraction.”
Figura ran his hand over his face and stood up, then crossed his arms and stared at the books on the wall.
“Is something wrong, Doctor?” asked Ingrid.
“Do you have any idea who is after me and how dangerous they are?” exploded Figura. “I insisted on the O.S.S.’s best agent, and you did this to him!” gesturing at Gregorio.
“Doctor,” Gregorio shouted up, “please sit down.” Both Figura and Ingrid sat down next to the three-inch-tall spy.
“Ms. Hormel said you had been approached by something called Matador Productions,” continued Gregorio. “Can you tell us about that?”
Figura looked uncertainly at Gregorio, then relaxed his shoulders. “They sent a slimy movie producer to get me to sell out. I denied knowing anything and told him to get lost.”
“Was his name Sid Brown?” asked Ingrid.
“Sounds about right,” said Figura, nodding.
“Agent Avellan here neutralized Brown herself,” said Gregorio. “You have nothing to fear.”
Figura brought his giant face down next to Gregorio. “If you think they’ll let something like that stop them, then you’re not smart enough to get me out.”
The scientist turned to Ingrid and scoped her up and down. “There’s no way I’m going with you. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Ingrid. “Tell me Doctor, can you reverse this effect?” she asked, gesturing at Gregorio.
He sat up arrogantly. “Absolutely.”
“Good,” she replied, triggering the portable miniaturizer she had trained upon Figura under the table.
The tiny Figura lay stunned in the middle of the chair. Then Ingrid’s enormous face loomed over him framed by waves of light brown hair, and he was lost in the hazel spotlights of her two-foot-wide eyes. Her ten-foot-wide smile wasn’t unkind, and he offered no protest when her gentle-but-irresistible giant fingers scooped him up and stood him on the table next to Gregorio.
Momentarily relieved to see someone on the same scale, Figura shuffled over to Gregorio, who shook his hand. “Congratulations, Doctor,” he said. “You won’t regret joining us.”
The library door opened, and Ingrid reflexively snatched up the two tiny men from the table and slipped them down the front of her shirt. Gregorio and Figura slid over the slopes of warm flesh until their feet halted their descent at the base of Ingrid’s bra. To minimize further jostling, Gregorio embraced her mammoth right breast, and Figura hugged her equally massive left breast.
“Does she do this often?” asked Figura, his face half-buried in boobflesh.
“Only with people she likes,” replied Gregorio.
Ingrid stood up to see the receptionist poke her head inside the door.
<”Excuse me,”> said the receptionist, <”but there is a phone call for Dr. Rodriguez.”>
<”He said he was going to use the restroom,”> replied Ingrid. A perplexed expression came over the receptionist, who probably had been situated to observe any such errand.
Ingrid headed for the door, collecting Gregorio’s capsule and then her purse.
<”I’m sure he’ll be right back,”> said Ingrid. The receptionist remained suspicious, but she did not obstruct Ingrid as she smiled and hurried out.
After she exited the Theoretical Physics department, Ingrid took a shortcut across a grassy quad, preoccupied with determining the next flight out of the country. She therefore didn’t notice Isabella Mastica get up from a bench at the corner of the quad, fall in behind her, and press a taser against her kidney.
Ingrid slumped to the ground, but Isabella easily lifted her into a nearby panel van. After binding and gagging Ingrid, Isabella got behind the wheel and slowly drove the van off campus.
When Ingrid came to, the first thing she noticed was that she was bound spread-eagle by leather straps. The second thing she noticed was that she was wearing only her bra and underwear. Looking around, she guessed she was strapped to a table in the disused part of the Matador offices. Her purse lay on an adjacent table with all its contents—including the capsule and portable miniaturizer—neatly spread out. The rest of her clothes had been cut off her and piled in shreds in one corner of the table. Her pistol had been taken from its cache and laid on the table next to her waist.
A look of alarm escalating to horror came over her face, and she had to stifle a scream as she regarded with dread the outlines of movement beneath the fabric of her panties. She was not visibly relieved to see the tiny heads of Gregorio and Figura emerge from the top of the waistband.
Figura drew a large breath. “I’d hate to see what she does with people she doesn’t like,” he sputtered.
“Quit complaining,” responded Gregorio. “At least you got to ride up front.”
The two miniature men climbed out of Ingrid’s underwear, scurried across her abdomen and up between her breasts. Meeting Ingrid’s eyes and putting a finger to his lips, Gregorio led Figura over her shoulder and disappeared onto the table top behind her head.
Less than a minute later, Isabella entered the room and grinned at Ingrid.
“Ingrid Avellan of the O.S.S.,” she gushed. “What an honor it is to have you here.”
“Who are you?” Ingrid demanded.
“Who did you think I was when you sent your little partner in here?”
Ingrid blinked and said nothing.
“He was just as uncooperative with my inquiries—at first,” said Isabella, smiling and approaching the helpless Ingrid. “I think I’m going to have even more fun persuading you to cooperate.”
Isabella leaned over and grappled each of Ingrid’s breasts with her wide hands and started fondling.
“I hardly think anything’s hidden in there,” said Ingrid.
“Oh, really?” retorted Isabella, letting go of Ingrid’s boobs and standing straight. “A woman keeps all sorts of secrets close to her heart.”
Isabella reached one hand into her own cleavage and withdrew a three-inch-tall figure, which she stood on Ingrid’s sternum.
Ingrid blinked several times, then her jaw fell open. She recognized this tiny man, but her mind refused to accept it. With her head still shaking, she finally whispered, “Ernesto?”
The tiny man crossed his arms and leaned against her titanic tit. “It’s been a long time, Babe,” he said.
“Not that long.”
“Long enough. Back then you used to believe in something. Now you’re a whore for the imperialists.”
“And now you’re smaller than the roaches that infested that dump you used to rent.”
“Indeed,” he said, smiling. “With a fraction of the resources available to your sweet Francesca, I have surpassed her achievements.”
“Surpassed? Let’s see you reverse it, then.”
Ernesto shook his head and looked up at Isabella. “I told you they couldn’t do it, Bella. That’s whey they’re looking for Figura.”
“I’m no whore,” growled Ingrid. “I’ve simply grown up.”
Ernesto turned back to Ingrid. “Bella, dear,” he said, “Shears.”
Isabella lifted a pair of heavy shears from the table and snipped through Ingrid’s bra, first at the middle of the band and then at the shoulder straps. Her fleshy mounds sagged to the side a bit, exacerbated when Ernesto started climbing a tit that to him was eight feet high. He pulled himself up by her eight-inch nipple and gave it a kiss.
“Tell me,” he said, reclining on her giant boob and looking into her enormous eyes, “Did you feel grown up when they made you work with the man they sent to kill you?”
Ingrid seethed at the tiny man on her chest, stunned at how easily he could still push her buttons.
“Tell me it didn’t make you feel dirty,” he said.
Ingrid looked away, and Isabella half-suppressed a chuckle. With a disappointed sigh, Ernesto let himself slide off the truck-sized breast and started walking away from Ingrid’s face. Isabella snipped through Ingrid’s panties and added them to the pile of mutilated clothes.
When he saw the tuft of hair at Ingrid’s crotch, Ernesto gave a dismayed “Ay-ay-ay.” Walking to her mons, he ran his fingers through her bush and brought them to his nose. “Is this the way Cortez liked it?” he asked, turning to face her.
“He’s not as delicate as you,” said Ingrid sneeringly.
“Would you like to know how he died?” taunted Isabella.
“Some other time, perhaps,” said Gregorio.
They all turned to see Gregorio standing on the adjacent tabletop, next to the portable miniaturizer that he had trained on Isabella. He triggered it.
The miniaturizer emitted a blinding flash and Isabella disappeared from view. Ernesto leapt down from Ingrid’s hip and raced over to her pistol, already pointing approximately at Gregorio. He disengaged the safety then grabbed the trigger with both hands, trying to slightly correct the weapon’s aim before firing it.
The pistol discharged, and the recoil spun it over the table edge and onto the floor. The bullet struck the miniaturizer, shattering the crystal. The impact also spun the miniaturizer, one end of which collided with Gregorio and catapulted him towards Ingrid’s table, where he landed sprawling in her gaping armpit.
Ernesto climbed back up onto Ingrid’s belly, and she squirmed against her restraints to deny him secure footing. She relented, however, when she felt Gregorio climb out of her armpit onto her shoulder. Unseen by Ernesto, Gregorio scaled Ingrid’s eight-foot boob to the summit, then pounced on the disoriented Ernesto.
Ingrid tried to keep a professional perspective as she looked down past her unsecured breasts at the two tiny men grappling and rolling around her naked body. Ernesto seemed to be benefitting more from the uncertain terrain, so she flexed her diaphragm to bounce both of them over her pubic bone and onto the table between her legs.
The valley of Ingrid’s crotch was flanked by her taut fifteen-foot-high thighs and legs that extended to the horizon. Her gargantuan ass cheeks spread against the table top, heaving about and permitting flashes of light through her crack, but promising to pulverize anyone caught between them.
Above the miniature men loomed the rippling mouth of Ingrid’s pussy. Seven feet high, her engulfing outer lips were overgrown with light brown hair. Despite herself, Ingrid had been aroused by the contest between Gregorio and Ernesto, and the top of her giant slit had begun to glisten.
Gregorio recovered first and he threw Ernesto up against Ingrid’s thigh. He landed two solid punches to Ernesto’s head. To Ingrid’s alarm and dismay, Gregorio then pulled her giant pink inner lips open and shoved the unresisting Ernesto head-first into her cunt. When only Ernesto’s legs remained outside, Gregorio shouted to her, “Grab him!”
“How?” she cried.
“With your…you know…” he said, gesturing at her cavernous pussy.
“With my what?” she said, unable to see his tiny gestures.
He threw up his hands and gave an exasperated sigh. “When we get back,” he said, “we’re going to have a long talk.”
Ernesto’s foot shot upward and caught Gregorio squarely beneath his jaw. Gregorio jerked back against her thigh and fell to the table top. By the time he had recovered, he saw Ernesto running down toward Ingrid’s feet. Gregorio raced after him and tackled him just after they passed her boat-sized foot. Both tiny men tumbled over the table edge.
After his many miniature misadventures, Gregorio was unsurprised to find that the fall to the carpeted floor only knocked the wind out of him. Standing up, he saw Ernesto about thirty subjective feet away under the other table, still on his hands and knees. Loosening his neck and cracking his knuckles, Gregorio walked toward his foe. Just after he passed one table leg, however, something flashed over his face and he only barely got his fingers between his throat and the garrote with which Isabella was trying to strangle him.
“I am going to send you to a deep dark place,” she hissed in his ear, tugging the wire tight, “and I am going to have fun doing it!”
Ernesto had gotten to his feet, and he smiled when he saw Gregorio struggling to breathe.
“Bella tells me your stamina and tolerance for pain are extraordinary,” said Ernesto. “That’s good. I want this to last a while.” He started to unsling his belt.
Gregorio’s vision dimmed and he thought he was about to pass out, but a shadow fell over them all, and an immense white wall crashed down in front of Gregorio. Isabella’s garrote slackened, and they both looked up to see the titanic form of Ingrid towering over them in her terrible, naked glory.
Ingrid grinned at the tiny people at her feet, then slowly lowered herself onto her colossal haunches. Isabella and Gregorio lost all thought of their conflict as they watched Ingrid’s gigantic crotch descend, her pussy lips spreading as it came. Her juddering boobs swayed over them like pink-tipped hot-air balloons as she leaned forward and became the roof of their heavens.
Gregorio hadn’t seen any sign of Ernesto since Ingrid’s obliterating foot came down, but now she reached down with a tree-sized arm and plucked the tiny Ernesto and brought him to her enormous, smirking face, his belt dangling loosely after him.
“Keep your pants on, Ernie,” said Ingrid mockingly. “I’ve misplaced my magnifying glass.”
Her smirk widening to a grin, she lowered the tiny Ernesto between her legs and pushed him into her giant hairy twat until he disappeared and then deeper still.
Isabella recovered from her shock and started to flee. “Where do you think you’re going?” thundered Ingrid, snatching the tiny woman up in her fist. Isabella screamed when Ingrid brought her before her immense predatory eyes.
“You experimented in college, right?” taunted Ingrid. Isabella cried in terror as she descended, but her screams were cut off as Ingrid’s nether lips swallowed her whole. Ingrid collected Gregorio and stood up.
“Can you hold them for good?” he asked his giant partner.
“Oh, they’re not going anywhere,” she said, patting her abdomen just above her mons. “Figura explained it to me,” indicating the tiny scientist standing beside one of the unbuckled wrist straps, where he clearly had been busy.
“I call dibbs on the capsule,” shouted Figura.
Figura and Donnagon stood in a thicket of electronics, using their tiny tools to finesse the power couplings surrounding them. Gregorio stood outside the housing, but with his limited technical expertise he had performed only simple gopher tasks, and even these had become infrequent.
He therefore had little excuse not to turn around and gaze into the enormous meltingly brown eyes of Francesca, amplified to goddess scale by the table magnifier she had craned over the device. When she made suggestions to the tiny scientists, her deep heavenly voice resonated in Gregorio’s blood. As overwhelming as her scrutiny was, he preferred to keep eye contact lest he find himself drawn to the top of her shirt, which along with her lab coat she had curiously left unbuttoned, exposing an alluring crevasse.
The three-inch-tall Donnagon turned from the circuit panel to look up at his giant bride. “I think we’ve got it,” he said.
Donnagon and Figura climbed out of the device, which looked similar to if bulkier than the destroyed portable miniaturizer, and watched Francesca’s huge hand lift it from the table. She selected the nearby access plate and fitted it to the opening in the device, then applied a small electric screwdriver to the four corners.
Gregorio noticed that Ingrid had gotten up from her seat across the lab and walked over to the workbench. She wore another smart pantsuit, but somehow that didn’t make her any less distracting to him. He was clearly the least important contributor to the current project, but she still found him with her enormous eyes and flashed him a smile that was not unkind.
“All back together,” announced Francesca, putting down the screwdriver. “We can proceed when you’re ready, Doctor.”
Figura put his tools away and wiped his brow. “I know you’re eager to return to full-size duties, Agent Cortez,” he said, “but conscience dictates that I be the first subject of any experiment based on my theories.”
Ingrid lowered the platform of her giant hand to the table next to the tiny scientist. “Ready, Doctor?” she asked.
The three-inch-tall Figura looked up at the towering woman you had smuggled him out of Venezuela. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Agent Avellan,” he said, stepping onto her palm.
Ingrid cupped Figura and slowly walked to the center of the room, where she gently lowered him to the floor. She smiled at him reassuringly as she stood up to her full height, 140 subjective feet above him, then walked back to the workbench.
Francesca stood up, walked around to the workbench, held up the device and trained it on the tiny Figura. “On my mark,” she called. “Three, two, one, mark!”
Instead of a blinding flash, all the lights and sounds in the lab dimmed, then flickered back to full strength. In the middle of the room stood Figura, restored to his original size. He put his hand to his head, took a step forward, then stumbled. Ingrid and Francesca rushed to his side, but he politely declined their support.
Figura patted himself all over, then looked at Francesca with relief. “Everything seems to be in working order,” he said.
“Congratulations, Doctor,” said Francesca, beaming. She and Ingrid enveloped him in a double hug, provoking a bewildered smile from the older scientist.
“Yes, congratulations,” shouted Gregorio from the workbench. “Francesca, when will the prototype be ready for another use?”
Francesca walked over to Gregorio, holding the device with both hands, then bent forward to bring her giant gorgeous face down next to the three-inch-tall agent. “Director Devlin has instructed me not to restore you to full size,” she said. “He said you and Ingrid were too good a team.”
Gregorio took an involuntary step back. He stood there dumb as Ingrid approached the workbench, reached down with her enormous arm and curled her fingers around the tiny and unresisting Gregorio. Folding her other arm across her chest, she brought him up to her giant face, raising her eyebrows and grinning. “I guess we’ll have plenty of time to work on my grip,” she said.
He gazed into the two-foot-wide eyes of the woman who had held his life in her hands and elsewhere, and he struggled to admit to himself that he trusted her. With the mission, with his life, with anything. At any scale.
Gregorio’s emotional contortions must have been visible on his tiny face, because Ingrid couldn’t keep from dissolving in laughter. She was joined by Francesca, who had been watching with a discreet smile.
“I can’t believe he fell for it!” Ingrid told Francesca, wiping her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Gregorio,” said Francesca, still giggling. “It was Ingrid’s idea.”
Helpless in Ingrid’s huge fist, Gregorio smiled up at her. “I think running into Ernesto has brought the cruelty out in you,” he said.
She returned his smile, set him on the floor between her feet, then stood over him with her hands on her hips. “I just hope meeting Isabella has crushed the asshole out of you,” she said, then backed away.
Without ceremony, Francesca pointed the prototype at Gregorio and triggered it. The lights dimmed again, and Gregorio was returned to his normal size. He walked over to Figura, shook his hand, and said, “Thank you, Doctor.”
He embraced Francesca tenderly, then looked down at the tiny Donnagon. “You too, Doctors,” said Gregorio. “I am profoundly grateful to be part of a team that includes such talented and industrious women and men.”
He turned to face Ingrid, who stood with her arms crossed and eyes averted. He walked around her in a circle, forcing her to change orientation in order not to meet his gaze. At last, he stopped directly in front of her and held out both his hands. When she finally uncrossed her arms, he took her hands in his.
“Agent Avellan,” he said, “Your performance on this mission was of the highest caliber. I could not have asked for a more reliable and resourceful partner. I would be delighted to work with you in the future, on any mission.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but we weren’t partners on this mission, Agent Cortez. I was your superior, and you were insubordinate on several occasions.” She kept smiling, however. “On future operations, I would expect greater care and respect from you.”
Gregorio nodded with humility. “You will have it,” he said.
Ingrid held Gregorio’s eyes and hands for another moment, then turned to look down at the miniature Donnagon. “Your turn!” she said.
“Not yet,” said the tiny technician, stepping into the giant hand that Francesca had lowered to her husband. She raised him up to the level of their immense faces. “I want to stress-check the prototype, which is much easier from the inside,” he said. “We’re also not done collecting data on the effects of long-term miniaturization.”
Ingrid gave a concerned look to Francesca, then back to Donnagon. “But don’t you want to start your honeymoon?” she asked.
Donnagon smiled up at Ingrid, then turned to Francesca and held his little arms out wide. Francesca brought Donnagon to her mouth and closed her eyes as he buried his head between her giant supple lips. Her pliant and puckered flesh caressed, sponged, and sucked his face, and her tongue was determined to focus all of her passion upon his blueberry-sized head.
When at last she broke off, Francesca gently licked the excess saliva from her husband’s head, then nestled him between her massive mammaries. His tiny arms spread over the slopes of her warm brown flesh, Donnagon looked up at Ingrid and Gregorio. “My dear Ingrid,” he said, “what do you think the last two weeks have been?” He raised his arms above his head and let himself slide out of sight into her cleavage. Francesca favored Ingrid and Gregorio with beatific smile.
A large screen on the wall opposite Francesca flipped on to reveal Devlin’s face. “Congratulations, Francesca, Dr. Figura!” said the director. “Well done!”
They all turned to the monitor. “Thank you, Devlin,” said Francesca. “We couldn’t have done it without Dr. Figura.”
“Not at all,” said the elder scientist. “Dr. Giggles’s application of my theory is the true breakthrough here.”
“Well, the president asked me to convey his personal gratitude that this powerful technology hasn’t fallen into the wrong hands. Speaking of which, we are almost ready to start interrogating Ernesto and Isabella. Where are they now?”
Gregorio and Ingrid looked at their feet, then each other, then sheepishly back at Devlin. Finally, Gregorio offered, “We left them with custodians best suited to prepare them for interrogation.”
“Prepare?” asked Devlin.
“Just our little variation on the good cop, bad cop routine,” said Ingrid.
Ms. Gradenko hummed an exceptionally irritating tune as she drove home. She skipped from her car to her front door, swinging her purse like Little Red Riding Hood’s goody basket.
Inside, she set her purse down in the kitchen just long enough to disappear into her bedroom and then re-emerge wearing a frilly and juvenile nightie that stopped halfway down her thighs. She resumed her annoying humming, collected her purse, and keyed the numeric code on the lock that admitted her to her Hobby Room.
She walked to the center of the room and sat on a chair before a very low table. She upended her purse onto the table, and from its scattering contents she selected her tampon case. Holding it vertically in front of her face, she removed the cap.
“Oh Dolly,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t she right about how well you fit there?”
No response came from the three-inch-tall Ernesto, his tiny arms still pinned inside the case.
“You must be so excited,” said Ms. Gradenko. “I only let very special people in this room.”
Ernesto looked around in growing dismay at the walls crowded with hundreds of eyes: teddy bears, Kewpie dolls, Barbies, and other playthings surrounded them in a riot of pinks, reds, yellows, and purples. In each corner sat a differently-themed dollhouse, appointed with every accessory ever sold, plus dozens of custom miniatures.
Tearing his gaze from the city of dolls, Ernesto looked past Gradenko’s colossal folded legs and up into her enormous twinkling eyes. His stomach turned to ice when she stared back at the tiny man with undisguised insanity.
“Look at what I have for you!” she squealed, lifting an enormous case onto the table. She unfolded it to reveal a custom wardrobe for dolls’ clothes. She held him forward for a closer look as her huge hand flipped through the collection. “We’re going to try them all, Dolly!”
She inverted the tampon case, shook it, and Ernesto fell in to her lap. He lay on his back on the taut fabric of her nightie, looking up at the outlines of her boobs hanging over him. She smiled down at him, the crazy all over her face.
“But first, Dolly, we’re going to try this one!” she said, holding up a tiny Superman costume.
As Isabella awoke, she first became aware of the tremendous ache in her arms, which had been bound and stretched straight out from her sides. She had been slumped over, sagging from her arms for hours. She stood straight to relieve her arms of the weight of her body, which she now saw was unclothed except for her bra and panties.
She was on a giant tool bench in someone’s workshop. Her stretched-out arms were tied to either side of an enormous vise mounted to the counter top. Giant tools and parts were scattered all over the bench, and below her she could see pieces of giant gadgets only available to top-level secret agents.
Isabella strained at her bonds. If she could free herself, it was quite likely that she might be able to assemble some sort of shelter or even a vehicle that would enable her escape.
Then she heard it.
A long, low grunt, like a dragon sniffing the scent of an intruder in its lair. During the silence that followed, she started to doubt whether she had actually heard it. Then a series of dull booms echoing from the giant corridor to her right confirmed that something large was approaching.
She resumed her struggle against the bonds, then the thudding sounds stopped. The next noise was that of a small waterfall, a giant surge of liquid falling from an immense height into a deep pool. Isabella imagined she felt the cords at her wrists loosening, but she was far from free when the cataract ceased. She froze, terrified to hear what might come next.
Isador “Machete” Cortez was notoriously disaffected from his brother Gregorio, and as a world-class inventor, he preferred to spend his time tinkering with high-tech espionage gear. Machete also slept in the nude, so when he walked into his workshop after his morning piss, his formidable cock was fully exposed to the tiny Isabella. As she hung there helpless, watching his 18-foot-long dong sway as it approached her, she began to scream, and she couldn’t imagine ever stopping.
Originally posted: 07 Jul 2013