Chapter 5: Between Her Cheeks
The torchlight danced against the rock, but Gideon saw only Drakna’s eyes in the flames.Sleep was impossible. Every time he closed his own, he felt the colossal velvet of her tongue, tasted the addictive salt of her skin, heard the earth-shaking sigh of her release. His body was a traitor, thrumming with a low, persistent hunger that shamed him.Across the tiny, dying fire, Gresha watched him. Her expression was unreadable. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” he lied, his voice rough.“You’re not.” She poked the embers with a stick. “You’re replaying it.Every second. I can see it on your face.”
Gideon said nothing. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of sap and the distant, occasional crunch that echoed from the dark mountains—a sound too large to be anything natural.
“She got inside you,” Gresha continued, her tone clinical.“Not just in your head.In your blood. It’s a succubus’s victory.They don’t just kill you. They make you love the weapon.”
“I don’t love it,” Gideon hissed, his hands curling into fists.“Don’t you?” Gresha’s gaze was merciless. “You cried out.Not in pain. It was a different kind of begging.”
Shame, hot and acrid, flooded his mouth. He remembered the sound he’d made, a broken, wanton thing, as her immense pleasure had washed over him.He had begged.For more. For everything.“I was overcome. It was magic–”
“It was her,” Gresha cut him off. “And a part of you is still there, on your knees in her sweat, wishing you were back between her thighs.” She stood up abruptly, dusting off her robes. “This noble quest is over.We’re going home tomorrow.But you… you’ll carry this with you. A knight of the realm, secretly getting hard remembering the smell of a monster’s cunt.”
Her words were a lash. They stripped him bare more effectively than Drakna’s tongue ever could. A violent, frustrated heat surged in him—directed at Gresha, at himself, at the impossible want that coiled in his gut. “What would you know?” he snapped.“You killed your man. You got your ‘satisfaction.’ You’re not stained.”
Gresha went very still. In the flickering light, her face hardened into a mask of cool contempt.“Stained,” she repeated softly. “Is that what you are, Gideon?Stained?”
He looked away, trembling.
She walked around the fire towards him, her movements deliberate.“You think your pure heart is soiled because you liked it? Because for one moment, being her plaything was the most profoundly alive you’d ever felt?”
He couldn’t meet her eyes.“Fine.” The word was final. “Let’s get it out of you.This… fixation. Let’s scrape it clean.” Her hands came up, fingers already weaving a complex, minor arcane pattern. A faint, silvery light gathered at her fingertips.
“Gresha, what are you–”
“Minimus Redacto,” she intoned, her voice devoid of warmth.The world lurched. A terrifying, plunging sensation gripped Gideon’s stomach, as if the ground had fallen away. The rocky overhang yawned above him, growing, soaring to impossible heights.The guttering torch became a sun. Gresha’s boot, scuffed and dusty, loomed like a continent beside him. The spell had taken seconds.He was the size of a beetle.
Panic, pure and icy, shot through him.“Gresha! Stop this! Change me back!”
Her face descended, a vast moon filling the sky.Her expression hadn’t changed. It was still that grim, determined mask.“You wanted to serve, Gideon. To be useful. To be close to power.” Her voice was a localized thunder, vibrating the very pebbles next to him. “I want to help you. This spell is temporary, but perhaps I can… get it all out of your system. You won’t need to think about her anymore, as I will be able to shrink you down whenever you want this. Please, Gideon. Let me help you forget about her.”
He stared up the impossible cliff-face of her body, his mind scrabbling for purchase. The scent of campfire smoke was gone, replaced by the intimate, musky odor of worn leather and sweat from her traveling clothes. Her hand, a vast landscape of calluses and lines, descended toward him.
He tried to run.His tiny legs pistoned against the gritty soil, a futile scramble. Her thumb and forefinger closed around him, not with crushing force, but with terrifying, absolute control. He was lifted into the air, dangling before her face.Her breath was warm and smelled of yesterday’s travel rations.
“See?” Her voice vibrated through her fingers into his bones.“This is control. This is what you really wanted. To be so small your ‘pure heart’ doesn’t matter.” She carried him behind the relative shelter of the large rock, away from the dying fire’s light.
The world tilted.She sat on a folded blanket, the fabric sighing under her weight. With her free hand, she undid the ties of her practical trousers. She shimmied them down over her hips, along with her simple linen undergarments, and kicked them aside. The cool night air washed over her skin.She looked down at him, pinched between her fingers. “You wanted to be close to something real,” she murmured, her tone almost conversational. “Not a giantess.Just a woman. A woman you annoyed.”
She leaned back, bracing herself on one arm. The torchlight from beyond the rock painted one side of her body in flickering ochre and deep shadow. With her other hand, she reached back and spread the full, pale curve of her right buttock.The cleft was revealed, a dark, warm valley of shadowed skin. The air there was hotter, densely aromatic with a sharp, human smell of sweat and salt and skin. It was profoundly, ordinarily intimate.
“I-I…” Gideon whispered, his voice a speck of dust. He’s hesitating. “…You don’t need to feel obligated to… do this, Gresha.” He hesitates more. “…What if I lose myself more?”
Gresha’s laughter was a short, dry puff of air. “You lost yourself the moment you tasted her,” she said, her voice low. “There’s nothing left to lose, Gideon. Only things to feel.” Her fingers adjusted their grip, and she brought him closer to her exposed skin. The heat was a tangible wall. The scent, musky and deeply organic, filled his microscopic world. “This is simpler. Honest. No grand speeches. Just biology. Just use.”
Before he could form another word, the world compressed.
The soft, fleshy pressure was absolute. Her thumb pressed his tiny form firmly into the damp, warm groove of her ass. He was engulfed in a slick, clinging darkness, the sensation of yielding flesh closing around him from all sides. The sound of his own heartbeat was drowned by the visceral, squelching noise of his embedding and the low rustle of skin on skin.
She released her grip. He was lodged there, a trapped secret in the intimate fold of her body. The air was thick, hot, and tasted of salt and skin. Every slight shift of her muscles sent tremors through his world.
“Comfortable?” Her voice was muffled, reverberating through the flesh surrounding him. He felt the deep vibration of her words in his bones.
Then she clenched.
It was an immense, slow compression. The walls of warm flesh tightened around him, squeezing the air from his tiny lungs. It was not the overwhelming, cosmic scale of Drakna; this was human, intimate, and crushingly specific. He was pressed into the sweat-slicked skin, his face mashed against her. The pressure was relentless, a dominant, smothering embrace.
“You’re just a bit of grit now,” she murmured, her voice laced with a cold amusement. “Something to be carried. To be ground down.” She shifted her weight, and he felt the massive mechanics of her body moving. She was standing.
The world became a chaotic, grinding journey. Each step was a seismic event. The rhythmic clench and release of her glutes as she walked worked him deeper into the heated crevice. He was jostled, rocked, and massaged by the powerful, living muscle. The fabric of her tunic, pulled tight against her back, created a roaring, whispering canopy above him. The coarse weave of the blanket she’d sat on was gone, replaced by this intimate, mobile prison.
He couldn’t see. He could only feel and hear and smell. The rhythmic swish of her trousers in her hand. The crush of her footsteps on the forest floor, amplified a thousandfold through her body. The sticky friction as he was worked between her cheeks with every step.
His initial terror began to mutate, warmed by the pervasive heat. The shame was still there, a sharp stone in his gut, but it was being smothered by a deeper, more alarming submission. This was degradation, yes, but it was also a bizarre, total acceptance. He served a purpose, however. He was here. He was felt.
“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be,” Gresha said, her pace steady and deliberate. She was walking a slow circuit around their cold campsite. “Is this what you needed? To be put in your proper place? Not a hero. Just a man. Just a thing.”
He tried to speak, but his mouth was pressed into her skin. All that came out was a muffled, desperate sound, lost in the sweat and pressure.
She laughed, and the clench that followed was punitive, squeezing a tiny, helpless gasp from him. “I can feel you squirming. Do you hate it? Or is this your new altar, Gideon? Is my ass a holier place than between a succubus’s thighs?”
The question shattered him. Because in the dark, sweating heat, the answer was taking shape, monstrous and true. This was real. This was a woman, not a legend, reducing him to nothing. And a part of him, the part Drakna had awakened, was straining toward that nothingness. His body, betraying him utterly, responded to the overwhelming sensory prison. Arousal, sharp and humiliating, cut through the submission.
She must have felt the minute change. Her walking stopped. She stood still. The muscles around him relaxed slightly, then deliberately, slowly, flexed again in a slow, rolling pulse. It was no longer just the motion of travel. It was a gesture. An exploration.
“Oh,” she said, the single syllable dripping with dark revelation. “There it is.” Her hand came back, her fingers sliding into the cleft from below. They found his infinitesimal form, slick with her sweat. She didn’t pull him out. She rolled him between her thumb and forefinger, right there in the damp channel. The friction was electric, overwhelming. “You’re hard. You’re actually hard. While packed in my sweaty crack like a piece of lint.”
Her touch was clinical, investigative. She pressed him firmly against her perineum, then slid him upward slightly, the rough pad of her fingerprint dragging over his entire body. It was less a caress and more an assessment of a curious specimen. “You pathetic creature. This is what’s left of Sir Gideon the Hopeful. A tiny, leaking stain who gets off on being a woman’s ass-grit.”
The filth of her words, delivered in that flat, analytical tone, fused with the physical reality. It was the final key. Shame evaporated, burned away in a sudden, catastrophic flare of need. He didn't just accept the degradation; he clung to it. It was the only truth left.
Gresha let out a long, slow breath. She walked back to the blanket and sat, spreading her legs slightly. She reached back and, with two fingers, parted her cheeks wider, extracting him. The cool night air was a shocking slap. He lay gasping on her fingertip, coated in her essence, his body achingly, visibly aroused under her magnified gaze.
Gresha looks down at Gideon with a sense of amusement and slight warmth. “I never thought a knight in shining armor would ever have a degradation fetish.” She chuckles warmly. “This spell lasts for roughly an hour, so you can still go back to your… lovely spot after you catch your breath, if you wish.”
Gresha’s fingertip was a vast, salty plain under Gideon’s back. He lay there, exposed and trembling, every inch of his minuscule body slick with her sweat. The cool air bit his skin, a shocking contrast to the humid darkness he’d just occupied. His own arousal, a tiny, undeniable fact, felt like the ultimate confession.
“Cat got your tongue?” Gresha’s voice rolled over him, laced with a dry, almost scientific curiosity. Her other hand came into view, a monumental landscape of calluses and lines. She prodded his chest with a nail, not quite cutting, but with enough pressure to make him stagger. “Well? Would you like to be grit for my ass crack for a while longer before you return to being the knight?” Her voice was more teasing this time, lacking any particular sustain or extreme contempt.
He had no breath for words. The humiliation was a solid, burning coal in his throat, but beneath it, a hotter, darker current pulled. He managed a single, tiny nod against the whorl of her fingerprint.A slow smile touched her lips, not kind, but satisfied. “Good.” Her thumb returned, not to crush, but to collect. She rolled him again, coating him freshly in the damp heat of her skin. The world tilted and blurred as she repositioned herself, leaning forward on the blanket, presenting the dark cleft once more.
This time, the entry was not an impersonal packing.It was deliberate, almost ritualistic. She guided him into the very base of the crevice, where the heat was most intense, the musk most potent. She pressed him deep, until the firm pressure of her body surrounded him completely. Then she relaxed, letting her weight settle, allowing her muscles to mold around him.
“There,” she whispered, a sigh mingled with the words.“Just a piece of dirt.Nothing more.”
And she remained still. The chaos of the walk was gone.This was a different torment: total, stagnant immersion. He was entombed in living flesh. The heartbeat he felt was not a giant’s planetary thrum, but the closer, quicker rhythm of a woman’s pulse, muffled and intimate. He could smell the distinct, sharp tang of her exertion from their journey, the deeper, organic scent of her core just inches from his prison. His own minute body throbbed in the stifling dark, a useless protest of need.Time lost meaning. There was only heat, pressure, and the slow, occasional creak of her shifting weight. His thoughts, once a storm of shame and knightly ideology, dissolved into simple, animal awareness.He was here.He was owned.It was brutally simple.
Then, movement.Not the jarring of a step, but a slow, internal, deliberate clench. The walls around him tightened in a long, possessive squeeze, releasing with a soft, wet sound. A pause.Then again. A rhythmic, controlled pulsation, not the involuntary rhythm of walking, but something intentional.Something practiced.It was a simulation. A slow, vulgar mimicry of another act.Understanding blazed through him, followed by a wave of nausea that twisted in his tiny gut. She was milking the experience, and him, for every drop of degraded meaning. Her body was speaking a filthy, undeniable language.
Another clench, longer this time, holding him in a vise-grip of soft tissue.He felt himself compressing, his tiny form molding to the contour of her. A pathetic, desperate sound escaped him, lost in the sweat and pressure.
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Gresha’s voice was a distant, muffled vibration. “Comparing. My humble human ass to a goddess’s world-shattering cunt.” The clench became a brutal, grinding roll.“But this is real, Gideon. This is all you’ll ever actually have.A dirty secret in the dark. You’ll never touch her again. You’ll just remember, and ache, and eventually come to places like this.”
Her words were scalpels, dissecting the fantasy he hadn’t even fully admitted to himself. The truth of them was the most violating thing yet.She was right. Drakna was a celestial event, a storm he’d been caught in. This… this was the mud he was left drowning in.And he was hard.Painfully, impossibly hard. The shame had vaporized, burned away as fuel for this deeper, more terrible fire.The need was everything.
The rhythmic pressure continued, a relentless, smothering massage. The sensation built within his trapped form, a terrible pressure with no possible release, a scream condensed into a silent, physical knot.It was torture. It was all he wanted.
He was floating in a soupy darkness of his own making, defined only by the perpetual, warm crush of her, when a new disturbance rippled through his world.A deeper, internal shift. A low, guttural sound reached him, felt more than heard. Gresha was stirring.The pressure around him changed, lessening as she straightened. Cool air whispered at the edges of his prison as she parted herself. Her fingers, warm and slick, found him and plucked him from his niche.The sudden exposure was a shock, a brutal stripping.
He was laid on her thigh, a tiny, glistening mote against her pale skin. He saw her face above, flushed now, her breath coming in slower, deeper draws. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide, but the clinical distance was still there, threaded through with something darker, more possessive.
“Time’s almost up,” she said, her voice husky. She looked at his minute, erect form, a speck of doomed defiance. “One last lesson.”
Her hand moved from her thigh to between her own legs. He watched, from his terrible vantage point, as her fingers slid through coarse curls and dipped into a different, darker fold. They came back glistening with a wetness that wasn’t sweat.It was sharper, more specific.She brought her fingertips together, coating him. The new scent was overwhelming, complex and primal, cutting through the heaviness of sweat and leather. It was the scent of her, of her interest, her own dark participation in this. It wasn’t the overwhelming, supernatural spice of Drakna. It was human, real, and for him, in this moment, more potent.
“This is what you do to people, Gideon,” she murmured, spreading the wetness over his tiny body with a brutal, thorough precision.“You reduce them. You make them want to reduce you.It’s a circle. A filthy, perfect circle.”
She lifted him, holding him up before her face one final time. He was a mess of her fluids, glistening under the torchlight from beyond the rock. “Now finish it,” she commanded, her voice low and absolute.“Come for your mistress. The one you actually have.”
She didn’t put him back in the dark. Instead, she closed her thumb and forefinger around him, forming a tight, fleshy tunnel. She began to move her hand, a slow, relentless, up-and-down motion. The friction was unbearable, a concentrated furnace of sensation against his oversensitive, swollen flesh.The pressure was perfect, tyrannical. There was no fantasy to hide in now, no giantess to blame.Just her hand, her smell, her will.
It took three strokes.A white, silent detonation tore through him. His microscopic body convulsed, a spasm of utter surrender that had no possible physical expression, yet felt like his soul was being wrung out. There was no pleasure in the classical sense, only the shocking, violent relief of a dam breaking, of a terrible tension shattering.He went limp in her grasp, a husk.
Gresha held him for a moment, watching. Then, with a soft snort, she wiped him off on the edge of the blanket. She pulled her trousers and smallclothes back on with methodical, untroubled movements.The world lurched again, that stomach-dropping reversal. Stone and wood and fabric swelled around him, rushing up to their proper proportions. He was kneeling naked on the blanket, human-sized, shivering violently in the cold night air. The smell of her was all over him.Gresha stood, buckling her belt. She looked down at him, her face clean of any readable emotion. “The spell is spent,” she said, her tone flat, conversational. “Get dressed. We leave at dawn.”
She walked back to the other side of the dead fire, lay down, and turned her back to him.
Gideon stared at his own hands, human hands, lying pale on the rough wool. He could still feel the ghost of the compression, the intimate heat.He could still smell her on his skin, a brand no water would wash away. He had not thought of Drakna, not once, in those final moments. The emptiness that followed was total. He dressed in silence, the cold links of his mail shirt feeling like a stranger’s skin.The forest around them was quiet, holding its breath. The distant, mountainous crunching had finally stopped.