Chapter 4: Ass Worship and Pussy Stuffing
The chair groaned as she leaned back, the live stream ending with a flick of a switch. The cheerful facade evaporated, leaving only the humid silence of the room and the rapid, terrified beat of Fred’s heart thrumming against her skin. She was still irritated, the frustration from her loss a low burn in her gut that demanded an outlet.
She reached behind her, her fingers probing the damp cleft where Fred was buried. They found him, slick with her sweat, and plucked him out. He gasped as the cooler air hit him, his tiny body gleaming under the desk lamp. She held him up to her face, her yellow eyes studying him. He was trembling, but his gaze was fixed on her with a devotion that made something primal in her stir.
“You did good back there,” she said, her voice a low rumble. “Quiet. Still. But I can feel you need more to do. You’re twitching.”
Before he could process her words, she turned him, positioning his face toward the dark, puckered star of her asshole. The scent was overpowering here—musky, deeply intimate, a raw animal smell. “Lick,” she commanded, the word leaving no room for argument. “Lick my fucking asshole, Fred. I know you want to taste me. Worship it.”
Her will was an iron cable around his mind. He obeyed. His tiny tongue darted out, a minuscule pink point against the vast, wrinkled expanse. He tasted salt, sweat, the profound, bitter essence of her. He recoiled internally, but his body, enslaved by awe and fear, persisted. He licked a timid stripe.
Freya sighed, a sound of immense pleasure and contempt. “Harder. Use your whole face. Get in there.”
She didn’t wait for him to comply. She lowered him back down, not just placing him, but grinding him against her. The hot, wrinkled ring of muscle yielded slightly, then gripped, sucking at his features. He was smothered in it, his world reduced to dark, spongy heat and the impossible tang of her. He licked and probed, his actions growing more frantic as her soft moans vibrated through the flesh above him.
“Yeah… fuck yeah, that’s it,” she purred, her hand moving from him to the desk. Her fingers closed around the small, open jar where Elena cowered. The timid woman had been watching, paralyzed with dread.
“No, please, I can’t—” Elena’s whisper was cut off as Freya’s fingers plucked her from the glass.
“You can, and you will,” Freya said, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “You wanted to be here. This is here.” She spread her legs wider in the chair, the gray shorts stretched tight. With her other hand, she pulled the damp fabric of her underwear aside, revealing the swollen, glistening folds of her pussy. The lips were parted, slick with her own arousal, the clit a hard, prominent nub.
Elena screamed. It was a high, needle-like sound that vanished as Freya pushed her inside.
The sensation was overwhelming for both of them. For Elena, it was a tidal wave of hot, clinging flesh, a viscous, suffocating wetness that enveloped her completely. The walls of Freya’s vagina, soft and velvety one moment, clenched with shocking power the next, milking at her tiny form. The air was thick with a coppery, sweet smell. She was trapped in a pulsing, dark universe of raw sex.
For Freya, it was a delicious, minute tightness, a living, wriggling pressure deep inside her channel. She groaned, arching her back. “Oh, fuck… you feel that? You’re in me. You’re nothing but a cunt plug now.”
She left Elena buried there, clenching rhythmically around the tiny woman, then turned her attention downward. Juno, Frank, and Bill were still on the sticky mat by her feet. Micah, the veteran, was already there, kneeling at the crest of her instep, his tiny face pressed reverently against her skin.
“You three,” Freya said, wiggling her toes. “Up here. Now. My clit’s throbbing and you’re all going to fix it.”
Juno glared, defiance flashing in her pink-haired miniature form. Bill just stared, horror and a traitorous flicker of arousal warring on his face. Frank scrambled immediately, scurrying up the vast slope of her foot.
“I’m not licking your fucking—” Juno began.
Freya’s foot moved. It was a casual, crushing motion. The sole came down, not to flatten, but to pin Juno beneath the arch. The pressure was immense, squeezing the air from her tiny lungs. The scent of stale sweat and foot fungus filled Juno’s world.
“You are,” Freya corrected, her voice chillingly calm. “Or you’ll be a red stain on my gaming mat. Micah, show them.”
Micah needed no second command. He scuttled forward, his tiny hands parting the slippery, puffy folds of her labia to reveal the hard, pink pearl of her clitoris. He pressed his entire body against it, his mouth open in a desperate, worshipful kiss.
Freya jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her. “Shit… see? Like that.”
The pinned Juno, defeated, gasped, “Okay… okay!”
The pressure lifted. Juno, bruised and humiliated, climbed the trembling foot with Frank. Bill followed, his movements sluggish with terror. They joined Micah at the apex of her sex.
It was a chaotic, grotesque tableau. Four tiny figures clustered around her engorged clit, a furious, living crown. They licked, sucked, and nuzzled. Micah worked with practiced devotion, Frank with terrified zeal, Juno with furious, reluctant skill. Bill hesitated, then, his fetish overriding his fear, he pressed his face into the slick, aromatic flesh, his tongue lapping.
Freya threw her head back against the headrest, a string of obscenities falling from her lips. “Oh, you little fucking sluts… yes… use your tongues… harder!” She was a symphony of sensations: Fred’s desperate tongue working her asshole, Elena’s trapped, squirming body deep in her cunt, and the frantic, minute ministrations at her clit.
She began to rock her hips, fucking herself on the tiny woman inside her, grinding her ass down onto Fred’s face, pressing her clit harder against the swarm of worshippers. The chair squeaked in a frantic rhythm. Her moans grew louder, raw, unchained.
“That’s it, don’t stop, you pathetic little slaves! Make me cum! I own every fucking inch of you!”
Her hand slapped down on the desk, rattling the jars. Inside one, Markus watched, his own tiny body aching with a mix of jealousy and awe. The other jar held only condensation and crumbs.
The tension coiled, tight and electric, in the base of her spine. The disparate sensations fused into one roaring wave. It crested, and broke.
Her body locked, a taut bowstring. A guttural cry ripped from her throat. Her inner walls clamped down on Elena with a crushing, rhythmic violence, a series of pulsing spasms that stole what little breath the tiny woman had left. Her asshole clenched rhythmically around Fred’s head. Her back arched, lifting her sex from the chair for a moment, drenching the tiny faces at her clit with a sudden gush of her release, warm and musky.
For long seconds, only the sound of her ragged breathing and the wet, shifting sounds of her body filled the room.
Slowly, she relaxed, slumping back into the sweaty leather. She was spent, a pleasant numbness spreading through her limbs. With careful, almost tender fingers, she began plucking the tiny, exhausted forms from her body. She pulled a dripping, semi-conscious Elena from her soaked pussy and laid her on the desk. She extracted a breathless, sweat-and-other-fluid drenched Fred from between her cheeks. The clitoral attendants—Micah, Frank, Juno, and Bill—were gathered up in her palm, all panting, covered in her scent and her cum.
She looked at them, her yellow eyes hooded. The guilt flickered, a faint ghost behind the contentment, and was swiftly buried. They had asked for this. They had mailed themselves here.
“Jar time,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. She dropped them into the large, clean jar with air holes poked in the lid, next to Markus. She placed Fred and Elena gently beside them. They collapsed against each other, a heap of tiny, used bodies.
Freya stood, her muscles loose, and stretched. She looked at the jar, at the six tiny lives inside, her possessions. Juno was glaring again, even now. Bill was shivering, staring at his own feet. Fred was simply weeping softly.
She tapped the glass with a fingernail. “Get some rest,” she said, not unkindly. “You’ve earned it.” She screwed the lid on, sealing them in their transparent cell.
As she walked toward her shower, the thought was already forming. Juno’s defiance was interesting. It needed to be broken properly, not just overwhelmed. Maybe next time, she’d let Micah have a turn with her. Let the veteran show the new girl the true pecking order.
The water started running. In the jar, on the desk, in the lingering smell of sex and sweat, her tiny audience began to comprehend the unending nature of their devotion.