Chapter 10: The Reversed Nightmare
The nightmare clung to her like a second skin of cold sweat. Ronita jolted awake, a gasp tearing from her throat that was halfway to a scream. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of fat and fear. The room was dark, predawn silence pressing in, but all she could see was the colossal, hateful face of Ron, his features stretched to monstrous proportions, his thumb and forefinger closing around her entire world. The sensation of falling, of cold water choking her lungs—it had felt so real.
She sat up, a monumental effort that made the bedframe shriek in protest. She pressed a palm to her chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath layers of softness. Her eyes, wide and searching, found the dim glow of the acrylic box in the corner.
He was there. A tiny, dark shape curled on his mat. Asleep. Powerless.
A tremble started deep in her core, a vibration of pure, undiluted terror that had nothing to do with physical threat and everything to do with memory. For a few seconds in that dream, she had known. She had known what it was to be a spec of nothing in a giant’s uncaring hand. The sheer, annihilating helplessness.
Then the emotion curdled, fermented by shame into something uglier. Anger. White-hot and defensive. How dare her subconscious do that to her? How dare it make her feel… guilty?
She threw the covers back. The silk hissed against her damp thighs. She needed to obliterate the feeling, to reassert the true, physical reality of her dominance. The nightmare was a lie. This was the truth.
She didn’t call for Mabel. She didn’t use the transport. She wanted the direct, visceral reclamation. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the floor with twin concussive thuds that shook the room. She heard a tiny, startled shift from the box.
Good. Wake up.
She lumbered to the box, her breathing still uneven from the nightmare. She didn’t speak. Her fingers, thick and still trembling slightly, fumbled with the latch on the main door—the large, seldom-used access panel for manual cleaning. It swung open with a click.
Ron was on his feet now, a silhouette against the dim night-light of his gym. He stared up as her hand filled the opening, a wall of flesh descending. The sedative in his system made his reactions sluggish, but his body knew terror. He backpedaled.
Her fingers closed around him. Not with careful precision, but in a crude, encompassing fist. She didn’t lift him delicately; she pulled him out in a rough scoop, her skin warm and slightly clammy from sweat. He was pressed against her palm, her fingers wrapping around his legs and torso, squeezing the air from him in a panicked grunt.
She brought him to the bed, her citadel. She dropped him onto the rumpled silk sheets, a landscape of soft, scent-infused valleys. He tumbled, disoriented.
“You had a bad dream?” Her voice was a low, rough thing, scraped from the bottom of her throat. She loomed over him, blocking out the light from the ensuite. Her face was shadowed, her eyes glittering pinpricks. “Yeah. Me too.”
She didn’t give him time to process it. The confession was an accusation. She lowered herself onto the bed beside him, the mattress groaning and tilting him toward her. The scent of her—sleep, sweat, and the lingering sweet-rot smell of the NRG-14 metabolic burn—enveloped him.
With one hand, she hooked the waistband of her silk shorts and pushed them down her hips, over the colossal swell of her ass, down her thighs. She let them pool around her knees. Her other hand came down, not to caress, but to corral. She swept him toward her with a casual brush of her fingertips, rolling him across the sheets until he was at the junction of her thighs.
The heat hit him like a furnace blast. The dense, curly thicket of her pubic hair was a dark forest rising before him. Beyond it, the immense, sleeping folds of her cunt, labia slightly parted and glistening with their own nocturnal humidity. The smell was deep, musky, animal.
“You made me feel small,” she hissed, her breath hot. “In my own head. Clean it up. Fix it.”
It wasn’t a command for pleasure. It was a punitive ritual. An exorcism.
Ron’s mind, still woolly from the drug, fought to engage. This was vulnerability, but it was a dangerous, volatile one. He saw the pulse beating wildly in her neck, the faint sheen of nightmare sweat on her upper lip. She wasn’t in control. She was reacting.
He had to obey. To do otherwise was to be crushed.
He moved forward, into the heat. He placed his hands on the inner curve of her labia, flesh so soft it yielded like warm clay under his tiny palms. He bent his head.
His tongue touched her. The taste was strong, salty-sweet, profoundly intimate and utterly degrading. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe from bottom to top. She shuddered, a massive quake that rippled through the bed.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “That’s it. That’s your fucking purpose.”
He worked, mechanically at first, fighting the chemical apathy that tried to make him a passive participant. He focused on the architecture of her, mapping the swollen hood of her clit, the different textures of inner and outer lips. He used his hands to part her further, exposing the darker, hotter core. He pressed his face into it, his tongue probing deeper.
A low groan rolled out of her. Her hand came down, not to guide, but to imprison. Her fingers splayed over the back of his head, pressing him deeper into her flesh, grinding his face against her. He couldn’t breathe. The world was wet, dark, and smelled only of her. His nostrils flared, sucking in the pungent scent.
“Deeper, you little shit. Get in there.”
He pushed with his tongue, as far as he could. She was wet now, arousal mixing with the natural slickness, and the juices coated his chin, his throat. He gagged slightly, the flavor overwhelming.
Her hips began to roll, lazy at first, then with more insistence. She was using his face. His head became a tool, a living dildo for her to fuck herself on. She ground down, her pubic bone mashing against his forehead. The pressure was immense, threatening to crack his skull. He braced his arms against her thighs, muscles screaming as he tried to maintain some purchase, to avoid being completely pulverized.
“Fuck… yeah… just like that…” Her curses were grunts of effort. The nightmare was fading, burned away by this crude, sensory reaffirmation of power. Her other hand grabbed a fistful of sheet. The bed began a rhythmic, protesting creak. Creak… thud… creak… thud.
Ron’s world narrowed to the pounding of blood in his ears, the struggle for air in the brief moments she lifted her weight, the salty-bitter taste flooding his mouth. He was a thing being used. But inside the chemical fog, a cold, clear thought formed: The bedframe. It’s groaning. It’s stressed.
She came with a sharp, truncated cry—not a scream of passion, but a bark of release. Her body clenched around his head, a powerful, sucking spasm, and a fresh gush of fluid soaked him. She held him there, pressed deep, for a long moment, trembling.
Then her hand yanked him back by the hair. He came free with a wet, sucking pop, gasping, dripping, blind for a second.
She looked down at him, panting. Her eyes were clearer now. The fear was gone, buried under a familiar, contemptuous satisfaction. He was panting too, on his hands and knees, fluids matting his hair, running in rivulets down his chest.
“See?” she said, her voice regaining its normal, domineering timbre. “That’s better. That’s the truth.” She wiped herself casually with a corner of the sheet, then gestured at him, a flick of her fingers. “You’re a mess.”
She didn’t put him back in the box. Instead, she reached for the glass of water on her nightstand. It was half-full, condensing on the outside. The sight of it made her hesitate for a microsecond, her eyes flickering with a fragment of the dream—the cold, blue drowning.
She pushed the memory aside, her jaw tightening. She poured the water, not into a dish, but directly over him where he knelt on the sheet. A miniature cold waterfall slammed into him, knocking him over, rinsing the worst of the fluids away in a sudden, shocking chill.
He sputtered, shivering violently.
“There. Hose-down finished.” She smirked, a brittle imitation of her usual cruelty. She was performing for herself now. Rebuilding the persona. She picked him up, this time with a bit more care, and placed him not in the gym, but on her nightstand. Next to the lamp, next to the now-empty glass. “You’ll sleep here tonight. Where I can see you.”
She pulled her shorts back up and lay down, turning on her side to face him. Her head, the size of his entire world, settled on the pillow. Her black eyes watched him, unblinking. The scent of sex still hung heavily in the air.
Ron sat on the polished wood of the nightstand, water beading on his skin. He was exposed, completely vulnerable. But his mind was clearing, the adrenaline burning through the last of the sedative’s haze. He looked past her watching eyes, past the vast cliff-face of her body under the sheets.
He looked at the bedframe where it met the headboard, just behind the lamp. In the low light, he saw it. A hairline crack in the dark, stained oak. A fissure no longer than his entire body, but visible. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Creak… thud.
The groan of overstressed material. The nightmare that shook her. The irrational, reactive need to prove her dominance. The crack.
It was all connected. The pressure was not just metaphorical. It was physical, structural, and it was expanding. She was becoming too much for her own world to hold.
She eventually closed her eyes, her breathing deepening into sleep. Ron remained sitting, still, watching the crack. A plan, fragile and brutal, began to harden from theory into intent. He didn’t need to escape to the outside. The outside was irrelevant.
He just needed to help the pressure along. To find the right lever—her hunger, her fear, her crumbling furniture—and push.
When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Ronita woke. She looked at him immediately, a quick, searching glance. He was exactly where she’d left him, motionless. The nightmare was a distant bruise on her memory. She smiled, a slow, wide, possessive smile.
“Good morning, pet,” she rumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Ron looked from the crack in the bedframe to her smiling, confident face. He dipped his head in a perfect, obedient nod.
The lever, he thought. It was right here.
The smile on her face was a testament to her reconstructed certainty. Ron watched it solidify as she woke fully, the last vestiges of her nightmare vulnerability sealed behind the glossy arrogance in her eyes. She stretched, a long, groaning extension of limbs that made the mattress sigh and the headboard give a soft, alarming creak against the wall. The crack, Ron noted, did not change. But the sound was wetter, more strained.
“I feel… massive today,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, and the difference was immediate. The sheets, which usually draped her form with heavy folds, were pulled taut across her shoulders and breasts. When she swung her legs off the bed, her feet hit the floor with a deeper, more solid impact, like sacks of wet cement dropped from a height. The room seemed to shrink around her. She was wider. Substantially wider. The custom silk robe she reached for, which had been loose just yesterday, now strained across her back, the seams whistling a threat.
She stood. A slow, deliberate unfolding. Ron, from his vantage point on the nightstand, had to tilt his head further back to see her face. The ceiling felt lower. Her head seemed to brush the draped canopy of the bed. She took a step toward the full-length mirror, and her gait had changed—a heavier, more deliberate plod, a slight wobble of instability borne of new, unbalanced mass.
“God,” she breathed, staring at her reflection. Her hands went to her hips, her waist, lost in the new topography of her body. The NRG-14 wasn’t stabilizing. It was accelerating. The hunger she pacified was the engine of this transformation. A flicker of that same fear from the nightmare crossed her face, then was smothered by a blaze of defiant possession. She turned from the mirror, her eyes finding him. “Look at this. Look what’s happening to me.”
He said nothing. His silence was a polished stone.
“It’s power,” she declared, answering her own unspoken question. She lumbered back toward the bed, the floorboards complaining. “Pure, physical dominion. You can’t even conceive of it.” She didn’t sit so much as let herself collapse onto the edge of the mattress, which bucked and groaned, tilting Ron’s world violently. The crack in the headboard whispered.
Her hand came down, a sudden descent that blocked out the light. Her fingers, thicker than yesterday, closed around him. The heat of her grasp was more encompassing, her skin tighter, stretched. She lifted him, not to her face, but down, between the cliffs of her thighs where she’d seated herself. The heated, musky odor of her from the night before was richer, more concentrated.
“You’re going to worship it,” she said, her voice a low vibration. With her other hand, she ripped the straining silk robe apart. Buttons pinged against the floor. Her body was unveiled, a continent of deep brown skin, stretch marks like seismic ridges, her breasts heavy and pendulous. She was immense. A fact, not a metaphor.
She pushed her thighs apart, a movement that required effort. The fleshy inner surfaces were damp with sweat already. The forest of curly hair was a wilder, denser thicket. “Get in there. Show me how small you really are.”
She didn’t place him. She dropped him. He fell the short, dizzying distance into the hot, dark crevice. He landed on the soft, giving flesh of her inner labia, the impact absorbed by her body. The heat was sweltering, a biological jungle. He struggled to his knees, the world a canyon of pressing, salty flesh.
“Go on,” she commanded from above, her voice echoing. “Worship your fucking god.”
He knew the script. He bent forward, his mouth finding the same terrain he’d mapped hours before, but everything was amplified. The hood of her clit was more pronounced, a swollen peak. The scent was dizzying. He licked, a slow, flat stroke.
“Yes.” Her affirmation was a hiss. Her hands came down, not to his head, but to her own flesh. With thumbs the size of his torso, she pulled herself open for him, exposing the dark, glistening pink interior. “More. Tongue. Now.”
He pushed his face inward. Her flavor flooded his senses, a potent, salty-sweet broth. He worked his tongue into the tight, hot channel of her. She was already slick, her body reacting with a mindless, hungry urgency that mirrored her metabolic state.
“Fuck, that’s it,” she grunted. Her hips began to piston, not the rolling grind of before, but a shorter, more aggressive jerking. She was fucking his face with a frantic, needy energy. Each thrust mashed his entire body against her. He braced his hands, his arms trembling, as the world became a violent, wet, rhythmic pounding.
Her fingers found her clit, a crude, massive circling. “You see this? You feel this? This is what you made. This hunger.” She was talking to the nightmare, to the memory of her own smallness. “You shrank, but I… I expanded. I ate the fucking world.”
Her movements became chaotic, less controlled. The bedframe began a rhythmic, shrieking protest, a sharp crack-crack-crack with every drive of her hips. Ron could hear the distinct sound of wood fibers splintering. The lever was bending. Now.
She came with a raw, shouted curse that wasn’t his name, but a meaningless syllable of pure release. Her body clenched around his head in a series of brutal pulses, a deluge of fluid soaking him, hot and copious. She held him there, smothered in the violent aftermath, for a long, shuddering minute.
When she released him, pulling him out by one leg, he gasped, dripping and bruised. She held him up, her breathing ragged. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, staring at his slick, miniature form with something like awe and horror.
“Look what you do to me,” she whispered.
She grew overnight. The reality of it settled into the room, into the broken seams of her robe, into the newly fraught groans of the furniture. It wasn't just weight. It was a dimensional shift. She was outgrowing her containment.
She set him back on the nightstand, next to the empty glass that had, in her dream, been his ocean. She stared at the crack in her headboard, her triumphant expression slowly leaching away, replaced by a dawning, pragmatic calculation. The structure was failing.
Ron, painting in her fluids, watched her realize it. The momentum was his now. Her fear was no longer a ghost in a dream. It was in the splintering wood. And he would feed it.