More Disclaimer: This work is my own. The characters are my own. Do not repost this story beyond the limits of the Fair Use standards of Copyright Law (quotes, examples, ‘you gotta read this’ excerpts, the usual). the author is not making any kind of profit from this fanfic.
I tend to work with size-themed fiction, which includes overwhelming control issues and outrageous differences in scale. Such disparate sizes between partners is not for everyone, so be warned.
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At Eddie's parties, the games started after dinner. She had a number of board games around the mansion, all collector's versions or luxury custom jobs.
To start the mood, you might find yourself playing skittle-bowl with ancient wooden pins, or a game of checkers with marble pieces.
Eddie assigned them apparently at random. The only thing you knew for sure was that you wouldn't be playing your spouse.
Her cool voice invited, her eyes promised. "Well, Mr. Ramsey, I have heard you do well at draughts. Why don't you show Mrs. Montpelier how well you can jump?"
No dramatic pause to let you know she intended innuendo. She just sailed on, drawing the rest of the guests after. "Billiards!" you'd hear her crow as she passed through the door. "Mrs. Gordon-Smythe, I remember you being something of a shark at the table...."
You'd get a brief, private time in one room or another, getting to know the other guest. An efficient, almost invisible staff would keep your drinks from drying out.
And at the end of the game one would appear at your elbow, indicating where Madam expected you.
Word games were usually next. Teams would be formed and clues given. Score wasn't kept. I came to realize it wasn't competition that was being fostered in these events.
Rather, we were getting comfortable with one another. And with the words. One or another player would suggest a rather naughty word, a light innuendo that had everyone giggling.
Then they got bolder, more explicit, until they stopped even at euphemisms for sexual congress or sexual plumbing. Once someone had shouted 'penis' or 'pussy' to fill in the blank, Eddie judged us ready.
Depending on the number of guess, one, two or three Twister mats would have been arranged over rugs on the floor of the music room.
Eddie ran the dials. There were two. One for men and one for women. But first she called out for us to strip. There was another dial. If she called out clothing you wore, off it came, unless there was a layer over it.
Once she called something that no one had on, or still had on, we started Twister.
This could be good or it could be bad. I've had booby and cock both flop into my face. Of course, by that point I was usually so lubricated I gave either one a lick or two, waiting for the mass to shift.
And I gave more than as well as I got. Oh, my, yes.
When Eddie thought we were all ready, she rang her little bell. We straightened and stood and followed her to the buffet. After the exertions, the light refreshments were welcome.
And by that point we hardly cared if the servants saw us wearing shirt and socks and nothing else, or perhaps a bra and nothing else. I swear, one night I attended and the only thing anyone had on was one feather boa.
How she kept it on during the scrum I'll never know.
There was no talking during this part. The anticipation was too high. We watched as Eddie was undressed. Two of her servants wordlessly stripped her bare.
Her alabaster skin shone in the moonlight. It would be years later before I would realize she always choreographed the parties so that she'd strip in moonlight.
She looked like a vampire, then. No 'walking undead' or sparkling parody. A marble statue, cold yet desirable, gentle curves as yet unwrinkled, unaged. Pure and as cold as a tombstone.
Until she smiled, coming alive again like winter melting into spring. The eyes shone and the teeth glinted and we all took a step closer to her.
The vials were lined up in a brass tray. It was filled with birdseed and the stopped glass tubes rested upright.
Each had a number engraved in the glass and amber fluid inside. It was whiskey, always, her special blend.
What wasn't always there was the special bonus.
Dice carved from petrified bones were rolled by our naked hostess. Guests were gifted with one vial, seemingly at random. I say seemingly. For years I believed it to be so. But looking back, I doubt that the Countess would ever allow that much chaos in such a tightly wrapped scheme.
We held our treasures, still waiting for the final reveal. The dice rolled again and she handed out keys to the bedrooms upstairs.
The crowd scampered, each one running to the stairs as soon as we had the key in our hands.
You found the number that matched the tag, opened it and locked it again. Then you either found the room occupied with your partner for the night, or you had to wait until they showed up.
The only thing you knew for sure was that you wouldn't be playing your spouse.
I really can't believe I accepted that as the result of random chance for the entire time I worked at the Embassy. Youth, I guess.
Anyway, it was never the spouse. And it usually wasn't the partner from the first board game. But sometimes, on those rare, lucky nights, it wasn't any of the guests.
You got to the room, took off any clothes that remained, and waited. And waited. Eyes on the door, you began to suspect. You hardly dared hope.
Maybe they had to stop at the bathroom, you'd try to tell yourself. Or slipped on the stairs. They'd dropped their vial and needed to get another one. Or had to go outside for a smoke.
God, I could use a smoke, you'd think. Fool, you couldn't have delayed reaching that room if you'd broken a bone.
It was real. It was really happening.
The door would open, drifting gently to the stop. She'd be there. The Countess would smile, stretch and beckon. You'd follow her to the hall where one of the other guests had been collected.
Boy, girl, boy, girl made for an even number of couples, but nothing left over for Eddie.
As the hostess, though, she got two partners. Greedy, but no one would deny her. Any who complained, any who questioned the arrangements wasn’t invited ever again.
You'd follow her back to the end of the hall, to her bedroom. She'd unlock it and draw you after. Both of you.
She'd crawl onto the bed, barely visible in the candlelight.
"Drink," she commanded. The word was never finished before matching pops sounded from the rubber stoppers.
You drank. You always got whiskey. Sometimes you got whiskey and the shrinking potion. And sometimes more, sometimes less.
More often than not, only one partner changed. The man or the woman would stoop to scoop the woman or the man up in their hands.
Then cuddle the little puppy to their bosom, or lift the little doll to their shoulder or cradle the tiny creature in their cupped hands.
They'd move to the bed, or maybe the bay window, or once in a while two tiny figures stole under the furniture on naked safari.
The bed and/or the partner assumed relative dimensions of mahout and elephant, captain and schooner, Gulliver and the Queen.
Explorations after that were up to the participants. Some found being bigger thrilling, some preferred being smaller.
Perhaps your partner's strength or helplessness thrilled you. Or maybe it was the trust required, the trust offered, to let such a monstrous brute have their way with you, or even to pick you up.
Or to stand there, trembling, reaching your hand closer and closer, coming to surround them with your fingers, and there was aught they could do to stop or restrain you.
The Countess never shrank herself. She also didn't always shrink her lovers for the night. I can't begin to guess how many possible combinations there were.
But the experiences never seemed to repeat itself. Lord knows the nights with our Hostess were wonderfully unique, inventive and rare.
But my favorites, I think, of those exceptional threesomes were nights that both of us shrank.
Eddie would dangle a hand or a foot over the bed, down to the floor where we could reach her. A light pinch between digits allowed her to languidly lift us to the top of the mattress, often depositing us both on her belly.
There was some sort of hierarchy in the Countess' mind. Tiny people came first. Whoever was the smallest guest received attentions from the other.
If we were equally small, she expected us to please each other. It wasn't much of a sacrifice for her.
After the build up, the evening of intimacy, heightened innuendo and raw sexual tension (And boobies! And Cocks!), it was never long before we gasped and fell across her skin, sweating and gulping at the air.
Then she'd lift us up for a gentle kiss, light pecks on thighs, on ass, on bellies and boobs, quickly growing in urgency and power.
She'd mouth at us, often taking us entirely into her mouth, if we fit. The nerves in all-too-sensitive flesh, just passed from mind-blowing sex, fairly screamed at her gigantic touch, but drove us mad with inflamed desire.
I'll tell you, you look at a lovely woman and might hope to lay a hand on her breast, you might imagine her lips on your mouth. Maybe you're forward enough to imagine her lips on your cock. I lived for the moments Eddie dangled me over her open mouth. Stretched between two hands that gripped me at wrist and ankle, I was as helpless as a pig on a spit while she licked and lipped me, exploring and promising.
She licked from forehead to shin, tarrying wherever the taste or my reaction fired her imagination.
Then I'd rest, sprawled over her nipple, or maybe her belly, sometimes over her snatch like a string bikini, while she gave my peer for the evening a similar treatment.
Sometimes the position would be enough to get my motor running yet again. The boob wobbling under me, the nipple pursing itself against my chest.
Or the heartbeat next to my cheek, the belly undulating with her gentle laughter.
Or her hot, wet sex where I lay draped across it.
It was a long, marvelous night, whatever we did. She kept us hopping, popping and finally dropping.
Curled up in one of her stockings or maybe laying the length of a pillow, sometimes almost as tall as she was and laying alongside.
The morning would come much, much too soon. Then coffee and robes would appear. Restored bodies would shakily gain covering and stalk through the mansion to the guest rooms with our luggage.
Sometimes hunger drove us back to the buffet where a full breakfast waited. More often than not I made a quick, vulgar sandwich out of a pancake, bacon strips and a spoonful of egg.
Such was my hunger that all I did when the wife arrived was move out of her way.
When more prosaic hungers were sated, we'd drift back to the bedrooms, the ones with our luggage this time. There to cuddle with the spouse and take a short but unavoidable nap.
By the time we woke, our clothes had been dry cleaned and hung in the closet. Afternoon clothes were laid out. A very heavy, fulfilling lunch awaited.
We'd emerge, mingle, sport, picnic or read. Couples left, couples arrived, and our perfect Hostess kept us all content.
A dinner followed that could stand proudly against any of the fashionable restaurants of the Continent.
It was usually a light meal, as the games started after dinner.
