It Helps to Have a Backup Plan

Once upon a time, in a nondescript college campus in a nondescript Midwestern town, there was a college senior named Paul.

Paul was studious, industrious, and hopeless. He was good-looking enough, and had he not lacked for confidence, he would have found he could turn the heads of any number of the girls he pined for. But that lack of confidence was his downfall. So convinced was he that he would strike out that he devoted time he could have spent trying to talk a fellow coed into some extracurricular activities into something rather ridiculous – no less ridiculous for working.

The drug metabolized quickly, and had a temporary effect; about four hours in the mice. He had tested it on rodents enough to get some basic idea of dosage and effectiveness. Of course, he had never tested it on humans; still, the biomechanics of it were simple enough. Humans and mice aren’t that different, all things considered.

In retrospect, maybe he should have tried it on himself in a controlled environment. But he really couldn’t wait to do what he wanted so desperately to do.

He had a shrinking formula. Of course he was going to go spy in the women’s locker room.

He could have gone to the campus rec center, but he knew that women would be coming and going all the time. He’d have to get into the locker room, undress, and take the formula without being seen. Even though it worked quickly on the mice, he didn’t want to chance a very awkward confrontation. So he chose his target carefully: the women’s soccer team. There were more than a few beauties on the team, and he’d get plenty of chance to get an eyeful, before and after the game.

All he had to do was head into the stadium an hour before game time, and enter the vacant locker room. (It was all open; the school was small, and security was lax.) He slipped into the locker room, and quickly removed his clothing, storing them in a locker where he could grab them later. He checked the clock; he knew he didn’t want to take the serum too early, lest he unshrink in the middle of the post-game showers. (Ah…post-game showers.) He waited until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and downed the vial in one quick gulp, tossing it into the trash can.

He suddenly felt sick, felt vile, felt as if he would explode. He dropped to one knee, and then fell onto his side. As the room spun, he thought to himself that it was odd – he’d never seen the mice faint.

* * *

He first was aware of voices, distant and distorted. As his mind tried to make sense of the input, he suddenly sat bolt upright, rubbing his head and looking wildly around. If the serum hadn’t worked, he’d be naked and lying on the floor of the locker room, and he’d be expelled very soon.

But as he looked around, he couldn’t quite work out where he was. It didn’t look like the locker room. He was on some sort of enormous, rough concrete plain, with boulders littering the field to the horizon, which ran up against skyscrapers that were taller than the tallest mountains.

And then the explosion happened.

It came from behind him, a deafening thud and he was airborne, tumbling over and over. He skidded several hundred yards, though miraculously, he was unhurt. He was facing away from the locker, looking at a hill, yellow and black, with a shape that would have been unmistakable even without the three stripes.

It was a shoe. An enormous shoe. Too enormous.

He had been aiming for an inch or two tall.

The world jolted, and a new earthquake knocked him flat, as the shoe’s owner appeared as if from nowhere, sitting down on the bench.

Her size was beyond description. He stared up the expanse of leg near the shoe, and tried to guess how far up it went before the cliff of the knee. Thighs that converged on panties large enough to cover the campus. Was it a mile? It was damn far. Her uncovered breasts were spectacular, despite their similarilty to warehouses. A mass of black hair was above them, but the face was so far away he couldn’t see her. Not really.

He had to get away. He had to hide. He was the size of dust. He could hide, and wait out the serum. Hopefully it would wear off. Soon.

The next earthquake was worse. A different girl approached, moving faster than a jet. She stopped just a few hundred feet from him. Far, far above he saw short shorts with pink panties peeking out. In spite of himself, he found himself aroused. Terrified, but aroused.

And then, the worst possible thing happened.

She gathered her uniform out of her locker, fumbling but one item, which floated to earth harmlessly. She picked up the sports bra, never realizing that it had picked up a tiny, briefly unconscious piece of dust. Sliding it over her head, she pulled on her goalie jersey and shorts, put on her shin guards and socks, laced up her shoes. And though she couldn’t feel it, about four hundred feet from her heart, a piece of dust was waking up.

Paul lay on a rough surface, one that felt not unlike soft plastic. It was dark, and every few seconds, the world seemed to sway wildly. He couldn’t get a bead on exactly where he was until things got quiet for a moment, and he felt the steady pulse that slightly shook the wall of plastic that the plastic floor ended in.

He was standing on her nipple. It was quite big enough for him, soft as it was. When he got right up next to the breast, he could see just a smattering of light from above.

He tried to think of what he could do to get out of this predicament. He tried to think about how he could survive. He tried to think about what he was going to do about his raging hard-on. He just knew he was in terrible trouble.

And then the team burst from the locker room, and he was in hell.

It was fortunate for Paul that his hostess was a backup. Yes, warm-ups were awful; when she stretched out, she dropped to her knees, dropped to her behind, bending over, tossing him into the front of her bra before whipsawing him back into underneath it, or in between them, or into the front of her nipple. She took practice shots, and with each one, her breasts bounced, and the tiny, sentient piece of dust that bounced back and forth from sternum to breast to nipple to breast, he prayed for death, and death didn’t come.

But at least she went back to the bench, and he could sit. And for most of the first half and through halftime and into the second half, Paul was able to rest, clinging to the top of her right breast. He had to admit, this wasn’t bad. Oh, it was terrifying. And next time he’d have to fix the dosage. But at least he was able to enjoy being at second base, no matter the appropriateness of the metaphor.

He might have lay there until the woman undressed, and he might not have learned much.

But the starter pulled a groin muscle. And so the mountain of girlflesh he sat upon entered the game.

And if warmups had been awful, this was something other than else. She was more than willing to lay out for a ball, landing hard on her chest. And if that kicked some dirt out of its hiding place and out onto the collar of her shirt, she could hardly be bothered to notice. If that dust was caught by the breeze as she punted the ball and nearly blown away, only to grasp a thick cord that was one stray brown hair – her team had a one-goal lead. Who cared about dust? And as the dust tried to climb up the hair toward the enormous ear that might give him a chance at life, she moved to clear the ball, and he went tumbling down the mountain, landing in the middle of the penalty area, a forest primeval.

And then the ball sailed overhead, and the shoe crashed down near him, and all was black.

* * *

He awoke hours later. Alive. He was alive.

He knew he’d almost died. He knew he had to get back to the dorm before he was spotted naked. But it had been interesting.

Except for the fact that the grass still was enormous, though only a few feet over his head.

He was an inch or so tall, just like he planned.

He sighed. He wondered how long this would last. And what disaster would follow.