By: maximally
The storm was the least of Jack's worries at the moment, but it certainly didn't help. In his experience, people never gave big tips for wet pizzas—and that was the only possible positive outcome for this particular order. As he made his way up the front steps of the crumbling gothic mansion, he had to hunch over his delivery bag to keep all five of the extra-large Super Slice Specials inside from getting soaked. Hopefully, he wasn't about to end up like all the other guys who'd disappeared out here.
While he'd seen the place dozens of times from the road, this was the first time he'd ever set foot on the property—and he was already having second thoughts about that. It was the biggest house in his sleepy suburban town by a wide margin — a sprawling hilltop estate surrounded by dense hedges and a wrought iron fence — although he'd never noticed it until the current owner moved in a few years ago. Whoever they were, they were clearly loaded. And they loved pizza.
According to Jack's boss, the mansion's owner was such a big fan of Super Slice that they often covered half of the restaurant's monthly operating expenses all by themselves. Technically, they'd been paying Jack's salary for about two years now. The only catch was that the drivers who got dispatched to this address occasionally never came back—and Jack seemed to be the only person in town who wasn't satisfied with the idea that they'd all simply vanished into thin air. Even when the police were called, their investigations rarely lasted long.
Fortunately, Jack had always enjoyed some flexibility to pick and choose the orders he took—the closest thing to a perk he got for his several years of seniority at Super Slice. All of the other drivers on staff were rowdy high schoolers and college kids, and it seemed like his boss pitied him for still being here at the ripe old age of 25. Unfortunately, that flexibility still had limits. When he clocked in tonight, he'd discovered that five of his fellow drivers were out sick—and when he had pushed back on going up to the mansion, his boss had calmly informed him that he could either "take one for the team" or tender his resignation. Now, twenty minutes later, here he was.
Looking up at the mansion's imposing facade, he weighed his options one more time. While every fiber of his being was still screaming at him to turn tail and run, he had no interest in losing the steady paycheck that kept him out of his parents' basement. Surely, it was better to stop worrying and just get it over with. All he had to do was knock, drop the pies, get the money, and leave. Worst-case scenario, he'd be in and out in five minutes.
With a final deep breath, he leaned forward and elbowed the doorbell. The chime echoed ominously, a gloomy minor chord that only added to the gnawing uncertainty in his gut. Then, to his surprise, the heavy oak front doors swung inward on their own.
"Enter," a voice called out from somewhere inside. It was a low, sultry contralto — a voice that sounded like it was used to being obeyed — and before Jack had any time to second-guess himself, he'd already stepped into the dark foyer.
All at once, he was hit by an eye-watering wall of competing odors—the cheap sweetness of scented candles, incense sticks and perfume fighting a losing battle against the sour, vinegary tang of unchecked B.O. and the unmistakably eggy aroma of stale farts. Towers of pizza boxes from past orders were stacked like stalagmites beside the door, every available surface was covered in piles of what looked like dirty clothes, empty snack bags, soda cans and used sex toys, and the floor was audibly sticky under his sneakers. Whatever he'd expected the inside of this house to look — and smell — like, this wasn't it.
The only piece of decor that matched his expectations was a picture mounted on the wall opposite the doors—a large oil painting of a stunningly beautiful young woman with sharp, elegant features, deathly pale skin and long, dark hair, wearing a form-fitting black dress. Noticing her unmistakably pointy ears, Jack's inner fantasy nerd couldn't help thinking that she looked an awful lot like an elf—and for a moment, the uncertainty in his gut was replaced by a tentative flutter of excitement. If the owner of this house were some kind of hot, eccentric gamer girl, maybe he'd misjudged this whole situation. Beneath the painting, a small plaque offered a name—presumably, the woman depicted.
M O R G A
"Hello?" The voice called out again with a fresh note of impatience. "I'm in the parlor."
"Coming!" said Jack, taking a few more steps forward and nearly tripping over an ill-placed pile of socks. Off the left side of the foyer, he passed through an archway and into the parlor, a large and well-appointed room filled with ornate furniture, bookcases, chandeliers, a huge flatscreen and even more dirty clothes and pizza boxes. It took him a second to recognize the lady of the house, settled in the center of the room watching some kind of trashy reality show—and when he saw her, he couldn't help doing a double-take.
The elegant elf was gone, replaced by a monumentally chubby pear-shaped giantess slumped on a sofa that audibly groaned under her immense weight. Her six-foot-something body was a landscape of soft, powerful curves — breasts like watermelons, a vast gut that spilled over her waistline, and an ass that had to have been at least four and a half feet wide from end to end — and her current black sports bra and cotton panties looked stretched to their absolute limits. Her pale skin was dotted with crumbs, and a faint sheen of sweat covered her face. Her hair was visibly greasy, tied up in a messy ponytail, and her makeup looked as if she hadn't adjusted it in days. Looking her up and down again and again, Jack felt like his brain was short-circuiting.
Morga's eyes, framed by smudged dark purple eyeshadow, slid from the TV to him. A slow, bored smile spread across her lips, revealing pronounced upper fangs. "You're new." Her voice was that same bone-vibrating purr that had compelled him in before.
"I, uh… y-yeah. Pizza delivery." Jack's voice cracked. "You're… you're her. From the painting in the other room. Right?"
"Yeah." Morga absentmindedly reached a hand back to scratch her immense rump. "Is there a problem?"
"N-no! No problem," he stammered, feeling his face getting warm. "It's just… You look… different." The moment the words left his mouth, he realized he'd made a catastrophic mistake.
"Different." The bored smile on Morga's face solidified into something colder, crueler. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"N-nothing!" Jack took a step back and felt one of his sneakers catch on a pair of visibly used XXXL panties. "F-forget I said anything."
"You humans are all the same, you know that?" She punctuated her statement with a loud, greasy burp. "No manners whatsoever."
"Look, "said Jack, raising his hands in mock self-defense. "I think we got off on the wrong foot here…"
"I agree," she scoffed. "Now… hold still."
Jack winced instinctively, but the giant elf didn't move from the sofa. She just shifted her weight slightly, a monumental effort that made her sofa creak even louder in protest. Then she let out a long, lazy sigh—followed by a low, rumbling fart.
BBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPP
It wasn't loud, or violent, but a prolonged, effortless release—a hot, eggy cloud of corruption that filled the room in seconds. Jack gagged, bringing a hand over his face, but it was too late. He'd already inhaled an entire lungful, and he could already feel it affecting him—not just in terms of making him want to vomit, but something more.
The whole room seemed to tilt, and his thoughts — jumbled and anxious a second before — were becoming smooth and slow. The worries about his job, his missing coworkers and the prospect that he might soon be joining them wherever they ended up quickly melted into a singular, hazy focus. Suddenly, all he could think about, all he wanted to think about, was the sound of Morga's voice… and the smell of her gas. What was happening to him?
"That's better," Morga cooed, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Now... why don't you come here?"
Again, Jack's legs moved on their own. A small, desperate part of his mind was urging him to stop, turn around, escape while he still could, but it was buried under layers of thick, sulfurous fog. He was powerless.
"Lie down," she commanded, sitting up a little and patting the butt-shaped indentation she'd left beneath her on the sofa. "Right here."
He lamely obeyed, lowering himself onto the stained, worrisomely damp fabric, internally cringing at the powerful septic smell that greeted him. The world narrowed to the vast, pale expanse of the giant elf's body. Then, with a grunt of effort, she sat back down.
As Morga's ass settled onto Jack's face, he found himself completely pinned. It was like being trapped under an avalanche—a good four or five hundred pounds of flesh crushing him into the sofa. He couldn't move or speak. All he could do was breathe—and every breath was another suffocating, rancid lungful of her.
The minimal space between her colossal cheeks was a deep, humid, noxiously funky canyon—and the more she shifted herself around, the deeper he found himself buried into it. By now, Morga's asshole was pressed right up against his nose, and the thin layer of fabric that separated his skin from hers was moist with sweat and butt funk. The heat was unbearable, the intimate, musky smell of her most private regions was a physical presence, and the pressure was so intense that Jack felt like his skull was about to crack. It was absolutely disgusting. And there was nothing he could do about it.
"Mmm, much better," Morga sighed above him, her voice muffled by her own incredible mass. He felt her grab something — one of his pizza boxes, he guessed — and then she settled back to watch her show.
"You know," she began, halfway through a mouthful of pizza, "when I was first banished here, I was bored out of my mind. No goody-two-shoes mages to torment. No other magical beings at all. Just... this." He felt her vaguely gesture around the room, her hips shifting slightly and grinding his face even deeper into her sweaty crack. "But now? I think I'm coming around on it. I mean, the food's not bad at all. And TV? The internet? A girl could get used to this."
She took another bite of pizza, and Jack felt the muscles in her immense gut shifting against the back of his head. By now, the rational part of his mind had regained some control and was reeling to think of a possible explanation for everything he was going through. This woman was clearly out of her mind, and all the stuff about "magical beings" only served to reinforce that conclusion. The big question was how she'd drugged him into obeying her deranged commands—and how he was going to get out of here.
"The only thing I still can't get over is the people," Morga chuckled, feeling Jack's struggles intensifying beneath her. "You're all way too easy to break." She shifted her hips again and let out another big, lazy fart right into his face.
PPPRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLLLLTTTTTTTT
This one was even wetter and hotter than the first, a direct injection of noxious gas that hit him point-blank, flooding his senses—and then, his train of thought dissolved back into nothingness. The hypnotic rhythm of Morga's voice, the smothering pressure of her ass, the overwhelming, intoxicating stench of her farts—it was too much. His consciousness flickered, overpowered by the sheer multi-sensory barrage of being turned into Morga's newest plaything—and in a matter of minutes, buried under hundreds of pounds of slobby, gassy elf, he was out cold.
When Jack woke up, he was still trapped under Morga's ass—but something had clearly changed. The deep, suffocating heat seemed warmer, the colossal weight pinning him seemed heavier, and the unmistakably organic, earthy smell seemed much stronger. It was almost like she'd gotten bigger—or he'd gotten smaller. For some reason, he was also naked.
Still reeling from the hypnotic assault and subsequent suffocation he'd endured at the hands of the foul elf before losing consciousness, he struggled to process his current surroundings—namely the pulsing, wrinkled ring pressing up against him. This was clearly Morga's asshole, now a cavernous living maw nearly twice his size. From his newly diminished perspective, it seemed easily capable of swallowing him up without expanding at all—and with each rhythmic contraction, a powerful vacuum tugged at him, trying to draw him inward, into the humid, impossibly dark depths of her rectum.
Was this really how it was all going to end for him? Eaten alive by a giant, deranged nerd's backdoor? As much as he wanted to believe this was all one big bad dream, he wasn't having any luck snapping out of it.
As the huge pucker brushed against his face, his system flooded with a mix of disgust and pure, undiluted panic. He flailed, bare feet scrabbling for purchase against the smooth, towering slopes of his giant captor's cheeks. He tried to push himself backward, to scramble away from the monstrous orifice, but his hands slipped on the slick, sweaty skin that surrounded it. No matter how hard he fought, he was still sliding down, toward the dark, pulsing opening that promised a warm, wet and final entombment.
"Mmm, someone's eager." A voice boomed from above, vibrating through him like thunder.
Before he could process the words, a colossal hand descended to pry his fleshy prison apart. Then came two sticky fingers, tipped with pointed black nails, closing around his torso and effortlessly plucking him free. He was lifted high into the air, catching fleeting glimpses of Morga's pale back, the twin hemispheres of her ass and the sea of trash and clutter that was her parlor. Then, his giant captor brought him around to face her.
Morga's face was immense, a beautiful, cruel moon, and she had a bored, amused smirk on her lips. Her smudged purple eyeshadow and black lip gloss were now vast swaths of color, and her breath was a warm wind that smelled faintly of stale pepperoni and soda.
"See something you like?" Her smirk became a grin.
He could only stare, brain short-circuiting all over again. If he'd found her intimidating before, he needed a stronger word now. She was a titan. A goddess of sloth, decay and cruelty. His eyes wandered down past the monumental slope of her hips to the sofa below. There, lying in a heap next to a crater-like impression in the cushion, was a familiar pile of clothes. A band t-shirt, jeans, sneakers—his clothes, still conspicuously normal-sized. Unlike him. At this point, the reality of his situation was impossible to ignore. Somehow, he had shrunk.
"Oh no…" he whispered. "No, no, no…"
"'Oh yeah," Morga murmured, grin growing. "I find that guys like you are much more… manageable at this size. Less backtalk. More utility. Nothing a little shrinking spell can't fix."
"Utility?" he echoed, feeling numb. "S-spell?"
"Of course." She smiled, a terrifying sight up close. "I mean, what am I supposed to do with a regular-sized human guy?" She brought him back toward her body, not to her face, but down, down past the vast shelf of her gut, down toward the incredible expanse of her thighs. "I suppose I could keep you around as a servant… but you're way more useful like this."
She dangled him precariously over the deep, warm chasm between her tree-trunk thighs. Feeling the heat rising from her musky, fragrant loins, he grimaced.
"Now," she rumbled, her voice taking on a harder edge. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way is, you do what I say." She lifted him back up to her eye level, letting the horrifying proposal hang in the air. "The hard way, "she continued, replacing her smirk with a look of bored disdain, "is you struggle. You complain. You bore me. And when I get bored…" She brought him toward her mouth. Her lips parted, and he stared into the dark, cavernous space beyond, catching a glimpse of a terrifyingly big, hungry tongue and the glint of twin fangs. "…I get hungry."
"I…" His voice cracked. The choices before him were unthinkable: death by digestion, or a life of unspeakable humiliation and sensory torture as a live-in pet. His stomach churned. He wanted to scream, to cry, to vomit. But the larger part of him, faced with the visceral reality of her power, simply shut down. Survival was the only instinct left. "I… I guess I'll take the easy way?"
Morga's face lit up. "You're smarter than you look."
Before Jack could say more, the giant elf was already moving him again. Then, in one worrisomely effortless motion, she returned him to the humid, funky darkness from which he'd come—forcing him back down into the deepest, darkest reaches of her ass, right against the pulsating, wrinkled star of her anus. The sheer scale of it was even more terrifying from this re-established perspective. It dominated his world, a living, breathing monument to his submission.
"There we go." She paused, adjusting her weight on the sofa, the seismic movement grinding Jack firmly into place, pressed face-first against her asshole. Then he felt a deep, internal rumble from above. It grew in intensity, a gathering storm of gas moving through her bowels, heading directly for him. There was nowhere to run. He could only brace himself.
BRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT
The giant pucker before him distended slightly, and a suffocating, humid blanket of hot, viscous gas washed over him. It was louder than anything he had ever experienced, and the smell was beyond description—a concentrated, eye-watering essence of everything she had eaten, processed and fermented within her immense gut, delivered point-blank. When it finally subsided, Jack was left gasping, ears ringing, stomach quivering, mind utterly blank except for the overwhelming, all-consuming power of his new mistress.
"Now you're getting it," Morga chuckled. "Let's see if we can get a whole week out of you."
***
As always, the first thing Jack registered was the smell—a thick, living presence that filled his lungs as he stirred from dreamless sleep. He was nestled deep within the humid, funky canyon of Morga's ass, his face mere inches from the unforgivingly rancid abyss that was her asshole. And he had absolutely no objections about that.
By now, the Jack who'd once worried about tips and career prospects was long gone. That Jack would have been horrified with the being he'd become. He would have screamed and fought to the last breath. This Jack simply shifted his weight, making himself more comfortable against the warm, yielding walls of flesh that kept him safe. These days, he had more practical matters to worry about. Was that distant gurgling a fart in the making? He hoped it was. The vibrations were comforting. They meant he was fulfilling his purpose.
Without warning, his world tilted violently. Then a blinding sliver of light appeared high above, followed by a hand. He winced, shielding his eyes from the unexpected glare as his mistress pulled him into the cold, open air of her bedroom.
"Good morning, pet," said Morga, bringing him so close he could feel her breath. She was just as beautiful and cruel as ever—perhaps a function of her elven heritage. "Do you know what day it is?"
Jack shook his head mutely. In the warm, dark rhythms of his mistress's ass, he had no use for concepts like time.
"It's your one-month anniversary," she purred, her grin widening to reveal her fangs. "You've officially lasted longer than any other human I've ever… acquired."
She paused, watching the minuscule emotions play across his face. There was no pride in his eyes, only dull, submissive curiosity. What did she want from him? Was he in trouble? How was he to be punished today?
"I have to admit, I'm impressed," she continued, her tone shifting to one of mock seriousness. "I wasn't expecting you to be so… resilient. I thought you might deserve a reward."
She adjusted her grip on him, holding him up like a prized trinket.
"In exchange for all your loyal service, I've decided to grant you one wish." Her eyes glittered with malicious glee. "Tell me anything your heart desires in this realm, and I can probably make it happen for you. Maybe you'd like me to bring you back to normal? Set you free?" She leaned in closer. "It wouldn't be any trouble. All you have to do is say the word."
For the first time in weeks, a coherent thought found its way into Jack's mind: free. The word felt like a relic from a language he no longer spoke. He could picture it, but just barely: walking on his own two feet, breathing fresh air, seeing the sun. He could go back to his parents' house, try to explain his absence, piece his life back together…
BBBRRRRTTTTTTT
As Morga shifted in bed, absentmindedly letting loose a relatively small fart, Jack's nostrils instinctively flared. The instant the smell reached his lungs, a far more vivid, real thought came into his mind: her. The crushing, smothering safety and warmth of her ass. The addictive, hypnotic aroma of her fumes. The sheer, awesome power she held over him. His lazy goddess. To be free would be to separate himself from her—to be cold, small and insignificant in a world that didn't care for him.
The choice was no choice at all.
He found his voice, cracked and reedy from weeks of disuse. "M-mistress," he whispered, the title coming as naturally as breathing.
Morga arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"My wish…" He took a shuddering breath, filling his lungs with air — her air — for confidence. "I wish… to stay with you. I wish to spend the rest of my life right here, with you, just as I am now. Please."
A beat of silence passed between them. Then, Morga's face broke into a vast grin. It was the most wonderful and terrible thing Jack had ever seen.
"As you wish," she cooed. She brought him close enough to plant a wet, smacking kiss on his entire body with her black-glossed lips, leaving him with a face-full of pizza grease. Then, without another word, she moved him. The world became a blur of pale flesh and dark fabric. There was no hesitation, no ceremony—just a woman returning her favorite toy to its proper place.
He was plunged back into the profound, welcoming darkness of her ass—and as he felt the warm, soft walls of her flesh closing around him, he shivered with pleasure. He soon found himself pressed once more against her anus, which greeted him like a big, smelly old friend. The familiar, musky, organic scent flooded his senses, and he breathed it in deeply, a sense of profound peace settling over him. This was right. This was where he belonged.
Above him, he felt the deep, seismic shift of Morga's massive body as she settled her weight more firmly on the sofa. A low, gathering rumble began deep within her core, a tremor that built in intensity until it vibrated through every molecule of his being. He pressed himself closer against her, arms spread, embracing the source of the coming cataclysm.
"Good boy," Morga's voice filtered down, a hint of something like pride in her tone. "Very good."
BBBBRBRBRBRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPP
His mistress's asshole bloomed, stretching open like a hungry flower. There was no violence, only an immense, effortless release. A torrent of hot, vicious gas erupted, washing over him, through him—and Jack didn't fight it. He didn't even gag. He simply opened his mouth and drank it in, his body shuddering with perverse ecstasy as the warm, foul mist coated him from head to toe. His world shrank once more to the simple, perfect realities of Morga's ass. As the final, lingering vibrations subsided, leaving him gasping and utterly claimed, a single contented thought echoed in the void of his mind.
He was home.