Max’s grin twisted into something darker as he held me in his sticky, syrup-smeared palm, the faint scent of bacon grease mixing with his sweaty grip. “Hold up, Ben,” he said, his voice low and taunting, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. “Gotta take care of something before we really get started.” The way he said it sent a chill through me, even in my shrunken, invulnerable state. He lumbered across the room, his heavy footsteps shaking the floor, and plopped me onto his cluttered desk, next to a half-empty bag of chips and a crusty water bottle. The desk lamp’s dim glow cast jagged shadows over the mess, amplifying the stale, sour odor of his bedroom.
“Time to get comfy,” Max said, chuckling as he stood and, without warning, stripped off his shirt, revealing a sweaty, flushed torso. He didn’t stop there. With a casual, almost performative slowness, he shoved down his jeans and boxers in one go, tossing them into the chaotic pile of clothes on the floor. He stood there, completely nude, his massive frame looming over me, the air thick with the musky, unwashed scent of his body. The smell was a gut-punch—sweat, stale food, and something raw and primal that made my senses reel. “Bet you’re gonna love this, little dude,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery as he scratched himself absently, oblivious to my disgust.
Before I could react, Max’s grin widened, and he flicked me off the desk with a quick swipe of his finger. I tumbled onto the carpet, landing among the grayish-blue fibers next to a jagged Lego piece, the faint stench of his socks still lingering. “Run, Ben!” he bellowed, laughing as he stepped forward, his bare feet thudding against the floor. “Let’s see how fast you are!” Panic surged, and I scrambled across the carpet, dodging crumbs and lint, my tiny legs moving as fast as they could. Max didn’t know I couldn’t be hurt, and the wild glint in his eyes told me he was aiming to crush me—or at least make me think he would. His laughter boomed as he chased me, his massive form casting a shadow that swallowed the room’s dim light.
The chase was hopeless. His bare foot came down inches from me, the impact shaking the floor, the sweaty, cheesy smell of his sole overwhelming. I darted toward a pile of comic books, hoping to hide, but Max was too quick. His greasy fingers scooped me up, his skin hot and clammy, the musky odor of his body even stronger now. “Gotcha!” he crowed, holding me up to his face, his breath a nauseating mix of maple syrup and bacon grease. He strode to his bed, the mattress creaking as he flopped down, still naked, the sheets reeking of sweat and unwashed fabric.
“Time to chill, Ben,” Max said, his voice smug as he sprawled out, positioning me near his dick the heat of his skin was suffocating, the air thick with a potent, musky stench that made my head spin. He shifted, getting comfortable, his body pressing me into the damp, coarse hairs, the smell overwhelming—a rancid blend of sweat, skin, and something sour that clung to me like a fog. Max sighed, oblivious to my suffering, his hand resting lazily near me as he stretched out, the bed creaking under his weight. “This is the life, huh?” he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he nestled me closer, trapping me in the suffocating heat and odor of his body. I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, forced to endure the nauseating closeness, the relentless sensory assault, while Max relaxed, completely at ease, his twisted idea of “playtime” leaving me in a hell of disgust and helplessness.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author