You go home and go to bed, hatching a plan for tomorrow.

All the next day, no matter what you're doing, your mind is on the Inanimatron. How does it work? Where does it come from? What else can you do with it? All these questions float around in your head, but one image persists through them all-- the image of Tara's ass descending onto you. You can't wait to give it a try.

The moment arrives. If she's as methodical as you think she is, and your calculation of time is accurate, then she ought to be arriving home any minute. You place your hand on the device and state your intention. Just like the first time, you're sucked into a void so omnipresent that not even your body exists; in that instant you exist as nothing in a sea of nothingness.

A second later, sensation returns to you. Your arms and legs are missing completely, leaving only your head placed upon a construction of tight fabric and cheap wood. Opening your eyes, you see a ceiling above you, a backrest behind you, and to the extreme left and right are two armrests of pure white cloth. Around you is a living room suite of glass and metal and even more white cloth. You smile mentally, recognizing the room you passed through the previous evening.

Now, you wait.
And wait.

And wait.

You begin to worry. Was she running late? Did something happen? Was she even coming home at all? You chastise yourself; why would you assume she did the same thing every day? Perhaps she had other plans that would keep her out well into the night. Time passes, and the room dims as the sun sets. All you can do is wait, horribly conscious of the fact that your time remaining transformed is ticking down with each passing second.

Finally, you hear a car park and turn off outside. There is the muffled sound of its door being shut. Your metaphorical heart pounds in anticipation as there is a jingle at the doorknob. The backrest blocks your view, but you hear her enter and drop her things. From another room you hear the distinct sound of your previous form dropping onto her vanity. Then, clothes falling, and finally approaching footsteps.

She sways into view above you, but all you can see is the rich scarlet robe and a waterfall of raven hair. She bends at the hip, forcing the robe to shape itself around her rear. To you, the two hills look like a cartoon heart that blocks your view of anything else. She hovers there a moment while the TV clicks on: so close, and yet, just out of reach. She bends a bit more. Her hands reach down and hold her robe against her legs, forcing it to hug her curves even more than it already was. Then, without further ado, everything darkens as she descends.

Her full weight slams onto you. Your face warps beneath it, conforming to her shape as her body sinks itself into you. She shuffles, mashing the soft fabric of the robe into your eyes. On what would be your chin, you feel her thigh muscles tighten, lifting her legs as she props her feet on the coffee table. You hear her flipping through channels until finally picking something and settling in.

The heat from her body radiates into you. Her robe is not dirty, but the detergent is stale after a few days without wash. You detect a bit of sweat, no doubt trapped to her body by a long day in clothes. She moves very little, only a few shifts in her weight from one side to another, but your face is forced to bend and creak to suit her curves.

You are completely beneath her; her body dominates you, and she doesn't even know it.