Sylvia was many things. A scientist, a performer, an actress. She lived a full life — or so it seemed on the outside. She’d always been bright and full of energy, the kind of person whom everybody believes to be a personification of success. But, like anybody else, she had her skeletons in the closet.

One of them was macrophilia.

Sylvia created a separate identity for herself in the world of size fetish. There, she was known as “Azai”. For years, she’d only been lurking, afraid to contribute to either the discussion or the content; but, as her kink desired an outlet, she slowly gathered the courage to make her voice heard. It was rough; there were accounts deleted, conversations ghosted, comments edited to leave no trace of what was once said. But, eventually, she got over it.

Sylvia’s tastes in macrophilia were somewhat fluid at first, while she was still trying to find her footing. She spent some time exploring the role of a giantess, but quickly grew bored with the tiny crowd. Size fetish opens many avenues, but her favorite one was the unconditional, total, overwhelming power that the giants held over the tinies. As she pretended to be the giantess, she found that the tinies weren’t sincere; she would be a “goddess” to them, but only in a fetishistic sense, and they could never appreciate the extreme power disparity to the same level she could. Perhaps, she told herself, it was because it was all just playing and pretending. Or perhaps she just couldn’t find the right words for them to understand her.

So she swung the other way, she switched, she thought of herself as the tiny. What began as an experiment quickly led Sylvia down a somewhat slippery slope. Being tiny, to her, meant submission; it meant giving up one’s humanity. She expressed it in stories and role playing, and her sincerity always received praise from those she interacted with. Sylvia was uncompromising in her desire to have the characters she played totally subjugated, dehumanized, and and, very often, snuffed out.

The development of Shrinktech was something she followed very closely; she had enough technical expertise of her own to understand the process. She realized that the day that the technology would be rolled out onto the market wasn’t that far. She even had to step away from the main size fetish hubs that she participated in; now that she knew it could all easily become real, it suddenly became quite scary. The radical nature of her macrophilia meant that if she ever had the chance to shrink herself and place herself under someone else’s power, it would be difficult to get out.

But she came back, like she’d always done before. She wrote a short tale about a tiny lady who decided to get married to a giant.

“It was done. They were now bound together. She was now his tiny wife; she was now his property. Wordlessly, she fell on all fours and kissed the tip of his shoe; a moment later he raised his leg and rested it on her slender back, gently pushing her lower to the floor. She heard some of his friends clapping and wooing as she sunk, her white dress splaying out on the dusty ground, the impossible weight of her Husband pinning her down. Shutters clicked as people took pictures…”

Sylvia posted that story later that night. In the morning, she found a message in her inbox; it came from someone who claimed to be a fan of her work. They quickly got talking. It was quite rare that Sylvia felt like someone truly connected with what she was trying to convey through her stories; someone who truly understood the message those snippets of her imagination carried.

“Surrender must be unconditional”, she wrote in one of her messages, “because it’s the only thing that makes sense to me. The tiny is barely anything. The tiny is an item that should be happy it’s being used. And, if the big wants to snuff them out, then so it must be. Tinies that question the big’s supremacy aren’t truly tiny. They are just small humans. There’s a difference”.
The Fan agreed. He was eloquent about it, too. “Indeed. The moment a woman is tiny, she ceases to be a woman, because her former goals and aspirations stop mattering. All that matters is what her owner wants to matter for her. That’s what becoming a tiny is, you accept that whatever is left of your life serves someone else. You can’t still pretend to be a human if you’re stuck in my toejam. If you are my toejam”.
“That’s pretty hot”, Sylvia replied after a while. “You should get your hands on Shrinktech”.
“I already have it”, the reply followed.
She couldn’t resist. “And have you ever used it?”
“Yes”, he wrote. “But I never met someone who was really tiny. Only those who thought they were”.

For several days Sylvia kept going back to that conversation in her thoughts; she kept wondering what were the odds she’d ever run into someone who thought like she did, and she even questioned if he was really genuine — but he seemed to be, as whenever they talked about the fetish again he’d always be able to catch her exact thoughts. Of course, she started idly thinking about what that man must be like. Occasionally, she asked if he was still trying his luck with Shrinktech. He told her of another encounter with a woman who thought that shrinking would be fun, and yet backed out once he reduced her down to a foot tall and gave her basic orders. “They always think that a fun sexy time is coming”, he complained. “They don’t get that tinies themselves are not sexy. Tinies are nothing. All they are good for is being part of something. If I want to stuff a shrunken woman into a fleshlight or a condom, I’m doing it for the sensation. Not for her”.
“Only for the sensation?” Sylvia asked.
“Well, also for the knowledge that I become her world”, he replied. “That she’s suffocating and drowning in me. That I and my needs are all she has. You know”.
“I do”, she replied, suddenly feeling burning jealousy and hatred towards those women who didn’t value this man the way he deserved to be valued. “And what happened to her?”
“When they displease me”, her friend said, “I usually shrink them down to the size of an ant and leave them in my shoes for a while. I let them go in several days. Hopefully that’s a good lesson”.
“Do any come back to you?”
“A couple tried. But I don’t give second chances”.
“Nor should you”, she texted.

From then on, there was an almost electric feel to their conversations; Sylvia had some sleepless nights, pondering over what she was — or wasn’t — going to do. Her creativity skyrocketed and she poured her heart out in new fetish stories, each new one more raw and powerful than the one before. The tiny female ants in her fantasies one by one discovered where they belonged in their new little lives. Some were turned into mundane objects, some — permanently altered to serve as sex toys, and many were reduced to simpering bugs beneath the feet of normal men and women. Sylvia was straight, so she usually leaned towards the men — powerful, handsome, dominant men who were meant to rule, own and subjugate. Her fantasy landscape expanded rapidly, as she envisioned those men: sportsmen whose shrunken fans rubbed their feet after exhausting matches, rich businessmen with femants embedded into the insoles of their shoes, scientists with willing stress-toys to squeeze and prod and idly play with, ancient kinds with entire carpets of living, breathing bodies bound together into fleshy sheets to support and caress the bare soles that served as their skies.

She was struggling. And he noticed. He reached out to her and asked if she’d be interested in meeting up.