Christas Tiny Intern

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The polished mahogany gleam of the office door seemed miles away as I, all six millimeters of me, navigated the plush carpet. My heart, a tiny drum against my ribs, hammered with a mix of excitement and dread. Today was my first day as an intern, a monumental step, even if my perspective was… unique. The Shrinking Virus, a cruel twist of fate, had reduced me to the size of a particularly ambitious ant.

"Take a seat in Christa's office," the secretary had chirped, gesturing towards a door that loomed like a skyscraper. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. Christa. The HR manager. The name echoed in my mind, a mix of anticipation and sheer terror. I pictured a stern, matronly woman, and braced myself.

Reaching the relative safety of the enormous black leather chair, I perched on its smooth surface, the vast landscape of the office stretching out before me. I could make out the faint, rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, each tick a booming echo in my miniature world.

Then, she arrived.

The door swung open, and my breath hitched. Christa wasn't matronly. She was… breathtaking. A vision in tight, scarlet leggings that molded to her curves like a second skin, accentuating a perfectly rounded posterior that seemed to defy gravity. A crisp white crop top barely contained her ample cleavage, the fabric stretched taut across her full breasts. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, framing a face of striking beauty. She was a goddess, a titan, and I was a bug in her kingdom.

Christa moved with an effortless grace, her hips swaying gently with each step. She paused at her secretary's desk. "Any meetings, Maria?" Her voice was warm, a rich contralto that sent shivers down my spine.

"No, nothing scheduled," Maria replied, seemingly distracted.

Christa turned, her gaze sweeping across the room. And then, she walked towards me.

My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. I tried to shrink even further, to become invisible against the vast expanse of the chair. But it was no use. I was directly in her path.

She didn't see me. Of course, she didn't. I was a speck, a mote of dust in her world. And then, it happened.

Christa sat down.

The world went dark.

The pressure was immense, a crushing weight that stole my breath. Her magnificent, curvaceous backside had landed squarely on top of me. I was trapped, pinned beneath the soft, yet unyielding mass of her flesh. I could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her leggings, the faint scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and something musky, filling my senses even as my body screamed in protest.

Panic seized me. I thrashed, I strained, I pushed with all my might, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Her weight was absolute, inescapable. I was a fly caught in a spider's web, a bug beneath a boot.

The air grew thin, my lungs burning. I could feel the blood rushing to my head, the pressure building in my tiny frame. My struggles grew weaker, my movements more frantic. I was being crushed, slowly, inexorably, beneath the weight of her unaware beauty.

My last thought, as darkness consumed me, was a strange mix of terror and a perverse, fleeting sense of arousal. I was dying, crushed beneath the very object of my desire, a pathetic, insignificant end.