I am immensely proud of this story. I began it in early April as a Kinky Scribble and have worked on it for the last three months as a form of both escapism and conversely, as a way to learn more about myself. It helped me to explore my sexuality. What do I find erotic? Why? What does that say about me? Leaning into those questions has taken me on a ride this year. It’s been healing and exciting, and really, really kinky.

“Woman, in Ecstasy” follows the story of a woman on a date with her boyfriend at a museum of sex. He convinces her to volunteer as part of a kinky art installation, where she grows, shrinks, and becomes a horny slut at the mercy of strangers—one of whom has eyes on her boyfriend.

I’ll be unveiling this story in five chapters, each one lewder than the last. I’m proud to be able to offer author-read audio for each installment. This is a way to ensure increased accessibility for members of the kink community who use screen readers, and adds some extra sexiness for my fellow audiophiles.

Scroll to the story content section if you want to jump right to the story.

 

Artwork & shout-outs

I’m thrilled and deeply grateful to @pseudo_size for creating this GORGEOUS and sexy render art of one of my favorite moments in the story.

It’s no exaggeration to say that this story would not be what it is without pseudo and his help. His skill and empathy in beta reading, his insight into character development, story arcs, strengths and vulnerabilities, all of it helped me tell the story I was trying to tell.

Please go check out his art and writing, including a new story he’s sharing for Pride Month, Holding Space. It’s one of the sexiest stories I’ve ever read in the size kink community.

 

Story inspirations

Inspiration for this story comes partly from a place that’s been on my bucket list for years, The Vagina Museum. It’s hardly the only museum of sex, but it is the world’s first bricks-and-mortar museum “dedicated to the gynaecological anatomy.” They have a snarky, outrageous, and fascinating Twitter account. They have a podcast covering topics like “Muff Busters: Vagina Myths.” Their gift shop is full of awesome vagina and vulva stuff, from bags and flags to art prints, jewelry and menstrual products. They’re doing vital, groundbreaking work, and they’re doing it for free because they believe in access for all to this kind of education. They nearly went under during the start of the pandemic due to some patriarchal, sex-shaming bullshit, so please consider supporting them if you’re able. (And if you want to buy my polycule and me a plane ticket to the UK to cross this off my bucket list, here’s my PayPal!)

The Vagina Museum first introduced me to the particular piece of shunga art mentioned in this story. Yes, in 1827 one of Japan’s most successful ukiyo-e woodblock artists, Utagawa Kunisada, really did create a work of erotic art where a giant vagina blasts sunshine at two tiny people. And if you’re into hypercocks, “genital exaggeration” is a common feature of shunga. You’re welcome.

All of the more fucked-up representations of nonprofit culture depicted in this story were inspired by my own experience in the nonprofit world here in Texas, where people who care a lot about good causes find themselves doing more and more desperate things for basic survival during the throes of late-stage capitalism. If you care about nonprofit work, I’d encourage you to follow Vu Le of Nonprofit AF, who is leading the charge against crappy funding practices with snarky, honest responses to philanthropists and salary disclosure with a side of sarcastic unicorns. My point is that nonprofits are desperate, now more than ever, and systemic inequities are causing people and orgs to become versions of themselves they cannot hope to sustain. All of which is to say, I’m certain that the badass folks at the Vagina Museum would never keep an exhibit like the one I fantasized about. But if they ever did, and if they were ever taking volunteers… you know, just for a day…

 

Support the author

Money is tight right now. I have twelve works of fiction in progress, ranging from wholesome to kinky as fuck. I’d like to continue releasing them here for free.

If you enjoy this story and want to see/hear more like it, the best way to do that is to support me financially. (The second best way is to boost the signal on my stories and encourage your friends to support me, too.) Thanks, y’all!

 

Story content

Tagging is the only way I know for people online to be able to opt in or out of a sexual experience with fully informed consent. I welcome help in tagging—please let me know if I have missed anything important.

Tags for the story overall will include:

F/m/f, f/M/F, f/F – (shrinking, growth, public play, exhibitionism, breast & ass expansion, humiliation, objectification, dubcon/noncon, mind control, intelligence play/bimbofication, hypnosis, begging, orgasm denial, jealousy, cuckolding, BDSM, voyeurism, masturbation, entrapment, claustrophobia mention, licking, sucking on fingers and feet, kisses, insertion, cunnilingus, penetration, and “bigger on the inside” magic for fucking tinies.)

Tags for this chapter in particular include:

F/m/f – (shrinking, growth, public play, exhibitionism, breast & ass expansion, objectification, dubcon/noncon, mind control, intelligence play/bimbofication, orgasm denial, BDSM, entrapment, claustrophobia mention)

 

 

Read the story

AUDIO VERSION: Listen to a 21-minute author-read version of the story here.

TEXT VERSION: Read the text version of the story behind the cut.

 

Woman, in Ecstasy

Chapter 1

2759 words

By Elle Largesse

Copyright 2022, all rights reserved.

 

When the museum is quiet, when I can catch my breath between visitors punching buttons at my exhibit, I can spend hours remembering the fucked-up chain of events that put me here. On display. Living art in the most popular attraction this museum has ever seen. And at the mercy of strangers, here to explore the human sexual impulse.

Supposedly, people come here to admire art and history. When they explore my exhibit dashboard, they think about what it means “on an artistic level” that I moan when they shrink me. Or groan when they grow me.

What kind of statement was the artist making, to include a fucking machine with a rainbow dildo that can be turned off or on at any time by any member of the public?

What does it say about western culture that she included a lever to increase my sexual arousal, and another to reduce my inhibitions, and yet a third that she labeled “intelligence”—and what does it say about me that I yearn for all three to be pushed to absolute extremes?

Some come here to make art, to sketch the way my breasts catch the light at different sizes and different times of day. I look forward to the woman who likes to adjust the dial on my breast expansion so she can practice her charcoal drawings. I like her baggy sweaters. I like the way she looks at me.

It feels like a small price to pay for the fact that she leaves me at enormous sizes when she’s done. I don’t mean watermelon-sized breasts. I mean tits so big that I fill the enclosure completely. If she comes at the end of the day, I’ll have to spend all night alone, my breasts pressed helplessly against the glass while I try to pleasure myself back to a normal state. It never works, but if the levers are left in the right configuration, it doesn’t matter.

Others come here for academics, like the parade of students from the university’s Human Sexuality 401 unit, who have been encouraged to try as many of my settings as possible to investigate and document their own reactions.

Last month every morning from 7 am to the opening of the museum, an entire team from the Psychology Department ran studies on volunteer research subjects to test reactions to “power inversions.” It was such a shock to my system to have them grow me and shrink me again and again for their experiments.

Do you have any idea how surreal it is to grow to 50 feet tall, kneeling and suddenly claustrophobic in a space the size of a racquetball court? Looking down at the test volunteer who stared up in awe and sometimes got an erection from ogling me? And then the zooming, disorienting, shrinking feeling, smaller and smaller, dwindling until that same test volunteer—with the bulge in their pants a dozen times bigger than me now—loomed over me just beyond the glass? That look of humbled wonder giving way to a wicked smirk at my helpless tiny state?

None of them ever come here to ask me what I want. Or why anyone in their right mind would volunteer for this.

Maybe that’s because all it takes is a single press of a button—any button on the control panel in front of my exhibit—and the real me takes a step back. The new me, the embodiment of the human sexual impulse? She takes center stage. As the professor from the 401 class pointed out in the handout for the assignment, I become “an artistic statement on the on the neuroplasticity of the human sexual mind.” Adaptable. I demonstrate we have the ability to change, to grow.

I was part of that class. The professor made some good points about masterbation, but tried to sell us on the bullshit line that you have to love yourself before you can be loved. I can only remember his name on days when the museum is closed, and for that I am grateful.

Of course, I often can’t remember my own name either. Let the record show my name is Noelle, since you won’t find it anywhere on the label of my exhibit. The title reads “Woman, in Ecstasy.”

The prof was a bit of a blowhard, but he’s not the reason I ended up here. His assignment is what got me in the door. The reason I volunteered for the project? The blame for that goes to my ex boyfriend. Or maybe I should blame a younger Noelle—people-pleasing and naïve. I just wanted to make him happy.

His name was Daniel, and he was another student from the class.

I was so head over heels for him. Aching to touch him, to have sex with him every chance I got and make him late for work or tests or soccer. Whatever real people do when they’re not getting fucked by a machine in public for the sake of art. You’ll excuse me if I hardly remember. I just know I loved his soft brown skin, his handsome beard, his eyes that used to admire only me. I couldn’t keep my hands off him.

Boundaries, you ask?

I used to think boundaries were for unhappy people. I was so happy with Daniel, it honestly never occurred to me that I should have limits. These days I look at the glass protecting me from the whims of the general public, and I am grateful that this situation I got myself into has at least one built-in boundary.

When they grow me big enough, sometimes I think about smashing the glass just to feel the touch of another human being. It’s a fantasy that taught me I do, in fact, have limits. Who knows what would happen if I crossed that line? Who else would I become? Safer for us all if I bear this burden alone.

At least… until someone makes the same mistake I made.

Anyway, we were on a date. Daniel took me to the museum, ostensibly to get the assignment out of the way. We started with the history walk-through, strolling through exhibits on the Kamasutra, Victorian prudery, women’s “hysteria,” queer authors, genders across the world, and early kink clubs. It was a lot to take in.

As we moved into the hallways full of art, my spirits lifted. I drank in the vivid colors of a gallery by an artist in the local drag scene. I loved the wrestler-themed paintings from the “Vulva Vs. Vag” exhibit. I whistled at some beautiful-–and kinky—300-year-old Japanese Shunga art. “Is she blasting sunshine out of her giant vagina?” I asked. “I don’t think his tiny sword can compare.” Daniel grinned and shrugged but he looked tense.

The reason for his jitters became clear when he used a room full of BDSM photography to come out to me, nervous and sweet. He wanted to dominate me. He thought I’d make the most wonderful sub.

Why, I asked him. Did he think I’d fight back?

No, Daniel explained. Because he thought I looked so beautiful when I surrendered.

We watched the freckled redhead from the “Woman, In Ecstasy” exhibit. She looked so incredibly hopeful when my hand hovered over the switch for the Fucking Machine. On the other side of the glass, she made a begging motion. Her hands pressed together.

“She looks so lifelike,” I murmured, my fingers running up and down the switch, tempted to turn it on, and embarrassed to be touching anything so sexually explicit in public.

“You didn’t know?” he asked. His hand reached around my body and pressed my fingers down onto the switch with a click. “She’s lifelike because she’s alive. She’s a real person who volunteered for it. She really gets to experience all of this. Can you imagine?”

I’ll never forget the awe in his voice, or the look of ecstasy on her face as she gratefully opened her legs to accept the dildo.

“Really?” I wish I could tell you that I hesitated. That learning she was a real, live, human being gave me pause. I don’t remember pausing at all.

I turned a dial at random.

My eyes opened wide as I watched her breasts balloon outwards, bouncing bigger with each thrust of the Fucking Machine. It was hard to look at her, and hard to look away.

I turned the dial back down and then all the way the other direction until her chest was flat except for rock-hard nipples. Then rotated her larger again, fascinated. I left her at breasts the size of basketballs and began tinkering with adjustments for other body parts. Swelling her ass, narrowing her waist. She could look like a caricature one moment, and physically unremarkable the next. Daniel watched me with a mischievous look as I nudged her breasts larger again. She was still thrusting against the Fucking Machine. “How do we make her cum?” I asked.

“Well, that’s part of the puzzle of the exhibit, isn’t it?”

I tilted my head and squinted up at him. “Hmm.”

He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “A friend of mine was part of the original crew that developed this exhibit. He said they used to have an orgasm button front and center, but people didn’t play with the other features as much if they could just get her off whenever they wanted.” He pointed towards a clear plastic donation box, stuffed with bills and coins. It was covered in stickers offering options like PayPal and CashApp. “They can’t pay her a salary because of laws criminalizing sex work, but a huge portion of the museum’s funding comes through people standing right where you are, doing exactly what you’re doing. The longer you stand there, the more likely you are to make a donation. So, they took away the orgasm shortcut.”

I frowned. So much for art. “Wait, so they thought it was better to just give us the power to do all these sexy things to her, but without the option to get her off? Rude.” I crossed my arms.

Daniel shrugged again, but his attempt at nonchalance wasn’t fooling me. “She gets herself off. Especially under the right conditions.” He winked at me, then reached for the arousal lever. He pushed it up slowly, and we watched her face absorb wave after wave of pleasure. Her moans peaked, and it was clear we were watching her climax.

“Wow,” I said. I uncrossed my arms and found myself leaning forward. I reached for the switch to turn off the machine.

“Wait,” he said, then pushed the inhibitions lever down. She began riding the machine in a totally new way now, her body responding and rocking more powerfully. She groaned, reaching both hands behind to grind it deeper, arching her back like a cat. Another orgasm seemed to tear through her. And another.

“This one is my favorite,” he whispered. He pulled on the lever marked intelligence. Her face brightened, relaxing from concentration into a joyful, almost innocent expression. She looked bouncy and happy and the crescendo of moans seemed unrelenting. “Isn’t that one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard?”

We watched her like that for a full minute. It stretched into five. Eventually, I reached out and switched the machine off, then moved the levers back into more moderate positions. She collapsed on the floor, fingering herself and smiling up at us.

“When she’s like this, here’s how I like to finish her.” He turned the dial marked “size” and as we watched, her languid form dwindled down to something you could hold in your hand.

I raised my hands to my face, pressing cool fingertips against blazing hot cheeks.

Daniel paid no attention to my blush. He was rapt, proud in an almost possessive way, focused on the exhibit like it was his favorite toy in all the world.

She was just within arm’s reach of the glass door, and her eye caught mine.

Do you know the look you share sometimes with another person, at the sauna or gym shower when you’re not supposed to be looking? But you’ve caught each other, and now you can’t look away? This gaze should have felt one-sided. She was the art, I was the audience. But tiny as she was, on display with her hand shoved between her legs, she caught me in that look. And somehow, I caught her too.

I lowered a hand to my chest where I could feel my heart thudding like a caged animal. It took me several heartbeats to realize I was mirroring her posture. I’d been focused on her hand scissoring fingers around her glistening vulva, and on that intense look in her eyes. But her free hand was resting over her chest, as if she was overcome with something. Now my hand was there too.

At the time, I remember thinking she looked happy, happy in a way I could never touch.

“Where do I fucking sign?” I murmured.

Daniel startled. The movement was so violent I looked around, half-expecting to see the building on fire. Nothing seemed unusual—or, well, unexpected. Everything about this was unusual.

“Everything okay?” Now that I studied him more closely, he almost looked hopeful.

“Do you mean that?” Daniel asked. His eyes were wide. “That you’d want to try this?”

“I… yes. I mean it.” I looked from him to the tiny woman, who had stopped stroking herself. Her hand hugged her vulva and she looked satiated and sleepy. She had no classes or tests to worry about. No job. No bills or rent to pay. Her life was exploring sex! “I’d love to try it. Even just for a day. Wouldn’t it be amazing?”

Daniel nodded, inhaling deeply and making fists at his sides. He sighed. “I asked, but they don’t have space for a cis man in an exhibit like this.”

My eyebrows went up. “Wait a minute. Wait.” I huffed a small laugh and put my hand on my hip. “Didn’t you just explain to me, like ten minutes ago, how you wanted to dominate me?” I asked. I smiled in a flirty way and stood a little taller. “And now you’re telling me that you want to volunteer for a sex exhibit where strangers would have complete control—”

Daniel shivered visibly and closed his eyes. “Mmm, God yes.”

“—Complete control over your body?” I raised my hand from my hip and gestured at the exhibit. The big open space looked empty, unless you knew where to look for the tiny, sleepy woman stroking herself. I pointedly did not look at her, but I thought I felt the tingle of her gaze on me. Daniel. This was about Daniel. “Sounds like you need to be more honest with yourself, baby.”

He smiled wryly down at me. “Guess you caught me. I like being dominant in person. But when I fantasize…”

He looked down at the controls and blushed deeply. Color spread across his warm brown skin, under his beard, and down to the collar of his shirt.

“You should totally volunteer!” I put my hand at the small of his back to reassure him. “Why not?”

“They won’t budge. Said they’d lose their funding if they put a real, live penis on display. Too explicit.” His disappointment was palpable. “As if this kind of interactive, customized, live-action porn wasn’t the most explicit thing you could ever see anyway, right? Adding a penis would just be going too far.” He shot a glance at the exhibit on Victorian prudery.

“Hey,” I said, pressing my hand more firmly at the small of his back. I put the other on his hip, and turned him towards me slightly. “Look at me.” I smiled gently up at him and tried to let my attraction for him show. “You’re sexy and handsome and you’d be amazing on display.”

He hid his own smile, dipping his head down. “Thanks for saying so.” Then he laughed, and looked up and around the space. “And if you ever tell anyone about this…”

“Of course not! You can trust me.” I found his hand and squeezed it. “Well, if it would make you feel better, I’d still love to know what you’d do to me if I were on the other side of that glass.”

He raised our hands together, fingers interlaced, and kissed the back of my hand. With his other hand, he held up his cell phone. “Want to find out?”

 

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