Nouveau Riche

by D.X. Machina

Chapter One

A Gentleman's Wager

"A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you're talking

real money."

--Sen. Everett Dirksen (R-IL)

Sir George Anderson wanted for nothing.

Since taking Virtua Records from a tiny independent label in

Manchester to one of the largest media companies in the world, Sir

George had everything he had ever wanted, everything he'd ever

desired.

And he had a sense of humour (he would insist on the u--bloody

Americans with their bastardized English--uncivilized, to be sure)

that was unparalleled in the community of the super-rich.

So when he made the acquaintence of Greg Fletcher, the too-brash heir

to the Fletcher Hotel fortune, he knew he would have to have some

fun.

Greg Fletcher was the son of a hotelier, and he had long ago given up

trying to be anything but a professional heir. Oh, he was on the

board of Interhostel, but he didn't care about the business. That

was for others to worry about.

No, Fletcher had two passions. One was doing anything and

evertything to get into the public eye. At the age of twenty-three,

he had already appeared on a reality show, three documentaries, and

Saturday Night Live. That those appearances drove many high-grade

women his way was a nice side benefit.

His second passion was gambling.

Fletcher's competitive streak was overdeveloped even for a

billionaire. He would wager on anything and anything. Any

competition, any event. It was his greatest passion--higher than

love, higher than fame, higher even than money. It was said that he

had wagered a cool eight million on one hand of blackjack, lost, and

anted up another ten–and won.

It was winning that drove Greg Fletcher.

So when Sir George came across the things he came across (thanks to a

starlet who knew a person who knew a person, the sort of ways these

things come to be found), he knew he would have to see just how far

he could drive Greg, the soft, callow, playboy heir to a fortune that

he seemed content to fritter away.

Sir George would be surprised.

* * *

"A billion dollars?"

"Yes, Mr. Fletcher. If you succeed in reaching the designated

suite in the Bellagio within ten days, you get one billion dollars.

And if you lose, I get one million. Good odds, those."

The two had crossed paths again at a gala fundraiser in New York

City, the kind of event you went to if you were a billionaire

committed to finding tax shelters. They were in Sir George's

Manhattan apartment, if one can call a 7900 sqare foot luxury flat

with eight bedrooms and a staff of fourteen an "apartment."

Fletcher frowned. It seemed too easy. He would be drugged and

dropped at one of his North American hotels, without money, and he

had to make it to Las Vegas within a week and a half. No

stipulations, other than that he could not use anything he already

owned–including his own identity–and that Sir George could try to

thwart him along the way.

It wouldn't be simple, mind you. But a billion dollar wager at

1000:1 odds?

How could he pass that up?

"All right, Sir George. You have yourself a deal. We start

when?"

"With your permission, within the hour." Anderson smiled.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

The vest had a transponder and a camera, and some other equipment

that he wasn't sure about. "Are you sure all this is

necessary?"

George smiled, and said simply, "Quite sure, Mr. Fletcher. Now,

as we agreed, you'll be sedated for about eight hours. You should

awake tomorrow at ten in the morning, in the bed of one of your

hotels in the United States. From there, you have ten days to make

it to Las Vegas. You can ask for help, but you must deny your

identity and your fortune--you can only admit to being in need of

assistance and without cash. Do we have a deal?"

Greg smiled, envisioning the ways he could convince some girls to

help him. He wasn't without looks. Sure, the money helped, but

being described as a young Robert Redford didn't hurt. "Deal,

Sir George. Let's make this happen."

"One last thing--you understand that I have placed some

impediments on the road to your success?"

"It's in the contract, isn't it? Let's go!"

"Very well," said Sir George. "Let us begin."

* * *

If the afternoon clerk at the nondescript FletcherInn thought

anything was amiss, she didn't show it.

“You want to rent the President's suite, and then give it away?” she

asked, her voice showing very little in the way of caring what the

two men wanted.

“Yes, miss. It's a special promotion from Interhostel--we're

actually testing the promotion here. In a few months we'll roll it

out nationwide. Ad campaign, celebrity endorser–we've booked Keanu

Reeves.”

“Whatever. So why are you paying in cash?”

The man smiled. “Don't want the competition getting wind of this,

now do we? At any rate, we just have to go in, put the gift basket

in place and then we'll be on our way–after we check the guest list,

of course.”

The woman looked up at that. “Why the guest list?”

“Why, to pick the winner of course. Now let's see....”

The man slid behind the counter and scrolled through the list of

names on the terminal. Presently, he came to the lucky winners.

“Yes. Those are our winners,” he said with a big smile. “Mr.

Fletcher will be quite pleased with them.”

* * *

Greg awoke fitfully, the effects of the sedative still working on his

system. Disoriented, he sat up and swore under his breath.

“Man, my head must not be clear yet,” he muttered, shaking the

cobwebs out of his fuzzy mind. He remembered everything, but

awakening was slow.

Greg blinked, and blinked again. And slowly, his mind cleared.

He looked around what appeared to be an alien landscape. He was on a

rolling plain of red and blue curlicues that seemed to run off to the

edge of the world, which seemed to be about a half-mile or so

distant. Behind him, the same plain rose up into good-sized hills,

bracketed by a sea of beige.

Greg looked at the landscape for almost a full minute before it

dawned on him that he had stumbled upon an impediment.

“Fuck!” he cried, and then nothing more.

* * *

Meanwhile, on a highway leading into town, a blue Ford Expedition

lumbered down the road, headlights on, heading for a hotel at last.

* * *

It was another minute, maybe two, before the vest started speaking.

“Hello Greg,” came the clipped voice of Sir George. “I'm sorry to

surprise you like this, but I thought it more enjoyable than simply

telling you what was going to happen in advance.”

“What the hell is going on, George?” said Greg, or he tried to, but

the vest kept speaking.

“Don't bother replying. This is only a recording. If all has gone

to plan you are about three millimeters in height. Yes, Gregory,

this is the twist in our bet, the impediment you let me add. To

this, let me add another: your height is not stable.

“During the next week, your height will vary between one millimeter

and one decimeter. The vest will give you ten minutes' warning

before the change happens. It will not, I'm afraid, tell you what

the new height will be–so you may want to get out of a confined space

before you get trapped. Don't worry, Greg. See the red button on

the vest?”

Greg looked down and confirmed its existence.

“It's a transporter. Press the button and you are whisked out of

trouble–but of course, you also lose the bet.

“At any rate, you have ten days to meet me in Las Vegas. Good luck

Greg. And good night.”

Greg looked around the room, despondent. He had no idea how to even

get out of this room, much less get–well, he had no idea how far away

Las Vegas could be, or what direction he needed to go. But he would

have to chance it.

He just wished he remembered how long a decimeter was.

* * *

Four hours after their initial arrival, the gentlemen who had placed

Greg successfully into the room greeted the big winners.

“We're trying this out as a promotion,” said the bald one. “Please

fill out a comment card to let us know if you're satisfied, and what

we at Fletcher can do differently.”

The woman looked at him. “You're sure we just get the President's

suite? For free?”

“On us. How long will you be in town?”

“Just the night.”

The brown-haired man handed her $500. “Well, then, use this at your

next hotel.”

The woman beamed. “It'll be a FletcherInn, you'd better believe it!”

“That's what we wanted to hear,” said the bald man.

The woman then turned to the others in her party and excitedly shared

the news.

* * *

Greg was staring down into infinity.

Well, maybe not infinity, but a long, long way. At least a third of

a mile, give or take a bit.

Shrugging, he started looking for the clearest path down. He

couldn't just hang out on the bed all day. He might as well just

press the button, get it over with.

Suddenly, there was a clicking sound from a long distance away. Greg

froze, and looked up. He searched the room for a door, but the door

was already open.

He exhaled quickly panic rising, until he realized that this was a

suite. He was in one of the bedrooms off of a common area. . Damn,

my nerves are playing tricks on me. Think, Greg. Calm down.

It was about two seconds later when the girl appeared.

“LOOK AT THIS BED!” the voice thundered, and Greg fell backward.

She was enormous. Titanic. Immense. She–mere adjectives didn't do

it justice.

She was over half a mile tall. Greg looked at the hem of her pink

shorts, and up at the white t-shirt with “Princess” spelled out in

glittery green.

He stared at the “Princess, and that's when he really started to

panic. For the “Princess” went across the girl's chest.

A chest that did not swell, not even a little bit.

He stared up at the face of the girl. The little girl. She couldn't

be older than eight or nine. Her smile showed off braces, her cheeks

were filled with freckles the size of his hand. He struggled to see

that high, but her face was plenty big enough that he still could

take it in.

“Oh, please, don't jump on the bed!” he shouted, praying as hard as

he could.

“NOW MEGHAN, THIS IS YOUR DAD'S AND MY ROOM. YOU AND MOLLY HAVE THE

ROOM WITH THE TWO BEDS.”

Greg exhaled, and then boggled again.

Standing in the door was an even more immense figure, this one almost

two-thirds of a mile tall. She was a bit older–early thirties,

perhaps, with faded jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, and a chest that

most assuredly did swell.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

It was the girl's mother.

* * *

Sarah Michaels sighed as her daughter Meghan left the room. “Thank

God,” she murmured in a most un-motherly display. She loved her

daughters, and her husband, but she didn't love being with her

daughters twenty-four hours a day for the past four days.

She couldn't blame anyone. It'd been her idea to take a car trip

from Des Moines to Washington. And it was her idea to swing by

Lancaster. Lucky that they'd won this suite, though; she was about

to burst with frustration.

Absently, she tossed her carry-on bag onto the bed, and began to

unpack her stuff for the night–nightshirt, toothbrush, contact lens

solution.

As she dug through the bag, a little smirk crossed her face. Yes,

she thought; if any night would give her opportunity for the black

lace undies, this would. Wantonly, she tossed them onto the bed too.

* * *

Greg dove as the enormous bag passed over him like a starship,

lifting him slightly off the bed before it slammed down, creating an

earthquake unlike anything he had ever experienced. He bounced a

dozen feet up in the air before landing. He was stunned, mostly at

the fact that he wasn't dead.

He wasn't even hurt.

He watched the woman unloading her bag, and realized immediately that

his cause was hopeless. She was so–fucking–big. There was no way he

could possibly make it in a world with people that big! He was no

more than an insect. A small one.

He was doomed.

But as he watched her drop a house-sized contact lens container out

of the bag, his mood changed. The bet let him get help, as long as

he didn't advertise who he was. Yes...yes, that was it! He just had

to get the woman's attention, tell her that he'd been shrunk against

his will (true), and that the mad shrinker had told him he had to get

to Las Vegas in ten days–and that he didn't know what would happen if

he didn't (also true). She'd have to help him! She was a mom, after

all. (A MILF, he thought, though he put the thought out of his mind

quickly. Oh, who was he kidding–no, he didn't.)

He started to run to the container. She'd certainly be looking at

it–he could get her attention!

He didn't see her pull out the panties until she was dropping them on

top of him.

* * *

Humming softly, Sara gathered her things under one arm. “Dan, I'm

going to take a quick shower. Can you handle the girls?”

“Sure, hon,” her hubby replied.

“See if you can get them to bed soon, honey. I think you could use a

night in bed.”

She smiled seductively at her husband. He smiled slightly, catching

the hint. “All right, rascals, time to start getting ready for bed.”

Sarah turned on the water and tossed her nightshirt and panties onto

the counter. She took her contacts out quickly, and dove in. She

wet down her long, brown hair and washed the day of sitting in

traffic off her body. She idly let the water run over her pubic

mound for a moment, feeling the warm bubbly feeling that she knew her

husband would soon be amplifying. Before she got too far, though,

she finished the shower and toweled off. She pulled the lacy black

thong on, and paused to admire herself in the mirror. Not bad for a

33-year-old who had given birth to two girls. Not bad at all.

As she looked herself over, a different bubbly feeling started. One

she'd never felt before. “Maybe that's what a day on the road does,”

she muttered, smiling. She pulled on her night shirt and returned to

the bedroom.

She hoped Dan would hurry up and get the girls to bed.

* * *

Greg realized the instant the dark canopy dropped on him that he was

in trouble. Within seconds, the canopy was collapsing around him.

His first thought was that it was a kleenex, that the woman had

thought him some sort of insect and was trying to kill him.

“No, God, No! Please! I'm a person!” he cried, and started towards

the button, when suddenly the world rose up, and he was moving

quickly.

There was thunderous conversation which he barely understood.

Something about a shower, and the girls. Then they were off

to...somewhere. He didn't know where.

The pile of whatnot was suddenly dropped, and Greg fell through the

web of black fibers into a netting. “What the fuck is going on?” he

asked, wearily. He started to struggle for a moment, before giving

up. He could tell he was almost dead-center in a ball of fabric.

There was no way he could figure out the best way out of here.

Instead, he waited for a few minutes, debating whether or not to end

this now. He was a multi-millionaire. A million out of his pocket

wouldn't bankrupt him.

Then again, he still had a shot, if he could just get this woman's

attention.

He resolved to stay put. Whatever the hell he was encased in had to

have been brought in for a reason. He'd wait for her to unball him

and then he'd get her attention.

It had to work.

A few minutes later, the tomb was lifted and pulled apart, and

suddenly began to drop.

“Hey, look down–oh, shit!” he cried, as the fabric was moving

downward at a rapid clip. He clung to it, trying not to become

dislodged. Then, the fabric reached the ground, and Greg stared

upwards.

He was looking up two more-than-skyscraper length legs, at the

suddenly-rapidly-approaching crotch of the woman.

He didn't even have time to register as the woman hiked the panties

quickly up, pushing Greg right up against her neatly-trimmed

womanhood.

Greg was trapped between the netting of the lace and the thick,

relatively short hairs of her bush, his left arm leaning up against

the left lip of her labia, and her scent everywhere.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, in awe of his situation. He'd been in a

girl's panties before, but never this way. Carefully, trying not to

get a rise out of her, he pulled himself rightward so he would face

her slit.

He didn't know why; he just knew it seemed to make the most sense of

any move he could make.

Carefully, he rubbed his tiny hands over her giant lips, and felt an

almost imperceptible shudder. “Wow,” he whispered, his predicament

playing second-fiddle to the incredible circumstance he found himself

in.

He was touching a goddess's vagina.

He was in heaven.

Carefully, he tried to pull himself upward. He had a destination in

mind.

He wanted to see what it looked like at his size.

* * *

The girls were in bed, and Dan and Sara were back in their room, with

the door closed.

And locked.

They locked lips, like they did too rarely lately, like they had done

when they were first dating in college. Sarah felt his rough hands

sliding down her back, working down to remove her nightshirt. Good,

she thought, he'll like what he finds underneath there.

Slowly Dan lifted the shirt above his wife's head. He regarded his

spouse, and her lacy black panties, and smiled. “Oh, honey, that's a

great present,” he said, easing her back onto the bed.

As he did, Sara bit her lip. Panties must be rubbing my clit, she

thought, loving the feeling of it. Dan wanted to neck a little

before he got down to business–always did, truthfully. Take your

time, she thought.

* * *

It was huge, pulsing and alive. Greg was unaware of anything but its

size–bigger than he was, for God's sake! He reached out to touch it,

and the world shuddered. He touched it again, and suddenly, the

world dropped backwards.

He touched it again, and then started to kiss and caress it. And

then to hump it. It felt amazing. He wondered if this would get the

woman's attention, and then suddenly stopped short.

The woman. He'd almost forgotten.

He wondered what had come over him. Maybe it was the pheremones. He

was so small–they'd overwhelmed his system. He could barely think

straight. But what if she found him down here? Surely she wouldn't

take kindly to it. She'd probably flush him down a toilet, if he was

lucky.

He started to think he had to leave, and quickly, when it became

apparent that he wasn't alone anymore.

The sky above was suddenly opened up, and the hand of a man appeared,

yanking the panties away.

Oh no, thought Greg, as he saw the man's growing member above him.

Oh, Hell no.

* * *

Dan was maneuvering for the coup de grace. He wouldn't ordinarily;

usually he would work on Sara's nether regions a bit. But she had

told him forcefully that she wanted him now, and what man didn't want

to take his partner now?

So he was kissing and caressing her, and she was spreading herself

wide, and then, without warning, he slid himself inside of her.

* * *

Greg watched in horror as the ground started to part. “No! No! I'm

down...” but he didn't finish the sentence. The woman had spread her

lips enough to take in a three-millimeter-tall man, and take him in

she did. He fell into a soupy mess of vaginal fluid, and he was

aghast as a train-sized cock joined him.

The next three minutes Greg was never quite sure of. He was sliding

deeper and deeper into the woman as her husband pushed himself inside

of her, until he came to a spot deep in the recesses of her vagina

that her husband was not quite big enough to reach. This was no

better, though, as a torrential downpour of come was raining down

above him. Then, just as he thought he would drown in the woman's

juices, the man came, shooting gallons of thick gelatinous goo into

Greg's world. He coughed and sputtered, and kept searching for

elusive air pockets. Occasionally, he'd find them, before being

pulled under. Finally–blissfully–the man withdrew, and Greg found

himself pulled along by suction with a river of various secretions,

until he came tumbling out of the vaginal canal of the woman, landing

in a foot-deep puddle on the bed.

“Never slept in the wet spot before,” he muttered, looking at the

incredible vista created by the woman's thighs leading into her

still-moist womanhood.

Far above him, thunderous whispers told him the couple was heading

for sleep. For his part, Greg knew he had to get out of there. He

had nearly died. He had to get to safety, and contemplate his next

move.

His opportunity came quicker than he'd expected. The man left, and

returned with a towel. Greg screamed as the towel descended,

blotting up the sticky mess. But as the towel and Greg were tossed

into a corner, he realized it was for the best. He was on the floor.

He could find his way into the woman's bag, and then wait until they

got to the airport. He'd find a plane to Vegas, and sneak aboard.

Indeed, though it took him almost until the morning to secure himself

in the woman's travel bag, he thought it was worth it. He'd be in

Vegas within a day.

He probably would've been more concerned had he known the family was

traveling by car.

Better he didn't know. He slept better that night, slept so soundly

that he didn't even wake when the bag was tossed into the back of the

car.

He needed the rest. The hard part was coming soon.

Sitio recomendado:Giantess videos

Giantess Stories: Nouveau Riche by D

'A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you're talking A Gentleman's Wager A Gentleman's Wager Chapter One Chapter One by D.X. Machina by D.X. Machina No

giantess18

en

2021-08-01

Acording with the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (“DMCA”), Pub. L. 105-304 If you believe that your copyrighted work is being infringed, notify our team at the email [email protected]