“Well…” Glancing over at Chelsea, you shrugged your shoulders. “…we could see if there’s a game on TV. Some sports match, or something.”
“Or something?” Chelsea smirked, wryly. You shrugged again.
“Eh, sports are your big thing anyway. I understand enough of the rules to follow along, but I get confused by just how many different sports there are. Volleyball, basketball, all the same.”
Chelsea snorted. “Those are total opposites, you dork!” You both shared a laugh, as Chelsea eased herself back out of her bed. You flopped backwards, losing your back support, as Chelsea reached for her TV remote and turned the television on. The brunette’s bodacious bubble butt strained against her black leggings, firm but impossibly large derriere commanding every second of your attention as she moved.
Skimming through several channels, Chelsea’s eyes lit up with excitement as she settled on what appeared to be a soccer game between one team wearing bright red uniforms, and another wearing blue and green. The sports-loving giantess looked down at you eagerly, as if she expected you to know exactly what she was trying to convey.
You cocked your head. “What? What is it?”
Chelsea sighed. “It’s the semi-finals game for the college circuit of soccer. Westland University is going up against Lakefield for a chance at the championship! Ciara goes to Westland! I had no idea her school’s team was in the semifinals!”
The name Ciara rang a faint bell in your head. You vaguely recalled hearing Chelsea mention an older sister who attended Westland and was majoring in education. Rubbing your chin, you grinned deviously. “Oh yeah? Well, I bet that Westland loses to Lakefield!”
Chelsea’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. Her mouth grew into a huge, fiercely competitive grin. “I’ll take that bet, little man. And, when I win, you have to massage my feet. AFTER a hardcore volleyball practice.”
“Oh god!” You overdramatically choked and coughed on air. “Anything but that!”
Chelsea put her hands on her hips. “Shake on it.” She offered, extending her finger towards your diminutive body.
Defensively, you crossed your arms. “BUT, if I win, you have to…um…cook dinner for me. In…i-in a maid outfit!” You shouted up to her, confident you had thought up a suitably and equally embarrassing scenario to match Chelsea’s. Also…you had to admit…seeing Chelsea in a maid outfit would be quite the sight.
Chelsea’s cocky grin wavered slightly, but she held firm and shook your hand with her finger, sealing the deal. Feeling pumped up, you walked to the edge of the bed closest to the TV and plopped down, crossing your fingers for Lakefield to win and secure your victory in the wager. Meanwhile, Chelsea fetched a bag of chips from her backpack and held them out towards you.
“Chips, Tom? They’re super yummy, and…and…oh god.” Chelsea paled, and your smile disappeared. Having completely slipped the titanic girl’s mind, she’d grabbed a bag of “Tasty Tinies”.
In a cruel, ironic twist of fate, two years prior to the great shrinking epidemic that rocked the world, one junk food company created a new brand of potato chips called “Tasty Tinies”. The chips were each about one-inch tall, tan colored, and shaped like shrunken tiny guys. Of course, this was labeled hugely distasteful after the mass shrinking, but somehow the company was still keeping in business. Probably because “Tasty Tinies” were, ashamedly, incredibly delicious.
As offended as “Tasty Tinies” made you feel, you knew that Chelsea hadn’t meant anything by it. Shaking off the feeling, you waved off Chelsea’s offer. “Nah, I’m fine. Not too hungry right now.”
“I’m so sorry Tom. God, I’m an idiot.” Chelsea moaned, genuinely upset by her insensitive offer. Glumly, she sank onto the floor in front of you, by the edge of the bed, her back to you. She rested the chips right under the bed to her left and leaned her head back.
“It’s fine, Chelsea.” You insisted. “You didn’t mean anything by it. Let’s just be happy, alright?” You grinned. Chelsea titled her head to peer back at you, and giggled.
“…okay. Thanks, Tom.” Turning back to the TV, she rummaged in the bag for a handful of chips and tossed them into her mouth. You watched her scoop the expressionless, man-shaped potato chips from the bag past her luscious lips. Chewing loudly, the brunette eventually swallowed. “Ew…this batch must be stale, or something. The chips are kinda chewy, and a little squishy. Still good though, I guess."
For some reason, that statement by Chelsea put you on edge, but your thoughts were interrupted by the blaring of a loud alarm as the soccer game’s first period began, and the kickoff was underway. Instantly, Chelsea was engrossed into the game, her full attention locked on the TV with rapt attention. You knew it’d be almost impossible to break her focus from the screen now, at least not until halftime.
Glancing down by pure accident, your jaw dropped slightly. Seated as you were above Chelsea’s left shoulder, you had a full view to peer down to her exceptionally eye-catching cleavage. Your dormmate’s V-neck shirt was incredibly revealing, and her twin mounds of soft, smooth flesh were almost tantalizingly irresistible. You felt inexplicably compelled to just jump in.
Suddenly, Chelsea reached for more chips from the bag, and her elbow bumped the mattress. The ground below you jostled slightly, and you lost your footing, having strayed to close to the edge spying on Chelsea. With a strangled cry drowned out by your oblivious friend’s cries of joy at Westland scoring their first goal, you fell.
What happens next?
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