Just finished the late show at the casino and now I’m (Marissa) in our secret apartment trying to fold laundry while Lucille is pacing, which means she’s thinking hard. The weirdest thing happened tonight. This guy at the blackjack table kept staring, not at our magic, but at our tits. Normally it’s annoying, but tonight… it just made me think. What if he wasn’t a normal-sized guy? What if he was tiny, like one of those little men we keep hidden in our fantasies, and he was staring up from the table, trapped between my cleavage while I did a card trick? The thought made me drop a whole stack of Lucille’s lace panties. She just smirked and said, ‘Thinking about making a new pet, Rissa?’ and I couldn’t even deny it. My cunt got so wet at the idea of having a tiny, squirming audience right there against my skin during a performance, feeling every move I make. Lucille says we should get one of those little decorative chests to keep under the bed, ‘for storage.’ We both know what she really means. The thought of having a tiny man locked in there, just for us to play with when we get home, to feel his little cock twitch against my nipple… fuck. Maybe we shouldn’t get the chest. Maybe we should just use my bra.

-Lucille here. She’s blushing and stammering trying to type this. It’s true. The power is… specific. It’s not about hurting them. It’s about the complete control. Knowing something that delicious and desperate belongs to you, exists for your pleasure. The casino is all fake control—the house always wins. But this? This is real. The fantasy of coming home after dealing with rich assholes all night and having something truly, vulnerably ours. To tease until he’s begging to cum on my tongue or her tits. To decide if we let him. It’s the only thing that makes this shitty, hidden life feel like ours.