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Bodycleaners [VAULT]
🕑 Added 2021-04-16 09:53:31 +0000 UTC[The following story is an original work. It features tiny people, primarily one female character, who are near-micro sized to one giant female character; involves detailed exploration of the crotch; careless, semi-aware interactions.]
This was the promotion Amala had been waiting for. The ideal hours, a better position, but most importantly of all, a significant pay raise. When the opening was available, she leaped forward with the exact initiative her supervisors talked about wanting to see; it meant little to her how suddenly that opening was made, the circumstances in which the shift needed to be replaced. It was irrelevant for her, knowing that any position in this field of work was dangerous labor.
The Crotch was before her. A vertical chasm of pink that split apart the mighty wall of tanned skin, that color made darker when seen through the visor of her hazmat suit. It rose fifty feet high from where it began, and that was at least twenty feet off the ground, positioned above the closed entrance of the asshole. Hairs sprouted from the skin like wild trees, occasionally forming tangles; Amala marked the position of those knots, knowing she would have to attend to them later.
Two quick honks shot from behind her. Amala waved farewell before she was fully turned around to see David off. He had helped her unload her cleaning equipment, just one of several stops along the Body he had to make. The jeep he delivered her in plowed over the wrinkles of bedsheets, designed perfectly for the uneven terrain, yet it was still a slow drive outward from the Crotch, a long trail that followed the full valley of legs down to the Feet.
Amala shook her head, gazing that far down. Since beginning her career as a bodycleaner, she had been stationed at the Feet, a humiliating shift to work. It was where most entry-level employees were first assigned, and for too long did Amala feel she was trapped there. Both of the Feet required a crew of people at a time to complete on schedule, and even then was it a rush to get things done; every toe had to be washed, around and between them, a decent chore for even just a single pinky toe which stood taller than they did. Then there was the heel, the efforts of washing underneath it; the sole, so long and tall, especially so for a Body such as this; the nails had to be trimmed, the littlest of hairs plucked free, the odor made clean and refreshing.
It was the lowest point of the Body, a constant reminder to Amala that she was at the bottom of the totem pole. But that was behind her. No more of that scent seeping into her suit, no more ticklishness that caused earth-rattling kicks. The Crotch was an area of respect, personal and private to the Body that paid as much as she did for this decadent service. It was delicate, hence why it was always performed by one person, lest too many riled her up. She had the territory to herself, the ability to control her own schedule, no bosses overlooking her every move. Amala had trained for this, and felt confident as she approached the enormous cunt, reading off a tablet to double-check her list of duties.
First was the rinse, an easygoing beginning. Amala lifted and aimed a hose up at the majestic mound, unleashing a powerful spray of water that fanned far to its sides. From so low of an angle, the water had to be directed high up so that it could coat the full surface effectively. The many pubic hairs were like a shield for the flesh, but over time, the rinse seeped through them and down to the flesh. It took over ten minutes for the Crotch to be done with its first rinse; excess water collected just outside the asshole, amounting to little more than a sweat stain the Body could produce in its sleep.
Soaping the Crotch was a more involved process, but similarly did it take a strong hose and a torrent of cleaner to get the job done. The spray for the soap was tighter, taking up more focus and time to cover the area. Amala swayed through the same motions as before, the second step as uneventful as the first. A foam of soap was made within the pubic hairs, and when the blast of the hose was finally ended, what remained was the gentle hiss of the foam deflating.
Shortly after finishing, the Body rumbled, and so too did her mattress quake and shiver. Amala held her ground, but was eventually tripped to a knee -- not unusual or unexpected. The Body was known to stir at these hours, waking up “early” at 7 am, whereas her bodycleaners were starting their jobs before the crack of dawn. Some clients preferred sleeping through the process, enjoying the sensation of waking up fresh and clean on a hyper-personal level. This Body had an interest in watching them, monitoring their progress. She was particular, maximizing the service as much as she could, emphasizing the importance of these literally minuscule details of her person.
Who were the bodycleaners to complain? That was the exact service they provided, and it did not come cheap. Only well-to-do giants were going to afford a session of bodycleaning, and just the wealthiest among them could afford a regular schedule of service. This Body was one such project that teams returned to every morning. She was the wife to a CEO of a globe-spanning company, adapted well to the lifestyle of riches and luxury, and with a goal of becoming a model -- someday. Upon discovering her joy in having her body cleaned so intricately, she immediately signed up for a year-long contract that she has renewed time and time again. She loved the attention to detail tinies could get into, and obviously too did she enjoy that sensation of looming over them, the thrill of having swathes of people dedicating their lives to every corner of her body.
That was what bodycleaners provided, and for however humbling or belittling the jobs could get, the pay was considerable. It was better than nearly anything else tinies could apply for, and for Amala, satisfaction came from a hard day’s work; the sweat of the grind made her feel alive, imbuing her with purpose, something to accomplish.
Amala hooked up the tether to her hazmat suit, tested its strength, then began to scale up the wall of skin. Equipped in her arms was a specialized brush, extended longer than a mop would with a head shaped into a roller. Beginning from the bottom and working her way upwards, Amala pushed the brush hard into the flesh, massaging it in a steady pattern. Once one square of area was complete, she would retract the brush, seep it into a tank of cleaner strapped to her flank, shake the head out of excess water, and then apply it again in the subsequent spot. The design of the tool allowed its head to twist effortlessly around the many hairs, though it was inevitable that some of the shortest hairs would wrap around the shaft and need to be untangled -- a careful procedure to not pluck a hair out from the Body.
The labia required its own unique attention from Amala, and she cautiously slowed her movements down whenever working close to the lips. Longer strokes of the brush would not work on such a texture and firmness, and so the method was to gently pat these delicate areas in small dabs, barely massaging the skin at all. Amala was careful about how the labia pulled with her contact, but frustration yet brewed as these crevices were notably difficult to clean. She felt particularly uneasy when it came to cleaning the entrance itself, like a cave shut closed that she had to dare to push into.
Amala had to pause and take a break, keeping herself suspended halfway up the Crotch. The heat of the bush was sweltering as it was, and even worse inside the hazmat suit. Of course, this was with a body that had just recently woken up, left uncovered through the night without a blanket; Amala could only imagine the overwhelming temperature of the Crotch if the client was up and awake, walking about her day, unwittingly producing an exhausting atmosphere of humidity as an ordinary part of her routine.
It was rare for Amala to consider the life of giants. To her and the other tiny people of this world, giants were forces of nature that required tending to. Communication between them was muddled and ineffectual, and their lives were so very different, even disregarding the contrasting scales. Amala, like many others, did not respect them as people, but as massive machines or animals, near-mindless and impossible to sympathize with. Even where she was, climbing up the Crotch of a giant woman like it was a rockwall, diligently cleaning it of sweat, grime, and dust, she hardly felt demeaned. It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it -- and get paid. If giants could be respected for anything, it was their generous payouts.
After thirty minutes of climbing and scrubbing, Amala had reached the rounded peak of the Crotch. Her climb shifted seamlessly into a crawl as the terrain curved into a flatter mound, allowing her to eventually stand among the dozens of black, twisty hairs. Upon completing her ascent, she first scanned far ahead to the horizon, the long stretch of the half-mile-long Torso. The slope of a moving belly, and the plain of its roundness, and then two distinct hills at the edge of the horizon -- far past it was the sun-like Face, contorting in some groggy way. Amala appreciated the grand view, and thought of the coworkers stationed within the Mouth, surely also deep into their work.
With a huff of pride for making it this far and in decent time, Amala turned back to where she climbed from and sifted through the moistened hairs. The foam of soap had sunk to the roots or seeped into the hairs themselves, creating a swampy ground that she marched across. A cleaning agent in the cleaner made the hairs less resilient to touch, and thus softer to brush out. The same long tool would be used for brushing out the hairs, except the head was replaced with a comb-like shape better designed for the chore. Like wielding a huge rake, she began her plunge into the thicket, targeting the most tangled parts of the bush so that they could be unknotted and fluffed.
The shadows of the hairs parted as Amala worked through the tangled canopy. Light filtered in from above, cast from a low-intensity lamp at the ceiling far away. There were more rumblings, often putting interruptions to Amala’s flow; she was knocked to one knee and pushed into a tree-like hair as the world rocked and tilted. She shot a confused glare back up that horizon, then sighed and continued once it was over. This restlessness was not new from the Body, but it was the first time Amala was experiencing it by her lonesome -- no fellow cleaners to help her back onto her feet, or to pick up the collection of loose pubic trimmings she had brushed free.
Amala was scaling down the plush cliffside by tether when she came upon a particularly knotted tuft of hair. She stepped into position underneath it and prodded the tangle with her brush, but it instantly became caught in the fibers. When Amala tried to pull it out, the hairs stood strong; the conditioner was drying, and no longer were the hairs so forgiving. She nearly lost her balance, but a misstep only caused her to swing freely along the wall of skin, hung reliably by her suit’s cable. A relatively minor issue, but still worthy of a groan.
There was a quake of movement, lighter than the rumbling from before. That only made it more sudden when an impact struck the Crotch, close enough to Amala’s position that she was crudely shaken into a gasp. She swung more recklessly as the distinct sound of crisp hairs cracked and shuddered, a low-pitched itching sound droning for several seconds. It was akin to a natural disaster, but what the client was doing was merely scratching her bush, doing so mid-yawn.
The sound grew louder, angrier, all happening out of Amala’s view, until those fingers had clawed their way down over the mound’s edge. Drawing nearer was felt in the increasing intensity of the tremors, the pubic hairs Amala had so diligently worked upon becoming aired out and brushed in seconds as the massive fingertips massaged through them like nothing. The event made light of Amala’s efforts and work ethic, swiftly doing what took nearly an hour of labor in a hand motion the client could casually forget about.
But Amala was caught in the midst of this casual itch, and a finger had hooked her bungee cable. It tugged on her spontaneously, ripping her up into the air without warning. Her body was dragged through the forest of hairs carelessly, her cries for help overpowered by the sheer scale of the client’s scratching. She was tossed in all directions, wrapped up in her own cord as it spun her uncontrollably. Her brush was abandoned, left behind in the knot of hair that had earned this disastrous attention.
The fingers mowing grind was progressively reeling Amala towards those smashing tips. Fighting against so many unpredictable forces, it was no easy feat to dislatch herself from the cable and be freed -- impossible, as she discovered, at least while the itching was happening so furiously. Amala cussed to her lonesome, wishing the Body would soothe itself soon, but before that could happen, she was dragged higher, out of the woods entirely. She screamed as she witnessed the ground of skin plummet away, her little legs kicking as she found herself suspended in mid-air as the Hand drew upwards.
The client completed her yawn with a stretch that rattled the entirety of the Body, sending shockwaves to all stations of the bodycleaners as her form and skin shivered. Meanwhile, Amala swung like a pendulum, the cord twisting her endlessly as it remained caught in a fingernail. She was treated little differently from the hairs ripped up between the fingers, dangling in the air without an intended trajectory. They were all at the mercy of an uncaring Hand, miserably overlooked by that who claimed them.
Without notice, gravity shifted. Rising no higher, Amala was suddenly descending, the Hand lowering down to where it had been. Another itch called for its attention, and the opposite Hand was already there, pulling loose the pinches of flesh hugged by her thighs and opening new spaces to be scratched. Amala saw as much happening beneath her before she was plunged back into the forest of a bush, her tiny shouts muffled once she was slammed into the world anew. Her limp body was dragged across the field without sympathy, whipping into hairs that bent effortlessly against the powerful fingers.
After a minute of directionless scratching, there was finally a focus. Amala was exhausted from the ordeal, her hands jittering in attempts to find that latch while she had some moment of peace -- a moment that lasted all too briefly before she saw her destination draw close to her feet. Exposed below was the pink globe of a clitoris, swollen outwardly with the hairs parted around it as though it were royalty. Amala winced, painfully realizing what she had been dreading: the client was innocently touching herself to relieve a mid-morning arousal.
Amala was slapped into a moist crevice, then reeled upwards until her body was punched into the clit. She grappled at it for support, hoping she could get the tether to finally tear and release her, but it persisted long enough for the fingers to perform another stroke. It was slow and delicate, the client careful not to hurt herself as her touch caused a series of little shakes -- quakes that were magnitudes stronger to the dozen bodycleaners she had hired. She knew of their existence, well-accustomed to this treatment every morning, and yet it meant nothing to her to wake up and cause them this chaos; that was the convenience of it all, that she could be tended to on such a highly personal level, cleaned by the efforts of teams of people, while she herself stirred in bed like usual. Her morning was beginning perfectly, as it always did, completely unphased and unaware what torment she spurred.
The rhythm of the fingers dominated Amala’s existence. She was made dizzy by the constant up and down motions, unable to stabilize herself against the client’s soft cunt. Any grasp she could have of the flesh would immediately slip from her grip, and her body would be tugged along, bullied into the labia that stretched welcomingly for the fingers playing with it. Another firm wallop against the clit, precisely to her neck, and Amala fell into a daze. Her desperation ceased, her whole body becoming loose to unconsciousness. In the fade of her vision, she continued to hear the grinding of the Crotch being itched, droning on endlessly.
Time had passed, and her surroundings had changed drastically. The illumination of the bedroom lamp was no more, replaced with a humid darkness that left Amala unsure if she was even awake. The air was restless; she was moving, wherever she was. Slowly it dawned on her what had occurred, that she had passed out while on the job. She spun about madly to figure where she was, but it was unmistakable that she was still located at the Crotch -- the client, however, was no longer in bed.
In fact, the Body was no longer at home where the bodycleaners would tend to her. Far too huge of a world for Amala to ever comprehend, the client she served was deep into her day, currently having make-up applied while she waited for a photoshoot. She giggled with the artists and complained about how long her day was, none the wiser that she was accompanied that day by a straggler bodycleaner. She crossed one leg over the other while keeping her face still, unaware that by doing so, she had pinned the person that was washing her cunt into a crevice of her thigh. Her head bubbled with poses to try and expressions to cast for the camera; Amala screamed for help, afraid and alone, uncertain if she would ever work another day at the shift she was so eager to pick up.
