At the bar, Ms. Hodes fills a Pilsner glass with champagne and stout. The stereo in her house is pumping Alannah Myles's "Black Velvet."

The music gets to Celia. She loosens her top. She's in heat. And Silas can feel it from where he is...

Silas isn't sure he's ready for this. He's had beer before, but never stout...

Ms. Hodes lowers her finger into the glass bowl, and orders Silas to climb onto her nail. Shakily, Silas does so. She lifts him out of the bowl. For him, the ride is dizzying.

"Ms. Hodes," he starts to say, "I don't think I'm ready for..."

She takes off her top. She's topless. Silas can see her nipples. To Silas, they're the size of houses.

His breath is taken away. Ms. Hodes leaves him on her left nipple. Silas looks behind him, and down. It's a long fall down the lower front of her body.

He's hard. He's shaky. Beneath him, her nipple is getting longer and wider around at the base. She can feel his hard cock; he knows it...

She stands over the black velvet. She leans forward slightly, and "drops" him into it.

Silas nearly sinks. Celia just stands there, and waits for him to teach himself how to swim. In time, he comes back up. To Celia, he sure takes long enough.

"That was pathetic," she says, running her finger around the rim of the glass. "Next time, you'll surface in less time."

"This," Silas stammers, shivering, "is really deep. Can I come out now?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Silas. You need a bath. You stank when we arrested you. You smelled of weed-the degenerate contraband of our mighty regime."

"I'm a grown man," he gasps, while treading stout and champagne. "I can bathe myself!"

"Don't be absurd. I've seen your cock. It's not a man's. And you're still a minor...and young enough to be my grandson." She flaps her hair, and sighs happily. "I'm so glad you're not."

She takes a small whisk, and lowers it into the Pilsner glass. Silas gets forcefully submerged by it...but finds his way to the surface in better time than before.

Celia chuckles. "How inspirational. You're evolving. Now grab on."

"What are you...?"

"GRAB," Celia growls, "ON. Unless you can maintain your balance in a maelstrom, this might drown you if you're not ready for it."

"What's a maelstrom? What are you talking about...?"

In a flash, Celia whisks the black velvet. And true to her prediction, what's in the Pilsner glass becomes a maelstrom. Silas probably still doesn't know what a maelstrom is. But one day, if he survives, he'll be able to share a beer with some friends, and tell them the VERY fascinating tale of how he survived a maelstrom of stout and champagne.

But then, of course, he'd have to explain how there's an ocean of champagne or stout out there, and how he came to get stuck in it... Some stories are best reserved for therapy.

Around and around the whisk goes. On and on the maelstrom goes. Silas wasn't clinging to the whisk when Hodes tried to warn him. Somehow, he gets broadsided, under-liquor, by one of the metal wires. To him, it's like a pole underwater. He clings to it, and breathes every bubble he can.

If Hodes ever bathed Quinn or Isabelle like this...as babies or as teens... Silas would be glad, and relieved, if he knew she didn't.

Celia pulls the whisk out of the black velvet, and holds it in front of her eyes. The foam drips into the glass below, and clears. She smiles, as she sees Silas hanging from the top wire. He chokes.

He's drenched in stout and champagne. He's been under-liquor. He's insecure about opening his eyes. When he is, he does.

He sees Celia's eyes. His cock is hard. She's grinning again. He starts to pull himself up...

Celia hangs the whisk over her own hand. Silas is so shocked by the sudden change in gravity around him that he legs go of the whisk. He falls into her hand. She's holding it obliquely; he rolls in the direction of its ramping.

He sees her tit. He gasps.

He lands, butt-first, atop Celia's house-sized nipple. Before he can react, Celia removes her hand. Silas doesn't dare turn around. He already knows it's a long fall from her nipple to the toe of her pump.

"That concludes your bath, Mr. Guinard." Ms. Hodes takes the glass, and takes a polite sip of the black velvet. She closes her eyes, savors it, and moans happily after swallowing it. "I'd offer you sex tonight...but as of now, you've done nothing to earn it."

Silas is so scared of falling, he misses what Ms. Hodes just said about sexing him. He remembers it even less when Ms. Hodes pours about three quarters of the black velvet down her left boob, causing a liquor-fall that nearly sends Silas falling down all the way onto the toe of her pump.

He clings to her nipple for life. When the liquor-fall ends, he coughs. Once again, he's drenched in liquor. He's been too overwhelmed to drink any of it.

Celia sighs. Her chest elevates and lowers Silas, atop her tit, as she does. "This is your first drink, isn't it? I would've thought my daughter suckled you with some secret stash of wine she knew I didn't know she had hidden." She wipes her huge finger across the surface of her own boob, just above stuck Silas, and licks it. "Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I'm not THAT bad of a mother...even if you two did have sex under my...skylight."

Silas would grin and chuckle...if he wasn't already scared he was going to fall to his death. At least he'd do it from the nipple of his ex-girlfriend's hot mom...

Celia drops Silas back into the goldfish bowl. She stands over him, and puts her bra back on.

"I won't make you dirty up that spill today, Mr. Guinard. It's too late to make you do any chores. I do encourage you to not spend too many hours of the night that follows awake. Because by the time you get done with the chore list I will leave for you, you won't ever want to get up in any morning ever again."

Soon, all of the lights in the house are either off or dim. Silas is all alone in the goldfish bowl.

Silas wants to sleep. But it's hard...as is his cock. He's still not used to being the size of a mite.

Silas would take this time to masturbate...if he wasn't worried about soiling the maintenance of his prison cell...or paranoid of the likely responsibility of having to clean it himself.

Outside the back door, a Havana brown cat prowls. For once tonight, Silas is glad he's not out there.