Men of a Certain Size

I spotted the above image while checking my Facebook wall, next to which there’s space that reads your mind or personal data, and applies it to publish ads it thinks interest you. Right now I’m looking at ads for cheaper car insurance, fashion inspired by horror films, and I can also sell Avon from my home.

Whatever the symbolism is of these three middle-aged men in a glass, I purposefully misunderstand it. I don’t intend to watch the show as I suspect it skips my demographic profile as effectively as a giantess leaping over buildings, but I like the image, as the idea of trapping a man in or under a glass is right up my alley.

“Why is it up your alley?” you ask, crudely feigning ignorance.

Because!

“No, really, why? Tell us in detail and don’t leave anything out.”

Oh, I’m going to leave tons out.

1. A shrunken man is, by nature, prone to misbehave

If I follow the pattern of my fantasies, it’s quite likely I abduct my shrunken man from our local library, where I see him first as he —still normal-sized— innocently peruses books. Maybe he’s going for a walk and happens to enter a lonely park. The end is the same: I stalk him, an when the time is right I spray him with my shrinking formula, he’s reduced to a mere two inches in height, and his life is no longer his. Family? Gone. Job? Forget it. Responsibilities? Only very small ones I assign to him at my whim.

A man in such a situation will want to rebel, just to make himself remember he is still a man, and not a bug-sized sex toy forced to live in a dollhouse, to sleep on a mattress stuffed with strands of female hair, to eat from the tip of a finger that reminds him in size of the tree trunks that stand in his old backyard, to perform at the drop of a skirt.

Believe me, I’ve seen it countless times. Every once in a while he reaches a level of exasperation that compels him to pound his chest with his minuscule fists as he yells, “No! No more!”

He might regress to a more primitive stage (I always tell him it’s on account of his infinitesimal brain) where he protests whatever imagined offense by hiding my jewelry, or scrubbing my toothbrush with his bottom, or even peeing in my shoes; all curious efforts to regain his dignity and stand his ground. What a silly man!

On such occasions it’s best to drive the lesson home as quickly and effectively as possible, and while there are better ways to do it, placing him under a glass (o simply dropping him in it) does wonders to remind him of the reality of his new situation. No words are necessary, as my action tells him loudly that:

  • He’s small enough to fit under a glass
  • He’s trapped in there, and there’s nothing he can do about it
  • He’s been a bad little man, so he’ll stay in there until he remembers his place
  • He’ll only be released when it suits my mood

2. A shrunken man is, by nature, a danger to himself

I understand that this is not a pleasant thought, and understandably, the woman that shrinks you is not going to explain any of this before she reduces you in size, but it’s true. Once you are two inches in height, your life becomes a constant effort to stay alive. Ants can kill you. Sunlight can kill you. Birds can kill you. The woman that keeps you captive can kill you. One of her toes can kill you! Heck, that’s probably why she shrank you.

So that little one better be grateful if one night she decides it’s safer if he sleeps under a glass. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s getting ready to go out without him, and it has no involvement whatsoever with not wanting to hear his squeaks of protest if she brings home a man her size. The thing it has to do with the least is her wanting to make him watch. It’s all about his safety. 😀

But I’m sure the TV show has nothing to do with anything I just mentioned. Just as well. I’d have to buy baskets of lotion if it did.

3. Things are, by nature, hotter through glass

I said I was leaving tons out. If tons was in, it would be here.

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16 thoughts on “Men of a Certain Size

  1. We’re not trouble. We assume a carefully measured response to the completely unwarrented provocation of putting us on speaking terms with mus musculus. All of that sceaming and pleading is part of a cunning plan to endear ourselves to our gaoloratrix, so that when she’s utterly shagged out from an evening of unrestrained toying, the bruised and battered (but valiant) little guy can drag his moist body to the cell phone on the end table to plead for a much needed rescue… *beep beep boop beep bap bap boop…..ring ring…ring ring…* “Pizza Hut.” “Help!” “Would you like cheesy crust with that?” “Help!!!” “It’ll be there in 30 minutes.” “Help!!!!” *click*

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    • Hahah! That’s such a funny image! I suppose that’s what happens when a little guy is too small to fall on the proper number key at the right sequence… or maybe he’s dialing the right number, but his tall mistress had the presence of mind to switch around her speed dial preferences so as to thwart his puny efforts.

      I claim we are always one giant step ahead of our little ones. 😀

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  2. Hi Undersquid,it’s nice to see your entry again in this blog

    That entry was great.I read passionately but if i was a shrinking man.I prefer to be in a closed jar related to a glass.according to me Jar is bettter 🙂

    i love being shrunken man fantasies like that but also i like shrunken woman or girl with a normal sized woman or girl (not men) i like this fantasy too much too.

    you explained shrinking man’s situation,feelings e.t.c from his perspective above.May you use your shrinking formula in this entry on a female and explain her situation and feelings like that?

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    • Thank you msg4! And of course you prefer it the way you like it. 🙂 A drinking glass, a glass jar, a vase, a clear test tube are all equally apt containment fields for little men.

      As to a shrunken woman’s situation and feelings in a comparable situation, it doesn’t register the smallest bleep on the map of things I enjoy, so I couldn’t possibly blog about it.

      Somewhere on the Internets there has to be a group of people that like to write about that sort of thing, probably as single-mindedly as I write about the things I like, and nothing else whatsoever.

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  3. I think a responsible woman willing to shrink telecommuting guys would be good for the environment. You could rig up a cell phone keyboard to the computer to make it easier for the little guy to type, and he’d be using up less natural resources. If he signed his paycheck over to her, she could build him a dollhouse that would be like a mansion and feeding him would cost next to nothing. If she shrank several of them, she could have a very nice income as well.

    It’s a win-win!

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    • That’s a great scenario, quite similar to the one I picture for myself and my little man. In the world I imagine, there are such things as minuscule Macs, and his can be plugged to any of the adorable outlets in the dollhouse.

      This responsible woman willing to discipline her shrunken man is also good for the environment, no? What with glass being recyclable and all. 🙂

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  4. The View from Inside the Glass

    He had stopped jumping hours ago. He’d only been doing it out of anger and frustration. There really was no point and his feet had begun to hurt. He had been here before and he knew there was no way he’d ever be able to reach the rim. It wasn’t a fancy glass — in fact, he had the feeling she may have picked it up in a hotel room somewhere; it looked like one of those cheap institutional glasses that would normally spend half their lives wrapped in sanitary paper and the other half holding a stranger’s toothbrush. It was plain and sharply vertical and maybe three or three-and-a half inches tall — in other words, a full inch above his leaping, out-stretched hands.

    He sighed. Not that he’d ever really been able to adjust to thinking of his reality in terms of inches (“Her inches”). Objectively, he understood his situation, but in his mind inches were what they had always been — the clear, hard bottom of the glass on which he stood was 10 inches thick; the smooth, cold wall that he pressed with his hands and forehead and fogged with his breath and through which he gazed out on her empty bedroom, at least six inches. The low dresser on which she had placed the glass, well…

    He sat down again (for probably the hundredth time that day) and leaned his bare back against the cool wall and fumed. His butt was cold, his hands hurt, and the worst of it was that he didn’t even know why he was in here — why SHE had put him here. He could tell she was in a hurry that morning — although she had not told him anything of her plans — and he had tried to stay out of her way, hugging the baseboards of her bedroom as floors and walls had trembled with the shock (heel) and after-shock (toe) of each colossal footfall.

    He had no way of seeing her face from where he had stood (or he thought ruefully, perhaps cowered). And in fact, he found it extremely difficult to read her emotions even when her face loomed directly above him. He remembered from a Psych class that he had taken long ago that a face was meant to be read whole in an instant; the component parts together lending color to each transient mood and expression. For him, now, that was impossible — at close range there was simply too much of her to take in at a glance. When in that position, whether held or cornered, he was reduced to quickly scanning as much as he could process — so here, a gigantic, cold and strangely impersonal eye, with foot long lashes, blinking twice — there, a huge and high expanse of cheek, flushed and furred with tiny blonde hairs — next, the edge of an enormous nostril, flaring with breath and strong emotion — and there ( too close) two tremendous, red lips, their curling creating deep, muscular folds in the skin at the corner and revealing wet, white and glistening teeth as big and deeply grooved as cedar shingles. At such moments, when rumbles of irritation or endearment or amusement boom forth from her gigantic (and he can’t help thinking) predatory mouth and he is, by her breath, enveloped in the steamy, subterranean exhalations that well up from the vast expanse of her far-below chest, he sometimes prefers not to look too closely. Although when he squeezes his eyes shut and claps his hands over his ears, she usually giggles, which he finds deafening and more than a little humiliating.

    But, by dint of survival, he had gotten very good at reading her strides and from the moment her feet had hit the floor this morning, these had been brisk, efficient, and indicative of a “mood.” And so he had endeavored to stay out-of-sight and out-of-mind, until, seemingly without stopping, she had simply bent down, picked him up between her tree-trunk sized thumb and forefinger and, without a word or even a glance, dropped him in the little glass on her dresser.

    He had stayed there, pounding the walls and yelling even when she left the room and he could hear her in the shower. By the time she got back, her hair wrapped in a white towel to dry, he was quite hoarse and his fists hurt. Still he kept up his yelling and his pounding, as she, seemingly oblivious, from the closet across the room picked out a top from its hanger and carefully selected a pair of purple, strappy shoes. He stopped yelling and pounding for a bit and just watched. The clothes she was selecting seemed a bit dressy for this early in the morning and he wondered what that meant. Plus, of course, she was … well, waiting for her arms and legs to dry… and he had to admit, she was worth watching.

    When she leaned over the dresser, over the cup, over him, her huge mass blocking out the light, he instinctively ducked, like a little chick in its nest when faced with the shadow of a hawk. But when he saw that she was simply bending over to the mirror to put on her makeup, he resumed his tiny tantrum, for the moment not caring how silly or childish (or worse, cute) his acting-out might have appeared to her. But she didn’t look down and pretended not to hear, or maybe, really didn’t hear — he knew she sometimes had trouble making out his, well… she called them squeaks. But she knew he was here and why would she be naked, leaning — no looming — over him like this, with those unbelievable… umm… “massifs” hanging directly… unless she was trying to make a point, some point?

    But then again, this was the same thing she did every morning – shower, pick out clothes, put on makeup — it didn’t matter whether he was skulking about on the floor, stuffed in a shoebox lined with tissue paper, tucked away in a sock drawer, or stuck helplessly in a glass on her dresser. His presence only mattered when she decided it mattered and the rest of the time her big thoughts and her big life were her own.

    But then again, when she hiked up her best jeans over her (let’s be honest here, GOD-LIKE) butt literally inches (HER inches) away from his little prison, before snapping off the lights and heading off to who knows where to meet who knows whom, she was definitely sending him a message. He tried to think what it was, what he might have done (Was she mad? In a hurry? Teasing? Turned on?), but his stomach kept rumbling. It was getting late and the room was getting dark. He wished he had a raisin. Soon (soon!) he hoped, she would be home and then maybe, maybe she would turn on the light, walk with her long, purposeful , easily interpretable strides over to the dresser, bend way down. He would see a dark eye, a nostril, a flop of hair like a bundle of shiny, coaxial cables. Her hot breath would form a steamy “O” on the cold outside of the glass. He will lean forward to meet her, his tiny hands and face pressed against the other side of the wall, and she will open her mouth and say “*****.”

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    • Hi W.H.,

      This is a terrific scene. I really enjoyed reading it. I wonder if it’s yours, or if it’s part of a longer work. I’d not seen it before, and it’s not in a style I recognize. Thank you for sharing it here! I’m particularly taken with the point of view, the little man’s thoughts are what I would imagine them to be, or prefer them to be at certain times, or as it’s described, when the mood is right.

      This was one of my favorite parts, “he instinctively ducked, like a little chick in its nest when faced with the shadow of a hawk.” It does a wonderful job of communicating both a clear image of his defenseless size, and the emotional impact a mere single motion of hers has on him.

      “He wished he had a raisin” made me laugh. There he is, a hungry man, with what he must still think is an enormous, manly appetite, yet he knows a little raisin would fill him up quite effectively. I like! 🙂

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      • Ms. Undersquid,

        Thank you for the kind words. The story is my first and was inspired entirely by your post on the subject. There are many things I admire in your writings, but I especially enjoy your frank and obvious appreciation of the miniaturized (male) form and your recognition that while the idea of man and woman filtered through unimaginable differences of scale is (of course) ridiculously absurd, that doesn’t mean it can’t also be great fun to think about and might even, sometimes, in some very strange sense, occassionally touch on something profound.

        And, of course hot. Very, very, very hot. Which is to say, you had me at “bug-sized sex toy.”

        I particularly enjoyed the set-up for this post — the stalking of the future BSST at the Library. I imagine our heroine carefully researching the ins-and-outs of this obviously illegal activity on several shady message boards and making careful notes of other posters’ various experiences and dosage recommendations. After many agonizing weeks, an unmarked package finally arrives from some dubious Hong Kong or Mexico City pharmacy and she carefully mixes up her special solution in the proportions she has calculated, tests her delivery device, places it strategically in her purse, and then waits.

        When she brushes against him in the library (having already noted his lean, athletic body and approved of his choice of reading matter), he looks up from his book, gifting her with a warm smile which reaches the crinkly corners of his intelligent, dark eyes . Her mouth goes dry, her heart pounds, and in that moment, the course of his future life is fixed. She follows him out to the bike rack by the deserted side of the building, her hand already in her bag. He turns and before he can speak, his face is covered with a fine, atomized mist. She watches, fascinated, as he seems to fall — no melt — disappearing down, down, down into his clothes, until, roughly piled at her feet, the clothes are all that is left.

        Not quite all, of course. Kneeling down, flushed with excitement, she carefully searches, delicately retrieving him from inside the folds of his shirt. She gently pokes with one finger the tiny, perfected body she has cupped in her hand, marveling at its unbelievable smallness. He is unconscious (several posters having sensibly recommend including a tranquilizing agent in the mix), but he curls slightly at her touch. Tiny and pink, he suddenly reminds her of a boiled shrimp. This makes her laugh. Then she imagines him covered in cocktail sauce and she suddenly knows she needs to get home — RIGHT NOW.

        Carefully, she tucks him (her new little BSST) away in the safest place she can think of — well maybe not the *absolute* safest place, but safe enough and one definitely close to her heart. The FAQ had been quite clear that miniaturized creatures got cold very fast (something to do with surface area, she hadn’t bothered with all the details — some people really gassed on about the science), but she is quite certain he will be snug enough until they get home. She walks the short distance to her car, concentrating on feeling him next to her. It’s difficult. He is so very small and let’s face it, her mind is on fire, but… oh! There he is. She grins as he begins to squirm against her skin. Okay, so what if she didn’t use *quite* as much sedative as was generally recommended by the so-called and self-appointed experts. She has her own opinions about such things and isn’t interested in coddling (except when it suits her). Besides, she has big plans for the night and doesn’t want him groggy. Her grin grows wider and her pace quickens as she imagines him waking — his tiny limbs struggling in the dark against masses of lacey, elastic netting; his captive body riding the bounce and roll of each enormous step; her rich, sweet, vast, overpowering presence triggering ancient, long-dormant olfactory panic buttons in his miniaturized brain; his insignificant squeaks of protest all but silenced by the relentless, percussive, BAM-BAM-BAM of her still pounding chest.

        W.H.

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        • Brilliant. I can’t believe this is your first story, but I’m glad it’s inspired by something in which I take much delight. It’s almost a page taken out of my mind, the way you describe the events. No cocktail sauce, but I’m sure I could think of a variety of other sauces that would go well with shrunken man.

          Yes, a corner of my brain acknowledges the ridiculous absurdity of such a relationship, but I seldom give that corner any attention.

          The way you describe him, and my scrutinizing every detail down to his reading selection, all that I’ve imagined. I couldn’t possibly shrink someone that reads celebrity magazines, for example. 😀

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  5. in old times this fantasy didn’t register smallest bleep of things I enjoy like you but right now i really like it.

    Think,there are two women,they’re fellow and that’s why of course they share same feelings,wishes and all womanly things but one of them is powerfull and like a mountain related to her and other one is poor,helpless and like a bug related to her.

    you’re big woman and you try to be gentle but small woman is always rebel because she is jealous of your size.you know,there is always a classic jealousy between women and that’s why she do several things as you wrote for shrinking man above,hiding your jewellry,scrubbing your toothbrush with her bottom and peeing in your shoes.because of theese,you become dominant and put her in a drinking glass for help remembered her situation

    or there may be a couple.They’re shrunken wife and shrunken husband and there is a normal size woman with them and several scenarios about that for example big woman always may be gentle and that couple may be grateful for that but on the other hand there is no good relationship between them.tiny woman may envy her husband from giant woman actually several scenarios are flying in my mind like birds about that if i write all of them maybe i can write a novel that’s why i’m finishing my comment 🙂

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    • There’s a natural evolution of the things we like, for some of us anyway. There have been plenty of discussions in forums about the changes we experience, and the difference between the past and the present as regards fetish preferences.

      I have been part of the community for something like six years, and I have been exposed to all manner of things, the same as everyone else. Some things have grown on me, and others make me recoil just as they did from day one. That’s just human nature.

      The interaction between two women doesn’t do anything for me when it comes down to the bottom line of the effect these fantasies have. That may change in ten, twenty, forty years… but I doubt it. My “change” seems to be headed in an entirely different direction. 🙂

      Just as you experience it at the moment, all these scenarios flying in your mind “like birds” as you nicely put it, there are other things that create the same effect in me, that compel me to write down scenes, but they are of the things I’ve always liked, and of offshoots that sprouted on their own.

      Writing a novel sounds great. I know full well there are many people out there that would like to read about F/f stuff. Good luck with all your writing endeavors!

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  6. Would not trapping the man underneath a glass cause him to expire painfully, of asphynxiation?

    It’s nice to see you updating the blog. I’ve never commented, but have been instead a long time reader and follower.

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  7. Hi Qeex! Thank you for the comment. 🙂

    As far as the little guy being in mortal danger because of lack of oxygen, that is something that troubles me once every few weeks or so. Maybe less often. Probably only when I’m writing about a shrunken man and his difficult lot in life.

    The rest of the time he couldn’t be luckier, or more spoiled, or less carefree.

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  8. Actually my fantasies didn’t change.I still love giantess and shrunen men fantasies but i like giant woman and shrunken woman fantasies too but giantess and shrunen man fantasies always come first for me.

    I know,there are several things like videos,stories,photos etc. about this fantasy which i mentioned on the internet but i wondered your ideas about that and i understood very well that The interaction between two women doesn’t do anything for you.That’s why if anyone doesn’t mention it ,anymore i will not write any comment about this fantasy in this blog.

    i don’t have any goal like to write a novel.I like reading novel but i don’t trust myself about writing a novel :)I had written that above ” several scenarios are flying in my mind like birds about that if i write all of them maybe i can write a novel that’s why i’m finishing my comment.” i wanted to mean that.There are several scenarios in my mind and if i write all of them,i can write very long comment (difficult to read) like a novel.Because of that,i’m finishing my comment.

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  9. True, for some in the community nothing has the power to penetrate what they enjoy, and it remains immutable forever. I’ve found that there are some things that I’ve begun to enjoy, a few I never thought I would like, but the same as you, there are scenarios that always come first for me.

    Actually, even if everyone mentioned it every day, in every comment, I would still only blog about what I like. In my blog, like in my fantasies, what I say goes and many requests chirped by my tiny readers are politely ignored. 🙂

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