How it happened…
This time DeviantArt is to blame. There I was, minding my own business, when I saw this mention. I checked it out, contacted the author, and thought I might not be able to fulfill requirements as to time constrictions, etc. But Flagg3D responded quite amicably, and generously, to a remarkable degree. The short version is: He wants a number of authors to write a very particular type of story for him, and in turn he offers various types of exchange. I chose to ask him to create images of my little muse Hopier and me. I wanted to write short scenes to accompany them. Here’s the first pairing of both the image and words he inspires.
“You should be used to this by now, my beautiful toy.”
Her beautiful toy tried to think of something else to say, but he knew how it always went. She put him where she wanted to, where she needed him, and it didn’t matter that he tried to explain there was truly no valid reason he should ever be kept in the back pocket of an extraordinarily tight pair of jeans. It didn’t matter how many times he explained how dangerous it was for his tiny shape to be kept in such a precarious place.
“What if you bump into something? What if you fall? Then you’ll only be able to launder me off your jeans. How will you feel then, without your toy?”
She only smiled and dismissed his chirps as foolishness with a wave of her hand that only delayed her grabbing him for a fraction of a second. His attempting to run when he spotted the predatory shape of her hand swooping down to catch him was only a courtesy to her. He knew she liked feeble attempts at escaping. Once his world became the flesh of her palm, he could not see her smile as she pivoted at the waist, he could not see it as she continued to smile, and hooked her thumb into the triple-fold stitched top of her jean pocket. And he could not see her smile, but always swore he could feel the message of it through the bones and articulations of her hand as she slipped two thirds of him into that impossibly thick fabric, and allowed the rest of him to catch his breath, and see the light again. See how high he was.
“But, my giantess… what about-“ My head, he would have finished. What about my shoulders, left out for birds to pick at, or maybe a greedy thief that spots me in the crowd, and gets close enough to snatch me-
His thoughts were always punctuated by the sway of her hips as she took off. She always did that! She always left him out there, enough of him out there to feel what happened when she walked. The roundness she had carefully cultivated with years of exercise alternated with a healthy enjoyment of food… and genetics. He blessed and cursed those genes, and those jeans, as the massive sway of her hips generated an unbearable jiggle that breathed a rhythm in between the pocket and the insignificant gap his shape created. As a result, he slipped. Slowly. Fractionally.
Another giant step, another quaking wave of flesh thrusting out at him, and another aftermath. He continued to sink. He tried to move, only making it worse by accidentally timing his struggle with another rippling attack of her hips. He sank faster, again, and again, until he was deep in the hold of that stretch of fabric. His head, forced into an unnatural turn, his cheeks pressed together in imitation of her cheeks, out there, all out there, everything out there, winning that day’s war against her jeans. Genes vs. jeans. And she always wins, he thought last, before nature overtook him.