Because every time I read this I know that something must be done. The original blog entry was written and is owned entirely by my friend Aborigen, to whom I’ve asked no permission to do this, and who has been made no part of this
travesty fan fic. Let the healing begin.
“You’re bad,” she says to me, frowning.
I look up at her and shrug. “I don’t have much to work with, here. Limited freedom, limited resources.”
She sits cross-legged before me, looming far, far overhead. I’m only as tall as her crossed ankles. We are each of us naked. My erect cock stands—at my size—like an unruly whisker. I can just see the gentle swell of her belly, beyond where her calf flexes prominently. Up above her belly are two shy, round breasts, ripe with late youth and almost done developing. Excellent form. Each is crowned with tan nipples pointing proudly in nearly opposite directions, far to my left and right and very far up above me.
I wish I were clinging to one of them, dangling like a piece of jewelry. Digging my nails into that wrinkly flesh and feeling it grow harder against me, slowly pushing me out into space with only this tan node of flesh to hold onto. She can feel me staring at her breasts, so she stretches her arms back and pushes her chest out—her tits stand triumphantly, deservedly so. Down go her arms, propping up her massive upper body (massive, to me), and her face melts from its “I’m taking a deep stretch” expression to resume frowning at me. Darkening eyes, pouty lower lip, disapproval written all over her brow.
“But I love you,” I offer.
She hmmphs irritably. “Then why do you act like this?” One tremendous, smooth leg stirs and pulls out of the cross-legged position. Her knee rises into the air and her foot plants heavily to my left, thudding into the carpet whose fibers stand around my shins. In my mind, her legs form what I call the Great Gate, slowly opening.
“I get restless and bored.” It’s true: she keeps me in a shoebox all day without even a shiny ball to roll around. My only reprieve is when she cages me and sets me before the TV, but inevitably she turns it to E! and I have to curl up, clasp my ears and sing all day long to keep from going mad.
One leg moves, one large foot sliding on its side to my right. I start to babble an apology. There were times in the past when the Great Gate signaled a wonderful evening together, but this is not one of those nights. Her other knee rises into the air, her toes flex the carpet beside me, and my eyes turn inexorably into the courtyard of her pale, fresh thighs. Momentarily forgetting her glowering visage above me, I study the stubble of tiny hairs hinting at the space below her navel, growing stronger toward her mons, and then the strip of clearly shaven whiskers that split and descend around her labia. Those luscious pink and orange folds of skin, so sweet, a little tangy, and with a warmth that feels like love.
And her feet slide over the carpet, the balls of each foot mowing down wide swaths of dense acrylic fiber, until they flank me. Her knees slowly descend and the pallid, fragile soles of her arches expose themselves to me. I apologize again but there’s no indication she’s heard me. My cock twitches with desire at the sight of her inner thighs tensing, clenching, but my cock is stupid. Her thighs are pushing her shins together, and the walls of her soles rise up on either side.
The balls of her feet catch me right at my rib cage and they begin to press. Her toes, those sweet, pink little pearls, flex and hug behind me. Above, her eyes regard me blankly as though I were an uninteresting experiment on a video recording, even as she manipulates her feet to roll me back and forth until I fit along the knuckles of her toes. I wish this were an act of love. There’s no point or even time to apologize further as her feet press my sides, her toes clench and snap my back, the balls of her feet pop my ribs and my lungs and shatter my pelvis. And her feet grind and roll me around, pull back, then smack together with a clap.
I hear the loud rasping of her feet on the carpet as she drags them away from the lump of my body. “You love me. Prove it.”
“Get up. What are you doing? Stop contorting that way.”
“But- ugh, I’m dead. You killed me. I’m broken, bleeding internally in several places.”
She sighs impatiently. “Stop being so dramatic. That’s part of the problem, always such heart-felt anguish about nothing at all.”
I remain perfectly still, my eyes closed as I turn my attention to my own body. Aside from perhaps a cracked rib, there is no pain beyond the humiliation of having been trapped between her feet and released like a bug caught and thrown outdoors in the middle of a winter storm.
“I said I love you.”
“And I said prove it.”
“How do I prove it? I have no means to do so.”
“What do you need?” she asks, and I remove my limp arm from my face, turning to look up at her. A glimmer of interest has dawned in her eyes.
“I need paper. I need writing materials and a place where I can write. Good lighting, and-“
“Whoa, hold on. I keep you in a box. That’s good enough for you.”
“But it isn’t. Do you love me?”
“I’m speaking very clearly. Do you love me?”
She looks angry now, but interested. She’s definitely interested. “Never mind what I feel.”
“I think you like me, at least. So give me the opportunity to show you how much I care. Give me one week and everything I ask, and if I don’t make things better then flush me down the toilet, because I can’t stand loving you the way I do and having all my love trapped in an old shoe box.”
She blushes, her eyes bright with… tears? Dislike? I can’t tell. She nods, a tiny muscle twitching in the corner of her mouth.
“Very well, you can have paper and ink, and I’ll make you a desk with cardboard and tape. Oh, it will be so cute! I can go to the 3D printer place on 8th St. and have them print out a tiny chair. I can put them both on my desk next to the laptop, and you can write while I watch my shows.”
“How will I write? There are no quills my size.”
She thinks for a moment, her gaze cast far over my head, her features still like the carved side of a mountain. She blinks, and one of her eyelashes jumps to the void below, sacrificing itself for me. I watch it drop and get up with a sharp pain on my side. I don’t care. I dive to catch it, and when she looks down at me, I’m panting and on my back again, but holding the lash up with one hand, like a torch.
“One of your eyelashes. You just gave it to me. It’s the perfect implement for writing.”
She swallows hard, and all remnants of anger abandon her face. She smiles and brings up her knees, her soles now on the carpet. I keep very still as I watch her body take over every inch of my sky, my ground shaking again and again. It goes on forever as she rises to her feet, until she peeks down at me, still on my back between them.
“Get up, slowpoke. Let’s find some cardboard for your desk.”