The Gift

I was having dinner when I thought, What if I were the exact opposite of me? What would I be like? And I thought of the following scenario. It isn’t the exact opposite of me in a couple of ways (and whoever can guess those will win one fabulously lousy t-shirt), but it’s close enough in most ways. This is not my usual writing, so pay attention to tags and categories if you like.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man very much in love with his girlfriend. One night he returned home from work very late because he had driven a long way to pick up a very special gift for her. As he entered the house he was carrying the gift in his pocket. He went upstairs with quiet steps, made his way into their bedroom and stood in the doorway looking at the moonlit shape her body made in bed under the blanket. It only took him a moment to realize she was not asleep.


She stirred and pronounced groggily, “I’m awake.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I have something for you. I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to give it to you, but I am kind of nervous about this… we’ve never discussed this before and I don’t… I- can you turn on the light and look at me, please?

She acquiesced as she turned away from her pillow and extended one graceful arm toward her bedside lamp. She flicked it on and looked at him as she blinked away the pain of that sudden light.

“What is it?”

He smiled weakly at her at her and his voice was nearly a whisper. “You know those are new toys they have out now… those little sexual aids for couples that- God, I’m listening to myself now, and I can’t believe I got one. I have- You know what? Never mind. I’ll return it tomorrow. It was stupid not to ask you first.”

“What are you talking about? “Sexual aid“? We don’t need that. We’re doing OK… aren’t we?”

He turned red, his eyes unblinking as he looked at her. It was obvious he was extremely uncomfortable. She didn’t know this, but it felt strange to feel uncomfortable because she was the woman he loved, the woman he was going to share the rest of his life with, and he could always tell her anything. Why was he so out of sorts?

She was now fully awake as she sat up. “Are are you talking about a dildo? D-do you want me to go up your-”

“No! No, no, no, no. No!” He started laughing, yet he seemed more nervous than ever. “It’s nothing like that.”

“So you want me to wear something? I’m fine with that. What is it? A French maid outfit?”

And he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him, “No. I’ll just show you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the box, and brought it to her.

“Well, it’s a very small box. What can possibly in there that’s helpful to anyone?”

“Look at it.”

She held out her hand and he set the box gently in her palm. She examined, as it looked like it might’ve contained a bracelet. She opened it, half hoping there was a beautiful piece of jewelry in there. That would certainly put me in the mood, she thought as she realized there was no bracelet in it, but a small man, very tiny, only 2 inches in height. He seemed terrified out of his mind, his eyes shut tightly as he trembled helplessly. She shot a look at her boyfriend, suddenly holding the box as though it contained a catastrophic red button covered in bug shit and vomit.

“What the fuck is this? It’s one of those little guys in the news, isn’t it? Those toys, those sex toys everyone’s talking about! Why? Why did you-? Why is there one in our home? Oh, my God! I can’t even- Here, take this box!”

“But it’s for you. I got it for you. I got it so we can try it out… and there was this interview with the inventor…”

“I know. We watched it together two months ago. What did I tell you then?”

He looked at her, clueless, fishing for the memory, knowing his brain would fail him.

“You don’t remember, do you. Do you? You weren’t paying attention to me, as usual! What I said was that little men as sex toys were the most repugnant idea ever. What I said was that men are not supposed to be tiny! They’re supposed to be large, tall, strong, powerful. Defenders of the realm. Look at this ridiculous little thing. How is this helpful in bed? I watched the interview. I know what they do to these little things, but… gross! Just take it, take it away from me. I can’t even look at it again.”

He extended his arm in a perfect rewind of the moment before, and took the box away from her. He stood in place, holding it like it was headlights and he the deer. As she turned to turn off her light, she said, “Are you coming to bed?

“Wait a minute, what am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know. Flush it down the toilet. I don’t care, just get rid of it.”

“Okay.” He looked at the little guy, and felt a pant of guilt he knew would pass, yet he spoke up. “Can we talk about this some more?”

His girlfriend sat up with the speed of a tornado, and spat furiously, “No, we can’t. We won’t. Not ever. I don’t want that thing anywhere near my bed. I don’t want it on my skin, I don’t want it between us, I don’t want it in me or on you. I want it gone.”

There was a flicker of anger in his heart for a moment as he looked down at the little man and said to him in his quietest whisper yet: “What did you do to get in this situation? Why did you sell yourself? What did you get in exchange? Just talk to me. I know you’re not supposed to talk, but fucking talk.”

There was a little voice that came from a box, a warm, beautiful voice he’d never forget when the little man said, “I got shrunk in exchange for medical treatment for my sister. She needed a new liver, and she got it, and now she’s alive, and… I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, little dude. I am. I don’t know what to tell you. This not going to work out–at least commercially–as you might’ve expected.” The little man shrugged as the big man continued, “Actually, you’re probably better off this way, but I can’t take care of you. I work. I have things to do-”

She sat up anew, having turned into her bed again, but still listening to her boyfriend as he addressed what she only considered a disgusting bug. “What the fuck are you talking about? I work too, remember? If you’re thinking I’m gonna take care that little roach…! I don’t take care of bugs. I crush them with my feet. I put poison in their bodies. Get rid of it and come to bed!”

The man walked over to the dresser, carefully closing the box. He opened one of her drawers, as he couldn’t face putting it among any of his belongings. He chose her underwear drawer, as she was sure to see it the next morning if it was there.

No sex took place in their home that night. In other homes, many tiny people were screaming. The next morning she got up to get ready for work. As she fetched a clean pair of underwear, she saw the little box. For a blissful moment, she didn’t know what it was until the full force of the memory came back to her and she swallowed back her repugnance, looked at the box, and shoved it off her panties with the tip of one fingernail.

Unable to face wearing panties that had shared the same confines as the vermin-filled box, she emptied the entire drawerful of undergarments in the dirty laundry basket, and went to work wearing nothing between skin and suit. The next day she went full commando again, and had that day not not been a Friday, things might have turned out slightly differently.

On Saturday she decided to wash her perfectly clean underwear, and disinfect her undergarment drawer. She also planned to make the long drive to the jewelry store and return the little guy, if he was still alive. Her boyfriend was wonderful, but terrible at facing merchandise refunds. She slid the drawer open, paper towel wielded in latex-gloved hand. She picked up the box and put it on top of her dresser. When she was done disinfecting the drawer and replacing its contents, it was already lunch time. She didn’t want to open the box, as she was hoping the little guy was dead so she could flush it down the toilet, but after she ate (and with difficulty, because the stomach kept turning at the idea of having to face this insect of a guy) she returned upstairs and opened the box.

The little man appeared asleep, and looked very dehydrated. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink, yet he was still alive. He opened his eyes and blinked ever so delicately. The food in her stomach threatened to come back up, and all she wanted to do was smash the box and its contents against the nearest wall.

Instead, she set it down on the dresser rather violently. When her gaze refocused on his shape, he opened his eyes fully, and gave her one single look of understanding. He might’ve wanted to form words, but he didn’t. He nodded slightly as she grabbed the box, and flipped it over. The little man plummeted all the way to the beautifully polished wooden floorboards.

She didn’t wait to see if he had survived the fall. She brought one single flip-flop-clad foot over his minuscule form, and brought it down on him in one fell swoop. At the other side of the rubber sole, she heard a soft crunch, and the unmistakable spread of something both soft and hard she couldn’t face cleaning. She removed her foot from her stained flip-flop and walked away. Limping indistinguishably, she visited the refrigerator to see if she had any ice cream left for dessert.

12 thoughts on “The Gift

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  1. Call the boyfriend back over to clean up. Maybe next time he’ll think before getting something so distressingly inappropriate.

    One of the more immature conceits of early size fantasy giantess fiction was that all women longed to possess and dominate and sexually abuse tiny men, and they were only awaiting the opportunity to indulge such appetites. It was therefore a fairly cutting (if cheap) satire to set up a scenario wherein a giantess wrinkles her nose at and heaps scorn upon such an idea. Alternately, there was the comedy of a fetish mismatch, such as an insertion hound like me ending up with a giantess who only wanted to wear me as an insole. The sad punchline was that some of us have such poor self-images that even when entertaining an absurdly impossible sexual fantasy we thought we deserved to have our deepest desires thwarted and mocked. So it’s possible that this little guy actually had his fantasy fulfilled, in way. Which would no doubt disgust our heroine even more.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. All I knew for sure when I sat down to write this last night was that:

      1. I didn’t type it up; I spoke it into my phone, and the editing job is taking me longer than it might have to just use the keyboard.
      2. Every topic I imagine has already been written before, but not by me, so I give it a try anyway.

      I’m still entertaining that immature conceit, on a daily basis, and not as fiction fodder, but as an outlook on life. I still imagine it’s impossible for a woman to happen upon a tiny person and not develop a violent rush of prurient thoughts.

      Is it a product of poor self-image to imagine our fantasies mocked? I’m fairly certain I’d be mocked by friends and members of my family if I chose to share this side of me, but I don’t share it for the same reason people don’t up and discuss any masturbation material while they munch on lasagna. There’s not much point, everyone does it, and it’s none of their business.

      There’s a huge part of me that feels insanely ridiculous about my fantasies, not for liking what I like, not for thinking they need to be carefully hidden, but for having this insane need to shout it out into the void, and having imagined there would be someone shouting back the exact mirror image.

      If that poor little guy fantasized about being crushed, then he knew, for just one moment, that the realization of his fantasy had very little to do with what actually happened at that moment.


      1. I explained poorly; I have seen writings in this vein before, but only from the perspective of the cynical male macrophile. Yours is the first from the perspective of the idealistic female microphile, and it is much more heartening.

        It is a product of a poor self-image to imagine that one’s fantasies deserve to be mocked, and this level of self-loathing is sadly all-too-common in the size community.

        I think we’re all grateful that, for whatever reason, you have shouted into our void, and we shall continue to echo as best we can.

        Did he know? I rather thought the point of this story was that such connections are rare, and that the boyfriend had scarcely more familiarity with her desires than the wretched stain on the floor.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Idealistic female microphile. I like that. Thank you.

          Ah, yes, thinking one’ fantasies deserve to be mocked is vastly different from finding that they are. While I have some self-image issues, I can’t imagine a better fetish to have than a size one. It’s just so imaginative and endearing!

          (And I’m quite aware of how often I’m inclined to mock other fetishes.)

          As long as I enjoy writing, I’ll keep blogging about this. Thank you and all that visit my blog for reading what my noggin produces.

          The original point of the story was to fashion a character caricaturistic in its opposition to who I am. If the little guy happened to have entertained crush fantasies while normal sized, then experiencing them in full realization brings about the understanding that he didn’t get to enjoy a damned thing about it.

          And yes, even when likes match perfectly, connections are rare as hell. The boyfriend’s lack of familiarity with what she likes is a whole other, gender-issues-101 can of invertebrates.


  2. I am in a much better place with regard to my size desires than I used to be, and it is largely due to meeting fellow pervs like you. I am profoundly glad to have heard your voice.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. It sounded odd.
    And I liked that odd.
    Odd because her reactions were so onesided, so inhumane. I guess… yes, she’s an object herself, in a way. And the little one’s the real human here.
    That’s how it felt.

    And seriously.

    We should stop with this “screaming into the void” idiom.

    When you scream, squid, the void doesn’t exist, everyone gathers around and listens to the story. There’s no void for storytellers and wonderful beings like you.
    I’m listening.
    That wonderful little one is listening. We already spoke about that.

    Keep singing. I need your song. Dearly.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Her reactions were real, at least as described by size people when they talk about a typical general reaction from their significant others when a size fetish is revealed. Her response (aside from neglect and his end) wasn’t even the worst one possible.

      That feeling of hurling my intense feelings into what seems like a void is very real. I don’t want to deny that feeling, however unfounded it is, because it can be an ingredient for motivation, for understanding, even for inspiration. You’re right, of course; there is no void. And thank you for listening, dear Tina. I’m listening as well, and learning. Let’s both keep singing.


      1. Silly me.
        You’re absolutely right. Void was the perfect name for it, for adversity.
        Greeks knew it. You seized greeks.
        Blame the hugger in me, scream all your fill!

        Liked by 1 person

        1. I like it when we’re both right.

          The hugger in you only deserves hugs back, never blame! :)

          Screaming, singing, I’ll continue doing both. Once I had this theme of sound as an idea for a story. You know how powerful sounds are, and the effect they have on solid mass. Why can’t a giantess use the sounds she makes change those below her in interesting and unexpected ways? Screams or singing or special words, they all have unique effects.


  4. I liked this unexpected dose of reality. The hubby had good intentions, but sadly, I would guess that most women who kill spiders on sight would do the same with this poor guy. They just don’t know what they’re missing.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, meremention. You know what happens with good intentions. In his circumstances, he would have fared far better if he had simply sat down with his girlfriend and asked her what she liked, what she needed, what her fantasies were. It’s a thousand times hotter to be treated that way than to receive a gift based on an assumption.

      I don’t understand that whole killing-spiders thing. Spiders are beautiful and beneficial (as would be a race of tiny people).


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