Buried Alive


Buried_small

One of the best stories I ever read when I was a child was Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Premature Burial.” I can’t imagine a more horrifying death than the process of finding oneself entombed without recourse, only to run out of air while uncomfortably restricted of movement. So why should it be that I desire similar circumstances for the man I plan to shrink? Why do I often think of sitting on him, keeping him in my back pocket, burying him in my flesh for as long as we both shall breathe?

The image above was inspired by something I saw on Twitter, and tried to emulate as best as I could, with one exception: The original image didn’t include a tiny man sinking deeply in the ass cheek of who I imagine is me. I have no interest in ass images unless they contain that important element, so I added it to mine, in a way that means something to me. Now, I’d like some privacy if you don’t mind. I have some things to say to him.

_ _ _ 

I don’t have a couch. One day I’ll buy a sleeper sofa, and it won’t be as good as my futon, even though it will cost more. You’ll be glad of the change, because the sofa will have thick cushions, instead of the firm futon mattress I currently own. Whatever furniture I put in my living room doesn’t matter, because I’ll keep sitting on you anyway. The beauty of an unyielding surface is that it doesn’t sink as much when I sit on it, and on you. I love my futon.

I knew you were there, by the way. I know I told you it was an accident, but I saw you there, fast asleep after climbing that thread ladder that dangles from the armrest. I had changed into my workout gear by then… two sizes too small. Do you know that after I shrank you I made the conscious decision to start wearing very revealing clothes? Just to terrify you, little toy. Who would have thought that fabric pulled into folds of skin could be so intimidating? Maybe because it always looks like it can swallow you. And it can. It has.

Spandex is quite forgiving, so it wasn’t hard to slip into my too-small pants and tug hard so the center seam would dig into me, revealing the precise lines of my mound, of my ass. You were oblivious to my preparations, and that’s fine. I think my wolfish smile might have driven you over the edge of madness. I do push you so.

Fabric molded to me like a second skin, I bent low to watch you sleep. I almost sat on you then, but thought better of it. I wanted to go for a run, but wearing clothes too small for me exposes me to undue attention. I already have an ass that commands attention, so doubling down on that with overly tight pants was something I didn’t need, especially if you were to cling to one of my enormous cheeks. No one knows I own you, and I’m going to keep it that way. And what if you fell? Unthinkable.

My option was to work out at home. My mind made up, I licked my lips at your luscious little body, and turned away from it. I sat on it. I lowered myself slowly, allowing my hips to guide my body, wise as they are wide. My heart pounded in my chest as I bent at the waist, and pointed my supple cheeks at you. I knew that if you were opening your eyes at that moment, you would only see my ass rendering the rest of the world to oblivion. My ass your heaven and earth. My ass your world. My ass your home.

I don’t know if you woke up as I sat on you, but how could you not? If the moon crashed into Earth, would anyone stay awake? By the time I sank into that swath of tufted filling, it was too late for you to escape. I let go of my weight and pushed down on you with what must have felt like thousands of tons. “Ton” is such an insufficient word, isn’t it. In Spanish, it’s “tonelada,” which cascades off one’s lips beautifully, and somehow feels more fitting. Like you; like your shape against my ass cheek; like the star form of your body, imprinted into the softness of my bottom.

What did you think when you woke up? Did you feel you were buried alive? Did you, for one second, think you were that man again? The one that lived in a house, one with a door and a pet and a spouse? Did you think you’d been buried alive? Did you imagine yourself surrounded by the earth of the world, trapped in walls you could not escape, lamented by the living as someone departed, lost forever? How right you were.

I sat on you and then I got up again, your form fitting into my ass, deeply entrenched in my fat layers, called forth by the gravity field of what I am to you, summoned by the tremendous roundness of what lies below my waist. I knew you were there, and I didn’t care when I started working out. Oh, that’s not true… I cared very much that you stayed there. I hoped you would, and when I started stretching and getting ready to run, I felt your struggle. Were you trying to breathe? Did you feel like you were dying? Did you see your insignificant life flash before your eyes?

My warm-up was brief, no longer than five minutes, but I bent low to force blood into my leg biceps, I squatted hard to prepare my body for what was to come, and I broke a sweat thinking of you, the front of your nude body stuck to me like gum. I felt your fighting limbs flailing in place, too weak to help your peeling cause. You stayed put as I danced in my living room, and laughed at your predicament. Too small, I thought. You are too small, and you’ll never escape my ass.

Once ready, I walked over to my treadmill and hopped on. You were still there, hands and feet trying to peel off the weave of my pants, unable to separate yourself from me, whatever force stamping you like glue. But air crawled your way, and once you stopped, I realized you’d been screaming. Infinitesimal puffs of air stopped pushing their way past the architectural construct of spandex, and kept in place, in the home of your tiny lungs. At least, until I started running.

If you started begging, yelling, crying out again, I doubt you noticed. How could you have registered anything when your existence was nothing but a constant quake? Constant vibration has very harmful effects on the human body… but what about when that barrage is the size of a building? What if it goes on and on, an incessant tide of muscle and fat, and you, in the thick of it? I only know what didn’t happen: You didn’t fall.

You stayed in place for the duration, stuck to spandex with the glue of my body heat and my sweat, but I’d like to think it was the sheer size of my ass that kept you on me, like a planet fallen on a meteorite. You kept on burning after reentry as I ran faster, and faster, knowing that if you shot off and escaped my atmosphere, you’d bounce off the treadmill’s belt and land on my rug, no permanent harm done. But you stayed put; your body knows where you belong better than your mind does.

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6 thoughts on “Buried Alive

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  1. Interesting scenario. Not a fan of spandex but I love what they cover. I imagine it’s a terrifying experience but at least they live for another day. Must be like a belly flop on the water; you’re in distress but within a few minutes, all is well. A tonelada of fun for her, maybe him too. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes. In that world that only exists in my imagination, and no matter what he claims or how much he complains, he always has fun too, and wouldn’t have it any other way. It takes him a while to get to that mental place, but he gets there.

      Like

  2. Incredible. I’ve reread this so many times, both the entire piece and focusing on paragraphs, unwilling to move on until that parcel of information has sunk into my head.

    I can only trust it would be terrifying. I know what big things look like, like standing next to a skyscraper or too close to a locomotive. I’ve fed elephants by hand. So I have to trust, on some abstract level, that watching immense mass overwhelm me would likely stir some kind of primal fear. It’s so hard to accept that, when I would spend every minute of every day begging for that tremendous ass to possess me.

    I mean, I say that’s what I think I’d do, but who knows. It could be entirely different when I’m tiny and fragile and overwhelmed, but I don’t think so.

    Thank you for sharing highly personal, emotionally laden writing, as you do.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, my friend. And you’re welcome.

      I’ve often pondered the same. No matter what anyone says, the prospect of being tiny and in the power of someone not yourself is terrifying beyond description. Does that make it wrong? No. After the terror comes the wonder of truth, and that truth is that a certain percentage of the population needs to be small. If I can ever effect that truth, I will.

      I don’t know how to write UN-emotionally laden. I tried it once. It was boring.

      Liked by 1 person

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