I stare at my ink-stained hands, contemplating certain thoughts, and I know I only make sense to myself. What I think seems perfect, normal, desirable, even as I know that there are probably very few people in the world that want to spend any amount of time under someone’s ass, and that number is reduced exponentially when the size of the person playing seat cushion is drastically reduced. But in the world where I exist and possess a tiny man, I let him know every day that when I sit on him, something wonderful is happening.
He might not believe me at first, and I don’t blame him, but then I remind him how it used to be before I shrank him. I tell him, “Remember all those days ago when you were a man and slept in a bed? Remember sometimes you had to share that bed? Then you had to get up, had something terrible for breakfast, and went to work. Remember how you felt about your job? After that you’d go back home and have an upset stomach because you had a bad day? Things are different now.
Now you’re not a man, but my sex toy. Now your name is no longer… what was it? I forget. It doesn’t matter. Now you don’t need a bed you’ll have to replace every few years, because you sleep where I put you last, I’m softer than any bed, and you don’t have to share me with anyone. Now you only get up when I wake you, and I’m your only job. I feed you well, and your stomach is never the part of you that hurts. Things are perfect for you now.”
I tell him I want him under me when I write or draw or whatever, and if he doesn’t raise his tiny arms overhead to be lifted in my grip, I snatch him off the floor with one quick sweep of my hand, or pull him out of whatever tight pocket that contains him, lay him on the wooden surface of my chair—the dining room chair in which I sit when I write—and bring the curve of my ass down on his tiny body. I’m at ease; content as I begin to write or draw; no longer thinking about anxiety or exhaustion when I press my cheek on him, and allow the full weight of it to descend on him fully. I create and he screams.
His little chirps don’t last long. How can they? He’s entombed in my flesh, buried under the weight of a mountain, his face the only part of him visible at the curved edge of my ass. I feel peace, the kind of mental calm that’s only possible when a human being feels complete. Flattened by deep layers of fat and muscle, he fades into darkness. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. I imagine he’s tired from performing the night before. It’s possible the friction of my spandex leggings against his groin has has created too much feeling, too much stimulation, and my little man is spent after being pushed over the edge several times.
So he faints. That’s alright. He can heal from that. There’s nothing I do to him from which he doesn’t come back. It would be far more difficult for me to do without that small lump of flesh I need… no, want glued to my bottom. Unconscious or asleep, he’s were he belongs, not on his own, not being confused for a man in the world, not being addressed as sir, playing bills, being awake. No, that’s not the life for him. His life is my ass now. His life is eating, fucking, and sometimes sleeping… the way he does when I sit on him.