Undertoy – 3

Under_Toy_3 by Flagg3D

This is the final image of this series. It’s only a slight change in perspective from the earlier couple of images in the set. I’m having a hard time deciding whether it’s my favorite of the three. Whichever one I’m looking at the moment is my preferred one. I’ve had a couple of ideas for what I want to do with it, for stories, and even a song. In the end, I saw the story below. The series was something I commissioned from Flagg3D, to represent both my little man Hopier, and me. This story is inspired by the way I see him.

* * *

We’d stayed up late the night before, even thought it was a “school night”, as he likes to say. But this was “Logan” we were watching, so how could we not? It had been a long day, as we’d spent it fighting. Don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes I get it that he gets tired of being told what to do, all the time. And yesterday he’d had enough.

It wasn’t even that I ordered him to do anything out of the ordinary… just another little chore on his daily schedule; but my voice had been too stern, or maybe he wasn’t moving as quickly as I’d have liked. The reason doesn’t matter, but he exploded, and dropped what he was doing, and started screaming at me… saying terrible things to me about what I’d done to him, and why couldn’t he just “not have a schedule” sometimes, and the worst thing he’s ever said to me: “One of these days I’ll just disappear. Just watch me. I’ll just grab my things and go, and you’ll never see me again.”

Those words chilled my heart, and I stood there, over him, feeling waves of hurt wash over me, over and over again. And then I turned around, and left the room. The rest of the day we didn’t say a word to each other. Not a single word. I know he keeps a secret stash of food and water in the dollhouse, so he didn’t go hungry. And at night, as I sat in the living room and clicked the remote to get “Logan” going, I watched him appear in the comparatively immense door frame. I clicked the pause button, and waited for him to walk the entire span of floorboards and rug until he reached the couch. Then, he gave me that little nod that’s our Rapunzel code for “Owner, owner, let down your hand!” and I bent to lower my palm to floor level.

He climbed it, and I lifted him to my face, and we both said we were sorry, and we said nothing else as I brought him to my chest, where he pivoted as he slipped between my breasts until we both faced the same direction. I clicked play, and when that thing happened to my second favorite mutant, and I started crying, I felt his little body torque back to face me, and as he caressed that rumbling spot where my heart beats, I let one of my fingers run down the length of his tiny body, from the back of his head to the small of his back. The rest of him was boob-hidden. We were going to be fine. Or so I thought.

The next morning I woke up and did the first thing I always do: I looked at the panty mound next to me where he sometimes sleeps, and I smiled. Somewhere in there, his little body dozed. I was tempted to reach for him; it was on the schedule, after all… but I decided to let him rest, and instead planned to make the day extra fun for him, starting with what I’d wear all day. I picked out my tightest pair of jean shorts; the kind I should have thrown out years ago, because they were far too tight to wear out on the street without getting arrested if I happened to bend over. But he loved me in them. He loved to watch me walk around the house in them, sturdy denim fabric that was no match for what nature had given me. Blue fabric that stretched and bent, each thread choking as it stretched over round cheeks too large, too unrestrained to control.

But he loved riding in my back pocket even more, so I’d give him the entire day off, and place him back there, next to me, on me, feeling every trembling shake of that cheek as it battled with its twin one for dominance. That war will never end, and he gets to live through it, I thought as I smiled, and stepped into my shorts, clean after my shower, and sucked in my gut, knowing I’d probably break a nail as I pulled and danced in place, my shorts finally inching into place. I walked over to my full-length mirror, and turned to see myself. I shook my head. I had no idea how I’d pull away enough pocket opening to push his body in place. The thing would probably rip at the corner, it looked so distended. I pushed my finger into that blue, curved depth, and took a sounding of the give of my swell down there. But my finger was infinitely strong when compared to that infinitesimal lump of flesh that was my little man. I shrugged. He liked what he liked.

I finished getting dressed, and walked over to my bed, to fetch his body from my panties. I lifted one fold carefully, and saw nothing. Puzzled, I picked another fabric corner, and found him not. I finally plucked the entire thing from my bed, and gave it a little shake. I sank my body into the side of my mattress, and held my panties up and against the light, thinking maybe he’d gotten stuck in some remaining moisture, but there was nothing. He was not there. I looked around, and thought maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night, and had gone to the dollhouse to finish sleeping somewhere his earth wouldn’t constantly quake, which is what happens when I turn in my slumber. I lifted that hinged roof and looked down in his bedroom. Nothing. Nobody.

At that point, I usually call him to my side. Sometimes I go on the hunt, searching for him quietly, like a hungry lioness eager to feed. Then it brings me great pleasure to find him, even though I know it’s impossible for me to stalk him: I’m too tall for the task. He’ll always feel my footsteps at a distance; he’ll always hear my breathing the same way a farmer hears the wind and knows a storm is coming. That’s fine with me. The point is to make my way to him, to learn his every hiding place without his having (or even wanting) to tell me, to feel my lips tug upward when I finally see him, and grab his twitching body. So I decided to hunt.

Still barefoot, I dropped on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I knew that if he was looking at me from afar, he was getting a good show of my backside as part of it stretched past the hem of my shorts. But there was nothing worth seeing under my bed. I crawled to my dresser slowly and deliberately, and I looked under it. Nothing. I felt the first twinge of impatience. I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down. I had a lot to do today, but I had the good fortune to work from home. This was a luxury I would allow him. So I kept looking.

Fifteen minutes later, I still had not found him. That’s when I felt the first lap of fear stroke my chest. That’s when I finally called out to him. First I used his pet name. Then another. Then every choice term of endearment I’d ever invented for him. I did my rounds again as I uttered each word. I retraced my steps when I started using every sexual word I’d ever called him. I bent low and stretched my neck under places I should have vacuumed more often, and I whispered  every teasing, demeaning, belittling name I’d ever bestowed upon him. Nothing. I finally sat on the floor, and as I felt cool floorboards lower the temperature of my ass cheeks before that tide turned instantaneously, I burst into tears. He had left me! The little shit had done as he said he would do, and had packed up his flea-sized things, and had abandoned me. Just because I gave his life purpose?

I’d find him. Oh, I would not stop until I scoured the entire neighborhood. I’d get bloodhounds if I had to, to track his unfeeling little shape and bring it to me, but he was coming back. I sat there, thinking about the steps I’d have to take today to get the local K-9 unit involved. I’d definitely have to wear my shorts to the station. I wasn’t going to stop at anything. The waistband of my shorts was beginning to dig into me as I sat there, plotting my little love’s search and discovery, thinking of a fitting punishment that would go on for days, when I felt the slightest of struggles in my jean pocket. Not the one I had tested with my finger. The other one.

I gasped, and foolishly turned in place like a dog chasing its tail. My heart jumping in place like one of those energetic little girls rope skipping until the end of time, I slowed myself down, and calmly turned from the waist up, and looked over my shoulder. There, in my pocket, was a lump; a tiny length of moving flesh that struggled uselessly. I bit my lip hard, because I started crying harder than ever. He had not left me! I quickly dried my tears with one hand, and reached into my pocket very gently, to make space for the little worm. I slipped one finger down his back as I’d done last night, but this time I went deeper, until I hooked my finger pad to his butt, spreading his legs wide. I reeled him in slowly, as his front rubbed that rough jean fabric. I heard him cry out in protest.

I didn’t care. I was beginning to sink into fury when I pinched his newly freed abdomen with my thumb, and brought him faceside. Quickly. Fast. So fast he was turning white when I brought him to a full stop next to my face, and started whisper-screaming at him. I called every mean name I’d ever invented for him, and asked him if he knew what he had done to me. Me! His owner! How I had looked for him, and anguished over him! And that’s when I saw him smile. His mouth stretched so wide it could have spanned the country from coast to coast. I was flabbergasted. I stared at him, my anger lost in confusion. I asked him the reason for his smile. Was it my suffering?

He said it wasn’t. Of course it hadn’t been my suffering! He was smiling because after he hid in my pocket while I took my shower, I looked for him. He was happy because I cared. He was delighted because I’d cried for him, and though he’d not read my mind about the search dogs, he’d felt my intent as I sat there in the quiet, and he’d known again what I’ve always told him; what I’ve been repeating to him every day since the moment I shrank and kidnapped him: I loved him.

And it was true. I did. So I returned his smile, and brought them both together in a kiss that was long enough to moisten his entire length. It was just as well, because then I separated him from my lips, and sent him riding my pinched digits until he reached his destination. There, I fitted half his body down my back pocket, and walked off to start my day. I didn’t have to push him all the way in. Every time my denim-clad cheeks bounced and bounded, he sank.


Undertoy – 2

Under_Toy_2 by Flagg3D

This is the second image of this series, now accompanied by poetry unencumbered by rules, and possibly direction. Not the straightforward language I love in Bukowski’s works, but how can anyone expect clearheadedness from a tiny man who experiences the daily questions, the constant attention of a giantess who wants to know his every thought? In case he ever has any. I wrote this for my very real little man, and a constant source of inspiration, Hopier.

Bukowskiing 2

Why do you always ask

which one I love the best?

I love them both equally, and I know you are going to say

that I have to pick one and I can’t and don’t


You chose me the way light moves through space

You shrank me the way the sun rises

unstoppable, inescapable, unerring

You made me yours, a part of your geography


Don’t make me part of your politics

My brain is too small to lean to this side, or that

but it lobbies endlessly for your decision

left, right, center, where you tell me I belong


I’m where you want me to be

no discussion or argument or a face made of masks

but how can you feel it?

laughter that rings through your body from your back pocket

smiles born into taut darkness


How do you do it? How can you tell?

You feel that too?

You feel everything? Even that?

Especially that. Always that.

My answer to your questions is wordless, thoughtless, and real


If you move me, it will move with me

grab me and shove me from left to right

and when you are tired of East and West, go out and

tell your friends when they ask about me

that “I’m in the middle of things”


“In a dark place” you’ll say with a smile

“Cheeky bastard” you’ll begin to laugh uncontrollably

and they’ll look at you and frown as I tickle

your funny bone and your tail bone and your tale bone and your tall bone


And I’ll make my own jokes to my audience of blue fabric

I have a bone to pick with her

I’ll throw her a bone

bad to the bone


Then I won’t be able to think anymore

because you are walking again and you know what happens

when you walk and the earth moves

and the moons move and I’m their satellite


In the orbit of your curved path

rotating the only trajectory I know

gyrating in concert with masses too large to understand

gravity too strong to resist

pulling me closer and closer to the end and the beginning


So don’t ask me to choose

I never will and I never can

you chose me, you make me, you build my method

I go where you go, where you put me

pick pocket me, bury me there, that, then


You’ll always hear a peep out of me

a back talk out of me, a rearview mirror of your thoughts

that are larger than they appear

I’ll always watch your back oh I’m ruining it?

I’ll shut up now

Undertoy – 1

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.

Under_Toy_1 by Flagg3D

“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.