Undertoy – 3

Under_Toy_3_by_flagg3d.jpg
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.

New Writing Contest: Butty July 2017

Butty July Banner
Yes, I have permission from AmGiPi to use his image, Gg682.

It’s time for the next contest, and this time it isn’t about writing a cruel story, or a gentle one. It can be either, or both, or neither, as long as the main character is a being’s behind. And by a “being” I mean a giantess, giant, woman, man, furry (does anyone even use that word anymore?), robot, object of any size and gender, in possession of an ass, and all its peripherals. Now, if you’d like to blame anyone for this quarter’s contest, blame me, because it was my idea. I wanted to make sure it had been my idea, so I had to look back, way back in time, to find the pertinent words. Here’s what I said on Monday, December 26 of 2016, during a Twitter conversation with my friend Aborigen, the mastermind behind all these contests:

“I think we should do a butt month”*

He laughed, and agreed, and then I wondered,

“July?”

And it was settled. Soon after I started calling it “Butty July”, and the name stuck. It’s the perfect name for a contest that refuses to take itself too seriously. It’s a playful name, because these writing contests exist to be fun, and to unite us as writers. I’ve always claimed that the size community is more than just a masturbation machine. I’ve been wrong before, and many times, but I don’t think I’m wrong about that. Some of us are here to make something else happen. That something else can be many different things, and it can change from day to day, but my own Something Else hardly ever does: I tell stories. It’s one of the ways in which I bring to life who I really am. I’ve already asked Aborigen to add me to the list of writers who will create a bottom-related entry (or two). If you’d like to do the same, contact him:

https://aborigen-gts.org/email-aborigen/

Or send him a direct message through Twitter.

Here’s the link to the contest’s page: bit.ly/ButtyJuly17

*Notice how I cleverly insert the word “we”, as though I have any ownership whatsoever over these contests.

Heartless

this-is-myself_by_markwazhere2

I was at a bus stop
The kind that crumbles in the sun, even though it has a cover for shade
When she sat next to me
And started talking

At first I didn’t respond
Because sometimes, if you don’t respond, they go away
But then she said,
“They don’t have hearts.”

I asked, “Who doesn’t?”
And she said, “In the factory, they are leaving out the hearts.”
I didn’t know what that meant
I should have left then

But our bus was here
And she got up and I gave her a helping hand. I didn’t mean to. I just did
She liked that I did that
And told me the rest

“Those tiny men they sell now,” she said
“They don’t come with hearts anymore.
They figured out how to keep them going without hearts.”
“But that’s not possible,” I said

“Everyone needs a heart that beats,” I said
“They don’t,” she continued, even though my mind was already looking away
“Because they are so small,” she said, as though she was saying “I have cancer.”
“How do you know?” I asked

She looked at me as though I had not been listening
“I work there. I worked there when they still had hearts, but now they don’t.”
“Have you seen this yourself?” I asked, still hoping she was drunk or blind or dead
“Yes. I had to assemble some myself. It’s not that hard. The juice and the egg and the glass…”

I didn’t understand, but I did
“So they are coded to grow and develop and emerge as tiny adults, but without a heart.”
“Now you are getting it. They act a little different too. It chills my heart.”
I didn’t want to understand, but I did

I went home, and I looked at him
I picked him up, and I pressed my ear to his tiny toy-sized chest. Nothing
“Do you have a heart?” I asked him. It
“I love you,” it said

“Do you have a heart?” I repeated
A little louder this time. Words with a beat, trying to jumpstart his, just in case
“I love you,” it repeated. I tried to feel its pulse
Nothing. I got nothing

Sick As Fuck

More Kissing by Flagg3D
More Kissing by Flagg3D

I was on Twitter, whining to Aborigen about not having any inspiration to write, when he said, “You want me to give you an idea? I can give you an idea and demand 1,500 by the end of the day, if that would help?” And I said “Alright, I’m game. I’ll write, even if it’s garbage.”

And so a story was born. I want to thank my dear friend Aborigen for nudging me powerfully in this direction, and I want to thank my dear toy Hopier, for being sick with a bad cold at the same time I am, and providing a great deal of inspiration for this short story.

 + + +

“My throat started hurting the moment I had that Twix bar.”

The little man didn’t bother to look up at his owner from his resting position. His eyes barely flickered in acknowledgement. All he muttered was an impolite, “Your voice sounds horrible.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Toy. I’m as sick as you are.”

“I know. I know. But I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Should she start up again? Should she remind him she had only slept two and a half hours? Why bother, she thought. When he gets this way he only listens to what he wants to listen. Ironic that it feels this way right now, when I’ve often thought he’s the only one that can truly hear me. She would have continued along this line of thinking, and it could have turned sourer or sweeter, but she never found out because from the hearth of her breasts came his voice again.

“I’ve had enough soup.”

She turned her head slowly in both directions as her answer, and dipping her fingertip into the still steaming surface of a fragrant bowl of chicken soup cooling on an adjacent end table, she pulled it out and gave it a slight shake until from it clung a single drop of thick broth.

“I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough soup.”

“Owner, do you want me to get diarrhea again? I don’t want any more food!” His voice had turned whiny, and she tried to sigh, but her own sinuses were beginning to clog up again. She needed another dose of medicine. Or she needed to use her little man. That always seemed to clear her head in every way possible; but one look at his crumpled, pathetic little shape filled her with pangs of guilt. To grab his body and place it anywhere on her would be… wonderful. But there was soup on her digit. She brought it to his little mouth, and held it an inch away from his face. He moved it from side to side, imitating her earlier negative emphatically.

“Open your mouth.”

“M- no!”

“Open. Your. Mouth. Now.”

“Please….”

“I don’t want to hear it. The doctor ordered five drops of soup for your meals, and you have only swallowed four. Open your mouth or I will make you open it.”

He looked up at her with enough resentment to shock her. What a little shit he can be sometimes, the thought sparked in her mind, and she doused it with regret. But I love him, don’t I. I love him so much. In his usual style, he picked up on her thoughts, and seemed to be taken aback by his temporary, if silent belligerence. To her, it was enough of an apology, especially when followed by his stretching his neck and reaching up with his parted lips, like a baby bird. She barely touched them with the warm drop of soup, which immediately flooded his mouth. He grimaced. “Ouch.”

“Did that hurt to swallow, poor toy?”

“It did.”

“Well, it’s over now. Go to sleep. I’ll eat now.”

“Can’t you put me in the dollhouse?”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you comfortable in the cradle of my breasts?”

He was thoughtful enough to appear to deliberate before he whimpered quietly, and added, “Owner, your body is very comfortable, but your heartbeat is very loud, and your lungs keep making this annoying raspy noise. I want it to be quiet. And the lamp light is bothering my eyes. How can I sleep while you eat? You make very loud slurping sounds, and I hate that.”

So much for consideration, she thought. She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, and ended up sending herself into a coughing fit. She had the presence of mind to press her cupped palm between her breasts to catch his little body before her own sent him tumbling down her chest, and possibly her recliner, and on to the floor many dozens of his feet below. At least her seat had been adjusted back, and the incline of her chest had kept him in place.

When she lifted her hand away from her breast, she looked at him, sure he’d tear into her, and go on about her lack of consideration about his infinitesimal size, and so on. Much to her distress, his eyes were closed, and there seemed to be no life in him.

“Toy! Toy, answer me! Are you OK?!”

To her relief he opened his eyes and shook his head a fraction of an inch. She had been about to tell him he’d stay on her for as long as she needed the comfort of his presence, but this was too much. If he wanted to sleep away from her, then he would get his wish. She lowered her fingers on him again, this time with great tenderness, and flicked the recliner’s handle to the up position. Slowly, she got up and waited for her dizzy spell to pass before she walked to her bedroom, and stood over his tiny home within her home.

“My little darling, it’s time for bed.”

She ignored his mumbling “It’s about time,” and bent over to lift the dollhouse roof on its hinge. As she leaned over the small home, she separated her hand from her body, and released him from her chest into it with an imperceptible drop, which he nonetheless protested with an “ouch” that was far too dramatic. She brought her palm down into his bedroom, and parked it over his lovingly handmade bed.

“Roll over, Toy.”

His whiny voice had been turned to eleven when he emitted a high, yet soft cry, “But I want you to tuck me in…”

“Alright,” she said, feeling lightheaded and weak. Pushing the roof over to lean on her bedroom wall, she used her now free hand to pull his coverlet: a five-inch square of fabric that had been cut off a well-worn pair of her panties. She then tilted her palm and watched his body gently roll off it and into his bed. She watched him curl into a fetal position, dragging his tiny pillow under his even smaller head. Once he stopped moving, she draped his body with the blanket, and smiled.

Dropping carefully to her knees, she placed her head sideways on the top edge of his bedroom wall, returned  her hand to his body, and began to caress it very softly with the slightest touch of her fingertips. Her heart filled with gratitude that his body didn’t feel like the tiniest furnace anymore. The custom made thermometer she had ordered after she shrank him worked perfectly, and the last time she had taken his temperature by placing it between his tiny butt cheeks, it had given a much lower reading.

Catching a sigh in her chest lest she start coughing again, she convoluted her breathing by deciding to sing him a lullaby. Her voice did not sound its usual sweet when she let it out.

“You are my toy

When you break and feel no joy

I will take care of you

You’re in my heart

We will never be apart

I am in charge of you

You-“

“Owner, stop! I’m trying to sleep!”

His voice, though small, startled her musical reverie so suddenly, she jerked her body next to the dollhouse, and bumped it.

“Stop shaking my house too! I’m so sick! Why are you so mean to me right now!?”

She felt despair enter her heart. All she wanted was to show him she cared.

“Toy, I love you, and I wanted to sing you a soothing song-“

“Owner, you sound like Foghorn Leghorn is gargling acid. Just let me sleep!”

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone,” she said, not being able to help herself from heaping a dollop of anger into her words. She brought the roof down, and not as gently as she could have, and straightened herself off the floor. A dizzy spell overcame her again, and she aimed her body away from the home that contained her favorite possession. Her anger dissolved, she turned and faced her bedroom. It was a disaster.

Walking slowly, she started picking up her strewn dirty clothes, though not many of them.

I’m glad I don’t have to pick up after you, she thought. No damp towels, no streaky underwear, no stinky socks, she added, throwing a couple of pairs of panties in the laundry basket. No sticky keyboard, no wiped browser history, no secret password on your phone… She began to smile. She eyed the small vial that contained his medicine, liquid she fed him every twelve hours from a needle dropper in near invisible measures, and she felt her head swim again. In tending to her tiny man’s needs, she had forgotten to take her own medicine. She finished piling laundry in the basket, and left it to be done later. It was time to rest. She went to the bathroom and pushed a time-released pill from its foil packet. After she swallowed it with a couple of swigs from a bottle of her favorite sparkling water, she decided to go to bed as well.

But not before she tended to some of her own needs.

In bed, she picked up her phone, and flipped through her collection of homemade videos. There was a fifteen-minute long one that would suit her just fine. Soon, the slight whimpers and manly screams that could be overheard from the speaker began to deliver their own medicine.

 + + +

Ciara’s Brother – Part 1

sketch_10___soccer_by_glkthread.png

I’m not even gonna explain… I don’t know what I’m doing here. There’s this thing that happened, and sometimes a story has to be told. I have no clue as to where it will go, and that’s a complete lie. I generally tend to see stories from beginning to end, like dominoes falling in both directions, and meeting in the middle. In medias res, here I come.

***

Marina jogged past the throng of kids playing and chattering away in English and Spanish, the unmistakeable cadence and sibilation of Mexican-ness as familiar to her as the smell of Cuban coffee. How she missed those dark morning (or afternoon, if she felt brave) punches to her brain. How she missed Florida. She pounded the ground harder, gaining speed and leaving all noise behind as she entered the park’s woods, and a narrow dirt path littered with years of dead leaves and twigs. 

Saturday sunlight peeked past the canopy of trees, and in the distance, gleamed in flashes off the tall surface of the Biodome where they lived separately from her kind. When it had all been new, her parents had taken her to the Wall a few times, the exterior of the dome closest to ground level that exposed an outermost layer of tiny citizenry as though it was a show for which you pay money and wait two hours in line to see. And that’s what they had done. She had been fascinated by the small buildings, the narrow streets, the incredibly small people that no one her age had ever met in person; and she had been frightened by the stern guards that kept the dome boundaries and contents safe.

Now, as she ran, she constantly sent her gaze to find broken spaces between leaves, to catch glimpses of the dome as she moved past tree after tree, so she almost missed the small shape that staggered from behind an exposed tree root, and dropped to the ground with only enough space to allow her to come to a brisk halt.

“What the hell!” she cried out as her body protested the sudden stop. Her chest was heaving, and she slowed down her breathing as she bent down to look at the little shape. She dropped her palms onto her thighs, and moved her head lower yet, not believing her eyes. Finally, she dropped to the ground on her hands and knees, followed by her head, which she pressed to one side of the path as though she was trying to hear its heartbeat. But she only wanted to get a very good look at the tiny woman, no more than two inches in height, who was lying still and beginning to open her eyes.

“Hello, little girl,” she said, suddenly flooded by wonderment to finally meet one of them in person. This one appeared to feel something entirely different as she scrambled away from her in a clear panic, and surrendered to shrieking. “Hey, hey, calm down. I know what to do. Let’s get you back home, alright? Where you belong. How did you get out here anyway?” Marina had lowered her voice as much as it was humanly possible, but it was clear that the gusts of her breath and the pounding of her words were too much for the tiny person. She had covered her ears with her hands, and was now shaking her head violently from side to side.

Marina sighed, and regretted it immediately when the wind from her lips hit the little woman, and bent her backwards. She pivoted in the dirt, and Marina could see a drop of fresh blood emerging from her tiny neck. “You are hurt!” and she covered her mouth right away, to try to protect the woman from the force of her words. She kept her hand in place when she said, “look, I can help. I want to help. Why don’t you-“

“Help?” said the tiny woman, twisting in place and sitting up again and drying her eyes. Her mouth was so infinitesimal Martina wondered how it was possible she could hear her. “Help! Help! Brother! Help!” Her words had an odd accent to them Marina could not identify, as skilled as she was spotting nationalities after only exchanging a few words when meeting people. But this accent? Unknown.

“Yes, I help. C’mon, let’s go find a guard, and get you back to the Wall, OK?” But much to her surprise, and to what was beginning to feel an uncomfortable position to her neck, the little woman kicked her heels and moved away from her like a little crab. She sat and waved her hands at her. That’s a negative in any language, friend. She gave the little woman a quizzical look. “I’m bound by law to take you back. If I don’t, and they find you, I can be arrested, and worse. I’m sorry. I have to-“

“Brother! Brother! Help brother!” And the little woman produced a tiny square that must have been a photograph, because she mustered enough courage to get up, and waver close to her face, wielding the square like a weapon, or an argument. Marina strained to catch the picture’s contents, but it was impossible. Whatever or whoever it was, was far too small for detection.

“OK, help ‘brother’”. How do you propose we do that?” At that, the woman balked, and appeared doubtful. Not for long. She started making odd beckoning signals to Marina. “Come here,” she said with her little hand curling. “I’m right here, you dum-dum… hmm. I wonder if you mean… my hand? OK. I think I get what you are saying. Sure, climb in, lady. What’s your name?” And Marina slowly inched her hand toward the woman, who stood there, waiting. As soon as her pinky finger was within reach of the woman, she did something exceedingly puzzling. She dove toward it, and when she landed on it, she straddled it, and then hugged it. Marina was about to protest when she felt it. The invasion. The mental connection that was both horrifying and more intimate than anything she had ever experienced.

Brother… lost… escaped… trouble… chips in our necks… The information was relentless, and it felt like an explosion inside her head. When it was over, she was shaking, and crying. She felt compelled to crush the little woman on the spot for such a violation, but at the same time such an act would have been unthinkable for her. She was also deeply grateful. She didn’t know why.

“Do you understand now, unwieldy person?”

“What did you- don’t be rude. My name is Marina.”

“I’m sorry, Marina. My name is Ciara. All our words for ‘big’ are insults or curses in my language. I’ll have to learn new ones, and add them to my understanding.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ciara. What did you do to me, to my mind?”

“I formed a link, so I could talk to you, and you could understand me no matter what language I speak. I also explained to you why it’s crucial you don’t take me back, and instead take me with you. We have to find my brother.”

Marina thought of Ciara’s love for her brother. She thought of what she now knew was her brother’s face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and whispered to Ciara as she flipped her hand and offered her palm to her, “let’s go find your brother.”

Shrunken

Birdy_2-Fetish3D
“Birdy 2” by Fetish3D

I was listening to “Broken” by Depeche Mode for the millionth time, when it came to me that I should change the lyrics to suit my giant thoughts about shrinking that very special little man in my world, Hopier… so here they are.

Shrunken

I want all the control
And almost no pain
How much will I shrink you
As you scream in vain

I see the man that I knew
Cannot be found
Replaced by another
Who’s shrinking down

There’s a place where you’ll go
Without any sound
Only you can hear me
Only I’m allowed

You’ll be so far away
So far from here
You won’t remember
Old times, all those years

When you’re shrinking, I will catch you
You will shrink so much, so far
You will make it, I will be here
You were shrunken from the start

When you were a man
You’d dream all day long
You’d dream of a woman
You thought it was wrong

Now that time is gone
It’s real for you now
Now that you’re caught in
My hand as you howl

When you’re shrinking, I will catch you
You will shrink so much, so far
You will make it, I will be here
You were shrunken from the start

Undertoy – 2

under_toy_2_by_flagg3d
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
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.