Calm

Calm

“Why am I stretching?”

“Shh…”

“It’s not as though I’m going to get any taller.”

“Please, be quiet.”

“I don’t like yoga.”

“That’s not yoga. We’re not doing yoga.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We’re relaxing.”

“Can’t we relax indoors?”

“Do you know why I brought you to the beach in the middle of October?”

“No…”

“Because I’d like to drown you.”

“What?!”

“But I’m not going to. Instead of picking up your little body and holding it underwater until it stops moving, I’m sitting here, erasing all thought from my mind, and trying to remember everything I like about you.”

“What did I do?!”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“Why are you so mad at me then? Talking about drowning me. That’s not nice.”

“Do you want to know what’s not nice? I could tell you everything you do that’s not nice. Instead, I’m going to sit here and think good thoughts. It’s either that or packing up your few belongings and kicking you to the curb.”

“I don’t even know what I did wrong!”

“I remember when I met you. I’d seen small men before. Even dated a few. Almost married one. When I saw you I forgot every other man I’d ever met, big or small.”

“You wanted me.”

“I did. More than anyone else on Earth. That’s why I took you the way I did. I knew you were in need, the way you were working that corner, eyeing every woman that drove by, ducking out of sight when you saw the drivers were men.”

“Then I saw you.”

“I stopped the car long enough to open the door and grab you. I didn’t even ask you how much for the night.”

“And I didn’t say.”

“And I never paid.”

“And I never left.”

“You never left.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“You can be so sweet at times. So tender. That’s when I delight in every word that comes out of your mouth. When I come home and you run to my side, stretching your little arms to be picked up when you can’t even reach my knee.”

“I like to see you when you come home. I like the way you pick me up and hold me close, and kiss my whole face at once.”

“I like that too. I like it when you ask me how my day was, and you get mad at the people that made me angry. I really like when you lift your hands to my lips and massage away their tightness, your tiny fingers smoothing over every pucker and wrinkle.”

“You don’t have any wrinkles.”

“Lines. I mean lines. And wrinkles? I’m starting to… just look at this eleven shape between my eyebrows.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t scowl at me so much.”

“Maybe you should stop making me.”

“I don’t-”

“Shh. I like your voice. I like the way it makes my heart beat faster even though I haven’t been running. I like the horrible sounds you make when you sing-”

“Hey! You said you like my voice!”

“I do. I love your voice, but you can’t sing for shit.”

“I’ll have you know I used to sing lead vocals in a very popular group back in the day.”

“You have an appalling singing voice, but I’d take your singing any day, over any other singing.”

“Even Luciano Pavarotti’s?”

“Anyone living.”

”Hah!”

“I like that you’ve stuck around this long. I like to wake up and see your little body next to mine, my panties your blanket tangled around your legs. I like to bring my face to your body and breathe in your scent… which is usually my scent, left to marinate overnight.”

“I’d really like a bath every night.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“I had to try. So, if you like me so much, what’s wrong?”

“I like the way you walk. Your little legs barely covering any ground at all, but your stride is so confident, you look like you’re stepping over mountains. You are a giant in the body of a toy-sized man.”

“That sounds weird… I don’t feel giant.”

”I like the way you make me forget my worries when we’re together.”

“I sound great! I don’t know what the problem is, then.”

“The problem is, this is not real.”

“What’s not real? What do you mean?”

“You. Me. None of this is real.”

“Stop. This is real.”

“It’s not. You’re not here. I’m not here. This is not a real place.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Every day is the same: I wake up first, and wake you up. We have breakfast. I go to work. Next thing you know, I’m back. Then we have a nice, relaxed evening, or we go out. We go on trips together. Our holidays are wonderful. But nothing is real.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

“Why is it that you never talk about yourself?”

“I don’t- I don’t like to talk about my personal details.”

“Really? Personal details? In this world, you belong to me, but you can’t tell me your phone number?”

“That’s priv- I mean… we have the same phone number. Oh, god. What’s happening?”

“Every night is the same: the sun sets, and I tell you the truth. You and I met online at a VR station. We were roleplaying this whole size world when you had a stroke, and collapsed on the floor. I wasn’t there to witness the event. To me, it only seemed as though you dropped the connection, and decided to ghost me. I didn’t hear about you again until your girlfriend contacted me-”

“My what?!”

“Your girlfriend. The woman you love. The one holding your real hand right now, waiting for you to wake up from a deep coma. She’s been waiting for a year.”

“Please, stop. Shut up. No more.”

“Every night I tell you she found me. As it turned out, every time they tried to unhook you from our VR world, you died. I don’t know how she figured it out. Something about the VR unit being stuck to your port all the way to the hospital or something like that. The point is, she contacted the VR company, and got them to release my name. Got lawyers involved and everything. One day I’m bringing the laundry in from the line, and there’s a knock on the door. After she explained everything, she begged me to help. She had tried hooking up to your environment from her own account to no avail. It was only when I entered it using mine as I used to do that I saw you there. Waiting. Working that corner and looking in every direction like you were lost.”

“No. No no no no.”

“Yes. That’s why you fight my getting close to you. That’s why you don’t love me, and never will. You need to wake up and get back to reality. She needs you. She’s waiting for you.”

“Stop. Stop fucking with me. You’re lying. I can’t believe you can be this cruel.”

“I’m only here to help. At the expense of my own life, and my own heart. Wake up soon, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know. And you will.”

“No! I want to go to our home. Our house. Where we live.”

“We don’t have a house. We don’t have anything. But shh. That’s enough for today. Come to me, sweetie. I’ll take you back inside that fake beach house, and hold you and love you one more night, and when you wake up you’ll remember everything about today, except this conversation. You’ll be happy. I might be a little happy too. Sometimes I am. Then, when the sun sets, I’ll try again.”

 

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The ABCs Game – F is for Farts

giantess_div___tims_workout_4_6_by_deviantkibate
“Giantess Div – Tim’s workout 4/6” by DeviantKibate

I… don’t know where I’m going with this. I’m thinking about it now, and you are just sitting there, so you might as well listen.

* * *

Gabriel Maurice Sanchez, experiment No. 132, walked into his psychiatrist’s office and kept on walking. He only measured four inches in height, so it took him a while to reach the side of the comparatively gigantic seat. Once there, he stood still and waited. Doctor Pembrose, a noted mental health practitioner specializing in the treatment of shrunken people, raised his gaze from the iPad he was holding and welcomed him in.

“Gabe, how are you? Please, sit down.”

“Hi, Dr. Pembrose. I’m OK. Just let me…”

“Do forgive me,” said the doctor, lifting his enormous form from an ornate chair, and offering Gabe his palm. Gabe climbed in, visibly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Gabe. The new chair has not arrived yet. It’s currently airplane cargo, if these updates are to be believed. It’s too bad only the Japanese are true masters of miniature furniture.”

The doctor pressed the back of his hand gently on the cushion of his patients’ seat, and waited for Gabe to waddle off his palm and onto the velvety surface. He waited still, until Gabe reached the back, turned to face him, and slid down to sit, a ridiculously small shape drowning in the red fabric background. Once his patient seemed as comfortable as he was ever going to get, Dr. Pembrose returned to his seat, lifting the iPad and swiping the smooth screen with his finger, to access what he had highlighted from their previous session. He gave the device a quick nod, and looked at Gabe again, smiling negligibly.

“Tell me, how did the conversation with your wife go?”

Gabe’s cheeks turned red, and his eyes gave a new gleam, but no tears ran down his tiny cheeks. He swallowed and spoke quietly. The doctor didn’t have to strain to listen. He had installed a microphone in the seat, and it allowed him to listen to every word his patients spoke. They had enough to deal with, being so small. They didn’t need to contend with a giant tilting his head to pretend it might help him listen to them when he was only here to help.

“She didn’t want to listen. She says I’m her toy, and if she wants to fart on me, she will. She said she loves me, but she owns me….”

Gabe words trailed off, and he seemed trapped in thought until the doctor spoke again.

“Did you tell her you are not a toy, but a man? A real man that was shrunken violently, without permission?”

“I told her everything we discussed. I sat down with her… on her, last week after dinner, and I began to tell her how it makes me feel when she lets them rip, and she’s sitting on my body, and doesn’t even stop to go to the bathroom like I’ve asked her. I told her it makes my- you know. My… erection go away. I have to tell her because she doesn’t even notice, or doesn’t care to look. She just keeps sliding and rocking in place, until she’d done! Sometimes she farts on me more than once, especially after we’ve eaten Mexican food. That’s another thing, doc. I kept a record just like you said, and I knew I was right! I knew it! We’re now eating more Mexican food than ever. She’s even started preparing Indian food, which she never did before.”

“Please, go on.”

“I told her it’s disrespectful… no, I told her I feel like she doesn’t respect me. I feel hurt and mistreated. I don’t want to tell her I’m going to report her yet. I don’t think she’d like that.”

“Let’s stop there for just a moment, Gabe. Report your wife? For what reason?”

“Mistreatment of an illegally shrunken person. I’ve looked it up.”

“Have you found a particular passage that relates directly to what you are experiencing?”

“Well, no. There’s nothing about farting on a tiny person, but I’m sure if I find the right lawyer…”

“Gabe, I’m concerned about the notion of taking your wife to court. I have to tell you that I’ve seen similar cases in court before, and none result in satisfaction for the plaintiff. Not yet, in any case. But most importantly, what effect do you think that will have on your marriage?”

“It’ll make my wife stop farting on me! Seriously, doc, I’ll do anything at this point. Anything to get her to stop.”

“Very well.”

“Yeah. I mean, I love her. I love her with all my heart. And I guess she loves me. She didn’t have to marry someone so small. She could have just… she was going out with my handler, you know… that’s how we met. I’ve told you this.”

“Go on, Gabe. I’m here to listen. Say whatever’s on your mind.”

“OK. Well… my handler was taking me to get groceries, and he saw her at the store, and he wasn’t going to say hi, on account of the rules, you know? “Never take your attention away from your charge,” and all that… but she saw him and she came over, and then she saw me. And I was the first one she’d see up close like that. He told her they couldn’t talk on account of me, and instead of giving me a venomous look like they all do, she smiled and winked at me. I couldn’t breathe. Somehow we kept bumping into her at the oddest times and places, and then… she got her Handler’s license. That’s when my handler proposed, and instead of saying yes, she broke it off. She never told him why, but he must have figured it out when we got married.

So, you see? She could have married someone she’d never have to watch over constantly and carefully; someone who can’t ever get a job doing what I used to do…. Do you know how long I’d last as an engineer? Probably less than a minute. So here I am, going to school again, being a burden and a worry to her, but still a man. A real man with all my real parts. Did I tell you she wants to start having children? What’s going to happen then? How can someone my size be a father? Farts will be the least of my worries! Diapers? Teething? Walking? Tantrums? Teen years! College!”

“Gabe, take a deep breath now. I want you to breathe deeply. Your cheeks seem a little blue. Let’s pause for a couple of minutes, shall we?”

“OK, OK!” Gabe did feel faint. His mind was swirling with heavy thoughts, one darker than the next. He let them all slow down, and focused on letting air in and out of his chest. He did that for a few minutes while Dr. Pembrose looked at him with a great deal of attention, making sure he wasn’t witnessing a medical emergency. There was such care in his eyes; it was obvious. Even if he couldn’t up and tell his wife to stop farting on his patient, he was truly there for him. It felt nice.

“Listen, doc… thanks. Thank you for listening, really. I’m not going to sue my wife. She says she owns me, maybe she does. I don’t know. I don’t think she means it in a negative way if that makes any sense. She might say I’m her property, but her life is centered around me. She might tell me I’m not a man, but she seeks me out all day long, so she can do to me things women do to men. She calls me all manner of unmanly names when she’s in the throes… but then she lifts me up and cleans me and kisses me and hugs me so sweetly.

I’m confused. I was so upset about it. I have been so angry about it since it started happening with real frequency, these last two months! And now it- I’m- I feel different. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t say it doesn’t matter anymore because it does. I hate it. I guess… what I mean is, I have to make a choice here. My choice is to go down a path that will perhaps get her to stop farting on me, but then I risk losing her. I don’t want that. I hate the thought of that more than anything; more than the thought of her farts.”

The doctor sat quietly, listening, nodding imperceptibly, his face impassive. Gabe went on.

“Maybe if I learn how to cook. I’ve heard of kitchens that are set up to accommodate a tiny chef. Maybe I can change her diet so her farts aren’t as overwhelming. What do you think?”

“I’ve heard of those kitchens. I saw a show about them last week. The woman that had her home redesigned to fit her needs was doing a wonderful job with a frittata.”

Gabe sighed and smiled.

“I’ll have to look into that. The coping classes I’m taking are mostly just common sense stuff, and I’m ready to get on with my professional life. When I was normal sized I couldn’t even boil water, but I’ll give cooking a try. If I can control what goes in, then at least I have some say about what happens when it all comes out.”

“Let me know what happens when we see each other next week, will you?”

“Yes, doc.”

* * *

Unaware

Aware

He sat in the hot car across the street from her house, watching her do yard work. Every once in a while he’d take a swig of vodka straight from the bottle—his lips numb as he licked them—and practiced what he would say. Every time, the words changed. He watched her as sweat dripped from his face, and soaked through his back into the fabric of his seat. He should have bought a waterproof cover. His bowels felt loose every time he saw her dig a hole, and plant a bulb. October. It was too hot for this time of year. The trees should have been nearing peak time, and instead they kept blooming, confused into Summer behavior. He was confused too. He had thought he wanted to kill her.

Instead, he watched her and felt his heartbeat step in time with her trowel, and her hands, and the way her hair broke free from her ponytail. Instead of looking at the gun he had brought, he looked at the way her jeans covered her rear, and remembered how it felt to be in one of those back pockets, sometimes for a whole afternoon. He should have hated her. He drank again, and coughed. An old man walking his dog was startled by the sound, and looked at his tinted window, and seeing nothing through it, stared at the entire car, making a point to glance at his license plate. Good luck; it was a rental. But he remembered how people were in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other, though no one truly knew her, did they? Had they ever known she shrank men and kept them as sex toys for years, to then throw them away without explanation?

He cracked the passenger window again, rather than start the car and turn on the a/c. He’d done that for hours until she finally emerged from the house, gardening tools in that giant plastic bucket that was no longer giant; her head protected by the same pink hat that was one half inch (one foot and a half to him then) too small for her. It would be too small for him now, when before he had lain flat on the rim and sunbathed for minutes until she declared he’d had enough. Before, when he was her little sex toy. Before she returned him without a word.

He screwed the white cap back on the bottle, and willed his drunkenness away, knowing he would have to wait a while before he could walk a straight line up the steps to her front yard. How long, he didn’t know. He had not had a single drop of alcohol after she’d dropped off his unconscious body back where he had lived before she took him. Where he had lived before she shrank him. He had bought the bottle of clear liquid thinking it would help him hold the weapon, and face her. What a stupid fool he was. He peeled his eyes off her flexing curves and looked down at the gun. It wasn’t even loaded. He had never bought bullets. All that thinking about “killing her”. How idiotic. She was his owner. A man doesn’t kill his owner. A toy doesn’t kill its owner.

Hours passed. She moved from bulbs to broken branches and twigs, gathering them in the large green bin that was emptied every Wednesday morning. It was Tuesday. He thought back on their Tuesdays routine, always the same. That was the thing about living with her, being owned by her: the firm adherence to schedule, and her constant need for sex. Tuesday mornings saw him waking up to being grabbed by her giant hand, and rubbed between her legs until they both screamed. Or he did. He always ended up screaming. Every day for ten years, he screamed. She didn’t seem to mind; in fact she craved those sounds from his tiny throat, and she did whatever it took to produce them. Now he sat there and wondered where the PTSD was; where the tears were. The only tears had come when he woke up and realized he wasn’t with her anymore; when he woke up a six-foot-tall man, and looked at the stranger that had been his wife, and realized there would never be a giant hand grabbing him anymore.

He watched her grab a bottle of Gatorade and drink it in long swigs. She used to put vodka in those half-empty bottles some nights, and made him swim in the foul mixture until he was half dead and numb. That’s when she did her worst and put him in places no man should ever penetrate. Not with his entire body, anyway. That’s when he screamed the loudest and begged the hardest for her to return him to his old size. There hadn’t been a single day he didn’t ask her to take him back to his wife, his children, his life. She had always ignored his pleas. Why didn’t she know when they had become empty? Why hadn’t she known he didn’t mean them anymore? Why hadn’t she seen how much he loved his life with her? Why did she grow him back? He watched her finish her drink, and blinked away a few tears. They rolled down his cheeks as she hauled a bag of mulch and cut it open. He lowered the passenger window a bit more, and inhaled deeply until he caught the scent of bark, and let it inundate his lungs.

She always finished doing yard work when it began to get dark and mosquitoes were the hungriest. He watched her gather her tools, dry her forehead with a graceful swipe of her forearm, and go around the house, to the backdoor he remembered being hundreds of feet in length. Not anymore. He waited. He’d wait until he knew she was done with her shower, and had changed into something clean and comfortable. Tuesday night. What was it they used to do on Tuesday nights? They watched TV. And kissed. He wanted that again. He waited. He was going to beg her to shrink him again, and this time he wasn’t going to fuck it up.

Tentacles

Kraken
“Kraken” by Andrew Sides

She drove quietly for a while. She wasn’t a big talker unless they were in the bedroom. There she could talk forever, and he loved it. He was grateful for every dirty word that came out of her mouth, for every time she tied him down and sat on his face, and what she screamed at him while she made it seem the bed would come crashing down, and with it, the world.

“When I was little, my mom didn’t want me to like certain music groups, so every time they came on the radio, she’d turn the station.”

“Did it work?”

“No. Sometimes she couldn’t get to it in time because she was making meatballs or cleaning the toilet or whatever, and I’d be exposed to shit, as she called it.”

“Who was ‘shit’?”

“Foo Fighters, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots-”

What?!

“I know. So I grew up listening to Duran Duran, U2, Hall & Oates, all those guys, and learning all the lyrics to their songs.”

“I’m not sure I want to meet your mom. She sounds mean.”

She gave him a quick glance, and in the gleam of her eyes that should have only reflected the diminishing light of day, he caught something alien. His teasing smile faltered, and he swallowed hard. His heart started pounding inexplicably, as though he’d been running.

“You’ll be fine. You’re with me. As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe.”

He laughed at that, but nervously. His own laughter grated in his ears, and he grew annoyed with himself. He thought he’d be calm about meeting her parents, but perhaps he wasn’t. She seldom talked about them, and it wasn’t because of her taciturn nature. After dating a few months and now living together, he knew her well enough to love her, but to bring up her parents always seemed to make her withdraw to a nearly unresponsive state. He decided to risk a couple of questions, now that she was driving and couldn’t hide inside herself. He inhaled deeply, slowly, and let out the first question.

“Could you tell me something about your dad now? I mean, I’m about to meet him, and I know next to nothing about him.”

Another quick glance from eyes as dark as unexplored ocean depths, a glance that felt as heavy on him as their organ-crushing pounds per inch.  He swallowed hard as she brought her gaze back to the road, and sighed.

“My dad. Well, you’re about to meet him, so you might as well know. My dad is… small.”

“Small? Like, short? So what? There’s no shame in being short.”

“No, I don’t mean ‘short’ in stature. I mean small. As in, only inches in height.”

He laughed again, this time naturally. He didn’t know why because what she’d said wasn’t funny at all. If it was a joke, it wasn’t a good one.

“I’m serious. Ah, never mind. You’re only going to believe me when you see him. In every other way he’s a normal father. He was always there for me when I got home from school, and he’d help me with my homework, and always took my side when I got in trouble with mamá.”

“That’s sweet. So you’re daddy’s little girl.”

“I’m his big girl, and I’ve never in my life called him ‘daddy’. It was always papi, and now papá.”

“But your mom never speaks Spanish.”

“Not to you, because you’ve only talked to her on the phone. In person, she’s all arroz-con-frejoles this, and en-mi-país that, and ese maldito hijo de puta con su cuenta de Twitter, que no tiene huevos para-

“Whoa, hold on, I have no idea what you’re saying!”

“I’m telling you, that’s what it’ll probably be like tonight, and she won’t care that you don’t understand. In her mind, you already speak Spanish by osmosis. I told you, you’re gonna have to learn to speak it with some fluency.”

“Shit. Can’t I just pretend I understand her?”

“No. But don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

“I don’t know when I’ll have time to learn, with a full-time job, and you.”

To that, she said nothing and continued driving in silence until they arrived at their destination, just in time for dinner. The front door opened, and down the front steps came a middle-aged woman, clearly Hispanic, with the longest brown hair he had ever seen, only beginning to gray. He realized now why his girlfriend had such a curvaceous ass. She had clearly inherited it. Both women greeted each other with strong hugs and loving kisses. Then she turned her attention to him. He was startled by the darkness in her eyes, which he had seen in his girlfriend not long ago. Her bright smile distracted him.

“So, there you are, corazón. Come, give me a hug.”

Once inside, the couple sat down at the table, and her mother filled their plates with food but served nothing for herself or her husband, who was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t tuck in as his girlfriend did, surprised that she was not waiting for the man of the house. His girlfriend was munching heartily when her mother turned her smiling face his way and realized he was not eating.

“What’s the matter with your man, mijita? Doesn’t he like our food?”

“No, mamá. It’s not that. I’ve taught him to cook like us, and I fix it myself often. I think he’s waiting for papá.”

Her mother laughed.

“Don’t wait. My hombrecito is shy, and he won’t be joining us until later. He’s otherwise occupied.”

She groaned softly at her mother’s words and sliced off a large bite of the most fragrant meat he had ever smelled. He still didn’t imitate her, waiting for her mom to sit and join them.

“No, mijito. You go on and eat. I’m not hungry right now. I’ll have something later.” When she said those last words she smiled and winked at him so lasciviously, he felt his cheeks turn red, and he looked down at his meal. He tore into it without delay. He wasn’t a big eater, but his plate was clean before long. All throughout dinner the mother stared at him, and the daughter moved her calm gaze back and forth between her two companions.

The moment his place was empty, the mother stood up, pushing back the back of her chair with her large, round ass cheeks. She then turned to her native language.

Vamos, mijita. Ayúdame con los trastes.

“Mamá, in English, please,” she said, uselessly.

Mueve el culo, que tenemos que hablar.

Once in the kitchen, her mother peered out at him and saw him stand up and walk around, looking at pictures on the wall, and moving closer to one of them, tilting his head forward, as though he was having a hard time making out what he was seeing.

“No es ningún bruto. Ya encontró la foto de tu papi en el bolsillo de mi blusa.”

“Maybe, but he won’t be able to discern it’s a real man in that picture.”

“Estás segura? Tiene las piernas tan flacuchentas. Y la nariz tan grandota. Y los ojos tan endemoniadamente azules.”

“Mamá! You do realize you just described papi. His legs are also scrawny, his nose is huge, even on such a tiny face, and he is, as you’ve so often described, a blue-eyed devil.”

“Estás segura?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. He’s the one. I knew he’s the one the moment I laid eyes on him. I want him. I want him so much.”

“Está bien. Lo preparamos, o le damos la sorpresa?”

“Just do it. There is no preparing him for this. There is no explanation that’ll make sense.”

“¿Quieres ver?”

“Yes. But I’ll follow you and watch from the doorway. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Ay, mijita, no te preocupes. No va a pasar nada. Todo va a estar bien.”

“Yes, I know. I’m not worried. Go ahead, mamá.”

Her mother smiled and gathered the fabric of her skirts with both hands, and pulled it up to her waist. She then gently dug something out of her panties and handed it to her daughter, who grimaced with some disgust.

“Guárdalo bien. Y necesita un baño.”

Her daughter said nothing as she held her damp father in the palm of her hand, and watched her mother transform. She had witnessed the change a couple of times before, but it was always a tremendous shock. Still, she stared at her mother’s body which was now a mass of swirling tentacles, and walked out of the kitchen holding her head high, even as she watched him turn to them and scream at what he saw.

“Don’t worry, my darling. It won’t last forever,” she said to her shrieking boyfriend as his face disappeared inside her mother’s gaping, expanding maw, and his body was immobilized by tentacles that had been arms and legs and hair only a few minutes earlier.

“Don’t try to fight. It only hurts for a bit, my love. And when you emerge, you’ll look just like papá,” and she held her tiny father so as to show him, even though her boyfriend’s head and shoulders were now inside her mother, and he could no longer hear her. The little man stretched and yawned, blinking as though he had been asleep.

“Papá.”

“Hi, honey. What did I miss?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing that concerns you now, but I’ll need your help when he emerges.”

“Why? Is he stupid? Is he weak of spirit? No one helped me when your mami did this to me, and here I am!”

“I know, papá… but I’m not sure he’s like you. I just need you, OK? I don’t want him to be alone in this.”

“Of course, baby girl. I’d do anything for you. Your mami is going to sleep for three days as she changes him. That’s three days I get to sleep, and eat what I want, and watch what I want on TV.”

She brought her father up to her lips, and kissed his pungent forehead, or tried to. Her lips encompassed over half his height, and only pushed him back into the scoop of her palm. He giggled and looked down at himself, blushing furiously.

“Get me some clothes, will ya?”

A few feet away, her mother finished swallowing her boyfriend’s body. All tentacles seemed to fall dormant, and the skin that held them together bulged here and there, its insides slowing down their struggles until they came to a stop.

Three days, she thought as she lowered her tiny father into a sinkful of warm, soapy water. Three days until I own you completely, my beautiful sex toy. Three days.

Looking

Map.jpg

I have looked for you forever

I can prove it

All my baby pictures show me looking down

I was looking for you

I have listened for you every day

Waiting to hear your voice

Rising from the ground, lighter than air

I am standing on the line

Between sanity and a dragnet of thoughts

My mind is on the line

I walk it and leave a trail of crumbs

Shapes of dignity show the way back

Home when I find you

I keep looking when I move

And when I stay it does not stop

Because a part of me believes

The best part of me knows

What the worst part contradicts

You exist and you are mine

I lost you once before I ever was

And I came back just for you

Learned to walk just for you

Listened to stories about you

Called out your true name

And I will find you again

Take you again the way I did

When we were one and never alone

You cannot hide from me

I will walk and look until I see you

Cast a spell of retribution

You will stop running then

And know my hand is coming

To take what belongs to me

I will close my eyes then

And stop looking

And smile and smile and smile

And feel your life pulsing

You mouth pleading

Your voice pretending

You did not know this was going to happen

But it does

Because you are mine

And you know

I have looked for you forever

 

 

Need

Laughter.jpg

He sat on her chin, making a distinct effort not to laugh every time she tried to peer at him over the summit of her nose. Her eyes crossed before she closed one, then the other, trying to look around each of her nostrils to catch a blurry glimpse of his tiny shape. Why she chose to set him on her chin was beyond his ken, like so many things she did or said. He bit his lip and listened to saliva clicking in her mouth as the muscles that governed her lips began to shape words. She was about to say something. He dug into her soft flesh with his little hands. He knew his hold was meaningless if her words were strong enough to buck.

“I need a story.”

“A story?” he asked, feeling himself bob up and down helplessly as her jaw stretched. He could hear muscles longer than his body play with the opening of her mouth, even if he could not see them inside her head. He wondered why he had asked her that when he heard her so clearly, instead of making sure she said as little as possible. Instead of doing all he could to avoid being hurled into her heavily guarded mouth, even if by accident. She answered with a frustrated gust of warm wind hitting him square in the everywhere before she reiterated her demand.

“Yes. Tell me a story.”

“I-I don’t know any.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Can I move to your chest? Every time you say anything, I feel I’m going to fall off and tumble down either side of your head, and crack my skull so many feet down to the ground.

“Inches.”

“Feet to me.”

“Yes, but inches. And you’re not going to fall. You’re going to sit there and tell me a story.”

He clutched handfuls of her skin as tightly as he could. His fingers, infinitesimal as they were, could not compete with whatever moisturizer from hell she applied to her face every morning. Even when he dug his heels into the border of her lower lip line and turned his feet into wedges between it and the protrusion of that massive swath of pink flesh, he felt as unsteady as a leaf in the wind- no, a leaf in the gutter, to be swallowed by darkness too profound to contemplate. Still, he thought, and thought, and came up with nothing. Rather than say as much, he recited his own life to her.

“Once upon a time there was a man. His name was-”

“Stop!”

“What? I’m telling you my story.”

“I… I don’t know. I’m… I feel alarmed to know your name, after all this time.”

“How do you know it’s my name, and not just a made-up bunch of random words?”

“Because I know. I know things. Like how I knew I could shrink you even though such things are impossible.”

“I see. I guess you do know, because I was about to tell you what used to be my name. We both know that’s not my name now.”

She sighed so hard, she almost blew him off her. And she didn’t notice.

“Go on.”

“His name was Orton Ransom McGillis- Hey! Watch it!”

It was clear she was trying to contain her mirth, and badly. She was biting her lower lip, and the skin on her chin felt dimpled and taut under him. She was gasping and about to throw him off.

“Stop! You’re gonna make me fall.”

She kept at it for a few seconds longer before her amusement was brought to check, but not before she sighed a bit too happily.

“Aren’t you happy your name is Toy now?”

“Yeah, sure. Ecstatic. Look, do I tell you a story, or can I get off now?”

“Not yet. Go on, tell me your story. I’m sorry.”

“OK, that’s better. So, his name was Orton, and he worked in the porn industry-”

What?!

“Just- let me finish.”

Again, contained laughter about 5.4 on the Richter scale. He waited it out, wishing for a dark corner in which to hide. Once it was over, he cleared his throat and went on.

“Poor, misunderstood Orton worked in the porn industry composing summaries for porn films. His carefully worded descriptions and delicately crafted keywords filled the world of Internet porn and the still existing DVD market. The money was adequate, but the hours were hell. One particularly grueling day, Orton made his way to his car. He was exhausted, and not paying attention to his surroundings. When he was unlocking his car, he caught movement on the side window’s reflection, and turned his head long enough to see a woman reach his side.

He turned to defend himself, but instead stood there as she smiled at him, and brought her face up to his, and kissed him fully on the lips. He was so startled by her behavior that the prick in his neck went almost unnoticed. What he did notice was that everything turned into darkness then, and when he came to, nothing looked familiar. He would not realize for a full minute that he had been taken from his life, his work, and everything he once knew, and transformed into a two-inch tall man-”

“Man?”

“Man. I’m a man, no matter what you say or how you treat me.”

“Shush. Don’t tempt me to prove your wrong. Finish your story.”

“So, this little man finally made sense of the roaring sound that assaulted his senses, and understood it to be the engine of a car. He finally made sense of the heat surrounding him, and understood it to be mountains of smooth human flesh. He finally made sense of the coarse texture on which he stood, and understood it to be the seat of a car. The driver’s seat.”

The wall of her lower lip stretched into a smirk, and Orton, now Toy, read her thoughts in it. He knew she was thinking of what she made him do as soon as he recovered consciousness. No explanation, not a single demonstration of care, or an attempt to assuage his fears. His panic. His horror. He graduated from man to sex toy that very moment. Magna cum loudly.

“Go on….”

“After months of being treated like an object, Orton began to think of himself as one. He stopped begging to be regrown or returned to his life. He didn’t have to work anymore, except as a human dildo for the woman that shrank and took him. He had zero responsibilities, except to keep her satisfied. His family, his friends, everyone that had once known him were still grieving for him, looking for him, crying for him; but the woman, his owner, didn’t care. She wanted him so badly, none of that mattered.”

“Poor, unfortunate Orton.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that. You’ve always said I’m the luckiest toy in the world.”

“I’m talking about Orton, not you. You are the luckiest toy in the world.”

“Anyway. Orton made peace with his fate, and realized his place was with this giant woman that loved him as the most precious thing in the world.”

“The universe.”

“The universe.”

“The universes. Reality. Realities. All dimensions.”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Is that what I am to you? The most precious thing in all universes dimensions everything?”

“Yes. Everything, everywhere, and beyond, where there is nothing and nowhere. You are the most important nothing there too.”

“Hmm. Thank you. I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you like my story?”

“Yes, I loved it.”

“Can I get off now?”

“No, Toy. Ladies first.”

If you don’t love me now

kiss__request__by_hangry_female
“Kiss -Request-” by Hangry-Female

“You will never love me.”

“I won’t.”

“I am lovable.”

“You are, but that’s not the way it works.”

“I’ll make you love me.”

“You made me small, but you can’t make me love you.”

“This is not turning out the way I thought it would.”

“What ever does?”

“My cakes. My bread. My tomatoes. My drinking.”

“Small potatoes.”

“You are small potatoes.”

“I’m small, but I’m not a potato.”

“You are a couch potato.”

“I’m a panty potato. The only times I ever spend on a couch is when you are on a couch, wearing me inside your panties.”

“Why won’t you love me?”

“Neediness is a turn-off.”

“I don’t need you. I just want you.”

“Then what do you care how I feel?”

“I don’t know. This is a new feeling. I’ve never cared about the faces you made, or the grimaces, or the screams. Now I find myself wondering what you’re thinking about, who you want to fuck, where you want to be.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“What can I do better?”

“Nothing. My heart was already taken when you did this to me. I think of my wife every morning when I wake up, and when I go to sleep, and every moment in between, when you are using me.”

“She’s forgotten you.”

“What?!”

“Yes, she’s moved on. She has a new boyfriend now, and she’s stopped looking for you. Your daughter doesn’t even remember you.”

“This is why I don’t love you, and never will. You are cruel beyond measure. You stole my life from me. You made me into nothing but a sex toy. I had everything, and now I have nothing.”

“I had nothing, and now I have everything.”

“Is your life so centered around sex that this ‘everything’ has to be a tiny man you use to fulfill your sexual needs?”

“Yes. I go mad when I don’t use you. I’m distracted. I can’t work. I can’t function. You are my air, and I feel you in my heart.”

“That’s pathetic. You should be able to function without me.”

“I should, but I don’t. I’d fall apart.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. I think you should try to be without me for a time, and see how you do.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Suit yourself. But I think it’s sad that you can’t live your life unless I’m around.”

“I can. I simply don’t want to.”

“There’s nothing simple about this.”

‘It is very simple. I want you. I always want you. I want you with me all the time. And there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing. Everything has gone wrong for you because of me. You have lost everything and everyone, but for the first time in my life, I can breathe, and my heart doesn’t hurt. When I look at you I feel… full. Complete.”

“I find you boring. I miss my wife and the way she moves around the kitchen when she cooks for me. I miss the way her voice lifts when she wants to go see a movie. I miss the way she walks past me and leaves a trail of her scent for me to follow. I miss the way she bossed me around about things I found absolutely annoying. I miss mowing my lawn. I miss everything about my life, and if you brought me back, I’d never think of you, except in my nightmares.”

“Fuck. That hurts.”

“Good. It’s true. All of it.”

“I don’t care. You fill my heart. You fill me with joy,”

“One day I’ll hate you.”

“Maybe, but until then, kiss me, little toy.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll just make you kiss me.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“It is. You are mine. You will always be mine, no matter how you feel, or for whom you cum, or what’s left of your soul wants. You don’t know it, but every molecule of yours is mine, beyond love, beyond thoughts, beyond feelings. Love your wife. Think about your wife. I don’t care. Your body belongs to me, and when you open your eyes and mind, you are mine too. Every two inches of you. Kiss me.”

“No!”

“No? But you are. Look at you, kissing me now. Look at your lips, puckering up over mine, touching and feeling and swelling.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I don’t! Stop!”

“Kiss me again. And again, and again. Never stop.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me. You love this. You love being tiny. You love being a sex toy. You love being two inches tall.”

“I don’t love you. I will never love you!”

“Kiss me. I feel enough for the both of us.”

“I hate you, you fucking psycho.”

“I love you. You are mine, forever. Kiss me. Bend your body into my mouth. Sink your face into my lips, and press your hands on the pink wall of me.”

“I’m broken. Nothing I do has heart.”

“My heart is big enough for the both of us. My love gives you purpose. Hate me if you must. Be bored. Love your wife. Wish for her with all your might. You’ll never see her again. You’ll see me every day, feel me every morning, and make me feel everything I want to feel every time I want.”

“If you loved me, you’d take me back.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’d want me to be happy.”

“Wrong, little one. I give your life more purpose than anything you’d find out there. Because of you I can breathe, eat, think, feel, live. You are everything. Out there you’d be an echelon in the tiny lives of little people that have moved on without you. Here with me you are an universe.”

“Fuck you. You are insane.”

“I’m as sane as you are. I only take what’s mine, and you are mine. It doesn’t matter how you feel or what you say. Kiss me again.”

“No!”

“And again…”

“No!”

“And again…”

The ABCs Game – E is for Eye

EyeToEye
E
is for Eye – ‘ī n [ME, fr. OE ēage; akin to OHG ouga eye, L oculus, Gk ōps, eye, face, Skt akṣi eye] (bef. 12c) 1. a: an organ of sight; esp: a nearly spherical hollow organ that is lined with a sensitive retina, is lodged in a bony orbit in the skull, is the vertebrate organ of sight, and is normally paired.

I love word derivations. When I was a child and read the dictionary because it was fun, etymologies were always the best part. This blog entry was first created eight years ago, right about the time I stopped playing this word game. My muse started packing his things, and all I ever typed here was the above paragraph, and this thought, “It is that giant shape that peers into your window….”

I then added this post to my drafts and left it there to rot. Last night I was inspired soon after I began looking for the components for the accompanying collage, and while going to the store I thought of the words that belong here. All day yesterday people tried to talk to me, and they had to get my attention several times because I was lost in my world. I was lost in this.

* * *

Look at me.
Good.

What is your name?
Wrong. Your name is Toy.

Where is your home?
Wrong. I am your home.

Who is your family?
Wrong. I am your owner.

Look at me.
Stop crying.

Who did this to you?
That’s right. I did this to you.

Open your eyes.
Tell me what you see.

Come here, come closer.
I gave you an order.

Very well, you leave me no choice.
Stop screaming, I won’t hurt you.

I’m only closing my fingers around you, and doing your work for you.
Now look. Look. Open your eyes. Dry them.

Now touch me with both hands.
Yes, there. Reach over my thumb and touch me.

How does it feel?
Yes. What else? Press harder.

Close your eyes and see with your body.
Thunder? No, that’s not thunder.

That’s my heartbeat. That’s my blood.
Rushing there for you.

Put your hands back where I told you.
Follow my orders.

Now feel the heat.
The air down there is thicker. Wetter.

Do not move your hands away.
Or I will keep them there for you.

Tell me your name.
Wrong.

Tell me your name.
Good.

Open your eyes.
You are learning.

Look up. Look at my face.
I don’t care if it hurts your neck.

Tell me my name.
Good.

Show me your home.
Confused still?

Look down again.
Look with your eyes, and with your hands.

That’s your home.
I’m your home.

Push hard. Harder.
Do you hear that?

That’s all for you.
It’s coming for you.

I’m going to put you down now.
Don’t run. Don’t cry.

Alright, keep crying.
But run and I’ll take over.

No more learning.
Only teaching.

Good Toy.
Now come home.

* * *

No.

virus236da_by_openhighhat.jpg
“Virus236da” by openhighhat

The small man sat in a kneaded eraser the shape of a bean chair, and watched his owner draw. The faint smell of turpentine lingered in the air, carrying on its back the scent of paper, pencils, and the rest of her art supplies that crowded surrounding shelves, and a large percentage of the table on which his little makeshift chair had been placed. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift to the sound of her pencil scratching the vast whiteness of her favorite sketch paper.

“Open your eyes, my love.”

“Are you drawing my face now?”

“No, but I want you to keep looking at me.”

He said nothing and did as he was told. She was in a very good mood today, and he didn’t want to spoil it. Not until he absolutely had to. And he had to. Forty-five minutes later, her rough draft was completed, and she smiled, looking at her handiwork. She lifted it off the table easel and showed it to him. There, all over the paper, was his body, drawn nude, because he was always nude. She had captured him as perfectly as she did when she sprayed him with a shrinking formula, and lifted his wriggling, terrified body off the floor. He drove the flashing memory to the back of his mind and drew his lips into a smile. It almost felt sincere.

It was time to try again. He cleared his throat.

“I was wondering… my giantess, may I ask you a question?”

She had started smiling back at him, but at his words, her lips pursed together, and a slightly exasperated gust of warm air left them and blew back his hair. She put the sketching pad down and gave him a slight nod. She knew what he was going to ask.

“Would you please tell me how you shrank me?”

Now it was her turn to close her eyes. She shook her head slightly, and opened her eyes again, focusing them on him. Eyes as large as moons, and I’m in them, my reflection trapped in two places at the same time, he thought, his heart skipping with fear. He swallowed hard and prayed she would not answer him as she did most of the time, by grabbing him and dropping him down her panties, never pulling him out until his work was done. But this time, she surprised him.

“Very well, though the truth will disappoint you, as I don’t quite have a grasp on what exactly happened.”

He found that hard to believe. No one goes around spraying people with a liquid that transforms them into a 2-inch tall vestige of themselves and doesn’t know exactly what they are doing, but he said nothing and listened on.

“As I might have mentioned before, I’ve always dreamt of someone like you. Someone so tiny, he could fit in the palm of my hand, or in my mouth, or anywhere else.” She smiled at him when she said those last three words, and he forced himself again to return that smile. She thought she was complimenting him. All those months he had exhausted himself screaming at her, begging her to change him back into a 6′ tall man, demanding to be returned to his wife or parents, until he realized it was never going to happen. All she ever did in response was muffle his screams with various parts of her body.

“One day, I decided to do something about it. It wasn’t a rational decision because there is nothing to be done about wanting to shrink a man. Don’t look at me like that. I know you sit there, shrunken, and the evidence of the very opposite of my words… but… the truth is, I have no idea how I did it. I don’t understand how it happened. All I ever did was mix up various ingredients, and go around spraying men’s faces.”

He knew she hated it when he interrupted her, but she said nothing as she stared at him, so he ventured a question.

Men‘s faces? So you’ve done this before.”

“I’ve sprayed their faces, and I got yelled at, or pushed away, or slapped and punched by their wives or girlfriends. One time I was arrested and released after it was found that the spraying agent was innocuous. I made up some excuse about a social experiment, and I guess they don’t have time for my brand of insanity.”

“Insanity? That’s the first time- I mean, is that how you see this?”

“No, my little man. What I did was not insane. What I did was the most perfect thing that’s ever been done. How I did it was insane.”

“But- how? I don’t understand. You must have access to secret chemicals! Surely you work at some lab somewhere.”

“You know where I work.”

“Just because you take me there doesn’t mean I can hear anything. Every sound is dampened by walls of flesh too thick to-” He cut himself short when he saw that her facial expression had changed at the meaning of his words. She looked at him hungrily. Again. What else was new? Yet, instead of pinching his body to transport it to her walls of flesh, she sighed and spoke.

“Interesting. So you still don’t know what I do for a living.”

“No.”

“I don’t work in a secret government lab; I’m not a mad scientist developing secret compounds that will change the world. I grabbed a glass from my kitchen cabinet, and I squatted on it until the first drop of blood fell out of me that month and I cried a single tear in it and I added a single drop of sweat from my workout and a drop of wine and a drop of beer and a drop of spit and a fart from my ass and all this during a full moon and while I was naked and I know it sounds so absolutely ridiculous and impossible but that is exactly what happened!”

She stopped talking and caught her breath. Her chest was heaving, and from her cheeks, two red blooms grew deeper in color. She watched him watch her, and his expression changed from impassive to impatient.

“That can’t be true. That’s impossible. Sweat and beer and blood? That combination doesn’t work to shrink anything! If that were the case, then every homeless person in the world would be tiny!”

“Don’t be silly. There was more to it than sweat and beer.”

He began to rock in place, back and forth. He tried to keep it together, but it was impossible. He felt his mind would break soon.

“What happened to the other men you’ve shrunk? How did you grow them back? Why hasn’t anyone noticed your doing this?”

“Hey, calm down. Do you think if this had worked before, you’d be here? It had never worked before! All I ever got was trouble for my efforts, until one day it worked. That’s all I can tell you. No… wait… there is something else.”

“What? What?!

“How I felt when I saw you. I’d always been nervous before, with all those guys… but when I saw you, I felt this tremendous pull, and this calm. This absolute stillness of my mind, and my heart. And I walked up to you, and I sprayed you, and it worked. It worked.”

“Please grow me back.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“No.”

“You can’t do this to me! I have a life!”

“No.”

“I hate you! You are a monster!”

“No.”

“I’ll kill myself. I swear I will. Grow me back, or take me to my wife!”

“No. And that’s enough talking, my precious little man.”

“No, god, please! I’m sorry! No, no, nooo!”

“Yes,” she said, and she picked him up, and placed him deep within her, and she listened to his continuous screams with her skin, and she felt him with the beat of her heart, and she grabbed a pencil that was as deep a red as love, and she struck and caressed paper with it, to the rhythm of his struggles.

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.