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.

Size Tunes 2017

Serenade
Lah lah lah

I’ve had this idea for years. I contemplated it, and never did anything about it, until now. Back then, because I used to go to boards and talk to a lot of people, I got to know a few of them a bit, and as it turns out, nearly every one of them had some musical ability. When I published the collage above, I received a file composed by a blog reader, inspired by it… so the idea of songs inspired by size differences is not at all outlandish, and it’s certainly something a few of us have thought about, and done more than just think about.

So… it’s high time we have us a music contest: bit.ly/SizeTunes17

I’m just going to sit here quietly, and while I wait for songs you write about giantesses, or tiny men, or gigantic/tiny feet, or micro-robots, or foxes the size of the solar system, to come my way, I’ll mess around with Garage Band, and see what I can come up with. I can sing my own songs, but when the time comes, I might get someone at fiverr® to do my singing for me. Everyone in my family knows my voice. Or I could just use Audacity to alter my pitch… oh this cracks me up!

Your Shrunken Life With Me

Your_Shrunken_Life_With_Me
Is it so bad? No, it’s wonderful.

This comic strip idea started as a wish to see how many frames I could put together that followed the same idea. I could have kept going after the seventh one, but thought that was a good place to stop. There can always be future strips that depict various activities between a tiny man and his partner. There is no end to what those can be. I’ve always liked thinking about the life of a tiny man when he finds someone that loves and wants him, even at his tiny size, and against every describable odd, because who in the world would want such a small man, not only as a lover, much less a life companion?

A large number of people, as it turns out. I just happen to be one of them, and as Gentle April reader- and writership proved, there are many of us that envision the shrinking of someone, the enduring of that process, the becoming someone for whom then keeping and preserving that small life is a zero-sum game for both parties. I could argue that I’ve always imagined receiving much more than I get. Maybe that’s the way my psyche explains the psychopathy… the pathology… the abnormality of wanting to remove someone from their life, shrink them against their will, and hold them deep in your power for the remainder of their existence, and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you’re doing the right thing for yourself, and for them.

It welcomes analyses. And then it pulverizes them. I certainly have never read a proper explanation of why I am how I am, and why I love what I love. Even if I did, I’m sure there would be elements found lacking in a thorough mental examination. I said I’d welcome it, but I won’t be volunteering for one, any time soon. It’s much more fun to sit in front of my computer for a spell, and create an image that depicts a woman dancing, while there’s a tiny cage dangling from her neck that contains a shrunken man. He may be unable to stand on the dance floor and match her move for move, but they are dancing together, and she would not have it any other way.

In the next frame, she is doing one of my favorite activities, which is reading. Of course I don’t read trashy novels [anymore], but I certainly write smutty stories; so I’m not going to be too hard on her. They are both reading, even though he has to walk the lines, and she has to turn his pages sometimes; off him if they get out of control, or a breeze swirls into the room from the open window, and they flip and slap onto his tiny frame. She finds that living bookmark, and she sets him to rights again. It interrupts her reading constantly, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

And they share meals together, and he feeds from her fingertip. They shower together, and he stands in her palm to do it. They watch a sunset together, and he tells her about that time he found his dad’s porn stash, and how excited he was, without knowing why… and she tells him about the time she found her dad’s porn stash, and how she only wondered how in the world her body was going to turn from a flat canvas, to the painted curves she saw depicted in nearly every page. He tells her she’s perfect as she is, and she doesn’t need anything changed about her body. She tells him he’s perfect as he is, and he doesn’t need to be any different.

And they kiss, they kiss all the time. And the other one. That one happens all the time as well. Probably after each one of the frames take place. I don’t know. I’m not going to ask them. That would be rude.

Stick Figure Crush

StickFigureCrush

A collaboration. Or is it a commission for a collaboration? I’m too confused to tell. In any case, I get the better end of the deal.

As to why a gentle giantess would create such an image?

“Best leave it unsolved.” /Nigel

The Good Part

Ask-a-shrunken-man

Isn’t it fun?

When someone borrows something you put together?

When you collage an image of something you love, and someone sees fit to use it for expressing their ideas about a world tiny in their eyes?

It’s pretty awesome.

The above image is mine. I created it from images I found on Google.

Of some books, and of Andrew Cooper, a model.

And the someone used it as a header for their Tumblr, which I found just now, when I searched for “shrunken man”.

But now, for the meat of this blog entry.

The Good Part

Tell me the good part again.
Is it when I found you, and shrank you?
Because I saw you, and thought, “Yeah.”
“That’s the guy.”
“He’s the one.”
“The only one that has to be small.”
Other ones may or may not be small, but he has to be.

Or was it after, when I told you I’d done it, and you screamed?
You screamed and yelled at me.
For a long time.
For months, or days, or hours.
Or one that felt like the other.
But I took it, and I grabbed you, and I showed you.
That it had to be you, that it could be no one else.

Is that the good part?
Or was it when I wrapped my hand around you?
And made you travel my world in eighty minutes?
Did you like that?
I didn’t even know your name, but I knew you.
Did you know me? Did you want to know me?
Was I the good part?

Or was it when you slept and dreamed?
And healed.
All the bruises and the scrapes.
You know I didn’t mean to, and you didn’t mean to.
A world of hurt in unmeant meanings.
A world of pain that was the good part.
A world of me written with the ink of you.

Or was the good part when you woke up?
When I woke up and saw the words.
The truth in everything you said.
Is the truth the good part?
Is the heart the good part?
My heart was in my hand.
Did you feel it pound around you when I squeezed?

Or is now the good part?
I think that’s what you’d say.
Now when there is an open space.
And your ground trembles no more.
And your mind is full of your own voice.
And you belong to yourself again.
Is now your good part?

Shunned

No

The day looked too good to be true, so Ingrid should have known something would go wrong; as it invariably did. She should have felt it in the air, the fatalistic sheen of a bright morning sun winking at her from the dew that clung to the grass as she walked out the door, down the steps to her car. She should have seen it in the bright optimism that gave her steps some bounce, following the beat of industrious birds as they swept down from her maple tree.

But she didn’t. She went to work, ignoring the invisible but very dark cloud over her head that was raining only on her; ignoring the invisible lightning bolts that shot from it and down to her body. She only ignored them because she imagined them later, omens that didn’t exist, of a terrible day that did. She went to work, and during her lunch hour she went to her meeting with the social worker, who had obligingly offered to meet her at a nearby cafe. It was another sign of a good day she should have suspected. She should have been on high alert. As it was, she foolishly ordered a beer with her burger as she waited for her appointment, who was running late and told her to go ahead and order her lunch.

She was swallowing her third swig when the woman arrived, looking very professional in her work shirt and suit. She fixed her gaze on her beer, and Ingrid felt suddenly self-conscious. Was 1:24 PM too early to be drinking? She began to think so. She got up to shake the woman’s hand, and was shocked when the social worker -let’s call her “Miss Clark” to protect her privacy-  ignored it, and sat down. Her smile was tight when she almost met her gaze.

“Miss Clark, hello…”

“Good afternoon, Ing- er, Mrs. F. [Let’s protect her name as well… no need to shame anyone now.] Let’s get this going, shall we? I have another meeting in half an hour.”

“Sure. Don’t you want to eat someth-”

“I’m afraid there is no time, and this meeting will be very short.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so.” Ms. Clark set down her suitcase on the table, and opened it up like a protective shield between herself and Ingrid. She suddenly felt it all go south, and immediately lost her appetite. The cold bottle of beer she’d been holding suddenly felt hot to the touch, and wrong in her hand. She set it down on the table, and waited for a second before she asked the next question.

“When am I getting my new foster-care ward?”

“That’s what I need to discuss with you. I don’t believe that will happen any time soon.”

Ingrid could not believe was she was hearing. The only purpose of this meeting was so that all could be arranged for her receiving another shrunken man, one or more, and tend to him as carefully as was needed. And they needed a lot of care, as they were so small.

“I don’t understand. I’ve been taking care of tiny men for years-”

“The correct term is Size Different, Mrs. F. I wish you would stop using offensive language in my presence.”

Was this the same woman to whom she’d been talking on the phone for days now? After the breakup she was ready to open up her home to another little man, one she would hardly talk to or see, one she would only feed and keep safe in the confines of her own home, until he could be on his own again. It’s what she had always loved to do. Her entire life had been dedicated to the care of defenseless creatures, and when she became an adult, to the foster care of men of all ages that had escaped a nightmarish life as sex-trade toys or slaves, sometimes injured or disfigured beyond recognition. She had always called them “tiny men”, but the recent movement to protect them had become such an offensive, anything could be taken as a slight.

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’ve been saying ‘tiny men’ to you on the phone for days. What’s the difference now? Why are you telling me I can’t open my home to a tin- to a size-different man, as I’ve done for so long?”

“That’s what I’m here to tell you. I’d not run your record when we talked, but I did so this morning, to get ready for our meeting. Certain things have come to light, and your blacklisting prevents my allowing you to, not only receive anyone size different in your house, but your license has been revoked. Permanently.”

“What?!! My what?!”

Ms. Clark pulled out an envelope from her suitcase, and held it in the air in front of Ingrid. She could only stare at it, while her eyes bounced from it to Ms. Clark, to it.

“I don’t understand! I don’t understand! This doesn’t make any sense!”

Now Ms. Clark began to look angry. “Take the envelope. It explains everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go.”

“Stop. Stop! You have to explain this to me!” Ingrid got up and reached over and across the table, making the mistake of grabbing Ms. Clark’s arm. When that happened, it was like dousing fire with gasoline, because the social worker exploded in unconfined rage as she hissed words that sounded like screams.

Don’t you touch me, you blacklisted, abusive slime. Don’t you ever touch or speak to me again. Let me go or I’ll call the police. That’s where you belong. In prison.

Her outburst was a slap in Ingrid’s face, and her hand went limp. She could only watch Ms. Clark snatch her arm free from her hold, and walk away. She only looked back once, to give her a disgusted look. Ingrid thought the world had gone mad. Then she looked at the envelope Ms. Clark had tried to hand her but had simply dropped on the table, and she grabbed, and ripped it open. She read it, and the burger bites that simmered in her stomach tried to come back up at that moment. She could not believe her eyes. The little asshole had gotten her blacklisted.

She read the words that explained everything. The last tiny man that had been in her care had also been her love. He had made his way to her heart, but it had all ended badly. Now, since tiny men had so much protection from the law, a single word from them could destroy a normal-sized person’s reputation. She saw it in the news all the time, but she couldn’t believe it was happening to her. She read the words; the lies.

“…alcohol dependence… abusive… sexual predator… unable to care for the sick… mood swings… injuries receives while under the care… incapable of caring for anyone but herself…”

It went on and on. The tiny man she had loved with all her heart had created a false report about her, and now her license was gone? She could never take care of any other tiny man, ever again? She collapsed down into her chair, and felt tears leap from her eyes. She closed them and swallowed back what threatened to come back up her throat. Her mind was blank with pain, and shock at his unbearable resentment. And why? Because she had loved him too much? There had been nothing she had done he had not consented to as an adult. Had there been? No, of course not! Every day had been wonderful… well, nearly every day… until the end.

She paid for her unfinished meal, and left the cafe. She had to go back to the office, but the rest of the day she was too upset to accomplish anything meaningful. She could not contact him anymore, as when he left her, he had rerouted into the system, and his location was unknown, for his own protection. Whoever was taking care of him now was also protected by law, and by anonymity. She tried to send him an email, but it bounced back to her, recipient’s address nonexistent.

So you don’t exist anymore, and now you don’t want me to exist either, do you. Why did you do this? She had no answers, and instead of going home after she left work, she walked out of the office building, and wandered around the busy streets, cars beeping and people rushing by. She noticed nothing. All she had wanted to do was good. All she wanted to be was good. And now she was blacklisted, and unable to ever tend for someone that needed help more than anyone else in the world. She felt dejected. Useless. Unwanted. Undeserving.

She stopped at one of the tiny doors neat ground level. She knew it to be the entrance to a bar frequented by little people. In front and over it stood a man that had to be seven feet tall. He looked at her and told her to get lost. Tiny men had so much protection nowadays. It was no surprise, after what happened all those years ago… but there was no reason for anyone to treat her this way. All she wanted to do was talk to them, care for them, love them. And now there was this bouncer standing with his feet framing the four-inch tall entrance to that little bar, and treating her like she was some kind of criminal. It was too much to endure.

She walked back to the office’s parking lot, she got her things, and returned home, where she belonged. Alone.

Gone Shopping – Part 2

Gone_Shopping_2

The story continues… The complete strip exists here, and at Pixton.com.

* * * 

My cheeks were still on fire when I reached over and grabbed his little body. All I wanted was to comfort him, when his reaction, again, shocked me. He started punching at the webbing between my thumb and index finger, slamming his little fists with as much fury as I’d ever seen in a little creature. They felt like little caresses, and I tried not to smile, because his face was contorted in a mixture of rage and horror. I could see he was trying to form words with his mouth, but failing.

“Hey, easy there. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He finally found his words.

“Put- me- down- you- great- beast! I’m- not- a sex- toy!”

Then I understood. He thought I’d picked him up to ram him inside my body, or some other distasteful idea. I must have grimaced, because he stopped punching me, or at least he slowed down a bit, and added puzzlement to the list of events happening to his features.

“Well, you are sold as one, so I guess you’re programmed to resist the idea? That’s strange. Who had the notion that women like to be fought off in bed? Or found it attractive to be repulsive? Because, let me tell you, the only disagreeable notion here is the one of putting you between my legs, and start sliding you in and out…” I slowed down my speech as I searched my mind and my body for that old revulsion that had not outlasted the afternoon. In fact, what I found during my search was an agitation of my pulse, and a twitch between said legs. I wonder if he saw it on my face, because he started squirming again. I turned my thoughts to him again.

“Hey, stop! Stop that right now!”

“I’ll stop when you start listening to me!”

I decided to humor him, mostly because I figured I’d look it up later, how to play with these toys. The store attendant told me to ignore everything he said, but I couldn’t manage it, for some reason. “OK, I’m listening. Give me your spiel.”

“My what?”

“Tell me your story.”

“That’s the problem. There’s a lot about it I don’t remember. But I remember I was born in… some place with few people, and I was as large as you are, and there was corn. I remember corn. And cows. And my brother. You left him there, at the store! What if someone buys him-”

“Hold it, slow down… corn? And you were grown in a lab. All of you are. You can’t have memories of cows and being large.”

“I’m telling you. You have to believe me. I’m desperate! Please, my brother has given up. He doesn’t think anyone will listen. I’m making the effort. I’m begging you, please listen. Go back to the store and buy my brother. We’re real people. We were once like you, but someone took us away, and made us like this.”

“Someone?”

“I don’t remember that part, but…” And his words faded in the background of his thoughts, because I began to think, to remember everything I had read about the tiny people being grown in labs, the Mad Queen’s grand masterplan to save the planet. Mankind reduced in size meant less impact on resources, a smaller carbon footprint, and all that green talk. I always wondered why all the little critters had been male. Was there something to what this little one was saying? I stared at him as he talked. Oh no, there it was again. That stirring at the center of me. It felt like something was melting. A pounding. Someone was knocking on that door. Someone was ringing that bell.

I wanted to give him my full attention, I really did; but my full attention was on his legs, dangling from my closed hand. Legs that moved and twitched as he spoke, alive with his energy. Legs that would kick and feel amazing if I just slid them in between my wet- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his tiny hands. How little were they? They were small enough to grapple with something the size of his head, maybe slightly swollen. It would grow bigger if those hands massaged it, and rubbed it, and- No! No! Pay attention. Attention to his itty mouth as it moved. And a flash of that pink tongue. What would that little tongue feel if I forced his head down on my breast and ordered him to- No! No!

I must have grunted or moaned, because when I came to, he was silent, and staring at my face. My cheeks felt like two volcanoes erupting. There was another volcano spewing lava already, but I wasn’t going to make him privy of it. I took a deep breath, and maybe to assuage my guilt and confusion at my new feelings, I said on the hard exhale which slightly blew back his tuft of tight curls, “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go where?”

“Let’s go get your brother.”

He started crying again, this time I imagine with relief, and I was glad of it, because then he’d be distracted from having noticed my gawking at him. Lusting after a tiny man when he’s crying feels like a sin. I walked to my car and realized I had left the house without my purse, without my keys, and holding my toy in my hand. I grimaced and was grateful I always kept an extra key hidden in the garden. When I reentered my home and grabbed my purse and keys, I walked up to my car again, and when I sat in the driver’s seat, I realized (again) I was still holding him. I had to put him down somewhere. I did the first thing I thought. I dropped him between my legs, the only space available, as the shotgun seat was occupied by my purse. Or is that what I told myself? I didn’t dare look at him, so when I let go of his body, I focused on driving.

I’d been on the road for a few minutes when I felt his body shift and reposition down there. His shoulder grazed my inner thigh, and my brain felt like a grenade going off. Shrapnel was piercing my heart, my head, my eyes, my crotch, and I realized I was swerving. “Hold still!” I said, a little too loud. Again, that guilt. It wasn’t his fault I was going insane. Mad. Like the Queen. Maybe her madness was contagious, but I was sure she didn’t lust after tiny men. She just wanted to make things better for everyone, and frankly, driving was easier now that road rage had been cancelled, and tailgating was punishable by death.

He stopped moving, and if it had not been for the slight heat signature that pulsed from his body, right into that empty triangle bordered by my flesh and fabric, I would have forgotten he was there. As it was, it’s a wonder I didn’t kill us both. There was that one time I applied the brakes a little too hard, and his body backed into me fully, and safely bounced off the soft shape of what was trapped in my panties. I, on the other hand, had a head-on collision of the senses. He immediately straightened up and moved away from me, farther out the chasm of my thighs, and I could feel his eyes on me, and even his thoughts… I focused on traffic, and on telling myself it had been accidental. A leg jerk. Nervous legs. Needed to start taking magnesium. Exercise more. Yeah.

When we got to the store’s parking lot, it was still open, but there were only fifteen minutes left on that clock. When I ran to the display, no one had bought his brother. The other little guy was gone, however. The sweet little fellow was shocked to see me again, and even more surprised when I lifted his brother to him, and they spoke manly words I’m not going to repeat here. I grabbed the remaining box as an elderly lady made for it. She said some choice words in my wake, and I was grateful there was a daily flip-the-finger quota enforced by law, because I filled it at that very moment.

The ride home was a little calmer. Once in the car, I ignored my toys’ pleas to be reunited, and left my newer toy in his container. I did, however, have the foresight to stick my first toy in the shopping back with his brother, so I wouldn’t have an excuse to place him between my legs again. That had been a mistake I was not going to repeat. Well, that’s what I thought at the time.

Once we were back at my place, I ripped open the box, and freed that little man. What followed was another shock that day. They both embraced and laughed and talked at the same time. The emotion pouring from their little bodies was such that I felt my own eyes brim with tears. After they’d had their fill of that, they turned to face me and approached me slowly. My first toy cleared his little throat once, then again, and failed to say anything. His brother patted his back, and looked at me with an uncertain smile. He said “thank you” so quietly I almost didn’t hear him, but the shapes his lips made were not to be mistaken. I smiled back and looked at my first toy.

“Are you alright?” I asked him.

“Yes”, he said, and we all stood and sat there for a minute, saying nothing until I spoke again, startling them into reaching for each other.

“Alright! Hey, stop that. Don’t be afraid of me. I’ve done nothing to hurt you, and everything to help you, so stop acting as though I’m the enemy. I was just going to ask you if you were hungry. When’s the last time you had anything to eat? Because… you do eat, don’t you?”

It was amazing how fast they went from fear to indignation.

“Of course we eat!”

“Yeah, we’re real people, lady.”

“None of this ‘lady’ crap. Call me Coraline. That’s my name. Now tell me your names.”

They hesitated and looked at each other.

“We don’t… I don’t remember.”

“I think my name began with an ‘N’. Maybe Nathan.”

“Neil.”

“What?”

“That was my name. As soon as you said ‘Nathan’ I remembered mom’s voice calling us to dinner. ‘Nathan’. ‘Neil’. Those were-”

“Are. Are our names. We’re twins. Non identical.”

I watched and listened to them in disbelief. Could this be true? Was the Queen aware human beings were being taken for these sanctioned experiments? Dragged away from their lives, and reduced in size, and then sold like objects at stores across the country? What was going on? This was a monstrosity.  Something had to be done. But what? I didn’t know. All I know is that these little men were under my care, and I had to do what I could to help them. If there was a normal life waiting for them somewhere, it was my duty to help them regain it.

“Alright, Nathan, Neil, it’s time to eat. Do you like beef stroganoff?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you. Let’s ride my hands to the kitchen. I’m going to cook for you.”

To be continued…

Craigslist: Have you hurt him?

Have-you-hurt-him

Because it does happen. It might have happened to me, if I’d awakened to life in a world where shrunken men existed, and the one I kept angered me one day. Maybe I’d shake him once too hard, or kick him in the gut with my big toe, and off he’d go, flying across the room, and landing in a frightening heap. In such a situation, am I the type of person that wants to lose him in the system to the type of foster care that will be more likely to kill him that his own careless owner?

What if I promise I’ll never ever do it again? It’s just that… he made me so angry….

Original post, until it gets deleted, or I, blacklisted:

https://losangeles.craigslist.org/lac/crs/6171675437.html

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