“What are they talking about?”
“Quality metrics. Shh.”
“That’s not a thing. Do you mean analytics?”
“How do you know about analytics. Shh.”
“I used to do analytics before you shrunk me! I was in charge of social media and they were grooming me for content management!”
She didn’t even respond this time, simply swatted the back of my head and neck with her broad fingertips. She probably disguised this as brushing crumbs off her chest; in reality, she lightly stunned me and I went limb over her left boob, slipping another centimeter into her bra cup. If this had been the first time this happened, I’d suggest she didn’t know her own strength. We’ve lived together for nearly half a year, however, and this is not the first business meeting she’s brought me to, so she knows full well what she’s doing.
I caught my breath there, slumped against the rounded slope of her chest. All I knew was the warmth rising from her body, the sweet musk of the late afternoon, when her natural body aroma pushed through her waning perfume. I rested there, unwilling to incur another glancing blow, and listened to her heartbeat through layers of muscle, fat, and skin. Layers deeper than I was tall. Think about that.
Outside her red satin blouse, I could hear voices conferring, taking turns, stomping all over each other. I couldn’t see any of them, but their personalities rang pretty clearly in word choice, tone, and behavior. I made up little stories about them, as my knees slipped over my girlfriend’s areola, the stitching in her lace bra slid over my bare back, and we all rose and fell with every breath she took.
It was easier to keep me with her, she reasoned to me, because I could get into all sorts of trouble unattended in her office. She could forget me, locked up in a steel drawer; I could be spotted by her crotchety old supervisor or—better—one of the hot young interns. Personally, I think she just enjoyed the frisson of keeping a tiny naked man on her person, storing him intimately, while being forced to attend these boring-ass meetings.
For instance, right now was speaking a loud man. I’d place him in his upper 40s, and I could picture him in a white shirt, a navy striped tie, an off-black blazer with his dark hair parted sharply from his left. He led every sentence with a trumpet-like blare, then relaxed into slow drawling, as though he was insecure about getting everyone’s attention, but once it was had he savored it as long as he could. He was definitely one of those who liked the sound of his own voice, either repeating what someone else had just said or stumbling his way through corporate-speak in an attempt to sound viable.
He wasn’t even in charge of the meeting. The group was being moderated and led by a serious-sounding woman with the flat, sing-song voice of Stereolab’s Lætitia Sadier. She was never offended, no matter how trumpet-guy interrupted her, and she always let conversations wander for about one-and-a-half minutes or until the creativity ran out, before leading everyone back to topic, like an infinitely patient kindergarten teacher. I imagined she had calm eyes with heavy, Swedish lids behind sensible glasses. Her hair was probably brown with brassy highlights, parted on the side but blunt-cut right below her jaw, so the full body of her hair could round out in a jaunty way but it required no more than ten minutes of drying and combing in the morning… probably less. If she had me in her possession, she would probably pick at me and spread my limbs with a clinical curiosity, but it would never, ever occur to her to do anything lewd with me, and she’d probably be repulsed by the idea. Which sucked, because I imagined she either had full, delicious, child-bearing hips or a pert, firm butt… either matronly or athletic…
And there was someone’s supervisor: a voice eager to make an impression yet lacking any self-confidence or authority. She had kind of a brassy cackle that stabbed at my ears. Like trumpet-guy, she tended to break into conversations with an almost possessive alacrity. Didn’t matter what you were saying, she’d start braying, “Oh, I know, I know,” and then fail at completing someone else’s thought. She was quite likely a mother of two preteens, probably a religious fundamentalist… how can I know that? I can’t, for sure, this is just the image in my mind. I mean, she never picks up any of the cultural references anyone else drops, movies or music, so I’m guessing religion kept her pristine from these influences during her formative years. By her laughter and the way she stretches her vowels, I’m also guessing she keeps her mouth open much of the time… and maybe it’s large enough for a tiny little man to crawl into, maybe curl up on her tongue… maybe she could just hold still for a while, if she’s patient, slowly breathing over a little guy’s naked body while he rests on that soft, moist flesh and−
“Heads up,” my girlfriend whispered, “we outties.” She must have some kind of psychic link, or maybe my fluctuating emotional output gets picked up when I lie this close to her heart. Because no sooner was my tiny little peen stiffening against her nipple than she was packing up her notebooks and folding up her laptop and doing the end-of-meeting shuffle, muttering her goodbyes, trading quips with the others, lots of “yeah, that sounds good” noise.
With all the disadvantages that come from being a couple of inches tall in the regular world, I have to say, I do not miss these fucking meetings.
When her massive boobs begin to sway, I know we’re leaving the room and entering the hallway. I give her large brown nipple a pinch with my scissoring thighs, and somewhere above my head, above the clomp-clomp of her heels, I can hear a contented little chuckle in her voice. “One minute,” she whispers, “and I’ll close the door to my office.”
Ah. We’re going to have a little meeting of our own.
[Based on an idea by Undersquid]