Shaun stumbled into the hallway, where Janine happened to be walking up. Or he heard her and he sprinted to the threshold as she neared.
“I did it,” he gasped.
She peered down the considerable length of her self at him. “Did what?” So much drama from such a little man.
“I cleaned the bathroom.”
Janine steamed a little. “No, I cleaned the bathroom this afternoon. I scoured the tub and sink and scrubbed out the toilet while you were asleep on my pillow. In my panties,” she added pointedly.
He jutted his jaw high overhead, at her knee. “Yeah, but I did the floors.”
His giantess folded her arms. “No, I swept the floors.”
“I scrubbed between the sink cabinet and the bathtub,” he insisted. “I scoured all the lint and dust, and I hauled your long hairs out.”
“Huh. Thanks.”
“And,” he said, taking a strong stance, “I went behind the radiator, where you always miss. I wiped down half a year of lint, body oil, and mildew. I found a chicken bone behind the radiator.” The tiny man leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed. “A chicken bone. Behind the radiator.”
Janine had the decency to blush. “Wonder where that came from…”
He spoke up even louder, calling up into the sepulchral recesses of the hallway. “And I scrubbed the trim behind the toilet, where you never reach. All the lint. All your long hairs. All the scraps of Kleenex and toilet paper.” The tiny man paused significantly. “All the splatter from your male friends.”
“The, uh…”
“Toxic masculinity includes the belief that it’s feminine—and therefore deleterious—to sit down while pissing. That it’s manly to make a fucking mess for someone else to clean up.” Shaun drew a deep breath and let it out in a snort. “And all your male friends seem to subscribe to toxic masculinity.”
Janine wanted to stand up for her few visiting friends, but personally she found their habits disgusting as well.
“So I cleaned up all the scummiest reaches of our bathroom, and now it’s your turn.”
His audacity shook her out of her sympathetic coma. “Excuse me? My turn for what?”
“Now you,” he purred, “must clean me.”
Her knees nearly gave out as she scooped up her tiny little hero, tugged his miniaturized clothes off with her teeth, and set the sink basin to run a comfortable temperature.
The last words she remembered were: “And do a thorough job. I’m filthy.“
Photo by Phil Hearing on Unsplash
Aborigen 
How lovely this is. I don’t want to call it “domestic”, but why should that have a negative connotation? It’s domestic, it’s sensible of the reality behind the curtain of constant, raw, dripping sex-all-the-time with a shrunken-man-all-the-time.
It starts off as a deeply sensory experience: you have a gift with the way you position your reader in space, and then you shift that perspective to demonstrate the tiny one. You have a natural ease with expressing tininess. I’m never going to tire of repeating that.
It continues with what appears as only male bravado. “I moved an inch. I helped. I could have done far less. Be grateful I didn’t break anything while ‘helping’!” Her reaction facilitates that reader response. But no! He actually helped. It sinks in that he was not only of use, but assiduously so. Indispensably as well? Yes. Any woman that has cleaned a bathroom assaulted by men can affirm that. No sane woman would think, oh, but who cares about the places no one sees? Why should it bother me that they remain permanently filthy?
I also delighted in his sense of humor. His good-natured stance as regards the chicken bone had me chuckling. But that was cut short when I understood how she felt, the very moment he brought up the idea of being cleaned by her. So hot. So seriously hot.
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