The floorboards creaked quietly beneath the ball of her foot. “I’ve got you now,” she said. She couldn’t keep the purr out of her voice, despite the pretense of the last few weeks. Tonight wasn’t a night for making him feel safe and loved, not this night. He was hers and, in the long run, it wouldn’t ruin anything to make him understand that.
Who knew? It could help things, in the long run.
She’d sat him on her dresser while she pulled off her work clothes. Bless his heart, he tried to make small talk with her while she undressed. She appreciated the effort, but the fact was that he hadn’t been out running around all day, no errands, no social calls, no entertainment. He’d been wrapped up in her underwear, forcing himself to doze when he could. Not even clean underwear: thin shafts of light splayed through the huge wicker wall of the hamper, and traffic growled in the distance, just enough to attract his attention and remind him of his prior life.
So he’d had nothing to say, sitting on the edge of her dresser, watching her unhook her bra. Or he did, like bringing up his distant memories, hikes with a woman, road trips with a woman. Useless noise that less than disinterested her. All it took was a cute grin and a firm fingertip to his chest to discipline him.
Discipline goes both ways. Most people thought it meant punishment, but no. She knew it meant reward for desired behavior, and this little man had given her an exemplary week. She wanted to scream with joy, she wanted to hug him into a quarter-pound of ground beef, she wanted to crack him in half and stuff him into places, but that wouldn’t have helped either of them, not really. She had to discipline herself, she knew, not to pounce on this little morsel and shred him into erotic confetti.
So she unbuttoned her blouse for him, glancing at her own handiwork, then checking out his reaction. The little man was transfixed, staring at her chest as though trying to read something on it. That crease in his brow tickled her with a frisson of resentment: it meant he was trying to make sense of his new existence, which meant that part of him was fighting it. That was not permitted, but she did relish his struggle, so she forgave this minor transgression. Yes, it was best to overlook this when she was so close to deliciousness. Her blouse open, she nudged the heels of her palms into the sides of her breasts momentarily, emphasizing her cleavage for him.
His tiny jaw dropped, forming a teeny-tiny little dark spot of amazement on his perfect little face. He didn’t even think to cover himself, staring into the chasm of her boobs, and unthinkingly he showed her his hand. Even at that size, it thrilled her, and it took great willpower not to pounce on him right then and there. Instead, she merely licked the corner of her lips, raised her eyebrows at his stiffness, and turned her back to peel her blouse off her shoulders.
She couldn’t feel his gaze on her, like she’d read about in stories. If that happened in real life, she couldn’t say, yet she knew with absolute certainty that he was staring at her. Closing her eyes, she nodded demurely and let the blouse slip down her back to the floor. Black lace bra straps bit into her shoulders. Her shoulder blades stood out in large wedges as she reached back to pop open the tiny hooks, and then her breasts fell free with great relief. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Oh, it feels good to let the girls out.” For pageantry she massaged her boobs, hidden from him, slowly rolling her head as if in the throes of ecstasy. Her long, dark hair swished over her smooth, soft skin, tickling her. Would he leap from the dresser and grab at it? He wouldn’t be so naughty, surely.
When she turned toward him, she was not disappointed: he was sitting obediently in his perch, not even raising so much as a pleading hand toward her. He stared at the breasts she gripped in her own palms, but when said “ah-ah-ah” and flicked one finger up at her face, his entire little head snapped up attentively. Such a good boy. She nearly said so, but that would spoil him.
Instead she let her breasts hang freely as she cupped him in her soft palms, lifting him from the dresser and carrying him to the edge of her mattress. He only reached out to steady himself, then sat up as rigidly as an injection-molded plastic doll. Such a good boy! She stared at him, peering over her chest and belly, then shook her head and turned and bent. Her thumbs hooked under the lacy waistband of her underwear (only little girls wear panties, she thought in the corner of her mind) and she made a show of cinching them over her abundant hips. Tug here, tug there, pull it down on the sides, show how it lingers over the buttocks, growing taut, then… that satisfying snap as it skied over her curves and fell into place on the backs of her thighs.
It was no challenge at all to refrain from asking whether the little man liked that. A) What an ugly, trite phrase. B) Of course he did.
She wondered what he saw in it, honestly. Her round butt was cute enough to amuse her, and she knew it attracted the odd stare downtown, walking around. She even knew which jeans showed it off well. But this was her bare bottom, and she bent over to lower her pan−… her underwear to step out of. In doing so she not only widened her hips around the tiny man, but she spread and exposed the depth of her butt crack to him. It didn’t sound savory to her, but she knew some men were into this, as if they were achingly curious about every last crevice in a woman, seeking to explore the fissures and inner recesses. As if this would help them understand women any better.
Or maybe it was more primal than that. Maybe it was a matter of wrapping a woman around them, burying themselves within the love and comfort of a woman willing to have them. She smiled to herself, letting the lacy underwear collapse upon the blonde hardwood floor: this little man could achieve that abstract fantasy this very night.
When she realized she was also exposing her own sexuality to him, just as unconsciously, she blushed and stood up abruptly. What could that have looked like to him? The pink starfish of her butthole, the massive cakes of sweet, round flesh around them, and then two bulging lips bristling with stout, kinky hairs…
Did he imagine himself pressed up against them? Was he imagining himself pushing them apart, or finding himself jammed into them? All she could read in his expression was a barely concealed astonishment. Shock? Surprise? Whatever. Now her round thighs rubbed against each other before him, and her palms slid sensually over her hips as though she were into herself. The little man was ancillary, he was a prop for her, whether a solid object to stuff inside her or merely a captive audience.
Captive audience. She let the idea meander around her head a while, indulging in a round of snake-like writhing for his benefit. She showed off her tummy, her deep navel; she swayed her breasts ponderously over his head, laughing to herself at how either one could pin him helplessly (and had). She rolled her hips before him, showcasing the full, firm thighs that would embrace him before her pussy sucked him inside and swallowed him whole. Was he picking up on that? Did he realize that’s where all this was headed? It had been two weeks of training him, calming him down, establishing the order, but had he begun to suspect where all of this was leading?
No matter. There was time for all of it. Everything was heading inexorably down the path, and even if he weren’t so pleasingly compliant there would be nothing he could do about it.
She spread her stance and parked her fists upon her hips. She knew he was at eye level with her crotch, the little gap of light between her labia and where her inner thighs bulged. “Well, hello, little man,” she didn’t say. “Like what you see?” she didn’t add coyly. She only stood there in silence, immutable as a statue, before scooping him up in her hands and arranging him at the head of the bed.
Pillows piled upon pillows, the way she liked it. They smelled sweet and cool, piles of linen, down, and memory foam: a mountain range upon which to lay her lovely head. This was the image she held in mind for so long, but now there actually was a tiny, little man to help establish the scene. He was a cutie. Even at his grotesquely large size, she’d thought he was cute enough in the second before she slid the syringe into his neck with practiced precision. She caught him in midair as his body contracted in a spasm of reduction. His clothes fluttered to the ground as she hustled out of the mall, clutching her prize to her tit, nearly sprinting through the parking ramp. That was two weeks ago, and now the good-enough man was a perfectly adorable little man stretching out and getting comfortable at the foothills of her pillows.
She wanted to weep with happiness. Her knees sank into the mattress as she climbed aboard and arranged the adorable little man; her palms sank into the bed sheets as she perched over him like an awning, like the goddess of dawn stretching over ancient Egypt. Did her breasts swing low, over him? Did this pose accentuate her belly? Was she about to drool on him? Her lack of concern bubbled up inside her and she giggled at the little fellow.
Look at him, she thought. Those pecs squaring themselves as his little arms folded behind his head. Those little tufts of downy hair in his pits. No fear on his face… uncertainty, curiosity, and definitely he was struggling with the unknown, but no fear. Bless his heart, he was giving himself to the moment. She knew he was the right one, she knew it.
“You gorgeous−” she murmured, halting. Would words ruin the moment? Air groaned and strained through her throat. Fuck it, she couldn’t stop herself now. “You beautiful little man. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
He only stared up at her. Lying on his back, he stared up into the sky, and that was she.
“I can hardly stand it. I want to nibble your chest off. Look at that, your little nipples, all that muscle.” Her lips pulled tight around her ivory fencework. “I could just gnaw it all right off your bones.”
He only stared back, expressionless mouth belied by that telltale crease in his brow.
Her arms began to wobble with her lust, with supporting her huge body. “Let me see your arm,” she said. His tiny head trembled for a second, perhaps, but he unlaced his fingers from behind his head and reached one bulging arm up at her. Oh, those fingers! She just wanted to snap at them, so thin and inviting! Instead, she let her tongue flood out of her maw and hang over him, its sentient tip greeting him at the palm. She could almost see those adorable little fingers resting among her papillae, and she could definitely taste him. The lightest dusting of salt, there and gone again. Her tongue absorbed his oils and minerals in less than a moment, and then it was his moist palm upon her living muscle.
Blinking languidly, she lowered her head as she retracted her tongue, until his arm reached inside her mouth, and she closed her lips around his forearm. Sealed it, just like that. Obedient as he was, she partly wished he would try to jerk his arm back, just to show him how she could suck him right inside her mouth despite all his fine musculature. But he didn’t: her thick, puffy lips sealed nearly up to his elbow, and he only lay below her face, trusting and patient. Maybe even curious. Could she hope for so much?
Her tongue pressed his forearm against the roof of her mouth, tucking his elbow behind her incisors. It was just like a moist strand of rotisserie chicken, just as much bulk and just as much give to the tender tissues. She wondered if she could even snap his bones with her tongue! It seemed possible, as she ran the tip of her tongue over his skin, but no, not yet. Not now, not tonight. This wasn’t a night for pitiful pleading and crying. Not yet.
Her head pulled back, and she savored the bumps and retraction as his arm withdrew, dragging over her teeth. Her lips plucked at him, reluctant to lose this morsel, but his lipstick-stained arm fell freely to his side, and once again she tried to read his expression. Wonder? Lust? Fear? His wide eyes and limp lips could’ve been any of these. Maybe she’d broken him already; maybe she was throwing open a hundred doors to lusts he’d never conceived of.
“You’re so perfect,” came her voice, though she was not sure she had spoken. “You’re so beautiful and perfect. Your precise little face, those cheekbones that could slice angelfood cake. Those washboard abs—no match for the tip of my tongue, but still.” She moaned, her voice tumbling upon him like a load of bricks, as her tongue dragged from his belly over the microscopic hairs retaining warmth in his crotch. She stabbed her tongue between his thighs, spreading his legs without the least resistance, and proceeded to blindly mash her thick, moist, hot tongue where she trusted his genitalia to be.
Honestly, the detail was too fine, and with her face right up on him like this she could hardly focus her old eyes to pick out his little features. But she knew how men were built, and she mashed her boneless mass of sentient flesh between his inner thighs and just kinda… mashed it around for a while. Not sure what was going on. Her hair fell around him on all sides, and her elbows drove into the mattress rather than her hands, but everything about the little man was “roughly this area.” That’s where she licked, that’s where she pressed her full lips, sucking and pinching at anything they could grab. She definitely felt his pert cannonball buttocks with the tip of her tongue, and she chuckled as she lapped at them. Before she could even wonder whether he was into it she’d pushed the notion out of her head and gave all her cognition over to her id.
Her thick lips puckered, and once puckered, they accumulated strength and mass, and these drove him into the mattress. She puckered, and she planted her puckered lips upon his chest and belly, and she felt the frail little form bend itself around her face as she pushed him into the bed sheets, the memory foam topper, and the mattress beneath. Distantly she hoped she wouldn’t break him, but she’d been waiting for this moment for two weeks. She’d been waiting for him to get his little act together and stop being such a whiny, nostalgic bitch-boy and just keep his nose clean for five consecutive days.
Which he did, so this was her reward for her patience. Poking her butt up into the atmosphere of her bedroom, she spread her elbows and lowered her shoulders and lay the weight of her massive skull upon the tiny body.
Did he mind? There was no indication. He was too obedient to plead or even scream, but nor was he punching and kicking at her face, as he had the third day. Rather than feeling she’d given too much away, having revealed her plans for his future existence, she simply called that incident “Foreshadowing Day” and proceeded with her feverish plans.
The tip of her nose nooked right into his shoulder, cradled against the side of his skull. Hot air gusted from her nostrils across his chest, but she didn’t care. She had absolutely no self-consciousness as she bared her teeth and pressed the flat fronts of her incisors against that firm little chest. Her hanging breasts brushed against the bed sheets, and she shimmied her shoulders briefly, setting her nipples to drag over the linen.
She reared her head back for a moment, refocusing her eyes upon him. “I wish I could care whether you’re into this. Part of me does, I think. Obviously the thought has occurred to me. But do you understand? This means nothing to me. Even if you wanted to call the cops, even if you wanted to kill me, do you understand that this means nothing to me?” She paused, and her lips twitched involuntarily over that juicy little nugget of man-flesh. “I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re barely ‘you’ at all. It’s because I love you so much, that I’ve pretended you’re a person up to now. Does that make any sense to you?”
She laughed at her own joke, propped up on her elbows over the tiny, toned man. He wouldn’t react, to his credit. It wasn’t as active a gesture as refusing to react, she sensed. It was more like there were several strong reactions within him, and none of them were able to assert dominance over the others, and so his neural network simply retreated and abstained from making a decision. He only stared up at her as if her every last syllable were self-evident declaration. Or gospel.
Could she love him any more than she did in this moment?
“Give me your foot.”
With the slightest hesitation, that beefy little leg swung up at the hip. He presented her with a dainty, though manly, little foot, and this she accepted between her lips. His sole pressed against her upper incisors, flat and accommodating, responsive to the moisture of her saliva. Were his little toes resting upon her gums? She could hardly bear the thought of it! He only stared placidly up at her as her lips hugged his shin and her teeth parted behind them. Now those little toes scraped against the roof of her mouth.
Her tongue unfurled once more to wrap around his knotted little calf, round and hard as a clove of garlic, and invite this within as well. The little man was with her on the journey: he only stared at her lips, bouncing and pulsing, as they sucked his lower leg within, almost as though he failed to understand its relationship to him.
She had to awaken him. She had to cut through the noise in his head and bring him back to her.
Her lips parted. Within the shroud of her cascading hair, the corners of her mouth turned up. Her eyes grew larger, wider, and her pupils dilated respectfully. Even her nostrils flared: everything in her face was widening to receive this delightful little man.
“Please understand: you’re mine,” she murmured around his leg. “I have you and you’re mine. I could take your passivity for compliance, sure, but I need to be absolutely confident you understand your role. There can’t be any doubt. No unpleasant surprises a week from now. I’ve been kind and loving to you, but now I need you to show me, somehow, that you have surrendered yourself completely to me.” Her brow furrowed darkly. “I’ll take you regardless. This road is only leading to one destination. It’s the difference between you walking it and being dragged by your feet.”
No matter how she focused upon him, she just couldn’t read his reaction. Was he on board? Did he think he was humoring the giant, crazy lady? Mad at herself for the lack of conviction, she pinched his knee between her upper and lower incisors. She stared at him, daring him to move, to express anything. She even toyed with his kneecap, nudging it with her tooth, provoking him, threatening him.
It surprised her to discover that one of her hands had wandered down between her thighs and had been massaging herself tenderly for who knows how many minutes.
And how didn’t she notice that his own little hand cupped his own little balls, right in front of her nose?
She stared at him, inscrutable and rapt, rolling his joint between the teeth designed to bite and tear, thinking.