by Irv O. Neil

“I’m six inches tall,” Andrew Becker said, looking at his reflection in his wife’s makeup mirror. “I’m finally accepting that this is no dream; I’m actually six inches tall.” He was standing on her vanity table, dressed only in one of his handkerchiefs, while behind him Sherilyn brushed her hair. She was excitedly getting herself ready for Ragnar, who would be coming over for dinner in a little while.

“I guess we just have to make the best of it until Ragnar finds the antidote,” Sherilyn said. Her voice had a booming effect on his reduced eardrums. He asked her in his tiny voice to please not forget to whisper when she spoke.

“Just remember you volunteered as a guinea pig for a good cause, dear,” Sherilyn spoke more softly this time. “Shrinking people is definitely the wave of the future. There are so many uses for a shrinking ray. Overpopulation is one; there will be more food and water to go around for miniature people. And if our country ever has to fight another war, instead of bombing and killing our enemies, we can just reduce them to six inches. Then they’ll see our point-of-view.”

Andrew walked across the table and sat down on Sherilyn’s pack of Newports. As he did, the handkerchief came undone, and slipped off. He was naked underneath, and he tried to scoop it up and cover himself.

“Why are you so modest?” his wife asked him, moving the brush through her black tresses. “I’ve seen you naked. In fact, I’d prefer if you stay that way.” She snatched the handkerchief away and put it in the side drawer. When she pushed it shut, Andrew felt a tremor in the vanity table that almost knocked him off his feet. Sherilyn grinned, and then pointed the brush at him to make her point. It looked as big as an Oldsmobile in her hand. “Really, wearing a handkerchief is silly. It’s warm in the house, and if you’re naked it’s more interesting to me. To you, too, right, honey?”

Andrew didn’t argue. In fact, his embarrassment faded just as his erection began to spring up. One of the sex games he and Sherilyn used to play when he was regular-sized was her being fully dressed, and him being completely naked; attired in one of her business suits, she’d jerk him off with her well-manicured hand, or watch him do it himself, while telling him he had to hurry up, it was time for her to get to the office. Andrew had always found something so arousing about that “she’s dressed, I’m naked” game.

“Play with it, Andrew,” Sherilyn said now, letting her voice get a little louder again. “You know you want to.” When she put the brush down on the table, Andrew felt another tremor. Then she got up and walked over to the closet in her bra, panties, black thigh highs, and red pumps.

Andrew stroked and watched his wife as she selected a dress for her dinner with Ragnar. He liked the idea of Sherilyn having an affair with her boss; he had permitted it for two years now, long before he had ever heard of Ragnar’s work on a shrinking ray; permitted it because he felt it was only fair. Ragnar Burr was a brilliant scientist, and Sherilyn worked as his secretary. Andrew was a minor officer in a bank; he knew that his mission in life was not as consequential as Ragnar’s, who had a track record of brilliant inventions that made life easier for modern Americans. He knew that Ragnar needed the stimulation of beautiful women in order to create ever greater discoveries, and Sherilyn was beautiful. That was probably while she was hired by Ragnar in the first place. And so when Ragnar called Andrew one day and said he was going to take Sherilyn to dinner, Andrew told him to have a good time. And, judging by the fact that Sherilyn did not come home until the next morning, and left her panties and stockings at Ragnar’s, a good time was had by both of them.

If truth be told, Sherilyn married Andrew because he had told her when they started dating seriously that he was turned on by the idea of being with a woman who would not be faithful to him. She had long sought just such a man because of two reasons: in her late 20s she began to crave the security of being married to a hardworking, stable individual, but at the same time she needed a permissive man because of her promiscuous nature.

Andrew thought of all this while he sat on the Newport box and watched his wife step into her dress. He kept rubbing his erect shaft. Although it was only a half-inch long now, it was normal and proportionate to his new size—it had been six inches long when he was five-nine. And it was incredibly stiff. He stared at his five-foot-seven wife as she came back to the vanity table, buttoning the front of her dress and sitting down.

“Let’s see if you can do my nails, Andrew.” She reached for the bottle of crimson polish and unscrewed the top to make it easier for him. Then she lit a Newport while she put her right hand down on the table and had her nails polished by her six-inch husband.

The brush was heavy and awkward to life, and Andrew dripped a little polish on his bare legs as he maneuvered it toward her fingers. “Please be careful,” she said. “I’m only letting you do this because I know how much you enjoy it.” Bracing the brush in the crook of his left arm, he lowered the polish-covered bristles down to Sherilyn’s thumb and slowly moved them across the surface, painting her nail. It was quite difficult to avoid smudging her skin with the edge of the brush, but because he was so in love with his wife, so adoring of her every aspect, he worked meticulously. And when he managed to finish the thumb without a smudge, she ave him a warm bright smile that lit up his whole night.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You’re getting better with practice. Now do the next finger just as good.”

And so he did, but only after taking a break for a minute or two, because the brush had become heavy in his arms. But in this fashion, eventually he got the job done. When he turned around and looked at the clock radio across the room, he saw it was almost time for Ragnar to arrive.

“Don’t you at least want me to be dressed when Ragnar’s here?” e asked, finally putting the nail brush back into the bottle and screwing it shut himself by wrapping his arms around the top. Sherilyn blew her crimson nails dry herself, through her similarly colored lips but she forgot to turn her face away, and Andrew felt like he was getting bombarded by a heavy wind. In addition, next to Andrew, her cigarette was burning down to the filter in the ashtray, and the smoke was quite aggravating to his tiny nostrils.

“Ragnar would rather you be naked, too,” she said. “After all, at your size you are not just a human being now, but also fit into the kingdom of ‘lower animals’ because of your height. He wants to observe the effects of an animal-like existence on a miniaturized adult male; this has bearing on his findings for the long-term effects of the shrinking ray. For example, Andrew dear, dogs and cats and birds do not get dressed, and his feeling is that mini-people should also be naked so as to best adapt to their size and so, in effect, their total environment.”

“Whatever you say.” Andrew wasn’t sure she was right intellectually about all that—for example, were animals regarded as “lower” because of their height? He didn’t think so—but he didn’t say anything because basically he was happy in his new condition, covered or naked. The idea of miniaturization had fascinated him ever since he saw The Incredible Shrinking Man and Dr. Cyclops and The Three Worlds of Gulliver as a child. And even though he thought the idea of using such a ray on the country’s enemies was, well, probably inhumane, he still didn’t volunteer any discussion about it. He knew he was meek; it was a problem at times in his life. Although he made a decent living, his meekness had held him back from advancement to a better one. One thing that did constantly amaze him, however, was how intelligent Sherilyn sounded when she talked about Ragnar’s work, even if some of her statements were questionable. She actually had a very high I.Q., but her depressing childhood with crazy parents in a lousy neighborhood prevented her from ever taking her brightness seriously. That’s why she ended up as a secretary rather than the scientist she herself might have become.

“I see you’re still erect, Andrew,” she said, continuing to blow on her nails but away from his direction. Of course, doing her polish turned him on no matter what size he was; he had been doing her fingers and toes since before they were married. Last night in particular had been a watershed; had been truly the most incredible experience of all. He thought back: first se had taken him into the shower with her. Since the drain worked well enough to be asfe, she had put him on the bottom of the stall near her feet. Then with the water cascading down her body and splashing all around him, puddling between her toes, she had let him climb on and lie across the arch of her right foot, holding onto her ankle as best he could with his tiny arms. She had moved slowly for his safety, but it was still an amazing ride, better than any amusement park’s: her huge arch underneath his cock was both strange and arousing while at the same time he’d felt the water smacking against his back from the needle shower above. He had rubbed and rubbed his cock against her size-six foot until he shot semen all over it—a load that perhaps would have been unnoticed from her full-size perspective, but which nonetheless had been substantial and creamy before it was washed away.

After he’d cum, Sherilyn picked him up in her left hand and lathered him with her right, coating him with the frothy white bubbles of the Dove soap. Then she’d told him to close his eyes and hold his nose, then held him under the spray for a quick rinse in the torrent.

The ultimate treat had happened after the shower, however. While Sherilyn had stood in front of the mirror toweling and then blow-drying her hair, Andrew had been down on the floor polishing her toenails. She had put everything he needed—the polish, the cotton balls, even a flashlight for extra illumination—right down there on the shower mat with him, and he’d lifted out the brush and slowly and lovingly ran the bristles over his wife’s toenails. One time she accidentally forgot he was there, and knocked him over when she shifted suddenly, but the tiny cry of his voice alerted her and she profusely apologized, picking him up and giving him a kiss on the side of his thigh where her big toe had kicked him. Then she’d let her tongue slide out of her mouth and lick the entire surface of his miniature pelvis front and back; making his cock hard again, and then lapping at his buttocks. He’d gotten so excited that he had to jerk off again then and there, and his load squirted into the air between the second and third fingers of her right hand while he was aloft.

Andrew returned his mind to the present moment just as Sherilyn, finished with her dressing, carried him into the kitchen. She put him down on the table while she finished preparing the dinner. Naked, he sat down on the box of matches she kept next to the salt and pepper shakers; whenever possible, Sherilyn enjoyed lighting her cigarettes with big wooden matches. Since he’d been shrunk two weeks ago, she’d trained him to use these torches to light her smokes, waiting for him to quickly push the sulphur bulb across the rough side of the box and snap the flame alive, and then leaning over the table while he held up the match in both hands to the Newport in her lips.

Andrew watched Sherilyn move across the black-and-white linoleum floor on her beautiful red pumps. How great her legs looked in them! They seemed like Redwoods, fantastic, monument-sized, covered in sheer black nylon. A few nights ago had been particularly wonderful; she’d laid in bed with stockings and a garter belt, and told him to lick from the tip of her reinforced stocking toes all the way up to the dark bands pulled taut by the garters. It had been one thing when he’d licked his way up her legs when he was five-nine; now it was like licking the length of a small city block. But he savored every millimeter. There was a different, almost rougher feeling to the nylon now that his tongue was smaller, and he was more sensitive to whatever stubble was underneath; but the task seemed even more wonderfully like worship now, especially because he had to hug his way up her arches and ankles and calves with his arms. He knew her body in a way no man had ever known a woman. He came into a new awareness of her flesh, and couldn’t stop getting erect and jerking off; in fact, he’d cum three times last night before he’d finally made it up to her garters. Pressing his face against the curvaceous plumpness of her calves, feeling the smooth hardness of her knees, and then the alluring softness and warmth of her thighs, both under and over the tops of the stockings—it had been almost more than he could take. The aroma of her vagina had also seemed new, to his miniaturized nostrils, in its heightened vividness; it was musky, tinged with salt and sweat as well as the flower-scented body oil she always liked to dab down there. Her pungent aura of femininity had risen up invisibly around him with the lazy parting of her thighs, so intoxicating that in his wonderment he’d let go of his grip on her stocking tops and tumbled off and almost fell off two-and-a-half feet to the floor, which would probably have killed him; luckily she’d caught him in her hand before he slid off the edge.

After he had reached the garters, he’d tried to worm his way under the stockings, but she’d said she wanted to save that experience for another time. Instead, Sherilyn playfully picked him up and held him in front of her face and told him he seemed even kinkier now that he was only six inches tall. Lying back against a couple of pillows, her small breasts naked but heaving, the nipples stone-hard, she had said, “But I knew you were kinky when I married you, right? And in a way, you’ve always been six inches tall to me.” Then she’d laughed and placed him down on her breasts, and told him to pay attention to those too before going down to her pussy. Her remark about how he’d always seemed six inches tall reminded him of something she’d said when they were first married and she was already having affairs in front of him: “Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Becker… don’t you think Mrs. and Mr. Sherilyn Daniels would make much more sense for us? You should have given your name up instead of me.”

So he’d played with her breasts, holding the nipples now as thick and wide as cookie jars. Then he’d slid down her torso to her tummy, pressing against her navel; but for once something was too small even for him (to get his face all the way in), so instead he tried to put his cock in there, which worked. He’d squirted another load, with his face near the top of her pubic hair, and when he was done she told him she wanted him to explore her pussy. And so he’d slid down between her parted, stockinged thighs, and was confronted with the massive wide flesh-flower between Sherilyn’s legs: and it was drenched in a way it had never seemed drenched when he’d been full-sized with her. She reached her huge fingers down and parted her lips, showing the moist cave-like pink enclosure with the clitoris bulb-like at the top. He reached his hand out to touch the clit, and it was instantly hot and hard like cement. Then Sherilyn had reached down and gave him a little push forward on his butt, and he fell on his knees toward her opening, his head and then his torso sinking into her gushing wetness.

Andrew was snapped back into the present by the sound of the doorbell. He looked up to see Sherilyn rushing out of the kitchen to let Ragnar in.

“Hello, little fellow,” Ragnar said quite a few minutes later as he came into the kitchen, in that hearty way he had about him. It was obvious from one glance at Sherilyn that Ragnar had mussed her lipstick. Although he was a scientist, he was not an overly serious scholarly type, at least not in the presence of company; instead, he was a joking, charismatic man of whom it was easy to believe that he was descended from the Vikings. With complete ease, he picked up the naked Andrew and carried him into the dining room, where he placed him on the table while Sherilyn brought out the dinner of broiled sole, string beans, rice, and salad. The aroma was overpowering to Andrew, but not in a good sense; his appetite had changed with miniaturization, and all he felt that he wanted was maybe a little bit of plain bread and a thimble full of water—which his wife then provided.

Andrew sat down on the tablecloth, cross-legged, his balls and cock hanging limply between his thighs as he chewed on his bread and drank his water.

“I must tell you again how much I admire you courage,” Ragnar said to Andrew, after he finished chewing a piece of sole, speaking courteously in a soft voice. “To have volunteered to be the guinea pig when I could find nobody else was an act for which you will be remembered in centuries to come.”

“Sherilyn impressed upon me how noble the sacrifice to science would be,” Andrew said. “I thought perhaps I could make a contribution to society greater than that of helping customers fill out loan applications. But have you had any progress yet on the growth ray to return me to normal size?”

“I can’t understand what went wrong,” Ragnar said. “It worked on the horses and cows I reduced; they were back to normal in a jiffy. There must be something I missed in my calculations…”

“You’ll find the answer, Ragnar,” Sherilyn said, touching him on the wrist fondly.

“This woman of yours has been my greatest inspiration,” Ragnar said. “Little fellow, you’re damn sophisticated to have allowed our affair from the very beginning the way you did.”

“I admire my wife,” Andrew said in his little voice. “In this culture we admire athletes, enjoy watching them perform. Can’t sex also be a form of performance when it’s done by beautiful human beings? From the first moment I met her, except for foot and leg worship, I wanted more to see Sherilyn in action, than be in action with her myself. Is that a perverted crime, or rather aesthetic appreciation?”

“I would call it your ‘spectator sport’ of choice,” Ragnar said. “But by any name, little fellow, damn sophisticated of you to stand up for it.”

Andrew bowed his head and bit some more into his bread. Ragnar, he sensed, was not as benevolent as he liked to seem. There was something ominous about this shrinking ray invention, and that’s why he hadn’t been able to get funding for it except from private investors; or any human volunteers except Andrew to try it out. The only reason he got Andrew was because—well, because Andrew had always dreamed of being miniaturized and enjoying the sexual possibilities… sometimes Andrew thought that what Ragnar wanted, as ridiculous as it seemed, was to conquer the world by shrinking whomever it was necessary to shrink, and then take over. Andrew had the feeling, too, that Ragnar would have liked Sherilyn by his side as the queen of the strange new world he would forge.

When Andrew looked up from his food, he saw that Sherilyn and Ragnar were holding hands and not eating; just looking at him. They had that odd flushed look, half-tinged with smiles, that they always got when they were about to make love in front of him; they would get it when he was five-nine, and they got it now. Still looking at her husband, Sherilyn leaned over and kissed Ragnar on the lips, sliding her tongue into his mouth. Then she let her right hand slide under the table to caress Ragnar’s cock through his pants. A few moments later she got off her chair and on her knees next to him. From his perspective on the dinner table, Andrew couldn’t see exactly what was going on, so he stood up and walked across the tablecloth in his bare feet until he came to the edge, and saw his wife’s mouth wrapped around Ragnar’s huge veined cock, her fingernails—the ones he only earlier polished with the strenuous exertion of his tiny body—caressing the man’s tight scrotum as her lipstick left red impressions on his monster shaft. She glanced up at Andrew with her dark eyes, and he knew that although she couldn’t do it with her mouth filled, she was mentally smiling at him.

When they got up from the table to go over to the couch, Sherilyn carried Andrew along and then put him down on the carpet so he could watch without accidentally getting kicked by one of them. For Andrew, the most erotic part of their lovemaking always came in the middle, when Ragnar did the things that Andrew most loved to do himself: foot and leg sex. It was one of the things Sherilyn herself enjoyed, and she’d gotten her lover into it almost from the very beginning.

Andrew stood on the carpet several feet away, but it was as if he were on the other side of a stadium watching two gigantic beings. There was something almost frightening about watching them roll around on the couch, given their size in relation to him. Their dimensions made ever kiss, every caress, every suck, every squeeze, seem like cataclysmic events. In fact, although he imagined his reaction was maybe irrational—or maybe there was something more animal-like about him now?—it sometimes so unnerved Andrew to watch them in their giantism that he’d have to back off, seek cover like a scared rabbit; and this time he ran to the side and hid behind the leg of the antique easy chair, peering around the thick carved wood to watch as the couple probed and licked at each other. Ragnar’s hands pulled and tugged at Sherilyn’s nipples as she slipped them out of her demi-bra, while at the same time his head was buried between her legs at the hem of her uplifted skirt. When she lifted her thighs, his face was obscured by her garterless black stockings.

As Ragnar lapped her, she kicked off her red pumps with an abandon that made Andrew happy he’d gotten further back out of the way. One shoe fell close to the side of the couch, and the other tumbled a couple of feed toward Andrew, landing on its side. It now looked to him like one of those odd pop-art sculptures from the ’70s, ordinary objects like hot water bottles made gigantic and placed smack dab in the middle of municipalities as aesthetic gifts to the citizens. But this, of course, was the real thing, and he was the oddity. He came closer, surveying the name of the designer inscribed on the innersole: Bruno von Klinger. And when he got close enough, he came to a halt, because he could suddenly smell the indescribably wonderful aroma of Sherilyn’s stockinged feet in there, a pungency which overwhelmed his miniaturized nose a thousand times more intensely than when he was full-size.

He ran up to the shoe and crawled inside, feeling Sherilyn’s perspiration and the slick heat remaining, becoming dizzy from it. He dived into the front of the shoe, tongue-lathing the black innersole with its calligraphic trademark, twisting and turning his body fiercely. He got his head into the pointed toe, feeling still the hot presence of his unfaithful wife, feeling almost the imprint of her thousand promiscuities in the material of the last. He licked and lapped the inside of the pump, pulling at his cock wildly, shooting a load rapidly into his hands and onto the innersole.

When Andrew finally lifted himself out of the shoe, Sherilyn and Ragnar were in the foot-worship stage. Sherilyn had pulled her thigh-highs off; one was lying on the floor but the other was in Ragnar’s hands, stretched taut between his strong fists as he held the aromatic nylon in front of his nose. Ragnar inhaled deeply while Sherilyn’s bare feet—sporting the same polish that Andrew had so lovingly applied last night while she dried her hair—masturbated his rigid meat. Andrew watched transfixed as his giant wife’s feet moved tightly but with skill over her lover’s prick, rubbing the shaft and head, catching the pre-cum between her curling toes, and then sliding down to cup his sac under her arches.

Andrew wanted to see Ragnar spurt his load over Sherilyn’s feet, but he knew that this was never the way their sex was completed. Andrew knew Ragnar by now; the scientist wanted to finish Sherilyn like a marauding Viking—to “ravish” this woman; to ravish this loose woman, who had enlisted her own husband for a bizarre and probably irreversible experiment! Whose husband was six inches tall now and watching the show while standing in a shoe and masturbating.

And when Sherilyn brought Ragnar right to the brink, he stood up like a warrior to his full six-foot-two height, stroked his erection as he looked down at her, and then plunged deeply into her eagerly offered hole. Sherilyn’s feet flailed in the air, her soles alternately smooth and wrinkled as she relaxed and then curled her feet. Her lover fucked her deeply, sending monstrous tremors even through the heavy carpeting. Andrew shook from the tumult as he stood in the shoe, jerking his cock to one more load for the night, and studying his wife’s bare soles lifted high in the air while she got plowed. Andrew watched those soles and fantasized shooting farther than he ever had before: he would brace himself against the side of the red pump as his load came and then spray eight, nine, ten feet into the sky, shooting for a star, shooting for his wife’s soles and toes.

In the end, of course, he was only six inches high and to shoot so far was impossible—like a normal-sized man spunking across the Hudson River. And since it even wasn’t his first load of the evening, all he basically did was gum his palms a little bit just as Ragnar was spraying deep into Sherilyn’s slit. Andrew rubbed his own semen on the red leather of Sherilyn’s pump, but he knew she would hardly notice it.

Six inches. For Andrew it was shaping up as the best size to go through the rest of his life. The only real difficulty so far was that he’d had to abruptly quit his bank job with his wife giving a phony explanation over the phone, and now Sherilyn had to do a lot of overtime at Ragnar’s lab to make up the differences in their joint income. But it would work out; Andrew would safely live in a dollhouse during the day, jerking off and waiting for Sherilyn to come home with her lover for the evening’s horny sex show—at which he’d jerk off some more. His own real “chore” (as opposed to pleasant “duties” like toenail polishing) would be to encourage Ragnar and Sherilyn to keep fucking all the time, tiring the scientist out; that way, Ragnar would never get enough sleep and be alert enough to find the proper equation for the growth ray. This seemed like a logical plan to Andrew. Only by doing this did he feel he would have a chance at living happily ever after as a Mini-Man!

Freelance writer Irv O. Neil has had his sexy stories published in magazines since the ’70s and is still going strong online with his ever-growing library of erotica ebooks, mostly femdom, which can be found on Amazon here. Visit his blog at irvoneil.wordpress.com to read about his work as a writer, editor, and porn screenwriter, as well as other interesting posts on related topics. He’s happy to have met Aborigen and discovered a whole new interest in “Shrunken Desires,” a story he especially enjoyed imagining and writing! You can let him know what you think of it on Twitter @irvoneil or via email at editorneilxxx@yahoo.com.

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“Shrunken Desires” copyright 1996 Irv O. Neil, first published in LEG ACTION March 1996

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