I’m the winner of that round, in a way. My pants were next door to the Dutch colonial, something like a Rambler I guess.
I never knew a lot about houses, but I recognize that all these houses have styles, names for their styles. Everyone knows the Victorian mansion, which is where I “live,” if you can call it that. I actually harbor a private joke about the Victorian mansion, because I’m American, and we haven’t been subject to Britain’s monarchy in quite some time. Should we come up with a different name for this style of house? I suggest “Gingerbread” or “Haunted.” And I only know the house across the street is a Dutch colonial because I used… used to…
When I stand on the front step of my new, unfurnished home and look out at the Dutch colonial, I can see two houses to the left and right of it, just as there are two houses to the right and left of me. It’s important for me to name these things, because naming them reduces the chaos in my life. Instead of “that yellowish house and that ugly brown split-level” I can identify the house on the right as a Rambler, which actually looks a lot like the split-level on the left. The differences are subtle and don’t ask me how I know what they are. I mean, there’s a variety of magazines at any dentist’s office, where you can read up on anything from makeup tips to mixed martial arts and everything in between. Except one of my friends is a copyeditor, and when I say shit like “anything from makeup tips to mixed martial arts and everything in between,” she says “false range” and that’s the end of that. That just means these things don’t exist on a spectrum, there’s not a logical flow from makeup to architectural styles to mixed martial arts. That’s an obvious point, but fucking Christ, it’s just fun to say things like “from X to X” and imply a wide, random variety of shit. Why does everything have to be such a goddamn ordeal.
Anyway. There’s a Rambler on the right and on the left is the split-level that I shit behind. It’s very strange to have a split-level in a fucking Plexiglas dome built like a rudimentary model train track landscape with only six fucking houses but who the fuck asked me.
To the left of my house is a Craftsman, which I actually like better than the home the big-assed psychotic put me in. I just like the look of it. One time, in my previous life not as a fucking fuck-toy for a sociopath, I looked up what made a Craftsman a Craftsman, and it turned out it wasn’t just the attractive, utilitarian style but the fact that it sourced local materials. My admiration for it went up so much in that moment, and I’ve always wanted to live in one. My wife felt that they looked too… my wife…
On the other side, the right of my house, because “north” and “west” are meaningless under the dome, is a Federal house. Boxier and plainer than an IKEA warehouse. It’s what you’d build if you had to make a house, were ordered to take up a lot of space, but personally wanted to maximize the floorspace of every room. Basically the archetypical cube house, if you played any Minecraft. Except it has windows, but what the hell is there to look at besides the same three houses across the street? And that’s it for houses: this neighborhood under the dome consists one of fake-ass-looking street and six houses. That’s it. If you wanted to go for a long walk, you’d do a loop around the circumference of the dome and circumnavigate these six houses, like, dozens of times, if that’s what you’re into.
Me, I usually hide out in this ostentatious, unfurnished Victorian mansion, jack off in each of its rooms, and wait for the food to arrive before I force myself to sleep.
It’s not accurate to say “north” and “west” don’t exist here, because they absolutely do. Most of the time my neighborhood is lit up with the living room lights in this psychotic giantess’s house. I can see her living room plainly: the chimes by the front door, the couch she must’ve inherited from her grandparents before the bay window, the fireplace to the left of the window, the stairs to the right, and then sunsets come through that big window, regardless of whether she draws the blinds. So that’s west. That means my street runs east to west, and by that reckoning my house sits on the north side of the street.
Figuring this shit out almost makes me feel like a real person. Things have names, and I know those names, so it’s not just “I’m starving under half a fishbowl amid six ugly little houses in some bitch’s living room.” No, now I can craft an enduring narrative for the ages, something to engage the thinking reader and make them think they can see something of themselves in me, which compels them to find out where this is going.
Let me tell you, luckless reader, you don’t want to know where I’m going. I’m locked up in this dome, torn out of my life, living in a bunch of haunted fucking houses, waiting for food particulate and the inevitable moment this psychotic giantess can’t stand the erotic tension and grabs me and sticks me into… her…
And there’s no apology. There’s no ceremony, no wining-and-dining, not even a fucking “brace yourself” warning. She just takes me and, lickety split, the mass of my physical prison is employed to get her off in… a variety of the most horrific ways… so curb that curiosity and be grateful for your seemingly meaningless existence. Be grateful for your shitty job, be grateful for not knowing where you stand with your girlfriend, because believe me, it could be a lot worse.
So, yeah, I found my pants in the Rambler. My prison warden took the time to stash them in the bedroom of the Rambler, one of the two bedrooms, while I was passed out. I mean, I don’t know how easy it is to get chloroform, and maybe that’s not what she used when she was cleaning the place, maybe it was simple suffocation, but when I woke up I wasn’t where I passed out, and my body didn’t feel overly tired like I’d been struggling against a huge hand pressing a massive damp cloth onto my little body until I hopefully passed out. I really don’t know these things work, least of all how this psychotic bitch shrunk me down.
The kidnapping part is easy. Even I can see that. Once your quarry has been shrunken down to smaller than a one-dollar bill, oh my gosh, you could store him literally anywhere without attracting attention. What I’m hung up on is how the fuck she shrunk me down. That’s not something covered in any magazine in a dentist’s office. That doesn’t fall within the range of cosmetics to MMA. I’ll grant my editor friend that.
My pants were clean. My shirt is still crusted with the fried egg from earlier this week (holy fuck, I don’t know how many days have passed), but my pants were clean. That tells me she had enough time to wash my little Ken doll pants while I was unconscious, then drop them into the second bedroom in the Rambler. Which also tells me these houses’ roofs come off somehow. I should walk around and check out how these models are really built, because you never know. It could come in handy, somehow, sometime.
I don’t have shoes or socks or underwear. I have a doll’s shirt that I’ve trying to wear down into softness. Why did my captor steal my pants alone and wash them? I’d ask her but she wouldn’t answer, even if she were in the room. Strolling up and down my street of six houses, I can see that she’s not anywhere nearby. Is she out doing shopping, like a normal person, like I used to? Is she off to her job, like I used to have? Visiting neighbors who are actually there, not just empty shells of model houses she can shit behind without repercussion? Who knows where she fucks off to when she’s not tormenting me.
That is to say, she’s mostly not here. I imagine she’s upstairs sleeping for about eight hours, more or less, and yeah, I imagine she has to have a job somewhere to afford this astounding living room to house my entire world, to say nothing of the judiciously distributed food particulate that sprinkles from her thick fingertips a couple times a day. I’d love to complain about how rarely she feeds me (like I’m a goddamn gerbil or goldfish), but the facts are that it doesn’t take much to fill me up and it doesn’t go bad any time soon, so I can stuff myself stupid and come back in a couple hours to perfectly good food littered all over the boulevard.
It’s not a boulevard, by strictest definition. Thank you, dentist waiting room literature.
I’ve checked out all of my rooms. All of them are empty. Somehow this crazy bitch could afford six realistic houses but her funding cut off before she could, you know, stock them with furniture. When she knocked me out and stole my pants, she thought it was enough to lay me half-naked upon the bare bedroom floor on the upper level of the Victorian home. What is the point of that? Does she think she’s fooling me, like when you drape the hood over a bird cage and that tiny post-reptilian brain thinks it’s nighttime so the bird falls asleep? I wonder if she even recognizes that I’m a human anymore. She’s using my body to get herself off the same way she could use a vibrator or, say, a large carrot. Maybe I’m just in the category of small, almost-useless object in her perspective. She greets me each morning, thumping on the dome and calling out in that saccharine-sweet voice, but people do that with cats and shit, don’t they? So I’m somewhere between pets and vegetables. False range.
My head’s spinning. I need to sit down for a second, yes, right here in the rubberized, texturized lawn, surrounded by a bounty of food fragments for which I should be grateful. At least I’m not suffocating in the thick undergrowth of pubes.
My name… my name is… no, that’s… It’s embarrassing to admit that it’s painful to recall. I know my name and my wife’s name and my employer’s name, but I just can’t own up to that right now. I can’t name these things because it concretely defines what I’ve lost. Sometimes names and identification are a curse, I suppose. It’s easier to let these things go unnamed—myself included. No kickback, no reward, no incentive to remember anything about who I used to be and in fact I’ll stop talking about that right now.
I found my pants. There’s plenty of food. The insane giantess with the tremendous, succulent ass is nowhere to be seen. Things could be a lot worse, but it’s hard to imagine how.
Not that I couldn’t imagine. Fuck, I’ve got so much time to imagine, especially when it comes to blocking out real-world memories. So much time, nothing but time.
Except I’ve talked about my captor’s huge ass, and now that’s what fills my imagination. I’ve got clean pants, plenty of food matter, and the woman who has stolen me from the life I can’t think about has a huge, big, round booty that shudders at every step, and sometimes she sways it over my dome while she dances to music I wouldn’t choose but have no control over, and sometimes she presses her huge, broad, round butt against the dome that covers these six wretched houses, and sometimes I think I can hear the Plexiglas dome cracking under the pressure of her tremendous buttocks, and sometimes I think I’m running in the wrong direction for my freedom…
3 thoughts on “Charmed Existence, 4: Inventory”
I couldn’t tell you why I hadn’t looked at this series until today, but I’m certainly glad you keep returning to it. So much of size fantasy is ephemeral wank fodder, but IMO the best stuff gives deep consideration to all the implications of a given scenario, such as what do tiny captives do all day? As bemusing as the details of living in a plastic neighborhood are, the real gems are how they reveal the ravaged spirits of our narrator, haplessly bidding farewell to his dignity while trying to speculate at the motives of his captor.
Speaking of which, I’m so happy Undersquid has chimed in. Size fantasy is only enriched when we try to incorporate the perspectives of our “opposite numbers.” It might not always be possible for giants and tinies to empathize with each other, but the heartfelt attempts to do so demonstrate that these fantasies are as human as any other.
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So many authors have recommended keeping one person in mind when writing a story or a novel. (In doing so, I run the risk of advertising how much I know about a person or how grave my misunderstanding of them is.) Undersquid is such a strong, defined identity, it’s easy to be inspired by her, like the energy one actor provides another in a play to perform their role.
I enjoy stories where someone examines the figures outside of the spotlight, like a day in the life of an NPC in an MMO or the Tuesday Next series. It’s natural for me to look at a size dynamic and go “hold on here a minute,” and in this way maybe I advocate for my Tiny brethren. Not that I anticipate changing any minds, but perhaps I can color someone else’s world, whether they can use that or not.
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Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Vored
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