I don’t want to give anyone reading my thoughts the impression that the past year has been a bed of roses or anything, far from it. Most of the emotional labor has been mine, and I don’t think my girlfriend would argue with that. She’s not the one who got laid off and kidnapped within the space of an hour; she’s not the one who had to wrangle with the fact that everyone she knew could be dissuaded from suspicion at my complete fucking disappearance by a cute girl’s simpering and tissue-thin lies. Let me tell you here and now so you’ll believe it: never underestimate the power of a huge rack of boobs and its effect on literally anyone. That’s the only way I can explain it.
Unless Nora has just gone ahead and used her magical powers on everyone, holding together a vast web of deception with the strength of her mystical prowess the girth of her tits. Because I suspect she’s a fairly powerful witch, if there is such a thing as witches. I really don’t know how else to explain everything that’s happened, and it’s easier to take that one radical step into the realm of fairy tales than it is to grapple with the enormity of everything else that shouldn’t make sense. I mean, fuck, my family should miss me more, right?
But there’s been no investigation, no candlelight vigils, no Go-Kick-Me-Starters or whatever. It’s just come down to me learning how to breathe between her enormous breasts (and at my size, they are life-threateningly enormous), placate her imbalanced emotional landscape, and cope with my own grief and disbelief without a sympathetic ear. Seriously: I was never touchy-feely about these things before, but at my size I’m more weak and frail and helpless than I’ve ever been in my entire existence, so all I have is my voice. Right? All I have is my own grasp of logic and arguing. But whenever I talk about this with her, with Nora, who through some psychological sickness on my part has become my “girlfriend,” she just starts singing or reciting poetry or giggling… or, often, she just sticks me somewhere else on herself. It’s not a threat, it’s not done out of malice, just… profound disinterest on her part. Here, this is something that happened somewhere near the beginning.
I’m in her apartment, sitting on a small table where she has her meals, I guess. You’d think a powerful witch would use her abilities to live somewhere more lavish, but Nora says it’s important to keep a low profile and not attract a lot of attention. That’s why she’s working a shit job in my old office, though it’s not that bad because she did use her powers to persuade Marion to let her come in and define her own goddamn job. Who does that? Do you know anyone who’s ever said “you’re going to hire me and I’m going to decide what I do” and everyone’s cool with that? Well, Nora did. It’s an intricate little dance she does, with her rosy little toes hopping around in her Birkenstocks, but Fred Astaire couldn’t swing it any better.
But flying under the radar means living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment in a not-great part of town, with a landlord who only fixes the bathroom on every third or fourth threatening phone call, and neighbors who range from elderly dementia to being one month away from turning up dead by overdose. And here’s the fucked up part: I sympathize with them. Before, I would’ve blamed them for being irresponsible, but now I’m… I don’t know how to say it. It’s like I’m being aware of a larger system that whips people into desperation by working them most of the week with few breaks, keeps them lusting after high-dollar conveniences they can’t afford, and then when people fall through the cracks, it shreds the social safety net as “unprofitable,” then turns around and blames these people for moral failings. Like lapsing into bankruptcy because of a $30 penalty fee on one late payment means they have to choose between food or medicine or rent is their fault somehow, when they’re already working two or three jobs that don’t pay enough to earn a goddamn living.
Augh. Sorry, sorry. I’ve been given a lot to think about in this environment, in the quiet moments, and all my moments are quiet because I don’t have a job, I don’t have a family to attend to, all my friends have evidently forgotten about me and moved on, so that means a lot of free time—in between sessions of being used as a fuck-toy by a playful giantess. That’s my life, I’m either pondering capitalism from within the depths of squalor or struggling to hold my breath in the depths of a greedy pussy. One or the other. My life has changed dramatically.
Ah. Anyway, so I’m standing on her table… well, that’s the whole story. I’m on her table, freaking out about social justice and inequity and a system designed to hold people down by pitting them against each other, and I’m trying to explain this to Nora, and you know what she does? Here’s what she does.
Her brow goes down, like this. Hrrm.
The corner of her mouth digs into her plump cheekbone, like this. Hrrm.
She looks like she’s taking me very seriously. I’m no bigger than her goddamn juice glass, and she towers over me like a two-story house (or her own three-story apartment building), and she watches me with this serious, “I’m taking you very seriously” expression, until she draws a long breath that finishes with her heaving her boobs onto the table. She’s having runny eggs with toast, covered in shredded cheese like she likes, and she gives the plate a little shove and she heaves (there’s no other word for it, they’re fat and heavy) her boobs onto the table. BOOM, like that. Now I’m looking up into the caricature of someone taking me very seriously, except she’s wearing a summery poet’s blouse with a low, wimpled neckline which very easily shows the tops of her bulging fleshy spheres and the deep crevasse between them. And even though she’s wearing that expression, you can also see she totally, totally knows what her boobs and her cleavage look like to you. And it looks very different to you, as a same-sized audience member, than it does to me, who’s shorter than the length of a dollar bill and can disappear completely between those enormous boobs. And has, especially when she’s losing an argument or feels tired of listening to you. To me. Fuck.
And that’s what happens, but I didn’t know it then. When she heaves her massive chest onto the table, that’s the start of an internal countdown. I didn’t know that the first time it happened, and I was slow to pick up on it the next few times. I thought Nora was just being capricious, you know? But no, when her boobs pound onto the table, that means the discussion has to end soon, like it should have already ended. Took me a while to learn. I’m not dense, I understand systems, but… you know. Anyway.
So I’m talking to her about what I understand now, and I ask her a dozen questions she won’t answer, and like, maybe that’s the most frustrating part. I can kinda understand her not giving into my screeds, when I go off on a tear, ranting about my personal revelations or whatever. But when I look her in the goddamn eye and I ask her a simple goddamn question, and all she does is laugh or sing or reach out for me, it’s infuriating. It drives me crazy, like it’d drive anyone crazy, right? You’re trying to learn something, hold a regular, reasonable conversation with someone, and they just bat you around like a kitten. That’s maddening, right? I mean, I know I’m only a few inches tall now, but I’m still a goddamn person. That has to count for something.
Not with Nora. She has let me know over the past year that she likes me, she finds me attractive and arousing, but in no way does she consider me a legitimate person. And when I say it aloud like that, I think I should’ve tried to escape or injure her somehow, or else just turn in on myself and go insane or kill myself, or something, I don’t know what, but… I mean, she has really, really nice tits. You have no idea how many times I’ve been driven to the brink of my sanity, and then she lies down and balances me on top of one of her massive breasts, and I wobble along with it for a while, and then we share heat, and I taste her skin and it tastes like sugar or caramel, and even when I can’t affect anything else in the world, I can make her nipple stand up…
That sounds stupid. I should be ashamed. It’s like I’m agreeing to no longer being a person, just because my girlfriend has such amazing tits. But… you don’t know. They are fucking amazing.
And what else can I do? Write my congressman? Call the police? Shit, they’re all corrupt anyway, and they’re also just stupid fucking people who couldn’t grapple with the supernatural, which is what I’d look like to them. They wouldn’t believe my story over the phone, and they wouldn’t accept what I look like in person (if somehow Nora ever exposed me to the public again), so… a perfect pair of breasts goes a long way toward keeping me from devouring myself. It’s just true. You don’t know, you’re not here.
No, but what also drives me mad is that I know more about her job than she does. Nora insists on keeping me with her at these meetings, and I kinda understand that. If she’s turned on by me and thinks of me as her sex toy, then she thinks she’s getting away with something daring by bringing me to these meetings. She doesn’t consider how fucking tedious they are for me, especially now since I’m not fucking employed and don’t have to be there, but she never considers me. She never does. Nora never fucking considers my feelings or my thoughts or my needs. She never, ever fucking does. That’s the stone-cold truth, and I’m saying it now, because it needs to be said. Yes, she’s got amazing tits; no, she literally does not consider me a person on any level. I’m like an intelligent dildo to her. Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. She won’t have any conversation with me that isn’t entertaining, and she sticks me in her tits and brings me to these horrible fucking meetings.
And I know more about this shit than she does. I mean, fuck: if you were a fairly powerful witch who could alter reality in your favor, why the fuck would you try to break into corporate marketing? Especially if you know nothing about it? Money? Believe me, it does not pay well, and the benefits get worse every one or two years. No matter how hard you work, all the profit gets shoveled to the shareholders, who do fuck-all for the company anyway. So I have to listen to these meetings that I don’t have to go to anymore, and I listen to them discussing shit I understand intimately, and when I try to talk about it with Nora… well, guess what happens.
No, guess. I’m already in her cleavage, she’s surrounded by a bunch of clueless corporate types, so what can she do?
No? No guesses? Well, maybe you’ll see sometime. Likely it’ll happen again.
I guess in my defense, I have to say it’s not all horrible. Nora would never hurt me, never. That’s unquestionable. She doesn’t see me as a legitimate human being, but I’m not a dumb animal she can torture or a toy she can break on a whim. I don’t know where she draws the line, but I’d have to say that based on our time together, she’s not cruel. She thinks I’m attractive and I’m suitable for fucking, so I’m human-enough in that respect, and she doesn’t enjoy someone else’s suffering. If I’m hungry, she’ll make a nice meal and share it with me. If I’m sleepy, she will, yeah, actually tuck me into bed with her, either next to her or on her. She’s never careless, she always knows where I am, or seems to. So it’s not like… well, maybe it’s a little like Stockholm Syndrome, except my captor isn’t mean and she’s got amazing breasts. That should change the story a little, don’t you think?
Too bad if it doesn’t, because the fact is I kinda like this gigantic, crazy, erotic landscape, and if I didn’t I couldn’t do anything about it.
3 thoughts on “Downsizing, pt 3: Fixed Asset”
Another series I lost track of. Good to see our narrator has accepted his new life. Nora may never see him as a “legitimate person,” but he probably has to believe that there’s room for improvement, that his earnest attempts to wring from her some acknowledgment of his thoughts and feelings and needs and desires will eventually break through her condescension. It’s as fulfilling an ambition as any other.
I, of course, would probably instantly submit to Stackedholm Syndrome.
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I’m digging up all the old, forgotten pre-classics, making up a new inventory list of the series I was passionate about for fifteen minutes and promptly forgot in favor of a subtler, nuanced consideration of ass, but in a different context.
In Size Fantasy as in real life, there’s an argument to be made for the benevolent dictator.
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I think it’s slightly hilarious that you have need of a “Kidnapping” tag.
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