Night had
settled in, the windows had shaded into black mirrors. The clouds had released
another small burst of rain, which scurried over the windows like sharp claws.
Soft
clattering came from the kitchen, the women were washing up.
I sat on
the sofa armrest, the TV was playing softly at the other side of the living
room, the one with the Afghan rug and its hypnotic red and black patterns. I
had leapt over to the remote and switched it on, if only to forestall the heavy
quiet in the spacious white room. The more I focused on the IMAX sized
flatscreen, the more the moving colors blurred together as my consciousness
tried to burrow back inside my skull.
The weight
of the food I’d eaten pressed in at my gut, and drowsiness was creeping in. I
lightly considered texting Raf, but now it was so late I felt guilty hauling
him out and into the night and the rain. Darcy’s offer became more attractive
by the second.
The
pleasant, slightly nauseous feeling wasn't just having eaten too much. The
marsala had contained wine and, from the tell-tale bitter aftertaste, there
must have been alcohol in the dessert as well. My nerves were numb, warm and
tingly. With my eyes closed, my awareness was teetering on a cliff edge,
desiring to drop right off.
Searching
for a distraction, I scooted over the armrest and leaned over the edge of the
remote, reaching for the button to switch the channel. My weight came down on
the remote clumsily, and as the arm of the sofa was rounded, not flat, the
remote shifted out from under me like a fish, shooting off the sofa.
Automatically reaching after it, my mass then cantilevered over the edge, and
the air was whisking all around me.
The floor
sprung up at my face. I’d missed the Afghan rug, instead the wood panel floor
gave my face an almighty pounding, which seemed to echo around my skull for an
extra moment. The numbing alcohol kept the pain at bay.
As I lay in
a crumpled, groaning heap, the floor trembled against my cheek with a series of
thudding sounds that rapidly grew closer, before a giant umbrella seemed to
cast over me. Warm objects probed up under my armpits, grasping my chest,
taking me up into the air. For a moment my ribcage was being pinched too
tightly to expand properly, my breath escaped in short gasps. And then my ascent
levelled out, my butt came down on the soft, padded surface of an open palm
which clouded my liberated airways with perfume.
She braced
my shoulders and scalp, and a fingertip brushed my throat to tip my head back
as she peered into my flushed face. My vision tilted unless I concentrated. Her
visage wavered dimly before consolidating under the bright light.
"TOO
MUCH AMARETTO." She made a sound somewhere between frustration and regret.
"MMM. I AM SORRY.”
“No,” I
mumbled, unable to blame the alcohol when it had generously clouded the pain of
my fall. “I get drunk easily because of my size.”
It took a
moment longer to click. Amaretto was a liqueur. I stared up into her eyes, held
on my face with gentle inquisition. Only the alcohol gave me the fortitude to unflinchingly
return her confronting, intimate stare.
"You
like liqueurs?"
She betrayed
a small smile.
"A
LITTLE."
Her face
rose from sight as I was lowered to her chest, and her smooth gait began to
carry me across the floor. The living room area receded past a corner of the
house I hadn’t visited. She clicked the switch and light filled up a bedroom,
white walls and dark floor. The air was cooler in here, and I realized how
heated and charged my skin felt, like a light bulb.
I was
gently dropped onto the satin throw rug on the duvet, and as she moved away,
she gave me an ironic glance over her shoulder.
“DON’T PEEK.”
I stood
frozen on the bed as, without any warning, she began to undress, slipping off
the halter to a lacy, mesh, flesh-baring bra, and peeling the pants down to
slinky matching underwear.
As I fought
for composure, she rummaged vaguely – I eyed her lingerie drawer with a flicker
of unease – before pulling out and changing into a black slip that fitted
tightly; her breasts hung full against the bust, and jiggled faintly as she
walked, the underwear clung around her butt.
I ran my
palm against my perspiring forehead. The room seemed too airless and too bright,
giant and somehow too small. My skin flamed from the alcohol.
She paused
in front of the cheval mirror in the corner of the room, ran her hands over her
breasts, adjusting the bust of her bra, absorbed, as if I wasn’t in the room.
I
considered clearing my throat, but it was so dry, it wouldn’t obey the command.
And my eyes were stuck on her reflection which faced me, though her eyes were
on herself.
It was then
I realized her body was different than I remembered; when I’d been kept in her
house, the little of her I’d seen under light, anyway. Back then she had been
lean and lithe. Now, she had filled out a little around her hips, abdomen and
chest. Her belly was not slightly sunken but flat and firm, legs meatier,
breasts lush and projecting, her whole shape curved subliminally. She looked
better, and I hated to admit, more sensual, intensely desirable.
“IT
HAPPENED SO QUICKLY.”
She was
speaking so softly, barely audible, that at first I assumed she was muttering
to herself in Italian, until I understood the words.
“YOU MUST
HAVE BEEN VERY AFRAID.”
The chase
at Skyros? I wondered. The run-in with the guy on the street outside the club? It
took a moment to register what she was referring to. She was talking about the initial
miniaturization during the Flip party. Maybe she had seen the interview; I’d
opened up more about the Flip party than in the TV special.
“I CAN’T
EVEN IMAGINE.” Her voice was analytical, like a psychologist.
“My body
creates more adrenaline,” I explained. “More energy and a dopamine kick in
response to fearful situations. So, it balances out, I guess. The world is
scarier at my size, but the effects of the miniaturization allow me to cope
better.”
She stared
past the mirror, contemplating this.
“FORTUNATE...IN
A RELATIVE SENSE.”
“I guess
so.”
“BUT IT MUST
BE DIFFICULT,” she went on. LONELY. NO WOMAN TO FOLLOW YOU OUT OF THE MACHINE.”
She voice lilted coyly. “I ASSUME THE PROSPECT DID NOT SEDUCE YOUR SIGNIFICANT
OTHER…?”
“That’s not
happening any time soon,” I said sadly, rolling my shoulders in a shrug. “And I
wouldn’t want it to.”
For a
fraction of a second she seemed taken aback. My answer seemed to catch her off
guard. She quickly recovered.
“What’s the
draw?” I pointed out. “It’s a big, dangerous world.”
I went
quiet again, deciding to let her imagination fill in the implications of that
suggestion, for shrunken women in particular.
“WITHOUT
QUESTION,” she said smoothly. “WHAT SINGLE ADVANTAGE IS THERE BEING YOUR SIZE?”
My brow
hardened at her frankness.
“I didn’t
say there was nothing good about it.”
“THEN, PLEASE
SHARE THE GOOD NEWS.”
“I see
detail normal-sized people miss.”
“AN
EXAMPLE.”
“You look
good. I mean, better. It’s more obvious at my size, I—” I fumbled for words.
The truth was, I saw her body bunch and flex when she moved, her tanned skin
seemed warmer and richer, the darkness of her hair and eyes more lustrous,
seeming to shine with light from within.
The
compliment glanced off. She turned from the mirror and faced me, folding her
arms.
“GOOD? JUST TELL ME.”
“What?”
“PEOPLE. WHAT
THEY REALLY LOOK LIKE.”
“You really
want to know?”
She looked
at me intently.
“YES…I
WONDER.”
I lay back,
staring up at the ceiling, thinking for a moment. Maybe because of my position,
I said:
“It’s like
you’re lying on the ground looking up at people. But they’re not just tall,
they’re wide, too.”
There was a
frown in her voice.
“THAT’S TERRIFYING.
IT MUST BE.”
“Adrenaline,”
I reminded.
The
mattress groaned and bounced me as she slid onto the bed. I continued.
“It’s hard
to describe, because I don’t think about it anymore. It’s just…normal.”
She had
brought her head close to survey me, her warm breath hitting one side of my
body in soft waves.
“HOW IS IT NORMAL?”
she said. “YOU ARE AT THE LEVEL OF THE TOENAIL. HOW ARE YOU NOT THOROUGHLY SICK
TO DEATH OF FEET?”
It was a
joke. Or maybe it wasn’t. She had a point, but I couldn’t explain how the exposure
to feet had hardened my sensibilities. At home, if I walked around on the
ground, a passing Jen had no hesitation about playfully poking me with her toe
as her giant strides took her past and over the top of me, as if to tease me
for being unable to match her walking speed.
“Nothing
shocks me anymore.”
She thought
over this for a moment. Then a varnished fingernail extended to tap softly
against my temple. I turned my head shyly.
“THE NIGHT AT
SKYROS, DOES HE RECALL WHAT I SAID TO HIM?”
Now she made
a seamless transition into being analytical again.
“Uh…Basically,
yes.”
“AND WHAT WAS
IT I SAID?”
“That we
were going to move on from—”
“NO, AFTER
THAT.”
Her dark
eyes burned into mine, scattering all my thoughts.
“Um…The
wedding. You and Darcy—”
“YES, BUT
LATER.”
As my brain
raced for recollection, my eyes traced the waxed fur of her left eyebrow, the
slitted one. I dumbly wondered how many of my tiny fingers wide the slit was,
and impulsively wanted to stroke her eyebrow to check. Anything not to stare into her penetrating
eyes, half veiled by the long dusky lashes.
The
fingernail stroked behind my ear, grazing, coaxing me to continue, but now I
sensed it was growing slightly impatient.
“You said the
court pro—”
Her long eyelashes
shaded almost fully as she gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, while
her thumb brushed my lips, silently imploring me to stop talking.
Then her
eyes held on my face again like she could beam the correct response into my
head.
“BEFORE YOU
FELL ASLEEP IN MY HAND, I MADE NO IMPRESSION WHATSOEVER?”
“You said a
lot of things,” I said weakly, “and I was drunk.”
“MUST I
REPEAT MYSELF?”
“You could
give me a hint.”
Some
cryptic expression passed her face, fleetingly, possibly a smile, or just a
muscle twitch.
“BUT YOU
PROVIDE THE HINT ALREADY.”
As she said
this, her hand came in to poke and tickle at the soles of my feet with her
pinky nail. I kicked my legs away and tucked them in.
“Yeah, I seem to recall you saying something
weird about your feet.”
She paused.
“’WEIRD?’…NO.
THAT’S NOT WHAT I SAID AT ALL.”
Her gaze
held on me like a laser, daring me to object.
“Okay, not
the right word. I don’t like the underside of a foot to fall from the sky
without warning. That’s my only concern.”
The bed
frame groaned and wobbled softly as she gracefully slid up into a sitting
position on the mattress, with her legs folded like she was going to cross
them, but instead brought the soles of her feet together.
Her
outstretched hand covered the ceiling as it dropped over me, fingers curling
tight around my body. The mattress pressing against me was quickly replaced
with her cool bare soles, slightly separated to allow my body to slip in
between them, my head positioned between the soft pads of her big toes, which
moved in, cushioning my skull like a padded helmet.
With her
toes pressed in on either side of my head, I could feel the pulse running
through the bottom of her big toes, tapping at my cheeks. It was weirdly
relaxing, like a head massage.
My arms and
legs were pinned by the firm balls of her feet, and my head was fixed in place
between her big toes, forced to stare straight up at the ceiling, and her face,
which abutted the bottom of my visual field. She surveyed me with interest,
waiting for my reaction.
A little
unnerved, I began to struggle, but my extremities were rigidly locked in place,
like I had set in concrete. The muscular walls of her feet calmly shifted and
tensed against me, effortlessly hemming me in.
"YOU’LL
TIRE YOURSELF OUT," she murmured, giving my head a small squeeze between
her toes in a way that she probably intended as comforting, but only made me
feel even more helpless and in her control. "BEHAVE FOR ME. BE
STRONG."
“What if
Darcy comes in…?”
“THEN WE
SAY THIS IS A LITTLE GAME OF OURS,” she answered lazily, continuing to tense
and flex her feet, squeezing and moulding me like a tiny wad of clay.
The large
boulders of her toes began to move in my peripheral vision, their firm pressure
against the sides of my head increased subtly as they began to move in circular
motions. My powerless head had no resistance, and was forced to rotate along
with them, like a tiny cog being turned inside a machine. I let my neck go
limp, to prevent neck strain, letting the toes take my head by whim. My head was
turned completely to one side, and flat, grainy toepad rested there for a
moment, keeping my head held still. My stomach churned a little in nervousness
with the blown up toe completely having dominated my entire world, blanketing
it into darkness beneath its impassive pressure. Then my head was rotated once more, to the other side, where the
opposite toepad settled over my features for another period of brief stillness.
And this carried on several times.
The foot
massaging loosened her up. She started to murmur:
“WHEN WE
WERE TOGETHER, I WAS INDISPOSED TO BE TRULY MYSELF AROUND YOU, BECAUSE…I WAS
AFRAID I WOULD FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU.”
I didn’t
reply. I couldn’t; my body was immobile between her feet, and my face was
buried beneath one of her big toes.
A big soft
object began handling my shaft, plucking it out from between the upward-facing,
inside edges of the balls of her feet. My member started to pound with arousal
as it was idly stroked and fingered in a thrillingly affectionate, feminine
way, like my member was a curious little animal whose trust needed to be
elicited. Then the sensation stopped, leaving me achingly firm, dick twanging
with desperate need.
Despite the
strange position I was in, everything about her was very cool and graceful, as
if I was being propositioned for a business deal. Her manner was businesslike,
as always, but with a subtle touch of intimacy, which, the more I tried to
ignore, the more it called attention to itself. And she intended to make it
clear who was the subordinate; sandwiched between her feet, where I was forced
to crane my neck up to look at her, while she surveyed me without expression,
while subtly stroking her lips in consideration – admittedly a little unnerving
– as she slowly rolled and compacted me between her feet.
Finally she
gave me a small smile and in a silken voice, murmured:
“YOU HAVE A
SEAT AT OUR TABLE ANYTIME YOU WISH.”
My face was
rotated out from under the big toe of the left foot, and I took the opportunity
to gasp:
“That’s…very
kind…” I said, and my voice came out thin and strained as a result of the
slight pressure on either side of my throat. “…Thank you.”
“BUT – I
SIMPLY SUGGEST – THERE MIGHT BE SOME KIND OF SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT BETWEEN US…?”
I
hesitated, wondering if maybe my intuition about the business deal was
accurate.
“What…do
you…mean?”
Her
fingertips swept down to me – the same that had, moments ago been stroking her
lips – patting my belly and lingering there a moment, tickling softly.
“JUST US,”
she emphasized softly. “HOW WOULD THAT BE; FOR US TO BE CLOSE AGAIN? – BUT NO
MORE WILDNESS.”
Her soles
somehow felt narrower, tighter, claustrophobic, even as their soft surfaces
titillate
“No!” I
spluttered, unsure if I was comprehending her meaning correctly. “We’re both…in
relationships...I’m engaged!”
“I WRONGED
YOU, YOU LOVED ME AND I HURT YOU. IT PLAYS ON MY MIND STILL…”
“Samantha,”
I said, “I’m not here to…for that.
What about when were together?” I shot, feeling a surge of frustration, “you
weren’t…interested then.”
Her feet
muscles became tense like clamps on my comparatively weak body. My head was
slowly rolled to the side where a toe pad planted itself perfectly on my face
and held there. Everything was dark, the commanding pressure of the toe pad was
like someone sitting directly on my face. With my head held, both toes exerted
a couple of subtle squeezes upon my skull, seemingly unconsciously. She was
thinking.
“I MUST
ADMIT,” she said flatly, “THE NOTION OF A TRADITIONAL RELATIONSHIP WITH A MAN
BORES ME…”
My face was
rotated back to gaze up at her, but carried on rotating to the opposite side.
“Yeah.
Precisely—oof.”
The
opposite toe pad came to rest upon my face, squishing my features down.
“BUT—” a
soft finger palpated around my belly again “—DID I SAY YOU AND I WOULD MAKE A
TRADITIONAL RELATIONSHIP? SOMETHING ELSE IS OPEN TO US.”
The finger
slid down to my semi-erect penis and resumed its stroking, until I was fully
hard. My chest seized up and a shudder ran through my body. The soft fingerpad
stroking my shaft then slipped smoothly down to the underside of my balls,
trying to scoop them up between the gap of her feet.
My balls,
balancing on the tip of her finger, were filling with irresistible pressure, an
aching longing to ejaculate. My head was also filling with pressure, as the big
toes were absent-mindedly pushing in and out against my head, making it feel
like it was throbbing. I tried to moan in protest but my voice was locked up;
the pressure of her toes squeezing my throat.
My shaft
was once again targeted; the soft, warm fingertip was drawing circles into the
tip of my penis. My head was spinning, balls seeming to swell, so tight and
dense I thought my heart might fail. I wanted to scream but was totally, hopelessly
mute.
There was an agonizing stretch throughout my entire body now, as my member was tugged over and over, faster each time
until I was practically mimicking sexual thrusts, but unable to move my hips.
The feeling endured, over and over, and building until it peaked with a series
of blinding, pleasurable jolts that ripped through my shaft, until I was
drained.
As I panted
hard, the soft walls enclosing me spread gently to admit grasping fingers to
carry me up from the bed to come to a stop against the soft flesh of her
mammary. As if unable to help herself, she massaged my head against her nipple,
until I began to blush and struggle in her grip, breaking her meditative
trance.
The world
rocked and swayed while she got to her feet and stepped back down the hall into
the main room. Darcy scrutinized us – and me in particular, wrapped up in
Samantha’s hands, held against her chest. Eyeing us, she said:
“THE HOUSE
IS SO QUIET…WERE YOU GUYS CUDDLING?”
Samantha
didn’t say anything, but she must have thrown some kind of understated look because
Darcy’s face lit up as she found this adorable, and she laughed.
“YOU HAVE
TO WATCH YOURSELF, JERRY,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at me. “NEXT THING YOU
KNOW, SAM’S GONNA ADOPT YOU.”
She reached
down and stroked my face with the tip of her fingers, as if I was a little
gerbil. In fact, the small conspiratorial smiles they were giving each other over
my head were beginning to make me uneasy. I called up Raf to pick me up, and
noticed my phone had more missed messages, all from hers truly.
Half an
hour ago:
weird day? busy, not, whatev, just lmk. not
hard, just courtesy.
ten minutes
ago:
because im such a bad person checking where you
are??
And five
minutes ago:
or fine just leave me in suspense…
The tactile
impression of Samantha’s toes against my cheeks felt stuck, like it had made
imprints in my flesh, hot and heavy.
*
Back home I
rang her, telling her I’d had dinner with friends, and played it off like my
phone was in one room and I was in another. Due to my size, such excuses were reasonable,
if in this case, not entirely truthful.
“You can
relax,” I said soothingly. “I’m home.”
If I was
‘home, home’ and not ‘Tiferno, home,’ I could have soothed her with my body;
crawling onto her lap and pressing myself against her stomach for a hug. She
usually could not resist this, even if it was just the pathetic spectacle of
her vastly diminutive boyfriend struggling to encompass the breathtaking
breadth of her hips in his puny arm spread.
But now,
through a phone line I felt even more impotent to my gigantic girlfriend than
usual.
Then I
realized she was talking:
“…around new
people? Or is it just, like, the escape?”
She had
this analytical way of acting like she had you all ‘figured out’. It was
incredibly sexy when she was coming on to you, like she’d been observing you
for a while before deciding to make the approach, but it was exasperating when
she did it to assert a difference in opinion.
“I think
you’re being slightly moralistic,” I said, aware how strange it felt accusing
Jennifer Tomlin of being ‘moralistic’. “You’ve had more than your lifetime of buck-wild,
unaccountable Friday nights.”
“Oh, please
stop,” she huffed, “I don’t care if you were running naked through central SP.
That is so fucked up of you to suggest my moral compass is broken.”
“I didn’t
mean that.”
“It is just
so sexist to say when a girl is having fun it’s a moral thing, like it’s
abnormal or shameful. It’s a double standard. You’re a pretty smart guy so I’m
going to pretend you didn’t mean that.”
I promised
when I came home we’d do something fun together. She one-upped me, saying we’d
do something fun together – in Tiferno. Next weekend, she’d fly up with me and
stay in my apartment. She insisted.